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.
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.
