Cry From The Grave (Chapter 17)

Cry From The Grave

Chapter 17

     As Tori turned south down Kisker Road in Saint Charles County, Ballack finished his Jumble puzzle for the day at the same time Hull called him. They had located Eric Carter's house, a six hundred square foot rental situated in an older neighborhood behind the Cici's Pizza on Manchester Road in Rock Hill. After knocking for a few moments and then--searching the perimeter of the darkened property--failing to find his car in the garage, they decided to question some of the neighbors. They were in process with some of them, so Hull promised to ring in at nine o'clock. He also said he'd make a desperation attempt to get through to the Delmar Clinic.

     The former Mrs. Dean Hibbler, now styling herself Suzanne Lamotta, lived in a two-story abode nestled in the Windcastle subdivision, situated off Pitman Hill Road halfway between Kisker Road and the Katy Trail. Ballack was concerned there would be no point of access into the house, but Tori mischievously winked and told him not to worry.

     On pulling up in the driveway, Ballack saw why. The garage door was left open for them to enter on foot. Next to the garage, situated on the northwest corner of the house, was a circular turret with an elevator visible through enormous window panes. Evidently, Suzanne had already sent the car to ground level, and both detectives merely had to walk into it upon punching the button. Less than twenty seconds later, they were entering a cozy den just off a large dining area. Two environmentally-conscious composite logs were blazing in the fireplace. Coming from the kitchen, Suzanne Lamotta approached them, hand extended, wearing a long sleeve, cream-colored blouse and a pair of blue jeans showing the curves which masked her early fifties age. Her blond hair was attractively cut, her face bore a light amount of makeup, and Ballack's nose detected an onslaught of Burberry perfume. She invited them to sit in the den by the fire.

     "Not knowing if you've eaten or not, I have snacks," she offered. "Or perhaps you just care for a drink. I have wine, but you probably don't need that on duty. I also have the innocuous soft drinks. Pepsi or Sierra Mist?"

     "A Pepsi for me," said Tori, suddenly thirsty.

     "I'll be fine," declared Ballack, who would rather dehydrate than drink Pepsi products. He glided toward what looked like a back office, peeking in the door once he was certain Suzanne was otherwise occupied in the kitchen. Surprised it was a bedroom, he came back and situated himself by the fire just before she returned with Tori's can of soda.

     "Not to intrude," he began, "but is Lamotta a return to your maiden name? Or have you remarried since your divorce from Dr. Hibbler?"

     A brief look of offense left her eyes as soon as it came. "I'm sorry. I wasn't expecting that as an opener, given your partner just informed me of Dean's death a couple hours ago. But yes, I've remarried since. My husband Dante and I have been together for fifteen years and have lived here the last three. The elevator is helpful for him because he had a terrible motorcycle accident five years ago and his left foot was amputated. He's got a prosthetic foot, but it's still a pain to climb stairs. When we were able to build this house, we were able to spend extra and put the elevator in place. He's out of town, by the way. Dean's visiting his daughter from a previous marriage. Just wanted to explain why you didn't see him around."

     "I imagine it must have been painful, going through that," said Ballack.

     "Indeed it was," Suzanne preened, "as I am sure you've been through a lot yourself, Detective. But I'm sure you came to talk about my ex-husband, not the one I currently have."

     Tori began. "When was the last contact you had with Dr. Hibbler?"

     "With Dean? Oh, for heaven's sake, it's been some time. Ironically, I think we spoke more after the divorce than during our marriage. Typical stuff, you know. Charming and funy during a whirlwind courtship, and then married to his work from then on out. At least we never had any kids that would be destroyed by our split."

     "I don't mean to be personal, but was there anything specific that triggered the divorce?"

     "You mean like infidelity?" Suzanne shook her head vigorously. "Actually, that might have been better. Would've shown he had a little passion. But no, if he wasn't working, he was likely hunting. Mainly ducks and geese, then by the time the divorce was finalized, he was going after deer, as well."

     Ballack was fully engaged. "Deer hunting? With a gun or bow?"

     "He never told me." Suzanne said. "I suppose he believed I should feel fortunate even to know what he hunted. But I had eyes. Most of his fowl expeditions were with guns, but he had collected a fair number of knives over the years."

     "Knives?" Ballack and Tori said in unison. The discovery of the Buck 119 Special took on added importance now. Suzanne looked nervously at both of them.

     "Yes," she said deliberately. "And by the way you both responded, I'm coming to believe that when you said he died in his office, it wasn't entirely natural."
     Tori looked down at her notes, covering her mouth. Ballack leaned toward Suzanne and said quietly, "No, it wasn't." He paused, his intuition telling him her surprise was legitimate. "He was stabbed to death. In the neck area. The likelihood is his death was quick and he had no time to suffer."
     Even Ballack didn't believe his last statement, but it seemed to convince Suzanne. She plucked a tissue from a box on the end table and dabbed at her now-moist eyes.
     "I'm...I'm sorry. I guess when someone is dead to you for some time, their actual death is still a shock. I just can't believe this happened." She paused, placing her face in her hands. After a few seconds, she lifted her head, revealing darkened splotches around both eyes.
     "It's entirely okay," said Ballack. "Grief is sneaky stuff, and you have nothing to apologize for."
     "Mrs. Lamotta, even if there wasn't much contact between Dr. Hibbler and yourself," asked Tori, "can you think of anything he might have said that indicated he was in danger?"
     "No, but then again, except for property issues, we spoke little over the last few years."
     "Property issues?" asked Ballack.
     "Yes," she replied. "We had...well, we still have a house at Innsbrook. Part of the divorce agreement was sharing the mortgage as long as we both agreed to have access to it. We worked out the usage so that we wouldn't be there the same weekend, and to be honest, unless he was at some hunting grounds out past Warrenton or something, Dean rarely went to the lake house. I do know that he kept some papers and files out there that related to his work, both at the clinic and the hospice."
     "Do you know if those are papers that have to do with client sessions or are they as private as that?" asked Tori, who saw a clear opportunity to short-circuit their need to visit the Delmar clinic.
     "I don't know, to tell you the truth. There's a chance something would be there that might give you a clue, but you could go have a look. I have the keys right here in a kitchen drawer."
     "You'd be willing to part with them?" Ballack inquired aloud, not believing it was this easy.
     "We're not due to go back out there until Thanksgiving week. If you really feel there's something out there that could help you catch his killer, I'm all for giving you the keys as long as I get them back in a couple days. You obviously know where I live."
     "That would be helpful. Thank you."
     As Suzanne headed into the kitchen, Tori whispered to Ballack. "This changes everything. We probably weren't going to get anywhere with Delmar at all."
     "We wouldn't have needed detailed cases, Tor," Ballack replied. "We had a few leads last April at DaySpring and that was just looking at a list of appointments and back accounts. And that turned out to be a goose chase. We solved the case without the benefit of those items. Here she comes."
     Suzanne Lamotta handed the key ring over to Tori, who turned it in the dusky firelight. There were two nickel-plated keys, one with an extra tooth.
     "There is a red dot on the one to the front door," explained Suzanne. "The other one is to the boathouse. You won't need that. There's a kitchen area with sliding glass doors, but those lock from the inside."
     "For the sake of legitimacy," asked Ballack as Tori pulled a notice from her binder, "can we have you sign a receipt for us?"
     Suzanne had no objection and she willingly signed the paper.
     "And in the interest of not mucking up your house while we are out there," said Tori, "in which room did he keep his records?"
     "He had an office at the end of the hallway past the stairs to the loft. You'll see it when you enter the great room. The front door is the best entry point for you, Detective Ballack. One low step, so if you have a ramp as your partner claims, you should be right as rain."
     "Thank you," said Ballack, who noticed her face was flushed. "Are you okay, Mrs. Lamotta?"
     She wiped her eyes again. "You know, Detective, as much as I grew angry with him during our marriage, I could never wish him any harm myself. Even after the split, there was a part of me that always wished things would get better for him. I've never told Dante that. He doesn't like to hear about my marriage to Dean, nor does he share much about his first wife, either. At least he's consistent like that. But I am very sad that Dean is dead. Even someone of his moral shortcomings doesn't deserve to be killed like that."
      "And you first heard the news..."
      "Through your partner. I assume that once you release more details about it, this will be all over the news?"
     "The story will break, Mrs. Lamotta, but we'll manage it as well as we can."
     "For the record, can you give us some details about where you were today?"
     "Certainly nowehere near Dean, if that's what you're asking," she said, a shadow flickering over her attractive face. "Dante left today to visit his daughter. She lives in Midland, Texas, so he obviously flew. I took him to the airport, and we got to Lambert at nine-twenty. His flight left at eleven, and I stayed with him through check-in and all the way to the security gate. I left the airport at nine-fifty. After that, I went grocery shopping at the Dierbergs at 94 and Mid-Rivers. Had lunch here, went to a book club meeting in Muirfield, and then back here. Tori called me and I've been stiff-arming the wine bottles since."
     "And your husband called from Texas at some point today?" asked Ballack.
     "He did indeed. I even got to speak with Brittany."
     "Brittany?"
     "His daughter. Can I take your glass, Ms. Vaughan?"
     The conversation seemed to be winding down, and Ballack wanted to find out where Hull and Crabolli were on their tasks. Thanking their host for the drinks and the use of the key, they rose to leave. Five minutes later, when they left the subdivision, Tori broached the one item that had slipped their minds.
     "Cameron, what if the doctor locked up his office there?"
     Ballack closed his eyes, silently cursing this potential monkey wrench.
     "Just bring a toolbox for the journey, Tor. Or hope for a way to pop the doorknob."

