by Reed Arvin
“Did he eat?”
“I pushed some food in there a couple of hours ago. What he did after I left I couldn’t tell you.”
Collier pushed a key into the heavy metal door that led into the cell-block, turned it, and opened the door. “She stays,” he said. “You got fifteen minutes.”
Amanda sat down while Henry followed Collier through the door and down the narrow hallway. The sheriff unlocked Boyd’s cell and said, “Yell if you need help. I can hear through the door grates.” Henry walked quietly inside. He heard the barred door swing shut behind him, clanging locked with a solid, metallic clank. He was locked in. “See ya, kid,” Collier said. He walked down the hall and closed the door behind him.
Boyd’s face was gray and gaunt. He was sitting, rocking back and forth in an endless, repeated motion. He looked like he hadn’t slept, and the plate of food was untouched.
Henry walked up to him and sat down on the cot. “How are you, Raymond?” he asked quietly.
The nodding and rocking continued, but he finally spoke. His voice was trembling, fractured. “There’s gold in my blood.”
“What are you talking about, Raymond?”
“They’re tryin’ to poison me. I need to get my blood cleaned, get the gold out of it.”
Henry stared at him. “Who’s trying to poison you, Raymond?”
“Always the same, always the same. Always tryin’ to fill my blood with gold.”
Henry paused, unsure of how to respond. After a moment he said, “I don’t blame you for being angry about what happened to the bird, Raymond. Before anything else happens, I want you to know that.” At this Boyd looked away, locking his eyes on the opposite wall. Henry pressed on, determined to continue his own stream of logic. “You’re still in trouble over breaking up the store. We have to do something about that.”
Boyd hugged his knees as he rocked. “Bird,” he said quietly.
“I’m going to find out who did that, and I’m going to do everything in my power to make them pay,” Henry said. “You can count on that.” Henry turned and kneeled down in front of Boyd, bringing him face-to-face. “I need to explain something important to you, Raymond. Because of what you did at the store, a doctor is coming. He’s going to talk to you. I don’t know him personally, so I can’t vouch for him. I think he’s a good man. I hope he is.”
“Doctor. Get the gold out of my blood.”
“I don’t know, Raymond. Maybe.”
Boyd made a guttural sound low in his throat. It contained, without words, utter contempt. Henry looked at his watch; Harris would arrive soon. “Raymond, a lot depends on what you say to this man.” He felt flooded with emotion. He wanted to protect Boyd, but he didn’t know how. “Just be yourself,” he said at last. “I’m just going to trust that everything will work out.”
“Everything will work out,” Boyd said.
Henry stared a moment, and asked, “What do you mean, Raymond? Why do you think that?”
“The terrible arm of the Lord,” Boyd said, rocking vigorously. “Trust in the terrible arm of the Lord.”
Henry sat on his heels looking at Boyd a long moment, then called through the grate to Collier, who, in typical extended fashion, took several minutes to unlock the cell and let Henry out. By the time they had returned to the main office, a short, plump man in khaki pants and an open-collared white shirt was coming in the front door.
Collier took his seat behind his desk and put his feet up. The man walked to the desk and introduced himself. “T. R. Harris,” he said. “Evidently there’s a Mr. Raymond Boyd here for me to examine.”
Collier looked up dispassionately. “You the shrink?” he asked.
The man smiled. “Depends. You Raymond Boyd?”
Collier’s face betrayed his irritation. “Hell, no,” he barked. “See this uniform? The nut’s in a cell.”
“The last guy I talked to thought he was the Emperor of Mexico, so a sheriff’s uniform doesn’t impress me too much.”
Amanda laughed out loud, and the doctor turned to her with an intelligent smile. “You’re not Boyd,” he said easily. “At least you’re not a Raymond.”
“No,” Amanda said. “I’m a friend of Susan’s, the nurse who called you. Thanks for coming.”
“T. R. Harris,” the man said, reaching out and shaking her hand. “Beats talking to housewives about their credit card bills.”
