by Shanna Hogan
“Well, you’re not to give her any more medicine.” Alexis glowered at her dad. “I’m taking over.”
Alexis remained glued to her mother’s side for the rest of the day, regularly checking her pulse, dabbing ointment on her eyes, cleaning her incisions with peroxide, and re-dressing her wounds.
Throughout the morning Alexis periodically tried to rouse her mother. “Are you okay? Mom?”
Michele fidgeted but otherwise did not respond.
By the afternoon, Michele had gained brief moments of lucidity. Alexis helped her sit up to swallow a steroid and her estrogen pill, which she had been taking since her hysterectomy.
By 2:45 P.M., Michele grumbled in pain, so Alexis gave her a Percocet. Later Michele took antibiotics, vitamin C, another steroid, and more pain pills. She never needed an Ambien or the Valium that Martin had requested.
Early that evening she was lucid enough to carry on a conversation. When Alexis told her how long she had been sedated, Michele was alarmed.
“Lexi, I don’t know why,” Michele said woozily, “but your dad kept giving me medication. He kept giving me things, telling me to swallow.”
The pills made her nauseous, but even after she had vomited, Martin had given her more drugs and made her take sips of the liquid Lortab.
“He just kept handing me things,” Michele cried. “Even after I started to throw up. He kept giving me stuff.”
Michele told her daughter she had protested. “I said, ‘I don’t need this.’ He said, ‘Yes, you need this.’”
Fearful that her husband was intentionally trying to overmedicate her for some reason, Michele said she didn’t want to be left in Martin’s care alone.
“She was upset,” Alexis remembered. “I knew my mom—I could hear it in her voice.”
Because she still couldn’t see and had no idea what her husband had given her, Michele asked Alexis to hand her each pill, tell her what it was, and let her feel the shape and size of the medication.
“She actually had me take out every medication from the pill bottle and she wanted to feel what the pills felt like in her fingers so that if my dad tried to give her anything she knew what he was giving her,” said Alexis years later. “Because at that time she could not see.”
Over the next few hours, as she began to fully recover from the drug-induced haze, Michele seemed gripped by fear.
That evening Alexis bathed her mother in the same Jacuzzi tub in which she would be found dead five days later.
Throughout her life, Michele’s favorite way to relax had been to take a bath. Alexis turned the water as hot as possible, the way she knew her mom enjoyed her baths. Michele leaned her head back under the faucet as Alexis helped shampoo and rinse her hair. When she’d finished, Michele sat up straight.
“Alexis.” Michele reached out and took her daughter’s hand. “If anything happens to me, make sure it wasn’t your dad.”
“Mom.” Alexis paused, momentarily stunned. “What are you talking about?”
“Make sure it wasn’t your father.” Michele’s voice quivered. Then she began to cry.
* * *
For the next five days, Alexis dutifully watched over her mother. She maintained a meticulous record of all the drugs, food, and water her mom consumed, along with her vitals, on the Zyrtec notepad, which she stored on top of a pink container holding her mom’s medication. Later, she switched to a small black notebook with gray lined paper, transferring the information from the Zyrtec pad so the data would be stored in one place.
Alexis also took over her mother’s household duties. She cooked, cleaned, and drove the girls to school and ballet. As Michele healed, her younger daughters gave her get-well gifts, including stuffed animals and cards. The teddy bears and flowers were displayed around Michele’s bedroom and hospital bed.
Two days after the surgery, Alexis and Martin both accompanied Michele to her first postoperative appointment with Dr. Thompson in Layton.
Dr. Thompson unraveled the gauze, noting the wounds were healing properly and his patient was in good spirits. Michele’s eyelid sutures were removed and replaced with surgical tape.
Once she could see, Michele was no longer confined to her bed. But her mind seemed to be reeling, as if she no longer trusted her husband. She tried to review Martin’s T-Mobile phone records, to check if he had contacted Gypsy. But when she tried to log on to his account, she discovered he had changed the password.
