Cry From The Grave
Chapter 7
Weekends at St. Matthew's Grove were slower affairs. After the breakfast delivery to patient rooms, the routine was mostly checking of vitals and dispensing of medication. By ten o'clock, the patients were either dozing in their rooms or arguing current events in the library. If not helping a patient, the nurses tended to chart their cases in the lounge or make copies as needed in a small room just off Dean Hibbler's office. With no receptionist manning the phones in the narthex today, no lights had been turned on in the entry, and the central space took on an unearthly, depressing pallor.
Melba Gorman--plump, thirty-nine years of age, with curly, black hair--normally occupied a desk in the copy room. But since her position was part-time, she worked only Monday, Wednesday, and Thursday each week. This morning, Beverly Overton whistled a tune as she fed an undercarriage tray with two reams of white printer paper. She checked her watch as she slid the last of her documents into the feeder and pressed the start button. A normal Saturday, she thought to herself with a wry smile. Father Giles had arrived a full fifteen minutes ago, although she hadn't seen him since. Likely prepping the chapel for the service later. Her colleagues were probably shuffling through their own duties and arguing about who would have courtyard watch later with those souls brave enough to face the autumn chill.
Beverly Overton grasped the printed copies from the finishing tray and tapped the stack into perfectly aligned submission. She had just turned toward the door leading into the hallway when she heard Isabel Andrews' voice slice through the morning calm.
"Dr. Hibbler!" The nursing director was normally annoyed when she had to deal with her boss, thought Beverly, but this command was exceedingly shrill. Beverly circled out into the narthex and came face to face with her supervisor, who was slapping the palm of her hand against the office door.
"Dr. Hibbler, I know you're in there, and you know we have to talk!" She slammed her fist on the door and grimaced from the impact. Looking at Beverly, she said, "Can you believe this? After ten in the morning, his car in the lot, and his lights out in his office. I'm in no mood for this cat-and-mouse!"
"It's locked?" asked Beverly, trying the handle.
"Of course, it's locked, Beverly!" popped an exasperated Isabel. "I don't think I'd stand here yelling if I hadn't tried the door!"
Beverly raised her finger and wagged it toward the northwest hallway. "Follow me. We can see if the door from Melba's room is unlocked, although I doubt it would be. If not there, perhaps from the library."
"Unlikely, but it's worth a shot," replied Isabel, who followed her most competent nurse into the copy room. There was a door leading into Hibbler's office, and as they expected, it was locked. They swept around to the northeast hallway and went into the library. Helen Smith sat in a recliner, reading the morning edition of the Post-Dispatch. She said nothing to either woman, rather peering guardedly over the edge of the front page.
"As I guessed," Isabel huffed. "Well, either his office is empty or he's playing video poker on his laptop in the dark. Either way, I'm meeting with him, so I'll go in and wait. I don't expect you have a key, but perhaps Father Giles does?"
Beverly frowned. "I doubt even he would. He's not the type, you know."
A sudden look of enlightenment came to Isabel's face. "We're probably not out of luck. Go to the maintenance closet. They might have some keys available, you'd think. Let's get them quickly," Isabel ordered, ignoring the obvious compromise to office security. "I'm losing patience."
Beverly nodded, striding around through the narthex and going back down the hallway past the copy room to a door on the other side. Opening it, she found a trash cart and cleaning equipment, which she pulled out into the hall. Turning on the light, she looked at a small Formica table before finding a series of hooks on the wall to the right. A ring of keys hung on a brass-plated hook. She snatched them and began examining each one as she headed back.
She saw Isabel at the end of the hallway, tapping her foot, chafing at the delay. Approaching her, Beverly held up two keys.
"I'm not sure which one is the key to his room, but this blue-colored one is next to the key for the copy room. I wonder if that's the one."
Isabel stifled her temper, trying to appreciate Beverly's desire to be thorough. "Bev, just come out here. The narthex entry will do."
Beverly nodded curtly and soon was standing in front of the main door to Hibbler's office. She had guessed wrong on the exact key, and it took several attempts before she found the key, shoved it in the lock, and turned it easily. Beverly reached for the light as Isabel entered after her.
"Oh no!" Beverly screamed. "Oh, heavens!" She slumped to the floor, conquered by shock in both body and spirit.
Isabel Andrews approached and saw the sprawled, seated figure of Dr. Dean Hibbler, face down on the top of his desk in a small lake of viscous red. Steadily, she moved around the right side, taking care to touch nothing. Finally, she drew next to the doctor's chair and viewed his body. No movement.
