Fatal Analysis (Psychiatrist Grant Garrick series Book 2)

by Tom Bierdz

  “We did.” Now I’ve come full circle. I’d never have guessed I’d be using those skills to investigate again. “Too bad we can’t go back. Those were simpler times.”

  “Yeah,” she sighed.

  “I’m meeting with Dr. Allende who prescribed Zoloft for Sasha tomorrow. Then I think I’ll need to go to Chicago. The obit doesn’t name the ex-wife but I learned her name is Norma. I’ll start there.” I glanced at the clock on my desk. “We’d better get some sleep. I’ll keep you up to date.”

  “Okay. Be careful.”

  I was exhausted yet too much adrenalin was flowing through my veins. I was in a race to save my reputation, my life. I poured myself a scotch to help me sleep. I tried to focus on the positives. Having Carrie in my corner was big.

  39

  With the spike in my anxiety, there was no way I could administer to my patients the next day. I trudged through my afternoon patients yesterday after I had seen Carrie, unable to maintain focus, and cheated them out of the help they came for. Fortunately, no one broke down or reached an Aha moment. I’d make it up to them somehow. I had Bobby call today’s patients to reschedule, telling them I had an emergency.

  I needed to go to Vancouver, Canada to visit with Dr. Sam Allende who had prescribed the Zoloft for Sasha to see what I could discover. I called and set up an appointment. Once more, I had to rely on Bobby to drive me. He didn’t mind, liked driving the Porsche and the change of pace. Thankfully, he had an enhanced driver’s license which got him across the border. I brought my passport.

  Vancouver is a coastal seaport city on the Puget Sound, a straight shot up I-5, about one hundred-forty miles from Seattle, over three hours away factoring in the border crossing. That gave Bobby and I plenty of time to talk. I brought him up to date with what was happening, told him about Megan alleging I sexually took advantage of her, why those insurance reports were so important, and apologized for insinuating he took the two-hundred dollars.

  I also told him that Detective Rollins suspected Megan of murdering her sister by overdosing her with Zoloft and that I was considered a possible accessory. Bobby was blown away. He had no idea that Megan was capable of any of this.

  “Think very carefully, Bobby, did you give Megan any drugs or could she have removed any from the drug room?”

  “You have to know I wouldn’t be giving anybody drugs,” he scolded.

  “I know. Understand I’m not accusing you. I don’t think you did. I had to ask you before the police did.”

  “The cops are going to question me?”

  “They might. Would Megan have access to the drug room?”

  Sighing, Bobby shook his head. “Honestly, she might have. Once I knew you were dating, I didn’t watch her that closely. I treated her like one of the family.”

  “Could someone else have gotten into the meds?”

  “Not likely, but possibly. We didn’t keep it locked. I tried to monitor it but I wasn’t glued to it.”

  He looked sheepish. “Am I going to get you into trouble?”

  “No, if Megan took the drugs, it was my fault. I didn’t keep track.”

  Dr. Allende’s office was in a historic Edwardian, building right off the main drag in Gastown, Vancouver’s oldest neighborhood. Gastown was also a tourist area with cobblestone streets meandering among artist’s studios and galleries, boutiques and souvenir shops. Bobby elected to browse the area while I interviewed the doctor. We agreed to meet in a restaurant afterwards.

  I hiked the stairs, opened the door, rousing the bell’s chime, and strolled up to the youthful receptionist bookmarking her Harry Potter novel. I smiled, “Dr. Grant Garrick to see Dr. Sam Allende”

  “She’s expecting you.” Pointing, she added, “She’s right over there with that little boy.”

  I turned, hiding my surprise, expecting to confer with a male doctor, thrown by the name. Dr. Allende was a small, thin, elderly woman, her gray hair rolled into a tight bun. She was bending over, reassuring a crying toddler who had been sitting at a child’s table. Once she calmed him and got him coloring she edged toward me, bent over from osteoporosis like she had weights hanging from her neck, took my hand in both of hers and gave me a warm smile. “Let’s go into my office, Doctor. I still see a number of little ones like that boy out there, but I don’t have the patience I used to anymore.”

