by Robin Cook
Joanna finished drying her face and stared at her image in the mirror. Deborah had a point she’d not considered. She’d need a name and a matching Social Security number. She thought maybe she could ask to impersonate one of her friends but dismissed the idea immediately. She couldn’t knowingly implicate one of her friends in a scheme in which she’d be technically breaking the law.
“Well?” Deborah questioned.
“I’ll get the name and Social Security number of someone who died recently,” Joanna said. Vaguely she could remember reading something like that in a novel. The more she thought about it the more she thought it could work.
Deborah’s jaw had dropped open at Joanna’s latest suggestion. She pulled herself together. “I can’t believe this. You truly are obsessed.”
“I’d prefer to call it committed,” Joanna said. She pushed past Deborah and walked into her bedroom. Deborah followed.
“I think you’re going to be committed to Walpole Prison,” Deborah said. “Either that or a mental institution. That’s the kind of committed that’s involved here.”
“I’m not robbing a bank,” Joanna said. She unbuckled her belt and stepped out of her jeans. “I’m just getting some information about my progeny.”
“I don’t know what kind of offense impersonating a dead person is,” Deborah said. “But I know unauthorized access into computer files is a felony.”
“I’m aware of that,” Joanna said. “Nonetheless I’m going to do it.”
Joanna continued undressing. When she was done she pulled a nightgown over her head. She arranged it so it draped evenly. Then she hung up her clothes. Finally she looked back over at Deborah who was still standing in the doorway. Deborah had not responded to her last statement other than to eye her with a combination of exasperation and disbelief.
“Well . . . ?” Joanna said, breaking the silence. “Are you just going to stand there or do you have more to say? If you do, out with it. Otherwise, I’m going to bed. Tomorrow is going to be a busy day.”
“All right,” Deborah said with angry resolve. She lifted a hand and poked a finger at Joanna. “If you insist on this crazy, idiotic plan, then I’m going too.”
“Excuse me?” Joanna blurted.
“I’m not letting you go out there and get in all sorts of trouble without me. After all, it was my idea to do the egg donation in the first place. You’re not the only one with a problem with guilt, and I’d never be able to live with myself if something happened to you that I could have prevented.”
“You don’t have to come with me just to be my protector,” Joanna said with color rising in her face.
Deborah closed her eyes and extended her hands palm down. “This is not an argument. The die has been cast. Obviously you’re serious about this crusade, and now so am I.” Deborah’s eyes fluttered as if it had been difficult for her to open them.
Joanna came over and stared into her roommate’s deep eyes. “Now I have to ask you if you are serious.”
“I’m serious,” Deborah said with a nod. “I’ll get a job as well. With that huge lab out there, I’m sure they’re as hungry for lab techs as they are for secretarial help.”
“Then let’s do it,” Joanna said. She raised her hand with her fingers extended and high-fived with Deborah.
MAY 8, 2001
6:10 A.M.
STILL HABITUATED TO ITALIAN
time, the women found themselves awake early despite their exhaustion. Deborah was the first to get out of bed. Believing Joanna was still asleep, she tried to be quiet as she passed through the kitchen into the bathroom. The moment she flushed the toilet the connecting door to Joanna’s bedroom opened.
“You look like something the cat dragged in,” Deborah said as she eyed her roommate.
“You’ve looked better yourself,” Joanna said. “What time is it?”
“Quarter past six, but my pituitary gland thinks it’s noon.”
“Spare me the specifics,” Joanna said. “All I know is that I had intended on sleeping late, yet I’ve been awake for at least an hour.”
“Me too,” Deborah said. “How about we go down to Charles Street for breakfast? I need coffee big time.”
“Since the cupboard is bare we don’t have much choice.”
Three quarters of an hour later the women descended to the square and walked down Mt. Vernon Street to Charles. It was a fine spring morning with lots of bright flowers in the window boxes. Although there were few pedestrians until they got to Charles, the birds were out in full force. At the end of Charles Street fronting the Boston Common they found a Starbucks that was open. They went in and ordered cappuccinos and got some pastry as well. They carried their food over to a small marble table by the window. At first they ate and drank in silence.
“The coffee is good,” Joanna said at length. “But I have to say it tasted better in Campo Santa Margherita.”
“Isn’t that the truth,” Deborah agreed. “But it is reviving me.”
“So you still want to go out to the Wingate Clinic and get jobs?” Joanna asked.
“Absolutely,” Deborah said. “I’m psyched. But we’d better start brainstorming about specifics. How are we going to get names and Social Security numbers of dead people?”
“That’s a good question,” Joanna said. “While I was lying in bed this morning I was thinking about it. A few years ago I read about somebody doing it in a novel.”
“How did he or she do it?”
“She had an in. She worked in a hospital and got the information from the hospital chart.”
“What did she do with it?”
“It was a Medicare scam of some sort.”
“Good grief!” Deborah commented. “That’s interesting, but unfortunately it’s not going to help us. That is, unless you were thinking of enlisting Carlton’s help.”
“I think we’d better leave Carlton out of this,” Joanna said. “If he had an inkling of what we were up to, he’d probably turn us in to the FBI.”
