“I don’t mean that anyone kills them off. Or that there’s abuse, or neglectful treatment. It’s just a sad little factoid that stuck in my head — people die young here. I guess even with the best intentions, most places like this just aren’t able to nourish life, in all the ways that count.”
Jo touched her back to steer her gently inside. “It seems this one nourished Voakes well enough, for more than twenty-odd years.”
“I have a feeling someone like John William Voakes doesn’t have much interest in spiritual nourishment.” Becca wished they hadn’t invoked his name, just inside the doors of his prison. He seemed much more a living, breathing reality here. She wished briefly for formidable bars on the opaque glass windows of the reception area, rather than wired screens.
“Dr. Joanne Call, Rebecca Healy.” Joanne produced their IDs and Rachel’s letter, and handed them to the staff seated behind the large desk, a uniformed guard and a smiling younger woman in civilian garb. Visitors were first welcomed to Western by the muscle of the guard and this girl’s warmer greeting, two forms of reassurance for family members who wanted both safety and humanity for their loved ones.
“Oh sure, Dr. Call, I think you’re expected.” The woman spoke into her headset, nodded, and pushed back her chair. “Would you like to follow me?”
Becca couldn’t imagine anything filling her with more giddy delight.
They moved past the screening station into a larger, open area peopled by the hospital’s more functional patients, men and women awaiting late-afternoon visiting hours. They were dressed in clean, if mismatched street clothes, and could have been any small group of slightly bored people waiting for the clock to inch forward, until you looked more closely. The glossy sheen of heavy medication masked the features of almost every patient, blunted their expressions and slowed their movements. Few met Becca’s gaze as they passed.
Their escort swept a key card to open a large side door as Becca read one of the many framed posters of guidelines that hung on the walls. What was all right for a visitor to bring (non-perishable/factory sealed food items that are to be stored in the patient’s snack locker), how visitors were to interact with patients they didn’t know (courtesy communications only). Becca thought she remembered the forensics unit was in a separate complex of buildings on the east section of the grounds, but she and Jo were led down a carpeted hallway that seemed to contain administrative offices.
“Ah. Dr. Call?”
The young woman left them in the care of a lushly mustachioed official who circled his desk to greet them. He stood several inches shorter than Jo, and smiled at them both with a kind of benign distraction. “I’m Ben Chavez, the hospital’s public information officer.”
Jo had slipped into her off-putting staring mode, so Becca finished the introductions politely. “I hope it’s all right if I sit in on this interview, Ben. Will we be meeting with Voakes here, or over in the forensic center?”
“I’ll be happy to walk you over there right now.” He patted his pockets and finally produced the key card that admitted them through a series of doors. They emerged from the main building onto a tree-shaded complex of sidewalks extending in several directions. Chavez took off briskly, Jo pacing him with her long legs, Becca trotting gamely to keep up.
“So I’m just going to go into my Western State Hospital speech, and please feel free to tell me if you know all this.” Chavez shaded his eyes against the lowering sun and nodded at the surrounding buildings. “We house over eight hundred patients here, at any one time. Employ almost two thousand staff. We work with the Psycho-Social Rehabilitation model, which involves—”
“We’re trying to understand why release is being considered for someone with a criminal history as extensive as John William Voakes’s,” Jo broke in.
If Chavez was thrown by Jo’s abruptness he didn’t show it. Becca supposed a public information officer in a state hospital had to be able to switch gears smoothly. With the blurb in the paper about Voakes’s planned release, Chavez had probably been fielding such terse questions for weeks.
“Well, keep in mind that Mr. Voakes was found not guilty by reason of insanity, a verdict that’s not too likely today. His crimes were committed just before the legal reforms around the insanity defense kicked in, in the mid-eighties. All the public outcry over Hinkley’s assassination attempt on Reagan led to—”
“And Voakes has been deemed no longer insane?” Jo sounded merely curious now, not abrasive, but Becca still winced at the sidewalk. “Is that why he’s being released?”
“I believe the determination has been made that Mr. Voakes is no longer a threat to the community. That’s the legal wording for the release criteria in place at the time he was committed.” Chavez’s tone was sympathetic, as if expecting to weather their outrage. He swiped his card at the door of a smaller circular building. “A technical distinction, mostly. But it’s important to note that residents committed here due to homicide often stay a lot longer than they would have spent in prison. Mr. Voakes has been with us for twenty-six years.”
Pointing out that Mr. Voakes had taken eight lives — ten? — seemed moot at the moment. But Becca heard an underlying tension in Chavez’s voice. He was polished and professional and he worked by a script, but other than that he seemed to be a decent guy. She wasn’t nearly as adept in reading subtle facial expressions as Jo, but she wondered if his eyes held the slightest shadow of fear.
“I really wanted you to see this.” Chavez stopped at the entrance to a large circular room and perched his hands on his hips. A dozen people sat at computer stations around one side of the space, peering intently at their screens. Three staff moved from one to the other, offering guidance with what looked like grocery budget spreadsheets. These patients presented in more traditionally healthy ways than those in the general visiting area, Becca noted. Their casual clothing held some sense of personal style, and haircuts were recent and well done.
“This is our Program for Adaptive Living Skills, or PALS.” Chavez sounded genuinely proud. “These residents no longer need in-patient treatment, but they still face some challenges living in the community. It’s an amazing program, really. Intensive life skills training, field trips into town. Residents are monitored, assessed, and tested every step of the way before they’re released.”
The focus and industry of everyone in the room was impressive, but Jo obviously shared Becca’s confusion as to why they were there. They were nowhere near the complex that contained the forensic center.
“And you’re showing us this, because?” Trust Jo to be direct.
“John William Voakes lived in this program for the past twelve months. And as I said, residents are monitored, assessed, and tested every step of the way before they’re released.”
“Voakes lives here. Not in forensics?” A dark suspicion bloomed in Becca’s mind. “He’s already out, isn’t he?”
Chavez kept his eyes on the far wall. “We engaged in some deliberate misinformation in our statement to the press, Becca. I’m afraid some sleight of hand was necessary to avoid any public drama around the release. Mr. Voakes was transferred to an excellent transitional living program in south Seattle two weeks ago. Where he will continue to be—”
“Monitored, assessed, and tested, every step of the way,” Jo cut in. “May we speak to his psychiatrist?”
“Well, that would be Dr. Hasef. I’m afraid he’s on vacation until—”
“Thank you, Mr. Chavez. I think we’re finished here.” Jo turned on her heel.
Jo stalked ahead of Becca to the Bentley, frustration stiffening every line of her body. Becca followed silently, the oppressive shadow of the hospital falling away as they emerged into the twilight of the parking lot.