Michele confronted her husband, and they argued in their bedroom. Alexis eavesdropped outside the door. Michele told Martin he would not get away with an affair or with hiding his records.
“I want the phone records—I am not going to let this die,” Michele shouted.
“I haven’t spoken to her!” he bellowed.
“Then let me see your phone records. I want the new password.”
Over the last few days, Martin and Gypsy had exchanged twenty-eight texts—he couldn’t show his wife the bill.
Inventing a preposterous lie, he said he couldn’t provide his wife with his password because his work cell phone was owned by the state of Utah, which runs the Developmental Center, and it would be considered a violation of patient privacy.
“I don’t believe your story!” Michele huffed.
Fuming, Martin stomped out of the bedroom as Alexis quickly scurried away from the door. A few minutes later he returned.
“I want to take you on a cruise,” he declared. “Once we get clearance from the doctor, let’s go away for two weeks so you can relax and recover.”
Michele must have known the offer was insincere.
* * *
On Easter Sunday—April 8—Michele had a second post-op appointment with Dr. Thompson, where more of the stitches were removed.
That afternoon the children congregated at home to celebrate the holiday, which had always been a big event in the MacNeill house. But Michele wasn’t feeling well and stayed in her bedroom, complaining of nausea and a migraine. The next evening, Martin called and said he had to work late. Michele asked Rachel to drive by the Developmental Center and check the parking lot for his car. Rachel did so, then called her mom. “It wasn’t there.”
When Martin arrived home, Michele confronted him again about the phone records—she wanted proof he wasn’t speaking with that woman.
“You’re lying,” Michele said testily. “I know you’re lying.”
Finally Martin told her he would show her the phone records, but on another night.
On Tuesday, April 10, Michele had another postoperative appointment. It would be the final time Dr. Thompson saw his patient.
By then Michele’s swelling and bruising had begun to dissipate. Because she was healing so well, Alexis felt comfortable enough to return to school in Nevada, and had packed her bags before the appointment.
Martin, Alexis, and Ada escorted Michele to Dr. Thompson’s office, where the surgeon removed staples from the top of Michele’s head. Once they had been taken out, Michele joked, “Good! I no longer have horns.”
Dr. Thompson would later say he was pleased with Michele’s healing. “She was starting to be able to see the results a little bit because the swelling was going down—she was positive,” Thompson recalled. “I was happy with how everything was coming along and I think she was starting to get excited.”
Martin asked Thompson if his wife had healed enough to go on a cruise on Sunday—five days from then. “I want her to get away and have two full weeks to recover and relax and heal.”
Alexis flinched at that, and gave her mother a sideways glance.
“It surprised me,” Alexis later said in court. “He had never said anything [to me] before about taking her on a cruise, but he asked Dr. Thompson.” No evidence was ever recovered to show Martin had intentions of planning a vacation with his wife.
Dr. Thompson asked about her medication and Michele said she was down to just one Percocet a day. She had no issues with anxiety or sleep and hadn’t taken any Valium, Ambien, or
Phenergan since the night she had been left in Martin’s care.
“She was taking very little medication,” Alexis said years later. “Most of her pain was really under control and she was feeling good.”
Despite that, Martin called Dr. Thompson’s office shortly after the appointment, requesting thirty additional Percocet and more Phenergan.
* * *
Following the appointment, the four went to a nearby Sizzler in Bountiful for an early dinner. Michele ordered her usual—teriyaki chicken with extra chutney. At 6 P.M., they drove to the Salt Lake City airport and dropped Alexis off for her flight, exchanging hugs and kisses. Alexis arrived back home in Nevada that night around 8 P.M. and called her parents. “Just letting you know I got home all right.”
In Pleasant Grove, Michele visited with her girls as Martin discreetly texted Gypsy. Throughout that day he and Gypsy had exchanged several texts and one phone call.
Later that evening, Michele curled up in her hospital bed and fell asleep.
Hours later Michele MacNeill would be dead.
15.
