Victims

CHAPTER
22

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?”

“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.”

“Would it have helped?”

Dead air. “Your loyalty in the face of our bureaucratic ineptitude is laudable, Doc. So you concur that broadcasting this lunatic’s face is a good idea?”

“I think if we keep the information tight it’s got potential.”

“What does tight mean?”

“Limit it to the artist rendering and the question marks and don’t let on that anyone could theoretically be a victim.”

“Yeah, that would set off some skivvy-soiling panic, wouldn’t it? Speaking of those question marks, what the hell do they mean? The FBI guy said he’d never seen that before. Checked his files and there was nothing. Only similar gutting was Jack the Ripper and there were enough differences between our boy and Jack to make that avenue a dead end.”

“Don’t know.”

“Don’t know what?”

“What the question marks mean.”

“So much for higher education… what do you think about releasing details on the coat? Could jog some citizen’s memory.”

“It might also cause the bad guy to ditch the coat and you’d lose potential evidence.”

Silence. “Yeah, there could be spatter on the fucking thing, gut juice, whatever. Okay, keep it tight. But you could still be screwed-I’m talking to you, Sturgis. He sees himself on the six o’clock, he rabbits.”

“There’s always that chance, sir.”

Another silence, longer.

The chief said, “Doctor, what’s your take on another victim coming up sooner rather than later?”

“Hard to say.”

“That all you do? Sidestep questions?”

“That’s a poser, Chief.”

“Shrink humor,” he said. “I wouldn’t count on getting a sitcom anytime in the near future. You still awake, Sturgis?”

“Wide awake.”

“Stay that way.”

“God forbid I should sleep, sir.”

“More to the point,” said the chief. “I forbid.”