Deaths of Jocasta (34 page)

“But Cordelia didn’t perform the abortion?”

“No.”

“Why would Beverly Morris’s paperwork say she did?”

“Got me. Maybe it was coded wrong. Complications from an abortion could turn into an abortion.”

“If Beverly Morris was hemorrhaging from the uterus, could Cordelia have treated her at the clinic?”

“It’s unlikely. Any competent doctor would have sent her to a hospital. And Cordelia is a competent doctor. But—this is where truth gets dirty—Cordelia was the last person there on Friday. I called around a quarter to six and she was still here. That’s not unusual, her staying after everyone else is gone. Usual enough that I could call that late and hope to get her.”

“Just unfortunate in these circumstances.”

“Yes. Very,” Jane agreed.

“What about Alice Tresoe and Faye Zimmer?” I asked.

“I delivered two of Alice’s kids. I’ll…miss Alice,” Jane said simply, then continued in her brisk, professional voice, “Cordelia and I performed an abortion on Alice late Saturday morning, after all the other patients had gone. It was just the two of us. I left shortly after we were finished. Cordelia stayed with her.”

“No one else was there?”

“No,” Jane replied, “just the two of us.”

“Why did you do her abortion at Cordelia’s clinic and not at yours?”

“It was very early in Alice’s pregnancy, making it a simple procedure.” Then Jane was silent.

“Why Saturday morning with just the two of you?” I questioned, wondering what Jane wasn’t saying.

She gave a harsh laugh. “The police didn’t ask that.”

“They should have,” I answered.

“Alice was HIV-positive. Do you know how many places perform abortions on HIV-positive women?” She wasn’t seeking an answer, so I didn’t give her one. She continued, “That’s why Cordelia and I were doing it by ourselves, after regular hours. All you need is one person seeing a doctor come out of a ‘simple procedure’ gowned, masked, gloved, with eye protection, the whole nine yards, to start rumors.”

“Who else, besides you and Cordelia, might know?”

“We don’t put HIV in a patient’s chart. We keep that separate.”

“Abortion?”

“The same. And it’s coded. A private code that only a few of us know.”

“Who?” I asked.

“Cordelia, myself, Aaron—but he can never remember, so he’s always asking one of us—Millie, Elly, and Betty.”

“That’s all? How about Bernie?”

“No. We only give out that information on a need-to-know basis.”

“So only you and Cordelia would have known about Alice Tresoe’s abortion?”

“Probably. We have what we call the shredded file, notes and comments on patients. Like Tuesday afternoon at three is HIV-positive or uses injection drugs, so don’t leave syringes lying around. Things a health care provider would like to know. But it’s in code and Cordelia keeps it in her office under lock and key. It gets shredded every week.”

“Who has access to that file?”

“Only those of us who directly treat the patients. Cordelia, myself, Aaron, Betty, Elly, and Millie. I think Betty or Millie scans it in the morning so we can know what to expect.”

“Could anyone else get access to it?” I asked.

“It’s possible. But they would have to know the code for it to mean anything. And Cordelia keeps the only copy in her safe deposit box.”

I scribbled a few notes. It would be hard for an outsider to find out which patients were having abortions. And it was even harder to believe an insider would be party to the murder of these women. Betty might be against abortion, but she wasn’t this kind of murderer.

“What about Faye Zimmer?” I asked.

“I don’t remember her. But according to a note in her chart, Cordelia consulted with me about problems she was having with her period. As far as I know she didn’t have an abortion.”

“Victoria Williams?”

“That name means nothing to me.”

“Thanks for your help,” I said. I had run out of questions.

“I don’t think I was much help,” Jane replied. “The truth still looks pretty muddy to me.”

It did to me, too.

I went to the clinic again in the morning. Millie was there. “Good to see a friendly face,” she told me.

“Good to be a friendly face,” I replied.

