Page 32 of Forgotten Path
He turned to the young, slightly green-faced Oyster Point police officer who was valiantly trying not to gag. “First death?”
She nodded, leaned out onto the porch, and gulped in a big breath of air. “Yes, sir.”
“What exactly does the FDLE do?”
Her eyes widened in surprise that he didn’t know, but she answered quickly. “They’re like the state police. They help small departments like ours when there’s a big case. I mean, we don’t have any forensics experts or anything. They provide them. Stuff like that.”
“I see. Thanks. You should ask one of them if they have any menthol rub or peppermint essential oil. If they don’t have anything, the morgue attendants will.”
“Sorry, sir, why?”
“If you rub some on the skin right under your nose, it’ll help with the smell. And, please, officer, call me Bodhi.”
Confusion flashed in her brown eyes. “Oh, no, sir. You’re in charge of the scene. That would be disrespectful.”
“Okay, how about Dr. King, then?” Anything but sir. He half-expected her to salute him.
“Yes, Dr. King. Menthol, you said?”
“Right. In a pinch, sucking on a cough drop or mint is better than nothing.”
“Thanks. Does it always smell this bad?”
He gave her a sad smile before he turned away and plunged into the depths of the house. “Not always. It never smells good, but Dr. Ashland’s in an advanced state of decomposition.”
He skirted the FDLE crime scene investigators huddled around Joel’s corpse and stepped up to the ladder. The photographer raised his head and caught Bodhi’s eye.
“I’m just going up to the loft. Have you already been up there?” Bodhi asked.
“Yes, sir. I’ve taken my pictures. Charlie, have you dusted the loft? Dr. King wants to go up,” he called to a technician who was brushing fingerprint powder on the cabinet handles in the galley kitchen.
“Yup. You’re good to go, sir,” Charlie confirmed.
“Thanks.” Bodhi accepted that getting this crew to stop calling him ‘sir’ was a losing battle, so he let the honorific pass without comment this time.
He snapped on a pair of blue gloves, gripped the sides of the ladder, and hoisted himself up onto the bottom rung to begin the short climb to the loft. When he reached the top and stood, he kept his chin tucked and his head bent to avoid the beams on the sloped roof. He wondered idly how many times Joel had forgotten and rung his bell on the rafters.
He moved around the room in a mini-crouch. It was sparsely furnished with a futon along one wall and a metal desk and a metal chair against the other. There was no dresser or filing cabinet. A charcoal gray duffel bag sat on the floor at the foot of the bed, unzipped and gaping open. He looked inside and inventoried the contents: two sets of blue scrubs, two Hawaiian shirts, two pairs of shorts, two pairs of boxers, and a toiletry kit. Nothing of note.
He rose and walked over to the desk. It held a weathered wallet, a mobile phone charger, which was plugged into the wall behind the desk, and a tower of folders. He picked up the top folder and read the label: Deke Robbins. He flipped it open; it was a patient chart. He skimmed the most recent entry. Doc had seen Mr. Robbins in July and had noted memory loss, confusion, and agitation. The next folder contained the notes of Judith Lowell’s persistent cough. Craig Lowell had a severe treatment-resistant trunk rash. Clara Forsyth’s asthma had flared up. And so on.
He re-stacked the files neatly and picked up Joel’s wallet. A handful of twenties, the new Juice Joint card, two credit cards, a driver’s license, and Joel’s work ID looked back at him. He closed the bifold wallet and placed it back on its spot on the desk.
He frowned and surveyed the small space again. What was he missing? He returned his attention to the desk. Wallet, charts, charger. And then he knew. It wasn’t whathewas missing, it was whatwasmissing. He swept up the pile of charts, jammed them into his backpack, and carefully descended the ladder.
He paused to watch two men zip a black body bag around what was left of Joel. After a silent moment, he caught the fingerprint technician’s eye.
“Did anyone find Joel’s mobile phone?”
Charlie furrowed his brow and shook his head. “Officer Green’s keeping the inventory. Hey, Angie, did the deceased have a cell phone on him?”
The officer guarding the door checked her notebook and snapped her gum. “Negative.”
He was pleased to see the color had returned to her face. He turned toward the closer of the two men who were about to hoist Joel’s bagged body onto a stretcher. “You went through his pockets, right?”
“Right. No phone. Nothing but a note.”
“Huh, thanks. What kind of note?”
