Dark Path Page 5

  “The rictus grin,” Dr. Ashland said with a nod of agreement. “None of the deceased showed any signs of tetanus.”

  Bodhi half-listened while Dr. Ashland recorded Carlos Garcia’s weight and length.

  “Do you have your toxicology results back on any of the deceased?” he asked.

  “Not yet.”

  Detective Williams growled in frustration.

  Dr. Ashland turned to her. “I know. I asked the lab to put a rush on them. It might be another day or two, though. I’m also waiting on radiology reports. I don’t have a mass spectrometer. What are you thinking—poisoning?”

  “Right. I’ve never seen it. But I’ve read about a case of strychnine poisoning. It produces the rictus grin, too.”

  “Strychnine …” Dr. Ashland mused.

  “How would that be administered?” Detective Williams asked.

  “It could be mixed into a drink or medication. Or administered intravenously,” Bodhi said.

  Dr. Ashland shook his head. “None of the dead had IV lines.”

  “So it would have been ingested orally?” Detective Williams asked.

  “Or injected,” Dr. Ashland mused.

  “Or inhaled. But presumably powder would have had a more widespread effect,” Bodhi offered.

  “How would somebody get his or her hands on strychnine? Is it easy to come by?”

  “Sure,” Dr. Ashland said. “It’s rat poison.”

  “What are you thinking? A nurse or aide with Munchausen by proxy?” Bodhi asked.

  “That’s the syndrome where a caregiver deliberately makes one of his or her charges sick, right? Usually the perpetrator’s a woman,” Detective Williams offered.

  “It’s certainly a possibility. Felicia, have you looked at the schedules at Golden Island to see if any of the personnel were working during the times of all five deaths?” Dr. Ashland asked.

  Detective Williams rolled her eyes. “Gee, why didn’t I think of that, Doc?”

  Bodhi was still pondering the poisoning theory. “I’d expect the bodies to be unnaturally rigid in the case of strychnine poisoning.” He glanced at the medical examiner.

  Dr. Ashland shrugged. “All of them except the last one died overnight, so they were already stiff when they were found.”

  “And Ms. Morales?”

  “Not really,” Detective Williams answered. “She was kind of limp, actually. And she was still warm when I got there.”

  After a brief silence, Dr. Ashland said in a cheery voice, “Well, we’ll know soon enough—once the toxicology tests come back. On that note, let’s get some juice out of these eyeballs.”

  He held up a syringe attached to a 20-gauge needle and aimed it into the globe of the corpse’s right eye. While the medical examiner gradually eased out the clear vitreous fluid, Bodhi glanced at Williams. Her eyes were closed and she had her head pressed back against the wall.

  The vitreous fluid always seemed to get to people. That and taking the blood sample from the heart. Bodhi guessed that the invasions of the eyeball and the heart seemed somehow more real, more visceral, to observers than did the more mechanical operations of making the Y-incision, sawing apart the ribcage, and removing the individual organs.

  Dr. Ashland worked efficiently and neatly. Bodhi found himself meditating on the meager drops of blood that splashed onto the tray as Dr. Ashland made two deep diagonal cuts from the corpse’s shoulders to his sternum. With a steady hand, he made the third cut at the intersection of the first two—forming the tail of the “Y” that traveled down the chest to the abdomen.

  Bodhi scanned the white cloth that held the medical examiner’s instruments. “I don’t see a rib saw,” he remarked.

  Dr. Ashland shook his head. “I prefer rib cutters—well, shears, to be precise. Could you pass them to me?”

  Bodhi selected a pair of shears that he was fairly certain were ordinary gardening shears and pressed them into the medical examiner’s open palm. While Dr. Ashland snipped away at the ribs, he provided a running commentary of Mr. Garcia’s medical condition when he was living.

  “He had some moderate arthritis in his knees. High blood pressure. A mole on his neck that his doctor was keeping an eye on. But, overall, he was in pretty good health for an octogenarian.”

  Bodhi helped him remove the pieces of the rib cage so he could examine the organs in situ before removing them one by one.