"No! No! No!" Beverly Overton's screams were bombing the facility with frantic terror. She had crawled out the door into the narthex and curled on the floor in a quivering fetal position.
Isabel was out of the office in a shot, immediately crouched next to her worker and friend, leaving the horrific scene behind her. A gaping wound lay open on the right side of Hibbler's neck, the insides of the throat area split wide open. Isabel looked up as she heard footsteps approaching, and there were Anna Barber and Father Rory Giles staring at the gory scene and then at her.
Father Giles, stone-faced, made the sign of the cross. "Dear God, what happened?"
Beverly's voice trailed away in sobs. "It's bad...it's bad...it's bad."
Isabel looked from Father Giles to Anna--who beheld the corpse of Dean Hibbler with an eerily contemptuous look--and then back to the chaplain again. "Father, we need to call the police."
Giles shook his head, clearly drunk with confusion but clutching for a sense of control. "This is beyond the Webster Groves force, my dear. I know just whom to call. Give me a moment." And he was gone.
"It's locked?" asked Beverly, trying the handle.
"Of course, it's locked, Beverly!" popped an exasperated Isabel. "I don't think I'd stand here yelling if I hadn't tried the door!"
Beverly raised her finger and wagged it toward the northwest hallway. "Follow me. We can see if the door from Melba's room is unlocked, although I doubt it would be. If not there, perhaps from the library."
"Unlikely, but it's worth a shot," replied Isabel, who followed her most competent nurse into the copy room. There was a door leading into Hibbler's office, and as they expected, it was locked. They swept around to the northeast hallway and went into the library. Helen Smith sat in a recliner, reading the morning edition of the Post-Dispatch. She said nothing to either woman, rather peering guardedly over the edge of the front page.
"As I guessed," Isabel huffed. "Well, either his office is empty or he's playing video poker on his laptop in the dark. Either way, I'm meeting with him, so I'll go in and wait. I don't expect you have a key, but perhaps Father Giles does?"
Beverly frowned. "I doubt even he would. He's not the type, you know."
A sudden look of enlightenment came to Isabel's face. "We're probably not out of luck. Go to the maintenance closet. They might have some keys available, you'd think. Let's get them quickly," Isabel ordered, ignoring the obvious compromise to office security. "I'm losing patience."
Beverly nodded, striding around through the narthex and going back down the hallway past the copy room to a door on the other side. Opening it, she found a trash cart and cleaning equipment, which she pulled out into the hall. Turning on the light, she looked at a small Formica table before finding a series of hooks on the wall to the right. A ring of keys hung on a brass-plated hook. She snatched them and began examining each one as she headed back.
She saw Isabel at the end of the hallway, tapping her foot, chafing at the delay. Approaching her, Beverly held up two keys.
"I'm not sure which one is the key to his room, but this blue-colored one is next to the key for the copy room. I wonder if that's the one."
Isabel stifled her temper, trying to appreciate Beverly's desire to be thorough. "Bev, just come out here. The narthex entry will do."
Beverly nodded curtly and soon was standing in front of the main door to Hibbler's office. She had guessed wrong on the exact key, and it took several attempts before she found the key, shoved it in the lock, and turned it easily. Beverly reached for the light as Isabel entered after her.
"Oh no!" Beverly screamed. "Oh, heavens!" She slumped to the floor, conquered by shock in both body and spirit.
Isabel Andrews approached and saw the sprawled, seated figure of Dr. Dean Hibbler, face down on the top of his desk in a small lake of viscous red. Steadily, she moved around the right side, taking care to touch nothing. Finally, she drew next to the doctor's chair and viewed his body. No movement.
"No! No! No!" Beverly Overton's screams were bombing the facility with frantic terror. She had crawled out the door into the narthex and curled on the floor in a quivering fetal position.
Isabel was out of the office in a shot, immediately crouched next to her worker and friend, leaving the horrific scene behind her. A gaping wound lay open on the right side of Hibbler's neck, the insides of the throat area split wide open. Isabel looked up as she heard footsteps approaching, and there were Anna Barber and Father Rory Giles staring at the gory scene and then at her.
Father Giles, stone-faced, made the sign of the cross. "Dear God, what happened?"
Beverly's voice trailed away in sobs. "It's bad...it's bad...it's bad."
Isabel looked from Father Giles to Anna--who beheld the corpse of Dean Hibbler with an eerily contemptuous look--and then back to the chaplain again. "Father, we need to call the police."
Giles shook his head, clearly drunk with confusion but clutching for a sense of control. "This is beyond the Webster Groves force, my dear. I know just whom to call. Give me a moment." And he was gone.
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