Evergreen Health Clinic Northwest was located in a chic shopping complex off Northwest Gilman Boulevard called The Village at Issaquah, a thirty-to forty-five-minute drive east of Seattle. Once nothing but hills of virgin forest, the plateau was now looked upon by many in Seattle as an illustration of urban desecration of the environment. In the past decade, developers had clear-cut and bulldozed large swaths of forest for tracts of homes, shopping centers, schools, and sports facilities. The population had quickly tripled—predominantly white middle-class families with young children, who’d rushed to buy large homes at affordable prices.
The buildings at The Village at Issaquah, interconnected by wooden and brick walkways, included restaurants, a hair “studio,” an upscale kitchenette store, art galleries, and a yoga studio, in addition to the clinic. It gave Tracy a better sense of Evergreen’s likely typical clientele—overextended husbands, stay-at-home moms feeling unfulfilled and underappreciated, and the children of those parents sent to counseling for ADD, anxiety, and stress-related disorders.
Tibetan bells announced Tracy’s entrance as she stepped into a reception area of soft colors and soothing music. Womak met Tracy in the lobby and escorted her to his office, which resembled the inside of a yurt but with plate-glass windows for walls that provided an eastern view of the hills. She estimated Womak to be in his early sixties, with the mandatory mental health professional’s beard. His was salt and pepper. Balding, he wore round wire-framed glasses.
“As I indicated on the telephone, Detective, federal laws prohibit me from telling you anything about Mr. Gallentine’s treatment.”
Tracy pushed forward. It was why she preferred face-to-face meetings. It was easier to hang up a phone than to ignore a person sitting across from you. She’d also learned to avoid debate and just get the witness answering questions. “I understand. You were able to confirm he was a patient of this clinic?”
“Yes, he was.”
“And for how long?”
“Just under two years.”
“Did he come regularly for those two years?”
“His billing records indicate he did.”
“And you still have a copy of his records here?”
“Not his physical file. We move physical files older than five years to a storage facility and maintain electronic files.”
“Someone scanned in the contents of those files?”
“Correct.”
“So you can access them, search them, that sort of thing.”
“Correct.”
“Do your records indicate whether anyone has ever asked to see Mr. Gallentine’s records before my request?”
“There have been no prior requests.”
“Mr. Gallentine was married?”
“According to his file, yes.”
“His wife didn’t ask for the records?”
“There’s no indication in the file that she did.”
Tracy thought that odd, given that Darren Gallentine had committed suicide. She would have thought a spouse would have wanted to know if his psychotherapy records revealed why. Then again, maybe Tiffany Gallentine knew why. Tracy certainly knew why her father had shot himself—grief and depression brought on by the disappearance and presumed death of Sarah. “He had minor daughters at that time?” Tracy asked.
“Two.”
“Neither has asked to see the file?”
“There have been no requests by anyone for any purpose,” Womak said, sounding officious.
“Did Mrs. Gallentine or either of the two daughters seek any treatment?”
“Our records indicate they came in for family grief counseling after Mr. Gallentine’s death.”
“How long did that continue?”
“Just a few visits.”
“And Mr. Gallentine’s therapist no longer works here?”
“She does not.”
“Was she fired?”
“I won’t answer questions related to our employees’ work history.”
“What I’m trying to determine is whether your clinic did any type of an investigation or inquiry as to why one of your patients, while undergoing regular treatment, killed himself.” Sometimes when she challenged a person’s decision making, particularly doctors, Tracy found they would get their significant ego feathers ruffled and endeavor to defend their actions, giving away information they might not otherwise.
Womak, however, remained calm. “We have staff meetings every week to discuss patient treatment and, yes, we do have discussions in the event a patient chooses to end his own life.”
“It’s happened before, besides Mr. Gallentine?”
“Unfortunately.”
“How could I get a copy of the file?”
“The only way is if Mr. Gallentine designated a personal representative, and that individual notified us that he or she was waiving his privacy.”
“Do you have a last known address in the file for Mr. Gallentine?”
“I do.” Womak provided the address.
“Do you know if Mrs. Gallentine has remarried or if she still lives in the area?”
“I’m afraid I don’t.”
“What about either of his two daughters, Rebecca and Rachel?”
“I’m sorry, I don’t. It’s been many years.”
“Do you know if Mrs. Gallentine worked outside the home when Mr. Gallentine was seeking treatment?”
“Again, I don’t know and would have no way of knowing.”
Womak looked at his watch and started to rise from his chair. “I’m afraid I’m out of time.”
“He killed himself in what year?”
“October 1999.”
Gallentine’s obituary indicated that he worked at Boeing until 1997. “What about billing records? Was his therapy paid through his insurance at Boeing?”
Womak sat again. His fingers clicked the keyboard on his desktop, and he raised his nose to read through his bifocals. “The file indicates his therapy was paid by insurance. But it wasn’t Boeing’s. It was paid through his wife’s insurance as an employee at Microsoft.”
When she left Evergreen, Tracy called Ron Mayweather and asked that he pull up property records and run the address Womak had provided for the Gallentine family home. She also tasked him with doing a search of King County records to determine if a will was probated for a Darren John Gallentine in 1999, and if it named a personal representative. Then she dialed information and asked for the number for Microsoft.
“Any particular department?”
“What do they have listed?”
“How much time do you have?”
“Human Resources,” Tracy said.
CHAPTER 22
Tiffany Gallentine had become Tiffany Martin, a director of business development at Microsoft, and Tracy heard the unease in Martin’s voice when she introduced herself on the telephone as a Seattle detective—she left out the word “homicide”—and asked for a few moments of Martin’s time.
“What’s this about?” Martin had asked.
“I have a few questions about your late husband, Darren Gallentine.”
“What?” Martin sounded both relieved and confused, and maybe a bit irritated. No doubt her initial concern upon hearing the words “Seattle Police” and “detective” had been for her current husband and/or her daughters. Still, getting a call out of the blue from a detective wanting to talk about your husband who committed suicide was not likely at the top of anyone’s list of fun things to do. “My husband shot himself fifteen years ago.”
“I understand the topic is probably painful, Mrs. Martin, and it isn’t my intent to inflict any undue pain, but I have some questions that might be relevant to a matter I’m looking into in Klickitat County.”
“I don’t understand how that could be. My husband shot himself in our home in Issaquah.” Martin’s tone was a mix of relief and befuddlement.