Henry, watching from the doorway, liked the man immediately. He didn’t seem like a doctor, exactly—more like somebody it would be good to simply sit down with and just talk. He stuck out his hand and introduced himself. “I know it was short notice,” he said. “We were really in a bind.”
The sheriff broke in. “I ain’t got all day for this, Doc. Let’s get it over with.” He nodded toward the cellblock. “Prisoner’s in there.”
“I’d rather not conduct the examination in a cell,” Harris said. “Got a break room, maybe a little coffee?”
“Yeah, right through there,” Collier answered, pointing toward a painted metal door. “But I’d advise against it. Prisoner’s shown to be violent.” He held up his bandaged arm and grimaced.
The doctor looked at Collier’s arm, and Henry noticed a tiny smile flicker briefly on his face. “Well,” Harris said, “I’ll holler if there’s a problem. That okay?”
“Up to you,” Collier said. He walked to a cabinet near his desk, unlocked it, and took out a small stun gun. He took off the safety and looked at the doctor. “Two thousand volts, but real low amps. Kinda like electroshock treatment. I’ll be right outside the door.”
Henry stood and said, “I’d like to come along,” fully aware that the request would be denied.
“Not this time, Counselor,” Harris answered with a smile. “But nice try.”
Harris disappeared behind the metal door, taking a seat in the coffee room while the sheriff got Boyd. In a couple of minutes Collier led in his prisoner, firmly pushing him from behind by his cuffed hands. Harris pointed to the restraints and said, “Those won’t be necessary, Sheriff.” Collier shrugged and unlocked Boyd, pushing him down into a chair near the doctor. He looked at Harris, patted his stun gun, and walked out.
Harris sat quietly, apparently in no hurry to begin the examination. For a long time the low murmur of Boyd’s self-talk was the only sound in the room. Several minutes passed, the doctor smiling good-naturedly but not speaking. After some time, Boyd’s self-talk began to slowly subside. Eventually, he was barely whispering. Boyd looked up, and when their eyes met, Harris spoke.
“Hello, Raymond,” he said. “My name is Tom Harris. I’m a psychiatrist.”
Boyd didn’t answer out loud; his lips continued to move, silently now.
“I’m going to explain a couple of things before we get started,” Harris said. “You can just listen for now, unless you feel like saying anything.” He pulled a notebook and pen out of a leather valise and situated the pad on his knee. “I hope you don’t mind my calling you Raymond, by the way. I don’t mean to imply we’re friends at this point. Somebody I don’t know acts like my friend, it usually means they’re selling something. So if you prefer I use Mr. Boyd, I can understand that.” Boyd stared back silently.
“Some folks around here are pretty interested in what’s going on inside your head, Raymond. I’m supposed to find out and tell them. I’m going to ask you some questions and see what I can make of your answers. If I think that you can handle things on your own after our talk, the sheriff will release you to the lawyer for the time being. If I think you’re dangerous to yourself or anyone else, he’s going to begin a proceeding to have you hospitalized until I think you’re better. I’ll be the first to admit that it’s not fair. You don’t know any of the people who are deciding. But so far nobody has been able to figure out a better way to do this, so we all have to live with it.” Harris smiled softly. “If it helps any, I hate that part of the job myself.” He flicked on a tape recorder. “I’m going to record this, Raymond. That way nobody can ar
gue later on about what we said. I can’t make you answer the questions, and I won’t try. I’m a doctor, not a policeman, so it’s up to you. But it’s only fair to tell you that not answering leaves things up to my imagination, and if you’re sane you might not want to do that.” Harris picked up his notepad. “Ready?”
Boyd had looked away, his expression disinterested.
“Raymond, have you ever been admitted to a hospital? A long time ago, perhaps?” Boyd said nothing. “Have you ever been prescribed any medications? Has a doctor ever given you any pills to take?”
Harris watched Boyd, who said nothing. The two sat silently again for a while, until the doctor said, “I understand you had a bad day yesterday, Raymond. Apparently you did some pretty considerable damage to a store, broke out some windows. Do you remember doing that?” Raymond looked up at the doctor, and a shallow smile slowly spread across his face. “I’ll take that as a yes,” the doctor said. “What were you thinking about when you broke the windows, Raymond? Can you remember how you felt while you were doing that?”
