Sarah Woods Mystery Series (Volume 6)

by Jennifer L. Jennings

  Surprised by his understanding and lack of defensiveness, I felt more at ease with him. “Then who else would have benefitted the most from their deaths?”

  He shrugged, casually. “Well, there is Dr. Barry Boyle. Maybe he resents his colleagues for kicking him out of the group. He doesn’t strike me as a cold, calculated murderer, but he could potentially make a name for himself now. The only other possibility is Brianna Lepage, the intern assistant. She doesn’t strike me as a cold-blooded killer, either. She’s quite young. I think early twenties.”

  Taking a different route, I decided to focus on Rachel’s personal life. “How would you describe Rachel and Andrew as a couple?”

  “They seemed happy. Rachel always had nice things to say about him. I even testified on the witness stand, that Rachel never spoke of any abuse from Andrew. I never saw bruises or marks on her body.”

  “Did Rachel ever talk about ex-boyfriends or lovers?”

  “No but, to be fair, we didn’t make a habit of discussing our personal lives.”

  “Did Rachel talk about her brother, Michael?”

  Shefke hesitated, eyes narrowed as if I’d struck a nerve. “Yes. She spoke of her brother’s condition, paranoid schizophrenic, living on the streets. Despite everything she’d done to try and help him, he seems like a lost cause. The behavioral therapy didn’t seem to help her brother at all. A sad irony, considering Michael was the reason she began this holistic approach to mental illness.”

  “Have you met Michael?” I asked.

  A funny look crossed his face, and I got the sense he was slightly embarrassed. “I was able to locate him at a soup kitchen a few days after Rachel’s death. When I tried to approach him, he called me a Russian spy. All I wanted to do was offer my condolences and see how he was doing. With Andrew in custody, I didn’t know if Michael had anyone looking after him.”

  “Where is the soup kitchen located?”

  “The House of Bread is on Chestnut Street downtown. They serve meals three times a day.”

  “Could you give me a description of Michael?’

  “Brown hair. Green eyes. Scruffy looking, as you’d expect. When I saw him, he was wearing an army green jacket. And he probably has a shiner from his altercation with that police officer.”

  “Thank you.” I turned to Carter to see if he had any further questions, but he seemed satisfied. I retrieved a business card from my purse and handed it to Shefke. “We appreciate your time very much. Please call if you can think of anything else that might be useful.”

  As we all got to our feet, he said, “Allow me to show you the way back to your vehicle. The layout of this house can be confusing.”

  As we followed him through the labyrinth of his home, he chatted about the artwork adorning his walls. He even gave us a brief history lesson about a sculpture he’d purchased in Sedona. I thought it was interesting that his wife Cindy was nowhere to be seen. Perhaps she was busy alphabetizing the books in the library.

  Back outside, Carter said to Shefke, “I gotta ask, what’s with the Garage Mahal?”

  He chuckled at the friendly jibe. “Collecting cars is a hobby of mine. Would you like to see them?”

  Carter seemed impressed but slowly stepped away. “Maybe some other time, but thanks.”

  As we backed out of the driveway and continued on our way, I could see Shefke standing at the edge of his property, watching us until we turned onto the next road.

  Chapter 8

  As we headed toward downtown, I asked Carter, “What do you think of Shefke?”

  “I don’t have a good read on him. He’s a little showy for my taste, but he seems like a decent guy.”

  “He gave us two more suspects to look into. I say we start with Dr. Barry Boyle.” I did a quick search on my phone and found his office address. “Let’s pop in and see if he has some time to talk.”

  Ten minutes later, after snagging a coveted parking spot in front of the office, we waltzed into the reception area of Barry Boyle, MD.

  The woman seated at the desk was in her fifties, heavy-set, with an unruly mop of black hair, but she smiled amicably when we approached. “Good afternoon, can I help you?”

  Carter spoke up first. “We’d like to speak to Dr. Boyle as soon as possible.”

  The woman blinked a few times, a concerned look on her face. “Is this an emergency?”

