CHAPTER 3

In Montrose in 1976, the answer varied greatly. To some, Stephen Scher was the consummate compassionate physician who made house calls without complaint and cared about his patients. His admirers responded to his quick wit, his gentle, soft-spoken manner, the way he listened intently.

To others he showed a different side, one critical and cold, a man who had affairs with wives of friends, a doctor who was quick to shift blame for mistakes to the nursing staff, an arrogant opportunist who boasted that he always got what he wanted.

By all accounts, however, Stephen Scher had charm, an ability to take people in, to gain their trust. The only disagreement between his friends and detractors was whether it was genuine.

Stephen Barry Scher was born on May 10, 1940, to Jewish parents in Toronto, Canada. His sister, Susan, is two and a half years younger than he is. When he was eight, his family relocated to Florida for his father’s job, selling baby clothes. But three years later, out of town on a business trip, Scher’s father, in his early forties, died of a massive heart attack.

The death hit the family hard. The Schers moved into a smaller apartment and young Stephen began to work after school. Within two years, there were more major adjustments to make. His mother remarried, and now he had not only a new stepfather but also two stepbrothers.

For as long as he could remember, Stephen Scher wanted to become a doctor, and following his father’s death, his determination only increased. He earned good grades in high school, and became a naturalized U.S. citizen at age sixteen. He enrolled at the University of Miami, intending to be a premed student. But a month after school began, in October 1958, Stephen Scher’s mother died of breast cancer. Without other family members in the area, he and his sister left Florida; Susan went to live with an aunt in Toronto, and Stephen transferred his credits to the University of Michigan, moving in with his father’s brother, who lived near Ann Arbor.

It was a difficult time for Stephen Scher. Losing his parents so young left him feeling adrift in the world, unsure of whom to trust. He worried about making it through school and achieving the goals he’d set for himself. With few friends and almost no money, Scher immersed himself in his schoolwork.

Then one night in 1960 he went to a university dance and met Edna Ann Elias, a botany and bacteriology student with whom he shared some science courses. They began to date and quickly became an item around campus. In 1962, Scher was accepted at the university’s medical school. A year later, on June 9, 1963, he and Ann, both twenty-three years old, were married in a Jewish ceremony in the town of Milan, about twenty miles south.

The young couple rented a farm on the outskirts of Ann Arbor, and Ann paid the bills by working at the university hospital as a microbiologist. Scher helped out too, working part-time at the same clinic, earning fifty cents an hour to be on call every other night and weekends. In the early years of the marriage, Ann became interested in raising purebred dogs. Her new husband encouraged her, installing a kennel on the farm.

When Stephen Scher graduated medical school in May 1965, the couple remained at the farm while he did his internship in nearby Dearborn. A year later, with tensions mounting in Vietnam, Scher opted to complete his residency requirements through the United States Public Health Service in lieu of military service.

Stephen Scher was placed at the Laguna Indian Reservation about fifty miles west of Albuquerque, and for the next two years he served as a public health officer, caring for some ten thousand Navajo and Pueblo Indians with one other physician. Because of their dogs, the Schers couldn’t live in government housing, so they rented land and a trailer on the reservation and set up a kennel. The young couple had no television and no phone. But these were good years, a period of building and planning their future together.

During Scher’s second year on the reservation, he and Ann started to consider job offers in small communities where he could build a family practice. Both preferred to live in the country, and they also agreed to focus only on the East Coast, due to the proximity of cities that hosted the more prestigious dog shows. By now, Ann Scher was showing several of their dogs.

The couple pored through real estate brochures and offers from various hospitals and narrowed their scope to eight. Finally, they picked one.

In July 1968, they moved to Montrose, Pennsylvania.

With a two-year contract and a guaranteed income from Montrose General Hospital’s Medical Arts Clinic, the Schers bought a 175-acre farm for $35,000 on the periphery of town, with two Scotch-Irish heifers, Newfoundland dogs, and chickens. They later purchased a two-family house at 85 Church Street as an investment property.

