by Sue Grafton
Cautiously, I tried the door to the Medical Records department, which I discovered was unlocked. Oh, happy day. I swept my light across the space, yawning and dark, with four desks, a worktable, assorted chairs, and a copy machine. File cabinets were built along the periphery of the room with an additional double bank down the middle. On the far wall, I saw a second door. I crossed and tried that knob and was delighted to find that it was unlocked as well. I poked my head in. From a quick survey of the space beyond, I realized I’d gained access to Admissions; all three offices were connected by a series of interior doors. I was sure the medical records personnel, the secretaries, and front office clerks appreciated the ease with which they could move from one department to the next without resorting to the public corridor. I was getting happier by the minute.
I went back into the Medical Records department. I focused on the job at hand, that being to find Klotilde’s chart in this warehouse of densely packed medical records. I toured with my tiny handheld beam, scanning the drawer fronts for a clue about the game plan here. I’d hoped for an organizing principle as basic as A. B. C. No such luck. I opened the first drawer and stared at the endless march of paperwork. The charts seemed to be arranged according to a number system – a row of six digits. I selected fifteen charts, which I chose randomly, looking for the underlying principle that linked that particular run of charts. None of the fifteen patients shared age, sex, diagnosis, or attending physician. I stood there and stared. I flipped pages back and forth. I couldn’t see the pattern. I opened the next drawer down. Still, not a patient name in sight. I moved to the bottom drawer and tried ten more charts. I couldn’t spot the defining shared characteristics. The patient identification numbers bounced all over the place: 698727… 363427… 134627. I tried a file drawer two cabinets over. How could I hope to find Klotilde’s chart when there had to be thousands more in these drawers? I looked for a common denominator: 500773… 509673… 604073. I’m embarrassed to say how long it took me to spot the element that linked each particular series of charts, but it did finally dawn on me that they were grouped according to the last two digits in the numerical sequence.
I pulled out the scrap of paper on which I’d jotted down her Medicare number. It seemed to bear no relationship to the numbers on the charts, which were apparently assigned to each patient on admission. I could feel my frustration mount. I really hate it when my illegal efforts turn out to be fruitless as well. Somewhere in this room there had to be a list of patients in alphabetical order. Nobody could keep track of all these charts otherwise. I closed the file drawers and made a circuit of the room. The beam from my flashlight had taken on that worrisome yellow tint that suggests the battery is about to peter out and die.
I checked the windows. No sign of movement in the parking lot. I crossed to the light switch and turned the damn thing on. I did a slow visual assessment, turning in a circle so that I could take in every aspect of the room. Near the door, I spotted an eleven-by-fourteen-inch book with a heavy cover, containing what looked like computer-generated pages to a height of three to four inches. I moved over to the book and opened the front cover. Oh, glory. This was the Master Patient Index, laid out, most blessedly, in alphabetical order. I found Klotilde’s impossible last name, picked up her patient ID number, and went back to work. I left the lights on, thinking, To hell with it. I renewed my search, this time tracking her chart according to the last two digits in her patient ID number. I found her within minutes, removed her chart from the drawer, and stuffed it down the front of my underpants.
I flipped the lights out and moved back into Administration. I was just about to let myself out into the corridor when I had the following thought: If anyone was ever going to succeed in uncovering the truth, the fraud investigators would need to find Klotilde’s files on the premises. “Down my underpants” was not going to be admissible in a court of law. Once I removed the records from this facility, the evidence would be tainted and the proof of Dow’s innocence or guilt would be irreparably compromised. Well, shit.
