Walleye Junction (35 page)

Macy stared at the wall of photos. “If we're still going in circles at the end of the day tomorrow, I think we're going to have to start this investigation from scratch again.”

“Don't be so disheartened,” said Gina. “We may get something off Finn Crawley's sweatshirt, and Sean Spencer is finally within our reach. Plus the tech guys are still combing through the file attachments we received with the anonymous e-mails. Something will come up.”

 

16

Macy and Lou drove up to Collier County Hospital together. It was still early, and the hospital's lobby was relatively empty. Lou's face was etched with worry. Macy pushed the button for the elevator, and they waited in silence. She'd stayed up late going through Lloyd Spencer's medical files and financial records. At around two in the morning, she opened an e-mail from the tech people in Helena. They'd found something in the Word document that was attached to the first e-mail. The original document had comments that had been erased but were still visible when the file's revision history was accessed. One of the notations was particularly interesting.

Need more data from Whitaker's clinic. Must risk hacking into Francine's account again. It's hard to believe my wife didn't know what was going on.

Macy showed the e-mail to Lou Turner on the drive up to Collier. While it proved Philip Long had been investigating Whitaker, it did little to ease Lou's troubled mind.

“Lou,” said Macy, once they were alone inside the elevator. “Even if Whitaker is guilty, he may never be charged. Since you have to continue living in the same town as him, I suggest you let me do the interview on my own.”

Lou was visibly relieved. “Thanks, Macy. I owe you one. This is not going to be an easy interview. Aside from the e-mails we've got nothing solid that ties him to the kidnapping.”

“We may have more than you think. I went through Lloyd Spencer's financial documents again last night. Until two weeks ago he owed Whitaker's practice thirty-six grand in outstanding medical bills. It's all been written off. I think we both know why.”

“What's your theory?” asked Lou.

“Philip Long was planning a radio show that would have exposed Whitaker's high patient fatality rate and possibly implicate him as a dealer. Whitaker made a deal with Carla and Lloyd, promising to write off their outstanding debt. Along with another individual they were contracted to silence Philip Long, but not necessarily to kill him. I'm guessing that something went horribly wrong the night he died.”

“Nice, but we still need to prove it.”

“I'm painfully aware of that,” said Macy. “You know Whitaker well. Any tips before I go in?”

“Whitaker is a smart man, but he's got a messiah complex layered with an ego the size of Texas. I'd be careful about cornering him. He'll clam up and call the lawyers.”

“I'll keep that in mind,” said Macy.

The doors opened on the sixth floor, and they stepped out into the corridor.

“Come find me when you're done,” said Lou.

*   *   *

Dr. Whitaker was propped up in the hospital bed wearing a dark blue robe over his hospital gown. His left arm was in a sling. Although his tan had faded his strength had not. He shook Macy's hand firmly and looked her straight in the eye.

“It's a pleasure to see you again, Detective Greeley.”

“I'm relieved to see that you're on the mend, Dr. Whitaker.”

“I've had excellent care. Are you familiar with Collier County Hospital?”

“My son was born here,” said Macy.

“Then you know it doesn't have the best reputation. I can't say I've had any reason to complain.” He repeated himself. “Excellent care.”

“I'd like to thank you again for agreeing to speak to me. I know it's been a difficult twenty-four hours.”

“I understand Joel Edwards was of interest in your investigation. Hopefully, this incident has brought closure. Do you really think he was the so-called third kidnapper?”

“It is a possibility, but we'd like to make sure we've exhausted all lines of inquiry before closing down the investigation.”

“Of course,” said Dr. Whitaker. “I'll do what I can to help.”

Macy cleared her throat. “We've had some anonymous e-mails sent to us over the past week concerning prescription painkiller abuse. The sender implied that the contents of these e-mails are somehow related to Philip Long's death. We've since discovered that one of the attached documents was most likely created by Philip Long.”

“I don't understand how that could be the case. Philip was adamantly opposed to taking pain medication of any sort. I doubt very seriously he was abusing prescription drugs.”

“You misunderstand me, Dr. Whitaker. The attached file lists eighty-two cases over the past five years where patients have died despite being under a doctor's care. We ran the list by the state coroner in Helena. Your name came up in many of the cases.”

“I'm sorry,” said Whitaker. “But what does this line of questioning have to do with what happened in my clinic yesterday?”

“I'm trying to establish Joel Edwards's motive for confronting you.”

“He wanted drugs.”

“According to a witness who saw the exchange, Joel wanted justice. His sister, Wendy Martin, was one of your patients.”

“This is out of order. That man marched into my clinic and shot me. If not for the grace of God I'd be dead right now.”

“Dr. Whitaker, I've come here as a courtesy. Philip Long made some very strong assertions about opiate-based pain medication and doctor culpability in patient's deaths. The state has assured me that there will be a full investigation. Consider this a chance to tell your side of the story.”

“I feel like I should have a lawyer present.”

“You're free to stop at any time,” said Macy. “But the sooner I'm convinced that you have nothing to fear from the release of information found in these e-mails, the sooner I can move on with the investigation.”

Dr. Whitaker gave a terse nod. “Detective Greeley, I understand there is a need to be thorough in an investigation such as this, but it's obvious that you suspect me of some kind of involvement in Philip's murder. For the record, I strenuously deny it. As a gesture of goodwill I'm going to volunteer my DNA and fingerprints.” He held up his hands. “I have nothing to hide.”

“That's very much appreciated. Someone will come by today if that's okay.” Macy took a quick look at her notes. “Did Philip Long ever approach you about a story he was doing on prescription painkiller abuse?”

“He most certainly did not.”

“Have you always specialized in pain management?”

“No,” said Whitaker. “But I've worked in the field for the past twenty years.”

