Cry From The Grave
PART TWO
Sadness and Shame
November 11-12
Chapter 19
Streaks of the sun gave pugnacious attempts to work through the clouds above. Tori had stopped by Old Town Donuts in Cottleville to pick up a dozen glazed delights for their entire group. Ballack brought along a thermos of Cafe DuMonde coffee, hoping the chicory would slap him awake after a rugged night's sleep. They had been waiting ten minutes in the Dairy Queen parking lot when Missy Crabolli's Chevy Cruze swept across First Capitol Drive and pulled in two spaces from them. Ballack let down the passenger window as Hull and Crabolli approached.
"Care for some breakfast?" Ballack asked as Tori held up the box of doughnuts.
"I never turn down golden-brown sweetness," said Hull, his mouth watering at the sight of the glazed wonders.
"There you go, Zane," Crabolli groaned. "Perpetuate the stereotype."
"Stand back and I'll pop down the ramp," declared Tori. "Come in where it's slightly warmer."
Ballack passed around a few Styrofoam cups and had Tori pour the coffee for all of them.
"Cameron," Hull cringed as he took a sip, "what kind of liquid hell is this?"
"The good stuff," Ballack replied unsmilingly. "New Orleans' best with the chicory that puts hair on your chest, which you could sorely use."
"It's strong enough to walk on," Tori said as she blew into her cup.
"I have to agree," Ballack replied, peering northward, "that if the Sea of Galilee had been filled with Cafe DuMonde, then St. Peter himself wouldn't have sunk into the waves or required Christ's intervention."
"Now, what are we expecting to find?" asked Crabolli.
"The possibility--and all it is right now is just that--is that we may find documentation of a former client from Delmar who might be angry enough to act on some past indiscretion or misdiagnosis or heartless behavior Hibbler might have shown. We have to maintain the chance this might not have been an inside job, that someone not connected to St. Matthew's Grove knew Hibbler's movements well enough and wanted to rub him out."
"This could be a wild goose chase," Tori uttered.
Ballack frowned at her. "Well, you were certainly more enthusiastic about this last night when Suzanne Lamotta handed the keys over to you."
Crabolli threw her cup into a trash bag between Ballack and Tori. "Come on," she said, taking a doughnut and wanting the argument over before it could begin. "Let's start tracking. I'm ready."
Less than forty minutes later, the two vehicles had reached Exit 200 at Wright City and turned south, moving past the railroad tracks before turning west on Route F. The entrance to Innsbrook appeared on the left after five miles, and by carefully following the directions provided by Suzanne, they pulled up at a massive four-bed, four-bath, three thousand square foot structure that Ballack estimated would go for a good million dollars. The footpath from the parking circle ended flush with the front porch, so only a short portable ramp was needed out of the back of the Sprinter. The front side of the house looked over the lake, while the back end faced the confluence of two roads. There was a spacious yard in the rear, covered with autumn leaves in sore need of removal, and this area was accented by a gazebo with generous proportions. The yard sloped gradually from the back road toward the back deck where the sliding glass doors maintained a silent watch.
"Let's go," ordered Ballack when he recognized they were waiting on his signal.
The front door opened into a spacious great room, with a fireplace at one end and a distinct dining nook at the other. The kitchen toward the back had liberal counter space with a granite-topped island in the center with a stove that would make Julia Child envious. Down the hallway, they all could see the bedroom doors on the main level. Above hovered the loft bedroom with an ornately carved staircase connecting the two floors.
"It's locked," said Hull, who reached the office door first.
"Any toggle key on the framework above?" asked Tori. Hull swept his hand over the tiny ledge and shook his head no.
"Okay, then," said Ballack. "Good thing we brought the tool chest." Tori pulled out a Phillips head screwdriver and passed it to Hull, who deftly undid both screws in the plate and pulled the doorknob out. In mere seconds, they were inside. There were no shelves and the only item that betrayed storage was a bi-level file cabinet. The metal contraption stood next to a table that was stained in walnut, but Ballack noted the wood was poplar. He thought it a strange combination.
"Again," he reminded, "our best hope is that he has enough of a paper trail here, because we can't depend on hacking his computer at St. Matthew's. But," he paused, "there are other creative ways of getting what he has. Missy, is that file cabinet locked up?"
"It looks like it," she answered.
"Should be a snap for someone like you, given your previous actions," Ballack replied, remembering how she helped crack the Cathedral Basilica killings with her deft invasion of another file cabinet.