     

Cry From The Grave (Chapter 16)

Cry From The Grave

Chapter 16

     At a table nestled in between the stage and the fireplace of the Highway 61 Roadhouse, the four detectives compared notes over a dinner designed to beat the Saturday evening rush. With wall murals of St. Louis people and history--including one of the Gateway Arch--in the background, they tore into their food with a vengeance. Tori opted for the Bourbon Street Chicken while Missy ordered a pair of blackened chicken tacos. Ballack and Hull showed a united front, both selecting the restaurant's famous BBQ Spaghetti. Both of their orders came smothered in barbecue sauce featuring massive chunks of pulled pork with garlic bread on the side.

     "You two are disgusting," Missy cringed, wishing they could have a private room as Hull, never one to be finicky about cleanliness, was wearing the sauce on his face like war paint.

     "I knew there was a reason Zane was okay with this," smiled Ballack. "To be a Patriot missile to that pile of protein. As for me, I know I'll have to take a doggy bag home." They ate for a few more minutes in silence.

     "So, what are the plans now?" asked Tori. They had caught up on progress while waiting for their food.

     "Well, we still need to find Eric Carter for questioning," said Crabolli. "The fact that we found the knife on the seminary campus, that we confirmed he was there this morning likely after Hibbler died, and he's nowhere to be found...none of these put him in a favorable light."

     "That can be your doing," said Ballack. "You made the initial parry, see it though as long as you can. By the way, did you call Father Giles' wife to confirm his movements this morning?"

     "Got her," said Hull. "Everything matched up, give or take about ten minutes, but from what you told us about Fisher, there's no reason to believe he was at the church for much of the time in question."

     "Not all of it," cautioned Tori.

     "True," said Ballack, "and we need to keep an open mind. But on the surface, I never saw Father Giles doing this to Hibbler. He struck me as the least cagey individual in the room this morning. And Evan also texted me a message that he established the time of death just prior to nine o'clock. Anyway, that effectively eliminates the chaplain if he, his wife, and Nick Fisher are all telling the truth. "
     "Which leaves us where we began," groused Crabolli.
     "Not really," Tori corrected her as she pushed her plate away. "We've likely eliminated a couple of people. The murder weapon is found and we're waiting on Sheilah to confirm the DNA match. We're in a holding pattern now, but we've faced worse."
     Ballack threw his napkin on the table and signaled the waitress for a to-go box. "It's probably going to be past nine o'clock by the time we're done with our next leads and enter our reports. You two focus on finding Eric Carter. Now, about this Delmar Psychiatric Clinic where Hibbler formerly worked--there could be a story there. Hibbler was forced out, according to Fisher, who got the news from an old clipping handed on to him this morning by Giles. It could be that someone had an ax to grind with Hibbler from years back."
     "You mean like a former patient?" Hull asked. "I can see that, but that would mean having access to St. Matthew's Grove, being aware of Hibbler's movements, and getting into his office. This has all the looks of an inside job."
     "Except for the rage evident in the attack," Crabolli offered.
     "More like controlled manic fury," Ballack countered. "I've never seen an entry wound of that magnitude. Absolutely staggering."
     "Anyway," said Tori, wanting to make sure her food stayed down. "Who takes the clinic. I doubt it'll be open on the weekend."
     "But it doesn't hurt to try," said Ballack. "They may have an on-call person, and even if you can set up an appointment for Monday morning, it's better than nothing. Zane, can you check that out?"
     "Got it, C.B.," Hull said, taking the clinic's phone number from Ballack. "How will the two of you occupy your time tonight?"
     "While we were waiting for your guys," Tori said, "I called Hibbler's ex-wife. She said she could meet with us around seven, but she lives out in St. Charles County."
     "Convenient for you," said Crabolli, receiving the bill from the waitress. 
     "Super convenient for me," added Ballack, motioning for her to pass the check his way. "I'll take care of the culinary damages. Anyhow, the former Mrs. Hibbler lives a couple miles south of my place. Any questions on what we're doing next?"
     Nobody raised one, so Ballack put his chair in gear and backed up slowly. "Okay, I'll pay this and we'll split up. Let's check in around nine by phone."

