Cry From The Grave (Chapter 8)

Cry From The Grave

Chapter 8

     Within ninety minutes, a silver Chevy Cruze and a white Dodge Sprinter rolled into the parking lot at St. Matthew's Grove seconds apart. Father Giles' call to the Special Investigative Division was received, and Commander Stu Krieger had no doubt which team would take the case. Cameron Ballack and Tori Vaughan had been en route from their office to an interrogation near the Family Arena in St. Charles, but Krieger intervened through the St. Charles Police Detective Bureau, ordering another cop to that site. Even before Ballack could make the request for Zane Hull and Missy Crabolli to join their team, Krieger pre-emptively gladdened the detective's heart with that assignment. After Tori unleashed Ballack's wheelchair from the locks, he rolled down the Sprinter ramp to greet their collaborators.

     "My heroes," grinned Hull as Ballack glided towards him. "Always giving us a chance at another jagged puzzle."

     "Hardly heroic," replied Ballack. "Whom else would we want for this sort of plunge? I'm kind of shocked by the speed of it all."

     "I don't see any Webster police around," said Crabolli, "and they're just down the street."

     "Evidently, Stu's office took the call here from a Father Rory Giles, who serves as a chaplain of sorts," Ballack relayed from memory. His mind was sharp enough to recall almost every detail of conversation, letter, or report. "Give the Commander credit. He didn't waste any time getting us out here."

     "I just hope no one's messed with the body," said Tori.

     Ballack shook his head. "Stu just texted me and let me know that he ordered this Giles guy to herd everyone they had on site into the largest available room. For all intents and purposes, that was going to be the cafeteria, which I'm told..." and here he pointed over the roof of the building, "is on the back side to the left. Got our police tape? Good. We'll stop by the doctor's office, which should be to the left off the lobby when we enter. After a quick view, we'll head down to the cafeteria and meet with everyone before checking the room in greater detail and questioning folks."

     Hull was anxious to get started. They all were. Homicide was a nasty business, but the one thing they all shared was the initial surge of vocational adrenaline when they were gifted a case involving suspicious death. Bouncing on the balls of his feet, Hull asked, "So who's the victim?"

     Ballack tapped his knuckles together. "Dr. Dean Hibbler, director of St. Matthew's Grove hospice. Stu had nothing more on him--maybe the chaplain was sparing with the details--so we'll need to harvest all the juicy matters from the assembly inside. We have some time, because forensics won't be here for another thirty minutes."

     "Sheilah and Marcus?" Crabolli asked with hope. Forensic pathologist Sheilah Grimshaw and medical examiner Marcus Broadnax had worked the team's SID cases before. Ballack enjoyed watching Grimshaw--who dressed colorfully as if she ran a day-care center but was a formidable mind and eye--sliding around table tops, chairs, and disheveled objects in search of evidence that truly mattered. Broadnax had entered the medical field after a career in baseball fizzled out. He amazed Ballack with razor-sharp intellect and uncanny efficiency, his educated guesses on manner and time of death always correct. Ballack knew, however, that only half the duo would be arriving on scene today.

     "We get Sheilah," he began, turning up the ramp that led to the front door, "but according to Stu, Marcus is in Indianapolis as a speaker for the regional M.E. conference, and while  he's there, he will be negotiating for a donation from the Zachariah Hampton Foundation to pool it toward more funding for work such as that of the SID. We're in luck, though. Evan Holbrook, who just joined up, is on his way in. He's worked cases for us in the past. He's different from Marcus, more cagey. You'll have to be a bit more patient with some of his assessments, but he's quite good."

     "Never given us a reason not to trust you, C.B.," said Hull, entering the front door as Ballack wheeled into the narthex ahead of the group.

     The entry was gloomy, the spirit of death hanging in the atmosphere like the smell of a landfill. Ballack stopped his chair at the fountain, looking toward the chapel to his right and down the southernmost hallways to ensure no one was there before turning to Tori. He nodded toward the door of Hibbler's office, which bore the nameplate of the deceased.

     "Might as well go ahead and tape it off, Tor," he said. She nodded and yanked a section of the tape as she headed for the door. 

     "We need a key?" asked Crabolli.

     "Krieger said the chaplain left it under the trash can by the door," said Ballack, motioning toward the metallice cylinder. Tori, her hands gloved, procured the key and in a minute, they were inside the spacious office.