For those first few years, Ann dropped in to the clinic frequently to visit her husband and worked twice a week with him in his office. The couple shared a common interest in medicine and often discussed the latest journals together. Two years after they moved to the area, Scher took over another physician’s practice in New Milford, about nine miles away, after the physician was diagnosed with cancer. With two practices growing, Stephen Scher worked long hours, making house calls in the mornings, staying late into the evening at the office. His reputation was mixed—some found him curt and distant, others liked him—but all concurred that he was devoted to medicine.

Then, in 1971, at the age of thirty-one, Stephen Scher suffered a heart attack. He spent three weeks recovering in Montrose General. Once he was released and could return to work, hospital administrators took him off night duty rotation so he could sleep uninterrupted.

It was following that incident that Ann Scher gradually noticed changes in her husband. He lost weight and stopped smoking. He began to avoid having sex with her; she believed he was afraid of triggering another heart attack. He talked often about his belief that he would die young, like his parents. He was sure he would be dead by age forty-five, he told his wife.

Ann believed that in reaction to his fear Stephen Scher began to focus solely on himself, his needs and desires. She later told friends it was as if he’d made the decision that he was going to do whatever he wanted to do. In many ways, it fit the pattern of his early years when he suffered the loss of his parents and learned to depend only on himself. It was as if somewhere along life’s path, Stephen Scher took a dangerous turn, trusting no one, respecting only his own ambition and the goals he set out to achieve. And now, having at last met his objective of becoming a physician and gaining the veneration of others, Stephen Scher, newly aware of his mortality, was going to make sure he missed out on nothing.

Perhaps there were seeds of such a personality all along, Ann thought years later. She was well aware that her husband was a master at controlling situations, at manipulating people and ensuring that he was never on the losing side. From the early days of their marriage, she also knew that he had frequent mood swings, turning aloof and cold with no explanation. He never was a generous man; indeed, his tightness with money had become an issue in the marriage. Ann came to dread her husband’s constant haggling over dividing checks when they went out with others and hearing his complaints later about getting shortchanged.

But in the early 1970s, Stephen Scher began to treat her with a derisiveness that stunned her, a disregard that gradually chipped away at her self-esteem. He told her not to stop at the clinic anymore. He often left on weekends to go bowling or to play golf and said nothing to her—he’d just go. Some nights he didn’t come home at all, showing up in the early morning hours refusing to explain where he’d been.

From time to time, Ann Scher attempted to broach a discussion about the changes in their relationship. He always dismissed her sharply. “Don’t aggravate me,” he’d say. “You’re making me have chest pains.”

For a while, Ann Scher held out hope that her marriage might be saved. She hadn’t been able to become pregnant, although at one time the couple talked about adopting a child. But as Scher continued to spend time away from home, leaving the responsibility of the farm to her, Ann wondered what life would be like if they were parents.

One day, she gave him a hypothetical. “If we were going to Bermuda and the baby got sick, what would happen?” she asked.

Scher didn’t hesitate. “You’d stay home,” he answered nonchalantly, “and I’d go.”

As the distance between them grew, Ann slowly sank into a depression, furthering the collapse of the relationship. Scher occasionally brought her sedatives and antidepressants from the hospital, but nothing seemed to help—some mornings Ann had trouble getting out of bed. Stephen Scher complained that the house was untidy, that he couldn’t stand the dogs and their paraphernalia in practically every room. The marriage was clearly in deep trouble.

Then, in the fall of 1971, Pat Dillon joined the nursing staff at Montrose General.

She was Patty Dillon then, slight and dark-haired, with a soft voice and warm brown eyes. She had just returned to the area with her husband and their infant son after spending several years in the Philadelphia area. Taking a job at Montrose General felt comfortable for Patty—she’d worked in the clinic a few summers before and had even gone to Dr. Stephen Scher as a patient. In fact, it had been Scher who’d confirmed her pregnancy with her son Michael.