I flew back into the Medical Records department, where I laid the chart open on the nearest desk. The pages were filed in reverse chronology: the most recent entries first, going back page by page to the last in the chart, which was her admissions form. I lifted the prongs and removed the metal clasp. Heart pounding with panic and impatience, I lifted the cover of the copy machine and laid the first sheet facedown. I pressed the button. With a whirring, the copier began to warm up. At an agonizing pace, the bar of light traced its way across the data and then back. The finished copy slowly appeared in the tray to my left. I lifted the cover and replaced the first sheet with the second. At least there was plenty of light to see by. Many of the doctors’ notes were cursory, and I could see where the cheaters might take advantage of the gaps. Aside from the items of a medical nature, who could possibly track back and determine if the patient received Steri-strips or a bottle of baby lotion? As each page emerged, the bar of light glowed brightly just long enough for me to insert the next page.
What would I do if someone happened to walk in? In between worrying about that, I worried I was being permanently sterilized.
Sixteen minutes later, I’d completed the run. I straightened the stack of copies and slid those, still warm, back in my underpants. I reassembled the pages of the chart, put the prongs back in place, slid the clasp onto the prongs, folded them over, and secured them. Now what? I couldn’t take the chart with me and I couldn’t be sure someone wouldn’t come along later and destroy the information. I went back to the drawer where I’d uncovered her medical chart. The last two digits in her six-digit patient ID number were 44. I moved over one bank of drawers and slid her chart among the ID numbers ending in 54, instead. That way I’d know where she was, and any medical records clerk would simply discover that her chart was gone. It was always possible someone would stumble across the chart in its new location, but I’d have to take that chance.
I left Medical Records, closed the door behind me, and returned to the main office, where the pulsing dot on Merry’s screen provided surprising illumination. By now I was accustomed to the dark and I could see the clock face. 11:34. Time to scram. I pushed through the hinged gate in the counter and I’d just reached the hall door when I heard approaching footsteps. I froze, trying not to panic. The tapping sound of hard-sole shoes was soft but distinct. News must have traveled about the overhead light in the records room because someone was definitely heading in my direction to investigate. I didn’t want to believe anyone would actually walk into the office, but in the interest of caution, I made a beeline through the hinged gate. I scanned the area for the easiest hiding place. I crossed to Merry’s workstation, pulled out her rolling chair, and crawled into the kneehole space under her desk. I found myself sitting on a tangle of fat power cords, my head angled unnaturally to keep it from banging into the underside of Merry’s pencil drawer. The corners of Klotilde’s chart cut into my stomach and chest and made a strange crackling sound as I drew my feet up and hugged my knees.
The office door opened.
I expected the light to be turned on, but the room remained dark. I had no idea if any portion of my person was still visible, but I had to trust in providence that whoever had come in would soon go out again. A moment later, the door opened a second time and a second someone entered. I could hear a whispered consultation, a minor argument, and then the sound of the gate as first one and then the other pushed through into the area where I was (I hoped) concealed. Who were these two? Maybe we were on the verge of a burglar’s jamboree, all three of us stealing files for differing but nefarious purposes. They had to be up to no good or why not turn the lights on?
Much shuffling of feet and suddenly the two of them were standing in front of Merry’s desk. The dull glow of her computer screen shone softly. I closed my eyes like a kid. Maybe if I couldn’t see them, the two of them couldn’t see me. I heard rustling as someone removed a coat, settled it across the back of Merry’s
chair, and pushed it out of the way. When I opened my eyes again, I could make out a pair of men’s trouser legs and the back of his heels. I could have sworn it was the fellow with the silver hair I’d spied in the parking lot. He now stood toe-to-toe with a woman whose ghostly white hosiery and sensible thick-soled shoes I’d seen earlier. Pepper Gray.
I heard a flurry of indistinct susurrations, a guttural moan, protests on his part, and intimate urgings on hers. I picked up the quiet but unmistakable rip of a zipper being lowered on its track. I nearly shrieked in alarm. They were about to play doctor and I was going to be stuck in the examining room! He leaned back against the desk – I could see his fingers grip the edge for support. Meanwhile, she dropped to her knees and started to work on him. His protests began to die down as his breathing increased. He clearly had a letch for nursie types, and she was probably turned on by the possibility of getting caught.
