“Herb. Aileen. What time did you all get out here?” Laughton said.
“Maybe a little before nine,” Aileen said.
“Clinic doesn’t open until ten,” Laughton said. “Why do you keep up this nonsense? You’re not going to convince anyone to leave the preserve.”
“They need to be reminded,” Aileen said. “Especially the ones who don’t remember the plagues,” she said, looking at Kir. “You put all these people together, it’s like begging for an epidemic. Just one person sick, just one…”
“And kids,” Herb said, indicating the clinic. “Germ factories. Like a biological nuclear bomb. You want the remaining humans to die out, put them close together where contagion will rage like a wildfire.”
“Why’d you two come to the preserve in the first place if you’re afraid of another plague?” Kir said.
“Someone’s got to warn ’em,” Aileen said.
“Just don’t pester ’em,” Jesse said.
“Mister, I hope you’re only visiting,” Herb said to Kir. “You don’t want to settle here.”
“Thanks for the warning,” Kir said.
Aileen grabbed Jesse’s arm. “You should take that daughter of yours and get somewhere safe, just the three of you,” the woman said.
Jesse pulled his arm from her grip. “Just don’t be a pest to people,” he said again.
He pulled open the door and led the way into the clinic.
If nothing else, Herb and Aileen prepared you for the contrast between the former magnificence of the outside of the clinic to the clinical interior. The floors were cream laminate tiles with streaks of black meant either to imitate marble or just to help disguise any dirt. Walls had been taken down to create a large waiting area where there had most likely once been a sitting room and dining room. Flat-panel TVs graced the walls. A large reception desk stood dead center. The place had already been converted into a medical clinic before the preserve had been established, and it lent itself to its new purpose as solely a fertility clinic. The general medical clinic had since moved into an old office building.
Jamie Cotts sat at the registration desk behind a computer, a printer, a scanner, and two telephones. She was uncomfortably attractive: dark brown hair, a small slightly upturned nose, large brown eyes that she accentuated with eyeliner and mascara. He wondered how many donors’ productions were fueled by fantasies of Jamie.
“Betty’s not here yet,” Jamie said as Laughton and Kir came up to the desk. The waiting area was empty.
“Herb and Aileen told me,” he said.
Jamie shook her head. “I wish they’d go quarantine themselves.”
But you don’t remember the plagues, Laughton thought, suddenly feeling more charitable to the middle-aged couple.
“Is Moira in?”
“She’s in her office. Should I call her?” Jamie said, placing her hand on one of the phone’s receivers.
“Can I just go back?” Laughton said.
She looked at Kir.
“He doesn’t have to come with me.”
She took her hand from the phone. “Sure. There’s no one here yet. Slow morning.”
Jesse started around the desk, but he then stopped as though he had forgotten something—people tend to give away more when it seems like the question wasn’t worth more than an afterthought. He brought out his phone. “Do you recognize either of these men? Maybe donors?”
Jamie looked at the phone. There was no reaction to Sam McCardy, but when he swiped to the photo of Smythe…
blink, micro-expression—worry—smile without eyes—withholding
“I can’t say. You’ll have to ask Moira.”
“I’m not just asking as a friend,” Laughton said, tapping the badge on his shirt.
The false smile grew. “Ask Moira first.”
Anonymity and the sanctity of patient information were the law in the clinic, above the Law with a capital “L,” it seemed. “Sure,” Laughton said, putting his phone away and giving Kir a look that told his partner to see what he could do. “Buzz me in.” He pointed at the door that led to the inner workings of the clinic. It sported a red plastic sign that said, “No Admittance Without An Accompanying Employee.” A handwritten sign taped beside it read “Have you registered at a kiosk?”
The door buzzed, disengaging the lock, and the chief pulled hard on the heavy door, stubborn on its pneumatic hinge. The tiles from the waiting area continued in the hall, which Laughton knew formed a square with doors on either side leading to offices, examination rooms, and sperm donor suites. Comfort suites—where couples met—were upstairs. Moira’s office was the last door on the left. It was open.
“Knock, knock,” Laughton said from the doorway.
“Jesse!” Moira said, standing up from her desk. She had been busy reviewing something on a large computer monitor. She stepped over, and they hugged briefly. “Isn’t Betty at school?”
“Yes, I came to see you.”
“I’m flattered.” Moira was the driving force behind the Liberty Fertility Clinic. She had been active in the repopulation movement for fifteen years, focusing her attention on far-flung humans living outside the cities, often traveling with a portable freezing unit to collect sperm once she had convinced people of the importance of preserving the species and the need for genetic diversity. As part of the movement, she had lobbied for the creation of the preserve and, continuing her good work once the preserve came to be, had opened the clinic in Liberty to assure that those living outside of Charleston were still integral in human development. A passionate woman, Moira was tall with short white hair and remarkably unlined skin. She always wore a white coat and a charm necklace from which five little figures hung, one for each of her children. Betty had met Moira when she was pregnant with Erica, and she looked up to the older woman almost as a mother.
“If you’re not here to see Betty, then I think I know why you’re here. Ask me what you need to ask me.”
Laughton would have liked to sit down, to strike a more relaxed tone, but Moira remained standing. He held out his phone.
“I need to know if either of these men has ever come in here, and who they’ve seen.” Moira took the phone and brought it close to her face to examine. “First is Carl Smythe. Second is Sam McCardy.”
Laughton watched the play of the muscles in Moira’s face, but they revealed nothing. It seemed likely that she genuinely didn’t recognize the men, but hard to say for certain. “I can’t release that information without a patient’s consent,” Moira said.
Laughton took back his phone and pocketed it. “In the case of a murder investigation, you must.”
Her eyes grew sharp. “One of these is the man who was killed?”
“Smythe’s dead.”
“It couldn’t last forever,” she said.
“Help me minimize the impact. If anyone knew either of the men here, that could make a big difference.”
“With a court-ordered subpoena, I’m happy to help,” Moira said.
“That’s not necessary when it comes to identifying a victim.”
“You’re not asking me to identify a victim,” Moira said.