The Fourth Figure by Brian; Pieter; Doyle Aspe

psychiatry ward. Coleyn moved with haste, the panels of his coat flapping between his legs like a pair of slack sails.
    Hospitals these days were suspiciously like American hotels: Those who had never stayed in one tended to be full of praise while those who had didn’t dare admit that they’d expected better.
    â€œWill Jasper have to stay confined for long?” asked Van In.
    â€œThat depends,” said Coleyn.
    With patients having more and more of a say in their treatment, doctors were terrified to tie themselves down to fixed dates, an objectionable habit they had learned from the world of politics. “A month, two?”
    â€œAt the very least, Commissioner, at the very least.”
    When they entered the room, they found Jasper still lying on his back, staring at the ceiling. He had been given a couple of pills intended to compensate for the unpleasant side effects of the Haldol. Now he was waiting patiently for the clatter of plates and cutlery that would soon announce the evening meal. Tucking into a couple of slices of brown bread with pastrami and mustard was the only attraction on the program that evening. After that, it was a longer wait for the new sun to rise.
    â€œHi, Jasper. I’m Commissioner Van In and this is Sergeant Versavel.”
    Jasper turned his gaze to the voice that had summoned him from his lethargy.
    Dr. Coleyn moved closer. “These two gentlemen are from the police, Jasper. They want to ask you a couple of questions. You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to.”
    The medical world was convinced that pills and technical ingenuity were enough to make sick people better, but they often tended to forget that other maladies like loneliness and despair cried out for a different approach, an affectionate approach. Guido wondered if Jasper would have given his right arm for a word of encouragement instead.
    â€œIt’s about Trui Andries,” said Van In. “Do you remember when you saw her last?”
    When he didn’t answer immediately, Coleyn turned to Van In with an I-told-you-so look on his face, but Guido noticed that Jasper was trying to lift his head from the magnetic embrace of the pillow. He turned on his side, seeming intent on leaning on his elbow, but he fell back to the pillow as though he lacked the strength to support himself.
    â€œHis lips are moving,” said Guido.
    Coleyn leaned over him, his shadow smothering the supplication in Jasper’s eyes. “I think it would be better to come back tomorrow.”
    Van In looked at Guido, who shrugged his shoulders. “You think he’ll be in better shape?”
    â€œI’m certain of it,” said Coleyn.
    â€œFine, then we come back tomorrow.”
    As they left the room, Jasper started to cry, gently. A tear rolled down his nose, pausing just above his upper lip. He licked the teardrop and tasted the bitterness of his failure.

5
    It was almost eight in the evening when Van In turned into the Vette Vispoort, shivering, the cobblestones reinforcing the dry echo of his footsteps. They always sounded more hollow when it was cold. As he turned his house key in the lock he heard the clatter of pots and pans in the kitchen, and the smell of smoldering birch and thyme wafted through the letterbox. Good omens , he thought. A little warmth and a tasty dinner were exactly what he needed.
    Hannelore was in the kitchen. She was wearing an apron with the words Je cuisine, donc je suis . Van In had given it to her as a gift the month before. He had cut the strings to measure. When she could no longer tie them, it was high time to prepare for fatherhood. Luckily, today was not the day.
    â€œI managed to pick up a couple of decent knuckles of veal this afternoon.” Hannelore leaned forward for a kiss. “We haven’t had ossobuco in ages.”
    Van In licked his lips, grabbed a spoon from the counter, and tried the sauce. Delicious as usual. No one could make