by Kathy Reichs
Slumping back, I chewed a thumbnail. Ryan was right. It was unlikely Berry and Flynn had much in common. And, to be honest, I hadn’t really thought it through that far. It was an impulse question, sparked by anger. Maybe I’d tipped our hand needlessly.
“You want to take Marshall?” I asked.
“My involvement is strictly unofficial.” Ryan mimicked Gullet’s monotone drawl.
“You think this is a waste of time, don’t you?”
“Maybe. But I sure enjoy seeing you kick ass.”
“I’m certain it was Montague in that barrel. I just want to get a take on the clinic staff.”
“I apologize for keeping you so long.”
Ryan and I looked up to see a dark-haired man in the hallway entrance. Though of average height, he was heavily muscled, and wore a white lab coat, gray slacks, and Italian shoes that probably cost more than my car.
“Dr. Lester Marshall. Sorry, but my nurse failed to get your names.”
Ryan and I stood. I made introductions, leaving our affiliations vague. Marshall didn’t ask. Apparently Daniels had covered that for us.
“My nurse tells me you’re inquiring about Unique Montague. May I ask why?”
Behind us all paper-shuffling ceased.
“We believe she may be dead.”
“Let’s discuss this in private.” To Berry, “Corey has left, Adele. You may go, too. We’re through for the day.”
The first-floor layout suggested the clinic had started life as a private home. As Ryan and I followed Marshall down the hallway, I noted two examination rooms, a kitchen, a large supply closet, and a bath.
Marshall’s office was at the rear of the second floor, perhaps once a bedroom. Four other doors opened off the upstairs corridor. All were tightly shut.
The doctor’s space was small and outfitted spartanly. Battered wooden desk, battered wooden chairs, battered filing cabinets, window AC barely keeping up with the heat.
Marshall seated himself at the desk. On it lay a single folder. No photo of the wife and kids. No funny plaque or carving. No paperweight or mug from a medical conference.
I checked the walls. No framed pictures. Not a single certificate or diploma. Not even a state medical license. I thought doctors were required to display those. Perhaps Marshall’s hung in an examining room.
Marshall gestured Ryan and me into chairs with a flourished palm. Up close I could see that his hair was styled, not cut, and receding fast. He could have been anywhere from forty to sixty.
“You know, of course, that rules of confidentiality prohibit the sharing of patient information by a health care provider.” Marshall showed teeth that were even and brilliantly white.
“Miss Montague was a patient at this clinic?” I asked.
More perfect teeth. Caps?
I pointed to the folder. “Am I correct in assuming that’s Miss Montague’s file?”
Marshall aligned the bottom of the folder straight with the desk edge. Though his fingers were thick, the nails were manicured. His lower arms suggested time spent at a gym.
“I’m not requesting the woman’s medical history,” I said. “I’m simply asking for confirmation that she was treated here.”
“Would that fact not constitute a part of one’s medical history?”
“It’s highly likely Miss Montague is dead.”
“Tell me about that.”
I gave him the basics. Found in the water. Decomposition and saponification. Nothing confidential there. Not my fault if he thought it was an accidental drowning.
Still Marshall didn’t open the folder. In the small, warm room I could smell his cologne. It smelled pricey. Like his nurse and receptionist, the guy was annoying as hell.
“Perhaps you’d prefer a warrant, Dr. Marshall. We could alert the media, get lots of airtime for GMC, maybe score you some national coverage.”
Marshall made a decision. Or perhaps the decision had been made earlier and the good doctor had been buying time to assess.
“Unique Montague did present here for care.”
“Describe her, please.”
Marshall’s description matched the DOA in the barrel.
“When was Miss Montague’s last visit?”
“She came infrequently.”
“Her last visit?”
Marshall opened the folder and carefully flattened the flap with one palm.
“August of last summer. The patient was given medication and told to return in two weeks. Miss Montague failed to follow up as advised. Of course, I can’t—”
“Do you know where she lived?”
