The Silent Girls (16 page)

Chapter 32

R
ATH WAITED
OUTSIDE
Langevine’s office building. The temperature had risen to hover just above freezing, and he was chilled to the bone standing in the raw, damp cold. The sweat that had soaked his shirt during the hearing was icy against his skin now. He shuddered, trying to wipe the hearing from his mind. He’d left before Preacher had spoken, unequipped to deal with such a performance. He was exhausted.

Grout strode down the sidewalk toward him, and they walked toward Langevine’s office. “How’d it go?” Grout said.

Rath didn’t answer.

“Sorry,” Grout said, and clapped a hand on Rath’s shoulder.

Inside, an elderly woman showed them to Dr. Langevine’s office.

Dr. Langevine sat behind a modest pine desk, a slight man, delicate and diminutive, with narrow, bony shoulders beneath a slightly baggy pink-striped oxford. He was on the phone and extended a hand, his fingers long and fine as he covered the phone’s receiver with his other hand. His handshake was certain and warm. He eyed two chairs over large, round eyeglasses of the sort Rath hadn’t seen since John Denver on the Muppets.

Rath and Grout sat, Rath noting Langevine’s thick but impeccably trimmed red beard and absurd flop of red hair, and, in another throwback, a single wave of bangs hanging to his eyebrows.

Langevine’s minimalist office was the opposite of Snell’s, the walls absent of painting or prints, displaying a sole diploma and a medical license. Books on a shelf were aligned so precisely it was as if the books were never removed for reading. Langevine hung up the phone and sat with a smile of disarming warmth and kindness. He shook mints from a dispenser and popped them in his mouth, making a tiny, sucking noise, as if slurping the dregs of a milk shake through a straw. Then he folded his thin fingers on his knees and rocked slightly in his chair. “How may I assist you?”

Grout took a tape recorder from his coat. “Mind if I tape this? I hate taking notes.”

Langevine smiled again, a waft of mint mouthwash coming from him. “Be my guest.”

Grout set the tape recorder on the edge of the desk, where it whirred. “We believe you had a patient by the name of Mandy Wilks,” he said.

“Oh, gentlemen, sincerest apologies.” The doctor’s voice was soft as talcum powder. “I can’t comment on patients. I’m afraid—”

Grout plucked the subpoena from the same pocket from which he’d taken the tape recorder, set it on the desk.

Dr. Langevine glanced at it and nodded cordially. “Well, then, at your service.”

“Understand,” Rath said, “this is also about helping find your patient, who may be the victim of a crime. We can take her records with us, but wed prefer to have you answer pressing questions now, as well.”

“I have to say it does make me a trifle uncomfortable yet. I’ve never spoken openly about a patient to anyone other than the patient herself or staff.”

“Understood,” Grout said.

“Proceed.” Dr. Langevine dipped his chin at Grout.

“To give context,” Grout said, “Mandy disappeared late the night of October twenty-one or early on the twenty-second.”

“This world.” Dr. Langevine said.

“What was she seeing you for?” Grout said.

“Reproductive health.”

“Did she have a venereal disease?”

Dr. Langevine was clearly uncomfortable. But then, he had reason to be. This was a rare circumstance, and the information he might give was of the most personal.

“No,” he said, “she did not.”

“Was she pregnant?”

“No. At least not at her last scheduled appointment.”

Rath felt his shoulders sag with disappointment then straightened himself. “And when was that?” he asked.

“I’d have to check.”

“We’ll wait.”

As Langevine set about typing on his keyboard, Grout asked, “What was she like the last time you saw her? Her behavior. Was she agitated, nervous, distracted? Upset?”

“The last time I saw her?” Langevine stared at Rath from behind his glasses with big, magnified eyes that made him look a bit of the kook.

“If you could give us one word,” Rath said.

“Maybe a bit nervous,” Langevine said. “But that’s entirely normal for a young girl for such a visit.”

“She wasn’t depressed or upset or—”

“No. A tad nervous. More shy really. That’s it.”

“And what did she see you for, her last appointment?”

