Walleye Junction (26 page)

“There's another thing you can help us with,” said Macy. “I want you to try to remember what you wore on that day. It would have been cold down by the river. Maybe it was a fleece or a jacket or even a baseball cap—”

Finn interrupted her. “I was wearing my favorite sweatshirt. It's upstairs if you want me to get it.”

“Has it been washed?”

Finn's face darkened. “Mommy's not supposed to wash it.”

“Do you mind if I borrow it for official police business? I promise to take good care of it.”

“I suppose so,” said Finn.

“I'm also going to have a special doctor come up to the house and take pictures of your arm. Would that be okay?”

Finn said yes.

Macy took out a sheet of paper and wrote down her name and phone number in very large print.

“This is my phone number,” said Macy, hoping it would reassure them. “I'm going to give it to your mommy. If you're frightened or you remember something about the men in the canoe, I want you to have her call me. Can you do that?”

Adam raised his hand. “Do you think you'll catch them?”

“Would it make you feel better to know that we may have already caught one of them?”

“Which one?”

“The man with the limp. So that just leaves one more for me to find.”

Finn raised his hand this time. “Will there be a reward if they both get caught?”

Macy's heart was breaking, but she managed to smile. Annabel was asleep on her mother's lap and the two boys were slumped back on the sofa looking past Macy toward the windows. After a rainstorm that had lasted through the night the sun was shining again. Macy could tell they were anxious to go and play.

“I don't know about a reward, but do you know what I'm going to do?” said Macy. “I'm going to make sure the top policeman in Montana sends you a letter to say thank you. Would you like that?”

Adam nodded and Finn spoke.

“Can he send us a medal?”

“You never know,” said Macy. “I'll certainly put in a good word for you. Can you guys do something for me in return?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“I want you to listen to your parents.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“They're right about the river. It is very dangerous this time of year.”

*   *   *

Macy sat at a table at the back of the café eating a sandwich. The first of the two e-mails they'd received anonymously was open on her computer. Reading the short biographies that accompanied the list of people who'd died after taking prescription painkillers wasn't any easier the second time around. She'd grown too used to seeing people as statistics. These people had led full lives. They'd left loved ones behind. Some had died incredibly young.

A twenty-two-year-old law student who'd recently been prescribed Vicodin following knee surgery went to bed on Christmas Eve and never woke up. He'd not realized that he wasn't supposed to consume alcohol in combination with painkillers. A young mother who suffered from chronic back pain for years was found unconscious in her car outside her children's school. After her doctor had cut back on her dosage she'd found physicians in Wyoming and Idaho who were unaware of her medical history and wrote her prescriptions. She never regained consciousness and died in the hospital two days later. A fifty-five-year-old man named Nelson had been left crippled after years of working in the oil fields. He died after ingesting a deadly combination of antianxiety drugs and several opiate-based painkillers, all of which had been prescribed by the same doctor. A few of the patients listed had histories of drug abuse and mental health problems, but most were people who'd gone to see their physicians after suffering an injury or having an operation. They were in pain and needed help. Their ages ranged from nineteen to seventy-two. Some were students or housewives while others were retired or held down regular jobs. None had criminal records.

Gina had sent the list of overdose victims to various agencies, including the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, asking if the deaths were suspicious, but had so far only received a preliminary reply from the state coroner's office in Helena. None of the prescription overdose deaths in Montana had been ruled suspicious, but they had noticed something interesting about the list. People who die of accidental overdose on prescription medication often abuse drugs that were not prescribed to them. What made this list of overdose cases different was that all the victims were in a doctor's care at the time of their deaths and that they had all been prescribed Schedule II pain medication such as Vicodin, OxyContin, and methadone.

Macy heard Ryan before she saw him. The teenage girl behind the counter looked as bored as he looked bothered. He was careful to annunciate every word.

“Large, four shot, extra hot soy cappuccino with foam so dry it flies.”

The girl held a paper cup and pen aloft.

“I'm sorry you'll have to repeat that.”

“Large … four shot … extra hot … soy … cappuccino with foam so dry it flies.” He pointed to her pen. “Aren't you going to write that down?”

“That won't be necessary. Name?”

“Ryan.”

“Can you spell that please?”

“Seriously? There's no one else here.”

“Humor me.”

“R.Y.A.N.” He pointed to Macy's table. “I'll be with the redhead in the corner.”

The girl had already turned her back on him. “Must be her lucky day.”

Ryan plunked himself down in a chair across from Macy. Over the last year he'd grown a beard, and now that it had filled out he'd taken to changing the style on an almost weekly basis. Today he was sporting the beginnings of a handlebar mustache.

“How did you find this place?” he asked.

“I interviewed Carla Spencer's nephew here a few days ago.”

“They actually stock decent coffee.” Ryan glanced up at the approaching barista. “Let's hope they know how to make it.”

Ryan stared at the cup she'd placed in front of him. There it was. Ryan was now Bryan. He frowned.

“I even spelled it for her.”

“Does it matter?” asked Macy.

“Of course it matters. Do I look like a Bryan?”

“Maybe you should taste it before passing judgment.”

Ryan sipped and sipped again.

“This is surprisingly good,” he said.

“Does that mean we can call you Bryan now?”

“Macy, sometimes I forget just how hilarious you are.”

“I didn't invite you here to amuse you. Have you had a chance to look at the e-mails I forwarded?”

He held up a hand. “Work can wait. What's going on with you and Aiden?”

“I'm not sure. At present I'm trying to adjust to some level of normality, but it turns out that I'm pretty fucked up.”

“I wouldn't let that worry you. We're all a little fucked up.”

“You speak the truth. I told him I'm willing to give it a go, and seconds later I was already regretting it.”