  “Not exactly, but time is of the essence.”

  She studied us with pursed lips. “You’re not patients of his. May I ask what this is about?”

  “It has to do with the murder of his colleague, Rachel Manning,” Carter’s officious tone sounded more menacing than it needed to be.

  “I was under the impression that her killer has already been incarcerated,” she said.

  “He has,” Carter replied and left it at that.

  The woman consulted her computer screen, probably checking the schedule. “He had a cancellation today so I could squeeze you in. His next appointment should be ending in ten or fifteen minutes. May I ask your names?”

  I produced my private eye license for her to inspect. “Did you know Rachel Manning personally?” I asked.

  “Well, yes.” She handed the license back to me. “She did some work with my husband a while back.”

  “Oh,” I said. “So, Dr. Boyle is your husband?”

  “That’s right.” She stood up and offered a hand. “Tracy Boyle. It’s a pleasure to meet you. Maybe there’s something I can help you with until Barry is free?”

  Carter made a show of looking around the modest reception area. Just two rickety looking chairs with a magazine rack between them. “Mrs. Boyle, maybe you can tell us why your husband decided to leave Rachel’s research group? Didn’t he want his name included when the book came out?”

  The question seemed to catch her off guard. “Um, well, you’d have to ask him about that.”

  “I plan to,” Carter said, “but I’m curious to hear your version.”

  Tracy offered a stiff smile. “Okay, well, to be honest, I think Barry was too overwhelmed with the work. He was required to establish a number of patient test subjects willing to be part of the study. It required a tremendous amount of his time and money, something he didn’t have. So, as much as he believed in the research, he couldn’t hold up his end.”

  “Did he resent the other doctors for being able to continue without him?”

  “Of course not,” Tracy said. “In fact, he gladly gave them all of the research he’d conducted up to that point. Their joint efforts will revolutionize the way depression is treated. My husband is honored to be a part of that.”

  I found it hard to believe that Dr. Boyle didn’t care about getting credit for his work. “We just saw Roger Shefke,” I said. “Do you know who he is?”

  She nodded. “He’s the one who’s publishing the book, right?”

  “Not anymore. At least, not until he gets some cooperation. I’m just curious, why hasn’t your husband called him back?”

  She squirmed in her seat. “I don’t understand what’s going on here. Is my husband in trouble?”

  “No,” I said, mainly to set her mind at ease. She looked nervous and fidgety, and I didn’t want to worry her unnecessarily. “We just want to understand your husband’s part in all of this.”

  She blinked hard. “What do you mean?”

  “Three doctors are dead in the scope of six months. Sure, they all died in different ways, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t connected to the medical research they were working on. Any thoughts about that?”

  Tracy was stunned into silence. When she got her mouth to work, she leaned forward and said, “Do you really want to hear my thoughts about that? Barry thinks I’m paranoid but ...”

  “But what?” I asked.

  She rolled her chair over to a filing cabinet and opened one of the drawers with a key that was dangling from a cord around her neck. She found the folder she was looking for and opened it. “After Rachel’s murder, I began saving
newspaper articles.”

  “Articles about what?”

  She seemed reluctant to reply. Instead, she handed me the folder. “Read them for yourself.”

  It would take me all day because this file was heavy. “Could you please just give me the condensed version?”

  Tracy came around the desk and stopped just inches from my face. I saw fear and anger in her eyes. “Do you realize that prescriptions for psycho active drugs have risen five hundred percent over the past ten years?” she said. “Big Pharma is not in the business of curing anything and strictly relies on the repeat business from customers who are reliant on their medications. Isn’t it sad that such corporations would place the value of a dollar over the best interests of humanity? With all their brainwashing commercials and ad campaigns, Big Pharma profits from choosing greed versus finding an actual cure for depression, and the unsuspecting general public continues to feed the cash cow.”

  When I glanced at Carter to see his expression, I knew what he was thinking. This lady may be a conspiracy theorist, but she made a good point.

