Ryan whistled.
“Who?” Anissa asked.
“DOR International is a global supplier of medical supplies. The CEO is a guy named Darren Campbell.”
“Campbell? Any relation?” Leigh asked Adam.
“Cousin,” he said.
“What do they want with Sabrina?”
“This isn’t a business dinner,” Adam said. “Darren is recently divorced. He’s only thirty-three. And Sabrina’s work helped prove his innocence in a money laundering situation he ran into last year.”
“She’s dating Darren Campbell?” Gabe’s remark earned him a nasty glare from Adam.
“Can we get back to figuring out who’s got it out for a bunch of rich guys who want to have plastic surgery?” Adam asked.
“Worried you’ll be next?”
Gabe’s joke solidly moved the discussion back to the murder investigations and away from Adam’s obvious despair over Sabrina’s plans for the evening. It wasn’t until several minutes later that Leigh realized he’d done it on purpose.
The group decided that Adam would get whatever warrants were necessary and compare the employment records from the plastic surgery center to those of the Carrington Memorial Hospital staff and see if he could find a match. Any matches would be investigated, but the jackpot would be any names that matched Leigh’s list.
Ryan and Gabe once again elected to sleep in the guest rooms, and Leigh was fine with that. Even with the patrolling officers outside, she didn’t like being alone in the house.
She knew it wasn’t precisely protocol, but Ryan had assured her the sheriff and his captain both knew what he and the entire team were doing and had no problem with it. The sheriff had even encouraged it and said he slept better knowing there was a law enforcement presence with Leigh at almost all times.
She imagined her dad was nodding in approval, thankful for his friends who were still helping him protect his baby girl.
“We’re closing in on him—or her,” Ryan said as he told her good night. “It won’t be much longer.”
22
Ryan dodged puddles as he dashed into the office on Friday morning. He shook out his jacket and headed straight for the coffee pot.
He’d never tell Leigh, but he hadn’t slept well in two weeks. He never slept great when investigating a homicide, but with the threats against Leigh, he found it almost impossible to shut down his brain.
Last night he’d turned over every piece of evidence in his mind. The dead bodies. The attacks on Leigh. The connection to the hospital and the plastic surgery clinic.
They were missing something.
“Earth to Ryan.”
“Huh?”
Anissa stood beside him, coffee pot in hand. “I asked if you wanted a cup.”
“Oh, yeah. Thanks.”
Anissa filled his cup, then topped off her own. They walked to their desks together. He set his cup away from his case files and flopped into his seat.
Gabe was already at his desk talking to someone on the phone.
“You look awful,” Anissa said. “Please tell me you aren’t staying up all night talking to Leigh.”
He glared at her through bleary eyes. “I am not.”
She smirked at him. “What’s on your agenda for the day, Romeo?”
“The detectives in Atlanta and Chicago sent me their reports from their searches. I’m going over them today to see if I can find anything, but . . .”
“But what?”
“What do you think about Adam’s theory? About the plastic surgery?”
“Right now I think it’s the best lead we have.”
“I agree.”
“But?”
“I still think we’re missing something. Something big.”
Adam burst into the room, tablet in hand. “Wyatt Jenkins.”
“Who?”
“Wyatt Jenkins. Nurse anesthetist. He’s on Leigh’s list and has three known places of employment. Carrington Memorial, Carrington Technical College, and somewhere called Oraios.”
“Oraios? What makes you think that’s our clinic?” Gabe asked.
“Oraios is a Greek word for beautiful,” Adam said.
Gabe threw a pen on the desk. “Of course it is. I was saying the other day how I needed to brush up on my Greek this weekend.”
Adam rattled off something Ryan couldn’t understand.
Gabe must not have either. “When I find someone to translate, I’ll think of a crushing reply.”
Adam turned to Ryan. “This is why I've had so much trouble finding more about Plastic Surgery Associates. That is the legal name of the company, but my guess is that was what they used when they were first starting out. Then they decided to specialize and change all their branding from PSA to Oraios. PSA is Oraios.”
“Oraios isn’t nearly as obvious as Plastic Surgery Associates when it shows up on your credit card statement,” Ryan said. “It could be just about anything.”
“Exactly.” Adam pointed to his tablet. “This guy’s banking records indicate he works full-time for Oraios. He works one weekend a month at Carrington and teaches a class in the nursing program at the tech school. I think we need to check him out.”
“I agree.”
Ryan ran on pure adrenaline for the next five hours. The warrants came through and he, Gabe, and Anissa pored over everything they could find.
“We still don’t have enough to charge him.” Ryan stared at the whiteboard. “But I think we have enough to bring him in for questioning.”
“Everything we have is circumstantial,” Gabe said. “Yes, he works there. But we haven’t even been able to confirm that either Claussen or Staton ever set foot on the grounds. And yes, he would have been able to get to Leigh’s car the night her brakes were cut, and at five foot eleven, he fits Sabrina’s profile, but he wasn’t working that night and we have no evidence he was there.”
“Maybe we should pay the clinic a visit before we try to talk to him. Ask around,” Ryan said.
“I agree. Let’s go.” Gabe jumped to his feet.