     The blood had slowed to a halt, having smeared much of one side of the desk. Hull swept around to the doctor's right and inspected the wound, squinting as if to divine some insight of the moment of death. Tori handed the roll of tape to Crabolli and fished out her digital camera, snapping more than fifteen pictures over two minutes' time.

     Ballack never took his eyes off Hibbler's body. Hull glanced at the corpse before, with gloved fingers, checking the doorway to the copy room.

     "Locked," he reported as Crabolli went to the door leading to the library and nodded likewise.

     "So, what do you think, C.B.?" Hull continued. "That's a lot of bluster to come in on a Saturday morning right off the lobby and skewer the big guy in his office."

     "We can obviously rule out suicide," said Crabolli.

     Ballack flipped open his laptop on his sidewinder tray, letting his colleagues talk.

     "No order to the room," Tori spoke up as she put her camera away. "Papers everywhere. Stacks of files. If anything was dislodged when the killer came in, it'd be difficult to know how that would change the layout significantly."

     "In a small facility like this, with few patients," Ballack rasped, "security looks like a joke. I'd imagine anyone could pull this off whether an inside or outside job, except for the patients. Somehow, I don't think an octogenarian stricken with terminal cancer would have th strength to open up a gaping wound like that. Even with the element of surprise."

     Hull's eyes had been roving the room. "Can't see a weapon anywhere."

     Ballack straightened up in his wheelchair. "Okay, that's good for an initial look. Let's meet the gallery."

     The scene that greeted Ballack and his mates in the cafeteria was unlike any group setting he'd experienced on a case. Six elderly individuals across the senior citizen spectrum emitted glassy stares. Four of them, like Ballack, were in wheelchairs, although the detective owned the only powered contraption. Three women were clad in hospital scrubs, although only one--who stood--wore a white jacket over her clothing. As the detectives approached, a short, frail man in clerical garb circled from behind the patients and drew near to Ballack, extending his hand. Ballack noticed the fingers were slender and cold to the touch, and the index finger on the priest's right hand was gnarled with a crusty, calloused knuckle.

     "Detective Ballack?" the priest asked.

     "You've got him," said Ballack quietly, although he judged many of the patients would have difficulty hearing him from fifteen feet away. "You must be Father Giles, who telephoned in the report."

     "I am," replied Giles. "The chaplain here at St. Matthew's Grove, to be precise. I suppose you will have to address us about your needs, but perhaps I can make some introductions for the time being."

