“I know. I did my training here and can find it okay.”
She grinned at him. “Of course. But you don’t remember me, do you?” She held out her hand. “Lena Downie. I was a clerk back then. Now I run the joint.” She gestured behind her where the administrative offices were. One of the doors had her name on it “You were one of the bright lights around here. And you’ve done well. I’ve read in the papers about your exploits.”
Earl felt his cheeks grow warm as he took her plump fingers in his palm and gently gave them a shake. “Thank you. But I’m sorry I don’t recall-”
“Don’t think anything of it. I was a skinny young woman back then. I’m a grandma now. So what’s the connection between these cases and Kelly’s murder?”
“Dr. Roper asked me to help out on a matter, and I’m not at liberty to discuss it.” Polite words, but his tone said, “None of your business!”
“I remember Dr. Roper, too,” she said, her armor not even dented by his reproach, “though he was here much more recently. A fine young physician. I also met his father once. He was a real gentleman as well.”
“Really,” Earl said, wondering what it would take to shut her up. He picked up the chart, all four volumes of it, each three inches thick – War and Peace looked slim by comparison – and carried them to a nearby desk.
“Yes. It was around the time you were a student here. I remember because I’d only been on the job a few months and got in trouble because I gave him a couple of charts to look at. He’d showed me his identification, and I thought it sufficient, his being a doctor and a coroner, without realizing he wasn’t on staff here. I nearly got fired over it. He was super though. Took all the blame – said that he hadn’t thought to go through channels and should have known better. Saved my skin, I tell you.”
Earl came to a standstill. “You remember what year that was?”
“Of course. Summer of nineteen seventy-four, when I first started. That was also the time when Kelly Braden disappeared. Was Dr. Roper Senior investigating that case, too?”
“Too?”
“Boy, that was some story back then, with all the speculation going on about what had happened to her, pointing fingers at Dr. Chaz Braden. I began to think this hospital was like Peyton Place. Wouldn’t have worked anywhere else. So come on, tell me. What have these two charts to do with Kelly?”
God, there was no stopping her. He figured any chance of keeping a low profile among anyone else within earshot had just died as well. But there might be an upside to this woman’s appetite for other people’s business. “You’ve got quite a memory, Lena.”
“People think working in records must be the dullest thing. Hey!” She gestured to the rest of the building stacked above them and leaned toward him. “Everything of importance that happens in this Casablanca comes through my domain.” She’d finally lowered her voice.
He took a look around. As far as he could see they were alone. At least he’d caught a break in that regard. But the stacks ran deep, and any number of people could be back in there. “I bet you don’t miss much either,” he whispered, still not willing to risk being overheard and hoping she’d take the cue.
She gave him a wink. “You got that right.” She’d dropped to a register suitable for a conspiracy.
“Maybe you could help me.”
She grinned. “Maybe.”
“I know it was a lot of years ago, but do you remember when exactly Dr. Roper’s father came here looking for the charts he was after that summer?”
Her smile lit up the entire basement. Obviously she enjoyed the intrigue. “How could I forget when it almost cost me my job? Toward the end of August, about two weeks after Kelly disappeared.” A look of astonishment swept over her face. “My gosh, had he discovered something?”
Earl ignored the question. “Any way you could find out what charts you gave him?”
Her expression faded, and she sadly shook her head. “Sorry. I never really looked at them.”
That would have been a bit of a long shot, he admitted. Nevertheless, the rest of story intrigued him.
He began to repeat his insistence that she not mention what they’d talked about to anyone when she squinted into the air as if trying to make out something not readily visible. “Wait a minute,” she said. “I do recall an interesting detail about those files. Never would never have remembered it if you hadn’t got me thinking. He asked for the charts the same way young Dr. Roper did this morning. Didn’t have the names, only the numbers. And something else similar. I remember having to fish one of them out of the DECEASED section back then, exactly like now.” She tapped her temple and gave him a knowing wink. “One alive. One already dead. Makes you wonder if I haven’t just given you those same two files, doesn’t it?”
He found a table off in a corner, opened the first volume, and began to read. The jumble of pipes running overhead groaned and clanked, exactly the way they had a quarter century ago, and the air ducts filled his ears with a rushing noise, making them seem plugged with water. He shivered, feeling as cut off and claustrophobic as when he’d been a student.
A particularly forlorn moan raced through the plumbing and traveled the length of the room.
Like an angry spirit, Earl thought.
That same day, 3:50 P.M.
Twenty Miles North of
Hampton Junction
“A woman having to give up her baby, now that’s a misery of the worst kind,” Nell said, grimacing as if she’d just tasted something sour. The lines ringing her face deepened into a map of disgust. “All those girls up there, shamed into hiding, simply because they fell in love with the wrong man at the wrong time.”
“Did you know anybody who worked there?” Mark asked.
“Nobody who’s still alive. The heyday of the place was in the fifties, before the pill. You’d be surprised at the number of women who had to find so-called homes like that, or worse, deal with some butcher in a back room with a pair of knitting needles. Thank God the kids in the sixties freed sex from the prudes.”
He knew from experience that to get anything from Nell, he had to first let her ramble about whatever was on her mind – her way of downloading mentally to make room for whatever he had on his mind. As she talked, he idly gazed around the interior of her living room. The log walls were aged a deep brown, but she’d kept them polished to a rich luster with wood oils. Small windows, a necessity to keep out the cold in the era before thermal glass, prevented what little afternoon light remained from making its way inside. Yet the place wasn’t gloomy. A fire in the stone hearth at their feet provided its own special illumination, and oil lamps – tall, elegant, and bright enough to read by – filled the house with a golden glow. Not that the cabin didn’t have electricity. Her son put in recessed lighting along with baseboard heaters decades ago, yet she favored the softness of flame.
To his left a partially drawn curtain hung over the entrance to an adjacent room, where a brass bed covered with a handmade quilt – any antique dealer would kill for it – filled most of the space. Photos of her children and grandchildren adorned the walls. She’d positioned them so they kept watch on her while she slept. Off to one side a small extension housed a modest bathroom with an old-fashioned steel tub.
At his right a doorway opened into an equally tiny kitchen dominated by a magnificent woodstove. On it she’d prepared meals for her two children during the years she raised them alone, her husband having been killed in the Battle of the Bulge during the final months of World War II. Even now she preferred its steady heat for baking to the gas range that her daughter had had installed so she needn’t haul wood anymore.