Marshall took his time perusing the file, turning pages and aligning each even with the edges of the others. “She provided an address on Meeting Street. Sadly, it is a familiar one. The Crisis Assistance Ministry.”
“A shelter.”
Marshall nodded.
“Did she name next of kin?”
“That line is blank.” Marshall closed the file and used the same palm motion to press the crease. “That is often the case with our clientele. Unfortunately, I haven’t the time to become personally involved with my patients. It’s my one regret about the practice I’ve chosen.”
“How long have you been with the clinic?”
Marshall smiled, this time baring no teeth. “We’ve finished discussing Miss Montague, then?”
“What else can you tell us?”
“The woman loved her dear cat.”
Marshall recentered the two halves of his tie. It was silk, probably by a designer I didn’t know.
“I am generally present at this clinic for some part of each Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday. On alternating days I see patients elsewhere.” Marshall stood. We were being dismissed. “Feel free to contact me if I can offer further assistance.”
* * *
“I don’t think he liked us.” Ryan started the Jeep.
“What was your take?” I asked.
“The guy’s a hand washer.”
“He’s a doctor.”
“In the Howard Hughes sense. I’ll bet he double-checks locks, counts paper clips, arranges his socks by color.”
“I arrange my socks by color.”
“You’re a girl.”
“I agree. Marshall’s overly neat. But do you think the poser knows more than he’s saying?”
“He admits he knows more than he’s saying. He’s a doctor.”
“And the others?”
“Big.”
“That’s it?”
“Big and surly.”
Reaching out, I cranked the AC.
“And Daniels has done time.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Jailhouse tattoos.”
“You’re sure?”
“Trust me. I’m sure.”
Maybe it was the heat. Maybe frustration at my inability to produce results. Even Ryan was irritating me.
Or was I irritated at myself for losing my cool? Why had I asked about Helene Flynn? Had mentioning her been a good move or a gaffe? Would word get back to GMC? To Gullet?
My visit could stir things up, maybe force a response from Herron, motivate GMC to cooperate in the investigation of Flynn’s disappearance.
On the other hand, my little drop-in could cause problems for Emma. Infuriate the sheriff, and push him to cut me out of the loop.
At least I hadn’t divulged details of Unique Montague’s death.
No cool. No results.
I leaned back to ponder. I was doing that when my cell phone sounded.
No results? Oh, baby, did we have results.
26
EMMA SOUNDED MORE ENERGIZED THAN SHE had in days. When I asked how she felt, it was back to “hellcat.”
“Thirty-four calls. Bingo. Lee Ann hits on a dentist holding a Willie Helms chart. Dr. Charles Kucharski. I paid the old codger a visit.”
“That’s how you limit yourself to paperwork?”
Emma ignored that. “Kucharski was so glad for a visitor
I thought he might handcuff me to a wall in a homemade bunker.”
“Meaning?”
“I doubt his patient load is overwhelming.”
“Uh-huh.” I sounded like Daniels.
“Kucharski remembered Helms as a tall pale guy, mid to late thirties, with a lot of tics. Helms’s last visit was in April of 1996.”
“What kind of tics?”
“Erratic neck and hand movements. Kucharski had to secure Helms’s head and wrists to the chair while he drilled and filled. Kucharski thought it could have been Tourette’s.”
“Did Helms provide contact information? Address? Employer?”
“Helms’s father, Ralph Helms, paid the bills. Willie listed that number in his record. When Lee Ann called, the phone was no longer in service. Turns out Helms senior died in the fall of ninety-six.”
“Thus the termination of the regular checkups.”
“Helms gave his employer as Johnnie’s Auto Parts, off Highway 52. Guy named John Hardiston buys junkers, deals in scrap metal, that kind of thing. Hardiston says he hired Helms out of friendship with Ralph, let him live in an old trailer at the back of the yard. Helms took care of the dogs, acted as a kind of security guard. Worked for Hardiston almost ten years, then, one day, just took off.”
