Jonathan Kellerman - Victims

“Check the patient list for that day.”

“He wouldn’t be on there because incompletes aren’t recorded.”

“Not even their referrals?”

“Not anything,” said Ostrovine. “Why would we pile up extraneous data? As is, we’ve got storage issues.”

“What if the patient was referred for another procedure that was completed?”

“You’re asking me to examine my entire patient database.”

“Just white males seen two months ago, give or take two weeks either way.”

“That’s huge,” said Ostrovine. “And what will I be looking for? Inappropriate clothing? We don’t list attire in our charts.”

“Just tease out white males in a particular age range and we’ll take it from there.”

“No can do, Lieutenant. Even if we had the manpower for that kind of scavenger hunt, we’re legally forbidden.”

“In terms of manpower, I can send you a couple of detectives.”

“That’s generous of you,” said Ostrovine, “but it doesn’t solve the main problem: Rooting around in patient records without clear justification is illegal.”

Milo waited.

Ostrovine fiddled with his pen, placed his hand on his toupee, as if anticipating attack. “Look, guys, Glenda was one of ours, her death is a tragedy and if I could help you, I’d jump at the opportunity. But I can’t. You have to understand.”

“Then we’ll have to go the subpoena route, sir. Which would cause all those delays we discussed before.”

Ostrovine clicked his tongue. “We didn’t discuss anything, Lieutenant Sturgis. You threatened me. I understand that you’ve got an important job to do. But further intimidation is not going to work. I’ve talked to our attorneys and they say it’ll never get that far.”

Milo stood. “Guess we’ll just have to see.”

“We won’t see anything, Lieutenant. The rules are clear. I’m sorry, I really am. But what took place in the scan room was just one of those things.”

“Business as usual.”

“People as usual,” said Ostrovine. “Put enough of them together and heads will bump. That’s a far cry from murder.”

“Human nature,” said Milo. “You learn about it from all those insurance scams you do?”

Ostrovine’s smile sped toward sincere, screeched to a halt just short of the goal. “I learned about it from reality.”

On the way back to the station, Dr. Bern Shacker returned my call.

Ten to the hour; catching up between patients.

I thanked him. He said, “The police have caught someone?”

“They may have a lead.” I described the man in the shearling.

Silence.

“Doctor-”

“But no one’s been caught. So you’re telling me this because…”

“We’re wondering if Vita crossed paths with him. Perhaps during an evaluation. I don’t want to put you in a bind but it could be a Tarasoff situation.”

“Imminent danger?” he said. “To whom?”

“He’s killed two other people.”

“That’s horrible but obviously they’re no longer in danger.”

“It’s a tough situation, Bern.”

“I know, I know. Dreadful. Well, fortunately he isn’t a patient of mine. No one in my practice dresses like that.”

“Okay, thanks.”

“Self-swaddling,” he said. “That smells a bit like schizophrenia, no?”

“Or a medical problem.”

“Such as?”

“Hypothyroidism.”

“Hmm… interesting. Yes, I suppose so. But I’d still lean toward the psychological. In view of what he’s done. And it sounds as if he’s reacting to threat. At the core, psychotics are helpless, no? Fear biters, not attack dogs.”

“True.”

“What a mess,” said Shacker. “Poor Vita. All the others, as well.”

Just before we turned onto Butler, Alex Shimoff called back.

“You need another masterpiece, Lieutenant?”

“You’re the man, Detective.”

“Last time was easy,” said Shimoff. “Dr. Delaware’s girlfriend had a good eye for detail, she gave me a lot to work with.”

“Nothing like a challenge,” said Milo.

“I’m married with children, I know about challenge. Sure, what’s your schedule?”

“I’ll get back to you with a time and place.”

“Tomorrow would be good,” said Shimoff. “Got a day off, my wife wants me to take her shopping, you can help me get out of it.”

Back at his desk, Milo phoned D.C. Maria Thomas, told her of his intention to release a suspect drawing and the question marks to the media, asked her to facilitate with Public Affairs.

She said, “Cart before horse, Milo.”

“Pardon?”

“Go get your rendering but nothing gets facilitated until the basic decision is reified. That’s a fancy word for it turns real. That means the chief clears it.”

“His orders?”

“Do anyone else’s matter?”

She hung up. Milo cursed and called Margaret Wheeling. She’d had enough time to retreat from the offer to cooperate, claimed she really hadn’t seen the man in the shearling well enough to be useful. He worked with her for a while to get her to agree to the sit-down with Shimoff.

He was reaching for a panatela when his phone rang. “Homicide, Sturgis.”

“Better be,” said a raspy, Brooklyn-tinged voice. “This is your fucking extension.”

“Afternoon, sir.”

The chief said, “When all else fails go the artistic route?”

“Whatever works, sir.”

“You have enough to turn out a decent enough drawing? ’Cause we probably won’t get more than one bite of the apple and I don’t want to waste it on some ambiguous bullshit.”

“Me neither, sir, but at this point-”

“Nothing else has worked, you’re stuck, you’re freaking out about more victims popping up. I get it, Sturgis. Which is why I swallowed my pride and put in a call to a guy I know at the Bureau who is a lard-ass pencil-pusher but used to be a behavioral sciences honcho at Quantico. Not that I think their bullshit profiles are more than a carny show, which is why I called him personally, said forget your stupid questionnaire and just give me something off the top of your head about a loony who snaps necks then cuts out guts and plays with them. He gave me big-time Ph. D. wisdom, so now you’re going to hear it: white male, twenty-five to fifty, probably a loner, probably doesn’t have a happy domestic life, probably going to be living in a weird home situation, probably jacks off when he thinks about what he did. That any worse than what Delaware’s given you so far? So what does this suspect whose image you want to foist on a neurotic public look like?”

“White, thirty to forty.”

“There you go,” said the chief. “Science.”

Milo said, “He wears a heavy coat in all sorts of weather.”

“Big deal, he’s concealing a weapon.”

“That could be part of it, sir, but Dr. Delaware says it could be a sign of mental illness.”

“Does he?” The chief laughed. “Big fucking genius. I’d say ripping people’s intestines out covers that base pretty well.”

I said, “It sure does.”

Silence.

“I figured you were there, Doctor. How’s life treating you?”

“Fine.”

“That makes one of us. Charlie sends his regards.”

Charlie was his son and the regards part was a lie. A brilliant, alienated kid, he’d asked me to write a college recommendation, emailed me a couple of times a month from the seminary he was using to defer college.

He hated, loved, feared his father, would never use him for a messenger.

I said, “Hope he’s doing well.”

“He’s being Charlie. By the way, the department still owes you some consult money on the last one.”

“True.”

“You haven’t bugged my office about it.”