The Cartoonist by Sean Costello

horror comic, however, to find that simple message.”
    Scott nodded. Given the old man’s “wild talent,” it seemed a sound interpretation. “Have you ever come across anything like this before?”
    “The literature abounds,” the older psychiatrist said, indicating with a grand gesture the bookshelf behind him. “Countless claims and unproven examples of everything from precognition to phenomena as weird and wonderful as telepathetic mind control and pyrokinesis. But personally, no, I’ve never had the good fortune of witnessing something like this first-hand.
    “In view of his apparent psychic ability,” Bateman went on professorially, “the fact that your man is clinically senile makes this all the more interesting. Back in the seventies, the French did an experiment in which, based on a number selected randomly by a computer, they sacrificed rats, one each day, observing the survivors for signs of aberrant behavior. What they were able to demonstrate with statistically significant reproducibility was that small groups of the rats, five or six at a time, did develop erratic behavior—and, more often than not, the rat whose turn was up next was a member of that group.
    “As well, also in the seventies, a team of Russian researchers studied rabbits whose offspring were sacrificed at a preappointed time and at some distance from the parent. Here, too, they were able to demonstrate some low-grade psychic perception, as many of the animals became noticeably agitated at or near the time their offspring were to be slain.
    “My point is this: the human being, who seems to have the greatest difficulty getting in touch with that especially perceptive part of his mind, has this skeptical chunk of neocortex stuck right up here”—he tapped his forehead with a slender finger—“which refuses to buy into the messages it receives from its baser levels. But this cartoonist, with his shrunken, disconnected cortex...chances are he’s functioning at roughly the same level as those French rats and Russian rabbits.” Bateman grinned sagely.
    His gaze still on the drawings, Scott nodded his agreement. But he wasn’t interested in explanations. He had the evidence and that was enough.
    “What should we do with him?” Scott said.
    “Study him,” Bateman said, as if addressing a moron. “Isolate him. First thing tomorrow I’ll arrange for a private room and assign a nurse to keep him under close observation.” He grinned and something flickered in his eyes that Scott didn’t like. “We may have our own little fortune-teller here,” Bateman said, his thin lips curling into a humorless grin. “And wouldn’t that be something. If he bears out, he’ll make an excellent case presentation for the annual parapsychology meeting in New Orleans this fall. Thanks for letting me in on this one, Scott. I owe you.” He stood.
    “No worries,” Scott said. “It just really struck me...these damned drawings.” He hesitated, glancing again at those menacing red eyes. This was the only one of the artist’s drawings in which Scott had seen color. He picked up the page and handed it back to Bateman. “What do you make of the pigment he used for the eyes?”
    Bateman held the sheet up to the cone of his extension lamp, then scratched at the flaky red pigment with a thumbnail. Handing the sheet back, he shrugged.
    “It looks like blood,” he said.

11
    “CAN YOU DO IT?”
    The lab technician scratched his bearded chin. “I don’t know, Dr. Bowman, it’s an awfully small sample.”
    After leaving Bateman’s office, Scott had gone directly to the hematology lab in the hospital’s sub-basement. Bateman’s suggestion that the pigment might be blood had sent a chill through him. He wanted to verify it now in case the old man was into some form of pathological self-mutilation, although there was no physical evidence to suggest that he was.
    “Can’t you dissolve it into solution or something?” Scott said. “It’s