The Fourth Bear

3. St. Cerebellum’s

Dr. Alan Mandible led the group of suited consultants along the peeling corridors of St. Cerebellum’s, Reading’s premier secure hospital for the criminally insane. While perhaps not the newest, cleanest or driest, it did contain the most interesting patients. There are not many secure hospitals that can boast someone who thought he was Napoleon, but St. Cerebellum’s could field three—not to mention a handful of serial killers whose names inexplicably yet conveniently rhymed with their crimes. Notorious cannibal “Peter the Eater” was incarcerated here, as were “Sasha the Slasher” and “Mr. Browner the Serial Drowner.” But the undisputed king of rhyme-inspired serial murder was Isle of Man resident Maximilian Marx, who went under the uniquely tongue-twisting epithet “Mad Max Marx, the Masked Manxman Axman.” Deirdre Blott tried to top Max’s clear superiority by changing her name so as to become “Nutty Nora Newsome, the Knife-Wielding Weird Widow from Waddersdon,” but no one was impressed, and she was ostracized by the other patients for being such a terrible show-off.

“We have funding to demolish the old nuthouse, Dr. Maxilla,” explained Dr. Mandible earnestly, catching sight of the Japanese delegate’s obvious distaste at the moldering fabric of the building, and adding quickly, “I’m sorry, when I said ‘nuthouse,’ I actually meant ‘secure hospital.’"

“It’s an easy mistake to make,” replied Dr. Maxilla cheerfully.

“I often refer to my patients as ‘the loons.’"

Dr. Mandible smiled. They understood each other perfectly.

There were five delegates following Dr. Mandible’s brisk pace down the corridors, each hailing from a different nation. They were visiting St. Cerebellum’s as part of an international exchange of ideas concerning the treatment of the dangerously criminally insane; Dr. Mandible himself had attended Professor Frank Strait’s specialist hospital in Ohio and would visit Dr. Maxilla’s clinic in Kobe at the end of the year.

“I understand that one of your consultants was caught conducting unethical experiments,” said the French delegate, Dr. Vômer. “Such as grafting a kitten’s head onto a haddock.”

“Dr. Quatt? I barely knew her,” replied Mandible hurriedly,

“and her experiments were conducted without the knowledge or approval of the hospital governors or even of QuangTech, who own the hospital.”

“Oh!” said Vômer, who had once himself dabbled in the ethically gray area of grafting things onto other things for no apparent purpose. “Her work was much admired in Toulouse, where such experiments are permitted for gastronomic research.”

Mandible sighed. “I wish our own medical council were as broad-minded. She was one of St. Cerebellum’s most celebrated perverters of the natural order. But, alas, she died earlier this year.”

“A great loss,” said Vômer sadly. “I was hoping to speak to her—was it unexpected?”

“She was hit on the head with a shovel and then crushed by a falling beanstalk while being carried to safety by a bizarre genetic experiment gone horribly wrong,” replied Mandible thoughtfully,

“so I think it’s safe to say it was unexpected—but what she would have wanted nonetheless.”

“And her experiments?”

“Disposed of.”

“Even the monkey’s brain kept alive in a jar?” queried Dr. Maxilla, his voice tinged with disappointment.

“I’m afraid so. I mean, mercifully so. Ah! Security.”

He was glad to be able to change the subject. They had reached a steel gate with a guard behind it, who was reading a copy of The Toad and looking bored.

“I’m afraid you must leave all sharp objects and personal possessions behind,” intoned Dr. Mandible. “To take notes I will supply you with presoftened crayons and notepads of damp tissue paper bound with moldy wool.”

There was a sudden hush. The delegates looked at one another nervously.

Dr. Maxilla gave voice to their collective thoughts. “Doctor, are you proposing that we are to wander amid your inmates… unprotected?”

The other doctors nodded in agreement and started to mutter among themselves. Dr. Mandible held up his hands in a conciliatory manner and smiled benignly.

“Here at St. Cerebellum’s we are trying to help the repeatedly violent offender by increasing hospital security to a maximum but reducing individual security to a minimum. The patients are allowed to wander relatively freely within the confines of the hospital’s outdoor compound.”

“You mean, that is to say, we are likely to face—I mean, without bars—HIM?”

Mandible smiled again. “It is a radical treatment, I grant you, but we are more than happy with the results, and I assure you that you will come to no harm. The patient to whom you refer is one of our greatest successes, and although he is transported from place to place within the hospital using the methods recommended by law—in his case with straitjacket and bite mask—it is unnecessary, for he has renounced violence and freely accepted his loss of liberty as a just punishment for his crimes.”

