Read Online A Minister's Ghost by Phillip Depoy - Free Book Online Page A

I thought I’d drive by to see if Millroy might be there.
    The door was open; I pushed it. A stranger in a black suit wended my way down the short hall and came to a stop three inches too close to me.
    â€œYou’re Dr. Devilin.”
    â€œI am.”
    â€œMy name is Davis Millroy, the new county coroner,” he said. “I
know Lucinda Foxe from the hospital, and she seems to be a fine person, so I try to keep on her good side. That’s how I know you. I’m new in town, so I try to get to know people before I meet them.”
    â€œYes,” I said, holding out my hand. “Welcome to Blue Mountain.”
    â€œI’ve been here six months.”
    â€œI’m hoping you’ll talk with me about your findings concerning these girls.”
    â€œWhat girls?”
    â€œTess and Rory Dyson?” I suggested. How many girls are you currently investigating.
    â€œOh.” He looked around. “Naturally. Ms. Foxe is the girls’ aunt, I believe.”
    â€œCorrect.”
    â€œWhich is why you are here.” He squinted oddly.
    â€œCan you tell me about your autopsy,” I said, not looking at him. “Do you mind?”
    â€œI enjoy talking about my work,” he answered completely expressionlessly. “You aren’t the only nonofficial personnel interested in my report. I probably shouldn’t be telling you that, but I consider it a professional courtesy.”
    â€œI’m sorry?” I had no idea what he was talking about.
    â€œOne medical man to another.”
    â€œOh, right,” I agreed. “Absolutely.”
    No point in my telling him that my doctorate was in folklore, it would only have embarrassed him. After he’d been in town for a while, he’d realize it all on his own anyway.
    â€œI’d expect the same,” he told me, stone-faced.
    â€œOf course.”
    â€œWon’t you have a seat?”
    He indicated two worn chairs in the tiny reception area. They were made of nicked wood and natty fabric, thirty years past any sense of fashion.
    â€œWho was it that came to you?” I asked. “I mean, the other ‘nonofficial personnel.’”
    â€œI’m really not at liberty to say.” He sniffed.

    Then why did you tell me about it at all? I wondered to myself.
    We sat. Gray light somehow found its way into the room through the windows. It only made the room seem ancient.
    â€œSo your autopsy?” I prompted.
    â€œStandard,” he answered curtly. “Sudden trauma. Both girls died instantly.”
    â€œNothing out of the ordinary?” I prodded.
    â€œLike what?”
    â€œNo evidence of anyone else in the car with them,” I suggested, “like hair or skin?”
    â€œNo.” He held his breath a moment. “But there was a strange anomaly. Something you don’t ordinarily see in a case of sudden death or in any accident of this order.”
    â€œWhat was it?” I caught his eye.
    â€œI only found it by accident. I wasn’t satisfied with the toxicology report.” He stopped, at a loss.
    â€œYou mean you thought the girls might have been drinking,” I allowed. “Why else would they let a train run into them?”
    â€œNot exactly,” he said slowly. “The report had already been run and eliminated that possibility. But the brain chemistry of both victims seemed to indicate elevated 5HT. An excess level of serotonin.”
    â€œI’m not certain what that is,” I confessed, though it somehow sounded familiar.
    â€œThe brain chemical serotonin,” he lectured, “is the main one that LSD, PCP, and other psychedelic drugs mimic in order to produce the hallucinogenic effects.”
    â€œThat’s right,” I remembered. “During certain folk ceremonies in Mexico, peyote buttons are sometimes ingested and they increase serotonin. I did some research—”
    â€œSo I performed a few more tests,” he