Zoe had been scared. Scared of her addiction or of something else?
Levi’s accusation hadn’t left my head since the funeral yesterday, his angry words—What did you give her?— reverberating against the denial that he even knew the doc. I’d spent the balance of the day and into the evening trying to formulate a legitimate explanation for the exchange, but I could only conclude that Levi had been talking about Zoe.
Consumed with the thought, I was now sitting in my car outside the Renacido Center trying to figure out what I was going to do about it. As of yet, there had been no confirmation on the cause of death. So was I making assumptions, letting my journalistic desire for a story falsely conclude crime and deception? Maybe, but until the ME told me otherwise, I was going to press forward.
It was clear that there was some kind of connection between the doctor, Levi, and Zoe. Their lies had a purpose.
A text pinged in from Michael as I plotted my strategy. Need to see you. Are you at home? After the emotional drain of the funeral and what I imagined were equally draining hours afterward for him, Michael and I had only exchanged a couple of texts. My heart tugged. I reluctantly sent him a note that I was following up on something at the treatment center and would call him as soon as I was done. For the moment, anyway, I decided to hold back on the details. It was our version of don’t ask, don’t tell in our complicated work lives, but a day wrapped in his arms would do both of us good.
As on my previous visit, the door to the center remained open, except for the screen. I hit the buzzer as a courtesy and then stepped inside. Francesca, the office manager who’d kicked off the open house, appeared in the entryway a moment later.
“Good morning,” I said. “I’m here to see Dr. Wykell.”
She looked at me quizzically but said nothing, suppressing the question that was clearly formulating in her mind.
“You were here at the open house, weren’t you?” she said, remembering my face. “Just a moment, let me see if he’s free.”
I nodded and smiled. No reason to add comment when none was necessary. Better to let her form her own assumptions about the purpose of my visit.
She walked down the hall toward the back of the building while I waited in the foyer. As I perused the beautiful Victorian architecture, I looked again at the pamphlets still arranged on the foyer table, apparently a permanent part of the fixtures. I picked up a couple and put them in my bag. I had yet to see or hear anything that explained what this treatment protocol entailed, but perhaps that was typical. I imagined it was hard enough to get an individual to seek treatment in the first place, so why scare them off with details? Kendall, the young girl I’d spoken with at the open house, popped into my mind and an uneasy feeling settled into my chest as I replayed Levi’s accusation.
Low voices bounced down the hall from the back of the building, bringing my attention back to the present. Somewhere out of sight, a heated conversation was occurring. It was too distant to make out who was speaking or what was being said; however, the angry tone of two male voices was unmistakable. A few moments later, Dr. Wykell appeared at the end of the hall, having walked away from the conversation. He hadn’t noticed me yet, as the faux flowers partially obscured my presence. Watching him through the foliage, he shook off whatever had irritated him and put on his game face. In my experience, therapists were quite skilled at masking their emotions, probably even more so than attorneys.
“Hello,” he said as he reached the table, extending a hand. “I’m Dr. Troy Wykell. I understand you joined us earlier this week for our open house. It’s lovely to have you back. How can I help you?”
He wore khakis and a button-down shirt, its collar open, and the sleeves were now rolled tightly above his elbows, a look that seemed to be his uniform. Clearly my vague request had worked and Francesca had formed the conclusion I wanted her to.
“My name is Andrea Kellner,” I said, shaking his hand. “I’m here to talk to you about Zoe Symanski. You were at her funeral yesterday.”
A slight shadow crossed his piercing eyes, but for the most part, his mask didn’t slip. Impressive.
“Yes. Yes, I was. She had been a patient of mine for a brief period of time. Her passing is such a tragedy. Addiction ravages far too many of our young people.”
He contracted his brow and shook his head in an appropriate level of concern. But his body language showed tension.
“I’m the one who found her body.” I said it straight out, figuring his response would be telling. This time he couldn’t keep the mask in place.
“Oh!” He stared blankly at me for a moment, and I could see questions were forming in his mind. “That must’ve been awful for you. It’s so terribly sad. How did you know her?”
He was deflecting, trying to take control of the questioning and shift it back on me, a legal technique I was quite familiar with. Professional habit? Or was he just uncomfortable being the one on the other side of the couch?
“I didn’t know her. I simply found her body,” I said. “My sister purchased the property where Zoe died. I was helping her out and found Zoe alone, dead in the basement.”
I watched his face as he spoke, reading it like a truth map.
“Addiction is so devastating. There are people we can help and people we can’t. I do have to say it’s some of the most gratifying work I’ve ever done, but on those occasions when you just can’t break through, it can be the most heartbreaking.” He sighed and again shook his head.
I didn’t doubt for a second that he was disturbed by the limitations of therapy. His tone was authentic and I believed he was committed to his cause, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t protect himself in the event of a mishap.
“You said she was a patient. When was that?” I asked, needing to get the conversation back on Zoe.
“Let me think. Perhaps nine months ago, possibly longer,” he said, absently tugging on his beard. “To say she was a patient might be a stretch. She started the treatment but had a hard time committing to the rigor that our process requires. It isn’t for everyone. It takes many individuals quite some time to come to grips with not only the extent of their problems, but also the hard work required to really get to a permanent solution.”
