Monster

Chapter 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.

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.

"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.

Lindeen said, "Why do you want to speak to Heidi?"

"She worked with Dr. Argent."

Lindeen picked up a pencil and tapped the edge of her desk. "I don't think they were friends or anything. Dr. Argent didn't have any friends that I saw. Real quiet. When a bunch of us went for margaritas or something we asked her along, but she always said no, so we stopped asking. I figured she was shy. But still, it's so horrible what happened to her. When I heard, I just couldn't believe it, someone you see every day and then they're just…" She snapped a finger. "She used to walk right past me every morning at eight, pronto, say good morning, walk on like she had a big plan for the day. It's so… horrible."

"Yes it is," said Milo. "So she didn't have any pals at all?"

"Not that I saw. She always seemed like work, work, work. Nice, but work, work, work. Hope you solve it."

She reached for the phone. Milo said, "Pardon me, ma'am. Just one more thing I'm curious about."

Her hand rested on the receiver. "What's that?"

"The guy who took us around-Hatterson. What's he in for?"

"Oh, him," she said. "Why, was there some kind of problem?"

"No. Does he cause problems?"

She snorted. "Not hardly."

"The reason I'm asking is, he didn't seem very crazy. I'm just wondering what kind of guy gets to be a tour guide."

"Phil," she said, pronouncing the name with distaste. "Phil raped a child so bad she needed reconstructive surgery."