Dark Path

by Melissa F. Miller

  Bodhi shrugged. “Presumably the researcher who discovered the condition was named Wilson. Wilson disease is an inherited genetic disorder. In people who have the mutation, excessive copper accumulates in their bodies—mainly in the liver, brain, and eyes.”

  “And it kills you?” she asked.

  “It can, if left untreated. And one symptom of Wilson disease is excessive grinning during life, which can manifest at death as the rictus grin,” Bodhi explained.

  Dr. Ashland shook his head. “I don’t know. Doesn’t Wilson disease usually cause liver failure? The deceased all had fairly healthy livers—although I think Ms. Morales liked her cocktails.”

  Bodhi conceded the point. “Wilson disease typically shows up in teenagers. And, in younger people, it’s more likely to cause liver disease. But the literature indicates that liver problems are less likely to manifest when older people are struck by the disease. In that population, psychiatric and neurological problems are more common.”

  Dr. Ashland glanced at the detective. “Has anyone mentioned any mental issues to you?”

  “Things like confusion, depression, anxiety, or pronounced mood swings,” Bodhi elaborated.

  She shook her head. “Not according to Clarkson. But, the families have said that some of them had been getting forgetful. And after the first two deaths, everybody in that place is scared, confused, and anxious.”

  “Sure. Can’t you interview the residents to get a fuller picture?” Dr. Ashland asked.

  “That’s on the schedule for tomorrow. Cleo’s pulling together a list of residents who were closest to those who died,” Bodhi said.

  Stacey delivered his sandwich and Dr. Ashland’s fish platter. Then she returned with a full rack of ribs, which she placed in front of Detective Williams with a flourish. “Dig in.”

  The band returned to the stage. Bodhi leaned toward the medical examiner. “Did all the deceased have brown eyes?”

  “Mmm-hmm,” Dr. Ashland confirmed around a mouthful of grouper. He swallowed and wiped his mouth with his napkin. “And no, before you ask, none of them had the Kayser-Fleischer ring.”

  “What ring?” Detective Williams asked, depositing a picked-clean rib bone on her plate delicately.

  “The Kayser-Fleischer ring is a greenish-brown ring that can form around the eye from copper deposits. It’s pretty common in people with Wilson disease,” Bodhi explained.

  “So, it’s not Wilson disease then?”

  Dr. Ashland shrugged. “The ring is common, but it’s not universal. And … while I think I’d have noticed it, given the eye color of the deceased, maybe I missed it.”

  Bodhi knew too well the doubt and unease that was creeping into Joel Ashland’s voice.

  “Don’t second-guess yourself. If there were unusual eye changes, the families would have mentioned it when they saw the bodies.”

  “Except for the ones who were cremated. And Garcia. His family hasn’t flown in,” Detective Williams pointed out.

  “But still, what are the odds that five unrelated people in one facility would have the same relatively rare genetic disorder? And that none of them showed any signs of it earlier in life?” Dr. Ashland mused.

  Bodhi nodded. The medical examiner raised valid points. “In a vacuum, I’d say slim-to-none. But two things to consider—one, the dead all share the same ethnic background. It’s conceivable that the mutation is more common in people of Cuban descent than in the general population. And, two, the disease manifests when copper builds up.”

  “Okay? So?” Detective Williams demanded.

  “So, I toured the kitchen at Golden Shores. Guess what every single pot and pan in that place is made of?”

  Detective Williams froze with a rib halfway to her mouth. Dr. Ashland put down his beer. They both pinned their eyes on Bodhi.

  “Copper?”

  “Copper.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Bryce walked into the meeting room with Becki by his side. As they entered, Bryce swept his gaze across the faces of the group seated around the table.

  Arthur, Philomena, Charlene, Roger, and Ron looked back at him with smiles that displayed varying degrees of eagerness. Cleo, however, sat alone, with an empty chair on each side, and did not look up when the door opened. Her head was bent over a notebook and she was writing intently.

  Bryce stopped and considered the seating arrangement. As was customary, the chair at the head of the table had been left vacant for him.