She’d grown up Patricia Rosalie Karveller, the adored daughter of John, a popular math teacher at the high school, and Laura, a devoted homemaker who was known as a fabulous cook. Patty was an only child until she was twelve, when her parents adopted a son, Robby. The Karvellers, Italian and Polish, were staunch Catholics who attended church regularly and lived in a rambling white-shingled corner house with a big barn on Chenango Street, down the block from the Susquehanna County courthouse in the center of town. Although the neighborhood was filled with children, Patty Karveller seldom played with them, only on rare occasions joining their hide-and-seek games on summer nights or sleigh riding in the park on winter afternoons. She had a small circle of friends and spent most of her time with her closest friend, Kathy Novitske. Around the neighborhood it was well-known that Patty was infinitely spoiled by her parents. Indeed, her nickname was “Laura’s little princess.”

As she grew into adolescence, Patty continued to distance herself from many of the young people in Montrose. They, in turn, considered her a snob and felt she looked down on them. At the same time, even her detractors couldn’t help but marvel at Patty Karveller. As a teenager, she was stunning and poised, with a buxom figure and long brown hair flipped at the ends, reminiscent of Annette Funicello.

Patty seemed to have it all. At Montrose Consolidated High School, she earned good grades, played flute and piano, and was a cheerleader and a soprano who sang solos in the church choir, even volunteering to sing seven o’clock mass in Latin several mornings a week.

Her confidence was almost daunting. Once in high school when the music teacher stopped the chorus and told Patty she was singing flat, she dismissed him with aplomb. “There’s no way I’m singing flat,” she announced.

Her classmates tittered as the teacher actually played back a tape in order to convince Patty.

The year before she graduated when she attended the junior prom with her boyfriend, Larry Allen, she was remembered as the only girl other than the prom queen to wear a tiara.

It was her mother who encouraged Patty to study nursing. That was the way Laura Karveller hoped her daughter would find a husband. Not just any man—a doctor. Indeed, Laura Karveller’s plan for Patty was no secret.

She spoke so often about Patty marrying a doctor that friends described Laura Karveller as a firm believer in the adage, “It’s just as easy to love a rich man as a poor man.” Nothing, it seemed, was good enough for her daughter.

After graduating from high school in 1965, Patty joined her friend Kathy Novitske at the University of Pennsylvania School of Nursing, in Philadelphia. But Patty didn’t fall in love with a medical student. She began to date Marty Dillon, whom she’d known casually from high school where he’d been one grade ahead of her. Their courtship quickly became serious, surprising their friends and family.

It wasn’t what Laura Karveller had planned, but she liked Marty Dillon. He was handsome and ambitious. A placid and thoughtful young man with a dry sense of humor, Marty Dillon had dreams of becoming a renowned trial lawyer.

Martin Thomas Dillon was born to Lawrence Dillon, a shipyard worker, and his wife Josephine, on May 11, 1946, in Wilmington, Delaware. Larry Dillon had previously served as a medic in World War II.

After the birth of their son, the Dillons moved to Montrose, not far from the farm in northern Susquehanna County where Larry grew up. In town, Larry Dillon sold cars, delivered gasoline, and performed other odd jobs. Two years after Marty’s birth, the Dillons had a daughter, Joann.

The Dillons didn’t have a lot of money, but they were a tight-knit family and enjoyed spending time together. Larry Dillon’s father had died when he was a child, and he was thrilled to have a son to carry on the Dillon name. From early childhood, father and son were the best of friends. Larry taught the boy to hunt, always stressing safety first. Young Marty took the lessons seriously.

Marty and his sister were also close. The two loved to swim at Forest Lake, where the Dillons occasionally stayed at a cottage owned by Jo’s cousins, the Nashes. In high school, Marty played basketball and trombone in the band and was elected class president. After school he worked for Dave Andre at the local Agway, stocking shelves and sweeping the floors. On weekends he worked for Andre at home, helping the store owner put in stone walls and grating.

Marty’s passion was always cars, fast cars. After school, he loved drag racing with his friends on a marked quarter mile outside town. He and his high school girlfriend, Joyce Wilcox, occasionally went to Binghamton, New York, to watch NASCAR races; often Larry and Jo Dillon joined them. Even when he was a teenager, Marty wasn’t uncomfortable spending time with his family—indeed, he preferred it. Some of his Saturday night dates with Joyce were spent in the Dillon kitchen, helping his grandmother bake cookies.