Deborah took another sip of her coffee. “I think we should break the problem into two parts. First we get the names. After we have the names we worry about getting the Social Security numbers and whatever else we need, like birth date and maybe even mother’s maiden name.”
“Getting names won’t be a problem,” Joanna said. “At least that came to me while I was lying in bed. All we have to do is head over to the library and look at the Globe’s obituary pages.”
“Good idea!” Deborah said. She sat forward eagerly. “Why didn’t I think of that? It’s perfect. The obituaries usually have ages if not birth dates. That will help picking out appropriate names since we should try to look for women about our age, as bizarre as that sounds.”
“I know,” Joanna said. “It’s creepy. They also have to be women who have died relatively recently.”
“Getting the Social Security number is going to be more difficult,” Deborah said.
“Maybe I’ll have to break down and ask Carlton for help,” Joanna said. “The chances are, any woman our age who’s passed away will have been a patient in a local hospital. If she’d been in the MGH, and if we could come up with some plausible reason why we want the Social Security number that won’t make Carlton suspicious, maybe he’d help.”
“That’s a lot of ifs and maybes,” Deborah commented.
“I suppose,” Joanna agreed.
“I’ve got it,” Deborah said. She slapped her palm against the tabletop. “A couple of years ago when my grandfather died, my grandmother had to get a death certificate to take his name off the deed to the house.”
“How does that help us?”
“The death certificate is public information,” Deborah said. She laughed at herself. “I can’t believe I didn’t think about this right off. The death certificate has the Social Security number.”
“My gosh, that’s perfect.”
“Absolutely,” Deborah said. “First we hit the library, then City Hall.”
“
Wait a second,” Joanna said. She leaned forward conspiratorially. “We’ve got to make sure that the Social Security number hasn’t been retired. Knowing government bureaucracy I’m sure it takes a while, but we have to be sure.”
“You’re absolutely right,” Deborah said. “It would certainly blow our cover if we get out there to the Wingate and a background check turns up that one or both of us are dead.” She laughed hollowly.
“I know what we can do,” Joanna said. “After we go to City Hall, we stop at the Fleet Bank. We’ll open up savings accounts with both names. As American citizens we’d have to supply the Social Security numbers, and they’ll run a check on them straight off, so we’ll know.”
“Sounds good,” Deborah said. “What time do you think the library opens?”
“My guess would be nine or ten,” Joanna said. “But there’s one other thing we should discuss. What about altering our appearances a bit more? I think our different hairstyles are quite effective and probably enough under the circumstances, but why not go a step further just to be sure.”
“You mean like hair color.”
“Hair color is one thing, but I’m also talking about our general style, our look. We’re both rather preppy. I think we each ought to aim for another type.”
“Well, I’m all for changing my hair color,” Deborah said. “I’ve always wanted to be a blond. I’ve heard you guys have a lot more fun.”
“I’m trying to be serious here,” Joanna said.
“Okay, okay,” Deborah said. “So what else do you have in mind: strategic facial piercings and a couple of wild tattoos?”
Joanna laughed in spite of herself. “Let’s try to be serious for a moment. I’m thinking in terms of clothes and makeup.There’s a lot that we could do.”
“You’re right,” Deborah said. “Occasionally I’ve had a fantasy of dressing up like a hooker. I guess I have an exhibitionist streak; I’ve just never acted on it. This could be my big chance.”
“Are you mocking me again or are you serious?”
“I’m serious,” Deborah said. “We might as well make this fun.”
“I was thinking about going in the opposite direction,” Joanna said. “The prudish librarian stereotype.”
“That will be easy,” Deborah joked. “You’re practically there already.”
“Very funny,” Joanna said.
Deborah wiped her mouth with her napkin and tossed it onto her pastry plate. “Are you finished?”
“I certainly am,” Joanna said.
“Then let’s get this show on the road,” Deborah said. “On the way here we passed a grocery store. Why don’t we stop in and get some staples so that we don’t have to come out for every meal? By then the library should be open.”
“It sounds like a perfect plan,” Joanna said.
THE WOMEN WERE STANDING ON THE FRONT STEPS OF THE old Boston Library building gazing at the Trinity Church across the busy Copley Square when the library’s custodian unlocked the front door. It was nine o’clock. Since neither of the women had been in the Boston Library before, they were, in Deborah’s words, blown away by the grand architecture and the vivid John Singer Sargent murals.
“I can’t believe I lived in the Boston area for six years and never came in here,” Deborah said as they walked through the echoey, marbled halls. It was as if her head were on a swivel as it pivoted from side to side to take in all the details.
“I have to agree,” Joanna said.
After inquiring where they could go to view old Boston Globe newspapers, the women were directed to the microfilm room. But once there they learned that there was a delay, sometimes as much as a year, before the papers were microfilmed. Consequently they were sent to the newspaper room. There they found the newspapers themselves.
“How far back should we go?” Deborah questioned.
“I’d suggest a month and then work backward,” Joanna said.
The women got a stack of several weeks’ worth of papers and carried them over to a vacant library table. They divided the stack in two and went to work.