“Her annual check up. Here it is.” Langevine spun his monitor for Rath and Grout to see. “Friday, September 2.”

Grout glanced at Rath.

“You’re sure?” Grout said.

“Absolutely. Eve, my front-desk administrator, is scrupulous. I insist on it.”

Rath stared at Langevine, who met his gaze evenly.

“We have a conflict,” Rath said.

“Excuse me?” said Langevine. His voice remained level, unexcited but tinged with that natural curiosity of someone truly at a loss.

Grout tapped a hand on the chair arm, and said, “We have it from a sound witness that your patient was seen here in your office on Tuesday, October 4.”

“Impossible.”

“This witness is certain,” Grout said.

“He’s mistaken.” Langevine’s gaze and voice were resolute.

“Look,” Grout said, leaning in, “this witness is reliable. He’s the only reason we even knew she was a patient of yours. So you tell us how he sees a girl who is a stranger to him walk into this office on Tuesday, October 4, and you say it’s impossible, yet this girl is
your
patient. Do you know the odds of that coincidence?”

“Infinitesimal, I imagine,” Langevine said. “Nevertheless, the witness is mistaken.”

“Now look,” Grout said, rising halfway out of his chair.

Rath cleared his throat, and Grout sat back down.

“Perhaps your calendar is wrong,” Rath said, leaning to get a better look at the calendar on the monitor.

“As you see.” Langevine pointed to Tuesday, October 25 on his calendar, then the eighteenth, and the eleventh. “My office is closed Tuesdays, gentlemen.”

Grout and Rath stared at the calendar.

“If you like,” Langevine said, “I can call in Eve to attest to this, or any number of patients sitting out there now, many of whom are peeved I am closed on Tuesdays.”

Rath shook his head. “That won’t be necessary.”

Grout sat back, his jaw set.

“The office is closed,” Langevine said, “but the main door only leads to the waiting room, and from there no one can access the back offices and rooms. So, the door to the hallway may have been unlocked to allow cleaners access. It’s possible Ms. Wilks stopped in for some reason and, finding that the office door was unlocked, entered.”

“Wouldn’t she have known you were closed on Tuesdays?” Grout said.

“Apparently, no.”

“What could she have wanted to see you about?” Rath asked.

“I wish I could say.”

“She also visited Family Matters that day,” Grout said.

Rath flinched, wishing Grout had not played that card. It was sloppy.

“Well,” Langevine said, “she obviously came here for a purpose, perhaps something pressing, and when she found the office closed, went to them. They might be able to shed more light than I, in that case.”

“Let’s hope so,” Rath said.

“Will there be anything else?” Langevine directed his eyes to Rath.

“Yes,” Grout said. “You have CCTV.”

“Excuse me?”

“Closed Circuit TV. We will need to look at all the tapes from that Tuesday, along with getting copies of all Ms. Wilks’s records.”

“The records of course I can give you. The tapes, or digital chips, or whatever they are, unfortunately, I believe, but you can double check with security, are overwritten every couple weeks.”

“We will. We’ll expect copies of the records sent to this e-mail.” Grout handed Langevine his card.

Dr. Langevine escorted them out of his office to the hallway, limping faintly, his leg having apparently fallen asleep with it tossed on top of the other leg’s knee. Rath disliked when it happened, the odd prickling sensation that followed a dead numbness.

“Come back anytime with questions, gentleman,” Langevine said. “Except Tuesdays, of course.”

Chapter 33

O
UTSID
E,
R
ATH WEDGED
a pinch of dip in his lip. “Think he’s telling the truth?”

“At first, when he denied the girl was at his office, no. After. I got no read that he was lying.”

“Me either. Let’s see what’s doing at Family Matters.”

At the corner, they stood waiting for the light to change, so they could cross.

“I hate these abortion factories,” Grout grumbled with a bitterness that took Rath aback.

“I didn’t know you were political,” Rath said.

“Screw politics.”

“Religious?”

“God, no.”

Rath pressed the button on the light post beside him that was meant to speed the changing of the signal but never did. The light finally changed.

