Close Encounters of the 4th (US intelligence) Kind

The morning following our third meeting I had an appointment with my first “undercover” patient since my move to Washington State—at least the first I recognized. I already suspected I was under government scrutiny. A week earlier I received a form letter from King County Medical Society cautioning me about the American Medical Association’s truth in advertising policy. As none of my colleagues had received letters, I assumed someone reported me for running an ad in the Facts. I was skeptical that any of my African American patients, who all expressed profuse gratitude for the free sessions and antidepressant samples, complained. It was more likely the FBI or police assigned someone to monitor the Facts and other minority publications and this person notified the medical society.

During my final year of practice in California, it was not uncommon for the state attorney general to send undercover agents to doctors’ offices. The goal was to entrap them into prescribing Valium, stimulants, or narcotics in a manner contrary to state or federal regulations. A friend in Chico, a sixty-four-year-old general practitioner, lost her medical license after prescribing two codeine tablets for a former prostitute with a bad toothache. The woman agreed to pose as a patient as a condition of her plea bargain.

According to my landlord, a prominent trial lawyer, Clara’s arrest was part of a public relations ploy to help California Attorney General George Deukmejian position himself for a gubernatorial campaign. My landlord believed the sting operation purposely targeted women doctors, who tend to have lower incomes due to family responsibilities, and are thus more likely to cop a plea.

Shortly before I closed my Chico practice, I myself had visits from two men about a week apart who tried to score Ritalin prescriptions by claiming to suffer from Attention Deficit Disorder. I never saw either of them again after insisting they attend, and pay for, at least three sessions before I wrote any prescriptions. As in Clara’s case, it was obvious entrapment and illegal. Both of us performed an important community service by accepting low-income and elderly patients regardless of their ability to pay. Targeting us for arrest—like the FBI sting in which agents pose as patients to try to catch psychiatrists in Medicare fraud—was more typical of the police state tactics I associated with totalitarian states like the Soviet Union or Communist China. It left me questioning if there was anything to redeem in a society that rewards altruistic physicians by handcuffing them and dragging them to jail. Yet there was absolutely nothing I nor my fellow doctors could do, except write letters to the Chico Enterprise Record and be even more careful.

Sheila McIntyre was my first female “undercover” patient. She introduced herself as a private investigator. Unlike the scruffy street types who worked for Deukmajian, Sheila was bright, well-educated, and immaculately groomed in a modest sundress and one-inch heels. I began, as I did with all new patients.

“How can I help?”

“With my depression, I guess,” she shrugged. Most patients struggle over how much to reveal at the first visit, but Sheila seemed to have rehearsed what she planned to say. “I have this situation, you see. I believe my ex-lover is stalking me. He’s a private detective in New York, and I have just moved here to get away from him. He was my mentor for over a year before we became lovers. He trained me in polygraphy. It turns out he has serious alcohol problems.”

Sheila had been studying the floor but looked up to gauge my reaction. “I also suspect he has CIA connections. And he’s using these contacts to monitor me in my new home. One of them taped a “missing” poster across from my apartment, with a description and a photo.” Her face, neck, and shoulders turned a rosy pink. “It also describes a mole in a very personal place.”

Sheila gave me an expectant smile as she waited for my response. I was at a total loss, finding nothing in her history that was consistent with any known mental disorder. The vast majority of patients who complain about the CIA monitoring them are psychotic. However this woman manifested none of the interpersonal aloofness or disorganized thinking that characterizes psychosis. She also seemed surprisingly nonchalant about being stalked.

I tried to elicit more information about her background and education. However, she seemed determined to treat the appointment like a social visit. In fact, she appeared far more interested in my personal life than the issues that led her to seek treatment. She was the first and only patient during my twenty-five years of private practice who spent our sessions wandering around my consulting room, examining my artwork and books. I noticed she paid particular attention to titles related to Marxism, union organizing, and feminism. She pulled several of them out of my bookcase for closer inspection.

In contrast to the two men who tried to score Ritalin prescriptions, Sheila’s intentions were never totally clear. Like other “pseudo-patients” who would seek my services in coming years, she seemed to have limited objectives beyond befriending me and gathering information about my personal life and political activities. She ended our first session by telling me about a recent trip to South Africa. I sensed it was a clumsy invitation to talk about my own political beliefs and activities. “I believe apartheid is wrong. And I saw an opportunity to use my expertise in polygraphy to assist black South Africans in their struggle.”

Only right-wing law enforcement types, with their obsession with “security” and secrecy, had any use for lie detector tests. If Sheila had been to South Africa as she claimed, the CIA had sent her there to work for the secret police. The comment was reminiscent of the bizarre ideological contradictions government informants came out with when they infiltrated our CISPES meetings. We prided ourselves on our ability to spot the geeky strangers who wore odd assortments of political buttons, took copious notes, and videotaped our protest marches. It turned out we weren’t nearly as clever as we thought. It would be more than five years before we realized the FBI had deeply infiltrated both CISPES and ISO and deliberately orchestrated the in-fighting and rumor campaigns that broke up both groups in early 1985.

Sheila came to her second and last visit dressed in jeans and a t-shirt. It now became clear she had a secondary agenda of delivering a subtle but unmistakable message of intimidation.

“It’s my cover,” she explained. “For my current case.” This was her only mention of the assignments she took as an investigator, except for informing me about the gun she carried in her purse. As well as a throwaway comment she made when she got up to study a framed portrait of my daughter. “It’s a matter of finding psychological weaknesses you can exploit.”

The comment came out of nowhere, totally unrelated to any of the other topics we discussed. I took it as an implied threat against my family. I felt a cold shiver up my spine as I ended the session and told Sheila I didn’t think I could help her.

 

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