  “Seems to me you handled him quite nicely,” I said, observing her orthopedic shoes; the left appeared significantly wider than the right.

  “Yes,” she said sitting behind her wicker desk with a glass top, “he’s one of the easier ones. At my age I shouldn’t take on any more of those little ruffians, but I never had grandchildren.” Letting the last word drop, she sighed and rearranged the pillow behind her back. “But you didn’t come here to hear an old lady reminisce.”

  “Your name threw me,” I said, sitting on a wicker rocker. Her whole office was done in wicker, what seemed more appropriate for a Florida lanai. “I expected to be talking to a male psychiatrist.”

  She lifted the glasses that were strung around her neck to her eyes, to get a better look at me. “I get that all the time. I suppose I should use Samantha, but nobody calls me that. And, it’s too late now. You want to talk about Sasha Kovitch.”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you assisting Detective Rawlings?”

  “Rollins. No, I treated...saw her sister, Megan, who sought help for Sasha who she believed was suicidal. Apparently Rollins paid you a visit.”

  She nodded. “Several days ago.” Pain creased her face. “I wish I could have seen her more. Maybe I could have stopped her, but I never thought she was a suicide risk.”

  I formed the impression that Dr. Allende was a dedicated professional whose patients were the focal point of her life. She wasn’t wearing a wedding ring and displayed no family photos in her office. “I know what it’s like to lose a patient I’d been seeing for several sessions. It’s crippling. Tell me about your experience with Sasha.”

  She glanced at the file that sat on her desk, having reviewed it in anticipation of my visit. “I saw her just twice in succeeding days. She and her husband had come to Vancouver for the weekend. Sasha became very depressed and demanded to see someone right away and I was on call. She had lost her baby in a late term pregnancy. I don’t remember the exact particulars. I can look them up for you...”

  “That’s not necessary.”

  “I think the weekend in Vancouver was supposed to take her out of her depression depths. She was weepy, hadn’t had time to grieve her loss. I simply offered supportive therapy and prescribed Zoloft. She seemed slightly better the next day, felt the Zoloft helped. I gave her the names of three psychiatrists in her area for her to follow up with. I think your name might have been one of them.” She opened the file, looked inside. “Yes, it was.”

  It was nice to know that someone was still referring to me. Apparently Canada didn’t get the memo of my DUI. “I don’t believe she followed up with anyone. Her sister, Megan, said she wouldn’t come in to see me because a former therapist sexually abused her. Did she say anything about this?”

  “No, but our time was so short and she was focused on the loss of her child.” She clucked her tongue. “I wasn’t the only psychiatrist on call. There’s usually three with both sexes available in case the person feels more comfortable with one sex or the other. So I assume she could have selected to see a man if she wanted. But that may not mean anything.”

  “And you say you never saw her as suicidal?”

  “Like I say we only had two sessions but I thought her depression was situational, related to her loss, and would diminish when the major grieving was over.”

  “What exactly did you prescribe?”

  “A fourteen day supply of Zoloft with no refills.”

  “Apparently she didn’t over
dose on what you gave her. She told you she took the one right away. Since it helped she could be expected to take more. The toxicology report showed an excessive fatal amount. She couldn’t have had more than a few left, if any. She had to have gotten more drugs elsewhere.”

  “I’m very careful with what I prescribe.”

  “I wasn’t suggesting...”

  “I understand.”

  “Let me ask you about Nick, her husband. Did she complain about him? Did their relationship seem destructive?”

  “As I told the detective, I didn’t pick up anything unusual. Sasha said he was disappointed the weekend away didn’t elevate her mood, and that he didn’t really understand what she was going through, but that was pretty much the extent of it.” She peered at me though her glasses again. “Do you suspect foul play like the detective?”