In his senior year of high school, Marty participated in a year abroad program sponsored by the local Rotary, studying in Germany. His absence was felt keenly by the Dillons. When he returned, Marty graduated near the top of the 1964 senior class, and the school yearbook devoted an entire page to his adventure overseas.

The following fall, when Marty enrolled at Villanova University near Philadelphia, his parents were extremely proud. He worked hard and set his sights on law school. When he and Patty became serious, the Dillons were delighted. Joann, too, was happy, and she and Patty quickly became close. Joann had always wanted a sister, and now she had one.

Marty and Patty were married at Holy Name of Mary Church on August 31, 1968, a week before Marty entered Villanova Law School. It was a big wedding—they even had a papal blessing. Patty had seven or eight bridesmaids, two flower girls, and two ring bearers. Her maid of honor was Kathy Novitske. Marty’s ex-girlfriend, Joyce Wilcox, and his sister, Joann, were bridesmaids.

At the end of the aisle, amid the smiles of their families, the couple exchanged wedding bands. On Marty’s, Pat had inscribed PRK to MTD 8/31/68. At the reception, held in Binghamton, they danced in each other’s arms, radiantly happy.

The newlyweds settled into a modest apartment in Philadelphia while Marty attended law school and Pat took a nursing job at nearby Lankeau Hospital. Not long after the wedding, Marty’s lifelong back pain became so troublesome that he underwent spinal surgery, but his new wife was supportive and helped him through it.

The early years of the Dillon marriage seemed ideal. They occasionally socialized with Joyce Wilcox and her new husband, Tom Jagger. Since neither couple had much money, they’d go to each other’s apartments for popcorn and soda. At the hospital, Pat became friendly with Sue Graham, a nurse whose husband, Kerry, was in the air force. When Kerry Graham returned from overseas, he and Marty instantly hit it off, becoming close friends.

On occasional weekends, the couple traveled home to Montrose to visit their families. Patty served as maid of honor when her sister-in-law Joann married Alan Reimel in 1969. The following year, Patty became pregnant, and in January 1971, at the start of Marty’s last semester of law school, the Dillons’ first child, Michael, was born. A few months later, when Marty graduated, the young family moved back to Montrose.

Marty was delighted to be home. He loved the woods and lakes of Susquehanna County and preferred to be closer to his family. Patty, too, was glad to be nearer to her own parents, especially with a new baby, but at the same time she felt a bit pressured by the proximity to her in-laws. Although Larry and Jo Dillon were always kind to her, Patty was somewhat threatened by their relationship with Marty. At times she complained that her husband seemed to put them first, ahead of her.

A year after they moved back home, the young couple bought a three-bedroom ranch at 7 Kelly Street for $24,000, just two doors away from Joann and Alan Reimel in a new development atop a hill a half mile from town. They faithfully attended Holy Name of Mary on Sundays with their families, and Marty joined the area Lions Club, eventually becoming its president. Marty also formed a racing club. In fact, he and Kendall Strawn were such avid fans of the sport they pooled their money to buy a race car, hiring a professional driver and occasionally taking weekend trips to watch him compete. Although Patty didn’t care for racing, she gamely went along with Marty and their friends, Bob and Sue Caterson, to Watkins Glen for a race, staying overnight in a camper.

Marty put in long hours at Bob Dean’s law firm. In the evenings, he often dropped by the Montrose Inn to hang out with his friends and drink. It seemed to him he had it all—a beautiful wife, an adorable son, a promising future.

At first, Patty seemed to be finding her niche as well, immersing herself into establishing their social status in town, arranging dinner parties and making contacts with affluent, established young couples. She also took a part-time nursing job at Montrose General. She was qualified to teach childbirth classes, and in the early 1970s, Lamaze was newly in vogue.

But before long, something seemed to be missing for Patty. Marty was busy all the time, distracted by work, his relationship with his parents, his interest in racing. He did not dote on her the way she had grown up believing a man would. And though she tried to fight it at first, she found herself becoming more attracted to a man who did.

