In the Clearing (26 page)

Other than Tommy Moore, only Hastey Devoe had a criminal record. He’d been arrested three times for driving under the influence—the first arrest in 1982, the second in 1996, and the most recent in 2013. Tracy could only imagine how many times a career drunk had driven impaired and
not
been caught, or had been caught but received the benefit of having a brother serving as the chief of police.

Tracy ran Gallentine’s name through the Washington State Digital Archives and got a match. Darren John Gallentine died October 12, 1999, at age forty-one. The death certificate from the Washington State Department of Health listed the cause of death as a self-inflicted gunshot wound to the head. She located a short obituary in the
Seattle Times
archives. Gallentine had worked for nearly two decades as an engineer for Boeing after graduating from UW in 1981. He was survived by his wife, Tiffany, and his two daughters, seventeen-year-old Rebecca and fourteen-year-old Rachel. In lieu of flowers, the family had asked for donations to an organization called Evergreen Health Clinic Northwest. Tracy Googled the name and found that the clinic still existed and had been serving the Puget Sound region since 1973. Searches using the name Tiffany Gallentine produced no results. Gallentine’s wife could have died, remarried, changed her name, or simply not done anything to warrant a Google hit. The names Rebecca and Rachel Gallentine produced multiple possibilities on Facebook of women who would have been about the right ages. However, given that the sisters would be in their early thirties, they also could have married and legally changed their last names, making the hits for “Gallentine” even more suspect.

Deciding to go after the lowest-hanging fruit, Tracy called the clinic referenced in Darren Gallentine’s obituary and asked to speak to the director. She knew she was treading on thin ice. Under federal HIPAA laws, the confidentiality of a patient’s health information continued even after the patient’s death, and the law was particularly touchy about psychotherapy notes. She was connected to an Alfred Womak, who confirmed that the clinic had treated Darren Gallentine but wouldn’t reveal for what. Tracy said she was in the area and would appreciate a few minutes of the director’s time. Womak agreed to see her for twenty minutes starting at two.

Evergreen Health Clinic Northwest was located in a chic shopping complex off Northwest Gilman Boulevard called The Village at Issaquah, a thirty- to forty-five-minute drive east of Seattle. Once nothing but hills of virgin forest, the plateau was now looked upon by many in Seattle as an illustration of urban desecration of the environment. In the past decade, developers had clear-cut and bulldozed large swaths of forest for tracts of homes, shopping centers, schools, and sports facilities. The population had quickly tripled—predominantly white middle-class families with young children, who’d rushed to buy large homes at affordable prices.

The buildings at The Village at Issaquah, interconnected by wooden and brick walkways, included restaurants, a hair “studio,” an upscale kitchenette store, art galleries, and a yoga studio, in addition to the clinic. It gave Tracy a better sense of Evergreen’s likely typical clientele—overextended husbands, stay-at-home moms feeling unfulfilled and underappreciated, and the children of those parents sent to counseling for ADD, anxiety, and stress-related disorders.

Tibetan bells announced Tracy’s entrance as she stepped into a reception area of soft colors and soothing music. Womak met Tracy in the lobby and escorted her to his office, which resembled the inside of a yurt but with plate-glass windows for walls that provided an eastern view of the hills. She estimated Womak to be in his early sixties, with the mandatory mental health professional’s beard. His was salt and pepper. Balding, he wore round wire-framed glasses.

“As I indicated on the telephone, Detective, federal laws prohibit me from telling you anything about Mr. Gallentine’s treatment.”

Tracy pushed forward. It was why she preferred face-to-face meetings. It was easier to hang up a phone than to ignore a person sitting across from you. She’d also learned to avoid debate and just get the witness answering questions. “I understand. You were able to confirm he was a patient of this clinic?”

“Yes, he was.”

“And for how long?”

“Just under two years.”

“Did he come regularly for those two years?”

“His billing records indicate he did.”

“And you still have a copy of his records here?”

“Not his physical file. We move physical files older than five years to a storage facility and maintain electronic files.”

“Someone scanned in the contents of those files?”

“Correct.”

“So you can access them, search them, that sort of thing.”

“Correct.”

“Do your records indicate whether anyone has ever asked to see Mr. Gallentine’s records before my request?”

“There have been no prior requests.”

“Mr. Gallentine was married?”

“According to his file, yes.”

“His wife didn’t ask for the records?”

“There’s no indication in the file that she did.”

Tracy thought that odd, given that Darren Gallentine had committed suicide. She would have thought a spouse would have wanted to know if his psychotherapy records revealed why. Then again, maybe Tiffany Gallentine knew why. Tracy certainly knew why her father had shot himself—grief and depression brought on by the disappearance and presumed death of Sarah. “He had minor daughters at that time?” Tracy asked.

“Two.”

“Neither has asked to see the file?”

“There have been
no
requests by
anyone
for any purpose,” Womak said, sounding officious.

“Did Mrs. Gallentine or either of the two daughters seek any treatment?”

“Our records indicate they came in for family grief counseling after Mr. Gallentine’s death.”

“How long did that continue?”

“Just a few visits.”

“And Mr. Gallentine’s therapist no longer works here?”

“She does not.”

“Was she fired?”

