Monsters and Madman
ACT ONE: SCENE TWO
DIBGY JONES' office. Essential furnishings include a desk, two chairs, and most importantly, two crossed swords hung as decorations on one of the walls. The swords must be visible to the audience. There are two doorways on either side of the stage, one an entryway and the other an exit.
DIBGY JONES enters. He is fifty and looks every bit of it. His face is haggard and drawn, suggesting both sorrow and strain. Above all, there is an aura about him, a sharpening of the sensibilities. He seems to be a mixture of both fortitude and feebleness. As he enters, he pulls a small tape recorder from his front pocket. He crosses to his desk, shuffles through some papers, then begins to speak into the machine. He talks slowly, with authority and resolve.
JONES
Imagine, if you will, a room filled with...lunatics. Babbling and slobbering all over themselves, these poor creatures are immersed in what a normal human being would certainly consider to be a netherworld of staggering proportions.
(PAUSE)
Christ...I sound like Rod Sterling.
(CONTINUING INTO THE TAPE RECORDER)
Perhaps it's a matter of perspective. What, if anything, constitutes normality? That's obviously the bane of the profession. The psychiatric community has grappled with that question for years.
(IAN WHITWORTH ENTERS UNSEEN BY JONES. HE IS ABOUT THIRTY-FIVE, THOUGH HE LOOKS MUCH YOUNGER. A SORT OF EVERYMAN, HE IS HANDSOME, BUT NOT DISTINCTIVE.)
WHITWORTH
Doctor Jones?
JONES
In the past, normal behavior was best defined by classifying abnormal behavior.
(HE SHUTS OFF THE RECORDER)
This is going to be a terrible book.
WHITWORTH
(A LITTLE LOUDER) Doctor Jones?
JONES
(TURNING AROUND STARTLED) Whitworth!
WHITWORTH
I, uh...I let myself in. It doesn't look like Sharon's here yet.
JONES
(HE GLANCES AT A NOTEBOOK ON HIS DESK) You're early.
WHITWORTH
Yes. Sorry.
JONES
Have a seat, Ian. Please...make yourself at home.
(WHITWORTH REMAINS STANDING. JONES LOOKS AT HIS NOTEBOOK)
Let's see...where did we quit last time? I think we were talking about your decision to come back to Idaho after you'd graduated from college.
(PAUSE)
Why did you come back?
WHITWORTH
I have no idea. I don't really like small towns. Never did.
JONES
(WRITING) Uh-huh. Did you have a job offer here when you graduated? I mean, you must have come back for a reason.
WHITWORTH
Yes. Well, no. Actually, my wife was homesick, so...you know. What could I say? I wanted to stay in New York.
JONES
(AS HE WRITES) Do you like your job?
WHITWORTH
It pays the rent.
JONES
But do you like teaching? Really like it? Is it something you feel good about or is it just a job?
WHITWORTH
I teach elementary school. What do you think?
JONES
I don't know. That's why I'm asking you.
WHITWORTH
What do you want to hear?
JONES
I don't want to hear anything.
WHITWORTH
Something altruistic like "I just love the little shits, so I've devoted my life to their education." No way, buddy.
JONES
Can't accuse you of being dishonest. But you do have to admit that most teachers have a certain affinity for their pupils.
WHITWORTH
Not this one.
JONES
Obviously.
WHITWORTH
You don't understand.
JONES
Yes, I do. I just don't--
WHITWORTH
You don't. You just...don't.
JONES
You're not giving me much of a chance.
WHITWORTH
What do you know? It's so easy for you guys to sit in an office and rattle off theory. Like what you were doing when I first walked in here. But you guys have no idea what you're talking about. Not one of you.
JONES
You're a teacher. Why don't you educate me?
WHITWORTH
There's a real world out there, you know. And you guys with your textbooks and your theories are ignorant of it.
(PAUSE)
There's no shortcut to experience, you know. How can you possibly know what an...an aberration feels like? You're not qualified.
JONES
And you are, I take it.
WHITWORTH
Yes.
JONES
Why don't you sit down and relax?
WHITWORTH
Why don't you sit down?
JONES
(HE SITS) Better?
WHITWORTH
No couch?
JONES
No.
WHITWORTH
Why?
JONES
Are you tired? Do you want to lie down?
WHITWORTH
No.
JONES
Most patients don't. The couch is a cliché you've picked up from television.
WHITWORTH
I guess so.
(SILENCE)
JONES
So, what do you do to relax? Have you any...hobbies?
