“She teaches a class on Tuesday nights at Whitman College in Philly. She also works during the day at the Albright. I have her address at home, as well.”
So did he. He knew she lived alone with two colored poodles who posed no threat at all. Still he scoffed, pretending to be offended. “I don’t want to find her, for God’s sake. I was just curious.”
There was a pause, and when the man spoke again it was calmly, yet the menace of his words rang loud and clear. “If I were you, I’d be more than curious. As for us, we don’t plan to be implicated in anything you’ve done, and if push comes to shove, we will protect our interests. Don’t call us anymore. We no longer want your business.”
There was a click, then silence. He’d been hung up on. He put his cell on his desk, rattled. He had to plug the leaks in the dyke. And quickly. Damn. He’d wanted to keep her available for research purposes until he was finished with his game.
He’d just have to find another source.
Wednesday, January 17, 9:30
A.M.
“Dr. Pfeiffer’s with a patient right now, Detective.” Receptionist Stacy Savard was frowning at him from her side of the glass that separated the office from the waiting room. “You’ll have to wait or come back later.”
“Ma’am, I’m a homicide detective. I only show up when people are dead when they shouldn’t be. Could you please have the doctor see me as soon as possible?”
Her eyes had widened. “H-homicide? Who?” She leaned forward. “You can tell me, Detective. He tells me everything anyway.”
Vito smiled at her as patiently as he could. “I’ll just wait over there.” A few minutes later an elderly man came to the doorway.
“Detective Ciccotelli? Miss Savard told me you were here to see me.”
“Yes. Can we talk privately?” He followed the doctor back to his office.
Pfeiffer shut the door. “This is very distressing.” He sat down behind his desk. “Which of my patients is the subject of your investigation?”
“Claire Reynolds.”
Pfeiffer flinched. “I’m sorry to hear that. Miss Reynolds was a lovely young woman.”
“You’d known her for a long time then?”
“Oh, yes. I’ve been seeing Claire for… must be five years now.”
“Can you tell me what kind of person she was? Outgoing, shy?”
“Very outgoing. Claire was a paraolympian and active in the community.”
“What kind of prosthetic devices did Claire use, Dr. Pfeiffer?”
“I don’t remember off the top of my head. Wait one moment.” He pulled a folder from a file drawer and flipped through the pages.
“Thick file,” Vito commented.
“Claire was part of an experimental study I’m conducting, an upgrade to the microprocessor in her artificial knee.”
“Microprocessor? Like as in a computer chip?”
“Yes. Older prosthetic legs aren’t as stable when the patient is walking up and down stairs or walking with a big stride. The microprocessor is constantly evaluating stability and making fine adjustments.” He tilted his head. “Like antilock brakes in your car.”
“That I can understand. How is it powered?”
“By a battery pack. Patients charge it overnight. Most can get up to thirty hours’ use before the battery dies.”
“So Claire had an upgraded microprocessor in her knee?”
“She did. She was supposed to be coming in for regular checks.” He looked down, ashamed. “I hadn’t realized how long it had been since I’d seen her until just now.”
“When was the last time she came in for an appointment?”
“October 12, a year ago.” He frowned. “I should have missed her sooner. Why didn’t I?” He shuffled through some more paper, then sat back, relieved. “Oh, here’s why. She moved to Texas. I got a letter from her new physician, Dr. Joseph Gaspar in San Antonio. Her chart shows we forwarded a copy of her records the following week.”
That was the second letter someone had received in reference to Claire Reynolds’s disappearance. First the library’s resignation letter, now this. “Can I have that letter?”
“Of course.”
“Doctor, can you tell me about silicone lubricants?”
“What do you want to know?”
“How are they used? Where do you get them? Are there different ones?”
Pfeiffer took a shampoo-sized bottle from his desk and handed it to Vito. “That’s a silicone lubricant. Go ahead, try it.”
Vito squeezed a few drops onto his thumb. It was odorless, colorless, and left a slick residue on his skin. The samples Katherine had pulled from Warren and Brittany had been white because they’d been mixed with plaster. “Why is it used?”
“Above-the-knee amputees like Miss Reynolds generally use one of two different methods to achieve suspension-that means attaching the limb. The first is using a liner. It looks like this.” Pfeiffer reached into his drawer and pulled out what looked like a giant condom with a metal pin at the end. “The patient rolls this liner over the residual limb-you get a very tight fit. Then the metal pin attaches down into the socket of the prosthesis. Some patients use the silicone lubricant under the liner, especially if they have sensitive or broken skin.”
“Did Claire Reynolds use this method?”
“Sometimes, but usually younger patients like Claire use the suction method. It is what it sounds like-the artificial limb is held on through suction and is released using an air valve. This puts the skin in direct contact with the plastic of the prosthesis. Most everyone who uses the suction method uses lubricant.”
“Where would your patients get this?” Vito asked handing him back the bottle.
“From me or directly from the distributor. Most distributors have online stores.”
“And formulas? Are there a lot of them?”
“One or two main ones. But a lot of cottage industries offer special blends, herbs and things.” He took a magazine from his desk and flipped to the back. “Like these.”
Vito took the magazine and scanned the ads. “Can I keep this?”
“Certainly. I can have Miss Savard get you a sample of the lubricant, as well.”
“Thank you. Doctor, I know it’s been more than a year since you’ve seen Miss Reynolds, but I was wondering if you could remember her frame of mind. Was she happy or sad, angry or worried maybe? Did she have a boyfriend?”
Pfeiffer looked uncomfortable. “No, she didn’t have a boyfriend.”
“Oh. I see. Well, a girlfriend then?”
Pfeiffer’s discomfort increased. “I didn’t know her that well, Detective. But I know she often marched in activist parades. She mentioned it several times when she came in to get her leg checked. I think she was just trying to get me to react, honestly.”
“Well, then, how about her mood?”
Pfeffer steepled his fingers under his chin. “I know she was worried about money. She was nervous that she wouldn’t have enough for the microprocessor upgrade.”
“I’m confused. I thought she was in your study and already had the new processor.”
“She was and she did, but when the study was completed she was going to have to buy it. The maker offers the microprocessor at their cost, but it was still more than Claire could afford. This upset her a great deal.” His expression grew very sad. “She thought having the upgrade would give her an edge in the paraolympic games.”
Vito stood. “Thank you, Doctor. You’ve been a huge help.”
“When you find who did this, will you let me know?”
“Yes. I will.”
“Good.” The doctor rose and opened his office door. “Stacy?” The receptionist came to his office quickly. “Stacy, the detective is here about Claire Reynolds.”
Stacy’s eyes widened as she placed the name. “Claire? But…” She leaned against the door, her shoulders sagging. “Oh, no.”
“Did you know Miss Reynolds well, Miss Savard?”
“Not well well.” She looked up at Vito, shocked and upset. “I chatted with her when she would come for her fittings. Congratulated her when she won a race or something. She was always up.” Stacy’s eyes filled with tears. “Claire was a sweet person. Why would anyone hurt her?”