They crossed and walked in silence toward the next intersection, across from which was the Family Matters. At the corner, a small gang of picketers paced up ahead, directly across from the Family Matters building. There were eight picketers in all. Five were middle-aged, overweight women with tragic faces, each wearing a crucifix necklace. They paced in a drudging circle, picket signs hefted overhead as they babbled some incoherent prayer. Two more picketers were men in their forties. The last picketer was a girl of perhaps eight years old. She hefted a sign that read:
THAN
K GOD MY MOTHER DIDN
’T MURDER ME.

As Rath and Grout approached, the picketers parted peaceably.

Inside the Family Matter’s reception area, several girls sat awaiting appointments. They each looked up at Rath and Grout with uneasy eyes.

A woman with the cropped pewter hair, wire eyeglasses, and smock of a high-school art teacher bustled anxiously over to them.

Two men in such a setting, Rath thought. Was it cause for alarm? Maybe.

The woman was about to speak when Grout showed his badge. “We phoned.”

“Yes,” the woman said, glancing about the room of women apologetically. “This way, please.” She hurried them down a narrow hallway with the waddle of a penguin.

The room was a hothouse nursery. The spider plants dangling over the sides of suspended pots, rows of African violets on the windowsill behind a metal desk, and two stupendous rubber trees in the back corners overwhelmed the small, overly warm office. The room smelled of dank potting soil and lush plant life. Bookshelves constructed of cinder blocks and two-by-ten planks took up one wall. Even the shelves were given primarily to more plants. On the desk sat framed photos of the woman and what were apparently her children and grandchildren.

“I’m June,” the woman said, and sat, the leaf of a spider plant dangling unnoticed in her face. She offered a smile Rath sensed she’d given a million times. A reassuring smile:
I know this is hard, but it will be all right. With time.
She did not ask Rath or Grout to sit, but they sat anyway.

Grout took the subpoena out from his jacket pocket and set it on the desk.

“What’s that?” June said, a lilt of surprise in her voice.

“A subpoena,” Grout said.

“I wouldn’t really know if it was real or not. But, one has to trust in others.”

Rath thought June sounded more spiritual than the religious picketers outside.

“This is about Mandy Wilks,” Grout said. “She visited you Tuesday, October fourth.”

“I have her file.” June placed a finger with an unpolished nail rimed with a faint edge of dirt, potting soil likely, on a manila folder. “And on the computer, of course.”

“Why did she visit here?” Grout asked.

June took a drink from a Nalgene bottle. “I’m sorry. I should have offered you something to drink.”

Grout waved her off. “Why did she come here?”

“For Ortho Tri-Cyclen.”

Rath and Grout exchanged looks of confusion.

“The pill,” June clarified.

“How long was she on it?” Rath said.

“Is that relevant?” June said.

“We only ask relevant questions,” Grout said.

“Since August eleventh. Not long.”

“But she could still get pregnant?” Grout said.

“Only abstinence, a vasectomy, or tubal ligation works one hundred percent.”

“Was she pregnant?” Rath asked. June’s blink rate increased. Just for an instant.

“I—”

Rath sat up straight. If Mandy were pregnant, it would be a link to Julia, a commonality at least.

“Was she?” Grout said.

“It’s hard to say exactly. I think—”

Why was she hesitating? Rath wondered.

“Not to be callous,” Grout said, impatiently. “But either she was or she wasn’t.”

“The fact is,” June said, “I don’t know. I know she wanted to see me badly that day, and I had a strong suspicion it was because she was pregnant or thought she was and wanted to find out for certain.”

“There are home tests for that,” Grout said brusquely. “My wife used them. Why would Mandy need you?”

“Those tests sometimes give false positives. And some girls, especially if they have no strong figures in their lives and are afraid of the baby’s father for some reason, they don’t like to find out at home, alone. They want someone they can trust to be there.”

“Right,” Grout said. “So, you suspect she came here that day because she was pregnant?”

“Yes.”

“And if she was, she’d want to get rid of the baby?” Grout cracked.