It was as they passed the Big Bend exit on Interstate 44 West that Ballack's phone rang. An unfamiliar number graced the screen, and it was with a sense of foreboding that he answered.
     "Detective Ballack? It's Father Giles."
     "Father, hello. How can I help you?"
     "Actually, something just popped into my mind. I seem to recall that when I arrived at St. Matthew's today, I went to my office first. My usual practice is to open my desk and get the keys out for the entire facility. I don't keep them on my car key ring because I don't like to be lugging around a large set myself."
     "Yes, I see," said Ballack impatiently, wishing the priest would make his point.
     "It's just that I had difficulty opening my desk drawer today, and it took several seconds to do so. Anyhow, when I heard Beverly Overton scream, I rushed to his office and was joined by Anna Barber. We settled Mrs. Andrews and Mrs. Overton down and then I told them I'd call the SID."
     "I'm following so far," replied Ballack.
     "I called Commander Krieger from my office," continued Giles, "and after I hung up, I say down to gather myself. It was then that I noticed two things. One, I definitely had fewer keys on my key ring than before. The second was that the key slot to my desk drawer looked horribly scratched."
     "Picked?" asked Ballack.
     "It seemed so."
     "But you had difficulty opening it, sir. Wouldn't that mean whoever had picked at it--provided they stole the keys off your ring--would have had to re-lock the drawer somehow."
     "That's what doesn't make sense, Detective. And I could be imagining a lot, but here's another thing. I thought I might be having a senile moment, so I put it out of my mind. But just now, I was getting ready to leave the hospice and went to lock my keys away in the desk drawer as usual. Instead, at the last minute, I decided to place them elsewhere. I put them in the top file cabinet in my office, but when I dropped them in there, I noticed that all the keys were back on the ring."
     "Back on?" asked the suspicious Ballack. "Father Giles, could this be something you thought was the case but wasn't, and whoever picked at your desk drawer never got in?"
     "Possibly, but the key ring felt lighter."
     "By approximately how many keys?"
     "I'd say three or four. But it could have been that way for some time and I never noticed until today."
     "And you never brought this up this morning, in the cafeteria or when we met in the chapel?"
     "Like I said, it slipped my mind. Senior moment."
     Ballack groaned when a question shot through his mind. "Father, does anyone else know where you normally keep those keys?"
     "I'm not certain, but why would anyone steal it?"
     Smacking his forehead, staggered at how much of his parents' Calvinism he unwittingly held to, Ballack replied, "Father Giles, I have enough experience with human nature to suspect anyone. A more pertinent question would be: Did you leave the keys in your office unattended at any point today?"
     "For a few moments, when I was setting up the chapel for Morning Prayer and Holy Communion tomorrow. Why?"
     "It could be nothing," Ballack responded, a pressure headache beginning to cleave his brain over his right eye. "So, they were not in your possession at all times today?"
    Giles gulped. "No, not the whole day."
     "Father, are you calling from your office now?"
     "I am."
     "Do me a favor, Father. Take the keys home with you. Do not take them off your person at all while you are at work. Ever. Do you understand me?"
     "Perfectly."
     "Thank you. I'll speak to you in the morning."
     "Sounds like the hospice's resident space cadet," Tori said ruefully when Ballack signed off.
     "More like an idealist," Ballack shrugged. "He can't imagine anyone being sinister as we know people are capable of."
     "What is it about clergy?" Tori exploded. "Can't they open their eyes to the garbage around them?"
     "Dad always says it's crazy how the ministry can cloud objectivity at the worst of times," replied Ballack. "Let's hope it's a passing craze with Father Giles, although I'm afraid it resides fairly deep within his bones."

     

Cry From The Grave (Chapter 15)

Cry From The Grave

Chapter 15

     Stunned by the news of Dean Hibbler's death, the Reverend Nicholas Fisher was most accommodating to Ballack and Tori when they requested he stay at Emmanuel Episcopal Church after his sermon preparation was finished. Given the short transit from Zakhary's office to the church, Ballack had no desire to burn minutes by getting tethered into the Sprinter, so he told Tori he'd boldly rocket across Big Bend Boulevard in his powerchair and meet her by the sanctuary.

     While Tori parked the van, Ballack's phone jangled with Hull reporting the news about the discovered knife and the location, along with the additional details provided by Charlie Brugner. Ballack thanked him for the update and asked him to text a follow-up on what Grimshaw might find out regarding the blood.

     "That's a relief," said Tori when Ballack relayed the information as they moved into the church. "Establishing guilt without a weapon would have been sticky. Any idea when Sheilah will figure out the DNA match?"

     "No clue. Plus, there's no guarantee it means Carter is at the center of the storm," said Ballack. "Looks like preacher man is waiting for us there by the altar."

     The rector beckoned them to follow him into the vestry, where an oak table sat in the center. Fisher took his seat at the head of the table. Ballack swept to the side and took some time suctioning his trach. Tori sat opposite Ballack and crossed her legs while keeping a steady eye on the rector, who waited until Ballack was finished with his respiratory necessity.

     "Thank you both for coming," Fisher began, "and I'm glad Father Giles was astute enough to request the Special Investigative Division. This is a devastating loss for the hospice, and Dean was..." He paused, wiping his eyes and trying to get his breathing under control. "God help us, I can't believe this is happening. Please go ahead. I'm obviously taking this badly."

     "That's no shame," said Ballack. "We are here for information only. Two things came to our attention earlier when we were over at St. Matthew's. One is that Father Giles claimed to be with you here at the church from nine-fifteen until a few minutes prior to ten. Evidently--though he didn't outline what it was--he needed to speak with you about something. We understand that he headed over to the hospice immediately after that. Is that your recollection?"

