Blind Sight Page 8

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Eve Bossard was exactly what Bernadette expected in a do-gooder small-town doc: a slightly frumpy lady with a hippy Earth Mother aura about her.

  Bossard’s jean skirt went down well past her knees. Instead of nylons, she wore black tights that sagged a bit at the ankles. On her feet were the requisite Birkenstock clogs. Her long brown hair was pulled away from her face by a single fat braid that dangled halfway down her back. Strands of gray streaked the brown.

  The woman was probably in her late forties—about a decade older than Bernadette—but not a dot of makeup decorated her face. Bernadette suspected that she was one of those driven professionals who couldn’t find the time for frivolous niceties. The doctor walked and talked with the speed of someone who needed more hours in the day to get things done.

  While the two agents leaned their backs against a wall, waiting for Bossard to finish examining a woman behind the closed door of a hospital room, Bernadette offered her initial opinion of the doctor. “She’s cool.”

  Garcia bounced his back against the wall. “We met her for two seconds, while she was going from one room to the other.”

  “She looks like my high school home-ec teacher.”

  “Did she have that unibrow thing going, too?”

  “You’re mean.”

  “Probably wears those opaque tights because she doesn’t shave her legs.”

  “That’s a shitty thing to say.”

  “Hey, some men like that hirsute stuff.”

  She checked her watch. “Can’t believe we’re back here. We spend any more time in this joint, they’re going to start billing us.”

  The door popped open and Bossard walked into the hallway, her clogs clopping on the linoleum floor. They peeled their backs off the wall and made a beeline for the obstetrician. Garcia opened his mouth to speak and Bossard held up a long index finger. “Give me one minute.”

  While the physician wrote in a folder, Bernadette studied the woman’s hands. Were they large enough? Didn’t matter. Couldn’t have been her; she’d been at the hospital all day.

  “There,” said Bossard, closing the folder. “What do you want to know?”

  She didn’t sound madder than hell. Bernadette figured White hadn’t yet told Bossard what had happened at the clinic. Good. “Did you take care of this girl?” asked Bernadette, holding up the photograph of Lydia.

  The doctor looked past the photo at the two agents. “Come on, guys. I can’t talk about my patients. You know that.”

  “Please, just look,” said Garcia.

  Bossard hesitated, and then examined the picture. “Sorry,” she said, glancing up from the photograph. “She’s never been a patient.”

  “You’re certain?”

  Bossard’s eyes widened. “That’s the girl they found in the woods?”

  “Yes,” said Garcia.

  Bossard took a step back from the two agents and hugged the paperwork to her chest. “Why would you think she came to see me?”

  “We were told you have clinic hours for poor folks,” said Bernadette. “We were hoping she might have stopped by.”

  “Not all teenagers seek prenatal care,” said Bossard.

  “At some point they have to go in,” said Garcia. “This girl was pretty far along.”

  “A few manage to hide the fact they’re pregnant, and even deny to themselves that they’re carrying a child. End up delivering on the bathroom floor of their parents’ home. In a gas-station toilet. Sometimes the baby makes it. Sometimes not.” Bossard’s voice and lashes dropped. “Teen pregnancy can be—”

  “You’re certain this pregnant teen was never seen at your clinic,” Bernadette interrupted, holding the photo higher.

  “I have a small practice, and I know all my patients quite well. I’ve never seen her before. I’m sorry.”

  “So are we,” said Bernadette, putting the picture back inside her pocket.

  “We get lots of tourists, especially on weekends. She could have gotten lost in the crowds. During the week, there’s a chance she would have been noticed. The streets aren’t so busy then. Red hair would have made her stand out.”

  “Do you have any suggestions on other clinics or docs we could try?” asked Garcia. “Was there a place a runaway would have hung out?”

  “We don’t get a lot of runaways up here. As far as other physicians go …” She bit down on her bottom lip.

  Bossard didn’t want to piss off her colleagues. Tough, thought Bernadette. “Is there a man OB around here?”

