“Does she still live here? This was the address in her medical file.”
She didn’t answer.
I crawled farther out on my limb. “I need to follow up on a research project Tunisia is involved in. It’s very important that I find her.”
She stared silently a few seconds more. Another woman marched through the doorway from the kitchen; she was about the grandmother’s age, but rail thin and more certain in her movements.
“Tunisia ain’t here. She’s been gone. Runned off like her mama did. Probably with that no-account T-Bone or whatever fool name he had.”
My heart didn’t have time to sink. The woman in the corduroy chair weighed in with surprising force. “She did not, Bessie. And you know it. Tunisia isn’t like her mama. She didn’t leave Tabbi, especially not for that crazy piece of trash.”
Bessie settled onto the other end of the sofa, dislodging a slide of supermarket magazines between us, which she immediately straightened. “Believe what you want, Linnie Ann. She’s gone. Been gone. And Tabbi’s here. You explain it.”
Linnie Ann shook her head and kept shaking it.
I intervened in what appeared a well-worn argument. “When did she leave? Do you have any idea where she is or when she’ll be back?”
Linnie Ann crossed her arms tightly across her ample bosoms, still shaking her head.
“There’s no telling,” Bessie said. “Her mama used to take off regular. Go to New York or wherever some man with money would take her. Tunisia turned out no better’n she ought.”
“Bessie, you got an evil mind. Tunisia wouldn’t leave Tabbi any more’n she’d cut out her own heart. Something’s gone wrong. She wouldn’t.” Tears welled in Linnie Ann’s eyes and she started rocking slightly, to and fro. “She wouldn’t.”
At her obvious distress, Bessie eased off, her voice more gentle. “Linnie Ann, she’s gone. You know she was acting funny. Now she’s gone. She’ll likely be back, but that don’ change things. She’s done gone.”
“Acting funny?” I tried to use my most soothing, clinical voice. I needed an opening.
“Oh, crazy. She wasn’t sleeping good, and she was moody. Had bad headaches. Headaches likely what made her crazy. She said sometime it’d hurt so bad, it was like a curtain of blood come down over her eyes. Blood black was all she could see. Just crazy.”
“Have you—have you called anyone? Are you sure she’s not in a hospital or something?” Would they have thought to call around?
Neither replied. Not even the talkative Bessie. Then Linnie Ann said, in a quiet voice, “She’ll be back soon. She loves her little girl. She done good by her, changed everything for her. She’ll be back.”
Bessie fought not to look smug or to disagree. These two must be sisters, despite their differences in appearance. Was Linnie Ann Tunisia’s grandmother and Bessie her great-aunt? I didn’t ask.
I tried another tack. “Was she getting any help for her headaches?”
Linnie Ann didn’t answer. Bessie said, “I don’t know, but I think she seen that Dr. Tilman. She took Tabitha to the clinic for her checkup last week. Maybe Thursday?” She looked at Linnie Ann, who nodded.
“She had a bad one. Said she was having trouble catchin’ her breath. Thought she might be getting sick. So she probably talked to him then. You can check with him about that. Last week, she went. With Tabitha.”
I should have told them about Mark’s death then, but I didn’t. I’d have to carefully read those records from the hospital, including Tabitha’s clinic records.
I’d intruded on these women long enough. ‘Thank you so much for your time. When Tunisia gets home,” I emphasized the word when as I handed Linnie Ann my business card, “please have her call me. My cell number’s on the back.”
Linnie Ann slipped the card into the pocket of her housedress.
“Would T-Bone or any friends, at a job or school or somewhere, know where she is?”
Neither woman said anything. Neither one of them wanted to talk about T-Bone, and they’d already played out their long-running battle. More questions were pointless.
“Thank you very much for your time. I’d appreciate it if you’d let me know if you hear from Tunisia. It’s very important.” I tried to broadcast confidence that she would be home soon. I couldn’t broadcast far enough to reach them.
Before crossing the river to Charleston, I found the wrecker service that had towed my car. Steve, the guy with his wrecker pictured on his business card, said he saw no structural damage—just a lot of mud to be cleaned from underneath. He gently patted the front fender, promised to clean, wash, and wax the car, and deliver it to Jake Baker’s office lot later that morning. I could have hugged him.
