“Anthony Foletta, new Chief of Psychiatry.” The voice is deep and grainy, like an old lawn mower.

“What happened to Dr. Reinike?”

“Personal situation. Rumor has it her husband was diagnosed with terminal cancer. Guess she decided to take an early retirement. Reinike told me to expect you. Unless you have any objections, I’ll be supervising your internship.”

“No objections.”

“Good.” He turns and heads back down the hall, Dominique hustling to keep pace.

“Dr. Foletta, how long have you been with the facility?”

“Ten days. I transferred down here from the state facility in Massachusetts.”

They approach a guard at the first security checkpoint. “Give the guard your driver’s license.”

Dominique searches her purse, then hands the man the laminated card, swapping it for the visitor’s pass. “Use this for now,” Foletta says. “Turn it in when you leave at the end of the day. We’ll get you an encoded intern’s badge before the week’s out.”

She clips the pass to her blouse, then follows him into the elevator.

Foletta holds three fingers up to a camera mounted above his head. The doors close. “Have you been here before? Are you familiar with the layout?”

“No. Dr. Reinike and I only spoke by phone.”

“There are seven floors. Administration and central security’s on the first floor. The main station controls both the staff and resident elevators. Level 2 houses a small medical unit for the elderly and terminally ill. Level 3 is where you’ll find our dining area and rec rooms. It also accesses the mezzanine, yard, and therapy rooms. Levels 4, 5, 6, and 7 house residents.” Foletta chuckles. “Dr. Blackwell refers to them as ‘customers.’ An interesting euphemism, don’t you think, considering we haul them in here wearing handcuffs.”

They exit the elevator, passing a security station identical to the one on the first floor. Foletta waves, then follows a short corridor to his office. Cardboard boxes are piled everywhere, stuffed with files, framed diplomas, and personal items.

“Excuse the mess, I’m still getting situated.” Foletta removes a computer printer from a chair, motioning for Dominique to sit, then squeezes uncomfortably behind his own desk, leaning back in his leather chair to afford his belly room.

He opens her personnel file. “Hmm. Completing your doctorate at Florida State, I see. Get out to many football games?”

“Not really.” Use the opening. “You look like you’ve played a little football before.”

It is a good parlay, causing Foletta’s cherub face to light up. “Fighting Blue Hens of Delaware, class of ‘79. Starting nose tackle. Would have been a lower-round NFL draft pick if I hadn’t torn my knee up against Lehigh.”

“What made you get into forensic psychiatry?”