Tennyson stashed Murdoch’s clothes in a locker in the attendant’s common room. He had outfitted Murdoch in a black short jacket and beige linen trousers. They were intended for a shorter man, but Murdoch hoped nobody would notice.
“Tell them you’re replacing Davis for the day,” said Tennyson. “They won’t question it. We get temporary help quite often. You can do the check in. I’ll put the list in front of you. Tick off the residents’ names when they call them out and when the attendant gives you the signal, send them for their injection.”
“That sounds easy enough.”
“Come on, then.”
Murdoch followed him down the hall and into the lounge. There were about twenty or so men standing in a curving line that was aimed at a cloth screen at the back of the room. They were chatting with one another and nobody paid him any attention. Murdoch took a quick look around and saw Inspector Brackenreid near the front of the queue. Their eyes met and Brackenreid, cool as an old pro, turned his surprise into a fit of coughing that elicited a concerned few pats on the back from one of his fellow residents. The inspector obviously hadn’t yet been able to comply with the rules and he was still in his dressing gown and night shirt. His watchdog, Cherry, was nowhere to be seen, and Murdoch hoped he was off the leash for the time being.
“Here’s your list,” said Tennyson. “Sit at that table next to the screen. I’ll be at the back serving the tea and coffee, but I’d rather you didn’t know me.”
Murdoch took the chair and put his list confidently on the table. There was another attendant standing near the screen. He was a plump fellow, clean-shaven except for a wide, bristling moustache.
“Who are you?” he asked.
“Davis’s replacement.”
“Get sharp then. We should have started already.”
He disappeared behind the screen and Murdoch looked at the first resident who was standing in front of him in the queue.
“Leiter, Frank,” said the man.
Murdoch found his name on the list and checked it off. Leiter knew what to do and he walked behind the screen, out of sight. Meanwhile, Murdoch checked in the next resident and after a few minutes the first fellow reappeared.
“It’s all yours, Hennessey,” he said. The second man went in and the procedure was repeated, although Hennessey seemed to take a little longer. Nobody questioned Murdoch’s presence at the table. He could see Tennyson at the far end of the lounge walking among the residents with a tray of refreshments. One or two of the men were in night clothes like Brackenreid, but most were dressed in suits, none of them shabby, which was to be expected. As far as Murdoch could tell, they all seemed healthy and happy and the hubbub of talk was animated.
Brackenreid was at the table and he said his name.
“Who’s doing the dirty?” he asked with a jerk of his head in the direction of the screen.
“Er, I’m not sure. He’s got…” Murdoch made a gesture indicating the attendant’s startling moustache.
“That has to be Raymond and I won’t have him,” said Brackenreid loudly. “No. I absolutely refuse. The man should have been a veterinarian, not a doctor’s assistant.”
Raymond popped his head from behind the screen. “I heard what you said, Mr. Brackenreid, and I must say, I take offence to your remark.”
“Do you, indeed, then the arrow must have hit the target,” said Brackenreid in his best bully voice that Murdoch was so familiar with. “I’m still hurting from your attack yesterday.”
Murdoch could hardly believe this performance. The inspector had missed his calling.
He pointed at Murdoch. “I’d rather have this man here give me the medicine.”
“That’s not possible,” said Raymond. “He’s only a temporary help.”
“I don’t give a damn about that.” Brackenreid glared at Murdoch. “You know what to do, don’t you?”
Murdoch nodded vigorously. “Of course.”
“Come on, then.” Brackenreid headed toward the screen. There was no stopping him and Raymond stepped aside.
“Why don’t you do the check in? I’ll just deal with this one.” Murdoch winked at the attendant and whispered, “Don’t worry, I’ll fix him.”
Brackenreid led the way behind the screen and Murdoch pulled it closed around him.
“Quickly, Murdoch,” he hissed. “We don’t have much time. If I don’t get out of this place today, I’m stuck here indefinitely. My wife and my doctor are coming tonight to sign commitment papers. In my best interest, of course.”
“How is the program working, sir?”
“It’s a heap of horse plop, if you ask me. For which people pay a hell of a lot of money. Did you get that medicine analyzed?”