Even though no name had been spoken, they all knew whom he was talking about. The patient in question was the star attraction of the hospital and the only reason any of them had bothered to visit Dr. Mandible and his otherwise dull hospital in the first place. Even though St. Cerebellum’s secure wing was home to nine serial killers, three poisoners, one cannibal and an arsonist or two, only one of them had continued to command front-page status since his capture twenty years before. His name alone would cause a shiver to run down the spine of anyone who had even the slightest association with him.

Dr. Mandible smiled at them, but they did not smile back. Even the most committed of them had never had merely fresh air between them and their most dangerous patients.

“Did he really pull men’s arms from their sockets?” asked Dr. Maxilla, a slight tremor in his voice.

“Not at all,” replied Mandible. “He pulled anyone’s arms from their sockets. He was never gender-exclusive and always the most egalitarian of psychotics—anything with a pulse was fair game for slaughter. He once saved the life of someone simply so he could kill him in a more imaginative fashion.”

“So the story about the guinea pigs and the kebab skewer is true?”

“All the stories are true,” replied Mandible, gesturing for them to follow, “except the one where he showed mercy to a little old lady. It wasn’t mercy at all—he had a dentist’s appointment and was in a hurry.”

He led them through the steel gate, on the other side of which three burly orderlies were waiting to escort them. They walked down a short corridor and blinked as they stepped into a large outdoor area surrounded by a high wall. The compound was laid out as a spacious garden, and they could see patients tending small areas of their own. Dr. Mandible led them down a concrete path to a beefy, neckless bull of a man who was weeding a vegetable patch.

“Hello, Martin,” said Dr. Mandible calmly.

“Hello, Doc,” said the man cheerily. “Carrots will be good this year.”

“Splendid!” replied Dr. Mandible, patting the patient amiably on the shoulder and passing on.

“Martin Gooch,” whispered Mandible. “Frustrated film director. Went mad and slaughtered a producer with an ax, then killed anyone who reminded him of the producer, and after that anyone at all. Spent the first three years of his treatment in solitary because of his violent disposition. After six years of origami therapy we reclassified him from Category B, ‘dangerously insane,’ to Category D, ‘functionally bonkers.’"

They nodded their heads agreeably and scribbled some notes with their soft wax crayons. Then they moved on, and Dr. Mandible introduced them to several other mass murderers, poisoners and pony stranglers, but it was obvious from their feeling of anticipation that these patients, while all remarkable examples of rehabilitation, were mere sideshows to the one patient of St. Cerebellum’s that made the rest seem petty shoplifters by comparison.

Dr. Mandible read the looks on their faces, sensed their impatience and led them over to a small bed of rosebushes, each one sporting a dazzling selection of blooms. The delegates gathered behind Mandible as they approached, yet not even the orderlies felt they had much to worry about. The patient, despite the outrageous and often perverse violence of his crimes, hadn’t lifted a finger against any of them during his two-decade stay at the hospital. The mellow figure snipping at the roses seemed somehow divorced from the savagery of his sadistic crimes. But it didn’t help him. Liberty, in his case, could never be an option.

The patient in question had his back to the small group. He was dressed in pale blue denim trousers and jacket with ST. CEREBELLUM’S stenciled on the back. The figure busied himself with his roses and was stooped over a bloom, carefully trimming the plant with a pair of blunted plastic scissors firmly attached by a heavy chain to three anvils on the ground. He seemed not to be aware of their presence, so Dr. Mandible gave a polite cough. The figure stood up to his full height and turned slowly to face them. A faint whiff of ginger moved with him, and Dr. Maxilla took a sharp intake of breath. Professor Palatine covered her mouth with her hand and uttered a small cry. The others all took a nervous step back, apart from Dr. Vômer, who took three.

However many photos you see or however much news footage you watch of the Gingerbreadman, nothing can quite prepare you for seeing him in all his baked glory. He was a dark brown color the shade of mahogany and seven feet tall, with weighty limbs and a large head. His jacket was open, revealing several large pink-icing buttons that ran down his chest. He had glacé cherries the size of grapefruits for eyes and a dollop of red icing for a nose. His mouth was two slivers of licorice, the corners of which rose into a smile as soon as he saw them.

“Alan!” said the Gingerbreadman with a deep yet friendly tone. “What a delightful happenstance! And most timely, too. See here, I have bred a new rose, which in honor of your work to cure me of my criminal tendencies I take great pleasure in naming after you. Behold, ‘Mandible’s Triumph’!”

He offered the bloom to Mandible in his three-fingered gingerbread hand, and the doctor accepted it gratefully. It was a flower that had blue, white and red petals on the same bloom.

“Thank you very much,” said Mandible as the Gingerbreadman gave a small bow and let out another whiff of ginger. “It’s magnificent!” He turned to the delegates. “Ladies and gentlemen, allow me to introduce the Gingerbreadman, veteran of St. Cerebellum’s and one of our model patients.”

