Garcia’s late wife had been a nurse, and Bernadette suspected that he still had a thing for them. “You know, one of them could be the—”
“I know,” he said quickly. “I’m not dismissing the possibility.”
“Go upstairs and start questioning them. I can babysit the body.”
“You sure?”
“When the rest of our guys show, send one of them down.”
• • •
Twenty minutes after Garcia left, one of the Minneapolis agents appeared in the hallway. “Hey, Bern.”
She blinked twice. What was
he
doing here? “Hey B.K.” He was dressed in a work suit but had a puffy down coat in his arms and clunky, fat boots on his feet. “You’re a tech guy. I didn’t know Garcia needed—”
“I volunteered,” he said cheerfully, and then added, “I don’t work exclusively with technology, you know. I
do
do other things.”
Garcia came down the hallway. “You’re with me now, Saint Clare. Cahill is going to relieve you.”
Carson Cahill
. That was Big Kid’s real name. Bernadette stepped around the big blond boy. “Thanks, Carson.”
“Wait,” Cahill said after her. “Where’s the body, exactly?”
Garcia opened the door to the room. “Against the far wall.”
Cahill looked at a stack of cardboard boxes sitting against the wall. “No way.”
Bernadette stepped next to Garcia and pointed to the closed door of the compartment. “In there. That’s a cooler.”
Cahill nodded. “Oh, yeah. Right.”
Bernadette closed the door to the room. “No one enters. The crime-scene guys have to do their thing.”
“I’m on it,” said Cahill, pulling back his blazer to reveal a gun tucked into a shoulder holster.
“I don’t know about leaving him alone,” said Bernadette as she and Garcia climbed the stairs to the first floor.
“What do you mean?”
“Thought he worked with computers and phones and cameras. Surveillance equipment. Junk like that.”
“He’s young, but he can handle himself.” Garcia opened the door to the first floor and motioned toward the ER, which occupied one of the tips of the U-shaped hospital. “Reinforcements have landed and the place is on lockdown.”
“Great.”
“I told the nurses that something had been drawn on the girl’s body and then removed while she was here,” said Garcia. “I didn’t describe the symbol, but one of the gals immediately asked if it was a devil or witch sign.”
“I’m going to want to talk to that nurse.”
“She said there’re things going on we should know about,” said Garcia.
“Like the sound of that,” said Bernadette.
“Figured you would.”
CHAPTER FIVE
T
he ER break room reeked of burned microwave popcorn, scorched coffee, and chocolate cake. Paper cutouts of mittens and snowmen were taped to the walls, each ornament labeled with a name drawn in glitter. Bernadette assumed they were all ER staff members, as one of the mittens was labeled “Sven.” Bernadette sat across a sticky Formica table from one of the nurses while Garcia talked with a soggy hospital administrator out in the hallway. The man’s wife had dragged him out of the shower to take Dr. Hessler’s frantic call. He’d driven over to Crow Wing Lakes Memorial immediately, pulling a stocking cap on over his wet head. He’d repeatedly asked Bernadette to excuse him for not removing the hat.
“Officer Garcia, I am so sorry this …”
Bernadette got up and closed the door. She’d heard the apology multiple times, and with each mea culpa the fellow had used a different rank or title for her boss. Sergeant. Captain. Detective. He had yet to get it right. At least she knew the poor guy was taking the corpse-tampering seriously. So were the nurses, and one in particular had some ideas on who had been involved.
Bernadette went back to the table, sat down, and flipped her notebook to a clean page. “I missed that last part, Delores.”
Delores Martini—a husky woman with black hair tied in a severe bun behind her head—took a sip from her
ER TAKES THE PRESSURE
coffee mug and smiled grimly, revealing a gap between her top front teeth. “I knew something like this was going to happen. Predicted it.”
Bernadette frowned. “By that you mean—”
“Break-in, not the murder. The murder threw me for a loop. Who knew that crap could happen around here? Security screwup—that’s what I’m talking about. I told them they needed cameras. Needed to staff the front desk around the clock. Nobody listens.” Nurse Martini took another sip of coffee. “Always trying to do it on the cheap. Now they’ve got a witch running around the place, messing with bodies and whatnot. Serves them right, I say.”
Bernadette put her pen to her pad. “Yeah. Let’s go over that again. This Jordan Ashe is—”
“An authentic, certified, bona fide, licensed, bonded, and insured witch. Probably has framed witch diplomas hanging from her black walls.”
“How do you know?”
“She told me. Calls herself a
Wiccan
. Know what I say? A witch by any other name—”
“Are there other practitioners around town?”
“Hell, no. She’s the only oddball. Everyone else is Lutheran or Methodist or some other proper Christian religion.” She pointed at Bernadette’s notebook. “I’m a Catholic. Put that down for the record. Born and raised Roman Catholic.”
“But no one reported seeing her in or around the hospital?”
“Too smart to get caught. Too sneaky. Besides, the way this place is run these days Charles Manson could waltz in here with a machete, sign the visitor log, and pin on a badge. No one would stop him.”
