Scar Tissue Page 5

  I glanced at Griff. Strike three. Could I kill him now?

  Griff looked at me and shook his head slightly, indicating he’d read my mind and the answer was, no.

  “His office is in Portland?” Griff asked. “I believe so. Is that all you need from me today?” Greg pushed his chair back and stood, checking his watch indicating he was done.

  “That’s it,” Griff said. It won’t be an issue for you if we speak with him?”

  “Doesn’t matter to me. Might be an issue for him. Doctor patient privilege and all that.” I’ll phone him and call you.”

  “Appreciate it.”

  Greg led us to the front door without another word and pulled it wide. Sunshine spilled onto the cold marble floor.

  “Thanks for your time,” Griff said, and we stepped outside onto the flagstone walkway.

  The door closed behind us.

  “Whoa,” I said. “Do you think he’s a dick all the time or just when he’s talking to us?”

  “He likes to be in control. That’s why he said he’ll call Varkin and let us know.”

  “We don’t need him to be the go-between.”

  “We don’t. He does.”

  Griff raised the key fob and the 1975 Series III Land Rover chirped back at him, unlocking the doors as we approached.

  “You locked it? You think somebody in this neighborhood would want your geriatric ride?” I laughed.

  “Geriatric? She’s aged like fine wine.”

  “You got the aged part right.”

  “Hey, you shouldn’t be throwing stones. I bought her because you wanted my two-year-old Rav.”

  “You bought her because she’s the car of your dreams. And you’ve invested more in your four-wheeled girlfriend than most people would consider worthwhile.”

  “Am I detecting a note of jealousy?”

  “Skepticism, of installing a new engine, leather interior, a state-of-the-art computer and a security system in a forty-year-old car.”

  “Not just any forty-year-old car, an antique Land Rover. And she may well outlive the Rav with all the upgrades I’ve made.”

  “Something to look forward to,” I said and slid onto the refurbished front seat.

  “Let’s pay Gina a visit before we hook up with Varkin,” Griff said veering onto High Street toward downtown Portland.

  “She did the autopsy?”

  “We’ll find out.”

  Gina Wellington used to be the state Medical Examiner, but after the birth of her second child she’d opened a private practice as a family physician. She still performed autopsies when the Chief Medical Examiner in Augusta was facing cadaver overload. (Okay, that’s gross, but it happens.) It was our good luck that she’d settled in the Portland area, saving us the drive to Augusta every time we needed her expertise.

  “Haven’t seen you two in a while,” Gina said looking up from where she stood behind her receptionist. “Be right with you.” She slipped off black-rimmed glasses and smiled at the man and child in front of her. “Follow up in two weeks,” she said to the dad, brushing back an ebony coil that had escaped her barrette.

  I had the feeling fathers were more than happy to bring their kids in for check-ups when their doctors looked like they’d stepped off a page of Vogue or Cosmo.

  With a wave, Gina motioned for us to follow and we fell in step down the oriental carpeted hallway, past exam room doors and into her office.

  “So,” she said taking the seat behind her desk. “What can I do for you? Wait a minute.” She held up her hand. “First things first. How have you been? I haven’t seen either of you for quite a while. Still in business, I hope?”

  “Oh yeah,” Griff said glancing at me. “Our last case took us up north and then over the border, so we haven’t been around much.”

  “All good?” Gina asked.

  Griff’s hesitancy was obvious. It wasn’t a case either of us discussed except with each other. And then it was relegated to under the covers in the wee hours of morning when painful memories are purged in whispers.

  “All good,” Griff said and then changed the subject. “We’re buying a house.”

  “That’s big news. Where?”

  We gave her a virtual tour right down to the exercise room and mini bar.

  “I’ll wait for an invitation, but I want to see this place in person,” she said when we’d finished.

  “It’s a party place alright,” Griff told her. “My daughter is already making a guest list.”

  She laughed. “So, what brings you to my humble office?”

  “Ashley Lambert,” I said.

