Grave Secrets

A door flew open down the hall. Zuckerman steamed into the waiting room like the little engine that could. She was a thick woman with dirty-blonde hair cut very short. At home. In poor lighting. With dull scissors.

“What the hell do you people think you’re doing?” Accented English. I guessed Australian.

The receptionist crawled behind her desk and hunched over something lying on it.

“You can’t come barging in here, traumatizing my patients—”

“Shall we traumatize them further, or would you prefer to take this somewhere more private?” Galiano gave the doctor an icy smile.

“You refuse to understand, sir. I do not have time for you this morning.”

Galiano reached under his jacket, produced a set of handcuffs, and dangled them in front of her.

Zuckerman glared.

Galiano dangled.

“This is preposterous.”

Zuckerman spun and stormed up the hall. We followed her past several examining rooms. In more than one I spotted a sheet-covered woman with her knees in the full upright and locked position. I did not envy the women their delay in the stirrups.

Zuckerman led us past an office door bearing her name to a room containing chairs and a TV-VCR setup. I imagined the instructional videos. Tips for Examining Your Breasts. Success with the Rhythm Method. Bathing the New Baby.

Galiano wasted no time.

“You were Patricia Eduardo’s supervisor at the Hospital Centro Médico.”

“I was.”

“Is there a reason you failed to mention that when we spoke?”

“You were inquiring about patients.”

“Let me understand you, Doctor. I came here asking about three women. One of those three women was under your charge at another facility, and you failed to point that out?”

“It is a common name. I was busy. I didn’t make the connection.”

“I see.” His tone indicated that he did not. “All right. Let’s talk about her now.”

“Patricia Eduardo was one of many girls under my supervision. I know nothing of their activities outside the hospital.”

“You never ask about their private lives?”

“That would be improper.”

“Uh huh. You and Patricia were observed arguing shortly before her disappearance.”

“The girls do not always perform up to my expectations.”

“Was that the case with Patricia?”

She hesitated a beat. “No.”

“What is it you two fought about?”

“Fought.” She blew air through her lips. “I would hardly call it a fight. Miss Eduardo disagreed with advice I was offering.”

“Advice?”

“Medical advice.”

“As a disinterested supervisor?”

“As a doctor.”

“So Patricia was a patient.”

Zuckerman realized her mistake right away.

“She might have visited this clinic once.”

“Why?”

“I can’t remember the complaint of every woman who comes to see me.”

“Patricia was not every woman. She was someone you worked with every day.”

Zuckerman did not reply.

“She was not listed in your records here.”

“That happens.”

“Tell us about her.”

“You know I can’t do that.”

“Patient confidentiality.”

“Yes.”

“This is a murder investigation. Fuck patient confidentiality.”

Zuckerman stiffened, and a mole on her cheek appeared to expand.

“We do it here, or we do it at headquarters.” Galiano.

Zuckerman pointed at me. “This woman is not official.”

“You’re absolutely right,” I said. “You should not compromise your oath. I’ll wait in the lobby.”

Before anyone could object, I left the room. The hall was deserted. Moving quietly, I hurried to Zuckerman’s office, slipped in, and closed the door.

Morning sun slanted through half-open blinds, casting neat lines across the desk and stippling it with color around a small crystal clock. Its ticking, soft and rapid like a hummingbird’s heart, was the only sound breaking the silence.

Bookshelves wrapped around two walls. Filing cabinets filled a third. All were government-issue gray.

I did a quick survey of titles. Standard medical journals. JAMA. Fertility. Standard medical texts. Several volumes on cell biology. A greater number on reproductive physiology and embryology.

A door opened off the far corner of the room. Bathroom?

I held my breath and listened.

Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick.

I hurried over and turned the knob.

Whatever I was expecting, it was not what I saw. The room was dominated by two long counters crammed with microscopes, test tubes, and petri dishes. Glass-fronted cabinets held bottles and tubs. Jars of embryos and fetuses filled a set of shelves, each labeled with gestational age.

A young man was placing a container in one of three refrigerators lining the back wall. I read the label. Fetal bovine serum.

On hearing the door, the man turned. He wore a green T-shirt and camouflage pants tucked into black boots. His hair was slicked and bound at the neck. The initials JS hung from a gold chain around his neck. Styling commando.

His eyes shot past me into Zuckerman’s office.

“The doc let you in here?”

Before I could answer Zuckerman burst through the outer door. I turned, and our eyes locked for a couple of beats.

“You don’t belong here.” Her face was florid to the roots of her bad hair.