     "It is," began Fisher. "I actually got here myself around seven-fifteen, which is about a quarter-hour before our organist got here to prepare for services tomorrow. His name is Philip Dunne. I can give you his contact information if you need it. I usually finish my sermon preparation here on Saturday mornings and then around nine-thirty I'll go to a coffeehouse west of here for a cup of joe. Obviously, Rory put a monkey wrench in that itinerary with his visit this morning, but his needs outweighed my own."
     "And you went to the coffeehouse immediately after he left?" Tori asked.
     "No, I needed to finish my sermon, so I turned my phone off and unplugged the office line for an hour. Because my talk with Rory bugged me so much, I couldn't get very far on my work, but I felt it was good enough to head out for my coffee. The weather looked nice enough this morning--obviously not so much now--so I rode my bicycle to Adobe, leaving around eleven. Rory had a wretched time getting hold of me, since my phone was off and it was almost noon before I turned it on and saw he'd left four messages."
     "And where were you when you received the news?"
     "When I got back here," said Fisher. "Rory told me to stay put as it was likely you'd want to speak with me. Plus, there was nothing I could do at the time."
     "Not even to comfort those who were upset?"
     "That's why we have a chaplain there. They are Rory's flock, not mine."
     "In the spirit of speaking with you," Ballack said, "as you said that's what we'd do, let's go with this: You're the diocesan liaison to St. Matthew's Grove. Give me that job description."
     "Just to report to St. Matthew's what the diocese thinks about them and bring the Grove's needs to my superiors. It's been a recent post, within the last three years. The Diocese of Missouri has partially funded the hospice, but we have decreased the stipend each of the last five years. The bishop saw fit to have me serve in that capacity, given that I am personally close to Father Giles and geographically close to St. Matthew's. Over time--to make a long story short--we began exploring the possibility of allowing the hospice to come under the umbrella of another organization."
     "Hence, your love fest two days ago with Father Giles, Mrs. Andrews, and Dr. Hibbler."
     "You obviously have learned much," said Fisher. "Yes, and while I wish that conversation could have turned out differently, I knew from the start that it would be ugly on several levels. Rory would not like the idea of losing his chaplaincy position, and Isabel could arguably run the hospice--and the transitional period before takeover--better than Dean would, although bylaws require an M.D. to serve as executive director. We had several complaints about interpersonal conflict from patients and relatives. To be honest, I felt like this was a way to wash my hands of this fiasco. St. Matthew's Grove cannot survive in the present hospice universe. It is too small, offers little in the way of required service, and the personnel is stretched to the max. All we have to offer is location and lower rates. I think everyone sees that but many are hanging on to nostalgia and hoping we can continue as is. The present tragedy certainly means the doors will close for good."
     "We know Hibbler was seeking out other corporations to take over St. Matthew's," said Tori. "This opposition to him...was that because of Hibbler himself or was it a distrust of the outside companies?"
     Fisher gazed out the window overlooking the cloistered rear garden. "To be honest--and this is not casting aspersions on them--they disliked Dean's role the most. He tended to get a lot of perks and attention based on his past reputation as a brilliant psychiatrist."
     "And where was that?" Ballack asked.
     "The Delmar Psychiatric Clinic in University City," Fisher responded. "In fact..." And then he stopped, as if calculating his next move would be a dangerous one. "In fact, that was what Rory Giles came by to discuss this morning. He brought to my attention a newspaper clipping from years ago when Dr. Hibbler was forced from the clinic over increasing complaints and a threatened lawsuit. Rory didn't tell me what to do, but in my view, he was asking how in our right mind we could let Dean advance these negotiations when he had failed so miserably in the past."
     "So the he-did-fail, he-could-fail, he-will-fail-again argument, eh?"
     "Yes, I am aware of the fallacy of modality, Detective," said the rector with a trace of irritation.
     "As am I," Ballack replied. "Or Father Giles might have just been asking how Hibbler snared the position at St. Matthew's Grove to begin with."
     Fisher nodded, but no words were forthcoming. He looked at Ballack.
     "Reverend Fisher," Ballack said directly. "The newspaper clipping, please."
     "You can't be serious."
     "You'd be wrong."
     "Reverend," said Tori gently. "Do you think this will implicate Father Giles in some way?"
     Fisher rolled his eyes, placed his hands on his knees, and then slowly rose from his chair and traversed the room, leaving the door open behind him as he left the vestry. In a few minutes, he returned with a Post-Dispatch article from July 2000.
     "Keep it," he said. "I have no more need of it. I'll just be blunt and tell you up front there is no way Rory could have done anything."
     "We'll judge that for ourselves," Ballack answered, "but thank you for complying anyway."

They were pulling out of the church lot when Hull texted Ballack in his usual all-capital-letters manner.
     "GRIM TOOK KNIFE. REZ IN 24 HRS @ EARLIEST. CHKED HIB HOUSE. IN ORDER. NO B&E OR EVID OF THEFT. AT HANSPARD APT NOW. GOING NOWHERE. TOUCH BASE OVER DINNER?"
     Ballack called Hull, all the while mulling that he should have the detective's number on speed dial.
     "They couldn't do the DNA chip test for four-hour results?" Ballack complained as soon as Hull answered.
     "I requested it, but Sheilah said it would likely be a no-go," replied Hull. "Hang on, and I'll step outside...There. Missy's still jawing with Hanspard. The blood on the knife has to be Hibbler's, and we were there while the team dusted for prints."
     "Which showed?"
     "Nothing. Literally nothing on the handle."
     "All the more reason to believe the knife is the murder weapon, as if there was any doubt given the blood on the blade. Seems like whoever used it wiped the prints from the handle or wore gloves."
     "Plenty of gloves around that facility," Hull noted.
     "So why is the chat with Hanspard going nowhere?"
     "He was with his girlfriend all morning. They went to St. Genevieve and did a wine tour. He said she had the receipts from all their purchases, but he went to his Facebook page where he posted pictures and all the timestamps checked out."
     "That's just from when they posted the pictures, not necessarily when they were there. But if she has receipts, she has them. Just confirm."
     "Will do. He did say she's pretty finicky about finances and tends to do this."
     "Did he squeal about closed-door politics at St. Matthew's? Any wisdom on whether Hibbler was in anybody's cross-hairs?"
     "None," said Hull. "He was either hiding something or else exhibiting what Missy calls typical male cluelessness about water-cooler gossip."
     "Okay, we can discuss the rest in a bit. Where are you in relation to St. Matthew's? We're coming from across the street after talking to Fisher."
     "Just off Brentwood. We can swoop down and meet you in Webster. Were you thinking about an early dinner?"
     "I think everyone is. None of us had lunch. But I'm not the expert on where to go in the area."
     "How about the Roadhouse?" Tori quickly interpolated. "Old Orchard Avenue south of this end of Lockwood, just west of I-44."
     "Did you hear that?" Ballack asked Hull.
     "Got it. perfect," replied Hull. "When we finish up here, we'll see you there. Go ahead and grab a table for four." He hung up.
     Ballack settled back in his wheelchair as Tori turned right on Lockwood when he remembered something. "Tor, I'm sorry. Can you double back to Webster? I think I saw a mailbox down by the East Academic Building. I forgot this. I need to put this in the mail today."
     "What about the post office?" implored Tori.
     "One thing I know about Webster Grove is there is no P.O. Closest one is in Shrewsbury near Kenrick-Glennon. Just quickly. For me."
     Two minutes later, they were back on campus. Tori reached across to take the envelope from Ballack. He drew back.
     "Just unlock me and let me do this myself," he said. "We've got time before Missy and Zane get to dinner."
     But Tori had seen the recipient's address
     "You're pathetic," she muttered, shaking her head. "I'll take care of this, but you should know better."
     Ballack watched her head toward the mailbox, defiantly grinding his teeth to detract from the lump in his throat.

Cry From The Grave (Chapter 14)

Cry From The Grave

Chapter 14

     "And the last time you saw him was this morning?" Zane Hull was incredulous as he and Missy Crabolli stood in front of Charlie Brugner, manager of the Eden Seminary bookstore. They had made the short walk across the seminary campus and found the store in the basement of Schultz Hall. Miffed that the store was closed on weekends, they walked to the Luhr Library and made inquiries about Carter. Here, the circulation desk clerk was able to direct them to Brugner, who happened to be doing some maintenance work that afternoon on the library's journal database. The conjoining of the seminary library with Webster University's resources meant Brugner worked overtime in areas that confused most of the staff at Eden.

     Now Brugner was trying to recall exact details for both detectives regarding Eric Carter's whereabouts. The informed the bookstore manager of the situation at St. Matthew's Grove. Normally, Brugner claimed, Carter would be in the bowels of the library or catching up on reading at his home on Saturdays. However, his employee's demeanor the day before seriously concerned him.

     "He blew into the bookstore without so much as a hello," said Brugner. "He was to come by and assist with inventory after we closed. I asked what was wrong and he was...well, shaken is the word I'd use. Like he'd been humiliated. He could barely talk. Really wasn't effective worth squat, so I told him to take a hike and finish up today. He was to come to see me in the library for the key to the bookstore."

