watched Hatterson intently. I knew exactly what he was thinking: The inmates run the asylum.
The elevator didn't respond but Hatterson was unbothered, bouncing on his feet like a kid waiting for dessert. No floor-number guide above the doors, no grinding gears.
Then a voice came out of the wall-out of a small square of steel mesh surrounding the button.
"Yes?" Male voice, electronically detached.
"Hatterson, Phillip Duane."
"I.D."
"Five two one six eight. You just let me down to see Administrator Swig.
Administrator Swig just called to authorize me back up."
"Hold on." Three beats. "Where you heading?"
"Just up to Two. I've got two gentlemen taking a tour-a police officer and a doctor."
"Hold on," the voice repeated. Seconds later, the elevator doors slid open.
Hatterson said, "After you, sirs."
Wondering whom I was turning my back on, I complied. The lift was walled with thick foam. Interior key lock. Sickly-sweet disinfectant permeated the foam.
The doors closed. As we rose, Hatterson said, "Up up and away." He was standing in the middle of the car. I'd pressed myself into a corner, and so had Milo.
The elevator let us out into another pink-beige hallway. Brown double doors with plastic windows. Key locks. Wall speaker similar to that near the elevator. A sign above the door said A WARD. Hatterson pushed a button, talked to someone, and the doors clicked open.
At first glance, the second floor resembled any hospital ward, except for a nursing station completely encased by plastic. A sign said MED LINE FORM HERE, NO PUSHING.
Three white-uniformed women sat inside, talking. Nearby, a gurney was pushed to the wall. Brown stains on white cotton sheeting.
The same black linoleum and brown doors as the first floor. Very low ceilings-no higher than seven feet. Khaki'd figures roamed the halls. Many of the taller inmates stooped. So did some short men. A few inmates sat on white plastic benches. Bolted to the floor. Others rocked in place; several just stood there. The arms of the chairs were drilled through with one-inch-diameter holes. Handcuff slots.
I tried to look around without being conspicuous.
Black men, white men, brown men, yellow men.
Young men with surfer-blond hair and testosterone posture, callow enough for acne but ancient around the eyes. Old men with toothless, caved-in faces and hyperactive tongues.
Gape-jawed catatonics. Ragged, muttering apparitions not much different from any
Westside panhandler. Some of the men, like Hatterson, looked relatively normal.
Every one of them had destroyed human life.
We passed them, enduring a psychotic gauntlet, receiving a full course of stares.
Hatterson paid no notice as he dance-stepped us through.
One of the young ones smirked and took a step forward. Patchy hair and chin beard, swastika tattoo on his forearm. White welted scars on both wrists. He swayed and smiled, sang something tuneless, and moved on. A Hispanic man with a braid dangling
below his belt drank from a paper cup and coughed as we neared, splashing pink liquid. Someone passed wind. Someone laughed. Hatterson sped up a bit. So many brown doors, marked only by numbers. Most bore small, latched rectangles. Peephole covers.
Halfway down the hall, two black men with matted hair- careless dreadlocks-faced each other from opposite sides. From a distance their stance mimicked a conversation, but as we got closer I saw that their faces weren't moving and their eyes were distant and dead.
The man on the right had his hand in his fly and I could see rapid movement beneath the khaki. Hatterson noticed it too, and gave a prissy look. A few feet away, an avuncular type- seventyish, white-haired as Emil Starkweather, wearing rimless eyeglasses and a white cardigan sweater over his beige
The elevator didn't respond but Hatterson was unbothered, bouncing on his feet like a kid waiting for dessert. No floor-number guide above the doors, no grinding gears.
Then a voice came out of the wall-out of a small square of steel mesh surrounding the button.
"Yes?" Male voice, electronically detached.
"Hatterson, Phillip Duane."
"I.D."
"Five two one six eight. You just let me down to see Administrator Swig.
Administrator Swig just called to authorize me back up."
"Hold on." Three beats. "Where you heading?"
"Just up to Two. I've got two gentlemen taking a tour-a police officer and a doctor."
"Hold on," the voice repeated. Seconds later, the elevator doors slid open.
Hatterson said, "After you, sirs."
Wondering whom I was turning my back on, I complied. The lift was walled with thick foam. Interior key lock. Sickly-sweet disinfectant permeated the foam.
The doors closed. As we rose, Hatterson said, "Up up and away." He was standing in the middle of the car. I'd pressed myself into a corner, and so had Milo.
The elevator let us out into another pink-beige hallway. Brown double doors with plastic windows. Key locks. Wall speaker similar to that near the elevator. A sign above the door said A WARD. Hatterson pushed a button, talked to someone, and the doors clicked open.
At first glance, the second floor resembled any hospital ward, except for a nursing station completely encased by plastic. A sign said MED LINE FORM HERE, NO PUSHING.
Three white-uniformed women sat inside, talking. Nearby, a gurney was pushed to the wall. Brown stains on white cotton sheeting.
The same black linoleum and brown doors as the first floor. Very low ceilings-no higher than seven feet. Khaki'd figures roamed the halls. Many of the taller inmates stooped. So did some short men. A few inmates sat on white plastic benches. Bolted to the floor. Others rocked in place; several just stood there. The arms of the chairs were drilled through with one-inch-diameter holes. Handcuff slots.
I tried to look around without being conspicuous.
Black men, white men, brown men, yellow men.
Young men with surfer-blond hair and testosterone posture, callow enough for acne but ancient around the eyes. Old men with toothless, caved-in faces and hyperactive tongues.
Gape-jawed catatonics. Ragged, muttering apparitions not much different from any
Westside panhandler. Some of the men, like Hatterson, looked relatively normal.
Every one of them had destroyed human life.
We passed them, enduring a psychotic gauntlet, receiving a full course of stares.
Hatterson paid no notice as he dance-stepped us through.
One of the young ones smirked and took a step forward. Patchy hair and chin beard, swastika tattoo on his forearm. White welted scars on both wrists. He swayed and smiled, sang something tuneless, and moved on. A Hispanic man with a braid dangling
below his belt drank from a paper cup and coughed as we neared, splashing pink liquid. Someone passed wind. Someone laughed. Hatterson sped up a bit. So many brown doors, marked only by numbers. Most bore small, latched rectangles. Peephole covers.
Halfway down the hall, two black men with matted hair- careless dreadlocks-faced each other from opposite sides. From a distance their stance mimicked a conversation, but as we got closer I saw that their faces weren't moving and their eyes were distant and dead.
The man on the right had his hand in his fly and I could see rapid movement beneath the khaki. Hatterson noticed it too, and gave a prissy look. A few feet away, an avuncular type- seventyish, white-haired as Emil Starkweather, wearing rimless eyeglasses and a white cardigan sweater over his beige
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