Duluth overdose deaths prompt questions of supportive housing provider

DULUTH – Meaghan Fleischer was thrilled to move into her own eastern Duluth apartment as she worked to stay sober, many months after her release from jail and time spent living with roommates.

The 26-year-old Duluth resident worked in peer recovery and was studying to become a counselor. She had been drug-free for more than a year. She had two toddlers who had scheduled stays with her in the small space rented to her by Grace Place, a local company licensed for long-term homelessness supportive housing.

Fleischer was a list-maker and a journal she kept showed preparation for an upcoming court date to regain partial custody of her son. On a video call with her sister during her first days in the apartment in the summer of 2023, she excitedly showed a reading nook and a play area for her children.

“It was her own place, and she was so happy with it,” said sister Danielle Namchek, who lives in Farmington, Minn.

A month later on a Tuesday, Grace Place employees found her dead of a fentanyl overdose in that apartment. Fleischer is the first of three women who died of overdoses in Grace Place housing within just over a year. Each had been dead for days before their bodies were discovered.

A criminal complaint filed by the state against a suspected dealer says Fleischer was still alive early Sunday, about 50 hours before her body was found by authorities. Her family says that for two days they left messages asking that Grace Place staff check on her after she missed calls that weekend to arrange to pick up her daughter. Grace Place director and owner October Allen disputes this, saying her records show they didn’t hear from family until the day before she was discovered. She says an employee went to her apartment that day and knocked on the door. Allen also sent her a Facebook message, a common way they kept in touch.

Roommates reported last seeing each of the other women, Heather Journigan, 34, and Jodi Hartling, 58, two days before their bodies were found, according to Allen.

Families of the deceased say that’s too long. They, along with some local addiction workers and former residents, say the limited liability company was lax in its oversight. Some point the finger at its growth. The company went from operating its first residence in 2018 to now housing 150 people in 30 properties, some for women and some for men.

But living situations were often unsafe, and staff weren’t always responsive, one former resident said.

“[Allen] really did help me ... but it took off too far too fast,” said Johnna Carbaugh, who lived in two different Grace Place facilities. “You can’t put a bunch of addicts in a house unsupervised without it turning into a government-funded trap house.”

But without housing like Grace Place’s, more people would be living on the street, proponents of such supportive housing say.

Allen, herself a former addict, characterizes Grace Place as the county’s largest addiction recovery housing program, and one that exceeds staffing requirements.

The county-recommended ratio is one employee for every 20 residents, and she employs eight for 150 residents. Allen and her staff help residents who live in her apartments and single-family homes shared by several people, with many purchased near each other to build communities of support, she said. Among the issues they assist with are domestic violence cases, family reunification efforts, probation requirements, medical appointments, transportation and recovery services.

Residents can receive state funding to rent from Allen, using a “housing first” approach. Public money pays for people to live in such housing with no attached conditions — there aren’t sobriety or therapy requirements. The point is to first introduce stability via food and shelter, and connect residents to resources to help them with issues like recovery or mental health. The approach has been used across the country for decades.

Eligible residents can receive up to $1,220 for rent and $495 for supplemental services each month from the Department of Human Services.

State requirements for providers like Grace Place are minimal, for those eligible for supplemental services. Providers must ensure services are offered and available, but they aren’t required to meet with residents, “because each person and setting are unique,” said Eric Grumdahl, assistant commissioner of housing stabilization services for the Department of Human Services.

The housing provider must also make someone available around the clock to address emergencies. St. Louis County requires two meetings with residents per month.

Allen said those requirements were met for all three women who died.

Records show St. Louis County cited Grace Place last summer for not maintaining case notes for residents that included dates of contact and service descriptions. The company was ordered to show progress by meeting with the county to review case notes. It also was cited then for collecting overpayment of nearly $5,000 in state money from a resident over the course of seven months. Allen said the overpayment stemmed from a client income reporting misunderstanding, and new software is now used to provide better financial oversight, among other improvements, including case note auditing and training. The resident was reimbursed.

Last year, Allen requested permission from the county to expand housing support by 35 beds, records show. In her proposal, she wrote that Grace Place is “much more than a sober living facility,” promoting trauma-informed harm reduction, such as training on the use of the opioid overdose reversal drug Narcan. She said then the company had restructured to provide more peer-to-peer accountability and in-house meetings.

Laura Birnbaum is the housing and homelessness programs supervisor for the county. It’s critical to offer a type of permanent housing that allows residents to work on recovery but doesn’t punish them for relapsing or using, she said, with hundreds qualifying just in Duluth. The city’s seasonal warming center served about 800 people experiencing homelessness last winter.

It’s about reducing harm, Birnbaum said, gaining trust and providing basic needs. Harm reduction in this type of housing can mean overdose education and supplies and community building.

“People can start to envision life beyond just having a roof over their head and basic survival,” Birnbaum said, “and I think they really do save lives.”

Before the housing first approach, people experiencing homelessness had to endure many hurdles to connect to housing, said Cathy ten Broeke, assistant commissioner of the Minnesota Interagency Council on Homelessness.

The state has seen massive improvements in its rate of homeless veterans thanks to that approach. It’s also been effective in Hennepin County.

