The writer had learned that the week before Christmas, Billy had pressured Dr. Caul to be allowed to spend the holiday with his family at his sisters house in Logan, Ohio. Caul told him it was too soon—just over two weeks since he’d arrived. But Billy insisted. Other patients at AIT were allowed to go home on brief furloughs. If what his doctor said about treating him like the other patients was true, then he should try to get permission for him to do the same.

Knowing his patient was testing him, and realizing how important it was to gain Billy’s trust and confidence, Caul agreed to make the request. He was certain it would be turned down.

It created a furor at the Adult Parole Authority, at the state Department of Mental Health, and at the prosecutor’s office in Columbus. When Yavitch phoned Gary Schweickart and asked what the hell was going on out there in Athens, Gary said he would try to find out. “But I’m not his attorney anymore,” he added.

“Well, I’d call his doctor in Athens if I were you,” Yavitch said, “and tell them to cool it. If anything in the state of Ohio is going to stir up an outcry for new legislation on the controls over the criminally insane, Milligan going out on furlough two weeks after commitment will sure as hell do it.”

As Caul had expected, the request was denied.

As he pushed open the heavy metal door and walked to Billy’s room, the writer noticed that AIT was nearly deserted. He knocked on Billy’s door.

“Just a second,” came a sleepy voice.

When the door opened, the writer saw that Billy looked as if he’d just gotten out of bed. He seemed confused as he looked at a digital watch on his wrist. “I don’t remember this,” he said.

He went to his desk and glanced at a paper. Then he showed it to the writer. It was a hospital commissary receipt for twenty-six dollars.

“I don’t remember buying it,” he said. “Somebody is spending my money—money I’ve been making from selling my paintings. I don’t think that’s right.”

“Maybe the commissary will take it back,” the writer suggested.

Billy examined it. “I guess I’ll keep it. I need a watch now. It’s not a very good one, but—I’ll see.”

“If you didn’t buy it, who do you think did?”

He glanced around, bluish-gray eyes scanning the room as if to see whether anyone else was there. “I’ve been hearing strange names.”

“Like what?”

“‘Kevin.’ And ‘Philip.’”

The writer tried not to show his surprise. He had read about the ten personalities, but no one had ever mentioned the names Billy had just given him. The writer checked to make sure the tape recorder was running. “Have you told Dr. Caul about this?”

“Not yet,” he said. “I guess I will. But I don’t understand what it means. Who are they? Why am I thinking about them?”

As Billy spoke, the writer recalled the last passage of the December 18 Newsweek article: “There remain, however, unanswered questions … what about his conversations with his rape victims in which he claimed to be a ‘guerrilla’ and a ‘hit man’? Doctors think that Milligan may have personalities yet unfathomed—and that some of them may have committed undiscovered crimes.”