Boyd, instead of answering, stood straight up out of his chair with surprising suddenness. In standing he hit a small table, knocking an empty coffee cup to the floor. The plastic cup didn’t break but rolled noisily across the tile. The doctor momentarily flinched in surprise, but held his position, arms tense. Almost instantly the door opened and Collier rushed into the room, his stun gun raised.
“What the hell’s going on in here?” the sheriff demanded, moving quickly toward Boyd. Boyd made no movement to defend himself; he stared blankly at the sheriff as he approached, but Harris quickly rose. “That’s all right,” he said, stopping Collier. “Mr. Boyd was just feeling a little crowded.”
Collier glared. “I’m tryin’ to keep you alive, if you’d get your head out of your ass,” he muttered harshly. Boyd, ignoring them both, turned and walked to the opposite wall, separating himself from the others by the maximum possible distance the room would allow. He stood with his back to the men, a good fifteen feet away.
“I said I’d call out if there was a problem, and I meant it,” Harris said. “Now let me get on with this, please.”
Collier shoved his stun gun into his belt. “I’ll come when I feel like it. I ain’t on call, not to you.” The door shut behind him with a metallic clang.
Harris sat down again, composing himself. He was formulating another question when he was surprised to hear Boyd’s voice. He looked up and saw Boyd staring at him. Boyd repeated himself in a low, gravelly voice. “Custer’s Elm,” he said.
The doctor smiled. “What about Custer’s Elm?”
“Spent the night there on the way to gettin’ killed.”
“You don’t look dead to me, Raymond.”
“Seventh Calvary, United States Army. They came in September. Early cold that year, yessiree.”
“Ah. I see. You mean Custer and his men. What year was that, Raymond? I was never too good in history.”
Boyd smiled, a thin, humorless expression. “Last Indian victory,” he said.
“Little Bighorn. I remember now. I haven’t thought about that since high school.”
“That’s right, that’s right. Them men was goin’ up to Montana.”
“To fight Indians.”
Boyd’s smile evaporated. “Min-er-al rights,” he said, stretching out the word. “That was sacred burial ground. Reservation land. Indians wouldn’t let nobody dig up there, ’cause they didn’t much care about gold. That’s what the killin’ was for.”
“I wasn’t aware of that.”
Boyd’s head bobbed, his speech coming more easily. “That’s right, that’s right,” he said. “They was gonna get the money in the ground. Only thing was, the Indians killed every last one of ’em. Cut their ears off ’em. Hair, too. Cut their hearts out of ’em, a few. Just goes to show ya, don’t it?”
“What does it show, Raymond?”
“When the bloody hand of the Lord comes down, man’s plans don’t mean shit.”
Harris set down his pen. “Why do you call it the hand of the Lord, Raymond? It was Indians who killed the soldiers.”
“Northern Pacific Railroad.”
“I don’t follow you again.”
Boyd grinned, his horrific teeth showing. “Custer wasn’t no soldier, not for years. He was workin’ for the Northern Pacific Railroad. Hired to clean out them Indians.”
Harris looked at Boyd a long time. “Why do you live at the park, Raymond?”
Boyd glanced up with a sharp look. “No doctors,” he said.
Harris smiled. “There’s nobody at all there, Raymond. Is that what you like about it?”
Boyd’s expression changed with startling rapidity, sadness covering him. “Bird,” he whispered.
Harris paused. “I heard about that,” he said. “Whoever did that needs me a lot more than you do, Raymond.”
With his memory of the bird, Boyd seemed to diminish; his shoulders slumped forward and he lowered his head, staring at the floor. Harris set his notebook down, rose, and slowly walked to a coffeemaker near where Boyd was sitting; as he approached, Boyd stood nervously and began edging away, keeping the distance constant. Harris ignored this and held up the coffeepot. “Want some?” he asked. He poured himself a cup and tasted it. “Jail coffee,” he said, smiling. Boyd made no response, and he walked back to his seat, Raymond circling him like a boxer.
