I led Cora, carrying her laptop, into my office and we used the bar phone to call Duncan. I was dying to ask Cora what it was she had found, but I held back, figuring I’d get clued in when she told Duncan.
After a brief greeting, she said, “I found the death certificate for Valeria Barnes and it listed Milwaukee Memorial as the hospital where she was born and where she died. That got me to thinking that whoever used her identity might have had access to her medical records. So I started searching for other people who had died at that same hospital at a very young age and then I started researching the names. Some of them were too common to be of much use, but I remembered you saying that Valeria looked and sounded Hispanic, so I focused on any names that sounded like they were of Mexican or Spanish origin and I found something interesting. Several names of babies and children who died young during the seventies and eighties came up as names with current IDs. And they didn’t exist anywhere that I could find up until the past two or three years, when they suddenly appeared in utility billing records, welfare applications, and with DMV.”
She paused and listened for a minute or two, and then said, “Do you really want me to answer that, Duncan? We’ve been down this road before. You know that what I do isn’t one hundred percent legal, so it might be better if you don’t know. Plausible deniability and all that, remember?”
She listened again and then said, “Yes, I realize it’s an issue for you from an evidence standpoint, but at least it gives you a lead. I’m thinking that the person who created Valeria Barnes, or perhaps even Valeria herself, might have access to those old hospital and death records. It’s worth a look.”
Over the next few minutes, I sat and listened as Cora read off the names she had found. When she was done, she said, “Yes, she’s sitting right here across from me. Do you want to talk to her?” She then handed me the phone.
“Hi,” I said. “This is good news, isn’t it?”
“It might be,” Duncan said. “Unfortunately, I can’t use the information she gave me to search the hospital records. No one will give me a search warrant based on some coincidental name similarities.”
“My mother was in Milwaukee Memorial Hospital when she died,” I told him. “It’s also where I was born. What if I went there and asked for a copy of her death certificate? The accident that resulted in my mother’s coma was a hit and run. The driver of the car was never found, so you could even say you were investigating it as a cold case or something, couldn’t you?”
“I suppose, but what good will that do?”
“It might get us into the medical records area at least,” I said. “We can get a look at how they do things and find out who has access.”
“I guess it’s worth a try,” Duncan said, though he didn’t sound hopeful. “And it’s all we have for now, so let’s do it. I can come by and pick you up in fifteen.”
“I’ll be waiting.”
Milwaukee Memorial Hospital was a sprawling affair that covered several city blocks. By the time we figured out which building we had to go to for medical records, it was nearing five o’clock and Duncan was afraid they would be closed.
They weren’t, but the receptionist who greeted us—who, according to her ID badge, was named Lisa—said that even though the department was open twenty-four hours a day, access for the general public did stop at five, a mere eight minutes from our arrival time.
“What is it you need?” Lisa asked.
“I want a copy of my mother’s ER report,” I told her. “She died here on June eighth of 1980.”
“Nineteen-eighty?” Lisa said, rolling her eyes. “That’s not going to be easy to find. It’s probably been sent to storage on microfiche. Can you come back tomorrow?” she asked with a pointed glance at her watch.
“I’m afraid this is a very urgent matter,” Duncan said, flashing his badge. If he hoped it would intimidate the woman, he was sorely disappointed.
“Why is an ER report from thirty-some years ago so urgent?”
Duncan started to say something, but I beat him to it. “My mother died as a result of a car accident. She was hit by someone who fled the scene and was never caught. She was pregnant with me at the time and the doctors kept her alive long enough for her to deliver me. Then they removed the life support.”
Lisa’s expression finally softened, so I surged onward, not wanting to lose any momentum I had gained from my sob story. I never knew my mother, but that didn’t mean I didn’t grieve for her. I summoned up all the emotion I could and managed to get a few tears to well up in my eyes.
“Someone has come forth and said they know who the driver was,” I told her, letting my voice break. “So the cops are reopening the case. But if the person who hit her knows the cops are looking into it again, he or she might try to disappear. Please,” I pleaded, swiping at my eyes, “can’t you help me?”
Lisa frowned, and sighed. “Even if I can find the record, I can only release it to the cops if I have a release signed by the next of kin.”
“That would be me,” I said. “My father died nearly a year ago and I’m the only one left. Maybe you heard about his death? He was shot in the alley behind the bar we owned.”
Dawning spread across her face. “You mean Mack Dalton?” she said, and I nodded. “I remember hearing about that. I used to go to his bar when I was in college. There was something in the paper about it a few weeks back, wasn’t there? You finally caught the guy who did it?”
I nodded.
Lisa took one more look at my tear-stained face and her shoulders sagged. That’s when I knew I had her. “Okay, I’ll take a look,” she said. She shoved a clipboard at me. “Fill out this form and then sign it at the bottom. I assume you have some proof that you’re next of kin?”
“I have a driver’s license,” I said.
“That will do. Give me her name and date of birth and I’ll go see what I can find while you fill out the form.”
I gave her the information she needed and, after instructing us to wait where we were, she disappeared through a door off to one side after swiping her badge in front of a security-card reader. As she disappeared through the door, we got a brief glimpse of a cubicle-filled back office area.
“This isn’t going to get us anywhere,” Duncan grumbled. “We need to get into that back area and have a look around.”
No sooner had he said this than the door opened. I expected to see Lisa, and was about to object at how quickly she had returned, thinking she had given up on the search. But instead it was a group of four women who came out, all of them carrying coats and purses that told me they had just finished their shift and were headed home.
Both Duncan and I watched the group as they left, chattering among themselves. One person in the group in particular caught my eye: a dark-haired, dark-eyed woman who looked to be around thirty years old. She looked a lot like the sketch Duncan had shown me, but then I felt certain there were dozens of other women in Milwaukee who would also fit the bill.
It wasn’t her looks, per se, that had snagged my attention. As she walked by us, I heard a distinctive squeaking sound, as if someone was rubbing a finger on a piece of glass. “Did you see that woman?” I said to Duncan as soon as the group had left.
“I did.”
“She smells like bleach. It’s faint, but it’s there. I heard the same squeaky sound when she walked by that I heard when we were in Belinda Cooper’s car.”
Duncan stared for several seconds at the door the women had just gone out. Then he said, “Come on. Let’s see where she goes.”
We left the office—I could only imagine how puzzled Lisa would be when she returned to her desk and found us gone—and trailed behind the group of women through the halls and out of the hospital, eventually entering a parking garage. I cursed under my breath and said, “Dang it, we won’t be able to follow her out of here because you parked several blocks away on the street.”
“Perhaps not, but we can at least get a make and model of car, and a license plate number.”
We continued trailing behind the women, up a flight of stairs in the garage. Then they began to say their good-byes and gradually split off. Finally, the dark-haired woman was walking alone. We stayed a good ways behind her and when she took her car keys out, Duncan grabbed me and pulled me in between two parked cars.
“Squat down,” he said, and I did so alongside him. We heard the sound of the woman getting into her car and shutting the door, then the sound of the engine roaring to life. In a low voice, Duncan said, “She’ll have to drive right by us in order to exit the garage. Stay down until I say so.”
A moment later, the car went past us. Duncan stood then and looked from behind as it drove away. “Got it!” he said. He took out his little notebook and wrote. Then he grabbed me again and we hurried back to his car.