Dark Path

by Melissa F. Miller

  “Did he have any hobbies or interests?”

  The nurse scrunched up his face in concentration. “Aside from making his dolls, I don’t think so.”

  “He made dolls?”

  Eduardo barked out a short laugh. “They weren’t anything fancy. They were little clothespin people—and they were kind of sloppy-looking. But he had a whole drawer full of them. Kind of an unusual hobby, but to each his own.”

  Bodhi pictured the handful of dolls strewn around a box of dirt. “You’re sure it was a whole drawer? Could you estimate how many?”

  Eduardo threw his hands up in the air. “Three dozen? Four dozen? A lot.”

  “Did you notice any changes in his demeanor in the days and weeks leading up to his death?”

  Eduardo cocked his head to the right and pursed his lips. After a moment, he said, “I guess I’d say there was a change in intensity, but not in kind. I mean, he was an unpleasant person. But the last week or so, he was all amped up, ranting about his enemies.”

  “Was he lucid?”

  “Sometimes. But sometimes he just went off. He’d get so mad, he’d start shaking.”

  “Are you sure he was shaking from anger? Could he have been having tremors?”

  “Could have been,” Eduardo answered slowly. “He didn’t have a history of tremors, though.”

  “Did he have any chronic health conditions?”

  “Halitosis.”

  “Pardon?”

  “Halitosis, gingivitis, whatever you want to call it. His breath was fierce.”

  “Was it always that way—his breath?”

  “Actually, I’m not sure. I never got that close to him until I found him dead. But his breath about knocked me out when I leaned in to check for a pulse.”

  Bodhi turned this over in his mind. “Did he have any visitors?”

  “Just one. This really jacked young dude with a shaved head and lots of tribal-looking tattoos. He called Mr. Gonzales his godfather. When Mr. Gonzales died, Ms. Clarkson asked me to call the guy to come in and clear out his stuff.”

  “He never did. Did you speak to him or leave a message—if you remember?”

  Eduardo nodded slowly. “I definitely remember because it was weird. A woman answered and said that the godson couldn’t come in and claim the belongings because he was in the hospital.”

  “Did she say why?”

  “Yeah. Mercury poisoning.”

  Bryce reminded himself that two men of God should be able to have a difference of opinion without a loss of civility. He knew this to be true, but his patience was thin.

  It had been an exceedingly long day, beginning with his confrontation with Detective Williams. The news that yet another resident had died had not improved matters. And the disagreement with Cleo as to how to deal with Nurse Martinez cemented his dark mood.

  And now this Catholic priest was imploring him to … do what exactly?

  “Father Rafael, maybe I’m misunderstanding. I thought you told Cleo that the Church wouldn’t authorize you to perform an exorcism?”

  “That’s right, Pastor Scott.”

  “So what is this rite you’re proposing?” Was rite the right word, or was it ritual? He wasn’t even sure.

  Father Rafael twisted his mouth to one side and thought. “I’m afraid I don’t know the appropriate analogue. Does your church have any ceremonies that laypeople perform?”

  “Ceremonies? No.”

  The priest tried again. “Do you remember when you and I talked about how important the prayer cards and statues of the saints are to my congregants?”

  Of course he did. “Yes. And the rosaries and the other trappings of your religion.”

  “It would give the Catholic residents—some of them, at least, some comfort to be able to pray to the saints for protection. Simply leave an offering in front of a statue, recite a prayer. It’s harmless.” He flashed a bright smile.

  “It’s idolatry.”

  “Pastor Scott, respectfully, it’s not.”

  Bryce shook his head. “The answer is no. I’m too tired to engage in a theological debate with you. But if your flock needs more security than you can provide, then perhaps they should consider one of my services. At Golden Island, Father Rafael, we worship the Lord, not some statue.”

  Father Rafael closed his eyes for a fraction of a second then nodded. “Good night, Pastor Scott.”

  He let himself out of the conference room Bryce had commandeered.

  “May God bless you,” Bryce called after him.

