No reaction. “What department is she in?”
“Public Health.”
The smile broadened. “This is the School of Public Health, Doctor. We have several departments, each with its own faculty.” She lifted a brochure from a stack near my elbow, opened it and pointed to the table of contents.
Thinking of the kind of work Ashmore had done, I said, “Either Biostatistics or Epidemiology.”
She went to the files and pulled down a blue fabric loose-leaf folder. The spine was lettered BIOSTAT.
“Yes, here we go. She’s in the Ph.D. program in Biostat and her adviser’s Dr. Yanosh.”
“Where can I find Dr. Yanosh?”
“One floor down — office B-three-forty-five. Would you like me to call and see if she’s in?”
“Please.”
She picked up a phone and punched an extension. “Dr. Yanosh? Hi. Merilee here. There’s a doctor from some hospital wanting to talk to you about one of your students... Dawn Herbert... Oh... Sure.” Frowning. “What was your name again, sir?”
“Delaware. From Western Pediatric Medical Center.”
She repeated that into the receiver. “Yes, of course, Dr. Yanosh... Could I see some identification, please, Dr. Delaware?”
Out came the faculty card again.
“Yes, he does, Dr. Yanosh.” Spelling my name. “Okay, Doctor, I’ll tell him.”
Hanging up, she said, “She doesn’t have much time but she can see you right now.” Sounding angry.
As I opened the door, she said, “She was murdered?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“That’s really ugly.”
There was an elevator just past the office, next to a darkened lecture hall. I rode it down one flight. B-345 was a few doors to the left.
Closed and locked. A slide-in sign said ALICE JANOS, M.P.H., PH.D.
I knocked. Between the first and second raps a voice said, “One minute.”
Heel-clicks. The door opened. A woman in her fifties said, “Dr. Delaware.”
I held out my hand. She took it, gave an abrupt shake, and let go. She was short, plump, blond, bubble-coiffed, and expertly made up and wore a red-and-white dress that had been tailored for her. Red shoes, matching nails, gold jewelry. Her face was small and attractive in a chipmunkish way; when she was young she’d probably been the cutest girl in school.
“Come in, please.” European accent. The intellectual Gabor sister.
I stepped into the office. She left the door open and came in after me. The room was pin-neat, minimally furnished, scented with perfume, and hung with art posters in chromium frames. Miró and Albers and Stella and one that commemorated a Gwathmey-Siegel exhibit at the Boston Museum.
An open box of chocolate truffles sat on a round glass table. Next to it was a sprig of mint. On a stand perpendicular to the desk were a computer and a printer, each sheathed with a zippered cover. Atop the printer was a red leather designer purse. The desk was university-issue metal, prettified with a diagonally set lace coverlet, a floral-patterned Limoges blotter, and family photos. Big family. Albert Einstein look-alike husband and five good-looking, college-age kids.
She sat close to the chocolate and crossed her legs at the ankles. I faced her. Her calves were ballet-thick.
“You are a physician?”
“Psychologist.”
“And what connection do you have to Ms. Herben?”
“I’m consulting on a case at the hospital. Dawn obtained a medical chart belonging to the patient’s sibling and never returned it. I thought she might have left it here.”
“This patient’s name?”
When I hesitated, she said, “I can’t very well answer your question without knowing what I’m looking for.”
“Jones.”
“Charles Lyman Jones the Fourth?”
Surprised, I said, “You have it?”
“No. But you are the second person who’s come asking for it. Is there a genetic issue at stake that makes this so urgent? Sibling tissue typing or something like that?”
“It’s a complex case,” I said.
She recrossed her legs. “The first person didn’t give me an adequate explanation either.”
“Who was that?”
She gave me an analytic look and sat back in her chair. “Forgive me, Doctor, but I’d appreciate seeing the identification you just showed Merilee upstairs.”
For the third time in half an hour I presented my faculty card, augmenting it with my brand-new full-color hospital badge.
Putting on gold-framed half-glasses, she examined both, taking her time. The hospital ID held her interest longer.
“The other man had one of these too,” she said, holding it up. “He said he was in charge of hospital security.”
“A man named Huenengarth?”
She nodded. “The two of you seem to be duplicating each other’s efforts.”
“When was he here?”
“Last Thursday. Does Western Pediatrics generally give this type of personal service to all its patients?”
“As I said, it’s a complex case.”
She smiled. “Medically or socio-culturally?”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I can’t get into details.”
“Psychotherapeutic confidentiality?”
I nodded.
“Well, I certainly respect that, Dr. Delaware. Mr. Huenengarth used another phrase to protect his secrecy. ‘Privileged information.’ I thought that sounded rather cloak-and-dagger and told him so. He wasn’t amused. A rather grim fellow, actually.”
“Did you give him the chart?”
“No, because I don’t have it, Doctor. Dawn left no medical charts of any kind behind. Sorry to have misled you, but all the attention she’s generated lately has led me to be cautious. That and her murder, of course. When the police came by to ask questions, I cleaned out her graduate locker personally. All that I found were some textbooks and the computer disks from her dissertation research.”
“Have you booted up the disks?”
“Is that question related to your complex case?”
“Possibly.”
“Possibly,” she said. “Well, at least you’re not getting pushy the way Mr. Huenengarth did. Trying to pressure me to turn them over.”
Removing her glasses, she got up, returned my ID, closed the door. Back in her chair, she said, “Was Dawn involved in something unsavory?”
“She may have been.”
“Mr. Huenengarth was a bit more forthcoming than you, Doctor. He came right out and said Dawn had stolen the chart. Informed me it was my duty to see that it was returned — quite imperious. I had to ask him to leave.”
“He’s not Mr. Charm.”
“An understatement — his approach is pure KGB. More like a policeman than the real policemen who investigated Dawn’s murder, as far as I’m concerned. They weren’t pushy enough. A few cursory questions and goodbye — I grade them C-minus. Weeks later I called to see what kind of progress was being made, and no one would take my call. I left messages and none were returned.”
“What kind of questions did they ask about her?”
“Who her friends were, had she ever associated with criminal types, did she use drugs. Unfortunately, I wasn’t able to answer any of them. Even after having her as my student for four years, I knew virtually nothing about her. Have you served on any doctoral committees?”