      "And what time was that?" asked Crabolli.

     "Just before five last night."

     "No," said Crabolli. "I meant, when was he supposed to meet you this morning?"

     "Ah, okay. Well, I had told him nine-thirty. I was in one of the computer labs here in the library at that time when he called me on my cell. He said he was sorry but that he needed to stay at home this weekend. Badly ill. Came on all of a sudden. He wouldn't say where he was calling from, though I never asked. I assumed it was at home, but then a professor--Rick Bartholomew, he's our theology department head--told me before lunch that he saw Eric around that time on his cell phone, coming out of the chapel. I tried reaching him at home, and I can't get through at all. 'Not in service', said the robotic voice, which leads me to wonder if he yanked the cord out of the wall jack."

     Hull tapped his pen on the study carrel in the quiet room they occupied. "Mr. Brugner, is Eric the type to be impulsive? Would he do something rash, either to himself or to others?"

     "I've known him for fifteen months," said Brugner, "ever since he started his classes here. Very diligent person. Hard working. In fact, probably too hard. He throws himself into everything and is disappointed if he doesn't nail it totally one hundred percent. He's a perfectionist. I've never had a problem with Eric, other than having to strategize how to gently correct him when he needs it. He doesn't always receive criticism well, shall we say."

     "At the very least," said Hull, "could you give us his address? We really need to meet with him."

     Brugner dutifully wrote out the information on a blank index card.

     "If you see or hear from him, would you let us know?" Crabolli requested, giving him her card. "We're not saying he's a suspect, but answers from him need to be sooner rather than later."

     "Thanks," Brugner said, putting up a chunky right hand. "I'll do that. Besides, I have a vested interest in corralling him, given he still owes me inventory time."

     The two detectives walked out in the crisp November weather. Gray clouds swept across the sky, threatening rain, and Hull thought he could pick up a faint rumble of thunder.

     "We're not saying he's a suspect," he scoffed as they walked down the center path of the Wiese Quadrangle. "Missy, you make any whopper sound practically believable."

     "It's a murder case," Crabolli replied. "We even have to handle the bystanders with care. Like tempting a rabbit with a carrot. You can't make any sudden moves."

     A thought struck Hull. "Speaking of sudden moves, we have Carter calling Brugner this morning, begging off work, and it turns out he was in the chapel..." Hull pointed north, "...all along. Then he jets. Like he was in a rush."

     "Rushing where?"

     "Maybe more like rushing from."

     Crabolli looked at her partner with interest. "From the hospice?"

     "We could confirm that right now. It won't prove Carter's the perp, but think about it. What's the one thing we haven't nailed down yet?"

     "Lunch. That's for sure. I haven't eaten anything but a bagel this morning and I'm starving."

     "No," Hull said excitedly. "The murder weapon. Whatever cut Hibbler open had to have been the mother of all knives. If I'm Carter, and if I just did the deed, and then if I made a breathless phone call from the chapel soon after, how would I get there?"

     Crabolli looked over the grassy knoll, bordered on the northeast side by a baseball diamond near a parking lot. "I suppose straight across the field, then skirt along the east walk there by Schultz Hall and sneak on up toward the chapel."

     "Direct route, huh?"

     "Looks to be that."

     Hull smirked. "And if you had the weapon?"

     "Probably ditch it."

     "Where?"

     Crabolli saw where her partner was going with this. "Fine. I'll take the bushes by Schultz. You scan the field in a line from here to St. Matthew's."

Hull spent the next forty minutes cursing himself for his suggestion. His back was hurting from the constant stooping whenever he thought he caught a glint of steel or what seemed like a handle. He veered slightly from the straight-line approach, but even a wider arc search yielded nothing. He had just ducked out of the path of a low flying raven when his phone blared in his jacket pocket. He coughed when he answered, sending eruptions of steam into the chilly air.

     "Get over here," Crabolli ordered, her voice simultaneously awestruck and disturbed. "About four yards south of where we first entered Schultz to check the bookstore."

     Hull broke into an easy trot and in less than a minute he was at Crabolli's side. She was pulling on gloves and pointing into the shrubbery against the wall.

     "We might not have any prints on it," she said, "but if you look close, we've got something else on it already."

     Hull peered at the knife. It was a Buck 119 Special. The blade gleamed despite the overcast sky. The black phenolic handle emitted a beautiful sheen set against the aluminum butt, but Hull's attention went to the spatters and smudges along the handle and the sharp blade. Even in the tricky light, he knew.

     "Blood," he exhaled at last. "All up and down that knife and more than enough for a rock-solid sample. And I'll bet it had Hibbler's DNA all over it."

Cry From The Grave (Chapter 13)