  The priest didn’t respond. At least, he didn’t respond directly, but Bryce heard him muttering under his breath something that sounded suspiciously like, “You worship money, not the Lord.”

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  When you hear hoofbeats, think of horses not zebras.

  Dr. Theodore Woodward, University of Maryland School of Medicine

  Horses, not zebras. The aphorism galloped through Bodhi’s mind in a loop. As soon as Father Rafael’s friend dropped him at the medical examiner’s office, he powered up his laptop to look for a horse.

  Dr. Ashland was in the autopsy room. Bodhi knocked on the door and waved at him through the small window. The medical examiner nodded. A few moments later, he came out into the hall and pulled down his mask.

  “What’s up? I’m just finishing up with the bones and skulls so I can clean the place up before Lynette Johnson’s body arrives.”

  “Mr. Gonzales had one frequent visitor, a godson. He was recently hospitalized with mercury poisoning. And Father Rafael said a palero like Mr. Gonzales would use mercury in his rituals.”

  “You think they were working together?”

  “Could have been.”

  Dr. Ashland nodded. “Some of the stones and shards of pottery and other crap in those boxes had been coated with mercury, too. There were globules clinging to some of those finger puppets or dolls or whatever they are. And I guess this is the part where I make your night.”

  “Please do.”

  “I may have mentioned that the toxicology lab has a four-to-six week turnaround time on testing results. Well, it’s been five weeks since Mr. Gonzales died. Guess what was waiting in my email in-box when I got back tonight?”

  “And?”

  “Good thing we didn’t spring for genetic testing for Wilson disease—there was no evidence of copper accumulation. But there were elevated blood mercury levels.”

  “How elevated?”

  “Five hundred micrograms per liter.”

  “Isn’t background level something like ten micrograms?”

  “It’s ten, precisely. He had fifty times that. I checked—assuming chronic exposure—five hundred could result in neuropsychiatric and central nervous system effects and the early stage renal problems. But his kidneys were okay.”

  Bodhi mentally ticked off the symptoms that Eduardo Martinez had listed: explosiveness; irritability; introversion; tremors; and halitosis.

  “Isn’t bad breath also a symptom?”

  “It is.”

  “So, Mr. Gonzales suffered from chronic elemental mercury exposure. Did it kill him?”

  “It likely contributed. There’s also a chance he had an acute exposure at some point in the days leading up to his death, say a spill. With the body burden he was already carrying, that could have sent him over the edge.”

  Dr. Ashland’s hypothesis was a decent one. “Could’ve,” Bodhi agreed.

  “We could exhume him and x-ray him. Literature suggests radio-opaque lines can form in the long bones, but even if we confirmed mercury poisoning, that wouldn’t establish it as the cause of death.

  “No, it wouldn’t.”

  “And there’s still the matter of the other five deaths. And the rictus grin.”

  “I’m working on a theory about that right now.”

  “Oh? Can I get a hint?”

  “We’ve been looking for a zebra. I think there may be a much simpler explanation, at least, for the five Catholic/Sante
ríans. And maybe even for Mr. Gonzales.”

  Dr. Ashland waited with an expectant air.

  “I have some research to do. But I think they were scared to death.”

  The medical examiner cocked his head. “You mean, literally?”

  “Yes. I think they believed they would die, and so they did.”

  Dr. Ashland blinked a few times. “Well.”

  “I know.”

  “At this point, Bodhi, I’d believe just about anything. You go do your research while I finish up in here. I should be able to find some teabags around here somewhere. I’ll fire up the coffee pot and microwave you some hot water, and we’ll get this party started.”

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Your worst enemy cannot harm you

  as much as your own thoughts, unguarded.

  The Buddha, Dhammapada

  Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil.

  Psalm 23:4

  Bodhi hit the button to start the coffee brewing for his host then let himself out of Joel Ashland’s camper as quietly as he could.

  As he walked to the water’s edge, his eyes burned from exhaustion. But otherwise, physically and mentally, he felt okay. He’d have to remember to let Sasha know her planned nap tactic worked.