“Yes, I did. It contains quite a sizable amount of cocaine.”
Brackenreid guffawed jubilantly. “I thought it was something like that. Cavanaugh is getting men off drink by getting them addicted to cocaine. No wonder his patients are so loyal. Who did the analysis of the medicine?”
“Dr. Julia Ogden.”
“Excellent, she’s an acquaintance of my wife’s. She’ll believe her.”
“Is everything all right in there?” Raymond called.
“Yes, we’re almost done,” Murdoch replied.
Brackenreid indicated a dresser on which were lined rows of vials filled with golden liquid. There was a hypodermic syringe on a cloth on top of the dresser.
Then to Murdoch’s horror, Brackenreid turned his back, bent over, and lifted up his night shirt, presenting a rather plump and somewhat hairy bottom.
“Do it, man.”
“I beg your pardon, sir?”
“The syringe. You’ve got to give me the needle.”
“Good Lord, is it absolutely necessary?”
“Yes. The vials are counted. And if you breathe a word of this to anybody at the station, I’ll have your liver for breakfast. Understood?”
“Yes, sir. But I do want to warn you, I am not familiar with syringes.”
“You’ve played darts, haven’t you?”
“I have but –”
“Same thing. Come on, hurry up.”
Murdoch picked up the syringe, balanced it between his forefinger and thumb, and aimed it into the inspector’s right buttock.
Brackenreid let out a banshee scream and he wasn’t acting. The syringe was left dangling. He took a step backward, tumbled onto his rear, and crashed into the screen, bringing it down. “You fool, you incompetent ape. You’re even worse than Raymond.”
The fall had driven the point of the needle deeper into his flesh and he was roaring in earnest. Raymond and some of the residents came rushing to help. Brackenreid struggled to his feet, shaking them off. With a grunt, he extracted the syringe.
“I’m going to report this,” he shouted. “You!” he pointed a dramatically accusing finger at Murdoch. “You come with me. We’re going straight to see Mr. Cavanaugh.”
“I’ll send for somebody,” said Raymond.
“Never mind. I want the man himself to give an explanation to the superintendent himself or I’ll see he never works here again.”
The attendant smirked. “I warned you he was only a temporary staff.”
Murdoch lowered his head, looking suitably chastened. Tennyson had come hurrying over and he was righting the screen. “Let them go, Raymond, we’ve got to finish.”
The attendant looked as if he would protest, but Brackenreid shoved Murdoch ahead of him toward the door. “Come on, you.”
They got out into the hall, leaving a ripple of excitement behind them in their wake. The residents hadn’t had such a lively afternoon since the most recent inmate had an attack of the delirium tremors.
Once in the hall, the inspector halted and rubbed his buttock with a moan.
“Sorry, sir,” said Murdoch, “but you did say to think of darts.”
“It felt more like you were throwing a bloody javelin.”
“Where to now, sir?”
“I’ve got to get home to my wife and convince her, this is absolutely the wrong place for me.” He looked at Murdoch. “Where are your own clothes?”
“There’s a room just down here that the attendants use. I bribed one of them to get me in here.”
Murdoch thought it wouldn’t hurt to let Brackenreid know that he’d paid out his own money.
“Good thinking.”
Luck was still with them and the hall was deserted. Murdoch opened the door to the room and they went inside. He handed Brackenreid his clothes and the inspector changed into them immediately. He had lost weight during his stay at the institute. Murdoch’s trousers and jacket were tight but not as bad as they would have been a while ago.
“There’s a rear door that the attendants use,” said Murdoch.
He checked the hall first to see if they were safe, then led the way to the door. They practically ran down the path, through the gate, and didn’t stop until they were at the end of the street where Murdoch had left his bicycle. Brackenreid was gasping for breath, but he thrust out his hand.
“Murdoch, I am forever in your debt. I shall have your clothes sent round to you tonight. And all being well, I will return to the station tomorrow morning.”
“Yes, sir.”
They shook hands and Brackenreid scurried off, Murdoch’s hat pulled well down over his face.
Murdoch waited until he was out of sight, then let go of the laughter he’d been choking back. It would take him a while to get the image of Brackenreid’s buttock as dartboard out of his head.