  “Okay,” I said. “So let me get this straight. You think Big Pharma hired a hitman to kill three holistic psychiatrists because they posed a threat to their bottom line?”

  “We’re talking hundreds of millions of dollars,” she whispered. “And yes, this has happened before. Look through that file. There are several cases where alternative medicine doctors mysteriously disappeared or were murdered. It’s not a coincidence.”

  “Does your husband share your theory?” I asked.

  “Not exactly, but he’s coming around. To tell you the truth, I’m glad he backed out of the research now. At least he’s still alive. He’s not being targeted.”

  I wasn’t about to tell her that her theories were ludicrous. She was entitled to her beliefs. If she wanted to believe that Santa Clause had an affair with Tinker-bell, who was I to convince her otherwise?

  Tracy grabbed the file out of my hands and returned it to the filing cabinet. “I guess I shouldn’t expect anyone to believe me. Heck, my own husband thinks I’m a flake.”

  Thankfully, just then, a door opened, and two men walked out.

  “Thanks, Doc,” the shorter man said to the other. “I guess I’ll see you same time next week?”

  “Sure. I’ll see you then, Chuck. Have a good week.”

  Tracy’s demeanor changed, and she was back in secretary mode, ushering the patient to her desk to set up another appointment.

  Carter approached the taller man and said, “Dr. Barry Boyle?”

  He regarded us with interest. “Yes, that’s me.”

  “Can we speak to you privately in your office for a few minutes?”

  Barry glanced at his wife and she nodded, giving him the green light, I suppose.

  Once inside his office, Barry closed the door and invited us to have a seat. This room was much more comfortable than the reception area with a plush ivory couch, leather chairs and an electric fireplace in the corner.

  After Carter explained who we were, and what his wife had said, Barry sat back in his chair and seemed intrigued and confused at the same time. “First of all,” he said. “I should apologize for my wife. She has some interesting views about the world. She’s not a very trusting soul.”

  Barry was a hulk of a man, heavy-set like his wife, with a large round face similar to Charlie Brown. He had about as much hair as Charlie Brown. One wispy strand was curled around his upper forehead, matted down with perspiration. His button-down shirt was one or two sizes too small, making evident the extra rolls around his mid-section but, despite his generally dumpy appearance, he had a generous smile and kind eyes. An honest face. I could see why his patients trusted him with their deepest and darkest secrets.

  “So,” I said in response to his comment about his wife. “I take it you don’t share her views that Big Pharma hires hitmen to eliminate its competition?”

  He chuckled good-naturedly. “Big Pharma has always been at war with alternative medicine and that won’t change as long as money is the key motivator. I just try to offer my patients options. For some, medication is the best choice. For others, a holistic approach is the best answer. So I guess you could say that I’m an equal opportunist.”

  I didn’t have the heart to tell him that an equal opportunist meant he was bisexual, at least in modern terms. “As for Rachel Manning and the two other doctors, I take it you don’t believe Big Pharma had them killed.”

  “Of course not. Besides, they already caught Rachel’s killer. It was her abusive boyfriend, uh, I forget his name.”

  “Andrew McCarthy,” I reminded him. “And he happens to be my half-brother.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry.” Barry grabbed a bottle of Gatorade, slurped it down greedily and then expelled a long breath. “So, what can I help you with?”

  I could see that Barry was nervous now. Perhaps he just felt embarrassed that he’d offended me, which he hadn’t. “Look, we just came by to find out if you had any thoughts about the death of your colleagues.”

  Barry appeared to give it some serious thought. “Dr. Spealman had a heart condition, so his death wasn’t necessarily a surprise. He lived alone and his neighbor found him two days later, poor guy. Dr. Lenzer, on the other hand, drove his car right off the bridge on Highway 84 as he was heading home. Or was it a ditch? I’m sorry I don’t remember the details. I was in Houston the day that it happened.”

  “Why were you in Houston?” I asked.

  “The Mind-Body Medical Conference is held there every year. My wife was supposed to come with me, but she got a cold and decided to stay home.”

