"The Jews did it," Stocking Cap repeated.

Dollard said, "Enough of that, Randall."

Chet said, "Maybe valid Jack the Ripper writing on the wall the Jews are the men who didn't not do it or somesuch doubletriplenegative which in the alternate universe parallel systems parallelograms dodecahedrons you never know any-thing's possible-"

"RandalFs a racist asshole," said Jackson. "He don't know shit and neither do you." He showed teeth again, began picking at his cuticles.

Dollard glared at us. Look what you ve done.

"Randall's a racist motherfucker," said Jackson matter-of-factly.

Randall didn't react. Paz and the freckled black man remained asleep.

"One more word out of you, Jackson," said Dollard, "and it's S &R."

Jackson fidgeted wildly for several seconds, but he kept silent.

Dollard turned to Milo: "Finish up."

Milo looked at me. I moved next to him. "So, Dr. Argent was working with you guys."

Kindly Grandpa said, "Would you be so kind as to inform us exactly what exactly happened to the poor woman?"

Dollard said, "We've already been through that, Holtzmann."

"I realize that, Mr. Dollard," said Holtzmann. "She was murdered. How tragic. But perhaps if we knew the details we could assist these police officers."

Gentle voice. Twinkly blue eyes. Coherent. What had gotten him in here?

"I gave you all the details you need to know," said Dollard.

Paz's eyes opened. And closed. Someone passed wind and the stink floated through the room, then dissipated.

Randall's head raised an inch. His fists began grinding into his skull. The stocking cap was filthy. The hand slipped down a bit and I saw that the skin around his temples was red and raw, scabbed in places.

I said, "If there's anything-"

"How did it happen?" said Grandpa Holtzmann. "Was she shot? If so, was it a handgun or a long gun?"

"She wasn't shot," said Dollard. "And that's all you need to-"

"Stabbed, then?" said Holtzmann.

"What does it matter, Holtzmann?"

"Well," said the old man, "if we're to be of assist-"

Chet said, "The modus is always a clue signature profile-wise psychological penmanship so to speak to squeak-"

"Was she stabbed?" said Holtzmann, pressing forward so that the desk bit into his trunk.

"Holtzmann," said Dollard, "there's no reason for-"

"She was stabbed!" the old man exclaimed. "Fileted to the bone, hallelujah!" Working at his zipper with both hands, he exposed himself, began masturbating frantically. Singing out in a fine rich baritone: "Stabbed, stabbed, stabbed, glory be! Gut the bitch in pieces three!"

Dollard took him roughly by the shoulders and shoved him toward the door.

To us, "You, too. Out. Meeting over."

As we exited, Chet shouted, "Wait I've solved it cherchez la femme cherchez la femme-!"

Outside, Dollard locked the door to the annex and handed Holtzmann over to the other two techs. The old man simpered but looked thrilled.

The taller tech said, "Tuck yourself in. Now."

Holtzmann obeyed, dropped his hands to his side.

"Nice to meet you." Kindly Grandpa again. "Mr. Dollard, if I've offended-"

"Don't say another damn word," Dollard ordered him. To the techs: "Keep them in there while I deal with these two. I'll send Mills back to help you."

The techs moved Holtzmann to the wall, had him face the stucco. "Don't budge, old man." Pointing at the door, one of them said, "They okay in there, Frank?"

"Chet Bodine's running his mouth like a broken toilet and Jackson's ticked at him. At Randall, too-he's doing the Aryan crap."

"Really?" said the tech lightly. "Haven't heard that in a while, thought we had it under control."

"Yeah," said Dollard. "Something must have tensed them all up."

When we were back at the main building, he said, "Now, that was a good expenditure of taxpayers' money."

Milo said, "I want to see Peake."

"And I want to fuck Sharon Stone-"

"Take me to Peake, Frank."

"Oh, sure, just like that. Who the hell do you think-" Again, Dollard checked his anger. Chuckled. "That requires authorization, Detective. Meaning Mr. Swig, and, like I said, he's not-"

"Call him," said Milo.

Dollard bent one leg. "Because you order me to do it?"

"Because I can be back here in an hour with serious backup and a warrant on you for obstruction of justice. My bosses are antsy about this one, Dollard. Maybe Swig will eventually be able to protect you, but seeing as he's not here, he won't stop you from going through the process. I'm talking Central Booking. You were a cop, you know the drill."

Dollard's face was the color of rare steak. His words came out slow and clipped. "You have no idea what kind of deep shit you're getting yourself into."

"I have a real good idea, Frank. Let's play the media game. Bunch of TV idiots with sound trucks and cameras. The slant I'll give them is the police were saddled with a stroke-inducing whodunit homicide and you did everything in your power to impede. I'll also throw in a nice little sidebar about how you geniuses judged a mass murderer sane and qualified for release and then he proves how sane he is by turning himself into garbage. When all that hits the fan, Frank, think Uncle Senator's gonna help Swig, let alone you?"

Dollard's jaw jutted. He toed the dirt. "Why the hell are you doing this?"

"Just what I was going to ask you, Frank. Because this change of attitude on your part puzzles me. Ex-cop, you'd expect something different. Makes me wonder, Frank. Maybe I should be looking closer at you."

"Look all you want," said Dollard, but his head drew back and his voice lacked conviction. Squinty eyes examined the sky. "Do your thing, man."

"Why the change, Frank?"

"No change," said Dollard. "The first time you were here was courtesy, the second time tolerance. Now you're a disruption-look at what you just did to those guys."

"Murder's a disruption," said Milo.

"I keep telling you, this murder had nothing to- Forget it. What the hell do you want from me?"

"Take me to Peake. After that, we'll see."

Dollard's toe stirred up more dirt. "Mr. Swig's in a serious budget meeting and can't be-"

"Who's second in command?"

"No one. Only Mr. Swig authorizes visits."

"Then leave him a message," said Milo. "I'll give you five minutes; after that, I'm outta here and it's a whole different game. When's the last time you had your fingers rolled for prints?"

Dollard looked up at the sky again. Someone on the yard howled.

Milo said, "Okay, Doc, we're outta here."

Dollard let us walk ten paces before saying, "Screw it. You get ten minutes with Peake, in and out."

"No, Frank," said Milo. "I get what I want."

Chapter 28

We entered the main building. Milo got to the door first, throwing off Dollard's rhythm. Lindeen Schmitz was at the front desk, talking on the phone. She began to smile up at Milo, but a glance from Dollard stopped her.

We rode up to C Ward in silence. On the other side of the double doors, four inmates idled. I could see the nurses in the station chatting cheerfully. Laughter, shallow and grating, spilled from the TV room.

Dollard stomped to Peake's room, unlocked the peep hatch, flipped the light switch, frowned. He released both bolts and opened the door cautiously. A brief look inside. "Not here." Trying to sound annoyed, but puzzlement took over.

"How about that," said Milo. "He never leaves his room."

"I'm telling you," said Dollard, "he never does."

"Maybe he's watching TV," I said.

We went over to the big room, scanned the faces. Two dozen men in khaki stared at the screen. Canned yuks poured out of the box-a sitcom. No one in the room was laughing. Peake wasn't in the audience.