“I was thinking Adam should go with me,” Ryan said.
Gabe was not amused. “Are you saying you don’t think I’m high class enough to handle myself with all those rich dudes? I’ll have you know I’ve—”
“I have no doubt you would fit in fine,” Ryan said. “But Adam’s been the one looking at all the records and names. He’s more likely to pick up on a connection than you are.”
“I guess you want me to stay here and babysit your girlfriend,” Gabe said.
“I don’t want you anywhere near my girlfriend,” Ryan said, only half joking. “But I would love it if you would interview the Mrs. Claussens again. Ask them about the plastic surgery. Anissa’s going to ask Mrs. Staton about it as well.”
“Fine.”
Ryan turned to Adam. “What do you say?”
“I’m up for it. Give me fifteen minutes.”
Ninety minutes later, Ryan and Adam pulled up to a gated road. Ryan flashed his badge. “Parker and Campbell, here to speak with Dr. Wooldridge,” he said to the security guard.
The gates opened and he drove a full three minutes before the clinic appeared. It looked more like a resort than a hospital. Even through the rain, lush grounds, fountains, and a glittering swimming pool could be seen off to one side.
“I guess if you need to have some fat sucked out of your stomach, this would be a nice place to have it done.”
“I guess.” Adam looked over the facilities with a critical eye.
Ryan put the car in park. “Tell me what you see.”
“What do you mean?”
“Oh, come on. I know where you grew up. I’ve been in your parents’ house. And your grandparents’ house.”
Adam’s features lit in surprise. “When?”
“I worked security a lot during my first couple of years in the uniformed division. You can make decent money working a swanky party. And your family throws some swanky parties.” He waved
a hand to indicate the property. “This place is big, but not as big as your grandparents’ spread. Tell me, from that perspective, what do you see?”
Adam looked out the window. “It’s nice.”
Ryan waited.
“The landscaping is well done. That pool over there is impressive. It’s hard to say for sure until I go inside, but my guess is they’ve done everything they need to do in order to appeal to the clientele they are targeting. But right now what I find most interesting is the privacy. That gate out there is no joke. If it’s the kind I think it is, you’d need a tank to drive through it and even then it wouldn’t be an easy job. There’s no signage out front and a long driveway. There are probably people who live out here who have no idea this place exists. My guess is there is a patrolling security staff along the perimeter of the property to keep people out.”
“That’s all well and good, but—”
“That’s the key to the whole thing.”
“I’m not following you.”
“When we talk to Dr. Wooldridge, the privacy is what’s going to matter most to him. If they lose their privacy—if the whole country finds out about this place in some tabloid and there are news vans and photographers outside of those gates? They lose everything.”
“So the key to Dr. Wooldridge’s cooperation—”
“Is focusing on what he has to lose.”
And that was why Ryan had wanted Adam to come.
A leggy blonde with a tablet and headset met them at the door. “Right this way, officers.”
She ushered them into a conference room and offered them everything from sparkling water to cappuccino, which they declined.
“Dr. Wooldridge will be with you in a moment.” She indicated a button on the side of the wall. “If you need anything, press this.” Her gaze lingered on Adam.
“Thank you,” Adam said.
When the door closed, Ryan couldn’t contain his amusement. “That girl would date you in half a second,” he said.
“That girl isn’t my type.”
“Oh, right. You prefer women with bigger brains.”
The door opened and a tall man in nice slacks and a polo shirt entered. The nametag dangling from his waist identified him as Dr. Wooldridge.
“Timothy Wooldridge,” he said, extending his hand first to Ryan, then to Adam. “How can I help you gentlemen today? I confess our earlier conversation on the phone has left me quite intrigued.” He poured himself a glass of cucumber water and settled into a seat.
Ryan slid a photo of Harold Claussen across the table. He caught a flicker of recognition on the doctor’s face.
“Do you recognize this man?”
The doctor took a long drink. “Investigator Parker, you must be familiar with the laws of the land that prohibit me from sharing any sort of patient information with you.”
“I am. But I never said he was a patient.”
Dr. Wooldridge let out a huff. “What has he done?”
“He’s dead.”
Dr. Wooldridge removed his glasses. “Dead? Is this some sort of malpractice witch hunt? Do I need my attorney?”
“I can assure you it is not,” Ryan said. Although, now that the good doctor had mentioned it . . .
He slid a picture of Staton across the table and rested it beside the picture of Claussen.
Dr. Wooldridge studied the photograph. “Is he dead too?”
Ryan nodded.
“I will tell you, off the record, that I recognize these men. But I cannot and will not discuss anything else with you.”
“Dr. Wooldridge, we believe their killer is still out there. What we need to know is if these men were here for any length of time, if they left this facility in good health, and when they were released from your care.”
“I’m very sorry, gentlemen. My hands are tied.”
“We understand. And we’re sure you’ll understand that our next step will be to release these photographs to the public.”
Dr. Wooldridge nodded his assent.
“Along with their last known whereabouts.” Ryan let the threat hang in the air.
Dr. Wooldridge looked from him to Adam. Adam stared him down.
“Excuse me for a moment,” he said.