  Instead of taking it, he got Cleo’s attention. “Ms. Clarkson, if you don’t mind moving down a seat in either direction.” He gestured to her left and her right.

  She lifted her head and blinked at him. Then she slid her notebook and pen over one space, scooped up her purse, and moved one chair to her left.

  He strode to the seat she’d just vacated and sat down. “Becki, right here beside me if you will.”

  Becki glanced at the empty chair at the head of the table then trotted across the floor to take the spot next to him. Once she had arranged herself and pulled out her iPad to take notes, he poured himself a glass of ice water from the pitcher in the center of the table.

  Bryce took a sip of cold water then bowed his head. “Let us pray. Dear Lord, we are gathered here tonight to do your will and to shine your light on the evils lurking in Golden Shores. Please bless us and our efforts and give us the courage and the vision to bring Golden Shores out of this darkness and into a more prosperous and profitable season for us and for you. Amen.”

  The group assembled around the table murmured ‘Amen.’

  Bryce lifted his head. “Thank you for being here on such short notice. I’ve convened a meeting of this group because it’s urgent that we make some decisions about Golden Shores. For that reason, I’ve invited Ms. Clarkson to participate.”

  Beside him, Becki lifted her pen into the air and gave him a confused look.

  “Becki, do you have a question?”

  “Yes, I’m afraid I’m not sure which committee this is. I have to apologize—I thought I knew all the standing committees, but I must not.” She mumbled the last words as though she were ashamed of herself.

  “No need to feel embarrassed, Becki. This isn’t one of our standing committees. This is an ad hoc committee, and I should identify all the participants so your notes are accurate. Attending this ad hoc committee to address the troubling situation at Golden Shores are the following individuals: Pastor Bryce Scott, spiritual leader and director of Golden Island church and CEO and president of Golden Shores Living Community, Inc. Also attending is Ms. Cleo Clarkson, director of resident life at Golden Shores Assisted Living Facility; Arthur Lopez, lay minister responsible for the spiritual lives of the residents of Golden Shores; Ron Porter, associate director of lay ministry programs; Roger Howard, representing the church council; Charlene Rivers, a member of the church social outreach committee and an employee of Golden Shores; and Philomena Pearl, religious education assistant leader and also an employee of Golden Shores. That’s everyone.” He smiled warmly at her.

  Becki smiled back and lowered her eyelashes. “Thank you, Pastor Bryce.”

  “With the formalities out of the way, I’ve asked you here because the already troubling situation at Golden Shores has gotten worse.”

  Across the table, Philomena clutched her chest. “Not another death?” Her voice shook.

  “No, I am happy to say that since Ms. Morales’s unfortunate passage through the Pearly Gates, there have been no more deaths at Golden Shores.” He paused a beat. “Unless Ms. Clarkson has something more recent to report,” he added acerbically.

  Six sets of eyes swiveled to Cleo, who sat back, wide-eyed for a moment. But when she spoke, her voice was neither flustered nor defensive.

  “I can confirm that no additional guests have died since Ms. Morales passed away.” She turned slightly to her right and gave him a lidded gaze.

  At the far end of the table, Roger boomed, “Well, thank the good Lord for small mercies.”<
br />
  A titter of nervous laughter traveled through the room. Bryce waited for it to fade before he went on.

  “Despite the fact no one has died in the past two days, there are significant problems at Golden Shores. I’d like to begin by having Ms. Clarkson address the steps she and her staff are taking to correct the situation.”

  Cleo folded her hands on the table in front of her and took a moment to scan her notebook. Then she lifted her head with a confident half-smile on her lips.

  “Thank you, Pastor Scott. Friends, I’m so grateful for the opportunity to share the steps we’re taking to ensure the safety of our guests and to conduct a thorough investigation of the recent spate of deaths. The technical term for the situation at Golden Shores, for those of you who are interested, is an SUD cluster.”

  “I’m sorry,” Becki said as she tapped notes into her device. “Did you say suds? Like, soap bubbles?”