Cry From The Grave

Chapter 13

     The Sam Priest Center at Webster University provides nearly eight thousand square feet of space to the school's Department of History, Politics, and International Relations. built in 1905 as an eighteen-room house and acquired by the university in 1990, the historic structure on Big Bend Boulevard had just undergone an extensive summer renovation. The face lift included a more efficient cooling system with insulation, a rain garden, interior storm windows, and new roofing tiles. Much to Ballack's delight, the transformation also included a new wheelchair ramp on the south end of the property. The slope led to a pair of automatic doors that opened into a classroom painted in light pink. Ballack thought the color was less than conducive to the learning process.
     Having tried to reach Zakhary at his home, Tori spoke with his wife, who mentioned he would be grading exams until at least two o'clock in his office. When Tori called him, the professor had been resistant to any intrusion, begging to be left alone with his tests. Only when Tori mentioned the "therapy incident" with Dean Hibbler did Zakhary relent, and graciously so. Tori sensed neither trepidation nor anxiety from him, although it was difficult to perceive either over the phone. Zakhary met them in the pink classroom moments after they walked in and made the obligatory introductions and Zakhary viewed their identification badges.
     "This should do if you want to speak with me," he swept his arm toward a space near the front of the room. "No one normally comes in but for a few minutes at a time on a weekend. I'm sorry. Where are my manners, Ms. Vaughan. Here's a comfortable chair so you don't have to squeeze into one of these collegiate-style desks."
     "You teach full-time here at Webster?" asked Tori as she seated herself.
     "Political science," Zakhary mentioned. "Even though this is a university that leans more heavily toward the performing and fine arts, there's still a great deal of energy in the humanities. From what you said on the phone, I assume you are here regarding my mother-in-law's session and Dr. Hibbler's actions yesterday?"
     "In a manner of speaking," replied Ballack.
     Zakhary looked confused. "What manner of speaking?"
     Tori chose to speak next. "Dr. Zakhary, we're here because this morning, Dr. Hibbler was discovered dead in his office at St. Matthew's Grove. It appears he had been murdered. We've come to ask you some questions regarding Dr. Hibbler, your experience having your mother-in-law there as a patient, and about your whereabouts this morning."
     Zakhary was not prepared for the word murdered. He stumbled back half a pace and steadied himself against the white board. Seating himself after a half minute, he finally found his quavering voice.
     "Mur...murdered?" he sputtered. He snatched a tissue from his pocket and dabbed his forehead, even though it was hardly warm in the room. "Good heavens! I mean...I was just there yesterday! I saw him. And now he's dead?"
     Either legitimate shock or pure salesmanship, thought Ballack. "Yes, Dr. Zakhary. He was discovered just after ten o'clock this morning by staff members at the hospice. While an official autopsy has not yet occurred, there is no doubt he was murdered." Ballack paused for effect. "It would be most helpful, Dr. Zakhary..."
      "Musa," the professor stammered. "Please," he said, holding up palms that revealed smooth, perfectly proportioned fingers, "call me Musa."
     "Very well, Musa," Ballack went on without slowing down. "It would be most helpful if you could tell us about your interactions with Dr. Hibbler. When did you and your wife put Verna McBride in St. Matthew's Grove?"
    Zakhary steadied his breathing before he attempted an answer. "Kerry and I made a difficult decision regarding her mother. We wanted the best for her, but ovarian cancer is not the sort of item you manage well at home. Our children would not benefit from being spectators to their grandmother's horrific demise. Kerry visits her mother every day and I make a couple stops per week. Verna and her husband Michael were very good to me as in-laws. No ethnic prejudices. Of course, it helped that I was Coptic Orthodox rather than Muslim. Anyhow, we placed Verna there at the start of the academic year. I believe the exact date was the twentieth of August."
     "And did Dr. Hibbler oversee the admissions process?" asked Tori.
     "Most of our interaction was with Mrs. Andrews. I assume you've met her if you've come to see me. She handled the paperwork and discussed the plan of care with us. A fine lady, if you ask me. In my opinion, she should be the head of the facility. Hibbler met with us at the end to let us know Verna had been accepted as a patient. The look on his face told me how supremely disappointed he was that he'd have to work that much more."
     "You never got the sense he was keen on having your mother-in-law there?"
     "I never got the sense he was keen on being there himself."
     "For our purposes, this next question is absolutely essential," said Ballack. "What provocative or tense situations might have arisen within the last month between you and Dr. Hibbler?"
     "The last month?"
     "Even the last week will do," Tori broke in. "The therapy session will be just fine."
     Zakhary hesitated, to which Ballack said sharply, "Dr. Zakhary--Musa--you have a couple of options. Cooperate fully now or save it for the police station."
     It was abundantly clear that Musa Zakhary had zero experience in this type of scenario. His shoulder slumped and he began, "Well, the issue began roughly three weeks ago. Verna doesn't want to go quietly. Ovarian cancer can really strip all your power and will if you let it, but she was never that type from the beginning. She loves going out, even in her wheelchair." He paused as if aware Ballack could take that statement as a slight. When the detective nodded understandingly, Zakhary went on. "Physical therapy, though limited, can drain her, but it's better than doing nothing. Eric Carter has difficulty making the transition from normal therapy to hospice therapy."
     "In what way?" Tori asked.
     "In every way. I think he had worked with athletes before, so it is hard for him to work with elderly folks who are just focused on moving from their chairs to their beds or maintaining some decent occupational therapeutic activities and fine motor skills. He's trying to be something that is beyond their reach, but it ends up causing him to look as if he's in over his head, which he isn't in terms of ability. The hospice, according to standards of care guidelines, should be offering occupational, physical, and speech therapy for all who need it, and to be fair to him, Eric is stretched thin. And it's not his fault."
     "And for you to say that," Ballack remarked, "means you believe the fault lies elsewhere."
     "I do. We quickly discovered that offering services means one thing, and determining how much quality applies to which patient is another. Four times over the course of Verna's time there, including three times in the last month, we've requested specific goals and activities in her therapy program. Eric Caret and Isabel Andrews signed off on that, but Hibbler denied it. We checked things out and soon found he had a history of denying therapeutic activities. It's almost like he is--was--determined to let the patients run out the clock. Well, Verna McBride does not run out the clock!"
     "I believe you," said Ballack. "Tell us about yesterday and be as detailed as you can, please."
     Zakhary went through a helpful--if somewhat painstaking--summary of the events of his prior visit, ending with his shaken sensation after Hibbler's slur. The detectives listened in silence, not interrupting once. When he had finished, Ballack and Tori exchanged a quick glance.
     "Obviously," said Tori, "Mrs. Andrews had shared more information than one would expect. Does that cause you concern, that your mother-in-law might lose her hospice?"
     "Of course, it would cause us concern. Verna has been strong and has lived past the time we thought she had, and so we'd need to think transfer if she lives longer. But that is a minor issue compared to the experience under Hibbler."
     "An experience that she no longer has to bear," reminded Ballack. "Was this the first time you heard Hibbler use an expression like raghead?"
     "Yes, first time, but the ongoing impudence has gone on since Verna was placed there."
     "And after this incident," asked Tori, "what did you do?"
     "I went straight home," said Zakhary. "I was so irate, I knew I had to get far away from there. Kerry and I discussed it after dinner, and re-living it only gave me a bad case of indigestion. I never got any grading done last night, so that's the reason why I'm here at the office today."
     "Retrace your steps for us today," Tori continued. "From when you got up until now."
     "I woke up around seven, showered, ate a bit of breakfast, and came straight here. I left the house around eight and arrived here ten minutes later. We live in Shrewsbury, so it's not far. I've been here since then."
     "Is there anyone here that can verify you've hung around here all morning?" Ballack asked.
     Zakhary paused, obviously calculating the difficulty of an open alibi. "A fellow professor in the history department called at quarter till nine. Dr. Frank Crockett. He asked if I was going to be here past the time the mail arrived, as a package could be arriving for him today. I told him I'd look out for it. That was it."
      "So, no one saw you physically enter the building, nor can anyone definitively confirm your presence here for the full time since your arrival." Ballack spoke each word carefully, slowing the pace of his words as the sentence continued.
     Zakhary looked down, then back up at Ballack again. "No on, I'm afraid. You only have my word to go on. Hopefully, that's what will do, for now, Detective Ballack." 
     "To be honest, Musa," Ballack replied, "that's what makes the difference in the very end." He produced one of his cards and handed it to the professor. "If you think of anything else, please call. We'll let ourselves out."
      
     

Cry From The Grave (Chapter 12)

Cry From The Grave

Chapter 12

     Missy Crabolli entered the chapel just as Isabel Andrews shot through the doors with Tori in tow.

     "That was pleasant," she chuckled as she approached Ballack. "Zane is checking with Evan and Sheilah. He'll be here in a bit. Thought it might be good to talk initial results."

     "Can't be worse than what we just endured," Ballack replied. It took him a couple of frustrating minutes to ready his laptop and open another folder on the desktop. "Go ahead."

     Crabolli looked over her recordings. She always chose a flip-top Steno notebook, white and blue cover. Old-school, like Tori. "Aside from Helen Smith, no one among the patients even saw Hibbler this morning. And judging by their relative strength and the size of the hole in his neck, it's safe to say none of them could have taken the doc out."

     "That's the general consensus," said Ballack, "but thanks for checking."

