The Prisoner - Carlos J. Cortes [91]
Palmer could almost sense Hamilton’s smile at the other end of the line.
“That’s your job.” Palmer severed the communication and handed the phone back. Tyler switched it off, opened its back, and removed a wafer-thin battery before pocketing it.
“What can Hamilton do with that information? Surely he can’t print it.”
“Of course he can. He may drop a hint here and there, starting with an unconfirmed rumor … You know the score. But that wasn’t the reason for my call. As you predicted, the NSA locked on to the call. Within seconds the DHS will know about it, and they’ll know that Hamilton knows. Someone is bound to get nervous, and nervous folks make mistakes.”
chapter 32
16:47
“I’m sorry, but I can’t help you.”
“Can’t or won’t?”
Dr. Kyle Hulman breathed on his glasses and rubbed the lenses with a square of crimson chamois before balancing them back on the tip of his nose. He peered uncertainly around the room, as if disappointed by the result.
“Look Mr. … er, Masek. Your search relates to events dating back, what, twenty-six years? Those records are long gone. Destroyed.”
“I hope you’re mistaken, Dr. Hulman. By law, birth and death records must be retained permanently.” Nikola drew his knees together and shifted on the hard padding of the chair facing the doctor’s desk—a chair admirably designed to distress visitors.
“That’s correct, and those records exist at the local health authorities that serve as the registrars of vital statistics. They keep a registry of births and deaths. But if I understand the nature of your inquiry, that’s not what you’re after. You want the medical record of a maternal health patient, and there the law is clear. The attending doctor must keep the records five years past the last date on which service was given.”
Nikola nodded. “Or until the infant’s twenty-first birthday, whichever is later.”
“Yes, but—”
“It means, since the subject of this inquiry has just turned twenty-six, you must have checked over the record I’m after only five years ago.” In fact, Dr. Hulman had done much more than that. On Nikola’s instructions, the department of criminal investigation at the DHS had served notice of his visit at exactly eleven-thirty. By then, Dennis had set up a system to monitor all traffic from Dr. Hulman’s office—even that of his personal cell phone, for good measure. Within five minutes the good doctor had contacted the hospital records department to check if there was anything left on someone named Araceli Goldberg. Later, using his private phone, he’d dialed another number. A woman had answered, “Petals; how can I help you?” After ascertaining that the number belonged to a downtown flower business, Dr. Hulman had muttered an excuse and hung up. Nothing out of the ordinary; everybody makes mistakes. But Dennis was thorough. He ran through the telephone company database to discover that the florist’s number had changed hands several times. Twenty-six years ago it belonged to an association of radical lawyers.
“I deal with hundreds, thousands of records every year.”
“Maybe, but those would be hospital records. I’m inquiring about a document you must have drafted.”
Dr. Hulman was middle-aged, in the limbo between fifty and sixty, neither young nor old, hair not dark but not white either: ordinary. Yet there was something shifty about him, an air of mendacity that Nikola found invigorating. His skin was white and spongy, almost translucent from a lifetime away from the sun—and similar to those who had spent time in the tanks, even years after their release.
“Do you recall destroying these particular records?”
“How could I? Hospital staff deals with record destruction by shredding, pulping, or burning. You’ll have to ask … Let me check.” Dr. Hulman stabbed his finger at a computer screen, scrolling down a departmental structure tree. “Here it is: Ms. Rosemary Wilder in the archives department. And, no, I don’t recall anything about the document you’re looking for.”
After learning that Laurel was adopted, it had been relatively easy to follow the thread to her