Sarah Woods Mystery Series (Volume 6) (14 page)

Chapter 7

R
oger Shefke agreed to meet with us right away. He even invited us to his home located on the West end of Hartford.

We pulled up in front of his house around 12:30 and I was impressed by the property. The main house was a three-story Victorian hodgepodge with a massive five-bay garage.

“Holy smokes,” I said. “This guy must have a fleet of cars to warrant that.”

“I did a little background on this Shefke guy. He was a partner of Harrison Publishing back in the eighties and nineties and made a shitload of dough before the company went under a few years ago. They had lost a few of their best-selling authors to other publishing houses and, with the e-book revolution and indie authors publishing their own books, Harrison Publishing became crippled. Shefke had seen the writing on the wall, and he sold his stock in the company. Walked away with over five million bucks. Now, he owns a small company and works out of his home office just for fun, only taking on small projects that interest him. However, I couldn’t find anything online about the project he was working on with Rachel.”

“Hopefully, he’ll be willing to tell us,” I said.

After we rang the doorbell, an attractive woman in her mid-forties invited us inside the foyer, which smelled of fresh cut flowers. Sure enough, perched in an exquisite crystal vase, was a bouquet of roses.

“You must be the private detectives,” she said offering her hand to me first and then Carter. “My husband is expecting you.”

“I’m Sarah, and this is Carter. You have a lovely home, by the way.”

“Thank you. My name is Cynthia, but please call me Cindy. Follow me and I’ll take you to see Roger.”

Cindy reminded me of a hot librarian or teacher. She wore dark-rimmed glasses, and her smooth, blonde hair was swooped back into a French twist. The white lace blouse was buttoned all the way up her neck, and the navy wool skirt went a few inches below her knees.

She made small talk about the weather until we arrived at a large wooden door. She knocked and, a moment later, the door opened. The first thing that came to mind when I laid eyes on Roger Shefke was, what is Woody Allen doing here? The short Jewish guy with facial hair could have been his twin brother.

Roger must have noticed the look on my face and laughed. “Yeah. I know what you’re thinking. You’re probably expecting me to start pacing the room while muttering to myself, right?”

I liked this guy immediately because he was able to poke fun at himself. I held out my hand. “Mr. Shefke, it’s really nice to meet you. I’m Sarah Woods. This is Carter Peterson.”

“Please, call me Roger. I insist.” After we all shook hands, Cindy offered to fetch us some coffee and excused herself.

The office was huge, at least 300 square feet with a formal lounge area where he invited us to sit. “So, on the phone you mentioned something about exonerating Andrew.  I’m glad to know he’s not giving up.”

“That’s right,” I said. “So is it safe to assume that you think Andrew is innocent?”

Without a second’s hesitation, he said, “Of course he’s innocent. He adored Rachel and he’d never hurt her. His attorney didn’t do him any favors if you ask me. The case never should’ve gone to trial to begin with. ”

“We agree,” Carter said. “But in order for a judge to grant him an appeal, we need evidence to prove that someone else had a motive to kill Rachel. Can we start by asking you a few questions about your personal and professional relationship with her?”

“Of course,” he said, leaning back and crossing his legs. “What would you like to know?”

I held up my cell phone. “I’d like to record the conversation if you don’t mind.”

“Not at all,” he said with a gracious wave of his hand.

“Great. Let’s start with how you and Rachel met.”

“We met about a year ago when she came to me with her project. I thought she was a bright woman with a big heart, and I was very much interested in her research. I guess you could say we hit it off from the start.”

“Had you ever met Spealman and Linzer, the other two psychiatrists helping her with the research?” I asked.

“Yes. Actually, there were four doctors involved in the project at the beginning. The other guy’s name is Boyle. Dr. Barry Boyle, if I remember correctly. Anyway, he bowed out of the program a few months after things really got rolling. Not sure why but, to answer your question, yes, I had met the other two.”

“So, you must also know that Dr. Spealman and Dr. Linzer both died shortly before Rachel did.”

“Yes. One right after the other, as a matter of fact. Rachel had a hard time with that. She’d had immense respect for them and, of course, had invested greatly in their cooperative research. Rachel almost gave up on the project, but I encouraged her to keep at it.”

“So what happens now?” I asked. “Will the book still get published?”

Shefke paused, as if choosing his words carefully. “You see, I’m sort of in a holding pattern. With Rachel and her colleagues gone, the research isn’t complete and, therefore, my hands are tied. I know how valuable this information is but unless I’m able to somehow finish what she started...” His expression changed slightly. “You think Rachel’s research had something to do with her murder?”

“It’s possible,” I said. “What can you tell me about this fourth doctor, Barry Boyle?”

“Not much. I met him a few times early on but, like I said, he left the group after only a few months. If I remember correctly, they had to kick him out of the group for poor performance. He wasn’t contributing as much as the others.”

“Has he been in touch with you?” Carter asked. “Since Rachel’s death?”

“No, but I called him about a week or so ago. I left a message and asked if he’d be willing to meet with me. I figured he might be interested in finishing the research so we could get this book published. Perhaps I should add that I’m not interested in doing this for the money. I have enough of that. I just believe in the work and want to see Rachel’s ideas being incorporated into the medical field.”

“Where is Dr. Boyle’s practice located?” I asked.

“He’s got an office in town. I’m sure I have his address in my contact list if you need it.”

“We’ll find it, but thanks,” Carter said. “So, who else besides you has the files on Rachel’s research?”

Shefke pursed his lips as if confounded. “To be honest, I don’t know. You might want to ask Rachel’s assistant.”

“What’s her name?”

“Brianna Lepage. She’s a med student and was working as an unpaid intern for Rachel. I’m sorry I don’t have any information about her other than that. I’d only met her on one occasion.”

“What about Rachel’s practice?” I asked. “Has anyone else stepped in to care for her patients?”

“Not sure about that,” Shefke said. “I drove by her office in town and her sign was gone. The landlord probably had her things removed and is trying to rent out the space.”

I made a mental note to find out exactly how many psychiatrists actually practiced in this town. “Do you think it’s possible that Rachel and her two colleagues were killed because of the research they were about to publish?”

That got his full attention. “The other doctors weren’t murdered like Rachel was.”

“True. One had a heart attack, and the other was in a fatal car accident, but you can’t tell me the timing of their deaths isn’t alarming.”

He donned a serious expression, head tilted slightly. “It’s quite a theory. While I’m intrigued by it, what proof do you have that they’re connected, other than the research they were about to publish, of course.”

“Nothing yet. Right now, I’m wondering who had the most to gain by eliminating these three doctors.”

Shefke paused for a moment and then his eyes lit up. He nodded as if he understood completely. “Ah. You think it’s me. You think I plan to publish the book and keep the profit all for myself. I guess I can’t blame you, there. It makes perfect sense.”

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

A
s 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.