On the high-arcing bridge back to Charleston, I tried to steal glances off the bridge to the right. I could see the rooftops of the more opulent houses that crowded parts of the Cooper River, but Linnie Ann’s modest neighborhood was completely hidden by treetops, separated from the riverfront mansions by some invisible line.
I parked the rental car in Jake’s lot. My satchel, rescued last night by Officer Brewton, still had Tunisia’s and Tabitha’s medical records inside. Before Jake came for our noon powwow, I could read their records in more detail while I waited on hold with the local hospitals, checking whether an unidentified young black woman had been admitted.
Bessie said Tunisia had left last week. No, that she’d taken Tabitha to see Mark Tilman last week. They’d never said when she’d left. Tabitha’s record would narrow the time. While I was at it, maybe I could decipher some of Mark’s journal.
No one at the area hospitals kept me on hold very long. Apparently unidentified patients are not a daily—or even yearly—occurrence. I even tried the smaller hospitals in outlying areas like Summerville and Kiawah. No mysterious unidentified patients.
I called the coroner’s office to see if any unidentified black females had been found. And I called Monck’s Corner, the only neighboring county with a coroner’s number listed. Nothing.
Maybe Tunisia was in New York after all, and I’d fallen for Linnie Ann’s hopeless optimism.
I spread the medical records on the table, arranging the charts in chronological order. On Tunisia’s record, the Mt. Pleasant address was written in pen, beside a crossed-out Charleston address. I jotted down the old address: De-Bard Street. I didn’t recognize the name, but it might help me find Tunisia.
Tabitha’s chart was slender, without many entries. To be thorough, I read the entire record from beginning to end, which didn’t take long since Tabitha was, according to the file, only three years and two months old.
Tabitha’s chart listed Tunisia as her mother. No father’s name. Tunisia’s grandmother, Linnie Ann Johnson of Mt. Pleasant, was given as the emergency next of kin.
Tabitha had visited routinely for her shots and the usual childhood ear infections, colds, and scrapes. Her growth was duly noted. Different doctors had seen her, as would be usual in a clinic staffed by residents and interns. Most recently, though, she’d seen only Mark Tilman.
The note for her last office visit was one of the longest in the record. Mark kept detailed office notes. Like most fledgling doctors, he wrote down everything and tried out all the obscure abbreviations and observations he’d learned in medical school.
Apparently Tabitha fought a miming battle with ear infections. She’d taken a round of an antibiotic but was still sick. Mark noted that he prescribed cefaclor and that they’d discussed allergy tests and maybe a specialist referral to see about tubes in her ears. Cost is a consideration, he wrote.
In the next paragraph, he’d written:
Mother, Tunisia, presenting with severe HA. Questioned about her fatigued appearance, replied not feeling well lately. Episodes of severe SOB, blurred vision. BP 164/110. Pt. still participating in project at B.Med. Insisted that she contact Hilliard about her sympts. Discont. research protocol.
Hilliard? What the—why did Mark want her to contact him? My jaw
muscles clenched. I kept reading.
Patient concerned that sympts. may be side effects of res. protocol. Pt. talked to Hilliard and he didn’t think so. Commented “money I’m getting to see this through sure comes in handy paying Tabbi’s bills.” Make note to see Hilliard re payments.
Mark’s records were chatty, but I found myself frustrated that he hadn’t written more. Hunched over the records in Jake Baker’s conference room, the lucid part of me recognized Hilliard’s only research role was likely as a paper-pushing administrator. But the vengeful part of me, the part my mother says is Granddad reincarnated, wasn’t rational. Wasn’t there a Bible verse, “Let not the root of bitterness ...”?
I couldn’t get past the fact that Hilliard was a liar. He’d sell out anybody, particularly if it served the double benefit of protecting a doctor from the consequences of his actions and feathering Hilliard’s own nest. How did Hilliard play into what had worried Mark?