  “Not anywhere close. To find a male obstetrician, you’d have to drive all the way to …” Bossard stopped herself, and her eyes got as big as saucers. “You can’t possibly think one of us did it! That’s crazy! We spend all day trying to save babies and mothers!”

  Now she’s madder than hell, thought Bernadette. “Dr. Bossard—”

  “I don’t believe this!”

  “Ma’am,” said Garcia.

  “If you think I’m going to send you after another obstetrician, you’re mistaken. We rely on each other up here. They’d never speak to me again! My name would be mud!” She paused in her diatribe and her eyes narrowed. She looked from one agent to the other. “What evidence do you have? I’d really like to know. Was the procedure—”

  “The procedure was a bloody mess,” Bernadette said.

  Bossard opened her mouth to say something and promptly clamped it shut.

  Garcia: “Dr. Bossard, if you know something—”

  “Oh, boy” the physician said under her breath. “I really shouldn’t. I’ve got no reason to believe she’d be involved.”

  “Who?” Bernadette asked.

  Bossard’s mouth stretched into a straight, hard line. “She’s not a medical doctor.”

  Bernadette could practically see the woman’s mind cranking away, working to justify the betrayal. “A name …”

  “I like Sonia very much,” said Bossard. “Really, I do. But she has a hard time acknowledging her limits. She isn’t a physician.”

  “Who?” asked Garcia.

  “Sonia Graham,” said Bossard.

  The doc surrendered the name a little too quickly, thought Bernadette. No love lost between these two women.

  “She promotes some … positive things,” Bossard said grudgingly. “Drug-free births, breast-feeding, proper nutrition. She’s a midwife. Was a midwife.”

  “Was?” asked Bernadette.

  The straight, hard mouth again. “She agreed to do a home birth. I don’t approve of home births. Like many OBs, I believe midwives should deliver in a hospital setting. Then if something goes awry—”

  “What happened?” asked Bernadette.

  “The mother was a VBAC. Vaginal birth after Cesarean. Poor candidate for a home birth, and I told Sonia that repeatedly. The risk of a uterine rupture was too great.”

  “What happened?” asked Bernadette.

  “The mother hemorrhaged postpartum.”

  “She died?” asked Garcia.

  “She made it to the hospital. The baby lived. The mother lived. But it was a bloody mess,” said Bossard. “No other way to describe it.”

  “You were the one who came to the rescue?” asked Bernadette.

  Bossard nodded grimly.

  “Did Graham lose her license?” asked Garcia.

  “She agreed to stop practicing.” Bossard smiled tightly. “After I insisted.”

  “We’ll have to run this down,” said Garcia.

  “Do you think she’s capable of murder?” Bernadette asked. “I mean, a home birth turned sour is one thing, but—”

  “How do you know it didn’t start out as a home birth turned sour?” asked Bossard.

  Bernadette didn’t want to get into the fact that the girl’s head was bashed in—not usually part of a home birth, turned sour or not. “Well, that’s a good point.”

  “We won’t know until after we talk to the ME,” added Garcia.

  “A teenage girl, a stranger to tow
n—how would she have hooked up with Graham?” asked Bernadette.

  “Everyone knows her,” said Bossard. “She’s got her followers. She has a yoga studio in Walker. Conducts special exercise classes for pregnant mothers. Dispenses advice on nutrition and breastfeeding.”

  Bernadette thought back to what she’d observed with her sight: hands placed on a woman’s abdomen. “Is it possible she’s still making house calls on the side?”

  “Would she risk another delivery?” asked Garcia.

  Bossard shrugged. “Maybe. I know she misses it. Midwives are a strange breed. They see birth as a spiritual event.”

  Spiritual. Intriguing word to use, especially in light of the satanic symbol, Bernadette figured. “What about her home life? Does she have a family, go to church? Who are her friends?”

  “Don’t know her all that well personally,” said Bossard. “She’s not from Minnesota originally. She’s from … I don’t know … Vermont, I think. Very active midwife culture there.”