  A workaholic attorney friend had once told him that the secret to an all-nighter was taking a ninety-minute nap at some point between one and three o’clock in the morning. Of course, she also recommended the copious consumption of coffee. Joel had chosen that tried and true method. He was now crashing and, judging by the rattling noise coming from the back of his Airstream, snoring heavily.

  Bodhi settled on the bench and watched the waves dance. As he did, he formulated his plan. First, he needed to assemble his team—Joel, Cleo, Detective Williams, and Rafael. Second, he needed to convince them that Mr. Ruiz, Mr. Caldron, Mr. Garcia, Ms. Morales, and Lynette Johnson had died of fright. Third, he had to explain what they were going to do about it.

  He considered that forensic pathology typically didn’t include a ‘meting out justice’ component. But, in this case, he’d make an exception.

  With the plan fixed in his mind, he meditated on it before returning to Joel’s place.

  When he eased the door open and walked in, the medical examiner was banging around the kitchenette, literally.

  “Everything okay?” Bodhi asked as Dr. Ashland slammed a cabinet closed.

  “You tell me. I just got a call from some lawyer for Golden Island Church. You’re banned from the property. And they’re refusing to release Lynette Johnson’s body.”

  Bodhi did a quick calculation. “It’s okay. It doesn’t matter.”

  Dr. Ashland’s jaw hinged open. “It doesn’t matter? Of course it matters.”

  “Not really. They can’t ban Detective Williams from the island, can they?”

  “Well … no.” He narrowed his eyes. The heavy bags that had taken up residence beneath his eyes during the night seemed to swallow them whole. “What are you driving at?”

  “I figured out what’s causing the deaths at Golden Shores, and I think I know how to stop them. But we’re going to need help. Is Mangrove Mama’s open for breakfast?”

  “Sure.”

  “Will you call Detective Williams and ask her to meet us there? Tell her to bring Father Rafael. I’ll call Cleo. She can bring Arthur Lopez.”

  After everyone had placed a breakfast order, the waiter disappeared into the kitchen, and Bodhi looked around the table.

  “Thanks for coming. Dr. Ashland and I wanted to let this group know what we’ve learned, and getting everyone together seemed to be the most efficient way to do that.”

  “Why are they here?” Detective Williams asked, throwing Cleo and Arthur a dark look.

  Arthur nodded, as if he was wondering the same thing.

  “For the same reason Father Rafael is here. They both care deeply about the surviving Santería practitioners.”

  “Maybe Arthur does. After all, Mrs. Martin is his grandmother. But it’s just a job for her, even if she does call the residents ‘guests,’” Detective Williams retorted.

  “No, it’s more than that,” Cleo said softly.

  The detective snorted.

  “Mr. Santiago’s my grandfather.” Cleo made the announcement to her placemat.

  After a long silence, Father Rafael leaned forward. “He is? He told me he had only one son, who died of a drug overdose years ago.”

  Cleo raised her eyes. “Yes, Henry Santiago was my biological father. Before he died, he got a drug-addicted prostitute pregnant. She carried me to term then left me in the hospital nursery and walked out without looking back. I was adopted by a couple who ran a fishing charter out of Key Largo. They knew her name from the hospital records, and I was able to piece the rest together after I turned eighteen. I’m sure Mr. Santiago has no idea that he has a granddaughter. Any other questions?” She lifted her chin and delivered the words as a challenge.

  Even Detective Williams was silenced by her story, so Bodhi continued. “The death cluster didn’t begin with Mr. Gonzales. It began with Mr. Ruiz. Dr. Ashland?”

  “Mr. Gonzales was suffering from chronic mercury poisoning, and it appears he may also have had an acute mercury exposure in the days leading up to his death,” Dr. Ashland explained.

  “Did he eat too much fish?” Cleo asked.

  “Not that kind of mercury. Elemental mercury, which some people call quicksilver or liquid silver,” Bodhi explained.

  Father Rafael jumped in. “Mr. Gonzales was a palero, a practitioner of Palo mayombe. Mercury is used in Palo mayombe spells and rituals.”

  “And Mr. Gonzales had several bottles of it in his room,” Bodhi added.

  Cleo gasped. “That’s what killed everyone—mercury poisoning?”

  “No. That’s what killed Mr. Gonzales. I believe the others were literally scared to death.”

  The arrival of the waiter with a tray of coffees, juices, and waters prevented anyone from voicing a reaction to his bombshell, but he could tell they’d need some convincing.

  When the waiter left, Bodhi wasted no time trying to explain, “I got caught up looking for a medical explanation of the rictus grin, an expression that mimics terror. But the people who died didn’t have the rictus grin. They were actually terrified when they died.”

  “Wait—including Mr. Gonzales?” Detective Williams asked.

  “That’s our working hypothesis. If he knew he was dying, and he probably did—acute mercury poisoning isn’t an easy way to go— are there specific things he should have done beforehand, as a palero?” Bodhi directed the question to Father Rafael.

  “Yes. He would need to make arrangements for his altar and his cauldron. It would have weighed on his mind if he failed to do so. It’s very serious business. When a palero dies, his godson or goddaughter, an initiate who’s bound to him through his cauldron, handles a farewell ceremony for the practitioner and, generally, either inherits his nganga or ritualistically destroys it. It’s a big deal.” The priest’s somber tone matched his facial expression.

  “So if his godson was in the hospital and unable to come before he died, would he be worried about dying without making the proper arrangements?”

  “Terrified.”

  “Wait, do you practice Palo mayombe, too?” Arthur blurted.

  “No. Palo mayombe is antithetical to the Roman Catholic belief system and my personal beliefs. It’s a dark, evil practice,” the priest assured him.

  He glanced at Cleo before continuing to explain to Arthur, “As I’m sure your grandmother’s told you, I am a santero, a Santerían priest, as well as a Catholic priest.”

  “Actually, she never mentioned it,” Arthur mumbled. “But I know she practices it.”

  “She does?” Cleo’s eyes went wide. “Wait, the social club?”

  “All of them,” Bodhi confirmed. “They were—and, in the case of your grandfather and Arthur’s grandmother, are—C
atholics who also practice Santería.”

  “But …”

  “It’s really not as uncommon as you might think,” Father Rafael assured her.

  Plates of eggs, French toast, and pancakes arrived. Bodhi sipped his water and waited until the others had salted, syruped, and buttered their breakfasts to their liking.

  Then he dove right back in. “Mr. Gonzales was targeting the six of them. There was at least one confrontation between him and a member of the group, and he cursed them all.”

  “When you say cursed, you mean wished death on them?” Detective Williams asked around a mouthful of eggs.

  “Yes.”

  “You’re saying he killed them using black magic?” Arthur’s skepticism was painted all over his face.

  “No. His curse killed them because they believed it would. As I said at the outset, they died of fright.”

  “Okay, sure, we’ve all read The Hound of the Baskervilles, but outside a Sherlock Holmes mystery, is that really possible?” Father Rafael asked.

  “It is. Numerous research papers have been published on the phenomenon. The earliest I found was from the 1940s. A researcher proposed that people who died from what he called voodoo death experienced shock after being cursed with death. In the seventy-five years or so since the publication of that paper, science has proved, many times over, that the emotions and the body are linked. When a person believes he’s in danger, there’s an immediate hormonal stress response. A cascade of hormones and nerve chemicals is released by the brain. Under the right circumstances, this stress response could result in sudden cardiac death.”

  “You believe these conditions existed at Golden Shores?” Detective Williams asked.

  “Yes. So, whether you’re Sir Charles Baskerville encountering a hellhound on a foggy moor or a poor sap on the receiving end of a voodoo curse, you have to believe the event could kill you for this to happen.” Bodhi surveyed the faces around the table to make sure everyone was still with him. “If you’re a person who believes in the dark power of Palo mayombe, and you’ve been cursed by a palero, you’re going to believe that curse can kill you.”