Home to some of the most unusual sociopaths in the country, violent offenders were usually confined to Wilson’s north wing. The “Looney Bin,” as the nonviolent patients liked to call it, was the most state of the art, civilian jail ever constructed. Equipped with infrared cameras, highly sensitive motion sensors, and overlapping security patrols, the Looney Bin was the size of a small Wal-Mart, only with calmer shoppers.
Boasting the best inmate-to-guard ratio in the free world, the north wing assigned one individual guard to watch over one inmate. And these weren’t ordinary guards. Populated with ex-Special Forces operators and retired detectives, Wilson’s private security force was the crown jewel of the private penal system.
The institute was well known internationally as well. So much so, that serial killers from around the world often found their way to southern Pennsylvania. That distinction made Wilson a psychological pilgrimage for some of the most famous psychiatrists in the world. Doctors waited months just for the chance to study some new and more dangerous condition.
At present, the Looney Bin housed three out of the top five criminals on the FBI’s most wanted list. And compared to them, Foster Evers was merely jaywalking through this place.
In contrast, the south wing’s common area was a retreat for the mildly insane. With an open floor plan, soft plush couches, and two large flat screen tv’s, the so-called nonviolent patients could often envision they were staying at a high-end hotel. “Starbucks for the straitjacketed” was how Foster often described it. Some of his fellow patients laughed at that joke, while others just wanted to know where the coffee was.
Usually, the only thing to worry about in this place was an argument over which show the members of the asylum wanted to watch. Foster had always heard good things about a show called Firefly, but he could never find it on their limited cable selection. Today, however, things were most decidedly different. A wolf had just strolled into their hen house.
“Are you insane?” Mouse asked.
“I would think our shared address would speak to that better than I could.” Foster had just finished his second piece of cobbler. Not looking at Mouse, he trained an eye on the person who had just entered through the main security door. “Why would you ask that now?”
“Why? The Rose Bowl’s on right now, and all you can do is play with that broken ass phone of yours.”
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“I’m doing research,” he said without breaking sight line with the newcomer. “Who’s playing?”
“Arkansas and Oklahoma State.” Mouse returned his attention to the television. Beside him, a couple of inmates were busy making wagers on the outcome of the game. He pointed one of them out to Foster. “Can you believe that Adam thinks Arkansas is going to win? Their defense is for shit.”
“Adam…?” Foster gripped his phone tightly. “He’s the one that thinks he’s Lady Gaga?”
“No, that’s Michael.” Mouse motioned to an effeminate looking patient with a half-done dye job. Foster inferred from this that acquiring things on the inside like a full bottle of peroxide must be difficult. “Adam is the one who thinks he can travel through time. He’s a crazy fucker.”
“Not that crazy,” Foster said, sitting up straight in his chair. “Arkansas will win by two touchdowns.”
“How do you know?”
Foster pointed to his phone. “A little birdie told me.”
“You and that phone are getting on my nerves,” Mouse confessed. “Still, your 'little birdie’s' prediction aside, how come you’re not watching the game? I thought you loved football?” Foster’s love of football was well known, but he still didn’t look at Mouse or the television. His attention had been captured by the burly looking patient wandering around, mumbling to himself at the far end of the common room.
He raised his phone and pointed it in the direction of the newcomer. It was a couple of seconds before he replied. “Is that Daniel Brighton?”
Mouse, still preoccupied with the game, only half looked in the stranger’s direction. “How should I know? He’s new though.” A second later, the other patients erupted in applause as Arkansas scored another touchdown. Disgusted, Mouse punched Adam in the arm out of frustration. “Who the hell is Daniel Brighton anyway?”
“According to the FBI database,” Foster answered in a tone often used during a briefing, “Daniel Brighton, age 43, was convicted of killing three women outside of Portland, Oregon. Fifteen women went missing in five years on a deserted stretch of Interstate 91. Each was presumed murdered, and he was their primary suspect.” Foster shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “When they finally brought him up on charges, the Feds could only pin three deaths on him.”
“Why only three?” Mouse asked, not questioning how Foster could know any of that.
“His deep freeze… The thing was only large enough to fit three bodies at a time. The prosecution suggested that he had eaten the other twelve while saving the other three for later. But without the bodies, proving it was another matter entirely. Eight years,” Foster leaned forward and pressed his feet to the floor. “And I’ve never met anyone that’s dangerous-crazy.”
A bad idea was beginning to form in his head. One that Dr. Armstrong would classify as self-destructive, but which excited him more because he hated following his doctor’s advice.
“What about me?” Mouse shot him a hurtful look. “I’m dangerous.”
“Please, you’re a kitty cat compared to him.”
Foster shrugged off his friend’s misguided attempt to placate his yearning to see the truly dark side of this place. Mind made up, he leaped up from his seat and exclaimed to anyone within earshot. “It’s time I met a real Hannibal Lecter.”
