Death by the Bay Read online

  A truce of sorts had been reached.

  “Hola, Señorita Delgado and Señora Esteban,” the sheriff said.

  “Francisca, please. And Lupita. At the lodge, we use first names only.”

  Motioning for Cubiak to pay attention, Francisca stood and pointed to the image of the little boy. “My hermano se llama Miguel. He is desaparecido,” she said, using a mixture of English and Spanish.

  “Desaparecido,” Cubiak repeated. Another unfamiliar word. He looked to Lupita for help.

  “She says her brother is missing.”

  “What do you mean ‘missing’?” the sheriff said.

  “Desaparecido,” Francisca said again, her tone growing more insistent.

  She bent to her companion and released another flurry of Spanish. Cubiak didn’t catch a word. When the one-way conversation ended, Lupita slowly pushed up from the floor and turned toward the photo. She looked immeasurably sad and seemed uncertain as to where or how to begin telling him what she had just heard.

  Francisca spoke sharply to her again.

  “Sí,” said the older woman. She bowed her head and moved her lips in silent prayer.

  When she finished, she crossed herself and turned back toward Cubiak.

  “It is a tragic story, Señor. Francisca’s family lived in a small mountain village in Chiapas. One day, two men in white coats came to the village. One spoke only English, but one knew a little Spanish. They went to the priest and asked permission to examine the children. They had medicines with them that could help them breathe better; they would treat small injuries and check their eyes and ears and teeth for diseases. Of course, the priest said yes and even offered his small house for their use.”

  No doubt for a fee, Cubiak thought.

  “The people in the village were excited and happily brought their children to the doctors. Francisca’s parents did the same. They waited until it was late in the day and most of the others were already gone before they came with their family. When the gringos saw Miguel, they were very simpatico. But they seemed pleased as well. Francisca’s parents were confused. Then the doctors told them it was a good thing they had the courage and good sense to bring the boy because they knew how to help him. At first, the mother was very suspicious. ‘You can cure our son?’ she said. And they said yes, in the U.S., they could. Can you can imagine how Francisca’s parents felt?”

  “Yes, sí,” Cubiak said, trying to stem his growing concern.

  Lupita went on as if he hadn’t interrupted. “The doctors were an answer to their prayers. The village was very poor and Francisca’s parents had no money to pay, but the men said they belonged to a big charity that provided medical care for children like their son. They said that all the costs would be paid. Miguel would have to leave with them and fly to Los Estados Unidos, but it was the only way he could be treated. If they agreed, all they had to do was sign a paper giving their permission. They said they had been in Mexico for six months and that this village was their last stop. The next evening, they were flying back to their clinic and so there was little time to deliberate.”

  The old woman said something to Francisca and then continued. “The men said they needed the parents’ approval and gave them a paper to sign, but they did not know how to read English. And there was no one in the village who could.”

  “Not even the priest?”

  Lupita repeated the question in Spanish for Francisca.

  “He knew how to read but not English. The priest’s only concern was that the boy did not have any papers, not even a birth certificate. How would he be allowed to go to El Norte and then come back into Mexico when he was well without them? The doctors said that children brought to the country for medical treatment did not need documents.”

  “What did Francisca’s parents do?”

  “They prayed to Our Lady of Guadalupe and lit candles at her altar in the church. They stayed up all night asking her and her Son to tell them what to do. By the time the doctors returned the next morning they had made their decision. They felt that they had no choice. How could they refuse the miracle they had begged El Señor to give them? They were convinced that the angels had guided the doctors to their village so they could help Miguel. So, yes, they signed the paper.”

  Lupita made an X with her finger to indicate how that was done. Then she sat down and again took Francisca’s hands into her own.