  After he inspected each organ, he passed it to Bodhi to have a look before depositing it into a deep stainless steel bowl.

  Bodhi hefted Mr. Garcia’s wet heart and turned it in his hand.

  “No visible evidence of edema or hemorrhage,” Bodhi noted. “Will you be preparing tissue slides for a histological analysis?”

  “Sure. But realistically, by the time I get the results from histology, there could be another three or four deaths. I’ll have bodies stacked up like cordwood. I’ll tell you right now what we’re going to find. Mr. Garcia’s body will show the wear and tear associated with eight decades on this planet. But I won’t be able to point to suffocation or internal bleeding or anything as the cause of death.”

  Bodhi noted the frustration in the medical examiner’s voice. “I hear you. I can tell that you’re perplexed. Maybe they really are just dying of natural causes. You are talking about a geriatric population, after all.”

  Dr. Ashland shook his head. “Not with those expressions. Look, something’s going on there. I know it. It’s something non-obvious. That’s why we need you.”

  From the corner of the room, Detective Williams interjected. “He’s right. It’s too weird. It’s not like Golden Shores is the only retirement community in the Keys. None of the others are averaging one unexplained death a week. And all these deceased, they’re all Cuban-Americans. No white people are dying there. No black people. Nobody but Cubans. And before you ask, I don’t think Cuban-Americans make up the majority population at Golden Shores. Most of the residents are Caucasians and members of the Golden Island Church.”

  “Okay. It’s possible that there’s some environmental cause of death that could be fatal for people who share a certain ethnic background—some agent that’s interacting with a genetic mutation in Cuban-Americans, for example.”

  “How would you find out?” Dr. Ashland asked.

  Bodhi exhaled, his breath hot inside his surgical mask. “If you really don’t want to wait for your lab results to come in, I’d recommend doing a field study. I could go to Golden Shores and—“

  “Go now, please. They’ll cooperate with you. The church leadership seems to think I just fell off the turnip truck, so to speak.” There was an unmistakeable note of desperation in his voice.

  Bodhi looked at Detective Williams. “I’ll go just as soon as Detective Williams can take me. She’s my ride.”

  “Let’s do it. I’ll call ahead from the car. They’ll probably have their private boat waiting for us.” She pulled her mask down and let it hang around her neck.

  As she reached for the door, he said, “Wait. Don’t you have to stay and witness the autopsy?”

  She exchanged looks with Dr. Ashland. He cleared his throat and said, “I’m recording it on the iPad. I think the pressing public health concerns outweigh the need to follow procedure exactly here, don’t you, Detective Williams?”

  “Agreed. And I know the chief would feel the same.”

  Bodhi shrugged. He wasn’t here to police the police. “Lead the way.”

  “Stop by Mangrove Mama’s later. I’ll get a table, and we can chat,” Dr. Ashland said, waving Mr. Garcia’s liver for emphasis before depositing it into the bowl with a splash.

  Chapter Ten

  Bryce ended the phone call and pocketed his cell phone. He turned to Cleo Clarkson, the director of Golden Shores and his right-hand woman.

  “That was the chief of police. He’s sending that lady detective over with the forensic pathologist. Have the boat captain meet them at the Big Pine dock after he drops me at the compound.”

>   The faintest furrow materialized on her smooth brow. “The forensic pathologist? Does he mean the medical examiner, Dr. Ashland?”

  “No. It’s the fellow from Pittsburgh.”

  She shook her head in confusion, and her glossy brown hair bounced against her shoulders, releasing an invisible cloud of floral-scented shampoo.

  She was exquisite. Stunning didn’t do her justice.

  Bryce’s enter career was built on the appeal of luxury and wealth. He was expected to surround himself with beautiful things and beautiful women. And she was one of God’s perfect creations, the gorgeous face of Golden Shores.

  Bryce deeply loved his wife of seventeen years and would never be unfaithful to her. She was his rock, a woman of great faith and steadiness. But he was a man of flesh and couldn’t deny the effect Cleo’s beauty had on him. The fact that she was in her early thirties only compounded his secret guilt.

  “Bryce, I was sure I told you Dr. King declined our invitation to consult on the deaths.” Her throaty voice took on a note of apology.

  “You did. But he apparently agreed to Dr. Ashland’s request for help. He wanted to maintain his independence.”

  She frowned. “I wouldn’t dream of trying to influence him.”

  “I know.” He gave her shoulder a quick squeeze of reassurance, noting how the fine silk of her blouse felt like liquid under his fingers. “But it’s probably better this way. A blessing. Now no one will question his findings.”

  “Hmm, I suppose.”

  “I’m certain of it. Please be sure to accommodate him however you can.”

  “Of course.” She smiled languidly.

  He checked the time on his heavy gold watch and frowned. “I need to run. Oh—have you heard back from Father Rafael?”

  “I have.” Her eyes dropped to her desk and she paused, as if searching for a way to break the news. “He says there are very specific rules about when a Roman Catholic priest can perform an exorcism, which would require an investigation by the local bishop. But the biggest hurdle, he says, is that the rite of exorcism has to be performed on a person. A practicing Roman Catholic who’s suffering from demonic possession. He can’t exorcise the building.”

  Bryce sighed. He’d had high hopes that the priest could help calm the residents’ fears. Because his lay ministers had only succeeded in whipping up their panic—and loosening their purse strings. Arthur’s most recent meeting had resulted in more than two thousand dollars in donations, but the center was on the verge of mass hysteria.

  Cleo made a small noise in her throat. “He did suggest we contact a local santero. He can give me a name if you’re open to that.”

  He didn’t recognize the word. “I’m sorry, santero means what?”

  Another throat-clearing noise from Cleo. Then, “A Santería priest. My understanding is that a santero could perform a protective ritual and—”

  “Absolutely not. Catholicism is one thing, Cleo. I will not endorse paganism.” He bristled at the thought.

  “Of course not,” she heard the undercurrent of anger in his voice and hurried to placate him. “But Santería’s quite closely tied to the Roman Catholic faith among Afro-Cubans and Cubanos. And it might help to—”

  “No.”

  She pressed her lips into a firm, thin line. “Understood.”

  “Good. Now, I have to go. Please keep me in the loop on Dr. King’s investigation.”

  “I will,” she promised.

  He allowed himself one last look at her. The wide collar of her blouse revealed the delicate skin at the base of her throat and gave just a glimpse of her upper chest. She was flushed, probably in response to being rebuked. But the color gave the illusion that she was aroused.

  He swallowed hard and hurried out of her office before his sinful imagination could take hold. He considered that perhaps he was a candidate for exorcism.

  Cleo pasted her brightest smile on her face and circulated through the halls. She made it a point to visit with each of her one hundred and forty residents, whom she considered and called her ‘guests,’ at least a few times each week.

  Her first stop was Mr. Santiago’s room. When she popped her head in, he looked up and grinned.

  She waited, as she always did, for him to close the book he was reading and motion for her to come inside and sit. Cleo insisted she didn’t have favorites among the residents. But, for many reasons, she was especially fond of Hector Santiago.

  “How are you doing today?” she asked as she situated herself in the deep chair across from his.

  The two matching chairs filled the space near his largest window; he referred to the reading nook as his library. But he’d shown her pictures of the actual library he’d once maintained in his home—it was vast, and crammed from ceiling to floor with books.

  This wasn’t quite the same. But then, she knew nothing about moving into a facility was quite the same, no matter how much she tried to make the center seem homelike and comfortable.

  In answer to her question, he shrugged. “I’m still kicking. Which, given recent events, seems to be something to crow about.”

  Her heart squeezed. “I know it must be very stressful, seeing so many of your friends pass on.”

  “Eh.” He shrugged philosophically. “At my age, Cleo, I expect my friends to, as you say, pass with some regularity.”

  She nodded. It might have sounded crass to an outsider, but her guests were fairly sanguine about death.

  A shadow passed over his face, and he shook his head. “I’ll be honest with you. What’s worrying is the stories I hear that folks are going into the great beyond, not with the blissful expression of someone who’s just drifted off to sleep and never woke up, but with screams of horror etched across their faces.”

  He was watching closely for her reaction. She let out a long, slow breath to still her nerves before answering.

  “I wouldn’t put too much stock in idle chitchat by people who would have no way of knowing,” she said gently.

  “Neither would I. But I think the night nurses know what they’re talking about.”

  Anger flared hot in Cleo’s belly.

  “Are you saying the nurses have been talking to you about this tragic situation?” she asked in a deliberately neutral tone.

  Surely her nursing professionals knew better than to speak out of turn about residents’ deaths to their fellow guests.

  He slapped his thigh and roared with laughter. “Oh, Cleo. No, of course not. But they do love to gossip amongst themselves. Me, I’m just a wrinkled old man. I’m no more interesting to them than that potted fern on the table. You can’t even imagine the things they talk about in front of me. Would you like to know all about Nurse Gallinski’s symptoms of peri-menopause?”

  “Good Lord, no.” She gave a theatrical shudder, and he chuckled.

  When he’d finished laughing, she reached over and closed her hand over his. “I promise you, I’m doing everything I can to figure out what’s happening.”

  “I’m sure you are. Just hurry up about it, would you?” He squeezed her hand tightly.

  “I’ll try. I should let you get back to your book and enjoy the peace and quiet before dinner. I know this is your favorite time to read.”

  “I always enjoy our talks, but I admit I am at a good point in this one.”

  He tapped the cover, and she glanced down to see what Mr. Santiago was reading now. He had varied tastes in books. Today’s selection was a thick biography of a World War II general.

  “I’ll leave you to it.” She stood and headed toward the door.

  “Stop by tomorrow and I’ll let you know how it turns out. I’m planning to stay up all night and read. Seems to be the safest way to pass the overnight hours.”

  She was glad her back was to him, so he couldn’t see her wince at his words.

  Even while she listened to Mrs. Martin report proudly on her grandson Arthur’s new business venture and Magdalena Carson share a caramel brownie recipe that she just had t
o try, part of her mind was on Mr. Santiago’s words.

  None of her guests seemed to notice her distraction until she reached Lynette Johnson’s room.

  Lynette had been one of the first black, female attorneys in the state. She was chock full of colorful war stories about murderous clients and lecherous drunk judges, and usually Cleo left her room with her stomach muscles aching from laughing so hard.

  Lynette interrupted her own story about her first Supreme Court argument and demanded shrewdly, “What’s wrong?”

  Cleo blinked. “Nothing.”

  “Look here, girlie. Don’t con a con man; don’t BS a BSer, and don’t lie to a lawyer.”

  “Shouldn’t that be don’t lie to a liar?”

  Lynette raised one eyebrow comically high. “Same difference. But don’t go changing the subject. Tell me what’s bothering you.”

  “What makes you so sure something’s bothering me?” Cleo asked lightly.

  Lynette held up one hand and ticked off points on her be-ringed fingers. “One, you’ve asked me about my yoga class twice now. Two, you keep playing with the earring in your right ear, rubbing it between your forefinger and thumb. Do you know what that’s called?”

  Cleo hastily dropped her hand, which had in fact been headed toward her earlobe. “No.”

  “It’s called worrying. You’re worrying your earring. Pretty apt name, don’t you think? Also it’s a tell. You should never play cards for money.”

  Cleo gave a weak laugh.

  Lynette went on with her list. “Three, that money-grubbing televangelist was in your office today. I saw him when I was coming back from the cooking class. He never brings good news, does he?”

  “Mrs. Johnson, you know that Pastor Scott is deeply concerned about—”

  “Save the defense of your boss for someone who’ll buy it, missy. Your Pastor Scott is deeply concerned about the size of his bank account and not much else. And four, you’re running a joint where people are turning up dead on a frequent basis. Folks are panicking, wondering if they’re going to die next. Rumors of everything from a nurse with an angel of death complex to evil spirits to mob hits are flying around this place.”