  Because Bernadette couldn’t tell Bossard why she really wanted the information, she carefully framed her next request. “This girl might have confided in another pregnant woman. I’d appreciate a list of expectant mothers in the area. We’d keep it confidential.”

  Bossard stared at Bernadette with disbelief. “That will never happen.”

  Garcia knew the request crossed a line and kept his mouth shut.

  “They could be in danger,” Bernadette added.

  “A serial killer?” Bossard mulled over the possibility. “I don’t believe it.”

  “If we could warn them—”

  “You think they’re not on alert after watching the news?”

  Bernadette handed the doctor a card. “Call if you think of something else.”

  Bossard slipped the card into her smock. “You won’t tell Sonia I gave you her name, correct?”

  Bernadette made the zipper sign across her lips.

  “My mention of her possible involvement, all speculation. Just thought you should know there’s someone out there besides a medical doctor.” She checked her watch. “I really need to—”

  “One more question,” said Bernadette. “We’ve been talking about an alternative birthing method—”

  “One I don’t oppose, as long as it’s in the proper setting.”

  “Gotcha,” said Bernadette. “What about alternative religions around here?”

  Bossard slowly shook her head. “I’m not understanding you.”

  “Witchcraft. Satanism. Ever come across a patient or anyone else who practices either?” Garcia asked.

  “I don’t pay attention to that sort of thing,” Bossard said with a sniff. “Catholic. Lutheran. Witch. I could care less. I’m all about science, not superstition.”

  Garcia’s cell started ringing and he fumbled around to find it. “Excuse me.”

  “Mr. Garcia, we like visitors to the hospital to turn off their phones.”

  “Right,” Garcia said shortly, and answered it.

  Bossard seemed perturbed by Garcia’s response, and Bernadette stifled a grin while he talked into the cell. Like Bernadette’s home-ec teacher, Dr. Bossard wasn’t used to having her orders ignored.

  “Hey, Seth. Yeah. We just saw her this morning, her and her damn dogs … What can you tell me about that little operation of hers?”

  Bossard had stepped away from them and was studying a chart posted outside a patient’s room.

  By the time Garcia got off the phone, Bossard was gone from the corridor. Bernadette walked across the hall.

  “What’re you doing?” Garcia asked with irritation. “We gotta get going.”

  “Give me a minute.” She lifted the patient chart hanging to the left of the door and quickly scanned the first page. With a frown, she put the chart back in the holder.

  “What’s wrong?”

  As they started to walk down the hall, Bernadette looked over her shoulder. “I trust her and I don’t.”

  “Thought she reminded you of your hairy home-ec teacher.”

  “Did you notice the questions she didn’t ask about the dead girl? Didn’t ask her name or what had happened to the fetus.”

  “Big deal,” he said. “You made the same observations about her nurse at the clinic. Like I said before, you’re reading too much into dumb shit.”

  He was really starting to tick her off. “Tell me if I’m reading too much into this: you know the chart I was just checking?”

  “Breaking about two hundred federal laws. What was up with that?”

  “While you were on the phone with the sheriff, Bossard was standing nearby, going over that paperwork.”

  “So? She had another patient.”

  “It was a guy, and he gave birth to a bouncing baby appendix,” said Bernadette.

  One side of Garcia’s mouth turned up. “The chart-checking was a ruse. Bossard was staying in the hall to eavesdrop.”

  “Granted, she could have been nosy and nothing more,” Bernadette conceded.

  “I like her tip about the midwife,” said Garcia.

  “OBs don’t like midwives. Here’s Bossard’s chance to get back at one who crossed her.”

  “It’s still a good tip.”

  “It is,” she acknowledged.

  They stepped outside. It was snowing hard. “Let’s head on over to Walker and check her out,” said Garcia. “Check out the tatt shop while we’re at it.”

  Bernadette hopped inside the truck. “What did Wharten have to say about Ashe?”

  Garcia got behind the wheel and started up the Titan. “He was kind of weird about it.”

  “How so?”