Bernadette slapped the photo of Lydia on the table and slid it across to Martini. “Take a good look. Ever see Ashe with this girl?”
“What was her name?” Martini asked.
“If you could just look,” said Bernadette.
Martini picked up the picture, studied it hard, and shook her head. “Never laid eyes on that kid before. Don’t know nothing about her.”
“You think Ashe drew the pentagram in the first place?”
“She’s a witch,” said Martini, sliding the photo back to Bernadette. “That’s what they do, isn’t it? That’s their deal. Pentagrams. Monograms. Other Devil symbols and signs.”
“Ever see her display a temper or heard her threaten anyone?”
“Not really.”
“Is Jordan Ashe capable of murder?”
A shrug. “As far as murder goes, I don’t know. She’s capable of being a witch. That alone should get her locked up, I say. Good-for-nothing witch.”
“You really don’t like this woman,” said Bernadette.
“She came in here a while back and wanted to peddle that healing-touch bullshit to our patients. Idiot administrators were ready to give her the green light until some of the docs pulled their heads out of their asses. Opened up their mouths and said they didn’t want that healing-touch mumbo jumbo around here.”
“Healing touch?”
“You put your hands over the patient, kind of wave them over the body without actually touching it.” She took a deep drink and set down her mug. “Your good energy or electricity flows into the patient and helps them get better.”
“So it’s an alternative therapy.”
“A load of malarkey.”
“Is that how Ashe makes her living? Healing touch?”
“Hear she does it out of her home for fifty dollars a session. Plus she makes these pots and figurines, sells them out of witch headquarters. On top of all that silliness, she does psychic readings. A real medical professional, this chick. And the hospital was ready to give the flake her own flipping office.”
“Where does she live?”
“In the woods with her fat hippie boyfriend, Karl Vizner.”
“What does he do?”
“Drives a snowplow.” Martini took a sip of coffee.
“A
real loser.”
“Can you give me directions to their house?”
“I can draw you a map.”
“A
map would be good.” Bernadette tore a page out of her notebook and handed it to the nurse.
Martini took a pencil out of her smock and started scribbling. “She’s not from around here, you know. She’s from Los Angeles. Big surprise. The crazies in California.”
“Right,” said Bernadette.
Martini frowned at her drawing and erased part of it. “If I were you, I’d try to make the drive during the day. They live outside of town, practically
in
the forest.”
“Paul Bunyan State Forest?”
With a dark face, Martini looked up from her drawing and nodded toward the photo of Lydia. “Same forest where the body was found. Now, how close to the exact same spot, I don’t know.”
“Hmmm.”
Martini went back to the map. “Winter or summer, those back roads can be rough going. Half of them ain’t marked worth a damn. Cell-phone reception in the woods is hit-or-miss. What I’m saying is, get stuck at night and you’re screwed.”
“You’ve been to their place?”
Barking a laugh, Martini said, “Wouldn’t be caught dead. I just know where they live. Everyone knows. They’re what you might call
infamous.”
Bernadette stood up, taking the photo with her. “Thanks for the help, Delores.”
Martini stopped writing and ran her eyes up and down Bernadette’s slight figure. “Hope you ain’t planning on going out there by yourself. Karl hunts, so he’s got guns. They’ve got a pack of dogs, too. Call ahead so they lock them up. Everyone calls ahead before going over there.”
Bernadette took the slip of paper from Martini and examined it. “I appreciate your concern, but I’ve got a gun—and a big partner.”
“I seen him out in the hall,” said Martini, tucking an errant band of hair behind her ear. “He could double for that Erik Estrada actor. A young Erik Estrada, from the
CHiPs
days. I suppose he hears that all the time.”
“I’ll make sure he hears it now,” said Bernadette, jamming the slip of paper into her jacket pocket.
Hessler was at the end of a double shift, and Garcia and Bernadette agreed to get him out of the way next.
The size of a closet, Hessler’s office was crowded with an old metal desk and floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. If there was a window, it was buried behind the walls of medical reference materials. Instead of hiding behind his metal clunker during the interview, the doctor propped his butt on the edge of it to talk to them. The agents sat in folding chairs. Most of their questions were about the storage room/morgue and its key.
“You said the nursing supervisor keeps the key,” said Bernadette.
“I should have said
generally
keeps the key,” he said quickly. “Tonight, I had it. Sometimes at night, it’s the physician on duty. It never left my pocket.”
“What if the cafeteria needs to get something out of there?” asked Garcia.
“Cafeteria is closed at night.”
“During the day,” said Bernadette. “Do they have to hunt down the nursing supervisor, or does the cafeteria staff have access?”
“Cooks have a key,” said Hessler.
“Where do they keep it?” asked Bernadette.
He hesitated. “Hanging up in the kitchen.”
“So anyone can use it?” asked Garcia.
“When there’s a body in the room, they don’t enter,” the doctor said defensively.
“Honor system?” asked Bernadette.
Hessler: “Well… I guess.”
