The Secrets We Keep

by Jennifer L. Jennings

  “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.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” Sammy said, with remorse. “Just be careful. Don’t put yourself in a dangerous situation.”

  If only he knew how many chances Carter and I took in a day, he’d probably keel over. “Don’t worry. I’ll give you a call tomorrow, okay? Gotta go, love.”

  * * *

  It was just after 9:00 by the time we got to the soup kitchen. There were a dozen tables set up, cafeteria style. The place smelled like a combination of freshly baked muffins and dirty socks.

  We scanned the room, searching for a man in a green jacket. There happened to be three different guys wearing green jackets, all fitting the general description that Shefke had given us.

  Then I spotted a man about Michael's age, sitting by himself, hunched over his tray of food like he was afraid someone might come along and swipe it. It also looked like his left eye area was bruised. “The guy in the army green canvas jacket. Could that be him?”

  Carter nodded. “It’s gotta be him. Let’s wait until he’s done eating before we approach him.”

  I continued to observe Michael from across the room while trying to act casually. From time to time, Michael appeared to be talking to himself. It was hard to get a good look at his features with all the facial hair. He probably hadn’t had a shave or a shower in weeks. Maybe longer.

  As we stood by the exit and kept an eye on Michael, a feeling of guilt bubbled up inside me. “Maybe I should start volunteering at the soup kitchen back home,” I whispered to Carter.

  “Sure, that sounds nice,” Carter whispered back. “But first, let's stay focused on the reason we're here to begin with. To find Rachel’s killer and get Andrew out of jail.”

  “Right.”

  A few minutes later, we watched as Michael got up, left his empty tray on the table, and headed for the exit, all the while mumbling to himself. He walked right past us, never acknowledging our presence.

  Once outside, he hung a left and continued down the street, head bent forward, hunched over as if he were inspecting his own feet. Then he crossed the street and entered a park, where he sat on a bench and stared off into space. After a minute or so, he got up and circled the park, occasionally peering into the various trash receptacles.

  “I wonder what he’s looking for,” I said. “He can’t still be hungry.”

  “Probably searching for cans or bottles. Cigarette butts.”

  “When are we going to approach him?”

  “You stay right here. I’ll go.”

  I didn’t like this idea one bit; however, Carter seemed confident. “Go easy.”

  With hands in jeans pockets, Carter casually crossed the street and slowly made his way toward the bench. Michael jumped to his feet and scurried off.

  Carter didn’t even try to go after him. Instead, he turned around and gave me the big shrug.

  As we headed toward a cafe on the block to get breakfast, Carter did not seem please
d with himself. “Well, all I managed to do was confirm Michael’s fears that someone is following him.”

  “We can try again later,” I said. I didn’t mention anything to Carter just then, but I had my own suspicions that we were being followed. I’d seen a man in a blue windbreaker on several occasions since we’d left our motel. He was at the soup kitchen, then the park and had walked past us again right as we entered the cafe.

  Standing in line at the counter, Carter ordered bagels and coffee while I kept my eye on the door. Sure enough, the man in the blue windbreaker waltzed in and snagged a table near a window.

  I whipped out my phone and pretended to check my texts while snapping a few photos of the man.

  Once Carter had our items, he suggested we find a table outside since the temperature was mild and sunny.

  Once we got comfortable, and Carter began stuffing his face, I showed him the photo on my phone. “I can’t be a hundred percent sure, but this guy has been following us since we left our motel this morning. He’s sitting inside the cafe at the window right now.”

  Carter knew better than to turn his head around and gawk at the man. He inspected the photo with interest. “Does he look familiar to you?” he asked.

  “That’s the thing. I know I’ve seen him somewhere, but I can’t place him.”

  “After breakfast, let’s go for a walk. We won’t go anywhere in particular, just wander the city and see what he does.”

  “Sounds like a decent plan to me.”

  We took our time with breakfast, but I had a hard time choking down the dry bagel. I was too excited and nervous to eat.

  Ten minutes later, we disposed of our trash, left the cafe and headed west.

  After two blocks, I casually looked behind me, as if trying to read street signs, but the man in the windbreaker was not in my vision. “He’s gone,” I whispered to Carter. “Maybe he figured we were on to him.”

  We proceeded as planned, traversing another three city blocks. When I checked our surroundings, the man was still nowhere to be found.