I did my best to distract myself. I tried to think worthy thoughts, elevating myself to a Zen-like plane. After all, I had only myself to blame for the predicament I was in. I decided to stop breaking and entering. I made up my mind that I’d repent my sins. Not that I wasn’t already paying a stiff price, in a manner of speaking. For someone who gets as little sex as I do, this surely constituted punishment of a most cruel and unusual kind. Pepper was only three feet away from me, happily occupied with the guy’s throbbing manhood, as it’s euphemistically referred to in novels that abound in such scenes. I have to tell you, other people’s sex lives are not that fascinating. For one thing, a guy moaning, “Pepper, oh Pep,” didn’t seem that romantic from my perspective. Besides, he was taking forever and I worried her jaw would unhinge like a snake’s. She began to make little encouraging noises in her throat. I was tempted to chime in. From under the desk, even the surge protector made a small enthusiastic peep, which seemed to spur him on. His vocalizing was muffled, but the sounds accelerated and began to rise in pitch. Finally, he grunted as though his finger had been slammed in a door and he was trying not to scream. All three of us fell back exhausted and I prayed we wouldn’t have to pause for a postcoital smoke. Ten more minutes passed before they pulled themselves together. After a whispered discussion, it was decided that she would leave first and he would then follow at a suitable interval. By the time I crawled out of my hiding place, I was cranky and sore and had a crimp in my neck. This was the last time I’d ask Ruby to man the lookout post.
Chapter 19
*
It was 12:30 when I let myself into my apartment for the second time that night. I’d returned the keys to the front desk and walked straight out the front door, the stolen chart pages pressed against me like a paper truss. When I reached the parking lot, the vintage automobile was gone. I continued across the asphalt to the shadowy corner where I’d left my VW. Before I slid behind the wheel, I removed the stolen file copies and shoved them under the front seat. The pages looked battered, dog-eared by careless association with my thighs and ribs. I started the engine and put the car in reverse.
Once back in my apartment, I made a thorough tour of the place, assuring myself that all the doors and windows were locked as I’d left them. Tommy Hevener was never far from my thoughts. I was itching to work my way through Klotilde’s medical chart, but for the moment I refrained. Instead, I sat at my desk and consigned a few new nuggets of information to my index cards. It was odd reviewing the assumptions about Purcell now that I knew the end of his sad tale. There wasn’t any doubt in my mind that the body in the vehicle was his. In theory, I could imagine him substituting someone else’s body. In reality, this was not so easily accomplished, especially in a drowning, where critical features remain. It wouldn’t take long for the forensic pathologist to compare his dental records and his fingerprints and make a positive ID.
I laid the cards out in a line, arranging them first in chronological order, then in the sequence in which I’d actually done the interviews. I wasn’t being paid for this, but then again, I hadn’t been officially fired. Idly, I shuffled the cards together just to witness the effect. The story always came out the same. Whether by his own hand or another’s, Dow Purcell was dead and the life he’d left behind was a mess. Three questions nagged. Where was his passport and where had the thirty thousand dollars gone? There was also the minor but troubling matter of the post-office box. If Dow had paid to keep it open for his personal use, why ask Crystal if she was still renting it?
At nine A.M., I put a call through to Fiona. Naturally, I didn’t reach her. In the message I left, I told her I was hoping to track down the missing thirty thousand dollars and I implied, perhaps truthfully, that someone in Crystal’s household might be responsible for the theft. I proposed putting in a couple more hours’ work if she’d approve the expense. I was hoping she’d take advantage of the possibility of incriminating Crystal or someone dear to her. If not, I’d probably pursue it anyway just to satisfy myself. Not everything in this business is about the bucks.