“Would it surprise you to learn that eighteen of your patients have died over the past three years by overdosing on prescription medication?”

“Are you sure that number is correct? It seems high.”

“I'll send you the documentation if you like,” said Macy. “Aren't you afraid to prescribe such powerful medication given the inherent danger to your patients?”

“Of course, I'm fearful,” he said. “I tell my patients that these are powerful drugs. I educate them, and they are all required to sign a patient contract. They promise to only take the medication as directed and to not seek medical care from any other doctor without my approval. In follow-up examinations I remind them to be careful. They are well aware that these drugs can kill them.”

“How are your patients assessed?” asked Macy.

“Determining a patient's pain state is incredibly difficult. You follow them closely and eventually develop an understanding. In the beginning I believed everything my patients told me. It was only with time that I became skeptical. Patients will lie to you. You have to have your guard up all the time.”

“If you're so careful, why do you think so many of your patients are dying of overdoses?”

“If a patient starts to misuse the medication, they will soon become dependent. At that point it's difficult to judge whether the pain they're feeling is legitimate. If they are convincing enough they may slip through the net. They may also start mixing their medication with alcohol or other drugs that they've bought on the streets or gotten through prescriptions from other doctors.” He paused. “Every pain management practice will have patients who die of overdose. The more a patient takes without having problems, the more they will think they can control it, but they're playing with fire. They never know when one extra pill will kill them.”

“Why risk treating these patients if it's so difficult to monitor their behavior outside of your clinic? According to Montana State Medical Board there are three malpractice cases pending against you. In the past three years you've settled out of court with patients' families on six separate occasions, paying out an estimated $2.4 million.”

“Someone has to take care of these patients. Who are we to say that they are not entitled to a pain-free life? I'm not going to play God. Pain may not be quantifiable but it is real. I'm sad that we've lost a few patients, but I have helped so many others over the years. I suggest you go to my Web site and have a look at the hundreds of testimonials. I really have done my best for all the right reasons.”

“Can I ask you about your relationship with Kyle Miller?”

“Kyle is a member of my prayer group at church.”

“He's also works for the company that provides security for your offices.”

“They don't provide security for me anymore,” he said. “I made the call this morning. I wouldn't have been shot if the security guard had shown up for work on time.”

“I understand he had a flat tire.”

“They were supposed to send a replacement,” said Whitaker. “They've apologized for what they've said was a clerical error. That's simply not good enough.”

“Did you know Kyle's uncle Lloyd Spencer?” asked Macy.

“The kidnapper?” asked Dr. Whitaker.

“He was once your patient. Until two weeks ago, he owed your practice thirty-six thousand dollars. Why did you forgive his debt?”

“Kyle came to me a month ago to plead his aunt and uncle's case. Lloyd's wife, Carla, was in rehab, but their debt was putting them under a considerable amount of stress, which made it difficult for them to stay away from drugs. It was clear that I was never going to see the money anyway, so I wrote off the debt.”

“Tell me about Wendy Martin.”

“That was an unfortunate accident and a terrible loss for the community and her family.”

“Fentanyl is one hundred times stronger than morphine, and yet you prescribed it along with Xanax and hydrocodone,” said Macy. “I understand that you've settled with the family out of court so no charges will be made against you, but surely you must see yourself as responsible.”

“As I stated earlier, pain management isn't an exact science. I take comfort in the fact that I get it right ninety-nine percent of the time, and not one of my patients' deaths has been ruled suspicious. I'm fully qualified, certified, and licensed to practice medicine in the state of Montana, and I stand by every prescription I've ever written. If the state has a case against me they're certainly taking their sweet time making it.”

Macy gave him her most benevolent smile. “I realize time is short but I have one more question to ask. How is it that a doctor practicing medicine in a town of less than sixteen thousand souls ended up writing nearly thirty percent of all opiate-based painkiller prescriptions in the state of Montana over the past ten years?”

Dr. Whitaker's face went red. “I've committed no crime Detective Greeley, and unless you can prove otherwise I suggest you leave me in peace.”

 

17

Emma found Nathan in the middle of a cherry orchard surveying buds for signs of rot. He turned away and headed back to his pickup truck without saying a word. Emma had to jog to keep up with his long strides.

“Nathan, I need to speak to you.”

He didn't slow down. “I thought we covered everything the other night.”

“I get that you're upset with me, but that's no reason for you to follow me around Walleye like some kind of stalker.”

Nathan stopped walking, but still wouldn't look at her.

“For someone who has taken ownership of their issues, you sure like to pile all your shit on other people.”

“I know I'm right. Someone saw you in your truck.”

Nathan started walking again. “When and where did this supposedly happen?”

“Along the river around noon yesterday.”

Nathan stomped along the farm track toward where their cars were parked next to each other.

“Please don't run off,” said Emma. “We need to talk about this. You really scared me.”

“Emma, can you just shut up for a second?” Nathan opened the door to his truck and grabbed a clipboard off the seat. He thrust it in Emma's direction. “Read this,” he said.

Emma studied the top sheet of paper. It was an invoice for a shipment of crates. A credit card receipt was attached.

“I was in Kalispell yesterday,” said Nathan, pointing to the transaction's date and time. “I was nowhere near you or the river.”

Emma stared at the paper. Nathan's signature was on the bottom. “I'm sorry,” she said.

“I want to know who's been saying shit about me.”

“I'm sure it was an honest mistake.”

“You seemed mighty convinced it was the truth a couple of seconds ago.”

“I'm really sorry.”

Nathan leaned against the bed of his truck and adjusted his ball cap. “Emma, if someone is following you, you need to talk to the police. Whoever murdered your father is still out there. You can't be taking chances.”