The Dead Man at Doyle Saddle

by Charles Williamson

  I also called Karla Sheen and left a message for her to contact me. She seemed an unlikely suspect to have hired a contract killer, but I was interested in her allegations. I wanted a chance to eliminate at least one suspect.

  I had an enjoyable lunch of Saigon Stir Fried Beef at a Vietnamese restaurant and returned to the clinic at 1:00 for my meetings with the rest of the staff. My final appointment was with Doctor Steven Boatwright at 2:30. He was still at the top of my suspect list, but I didn’t want him to realize that I was suspicious. I planned to approach Mrs. Cantor about their relationship when I met with her in Flagstaff tomorrow.

  By the time I returned from lunch, everyone who had met with me in the morning had described his or her interviews to those I was to meet in the afternoon. The whole clinic was aware that I believed Dr. Cantor had been murdered. They also knew that I had asked about Karla Sheen and Mathew Andrews and they were ready with stories about both of them.

  The meetings produced no new information until I met with my chief suspect Dr. Boatwright. After a series of general questions, I asked him about his relationship with Dr. Zack Cantor.

  “Zack was my mentor and my closest friend here in Arizona. I first met Zack and Alexis at a convention in San Francisco, and it was Zack who persuaded me to interview for the opening here at the clinic. He was an outstanding surgeon and a remarkable man.” Boatwright seemed totally sincere, but he didn’t mention his trip to San Diego with Dr. Cantor’s wife.

  “You must have been aware of his hunting trip. Did he describe his plans?” I wanted to learn if Boatwright knew of the Doyle Saddle plan without him realizing the admission was part of my investigation.

  “I was on vacation last week and didn’t talk to Zack. I checked with the office every day, as did Zack. Amanda Brandt mentioned he was after the champion elk of the season. He was going to wait for it somewhere high in the mountains. She said he was so pleased with himself that he was like a kid.”

  “So you think everyone at the clinic had an idea of exactly where he would be hunting last Sunday?”

  “I assume so. It’s a small enough place so that everyone visits. People loved Zack Cantor, and they were happy that he was so thrilled with getting an elk tag this year. I assume the details of his hunting plans would be discussed in the break room.”

  “I’ve heard over and over how much Dr. Cantor was admired. Can you think of anyone who would want to harm him?”

  “As far as I know he didn’t have an enemy in the world. He was a generous man who voluntarily spent one month a year in a developing country training their physicians, and he provided free reconstructive surgery to those who couldn’t afford it. He was in Uganda last year. I’ve heard that you’ve been asking about a disgruntled patient and about Karla Sheen.”

  “We don’t have many leads at this point. What can you tell me about them?”

  “I never met Mathew Andrews, but I certainly remember Karla Sheen. She was lazy and had poor nursing skills. It was a mistake to hire her and the right decision to fire her.”

  I paused, waiting for more information, but Dr. Boatwright had no intention to continue without being questioned. “You were named as one of the men who were sexually harassing her. Do you recall the incident?”

  “Maybe I flirted a little in the break room in a kidding manner. I certainly wasn’t attracted to her; it was just in done as a jest. She certainly played along and didn’t act offended. That’s not sexual harassment. There was absolutely no coercion, and there was absolutely no sex, coerced or otherwise. This is not at all a hostile work environment, and she never made a complaint while she worked here. She’s just after money; it’s totally bogus BS.”

  “The allegation also involved Dr. Cantor. Do you think she had a grudge against him?”

  For the first time in our meeting, Dr. Boatwright seemed uncomfortable. He looked down at the table. “She’s a sad and unpleasant person, but I can’t imagine she would kill Dr. Cantor no matter what he said to her. I think it’s very unlikely that Zack would ever approach her that way. I never heard of him doing that sort of thing with anyone in the office. Now, he’s not even around to give his side of things. Maybe that helps her legal case and maybe not. I don’t know much about that sort of thing. I really have no clue as to who might want to kill him. Maybe, someone shot the wrong person.”

