Dustin told the most plausible story he could, which was—in the midst of his lie—the truth.
“I’m attending the Horse Farm, doing a few sessions there. It’s a vacation with some therapy thrown in. I’ve been on some rough cases lately,” he told Wilson.
Wilson shook his head. “I worked L.A. for a while and wound up doing autopsies on some of the victims of a serial killer—a sexual sadist. I can see where you guys might need a break now and then.” Wilson seemed trustworthy and solid. He was probably in his late fifties, lean, with white hair that was thinning and tufted on top. “Come on into my office,” he invited.
When Dustin was seated in front of him, he asked, “What can I do for you, Agent Blake?”
“I’ll get right to the point. I’m interested in Marcus Danby. I’ve become aware of some, shall we say, dubious circumstances concerning the way he died. What can you tell me?”
“Mr. Danby was buried four days after his death, you know.”
“Four days? It was about eight, wasn’t it, before you let the police have the results of the autopsy?”
Wilson nodded. “I was holding off. Not stalling, mind you, but holding off. I was waiting on a few of the tests I had done because, frankly, I didn’t want the truth out there. Trust me—every move I made was within the law. But I have to say, it broke my heart to release that report. I sent a nephew out to do some sessions at the Horse Farm. Changed his life. Well, I guess the whole rehab thing I got him into had a lot to do with it, but the Horse Farm gave him a new direction. He’s still working with horses. He bought into a hack ranch in the area. Anyway, I had a lot of respect for Marcus Danby.”
“So how did he take the drugs?” Dustin asked.
“It was easy to find. Needle mark right in the crook of his arm.”
“But there was no drug paraphernalia found near him. And it appeared to be a first-time event for Marcus? I heard that he’d been clean for decades.”
The medical examiner nodded again. “No collapsed veins, nothing to indicate he’d relapsed at any point before. Just the one needle mark.”
“And no needles anywhere around him.”
“I work on the human body, Agent Blake. The police are responsible for finding evidence. I can only tell you that Marcus Danby did receive a lethal dose of heroin that caused his heart to fail.”
“No alcohol in his system, or some kind of pain relaxer or antianxiety pill that might have made him want to go further?” Dustin noted that Dr. Wilson had said “received” rather than “shot up” or any other term.
“Nothing. Just heroin.”
Dustin leaned forward. “Do you really believe the man killed himself—accidentally or otherwise?”
“I just look at facts, Agent Blake,” Wilson said.
“Well, thank you for your time. I really have no official standing here, you know,” Dustin told him, getting to his feet.
“No problem.” Wilson rose, too, and Dustin turned to leave.
“Odd, though,” Wilson said in a low voice. Dustin immediately turned back. “Suppose a man who’d been clean for over twenty years suddenly decided he couldn’t take the pressure anymore, that he had to feel the high one more time... Suppose that happened. He was off by himself. He could’ve had a stash in the woods. But...if it were me, I would’ve shot up between the toes, done it somewhere hard to find. That way—if I wasn’t planning on killing myself, and I don’t think Marcus was—it would be much harder for anyone to see.” He paused. “Addicts know about these things, these little tricks.”
Dustin studied the medical examiner for a moment. “Thanks again for your time,” he said. “This has been very informative.”
“Don’t mention it. I don’t even remember that you were here.”
*
Matt Dougal, Sean Modine, Nick Stevens, Joey Walters and Brent Lockwood were scheduled to be in Olivia’s early group that morning. They’d be staying all day, helping out at the stables and joining Mariah’s tour and campout that night. Olivia was gratified to be working with everyone in this group.
When the boys from Parsonage House had first started doing group with Brent, they’d giggled behind the young man’s back, making fun of his Down syndrome. Brent had quickly proven how adept he could be with horses; he’d shown them nothing but unconditional acceptance and had beaten the heck out of them in a game of Pictionary following a session.
They’d learned a lot from working with Brent. She believed Brent had learned to be himself, discovering that he could have fun with others—and his parents had learned that they didn’t need to be everywhere with him, protecting him.
As Brent had once told the boys, “I know you’ll like me or you won’t. But if you don’t accept me the way I am, well, I may have Down syndrome, but that means you’re the ones who have a mental handicap.”