Basa probably had it right. Koa viewed getting anything useful from Patrone as a long shot, but dozens of prescription pill bottles in Boyle’s medicine cabinet bearing Dr. Patrone’s name meant Boyle had suffered serious depression. The trip would be worth getting soaked if Dr. Patrone could shed some light on Boyle’s mental condition.
When they arrived at their destination, rain pelted them before they got to the door. They took the stairs to the second floor and walked down a hall, their wet shoes squeaking, to a door marked, “Dr. Patrone, M.D., Mental Health and Psychiatric Services.”
Finding the door locked, Koa followed the instructions posted on the glass and called the doctor’s number. After a few seconds, a tall, thin man opened the door and introduced himself as Dr. Patrone. Koa judged the psychiatrist to be north of eighty years old, and the years hadn’t been kind. His straggly white hair hung to his hunched shoulders, and framed a heavily scarred face, likely from too much Pacific sun. He let them into a tiny office just large enough to hold a couch, a chair, a small desk, and a steel filing cabinet. A larger-than-life poster of bodybuilder Mickey Hargitay, Mr. Universe 1955, seemed way out of place.
“Can’t afford a receptionist,” Dr. Patrone apologized in a soft, girlish voice. He gestured toward a tiny couch, too small for both policemen, so Koa stood against the wall. The atmosphere felt claustrophobic, and Koa doubted the good doctor treated many clients. He plainly paid little rent.
“We’re here about Hank Boyle,” Koa began. “He was your patient?”
The doctor frowned. “Did something happen to him?”
“Yes, Doc, I’m afraid he’s dead.”
“Oh, my God … oh, my God.” Dr. Patrone’s eyes widened, and tears gathered in his eyes.
The emotional physician in his ice-cube-sized office under the watchful gaze of Mr. Universe did nothing to heighten Koa’s low regard for doctors. “He was your patient?” Koa repeated.
Patrone hesitated, took a tissue from his desk, and blew his nose. “Well, yes.”
“From the number of antidepressants you prescribed, Boyle seems to have had some nervous or anxiety disorder?”
Patrone evaded the question. “How’d he die?”
“We found him hanged and are investigating the circumstances. Was he—”
“Oh, my God.” Patrone went limp and slumped into his chair with his face in his hands.
Koa found the doc’s reaction bizarre. Most medics, even psychiatrists, dealt all too often with death. To Koa, Patrone’s reaction signaled more than a doctor-patient relationship. “He was your friend?” Koa asked.
The doctor seemed not to have heard. “He was your friend?” Koa repeated.
Patrone looked up, his face stricken with grief, tears in his eyes, and nodded. “Yes, a dear, dear friend.”
Koa waited, giving the shrink time to recover. “We need to know about his recent condition, his state of mind.”
Patrone pulled another tissue from the box and dried his eyes. “I … I can’t. I just can’t. There’s a doctor-patient privilege.”
“Hank Boyle is dead under suspicious circumstances. We need—”
Patrone shook his head. “The privilege survives his death.”
Koa knew the law and remained undeterred in seeking answers. “Did he have any relatives who survived him?” Koa demanded.
“No. None I know about.”
“Then who are you protecting, Doc?”
“I can’t. I just can’t—”
Koa moved closer to the physician, invading his space and leaning close until their faces were no more than six inches apart. “He was your friend. Don’t you care what happened to him?”
The doctor stared at Koa for several seconds. “Talk to Gene.” The doctor spoke so softly, Koa barely heard.
“Who’s Gene?”
“Gene Forret, Hank’s friend. He lives down at the Sunset Villa condos.”
Recognizing he wasn’t going to get what he needed from Patrone and now more curious than ever about Boyle, Koa said, “Don’t go anywhere. We’ll likely need to see you again.”
He led Basa back through the rain to the Explorer in search of Gene Forret.
“That quack is one weird dude!” Basa exclaimed. “Not like any doctor I know. Acted more like a bereaved spouse than a shrink, and he’s damn sure hiding something.”
Koa nodded in agreement. In his years on the street, Basa had developed uncanny instincts for unusual personalities, of which the Big Island had more than its share. “Yeah. I’m getting strange vibes about Hank Boyle. He’s coming across as an untold tale.”
“You think Boyle and the doctor were more than friends?” Basa asked.
“Don’t you?”
“Yeah.”
They found the Sunset Villa condos, hidden behind cascades of rain-drenched red bougainvillea flowers not far off the south Kona waterfront. A woman in the office pointed them to Gene Forret’s unit, and they trudged through the rain, still falling with thunderous force. A sixty-something bodybuilder with long gray hair and a beard, dressed only in dusty green shorts, responded suspiciously to their knock, opening the door only a few inches. His hard, well-muscled body reflected regular workouts, but tattoos covered his chest, and a gold hoop hung from his nose. He spotted Basa’s uniform and said, “Cops. What do you want?”
“I’m Chief Detective Kāne. It’s about your friend Hank Boyle,” Koa responded.
“He’s dead.” Guarding the door, Forret gave no sign of inviting them inside.
“We’re aware of his death,” Koa responded. “Dr. Patrone suggested we chat with you.”
Forret’s expression changed at the mention of Patrone’s name, and he stepped back, letting the two officers into his one-bedroom apartment. Life-sized, bodybuilding posters—Arnold Schwarzenegger, Dexter Jackson, Bob Paris, Tony Atlas, and others—dominated the walls of the living-dining-kitchen area, and a massage table sat where the architect had envisioned a dining table.
“You a fitness trainer?” Basa asked.
“Yeah, and a freelance masseur.”
Koa wondered if this aging hippie held a massage license. Koa didn’t see one hanging on the walls. The two policemen sat on folding chairs around a large mat spread in the center of the living room floor. Forret dropped into a lotus position in the center of the mat. Koa noticed a diamond stud on his left ear. It weighed at least two carats and glinted like the real thing. He hadn’t paid for the earring with his massage business. “How well did you know Hank Boyle?”
“He finally committed suicide.”
Koa jumped on the word “finally.” “He attempted suicide before?”
“Yeah, that’s how we first hooked up.”
Koa had missed a turn somewhere. “I don’t understand.”
“Patrone treated him after he attempted suicide back in college. The quack and I were together back then, and he introduced me to Hank. He was really fucked up, coming off some kind of weird episode.”
“You met at UH?”
“I didn’t go to college, but Patrone introduced me to Hank back then. We’ve been together ever since.”