Monster

'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.

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