"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.
Might as well take advantage. I said, "What wards did Dr. Argent work on?"
Hatterson stopped. "I guess she worked all over the place. The docs all do-they move around. Most of them don't even have permanent offices, they just share desks for charting."
"Where are the charts kept?"
"In the nursing station."
"What exactly did Dr. Argent do here?" I said.
"I guess counseling."
"What do you know about her group-Skills for Daily Living?"
"Just that she started it a few months ago. Picked some weird guys for it."
"Weird in what way?"
"Messed-up guys," said Hatterson. He tapped his temple. "You know, low-functioning guys."
Milo said, "What was the point? No one gets out of here, right?"
Hatterson whitened. His head began to droop and remained low, as if straining under impossible weight. The plump lips rotated.
"Right," he said.
"It's not right?"
"No, no, yes it is."
"Did joining Dr. Argent's group help someone earn release?" said Milo.
"Not that I heard, sir."
"Did any of the group members get out?"
Hatterson shook his head. "No, it was just about-learning to do things for yourself.
I guess Dr. Argent wanted to help them feel better about themselves."
"Improve their self-esteem," said Milo.
Hatterson brightened. "You got it. You can't love others 'less you love yourself.
She knew what she was doing, the docs here are smart. Okay, I'll call and get us up to B."
The two upper wards were laid out identically to A. On C the hallway teemed, but no female inmates were in sight. We walked through quickly. No fights, nothing untoward; the same mix of degraded muscles, stupor and self-absorption, occasional dark stares rife with paranoia, a few serpentine tongue-flicks and jumpy muscles that said phenothiazine drug side effects. Hatterson moved us through quickly, no more happy chatter. He seemed defeated, almost peevish.
With his chatter gone, the corridors were stripped of conversation. No discourse among the inmates.
Here, every man was an island.
I supposed Swig was right; his charges would be easier to control than simple criminals. Because once the violent impulses were held in check, psychosis was a custodian's friend, neurochemically suppressing and restraining as the disease blunted initiative, squelched the spark of freshness and novelty.
Medication helped, too. To handle violent psychotics, the trick was to find a drug that soothed the occasional fried synapse, squelched rage, hushed the little voices that commanded mayhem.
But take away the violence and you didn't have serenity. What remained were what psychiatrists labeled the negative symptoms of psychosis: apathy, flat mood, deadened voice, blunted movement, impoverished thinking, language stripped of nuance and humor. An existence devoid of surprise and joy.
That explained the ambient silence. The lack of noise wasn't peaceful. The ward felt like a crypt.
A psych tech came by wheeling a food cart. I found myself welcoming the jangle.
Hatterson took us to the C Ward elevator. Milo said, "Let's go up to Five."
"Sorry," said Hatterson. "I'm not authorized. No one is, not even the docs unless they get an order to evaluate a 13."
"You know a lot about this place," I said.
Hatterson shrugged. As we waited for the lift to arrive, I peered through the plastic panels on the door and watched the traffic on the ward. Techs moving around confidently, unarmed; a black nurse emerging from the station with a clipboard and making her way down the corridor with a high-hipped trot. Inmates not doing much of anything.
I thought of how Heidi Ott had handled Ralph and the fighters. In a jail, a skirmish like that could have led to full-scale rioting.
So Starkweather was indeed a tight ship. Full of one-way passengers.
Meaning the chance that Claire Argent's work had anything to do with her murder was remote.
But had the system broken down somehow? A released man "acting out" in the worst way?
Maybe Heidi could tell us. She 'd worked with Claire Argent on the Living Skills group... low-functioning men, according to Hatterson. What had Claire had in mind when setting up the sessions?
Why had she come here?
Hatterson said, "Here's some docs."
Three men came through the door. Shirts and ties, no white coats, badges with yellow bars. No outward sign that a colleague had been slashed to death and stuffed in a car trunk.
Milo said, "Excuse me," showed his badge, explained his purpose. The man in the middle was tall, sandy-haired, weathered-looking, in his sixties. Green plaid shirt, yellow knit tie. He said, "Terrible thing. I wish you luck." V N. Aldrich, M.D.,
Psychiatrist HI.
Milo said, "If there's anything anyone can tell me that might help..."
No responses. Then a bald, dark-bearded man said, "Claire seemed very nice, but I can't say I knew her." C. Steen-burg, Ph.D.
The third man was short and ruddy. D. Swenson, M.D. He shook his head. "She was comparatively new, wasn't she, Vern?"