     "Daryl Goodspeed is the only one remotely strong enough to pull it off, but he and James Caple were involved in a marathon game of checkers this morning from seven-thirty to nine-thirty, right after breakfast. Beverly Overton verified she got Goodspeed up at seven-ten."

     "Thus, both Overton and Barber were here since seven o'clock, at least?"

     Crabolli nodded. "Shift change. Two nurses on the weekend crew versus three during the week."

     "I assume neither nurse happened to confess to the murder and tie this up in a nice bow for us?" asked Ballack.

     "Overton claimed to be getting patients up and to breakfast, those who needed it, anyway," said Crabolli, finding her place in the notes. "Plus, she had clerical duties and had to run off some copies."

     "In the room next to Hibbler's office?"

     "That's where the copier is."

     "Which means she had access during that time."

     "Couldn't anyone get in?" asked Tori, who had just returned with Isabel Andrews' scrub pants in a plastic exhibit bag.

     "Barber had a key to Hibbler's office on her," replied Crabolli.

     "That's of keen interest," Ballack mused. "Of course, Overton grabbed one from the closet on that hall, as directed by Isabel. So Anna Barber had a key, Isabel knew where a key was, and it's conceivable Beverly Overton could have known, given that security around here seems to be a joke."

     Zane Hull walked into the chapel, holding up a finger to signal his entrance into the conversation. "Beverly Overton was visibly upset," he announced. "Anna Barber maintained she was in the nurses' lounge and never saw Hibbler until she and Giles heard Beverly's scream. I asked if she was sorry he was dead, blah, blah, blah. She spread her arms out and said 'I am only sorry for the fact this might cause us to close for sure. No one could survive the publicity we'll get now.' And then she went right back to looking at her phone."
     "Sounds charming," Ballack replied. "And the cafeteria duo?"
     "Bob and Georgia Hagan? Pleasant couple. Oddly enough, they seem to be the most upset by his death and had the best relationship with Hibbler. Probably because, being non-medical personnel, they weren't viewed as competition. They got here at six-thirty to cook breakfast, were both in the kitchen throughout that time, and were to stay until two this afternoon. A couple of volunteers handle the dinner hour."
     "The question is if they saw Hibbler alive," said Tori.
     "Bob did. According to him, Hibbler sucked into the kitchen to ask for a bagel and cream cheese, which Bob promptly gave to him. Said the doctor took it toward his office. Never saw him again. That was just after Hibbler arrived."
     Ballack then gave a concise summary of their talks with Father Giles and Isabel Andrews, neither ignoring nor repeating anything.
     "So," Crabolli answered, "we have almost everyone here at some point within the time frame, but both the priest and the nursing director for the least amount of minutes. Yet they both stood to lose the most if Hibbler achieved closure."
     "The most that we know of," Ballack cautioned. "Don't forget we have two other persons of interest. Musa Zakhary is Verna McBride's son-in-law. During the incident yesterday, Hibbler used an ethnic epithet against him and practically dared him to pull Verna out of here. And with Hibbler firing Eric Carter from his position, we need to question him. The rector across the street, one Nick Fisher, was with Hibbler, Andrews, and Giles two days ago at a tense business meeting, so we should hit him up as well."
     "Just so you know," interrupted Hull. "Holbrook said they were free and clear at the morgue with no wait time, so he was going to get busy on the body. Not that manner of death is a mystery. Sheilah and her crew will be busy here for a while in that mess."
     "In the meantime," Ballack redirected, "let's leave that to the experts and focus on our upcoming chats. If you two could skip across the lawn to Eden Seminary. See if Eric Carter is working in the bookstore today and, if not there, find out where he lives. His mailing address is a post box at the school, so we'll need to find out where he hangs his hat. Talk to people there if it helps to get a picture of what he's like. That could tell us more than a dozen direct questions aimed at Carter himself. We'll get Hibbler's personnel file from Isabel before we leave. That might reveal some tidbits. The main thing is to focus on everyone who was here on site within the last twenty-four hours. "
     "What about you guys?" asked Crabolli.
     "We'll check Zakhary's home and--if not there--his office at Webster. And from there, we can get Fisher at the church."
     "Anything for us aside from Carter?" Hull inquired.
     "Once you're done with him, if you get him," replied Ballack, "then go to Billy Hanspard's address. Since he was in the therapy snafu yesterday, he might lend some insight. If you have time afterward, go to father Giles' house in Crestwood and pay a surprise visit to his wife to confirm his comings and goings this morning."
     "We haven't had a murdering clergyman before, C.B.," Hull muttered with restraint.
     "Doesn't mean it's not possible," said Ballack, putting his wheelchair in gear. "Let's move. We're fighting time."

Cry From The Grave (Chapter 11)

Cry From The Grave

Chapter 11

     Ballack's cell phone buzzed and he answered it to hear Hull's voice. "Anna Barber was rather uncooperative. Beat around the bush on a lot of questions. Spent more time checking her cell phone than anything else."

     "She didn't use it, did she?" Ballack said more sharply than he intended. Of course, he realized, she could always text half the world once out of their sight.

     "More of a nervous tick than anything else," said Hull. "She'd pull it out, look at the screen, huff around, but never clicked a button. She did give us one intriguing sliver of detail. Said that yesterday Hibbler interfered in a physical therapy session involving Verna McBride and James Caple. Apparently, he got nose to nose with Isabel Andrews and told off the physical therapist."

     "The therapist's name?" asked Ballack.

     "Eric Carter," replied Hull. "Part-time here, part-time student at Eden Seminary next door, if what Barber said is on target. He also works at the seminary bookstore and lives in a house or apartment nearby. Evidently, Hibbler fired him on the spot for negligent behavior."

     "During the session? That's fairly serious."

     "Well, the McBride woman, her son-in-law was there. Egyptian gut, professor over at Webster..."

     "Good night, is everyone located within a three-block radius?" Ballack asked aloud. "This is like St. Basil's all over again."

     "What?"

     "Never mind. Did you get the son-in-law's name?"

     "Zakhary." Hull spelled it out for Ballack. "But when we asked Barber what she saw, she confessed she heard it secondhand. Wasn't even in the room. Not even in the building."

     "Well then, who was there? You told me about Carter and Zakhary. Who else?"

     "Beverly Overton. Billy Hanspard, who is another nurse. And Isabel Andrews, as previously mentioned."

     "We have her next. Get Hanspard's number and call him in. After we're done with the staff here now, we'll need to talk to him, Carter, and Zakhary. Also, we'll have to check out Nick Fisher, the rector at the church across the street. Could come to nothing, but Father Giles was over there during the time range of the murder and I'd like to confirm that and other details."

     "You got it. We'll touch base after the next round."

     Tori opened the door and brought Isabel Andrews with her up the center aisle. The nursing director's eyes were already shifting back and forth between the detectives. Ballack knew first instincts could be misleading, but he had rarely possessed such a strong presumption of guilt. With slow, clumsy steps, Isabel approached him and took the same spot in the front pew as Father Giles had before.

