Jonathan Kellerman - Victims

“But this guy set off no warning bells.”

“I guess I should’ve noticed that crazy coat, but I’m not looking at them, I’m checking the machines.”

“He came apart.”

“Went from normal to ticked off like that.” Snapping her fingers.

“Scary,” I said. “But Dr. Usfel handled it.”

“She’s tough, went to med school in Guadalajara, Mexico, told me she saw things there you wouldn’t see in the States. You don’t really think that guy had anything to do with it? I mean how would he find her? And this was like two months ago. And he never came back.”

I said, “What else can you tell us about him?”

“Just what I told you. White, normal-looking, thirty, thirty-five.”

“Clean-shaven?”

“Yup.”

“Hair?”

“Brown. Short. Pretty neat appearance, actually. Except for that crazy coat, we’re talking heavy-duty winter wear, one of those shearlings.”

“What color?”

“Some kind of brown. I think.”

“Any distinguishing marks? Like scars, tattoos, unusual features?”

She thought. “No, he looked like a regular person.”

“To get scanned he’d need paperwork. Did you see his?”

“We don’t see paperwork, the front desk handles all that. They come in with a day-chart that has an I.D. number, not even a name.”

I said, “What procedure was he sent for?”

“Who remembers?”

I gave her time.

She shook her head. “I’m not sure I even looked.”

Milo said, “How about you sit down with an artist and help produce a drawing?”

“You’re saying it was him?”

“No, ma’am, but we’ve got to nail down every detail we can if we’re gonna solve Dr. Usfel’s murder.”

“My name wouldn’t be on it, right?” she said. “The drawing?”

“Of course not.”

“Really, you’d be wasting your time. All I’d tell an artist is what I just told you.”

“Would you be willing to give it a try? To help us out?”

“I can totally keep myself out of it?”

“Absolutely.”

She crossed a leg, scratched a bare ankle. “You really think it’s important?”

“Honestly, Ms. Wheeling, we don’t know. But unless you can tell us of some other person Dr. U had problems with, we’ve got to follow up.”

“What kind of person would go kill someone over a small thing?”

“Not a normal person.”

“That’s for sure… an artist? I don’t know.”

Milo said, “Back when Don was in law enforcement, I’ll bet he appreciated any help he could get.”

“I suppose,” said Margaret Wheeling. “Okay, I’ll try. But you’re wasting your time, he just looked like a regular person.”

Wheeling’s door closed behind us and we headed for the unmarked.

Milo said, “Heavyset guy in a shearling. Usfel pissed him off royally, no doubt Vita did, too.” He frowned. “And somehow nice Mr. Quigg managed to get on his bad side.”

I said, “His confrontation with Usfel was a brief onetimer that took on huge proportions in his mind only. So his brushes with the others wouldn’t need to be dramatic.”

“Touchy fellow.”

“Leading to increased element of surprise.” We got in the car. I said, “One thing different about Usfel is he tied her up. Maybe because he’d seen her in action, knew she was tough enough to be a threat.”

“Not so tough that she didn’t give in easily, Alex. There was no sign of struggle in that bedroom.”

“He could have controlled her with a gun. She probably expected to be raped, figured on negotiating her life, had no idea what he was really after.”

“If he used a gun on Usfel, he could’ve done the same for the others. Knock knock, pizza delivery, here’s my little steel friend. Vita being drunk would have made his job easier. And a guy like Quigg wouldn’t have fought back. Okay, let’s put a face on this choirboy.”

He called Alex Shimoff, a Hollenbeck detective with serious artistic talent whom he’d used before. When Shimoff’s cell and home lines didn’t pick up, he left a message and tried Petra Connor at Hollywood Division. Same story.

He turned on the engine. “I don’t get my blankie, I gut you. There’s a reasonable motive.”

I said, “That place is an insurance mill and Vita was involved in a lawsuit. Maybe she and Shearling met there or at a place like it. Though Vita’s alleged damages were emotional; she wouldn’t have needed any scans and I can’t see Well-Start paying for them.”

“Maybe her lawyer had a deal with Ostrovine or someone like him. Problem is I can’t find out who handled the suit. Well-Start won’t say and because it settled early, nothing was filed. I’ll try them again.”

He headed for the station. A few miles later, I thought of something. “Wanting a blanket even though he’s overdressed could be a psychiatric issue. But it could also mean his temperature regulation really is off. And that could be due to a physical condition.”

“Such as?”

“The first thing that comes to mind is low thyroid function. Nothing severe enough to incapacitate him but just enough to make him put on a few pounds and feel chilly. And hypothyroidism can also increase irritability.”

“Perfect,” he said. “He ever gets caught, some lawyer claims diminished capacity due to bad glands. I like the other thing you said: He and Vita crossed paths during some medical procedure. A waiting room spat. Given Vita’s level of tact, I can see her dissing his damn coat and that being enough.”

“Was there anything in the paper Well-Start showed you that said she got medically evaluated?”

“Nope, but who knows? Hell, given the fact that this guy’s obviously unbalanced, maybe he and Vita ran into each other at Shacker’s office.”

“Shacker’s got a separate exit so patients don’t cross paths, but anything’s possible.”

“Why don’t you call him, see if he knows Shearling.”

“He wasn’t that comfortable talking about Vita and asking him to identify a patient would be off the table, ethically, unless you could show imminent danger to a specific person.”

“The specific person’s his next damn victim… yeah, you’re right but bug him anyway. I need to do something.”

I made the call, left a message on Shacker’s voicemail.

He said, “Thanks. Any other ideas?”

I said, “Ostrovine buckled when we threatened to shut him down for a day. If he was lying about Vita, maybe he’ll eventually give up the info.”

“Let’s go back there,” he said, hanging a U. “He balks, I’ll grab that stupid rug on his head and hold it for ransom.”

This time, Ostrovine kept us waiting for twenty minutes.

When we entered his office, there were papers on the desk. Columns of numbers, probably financial spreadsheets. He put down a gold Cross pen and said, “What now, Lieutenant?”

Milo told him.

“You’re kidding.”

“Nothing funny about Dr. Usfel’s murder, sir.”

“Of course not,” said Ostrovine. “But I can’t help you. First of all, I’ve never heard about any confrontation between Glenda and any patient. Second, I still don’t believe Glenda’s death had anything to do with her work here. And third, like I told you, I have no knowledge of anyone named Vita Berlin.”

“We know a confrontation occurred,” said Milo. “How come there wasn’t a report?”

“Obviously, Dr. Usfel never informed security of the need for one because she viewed it as insignificant.” Ostrovine laid his hands flat on the desk. Milo had pulled his chair close. The wig was in reach of his long arm. “And frankly, so do I.”

“Who referred this guy to you?”

“How can I tell you that when I don’t even know his name?”