“Are you going to tell them?”
“That would be a clinical decision.”
“Made by who?”
“The clinician in charge-probably one of our senior psychiatrists. Now, if that’s all-”
“One more thing,” said Milo. “Dr. Argent had a good position at County Hospital. Any idea why she switched jobs?”
Swig allowed himself a small smile. “What you’re really asking is why would she leave the glorious world of academic medicine for our little snakepit. During her job interview she told me she wanted a change of pace. I didn’t discuss it further.
I was happy to have someone with her qualifications come aboard.”
“Did she say anything else during the interview that would help me?”
Swig’s mouth puckered tight. He picked up a pencil and tapped the desktop. “She was very quiet-not shy. More like self-possessed. But pleasant-very pleasant. It’s a terrible thing that happened to her.”
He stood. We did, too. Milo thanked him.
“I wish I could do more, Detective.”
“Actually,” said Milo, “we wouldn’t mind taking a look around-just to get a feel for the place. I promise not to disrupt anyone clinically, but maybe I could chat with some of the staff Dr. Argent worked with?”
The white eyebrows climbed again. “Sure, why not.” Swig opened the door to the front room. His secretary was arranging roses.
“Letty,” he said, “please call Phil Hatterson down. Detective Sturgis and Dr.
Delaware are going to get a little tour.”
5.
PHIL HATTERSON WAS short, pear-shaped, middle-aged, with Silly Putty features and thinning brown hair. His mouse-colored mustache was feathery and offered no shelter to plump, dark lips.
“Pleased to meet you,” he said, offering the firm, pumping handshake of a club chairman.
His eyes were hazel, alert, and inquisitive, but soft-like those of a tame deer.
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.