     "That would be fine."
     Giles nodded and introduced himself to the other detectives, then turned slightly and gestured toward each of the others present. "Allow me to introduce you. Seated here are our patients: Helen Smith, Daryl Goodspeed, Lawrence Gildea, Verna McBride, Sandra Thomas, and James Caple. Alongside them are our nursing staff who were here at the time, Anna Barber and Beverly Overton. We have other nurses, of course, but they were not scheduled for this shift. And stading here on the right is our nursing director, Isabel Andrews. Our cafeteria personnel, Bob and Patricia Hagan, are seated behind the patients. And me, you've met."
     Ballack swept his eyes over the small crowd, looking for any glance that could be a tell of guilt or fear, although he knew full well that Tori was a better judge of those matters on the spot. He paused, drumming his fingers on his laptop before clearing his throat and addressing the group.
     "Thank you for coming, and I apologize for the cryptic nature of this meeting and I shall try to avoid taking up too much of your time." Ballack swalloed hard, the apology smacking of insincerity. "But what brings us here is critical. If you heard a commotion earlier, it was because Dr. Dean Hibbler was found dead in his office and Father Giles called us in. I am Detective Cameron Ballack of the Special Investigative Division of Metro St. Louis, and my colleagues you see here from left to right are Zane Hull, Missy Crabolli, and Tori Vaughan. We will be investigating this matter and thus you will see a lot of us for the next few days, since the first forty-eight hours tend to be critical to the success of an inquiry. We will necessarily have to upset your routine for a short time and use rooms for analysis and interrogation, yet we will aim to be as inobtrusive as humanly possible. We must speak to each of you in turn and attempt to complete those itnerviews this afternoon. However, one question requires immediate clarity: Did any of you see Dr. Hibbler this morning or did you enter his office prior to the discovery of his body?"
     It was a direct query, one that Ballack knew would likely not get an affirmative response, but it had to be asked. The elderly folks mostly stared at the floor straight ahead, but one shook her head vigorously.
     "I heard Dr. Hibbler when he entered this morning," she proclaimed wearily. "He got out of his car in the lot."
     "You didn't see him?" asked Tori.
     "Pardon me, Tori," said Ballack. "Ma'am, your name?"
     "Smith, sir. Helen Smith. I did not see him, but my room is in the hallway near the parking lot. I can tell when he arrives because he's got his music playing abysmally loud."
     "Loud?"
     "Classical music," Helen nodded. "But the volumr id up so high that he's woken me up at times. I was mad because it was early. Around seven."
     So, thought Ballack, if her memory was accurate, this was a murder with a three-hour window. The ramifications were daunting. He muttered Helen's information into his wireless set and the words appeared on his laptop, thanks to his Dragon software. He peered at the others. "Anyone else?"
     Anna BArber scowled at both Father Giles and Isabel Andrews before blurting out, "Why the questions? Do you really think someone in this room is involved?"
     Ballack tapped his right temple several times as he looked briefly at Hull, who said, "We are just getting a feel for what people might have seen or heard. We don't make suggestions but rather will let the evidence bear that out."
     "And what is it?" asked Anna, her voice rising noticeably. "I mean, how did he die?"
     Ballack held up a finger. Either she was a good actress or else no one knew that fact, either. "We are not verbally confirming that at the present. I will say that--given our initial observations--we are investigating this as a suspicious death. I will also ask: Who was it that discovered Dr. Hibbler first?"
      Father Giles, after a painful pause, looked at the group and then Ballack before answering, "Mrs. Overton and Mrs. Andrews were going into his office via the narthex and saw his body first."
     Ballack looked in the nurses' direction, including Anna Barber in his stony glare. No one said anything for several moments. Finally, Giles' tremulous voice found itself. "Suspicious death?"
     Ballack continued to stare at the nurses. Sensing Giles needed assurance he'd been heard rightly, Hull and Crabolli both nodded their assent.
     The word suspicious, since Ballack had spoken it, remained suspended in the room like a repugnant odor. Several of those gathered, patients and staff, squirmed slightly, as if their very movement might cleanse them of the film of potential distrust. Ballack sensed it and turned to Father Giles.
     "Father, we will need to set up in a room or two for the purposes of interviews. The cafeteria, while large, is too public and we will need some isolation for our needs. What two rooms would be both large and private enough in this facility?"
     "You can use the library for one of your rooms," replied the chaplain. "The only other room that is private enough is the chapel, opposite the narthex from Dr. Hibbler's office. I wanted to keep it clear but, given your needs and the fact it is an unconsecrated chapel, you are welcome to utilize it. I do have Evening Prayer in there on Saturdays and, as I don't know how long your work might take and I'll need to prepare for the service, if you can find another location instead, please do so."
     Ballack exhaled slowly. "The library is fine, and I understand your desire to stick to your liturgical schedule, Father. However, given the nature of our job, we need the life of the facility to function solely with activities that are critical. Nurses, maintenance, housekeeping...no one disputes those. But I think that, given the circumstances, we can postpone services in the chapel for the time being. Perhaps serve Communion in patients' rooms, meet here in the cafeteria for prayer, something like that. As I said, we'll be as efficient as we can. Also, Father, we'd appreciate a directory of the entire staff with contact information, as well."
     Ballack could tell the chaplain was unhappy with the order, but to Giles' credit, he nodded his grudging assent. "Very well," he replied to the detectives. "I take it there is no problem with keeping to the rest of the routine as much as possible?"
     "Not at all," said Ballack, looking back at his notes and motioning for Tori to step forward. Giles dismissed the group and he and Isabel joined Tori to the side. The two nurses began guiding the patients toward the door. Ballack wheeled around and spoke to Hull and Crabolli. "Let's make these initial interviews with the patients," he said. "They may be coming up against lunch and naptime, so let's move through them as fast as possible."
     "Doubtful one of them is the perp," countered Hull.
     "But they might have seen something," Crabolli reminded him. "Both of us in on the questioning, C.B.?"
     Ballack nodded. "And if ferrying them into the library is too much for them, meet with them in their rooms. Not so with the staff members."
     Crabolli looked past Ballack toward the doorway, where a lithe blond lady stood expectantly.
     "Hi, Sheilah," she called out to Sheilah Grimshaw. Ballack turned and was nearly blinded by the forensic pathologist's bright yellow sweater and hot pink headband.
     "Nice to see you," he added.
     "And you," Grimshaw replied. "Evan's already here and is ready to work. He introduced himself."
     "Let's get moving then," Ballack murmured as he zoomed out of the cafeteria. "We have considerable mileage to chew up on this one."