“I saw computer paper in there,” said Bernadette. “Office staff have a key?”
Hessler rubbed his bloodshot eyes with his thumb and index finger. “Yes, but they know not to go in.”
“No security guard on at night?” asked Bernadette.
“Budget cuts,” Hessler said tiredly “We’ve got a sign. Visitors use the desk phone to call ER for an escort.”
“Anyone call tonight?” asked Garcia. “Anyone come to see a patient late? Anyone come by late for any reason? A pharmacy delivery or—”
Hessler shook his head. “No one.”
“That you know of,” said Garcia.
“That I know of,” Hessler conceded.
“And during the day virtually anyone could have grabbed a key to that room,” said Bernadette.
Hessler: “What do you want me to say?”
“One other question,” said Bernadette. “Did Delores Martini disappear at all during her shift?”
Hessler rubbed his eyes again. “Agent Saint Clare, there are so few of us on at night, and this is such a small hospital. I not only cover the ER, I take care of all the patients on the floor. Same with the nurses. ER and the patients on the floor. Back and forth. We all wear many hats and do
everything
. We hardly have time to use the bathroom.”
“You had time for birthday cake,” Bernadette said dryly.
Hessler frowned. “Why are you focusing on Delores? Did she—”
“We’re not focusing on anyone,” Bernadette said quickly. “She’s the only nurse we’ve interviewed so far. Trying to see who can vouch for whom. Anyone else disappear, even for a few minutes?”
He raised his right hand. “Swear to God,
no one
working under me tonight had opportunity to touch that body.”
“Don’t speak to anyone about the details of this conversation,” said Bernadette as she and Garcia got up.
“I’d like to go home and go to bed,” Hessler said. “Am I free to leave?”
“Go ahead,” Bernadette said over her shoulder.
When they were down the hall and out of Hessler’s earshot, Garcia asked, “Why’d you toss in that question about Martini specifically?”
“She was a little too helpful.”
“A
tight little group, this ER crew,” said Garcia. “They’re going to back each other up.”
Bernadette looked into an empty patient room. Through the windows, she saw Hessler heading for his car. The tall man was bent over in a question mark as he walked. The long black coat hanging from his lean frame only added to his insectlike appearance. “He sure flew out of here,” she said, pointing toward the window.
They saw Hessler get in a sedan, start up the car, and peel out of the lot without bothering to clear even his windshield.
“Wonder where he’s going in such a hurry,” said Garcia.
“Miss!” yelled a voice across the hall.
Both agents turned. An enormously pregnant woman was summoning them from her bed. She’d kicked off her covers and seemed to be struggling to sit up. Her hospital gown was hiked halfway up her generous thighs.
Bernadette headed for the room. “She needs a hand.”
“I’m not going in there,” said Garcia. “She said
Miss
, not
Mister.”
One of the Minneapolis agents came up to him with a question, and the two men went down the hall together.
“Want help sitting up?” asked Bernadette, moving to the bedside.
“Ah, screw it. Isn’t worth it.” The woman dropped back against the pillows. She had a plump, rosy face and straight blond hair down to her shoulders.
“Want me to raise your head?”
“That’d be great, doll.”
Bernadette pushed the controls on the bed rails. “When’re you due?”
“First thing in the morning.”
“A
Cesarean?”
“Yup.”
“Good luck.”
“I saw deputies going up and down the hall,” said the woman.
“A
bunch of guys in suits. Are you with them?”
“Yeah. I’m an FBI agent. Bernadette Saint Clare.”
“This about that girl on the news?” The woman protectively put her hands on her mountainous belly. “Television said they cut out her baby.”
The details had gotten out, and quickly. Bernadette took the photo from her jacket and showed it to the woman. “See her around town?”
The woman whipped the picture out of Bernadette’s fingers. “So this is the poor thing. What’s her name?”
“She look familiar?”
“I’ve been on bed rest. Stuck inside.” The woman handed it back to Bernadette, and her eyes widened. “Christ. Did someone at the hospital do it?”
“No, no,” said Bernadette, afraid to upset the expectant mother. “The body was brought here, that’s all.”
That lame explanation seemed to satisfy her, and she nodded. “Oh. Right.”
“If this girl sought out prenatal care, any idea where she might have gone?”
The woman didn’t hesitate. “Clinic in Akeley. West end of down town, a couple of blocks off the main drag. It’s close to the hospital, and the doctor there is the best. Eve Bossard. She’s so popular, everybody loves her. Around here, you can’t swing a dead cat by the tail without hitting a girl named Eve.”
“Eve Bossard,” Bernadette repeated.
“Really nice lady. Makes house calls. Can you imagine that in this day and age?”
“No, I can’t.”
“Operates a free clinic certain afternoons. Doesn’t care how poor you are or what sort of health insurance you’ve got.”
“That’s wonderful,” said Bernadette.
“Plus she’s a specialist. Handles difficult pregnancies.” The woman added proudly, “I’m having twins.”
After Bernadette left the room, she took out her notebook and flipped to a clean page. Wrote down two words: