February 5–12, 1998

cover story

Dispatches from the Drug War: The first in an occasional series about Philadelphia's flourishing underground drug economy.

Dr. Yes

After seven years, six sting operations and two raids, the state finally arrested Dr. Robert Trollinger last month for alleged drug dealing and fraud.

So what took so long?

By Frank Lewis

Armed with fake medical assistance identification cards bearing made-up names, three agents from the State Attorney General's Office joined the others already waiting to see Robert J. Trollinger, M.D., in Elmwood Family Medical Associates in Southwest Philadelphia.

They sat among apparent drug addicts, who seemed oblivious to the agents' real purpose. The agents noted that one man sported obvious needle tracks. Another's hands were so hideously swollen—a telltale sign of an intravenous drug habit—they resembled boxing gloves. A third muttered and giggled to himself.

Still another found a Valium tablet on the floor, and promptly swallowed it.

Harry, the doctor's part-time assistant, appeared later, and strolled directly into Trollinger's examination room and shut the door again, the agents recalled. Half an hour later Harry came out, appearing under the influence. After a comical and futile attempt to answer the phone, he collapsed on the reception desk, much to the delight of the waiting room crowd. "Harry," one of them hooted, "Doc fixed you up real good."

When sounds of a scuffle in the exam room reached the waiting area, some patients tried to force their way in. Trollinger stopped them at the door. With one hand on the gun tucked into his waistband, he ordered the concerned patients back to their seats. They obeyed.

Eventually, the agents were called in, individually, to see Trollinger; later, one would recall noticing that he wore a smoking jacket and bunny slippers. After cursory examinations, the doctor wrote prescriptions. Between them, the agents left his office with scripts for 215 tablets of Diazepam, a generic form of Valium; 110 tablets of Prozac; and 40 tablets of Doxepin, and anti-anxiety and anti-depressant medication. Government-funded medical assistance picked up $70 of the $95 total.

This sting occurred Dec. 1, 1994—almost three and a half years after the State Attorney General's Office first learned of the strange and allegedly illegal goings-on at Dr. Trollinger's two-story office at 58th Street and Elmwood Avenue. It was the fifth such infiltration of Trollinger's mysterious office, which various sources say was known around the neighborhood for the lines of haggard-looking patients who waited outside the door well into the night.

Why no action was taken against the doctor after five reportedly successful undercover purchases over more than three years remains unclear. Also unexplained is the fact that after the buy described above, the investigation idled for the next 32 months.

Trollinger, who is 71, was arrested in his office on the morning of Jan. 8; on March 12, he is scheduled to stand trial on charges of selling controlled substances, bilking the Medical Assistance Program, illegally taping conversations (with audio-capable surveillance cameras installed in the office) and evading taxes. Maybe by then someone will be able to explain to the residents of this Southwest Philadelphia neighborhood why a doctor allegedly was allowed to run what amounted to a prescription drug retail outlet for seven years, maybe more.

Trollinger's alleged operation had to be the worst-kept secret in Southwest Philadelphia.

"From outside, all you saw was a line of people, all scraggly-looking," says Sam Ricks of Parkwatch 9015, a nearby town watch organization. "It looked like they were waiting for a casino bus.

"Of any [alleged] drug location I've ever seen, this one came closest to having a neon sign over it. You know, 'Get drugs here.'"

"It was pretty obvious as to what was going on," agrees an officer from the 12th Police District, who spoke on condition of anonymity. "You'd see people out there all the time, 'til 3, 4 o'clock in the morning."

A few years ago, the officer recalls, "I would see him coming and going, in stores. He was personable, friendly, his outward appearance was normal. But I guess you really wouldn't expect him to act any differently to a uniformed police officer."

In recent years, however, the doctor's public appearances had become fewer and farther between. When he was seen outside the graffiti-scarred, two-story office, he looked physically worn down, the officer says. His once-fancy car—the officer thinks it might have been a Lincoln—got banged up and stayed that way. He may even have been living in the office, at least part time. (Court records show a New Jersey address, and a phone call confirmed this. However, Trollinger did not respond to a request for an interview.)

