Cry From The Grave
Chapter 18
Set up in the basement with Ballack's fully charged cell phone on speaker, he and Tori spread out their notes from the day around two glasses of ice water and a plate of snickerdoodles, courtesy of an evening of baking by Martin and Marie Ballack. Hull and Crabolli were on the other end of the line, weary and frustrated. Although they gleaned a great deal of knowledge about Eric Carter, they had not spoken with Carter himself. Four different sets of neighbors had graciously invited them into their own homes. Two of the couples had befriended Carter soon after he moved into his house fifteen months before. One family in particular--the Berrys--had a regular habit of having the seminary student over for dinner once a week and likely knew him the best of anyone on the block. The evening was burned almost entirely on the Berrys, and the wife swore she saw Carter stop off at his house, run inside for a few minutes, and then depart, hauling several large bags and boxes with him and stuffing them into the covered bed of his white Honda Ridgeline pickup truck.
"Any idea what he was doing or where he was going?" asked Tori.
"Mrs. Berry said he often goes hunting, sometimes at Blackhawk Valley Preserve out in Old Monroe," Crabolli replied. "But he usually lets them know ahead of time because he likes them to keep a watch on his house if he's out overnight."
"I take it there was no advance warning today?" Ballack asked.
"None," Hull answered back, "and we had no time to contact the office line at Delmar, either."
"Actually, you won't need to," said Ballack triumphantly, and he proceeded to detail their meeting with Suzanne Lamotta.
"We have access to their house?" Crabolli said with surprise.
"It's not a guarantee," Tori replied, "but she seemed to think there was a significant number of files out there. Most of it could be from his Delmar days, which could be outdated, but I think there might be something out there."
"What makes you two say that?" Hull piped.
Ballack hesitated, as he had no reason to hold firmly to this theory. Still, he had to keep his intuitions in mind. "The ferocity of the stabbing means whoever did this must've hated Hibbler. Everything points to a sour history between the doctor and his killer. And if it's someone with access to him at St. Matthew's, that's chilling."
"Speaking of which, can we stop calling this guy 'the killer' and just get on with tagging him with a name?" pleaded Tori.
"Good thinking," said Ballack reluctantly. "Any ideas?"
"Can't think of any famous doctor-slayers off the top of my head," said Hull.
"Hibbler was a psychiatrist by training," said Tori, "which makes us think of Freud."
"Which we used on the DaySpring case seven months ago," complained the persnickety Ballack.
"Well," Hull said, drumming his fingers on a table so loudly Ballack could hear it on his end of the line, "given that it was done with a knife, we could call the murderer Bowie."
"Bowie?" asked Tori.
"Colonel James Bowie," muttered Ballack, "for whom the Bowie knife was named." He clapped his hands once loudly. "We'll go with Bowie, thanks to Zane and to an appalling lack of options. Let's end it for tonight and then we might know more after we comb through Hibbler's files tomorrow."
"Hey, we're not going to get into some sort of doctor-patient privilege trouble, are we?" inquired Missy.
"The ex gave us carte blanche," said Ballack, "and I doubt we'll find much in the way of notes of his sessions. But we might. I know this is a sticky point, but I don't like to be constrained by HIPPA on this one. I do think we need to inform St. Matthew's that we'll be detained tomorrow morning. I'll call Isabel Andrews and let her know that. We still need to figure out a place to meet tomorrow before we head out to Innsbrook."
"We're going out on I-70," said Tori, "so we need to pick a spot off the highway. We're coming up Highway 94 from here."
"Name the place," implored Hull, who stifled a yawn.
Ballack thought quickly. "The First Capitol Drive exit. If you're westbound past the Blanchette Bridge, turn right on the exit. Then you'll see a Dairy Queen on the left-hand side. We'll meet in that parking lot around eight-thirty."
"Got it," said Missy. "Time for bed."
"See you then," Ballack yawned back. "I'll call St. Matthew's."
Ten minutes later, with Tori having left the house, Ballack left a short message on Isabel Andrews' phone in the nursing director's office. He briefly mentioned they would likely contact St. Matthew's around lunch the next day when he might have updated news from the medical examiner and forensics staff. Before then, they would be out west at Dr. Hibbler's Innsbrook residence taking care of several matters. Ballack said this carefully, wanting Isabel knowing where they would be, yet not divulging the specifics of their search. After he rang off, Ballack grabbed two snickerdoodles and nibbled on them. He turned on the television and settled on the Notre Dame-Boston College game as something to pass the time until Rhoda Barton showed up for her night shift.
