Barrett was summoning me back to Steamboat to retrieve Mariko Hamamoto's case file from Raymond Welle. Welle would be departing for Washington at four-thirty the next afternoon. I'd need to be at his ranch by three at the latest. I explained to Barrett that I had patients scheduled on Monday and requested that he overnight the material to me at my expense.
"Representative Welle didn't offer any latitude when I received my instructions, Dr. Gregory. He said if you want to see these records, you're going to have to meet with him again. He wants to go over them with you in person. It's not negotiable. Because of his schedule, it's either tomorrow in Steamboat or sometime much later on in Washington."
Welle's request was not out of the ordinary. Clinicians often asked for, and usually were granted as a matter of courtesy, an opportunity to review case records face-to-face before making the copies available to other clinicians.
Although I suspected that Welle's case notes would reveal little or nothing novel about his treatment of Mariko, I knew I couldn't risk not examining them.
I suspected that Welle knew it, too.
"I need to make some calls, try to get in touch with tomorrows appointments and try to reschedule them. Where can I reach you later tonight, Mr. Barrett?"
He dictated a number and said, "Confirm by ten."
I started making the calls.
By the time I rejoined Lauren and our guests at the table, the dinner plates had been cleared and the rest of the wine had been consumed. Lauren frowned and asked me if everything was okay. I think she was assuming that I'd had an emergency in my practice.
I replied, "That phone call earlier? That was Phil Barrett. Raymond Welle's chief of staff. Welle wants me to drive up to Steamboat tomorrow to meet with him about Mariko Hamamoto's treatment file. I've been busy rescheduling patients so I can go up there and do it. What a pain."
Flynn identified the issue instantly.
"Welle doesn't want to send the records to you-he wants to go over them with you in person."
"Exactly." Russ said, "Which means he's concerned that there's something in there that might be misinterpreted."
"I'm not sure I'm willing to jump to that conclusion," I said.
"It could be something more benign; it may just be that the treatment file is really thin and he wants a chance to explain why he takes such sparse notes."
Flynn again: "He couldn't do that over the phone?"
"He obviously didn't want to."
Flynn told me, "Try to get the original file. I can get a documents guy to look at them and see if anything's been forged or tampered with."
"I doubt if he'll give me the originals. I wouldn't if I was in his shoes."
"Never hurts to ask." Lauren asked, "So it sounds like you're going to go?" I said, "I'm not sure I have much choice. You working tomorrow? Can you come with me? "
"Sorry, I'm too busy."
"Well, if I have to go, I'm going to go up early. I want to be back before dark." I looked at Russ, then Flynn.
"You want to ride up there with me, or do you want to take your own car?"
Russ looked at Flynn and said, "We'll caravan. I do best when I have my own wheels."
"He does," Flynn agreed, smiling at him.
I went back to the bedroom and phoned Phil Barrett to confirm an eleven a.m. meeting with Raymond Welle. Barrett offered directions to the Silky Road Ranch.
I accepted the directions; I didn't want to admit that I already knew my way around the Elk River Valley. My final telephone call of the evening was to the Sheraton in Steamboat Springs. Dorothy Levin didn't answer her phone. I left a message on her voice mail and asked her to meet me in the lobby for lunch at one o'clock.
Flynn and Russ accepted an invitation to spend the night at our house. They somehow negotiated a way to share the double bed in the downstairs guest room.
I admit I was curious about the details. But neither of them offered any clues.
Our little convoy was on its way into the mountains by seven the next morning.
We arrived in Steamboat at 10:05. Flynn and Russ drove straight to the police station to find Percy Smith. I continued on to the Sheraton to try to confirm my lunch with Dorothy Levin.
The base-area village for the ski resort is a couple of miles from the town of Steamboat, and the Sheraton is the dominant structure in the village. Even I didn't get lost. I tried Dorothy's room from the house phone in the lobby. She didn't answer. As I left yet another message on her voice mail I noticed a freshly printed sign hung on a banner above the entrance to the bar off the lobby. It read, "Welcome home, Joey. Way to go in Augusta." I returned to my car, and made my way out of town to the Silky Road Ranch. Over the course of the drive I went back and forth a half dozen times about whether or not I should try to interview Joey Franklin while I was in town.
Despite the fact that Welle was in temporary residence at the ranch, there was no visible change in appearance at the entry gate. I left the engine of my car running as I walked up to the microphone and identified myself. A voice told me to stand back five feet. I did. Thirty seconds later, the voice told me to get in my car and wait for the gate to open. I did that, too.
My mind wandered as I slowly drove the dirt lane into the heart of the ranch.
My only real context for this huge property had been through the lenses of the news cameras that had recorded the aftermath of the brutal deaths of Gloria Welle and Brian Sample years earlier. As I approached the big ranch house, my eye sought the landmarks that I associated with that day. I identified the spot where the sheriff's vehicles had circled together like pioneer wagons. I decided which window it was that Brian Sample had busted out in order to fire at the deputies.
I spotted the cedar deck that led from the master bedroom to the woods. I knew which garage bay Gloria Welle had used to park her green Range Rover.
Pork chop Phil Barrett was waiting for my arrival. He almost filled an Adirondack chair on the front porch. I didn't consider it auspicious that the mug of coffee in his hand was adorned with the smiling face of Rush Limbaugh.
"Doctor" he boomed, calling to me as though I might have somehow missed the fact that he was sitting there.
I waved.
"You're early," he said.
"Didn't know how long it would take me to find you," I said as I stepped up onto the porch.
"That's a lie, Doctor." Phil smiled broadly as he accused me.
"I think you've been out this way before. Matter of fact, I know you have."
I immediately decided that I would neither confirm the earlier visit nor defend my untruth.
"If I arrived at an inconvenient time, I'm happy to wait in the car.
Or even go back out to the road."
"No. No. Sit right down here next to me. I have some coffee coming for you. How do you take it?"
"Black."
"I guessed that right. Look at this day." He opened his arms to the expanse of the valley.
"Now aren't you glad you decided to come up here and spend another day in all this beauty?"
The horseshoe of peaks surrounding the ranch was stunning in its summer splendor. The green trees played off the distant granite, and the pastures and cultivated fields glistened in the light breeze.
"It is beautiful," I acknowledged.
"But the reason I came is because I had to. You know that. My being up here has inconvenienced a lot of people."
He shrugged; he wasn't moved. Inconveniencing strangers cost Phil Barrett no sleep whatsoever.
I sat next to him on a chair identical to his. An athletic young woman in jeans and a pale green polo shirt brought coffee. She smiled at me with a look that I interpreted as sympathy. I thanked her while trying to convey the same sentiment back to her. I was relieved that my mug wasn't adorned with Rush Limbaughs face.
It was decorated with Dilbert's.
I decided to try some small talk.
"Until now, I've only seen this house on the news."