WHITWORTH
You trying to get the full scoop on me?
JONES
Just filler for my files.
WHITWORTH
I'm an historical novelist. Like Gore Vidal. He's a hero of mine.
JONES
Serious?
WHITWORTH
Oh, yeah. I've always liked Gore Vidal.
JONES
Are you serious about being a novelist is what I meant.
WHITWORTH
Yeah...I'm serious.
JONES
Have you published anything?
WHITWORTH
No. Not yet.
JONES
Maybe someday...right?
WHITWORTH
Maybe.
JONES
You do anything else?
WHITWORTH
Yeah. I collect bottle caps.
JONES
Bottle caps?
WHITWORTH
Yeah. Bottle caps. There's a lot of history in bottle caps. I'm kind of a history buff.
JONES
I know, I know.
(PAUSE)
Schoolteacher, writer,...and collector of bottle caps. That's somewhat of an odd combination, don't you think?
WHITWORTH
I'm somewhat of an odd person. What's why I'm here.
JONES
Which brings me to my next question.
WHITWORTH
Why am I here? Right?
JONES
Yes. What brought you here? We haven't really talked about it yet.
WHITWORTH
What brought me here? A bus.
(HE GIGGLES NERVOUSLY, JONES REMAINS EXPRESSIONLESS)
Sorry.
(PAUSE)
What brought me here. The why of it. That's what you want to know?
JONES
Yeah.
WHITWORTH
(QUICKLY) I'm crazy. That's why I'm here.
JONES
(PASSIVELY) Oh.
WHITWORTH
I'm leveling with you, goddamnit.
JONES
I believe you.
WHITWORTH
No you don't. I can tell.
JONES
I don't think so.
(PAUSE)
Insane right?
WHITWORTH
That's my diagnosis.
JONES
And what makes you think so?
WHITWORTH
You're the doctor. You tell me.
JONES
(GENTLY, BUT THERE IS STEEL IN HIS VOICE NONETHELESS) Don't play games with me.
WHITWORTH
What do I say? Do I talk about a troubled childhood? I didn't have one.
JONES
Say whatever you think is relevant.
WHITWORTH
Do you mind if I smoke?
JONES
(PUSHING AN ASHTRAY TOWARD HIM) Feel free.
WHITWORTH
(HE TRIES TO LIGHT A CIGARETTE, BUT THE LIGHTER WON'T WORK)
Damnit.
(HE TRIES AGAIN AND FAILS)
Shit.
(GIVING UP)
I'm trying to quit anyway.
JONES
Why are you so nervous?
WHITWORTH
Because I've never done anything like this before.
JONES
Anything like what?
WHTIWORTH
(MAKING A SWEEPING GESTURE TO THE ROOM IN GENERAL)
This.
JONES
You mean me?
WHITWORTH
Yeah...you. I don't know what to say to you, though. I wanted help...so I came here.
JONES
Just talk to me. Say whatever's on your mind. I'm not gonna call the National Enquirer after you leave.
WHITWORTH
I know that. It's just that this is very difficult for me.
JONES
It's very difficult for most people. You've already got the hardest part of it out of the way.
WHITWORTH
I have?
JONES
Yes, you have. You're here, aren't you?
(PAUSE)
So talk to me. You're paying me to listen.
(SILENCE)
WHITWORTH
Life is a journey of sorts. Don't you think?
JONES
Between birth and death. Right?
WHITWORTH
That's oversimplifying it, of course, but it's a pretty apt description, I think.
(PAUSE)
You see, doctor...I've reached the end of my little abstract journey.
JONES
You're terminal? Why didn't you say so? That explains--
WHITWORTH
No, I'm not dying.
JONES
You're born again?
WHITWORTH
No...I already told you.
JONES
You haven't told me anything.
WHITWORTH
Then you haven't been paying attention.
(PAUSE)
I'm crazy. I'm a madman.
JONES
Congratulations.
WHITWORTH
I mean it.
JONES
Good.
WHITWORTH
(HE RISES AND STARTS PACING TO AND FRO) You see, there's uncharted margins of my personality that scare the dickens out of me. What's worse, I don't seem to have any control over them.
JONES
(WRITING ON HIS NOTEPAD) I see. What, specifically, are you referring to? A certain thought? A state of mind? A reoccurring image? Or do you mean control in a kinetic sense, in which your body just kind of works by itself, like a spasm or a seizure?
WHITWORTH
I've been having blackouts.
