The sound of hammers and saws caught my attention and drew me into a wing I had not yet investigated.
As I entered the wing, the sounds of work grew louder, and for the first time, I caught the sound of adult voices raised in conversation. I heard discussions on baseball and beer, loose women and bad bosses.
Nowhere did I hear the voices of children.
The tone of the conversations was similar, that of privileged individuals speaking. These were men in charge. Men who had no reason to fear the orphanage or the asylum, or to worry that they might end up in treatment there.
And why should they? They were the ones running everything.
The men were in a large room off the left side, and they were busily engaged in finishing construction of what looked like another barracks for patients.
When the men saw me, they were surprised. And why shouldn’t they be? My guns were drawn, the hammers cocked.
I glanced at the five men, and I asked them one question.
“Is anyone here a doctor?”
All five men raised their hands in acknowledgment of their profession.
The sounds of my guns thundered in the room and I slaughtered the men as easily as they had slaughtered children.
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