Page 49 of Forgotten Path
Her assessment matched his. “I don’t know if you’ve spoken to the investigators yet, but he was found on the floor near the base of a ladder. Assuming he fell from the loft above, the distance would have been seven feet at most. In your view, would a fall from that height result in atlanto-occipital dislocation?”
She made a humming sound in her throat.
“It’s not a trick question,” he assured her. “It just seems like a survivable fall to me.”
“Sure,” she hedged. “People have survived falls from much greater heights. But you know as well as I do that freak accidents happen. I’ve seen an internal decapitation in a child who fell out of bed and landed at the precise wrong angle.”
He closed his eyes and imagined the loss of a young life and its effect on the child’s family. “You’re right, of course.”
“But to answer your question, I’ve not yet spoken to the investigators. Is there any reason aside from the distance of the fall that you think Joel’s death might not be accidental?”
It was his turn to pause before answering. He had to trust someone. It might as well be this woman.
“Yes. He was supposed to meet with someone the morning he died. His mobile phone is missing, along with his keys. And somehow, the vehicle he’d driven to Oyster Point found its way back to Sugarloaf Key after he died.”
“Well … shit.”
“My sentiments exactly.”
“You think he was pushed?”
“Or thrown.”
“But why? Why would anyone want to kill a medical examiner who spends his free time running a volunteer health clinic?”
There was no reason to hold back now. “Joel was researching something. A chronic illness cluster, I think.”
“A chronic illness cluster,” she repeated slowly. “I’ve heard of death clusters. And cancer clusters, of course. But a chronic illness cluster? Is there such a thing?”
“I don’t know if it’s an established phenomenon, but I think Joel may have discovered one. And I think he may have been killed to keep him from telling anyone.”
She whistled softly. “Do you know what the etiology of this chronic illness cluster might be?”
“I’m still working through Joel’s notes, but it looks like there are four distinct categories of illness with four distinct pathophysiologies. I’m beginning to think they all relate to marine toxins, possibly related to algae blooms.”
She fell silent for what felt like a long time. He listened to her breathing, growing faster and faster, until finally, she asked, “Are you talking about the sort of algae blooms that would result in a red tide?”
“Possibly.”
“We need to talk.”
“Isn’t that what we’re doing?”
“In person,” she clarified. “I can be in Oyster Point by lunchtime.”
“I need to look for someone at a diner—St. Louisa’s. Do you know it?”
“Everyone knows St. Lou’s. I’ll meet you there. And, Bodhi?”
“Yes.”
“Whatever you do, don’t order the clams. Or the oysters.”
With that cryptic warning, she ended the call. He gave his phone a curious look and returned it to his pocket.
CHAPTERTWENTY-SEVEN
After her unannounced visitor left, Brianna tried to return to the reports she needed to review. But, try as she might, her attention kept wandering away from the company’s forays into compostable paper. She couldn’t stop thinking about what she’d told Bodhi—and what she hadn’t told him. At last, she conceded defeat.
