"Are you going to tell them?"
"That would be a clinical decision."
"Made by who?"
"The clinician in charge-probably one of our senior psychiatrists. Now, if that's all-"
"One more thing," said Milo. "Dr. Argent had a good position at County Hospital. Any idea why she switched jobs?"
Swig allowed himself a small smile. "What you're really asking is why would she leave the glorious world of academic medicine for our little snakepit. During her job interview she told me she wanted a change of pace. I didn't discuss it further. I was happy to have someone with her qualifications come aboard."
"Did she say anything else during the interview that would help me?"
Swig's mouth puckered tight. He picked up a pencil and tapped the desktop. "She was very quiet-not shy. More like self-possessed. But pleasant-very pleasant. It's a terrible thing that happened to her."
He stood. We did, too. Milo thanked him.
"I wish I could do more, Detective."
"Actually," said Milo, "we wouldn't mind taking a look around-just to get a feel for the place. I promise not to disrupt anyone clinically, but maybe I could chat with some of the staff Dr. Argent worked with?"
The white eyebrows climbed again. "Sure, why not." Swig opened the door to the front room. His secretary was arranging roses.
"Letty," he said, "please call Phil Hatterson down. Detective Sturgis and Dr. Delaware are going to get a little tour."
Chapter 5
Phil Hatterson was short, pear-shaped, middle-aged, with Silly Putty features and thinning brown hair. His mouse-colored mustache was feathery and offered no shelter to plump, dark lips.
"Pleased to meet you," he said, offering the firm, pumping handshake of a club chairman.
His eyes were hazel, alert, and inquisitive, but soft-like those of a tame deer.
His shirt and pants were khaki.
We followed him at a distance.
"First floor's all offices," he said cheerfully. His walk was odd-small, neat, dancelike steps that forced us to slow down. "Not docs' offices, just administration. The docs circulate through offices on the wards."
His smile begged for approval. I managed an upturned lip. Milo wasn't having any part of it.
Toward the end of the hall, at the right, were two double-width elevators, one key-operated that said STAFF ONLY, the other with a call button, which Hatterson pushed. Milo watched Hatterson intently. I knew exactly what he was thinking: The inmates run the asylum.
The elevator didn't respond but Hatterson was unbothered, bouncing on his feet like a kid waiting for dessert. No floor-number guide above the doors, no grinding gears. Then a voice came out of the wall-out of a small square of steel mesh surrounding the button.
"Yes?" Male voice, electronically detached.
"Hatterson, Phillip Duane."
"I.D."
"Five two one six eight. You just let me down to see Administrator Swig. Administrator Swig just called to authorize me back up."
"Hold on." Three beats. "Where you heading?"
"Just up to Two. I've got two gentlemen taking a tour-a police officer and a doctor."
"Hold on," the voice repeated. Seconds later, the elevator doors slid open. Hatterson said, "After you, sirs."
Wondering whom I was turning my back on, I complied. The lift was walled with thick foam. Interior key lock. Sickly-sweet disinfectant permeated the foam.
The doors closed. As we rose, Hatterson said, "Up up and away." He was standing in the middle of the car. I'd pressed myself into a corner, and so had Milo.
The elevator let us out into another pink-beige hallway. Brown double doors with plastic windows. Key locks. Wall speaker similar to that near the elevator. A sign above the door said A WARD. Hatterson pushed a button, talked to someone, and the doors clicked open.
At first glance, the second floor resembled any hospital ward, except for a nursing station completely encased by plastic. A sign said MED LINE FORM HERE, NO PUSHING. Three white-uniformed women sat inside, talking. Nearby, a gurney was pushed to the wall. Brown stains on white cotton sheeting.
The same black linoleum and brown doors as the first floor. Very low ceilings-no higher than seven feet. Khaki'd figures roamed the halls. Many of the taller inmates stooped. So did some short men. A few inmates sat on white plastic benches. Bolted to the floor. Others rocked in place; several just stood there. The arms of the chairs were drilled through with one-inch-diameter holes. Handcuff slots.
I tried to look around without being conspicuous.
Black men, white men, brown men, yellow men.
Young men with surfer-blond hair and testosterone posture, callow enough for acne but ancient around the eyes. Old men with toothless, caved-in faces and hyperactive tongues.
Gape-jawed catatonics. Ragged, muttering apparitions not much different from any Westside panhandler. Some of the men, like Hatterson, looked relatively normal.
Every one of them had destroyed human life.
We passed them, enduring a psychotic gauntlet, receiving a full course of stares. Hatterson paid no notice as he dance-stepped us through.
One of the young ones smirked and took a step forward. Patchy hair and chin beard, swastika tattoo on his forearm. White welted scars on both wrists. He swayed and smiled, sang something tuneless, and moved on. A Hispanic man with a braid dangling below his belt drank from a paper cup and coughed as we neared, splashing pink liquid. Someone passed wind. Someone laughed. Hatterson sped up a bit. So many brown doors, marked only by numbers. Most bore small, latched rectangles. Peephole covers.
Halfway down the hall, two black men with matted hair- careless dreadlocks-faced each other from opposite sides. From a distance their stance mimicked a conversation, but as we got closer I saw that their faces weren't moving and their eyes were distant and dead.
The man on the right had his hand in his fly and I could see rapid movement beneath the khaki. Hatterson noticed it too, and gave a prissy look. A few feet away, an avuncular type- seventyish, white-haired as Emil Starkweather, wearing rimless eyeglasses and a white cardigan sweater over his beige shirt-leaned against the wall reading The Christian Science Monitor.
Someone cried out. Someone laughed.
The air was frigid, a good deal colder than down in Swig's office. We passed an obese, gray-haired man sitting on a bench, soft arms as thick as my thighs, face flushed and misshapen, like an overripe melon. He sprang up and suddenly his face was in mine, blowing hot, sour breath.
"If you're lost, that's the way out." He pointed to one of the brown doors.
Before I could respond, a young woman appeared and took him by the elbow.
He said, "If you're lost-"
The woman said, "It's okay, Ralph, no one's lost."
"If you're lost-"
"That's enough, Ralph." Sharp voice now. Ralph hung his head.
The woman wore a green-striped badge that said H. OTT, PT-I.
Claire's group-therapy tech. She wore a long-sleeved cham-bray shirt, rolled to the elbows and tucked into snug jeans that showed off a tight shape. Not a large woman-five-six and small-boned. She looked maybe twenty-five, too young to wield authority. Her dishwater hair was gathered in a tight knot, exposing a long face, slightly heavy in the jaw, with strong, symmetrical features. She had wide-set blue eyes, the clear, rosy complexion of a farm girl. Ralph had six inches and at least a hundred and fifty pounds on her. He remained in her grasp, looking remorseful.
"Okay, now," she told him, "why don't you go rest." She rotated him. Her body moved smoothly. Taut curves, small bust, long smooth neck. I could see her playing volleyball on the beach. What did the men in khaki see?
Ralph tried again: "If you're lost, that's the way…" His voice caught on the last word.