“When was that?”
“Fall of 2001. Hardiston says Helms was always talking about going to Atlanta, so he didn’t think much of it, just figured the guy finally packed up and went. Hardiston says Helms turned out to be a good employee, was sorry to lose him.”
“But he didn’t try to find him.”
“No.”
“If Helms died in 2001, that fits with my estimated PMI.”
“Our bug guy suggests an outer limit of five years. That was my other news. You want me to read his preliminary report?”
“Summarize.”
There were pauses as Emma pulled phrases from the text. “Empty puparial cases. Multiple soil-dwelling taxa. Beetles represented by cast skins and dead adults.”
I heard the shuffling of paper.
“Helms’s antemortem dental X-rays showed mucho mouth metal, so I picked up the postmortems and dropped both sets by Bernie Grimes’s office. He’ll call as soon as he can break free to do the comparison.”
Emma paused for effect.
“There’s more. Buried in the mound on my desk I also found a fax from the state forensics lab.”
“The eyelash yielded DNA?”
“Pleeze. They’ve only had it since Thursday. But a malacologist looked at the shell.”
“Malacologist?” That was a new one on me.
“Expert in clams, mussels, and snails. The thing is”—pause—“Viviparus intertextus.” I could tell from Emma’s cadence she was reading from the fax. “Viviparus intertextus is moderately common in swamps in the South Carolina Lowcountry, but is never found at the beach, in estuaries, or anywhere near salt water.”
“So that snail shouldn’t have been in that grave,” I said.
“The species is strictly freshwater.”
“Oooohkay.” My mind thumbed through the possibilities. “The vic was killed elsewhere then transported to Dewees.”
“Or the body was buried elsewhere, dug up, and moved to Dewees.”
“Or the snail dropped from the gravedigger’s clothing or shovel.”
“All reasonable explanations.”
We both mulled the list. Neither of us proposed a reasonable top candidate.
Emma shifted topics. “What’s happening with the barrel lady?”
I described our visit to the GMC clinic.
“Gullet’s not going to like it.”
“No,” I agreed.
“I’ll take care of it,” she said. “And I’ll prod him on Helms, though I doubt much will happen over the long weekend.”
“You really are feeling better?”
“I am.”
“Get some sleep,” I said.
After clicking off, I outlined the conversation for Ryan.
“So you and Emma could be three for three on IDs. Cruikshank. Helms. Montague. Know what’s called for?”
I shook my head.
“Crab Rangoon.”
“Sa-Cha shrimp?”
“Definitely. Shall we offer to feed Clod Cloder-socks?”
Orbital roll. “Pete’s real name is Janis.”
Ryan looked at me.
“Latvian. You sure you don’t mind?”
“Wouldn’t want an athlete of Janis’s stature eating unhealthy fried food.”
I called Pete. He was home and hungry.
The idea proved lucrative for Cheng’s Asian Garden in Mount Pleasant. Despite my protests, Ryan paid, once again confirming the old adage that women are doomed to perpetual attraction to the same type of man. My current lover and my estranged husband are clones in numerous respects, particularly with regard to picking up the tab. Neither lets me pay. Neither under-buys.
When we arrived at “Sea for Miles,” Pete had the kitchen table set, chopsticks and all. Boyd was centered under it. Birdie was observing from the high ground of the refrigerator top.
Pete looked relaxed, his face tanned from hours on the golf course. Ryan and I looked like people who’d spent a long hot day in a Jeep.
“Never know when it could turn chilly,” Pete said, nodding fake approval at Ryan’s gabardine pants. Though I shot him my usual eye squint warning, I had to agree, wool looked out of place.
“Trip south was spur of the moment. Gotta hit the Gap.” Ryan tipped his head at Pete’s cargo shorts. “Those are natty.”
“Thanks.”
“Had some just like that,” Ryan said.
Pete started to smile.
“Outgrew them in my teens.”
The smile dissolved.
And so on.