  “Did Dr. Linzer’s family ever suspect foul play was involved?”

  He shook his head. “I don’t think so. I went to his funeral, and it was never mentioned.”

  “What about Roger Shefke?” I asked. “Will you help him get the book published?”

  “Yes. As a matter of fact, we have a meeting tomorrow night, here.”

  I gave him a business card and got to my feet to signify that we wouldn’t take up any more of his time. “Dr. Boyle, thanks for talking to us. Please call if you think of anything pertaining to Rachel’s murder.”

  Barry graciously walked us out to the reception room where his wife was sitting at her desk, a sheepish look as she pretended to be busy, probably regretting her rant about Big Pharma conspiracies.

  It was almost 4:30 by the time we got back to the motel room.

  I kicked off my shoes and plopped onto the bed, utterly exhausted. “I’m not sure if we accomplished anything today. In fact, now there seem to be more questions than answers.”

  Carter kicked off his own boots and joined me, arm wrapped around my torso. “I can’t wait to meet Rachel’s brother and find out more about the Russian spies.”

  “Seriously,” I said, slapping his arm. “Don’t make fun of the poor guy. I can't imagine how awful it must be to have an affliction like that. To believe people are following you, wanting to hurt you. It’s awful. And the fact that he’d rather live on the streets than in a shelter. Why would anyone choose to live on the street?”

  “Think about it,” Carter said. “Most homeless people have some form of mental illness. In Michael's case, he's a paranoid schizophrenic and one symptom is a tendency to be mistrustful, especially when it comes to authoritative entities like the government, for instance. Just because Michael is paranoid, however, doesn’t mean he’s not telling the truth. What if he really is being followed?”

  That glimmer of intrigue in his eyes made me chuckle.

  “I knew it. You’re fascinated by the extremely remote possibility that Russian spies are involved, aren't you?”

  “Maybe not Russian spies, but someone else? Like Rachel’s killer.”

  I shook my head. “There’s no point in bothering him. If we approach Michael and start asking questions about his dead sister, he might freak out. He has enough problems.”

  “We can’t ignore a possible lead.
That’s not how we work.”

  “What makes you think he’d know anything about his sister’s murder?”

  “All I’m saying, Sarah, is that we need to explore the option. I’ve dealt with people like him before. I can handle it.”

  I knew Carter had already made up his mind. “Fine, but you’ll be doing all the talking. I’ll stand back, observe, and take notes.”

  He kissed my cheek and rolled off the bed, landing on his feet. “Wanna order a pizza? I’m starved, you?”

  “Yeah. I could eat a horse.”

  After filling our bellies with a large, loaded pizza, neither one of us had any energy to venture out, so we called it a night. Tomorrow would be another long day, and we had to conserve our energy.

  Chapter 9

  The next morning while having coffee in our room, I found a number for Brianna LePage, Rachel’s intern assistant.

  I called her number and got a voice recording but decided not to leave a message. I’d try her later. It’s always best to catch someone in person. People are not inclined to return calls unless they think it’s going to benefit them in some way.

  I had no idea what kind of working relationship Brianna and Rachel had had. In fact, I was surprised that Andrew had never mentioned the intern. Maybe because he didn’t think it was important.

  Showered and dressed, Carter emerged from the bathroom smelling of cheap motel soap. “Ready to go have breakfast at the soup kitchen?”

  “We’re not actually going to dine there, are we?”

  “Why not? I hear they make killer waffles.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Just a minute. I want to call Sammy and give him a quick update.”

  The first words out of his mouth, “Sarah dear, how’s it going down there?”

  “Fine. There’s not much to report at the moment. However, there is a new lead we’re working on.”

  “Such as?”

  I explained to him the coincidence of the three doctors dying within four months of each other, but that we had no evidence to support the deaths were related. “Today, we’re going to visit Rachel’s brother. Unfortunately, I don’t think he’s going to be much help. He has schizophrenia and probably won’t talk to us anyway.”