JONES
What kind of blackouts?
WHITWORTH
Like the blackouts you have when you get really drunk. When you can't remember what you've done, but you know you've done something because the evidence is overwhelming: a crunched up fender, puke all over your clothes, strange phone numbers in your wallet...stuff like that.
(PAUSE)
Except that I'm not drunk when I have them.
JONES
And you never remember anything?
WHITWORTH
Not a thing.
(PAUSE)
I know that I usually go out.
JONES
Does your wife know you do this?
WHITWORTH
She knows that I go out a lot.
JONES
Doesn't she ever ask you where you're going?
WHITWORTH
I don't know. I must tell her something.
JONES
I see.
(PAUSE)
And you have no idea what you do? Or where you go?
WHITWORTH
No.
(PAUSE)
Out. I go out.
JONES
I see.
WHITWORTH
(GATHERING STEAM) And then I come home. And I wake up the next morning and...and for the life of me I can't remember what I did the night before. Or who I've seen. Or what I've heard.
(PAUSE)
I just can't remember. And that scares me, doctor. I could hurt somebody, or get hurt, and not even know it.
JONES
Why does it scare you? Are you violent when you go out?
WHITWORTH
I don't think so. But then I just don't know.
JONES
(SCRIBBLING IN HIS NOTEBOOK) Do you drink?
WHITWORTH
I have a beer now and then. Mixed drinks at parties.
JONES
Do you ever drink before you go...out?
WHITWORTH
No.
JONES
While you're out?
WHITWORTH
No.
JONES
You sure? If you don't remember what you do--
WHITWORTH
I never have a hangover the next day.
(PAUSE)
Listen, it's not some kind of an alcohol problem, if that's what you're getting at. Whatever it is I do, I don't remember it. That's what scares me.
JONES
Why does it scare you? Tell me.
WHITWORTH
Jesus Christ, I don't believe this. You sound like a goddamned parrot. Wouldn't it scare you if you were losing sizable chunks of your memory? Wouldn't it make you question your sanity?
JONES
Yes, it would. But --
WHITWORTH
Nobody likes to lose control. Life is easier when one is aware of what's going on around oneself...consciously. That's not too complicated for you is it, Sigmund?
JONES
No, it isn't. Tell me, are you and your wife close? Do you get along well?
WHITWORTH
(HIS FRUSTRATION GETTING THE BETTER OF HIM)
YES! WHY DO YOU KEEP ASKING ME THESE STUPID QUESTIONS?! WHY WON'T YOU TELL ME WHAT IN THE HELL IS WRONG WITH ME?!
JONES
For one thing, you're very loud. Do you get this way at home?
WHITWORTH
No.
JONES
(PRESSING HIM) So why do you think you go out?
WHITWORTH
How should I know? That's what I'm trying to find out from you.
(PAUSE)
There's a maniac on the loose right now. Do you know that?
JONES
Yes. It's become quite a circus, hasn't it?
WHITWORTH
Three women dead and the police still don't have a idea who's doin' it.
JONES
I thought there'd only been two murders.
WHITWORTH
No, I think there's been three.
(PAUSE)
Maybe I'm the one they're looking for. Maybe I go out at night and chop up little girls.
JONES
Should I call the police and tell them I have a possible suspect for them?
WHITWORTH
(SHOCKED) No.
(SILENCE)
JONES
Look Ian, if you want me to help you you'll have to cooperate with me. Understand? If you want to direct your frustrations at me that's fine too. It's your money.
(PAUSE)
You almost seem...well, like you're hiding something. Am I right?
WHITWORTH
I'm nervous. I told you that.
JONES
There's no need to be. And there's no need to be so damned hostile, either.
WHITWORTH
I just...damnit, I just don't understand what's happening to me.
JONES
Well, something's obviously wrong. You black out. You forget entire episodes of your life. Chances are that whatever it is that's causing this has been gestating in you for quite some time. Maybe even your whole life, I don't know. But it can also happen just like that...bang! Something snaps...and that's all she wrote.
(PAUSE)
And nobody can really say they're immune from it.
(PAUSE)
Coming to me for help seems like an extreme, the last hope for you. Doesn't it?
WHITWORTH
It was either this or getting into Amway.
JONES
What it is is middle age fright. Very real and very--
WHITWORTH
That's an assumption.
JONES
(FINISHING THE THOUGHT) Dangerous.
WHITWORTH
I don't agree with you.
JONES
Deep down...I think you do.
WHITWORTH
And I don't like you putting words in my mouth.
