Heidi Ott said, "No one's lost." Louder, firmer.
A tear fell from Ralph's eye. Heidi Ott gave him a gentle push and he shuffled off. A few of the other men had watched, but most seemed oblivious.
"Sorry," she said to us. "He thinks he's a tour guide." The blue eyes settled on Hatterson. "Keeping busy, Phil?"
Hatterson drew himself up. "I'm giving them a tour, Miss Ott. This is Detective Sturgis from the LAPD, and this is a doctor-sorry, I forgot your name, sir."
"Delaware."
Heidi Ott said, "Pleased to meet you."
Hatterson said, "The thing about Ralph is, he used to cruise the freeways, pick up people having car trouble. He'd offer to help them and then he'd-"
"Phil," said Heidi Ott. "You know we respect each other's privacy."
Hatterson let out a small, tight bark. Pursed his lips. Annoyed, not regretful. "Sorry."
Heidi Ott turned to Milo. "You're here about Dr. Argent?" Her lips pushed together and paled. Young skin, but tension caused it to pucker.
"Yes, ma'am," said Milo. "You worked with her, didn't you?"
"I worked with a group she ran. We had contact about several other patients." The blue eyes blinked twice. Less force in her voice. Now she seemed her age.
Milo said, "When you have a chance, I'd like to-"
Screams and thumps came from behind us. My head whipped around.
The two dreadlocked men were on the floor, a double dervish, rolling, punching, clawing, biting. Moving slowly, deliberately, silently. Like pit bulls.
Other men started to cheer. The old man with The Christian Science Monitor slapped his knee and laughed. Only Phil Hatterson seemed frightened. He'd gone white and seemed to be searching for a place to hide.
Heidi Ott snapped a whistle out of her pocket, blew hard, and marched toward the fighters. Suddenly, two male techs were at her side. The three of them broke up the fight within seconds.
The dreadlocked men were hauled to their feet. One was bleeding from his left cheek. The other bore a scratch on his forearm. Neither breathed hard. Both looked calm, almost serene.
The old man with the newspaper said, "By golly fuck!"
Heidi took the bleeder by the arm and led him to the nurses' station. Button-push, click, and she received something from a slot in the front window. Swabs and antibiotic cream. As she ministered to the bleeder, some of the men in khaki began to come alive. Shifting position, flexing arms, looking in all directions.
The hallway smelled of aggression. Phil Hatterson sidled closer to Milo. Milo stared him still. His hands were fisted.
One of the male techs, a short, husky Filipino, said, "Okay, everyone. Just settle down now."
The hallway went quiet.
Hatterson gave out a long, loud exhalation. "I hate when stupid stuff happens. What's the point?"
Heidi hustled the bleeder around the nursing station and out of sight.
Hatterson said, "Gentlemen?" and we resumed our tour. Most of his color had returned. I wouldn't have picked him for any pathology worse than oily obsequiousness- Eddie Haskell misplaced among the lunatics, annoying but coherent. I knew many psychotics were helped mightily by drugs. Could this be chemistry at its best?
He said, "Here's my favorite place. The TV room."
The ward had ended and we were facing the open doorway of a large bright space filled with plastic chairs. A big-screen TV stood at the front like an altar.
Hatterson said, "The way we choose what to watch is with democracy-everyone who wants to vote, votes. The majority rules. It's pretty peaceful-picking shows, I mean. I like news but I don't get to watch it too often, but I also like sports and almost everyone votes for sports, so it's okay. There's our mailbox."
He pointed to a hard plastic box fastened to the wall. Rounded edges. Chain-locked. "Our mail's private unless there's a mitigating circumstance."
"Such as?" I said.
The question frightened him. "Someone acts out."
"Does that happen often?"
"No, no." His eyelids fluttered. "The docs do a great job."
"Dr. Argent, too?" said Milo.
"Sure, of course."
"So you knew her."
Hatterson's hands made tiny circular motions. He licked his lips and turned them the color of raw liver. "We didn't do any counseling together, but I knew who she was. Very nice lady." Another lip-lick. "I mean, she seemed very smart-she was nice."
"Do you know what happened to her?"
Hatterson stared at the floor. "Sure."
"Does everyone?"
"I can't speak for anyone, sir. It was in the paper."
"They let you read the paper?" said Milo.
"Sure, we can read anything. I like Time magazine, you get all the news in a neat little package. Anyway, that's it for A Ward. B and C are mostly the same. There's a few women on C. They don't cause any problems."
"Are they kept to themselves?" I said.
"No, they get to mingle. There's just not too many of them. We don't have problems with them."
"What about the fifth floor?" said Milo.
"Oh," said Hatterson. "The 13's. Naw, we never see them except to look out the window when a sheriff's bus brings them in. They wear jail blues, go straight up their own elevator. They're…"
He shrugged.
"They're what?" I said.
"Fakers. Got no stake here. Anyway, we've got some pretty nice rooms, let me show 'em to you-here's an open one we can take a look at."
The space was generous, totally bare, clean as a Marine barracks. Four beds, one for each corner: mattresses set into white molded-plastic frames attached to the floor. Next to each one, a nightstand of the same material.
A single clouded window offered a few square inches of cottony light.
Three of the beds were made up neatly, top sheets tucked tight. One was jumbled. No closets. A doorless entry led to a tiny white lav. Lidless white toilet, white sink. No medicine cabinet, no toiletries, no toothbrushes. Anything was a potential weapon.
"They give us disposables," said Hatterson, as if following my thoughts. "Aftershave, brushes, shaving cream, safety razors under supervision. Guys who want to shave use electrics that are sterilized and reused." He looked disapprovingly at the unmade bed. "Someone must be having a bad day… We can't hang anything on the wall because it could be set on fire. So there's no family pictures or anything like that. But it's not bad, right?"
Milo grunted.
Hatterson flinched, but persisted: "We get our three squares, the food's pretty tasty."
Chapter president of the Starkweather Chamber of Commerce. I could see why Swig had picked him. He led us out of the room. "And that's about all she wrote, folks."
"Are all the rooms multiple occupancy?" I said, wondering how roommates were chosen.
"Except for the S &R's-Suppression and Restraint. Those come one to a customer. You can tell which ones they are because they have an S after the number." He pointed. "They're basically the same, except smaller, 'cause it's only one patient."
"Does Suppression and Restraint mean straitjackets?" said Milo. "Padded walls like the elevator?"
Hatterson's mustache vibrated. "No padding, but sure, if someone needs a straitjacket, we've got 'em. But hopefully, if you behave yourself after you earn an S &R, you earn out of there in a jif. I couldn't say from direct experience, but that's what I imagine."
Pride of ownership; he gave denial new meaning. I saw the revulsion in Milo's eyes.
We stood in the empty room as Hatterson prattled on about the food. Fridays were still fish, even though the pope said meat was okay. Vitamin pills, too. The patients were well taken care of.
An operator; there's one in every setting. A gossip, too, eager to tell us about Ralph's criminal history. Was he Swig's stoolie? Risky business on a ward full of murderers.