I opened Tunisia’s file. She had visited the clinic for about six years, including the time of her pregnancy and Tabbi’s birth. Early on, she had seen different physicians each time. On two occasions, the last one two months before she came in to confirm an at-home pregnancy test, she was given metronidazole. Treated for STD—sexually transmitted disease—twice within two years. Add that to a pregnancy with no father in sight. Dear Lord.
Her aunt—or great-aunt—Bessie seemed so sure she’d taken off, just like her mother had. Apparently her background made that plausible. But Linnie Ann had been equally sure that she hadn’t. After all, Tunisia had left Charleston, moved back to Mt. Pleasant to raise her daughter. She hadn’t aborted her, which would have taken less time than getting rid of her sexually transmitted Trichomonas infection. But she hadn’t.
So where was she? Was she really the reason Mark sent his research journal by courier? Had I missed something?
In early December, Mark noted that Dr. Ellin had suggested Tunisia ask about a research project headed by Hilliard—the Rabb Project, he called it. A contraceptive project Did that signal a new boyfriend? Or a return to her old life?
I dug through the shower of papers on the conference table until I found Cas Kirkland’s number. I should’ve thought to ask him earlier. When he didn’t answer, I left a quick message: “Mark Tilman was trying to find a missing patient. Tunisia Johnson, a young black woman from Mt. Pleasant. Do you know her?”
I turned back to the charts. Tunisia’s chart showed no recent visits; Mark hadn’t noted the visit she’d made with Tabbi in her chart, the visit when he’d been so concerned about Tunisia’s condition. Apparently she didn’t come to the clinic for herself very often, but combined with visits she made with Tabbi, she had seen Mark regularly over the last few months. I pushed aside Demarcos’s insinuation of a relationship between the two. The records were purely clinical.
Mark could have also seen her at Barnard Medical, as part of the research group. Maybe he’d recorded Tunisia’s follow-up in his research journal. Or was there a research file? If so, those must be stored separately from the hospital’s medical records.
I stacked the loose pages of Tunisia’s clinic chart and stretched. Jake must have been delayed at the courthouse. I got a Coke from the refrigerator and flopped down on the sofa with Mark’s half-sized black notebook. Abbreviations and references I couldn’t decipher complicated Mark’s chatty style. I’d read plenty of medical records, but a Ph.D.’s research notes presented virgin terrain.
Impatient, I thumbed through jottings about the progress of different patients, notes to himself about things to compare with other patients’ files. LM (someone’s initals?) reports severe HA (headache). Hx (history) of migraine. Include in intake questions was a typical note—or at least typical of the few I could understand.
Mark meticulously dated each entry. He wrote more legibly than most physicians, but mood or fatigue or haste varied his handwriting from day to day. He wrote with strong, sure strokes, usually in black ink.
The initials TJ began appearing in the research notes on December 27. The TJ notations appeared at regular intervals and read much the same as the other entries. LM and her headaches reappeared, along with a note dated January 31: c/w TJ.
January 31 was one of the last entries, the day after Tunisia’s and Tabbi’s visit to the clinic, when Mark had urged her to report her problems to Hilliard. Mark had also noted Tunisia’s symptoms in his journal, underlining Fam Hx stroke unknown. TJ’s mother not available. See LH. C/w LM and others.
“C/w” meant “compare with.” LM was likely another patient. His notes were beginning to make some sense.
I shut the notebook and stroked its smooth cover. Mark apparently spotted something wrong with Tunisia, something to do with the Rabb Project. Did Mark know Tunisia planned to ran away? Had his journal been sent to tell someone she was leaving, to stop her for her own good? Was he worried because having her drop out of sight would compromise the research? Or did something else prompt his concern?
I listened to traffic shush past on Broad Street outside. I was wasting my time. Tunisia Johnson had hit the road again for her own reasons. That stupid notebook, the traffic accident, those men at the river, the fire, all stupid coincidences.
My cell phone buzz startled me.
“Avery? Cas Kirkland. I got your call. Can you come down to the station? Something I think you’ll be interested in. In the Tilman case.”
Tilman case? Cas Kirkland still had some agenda he wasn’t sharing. How could I resist such a charming invitation?
