Diagnosis: incomplete.
I search the Internet for details about the scandal that broke out at Miller. As the two doctors were wrapping up their reports, accusations started flying that Philips was having inappropriate sexual relations with a patient. The judge, anticipating the potential fallout and a media firestorm, got Smith the hell out of Dodge, parked him on us, and requested a new evaluation.
My mind is flip-flopping like a skillet pancake in a greasy-spoon diner. The reports from Miller have potential to go in either direction: nothing to indicate Donny Ray’s crimes are psychopathic, nothing to indicate disassociation as the culprit, either.
I’m scoring goose eggs.
Then I get another knock to the chops. Under the “Additional Comments” section is a notation from Ammon, the neurologist, which sends my heart into palpitations.
Three words.
Be very careful.
9
The temperature in my office feels as though it’s dropped about ten degrees. Outside the window, dark clouds tumble by, casting murky shadows across my desk.
The storm is finally coming.
I read Ammon’s comment again, this time not so much because of what it says, but rather what it does not. In our profession, we deal with a different kind of patient. Warnings like this are not uncommon, but it is very unusual to find no explanation.
I need answers, so I reach for the phone and dial Ammon’s number.
“Miller Institute,” a detached, almost mechanical female voice recites, “how may I direct your call?”
Okay. Apparently it’s not Ammon’s number. It’s the main switchboard.
“Can I help you?” she says, more as a prompt than a question.
I clear my throat. “Yes. Sorry. Dr. Christopher Kellan at Loveland. I was trying to reach Dr. Ammon.”
She doesn’t respond.
“Ammon,” I repeat.
“One moment, please.”
Click.
It seems customer service is sadly lacking at Miller Institute—either that or Robo-Receptionist is due for a tune-up.
About twenty seconds later, I hear someone on the line. “Hello?” The voice is male, older, but definitely human.
“Dr. Ammon, it’s Christopher Kellan over at Loveland. I was hoping to ask about your—”
“I’m sorry,” he interrupts, “this isn’t Dr. Ammon. I’m Dr. Pritchard.”
“My apologies, Doctor. The receptionist must have made a mis—”
“No . . . It wasn’t a mistake,” he says, voice taking a noticeably deeper tone. “His calls are being forwarded through the switchboard for now. I’m the hospital administrator. Is there something I can help you with?”
“Well . . . you could start by telling me how I can reach Dr. Ammon.”
“That is a good question.”
I tell him I’m confused, and he responds, “You’re not alone. He failed to show up for work about five days ago and hasn’t been seen since.”
I skim Ammon’s report. His disappearance happened a few days before Donny Ray was transferred to Loveland.
The hairs on my arms flick up.
“Are the circumstances suspicious?”
“No . . . no . . . ,” he says through a drawn-out sigh. “Nothing like that. At least, the authorities don’t seem to think so. No evidence of foul play.”
“Do you have any idea why the doctor would just take off?”
“Unfortunately, I might. A few weeks ago, Dr. Ammon became extremely depressed, and it kept getting worse.”
“Do you know why?”
“We have a pretty good idea, yes,” Pritchard says. “We’d just lost another doctor. A suicide. They found her at home.”
“I’m very sorry to hear that.”
“It’s been a rough few weeks around here. Dr. Ammon took it especially hard. He and Dr. Philips were very close friends.”
“Wait a minute.” Heat flushes my forehead as I check the report. “Doctor, I’m calling in reference to Donny Ray Smith. Philips was the attending psychologist on that case.”
“Correct. I’m sure you’re aware that she was under review.”
“She killed herself over it?”
“That seems to be the consensus, yes.”
I look at my screen and wonder why Jeremy never mentioned this, then dismiss the thought, deciding he probably felt it was irrelevant to Donny Ray’s case.
“And still no clue where Dr. Ammon might be?”
“Not a one. It’s like the man disappeared off the face of this earth.”
A man who stood in the way of Donny Ray’s insanity plea.
I try to connect dots I can’t yet see. “Dr. Pritchard, did Donny Ray Smith leave the hospital at any point during that period? Perhaps he was transported for ancillary medical care? A court hearing, even?”
“No, and he remained under high-level security the entire time he was here. Why do you ask?”
I hang on to my suspicions because I’ve got nothing to support them. Ammon and Philips are adults, not young girls. And the cryptic warning—plus a lack of explanation—could have easily been a product of Ammon’s depression.
“Just covering all bases,” I say. “One last thing, Doctor. I’d really like to get more information about Donny Ray. Is there a chance you could provide some?”
“I’m afraid I wouldn’t be much help in that respect, other than reciting what’s already on Ammon’s evaluation. I had minimal contact with Smith. Practically none at all, actually.”
I thank him for his time, hang up the phone.
What exactly do I have here?
Bodies falling away all around this guy.
And those hauntingly familiar eyes.
My persistent and unsettled feeling creeps back. I need to get to the bottom of it, prove or disprove whether Donny Ray and I have met once and for all.