"Something else," he said. "Something that made my little heart go plink-a-plink when Heidi mentioned Peake's name. At Quantico, his case summary was passed around. I remember relatively seasoned guys looking at the photos and groaning; a couple had to leave the room. It was beyond butchery, Alex. I wasn't a hardened bastard yet. All I could do was skim."
He stopped so suddenly that I walked past him several steps.
"What?" I said.
"One of the photos," he said. "One of the kids. The older one. Peake took the eyes."
Chapter 11
William Swig said, "You think that means something?"
It was just after four P.M. and we were back in his office. Milo's unmarked was low on gas, so he left it at the park and I drove to Starkweather.
On the way, he made two calls on the cell phone. An attempt to reach the sheriff of Treadway, California, resulted in a rerouting to the voicemail system of a private security firm named Bunker Protection. Put on hold for several minutes, he finally got through. The brief conversation left him shaking his head.
"Gone," he said.
"The sheriff?"
"The whole damn town. It's a retirement community now, called Fairway Ranch. Bunker does the policing. I talked to some robocop with an attitude: 'All questions of that nature must be referred to national headquarters in Chicago.' "
The call to Swig connected, but when we arrived at the hospital's front gate, the guard hadn't been informed. Phoning Swig's office again finally got us in, but we had to wait awhile before Frank Dollard showed up to walk us across the yard. This time he barely greeted us. Impending evening hadn't tamed the heat. Only three men were out on the yard, one of them Chet, waving his huge hands wildly as he told stories to the sky.
The moment we passed through the end gate, Dollard stepped away and left us to enter the gray building alone. Swig was waiting just inside the door. He hurried us in to his office.
Now he tented his hands and rocked in his desk chair. "A box, eyes-this is obviously psychotic rambling. Why would you take it seriously, Doctor?"
"Even psychotics can have something to say," I said.
"Can they? I can't say I've found that to be the case."
"Maybe it's no big lead, sir," said Milo, "but it does bear follow-up."
Swig's intercom buzzed. He pressed a button and his secretary's voice said, "Bill? Senator Tuck."
"Tell him I'll call him back." Back to us: "So… all this comes via Heidi Ott?"
"Does she have credibility problems?" said Milo.
Another beep. Swig jabbed the button irritably. The secretary said, "Bill? Senator Tuck says no need to call him back, he was just reminding you of your aunt's birthday party this Sunday."
"Fine. Hold my calls. Please." Rolling back, Swig crossed his legs and showed us his ankles. Under his blue trousers he wore white sweat socks and brown, rubber-soled walkers. "State Senator Tuck's married to my mother's sister."
"That should help with funding," said Milo.
"On the contrary. State Senator Tuck doesn't approve of this place, thinks all our patients should be hauled outside and shot. His views on the matter harden especially during election years."
"Must make for spirited family parties."
"A blast," Swig said sourly. "Where was I… yes, Heidi. The thing to remember about Heidi is she's a rookie, and rookies can be impressionable. Maybe she heard something, maybe she didn't, but either way I can't believe it matters."
"Even though it's Ardis Peake we're talking about?"
"Him or anyone else. The point is, he's here. Locked up securely." Swig turned to me: "He's withdrawn, severely asocial, extremely dyskinesic, has a whole boatload of negative symptoms, rarely leaves his room. Since he's been with us he's never shown any signs whatsoever of any high-risk behavior."
"Does he receive mail?" said Milo.
"I'd tend to doubt it."
"But he might."
"I'd tend to doubt it," Swig repeated. "I'm sure when he was first committed there was some of the usual garbage- screwed-up women proposing marriage, that kind of thing. But now he's ancient history. Obscure, the way he should be. I'll tell you one thing: in the four years I've been here he's never received a visitor. In terms of his overhearing something, he has no friends among the other patients that I or anyone else on the staff is aware of. But what if he did? Anyone he might have overheard would be confined here, too."
"Unless someone's been released recently."
"No one's been released since Claire Argent came on board. I checked."
"I appreciate that."
"No problem," said Swig. "Our goal's the same: keep the citizens safe. Believe me, Peake's no threat to anyone."
"I'm sure you're right," said Milo. "But if he was receiving mail or sending it, no one on the staff would be monitoring it. Same with his phone calls-"
"No one would officially be monitoring content unless Peake acted out, but-" Swig held up a finger, punched four digits on his phone. "Arturo? Mr. Swig. Are you aware of any mail-letters, packages, postcards-anything arriving recently for Patient Three Eight Four Four Three? Peake, Ardis. Even junk mail… You're sure? Anything at all since you can remember? Keep an eye out, okay, Arturo? No, no authority for that, just let me know if anything shows up. Thanks."
He put the phone down. "Arturo's been here three years. Peake doesn't get mail. In terms of phone calls, I can't prove it to you, but believe me, nothing. He never comes out of his room. Doesn't talk."
"Pretty low-functioning."
"Subterranean."
"Any idea why Dr. Argent chose to work with Peake?"
"Dr. Argent worked with lots of patients. I don't believe she gave Peake any special attention." His finger rose again. Springing up, he left the office, closing the door hard.
Milo said, "Helpful fellow, even though it kills him."
"As Heidi said, he thinks publicity's the kiss of death."
"I was wondering how such a young guy got to be in charge. Now I know. Uncle Senator may not approve of this place, but how much you wanna bet he had something to do with nephew getting the gig."
The door swung open and Swig bounded in, carrying a brown cardboard folder. Bypassing Milo, he handed it to me and sat down.
Peake's clinical chart. Thinner than I'd have predicted. Twelve pages, mostly medication notes signed by various psychiatrists, a few notations about the tardive dyskinesia: "T.D., no change."
"T.D. intensifies, more lingual thrust."
"T.D. Unsteady gait." Immediately after arriving at Starkweather, Peake had been placed on Thorazine, and for fifteen years he'd been kept on die drug. He'd also received several medications for the side effects: lithium carbonate, trypto-phan, Narcan. "No change."
"No behav. change." Everything but Thorazine had been phased out.
The test two pages bore four months of nearly identical weekly entries written in a small, neat hand:
Indiv. sess. to monitor verb., soc., assess beh. plan. H. Ott assist. C. Argent, Ph.D.
I passed the chart to Milo.
"As you can see, Dr. Argent was monitoring his speech, not treating him," said Swig. "Probably measuring his response to medication, or something like that."
"How many other patients was she monitoring?" said Milo.
Swig said, "I don't know her total load, nor could I give you specific names without going through extensive review procedures." He held out his hand for the folder. Milo flipped pages for a second and returned it.
Milo said, "Did Dr. Argent seek out severely deteriorated patients?"
Swig rolled forward, placed his elbows on the desk, expelled a short, pufflike laugh. "As opposed to? We don't house mild neurotics here."
"So Peake's just one of the guys."
"No one at Starkweather's one of the guys. These are dangerous men. We treat them as individuals."
"Okay," said Milo. "Thanks for your time. Now, may I please see Peake?"
Swig flushed. "For what purpose? We're talking barely functioning."