say. Around the first of the month.”
“Do you remember if she came to her appointments alone?”
Again, his lips purse. “It’s hard to say. Many women in her position want the matter to be handled privately. Others prefer to have someone with them, for comfort.”
But why did she come to see you?
I can’t ask him. At least not outright. Because he won’t tell me.
“How many times did you see her?” Patel butts in.
Garcia’s razor-sharp focus shifts to my partner. “Not speaking to this case specifically, there are some services we offer that require more in-depth counseling. Sometimes we recommend our patients speak with one of our in-house counselors for four or five sessions before procedures are cleared. We pride ourselves on being a clinic that provides top-notch emotional and medical support.”
“Which of your procedures require counseling?” I ask.
“Abortion, late-term miscarriage, and tubal ligation, to name a few.”
I nod. “Taking into account this information, and speaking theoretically, you might have seen Mandy McKnight approximately once for her procedure”—whatever it was—“and four times for counseling afterward.”
“Not necessarily in that order, but yes. Theoretically it would’ve been something like that.”
“And—still speaking theoretically—what kind of medications might be offered after procedures like the ones you mentioned before?”
“There could be many,” he replies. “Ibuprofen or Motrin would be given to relieve minor discomfort. Antibiotics might be prescribed to prevent infection, and other medications might be added to the list as well, depending on whether or not the mother exhibits signs of depression. Also, not that it necessarily pertains to this hypothetical case, but women experiencing more severe pain may be prescribed a combination of Valium and Vicodin to make them more comfortable.”
There we go. It’s all coming together now.
Mandy McKnight sought some kind of services from Dr. Garcia’s clinic in June or July. She was either pregnant and lost the child, chose to abort it, or decided to have a sterilization procedure. She visited this clinic and received counseling here. She was in extreme pain and filled prescriptions for Vicodin and Valium, which she never finished taking, since fifty-two pills remain in each bottle.
But how did her medication end up in the back of the Harrises’ medicine cabinet? And what, if anything, does that have to do with Joanna? It could be nothing. Mandy might’ve been friends with Joanna. She might’ve come to stay the night and accidentally left her prescriptions behind. Yes, the pills could lead nowhere. But something keeps telling me Mandy McKnight will be the missing piece to finding Joanna’s killer.
“Thank you for that information, Dr. Garcia,” I say, rising. Patel sends me a surprised look: he has other questions he wants to ask. “It’s extremely helpful. I have one more question, if you wouldn’t mind.”
“Go on,” he nods.
“Could you confirm whether Mandy McKnight was pregnant at the time of her first visit?”
I’m not taking a shot in the dark, not at all. I’m studying his reaction, analyzing his response, and measuring those against everything I’ve heard thus far.
“In your line of work, Detective Shaw, privacy may not be important,” he says evenly, his face a blank slate, “but to us, it’s paramount to the safety of the women who visit our clinic.”
Someone raps on his door, and a second later, the receptionist peers into the room. She’s taller than I realized. Glossy blond hair with hot pink streaks in it. Cornflower blue eyes. Round face and high cheekbones. She’s attractive in a sweet, innocent kind of way.
“Dr. Garcia,” she whispers, “your twelve-thirty is here.”
“Thank you, Tiffany,” he says, holding her gaze just a little long. He stands. “If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen, I have business to attend to.”
Just like that, our time is up.
“What about the name Joanna Harris?” I stop in the doorway. “Has she ever been a patient here?”
He stares me down before replying. “As I