  The smile faded from Gina’s face. She shook her head. “Tragic.”

  “Suicide?” I asked.

  She looked at me and raised her eyebrows. “You don’t think so?”

  “We’ve been hired by her parents to find out.”

  “Her father pushed for an autopsy at the time of her death.”

  “He did?”

  “Said there was no way she jumped. He was sure someone had killed her first then tossed her off the building to make it look like suicide.”

  “Did you do the autopsy?” I asked.

  “We did the best we could. There’s not a lot to work with after a fall from eighteen stories. I don’t think her father realized that and I didn’t want to be the one to explain to him what a fall like that does to the human body. The mother was distraught and against the whole idea. She couldn’t bear her daughter’s body being cut up. I didn’t want to tell her it was in pieces when I got it. But the state stepped in and took it out of the parents’ hands anyway.”

  “The state didn’t think it was suicide?”

  “There was some question. And her father was putting up quite a stink. I couldn’t blame him. But regardless of who thought what, it was an un-witnessed, violent death. That gets the ME’s attention. The mother felt it wasn’t worth it. It looked like a straightforward suicide, but Mack ordered an autopsy, at least as much of one as we could do.”

  “The Medical Examiner can do that, even if one parent doesn’t want it?” I asked.

  “In a violent death like that, yes. And if there’s a remote chance of foul play or drugs involved then it’s pretty much mandatory. Ashley had so much going for her that her manner of death did raise some questions.”

  “Find anything?” Griff asked.

  She shook her head. “It would have been next to impossible with the extent of the damage to her body. By the time we’d finished there was still no reason to think anything, but the fall killed her.”

  “Did you do a drug screen?” Griff asked.

  “Standard 5 panel, but it’s not back yet. Four to six weeks, nobody gets special treatment.”

  “Not even when they have the Lamberts’ money?”

  “The lab doesn’t care about money unless it’s coming in as funding.”

  “Lambert say anything about the fact that a drug panel was being done?” I asked.

  “He said it was a waste of time. I explained that it might not be necessary, but it’s part of a standard autopsy. When I’m dealing with a parent I don’t argue. I let them take the lead and I answer their questions. Rarely, do I offer unsolicited information. The conversation is difficult enough. I give them whatever they ask for, but not more. If they have questions they can call me later.”

  “Has he?”

  She shook her head.

  “Could she have had something in her system that wouldn’t show up?” I asked. “Something that could have caused her to think irrationally or become suicidal?”

  Gina nodded. “Sure. But my guess is that it would have to be something she’d been taking over time. I mean a kid tries cocaine once for example, they’re not going to be suicidal, but ingest something long term and it can change brain chemistry. You think she was using something?”

  “It’s an angle worth considering,” Griff said.

  “From what I’ve heard she doesn’t sound like the type. But if she was using, it’ll
depend on the substance itself as to whether or not it shows up.”

  “How so?”

  “Well, for example, amphetamines can only be detected in the blood for 12-24 hours. There are other tests using hair or urine that provide more in-depth results, but Ashley’s been cremated. Because no one was thinking drugs, there was no reason to hold her body. It was released to a funeral home after the autopsy. Unless she’d had a big race the day before she jumped, or she was using consistently, I doubt we’ll see anything in the amphetamine realm if you’re thinking performance enhancers. But who knows, a tox screen can be full of surprises.”

  I looked at Griff and tried not to let the dimple on his left cheek side track me. It always appeared when he got excited over a theory and was stifling a grin. Which told me he liked the direction the case had taken. Drugs, even the possibility of drugs in her system made sense and gave us our first indication that Ashley Lambert may have been something other than the miracle child her parents described.

  I turned back to Gina. “She was under tremendous stress physically and academically. A boost to get her through the day makes sense.”

  “Doesn’t sound like it from her parents’ description.”

  “Maybe it’s time to stop talking to family,” I said. “How many kids show their true self to mom and dad? I sure as hell didn’t.”

