Funny thing about private eye stories, like the ones sleeping in trashy paperbacks, is they'll throw you a curve ball when you least expect it—a hidden clue, a midnight telephone call—something that knocks the whole narrative out of the park. But this wasn't a trashy paperback. And I haven't slept in years.

PART I - IT'S ALL IN MY HEAD

The rain was a bitter cocktail of bourbon, misery, and loneliness. It swept through the city's corridors, urging the sleepless to take asylum. I found myself looking down the one way street of another late night. Time was a set of doors; one led to a world where it was too late to go grab a beer, and through the other, too early for the morning paper. I was stuck in a purgatory supervised by the smug-faced clock hanging above my office door. The words Private Investigator were etched into the glass door pane, but the name underneath had faded from memory. Private Eyes—we're born with a heightened sense of intuition; a feeling at the base of our skulls, and noses for telling whether or not a case smelled fishy. And something about this latest case reminded me I needed to empty the ice box after last night's brown out.

I liberated the case file from the sea of flotsam on my desk and collapsed backward into familiar leather arms. My eyes fought a losing battle against the single bare light bulb suspended over the desk. The name at the top of the clipboard of papers read Edgar Finch. Damn, where have I heard that name before? I closed my eyes and wrestled with the memory, but my brain just flopped around inside of its empty bowl like a drowning fish. My thoughts swam back to when this all began…

One rainy night, a pair of high heels slid a dossier under my office door. It was late, and I was running on nothing but cold, stale coffee and nicotine. The shapely phantom drifted past the frosted glass etched with Private Investigator. By the time I peeled myself from the chair leather and traversed the room, the taps of her heels were echoes in a dream. From the damp, rumpled belly of the dossier, I pulled a clipboard holding a typed dopesheet on a Mr. Edgar Finch; a handful of scribbled charts; and a sheet of clear plastic sporting a man’s overexposed portrait. High Heels intended to stay off the radar, that was clear. My intuition screamed that this Mr. Finch made off with something he shouldn't have, and then flew the coop.

I came back to the present and steered my attention back to the dopesheet. My sandpapered eyes lingered on the lines of smeared ink for the millionth time:

Finch, Edgar; Male; Caucasian; Born April 12, 1943; 36 years old; 22 Shady Glen, CA—and that’s all she wrote, folks; the bottom half of the sheet is a soggy mess.

Shady Glen sounded like heaven compared to this place; I'll be damned if these four walls weren't closing in on me. I haven’t been able to make the trip across town on account of the rain. Edgar Finch has the ball in his court for the time being. There’s gotta be another way to reach him—

Stop the presses! A telephone number! It must've been there the whole time, hidden under all the smeared ink. Despite the brain fog, one thing became crystal clear to me: I needed to check myself into a loony bin.

I shuffled back to the desk. My hand swept a clearing over the distressed mahogany near the telephone. I laid the clipboard down and picked up the receiver. My chapped yellow finger traced circular patterns on the rotary as I dialed the number: a subtle reminder that I should’ve quit smoking. I let the phone ring for an hour as I switched the receiver from one side of my aching head to the other. The electric bells mingled with the crickets that chirped inside of my cauliflower ears: a shrewd reminder that I'd picked too many bar fights—too many calling cards delivered to my skull by flesh wrecking balls.

My legs ached. After an eternity, the line on the other end clicked alive. Ain't gonna let this fish get off the hook.

"Hullo? Who's there…?" said a man’s voice, distant and desperate. Sounded like a Caucasian male alright; I checked off two mental boxes.

"Edgar!" I barked into the receiver, "I'm on to you, Edgar Finch. You thought you could hide forever, didn'tcha?"

Low whispering on the other end told me that he wasn’t alone.

I poured myself a lowball of scotch while I gave Finch a minute to regain his composure. My swollen tongue protested against the drink. Down the hatch.

