He nodded along with L’s suggestions, frowning slightly as he sighed. Knowing just where to start was something Lunge had been struggling with himself. As it was, he couldn’t help but feel like a scent hound tracking a criminal in a perfumery. “The town seems like the strongest lead for now, even if only to use as a jumping off point. If it is truly there, it serves a purpose. I’d also suggest finding the document supposedly recovered from the morgue after Doyle’s death, although tracking it down might prove somewhat more challenging.”
"Tomorrow night,” he continued, “among other things, I'll be collecting equipment for gathering evidence at the scene." Scalpels, plastic bags, pliers- anything that could be used to take samples. The message, for example, needed more thorough investigation; the gully between 'looks like blood' and 'actually blood' was immense. "There very likely is someone here with at least rudimentary forensic skills. I’d like to know just how real the town is."
Had they the time, he would have gladly planned every detail of their expedition. But L was right. Out of the corner of his eye Lunge could see his regular nurse beginning to circle the room, like a buzzard waiting for her prey to give up the ghost and collapse. Still, if it bothered him at all he didn't let it show; he continued speaking in the usual calm, deliberate monotone as ever before. One got the distinct impression that, were the world about to end, fate would have to send the two of them a letter of notice two weeks beforehand just to let them finish their conversation.
"I think I may have already mentioned that the name was 'Otto Jung'. Currently, my room number is M50, although given the rate at which patients appear to go through roommates..." Unfortunately, Lunge got the distinct impression that he and Dent were in it for the long haul. How unfortunate for Dent. Hopefully, L's roommate was less troublesome.
But then, not much troubles you, does it, L? He let his mind wander over that for a moment, watching beadily as the man bit lightly on the tip of his finger. The focus on hands was, in a way, almost fetishistic. Freud would call it an extension of oral fixation but, even without the pitfalls inherent in that little theory, you don't seem particularly anxious. The contrary, in fact. How much of that is a smokescreen, I wond-
The thought was left half-formed as, on cue, his nurse descended. Wearing her day-glo smile and perfect uniform like a medal of honour, she epitomised everything wholesome and institutionalised. "I think the shift's almost up now, Mr. Jung. You'd better start packing everything away and say goodbye to Daniel." As she clucked him up out of his chair she picked up his 'art', positively beaming. "What a lovely painting! I didn't know you were a cat person."
'Mr. Jung' grimaced ruefully in L's direction, not even attempting to sell it as a smile.
no subject
"Tomorrow night,” he continued, “among other things, I'll be collecting equipment for gathering evidence at the scene." Scalpels, plastic bags, pliers- anything that could be used to take samples. The message, for example, needed more thorough investigation; the gully between 'looks like blood' and 'actually blood' was immense. "There very likely is someone here with at least rudimentary forensic skills. I’d like to know just how real the town is."
Had they the time, he would have gladly planned every detail of their expedition. But L was right. Out of the corner of his eye Lunge could see his regular nurse beginning to circle the room, like a buzzard waiting for her prey to give up the ghost and collapse. Still, if it bothered him at all he didn't let it show; he continued speaking in the usual calm, deliberate monotone as ever before. One got the distinct impression that, were the world about to end, fate would have to send the two of them a letter of notice two weeks beforehand just to let them finish their conversation.
"I think I may have already mentioned that the name was 'Otto Jung'. Currently, my room number is M50, although given the rate at which patients appear to go through roommates..." Unfortunately, Lunge got the distinct impression that he and Dent were in it for the long haul. How unfortunate for Dent. Hopefully, L's roommate was less troublesome.
But then, not much troubles you, does it, L? He let his mind wander over that for a moment, watching beadily as the man bit lightly on the tip of his finger. The focus on hands was, in a way, almost fetishistic. Freud would call it an extension of oral fixation but, even without the pitfalls inherent in that little theory, you don't seem particularly anxious. The contrary, in fact. How much of that is a smokescreen, I wond-
The thought was left half-formed as, on cue, his nurse descended. Wearing her day-glo smile and perfect uniform like a medal of honour, she epitomised everything wholesome and institutionalised. "I think the shift's almost up now, Mr. Jung. You'd better start packing everything away and say goodbye to Daniel." As she clucked him up out of his chair she picked up his 'art', positively beaming. "What a lovely painting! I didn't know you were a cat person."
'Mr. Jung' grimaced ruefully in L's direction, not even attempting to sell it as a smile.