"If no one does therapy, what was Becky doing with Hewitt in the therapy room?"

"I didn't say we never talk to our people, just that we don't do much insight work. Sometimes we get cramped for space and the workers use the treatment rooms to do their paperwork. Basically, all of us use what's on hand. As to what Becky was doing with him, it could have been anything. Giving him a voucher for an SRO hotel, telling him where to get deloused. Then again, maybe she was trying to get into his head- she was that kind of person."

"What kind is that?"

"An optimist. Idealistic. Most of us start out that way, don't we?"

I nodded. "Did Hewitt have a history of violence?"

"None that was listed in our files. He'd been arrested just a few weeks before for theft and was due to stand trial- maybe she was counseling him about that. There was nothing on paper that would have warned us. And even if he was violent, there's a good chance the information would never have gotten to us, with all the red tape."

She put down her pen and looked at me. Flipped her hair. "The truth is, he was exactly like so many others who come in and out of here- there's still no way to know."

She picked up one of the folders.

"This is his file. The police confiscated it and returned it, so I guess it's not confidential anymore."

Inside were only two sheets, one clipped to each of the covers. The first was an intake form listing Dorsey Hewitt's age as thirty-one and his address as "none." Under REASON FOR REFERRAL someone had written "multiple social problems." Under DIAGNOSIS: "prob. chron. schiz." The rest of the categories- PROGNOSIS, FAMILY SUPPORT, MEDICAL HISTORY, OTHER PSYCH. TREATMENT-had been left blank. Nothing about "bad love."

At the bottom of the form were notations of referral for food stamps. The signature read, "R. Basille, SWA."

The facing page was white and smooth, marked only with the notation, "Will follow as needed, R.B., SWA." The date was eight weeks prior to the murder. I handed the folder back.

"Not much," I said.

She gave a sad smile. "Paperwork wasn't Becky's forte."

"So you have no idea how many times she actually saw him?"

"Guess that doesn't say much for my administrative skills, does it? But I'm not one of those people who believes in riding the staff, checking out every little picayune detail. I try to find the best people I can, motivate them, and give them room to move. Generally it works out. With Becky…"

She threw up her hands. "She was a doll, a really sweet person. Not much for rules and regulations, but so what?"

She shook her head. "We'd talked about it- helping her get her paperwork in on time. She promised to try, but to tell the truth, I didn't harbor much hope. And I didn't care. Because she was productive where it counted- getting on the phone all day with agencies and arguing for every last penny for her cases. She stayed late, did whatever it took to help them. Who knows? Maybe she was going that extra mile for Hewitt."

She picked up the phone. "Mary? Coffee, please… No, just one."

Putting it down, she said, "The real horror is that it could happen again. We have a steel corral now, to direct them out onto the street after they get their meds. The county finally sent us a guard and the detector, but you tell me how to predict which of them is going to blow."

"We're not very good prophets under the best of circumstances."

"No, we're not. Hundreds of people file in here each week, for meds and vouchers. We've got to let them in. We're the court of last resort. Any of them could be another Hewitt. Even if we wanted to lock them up, we couldn't. The state hospitals that haven't been shut down are filled to capacity- I don't know what your theory is about psychosis, but mine is that most psychotics are born with it- it's biological, like any other illness. But instead of treating them, we demonize them or idealize them, and they get caught in the squeeze between the do-gooders who think they should be allowed to run free and the skinflints who think all they need is to pull themselves up by the bootstraps."

"I know," I said. "When I was in grad school the whole community psych thing was in full bloom- schizophrenia as an alternative lifestyle, liberating patients from the back wards and empowering them to take over their own treatment."

"Empowering." She laughed without opening her mouth.

"I had a professor who was a fanatic on the subject," I said. "Studied the mental health system in Belgium or somewhere and wrote a book on it. He had us do a paper on deinstitutionalization. The more I researched it, the less feasible it seemed. I started to wonder what would happen to psychotics who needed medication and couldn't be counted upon to take it. He handed the paper back with one comment, "Medication is mind control,' and gave me a C-minus."

"Well, I give you an A. Some of our patients can't be counted upon to feed themselves, let alone calibrate dosage. In my opinion, deinstitutionalization's the major culprit in the homeless problem. Sure, some street people are working folks who hit the skids, but at least thirty or forty percent are severely mentally debilitated. They belong in hospitals, not under some freeway. And now with all the weird street drugs out there, the old cliché that the mentally ill aren't violent just isn't true anymore. Each year it gets uglier and uglier, Dr. Delaware. I pray there won't be another Hewitt, but I don't count on it."

"Do you try at all to identify which patients are violent?"

"If we have police records, we take them seriously, but like I said, that's rare. We've got to be our own police here. If someone goes around making threats, we call security. But most of them are quiet. Hewitt was. Didn't really relate to anyone else that I'm aware of- that's why we're probably not going to be much help to Detective Sturgis. What exactly is he after, anyway?"

"Apparently, he suspects Hewitt had a friend who may be harassing some people, and he's trying to find out if the friend was a patient here."

"Well, after Sturgis called me I asked some of the other workers if they'd seen Hewitt with anyone, and none of them had. The only one who might have known was Becky."

"Is she the only one who worked with him?"

She nodded.

"How long had she been working here?"

"A little over a year. She got her assistantship from junior college last summer and applied right afterward. One of those second careers- she'd worked as a secretary for a while, decided to go back to school in order to do something socially important- her words."

Her eyes flickered and her mouth set- the lower lip compressing and making her look older.

"Such a sweet girl," she said. She shook her head, then looked at me. "You know- I just thought of something. Hewitt's attorney- the one defending him on that theft thing? He might know if Hewitt had any friends. I think I've got his name tucked away somewhere- hold on."

She went to the file, opened the middle drawer, and began flipping. "Just one second, so much junk in here… He called me- the attorney- after Becky's murder. Wanting to know if there was anything he could do. I think he wanted to talk- to get his own guilt off his chest. I didn't have time for… ah, here we go."

She pulled out a piece of cardboard stapled with business cards. Working a staple free with her fingernails, she removed a card and gave it to me.

Cheap white paper, green letters.

Andrew Coburg

Attorney-at-Law

The Human Interest Law Center

1912 Lincoln Avenue

Venice, California

"Human interest law," I said.

"I think it's one of those storefront things."

"Thanks," I said, pocketing the card. "I'll pass it along to Detective Sturgis."