At first, Patty Dillon and Dr. Stephen Scher were merely friends. Scher met Marty, and for a time the two men seemed to hit it off. When Marty refurbished the basement into a recreation room, Stephen Scher stopped by to help. But by the fall of 1972, nurses at Montrose General had noticed mild flirting and huddled conversations between Stephen Scher and Patty Dillon. At Hanukkah that year, Patty brought him a gift every day for eight days, surprising the hospital staff. By then, she was expecting her second child. As the pregnancy progressed, nurses observed how Dr. Scher seemed practically to follow Patty Dillon around the hospital.

Scher started to drop by the house in the mornings, after Marty had left for the office, to have coffee with Pat. Marty went along with Pat’s suggestion that they socialize with the Schers as couples, going to minor league hockey games in Binghamton or to dinner at the Montrose Inn. Marty appeared not to notice that when the foursome was together it seemed as if Steve and Patty were the couple, sitting side by side, whispering and laughing together.

Ann Scher, however, did notice, and she didn’t like it. From the start, she accused her husband of an affair with the nurse. He angrily denied it. “You’re imagining things. I’m friends with both of the Dillons. There isn’t anything between me and Pat.”

At that point, Ann Scher was wrong—the affair wasn’t yet physical—but the emotional bond between her husband and the young nurse was unmistakable, and it was growing steadily. In her despair, Ann Scher lashed out at her husband, who by then was all but ignoring her. Occasionally, though, he enjoyed dropping remarks to fuel her jealousy and to hint at his increasing role as an almost surrogate father to little Michael Dillon—he’d mention that he was helping Patty potty train the boy, or that they were taking him to learn to ice skate. Powerless to halt the inevitable, Ann sank deeper into depression. As for Scher, he continued progressively to insinuate himself into Marty Dillon’s family.

It was never clearer to those at Montrose General than in late June 1973, when Patty Dillon gave birth to a daughter in a Wilkes-Barre hospital, about an hour and a half south of Montrose. Pat had chosen the hospital because a doctor there specialized in natural childbirth. When word of the birth of Suzanne Dillon reached Montrose General, Dr. Stephen Scher immediately announced that he had to go and see the baby. “I’m her pediatrician,” he told the nurses as he practically ran out of the hospital.

Jo Ann Warner, the receptionist and switchboard operator that night, couldn’t contain her amazement. The hospital was filled with patients, and the only doctor on duty had simply walked out.

“Is this a normal, healthy baby?” she asked nurses.

When told the child was fine, Jo Ann shook her head. She’d been observing the relationship between Stephen Scher and Patty Dillon and didn’t like what she saw. She didn’t care for Scher—she found him pompous—but she kept her feelings to herself. She was aware that Scher hadn’t liked another receptionist and refused to allow the young woman to work while he was on duty. Before long, the receptionist couldn’t get enough hours into her schedule and had to look for another job.

Jo Ann wasn’t particularly fond of Patty either. They had grown up next door to each other on Chenango Street. Jo Ann saw Patty as a grown woman the same way as she’d been as a child—cordial, pleasant, but someone who thought she was a little better than everyone else.

Jo Ann and many of the nurses shared their disbelief about the relationship developing between Dr. Scher and Patty Dillon. The doctor didn’t exactly take pains with his appearance. He was overweight and dressed sloppily. Nurses whispered about his body odor and dirty fingernails. Jo Ann couldn’t understand it.

Marty’s such a hunk, she often thought, and Dr. Scher is so unattractive. What does she see in him?

Perhaps Patty Dillon saw in Stephen Scher the image her mother spoke of throughout her childhood—the man people looked up to by virtue of his profession, a doctor, a healer. It was, after all, supposed to have been her future—the pampered child on Chenango Street, the talented teenager who turned heads, the helping nurse, and ultimately the doctor’s wife.

But more important, Patty Dillon clearly received something else from Stephen Scher—the attention she craved, the adoration she was given as a child.

She was headed down a dangerous path. And Marty Dillon refused to see what was happening.