Frank Green, a hospital cleaner, discovers dark and mysterious happenings at a local hospital. Now, he is nowhere to be found. Join Inspect Ruth Oakwood of London's Metropolitan Police as she examines his letters to find out what happened in this ho...
I'm a little worried, as I haven't seen Dr. Perez since writing my previous letter. Due to the hospital's reputation, our doctors regularly attend conferences to deliver talks, and many are university guest lecturers. Dr. Perez is no exception to this, but it struck me as odd that he didn't tell me in passing that he'd be away for a prolonged period. I fear that his absence has not been planned.
Only when I cleaned the staff changing rooms were these suspicions aroused. You see, staff have to change into their uniform upon arrival, whether into blue cleaning overalls or the white suit jackets of medical staff. I noticed the same casual clothes hanging from a particular hook in the men's changing room a good deal longer than usual. The coat had a much slimmer waist, the kind that is popular in Perez's native Spain.
Much like with Smethwick, there were only inconsistent answers from the other staff members regarding Dr. Perez's whereabouts.
I wish to speak with him urgently, as I heard a deep and prolonged agonized howling coming from the direction of the research wing last week. I've replayed it in my mind countless times, but I can't work out whether the noise was made by man or beast.
I took my concerns about the wailing straight to Dr. Voigt, who has been covering for Dr. Perez in his absence. At first, he responded as if his mind was in another room, and then his face broke into an overly broad, strained smile. There was absolutely nothing for me to worry about, he said quite firmly, as the patients in the experimental wing are so chronically disoriented that "cutting-edge" experimental treatments must be deployed. "Trust me," he said with vacant, shark-like eyes, "the patients are well taken care of."
I've seen more of Dr. Voigt recently, but I'm sorry to say that I haven't warmed to him. Despite their efforts to spark conversations, he ignores the patients. He is too quick to forcefully restrain them for even the most minor infractions, such as interrupting him or not completely finishing their meals. Not only can he do this without assistance, he seems to take great pleasure in it. What sort of man would be so unsavory, except one chronically unloved himself?
I've also noticed that despite his youth, he dribbles constantly and can't seem to close his mouth properly. This, alongside the fact that he never blinks, makes him rather unpleasant to be around.His start at the Nazarene coincided with mass discharges of patients. It used to be the case that nearly all of the cells were occupied. Now, about two-thirds are empty. One night, as many as ten patients were discharged - ten! Dr Voigt said the public would not react well to seeing psychiatric patients in the street as they are being transferred, so it is always done at night. Although I didn't challenge him at the time, this simply isn't true. In my first couple of weeks here, I saw, on several occasions, patients being taken away from their cells for transfer in broad daylight. I also remember that they carried all their belongings, whereas the empty cells we have now still have the personal effects of their previous tenants.F
urthermore, none of the patients I've seen recently seem to be recovering, and yet I'm expected to believe that some of them are ready to be discharged or moved to hospitals that are not as well-equipped as the Nazarene?
Some of them must have been transferred to the research wing, as I've noticed an increased number of waste collections by those vans with the curiously dressed workmen I mentioned in a previous letter. The patients who have remained are practically mute. Most mumble under their breath, where previously they might have called out to me. Mopping the main corridor feels as though I'm walking through a forest, but all of the birds have forgotten how to sing or are too anxious to do so.
I long for the day they feel healthy enough to talk with each other again. God willing, in a place without barred windows and barbed wire fences.
Yours,
Frank
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