There are no secrets between Burke and me. Well, there weren’t. Apparently now…
“I told you—I heard a scream.”
“She was dead, man. Not breathing. What did you hear?” And he’s right, of course. I look over at him. An unfamiliar distrust lurks in his eyes. “Don’t leave me out in the cold.”
“Listen, I don’t know where it came from,” I say. “M
aybe it was one of the pets from the vet clinic next door—don’t ferrets scream?”
He’s frowning, and what is he going to say—that I’m lying?
“Right,” he says and gestures to the green light. But there’s a chill in his tone.
He’s quiet as I ask about the victim (Gretta) at the front desk, describing her. Yellow pants, long brown hair, jean jacket. Something flickers in the receptionist’s eyes, and she’s about to answer when Doc Lindgren pops out and intercepts us like she’s Vikings cornerback Harrison Smith.
“We can’t give out that information without a warrant.”
Newsflash—we don’t need a warrant to ask for help identifying a victim. And in 1997, the Hippa laws were brand new, many doctors unaware of the rules regarding protected health information. But Lindgren looks a little militant, so I smile and keep my voice friendly. “We are just trying to identify a woman who was murdered just down the street. We believe she visited you today. This is simply an administrative request for help.”
“We don’t know who you’re talking about.”
Doc Lindgren is about five six, with crew cut gray hair and the sound and feel of a drill sergeant emanates from her pert little mouth. From the posters on the wall advocating choices and the freedom over your body, I can guess what kind of services they offer.
I’ve never been political, but my thoughts about abortion sure swung toward life after Ashley was born.
“Are you sure?” Burke asks. “We think she might have come here for help.”
“We don’t turn anyone away, if that’s what you’re insinuating.” Her mouth collects spittle along the edges, as if we have her worried.
“What about—” Burke starts, and I’m not sure what he’s going to ask, but Lindgren cuts him off.
“No. No one like that was here.”
The overweight woman at the front desk has chewed her fingernails to the nub. She looks about twenty years old and keeps glancing at the door.
“Our request is not against the law,” I add. And, it’s not. “I can have my office send you a written request—”
“You need to leave.”
“Listen.” I tenor my voice to the sotto voce I use when talking to an angry Eve. “What if it were your daughter, strangled and bleeding on the street, and no one knew it? She could go for years without being identified—” And this isn’t actually true because after a modicum of searching, we’ll identify her as a runaway in our system, reported less than three months ago, but Gretta’s connection to the clinic is a new clue, and maybe we’re one step closer to whoever put their hands around her neck. “And we’re just asking for help to put her mother’s mind at rest. To keep her daughter from being buried in an unmarked grave. Years of grief not knowing…”
Lindgren’s jaw tightens.
Out of the corner of my eye, and behind the doctor, the receptionist is scribbling on a piece of paper.
“You do know that an autopsy will uncover anything medical we need to know,” Burke says. “And we can get a warrant—”
“Do that,” Lindgren snaps and turns away.
Burke blows out a breath.
But I take the piece of paper that the receptionist—named Grace by the tag on her shirt, which feels appropriate, by the way—gives me.
Thank you, I mouth and go outside. Hand the paper to Burke.
“Gretta Holmes,” he says.
Bingo, but that will save us time. And time is the ticket when solving a case like this.