The whispering stopped. Seemed like I might have a cold fish on my hands. I'll make this songbird chirp one way or another. "I'm about to split this case wide open, Finch. Don't be surprised if your thirty-seventh birthday party turns into your funeral." I felt the hot poker of confidence penetrating my ear drums. I swear I felt the guy burning something on the other end of the line. He burned cold, hard evidence, and I felt the flames all the way up in my ear canal. Having such an acute sense could be a benefit or a hazard, but the jury was still out on which side of the fence I straddled.

The sky continued its assault on the city. Rain battered the outside walls as dehydration pounded the inside of my skull. I let the phone receiver drop to the desk. The lining of cotton inside my mouth was soaked with pool water and battery acid, which reminded me that I should lay off the booze.

One more scotch. That one burned a hole through the ulcer in my stomach. I paid my respects to my liver as I poured another.

After a few more I found myself staring into an empty bottle of regret.

"I just wanna talk to ya buddy, that's all," the voice in the receiver pleaded. Sounded a little too friendly, like he was scared. I had him on the ropes. His ship was about to sail.

I could make out the sound of keys, and then a door opening, "Hey we been lookin for ya," the voice said, much louder now, and closer, "time to take your medicine and then its lights out!"

I spun around to face the lanky man standing in my office doorway. He was like a ginger scarecrow, all knotted up with long, thin muscles. The sleeves of his white shirt were rolled up and there was something hanging from his belt—sure signs of bad things to come. Don't know how he arrived here so quickly, given the storm. He was fast, I'll give him that. He was completely dry, too—like he dodged every blasted drop of acid rain on the way here. The scarecrow, Edgar Finch, stepped into my office as a larger man filled the doorway behind him—hired muscle—the big hairy kind of muscle.

My right hand instinctively shot into the open drawer of the desk that separated me from the two intruders. I groped at the empty space where my loaded revolver should've been. The veins at my temples surged with red hot adrenaline.

My ears exploded with a chorus of a million crickets as the room lit up like a flash grenade. I ducked behind the desk and waited for the chirping and flash bulbs to clear my head. I heard something big slam against the far wall. The room smelled like sulfur. I felt something heavy and hot in my hand. How’d that get there? I held the revolver up in front of me, in disbelief, and watched the big, hairy goon slump to the floor with both hands clutching his gut.

I didn’t see Finch until the heavy heel of his shoe came crashing down onto my shin; I felt my knee cap slide out of its socket. The wiry man raised his arm in a wild back-swing and a billy club came down fast and hard onto my forearm, liberating the revolver. I held up the numb appendage like a broken shield just in time to absorb the second blow. The upper half of my forearm flopped over like an empty sock. The angry club jerked up and down through the air in a flurry of blows until my ribcage was a sack of pretzels. Finch finally paused, huffing like a runaway steam train. This sorry bastard didn’t know how much effort it would take to crack my melon. However, he did figure it out eventually.

"Howd you think…huff…this was gonna end," the voice straddling me panted, "…huff…you lowlife sonofabitch!" Finch wiped an arm across his slobbery mouth and admired the ruin he created. I think this is how the sick prick gets his rocks off. Lowlifes like him drain power from the weak, it's how they're able to look at themselves in the mirror day in and day out without puking. And the more you kick and cry and plead, the more power they take. So, I just laid there like a hooked mackerel with no more fight left in it, just to piss him off. 

It worked; Finch tossed the club, dropped to one knee, and came in with fisticuffs. I felt his eyes burn into my soul like two fiery, hot coals. I took a couple of mean hits to the jaw and bit part of my tongue off. It gave me one helluva lisp. “I bet you’ll be icething that sthore sthoulder tomorrow, you pansthy.” It took effort to spit the words through broken teeth and split lips, but it was worth it; his face was red as a beet. Then a volcano of scorching hot booze erupted from my throat onto his prettyboy shoes, and somehow his face got redder.

After a while the world began to go black. I felt waves of nausea as the room spun. From some far off region in my skull, the slow beat of a distant drum lulled me to sleep. I haven’t slept in years. Maybe some shuteye will do me good. Tomorrow I'll feel like a new man…as right as rain.