"He had an alarm system that was constantly going off," the cop says. "He would always meet [the responding officers] at the door, say everything was OK."

Shots were fired there on at least one or two occasions, the officer says. In the incident he recalled, about two years ago, Trollinger fired at someone outside the office, and told police who responded that the person had tried to rob him. No one was hurt, according to the officer, and the doctor was not charged.

In 1994, an emergency room doctor at Mercy Fitzgerald Hospital in Darby treated a man who was brought in by a Philadelphia Fire Department rescue unit after he was found unconscious in Southwest Philly. The man was carrying a total of 83 10-milligram Valium tablets and a prescription for another 70, all from Trollinger's office. The doctor promptly reported Trollinger to the Pennsylvania State Medical Board; as he would later tell the grand jury, he could see no reasonable explanation as to why a Norristown resident with a history of depression should be getting such exceedingly large quantities and large doses of a controlled substance from a doctor so far from his home.

"When the department is made aware of a complaint, we will investigate that information," says Kevin Shivers, spokesman for the Pennsylvania Department of State, under which the medical board falls. But the department does not comment on complaints or investigations. All Shivers could say about Trollinger is that there is no record of formal disciplinary action against him, before or after his arrest. "But we are aware of the situation," he adds.

The State Attorney General's Office took an interest in Dr. Trollinger in 1991, after the death of a Darby man, according to the grand jury presentment. The man's mother claimed that he had overdosed on drugs prescribed by Trollinger, and the Philadelphia District Attorney's Office turned the matter over to the AG's office, which at that time was headed by Ernie Preate.

That was in May 1991. In July, an agent from the AG's Bureau of Narcotics Investigation interviewed a woman who'd collapsed in a Southwest Philadelphia pharmacy while refilling a prescription written by Trollinger. The pharmacist had reported the incident.

According to the presentment, the woman told the agent she consulted Trollinger in 1989 after sustaining a work-related injury, and that the doctor prescribed Xanax, a cousin of the well-known anti-anxiety agent and muscle relaxant Valium, and Diazepam. During the course of the year in which Trollinger prescribed the drugs, the woman said, she became dependent on them.

After entering a drug-treatment program, the woman said, she wrote to Trollinger and described her situation. After leaving the program, however, she relapsed and returned to Trollinger. He wrote more prescriptions. (When the grand jury subpoenaed the woman's records last year, it was discovered that Trollinger had once prescribed 60-pill bottles of Xanax twice in two days.)

But after this interview, nothing happened for the next 20 months, according to the chronology of the investigation in the grand jury's presentment.

The first in a series of undercover purchases at Trollinger's office occurred in March 1993. The same agent who had interviewed the former addict showed up there without an appointment and gave a fake name. Last year she testified that Trollinger asked if she had a boyfriend, and if so, if the boyfriend treated her well. He draped his arm around her shoulder reassuringly and promised to help. The agent said symptoms were never discussed, and dosages or other directions were never given; nonetheless, Trollinger gave her 60 Diazepam tablets for $15, in addition to the $30 charge for the office visit.

About four months later, the agent returned and asked for and received prescriptions of Diazepam and Seldane, a non-controlled substance used to treat sinusitis. This, she explained to the grand jury, was to test something she'd heard: that area pharmacies were refusing to fill prescriptions written by Trollinger. The presentment doesn't elaborate, but others who testified—a drug program specialist from the Pennsylvania Department of State, and a pharmacist operating in the neighborhood for more than 30 years—confirmed that Trollinger's prescriptions were routinely refused. The pharmacist, who said Trollinger once had had a legitimate family practice, "testified that he believed the prescriptions were for what appeared to be young drug-dependent individuals from all over Philadelphia and the neighboring counties," the presentment states.