“I won’t answer questions related to our employees’ work history.”

“What I’m trying to determine is whether your clinic did any type of an investigation or inquiry as to why one of your patients, while undergoing regular treatment, killed himself.” Sometimes when she challenged a person’s decision making, particularly doctors, Tracy found they would get their significant ego feathers ruffled and endeavor to defend their actions, giving away information they might not otherwise.

Womak, however, remained calm. “We have staff meetings every week to discuss patient treatment and, yes, we do have discussions in the event a patient chooses to end his own life.”

“It’s happened before, besides Mr. Gallentine?”

“Unfortunately.”

“How could I get a copy of the file?”

“The only way is if Mr. Gallentine designated a personal representative, and that individual notified us that he or she was waiving his privacy.”

“Do you have a last known address in the file for Mr. Gallentine?”

“I do.” Womak provided the address.

“Do you know if Mrs. Gallentine has remarried or if she still lives in the area?”

“I’m afraid I don’t.”

“What about either of his two daughters, Rebecca and Rachel?”

“I’m sorry, I don’t. It’s been many years.”

“Do you know if Mrs. Gallentine worked outside the home when Mr. Gallentine was seeking treatment?”

“Again, I don’t know and would have no way of knowing.”

Womak looked at his watch and started to rise from his chair. “I’m afraid I’m out of time.”

“He killed himself in what year?”

“October 1999.”

Gallentine’s obituary indicated that he worked at Boeing until 1997. “What about billing records? Was his therapy paid through his insurance at Boeing?”

Womak sat again. His fingers clicked the keyboard on his desktop, and he raised his nose to read through his bifocals. “The file indicates his therapy was paid by insurance. But it wasn’t Boeing’s. It was paid through his wife’s insurance as an employee at Microsoft.”

When she left Evergreen, Tracy called Ron Mayweather and asked that he pull up property records and run the address Womak had provided for the Gallentine family home. She also tasked him with doing a search of King County records to determine if a will was probated for a Darren John Gallentine in 1999, and if it named a personal representative. Then she dialed information and asked for the number for Microsoft.

“Any particular department?”

“What do they have listed?”

“How much time do you have?”

“Human Resources,” Tracy said.

CHAPTER 22

T
iffany Gallentine had become Tiffany Martin, a director of business development at Microsoft, and Tracy heard the unease in Martin’s voice when she introduced herself on the telephone as a Seattle detective—she left out the word “homicide”—and asked for a few moments of Martin’s time.

“What’s this about?” Martin had asked.

“I have a few questions about your late husband, Darren Gallentine.”

“What?” Martin sounded both relieved and confused, and maybe a bit irritated. No doubt her initial concern upon hearing the words “Seattle Police” and “detective” had been for her current husband and/or her daughters. Still, getting a call out of the blue from a detective wanting to talk about your husband who committed suicide was not likely at the top of anyone’s list of fun things to do. “My husband shot himself fifteen years ago.”

“I understand the topic is probably painful, Mrs. Martin, and it isn’t my intent to inflict any undue pain, but I have some questions that might be relevant to a matter I’m looking into in Klickitat County.”

“I don’t understand how that could be. My husband shot himself in our home in Issaquah.” Martin’s tone was a mix of relief and befuddlement.

Tracy was honest. “I’m in the initial stages of an investigation and was hoping for just a few minutes of your time.”

This was the moment people found an excuse to say “Now is not a good time,” but Tracy was betting Martin—a professional woman likely used to difficult conversations and with limited free time—would prefer to rip off the Band-Aid and get the conversation over with rather than spend an afternoon or day stewing about it.

“I have a few minutes at three thirty,” she said. “After that, I’m on conference calls the rest of the afternoon, and I leave tomorrow on a business trip.”

Martin’s office was located in one of the buildings on the company’s West Campus in Redmond. After stopping at the visitor center for a map and directions, Tracy parked in a designated visitor’s area and hurried along a footpath. She had never been to Microsoft headquarters, a sprawling complex of buildings and acreage that very much reminded her of college, with fountains, a lake, grass playing fields, and young people walking around dressed in jeans and tennis shoes and carrying backpacks.

Tiffany Martin was not so casual. Dressed in cream slacks and a gold top, she met Tracy in a glass-and-concrete lobby. Though she had to be at least midfifties, Martin’s hairstyle and makeup made her look younger.

She handed Tracy a visitor’s pass and said, “You need that to get in.” She then escorted Tracy into the building as quickly as if she were trying to get a crazy relative out of public view.

Martin chose a conference room with a modern theme, not surprising for a technology company whose success depended on being forward-thinking. The walls were white and covered with what looked to be Japanese prints, the carpet a utilitarian gray. Martin pulled out a chair at the glass conference table, but Tracy walked to the windows with a view of the heart of campus.

“I wouldn’t get any work done with all these distractions.”

“You learn to tune them out,” Martin said in a crisp tone. “And you don’t have a lot of free time.”

Tracy had not been looking for an answer. She was hoping small talk might help Martin relax. Her eyes and mouth were pinched so tight Tracy thought something might pop.

“Must be nice to have it available, though,” Tracy said.

“It helps people to be more efficient,” Martin said, joining Tracy at the window.