  “It’s beginning to look that way. Did she talk at all about her sister, Megan?”

  “No, I don’t believe so. Like I said she was reacting to losing her baby.”

  “Would you look in your notes? I’m not doubting you. It’s just that it may have slipped your mind and this is very important.”

  Raising a questioning eyebrow, she picked up the file. “Since you’ve come all the way from Seattle.” She gave it a quick glance. “No mention of her sister.”

  “Thanks. You don’t think Sasha was suicidal. I didn’t get that impression either.”

  “You said you didn’t treat her,” she said, confused.

  “Right. I didn’t.” I told her about my accidental encounter with Sasha from which I drew my impression.

  “It was good she lost the baby,” she philosophized.

  “Huh?”

  “I mean that child would have been motherless. We have too many children without a parent and many with parents that might as well be missing for all their neglect.”

  I could imagine how her practice, specializing in children, could lead her to that conclusion.

  “Maybe so.” I stood, shook her hand. “Thank you Sam. You’ve been very helpful.”

  “I’m glad I could help.”

  40

  I had Bobby reschedule my patients and free me for the rest of the week so I could fly to Chicago. In my haste I didn’t give him a reason why and later learned he told patients I had to attend a conference. He’d been a dependable, steady hand since he learned of my crisis. I needn’t have worried about him saying I was checking up on a woman I’d been dating. He had full rein to put in as much time in the office as he wanted. since he needed the income.

  I packed lightly, enough for three days and stuffed everything into a carry on. I could launder or purchase clothes if I needed to stay longer. Eager and anxious, I arrived at SeaTac airport way too early with a couple of hours to kill. I meandered through the shops, places for travelers to pick up a souvenir for the family, or something to eat or drink on the flight. Several lounges and restaurants dotted the concourse and, as one would expect in Seattle, there were the Starbucks and Tully coffee houses. I browsed through the Hudson Bookstore, picked up a Marcus Sakey paperback for the ride, then hobbled over to Ivar’s, got a halibut and chips, and washed it down with a diet coke.

  No question SeaTac was an international airport. In addition to English, I heard Spanish, French, German, Japanese and a couple of other languages I couldn’t identify. There were the duty free shops and currency exchange booths for the foreign visitors. It was mass humanity, long impatient lines dragging through security, frequently halted and bunched up when a suspicious traveler got special scrutiny. I questioned the effectiveness of the TSA. Certainly I was willing to undergo the hassle if this was necessary to prevent another terrorist attack, but the papers were full of stories about guns and other dangerous paraphernalia getting through. But in this particular time and place I wasn’t worried about a terrorist attack; I was fixated on an attack on my character and reputation, and as I exposed more and more of the onion skin layers, maybe, even my life.

  Seated among the restless crowd I observed people reading books or the newspaper, softly plunking on their notepads, watching TV, or chattering with another. A young woman casually breast fed her baby without arousing attention from the people around her. Another mother tried to calm her screaming toddler. Someone’s diaper needed to be changed. Most annoying were the insensitive cell phone talkers who spoke loudly and extensively as if they were in their own room, oblivious to how obnoxious they sounded to fellow passengers.

  I watched people shuffle around. Before the advent of cell phones I’d be wary of people who talked to themselves. Now it seemed as if everyone talked into mouthpieces in public. It wouldn’t be as easy to identify the full blown psychotics walking around anymore. And what was it with everyone talking on cell phones? Who were they talking to? Why was it so important to stay connected? To be glued to the hip of another? We were social beings but with separate identities. I’d be the first to value the usefulness of cellular phones in emergencies, or when contacts had to be made such as announcing your arrival to the person picking you up. But the incessant chatter was worrisome to me. Our minds needed time for silence and reflection, to sift and winnow, sort things out, meditate, and to simply get in touch with our feelings.

  I felt strange, out of my comfort zone, as if I was embarking on a journey without a finite destination. Past times when I took risks and ventured into the unknown, I’d feel a void, but also an excitement, the thrill of the adventure. There was no thrill, only the heavy realization of what was at stake and my fear of failure.