On the morning of his wife’s death, Martin MacNeill awoke before dawn. He dressed in a pair of black slacks, a dark button-down shirt, and his long white doctor’s coat. Sliding behind the wheel of his car, he drove the three miles to the Utah State Developmental Center, arriving at the office at around 6 A.M.
It was April 11, 2007—a Wednesday.
The morning started out like any other.
At 6:48 A.M., Martin called Gypsy from his office phone, but she didn’t answer. While they didn’t speak then, Martin and his mistress remained in contact throughout the day, exchanging thirty text messages.
Martin’s weekly morning management meeting had been supplanted by the annual safety fair—an event organized by management to reduce workers’ compensation claims. Martin and his team were expected to receive an award for their department’s safety record.
At some point that morning, Martin spoke to his boss, medical services director Karen Clark. He complained about the timing of the ceremony, which was planned for 11:45 A.M., and asked for it to be rescheduled.
Meanwhile, at the Pleasant Grove home, Michele was awake but still groggy. She dressed in a dark jogging suit, sweeping her hair into a loose ponytail. She examined her face in the bathroom mirror. Although her eyes were bruised and cheeks swollen, she could see the early results of the face-lift. She was healing well and not in much pain.
Still weary, she plopped down on the couch in the bedroom and clicked on the TV. A short time later, Sabrina entered the room.
“Hey Mom,” she said. “I left my ballet bag at dance class. But I’m going to get it after school. Don’t worry.”
“That’s fine,” Michele said.
Michele told her daughter that their father had already left for work but would be back to drive her and her sisters to school. Michele hugged Sabrina. “I love you, princess.”
Sabrina knew her mom was still recovering from surgery, but thought she seemed a lot better. “She was normal. There was nothing odd about her behavior at all,” Sabrina recalled. “She was tired because she had just woken up, but we had a perfectly normal conversation.”
At about 7:45 A.M. Martin left his office and drove back to the Pleasant Grove house, but didn’t go inside. Pulling his car into the driveway, he honked the horn, signaling Giselle, Elle, Sabrina, and Ada that he was ready to take them to school. The girls grabbed their book bags and piled into the car.
During the drive, Martin was unusually angry and impatient.
“Is everything okay?” Sabrina asked.
“Your mom’s not feeling well,” he huffed.
Sabrina found the remark odd, having just seen her mom.
Martin dropped the older girls off at John Hancock Charter School, arriving just before 8 A.M. By 8:30 A.M., Ada was dropped at American Heritage School, near the Developmental Center.
Martin would later tell the pathologist that he didn’t return to work until after 9 A.M. From 8:30 until just after 9 A.M. his actions are untraceable.
* * *
At 8:41 A.M., Alexis called her mother on the home phone from her apartment in Henderson. Michele answered and said she would call her back. At 8:44 A.M., Michele returned her daughter’s call from her cell phone.
“How are you doing, Mom?” Alexis asked.
“I’m good,” Michele said, her tone upbeat.
Michele discussed her plans for the day and seemed happy to get back to her normal routine. Around 11:30 A.M. she was going to pick Ada up from school and take her daughter to get lunch at McDonald’s. Later, she would drive the girls to ballet practice.
During the call, Michele seemed in good spirits.
“She was happy,” Alexis remembered. “She sounded really upbeat … I could hear it in her voice.”
And while Martin had been angry and impatient with his daughters, he seemed to be going out of his way to be abnormally kind to his wife.
“Your dad is being so, so nice to me. So sweet,” Michele told Alexis. “He’s taking good care of me.”
Toward the end of the conversation, Alexis told her mom what she always told her before hanging up the phone: “I love you.”
“I love you, too,” Michele said.
It was the last time Alexis would ever hear her mother’s voice.
* * *
By 9:11 A.M., Martin was back in his office at the Developmental Center. He placed a call to an 800 number. From his work phone, he called Alexis and left a message. He also called Michele’s cell but she didn’t answer. He left a message for his wife at 9:17 A.M., lasting thirty-six seconds.