  After my meeting with Dr. Boatwright, I thanked Mrs. Morrow for setting up the day’s meetings. She said to call her anytime I had other questions and gave me her home phone number. I headed for my car, turning my cell phone back on to check for messages. I had over an hour to get from north Scottsdale to downtown Phoenix, but with four million people in Maricopa County, traffic can get almost as crazy as LA.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  I was driving on crowded State Route 51 approaching the mini stack at Interstate 10 when my cell phone rang. I had put it in its speakerphone cradle so I decided to answer when I saw that it was from Karla Sheen’s phone. I explained that I was investigating the death of Dr. Cantor. Of course, she knew some of the details because it had received substantial press coverage in Phoenix. I asked her about the lawsuit and her reasons for leaving the Scottsdale Cosmetic Surgery Clinic.

  “Perverts,” she said. “The place is full of ****ing perverts and degenerates. I’m a good Christian girl; those ****ing perverts should all be castrated to clean up that sleazy place.”

  “I’ve read your legal filing about the harassment. Can you be more specific about the events?” I tried to sound sympathetic in spite of her gutter language.

  “You’re damn right I can be more specific. That ****ing Steve Boatwright wanted me to have intimate relations with both Dr. Cantor and him at the same time. It’s too ****ing vulgar to describe in detail, but he called it a love sandwich in which Zack Cantor would enter the wrong place, if you get my meaning. I’m a nice Christian girl and can’t say more than that.”

  “You were outraged at the suggestion and complained about it at the time?” I asked.

  “My direct boss was the head nurse, that ****, Amanda Brandt. I think she belongs to some sort of pagan cult with that redneck boyfriend of hers. Anyway, she was probably doing that sort of thing with them already. I think that’s why they gave her that fancy car. Of course, that Jew bastard Cantor (May he burn in the everlasting fires of hell.) was the senior partner at the clinic. Who could I complain to? They were all in on it.”

  “Were there witnesses to your harassment, Ms. Sheen?”

  “They will all lie about it; the doctors have everyone under their thumbs because most of the staff own shares in the clinic. They have too much to lose to side with me. My attorney thought there would be a quick settlement, but they insisted on going to trial. He won’t take my case unless I come up with a retainer. The clinic’s attorney says he will counter-sue for defaming their characters. As if that ****ing Jew bastard Cantor had a character to defame.”

  “Does that mean you’re dropping your complaint?” I asked.

  She grunted in a manner that I took to mean yes, quickly followed by a series of foul mouth comments, and concluded by saying, “Now, I’m up shit creek without a ****ing paddle; may Christ have mercy on me. The Clinic won’t give me a job recommendation or any settlement money. Every doctor in town thinks I’m a troublemaker. I should have at least gotten severance pay. They’ll all burn in hell for this.” Her final tone was whiny and defeated.

  The fact that her attorney would not take the case on a contingency fee indicated that it was weak. I mentally crossed her off my suspect list. She certainly was not the type to have hired an extremely competent contract killer, and there was no indication that she knew where Dr. Cantor was hunting last Sunday. Earlier today, I had spoken with every employee of the clinic and not a single person had a critical word to say about Dr. Cantor, and every time Ms. Sheen’s name came up she was described as lazy and lacking nursing skills.

  I found a parking lot near the federal building and proceeded to the DEA’s Cen
tral Phoenix Headquarters. Grant Emerson’s office was modest and institutional looking, and the DEA agent fit right in. He’s a slightly tubby, slightly gray, and slightly bald man of about my age. He showed me his evidence and explained that the DEA had an expert verify the signatures on the prescriptions. They were all signed by Zackary Cantor, MD of Paradise Valley, Arizona.”

  “Why did these prescriptions attract your attention?”