  “The whole witch subject, I think it makes him uncomfortable.”

  “He’s mortified that he’s got that sort of thing going on around here,” said Bernadette.

  “Maybe that’s it.”

  From the hospital, they headed northeast, taking Minnesota 34 East toward Walker. In good weather, it would have been a fifteen-minute drive. In the snow, it would take a bit longer.

  On a trail on the left side of the road, a gang of snowmobilers were tearing in the opposite direction as the truck. “That looks like fun,” said Bernadette.

  “I could use some fun,” Garcia said tiredlyShe checked the dashboard clock. “I haven’t slept for—”

  “I know, I know. Me, too.”

  “And we need to eat.”

  “We’ll grab something in Walker, on the way to yoga class.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Downtown Walker’s backyard was a bay of Leech Lake, a massive body of water that had shores lined with resorts and lake homes. In the winter, a village of shacks—many of them complete with heaters, electricity, toilets, beds, and television sets—sprang up on the lake’s frozen surface. Anglers drilled holes and fished through the ice with the comforts of home around them. Temporary streets were plowed around the houses, and the community was trafficked by snowmobiles, ATVs, and even full-size trucks.

  “Third-largest lake entirely within the boundaries of Minnesota,” said Garcia, ticking off Leech Lake facts as they made their way down the sidewalk, shoving burgers into their mouths. “More than a hundred thousand surface acres.”

  They tossed their wrappers in the trash. The sun had gone down, the snow was falling steadily, and the wind had picked up. The sidewalks were emptying of pedestrians.

  “This town is going to roll up the pavement quick,” said Garcia. “Tatts or tummies? Your pick.”

  “The fallen midwife is more urgent. Tatt shop is a long shot.”

  While they waited to cross the street, Bernadette studied the ads and flyers in a storefront window. Our Lady of the Pines Catholic Church gave early notice of its fish-fry dinners. Every Friday night during Lent! The annual polar plunge was coming up in February. A spaghetti supper was being held for a family that had suffered a house fire.

  Bernadette suddenly felt nostalgic for rural life, and the sense of neighborliness that came with living in a s
mall, tight community. At the same time, she had to be pragmatic. Were she working as a cop in Mayberry its citizens would long ago have eviscerated her for being bizarre. Was that the witch’s biggest sin—being odd? What about the midwife? She remembered what might have been the biggest criticism of the two women:

  She’s not from Minnesota originally. She’s from … I don’t know … Vermont, I think.

  She’s not from around here, you know. She’s from Los Angeles.

  Minnesotans. If you weren’t born in the state, you weren’t one of them. At least Bernadette had her birthright going for her.

  Despite the weather, Sonia Graham’s studio was full. About twenty women were packed into the long, narrow room. They were a variety of shapes and sizes, and wore everything from tights to sweats. Bernadette searched for an obviously pregnant belly but didn’t see one. They were all sitting cross-legged on the floor and had their eyes closed.

  Walking the length of the room was the instructor, a big-boned woman with a taut, muscled body that stopped just short of belonging on a female bodybuilder’s circuit. She could have whipped Bernadette’s butt without straining the seams of her spandex, and given Garcia a hard time in a bar fight.

  “Breathe in through the nose and out through the mouth,” she told the women as she marched toward the back of the room. Instrumental Christmas music was playing in the background. She turned on the heels of her sneakers and walked toward the front of the room. Noticing Garcia and Bernadette standing at the counter, she smiled and held up her hand while continuing to give instructions to the women. “Gradually deepen the breath. Elongate your spine. Elongate.”

  “I’ll be with you folks in a minute,” she said in a low voice when she reached the two agents. She spun around and returned to the back of the room.

  The woman’s long brown hair was tied back so tightly from her head, it pulled on her eyebrows, giving her a slightly crazed expression. A dark shadow colored her upper lip. Deep and raspy, her voice sounded like that of a man imitating a tough woman.

  “She’s my junior-high gym teacher,” Bernadette whispered into Garcia’s ear.