  By now the noise in the hall had faded. Cubiak got up slowly, as if burdened by the enormity of what he had just heard. He gave a slight bow to the women, and then he walked up to the image on the wall. The boy had dark eyes and hair like the sheriff’s son, but unlike Joey he was heavier and not as tall. He had a short, broad nose and an epicanthic fold near the inside corner of each eye. Cubiak had never seen a Hispanic child with Down syndrome, but he was familiar with the classic symptoms and recognized them in the boy’s features.

  The two women waited patiently at the back of the room. Although the sheriff was sure that he already knew the answer, he turned and asked Francisca the critical question.

  “Did the men cure your brother?” He couldn’t bring himself to call them doctors.

  Without waiting for a translation, Francisca whispered a response in Spanish.

  “She doesn’t know,” the old woman said.

  The answer surprised Cubiak. “Why not?”

  “Because Miguel did not come back to the village. His family never saw him again.”

  The sheriff cursed under his breath.

  The men kidnapped the boy, but why? To be sold into child labor? Or worse? There were a dozen possible explanations, and none of them good. And how did Miguel’s photograph end up as part of a presentation at a medical conference in Wisconsin?

  Cubiak’s best estimate put Francisca in her midthirties. If he was right about the boy’s age, the picture was probably taken nineteen or twenty years ago. He studied the image again. Besides the boy and the cropped portion of the person behind him, there was only a bit of brick at the boy’s feet and a sliver of what appeared to be a white wall behind the two, not enough background to determine if the picture had been shot in Mexico or somewhere in the United States. The boy’s clothing looked American, but that didn’t help to pinpoint the locale.

  The photo was coming from a laptop and was probably part of a PowerPoint. Either someone had just finished a presentation or was setting up for a lecture when Noreen Klyasheff screamed at the other end of the corridor and many of those at the conference rushed out to see what had happened. Cubiak searched the computer for the name of the owner, but there was nothing on it and he didn’t feel confident pressing any buttons to see what else would pop up on the screen. He didn’t dare risk erasing the entire program.

  The podium was empty but the floor was littered with papers. Most contained hand-scribbled notes left behind by people at the sessions.

  Finally, on a chair at the end of a row, Cubiak found a brochure for the four-day event. There were three lectures every hour. Only one mentioned Down syndrome, and the speaker was Harlan Sage, MD, PhD.

  “I’ll be damned,” the sheriff said. Even more surprising was the other disease mentioned in the title: Alzheimer’s.

  Cubiak’s phone buzzed with a text from Rowe: Here. Trouble with Sage. Need your help.

  The two women hadn’t moved from their seats.

  “I’ll be right back. Wait here. Don’t go anywhere,” the sheriff said as he headed toward the door.

  4

  THE BRUSH-OFF

  Harlan Sage had replaced the woman blocking the entrance to the Woodlawn Theater. The disheveled director stood in the doorway, his arms out to the side, and scowled at the approaching sheriff. Rowe and Bathard were inside the room, their frustration visible on their faces, while the EMTs hovered in the hall, alongside the gurney they had pushed down the passage.

  The conference-goers who had lingered seemed to be enjoying the show.

  “Put your cameras away,” Cubiak said as he moved past them. H
e approached the director. “What’s going on here?”

  Sage continued to glare but said nothing.

  “The doctor won’t let the paramedics come in,” Rowe said.

  “He insists the body be returned to the IPM facility and not the morgue,” Bathard said.

  Sage finally spoke up. “There’s no need for them to be here, no need for an autopsy, as it’s obvious that Doctor Melk died of natural causes, and no need for you to waste county resources on our behalf. I have people coming from the institute for the body. I assume full responsibility.”

  Cubiak kept his voice low. “This is not your call; it’s mine. It is not your responsibility to assume; it’s mine. And it is not within your authority to take charge of Doctor Melk’s body; it’s within mine.”

  Sage’s jaw clamped shut again but he did not move.

  “If you don’t step aside and allow the EMTs to enter and remove the body, I will arrest you and charge you with interfering with a sheriff’s investigation. Is that what you want?”

  The muscles in Sage’s cheeks quivered. He opened his mouth, then shut it again.

