"Actually, Chet wasn't picked for the group," she said. "He found out about it, asked Claire if he could join. He was so verbal, she thought it might stimulate the others, so she agreed. Yeah, you're right. I never thought about it, but she must've been interested in family killers."

Milo said, "Any idea why?"

She pulled a bobby pin from the bun, slipped it back in. "To be honest, it probably doesn't mean that much. Lots of the guys in here have murdered family members. Isn't that what crazy people usually do when they freak? Like Peake, he started with his mother, right? At least, that's what Claire told me."

"What else did she tell you about Peake's crimes?"

She touched the tip of her nose. "Just what he did. His mom and an entire family. What does any of that have to do with Claire being killed?"

"Maybe nothing," said Milo. "So are you gonna keep working with Peake?"

"I guess. If you want me to. Not that I'm accomplishing much."

"Don't get yourself in trouble, Heidi. I appreciate whatever you do."

"Sure," she said, gnawing her lip.

"Is there a problem?"

"Like I told you before, I was figuring it was time to move on. Was kind of waiting until you got to the bottom of Claire's murder."

"Wish I could tell you it would be soon, Heidi," he said. "Meanwhile, as long as Dr. Delaware's here, he might as well give Peake a try."

"Oh, sure," she said. "Whatever."

The door closed after me with a pneumatic hiss.

I stood halfway between the door and the bed, watching Peake. If he was aware of my presence, he didn't show it.

I watched. He did tongue calisthenics. Rocked, rolled, fluttered his eyes.

Standing there immobile, suspended in gray light, I began to feel formless, weightless. My nose habituated to the stink. Keeping my eyes on Peake's hands, I edged closer. A few more minutes of observation and I thought I'd detected a cadence to his movements.

Tongue-thrust, curl and hover, lingual retreat, neck roll clockwise, then counterclockwise.

Approximately ten-second sequences, six repetitions per minute, played out against the constant rocking of his torso.

I took in other details.

His bed wasn't made. Looked as if it was never made. The hands rested on rumpled, sweat-stained covers. The fingers of the left hand were hooked in the sheeting, half-hidden.

Hands that had wreaked so much ruin... I moved to within inches of the bed, standing over him for a while.

No change in the routine. I kneeled. Bringing myself down to Peake's eye level. His eyes were glued shut. Strain-marks at the corners said he was pressing the lids together tightly. A few moments ago, with Heidi, they'd been half-open. Responding to that bit of stimulation? Withdrawing further, once returned to isolation?

I heard, a tapping from below. Looked down. His feet. Bare-the paper slippers had come off without my noticing.