Lunchtime had passed with no word from Jake, so I left him a phone message. Outside, Steve had delivered my car as promised. I checked it over carefully. The dent was small, thanks to the old-fashioned metal bumper. Steve the wrecker guy had meticulously cleaned all the mud, even from the wheel wells and underneath, with the same reverence and concern I had for this car. Bless him. I probably needed to park this car back in my parents’ garage. I obviously couldn’t handle the responsibility or strain of stewardship.
I cranked it and turned toward the police station.
15
EARLY SATURDAY AFTERNOON
My midnight exploits had left my muscles in tangles, and I craved a nap. Jake Baker might call me back to his office at any moment, but I wasn’t about to pass up Cas Kirkland’s invitation. As I cut through the back way, I spotted a familiar street name: DeBard Street. Surprised, I cut a quick right. On my way, I could check Tunisia’s old address, the one crossed out in her medical chart.
I circled the block twice before I was sure I’d found it. Only a few blocks north of Calhoun Street, the apartment house was a world away from Linnie Ann’s Mt. Pleasant home. Trash Uttered the gutter. Graffiti—the only paint on the canted wood-frame buildings—showed little artistic talent.
Guys perched on the curbs and steps and leaning against each other showed little sign of talent for anything but drinking and staring. The few women I saw—probably a lot for this time of day—were the only residents who appeared gainfully employed.
One girl showed particular interest in my car, strutting out in the street as I slowly cruised toward her. When she saw me behind the wheel, though, she spun on her stilt heel and sashayed back to the sidewalk, angrily shaking her long curly wig.
The only pale face in the neighborhood besides mine was a guy in a Cadillac parked on a cross street. I glimpsed him through the crack in his tinted window while he negotiated with a girl who couldn’t have been more than fifteen. He sported a rat-brown toupee and the Grand Canyon wrinkles of heavy drink.
Even in midaftemoon, a white girl in a red vintage convertible shouldn’t drive too slowly through here. Tunisia had done good to get back to Mt. Pleasant. I didn’t think it smart to stop and ask whether she’d returned here. Nobody would answer truthfully anyway.
I turned onto Liasset and into some semblance of a world I knew, with fast-food chicken places and buildings that had paint.
What had Tunisia been doing, living in a place like
that? I doubted she’d been flipping burgers at a North Charleston McDonald’s. And what about her light-skinned daughter with the liquid brown eyes and the grape Tootsie Pop? Damn. Was Tunisia, despite her picket-fence-and-porch-swing surroundings in Mt. Pleasant, back on the streets? The thought of old Cadillacs, cheap toupees, and hopelessness made me queasy.
At the station, a cop behind a glass window buzzed me through a security door to the administrative offices and directed me to one of those observation rooms just like on TV. On a table in the middle of the room, a cop sat watching the drama play out in the interrogation room next door.
Through the one-way glass, I could see Cas Kirkland and another officer in a small room dominated by a scarred metal table and four chairs. Three of the chairs were occupied—two by cops and the third by a wizened, sun-browned raisin of a man.
He had few, if any, of his own teeth. His eyes sank into the wrinkles in his unhealthy red-brown face, and he reminded me of those animated clay raisins on the television commercials. He didn’t sound as though he could sing as well.
“Dauber, come on, man.” The cop across from Cas wheedled. “Dave, over at the pawnshop, already dropped the dime on you. This watch was your prize, along with some worthless old liquor bottles you dug outta the creek. You’ve wasted enough time. You were there. What’s the harm in telling us? ‘Less, a’course, you did him yourself.”
Dauber had been twitching in his seat like a beetle on a string. At that comment, he really got agitated. “I didn’t do nobody. You lyin’. You lyin’. I don’t know nothing. I just dig bottles.”
Cas sighed deeply. Even a slight movement from a man his size draws all the attention in a room that small. “Joey, why don’t you go out and get us some coffee?”
Joey made an exasperated sound and bounced his chair off the wall as he stood to leave.
Cas leaned back and spoke conversationally to Dauber. “Find any of those South Carolina Dispensary bottles out there lately? Those are a real find.”
DONE GONE WRONG Page 12
