Accidental Life

by Pamela Binnings Ewen

  “She’s had trouble remembering exact times. I’ll press her again, though. Once we can get a warrant for the records, that should fill in some of the blanks.”

  Peter shook his head. “Not yet.”

  Mac gazed at the wall behind Peter. “I ran a background on Clara Sonsten. There’s nothing on record. She’s clean and I think she’ll be a good witness.”

  “What’s the rest of the clinic staff look like?”

  “It’s a small group. Vicari owns the place. Real estate transfer was six months ago.”

  Peter nodded.

  “Besides the doctor and his wife, there’s the talkative receptionist. And a part-time nurse, and Clara—or at least, Clara was there until she quit.” And a cleaning woman comes two times a week.”

  “Have any of the others been willing to talk?”

  “The cleaning woman will talk all day, but she doesn’t know anything. Says the utility room is where they keep the mop and buckets and cleaning materials. And there’s a large plastic can in there with a top that’s clamped on. She’s not allowed to use that for trash, she says. She can’t read. Says she doesn’t know what’s inside.”

  “Medical waste, probably. The search photographs should show that.”

  Mac nodded. “I talked to the local manager of the waste company they use, but he says we’ll need a subpoena before he can talk, and he says no one checks that stuff anyway. It’s incinerated.” He linked his hands and jammed his elbows flat against the back of the chair as he spoke. “The part-time nurse wasn’t at the clinic that night. Says she only does the intake exams and work-ups. Has no idea what’s going on other than that.”

  He looked at Peter. “I’m working a couple other cases, but I’m going out to the clinic next week to talk to that receptionist.”

  “Good. We need more to convince Ham to go forward on a sensitive subject like this. Got to convince him we can carry the burden of proof.”

  “I ran some background checks yesterday on Broussard and Vicari. No malpractice claims on record for either of them, here or in Chicago. Licenses in order in Illinois, but neither one is licensed in this state.”

  “Follow up on the clinic licenses and permits, too, will you?”

  “Sure.”

  “Keep looking, Mac. I’ve got a bad feeling about this. We can’t let it go, not yet.” He looked down, twisting the watch on his left wrist. “If Glory Lynn’s story is true, I’d bet this isn’t the first time this has happened.”

  “I’d like to take a trip to Chicago and poke around.”

  Peter thought about that a minute, then shook his head. “We need more, first. Let’s get the time line from Clara and as much as we can from the rest of the clinic staff.”

  Mac nodded. He rose, jamming his hands into his pocket. “I’ll get back to you.”

  Around noon on the same day, Rebecca glanced up to see Amalise’s son, Luke, standing in the doorway of her office. Her brows shot up and she rose. “Luke. Come in. How’s my favorite boy?”

  Luke grinned, and gave a self-conscious shrug. “Mom says to tell you she’ll be finished with her work in a while and we’re going to lunch with Dad, and then the movies. Want to come? Dad’s picking us up.”

  She laughed at the thought of abandoning the mountain of work on her desk for a movie, but waved him in. “Can’t today, but come in. Sit down and visit a while.” She walked to him and rested her hand on his shoulder, steering him toward the sofa and chairs in the corner. “How do you like my new office?”

  He nodded. “Cool. It’s really big. Mom’s got one too.”

  “How about a Coca-Cola or 7Up or something?” she said. “The kitchen’s right down the hall.” She made a move as if to rise. “I’ll show you.”

  “No thanks, Aunt Rebbe.” With a crooked grin, his shoulders lifted around his ears. “Mom already said if you asked I had to say no. It’ll spoil lunch.” He made a face, then leaned forward and picked up a Lucite model of a Boeing 727 aircraft from the table between them. Northwest Airlines was written in script on the side, and the date, November 1977. “Mom’s got one just like this.”

  “We worked on a transaction together back then, that’s why.” Luke turned it in his hand, studying it. “That’s the one we were working on when you came into our lives, Luke.” She narrowed her eyes, calculating. “Four and a half years ago, I think.”

