The Last Clinic (30 page)

“Of course.”

“You can go then, Mr. Goodhew. Here’s my number if you remember anything else.”

Bobby left, feeling a Katrina survivor happy to be getting out of New Orleans.

Jendlin hefted his aluminum briefcase up to the desk, opened the double latches, and placed Bobby’s file on top of Uther’s report.

“Mr. Johnson, I understand you’re doing an internship out at FUSION for Sheriff Mitchell.”

Uther was re-reading his file and looked up.

“Shelby offered you a job, yet?”

“Not one with a salary attached to it.”

“Let me know when you’ve finished your thesis. That is, if you’d be interested in a job. We could use someone with your skill set.”

“You mean a paying job?”

“The bureau is not known as a generous employer, but I think we can do a little better than you are currently making.”

Jendlin turned to Darla.

“Tell Sheriff Mitchell we’ll take it from here. We’ve already got our people up in Springfield looking for him. Uther can work with the staff at FUSION to monitor any money withdrawals. We’ll provide the money from here on out. As long as this guy continues to withdraw cash, we’ll be able to follow him. The trick is going to be finding him before he strikes again, which I’m certain he’s going to do.”

He walked to the door, stopped, and looked back at Darla.

“Cavannah? That wouldn’t be Hugh Cavannah, would it?”

30

Mixed Messages.

She had another dream. She was with Stephen, sitting on a bench somewhere down by the reservoir, watching the water lap against the shore. His arm was draped over her shoulder. Off in the distance, the child, the boy, age eleven or twelve, was throwing a football in the air—straight up, way up—and catching it when it came down. He never missed.

“He has your hands. The boy has your hands,” she said. “The hands of a surgeon.”

“Or a wide receiver,” said Stephen, only it was Hugh’s voice that came out.

She looked off in the distance, saw a sign, and read it to him. “Racist Bigot Reservoir. They don’t get it, do they? The people of this state?”

“Look again,” he said. “Stop interpreting.”

She looked back at the sign. “Ross Barnett Reservoir
.”

“Things change,” he said.

She saw him smile that sad, hopeful way he always did.

And then came the ring tone—one, two, three times—a different ring tone than her cell.

“Excuse me,” he said. “It must be a delivery.” He tried to conceal at how clever he was being.

She laughed hard.

 Then the ring tone sounded again, pulling her out of the dream.

Barely awake, she felt for him next to her, as she had done in the middle of the night. At three o’clock, she’d woken up with worries about Kendall. How would their mother being locked up affect Jake and Molly? What would they think? Distressed, she had inched over until she had found Stephen’s body and pressed against him. The warmth of his skin had calmed her and let her doze off again. Now his spot was empty. The musky warm place next to her was not warm or musky enough.

She was fully awake and resenting it. On the next ring, she answered the cell. “Hello.”

“Who’s this, if I may be so bold?” A familiar voice, rich, distinguished.

“This is Darla Cavannah. Who’s calling please?”

“Ah, Detective Cavannah? I must have the wrong number. Rather, no, this is, well, ah, this is Uther Pendragon Johnson,” the intonation, exactly like Sidney Poitier.

Does he always use all three names? What’s with that? She tried to remember other instances when he’d referred to himself as Uther, Uther Johnson or just Johnson. She couldn’t remember any.

“I thought they called you Mr. Tibbs,” she said, in her mind seeing Poitier deliver the line in the movie, and then seeing Rod Steiger as the police chief. It occurred to her that Steiger was a shorter version of Shelby. Steiger’s character chewed gum, and Shelby chewed tobacco. Life imitating art, more or less, only with spitting.

Uther continued, “I was calling for Dr. Nicoletti. This is his cell phone, isn’t it?”

“Hold on,” she said.

It was still dark in the bedroom. She turned on the light and checked the phone in her hand. She had Stephen’s cell. That explained the ring tone. Last night she’d left her cell on the nightstand next to his. They had the same model. He must have picked up the wrong cell when he left.

“Yes. It’s his cell. I, never mind. Is this something I can help you with?”

There was a pause.