  Cleo leaned in front of Bryce to answer the question. His attention was drawn to the curve of her neck. He inhaled sharply, and his nostrils flared. She didn’t seem to notice.

  “Capital S-U-D. SUD cluster. SUD stands for sudden unexplained death.”

  She drew back, and Bryce pulled his eyes away.

  “Thanks,” Becki stage whispered.

  “No problem.”

  Before continuing, Cleo looked around the table, making eye contact with each person for several seconds before moving onto the next.

  “As I was saying, a cluster of five, sudden unexplained deaths is what we’ve suffered at Golden Shores over the past month. According to our county medical examiner, Dr. Joel Ashland, there’s no readily apparent explanation for the sudden deaths of our guests.”

  Ron interjected, “Doesn’t the fact that these deaths are unexplained just mean Doc Ashland doesn’t know his rear end from his elbow?”

  Although Bryce privately shared Ron’s view, he maintained a neutral expression while another wave of chuckles swept the table.

  “Actually, Dr. Ashland reached out to an expert in SUD clusters. As some of you may know, there’s a retired forensic pathologist from Pennsylvania who has some experience in the area.” Cleo’s lips smiled, but her eyes didn’t.

  “That would be Dr. Bodhi King,” Bryce elaborated. “Those of you on the board will recall that we approved a consulting offer and submitted it to Dr. King last week.”

  Charlene Rivers raised a tentative hand. “I’m not on the board, but my Charlie is. He said that doctor from Pennsylvania rejected the offer.”

  Cleo answered before Bryce could. “That’s correct. Dr. King feels strongly that being retained by the church or the assisted care facility would give the wrong impression. He wants to be sure the community understands his investigation is independent and unbiased. So, although he declined our offer, the police department had also contacted him.”

  “That’s a handy coincidence. He held out for more money, huh?” Roger mused.

  “I don’t think so. I don’t know what budget he has from the police department and the medical examiner’s office, but I can’t imagine they were more financially generous than we were,” Bryce interjected.

  “In any event, Dr. King has agreed to do a field study of the death cluster at Golden Shores for the authorities. And we, of course, have committed our full cooperation and assistance,” Cleo said.

  Arthur coughed. “You keep saying cluster. So this is a cluster of sudden unexplained deaths because they all happened in the same place?”

  “That’s right. According to Dr. King, a SUD cluster is identified when there’s a spate of deaths that are close both geographically and temporally—in place and in time. So given that we’ve lost five guests in a month, that would be considered a SUD cluster.”

  Cleo glanced down at her notes and then looked back up. “I’m happy to answer as many questions as you have. Why don’t I just go through my report and you can feel free to raise the questions as they come up?”

  Bryce stiffened at her subtle wresting of control of the meeting, but again maintained a blank expression. “Please go on.”

  “Dr. King arrived today. I showed him around the facility and we talked generally about what his field investigation will entail. The first thing he wanted to do was to review the medical records and health files for the guests who’ve died.”

  “Is that a good idea?” Roger asked.

  “I’d figured he’d ask to see those, so I’d already consulted our attorneys about the issue. On advice of counsel, I gave him access to the files to review, but informed him they were not to leave the premises. He spent the afternoon going through them in the library.”

  “There’s nothing in those records, is there?” he countered.

  Cleo frowned. “I’m not sure how to answer that. The records contain the most complete health information we have on the patients. So there’s plenty in there. But our nursing staff and care coordinators already reviewed those records and found nothing that would explain the deaths. So, no, I don’t believe that Dr. King is going to find his answer in those papers. But I’m not an expert.”

  The answer satisfied Roger. “Thanks. Go on.”

  “While I gathered the files, he spent some time in the kitchen.”

  Bryce gave her a questioning look. “What on earth for?”

  “According to the chef, he asked questions about the menu and any dietary restrictions of the deceased. That was one of the first things we did internally, too. We checked to make sure we were not feeding people something that was killing them. We found nothing. Chef Tonga didn’t seem to think that Dr. King saw anything out of the ordinary either.”

