Three of the beds were made up neatly, top sheets tucked tight. One was jumbled. No closets. A doorless entry led to a tiny white lav. Lidless white toilet, white sink. No medicine cabinet, no toiletries, no toothbrushes. Anything was a potential weapon.

"They give us disposables," said Hatterson, as if following my thoughts. "Aftershave, brushes, shaving cream, safety razors under supervision. Guys who want to shave use electrics that are sterilized and reused." He looked disapprovingly at the unmade bed. "Someone must be having a bad day.... We can't hang anything on the wall because it could be set on fire. So there's no family pictures or anything like that. But it's not bad, right?"

Milo grunted.

Hatterson flinched, but persisted: "We get our three squares, the food's pretty tasty."

Chapter president of the Starkweather Chamber of Commerce. I could see why Swig had picked him. He led us out of the room. "And that's about all she wrote, folks."

"Are all the rooms multiple occupancy?" I said, wondering how roommates were chosen.

"Except for the S&R's-Suppression and Restraint. Those come one to a customer. You can tell which ones they are because they have an S after the number." He pointed. "They're basically the same, except smaller, 'cause it's only one patient."

"Does Suppression and Restraint mean straitjackets?" said Milo. "Padded walls like the elevator?"

Hatterson's mustache vibrated. "No padding, but sure, if someone needs a straitjacket, we've got 'em. But hopefully, if you behave yourself after you earn an S&R, you earn out of there in a jif. I couldn't say from direct experience, but that's what I imagine."

Pride of ownership; he gave denial new meaning. I saw the revulsion in Milo's eyes.

We stood in the empty room as Hatterson prattled on about the food. Fridays were still fish, even though the pope said meat was okay. Vitamin pills, too. The patients were well taken care of.

An operator; there's one in every setting. A gossip, too, eager to tell us about Ralph's criminal history. Was he Swig's stoolie? Risky business on a ward full of murderers.

Might as well take advantage. I said, "What wards did Dr. Argent work on?"

Hatterson stopped. "I guess she worked all over the place. The docs all do-they move around. Most of them don't even have permanent offices, they just share desks for charting."

"Where are the charts kept?"

"In the nursing station."

"What exactly did Dr. Argent do here?" I said.

"I guess counseling."

"What do you know about her group-Skills for Daily Living?"

"Just that she started it a few months ago. Picked some weird guys for it."

"Weird in what way?"

"Messed-up guys," said Hatterson. He tapped his temple. "You know, low-functioning guys."

Milo said, "What was the point? No one gets out of here, right?"

Hatterson whitened. His head began to droop and remained low, as if straining under impossible weight. The plump lips rotated.

"Right," he said.

"It's not right?"