“The key is that there’s no one size fits all,” ten Broeke said.

The provider needs to create opportunities for clients to be successful, she said, and battle a paucity of resources.

Maddie Miller, a peer recovery specialist in Duluth, has worked with many Grace Place residents. A lack of support, she said, “sets them up for failure.”

Since the third death, she’s been on a quest to shed light on what she sees as “exploitive” practices by Grace Place, such as posting photos of residents, including a woman Allen picked up from jail and brought to a detox facility, to social media.

Allen, who also operates a local church with her husband and Aerial Recovery Services, said residents in social posts have signed releases.

Earlier this month, Allen filed a defamation lawsuit against Miller. The complaint defends her and her staff’s level of care, and says public comments made by Miller and others named in the suit have resulted in the loss of thousands of dollars from open units after housing referrals began to decline.

The lawsuit cites Allen’s awards and public speaking appointments related to housing support services and domestic violence advocacy, and also delves into allegations made related to the church and recovery service.

Allen has been open about her own struggles with addiction and her experiences overcoming them, which eventually led to the founding of Grace Place. Her work at a nonprofit assisting parents with reunification in child welfare cases showed her that many coming out of treatment didn’t have housing, preventing them from reuniting with their kids. She said she helped build the county’s current manual for the type of housing she provides.

It’s difficult work and not everyone is ready for help, she said. Focusing on the three people who died in her housing detracts from the hundreds “who learned to live,” she added.

Allen said staff went to Fleischer’s apartment on the Tuesday morning she was discovered after the county’s drug court program told her there was reason to enter the apartment.

Allen said their practice is to avoid that unless a signed release allows it or there is a compelling reason. Fleischer had been sober for some time and was seemingly on a solid path in rebuilding her life, she said, and “we don’t just make assumptions.”

Services are voluntary, and Grace Place staff go beyond requirements to reach people, Allen said. She cited group chats on social media, feedback from roommates and house meetings as ways they keep up with residents. If someone disappears for a couple of weeks, she said, they put a note on their door saying staff will enter in 24 hours unless they hear from that person.

Grace Place practices didn’t change after Fleischer’s death. Allen said their procedures have been consistent from the beginning, adhering to Minnesota tenant rights and their own privacy-honoring system.

Mandy Ray hadn’t spoken to her mother for eight years. She went to her room in an Arrowhead Road Grace Place residence to collect her things after she was found dead in late October.

Ray and her children didn’t see Jodi Hartling because of Hartling’s longtime drug addiction that began with back pain medication. At her house, Ray found still-packed luggage. Hartling had recently returned from several weeks in Florida, where she was said to be sober, according to Ray. Roommates, smelling a foul odor, discovered her dead on her floor five days after her trip.

Allen said she and staff had been in contact with Hartling while she was in Florida.

“We’re assuming she’s sober as she had been sober for months,” Allen said of her return to Duluth, noting she had sent her money to return with extra luggage.

Ray thinks staff or roommates should have checked on her sooner.

“She’s calling it a sober-living place, but she knows some of them aren’t even trying to be sober,” Ray said of Allen.

Grace Place does prohibit drugs and alcohol in its residences, but part of its harm reduction approach gives people chances before moving to eviction. Some may have expected a stricter sober environment, Allen said, but they try to balance accountability with support.

“It doesn’t mean we hand out needles and we help people get high, or we look the other way,” she said. “It means if they fall down, we help them get back up, even if that’s 100 times.”

Evictions result when safety concerns arise or house rules are broken. People experiencing homelessness and addiction tend to not trust others, and it’s difficult to meet everyone’s expectations, Allen said, but “90% of [our clients] love us.”

Some former residents said harm reduction wasn’t part of their experience.

Melissa Duffert, who lived in a house for a few months as she struggled with alcoholism, said no one met with her or contacted her after she moved in. Drug and alcohol use was rampant, and she began drinking heavily again there; because of that, she was eventually asked to leave by Grace Place.

Sober now for two years, she said her time there was when she hit rock bottom. It wasn’t a good environment “for anyone trying to do anything better with their life,” Duffert said.

It’s been different for Derek Karlstad. The Red Lake Nation member lives with five roommates in male-designated housing under Grace Place, called Zachary Place. Substance use issues are addressed quickly, he said, as long as staff know about them.

Sober for two years, enrolled in college and working at a treatment center, he said he doesn’t want to think about where his life would’ve turned if not for Allen.

Recovery isn’t pushed, he said, “but I’ve seen a lot of people come a long way by just gradually, you know, knowing the services are there. And in time, they come to take advantage of it.”

When Fleischer was released from jail she moved into a Grace Place residence with several other women. The extensive drug use there made it too easy to use, her sister said, so she largely lived with their father. The summer she died, Fleischer had been on her own for the first time in a couple of years, working and caring for her kids. But her sobriety was fragile.

Their mother died of a drug overdose in 2012, so Namchek recognized the overpowering scent of death when she entered Fleischer’s apartment the day she was found.

She spent 20 minutes cleaning her sister’s blood from the carpet and also sorted through her handbag. An unused package of Narcan was inside.

Fleischer needed more than that, she said.

Staff writer Jessie Van Berkel contributed to this story.