"Ardis Peake," he said. "Long time since he did his thing. Sixteen years ago. I know exactly, because I'd just started Homicide, first thing they hand me is a screwed-up whodunit, I'm sweating over it, not getting anywhere, wondering if I went into the wrong line of work. A few days later Peake does his thing over in Whateverville, some local yokel sheriff solves it the same day. I remember thinking some people have all the luck: asshole just hands himself over on a platter with garnish. Few years later, when I took that VICAP course at Quantico, the Fibbies used Peake as a teaching case, said he was typical of the disorganized spree killer, just about defined the profile: raving lunatic with poor hygiene, mind coming apart at the seams, no serious effort to hide the crime. 'Bad eyes in a box'-so now he's gone from psycho to prophet?"

"Or he overheard another patient say something and repeated it. I just can't see him involved in Claire's murder. Because he is disorganized. Borderline intelligence. And whoever murdered Claire-and Richard-planned meticulously."

"That's assuming Peake really is that messed up."

"You think he's been faking all his life?"

"You tell me-is it possible?"

"Anything's possible, but I'd say it's highly unlikely. You're saying he's part of some murderous duo? Then why would he brag about it? On the other hand, a guy like that, withdrawn, never talks, someone might figure he's not tuned in, let down their guard around him, say something interesting. If that's what happened, maybe Peake can focus enough to tell you who it was."

"Back to Bedlam," he said. "Peachy."

We headed out of the park, toward our cars.

I said, "One thing's consistent with what we were just saying about Claire. Picking Peake as a project because she wanted serious pathology. But what if something else happened along the way? In her attempt to open Peake up, she opened herself up-had the poor judgment to talk about herself. In therapist jargon, it's called self-disclosure, and we're taught to be careful about it. But people mess up all the time-focusing on themselves instead of the patient. Claire's specialty was neuropsych. As a psychotherapist, she was a novice."

"She never got personal, but with Peake she related?"

"Precisely because Peake couldn't relate back."

"So," he said, "she tells him something about a box, bad eyes… whatever the hell that means, and he spits it back."

"Maybe a box refers to some kind of bondage game."

"Back to dominance… You really see her that way?"

"I'm just throwing out suggestions," I said. "Maybe Claire selected Peake out of some great sense of compassion. Robin disagrees with my impression of Claire's house. She says it just sounds like Claire wanted privacy."

"Something else," he said. "Something that made my little heart go plink-a-plink when Heidi mentioned Peake's name. At Quantico, his case summary was passed around. I remember relatively seasoned guys looking at the photos and groaning; a couple had to leave the room. It was beyond butchery, Alex. I wasn't a hardened bastard yet. All I could do was skim."

He stopped so suddenly that I walked past him several steps.

"What?" I said.

"One of the photos," he said. "One of the kids. The older one. Peake took the eyes."

William Swig said, "You think that means something?"

It was just after four P.M. and we were back in his office. Milo's unmarked was low on gas, so he left it at the park and I drove to Starkweather.

On the way, he made two calls on the cell phone. An attempt to reach the sheriff of Treadway, California, resulted in a rerouting to the voicemail system of a private security firm named Bunker Protection. Put on hold for several minutes, he finally got through. The brief conversation left him shaking his head.

"Gone," he said.

"The sheriff?"

"The whole damn town. It's a retirement community now, called Fairway Ranch. Bunker does the policing. I talked to some robocop with an attitude: 'All questions of that nature must be referred to national headquarters in Chicago.' "

The call to Swig connected, but when we arrived at the hospital's front gate, the guard hadn't been informed. Phoning Swig's office again finally got us in, but we had to wait awhile before Frank Dollard showed up to walk us across the yard. This time he barely greeted us. Impending evening hadn't tamed the heat. Only three men were out on the yard, one of them Chet, waving his huge hands wildly as he told stories to the sky.

The moment we passed through the end gate, Dollard stepped away and left us to enter the gray building alone. Swig was waiting just inside the door. He hurried us in to his office.

Now he tented his hands and rocked in his desk chair. "A box, eyes-this is obviously psychotic rambling. Why would you take it seriously, Doctor?"

"Even psychotics can have something to say," I said.

"Can they? I can't say I've found that to be the case."

"Maybe it's no big lead, sir," said Milo, "but it does bear follow-up."

Swig's intercom buzzed. He pressed a button and his secretary's voice said, "Bill? Senator Tuck."

"Tell him I'll call him back." Back to us: "So… all this comes via Heidi Ott?"

"Does she have credibility problems?" said Milo.

Another beep. Swig jabbed the button irritably. The secretary said, "Bill? Senator Tuck says no need to call him back, he was just reminding you of your aunt's birthday party this Sunday."

"Fine. Hold my calls. Please." Rolling back, Swig crossed his legs and showed us his ankles. Under his blue trousers he wore white sweat socks and brown, rubber-soled walkers. "State Senator Tuck's married to my mother's sister."

"That should help with funding," said Milo.

"On the contrary. State Senator Tuck doesn't approve of this place, thinks all our patients should be hauled outside and shot. His views on the matter harden especially during election years."

"Must make for spirited family parties."

"A blast," Swig said sourly. "Where was I… yes, Heidi. The thing to remember about Heidi is she's a rookie, and rookies can be impressionable. Maybe she heard something, maybe she didn't, but either way I can't believe it matters."

"Even though it's Ardis Peake we're talking about?"

"Him or anyone else. The point is, he's here. Locked up securely." Swig turned to me: "He's withdrawn, severely asocial, extremely dyskinesic, has a whole boatload of negative symptoms, rarely leaves his room. Since he's been with us he's never shown any signs whatsoever of any high-risk behavior."

"Does he receive mail?" said Milo.

"I'd tend to doubt it."

"But he might."

"I'd tend to doubt it," Swig repeated. "I'm sure when he was first committed there was some of the usual garbage- screwed-up women proposing marriage, that kind of thing. But now he's ancient history. Obscure, the way he should be. I'll tell you one thing: in the four years I've been here he's never received a visitor. In terms of his overhearing something, he has no friends among the other patients that I or anyone else on the staff is aware of. But what if he did? Anyone he might have overheard would be confined here, too."

"Unless someone's been released recently."

"No one's been released since Claire Argent came on board. I checked."

"I appreciate that."

"No problem," said Swig. "Our goal's the same: keep the citizens safe. Believe me, Peake's no threat to anyone."

"I'm sure you're right," said Milo. "But if he was receiving mail or sending it, no one on the staff would be monitoring it. Same with his phone calls-"

"No one would officially be monitoring content unless Peake acted out, but-" Swig held up a finger, punched four digits on his phone. "Arturo? Mr. Swig. Are you aware of any mail-letters, packages, postcards-anything arriving recently for Patient Three Eight Four Four Three? Peake, Ardis. Even junk mail… You're sure? Anything at all since you can remember? Keep an eye out, okay, Arturo? No, no authority for that, just let me know if anything shows up. Thanks."