They relaxed slightly at the Gingerbreadman’s apparent congeniality and stared at him as his glacé-cherry eyes darted eagerly among their faces. He recognized Frank Strait immediately.

“Professor Strait?” he asked as he took a step closer. “I read your book on obsessional neurosis with great interest.”

“How… how did you know it was me?” stammered Strait, taken aback at the Gingerbreadman’s powers of observation.

“That’s easily explained.” The Gingerbreadman smiled. “Your picture is on the book jacket.”

“Ah. Well… what did you think?” asked Strait, his voice high and tremulous with suppressed fear.

“I’ll be frank with you, Frank,” replied the Gingerbreadman, adding hastily, “May I call you Frank?”

“I’d prefer Professor Strait.”

“Very well. I’ll be straight with you, Strait. I wasn’t that impressed. The prose was dull, the research patchy. I thought that perhaps you had given over your time to listing case histories rather than proposing specific methods of treatment. It smacked of voyeurism. In a less enlightened age, people like you would be given guided tours around lunatic asylums with people like me as the star attraction. Not that it’s like that anymore, eh, Alan?”

He winked at Dr. Mandible as he said it, then gave out a cakey chuckle and another whiff of ginger.

Professor Strait twitched and raised an eyebrow, wondering how to reply to hearing his life’s work so comprehensively trashed. He paused too long; the Gingerbreadman’s attention had moved on.

“Dr. Lacrimal?” he asked, his cherry eyes flicking onto the German, who stood as straight as a poker to show that he was not in the least afraid, which he transparently was.

“I am,” Lacrimal answered. “But there is no picture on my book jacket. How did you know?”

The Gingerbreadman chuckled another deep, cakey laugh. “Because you are the leading German expert on criminal insanity. Alan doesn’t insult me by dragging along students; your bearing was unmistakably German, and it seemed the most likely. On the same criteria, I suspect that is Dr. Maxilla behind you; Dr. Vômer is the one cowering in the distance; and I have at least a sixty percent certainty that the lady is Professor Palatine, head of the Jordanian mental institute and as brilliant as she is beautiful.”

He gave another short bow, and his licorice lips rose into a radiant smile. The delegates all returned his bow and wrote more notes.

“I see you are surprised,” observed the Gingerbreadman, “surprised that an evil spirit such as I, famed for my sadistic and murderous exploits, stands before you as an intelligent entity!”

Dr. Mandible placed his hand on the Gingerbreadman’s shoulder—which he had to reach up to do—and addressed the small group.

“When the Gingerbreadman first arrived here, he was so violently deranged we had to invent a new category just for him—A-plus-plus-plus: ‘throw away the key.’ He was brutal, dangerous and without a shred of human decency. He was—and I will beg your indulgence to use an unscientific term—a fiend. Unhelpful at first and contemptuous of authority, in the past twenty years he has shown a remarkable change. Quite apart from utilizing his not-inconsiderable mental agility to become an expert on roses, he has also written several books on the criminal tendency, speaks seven languages and has a degree in philosophy and ethics from the Open University. So you see before you, lady and gentlemen, not the monster that was but a useful asset to the society he once terrorized.”

The Gingerbreadman looked embarrassed and stared at his feet.

“Alan is too kind,” he said at last in a low voice, “but what he neglects to tell you is that even though this is a hospital and not a prison, it is a confusion in words only. I will never be released despite the good doctor’s work, because punishment and incarceration are but aspects of the penal system. We live in a society that values revenge, revenge for the victims and their families. It is for their sake that I must remain here.”

He lowered his cherry eyes and sighed, giving off another whiff of ginger. They all sensed that the interview was at an end, said their good-byes and filed away. Dr. Vômer was the first to say anything, when they were safely out of earshot.

“I think I speak for all of us when I say how remarkable your rehabilitation of the Gingerbreadman has been,” he began. “Perhaps you would like to give the keynote speech at LoopyCon next year?”

The other delegates nodded their agreement, and Mandible tried to look abashed and surprised by this sudden honor. He allowed himself a brief twinge of pride. Next year LoopyCon would echo with the praises of the Mandible technique for treatment of violent serial offenders. It would be a short leap, he thought, from there to having his name indelibly linked to the other great names of psychology: Freud, Jung, Skinner, Chumley—Mandible! He shivered as he thought of it.

The Gingerbreadman had returned to his roses after the small party left. He looked about him to make sure no one was watching, then cupped his hands around a small flower just coming to life. After thirty seconds or so, he took his hands away and smiled to himself. The small rose had undergone a transformation within his hands. Where before it had been alive and beautiful, now it was withered and brown. Dead, dried and decayed, rotten as the evil soul of the Gingerbreadman.