Ryan stirred his coffee. “You shouldn't mess with Aiden's head like that. Why did you say you'd give it a go if you weren't sure?”

“I honestly don't know.” Macy checked her notes. “Let's get back to the case. Working seems to be the only thing that keeps my head clear.”

“Seems you need to work on yourself too.”

Macy tried to change the subject again. “Have you even looked at those e-mails?”

“Briefly. I was cc'd in the e-mail the coroner sent this morning.”

Macy took a sip of coffee. “I'm afraid that I need a crash course on prescription drug abuse.”

“We prescribe enough painkillers in this country for every adult to be on round-the-clock meds for four weeks. It's a man-made epidemic that—”

Macy interrupted him.

“I know the statistics already.” Macy pointed to the e-mail that listed the overdose victims. “What makes this list interesting is that aside from a few glaring exceptions, these weren't people you'd ever suspect of having drug problems. They died after being prescribed painkillers by their doctors.”

“Did you read the articles that accompanied that second e-mail?”

Macy nodded.

“Then you know that not all doctors are nice people. Several have been convicted for illegally dealing drugs to their patients and there are others who have been done for handing out prescriptions in exchange for sexual favors. In 2007 the pill mills running out of Florida accounted for forty-seven of the fifty-three million OxyContin doses prescribed. The amount of money that's been changing hands is staggering.”

“Do you think the same thing might be happening here in Montana?” asked Macy.

“Anything is possible, but there are a whole myriad of factors that you have to take into account before you start pointing fingers at doctors. It's incredibly difficult to assess a patient's pain levels. Patients who have become addicted to opiate-based painkillers will lie to get what they want. They'll visit multiple doctors. They'll give doctors a bad rating if they aren't prescribed the drugs they want.”

“There's a prescription drug registry in place here in Montana. Doesn't that stop people from being able to go to different doctors for multiple prescriptions?”

“Yes,” said Ryan. “But that only started recently, and it's still not linked to other states, so patients are free to head out of state if they want to.”

“What about the patients who aren't addicted? Why are they dying when they're taking the prescribed dosage?”

“Opiates are incredibly powerful painkillers, but over time they lose their effectiveness by as much as thirty percent. People take more to ease their symptoms without realizing that the drug's ability to slow vital functions, like breathing and heart rate, hasn't been reduced. The more you stack your medications, the more likely you'll eventually make a mistake. Mix in a little too much alcohol or anxiety medication and it's like playing Russian roulette. For every fatal overdose there are thirty visits to the ER. It's a very dangerous game.”

Macy tapped the sheet of paper. “Lou and I think this may have been Philip Long's story. He may have dug up something on a specific doctor or doctors. Like you said, there's a lot of money involved. They wouldn't have wanted this story to get out.”

“We need to find out who prescribed the medication in each of these cases. I wouldn't be surprised if it was a relatively small number of doctors. There's been a lot of stuff in the press recently, and the government is cracking down. More and more physicians are shying away from prescribing opiates to their patients.”

*   *   *

Lou Turner's home was within walking distance of Macy's hotel so she left Aiden's pickup truck in the parking lot and set off on foot. She was looking forward to a home-cooked meal and a conversation that didn't revolve around work. Lou's wife was an obstetrician based at Collier County Hospital. She wasn't Macy's doctor when Luke was born there two and half years earlier, but was working on the ward at the time. Macy was halfway to the home Lou shared with his wife when Emma Long's car slowed down next to her.

“Do you need a lift somewhere?” she asked through the open window.

Macy spied a bag of groceries on the passenger seat. Cupcakes and cookies were spilling out of the top. Emma reached over and placed it behind the seat.

“I'm not going very far,” said Macy, finding it amazing that Emma could eat junk food and remain as thin as she was.

“Really, it's no trouble,” said Emma. “Besides, there's something I need to tell you.”

The passenger seat was tipped forward at an unforgiving angle. Macy found herself sitting straight up, her knees almost to her chest.

“Sorry,” said Emma. “My mother was in the car last night. She's very, shall we say, particular.”

Macy pushed the seat back and adjusted the angle.

“How is your mother?” Macy asked.

Emma put the car in neutral and placed her hands on her lap.

“There was a special prayer service yesterday evening at that big church on Main Street.”

“The glass and steel box?”

Emma nodded. “When my father called it the church that pain built, I thought he was referencing his disdain for organized religion, but he may have been referring to the building's design. There are lots of sharp angles.”

“How was the service?”

Emma thought for a moment. “I think it helped. My mother seems calmer.”

“I'm sorry to have missed it. I meant to go.”

“That's all right. Law enforcement was well represented.”

“I'm heading to Police Chief Turner's house now.”

Emma wouldn't look Macy in the eye.

“I've been thinking a lot about how my father was acting the last time I saw him in San Francisco.” Emma picked up a magazine that was stashed in the seat pocket and waved away a wasp that was threatening to come in the open window. “If I'd known it was the last time I was going to see him, I'd have paid more attention.”

“Was there anything about his behavior that was alarming?”

Emma was slow to answer. The silence went on.

“Emma,” said Macy.

Emma looked up, startled.

“You were going to tell me about your father,” said Macy.

“I'm sorry. This is hard to talk about.”

“I doubt Lou will be upset if I'm a little late,” said Macy, dismissing the warning that Lou had made earlier about being on time.

“My father was always paranoid, but in the last few years he got much worse. We spoke about it on his last trip out to see me. I was a little worried that he might be losing his mind.”

“Did you discuss it with your mother?”

“I got the impression from my father that Francine already knew that he was struggling, but no, we didn't discuss it.” Emma's voice remained steady but rose in volume. “And now I find out he was keeping secrets from her. He didn't tell her what he was working on. He bought a gun without her knowledge.”