“It’s going to be a zoo today,” she said, speaking to both me and Bernie. “Have you been able to get hold of Elly?”

“No, she’s probably making rounds.” Bernie shook her head.

“Betty’s out sick again today,” Millie explained for me. “I hope she’s okay. She’s got to be real sick to take off two days.”

Cordelia came down the hallway carrying a kid. She smiled, walking past us to the waiting room. “Here you go, Mrs. Hill. She didn’t even cry when I gave her a shot,” she said to the child’s mother.

Dr. Bowen came out of the same examining room Cordelia had been in and joined us. “Morning, ladies. Note I didn’t say ‘good,’” Bowen greeted. “This is a real hassle having to babysit you,” she said to Cordelia as she came back to where we were.

“I know, I know. Sorry, Jane,” Cordelia replied. “I hope it doesn’t last much longer. This has to be cleared up soon.”

“But better to have you here, than not,” Bowen added.

“We all agree on that,” Millie seconded.

“Thanks. I appreciate it,” Cordelia said, looking at each of us in turn. “Well, girls, back to work,” she added with a shrug.

“Women, please,” Millie corrected lightly.

“Here, Micky, you can have these,” Bernie said as they headed for the examining rooms, Millie and Cordelia in one and Bowen in another.

Bernie handed me some letters. Same dot matrix printer, same obscene style. One to Elly, one to Cordelia and, oh, be still my beating heart, one of my very own. Nice to know I rated. The letters, in explicit style, accused the three of us of killing pregnant women because we were jealous of their having men when we were unable to get any.

I found the premise of the letters amusing. I almost said something to Bernie, but discretion did rear its ugly head. It’s one thing for me to waltz around wearing a lavender
L,
another thing for me to put one on other people. Cordelia and Elly could tell Bernie if they wanted her to know. Things were volatile enough without “dyke” being whispered in the hallways.

Unfortunately these letters gave no better clue to their origins than had the previous ones. They all had been postmarked in the city and mailed a day or two ago. Not much help.

“Hi, how are you?” I heard Bernie answer the phone, a pause, then, “Oh, yeah, she’s actually sitting right here. Micky, the phone.” She handed the receiver to me with a quizzical expression.

“Hello?” I said.

“I’m afraid there’s been a mistake,” a voice I didn’t recognize said.

“Who is this?” I asked.

“I need to talk to you. I can’t go to the police…it’s all a mistake…I’m sorry, you have the wrong number.” She abruptly hung up.

“Who was that?” I demanded of Bernie.

“Betty. Betty Peterson,” she answered.

“Do you have her address?” I asked.

Bernie quickly flipped through her Rolodex. I wrote down the address and phone number.

“See you later, Bern,” I said, heading out the door.

“But, Micky, what is it?” she called after me.

“I’ll let you know,” I replied, halfway to the building door. Something very odd was going on. Who had walked in on Betty Peterson?

She lived on the Westbank in an area I was unfamiliar with. The drive out there took a while and finding her address ate up more time. Some nonexistent street signs slowed my progress. I finally arrived at the address I had gotten from Bernie. I was confronted with a cluster of cottages, jammed together on one lot. The kind of place you lived when you were just starting out. Or where you ended up when life hadn’t been kind.

I scanned the mailboxes to figure out which cottage Betty was in, but none of them had Peterson on them. Several were nameless, though.

A woman in one of the closer cottages was sweeping her porch.

“I’m looking for a Betty Peterson. Do you know which one is hers?” I asked her.

“No,” she answered, not really bothering to look at me.

“I’m looking for a woman in her early twenties, about five-four, brown hair, brown eyes. A nurse. I’m a friend of hers,” I said.

“Well, now,” she said, finally looking at me. “We got a nurse here. Back over in eleven, end of the lot.”

I thanked her and headed for number eleven.

It was better kept than most of them, the tiny lawn neat and orderly, flowers planted and blooming. If Betty Peterson did live out here, it was in that cottage.