“And Zoe wasn’t ready? Wasn’t fully committed?”
My read on him was that his empathy for those struggling with addiction was real, as was his commitment to a solution, but there was something about his demeanor that suggested he was holding back. One of the side effects of my legal career had been the development of an internal truth divining rod, and this guy made mine quiver.
“I really can’t discuss her treatment.” He smiled at me condescendingly. “We take our requirements of confidentiality quite seriously. As I’m sure you can understand, not only do we have legal responsibilities to our patients but also moral and ethical responsibilities for their privacy. I can’t go into the details of individual treatment plans for Zoe, nor anyone else’s, for that matter.”
“Yes, of course I understand.”
His statement was certainly true, but I hadn’t asked because I expected him to spill her private medical history. Alarm bells had been ringing in my head ever since he’d identified Zoe as a patient. She and her mother had been estranged for two years. Where had Zoe gotten the money to pay for a center such as this, even if it was short-lived? I made a mental note to follow up with Janek, but the timing was awful. It would mean adding undue burden onto Theresa just as she buried her daughter. However, even if Zoe had backed out of the program early, somebody had been prepared to foot the bill.
“Tell me about your treatment protocol,” I said, moving to more neutral subject matter. “I’ve looked over your literature, and it contains some amazing claims of your success rate.” I was curious but also trying to keep him talking and I had a feeling that this was a guy who would respond to having his ego stroked.
“Yes, we’ve developed an extraordinary protocol.” His eyes lit up with pride as he spoke. “It took quite some time and a number of patients willing to make the commitment, but we couldn’t be more pleased with where things are headed. I’m not sure if you are familiar with this industry, but it is notoriously difficult to get any sense of success rates from other programs. And as a scientist at heart, I find that quite disturbing.”
“Disturbing? In what way?”
There was an energy and passion in his voice that hadn’t been present earlier as he spoke about what he had accomplished. His face was animated, and he’d finally pulled his hand away from his beard.
“Just think about the number of people who are suffering with this terrible disease. Think of the lives lost needlessly. Think of the money invested into twelve-step programs with no guarantee that an individual won’t be right back where he started less than a year later. How can we live with those odds? That uncertainty?”
“So you believe treatment should come with a guarantee?”
“No, I wouldn’t go that far. After all, so much rides on the individual’s readiness and willingness to commit to treatment. I’m simply responding to the ‘blackhole,’ as I call it. Treatment is an investment in your future. An investment in your life. How does one turn over tens of thousands of dollars of hard-earned money to individuals who won’t, or can’t, provide data on their track records?”
“Probably because there are no other options. Medical treatment, regardless of the type, never comes with promises. The best we get is rough odds of success.”
“Exactly. We have another option. And an option with proven success.”
“And how do you measure success?” I asked. I was no expert in the area of addiction, but even I could comprehend the variabilities in acquiring the data. Methodologies would need to be in place that kept track of or monitored an individual over a period of time in order to claim success, unless weekly drug testing was part of the program. Self-reporting was hardly a rigorous testing standard. Was this guy full of BS, or was he on to something new?
“Well, we keep our data confidential, just like our protocol. But I can assure you we have the most successful program available. When we have the right individual and the right motivation, lives are changed.”
“That all sounds pretty amazing. If what you’ve said is accurate, this could be groundbreaking.”
I watched the glow settle over his face. The man wanted validation. Needed it, even. From my past experiences as an attorney, I knew that many individuals in the mental health profession entered the field altruistically, their desire to help others a core element of their being. But there were some who sought it as a career because of past trauma, a doctor-heal-thyself experience. What personal need did the work serve for this man?
Dr. Wykell’s arrogance was beginning to annoy me, but the good thing about arrogant men was that if you kept the praise coming, they would share information they didn’t even realize they were sharing. As long as it made them look good.
“Can you tell me about the types of tools you use in treatment? I understand that many therapists in this specialization rely on cognitive behavior therapy or other redirection therapies.”
My repertoire of psychological buzzwords had its limits, but I was hoping I only needed to throw out a few terms to get him talking. Before he could respond, the office manager, Francesca, rushed down the stairs. Her face was flushed, and there was a bead of sweat clung to her upper lip. She paused when she saw me, shooting me a look that told me exactly how unwelcome I was at that moment. Dr. Wykell turned when he heard her and, seeing her distress, hurried forward to meet her. I watched the two huddle, Francesca speaking in low tones but clearly upset. Dr. Wykell’s face was tight but he maintained his calm. She nodded her head, seemingly relieved to have someone else give direction, then hurried back upstairs with another cutting glance at me.
“I’m sorry, I’m afraid we’re going to have to cut this off. I have something I must attend to. You’ll need to excuse me.” He placed his hand on the small of my back guiding me toward the door. His touch felt invasive, unnecessary, and I tensed.
“Yes, of course, I understand. Thank you for your time,” I said, before opening the door.
As I stepped back onto the porch, the heavy wooden door was closed firmly behind me and I heard the lock catch. Whatever emergency had arisen apparently required his full attention and I couldn’t help but think of Zoe. I walked across the porch and down the steps moving toward my vehicle and feeling uneasy. As I reached my car, I turned and looked back at the house. A curtain moved on the second level. Francesca stood in the window, watching.