JONES
The mind is as frail as the body. You're not embarrassed when you get a cold, are you?
WHITWORTH
That's obviously different.
JONES
Why?
WHITWORTH
Our minds are something we're supposed to have control over. Madmen are nothing more than mental sissies.
JONES
In case you haven't looked around lately, you're in a psychiatrist's office. What does that make you?
WHITWORTH
A mental sissy. I never said I wasn't.
JONES
You must've thought I could do something for you.
WHITWORTH
I don't know what I thought...
(SILENCE)
JONES
Keep talking. Maybe we'll stumble across an answer.
WHITWORTH
Maybe I'm succumbing to an abstraction. Middle class fright, I believe you called it.
JONES
Middle age.
WHITWORTH
But, even then, it's hard to pinpoint. Isn't it?
JONES
You tell me.
WHITWORTH
The American Dream...
(SILENCE)
JONES
Go on.
WHITWORTH
I'm just not satisfied with it. There's something missing.
JONES
Like what?
WHITWORTH
I don't know. It's just a feeling. An emptiness. Maybe that's why Shawna and I never had any children. They just grow up and become disillusioned.
JONES
Not everybody feels that way, Ian.
WHITWORTH
But I do. And that's what counts. Besides, I really don't think that's the root of the problem.
JONES
Then what is the root of the problem?
WHITWORTH
A way of life. A painfully prosaic way of life.
JONES
Uh huh.
WHITWORTH
You don't believe me.
JONES
Not this again.
WHITWORTH
Well, you don't. Do you?
JONES
I'm just another one of your persecutors. Right?
WHITWORTH
(LIKE A SCYTHE, SWEEPING EVERYTHING ON TOP OF THE DESK TO THE FLOOR WITH A FURY)
GODDAMNIT!! I DIDN'T SAY THAT!!
JONES
You're very dramatic, aren't you?
WHITWORTH
Most loonies are.
JONES
You're not crazy.
WHITWORTH
How do you know?
JONES
I'm a professional. It's my job to know.
WHITWORTH
Then how do you explain my blackouts? You don't know what I do for thrills when I go home at night.
JONES
Neither do you.
(SILENCE. JONES SELF-ASSURANCE HAS UNNERVED HIM.)
WHITWORTH
This is a waste of money.
JONES
That's your decision.
WHITWORTH
I'm wasting my time.
JONES
That, also is your decision.
WHITWORTH
You said it yourself. I'm not crazy.
JONES
That's right. You're not.
WHITWORTH
I'm at the end of my rope. I have blackouts. I don't remember a goddamned thing. And you say I'm not crazy. You tell me then, just what in the hell am I?
JONES
I think you're very confused right now.
WHITWORTH
Well thank you very much. My German Shepherd could tell me that.
JONES
(WRITING IT DOWN) You have a German Shepherd?
WHITWORTH
YES!!
JONES
Listen Whitworth, I think you've got some false notions about being crazy. If you were, and you're not, then you wouldn't even have the presence of mind to realize that fact. The schizophrenic, the paranoid, or whatever it is you want to label the madman, is sick and doesn't even know it. They fight battles. With God, with Satan...with enemies much more lofty and noble than those which are seen with a sane eye. They urinate on themselves. They cause trouble for those who love them and for those who have to commit them to a hospital, where we examine them and clean them...without cleansing them. But we never really understand them. We can't. How could we ever perceive the world and its attendant demons the way they perceive it?
(PAUSE)
So don't you dare tell me you're a madman, Whitworth. I know better. At best, you're on the road.
(PAUSE)
But your blackouts...they worry me. They signal real trouble.
(SILENCE)
WHITWORTH
What bothers me is that I don't know for sure. I feel like I'm walking a razor's edge between sanity and...and insanity.
JONES
So you're assuming the worst?
WHITWORTH
I am crazy. I know I am.
JONES
You're not crazy.
WHITWORTH
I'VE BECOME A MONSTER!
JONES
You're becoming an asshole. Calm down.
WHITWORTH
(DRAINED OF ALL ENERGY, HE SIGHS AND FALLS INTO THE CHAIR. HE BEGINS TO WEEP SOFTLY.)
I can't take it anymore.