PART II - IT’S ALL RIGHT HERE, IN BLACK AND WHITE

“You believe this rain, Carl?” The lanky man in the white scrubs pushed the video tape into the machine and leaned over the small black and white closed-circuit TV. The crackle of worn tape being dragged through the playback gizmos mingled with the rhythmic breathing of the fat Filipino seated against the wall. “Lemme know when the picture's good, huh?” Larry hummed absently as he turned the knob on the back, waiting for the fat man to give him the "okay".

Carl watched the wavy static on the security monitor. “There—no the other way now," he sighed, "Larry, the other way—” He leaned back in the metal folding chair so it balanced on its rear legs. The front of his sweat-stained scrubs threatened to burst as he flattened against the back wall of the cramped security office. A pair of thick-framed glasses poked out of his shirt pocket, "—okay Larry, stop. Looks good now…stop fidgeting with it, Larry."

The lanky man turned the knob a few more times. When satisfied, he stopped whistling and straightened. He leaned against the wall next to his coworker and folded his wiry arms. The bandages on the backs of his hands scratched against the stiff sleeves. "So you ain't gonna believe this crud me and Tony went through last night less you watch it for yourself. Never seen nothin like it before, believe it or not. Should be gettin a raise pretty soon, here."

Carl stared at the security monitor and sighed, "You night-shifters like to complain, don't you? You have it made, especially in the acute wing. Patients are either dead asleep or they're raising hell. You should be appreciative of the diversity that those moments bring to your job.” He practically felt Larry’s bug eyes rolling in their sockets but continued complaining, his voice rising in volume, “It's different over in the chronics wing where ritual dictates every one of my goddamn days—” his big head bobbled from side to side, imitating the sing-song way in which he spoke the words, “—wake-time meal-time med-time crap-time bath-time piss-time bed-time…actually, I've been thinking of asking for a transf—"

"Yep, me and Tony could tell you some stories alright,” Larry interrupted, “the crazies creep outa their padded caves at night. Hasta do with moon cycles and whatnot." He sniffed loudly and hiked up his pants. “I Read an article bout it in the National Geographic. Probably do you good to read more, my man,” he said as he tapped his temple hidden beneath wavy red hair, “sharpens the ol brain tack.”  He took great pleasure in knowing that the day-shifters hated working in "zombie land", and that the night crew got all the action. He felt like the cock-of-the-roost when the nurses arrived for the morning shift with their ears burning for the previous night's gossip.

Carl seemed unmoved by the interruption but glanced up at the security camera in the corner of the ceiling. The black electrical tape still covered its lens. His gaze moved down to the Casio strapped to his big brown arm before settling back to the wavering image on the monitor. "What are we supposed to be watching, again? I clock out in less than an hour."

"Security tape from the janitor closet last night when me and Tony…well, I don't wanna spoil the show for ya. Take a look-see for yourself." Larry poked the Fast Forward button on the machine until satisfied.

The two men watched the prerecorded scene on the closed-circuit TV. The time stamp burned into the tape read 10:13 PM.  On-screen, a man in long-sleeved pajamas entered the custodial closet, groped the wall for a light switch, then locked the door behind him. Something clattered to the floor from under his arm as he turned and moved toward the window set in the far wall. He stood facing the blacked out window for a long time.

"A sleepwalker...?" Carl finally said, then squinted his eyes, "Is that the guy from the acute wing, the one who’s supposed to be cuffed to his bed at night? I heard he assaulted nurse Henderson?"

"The very same: Mr. Edgar Finch. Henderson ain't the only nurse he tried funny stuff with, ya know. He made two of em outright quit since he been here. Cryin shame to lose all those fine nurses." Larry tapped his temple as he said, “He ain't right upstairs, if ya know what I mean. Thinks he's a reincarnated Phillip Marlowe from them ol radio shows.”

10:31—The man on TV turned from the window and sat on a metal folding chair behind a utility table, facing the door. Three minutes later, he craned his neck, stood up, walked to the door and retrieved the thing he dropped when he entered. After tossing it onto the table, he returned to his chair.

Carl squinted his eyes to slits, straining to decipher the scene. "Why does he have a clipboard with him, Larry? And how the hell did he get out of his room?"