It was not quite noon by the time I cleared my office calendar and dealt with phone messages from the day before. Jeniffer had called in sick, which meant she and her pals were off to Los Angeles to hear their favorite band in concert. She’d told Jill she’d dropped the outgoing mail at the post office on her way home from work the day before. It’s not that I doubted her. I was simply curious as I settled in her chair and began to go through her desk. I found what looked like a week’s worth of letters piled together in the bottom drawer, among them my newly paid bills, all stamped and ready to go. I promptly ratted her out to Ida Ruth, who swore up and down she’d tell Lonnie and John and get her booted out the door.
Meanwhile, I put the batch of mail in a box and dumped it off at the post office myself. I wondered how soon Richard Hevener would get my letter and what he’d do when he figured out he couldn’t cash my check. Too bad for him. He should have made the deposit the day I gave it to him. I walked from the post office to the police station hoping to catch Detective Odessa before he went out to lunch. Apparently, he and another detective had left on foot five or ten minutes before I arrived. I asked the desk officer if he had any idea where they’d gone. “Probably the Del Mar. They’ve been doing that a lot. If not, try the take-out window at the Arcade. Sometimes they bring back sandwiches and eat at their desks.”
I put a business card on the desk. “Thanks. If I miss him, would you have him call me?”
“Sure thing.”
I zipped up my windbreaker and trotted down the outside steps to the street. When I’d checked the weather report in the morning paper, the satellite photo showed a thick, white whirly-gig where yet another storm system spiraled toward the coast. The forecast was for morning low clouds and fog, with a 40 percent chance of rain in the afternoon. Temperatures were hovering in the mid-50s. Soon the local citizens would turn all cranky and mean-spirited, depressed by the bitter cold and the partly cloudy skies.
There was no sign of Odessa in the Del Mar so I hoofed it the half block to the Arcade, a sandwich shop with a pint-sized interior consisting of a counter, three marble-topped tables, and assorted bent-wire chairs. The take-out window was located around the side of the building, where two picnic tables and four wooden benches had been added in the shelter of a black-and-white striped awning. Detective Odessa was hunched over a red plastic basket that contained a massive paper-wrapped burger and a load of fries. The detective sitting across the table from him was Jonah Robb. This was better than I’d hoped.
I’d met Jonah initially about four years before when he was working Missing Persons and I was looking for one. He’d since been transferred to Homicide, promoted to lieutenant, and made unit supervisor – Paglia’s boss, in effect. At the time we became acquainted, Jonah’s on-again, off-again marriage was in one of its off-again phases, and we’d dallied for a season on my Wonder Woman sheets. Subsequently, his wife, Camilla, returned with their two girls in tow. The next time I ran into him, he told me she’d taken a job as a court clerk, a career move cut short when
she left him again. This time, she’d returned pregnant with someone else’s child. The purported father took off, leaving poor Camilla to fend for herself. Of course, Jonah’d taken her in and the last I heard he was busy parenting his patched-together brood. From the onset of our relationship, there’d been entirely too much melodrama to suit me. I’d finally bowed out, but I hadn’t yet reached the point where I could see him without feeling a flicker of embarrassment.
Vince Odessa spotted me and waved.
I said, “Hi, guys.”
Jonah turned on the bench and we both made a point of greeting each other with a pleasant distance in our voices, eyes not quite meeting. We shook hands as you would with the pastor of your church. He said, “How are you?”
“Fine. How’s the baby?” I said. “He must be what, four months old by now?”
“He’s great. He was born July 4, right on schedule; weighed in at eleven pounds, eight ounces. What a brute.”
“Wow. What’d you call him?”
“Banner.”
“Ah. As in ‘star-spangled.’ “
Jonah hesitated. “How’d you know? Camilla came up with the name, but you’re the first to get it.”
“Just a raggedy-ass guess.”
Odessa gestured. “Sit down. Are you having lunch?”
Jonah promptly held out his plastic basket. “Here. You can have half of mine. Camilla’s bugging me to diet. I bet I picked up fifteen pounds in the last few months of her pregnancy. Hers came right off, but I can’t seem to get rid of mine.” The hunk of flesh he pinched on his side formed a considerable sausage between his thumb and index finger.