“I was calling to make sure Dr. Nicoletti was okay. Then I was going to call you, on
your
cell phone.”

She sat up in bed. “Why shouldn’t he be okay?”

“Detective, he’s here, in Mississippi, the man with the ATM card. He’s headed to Metro Jackson.”

 “How do you know this? Did Henry Jendlin call you?”

 “No. I called him. Allow me a moment to explain. Back when we first had access to the RJA Enterprises bank account, I put a trace on the ATM card. Every time it was used, I’d get a prompt on my cell phone. I forgot to deactivate the prompt after we turned things over to the FBI. Well, perhaps it wasn’t a matter of forgetting.”

“Where did he last use the ATM?”

“Grenada. The prompt was activated a few minutes ago.”

“So that’s when he used the ATM, a few minutes ago?” Grenada was an hour and a half north.

“I’m sorry to say I didn’t program the prompt to reveal the time the ATM was accessed. But it can take time for a clearance authorization. Up to two hours.”

She was on her feet and getting dressed.

“Grenada is what ninety minutes away? So he could be here right now?”

“Mr. Jendlin sent a team of agents out to Dr. Nicoletti’s house to protect him.”

“That won’t do any good. Dr. Nicoletti’s not there. He stayed with me last night.”

There was another pause, longer. Uther didn’t know about the two of them. Nobody did. “Is Dr. Nicoletti there now, with you?” he said.

Maybe he was in the shower or downstairs. “Hold on.” She put her hand over the phone. “Stephen?” She ran from room to room turning on lights, calling his name. There was no answer.
Look out the window stupid
, she said to herself. She did. His car was gone.

“He’s not here.”

Uther pushed ahead. “Agent Jendlin said he was sending a second team to the clinic. Five agents.”

Darla, dressed now, headed for the door, grabbing the .380 Taurus.

“Listen to me, Uther. He’s not going to the clinic. His first appointment is at his office out in Madison. He told me last night.”

“What do you want me to do?”

Her mind began racing. Was there any way the killer could know about the morning appointment? Contacted his service maybe? No. They wouldn’t tell him anything. Maybe he used someone, a female, to set up the appointment? That was certainly possible. On the other hand, all he had to do was follow Stephen when he left the house this morning. There were lots of ways, and this guy was smart.

Darla was out the door, heading for her car. “Call Special Agent Jendlin. Tell him I’m on the way to Dr. Nicoletti’s Madison office. I’m going to try to reach him in route. The address is 435 Channing Road, Suite102. Dr. Nicoletti won’t be going back to his house. Tell Jendlin to send the second team out to Madison. They’re to set up a quarter-mile parameter around the office. Get them all on walkie-talkies tuned to this cell. I’ll initiate the search when I get there. Tell Jendlin he can call me if he likes. Tell him not to do anything until I get there.”

“You’ve done this before, haven’t you?”

“More times than I’d like to remember.”

“Should I call Detective Reylander?”

Pulling out of her driveway, she said, “Not unless you want to get him killed.”

“What about me? I’d like to help. I know I’m the departmental geek, but I’ve been issued a Glock.”

“But have you ever had to discharge it?”

“Fair point.”

“After you finish talking to Jendlin, call Shelby and update him.”

 “If this man already has Dr. Nicoletti, if Mr. Jendlin sends a team in after him, you’re going in with them, aren’t you?”

“You did good Uther. Just sit tight.”

31

The Proper Canvas.

He congratulated himself on the performance, one of his best. It was one thing to assume an identity. The real art was in conveying the nuance of character, the range of emotional shadings. He might have been an actor, he told himself, and a good one, if life had unfolded differently.

He had called the clinic the previous evening at closing time using a prepaid cell phone he’d bought two months earlier in a Wal-Mart, in Billings, Montana. It would be virtually untraceable.

When the nurse at the clinic answered, a Mindy Roller, he said he needed to speak with Dr. Nicoletti as soon as possible. No, he told her, it wasn’t a medical emergency, but please, could Dr. Nicoletti call him right away? His voice had just the right amount of panic in it.

Two minutes later the doctor was back at him.