Several minutes later at St. Matthew's Grove, the blinking number on Isabel Andrews' phone went solid, indicating someone was calling the voicemail line to check messages. After two more minutes, the phone beeped softly as the caller hung up.
At that moment, in a moderately-sized ranch house, thirty minutes away from Cameron Ballack's suite, a lithe figure placed a cordless phone on the night table next to a queen-sized bed. Crossing the house swiftly to a utility room, the shadowy form snatched two guns from a wooden shelf and continued on into the garage, depositing the weapons silently into the front seat of a pickup truck.
"Any idea what he was doing or where he was going?" asked Tori.
"Mrs. Berry said he often goes hunting, sometimes at Blackhawk Valley Preserve out in Old Monroe," Crabolli replied. "But he usually lets them know ahead of time because he likes them to keep a watch on his house if he's out overnight."
"I take it there was no advance warning today?" Ballack asked.
"None," Hull answered back, "and we had no time to contact the office line at Delmar, either."
"Actually, you won't need to," said Ballack triumphantly, and he proceeded to detail their meeting with Suzanne Lamotta.
"We have access to their house?" Crabolli said with surprise.
"It's not a guarantee," Tori replied, "but she seemed to think there was a significant number of files out there. Most of it could be from his Delmar days, which could be outdated, but I think there might be something out there."
"What makes you two say that?" Hull piped.
Ballack hesitated, as he had no reason to hold firmly to this theory. Still, he had to keep his intuitions in mind. "The ferocity of the stabbing means whoever did this must've hated Hibbler. Everything points to a sour history between the doctor and his killer. And if it's someone with access to him at St. Matthew's, that's chilling."
"Speaking of which, can we stop calling this guy 'the killer' and just get on with tagging him with a name?" pleaded Tori.
"Good thinking," said Ballack reluctantly. "Any ideas?"
"Can't think of any famous doctor-slayers off the top of my head," said Hull.
"Hibbler was a psychiatrist by training," said Tori, "which makes us think of Freud."
"Which we used on the DaySpring case seven months ago," complained the persnickety Ballack.
"Well," Hull said, drumming his fingers on a table so loudly Ballack could hear it on his end of the line, "given that it was done with a knife, we could call the murderer Bowie."
"Bowie?" asked Tori.
"Colonel James Bowie," muttered Ballack, "for whom the Bowie knife was named." He clapped his hands once loudly. "We'll go with Bowie, thanks to Zane and to an appalling lack of options. Let's end it for tonight and then we might know more after we comb through Hibbler's files tomorrow."
"Hey, we're not going to get into some sort of doctor-patient privilege trouble, are we?" inquired Missy.
"The ex gave us carte blanche," said Ballack, "and I doubt we'll find much in the way of notes of his sessions. But we might. I know this is a sticky point, but I don't like to be constrained by HIPPA on this one. I do think we need to inform St. Matthew's that we'll be detained tomorrow morning. I'll call Isabel Andrews and let her know that. We still need to figure out a place to meet tomorrow before we head out to Innsbrook."
"We're going out on I-70," said Tori, "so we need to pick a spot off the highway. We're coming up Highway 94 from here."
"Name the place," implored Hull, who stifled a yawn.
Ballack thought quickly. "The First Capitol Drive exit. If you're westbound past the Blanchette Bridge, turn right on the exit. Then you'll see a Dairy Queen on the left-hand side. We'll meet in that parking lot around eight-thirty."
"Got it," said Missy. "Time for bed."
"See you then," Ballack yawned back. "I'll call St. Matthew's."
Ten minutes later, with Tori having left the house, Ballack left a short message on Isabel Andrews' phone in the nursing director's office. He briefly mentioned they would likely contact St. Matthew's around lunch the next day when he might have updated news from the medical examiner and forensics staff. Before then, they would be out west at Dr. Hibbler's Innsbrook residence taking care of several matters. Ballack said this carefully, wanting Isabel knowing where they would be, yet not divulging the specifics of their search. After he rang off, Ballack grabbed two snickerdoodles and nibbled on them. He turned on the television and settled on the Notre Dame-Boston College game as something to pass the time until Rhoda Barton showed up for her night shift.
Several minutes later at St. Matthew's Grove, the blinking number on Isabel Andrews' phone went solid, indicating someone was calling the voicemail line to check messages. After two more minutes, the phone beeped softly as the caller hung up.
At that moment, in a moderately-sized ranch house, thirty minutes away from Cameron Ballack's suite, a lithe figure placed a cordless phone on the night table next to a queen-sized bed. Crossing the house swiftly to a utility room, the shadowy form snatched two guns from a wooden shelf and continued on into the garage, depositing the weapons silently into the front seat of a pickup truck.
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