I knocked on the door.

She immediately opened it, as if she had been watching me, but only a few inches, enough to look out at me. Or prevent me from seeing inside.

“Are you all right?” I asked.

“Please go away,” she replied with a furtive glance over her shoulder.

“If you’re okay, I’ll go,” I said.

“You can’t be seen here. Go,” she whispered. “I’m all right,” she added. I wondered if it was true.

“Sure?”

“Yes. I must talk to you, but it’s not safe now.”

“Are you being held?”

“No. It’s not safe for you,” she said. “I’ll contact you soon.”

“Call me. Three in the morning if need be.”

Suddenly the door jerked open. Betty gasped. The man who stood in the door was as tall as the frame, with deep, sunken eyes. His face was gaunt, planes and knobs, jutting brows. He had been one of the anti-choice protesters hovering in back of the ragtag line. He was too tall to miss.

“You,” he spoke. “You’re from the clinic.” He sounded decidedly unhappy to see me.

“Yeah, we were worried about Betty,” I answered. “I was in the area—”

“Murderer,” he cut me off.

His hand shot out and he pushed me back down the stairs. Betty’s cry was cut off by the slamming of the door.

I stumbled backward, trying to regain my balance, not succeeding, and I ended up sitting at the bottom of the stairs. Good thing the flowers were there to break my fall. I picked myself up. I wasn’t hurt, maybe a few minor bruises. Even if Betty didn’t want the police, I did. That was assault in my book. Nor was I very confident that she was going to be all right. Her assurances sounded more like wishful thinking to me. He had pushed me down the stairs like I was nothing. I’m five-ten and hit the scales between one-fifty and one-sixty. Not an easy hunk of meat to push around.

I headed back to the street. There was a convenience store down the block with a pay phone in the corner of its parking lot. I made for it.

“I think you’d better pick up Betty Peterson as a material witness and I think you’d better do it now because she may be in danger,” I said, following O’Connor’s grunt of greeting.

“Whoa,” he said. “Now why do you think that?”

A car started in the back part of the lot the cottages were on.

“Because she wants to talk to me and some guy just threw me down the stairs to prevent her from doing so.”

“Could it have been something you said?”

“No, it wasn’t. He—”

A car pulled out of the cottages’ driveway.

“Shit,” I continued. “They’re getting away.” Betty and the man were in the car. “Old blue Chevy. License plate EVN7…damn,” I said as he turned the corner, preventing me from reading the rest of the number. “I’m going after them.” Without pausing I gave O’Connor the address, then I slammed the phone down on his questions and ran to my car.

I pulled a U-turn and sped after them. But they weren’t in sight as I turned the corner. I drove on, carefully checking side streets. No blue Chevy. I drove until the road ended, forcing me to turn either left or right. I turned right and worked my way back to Betty’s street, hoping to get lucky. I didn’t. They could be anywhere by now.

I got back on the pay phone. “You’ve got to find her. I don’t think she’s safe,” I told O’Connor.

“So what do you want me to do?” he inquired wearily.

“Find her.”

“I called the local precinct and gave them the description.”

“Local, hell, they’re probably way beyond local,” I retorted.

“What if she went with him of her own free will? What am I supposed to hold them on?”

“Listen, the guy looks like Frankenstein without makeup. Coercion comes easy for men like that. Besides, I want to press charges for assault,” I said.

“Okay, Miss Knight. You want me to find Betty Peterson, I’ll do what I can. Then we’ll see.” He left it at that.

I went back to Betty’s cottage and nosed around. It was locked up tight, but I looked in all the windows. An ordinary, even mundane appearance. A few nursing books, the Bible, some common magazines. A cross on the wall over a small TV set. Everything was neat and orderly, the bed made, dishes done. I could see no clues, not to the case, not even to who Betty Peterson really was. Something had caused this conservative, religious woman to doubt, but her home gave no indication of what it might have been.