As we worked through the shrimp, the Rangoon, and a dozen other selections, I brought Pete up to date on Montague, Helms, and the clinic. He told us he’d arranged for an accountant to help him with the GMC books.
The rest of dinner was a pas de deux of veiled digs. By the time it ended I felt like I’d been in the ring with Ali and Frazier. Nevertheless, when I explained that Ryan and I planned to revisit Cruikshank’s belongings, Pete offered to help.
We were clearing the table when my cell rang. It was Emma.
“It’s positive. The man on Dewees is Willie Helms.”
“Yowza!”
Pete and Ryan both turned, little white cartons in hand.
“So the questions become what happened to Willie Helms, when, and why was he buried out on that island?”
“That’s Gullet’s department,” Emma said.
Closing the cell phone, I told Pete and Ryan about Helms. They both said “yowza.”
Ten minutes later it was the sheriff himself.
“Thought I told you not to stir things up at that clinic.” As usual, Gullet jumped right in.
“You specified wingtipped cowboys.”
“In the context of the girl who run off.”
“Helene Flynn vanished. That doesn’t mean she’s run off.”
There was a pause. Then, “Helene Flynn was unstable.”
“What?”
“I’m going to discuss this with you once. Then we’re going to drop it because that girl’s disappearance did not take place within my jurisdiction.” Gullet paused again. “When that young lady went missing, her daddy made a life’s work of calling my office, demanding an investigation. I talked to Aubrey Herron personally at the time. Before her departure, Helene Flynn had taken to harassing both Marshall and Herron. In the end GMC had to ask her to leave.”
“This is the first I’ve heard of this.”
“Herron doesn’t like to criticize former members of his flock.”
“What was Helene harassing him about?”
“She was convinced Marshall was playing loose with the finances. Herron says he looked into it, found nothing amiss. The young lady just expected too much for the kind of opera
tion his organization could support. Now you forget that clinic. I don’t have time to be appeasing irate doctors.”
“Marshall called you?”
“Of course he called me. Man was fuming. Said you’d been bullying his staff.”
“Our visit hardly constituted bully—”
“And I don’t have time to be running herd on you and your boyfriends.”
Easy, Brennan. Let it go. This is not the man to argue with.
“I think I’ve got our two remaining MPs ID’d. The barrel DOA is probably the street woman I phoned you about, Unique Montague. Descriptions I obtained from the dead cat’s previous owner and from a priest at St. John the Baptist match the profile I constructed from the bones.”
“Miz Rousseau just called with that news.”
There was a burst of static. I waited it out. “Unique Montague was a patient at the GMC clinic.”
“So are a lot of folks.”
“Flynn and Montague had ties to the clinic. Cruikshank was staking it out.”
“’Course he was, he was looking for Flynn. And some bag lady dropping in is hardly grounds for a warrant, that being the point of the place. Talk about this other ID Miz Rousseau discussed.”
“The man buried on Dewees is our long shot, Willie Helms. Lee Ann Miller found the dentist. Bernie Grimes did the comparison.” I told the sheriff about Helms’s father and employer. “Hardiston last saw Helms in the fall of 2001.”
I braced for another monotone rant. Gullet surprised me.
“One of my deputies found a vagrant thought he’d swapped a few swigs with a Willie Helms.”
“Could he describe the guy?”
“The good citizen lacks his full share of neurons. But my deputy managed to get out of him that Helms was a tall twitchy guy with blond hair and a serious love of hootch.”
“That fits with the dentist’s recollection. When was the man’s last encounter with Helms?”
“Gentleman’s oddly coherent on that point. Says it was the day the buildings went down.”
I thought a moment. “The Twin Towers?”
“Nine-eleven. Says he and Helms watched coverage in some bar down by the port. Claims he never saw Helms again.” Gullet cleared his throat. “Listen, nice work on Montague and Helms. Now back off that clinic. No sense rousing the dogs unless we got cause.”
“What’s cause?”
Long pause.
“Two patients.”
