Wu undid brass prongs at the top of the file and removed the contents. He handed Tracy a multipage document that she shared with Kins. The first page was a patient registration form filled out in pen. Kins copied Lynn Hoff’s date of birth and Social Security number, as well as an address, which appeared to be an apartment in Renton. Hoff provided only a cell phone number. She did not provide an emergency contact or anyone with whom her medical information could be shared.
The second page was a patient health questionnaire. Hoff had checked “No” to every question, noted no prior medical history or surgeries, and no current medications. As for her family history, she’d circled “No” to the questions of whether her mother or father were living and did not list any brothers or sisters.
Tracy set down the forms. “Do you have before and after photographs?” she asked.
Wu sat back in his chair. “No.”
Tracy glanced at Kins before reengaging Wu. “You don’t have any photographs?” she said, not trying to hide her disbelief.
“No,” Wu said again, his voice almost inaudible.
“Dr. Wu, wouldn’t it be normal procedure to have before and after photographs of a patient undergoing surgery such as this?”
“Yes,” he said. “It is normal procedure.”
“Then why don’t you have any photographs?”
“Following her surgery, Ms. Hoff requested all photographs.”
“She asked for the pictures you’d taken of her?”
“Yes.”
“And you gave those to her.”
“She signed a waiver,” Wu said. He leaned forward, fumbled in the file, and handed Tracy a two-page document. It was a simple release of liability. Lynn Hoff acknowledged receiving all photographs in Dr. Wu’s possession. In exchange, she had agreed to waive her right to bring any claim against Dr. Wu for any reason or circumstance.
“Did you have a lawyer draw this up for you?” Kins asked.
“Yes,” Wu said.
“So this is unusual,” Kins said.
“Yes,” Wu said.
“Did Ms. Hoff say why she wanted possession of the photographs?” Tracy asked.
Wu shook his head. “She did not.”
Tracy suspected Wu had speculated why Lynn Hoff wanted her photographs, and probably came to the same conclusions she was now formulating—that he had, maybe unwittingly, operated on a fugitive from justice or someone running from enemies.
“Did Ms. Hoff return for follow-up treatment?” Tracy asked.
“No,” Wu said.
“And again, was that unusual?”
“Yes.”
“Did she schedule any follow-up appointments?”
“A visit was scheduled, but she did not keep that appointment.”
“Did your staff call to find out why not?”
“The number provided was no longer in service,” Wu said.
“Where was the surgery performed?” Tracy asked.
“Here,” Wu said. “We have accredited surgical suites. It helps keep the costs affordable.”
“How much does something like this cost?” Kins asked.
Wu consulted his file. “Six thousand three hundred and twelve dollars.”
Tracy had noticed a sign on the counter indicating Wu accepted Visa and MasterCard. “How did she pay? I’m assuming insurance doesn’t cover it.”
“No insurance,” Wu said. “Not for elective surgery. Ms. Hoff paid cash.” Wu handed Tracy a receipt.
Kins looked to Tracy and she knew he was thinking it further evidence that Lynn Hoff was a prostitute. She made a mental note to have Del and Faz call local Renton banks to determine if Lynn Hoff had any accounts.
“How did Ms. Hoff get home after surgery?” Tracy asked. “I assume she couldn’t drive.”
“A note in the file indicates she used a car service.”
“What about care at home after the surgery?” Kins said. “Would someone have to look after her?”
Wu shrugged his shoulders. “I do not know.”
“You didn’t ask her?” Tracy said, deciding to push him.
“No.”
“Didn’t all of this strike you as odd, Dr. Wu?”
“Yes,” he said.
“But you didn’t report it to anyone?”
“Report what? To who?” Wu looked at her with the flat expression of someone who had already consulted a lawyer and knew he had done nothing wrong. “My obligation is to my patient.”
“True,” Kins said, “but your patient ended up at the bottom of Puget Sound, and our obligation is to find out who put her there, and why.”
CHAPTER 4
April 14, 2016
Portland, Oregon
I’m getting married.
Those might be the last words I thought I’d ever say out loud—but I am. I’m standing inside the lobby of the Multnomah County Courthouse in downtown Portland wearing—get this—a white dress. The shock is not that the dress is white—every girl wears white, regardless of, you know. The shock is that I’m wearing a dress. I didn’t even own a dress before I bought this one. I’ve never worn anything but pants to work, usually blue jeans. It is Portland, after all, which, translated, means, “casual.” People come to work in spandex. That’s not a joke. One of the insurance adjusters in our office rides his bike to work and likes to parade around in his tight shorts showing off his package, of which he must be very proud since he does it so frequently. He comes into my cubicle asking me some inane question to get a rise out of me. Yeah, that’s going to do it. If I could wash my eyes with disinfectant, I would.
But I’m digressing.