(HIS CRYING BECOMES UNCONTROLLABLE. IT CONTINUES FOR ALMOST A MINUTE, ENDING WITH A CADENZA THAT RESEMBLES THE SOUND OF SOMEONE BEING STRANGLED. THROUGH IT ALL, JONES REMAINS STOLID AND EXPRESSIONLESS, LIGHTING A CIGARETTE IN THE MIDDLE OF WHITWORTH'S WEEPING. FINALLY, THE PERFORMANCE ENDS. THE TWO MEN SIT FACE TO FACE, STARING AT ONE ANOTHER.)
JONES
Feel any better?
WHITWORTH
No.
JONES
They say it's good for the soul to cry now and then.
(PAUSE)
You know, the real madmen say nothing. The real madman is a time bomb waiting to explode.
WHITWORTH
Boom. Boom.
(PAUSE)
That's nice. But my problem still remains, doesn't it?
JONES
I don't know. What is your problem?
WHITWORTH
Frustration. Everything that should be worth something to me just doesn't seem to matter.
JONES
Like what?
WHITWORTH
I don't quite know how to articulate it.
JONES
You should relax.
WHITWORTH
You show me how and I'll do it.
JONES
We've been through this before. I can prescribe something for you.
WHITWORTH
Oh, great. Drug me. That'll solve the problem for sure.
JONES
They're just tranquilizers.
WHITWORTH
I don't want 'em.
JONES
Why?
WHITWORTH
For one thing, what do I tell my wife? What if the things make me go wacko on her?
JONES
(AS HE WRITES THE PRESCRIPTION)
You won't. You might fall asleep on her, though.
(HE HANDS HIM THE SCRIP)
WHITWORTH
What's it for? Thorazine?
JONES
Valium.
WHITWORTH
How boring. I can't take it.
JONES
Sure you can. Just open the bottle and swallow the pill.
WHITWORTH
But it just doesn't seem right. You know?
JONES
No, I don't know. Why is that a problem?
WHITWORTH
People like me...they just don't need that kind of stuff.
JONES
What do they need? A stiff drink?
(PAUSE)
Take the pills. They'll help. I promise.
WHITWORTH
And what about my blackouts?
JONES
We've got to take this one step at a time. If we can get you relaxed, then maybe you'll be able to verbalize a few things. Then we'll be able to find out what's causing your blackouts.
WHITWORTH
I'm afraid.
JONES
I don't blame you.
WHITWORTH
It's living hell, you know.
JONES
What's living hell?
WHITWORTH
My life. My whole goddamned life.
JONES
Tell me about it.
WHITWORTH
All right. I'll tell you about it.
(THE FOLLOWING IS DELIVERED WITH STEADILY INCREASING INTENSITY)
I get up every morning at six a.m. I shower, then I shave. I go downstairs and eat my breakfast, which my wife usually has waiting for me on the table. By seven thirty I've kissed Shawna goodbye...and then I'm out the door and on my merry little way to the schoolhouse. Class starts at eight thirty. And do you know what I'm teaching those bright-eyed little cherubs?
JONES
No.
WHITWORTH
I teach 'em reading, writing, and 'rithmetic. I teach 'em history and rudimentary science. And then I teach 'em health and personal hygiene.
(PAUSE)
And then the bell rings and it's off to the teacher's lounge for a smoke and a little gossip before I go home. And so--
JONES
Ian, I get your--
WHITWORTH
Let me finish, would you?
(PAUSE. UNSEEN BY EITHER ONE OF THEM, THE DETECTIVES BERRINGER AND YOUNG, ENTER AND STAND SILENTLY IN THE DOORWAY UNTIL WHITWORTH FINISHES HIS SPEECH.)
And so the cycle goes on and on. The rest of the world would tell me that I have no legitimate complaint. I've got...well, I've followed the American formula for success as if I were a white smocked chemist in a sterilized laboratory. But the product I've come up with is inert, you see.
(PAUSE)
I can't understand why happiness is so elusive. All I have are questions. Why in the hell has life passed me by? I know that's not a very original thought, but it's true. Why am I teaching school when I should be doing something I really want to do?
JONES
Such as?
WHITWORTH
Like write the next great American novel. Travel...travel the world over. Or make love to some Aphrodite on a moonlit beach. But I'm stuck, I can't do anything.
JONES
You should--
WHITWORTH
I should kill myself, that's what I should do. But I'd probably botch that up too. I'd put a gun to my temple and fire away if I thought it'd do me any good. But chances are I'd miss. That's how inept I feel.
(PAUSE, HE BREATHES HEAVILY AND WEARILY)
So late at night I go out. I wander the Greenbelt. I look for answers on darkened city streets. But the people I meet know even less than I do...