When the door closed behind him, Adam punched a text into his phone.
“What are you doing?”
“Asking Sabrina to check this guy out for us. Looking for medical malpractice suits. If they had some surgeries go bad, maybe our nurse anesthetist was involved in covering them up.”
“It’s as good a motive as we’ve had so far,” Ryan said.
Five minutes later, Dr. Wooldridge returned. “Are you, by any chance, in contact with either of these gentlemen’s families?”
“We are.”
“If they were willing to give consent, I would be able to legally speak to you about both of their cases.”
“Oh really?”
“Yes. They listed emergency contacts on their privacy forms. It’s something we require. We make no secret of the fact that privacy, while critical, is our number two priority. We will not compromise the health and safety our patients. We make this quite clear. If a patient refuses to give us permission to contact family members in case of emergency, we refuse to operate.”
“How often do you have to contact someone?”
Dr. Wooldridge smiled. “We had to make a phone call earlier this week. One of our patients suffered a severe allergic reaction to an antibiotic. He was taken to the hospital in Raleigh and his wife was notified.”
He walked to the door. “When you have those releases from the family members, feel free to return.”
“Oh, we aren’t going anywhere,” Ryan said. “We’ll wait.”
Dr. Wooldridge’s eyes bugged.
Adam waved his phone at him. “Already requested them. Both families have been exceptionally cooperative. I don’t anticipate much of a delay.”
“In fact,” Ryan said, “if I were you, I’d go ahead and start pulling their files. It will save us some time later.”
The requests for information came in less than fifteen minutes. Dr. Wooldridge handed the files over ten minutes later.
“In nonmedical terms,” Ryan said, “what were they here for?”
“Mr. Claussen and Mr. Staton both came in for eye lifts.”
Ryan picked up one of the three-inch files. “That’s a lot of paperwork for an eye lift.”
Dr. Wooldridge tilted his head and pursed his lips.
“Oh, for crying out loud,” Adam said. “We aren’t interested in putting you out of business. But if you can’t fill us in on the specifics of what, when, and why these men were here, we’ll bring in our forensic accountants and figure it out for ourselves.”
The good doctor threw up his hands in disgust. “This is going to ruin me either way.”
Wow. This guy was a real gem. Ryan didn’t try to hide his disdain for the man. He gave him the coldest stare he could manage. It didn’t take long before Wooldridge sighed in frustration.
“This was not their first visit. Mr. Staton has been here at least twice a year for a decade. Mr. Claussen even longer. Both of them insist on privacy. We pick them up from a spot in the cell phone lot at the airport. They stay with us a week or more. Long enough that any bruising or swelling has faded. We give them a ride back to the airport and they’re on their way.”
“When were they last here?”
The doctor checked the files. “Mr. Staton’s last visit was a year ago.” He frowned.
“What’s wrong?”
“He should have been here a few months ago . . .” Dr. Wooldridge said.
Ryan watched as realization dawned.
“He wasn’t killed recently, was he?”
“No.”
He grabbed the file for Harold Claussen. “Mr. Claussen was with us a month ago. He . . . he was planning to come back in three months . . .”
“Dr. Wooldridge, how do you keep track of your patients? Do you have any
other patients that are regulars who’ve failed to schedule new procedures?”
“Let me talk to my office manager,” he said.
“What about your privacy policy?”
Dr. Wooldridge’s earlier attitude had evaporated. The man standing before them was rattled. “If someone is targeting my patients, what’s to keep them from targeting me next?”
Still self-absorbed. But at least he was being more cooperative.
An hour later, they had sent three names to Sabrina for her to run against the missing persons cases and the new John Doe from Chatham County.
They also had confirmed that Wyatt Jenkins had been the nurse anesthetist for the final procedures for both Claussen and Staton. But that didn’t necessarily mean anything. The surgical staff here was quite small. There were three surgeons on staff and they alternated procedure days. There was only one anesthesiologist, one nurse anesthetist, one surgical tech, one radiological tech, and twelve nurses who worked in the operating rooms or in pre-op and post-op.
“Is your surgical staff here today?”
“No. We generally do consultations on Mondays, procedures on Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday. Friday is for recovery.”
“Okay. We’re going to need to talk to them. All of them. Your cleaning staff, food service, maintenance. Everyone who works here.”
“Of course. I can get phone numbers and addresses for you.”
“That would be great.”
When the doctor left the room, Ryan turned to Adam. “We need to focus on the employees here and also on these three patients.”
Adam looked at his phone and his face paled. “Ryan, I sent the three names to Sabrina and she jumped on it.”
“And?”
“All three of these men have been reported missing.”
The next few hours were a blur of activity. Phone calls, records searches. Requests for warrants were submitted and the judge agreed they had probable cause to search the property of Wyatt Jenkins and bring him in for questioning.
But they were going to have to find him first.
They had officers waiting at his home and the Carrington hospital when they got a hit on a credit card.
He was in Raleigh.
The captain was good friends with a lieutenant in Raleigh. One quick phone call resulted in officers locating Jenkins at a restaurant. He ran through the kitchen, out the back door, and straight into an officer who had his weapon drawn.
Beneath the Surface Page 25