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."