know that's garbage. Most murderers are perfectly sane. Our men are the exception. They terrify the public-the apparent randomness of their crimes. They have motives, but not the kind the public can relate to. I'm sure you understand, Dr. Delaware."
"Voices in the head," I said.
"Exactly. It's like sausage making. The less the public knows about what we do, the better off we and the public are. That's why I hope Claire's murder doesn't put us in the spotlight."
"No reason for that," said Milo. "The sooner I clear the case, the faster I'm out of your life."
Swig nodded and worried another mole. "Is there anything else?"
"What, specifically, did Dr. Argent do here?"
"What any psychologist would do. Behavior modification plans for individual patients, some counseling, some group work-truthfully, I don't know the details."
"I heard she ran a group called Skills for Daily Living."
"Yes," said Swig. "She asked permission to start that a few months ago."
"Why, if the men don't get out?"
"Starkweather's also an environment. It needs to be dealt with."
"How many men were in the group?"
"I have no idea. The clinical decisions were hers."
"I'd like to meet with them."
"Why?"
"In case they know something."
"They don't," said Swig. "How could they-no, I'm afraid I can't let you do that. Too disruptive. I'm not sure any of them even realize what happened to her."
"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
"Voices in the head," I said.
"Exactly. It's like sausage making. The less the public knows about what we do, the better off we and the public are. That's why I hope Claire's murder doesn't put us in the spotlight."
"No reason for that," said Milo. "The sooner I clear the case, the faster I'm out of your life."
Swig nodded and worried another mole. "Is there anything else?"
"What, specifically, did Dr. Argent do here?"
"What any psychologist would do. Behavior modification plans for individual patients, some counseling, some group work-truthfully, I don't know the details."
"I heard she ran a group called Skills for Daily Living."
"Yes," said Swig. "She asked permission to start that a few months ago."
"Why, if the men don't get out?"
"Starkweather's also an environment. It needs to be dealt with."
"How many men were in the group?"
"I have no idea. The clinical decisions were hers."
"I'd like to meet with them."
"Why?"
"In case they know something."
"They don't," said Swig. "How could they-no, I'm afraid I can't let you do that. Too disruptive. I'm not sure any of them even realize what happened to her."
"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
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