and for this week he’d been rescheduled to start at three because of vacation absentees. Unfortunately, he’d be about half an hour late.
So he sat in the waiting room and thumbed through magazines. At onethirty, Dr. Samson called the secretary to say she’d be late. That made Greg’s stomach leak acid. With the traffic, he wouldn’t get to the department until after four. That would not look good.
At two-fifteen, Dr. Samson came up the stairs. She was a tall stately woman with short reddish hair and dressed in a moss-green dress. He asked to speak with her in private, and she led him to her office.
He did not tell her about the skulls. Instead, he mentioned how one of his cases involved a child who had been evaluated on a SchoolSmart test, and wanted to know about that.
“Well, in addition to offering tailored learning programs, we have a diagnostic service that designs, administers, and evaluates tests used in different school systems nationally. SchoolSmart is one of them and is sponsored by private benefactor organizations as well as some colleges and universities that offer scholarship incentives to extremely gifted children from low-income families.”
Greg noted that on his pad.
“As you can imagine, many such kids either quit school at sixteen to work or, if they graduate, they take the first job that comes along and almost never go on. What SchoolSmart offers is full-tuition scholarships for select students if they remain in school through the twelfth grade. And we administer the tests as early as the first grade.”
“An incentive to remain in school.”
“Exactly, and a just reward.”
“And the only qualifications are smart and poor.”
Dr. Samson smiled. “That’s putting it bluntly, but yes. And that they complete their schooling,” she said. “But I should add that our tests are not the standardized group intelligence tests, but ones specially designed as individualized evaluations for young children identified by their teachers as gifted. They’re more accurate, and we make certain they’re administered by licensed psychologists.”
She would have gone on, but Greg cut to the chase. “I’m wondering if you could check your database for a Grady Dixon.”
Her fingers flew across the keys. “Grady Dixon … Yes, from Cold Spring, Tennessee.” And she gave the date of his evaluation.
Greg felt a little electric thrill run through him. He was tested just three months before he was kidnapped. “Can you tell me where exactly he was tested and who administered the test?”
The woman looked a little flustered. “Well, I can tell you he was tested at his school, the Michael Lowry Regional, and the local psychometrician was Dr. Maxwell Barnard from Signal Mountain, Tennessee.”
That did not seem helpful. “Can you run a database cross-reference to see if this Dr. Maxwell Barnard conducted tests on any other SchoolSmart candidates?”
Dr. Samson started the search when she suddenly stopped. “I can do that, Officer, but I’d like to know why you’re asking. I’m concerned that we’re going to violate a contractual agreement with our clients.”
He saw that coming. “Dr. Samson, I’m looking into a possible connection between some past kidnappings and children who might have been tested by your organization.”
Dr. Samson looked worried all of a sudden. “You mean a criminal investigation?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I’m sure you understand, but I would have to consult with the directors before I can divulge any more information—unless, of course, you have a court order.”
He didn’t, and he had her against a wall. Without a warrant, any more nudges could push her behind a legal blind. “Of course, but maybe you can tell me if his files contain any record of neurosurgery?”
She seemed tentative. “Well …” she began.
“Doctor, Grady Dixon has been dead for three years and it’s presumed he was kidnapped and murdered.” He was hoping the drama of that would override protocol.
“I see. Neurosurgery?” She glanced at the screen. “Well, no, nor would we have any record of that sort unless he had been a patient of ours. That’s a completely separate entity from what we do on site. Besides, I’d imagine the parents would have consulted neurospecialists in Tennessee.”
“Of course. And just who are the neurosurgeons here?”
“Actually, we have two: Dr. Stephen Kane and Dr. John Lubeck.”
He took down the names. “Is there a Julian Watts in your database?”
“Julian Watts. Why is that name familiar?” she asked. Then her expression contorted. “He wasn’t the boy murdered by his mother last week, was he?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“Oh, how horrible. I read about that.”
“Can you check if he had taken a SchoolSmart test?”
She slowly turned to the computer again and tapped a few more keys. “Oh, my! He’s in the database … but he was not a SchoolSmart candidate.” She hit a few more keys. Then she sat back and stared at the screen, a look of surprise on her face. “He’s listed as a patient of Dr. Malenko.”
“Dr. Malenko?”
“Yes, he’s one of our neurologists. Dr. Lucius Malenko.”
“Do you have any idea why Julian was seeing Dr. Malenko?”
“I don’t, but even if I knew I couldn’t give you that information. Besides, Julian was one of his private patients.”
“Private patients?”
“From his private practice.” Then she glanced back at the screen. “I’m just surprised he didn’t mention the boy’s … what happened.”
Greg filed that away. Then he pulled out the schematic and showed her. “Any idea what kind of neurological procedure would have produced these holes?” He briefly explained the origin of the drawing.
She shook her head. “I’m a psychologist, not a neurologist.”
“Could they have been the results of some surgical treatment of epilepsy?”
“I suppose.”
The woman looked as is she were becoming uncomfortable with the interrogation, knowing full well that she didn’t have to proceed without a warrant. “One more question, if you don’t mind,” he said, without giving her a chance to respond. “How many people here have access to your database?”
“The entire professional staff.”
“I see.” He thanked her and left.
On the way out, he stopped at the reception desk again. “I’m wondering if I could speak to Dr. Malenko.”
“I’m afraid he’ll be out of town for a few days. Would you like to make an appointment?”
“When do you expect him back?”
“Next Thursday.”
“Do you have a number I can reach him at?”
“I can give you his other office. You can leave a voice message.”
“That’ll be fine.”
She jotted down the address and number on the back of the center’s card and handed it to him.
As he returned to his car, he noticed the slot for L. Malenko. Greg wasn’t sure what he had: two dead six- year-olds—one from Tennessee, the other from parts unknown. Two teenagers—one dead known teenager, one alive unknown teenager—both from the North Shore of Massachusetts. Except for the live one, they were all murder victims, one by his mother. The only commonality was their gender and the fact that each had neurosurgical bore holes in the skull. Two were connected to Nova Children’s Center. And two points determine a straight line.
He looked at the little white reserved parking sign. L. MALENKO.
Greg didn’t know why, but he had the prowling suspicion that this L. Malenko might connect a couple more points.
