Victims

The receptionist was also Hispanic, a well-groomed, dyed blonde in her late twenties, a little extra-curvy in places where that was okay.

No name tag, no welcoming smile.

Raul grinned at her anyway, explained what he needed.

Her face closed up. “All our doctors are volunteers, they come in and out so I don’t know who you’d talk to.”

Raul said, “The doctor who treated Grant Huggler.”

“I don’t know who that is.”

“The doctor or Huggler?”

“Both,” said the receptionist. “Either.”

“Could you please check your files?”

“We don’t have files.”

“What do you mean?”

“Just that. We don’t have files.”

“How can you run a clinic without records?”

“There are records,” she said. “The doctors take them when they leave.”

“Why?”

“The patients are theirs, not ours.”

Biro said, “Aw c’mon.”

“That’s the way we do it,” she said. “That’s the way we’ve always done it. We’re not an official health-care provider.”

“What are you then?”

“A space.”

“A space?”

“The church merely provides access for providers to provide.”

Merely and access and providers gave that the sound of a prepared speech. This place was definitely set up for illegals. Scared people coming in with God-knows-what diseases, afraid to broach the county system even though no one there asked questions. He glanced at the women in the lawn chairs. They continued to pretend he didn’t exist. No one appeared especially sick but you never knew. His mother had just told him about one of her friends visiting relatives in Guadalajara and coming back with tuberculosis.

Telling it, the way she always did, as if Raul had the power to prevent such disasters.

He said, “No charts here at all?”

The receptionist said, “Not a one.”

“That sounds a little disorganized, Miss-”

“Actually it’s super-organized,” she said, not offering a name. “So we can multitask.”

“Multitask how?”

“When the church needs to use the space for something else, we wheel everything out of the way.”

“How often do doctors come in and use the space?”

“Most every day.”

“So you don’t do much wheeling.”

Shrug.

Raul leaned in and half whispered, “You’ve got people waiting but I don’t see any doctors.”

“Dr. Keefer’s due in.”

“When?”

“Soon. But he can’t help you.”

“Why’s that?”

“He’s new. Yesterday was his first day, so he wouldn’t know your Mr. Whatever.”

“Huggler.”

“Funny name.”

Biro looked at her.

She said, “I don’t know him.”

He gave her a look at his business card.

She said, “You already showed me your badge, I believe that you’re po-lice.”

“See what this says?”

Moment’s hesitation. “Okay.”

“Homicide,” said Biro. “That’s all I care about, solving murders.”

“Okay.”

“Grant Huggler may have a funny name but he’s suspected of committing several really nasty murders. He needs to be stopped before he does more damage.”

He glanced back at the waiting women, trying to imply that they could turn up as victims.

The receptionist blinked.

He showed her the drawing.

She shook her head. “Don’t know him. We don’t want murderers here. If I knew him, I’d tell you.”

“Are you the only receptionist here-what is your name?”

“Leticia. No, I’m not. A bunch of us volunteer.”

“How many is a bunch?”

“I don’t know.”

He pulled out an enlargement of James Pittson Harrie’s lapsed driver’s license. “How about him?”

To Biro’s surprise, she went pale.

“What’s the matter?”

“He’s a doctor.”

“What kind?”

“Mental health,” she said. “A therapist. He came in to ask questions but he never came back.”

“What kind of questions?”

“Did we do insurance work. He said he had a lot of experience with it, could help if someone needed help with an accident or an injury. I told him we didn’t do that here. He gave me his card but I threw it out. I didn’t even read his name.”

“But you remember him.”

“We don’t usually get doctors walking in to drum up business.”

“What was his attitude?”

“Like a doctor.”

“Meaning?”

“Businesslike. He didn’t seem like one of those but I guess he was.”

“One of those what?”

“Slip-and-fall scammers. Those we get from time to time. Scouts working for lawyers.”

“Trying to exploit your patients.”

Nod. No attempt to claim they’re not our patients.

“So Mr. Harrie told you he was a psychologist.”

“Or a psychiatrist, I forget. He’s not?”

“Nope.”

“Oh.”

“How’d he react when you turned him down?”

“Just said thanks and gave me the card.”

“How long ago did this happen?”

“A while back,” said Leticia. “Months.”

“How many?”

“I don’t know-six, five?”

“That long ago but you remember him.”

“Like I told you, it was unusual,” she said. “Also, he was Anglo. We don’t get too many white guys, period,