We took the elevator up to the fourth floor and found Dr. Renick's office. The receptionist behind the desk still hadn't heard the bad news. Renick’s office was on the other side of the building from the parking lot. I flashed my badge and made introductions.
"What's going on out there?” Stacy asked. “I heard someone was shot in the parking lot. Do you have any idea who?" Panic crept into the receptionist’s eyes as that feeling in her gut became clear. "Dr. Renick was supposed to be back 30 minutes ago."
23
Stacy’s face contorted with terror when I gave her the bad news. “Oh, my God. She’s dead?”
I nodded.
Stacy was an attractive sandy-blonde with a round face and chubby cheeks. She wore royal blue scrubs.
The patients in the waiting room looked on in shock.
A guy in his early 20s stood up and said, "That blows. I guess my appointment is canceled. Can you refer me to another doctor?”
The receptionist grew annoyed. "You'll have to call the office later."
The patient walked out, followed by another older woman.
"I'll be in touch, Mrs. Thompson," Stacy called after her. Still in a daze, the receptionist asked, "Do you have any idea who did this?"
I shook my head. "Dr. Halford mentioned Miriam was having a problem with a particular patient who had developed a fixation. You wouldn’t happen to know who that might be?”
The receptionist’s brow knitted. "I can't disclose patient information."
"Of course. But anything you could do would be helpful."
Stacy thought hard for a moment. I had put her in a difficult position, asking her to do something unethical.
"I realize you can't disclose protected health information,” I said in a whisper. “I would never ask you to do something like that. I certainly wouldn't ask you to write a name on a Post-it note then leave your desk for a moment."
Stacy thought long and hard.
Then she grabbed a pen and scribbled a name on a pink Post-it pad. "If you'll excuse me, I need to use the ladies' room for a moment.”
She pushed away from the desk and walked into the back.
I peeled the top sheet of the Post-it note off. The name readTabatha Benson. I folded it up and stuffed it into my pocket.
Stacy returned a moment later.
We never mentioned it again.
"Can you think of anyone else that Miriam might have had issues with—colleagues, personal relationships, disgruntled employees?"
"Well, considering I’m the only employee, and we got along great, I don't think you'll find anything here. I’ve been in thisoffice since 8:00 AM this morning. Miriam said she’d bring me back lunch.” Stacy frowned. “Miriam got along well with her other colleagues.” She paused, then added, “You do know she's going through a divorce right now, don't you?"
I nodded.
Stacy hesitated. In a hushed voice, she said, "You know, sometimes she would talk to me about him.” She paused. “He would do things to her.” Her eyes flared, and she let that hang there a moment.
Stacy had my curiosity piqued. "What kind of things?”
"Well, he was verbally and, I think, at times, physically abusive. On more than one occasion, she showed up with bruises on her arms—one time with a black eye." She hesitated, then said, "And that's not all."
She drew out the moment. I don't know if she was doing it for dramatic effect or if she was hesitant to delve into a private area.
"I'm listening," I said, urging her on.