"Wiley sucker must've slipped his bed cuffs or somethin. Still don't know. That's his patient papers on the clipboard he stole from the hook outside his room." Larry picked up a clipboard from beside the security monitor, and waved it in Carl’s direction. "Hospital property right here. Ain't no patient got the authority to take his own records just for wantin. That nut-job been here long enough to know better." He noisily ruffled through the attached documents, “Edgar Finch, born 1943, 36 years young, Shady Glen…hey, that's a rich people neighborhood, ain't it?” He pulled out an x-ray scan and held it up to the light, closed one eye, and flipped it over several times, “Look here, my man. Ain't right in the head, and this proves it.”

Carl’s eyes never strayed from the TV screen. "You shouldn’t have taken it either, Larry—the clipboard. You’re an orderly, not a doctor. That’s a reportable offense.”

“Well, I could report you on a technicality for loiterin on the clock and impersonatin a security official.” Larry craned his long neck out of the open doorway and tapped a sign on the outside wall, “Security Personnel Only.”

“And how did you come by this authority?”

“Tony's my main man,” Larry declared as he fingered the security keys at his belt.

“Did you know Tony can’t tie his own goddamn shoes? You give your man too much credit.”

Larry pretended to ignore the jab at his cohort, “Tony's real particular bout who he lets in here. You owe me one for this.” His pink pockmarked skin began to redden.

Carl ignored the comment and simply pointed at the screen with his chin, “Where were security during all of this?

Larry turned his red face back to the TV. "Runnin late on account of the rain. I lucked out gettin here during a lull."

Carl grunted his doubt, concentrating on the black and white scene.

10:36 PM—The man on the tape leaned forward in his chair, picked up the clipboard and leaned back, leafing through the documents.

"He don't really do much of anything for a while here." Larry pressed the Fast Forward button with a bandaged finger until the man on screen moved again.

10:51 PM—The man in pajamas suddenly shot up from the chair and shoved half the contents of the table-top onto the floor. Gray water sloshed from a mop bucket perched on one end of the table. The man threw the clipboard down next to it, then thrust his hand into the bucket. Something wet came back out with it. He pressed the thing to the side of his face, liquid streaming down his body.

Larry sensed a peak in his coworker's interest and smiled smugly.

Carl’s chair creaked in protest as he leaned it away from the wall, his eyes narrowing to black pinholes. "What in the hell…" His long, rubber-souled shoes, along with the front chair legs, smacked the floor simultaneously, punctuating his remark. Without looking down, he instinctively caught the thick-framed glasses that popped out of his breast pocket.

"What'd I tell ya, Carl. One of the cuckiest things I ever saw. Wait, it gets better."

Carl leaned closer to the small screen, rested his elbows on his knees and clasped his hands, preparing for the unexpected. The man on the video tape stood statue-still, moving only his arms to occasionally switch the wet thing from one side of his face to the other. Carl focused on the man, waiting for something new to happen.

Larry watched the fat man squirm with anticipation. He allowed the tape to continue playing for 22 more agonizing minutes before pressing Fast Forward. The tape squealed and raced in its housing. Carl flinched and pressed his knuckles into his dry eyes until the tape came to rest again. The picture on the TV became clearer.

"A mop sponge," Carl pointed to the screen, “he’s holding a mop sponge to his ears. And that's a bucket of filthy mop water. He's soaking himself in goddamn bleach, Larry!"

Larry wiped a sleeve across his wet smile as he witnessed the brown man’s reaction. Then he adjusted a knob on the front of the TV and the tiny speaker hissed.

11:47 PM—Larry’s muffled voice, off-screen, mingled with the hiss of static, "Hullo? Who's there?…"

“Edgar!” the man with the mop sponge responded, “I’m on to you, Finch.” He stood there, wet and wooden, until he dipped his free hand into the bucket. His hand came back out, cupped with gray water, and moved to his mouth. Carl watched the man on TV gulp down a handful of the liquid. The man coughed and sputtered, then spoke again, "I'm about to split this case wide open, Finch. Don't be surprised if your thirty-seventh birthday party turns into your funeral."