  “Who was that mystery man?”

  “Ask your mom.” Rebecca kicked off her shoes and lifted her feet to the glass table. Luke’s eyes followed her feet. “Don’t tell anyone I do this,” she said, smiling. And then she tucked her arms in, clasping her hands over the baby. “That deal was strange. But Raymond got the idea of having these souvenirs made, just for us. Sort of an inside joke.”

  “Yeah. I’ve heard about that.” He set the Lucite memento back on the table. “When I was little I used to play with the one she keeps in her office.” He looked at her, smiling. “I thought I might want to fly that kind of plane sometime. Maybe be an airline pilot someday.”

  Amalise thought that Luke had probably escaped Cambodia just before the fall of the country to the Khmer Rouge. That was in 1975, when Americans were evacuating Southeast Asia. Somehow Luke was one of the lucky children to make it onto Operation Babylift out of Saigon, those desperate flights in the last weeks of the Vietnam War. The planes were packed with young orphans as the Viet Cong advanced on the southern capital.

  Rebecca watched him, thinking what a miracle it was that Luke had ended up with Amalise and Jude after traveling halfway across the globe.

  “Hey, you two.”

  They both looked up as Amalise walked in. She halted in the middle of the room, smiling as she looked at Luke. “I thought I’d find you here.” She tucked her hair behind one ear. “Dad’s waiting downstairs. We’ll have to hurry to make the show.”

  Luke slid off the sofa and gave his shirt a yank.

  Amalise adjusted the purse hanging from her shoulder. “Come with us, Rebecca?”

  Rebecca shook her head and stood, walking with them to the door. “Wish I could, but I’m working. Some other time.”

  She watched them walk together down the hallway and wondered again if she would ever be able to find the balance between work and family.

  21

  Mac opened the door and walked into the clinic. Melanie, the receptionist, was reading a book. She looked up and frowned when she spotted him.

  “Dr. Vicari says I can’t talk to you,” she said, pressing a pen against her lips, sealing them.

  Mac knew better, but he leaned over and planted both hands on the desk. “I’m the law, Melanie, investigating a complaint.” He pulled out his wallet, flipped it open, and showed his badge. “Remember?”

  Her eyes flicked down, and then back to his eyes. “I can’t talk to you about that.”

  “Do you have a lawyer?”

  “Why. Am I a suspect or something?”

  “Look, I just want to ask a few questions.” Straightening, he gave her a slight smile as he shoved the wallet back in his pants. “If you don’t want to talk here, we can go to the station over in Gretna.”

  She glared. The clinic was located in Metairie, a suburb west of New Orleans. Gretna was all the way across the city, and over the river.

  “To the police station.” She looked him up and down. “All the way to Gretna?”

  “Unless it’s been relocated in the last few hours.” He patted the desktop with the palm of his hand. “Or we could just have a friendly talk right here. You choose.”

  Melanie put the pen down on the desk and glanced over her shoulder, to her right. The room there, a hallway, was empty. She twisted her lips into a scowl and her voice turned peevish. “Look. I don’t know anything about Glory Lynn Chasson.”

  “How about you take a break and we’ll go down the street for coffee.”
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br />   “I can’t do that. I’m alone here. I can’t just leave.”

  “Where’s the good doc?”

  She crossed her arms and leaned back. “He’s gone.”

  “Eileen Broussard?”

  Her chin lifted a fraction of an inch. “Not here, either.”

  “So where is everybody?”

  “We don’t have any appointments for this afternoon.”

  Mac nodded. Good. He pulled a small spiral notebook from his pants pocket and a pen from the inside of his jacket. “Then let’s you and me talk right here. Seems like the perfect time and place.”

  “I don’t have anything to say.”

  “Fine. I’ll ask the questions and you can answer if you want. Then we’ll see.” Dragging a nearby chair over to the desk, he sat and pulled out his notebook. Then he gave her a long look.

  “First question. How long have you known Dr. Charles Vicari?”