  “Two things I’ve learned in this job,” Gina said. “One is that anything’s possible. And two, there’s a way around everything. You just have to know how to get there.”

  Griff’s cell phone rang. Our conversation stopped.

  “Yeah, okay. Thank you. We’ll be in touch.” He hit the red circle on the bottom of his phone and dropped it back into the pocket of his sport coat. “That was Greg. We have the green light for Dr. Varkin.” he said.

  “Steven Varkin as in Psychiatrist?” Gina asked.

  “That’s the one. He was Ashley’s shrink. Greg just opened the door for us to talk to him.”

  “He’s good. Hope he can help you more than I did.”

  “Maybe Dr. Varkin can shed some light on the question of Ashley’s drug use, prescription or otherwise,” Griff said. “Let us know when you get the toxicology report.”

  “Will do,” Gina said swinging the door wide. “If it shows up positive for drugs you’ll be faced with a can of worms.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “One that needs to be opened.”

  SEVEN

  We arranged to meet with Dr. Varkin at six o’clock. With time to kill we went for an early dinner at Conundrum, our favorite stomping ground when working a case. (The name says it all.) We took a seat at one of the high tops in the bar.

  “The usual,” Griff said to Eric when he approached.

  “You got it.” The waiter turned and headed for the bar.

  Griff stretched his legs out beneath the table, resting his heels on the metal rim around my stool. The toe of his worn Frye boot grazed my shin.

  “What do we have so far?” he asked as Eric set a Pinot Grigio and Black Fly Stout in front of us.

  I took a sip. (First things first.) “Controlling father, weak, but loving mother, dead brother and an overachieving kid. Reeks of suicide.” I took another sip.

  Griff raised his mug, swallowed a third of the dark beer and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He looked across the table and narrowed his brown eyes at me.”

  My heart skipped a beat. “Cut the shit,” I said.

  “What?”

  I shook my head. “Nothing.” I love westerns and Griff has the indifferent cowboy look down. He’s the stranger who saunters into town, takes out the local miscreant for getting rough with a girl then pulls her onto the horse behind him and off they go into the sunset.

  “Getting back on track…” I said.

  “I didn’t know we’d gotten off.”

  I waved him away with the back of my hand. “I think she was cracking under pressure, her own and her father’s. I think she needed a little boost to keep her going and maybe her boost got out of hand.”

  Eric set a plate of seafood nachos between us.

  “But we don’t know that anything will come back on the drug screen,” Griff pointed out.

  “Gina said herself there are things that go undetected.”

  “Greg Lambert won’t be thrilled when we tell him that’s the angle we’re pursuing. Puts the possibility of a black mark on his perfect daughter.

  “Hey, you’re the one that came up with this, remember?”

  “Maybe we’re jumping the gun with a drug theory.”

  “That’s the father in you talking. This is the first theory we’ve had, and I think you’re onto something. Let’s play with it.” I sipped my Pinot. It was going down way too easy. “Then again, if she was taking something and it doesn’t show up on the tox screen it’ll be almost impossible to prove. We could smear her and never be able to confirm the theory. If that happens Daddy’s not going to be pleased with us.”

  “I think he knows suicide is the cause of death,” Griff said. “But he’s reluctant to accept it until he gets the why. If we pursue the drug use narrative, we may be able to get an answer for him. Even if it’s one he doesn’t like.”

  “He’s not gonna like any why we give him.” I stuffed a chip laden with salsa, cheese and scallops into my mouth and sat back to enjoy.

  “Probably not. Hopefully Varkin will tell us that he prescribed a bunch of drugs, they interacted and she jumped.”

  “That’s a nice, neat little package and places the fault on Varkin not Ashley. Greg would be pleased. But again…what if nothing shows up?”

  “You gotta ruin everything, don’t you?”

  At five-fifty-five we stepped inside Dr. Varkin’s waiting room. At six o’clock he opened his door. Tall, as in the NBA’s Dwight Howard tall, late sixties and lean as a marathoner, he extended his hand. “Mr. Cole,” he said. “Ms. Callahan.”