"Christsake, Larry, he's drinking mop water! Where in hell was Tony with the keys?"

"I had to go hunt him down after I heard Finch in the closet. Tony was soakin wet on account of the rain so he went to the commode before goin on shift."

11:48 PM—The man gripped the edge of the metal bucket as he indulged in his drinking.

“Christ alive, Larry, he’s down in that bleach bucket like he’s bobbing for goddamn apples!” Carl covered his mouth as the tiny black and white screen engulfed his entire world. He didn’t even notice as Larry turned the volume louder. The TV monitor with its awful speaker bared its gruesome soul. The slurping and slopping, coughing and spitting continued unabated until there was nothing left in the bucket except a thick sludge of hospital detritus.

Carl sat stone still, visibly sweating.

11:49 PM—The door at the edge of the TV screen opened and Larry stepped into view. He began rolling up his shirt sleeves as Tony’s large form appeared in the doorway behind him. "Hey, we been clear out to Timbuktu lookin for you. Way past your bedtime, chief,” Larry cautiously closed the gap between himself and Edgar Finch. He lowered a hand to something at his belt, “Time to take your medicine and then its lights out.”

There was a flurry of motion from Edgar just before Tony doubled over. The heavy mop bucket laid in front of the security officer as he slid down against the far wall.

Larry released the billy club from his belt and vaulted over the table that separated him from Edgar. His foot came down hard on Edgar’s leg, toppling him to the floor. Larry closed in, club swinging.

Larry wiped his mouth as he watched the fat Filipino squirm and sweat in his rickety chair. It was exactly the kind of response he craved. He hoped the tape would play forever.

Carl continued to follow the escalating violence on the monitor. He eventually averted his eyes but couldn’t escape the horrible groans and retching from the harsh little speaker. “Christ, Larry, you took it too far. You really took it far this time. Crossed the line with this one, by God! A simple restraint would’ve sufficed.” He looked up at the lanky man for the first time since they entered the room, and pointed at the TV from which the gruesome imagery and sounds continued to play. “Did you beat that man to death, Larry? Is that why you had me watch this? Jesus, are you some kind of mental sicko? I never pegged you as a cruel man—a bit odd, let's not mince words, here—but not a man without humanity.”

Larry looked down at the fat man for a moment before replying, waiting just long enough to hear his favorite line from the tape recording play through the awful speaker—"How'd you think this was gonna end, you retarded sonofabitch!" He had watched the tape a dozen times and knew every word of dialog by heart.

Without looking away from Carl, he reached over and pressed Power on the TV, silencing the chaos. “I just gave him his medicine. Past due time someone had the cojones to show that psycho who's in charge round here,” he said as he wiped his mouth with a sleeve, “ol Finchy-boy will feel right as rain come tomorrow, I guarantee.”

A slow peel of distant thunder invaded the small space where the two men—never friends, but brought together by circumstance—locked eyes with one another.

Carl was the first to look away and break the uncomfortable silence, “I don’t feel well…I’m going home.” He stood up and walked out of the room, pinching the bridge of his nose with his thumb and finger. The thighs of his drawstring pants made swish swish sounds as he walked. The other man smirked and waited until the sounds were consumed by that of the pounding rain.

Larry leafed through the clipboard medical charts until settling on the Electroshock Treatment Record. He scanned the rows of dates, voltage readings, times, and doctor’s initials. His eyes lingered on the final entry marked with today’s date—July 21, 1979. “That brain pan of yours musta been deep fried, ol Finchy-boy, but you're gonna feel right as rain come tomorrow."

Next to the date was a doctor’s typed notation: Patient has responded negatively to all electroshock treatments. Remains a danger to himself and others. No additional treatment required. Recommend immediate lobotomy.

Larry tucked the clipboard under his arm, pressed Eject on the machine, and placed the security tape on the shelf alongside the others. He strutted down the long hall toward the nurses station, humming absently, out-of-tune. The sound was like a banshee drowning in the rain.