By Reason of Insanity by Shane Stevens

the word.
    Lang blushed. “Sorry. Just a conceit of mine, I guess. I like to think of the hospital as a kind of college campus.”
    Oates snorted. “I suppose the nuts in here are just a bunch of students.” He turned to Baylor. “You got a file on this what’s-his-name?”
    “Vincent Mungo.” Baylor handed him a folder from the desk. “You’ll find everything we have on him. It isn’t much. He was a recent transfer, you know.”
    “From where?” Spanner asked.
    “Lakeland.”
    Oates looked up in surprise. “Lakeland isn’t part of—”
    “He was having violent episodes lately,” Baylor hastily explained. “Disciplinary problems. They thought perhaps we could help him.”
    “They? Who’s ‘they’?”
    Lang coughed. “I originally petitioned various state hospitals—”
    “You mean nuthouses,” Oates interjected.
    “State hospitals,” persisted Lang, “to suggest possible patients who might be helped by our new experimental program. It’s the first in the state,” he said proudly. Then, more quietly, “Mungo was one of those suggested.”
    Oates looked at him. “So this is all your doing.”
    Lang bristled as Baylor rushed to his defense. “Doctor Lang is highly qualified in his field and totally competent. We all have the highest respect for his abilities.”
    The sheriff laughed. He knew all about people sticking together, especially those in the same racket. “No offense, Doctor,” he apologized. “No offense.”
    He finished reading the few papers on Mungo in the folder, returning it to the desk.
    “May I?” asked Spanner reaching for the folder.
    “So the two of them get to the roof, just walk through doors and right past guards”—Oates was not going to let go of a thing like that— “and then they—” He stopped. “Wait a minute. Wasn’t the roof door locked, for chrissake?”
    Baylor regarded him for a moment. “As I’m sure you know, Sheriff,” he said smoothly, “state fire laws require all such doors to be unlocked from the inside .” He emphasized the word. “At Willows we must of course comply with all state laws.” He smiled in triumph.
    “Yeah, sure,” Oates blustered. “What I meant was the alarm,” he said, recovering. “What about the alarm? Why didn’t it go off?”
    Spanner glanced up from his reading. “Whipped cream,” he said simply.
    In spite of himself the sheriff had to laugh. “Maybe they’re not so crazy after all.”
    “May I remind you that one of them was killed?”
    “So he was just the dumb one.” Oates had no feeling for crazy people, they were unpredictable.
    “Horrible, horrible,” said Lang suddenly, unable to forget. “His whole face, it was … gone.”
    Oates eyed Dr. Baylor. “What’s he mean, gone?”
    Baylor paused, licked his lips. “Bishop’s face was totally de stroyed,” he said finally. “There were no features left, nothing at all.”
    “Then how do you know it’s Bishop?”
    “The clothes, the things in the pockets, the wallet, all Bishop’s. Also from the body itself. Wouldn’t you say so, Doctor? You knew the man?”
    Lang nodded. “It’s Bishop all right.”
    “What about fingerprints, just to doublecheck?”
    Lang shook his head. “Bishop came here when he was ten years old. He never had his prints taken, I’m afraid.”
    Oates stared in disbelief. “When he was ten?”
    “At that time,” said Baylor, “this institution was the only one in the state with a children’s ward.” He smiled. “It was experimental then. Now of course they’re quite common.”
    “What did the kid do at ten?” whispered the sheriff.
    Baylor and Lang exchanged quick glances before Lang spoke.
    “He killed his mother,” he stated matter-of-factly.
    Oates grunted as though in pain. He had a sudden urge to be far away from all crazy people, including the nuts who took care of them. Like these two, nothing but trouble. He shook his head sadly.
    Spanner, finished with the file, placed it on the