Aldrich said, "Just a few months. I was her nominal supervisor on a few cases. Her work was fine."
"Nominal?" I said.
"I'm the senior psychiatrist on day shift, so, officially, she reported to me. But she didn't need much supervision. Very bright. I'm terribly sorry about what happened. We all are."
Nods all around.
"What kind of work did she do here?" I said.
"Mostly behavior modification-setting up contingency schedules-rewards for good behavior, withdrawal of privileges for infractions. That kind of thing." Aldrich
smiled. "I won't claim to be an expert on her work product. We're pretty autonomous around here. Claire was very well trained, used to work at County General."
"Any idea why she transferred?" I said.
"She said she needed a change. I got a sense she didn't want to talk about it. My feeling is that she'd simply had enough of what she was doing. I used to be in private practice, retired, got bored with golf, came here."
"Did you get the sense that she needed more human contact than neuropsych provided?"
I asked. It was a psychologist's question, not a cop's, and Aldrich studied me.
"I suppose," he said. "In any event, I don't imagine any of this has much to do with what happened to her."
"Why's that?" said Milo.
"She got killed out there." Aldrich pointed to a wall. "The wonderful, democratic, normal world." He looked over at Hatterson as if first noticing the little man, laced his hands behind his back, scanned Hatterson from toe-tip to head.
"Circulating, Phil?"
"Mr. Swig asked me to show them around, Dr. Aldrich."
"I see. Well, do that, then." Aldrich faced Milo. "I wish we could help you,
Detective, but we're all stymied."
"So you've discussed what happened?"
The three of them exchanged looks.
"Yes, of course," said Aldrich. "We were all upset. What we found out is that none of us knew Dr. Argent. It spurred us to be more social with each other. Good luck getting to the bottom of it."
"One more thing," said Milo. "The group Dr. Argent ran, Skills for Daily Living.
Would it be possible to meet with the patients?"
"You'd have to check with administration on that," said Aldrich.
"Would you see a problem with it? Medically speaking."
Aldrich tugged at his tie. "Let me look into that. I want to make sure we don't... upset anything."
"Appreciate it, Doctor." Milo gave him and the others business cards.
The elevator arrived. Aldrich said, "You three ride down first. We'll catch it next time."
As we descended, Hatterson said, "Dr. Aldrich is very, very smart."
Milo said, "How long have you been here, Phil?"
Hatterson's head drew back like that of a turtle poked with a stick. His reply was inaudible.
"What's that, Phil?"
Hatterson began smoothing his mustache. Chomped his lower lip with his upper teeth.
"A long time."
He stayed in the car and waved us out.
"Goddamn weenie," said Milo, as we walked back toward the reception area. "Didn't get a chance to speak with the Ott girl-better get her home number and follow up.
Everyone here spouts the same line: 'This place is as safe as milk.'You buy it?"
"They broke up that fight pretty fast."
"Yeah, okay, let's assume they've got the lunatics well controlled. You see anything that would lure Claire away from County?"
"Maybe all the structure," I said. "No more applying for grants or having to play the academic game. Aldrich said she talked about needing a change."
"Structured or not, the place creeps me out.... We didn't even scratch the surface, did we?"
"Maybe there's nothing below the surface."
He didn't answer. We passed Swig's office. The door was closed. "Okay, I'll get Ms.
Ott's number, then we fly out of here. If you've got time, I can show you Argent's house. Out in the evil, messy, normal world. The longer I stay here, the more I crave the insanity out there."
Lindeen Schmitz was back on the phone and she barely looked up. Milo stationed himself in front of her desk and leaned forward, imposing on her space. Where does a frustrated, six-three, 240-pound cop stand? Anywhere he wants.
She tried to "uh-huh" her way through a conversation that was clearly personal, finally said, "Gotta go," and hung up.
"Yes, sir?"
Milo grinned down at her. "I need to do some follow-up with one of your staffers.
Heidi Ott. May I have her home number, please?"
"Um, I'm not sure I can do that without authorization. And Mr. Swig's gone- Oh, what the hey, you're the police. You can always get it anyway, in one of those backwards directories, right?" Batting her lashes, she left her desk, sashayed up the hall to the closest brown door, came back with a message blank, and gave it to Milo. Neatly printed name and number, 213 area code.
Milo gave a small bow. "Thank you, ma'am."
"No problem, sir." More eyelash aerobics. "I hope you find whoever did it."
Milo thanked her again and we headed for the main doors.
