Doctor’s suicide in wake of accusations shakes Mammoth Lakes

Dr. Andrew Bourne seemed to have it all: A loving family, a successful surgical practice in Mammoth Lakes, a mountain home where he could ski with friends or plunge into the wild with his dog, Oreo. He even had time to volunteer; he served on the local school board and last year organized his sixth foreign medical mission, this one to an impoverished town in Mexico.

Last month, Bourne’s world caved in. On Jan. 4, he was arrested, along with another Mammoth Lakes man, on suspicion of sexual crimes involving a teenage girl. He quit the school board. Mammoth Hospital, where he recently served as chief of staff and where his brother is an anesthesiologist, ended his contract. Twenty days after his arrest on charges of “illegal communication with a minor to facilitate sexual activity,” Bourne, 46, drove to an isolated spot outside of town and ended his life. He was tracked down with the aid of a GPS device in an ankle bracelet he wore as a condition of his $750,000 bail.

Mono County officials have not disclosed the cause of Bourne’s death, saying toxicology tests are pending.

Already stunned by his arrest, tight-knit Mammoth Lakes reeled after his suicide. The hospital brought in a team of grief counselors to help its staff deal with the loss. The Mammoth Times acknowledged being at a loss for words and ran an editorial consisting solely of soliloquies from “Macbeth” and “Hamlet.”

Now, even with a sense of unease over the charges, the community is rallying around Bourne’s memory. His friends set up a tribute to him and its location had to be changed three times — to accommodate more people. It finally was set for a lodge at the Mammoth Mountain Ski Area that can hold 1,000 people — a big turnout anywhere, but massive in a town of 8,000.

Mammoth Mountain Chief Executive Rusty Gregory knew Bourne and the alleged victim’s family. He said the ski area had received both compliments and criticism for opening its doors to the event Saturday. Many in the community want to remember Bourne as a skilled physician and compassionate man; others are repelled by the self-destructive quality that brought about his suicide and, if prosecutors are correct, his more than two-year relationship with a Santa Barbara girl who is now 16.

“These are the kind of conflicts we all face,” Gregory said. “It’s a very difficult time for all of us here. Everyone’s struggling to make their own judgments.”

The ski area, the largest venue in town, has hosted scores of observances over the years, often paying for food and drink as it did with Bourne’s. There was a big memorial after the 2009 death of environmental activist Andrea Mead Lawrence, a former Mono County supervisor who also was an Olympic gold medalist in alpine skiing. And there were the three ski patrolmen who died in 2006 when they fell into a geothermal vent.

“When people want to celebrate, they come to us,” Gregory said. “When they want to grieve, they also come to us.”

In the blue brilliance of Saturday afternoon, dozens of Bourne’s friends gathered at the top of the mountain, said a few words and whipped down the slopes in what they called “Andy’s Last Run.”

Later on, the memorial was packed. Posters urged contributions for a medical missions fund started this week in Bourne’s name. The East Sierra Chamber Orchestra played as hundreds of the family’s well-wishers filed in.

Dr. Michael Karch, an orthopedist who was one of Bourne’s best friends, recalled him as energetic, optimistic and precise — but perennially late for their daily, post-dawn cross-country ski treks.

His surgical skills saved many lives, Karch said. Last year, 25-year-old Texan skier Katy Nagyvary slammed into a tree, breaking 16 ribs and damaging her liver. Bourne performed a rare emergency liver repair and was at her bedside all night, urging her not to give up, to please be strong. He and Nagyvary’s family have kept in touch ever since.

Nagyvary was at the memorial, playing one of her father’s hand-crafted violins with the chamber orchestra. When Karch asked her a few days ago what she would have told Bourne in his final days, she said: “Don’t give up. Please be strong. Hang in there.”

In an interview, Mayor Jo Bacon said she used to see Bourne, his wife, Gilann, a dentist, and their two sons, 11 and 14, skating at the town’s ice rink. She served on a school committee with Bourne and knows many residents who were his patients.

“You can’t live in this town without getting to know everyone pretty well,” she said. “This outpouring is to show support for the family and extended family; it’s not about ignoring the charges against him.”

Those charges stem from the discovery last fall of what Santa Barbara police described as more than 1,000 emails — some from Bourne and others from Joseph Walker, 48, a well-known businessman who once owned popular Mammoth Lakes restaurants. Both were accused of soliciting sex from a minor, but Walker also was charged with unlawful sexual intercourse. Both men pleaded not guilty.

Ron Bamieh, Bourne’s Ventura attorney, said the emails sent by Bourne were “innocuous” and others were wrongly attributed to him by police. The girl is the daughter of family friends and Bourne sent her messages like, ‘Really look forward to seeing you,’ Bamieh said. He said Bourne knew Walker but only recently had learned of Walker’s alleged relationship with the girl.

In court motions before Bourne’s death, Santa Barbara County prosecutors painted a darker picture. They said each man “had manipulated Jane Doe into an extensive sexual relationship.” Bourne admitted to an investigator that he had sexual contact with the girl, according to prosecutors.

The case against Bourne has been closed — but it resonates in Mammoth Lakes.

Bloggers rail against the vagueness of the “Jessica’s Law” measure, passed by voters in 2006, that made Bourne’s emails potentially criminal acts. People muse about whether suicide is selfish, sick or simply a choice. Some wonder about how to help the girl at the center of the case.

In a parking lot near a gondola that hums up to the ski area’s 11,000-foot summit, David Harvey, 25, expressed the confusion of many other residents. Bourne had operated on Harvey’s wife and father-in-law, and had helped deliver one of his children.

“Everyone here knows someone who knew him,” said Harvey, a supervisor at the ski school. “He was so prominent — and this is such a loss of trust.”

“We live in a kind of bubble here,” he said. “This is where people come to escape reality. Suddenly it’s become real.”

steve.chawkins@latimes.com