“Michele. Don’t you dare—don’t you dare go anywhere,” he said on the message. “Take it easy. Please. I’m very concerned, you just stay where you’re at. I’m coming home. I’m going to make you a sandwich and we’ll have a lovely lunch together. But just don’t call anybody and don’t go anywhere.”
At 9:26 A.M., Martin also called Gypsy’s cell phone, in a call lasting just twenty-four seconds.
From 9:30 A.M. till 11 A.M., Martin disappeared. He was not seen at work; he made no phone calls.
His whereabouts are unknown.
* * *
After hanging up with her mom, at around 9 A.M. in Utah, Alexis had gone to her neurology class at Touro University’s Medical School.
During a break in the lecture, at around 10 A.M., she glanced at her cell phone and noticed something that left her uneasy—her dad had called from his office and left a voice message.
The missed call felt ominous. Her father almost never called her, especially from his work phone. Worried something was wrong, she immediately checked the voice mail.
Martin’s tone was urgent. He said he felt Michele was “doing too much, too soon.”
“Alexis. You need to call your mom. You need to call her right away,” Martin said. “She’s not listening to me. She’s getting up. She’s out of bed. You need to call her and tell her she needs to rest.”
A shiver traveled down Alexis’s spine.
“I thought it was strange. It was actually really strange,” Alexis said years later. “Because my mom—I had just talked to her. She was doing really well. I had just been with her the day before and she wasn’t in bed or bed-bound. She was back to kind of her normal self.”
Later the phone call would seem even more peculiar. Reflecting back, Alexis realized her father didn’t have her number memorized. To even make the call he would have had to have his cell phone in hand to find her number. And if that was the case, why wouldn’t he call from his cell?
At the time, Alexis tried to push the negative thoughts from her mind. Before returning to her lecture, she called her mom at home, as her father had requested. There was no answer. Alexis called several more times but couldn’t reach her mother.
* * *
By 10:30 A.M., Melissa Frost, the Developmental Center liability prevention specialist, was irritated with Martin. Frost had spent
months organizing the safety fair. And now all her preparation was being ruined by one arrogant, demanding doctor.
For several years the Developmental Center had ranked number one in workers’ compensation claims, and Frost had been hired to decrease workplace injuries. For three years she had organized the safety fair to promote safety practices. As part of the fair, Frost had planned an award ceremony and had selected two departments with high safety records to receive recognition—including Dr. Martin MacNeill and his staff. The presentation had been scheduled for a time when the greatest number of employees would be present to witness it.
At 8 A.M., Karen Clark’s assistant had called, saying that the award ceremony would need to be rescheduled based on Dr. MacNeill’s availability.
“You have to be ready to give the award at any moment,” Clark’s assistant told Frost. “Dr. MacNeill cannot be there at eleven forty-five.”
“But no one would be there to see it!” Frost protested. Between 8 A.M. and 9 A.M. the direct-care staff would be assisting patients. “Part of the group that is receiving the award wouldn’t even be there!”
“You just need to be ready when Dr. MacNeill is available,” the assistant reiterated.
It was a directive and Frost had no choice but to comply. She hung up the phone and sighed. Frost spent the next fifteen minutes making phone calls to recruit employees for the ceremony, apologizing for the inconvenience. She knew Dr. MacNeill was difficult, but this was an egregious demand.
Why does he suddenly care about the safety fair? Frost wondered. He never seemed to bother with it in the past.
At around 9:30 A.M., Frost was in the conference room greeting staff as they trickled in and out of the safety fair. Booths were arranged in a circle around the room, each representing an activity considered to be unsafe. As she greeted employees, Frost got another call from Karen Clark’s assistant, confirming that the award ceremony had been rescheduled. She advised Frost that they would no longer need to rush, but would instead have the ceremony closer to the originally arranged time. Clark’s assistant explained that the doctor’s wife was sick and he had to leave to take care of her.