  We followed him into a room tailor made for comfort. Recliners, couches and beanbag chairs offered themselves to the mentally weary. Griff and I settled side by side on a couch. Dr. Varkin draped his frame over a red leather recliner.

  “Greg Lambert said you had some questions regarding Ashley. Why don’t you ask, and I’ll answer?”

  “We’ve just come from Dr. Gina Wellington’s office,” Griff said. “She performed the autopsy but found nothing that ruled out the initial summation of suicide by jumping. With all Ashley’s accomplishments, the family is having a tough time accepting that as cause of death, understandably so. Do you have any reason to think she may have been using drugs?”

  Dr. Varkin looked surprised. He shook his head. “No, I have no reason to think Ashley was using drugs of any kind. I’d often suggested an anti-depressant but she always refused. She was afraid it would interfere with her athletics. She may have been right about that so I didn’t push it, though I think it would have been helpful given her issues.”

  “Her issues,” I said. “Can you elaborate?”

  “I first saw Ashley when she was in high school. Shortly after her brother died. She was distraught, as would be expected. As time went on, she got worse rather than better.”

  “She couldn’t accept his death?” Griff asked.

  “She understood he was ill and it was beyond anyone’s control. But she was never allowed time to grieve. Gwen had a complete breakdown. She was in bed for the better part of a year. Greg, shut down, lived in his own world. Ashley was left to her own devices. The emotional absence of both parents at a time when she was in great need of their love and support caused her to slip toward self-destructive behavior.”

  “Self-destructive?” I asked.

  “Well,” he shifted his position, uncrossed his legs and planted his wingtips on the floor. With his elbows on his knees he looked directly at me. “I called it self-destructive. Greg would probably call it meeting expectations. Running track was a metaphor for Ashley. If she slowed down enough to look at what was going on in her life, she would have col
lapsed.”

  “Like her parents did,” I said.

  Dr. Varkin nodded, “Exactly. She kept moving because they couldn’t. And she was quite good at it, though initially, maybe twenty pounds overweight.”

  “Overweight? She looked fit from the pictures I’ve seen,” Griff said.

  “From what she told me in our sessions, she was overweight as a child and carried excess weight into high school. Clayton died in her junior year, that’s when things began to change.”

  “Kids gave her grief for being fat?” I asked.

  “Not kids, her father. She became obsessed with pleasing him. And she didn’t stay overweight for long. Within a year of Clayton’s death, her athletic success caught Greg’s interest and from then on Ashley lived under his microscope. He put her on a diet regimen that would challenge even a professional runner. But Ashley stuck to it verbatim. She would not disappoint. In her eyes, the family had suffered enough. If her running alleviated their despair then she’d have run to the moon and back if she could.”

  “What did Gwen think of all this?”

  “At first Gwen thought Ashley was working too hard, though she did little to intervene.”

  “Because Gwen wasn’t taking care of herself then,” I said. “She was still in bed wasn’t she?”

  Varkin nodded. “Most of the time. But she was right. Ashley was working too hard, obsessed with pleasing them. The thinner she was the faster she ran and the faster she ran the happier Greg was. Halfway through her senior year of high school I had her admitted to Maine Medical Center’s Psych ward. She was anorexic, depressed, dehydrated and exhausted.”

  “What did Greg have to say about that?”

  She’d been accepted at Fensworth as a student and a member of the Women’s Track and Field Team. I think he was more concerned that her hospital admittance would put that in jeopardy than he was about his daughter’s health.

  He never visited her. By that time, Gwen was back on her feet. She’d sold her nursery and spent most of her time landscaping the grounds of their home. But she visited Ashley every day for the three weeks of her admittance. Like everything else, Ashley put all her energy into getting well and she excelled at it. She began nutrition classes and continued them throughout that summer. She never slipped into anorexia again, but her eating became as controlled as the rest of her life. As soon as she was discharged Greg put her on a rigorous training schedule.”