15

Gillespie worked in a cozy office complex nestled among the pine trees less than a mile from Johns Creek Hospital. The Georgian brick buildings were all brand new with perfectly manicured lawns and a small pond behind them. The pod of offices was set back from Johns Creek Parkway far enough that the setting presented an oasis of calm in the chaos of north-Georgia traffic.

Though I had been friends with Dr. Gillespie since my mother’s death nearly twelve years ago, I’d never been to his new office. Like several other forensic psychiatrists, he considered my mother a mentor of sorts. But unlike the others, he had reached out to me in the days after her death, letting me know he would be there if I ever needed to talk.

I politely declined his offer, but he stayed in touch. Several years later, when I began working as a part-time trainer at a Gold’s Gym during law school, Gillespie hired me to train him three times a week. He was happily married and one of the few men who didn’t try to impress me during our workout sessions. In fact, he allowed me to do most of the talking, and I worked through some pretty serious issues while he lifted. Only later did I realize that he had come to the gym because he knew I needed counseling but would never set foot in his office.

I announced myself to his receptionist and took a seat in his plush waiting room. Gillespie was doing quite well for himself.

After a few minutes he came bounding out. The man was tall—about six-three—with a boyish face, black glasses, and dark hair that he combed to the side as if he didn’t realize parts had gone out several years earlier. He was soft around the middle and showed no lasting effects from the training I had provided.

He bowed deeply when I rose from my chair, as if I were the queen of England. “To what do I owe this great honor?” he asked. He straightened and gave me a hug.

“Have you got a second?”

He looked around as if the office belonged to somebody else. “I’m actually seeing somebody right now. Is this about one of our cases?”

One of the reasons for my rapid rise in the district attorney’s office was the man standing in front of me. Gillespie had become the DA’s go-to guy for cases involving the insanity plea. Juries loved him, and we were now using him on three of our most prominent files.

“Can we talk in private for a moment?” I asked.

The receptionist frowned, but Gillespie got the idea. He led me to an office down the hall and closed the door.

“I’ll be done with my client in about thirty minutes. I could cancel my next appointment if I need to,” he said, concern registering on his face.

“No, no, it’s nothing like that. I just didn’t want to talk about this over the phone.” I lowered my voice a little. “This has to stay confidential, okay?”

Gillespie gave me a sideways look. “Of course.”

“I’m investigating the death of Rikki Tate. I understand she was one of your patients.”

“You know I can’t comment on that.”

“I know. And I’m not asking you to violate her privacy rights. You know we can get the records through a grand jury subpoena, but that will take a while. I was hoping maybe you could tell me, hypothetically speaking, whether or not there might be anything of value in the records that might help our case.”

Gillespie sat on the edge of a desk and sighed. He took off his glasses and rubbed his face before putting the glasses back on. “Hypothetically speaking, what types of things are you looking for?”

“Fights with her husband. Affairs. Access to drugs like oxycodone and codeine.”

For a moment, Gillespie stared at the wall behind me. Then he turned back to me. “I’m not saying whether or not I had a counseling relationship with Rikki Tate because that would violate federal HIPAA laws. But I can tell you this—it’s almost always worth your while to subpoena the records of a treating psychiatrist.”

“Because that psychiatrist can prescribe medication?”

“Not necessarily. Because a psychiatrist is told things. Most people, except for a few prosecutors who think they’re so tough that they don’t need outlets for their emotions . . .” He gave me a slight nod of the head, a subtle scold. “Most people talk to psychiatrists about issues in their lives. About addictions they are trying to kick. About whether they’ve been faithful to their spouse. Those types of things.”

“I see.” I knew better than to push the matter any further. I’d have to issue a subpoena and get a judge to sign a qualified protective order so I could obtain the documents under seal. But the answer he had dropped so casually already provided a road map—“addictions they are trying to kick . . . whether they’ve been faithful to their spouse.”

“We never had this conversation—right?”

“What conversation?” Gillespie rose from the desk. He walked to the door and put his hand on the knob, then turned in a moment of reflection. “Jamie, I really liked this girl. Sure, she had issues, but we’ve all got issues. The records may hurt you as much as they help. She’ll be an easy target.”

He hesitated, perhaps worrying that he might have said too much. “But she didn’t kill herself. And she didn’t deserve to die.”

Now the man was speaking my language. In his own way, Gillespie was as much an advocate for victims as I was.

“And, Jamie, I’m also very fond of you. In all candor, I’m not sure what Masterson was thinking when he put you in charge of this investigation. This could reopen old wounds. You’ve got to separate your mother’s death from Rikki Tate’s death. You understand that?”

I didn’t answer, but that didn’t deter Gillespie. “This is not part of avenging your mom. Your mom was avenged when Antoine Marshall was sentenced to death.”

I wanted to tell the good doctor that I didn’t come here for a counseling session. But I bit my tongue. The man had my best interest at heart. “I get that,” I said.

“I may need to get back on another exercise routine,” Gillespie said as he opened the door. “You know any good trainers?”

I smiled. “I’ll call you if I need to talk,” I said. “But you’re right; you probably should get back on an exercise routine.”

He sucked in his stomach and puffed out his chest. “Glad to see you haven’t lost your edge.” He came over, gave me a hug, and sent me on my way.