(SILENCE)
JONES
I understand.
WHITWORTH
You really think so?
JONES
I really think so
(BERRINGER AND YOUNG ENTER)
JONES
What is going on here? Is there something I can do for you gentlemen?
YOUNG
Maybe. I don't know.
BERRINGER
Doctor Jones?
JONES
Yes. But I'm afraid you have me at a disadvantage.
BERRINGER
I'm Edward Berringer. This is my partner, Edward Young.
YOUNG
(FLASHING HIS BADGE) We're detectives.
JONES
With the same name. I guess two Eds are better than one, eh?
YOUNG
Nice to see you have a sense of humor, doctor.
BERRINGER
We're sorry to barge in on you like this, Doctor Jones. But I'm afraid the situation warrants it.
(WHITWORTH HAS GONE OVER TO THE WALL WITH THE SWORDS ON IT, HE TAKES ONE OF THEM DOWN AND STUDIES IT CAREFULLY, HE CHUCKLES TO HIMSELF AS YOUNG GLANCES AT HIM)
WHITWORTH
(RUNNING HIS FINGER ALONG THE EDGE OF THE SWORD) Jesus...the thing's razor sharp.
JONES
It's a family heirloom. My great grandfather used it during the Civil War. I'm quite fond of it.
WHITWORTH
It's certain in good working order.
JONES
Yes, it is.
(TO BERRINGER) Didn't my secretary tell you I was in the middle of a session?
YOUNG
(TO BERRINGER) He doesn't know yet, does he?
JONES
I don't know what?
BERRINGER
Er...Doctor Jones, your secretary isn't here this morning.
JONES
Oh. Well, she's usually late. It gets progressively worse until I lay down the law. It's a little game we play. I think she likes to see how far she can push it.
BERRINGER
Uh...what I want to tell you is very important. May we speak in private?
JONES
(TO WHITWORTH) I'm sorry. Do you mind?
WHITWORTH
I'll wait outside.
(HE REPLACES THE SWORD AND LEAVES)
JONES
He's gone. Now, what do you want with me?
BERRINGER
I don't quite know how to tell you this. You probably know that we've been investigating a couple of murders lately. Right?
JONES
Yeah...I read the paper. We were just discussing them, as a matter of fact.
BERRINGER
Then you also know that we don't have any leads in this thing.
JONES
Right. there's no motive, as far as I can see. Classic serial killer.
BERRINGER
Right.
JONES
But what does all this have to do with me?
BERRINGER
The killer struck again last night. Miss Snow...your secretary was...well...
JONES
Oh no...
BERRINGER
I'm sorry.
JONES
Not Sharon...
YOUNG
I'm afraid so. We're sorry.
JONES
Have you told her parents yet?
BERRINGER
They identified the body this morning.
(PAUSE)
We were hoping that maybe you could help us.
JONES
How?
YOUNG
We'd like to ask you a few questions.
JONES
About what?
YOUNG
About your secretary.
JONES
Sure. But I don't think I'll be much help to you.
BERRINGER
Let's give it a try, anyway.
JONES
All right.
YOUNG
What kind of relationship did you and Miss Snow have?
JONES
(DEFENSIVELY) Strictly professional.
BERRINGER
Did she date very many men?
JONES
A few.
YOUNG
Would you say she was promiscuous?
JONES
(GLARING AT HIM) Absolutely not.
BERRINGER
Listen, both of you. What we're getting at is this: there's been no sign of a struggle in these murders. And there hasn't been anything missing, which rules out robbery as a motive. What we're thinking is that maybe these girls know who their killer is. Or at least they trust him enough to let him get close to them. So, if we could get a name, or anything, then maybe...because we're groping right now...just maybe we'd have something to start with. As it stands right now, all we have are corpses.
YOUNG
With smiley buttons stuck on 'em.
JONES
What?
BERRINGER
He pinned a smiley button on the first one we found. I don't know why.
(SILENCE)
JONES
A common bond...
BERRINGER
Pardon me?
JONES
What you're looking for. A common bond between all the victims.
YOUNG
Yeah, something like that.
JONES
Well I don't think I can help you. I don't know who Sharon saw or what she did in her spare time. Sorry.
(PAUSE)
Had she been raped?
BERRINGER
No.
JONES
Then the motive...
BERRINGER
None, as far as we can tell.
YOUNG
She was stabbed through the heart. Just one wound. In that respect, I guess she was lucky.
JONES
Lucky? I don't see how.