  Too keyed up on the plane to catch up on my sleep, I tried reading my novel but couldn’t concentrate. And since I was computered out researching the internet, I kept my notepad in my bag. That left me with my thoughts. How strange that Carrie reminded me that I had functioned as a private eye and would now investigate Megan’s past. This was a lot different from sitting in a car and spying on a plaintiff, and photographing him playing football when he was suing his company for disability benefits, or snapping photos of a husband dating and kissing another woman. What did I really know about investigative work? I was a psychiatrist. Yet, there were parallels. I observed human behavior, searched for clues to find the traumas hidden beneath the conscious surface. I had to make the associations, put them together to form a diagnosis. I had to know what was making my patient tick. I needed to know what made Megan tick. Why was she suing me? What did she hope to achieve? I could do this. Like an investigative reporter I needed to track down the story and ask the right questions. My confidence was at a low ebb. I was still second guessing myself for not honing in to Kevin and preventing his suicide. I had been taken in by Megan, hook, line, and sinker. But I had to push my bruised ego aside, wallow in my humanness, accept my frailty, and move on. Who was this Norma, Pennington’s ex-wife, and what could she tell me about Megan?

  I deplaned in O’Hare, one of the country’s busiest airports, enclosed in a glass-like, human terrarium, and taxied into the city under the glow of a crisp spring day. I’d been to Chicago only once when I attended an American Psychiatric conference and delivered my paper, The Ethics of Transference. Ironic that I would be investigating Megan here. I liked the energetic bustle of the city but had little chance to explore it then. I suspected my exploration this time would be determined by where my search took me. I’d have to return another time to take advantage of the many sights and adventures Chicago had to offer.

  I checked into my hotel, had a quick bite in the hotel’s restaurant, and set out to see Norma Pennington.

  41

  Norma Pennington lived in a brownstone apartment north and east of the University of Chicago, in an area that had a resurgent revitalization with a new generation of young multi-cultured families. In the taxi I noted Mexican, Middle Eastern, Puerto Rican, and Asian restaurants alongside the familiar fast food eateries, like McDonalds and KFC. School was i
n session, but I still saw youths shooting baskets on the playground and kids riding skateboards on the street.

  Norma’s street was quiet, a continuous line of two-story, brownstones-- some with balconies littered with chairs, grills, and bicycles, on both sides of the road. Bumper-to-bumper cars lined one side of the street. Mature oaks and sycamores shrouded the area on a gloomy, cloudy day. The drapes in Norma’s apartment were closed. I paid the cabbie, bounced up the stairs and about to press the buzzer, I stopped in mid-motion. Now that I was there I wanted to be back home again; I wanted to be anywhere but where I was.

  Up to this point Megan’s marriage had been pure speculation; actually pretty good speculation based on conversations with Nick, Nancy, and Bruce, and what I could infer from the obituary. Yet it had not been confirmed. I could still hold on to the premise that Megan had never been married, had never lied to me. Norma could erase any such doubts with the certitude of a laser surgically removing a tumor. Still, I pressed the buzzer. Maybe she wouldn’t be there. I hadn’t called ahead and banked on Norma being home. After getting no response to my second buzz I began to admonish myself for foolishly not calling ahead. A moment ago I wished she wasn’t home; now I didn’t want to think I came all this way for nothing. Then, the door clicked open. I entered the building and rapped on the lower apartment door.

  A short, round-shouldered woman opened the door, bracing herself on a walking stick. Smelling of mothballs and wine, Norma appeared much older than her middle sixties. Thinning, stringy, gray hair in need of a wash topped a sallow, haggard complexion. She looked like the bitter ex-wife. I heard the low level sounds of a TV.

  “Norma Pennington?”

  “Are you a cop?” She greeted me with a penetrating, repulsive look as if I was a homeless man who reeked and hadn’t washed in days