    Again, Ballack had Tori begin the interview. Isabel had worked as a pediatric nurse at Cardinal Glennon Medical Center for several years before shifting her interest toward the elderly, infirmed, and terminal. Now a veteran of hospice care, she had served St. Matthew's Grove for fifteen months before being promoted to nursing director. It had been a difficult five years in that role, with a high level of scheduling headaches along with maintaining stability on the nursing roster. Tori brought up Hibbler's name and both detectives noticed Isabel flinched slightly.

     "Was Dr. Hibbler an easy person to work for?" asked Tori.

     Isabel drew a deep breath before answering. "No one is all sweetness and light in a hospice setting. Obviously, the tagline is that people come here to live well, but beyond the advertising, we know that death takes no prisoners. That can lead to tensions that no one can foresee."

     Ballack spoke up. "I get unplanned friction. Our question wasn't necessarily about the facility's esprit de corps but about yours. Had there been a history of conflict between you and Dr. Hibbler?"

     "No more conflict," said Isabel, less evenly than before, "than anyone else had."

     "Spreading the antagonism more thinly may have benefits for you, Mrs. Andrews," Ballack replied with a smirk, "but if we want to know of snags between the doctor and the rest of the staff, we'll ask them in turn. I'll ask again as my partner already did. Was Dr. Hibbler an easy person to work for?"

     "We had our differences."

     "What sort of differences?" asked Tori.

     "They could be significant at points," Isabel replied. Though seated, she drew herself up as much as possible and flexed her fingers. Ballack sneaked a peek at her hands. With her svelte and willowy physique, she had hands that looked as if they could palm a basketball. And that, thought Ballack on a second look, was not their only distinguishing feature.

     "Mrs. Andrews," he broke in, "it is absolutely critical that you be completely honest with us. We have received information about two separate moments of tension between you and Dr. Hibbler within the last two days. We know that your little group tete a tete did not go well at Robust Wine Bar and you stormed out over the issue of Hibbler's involvement in--shall we say--the potential reconstructing of St. Matthew's Grove future. And we've been told there was an altercation yesterday during a physical therapy appointment, one in which you both were nose to nose."

     Isabel's eyes were now slits. She drank in Ballack's remarks with visible annoyance. "I suppose that you are owed an explanation for those, but it's actually quite simple. I was merely defending the rights of the staff to have some sort of consensus on the hospice's future. I didn't agree with Dean heading up what could well be our demise, but then again if you've spoken with Rory Giles, you know he was less than thrilled himself. And if you are referring to the therapy appointment, then yes--Hibbler accosted me, but I was not the only one." She leaned toward Ballack. "He also fired Eric Carter within seconds of his arrival, so now we have no physical therapist anymore. I mean, in public, with several staff members and a guest standing around! And to make matters worse, he verbally assaulted a patient's relative!"

     "In the room?" asked Tori.

     "Musa Zakhary," continued Isabel. "His mother-in-law is Verna McBride and she was one of the therapy patients. Musa and I were speaking in the hallway outside the room when Verna tottered. Eric might not have been using proper precautions. I can't say for sure because I didn't see it occur; I only saw Verna tip toward the floor. Musa dashed in and was able to stabilize her before she hit the ground. Both he and Eric managed to get her back on the therapy table. Whether it was Eric's fault or not, Musa was relieved Verna was okay. He wasn't angry with Eric, nor do I recall Musa chewing him out. That's when Dean blew in there without even knowing what went on and screamed at all of us up one side and down the other. He told Eric to clean out his stuff and leave! And then turned on Musa, got in his face, and told him if he didn't care for how we did treatment here, then maybe Verna would be better off elsewhere! And then..." Isabel broke off, clearly upset. "He called Musa a raghead!"

     "A raghead?" Ballack's disgust was unmasked in his voice. Certainly, there was ethnic prejudice alive and well amongst physicians, even anti-Middle East bigotry. But to express it out loud broke bounds of modesty and professionalism. "That was the exact expression?"

     "You can confirm with Dr. Zakhary, but yes--I was there when those words came out of Dean's mouth. I was...oh, dear Lord, I was so embarrassed. And ashamed we had that man as our director."

     "Angry?"

     Isabel glared at him. "Of course, I was angry, but who wouldn't be? Don't attribute emotions specifically to me that others would have!"

     Ballack was unmoved. "Dr. Zakhary is the one at Webster."

     "Rory obviously let you know," said Isabel, more calmly. "You can confirm with him."

     "In due time, Mrs. Andrews," said Ballack. "There is the matter of where you were from seven to ten o'clock this morning."

     "I was not here until nine-thirty," she replied. "During his little stunt in the therapy room yesterday, Dean ordered me to meet him in his office at ten, presumably to bawl me out. I made it a point to get here, get some work done in my office, and then see him at the last possible moment. His door was closed when I arrived."

     "No one can verify you got here at nine-thirty?" Tori pressed her.

     "Beverly Overton was the first to see me when I couldn't get into Dean's office. I tried to enter through the narthex side, so if you find my prints on the handle, it's because I tried to go in through that door for a meeting which never happened."

     "And you never were in that room until you and Mrs. Overton walked in and discovered the body?"

     "Correct. Beverly went to get a key."

     "From where?" Ballack asked.

     "The maintenance closet."

     "You can get into the maintenance closet? Just walk in? So anyone could have access?"

     "I didn't think about that at the time, detective."

     "I believe no one here has thought of security issues like that at all," Ballack replied. "But nothing has changed since then or from when we arrived?"

     "Meaning what?"

     "You haven't touched anything from the scene or moved anything in the office?"

     "No, I haven't. I went in a bit to see that he was, in fact, dead. Nothing has changed."

     "All except," came Ballack's lightly mordant tone, "the fact that you've washed your hands and changed your pants since we arrived."

     "What?"

     Ballack smiled ruefully. "You were standing to the side in the cafeteria when we arrived. I took a peek at your left hand and there was something scrawled in blue marker or ink on it. Now that mark is missing. Also, even though you still have the same white jacket and scrub top, you changed scrub pants. These are royal blue, like the others, but the pair you wore in the cafeteria had a matching blue drawstring, and the drawstring for this pair is white. Not to mention even a casual view of your right pant leg shows this pair is untouched at the hem, while the previous pair had significant stitching which revealed them were hemmed."

     Silence reigned in the chapel. Ballack glared hotly at Isabel.

     "The question that my partner is asking," Tori interjected, "is why you changed scrubs and why you washed your hands when a dead body was in that office and detectives had arrived."       If Ballack had a whiff of guilt before, this was a gale-force wind. Isabel Andrews, however, cagily directed her reponse to Tori. "If your partner must know, I washed my hands for the reason of cleanliness. I checked on Lawrence Gildea after you met with us this morning and--murder investigation or not--I need to follow hygienic procedures. And as for the scrubs, I changed for a better fit." She looked at Ballack. "Is that good enough for you?"

     It wasn't terrible as far as reasons went, thought Ballack, but he had taken enough of her edginess. "That will do for now, Mrs. Andrews."

     Tori stood. "I'll need to come with you and place your previously worn scrubs in a bag."

     "Please keep this conversation private, Mrs. Andrews," Ballack added. "We still have more questions to ask, but at this point, you are free to continue your other obligations."

     Before the last syllable was out of Ballack's mouth, Isabel Andrews was headed for the door.