“I need to set up an appointment for my, well, a friend of mine. We’re pretty sure she’s pregnant. This is a very confidential matter. There are several individuals who could be affected.”

“Certainly. I understand,” said the doctor. “We make every effort to maintain confidentialities.”

He could hear it in the doctor’s voice. The doc was buying into his act. His combination of sincerity and apprehension was very convincing.

“If there was some place she could meet with you, other than at the clinic? The lady, my friend, she’s worried that she’ll run into someone she knows. Or someone will take her picture and post it on the internet. There are all those photographers around all the time.” His dossier said the clinic was currently being picketed and was the subject of considerable local media attention.

“Of course,” said the doctor. “I have an office out in Madison. The media is unaware of its existence. It’s quite private. I could see her there tomorrow morning, before the clinic opens. Say six-thirty a.m.?”

He could hear the doctor’s Italian accent, the tone cordial but with a certain formality. The voice and the attitude went with the photo he’d been given.

“Will you be accompanying her?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t decided yet. I guess I probably should, considering.” Nicely played, he thought, not admitting he was the father, but acting like the responsible party, playing it like one or both of them were married and scared they’d get caught.

Now came the next critical part.

“Look, I know it’s standard procedure to have a nurse present during the examination, but my friend is, like I said, very private. Jackson’s a small town. You know how people talk, even nurses.”

He understood he might have to take out the nurse too, and without increasing the fee, but why complicate matters if he didn’t have to.

“If you would be willing to be present during the examination…the practice is not customary, but considering the circumstances, this might satisfy the situation.”

“If I come too, we’ll have enough time, won’t we? I mean before your next appointment? She’s not the only one who needs to keep this private. I’d rather not run into someone I know in the waiting room.”

He definitely didn’t want anyone else showing up. That could confuse things and mess up the plan. Plus he wasn’t dealing with the mob. These clients were the type that became irate if an innocent bystander ended up a casualty.

“All my other appointments for tomorrow are at the clinic in Jackson. The other offices in the Madison building are vacant at this time. I’m the only tenant in the building at present. I doubt you’ll see another soul. On rare occasions, one of my nurses comes by to deliver supplies, but it’s always later in the day, and she isn’t scheduled until day after tomorrow. There’s an entrance at the side of the building. It isn’t visible from the street. Just pull around the back and park. I assure you no one will know you are here.”

“Listen, Doc. Thanks for being so understanding.”

“Yes, well, I know how difficult something like this can be for everyone.”

That’s all there was to it. Exactly the way he wanted it.  

He arrived at the Madison address at five-ten a.m. The doctor’s office was on the corner of a side street two blocks off the main drag in the commercial part of town. There were four other buildings on the same side of the street and one large building under construction across the street. There were no restaurants or coffee shops on the block—nothing that would be open for business any time soon.

He circled the block. Just as the doctor had said, there was a parking lot around back with a walkway leading to the side entrance. The lot was empty. The doctor hadn’t arrived. He parked across the street from the side entrance, in front of an interior decorator’s office. The sign on the door of the decorator’s building said office hours were from one p.m. to four p.m. Probably a part-time business, a tax write-off for some rich guy’s wife. Couldn’t be better.

He had on running shoes, shorts, and a hooded sweatshirt with a pouch in front. Any cars that might come along at the wrong time, they’d take him for a jogger. He had his Glock and a can of spray-paint inside the sweatshirt pocket.

Dr. Stephen Nicoletti was the only name on the sign in front of the building. He looked in the window at the side door. No surveillance and no security system—nothing to disable.

He was past the main door and inside the doctor’s office in less than a minute.

His first thought was to spray the floor in the office. It was covered by a mint-green, Chinese hooked rug. The message would show up nicely there and would make for a dramatic photograph—the kind of thing the newspapers would love to run. He considered it for a moment but decided against the floor. It might come off as contrived, too well thought out, the work of a professional. The walls were the obvious choice. Spray right over the various photos and paintings. Make the letters legible, but not too neat. Yeah, the wall would make the perfect canvas. The result should look like the work of a crazed individual, a believer, a zealot.