Ostrovine opened the laptop, typed. “The tech on duty today is Cheryl Wannamaker. She’s fairly new, I doubt she can tell you much.”
“We’ll give her a try, anyway. And please give us the names of the others.”
“What makes you think Glenda’s work had anything to do with what happened to her?”
“We need to look at everything.”
“I suppose,” said Ostrovine, “but in this case you’d be best off looking outside the workplace. We’re low on drama, run a business, not a production company.”
“Insurance business?”
“The business of wellness often involves third-party payment.”
“Do you deal a lot with Well-Start?”
“We deal with everyone.”
“If I give you some names could you check if they’ve been your patients?”
“Impossible,” said Ostrovine. “Confidentiality’s our first commandment.”
“How about checking and if the names aren’t there we won’t have to come back with subpoenas.”
“I’m afraid I can’t do that.”
“I understand. As I’m sure you will when we show up with the appropriate paperwork and all those tasks you’re oriented toward come to a grinding halt.”
Ostrovine flashed oversized dental caps. “Is this really necessary, guys? I’m sure Glenda’s… tragedy had nothing to do with work.”
Milo said, “Maybe you should switch careers and become a detective.”
“Fine, give me those names. But if they are here, I can’t give you details.”
“Vita Berlin.”
Keyboard arpeggio. Sigh of relief. “No. Next.”
“Marlon Quigg.”
“No, again. Now, if there’s nothing more-”
“Dr. Usfel’s techs.”
“Oh,” said Ostrovine. “That. Fine. I’ll call Cheryl for you.”
Cheryl Wannamaker was young, stoic, dreadlocked, with a Jamaican lilt to her speech. We talked to her in the parking lot, near a black Mercedes parked in M. Ostrovine ’s spot.
The news of Glenda Usfel-Parnell’s death seemed not to impact her immediately. Then her eyes got wet and her chin shook. “Another one.”
“Ma’am?” said Milo.
“Lost my nephew,” she said. “Two weeks ago. Hit by a drunk driver.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“DeJon was twelve.” She wiped her eyes. “Now Dr. U. This world. Dear God.”
“How long did you work with Dr. U?”
“Five weeks.”
“Anyone have a beef with her?”
“Not that I saw.”
“What kind of person was she?”
“She was an okay person,” said Cheryl Wannamaker.
“Friendly?”
“Sure.” She smiled. “Actually, not so much. She was all about let’s get the work done and go home.”
“Not a lot of chitchat.”
“No chitchat at all, sir.”
“That create tension?”
“Not for me,” said Wannamaker. “I don’t like wasting time.”
“What about others?”
“Everything seemed okay.”
“We’ve heard she had a temper.”
“Well,” said Wannamaker, “she kind of did.”
“Who’d she get mad at?”
“Not mad, more like… grumpy. When things got backed up, when people didn’t do what she wanted.”
“How’d she show her grumpiness?”
“She’d get all quiet.” Cheryl Wannamaker licked her lips. “Too quiet, like a kettle gonna overflow.”
“What happened when she overflowed?”
“She never did. She just got that heavy quiet thing going. You’d talk to her, she wouldn’t answer, even though you knew she heard you. So you just guessed what she wanted and hoped it was what she wanted.”
“You never saw her go off on anyone?”
“Never,” she said. “But I heard someone went off on her.”
“Who?”
“Some patient,” said Wannamaker. “Before my time, I just heard about it.”
“What’d you hear?”
“Someone lost it in the scan room.”
“Who told you?”
“Margaret,” she said. “Margaret Wheeling, she’s on when I’m off.”
“How long before you arrived did this happen?”
“I couldn’t say.”
“But people were still talking about it when you began work.”
“No, just Margaret. To educate me.”
“About?”
“Dr. U, what she was like. How she could be tough. When the patient went off on her, she didn’t back down, stood right up to him and said, ‘Calm down or leave right now.’ And he did. Margaret was saying we all needed to be assertive like that because you never know what’s going to walk in.”
“Did that patient ever show up again?”
“Couldn’t tell you, sir.”
“Margaret tell you anything else about Dr. Usfel?”
“She said when Doctor gets quiet, give her space.”
“Where can we find Margaret?”
“Right here,” said Cheryl Wannamaker, producing a cell phone. “I have her number.”
Margaret Wheeling lived a quarter hour from her job, in a town house on Laurel Canyon just north of Riverside. She opened the door holding a glass of ice water. Milo gave her the news gently.
She said, “Oh my God.”
“I’m sorry to have to tell you.”
“Dr. U,” she said. “Glenda… come in.”
Rawboned and ruddy with curly gray hair and unadorned yellow-gray eyes, she led us to a living room heavy on golden maple furniture and needlepoint pillows. Toby mugs filled a glass-front cabinet. Another was chocked with souvenir ashtrays with an emphasis on national parks and Nevada casinos. A jowly man sat drowsing on a sofa, sports pages spread on his lap.
“My husband,” said Margaret Wheeling, sounding proud of the fact. She kissed his forehead lightly. “Don, they’re here.”
Don Wheeling blinked, stood, shook our hands. She told him about Glenda Usfel. He said, “You’re kidding.”
“Oh, Don, isn’t that horrid?”
He cupped the bottom of her chin. “You be okay, Meg?”
“I’ll be fine. Go use the bedroom, take a real nap.”
“You need me, you know where to find me, Meg.”
When he was gone, she said, “Don was in law enforcement, rode a motorcycle for Tulsa PD for a year, back when he was right out of the service. By the time I met him he was already in asphalt and concrete. Please sit.