  Cubiak softened. “I realize that you are under considerable strain. These are not the kinds of circumstances you normally deal with. I have to ask you to trust that I know what I am doing and allow me to do my job.”

  Sage’s shoulders sagged. He let out a deep breath and scrutinized the sheriff. Then wordlessly, he turned and walked back into the room.

  Cubiak let him be. While the paramedics readied the body and lifted it to the gurney he called the county medical examiner, Doctor Emma Pardy, told her about Melk, and asked her to meet the ambulance at the hospital.

  “What’s going on?”

  “Sage may try to interfere again. If he does, it might be best if you’re there to meet the ambulance and ward him off.”

  Cubiak waited until the body had been removed before he approached Sage.

  “We’ll keep you fully informed of all results,” the sheriff said.

  The director nodded.

  “In the meantime, there’s something else I need to ask about.” A flicker of anger flashed in Sage’s eyes. Cubiak waited for it to fade and then showed him the brochure from the Forest Room.

  The physician read the title of the presentation out loud. “This is from the talk I gave earlier today. It’s a promising new area of study,” he said.

  “How long have you been interested in this type of research?”

  “Since I joined the institute. I took over from Doctor Melk.”

  “Can you explain the connection between Down syndrome and Alzheimer’s?”

  “It’s complicated. I doubt you’d understand.”

  “Give it a try.”

  In a professorial tone, Sage proceeded to lecture the sheriff. “Down syndrome patients have an extra copy of a chromosome, chromosome twenty-one to be precise, that carries a gene that produces the amyloid precursor protein, or APP,” he said and paused for Cubiak to catch up. “APP is a sticky substance, and too much of it produces plaque and tangles in the brain that strangle the neurons and interfere with normal transmission of—”

  “What does this have to do with Alzheimer’s?” Cubiak interrupted.

  “In layman’s terms: people who suffer from Alzheimer’s also have excess APP in their brains, and thus they develop the same kind of tangles that interfere with normal brain function.”

  “Does this mean that if you cure Down syndrome you can cure Alzheimer’s?”

  Sage smiled. “Not exactly, but it does mean that if you understand Down syndrome, then you have a chance of dealing with excessive APP and finding a way to help patients with Alzheimer’s.”

  “That sounds like a pretty big deal.”

  “It could be.” Sage grew more defensive. “What’s this all about anyway? Why are you asking?” He stood, signaling his readiness to terminate the conversation.

  “You heard the second scream this afternoon?” Cubiak said.

  “Of course. We all did.”

  “I found this in the Forest Room, where you gave your lecture. There was a photo of a young boy on the wall. What can you tell me about him?”

  “Nothing. It’s a stock photo. We’ve used it dozens of times. I have no idea where it came from.”

  Cubiak told him Francisca’s story.

  “Her twin brother? Her parents were promised a cure? That’s impossible. Obviously the poor woman is mistaken. How old would you say the boy is?”

  “About six or seven.”

  “And the woman?”

  “Mid to late thirties. I’m not sure.”

  “Well, that goes a long way to explaining the confusion. This young woman sees a photograph of a child with Down syndrome who is about the same age as her brother when these men allegedly took him away.” He shook his head. “I don’t see how her allegation is credible. All this supposedly happened when she was a child herself. And the accusations she made—that the doctors said they would cure the boy. Do you honestly think she’s remembering clearly what was said that long ago? There is no ‘cure’ for Down syndrome. Surely you know that, Sheriff. And no physicians would ever make such a claim. They surely wouldn’t abscond with an innocent child. I don’t know what happened to that unfortunate boy, but to imply that Doctor Melk or I or any reputable doctor is involved in his disappearance is, well, beyond the pale.”

