I said, “That place is an insurance mill and Vita was involved in a lawsuit. Maybe she and Shearling met there or at a place like it. Though Vita’s alleged damages were emotional; she wouldn’t have needed any scans and I can’t see Well-Start paying for them.”
“Maybe her lawyer had a deal with Ostrovine or someone like him. Problem is I can’t find out who handled the suit. Well-Start won’t say and because it settled early, nothing was filed. I’ll try them again.”
He headed for the station. A few miles later, I thought of something. “Wanting a blanket even though he’s overdressed could be a psychiatric issue. But it could also mean his temperature regulation really is off. And that could be due to a physical condition.”
“Such as?”
“The first thing that comes to mind is low thyroid function. Nothing severe enough to incapacitate him but just enough to make him put on a few pounds and feel chilly. And hypothyroidism can also increase irritability.”
“Perfect,” he said. “He ever gets caught, some lawyer claims diminished capacity due to bad glands. I like the other thing you said: He and Vita crossed paths during some medical procedure. A waiting room spat. Given Vita’s level of tact, I can see her dissing his damn coat and that being enough.”
“Was there anything in the paper Well-Start showed you that said she got medically evaluated?”
“Nope, but who knows? Hell, given the fact that this guy’s obviously unbalanced, maybe he and Vita ran into each other at Shacker’s office.”
“Shacker’s got a separate exit so patients don’t cross paths, but anything’s possible.”
“Why don’t you call him, see if he knows Shearling.”
“He wasn’t that comfortable talking about Vita and asking him to identify a patient would be off the table, ethically, unless you could show imminent danger to a specific person.”
“The specific person’s his next damn victim… yeah, you’re right but bug him anyway. I need to do something.”
I made the call, left a message on Shacker’s voicemail.
He said, “Thanks. Any other ideas?”
I said, “Ostrovine buckled when we threatened to shut him down for a day. If he was lying about Vita, maybe he’ll eventually give up the info.”
“Let’s go back there,” he said, hanging a U. “He balks, I’ll grab that stupid rug on his head and hold it for ransom.”
This time, Ostrovine kept us waiting for twenty minutes.
When we entered his office, there were papers on the desk. Columns of numbers, probably financial spreadsheets. He put down a gold Cross pen and said, “What now, Lieutenant?”
Milo told him.
“You’re kidding.”
“Nothing funny about Dr. Usfel’s murder, sir.”
“Of course not,” said Ostrovine. “But I can’t help you. First of all, I’ve never heard about any confrontation between Glenda and any patient. Second, I still don’t believe Glenda’s death had anything to do with her work here. And third, like I told you, I have no knowledge of anyone named Vita Berlin.”
“We know a confrontation occurred,” said Milo. “How come there wasn’t a report?”
“Obviously, Dr. Usfel never informed security of the need for one because she viewed it as insignificant.” Ostrovine laid his hands flat on the desk. Milo had pulled his chair close. The wig was in reach of his long arm. “And frankly, so do I.”
“Who referred this guy to you?”
“How can I tell you that when I don’t even know his name?”
“Check the patient list for that day.”
“He wouldn’t be on there because incompletes aren’t recorded.”
“Not even their referrals?”
“Not anything,” said Ostrovine. “Why would we pile up extraneous data? As is, we’ve got storage issues.”
“What if the patient was referred for another procedure that was completed?”
“You’re asking me to examine my entire patient database.”
“Just white males seen two months ago, give or take two weeks either way.”
“That’s huge,” said Ostrovine. “And what will I be looking for? Inappropriate clothing? We don’t list attire in our charts.”
“Just tease out white males in a particular age range and we’ll take it from there.”
“No can do, Lieutenant. Even if we had the manpower for that kind of scavenger hunt, we’re legally forbidden.”
“In terms of manpower, I can send you a couple of detectives.”
“That’s generous of you,” said Ostrovine, “but it doesn’t solve the main problem: Rooting around in patient records without clear justification is illegal.”
Milo waited.
Ostrovine fiddled with his pen, placed his hand on his toupee, as if anticipating attack. “Look, guys, Glenda was one of ours, her death is a tragedy and if I could help you, I’d jump at the opportunity. But I can’t. You have to understand.”
“Then we’ll have to go the subpoena route, sir. Which would cause all those delays we discussed before.”
Ostrovine clicked his tongue. “We didn’t discuss anything, Lieutenant Sturgis. You threatened me. I understand that you’ve got an important job to do. But further intimidation is not going to work. I’ve talked to our attorneys and they say it’ll never get that far.”
Milo stood. “Guess we’ll just have to see.”
“We won’t see anything, Lieutenant. The rules are clear. I’m sorry, I really am. But what took place in the scan room was just one of those things.”
“Business as usual.”
“People as usual,” said Ostrovine. “Put enough of them together and heads will bump. That’s a far cry from murder.”
“Human nature,” said Milo. “You learn about it from all those insurance scams you do?”
Ostrovine’s smile sped toward sincere, screeched to a halt just short of the goal. “I learned about it from reality.”
On the way back to the station, Dr. Bern Shacker returned my call.
Ten to the hour; catching up between patients.
I thanked him. He said, “The police have caught someone?”
“They may have a lead.” I described the man in the shearling.
Silence.
“Doctor-”
“But no one’s been caught. So you’re telling me this because…”
“We’re wondering if Vita crossed paths with him. Perhaps during an evaluation. I don’t want to put you in a bind but it could be a Tarasoff situation.”
“Imminent danger?” he said. “To whom?”
“He’s killed two other people.”
“That’s horrible but obviously they’re no longer in danger.”
“It’s a tough situation, Bern.”
“I know, I know. Dreadful. Well, fortunately he isn’t a patient of mine. No one in my practice dresses like that.”
“Okay, thanks.”
“Self-swaddling,” he said. “That smells a bit like schizophrenia, no?”
“Or a medical problem.”
“Such as?”
“Hypothyroidism.”
“Hmm… interesting. Yes, I suppose so. But I’d still lean toward the psychological. In view of what he’s done.
