Jonathan Kellerman - Victims

Reed said, “If I helped Wainright mutilate kids I might have issues.”

Milo said, “Was she hiking with a dog?”

“If she was,” said Biro, “it’s not in the report.”

Petra said, “A pet’s not a prereq for getting carved up, it’s just a perk for the bad guys. Eighteen months ago. They are going down a list.”

“Eighteen months ago,” said Reed, “leaves plenty of time for someone between Wainright and Morton, or after her and before Berlin.”

I said, “Or they started off gradually, picked up the pace. Because it’s no longer just about revenge.”

“What’s it about?” said Milo.

“Recreation.”

No one spoke for several seconds.

Milo said, “Moe, you and Sean and whoever else you can get who’s competent, do a total and comprehensive recanvass of all the murder neighborhoods using the drawing of Huggler and Harrie’s DMV photo. Petra, how about you and Raul try to find the clinic where the tipster claimed Huggler got his thyroid meds. That doesn’t work out, go back to North Hollywood Day and lean on Mick Ostrovine to produce medical records for Grant Huggler. We know he was there and I’m not buying Ostrovine’s hear-no-evil. I’ll contact the pension board first thing tomorrow, find out if checks are being mailed to one or both of our creep-os. If I get an address, we reconvene and map out an assault, probably with SWAT. I’ll also talk to Jernigan, see if those eyeballs can be DNA’d and if they can, I’ll approach Wainright’s family.”

He snatched up his phone, called in a DMV on Wainright’s nurse, Joanne Morton. “Brown eyes, so they’re not hers. Any questions?”

Without waiting for an answer, he stood, brushed off his trousers, threw money on the table.

When the others reached into their wallets, he said, “Not a chance.”

Reed said, “You’re always footing the bill, El Tee.”

“Pay me back with good deeds.”

Petra and Raul Biro divided the assignments. He’d look for free clinics where Grant Huggler might’ve gotten his prescription, she’d have a go at Mick Ostrovine. Figuring a soft touch might work better with the administrator than another dose of male cop.

Ostrovine sighed a lot, said, “Here we go again,” paid lip service to patient confidentiality. But sooner than Petra expected he said, “Oh, all right, come around and look for yourself.”

She crossed to his side of the desk as he opened up some files.

“See?” said Ostrovine, nudging closer and favoring her with a burnt-whiskey whiff of some terrible cologne.

Alphabetized patient records; no Huggler.

“How about James Harrie, with an i-e, maybe middle initial P.”

Long, theatrical sigh. Ostrovine pecked.

“See? Nothing. It’s like I told those first officers, we’re not connected to any of this.”

Petra said, “I’m sure you’re right, Mick. But Mr. Huggler was definitely here for a thyroid scan.”

“I explained the first time: He never received the scan so there’d be no record.”

Petra flashed him her best wholesome smile. “Just to be sure, Mick, I’d like to show Mr. Harrie’s photograph and this drawing of Mr. Huggler to your staff.”

“Oh, no. We’re swamped.”

The horde she’d seen in the waiting room said the mope wasn’t lying. “I know you are, Mick, but I’d really appreciate it.”

She showed Ostrovine the images first. The drawing elicited nothing but he blinked at the photo.

Giving him a chance to fill in the blank, she sat back down.

“What?” he said, irritated. Maybe her feminine touch had lost its mojo.

“Never seen him?”

“Not in this world or any other.”

No one on staff recognized either man.

Even Margaret Wheeling, about to prep a sleepy-looking homeless type for a no-doubt-pricey MRI, had seemed confused when shown Alex Shimoff’s second drawing.

“Guess so.”

Petra said, “When you spoke to Lieutenant Sturgis, you were sure you’d met him.”

“Well… my drawing was different.”

Like she was the artist. Petra said, “This one doesn’t resemble the man who confronted Dr. Usfel?”

Wheeling squinted. “I’d need to put on my glasses.”

You don’t need to see accurately when you’re magnetizing someone?

“Go right ahead, Ms. Wheeling.”

Wheeling let out a long exhalation followed by an eye roll. Another dramatic type; this place was like one of those summer camps for histrionic kids obsessed with musical theater.

Glasses in place, the fool continued to just stand there.

“Ms. Wheeling?”

“I think it’s him. Maybe. That’s the best I can do. It was a long time ago.”

“What about this man? He’s a friend of Huggler’s.”

Emphatic head shake. “That I can tell you. Never.”

Petra reported to Milo.

He said, “Good work, onward, kid.”

She frowned at the unearned praise.

At Biro’s third clinic, the Hollywood Benevolent Health Center, he got as far as a volunteer receptionist. The place was makeshift, set up with rolling partitions and what looked to be pretty tired medical equipment in the basement of a church on Selma just west of Vine. Big old beautiful Catholic church with intricate plaster details and an oak door that had to weigh a ton. Smaller than but not unlike St. Catherine in Riverside where Biro’s parents had taken him for Mass when he was a kid.

All that grace and style ended in the basement. The space was dank, windowless, patchily lit by bare bulbs suspended from extension cords stapled to the ceiling. The wires drooped, some of the bulbs were dead. Where the walls weren’t chipped white plaster they were rough gray block. Wilting posters about STDs and immunizations and nutrition were taped randomly. Everything in Federal Government Spanish.

The waiting room wasn’t a room at all, just a clearing surrounded on three sides by stacks of long, wooden, folded tables. Half of the lawn chairs provided were occupied, all by Latino women who kept their eyes down and pretended not to notice Biro.

As he approached the desk, his spotless beige suit, white shirt, and olive paisley silk tie drew some admiring glances. Then he flashed his badge and someone’s breath caught and all eyes shot downward.

Had to be one of those sanctuary deals for undocumenteds. Biro felt like shouting he wasn’t La Migra.

One thing in his favor: an Anglo male like Huggler would stand out, maybe this would lead somewhere.

The receptionist was also Hispanic, a well-groomed, dyed blonde in her late twenties, a little extra-curvy in places where that was okay.

No name tag, no welcoming smile.

Raul grinned at her anyway, explained what he needed.

Her face closed up. “All our doctors are volunteers, they come in and out so I don’t know who you’d talk to.”

Raul said, “The doctor who treated Grant Huggler.”

“I don’t know who that is.”

“The doctor or Huggler?”

“Both,” said the receptionist. “Either.”

“Could you please check your files?”

“We don’t have files.”

“What do you mean?”

“Just that. We don’t have files.”

“How can you run a clinic without records?”

“There are records,” she said. “The doctors take them when they leave.”

“Why?”

“The patients are theirs, not ours.”

Biro said, “Aw c’mon.”

“That’s the way we do it,” she said. “That’s the way we’ve always done it. We’re not an official health-care provider.”

“What are you then?”

“A space.”

“A space?”

“The church merely provides access for providers to provide.”

Merely and access and providers gave that the sound of a prepared speech. This place was definitely set up for illegals. Scared people coming in with God-knows-what diseases, afraid to broach the county system even though no one there asked questions. He glanced at the women in the lawn chairs. They continued to pretend he didn’t exist. No one appeared especially sick but you never knew. His mother had just told him about one of her friends visiting relatives in Guadalajara and coming back with tuberculosis.