Ghost in the Walls.
Two patients vanished in the wee hours of Friday morning. Later, careful review of the security cameras tells most of the story; Harvey Dent's murder of the orderly, releasing Simon Garoux, escorting him out of the maximum security wing. Simon fleeing him, vanishing into a staff bathroom. -Vanishing-. He didn't reappear until three minutes later, on the camera in the 3rd floor stairwell, half the building away, when the door to the floor slammed open, Mr. Goldmann crashing through it with the inmate on his back, bare-tooth grin white against a new coat of filth. The murder's on film, a tenth strike against Mr. Garoux. Then Simon's caught on the stairwell cameras for floors 2, 1, and B, and then one more brief, gritty glimpse from the basement camera, his silhouette caught in the opening and shutting of the door. Later review of the cameras finds one extra orderly leaving the building, head down and walk purposeful. But there's no sign of Simon, not even after a thorough police search.
Three escapes and two murders in one week has the entire hospital on edge. How many got fired over this one? The lucky ones clump up, move in pairs and trios. Three security guards bring their guns from home. One of them shoots a wall, swearing he heard a voice inside it. Paranoia is epidemic by Saturday. The head of security orders another search, and this one goes slower, floor by floor, checking every closet and storage room and access panel.
The four guards assigned to the basement split up into two teams. They know Garoux was down here, at some point. The camera says so. But there's no escape from here. Cold and dank and unused since the remodel, there's no reason for anyone to be down here.
But someone is. When the lights come up in the empty cell-block, down at the end of the long, echoing hall, there's a folding chair against one cell door, and a man sitting in it. Left in it. The guards glance at each other, getting better grips on their weapons of choice. A taser for one, a night stick for the other. But there's no need for either. The man's too big to be Garoux, they can tell that before they're close enough to see the blood pooled on the dark cement floor. It's still sticky when they're close enough to see that half his face is missing. "Christ, Dent," hisses Guard Taser. Guard Nightstick backs away, then turns around to retch quietly at the foot of the wall, leaning hard against it.
It's not Dent, of course. But it might be hard to tell. Half his face is gone to the bone, the other half merely mutilated. Both eyes gone and a long strip of flesh down the good cheek. Just like poor Mr. Goldbarr, his throat was crushed. Just like the dead man in Harvey's cell, his clothes have been stolen, down to his shoes. Something small and sharp tore him up, sliced open his chest after he was dead. His entrails are spilled all over his lap, almost pointedly uneaten. His heart is gone. So are the muscles of his back and arms, and chest, and thighs. Bloody footprints lead into one of the empty, open cells, and end there, with an empty orange jumpsuit, soaked through with blood, hanging from the sink.
Three escapes and two murders in one week has the entire hospital on edge. How many got fired over this one? The lucky ones clump up, move in pairs and trios. Three security guards bring their guns from home. One of them shoots a wall, swearing he heard a voice inside it. Paranoia is epidemic by Saturday. The head of security orders another search, and this one goes slower, floor by floor, checking every closet and storage room and access panel.
The four guards assigned to the basement split up into two teams. They know Garoux was down here, at some point. The camera says so. But there's no escape from here. Cold and dank and unused since the remodel, there's no reason for anyone to be down here.
But someone is. When the lights come up in the empty cell-block, down at the end of the long, echoing hall, there's a folding chair against one cell door, and a man sitting in it. Left in it. The guards glance at each other, getting better grips on their weapons of choice. A taser for one, a night stick for the other. But there's no need for either. The man's too big to be Garoux, they can tell that before they're close enough to see the blood pooled on the dark cement floor. It's still sticky when they're close enough to see that half his face is missing. "Christ, Dent," hisses Guard Taser. Guard Nightstick backs away, then turns around to retch quietly at the foot of the wall, leaning hard against it.
It's not Dent, of course. But it might be hard to tell. Half his face is gone to the bone, the other half merely mutilated. Both eyes gone and a long strip of flesh down the good cheek. Just like poor Mr. Goldbarr, his throat was crushed. Just like the dead man in Harvey's cell, his clothes have been stolen, down to his shoes. Something small and sharp tore him up, sliced open his chest after he was dead. His entrails are spilled all over his lap, almost pointedly uneaten. His heart is gone. So are the muscles of his back and arms, and chest, and thighs. Bloody footprints lead into one of the empty, open cells, and end there, with an empty orange jumpsuit, soaked through with blood, hanging from the sink.