  He spread the papers out on his desk. “This is a lot of Oxycodone for one physician, and they are for high dose pills of the pure narcotic, not the more common time release version. You usually get this volume only from doctors treating numerous terminal cancer patients or other extremely painful chronic medical conditions. However, it wasn’t the volume alone that attracted our attention. Every prescription on this desk was paid for in cash at three pharmacies that we’ve been keeping an eye on for six months. Cash payments are often made by undocumented aliens, but the combination of the volume and method of payment caused us to open a case file last week. We concluded that Dr. Cantor’s Scottsdale clinic would be unlikely to treat many undocumented aliens or others without credit cards or insurance. We decided that this was a case of physician assisted prescription drug abuse.”

  I looked over the document; none of the names were Hispanic, but several were Jones, Williams, Smith and the like.

  “We think it’s likely that Dr. Cantor was murdered, perhaps by a professional killer,” I said. “The death was made to look like a hunting accident. So far, we haven’t found a motive. Do you think it might be connected with your case?”

  I didn’t know why a man like Dr. Cantor would have gotten involved with a drug ring, but I knew murdering witnesses and former partners in drug crimes is common. I had probably handled thirty similar murders in my thirty years in LA; however, none had ever involved a physician.

  “For the record, after this meeting, the DEA will close the file on Zackary Cantor. We have too many active investigations involving dangerous felons to keep open a case on a dead physician. I don’t know how a ritzy doctor got involved in this, but it’s safe to assume that his partners might kill him if they thought he would turn them in. To a rich doctor a hundred thousand dollar street value of drugs might not seem like much, but to the scum who deal in this hillbilly heroin it is unquestionably an adequate motive for a murder. His murder is not a federal crime; it’s up to you to figure it out”

  “Do you have any information about who was getting these prescriptions filled?” Without more to go on this looked like another dead end.

  “Sorry, our pharmacies claim to remember nothing about the buyers. Their records indicate they were shown Arizona Driver’s Licenses that matched the prescriptions. The names of seven different men were used, but all the names and addresses are fictitious. It might be part of a bigger ring, but it’s the only similar scam we’ve discovered so far.”

  “Who at the pharmacies knew that you were investigating Dr. Cantor?”

  “We approached the manager at each pharmacy, but usually support people gathered the records we’d subpoenaed. We’ve also talked with each pharmacist who filled these prescriptions. By now, dozens of people might know we were investigating Dr. Cantor. It would have been easy for word of the investigation to get back to the others involved.”

  I continued my discussion with Grant Emerson for another half hour. He tried to be helpful, but I learned nothing useful. I left, still baffled as to why a respected physician would have gotten involved in a drug scam. Something really didn’t add up. I was anxious to get home to discuss things with Margaret, but I had one more meeting before returning to Sedona. I drove to the Wells Fargo Building. My 5:00 meeting with Mathew Andrews and his attorney was scheduled in his attorney’s office on one of the top floors.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  I knew nothing about the law firm that employed Bryan Goode except that the firm had a dozen names in its title and that they had hired a decorator who loved the look of old oak and leather books. Since none of the names in the firm’s title was Goode, I assumed he was an associate, probably a very junior one to be working on the Mathew Andrews dubious malpractice case.

  After making it through the obligatory series of receptionists and assistants, I was ushered into a small corner conference room with a view of Patriots’ Square far below. Multicolored tents decorated the plaza and the street surrounding it. It was bustling with the 5:00 crowd still flowing out of every nearby building. I did not expect this meeting to last long, but I hated the idea of driving from downtown Phoenix on I-17 toward Sedona at 5:30. Maybe, I’d explore the street fair for an hour after the meeting to let the rush hour traffic pass.

  Mathew Andrews was a slight young man with regular features and a dimple in his chin that I knew was the work of Dr. Cantor. He was dressed in a tight silk shirt and tan slacks. Bryan Goode wore a navy suit. The men appeared to be about the same age, late twenties, and I wondered if they’d become acquainted in school.

  I endured a twenty-minute explanation of the reasons for the malpractice claim. Bryan Goode did almost all of the talking while Mathew acted as if his mind was somewhere else. He seldom looked in my direction and seemed to focus on the clouds far off in the direction of Casa Grande and the occasional airplane that was headed toward Sky Harbor.