“Help,” June corrected. “She’d want help. Options.”

“Mmm,” Grout said, chewing the inside of his cheek.

Rath noted that June’s temple pulsed rapidly. The faint down on her upper lip glistened with perspiration. “Contrary to what some people think, we’re not some on-demand, drive-thru abortion mill. The notion that girls just stroll in and get abortions like they’re getting their hair done, then stroll out to go party is a manifest lie and a gross under-estimation of the toll it takes and the other services we provide.”

“Right,” Grout said.

Rath wanted to backhand Grout. Instead, he stretched a leg out to calm the spasm in his back. He was starving, spent. Had not slept well, if at all, in days. His head swam with murderous thoughts of Preacher.

“Can you tell us about her general demeanor, the time before last, when she came in for the pill?” Grout asked.

“She seemed very nervous.”

“Is that common?”

“Nervousness is. But this was something more. She seemed more nervous than most. Almost panicked. Or as if she was being pressured to go on the pill.”

“Who would pressure her?” Grout said.

“I don’t even know if that is what it was—”

“Who? Just going on that assumption. A boyfriend?”

June nodded.

“Speak for the tape recorder,” Grout said.

“A boyfriend is the most obvious. Perhaps an older boyfriend.”

“A man?” Grout said.

“Could be a man. Often older men pressure a girl to get protection, and—”

“And you take exception to that?” Grout said.

June’s throat flushed pink. “It’s not my place either way, as a professional.”

“What about as a person?” Grout said. “You’d prefer a girl not be pressured to use the pill, to be responsible. Then when she ends up in a fix, the same guy that might have pressured her to get contraception has no say if—”

“I prefer protection,” June snapped.

“So,” Rath said. “If you could explain for me. The last time she came. If she came in because she was pregnant or to find out if she was pregnant, how come you don’t know if she was or not?”

“I never ended up seeing her.”

Grout folded his arms across his chest, his entire posture closed off to the interview now. It was an alarming transformation that unsettled and embarrassed Rath.

“And why is that?” Rath said, taking over the interview.

June glanced out the window that overlooked a bench on the sidewalk. “The last time I saw her, she was sitting on that bench. She preferred to wait outside. I don’t know if she just liked the fresh air or if being around the other girls inside made her uncomfortable. I can’t imagine how they could make her any more uncomfortable than those wretched protestors.”

“Did you ever see any of the protestors invade her personal space?” Rath said.

“No more than they do anyone else.”

“Did you ever see her with anyone, a man or boyfriend, anyone at all who she looked uncomfortable around, or fearful of?”

“No one.”

“So, she was just sitting out there alone on that bench?” Rath said.

“Yes. Well. No. There was an older woman sitting on the bench, too.”

“How old?”

“Hard to say. But rather frail. I’d see her out there once in a while. Feeding the birds.”

“Did she speak to Mandy?”

“Not that I saw. She was at one end of the bench, and Mandy was at the other. But Mandy, she had this look on her face. She was just staring into space, and she looked so stricken. Aggrieved. I wanted to go out there and tell her I would just be a little while longer. But I got tied up in a meeting. I actually set aside protocol and left the meeting and went out there to speak to her.” June cleared her throat. “I got stopped on my way out, a nurse with a pressing question. By the time I got out there, Mandy was gone.”

O
UTSID
E,
R
ATH GRABBED
Grout by the shoulder and spun him around. “What was that?” he demanded.

Grout looked fiercely at Rath’s hand on his shoulder, shrugged it off. “Nothing.”

“You lost professionalism in there.”

“Who are you to tell me about professionalism?” Grout started away.

Rath grasped his elbow.

Grout wheeled around, backing Rath against a storefront. His eyes wide, daring. He was ten years younger than Rath and forty pounds heavier. His pupils were pinpricks. “You’re not a cop. So don’t lecture me about professionalism.”

He turned and started away again, and Rath let him.

The protestors were gone now, the sidewalk barren. Rath wondered what had set Grout off. Something had happened. That much was clear. Something ugly.