“This isn’t as easy as I thought it would be,” Deborah said. “I was wrong about ages and birth dates. Few of the death notices have them.”
“We’ll have to just look at the obituaries,” Joanna said. “They all seem to have the age.”
The women went through the first stack of papers without success and went back for another.
“There certainly aren’t many young women,” Joanna commented.
“Nor young men,” Deborah added. “People our age are not supposed to die that often. And even if they do, they’re usually not famous enough to have an obituary written about them. Of course we don’t want the name of anyone famous either, so we might have a problem here. But let’s not give up yet.”
After three more trips to get fresh stacks of papers, they had success.
“Ah, here’s one!” Deborah said. “Georgina Marks.”
Joanna looked over Deborah’s shoulder. “How old?”
“Twenty-seven,” Deborah said. “She was born January 28, 1973.”
“Right time frame,” Joanna said. “Does it say what she died of?”
“Yes, it does,” Deborah said. She was quiet while she scanned the rest of the article. “She was accidently shot in a shopping mall parking lot. Obviously in the wrong place at the wrong time. Apparently rival gangs were having a fight, and she caught a stray bullet. Can you imagine being called up and being told your wife was killed while she was out on a shopping trip at the neighborhood mall?” Deborah shuddered. “To make it worse, it says here she was the mother of four young children. The youngest was only six months old.”
“I think it is best if we don’t obsess about the sad details,” Joanna said. “For us, these should be just names, not people.”
“You’re right,” Deborah agreed. “At least she wasn’t famous except for the tragic way she died, so it should be a good name for our purposes. I suppose I’ll be Georgina Marks.” She wrote the name and the birth date down on a pad of paper she and Joanna had brought.
“Now let’s find a name for you,” Deborah said.
Both women went back to scouring the obituaries. It wasn’t until they’d perused six more weeks of papers that Deborah came across another name candidate.
“Prudence Heatherly, age twenty-four!” Deborah read out loud. “Now that name has an interesting ring to it. It’s perfect for you, Joanna. It even sounds like a librarian, so it will go with your disguise.”
“I don’t find that funny in the slightest,” Joanna said. “Let me read the obituary.” She reached for the paper, but Deborah moved it out of her reach.
“I thought we weren’t going to obsess about the details?” Deborah teased.
“I’m not obsessing,” Joanna said. “I want to make sure she’s not a local celebrity in Bookford. Besides, I feel I have to know something about the woman if I’m going to be borrowing her name.”
“I thought these were just names, not people.”
“Please!” Joanna enunciated slowly as if losing her patience.
Deborah handed the paper over and watched her roommate’s face while she read the obituary. Joanna’s expression progressively sagged.
“Is it bad?” Deborah asked when Joanna looked up.
“I’d say it was just as bad as Georgina’s story,” Joanna said. “She was a graduate student at Northeastern.”
“That’s getting a little too close to home,” Deborah said. “What did she die of, or shouldn’t I ask?”
“She was pushed in front of the Red Line subway at the Washington Street station.” Now it was Joanna’s turn to shudder. “A homeless man with no apparent motive did it. My word! What a tragedy for a parent getting a call saying your daughter was pushed in front of a train by a vagrant.”
“At least we have the two names,” Deborah said. She snatched the paper away from Joanna and refolded it. She wrote Prudence Heatherly down on the pad below Georgina, then
busied herself restacking the papers. Joanna was motionless for a moment but then pitched in to help. Together the women carried the papers back to where they were kept.
Fifteen minutes later, first Deborah and then Joanna exited the library from the same entrance they’d entered. Although they were pensively subdued, they were pleased with their progress. It had only taken an hour and three quarters to get the two names.
“Should we walk or take the subway?” Deborah questioned.
“Let’s take the subway,” Joanna answered.
From the front of the library it was only a short walk to the inbound T stop on Boylston Street, and the Green Line took them directly to Government Center. When they emerged on the street level they were conveniently in front of the inappropriately modern Boston City Hall, which loomed out of its brick-paved mall like an enormous anachronism.
“Can you tell me where I’d find death certificates?” Joanna asked the receptionist at the information desk located in the building’s multistoried lobby. Joanna had waited several minutes before speaking. The woman was involved in an animated but hushed dialogue with her colleague sitting next to her.
“They’re downstairs at the Registry Department,” the woman said without looking up and hardly interrupting her conversation.
Joanna rolled her eyes for Deborah’s benefit. The two women set out for the wide stairs leading downward. Once on the lower level they found the proper Registry Department window without difficulty. The only problem was there wasn’t any personnel in evidence.
“Hello!” Deborah called out. “Anybody home?”
A woman’s head popped up from behind a row of file cabinets. “Can I help you?” she called out.
“We’d like several death certificates,” Deborah answered back.
The woman ambled around the row of file cabinets, rocking from side to side. She was wearing a black dress that restrained her ample flesh in a series of descending, horizontal bulges. Reading glasses hung around her neck on a chain and rested on the nearly horizontal swelling of her bosom. She came to the counter and leaned on it. “I need to know the names and the year,” she said in a bored voice.