YOUNG
One of the bodies had been hacked up. Really brutal. And messy.
JONES
(ALMOST TAUNTING THEM) Find the motive...find the man, eh?
BERRINGER
You'd think so, wouldn't you?
YOUNG
(TO JONES) Do you have any ideas?
JONES
Not a one.
YOUNG
But you're a psychiatrist. This is closer to your ballpark than it is to ours. I mean, this guy is obviously a sicko.
JONES
You know, eventually everything comes into my "ballpark." Big deal. A psychiatrist isn't a soothsayer, an oracle of some sort. How could I possibly know what's going on inside this man's head? I can give you abstractions and intangibles. But, it seems to me, you already have plenty of them.
BERRINGER
That's about all we have.
YOUNG
What about the guy waiting outside?
JONES
What about him?
YOUNG
The ding-dong who was playing with the knife...he was saying something about wandering around at night, along the Greenbelt.
JONES
It's a sword, not a knife. And he's a schoolteacher, not a "ding dong."
BERRINGER
(HE GOES OVER TO THE WALL AND LOOKS AT THE SWORDS; TO JONES) You mind if I look at these?
JONES
Be my guest.
BERRINGER
(AS HE TAKES DOWN ONE OF THE SWORDS) Very nice. Has he actually said he's the killer?
JONES
You guys are desperate, aren't you?
(PAUSE)
No. He hasn't said he's the killer.
BERRINGER
What has he said?
JONES
You know I'm violating an entire code of ethics by telling you this but, well...he has blackouts. He wanders around during them...or so he says.
BERRINGER
Do you think he--
JONES
No. Absolutely not. I think he's harmless. His problem's real, but he himself is harmless.
BERRINGER
(PUTTING THE SWORD BACK ON THE WALL) Could we talk to him?
JONES
Sure. Why not?
(AS HE WALKS TO THE DOOR)
Ex nihilo nihilfit. Or should I say "any port in a storm?"
(HE OPENS THE DOOR AND CALLS OFFSTAGE)
Ian...could you come in here for a moment?
BERRINGER
Is he capable of murder?
JONES
No.
BERRINGER
You sure?
JONES
Yes. Pretty sure.
BERRINGER
Then he might be. Is that what you're saying?
JONES
I think anybody's capable of murder, given the right set of circumstances. Even you, Mr. Berringer. The guy has blackouts at night, which I'm sure are real. But I don't think he's acting out of some homicidal fugue.
(WHITWORTH REENTERS)
Ian, if you don't mind--
YOUNG
We'd like to ask you a few questions.
WHITWORTH
About what?
YOUNG
About where you were last night.
WHITWORTH
What do you mean?
YOUNG
Doctor Jones says you have blackouts. He says you don't remember what you do during them.
WHITWORTH
(GLARING AT JONES) You have no right to tell them that.
(PAUSE)
I don't murder women.
YOUNG
Nobody said you did. But we all have our dark sides, don't we?
WHITWORTH
Are you accusing me, you son-of-a-bitch?
YOUNG
How did you know we were talking about a murder? You weren't in the room.
WHITWORTH
I could hear you outside.
YOUNG
You still haven't answered my question. Where were you last night?
WHITWORTH
None of your goddamn business.
BERRINGER
Oh for heaven's sake, you're both overreacting. Nobody's accusing anybody of anything.
JONES
Ian, my secretary was stabbed and killed last night. That's why they are here.
WHITWORTH
Oh. I see.
(PAUSE)
I'm sorry. I didn't do it.
BERRINGER
Why can't you tell us where you were last night?
WHITWORTH
(TAKING ONE OF THE SWORDS DOWN FROM THE WALL) Well...
YOUNG
Well what?
WHITWORTH
I went out.
YOUNG
Where to?
(SILENCE)
I said where to.
WHITWORTH
I don't know.
YOUNG
You don't know? What is this? A game?
WHITWORTH
I went out...
YOUNG
These are not difficult questions, buddy. Where did you go?
WHITWORTH
Damnit, I don't know. I just don't know.
YOUNG
Right. In case you haven't noticed, there's some goofball running around right now who gets his thrills by cutting up women. And I can guarantee you that he'll do it again if we don't stop him.
(PAUSE)
And here we have a man who blacks out at night and runs around the city doing God knows what. Now you tell me, what am I supposed to make of that?
WHITWORTH
(VICIOUSLY) Why don't you arrest me!
YOUNG
Don't tempt me.