“Raymond, when I came out here I had a lot of things I wanted to ask you. But it’s pretty obvious you’d rather just be left alone. That doesn’t make you crazy. I don’t pretend to understand how you felt about the bird, but I believe it was precious to you. I also believe that you deserve a chance to mourn that loss, and getting interrogated right now must be very painful. We’re going to have a lot of talks in the future. So right now I’m going to ask you just one more question, and if you feel like answering it, we’ll end there. If you don’t, I’ll have the sheriff take you back to your cell and think things over for a while. That sound okay?” Boyd remained silent. “I’ll take that as a yes, too,” Harris said. “I’m interested in the story you told me, Raymond, the one about General Custer getting killed. I want to ask you something about it. I want you to tell me who did wrong in the story. Tell me who did wrong, Raymond, the Indians or the soldiers?”
Boyd looked carefully at the doctor a moment; he twisted his hands together, his head bobbing back and forth. Harris, sensing his anguish, leaned forward, his eyes locked on Boyd. The two men stared at each other, neither blinking. Harris asked again, his voice no more than a whisper. “Who was the wicked in the story, Raymond? Who deserved to be punished?”
Boyd licked his lips and rubbed his hands together vigorously, his face contorted in anxiety. At last, he stood and walked to the center of the room. Harris gripped his chair, but didn’t flinch. Slowly, Raymond began to unbutton his shirt. One button after another was carefully unfastened; when they were all opened, he pulled the shirt apart. There, five inches tall in the center of his chest, was a reddish, raised scar, the ruins of a wound obviously self-inflicted, in the rough shape of a cross. Boyd lifted his arms to the ceiling and spoke a single word: “Me.”
The door to the break room opened and Harris appeared. “We’re finished for now, Sheriff,” the doctor said. “You can take Mr. Boyd back to his cell.”
Collier grunted and walked past the man, forcing the doctor to make way. Harris let him by and came into the front room of the office. “Well,” he said, “that was interesting.”
“I had a feeling you might think so,” Henry said.
“First, I want to say that it’s appalling that this man wasn’t treated a long time ago. Fifteen minutes with any qualified psychiatrist, or even an M.D., for God’s sake, would have made the need for that abundantly clear.”
“In a little town like this he could lay low and not be bothered,” Henry said.
“And the state medical system isn’t exactly set up for indigent health care.” Harris nodded, irrita
tion on his face. “Apparently this man has dropped twenty-plus years, and I’d like to get him through it as quickly as possible.”
“Good,” Henry said. “Tell us what you know at this point.”
“With someone so delusional it would be easy to say that he’s a schizophrenic. But I would be using the term less professionally than I prefer. He does exhibit some obvious schizophrenic behaviors: religious ideation, dropping in and out of conversation, even the self-molestation.”
“Self-molestation?” Amanda whispered. “What are you talking about?”
“Were either of you aware that Raymond has carved a cross on his chest?” Harris asked, his voice level.
“My God,” Henry said, “I had no idea things had gone that far.”
“It’s obviously from some time ago, if that gives you any comfort. But there’s no question it was done by Raymond himself. Probably a pocket-knife.” Henry leaned against a table, fighting back a sudden wave of nausea. He steadied himself and asked, “What are your reservations with calling him schizophrenic?”
“It’s strange, but the kinds of things you normally see accompanying those types of symptoms aren’t present.”
“For example?” Henry asked.
“Inappropriate affect, for one. Giggling when something bad happens, that kind of thing. Inappropriate moods. Raymond is nothing like that. He’s obviously deeply, horribly wounded, and he acts like it. He’s in touch with his emotions in a way that schizophrenics normally aren’t. To tell you the truth, I had the feeling that he understood exactly what was going on during our talk. I don’t think he would have tolerated the least condescension or manipulation from me.”
“What did he say?” Henry asked. “Did you find out anything about his past we didn’t know?”
“We talked about General Custer,” Harris answered. “And mineral rights. Raymond gave me a very coherent history of Little Bighorn.”