  Mathew had specialized in underwear modeling for a Seattle department store chain and for several catalogues that I’d never heard of. He had started while attending an exclusive Catholic high school in Phoenix and made enough money to escape from his parents’ unhappy but wealthy household at seventeen. When he reached his mid-twenties, he decided to expand his modeling horizons. I assumed that was because he was too old for his previous specialty.

  He had met Dr. Cantor when he decided some cosmetic surgery was in order. During the extensive series of surgeries, he claimed to have developed a close personal relationship with Dr. and Mrs. Cantor. He was deeply hurt when the doctor refused to complete the needed operations. Because Dr. Cantor had been the best cosmetic surgeon in Arizona, Mathew needed his unique skills to achieve his professional goals.

  “What about the restraining order?” I asked after hearing as much of the surgery details as I could stomach. It seemed slightly perverted for Mathew to focus that much attention on modifying his face and physique.

  This time Mathew responded to my question and looked directly at me. “I’d been to Dr. Cantor’s house several times for small social gatherings. After he rejected me as a patient, I went back a couple of times to talk to him about it. He wouldn’t return my calls or see me at the clinic. I think Alexis overreacted to my visits and put him up to it.”

  “What sort of small gatherings did you attend at Dr. Cantor’s house?” It seemed unlikely that this somewhat effeminate young man would have a social relationship with the Cantors, but he had been a good client of the surgeon. I also knew that the Cantors had been involved in a lot of charity activity, and I assumed they entertained in their home as part of that.

  “That’s none of your damn business.” He turned and looked at his attorney for moral support.

  “This statement is voluntary. My client is willingly participating in a law enforcement investigation. If he wants some subjects to be out-of-bounds, that is his right,” Bryan Goode said.

  “So you maintain that the restraining order was issued because you visited his home several times after you were no longer his patient?” I asked.

  “Even though Dr. Cantor claimed it was stalking, it was quite reasonable for my client to want to talk with his physician in person about his medical treatment,” Bryan Goode said. The attorney wanted Mathew off my suspect list, but his client was actually moving up rather than down at this point in the interview.

  “Exactly how many times did you go to his house after he dismissed you as a patient?” I asked.

  “Less than ten, I think. A couple of times in Flagstaff but they wouldn’t let me through the gate up there,” Mathew said.

  �
�I noticed that the malpractice suit was filed after the restraining order. It indicated that your face was partially paralyzed, but I see no sign of that. You look normal to me,” I said. I watched Mathew closely for his reaction.

  “It comes and goes,” he said with a grin. “I have a Nogales physician that will testify that the Scottsdale Cosmetic Clinic was negligent in my chin surgery.”

  I concluded that lawsuit was another way of trying to get Dr. Cantor’s attention. If Mathew was obsessed with this issue, it was possible for him to have planned and executed a complicated murder plot. “Where were you this past weekend?”

  “Mostly at home.” He looked out of the window again as if to dismiss me.

  “Mostly – did you leave the Phoenix area over the weekend?”

  He didn’t answer. After a long pause, Bryan Goode said, “My client had nothing to do with Dr. Cantor’s death.”

  “Mathew, were you in Flagstaff at any time this past weekend,” I asked.

  “Hell no. I was home alone watching old movies all weekend, and you can’t prove otherwise.” It sounded like a lie. Bryan Goode fidgeted in his chair but said nothing.

  “You don’t have anyone who can verify that?” I asked.

  “I was home alone. I wouldn’t kill him; I needed him to finish my face. My nose needs more work and my ears need some adjustments. Zack Cantor quit before we were finished, and now he can never complete my transformation.” There was a manic tone to his complaint. Mathew Andrews was scary, and I could see why Alexis Cantor had encouraged her husband to get a restraining order.

  “Are you a hunter, Mathew?”

  “Sure. My dad taught me when I was a kid. He wanted me to be an expert shot and a hunter so people wouldn’t think I was a sissy. I’ve hunted deer and ducks, even elk.”

  “So you have a hunting rifle,” I said.