  She narrowed her eyes. “About six months, from when he took over the clinic. He came here from a hospital in Chicago. Said he was sick of the weather up there. Sick of the winters and the snow and ice.”

  Mac nodded. “And Nurse Broussard?”

  Melanie dropped her hands onto the desk, entwining her fingers. She gave a slight shrug. “The same. She came with him. Six months ago.”

  “Did you ever hear either one mention why they moved down here?”

  “To buy the clinic. They’d seen an advertisement. At least, that’s what Eileen said.”

  “Is Charles Vicari the sole owner of Alpha Clinic, so far as you know?”

  She shrugged. “As far as I know.” She pursed her lips. “But listen, I don’t know anything about their personal business, Mr. . . . ah . . .”

  “Mac.”

  “I just know they arrived together and they’re married.”

  “How many nurses are employed here?”

  She gave him a peeved look. “I already told you that. Just Eileen, and Clara. Clara does interviews and some prep work, and helps Dr. Vicari with the physicals, and once in a while she’s in the procedure room, when Eileen’s not around.” She looked off. “And there’s the part-time, Anna Crane. She’s here in the mornings for intake, mostly forms and interviews with the patients. Once in a while she helps with the physical examinations.”

  “She ever work with Vicari?”

  “No. And that would be Doctor Vicari.”

  “But Miss Broussard and Dr. Vicari, they mostly work together on the procedures?”

  She nodded. “And, like I said, once in a while Clara helps out.”

  “Who else works here?”

  “Hmmm. Well, the cleaning lady, she’s here twice a week, Tuesdays and Saturdays.”

  “Anyone else?”

  She lifted one corner of her lips and arched a brow. “Just me.”

  Mac looked down at his notebook, writing. “Were you here on Tuesday, May 11, when Miss Chasson arrived at the clinic for the first time?”

  She went silent, lips pressed together.

  Mac hardened his tone. “Don’t tell me you don’t remember. Either you were here, or you weren’t.”

  She nodded. “I was here.”

  “You two talk?”

  “Not that I recall.”

  “She filled out some forms?”

  “I’m sure she did.”

  “How about the next afternoon, when she came back. Did you talk to her then?”

  “Clara took her back to the beds for prep. I had nothing to do with that. Don’t know a thing.”

  Mac looked down at his notebook. “All right then. Let’s move on to Thursday, May 13. Did you see Miss Chasson on that day, the day she went into labor?”

  Melanie dipped her head and looked at Mac under lowered lids. “I don’t remember.”

  Mac gave her a look. “What time did you leave?”

  “About seven p.m., I guess. Miss Chasson was the last patient. I’d have left earlier, but . . .”

  “But, what?”

  She heaved a sigh, then enunciated each word clearly, as if he might be hard of hearing. “Miss Chasson was having some trouble, that night—that’s why you’re here, right?”

  He nodded.

  “She was still in one of the rooms. Dr. Vicari was still here, and Eileen doesn’t like us to leave while he’s still here. He’s usually gone by five or so. And then, I’d heard a scream from back there; there was some commotion. So, I was sitting here, waiting.”

  “What time did you hear the scream?”

  She shrugged. “I didn’t check the time.”

  “Well, give me an estimate. How much time passed between when you heard that scream and when you left?”

  She pursed her lips and looked up. “About forty minutes to an hour, I’d guess.”

  “Did you go into the procedure room?”

  She shook her head. “No. I never do.” She paused, and added, “Unless I’m cleaning up before we leave.”

  Mac gave her a quick look. Something in her voice told him she was holding back. “Were you cleaning up that night?”

  “Yes.” She hesitated.

  “See anything unusual?”

  Seconds passed. And then she looked down at her hands. “Umm, well, yes.”

  Mac’s heart rate ticked up. “Tell me. Exactly.”

  Her head shot up and she glared at him. “Look, I’ve got work to do.”

  “So do I.”