  Cubiak expected Sage to start in about libel and lawsuits, but he merely shook his head again. “We live in a dangerous world, Sheriff. I have spent my life devoted to science. As a doctor, I hold firm with empirical evidence and tangible proofs, but as a man I am often tempted to believe in the existence of evil, not because I want to but because of the manifestations we witness. I don’t doubt for a moment that something untoward befell that village boy, but who knows the true story? Isn’t it possible that the parents willingly gave him up for their own reasons? These were not an enlightened people in a compassionate age. Think of the stigma the family bore because of the afflicted child. We see this in developing countries around the world; it hasn’t been that long since we finally moved beyond it in our own nation. They may have had him institutionalized and made up the story about a possible cure to alleviate their guilt or to help their other children accept their brother’s absence. This all took place so far away and so long ago that it would probably take a miracle to discover what actually transpired. At any rate, I assure you that the boy’s disappearance has nothing to do with me and certainly nothing to do with the institute. Now, if you don’t mind.”

  Cubiak watched Sage walk away. Everything he had said made sense. But there was an element of insolence in his response that bothered the sheriff. Was it professional hubris—the notion that the doctor is above reproach—or something else that prompted him to dismiss Francisca’s story and bundle it into a neat little package of denials that could be tied up with a white ribbon of innocence?

  Uncertain what he would say to Francisca, the sheriff made his way back to the Forest Room.

  When he got there, the women were gone, as was the laptop and with it the photo of the boy.

  5

  THE HIPPOCRATIC OATH

  As Cubiak headed down the peninsula, he called Cate and told her he would be home late. It was twilight, and to the west the remnants of an orange sunset stretched along the horizon. In the other direction the first star already glimmered in the charcoal sky above the lake. The sheriff liked the in-between feeling of the hour. It was an interlude that offered a place to rest between the demands of the day and the solitude of night.

  He was on his way to see Bathard. Over the years, he had come to increasingly rely on his friend’s memory and expertise, and after the day’s events, there was plenty that he wanted to discuss with him. More often than not, the men met in the early evening, and more often than not a glass of sherry accompanied the conversation.

  From the highway, the sheriff followed a familiar back road toward the shore and eventually turned onto the lane t
hat led to Bathard’s home. He left the jeep under a patch of trees near the old barn that the doctor had converted to a workshop when he retired. It was there that Cubiak had apprenticed himself to Bathard and the two men undertook the hard, tedious work of rebuilding the skeletal remains of a decrepit sailboat and turning it into a seaworthy vessel. The doctor kept the Parlando moored in Egg Harbor, where it was available for Cubiak to use. These days Bathard rarely sailed or spent any time in the workshop.

  A chorus of crickets greeted Cubiak, and the crunch of gravel underfoot was the only other sound that accompanied him across the yard to the rear porch. As usual, the back door to the house was unlocked.

  Cubiak let himself in. The interior was quiet and dim and haunted by an emptiness that the sheriff doubted would ever be filled again. From the mudroom he made his way into the large kitchen, where the redolence of freshly baked bread roused memories. From there, he passed through the dining room and into the living room with the great expanse of window that opened onto the bay, which was dark now but for the intermittent flash of the lighthouse at Sherwood Point. He watched the beacon for a moment and then moved down the hall toward the library, where he hoped to find Bathard.

  Widowed twice in the past twelve years, the old doctor spent increasing amounts of time in the cozy room sequestered with his books. “My good friends,” he called them.

  A table lamp was on, and from the doorway Cubiak glimpsed the elderly gentleman. Bathard was neatly dressed in khakis and a sport shirt, his once gray hair gone white and long enough to curl at his collar. His head was down and his eyes closed. The black cane leaned against the arm of the chair.

  Not wanting to disturb him, the sheriff hesitated. At the very moment he paused, the coroner suddenly looked up. “Caught me napping, did you?” he said with his familiar, gentle laugh. He waved Cubiak in and indicated the empty glass on the side table. “I had a nip of sherry earlier this evening. If I had known that company was coming, I would have waited. But you go right ahead,” he said, pointing to the crystal decanter on a low shelf.