  “So, this guy flew in here to redo the work we’ve already done and is coming up with bupkis. Great use of taxpayer dollars. Glad we didn’t hire him.”

  Cleo shot Ron a cold look. “His field investigation has barely begun. I wouldn’t expect him to have an answer for us today. Beginning tomorrow, he’d like to interview residents and staff members. He’s looking for any sort of commonality among the people who died. Did they all attend the same event or use the same brand of shampoo or … I don’t know. It could be anything. He plans to tease out all these disparate factors to find the one that connects them.”

  She reached for her glass of water and Bryce took the opportunity to steer the conversation.

  “Thank you, Miss Clarkson. The reason I called this meeting is to address Dr. King’s interview request. Now, of course, our residents can speak to whomever they like about whatever they like. But we need to be remember these folks are scared, and they may well lead him on a wild goose chase with outlandish theories about what’s causing the deaths. And that won’t benefit us or them. It’ll just prolong this time of uncertainty and continue to damage our reputation. That’s why—”

  “They’re not scared.”

  “Excuse me?” Bryce was equally stunned that Arthur would interrupt him and that he’d contradict him.

  Arthur cleared his throat. “I mean, of course they’re scared. But they’re more than scared. I’ve had the opportunity to talk to them through the Spread the Word ministry program. And I can tell you, folks are petrified. Some of them aren’t sleeping. Some of them aren’t eating. Some of them—like my own grandmother—are on the verge of hysteria. It’s really bad.” Arthur fell silent and turned his pen in a circle on the table.

  “That’s not an inaccurate characterization,” Cleo agreed in a soft voice.

  “Well, Arthur, you’re supposed to be quelling that terror through the outreach program,” Bryce said pointedly.

  Arthur met his eyes, gray-faced. “I’m trying. And the lay ministers working with me are giving it everything they have. But the residents don’t exactly find comfort in our message that the home they live in is in the grips of Satan, pastor.”

  Bryce wasn’t certain whether he imagined the note of rebuke in Arthur’s voice or if it was real. He glanced around the table. No one else appeared to be taken aback; he decided to let it slide.
>
  “I can understand the situation is likely causing the residents to do some soul-searching. It’s your job to provide biblical answers to their questions in this time of need.”

  Arthur nodded, although his expression suggested he had more to say.

  Bryce went on, “Getting back to the interviews. We don’t want these terrified residents to worsen the situation in their hysteria. So I propose that Ms. Clarkson and I sit in on all of the interviews.”

  Roger frowned. “And what does our high-priced attorney have to say about that?

  “Counsel hasn’t weighed in yet,” Cleo explained. “They have an associate researching the issue and promised to get us a memo in the morning.” She straightened her shoulders and sat up very tall before continuing. “But I’ve shared my own reservations about doing so with Pastor Bryce. I think our guests need to feel that they can speak to Dr. King freely and in confidence.”

  The room fell completely silent.

  After a long pause, Ron said, “Sorry, Bryce. I gotta say I’m with Miss Clarkson on this one. We don’t want it to look like we’re censoring or directing what folks say to this Dr. King. It makes everything look worse. Makes us look like we’re trying to cover something up. Like we’re guilty.”

  Bryce glanced around the table. Then he said, “Let’s put it to a vote. I move we authorize representatives of the church and the assisted care facility to sit in on Dr. King’s interviews with the residents to protect our interests and our reputation.”

  “Do we have a second?” Becki asked.

  “Seconded,” Charlene said.

  “All those in favor say ‘aye’.”

  “Aye,” he began.

  Charlene and Philomena chimed in together, “Aye.”

  Bryce waited.

  Arthur dropped his eyes to the table, but Ron and Roger met his stare.

  “You’re both nays?”

  “Afraid so, Bryce.”

  “Me, too, pastor.”

  Bryce’s nostrils flared. “And you, Arthur?”

  He nodded mutely.

  Becki said in a low voice, “So that’s three in favor and four opposed. The motion fails.” She quickly returned her eyes to her iPad.