On June 21, eight months after having first been put in protective isolation, he wrote Marlene that he was certain the parole-hearing delay was some kind of psychological testing, “or else I’m so goddamned stone crazy I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing Da-da-da.” Still isolated, he was moved to C block’s “psych range,” a group of ten cells reserved for inmates with mental problems. Danny stabbed himself shortly after, and when he refused treatment, he was taken once again to the Central Medical Center in Columbus. After a brief stay he was returned to Lebanon.

During his stay in C block, Allen kept sending “kites” to Warden Dallman, official messages protesting his protective isolation, which he had been told had to be voluntary. His constitutional rights were being violated, he wrote, and he threatened to sue everybody. After a few weeks, Arthur suggested a change of tactics—silence. Speak to no one, neither inmates nor guards. He knew that would worry them. And the children refused to eat.

In August, after eleven months in protective isolation, being shifted back and forth from the psych range, he was told he could return to the prison population. “We could put you to work where it isn’t very dangerous,” Warden Dallman said. He indicated the pencil sketches all over the cell wall. “I’ve heard about your artistic talents. What if we put you to work in Mr. Reinert’s art class?”

Allen nodded happily.

The following day Tommy went to the graphic-arts room. It was a busy place, filled with people working on silkscreens, lettering, cameras and a printing press. The thin, wiry man called Mr. Reinert looked at Tommy sidewise through thoughtful eyes as the prisoner sat around for the first few days, not interested in what was going on around him.

“What would you like to do?” Reinert asked him.

“I’d like to paint. I’m good at oils.”

Reinert cocked his head and looked up at him. “None of the prisoners do oil painting.”

Tommy shrugged. “That’s what I do.”

“All right, Milligan. Come with me. I think I know where we can get some stuff for you.”

Tommy was in luck: The graphic-arts project at the Chil-licothe Correctional Facility had recently closed down, and they had sent the oil paints, canvases and stretchers to Lebanon. Reinert helped him set up an easel and told him to go ahead and paint.

Half an hour later, Tommy brought him a landscape and Reinert was stunned. “Milligan, I’ve never seen someone paint so fast. And it’s good.”

Tommy nodded. “I had to learn to paint fast if I wanted to be able to finish anything.”

Though oil painting was not a part of the program and was generally not done in the graphic-arts classes, Reinert realized that Milligan was most at ease with a brush in his hand; so, Monday through Friday, he allowed him to paint all he wanted. The prisoners, the guards and even some of the administrative staff admired Tommy’s landscapes. He painted some fast hackwork for bartering, and these he signed “Milligan”; others he painted for himselfj and he was allowed to send them out of the prison when his mother or Marlene came to visit.