The State Department drug program specialist made similar statements, and said he "received calls from pharmacists as far as 35 miles away stating that they received prescriptions from people living in Philadelphia." What became of these findings isn't clear. A State Department spokesman would say only that no disciplinary action has ever been taken against Trollinger.

In July 1994, two agents—the original investigator and another from the Medicaid Fraud Control Section—returned to Elmwood Family Medical Associates. The first agent asked for another prescription of Diazepam to help her "cool out," and he obliged. The other complained of depression resulting from being unemployed. Trollinger checked his blood pressure, then prescribed Prozac and Diazepam.

Another undercover purchase was made in September 1994. The agents returned again in December, and that bizarre scene was described at the beginning of this article.

After that, the investigation apparently ground to a halt. For nearly three years.

"This case is a terrible violation of Pennsylvania's laws," said Attorney General Michael Fisher at the Jan. 8 press conference announcing Trollinger's arrest.

"When someone who's licensed as a medical doctor goes out and literally acts as a drug warehouse and continues to addict or get addicted young people or whoever it is … I view this as a most serious violation.

"This was a bizarre operation. I don't want to speculate as to Trollinger's intent, but clearly he was committing major violations of the law … He obviously had a warped sense of medical treatment, making addicts, further addicting them on pills."

Fisher talked about the numerous undercover purchases made and the array of other witnesses—from medical professionals to recovering addicts who'd frequented Trollinger's office—who had testified before the statewide investigating grand jury. Spread out on a table nearby were some of the tens of thousands of pills confiscated from Trollinger's office during an August 1997 raid.

The implication was clear: this case looked like a slam dunk.

Curiously, however, the fact that the investigation moved in fits and starts over almost seven years was barely discussed. Only one reporter, John McNally of the Southwest Philadelphia Review, questioned Fisher on this.

"I can't answer that question," he responded, "as I was only elected the attorney general in November of 1996. When Deputy Attorney General [Kenya] Mann and Deputy Attorney General [Elizabeth] Kitchel and I reviewed the facts of this case, that's why we immediately put it before a grand jury. I don't want to speculate as to why it may have taken the time it did take."

Fair enough. But if the August 1997 raid was so successful—reportedly netting more than 50,000 pills, some kept in yogurt containers and relish jars, as well as small quantities of marijuana, methamphetamine and cocaine—why was it necessary to wait another five months to make an arrest?

"We don't run the [medical] licensing board," Fisher said. "And in fact, unfortunately in Pennsylvania law, the licensing board can't deny him his license until there's a conviction … We wanted to make sure the proof was there. We felt that the charges which we would bring, we had to get all of the evidence before the grand jury, the grand jury, which meets once a month for a week …"

Fisher's spokesman, Kevin Harley, couldn't shed much more light on the issue last week.

"That's not that unusual," he says of the delay between the raid and the arrest. "And at that point [after the raid] the case was placed in the statewide investigating grand jury." And though it meets just once a month for five days, the grand jury offered advantages, such as greater power to compel testimony and subpoena records.

But he can't say why the investigation stalled so many times before Fisher's election.

Thomas Corbett, the interim attorney general appointed by Gov. Ridge after Ernie Preate's conviction and imprisonment on a felony mail fraud charge in 1995, says he knew nothing about Trollinger, now or then.

A case like this one, he explains, is handled "down in the regions, and works its way through the regions to Harrisburg … And frankly, in the 15 months I served, we didn't have time to put in a better case management system." When he took over the office, he recalls, case management was "relatively non-existent."

Corbett, now chairman of the Pennsylvania Commission on Crime and Delinquency, adds that investigations involving doctors and questionable prescriptions are difficult because of the "antiquated" record-keeping system. Pharmacies ship the forms to the state each month, "and they're literally put in a filing cabinet," Corbett says. He once spent two weeks weeding through such files for an unrelated investigation in the Pittsburgh area.

"If we put all of this in a computer … boy, we could catch a lot of people," he says. Drug-dealing doctors, he adds, "are as much a part of the problem as people selling heroin on the street."

