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.
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.