It took Crabolli no time to tilt the unit, jimmy the end of the metal rod running the height of the metal frame, and unhinge the locking mechanism. She procured about ten green hanging folders bursting with enough paper to dwarf several Sunday editions of the Post-Dispatch.
"Let's get to work," grumbled Tori as they headed into the dining nook, and for the next hour, the only sounds made were the occasional sigh, grunt, or disappointed growl as they searched feverishly for tips and leads at the table. They agreed on a division of labor with Ballack and Hull taking files from Hibbler's early career at Delmar, while Crabolli and Tori tackled his final four years there, which was a disproportionate amount of paperwork out of that quantity. After setting pertinent pages aside, they began to read them off once their searches were complete. Tori wrote down details of names, dates of service, accounts received, and any other matters the group found essential.
"To sum up, we've got four decent leads that still live in the area," said Ballack at last. "At least, the ones who went after Hibbler on legal grounds. We can't take the documents with us, and there's no copier in there, but if we get a shot of each one we can have them for posterity's sake."
Hull rubbed his eyes as Tori got out her Sony NEX-5 and began snapping through the pages in front of Ballack's spot at the table. Crabolli reached into her backpack and pulled out her Olympus E-620.
"While we're finishing this up," said Tori, "why don't you guys work off that spaghetti garbage from last night by casing out the backyard from the deck?"
"We know when we're not wanted," muttered Hull, sliding out from his chair, followed by Ballack. The two headed through the kitchen area and eased out onto the deck. Hull left the sliding door open by two inches in case they were called back inside.
"Let's not forget we need to put everything back the way we found it," Ballack reminded him, scooting over to a spot by the rail, next to an oversized gas grill. He took out a pair of binoculars he'd lifted from Tori's duffel case. With a few spare moments, he theorized, he was entitled to take in some pleasure of the natural world.
"You think we just should have taken pictures first, in the interest of time?" Hull asked.
"If we're going to see something important," replied Ballack, "the chances are that it'll jump off the page sooner rather than later. At least, that's been my experience."
Hull didn't respond to that. He looked past the gazebo, as if trying to discern some abnormal movement near the tree line. Ballack followed his gaze but saw nothing except fluttering leaves in that direction. In the distance behind them, Ballack heard the tires of a vehicle grinding over the gravel parkway.
"How's Jill doing?" Hull's voice came out of nowhere.
"To tell you the truth, the jury's verdict changes every day," answered Ballack, flabbergasted by Hull's inquiry about his sister. "The way the case ended in April sent her down a real chasm. She's a different person now. Not completely, but noticeably."
"Given how everything fell out, you can't blame her. I'm shocked she wants to leave her apartment at times."
"I think she does because no counselor will make house calls."
"How long has she been going to a therapist?"
"Early summer. She went into a nasty whirlwind of bitterness and significant situational depression. There were several weeks she went without talking to me, almost as if she resented what I--what we--did. But there's been a thaw since then. Lately, it seems she's been clawing out of that abyss. Thankfully, she never let it negatively affect her work, and she's had enough vacation time saved up to go on a road trip with her friend Reese. They left Monday and should be back this coming Saturday."
"Where are they going?"
"Out west. I spoke with Reese before they left and she called it a 'Prairie, Peaks, and Punching Dogies' tour," smiled Ballack. "They were going out through Kansas, stopping where my dad was born and my grandfather pastored a church, then going to KU in Lawrence and on out to western Kansas to our great-grandparents' town and former farm. Since Reese is from Denver, they'll continue the swing through Colorado and on up to Wyoming to stay at a ranch. Back through Nebraska, Kansas City, and back here on I-70. Sounds ambitious."
"Sounds brutal. I don't think they'll see more than ten trees between Topeka and the Colorado border."
"You obviously haven't been in western Kansas enough to make an accurate judgment," Ballack corrected him.
He expected a snappy comeback by Hull, but it never came. Instead, an ear-splitting boom exploded in the distance, followed in microseconds by the shattering of the floodlight behind them on the deck. The glass splintered savagely, cascading from its formerly conical shape into frosted shards over the composite boards.
"Where the hell is that coming from?" yelled Hull, but Ballack was already trying to visually trace the line.
"Get down!" he barked, reversing his wheelchair behind the grill and hoping to give himself some cover. "Tori! Missy! Outside, now!"
But he was in mid-command when another excruciatingly emphatic bang resounded, and Ballack sensed a whizzing streak approaching them at high speed. He felt rather than saw a hard bolt rocket off the deck rail and land behind him with a muffled thump. He looked behind him, and in complete shock he saw Hull stumble backward, clutching his chest, slamming hard to the artificial planks beneath him.
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