  She looked off, tongue pushing against her bottom lip, thinking it over. When she looked back at him, he saw it in her face even before she spoke. “I saw Clara Sonsten in one of the procedure rooms that night. This was after all the commotion was over. The room in the back, all the way down the hall. I went in there to check if it was ready for the morning, and there she was, sitting on the stool and holding the, ah . . . Miss Chasson’s baby.”

  Mac held her eyes, his expression a mask. If she was telling the truth, this was what he’d been looking for, corroboration of Clara’s story. “What time was this?”

  “About ten to seven.”

  “Was the baby alive then?”

  She hesitated and then, dipped her chin, looking down at her hands again. “It was breathing then.”

  “How do you know that?”

  She frowned and narrowed her eyes. “I leaned down and looked at him. How else?” With shake of her head, she added, “Look, I know what Glory Lynn’s been saying, that the baby was born alive and Dr. Vicari killed it, but it’s not like that, you know. Even if they breathe for a while, or cry once or twice, even if there’s a little movement there, it doesn’t mean anything.” She spread her hands wide on the desk, pressing down. “I mean, they’re micro-premies.”

  Mac’s heart rate picked up. But his face was blank and his voice was casual as he asked the question he and Pete wanted to have answered. “So this has happened before?”

  “I didn’t say that. I . . . I’ve heard of this from other nurses, in other places, that’s all.”

  Mac nodded. He chose his next words with care, watching her. “When a baby is born alive here during an abortion, what happens after it dies. I mean . . . is it sent on to the morgue?”

  She shrugged and reached for the book she’d been reading, slipping her hand into the place where she’d left off. “That’s not my job, sir. I’m not a nurse. I don’t know what goes on back there. My job’s to sit here and be nice to people like you when they walk in.”

  She looked up at him with a mocking smile. “I don’t have anything else to say. Told you everything I know. So if you want to take me down to that station of yours, go ahead. Otherwise, leave me alone because if Dr. Vicari or Eileen come in and find you here, it’ll be my job.”

  He closed his notebook. He was finished with her for now; but if they took the case forward, she’d be on the stand, tha
t was certain. She’d told him plenty. “All right,” he said. “Have it your way.” He stuck the notebook in his pocket, and put the pen back in his jacket.

  His hand was on the door, when she said, “Hey.”

  He turned his head.

  “There’s another side to it too, you know. It’s the woman’s right to choose.”

  Mac walked back to his car in the parking lot, opened the door, got in, and gazed through the windshield. Glory Lynn Chasson had told the truth. Then he banged his fist on the steering wheel. He’d learned to distance himself from cases long ago. And, he’d thought he’d seen and heard it all. But for a few minutes back there, it seemed to him that the world had just turned upside down. There should be cheers and congratulations when a child was born alive.

  Shaking his head, he backed the car out of the parking spot, shifted the gear forward, and then suddenly hit the brakes. For a few minutes he sat there letting the engine idle, seeking a horizon. So he focused his eyes on the straight lines of the buildings across the street, anchoring himself with the dependable vertical and horizontal lines, and the solid walls.

  “So it’s true, then.” Peter looked at Mac. Mac nodded.

  Peter swiveled his chair toward the window. For an instant he closed his eyes, forcing the image away. “He told Clara Sonsten to take the baby to the utility room,” he murmured, as if to himself.

  Mac said nothing.

  Peter gazed through the window, past the levee and out over the Mississippi River rolling south toward the Gulf thinking of Glory Lynn and that baby.

  Mac was silent. The hour was late and typewriters and phones were quiet in the outer office. When, at last, Peter turned back to Mac, anger burned in his chest. The slow burn rose in the back of his throat, bringing with it the same choking sense of disbelief he’d felt when he’d first seen the autopsy photos. Glory Lynn’s story was true.

  “It’s just hard to comprehend,” he finally said.

  Mac nodded, working a cuticle at the edge of his thumbnail. “I figure Vicari and Broussard have done this before.” He lifted his eyes. “I figure they ran into some trouble up there, in Chicago.”