The last undercover operation, the first on Fisher's watch, was as surreal as the December 1994 episode. By then, the agents would later testify, Trollinger had installed video surveillance cameras in the waiting room and bathroom. A rottweiler that Trollinger addressed in German and that apparently had been trained to sniff out concealed weapons stood guard between the waiting room and examination area.

One agent was given prescriptions for Prozac and Diazepam—after telling Trollinger he was "fine"—and dozens of loose pills.

Trollinger remembered the second agent from her previous visits. After measuring and weighing her, he offered an unsolicited guess as to her bra size. He also mused about how she might look stretched out on a bearskin rug.

"He definitely made very blatant sexual advances to me," the agent told Jill Porter of the Daily News, "suggesting we have champagne on the bearskin rug, things that a doctor shouldn't be saying to his patients." (City Paper's request to speak to the agents involved was denied.)

In addition to Prozac and Diazepam, the agent said, Trollinger prescribed a lotion and said she should apply it after a shower, while still wet, and think of him. As she left, he kissed her on the cheek.

The previously mentioned raid was carried out two days later. Records subpoenaed later by the grand jury showed that soon after, Trollinger ordered another 8,000 Diazepam pills from two drug companies. (Between Jan. 17, 1995, and Aug. 27, 1997, he had ordered from the same companies a total of 788,500 tablets of Diazepam alone.)

The companies—Truxton, of New Jersey, and Hadro of New York—did not respond to requests for comments. (Hadro is a division of the Darby Group, according to the State Attorney General's Office.) According to a spokesperson for the Philadelphia office of the Drug Enforcement Agency, pharmaceutical manufacturers and suppliers are required to turn over to the DEA records of who orders what controlled substances. However, the DEA was not involved in the investigation of Trollinger.

Another search warrant was executed last October; this time, agents confiscated the surveillance cameras and monitor. What, if anything, was going on in the office then, or after the second raid, isn't clear, but Fisher noted at the press conference that the doctor was arrested there, and seemed to be "expecting to conduct business" that day.

Ricks, the town watch leader, doubts anyone but junkies will miss Robert J. Trollinger, M.D.

"It wasn't like the Badlands" in that neighborhood, Ricks says, "it was more low key. But the kids were able to get whatever they wanted." He and others often saw teenagers staggering around various parts of Southwest Philly at all hours of the night, sometimes even dragging off their unconscious friends when they knew they'd been spotted. Ricks says he learned from some of them—too inebriated to know better than to talk to townwatchers—that they liked to mix drugs like Valium or Xanax with beer.

To be fair, Ricks notes, there is no way of knowing how many of them obtained drugs from Trollinger, if any. But the doctor's presence, he adds, certainly didn't help the relatively stable but struggling neighborhood.

"You know Skid Row?" he asks. "I'm not saying Elmwood looks like Skid Row, but you've always got guys hanging out in the park, drinking."

The real problem, however, is the community's relative stability.

"Nothing ever happened" when community leaders complained to police about Trollinger's alleged operation and other potential problems, Ricks says. "Basically what we run into is this area isn't considered a priority, and if you're not a priority, your complaints don't get dealt with."

"[Trollinger's office] was not in the worst part of our district," concedes the 12th District officer. Other areas, he explains, generate more calls to 911.

Ricks says this has been a source of tension between community leaders and police for years. In October, the Inquirer quoted neighborhood sources as saying that 16 town watch groups disbanded in Southwest Philly over the previous four years.

And when asked for the names of other community activists City Paper could contact, Ricks laughs. "They're all gone."

"The police, they're working hard," he says. "But whatever happens west of 58th Street has to wait. The problem is, how long do you wait? Until the neighborhood's totally deteriorated?

"I used to tell people, by the time [the federal Drug Enforcement Agency] gets here, the dealers will be on Social Security. Well, look at Trollinger. He made it past Social Security. He's my proof."