WHTIWORTH
You can't do nothin' and you know it. You're just a hot-headed pig grabbin' at straws.
YOUNG
(STARTING FOR HIM) You jerk. I don't need this badge to--
BERRINGER
(STEPPING BETWEEN THEM) Knock if off. Both of you.
(TO WHITWORTH)
You seem to think you're a suspect...and you're not. So just calm down. All right?
(TO YOUNG)
And we can talk about your lack of professionalism later.
(TAKING A NOTEPAD FROM HIS POCKET; TO WHITWORTH)
I need you address and your phone number.
WHITWORTH
Why?
BERRINGER
Because we may need to talk to you again.
WHITWORTH
No. I won't give it to you.
JONES
Ian...they're policemen.
WHITWORTH
So? I have my rights.
YOUNG
You're not being charged with anything. Can't you get that through your thick skull?
WHITWORTH
I don't like the implication.
(WITH A SING-SONG VOICE)
Because we may need to talk to you again. Jesus Christ.
BERRINGER
(SUDDENLY) DAMNIT!! This is an investigation, not a goddamn game! We're trying to catch a killer. And you don't like the implication?! Are you really that stupid?
WHITWORTH
I don't want to get involved in this.
BERRINGER
You already are involved in this.
(SILENCE)
WHITWORTH
Five-five-five. Three-three-six-six.
BERRINGER
Thank you.
WHITWORTH
You're welcome.
BERRINGER
(TO JONES, HANDING HIM A CARD) And here's my phone number. Just in case.
JONES
In case what?
BERRINGER
In case you think of something.
JONES
Don't bet on it.
(PAUSE)
Good luck officer. I think you're gonna need it.
BERRINGER
I think you're right. Let's go, Ed.
YOUNG
See ya around, Whitworth.
(THEY EXIT)
WHITWORTH
They think I'm a murderer.
JONES
(AT THE WALL WITH THE SWORDS ON IT, LOST IN THOUGHT) No they don't.
WHITWORTH
Being in a psychiatrist's office is bad enough. And now this.
(PAUSE)
Valium...good God.
JONES
Valium?
WHITWORTH
Valium. The modern day wonder drug that makes things peachy keen.
JONES
(TAKING THE OTHER SWORD DOWN) It'll help you. It'll help you help yourself.
WHITWORTH
You mean it'll help mask reality for me. Numb me to the point where I just don't give a damn anymore.
(PAUSE)
But the problem itself remains intact, doesn't it? Long after I've dissolved into a free-floating euphoria.
JONES
And the problem is?
WHIWORTH
Why I'm here. Of course.
JONES
Of course.
(PAUSE)
Listen, I'm tired. Why don't we call it a day?
WHITWORTH
Good idea.
JONES
(VAGUELY) I'd like to be alone for awhile.
WHTIWORTH
I understand.
JONES
No. I don't think you do.
(HE TURNS AND FACES HIM. HE HOLDS THE SWORD AT HIS SIDE, GLADIATOR STYLE. HE AND WHITWORTH LOOK LIKE WARRIORS SQUARING OFF AGAINST ONE ANOTHER.)
You do not understand.
(SILENCE, THEY STARE HARD AT ONE ANOTHER)
WHITWORTH
Can I go now?
JONES
Yes.
(A DEEP BREATH, COLLECTING HIMSELF) I want to see you again. For your next appointment you can--
(HE INTERRUPTS HIMSELF WITH HIS OWN LAUGHTER, WHICH IS SINISTER AND SAD)
WHITWORTH
What's so funny?
JONES
I was going to tell you to make arrangements with my secretary for another appointment.
(PAUSE)
Can you come back tomorrow afternoon?
WHITWORTH
Business as usual, huh?
JONES
Around three? That all right with you?
WHITWORTH
Do you think it's worth it?
JONES
Can you think of a better way to spend a summer vacation?
(PAUSE)
Yeah...I think it's worth it.
WHITWORTH
Then I guess I'd better be here.
JONES
(LUGUBRIOUSLY) That's the spirit.
WHITWORTH
(AS HE LEAVES, MYSTERIOUSLY) It's such a silly game...isn't it?
(HE EXITS)
JONES
No, Ian...it isn't.
(HE LOOKS AT THE SWORD, THEN CROSSES TO HIS DESK. THE LIGHTS BEGIN TO DIM AS HE SITS ON HIS DESK, STARING STRAIGHT AHEAD AT THE AUDITORIUM.)
It most certainly isn't.
CURTAIN