Cry From The Grave
Chapter 27
The lakehouse took forty minutes to clean thoroughly. Rather than throw away the shards of the stoneware, Ballack bagged them to return the pieces to Suzanne Lamotta. After replacing all the files and locking the office, Tori vacuumed and mopped while Ballack did his best to wipe the counter tops and the tables with a damp cloth. They had just completed their tasks when Ballack's phone buzzed with a text from his father.
"HERE AT SAINT JOSEPH'S WITH ZANE AND MISSY. ARE YOU COMING BY? WE ARE HERE UNTIL 8:30. LOVE, DAD"
Tori looked over his shoulder. "Hasn't your father ever heard of abbreviation in this day in age?"
"He spells everything out, even on his Twitter account. Let's go, Tor," said Ballack.
They reunited with Crabolli in her room on an inpatient floor. Her hair, which she had straightened with a flat iron that morning, was now wrecked and frizzed, though no one could begrudge her frumpy look. Ballack's mother, Marie, hugged Tori and then reached down to rumple her son's hair. He nimbly moved out of her grasp.
"Where's Martin?" asked Tori.
"He should be coming back from KFC. We thought you all might need some dinner," Marie said.
"And with typical German stealth," announced Martin Ballack, sauntering through the door and coming into their view, "I was able to negotiate with them to a quarter of the price if the twelve-piece order was a slew of drumsticks that's been sitting out forever."
"And they just threw the bird at you?" Ballack asked.
"They'd close soon, there was no one in the place, so rather than have it go bad anyway, I did them a favor," said the family patriarch. He turned to his son and lowered his voice. "This is a serious rough patch you've got going today."
"Always one challenge after another on any case, Poppa Bear," Ballack replied, "but no one could have expected this avalanche."
Martin put up a hand. "You don't need to say a word about that. Just glad to come out and keep them company and pray and hope." He stretched and yawned, pulling playfully on the hood of Marie's Georgia Bulldogs sweatshirt. "And now you guys can take over. I have Matins tomorrow at St. Luke's."
The good-bye clasps and hugs passed and Tori sat in the hospital standard recliner-sleeper with Ballack rolling up near her and Crabolli.
"He wasn't kidding about the drumsticks," said Tori. "And he wrangled some biscuits and stopped by for some sodas. It's a bonanza."
Crabolli looked at Ballack wistfully. "I know I've met your parents before, Cam, but this is the first time I've been able to really sit down with them."
"Not like you had a choice to stand, given your condition," Ballack remarked.
"True. But about your mom and dad...it's hard to describe, but they really know how to calm someone down."
"They've been through a lot together. They know how to help people who are on the brink."
"I know I should've asked them about themselves without the whole time being me, me, me but how did they meet?"
"Dad was a Jayhawk from the day he was born and did his undergrad work in history at KU. After he got his master's degree here at Covenant Seminary, he nailed down a college ministry position at the University of Georgia. Mom had been working in hospital administration at Athens Regional ever since she graduated from UGa. They met through mutual friends and married within a year. The rest is history."
"Then how did they--and you and Jill--end up here?"
"I was born in Georgia, Jill in Florida. We spent some time in Palm Beach County where Dad was an assistant pastor, then a chaplain position opened up here at King's Prep. Christopher was born here soon after we moved."
"Why'd Martin get into hospital chaplaincy?"
Ballack munched in absent-minded fashion on his chicken. "That's a long, brutal story of the coldness of some people of faith."
"Does that explain him in any way?"
"In every way. It's one of the reasons he doesn't flinch at my skepticism."
"Can we distance ourselves from philosophies of life and get to why we came?" asked Tori. "Cam, why don't you download everything out of your brain that we ran across today?"
And so, for the next fifteen minutes, Ballack gave an exhaustive yet clear sketch of the maneuvers since they had last talked at lunch. It was difficult keeping the frustration out of his voice. Already, he was calculating the immense complexity of solving this case. They had not made much headway since being called to St. Matthew's Grove, and now--with Hull hanging by a thread and until Crabolli had recovered properly--they were working at half-power.
"So, Carter is out as Bowie?" Crabolli said.
"We didn't say that," Ballack replied. "We were just able to rule him out as the shooter today. He could be lying about the Buck knife, remember. But until we start connecting some threads together from Hibbler's past and dive into the particulars at the hospice, we're still dog-paddling."
"Strategy for tomorrow?" asked Tori.
"You guys are going by the Delmar Clinic?" inquired Crabolli.
"We ran into John Rearden of the Post-Dispatch over lunch," Tori answered. "He said he'd look into it."
"I know he promised that," Ballack reminded them, "but we have to proceed on the assumption he might be busy with something else or will find nothing."
"Let's get this all down on one sheet of paper," Crabolli pleaded as she gestured for Tori to write everything down, "So I can at least get some sense of where you're headed. What we have are alibis for everyone during the time of the shooting today, but only a few were airtight. Father Giles at church with his wife. Hanspard at St. Matthew's. And what's-her-name. The housekeeper."
"Georgena Cundall," said the prescient Ballack.
"She was there for her shift, you said. The two other night shift nurses were walking together, but that could be a mutual cover."
"The same goes for everyone else there," Tori reminded her.
"What about that Musa Zakhary guy you talked to yesterday?" asked Crabolli.
"We can check that. If he's as devout as he seemed, he was probably at church. And of course, that eliminates Nick Fisher, since he was leading services at Emmanuel."
"Not to complicate things," said Ballack as he popped a piece of biscuit in his mouth, "but we are proceeding based on a solitary actor."
"Oh, come on, Cam!" Tori barked, already sensing an investigative train wreck.
"Practically speaking, we're moving forward on the theory there's just one Bowie." Ballack stopped to wash his food down with a gulp of root beer. "There exists the chance we have two Bowies working in concert together, or even operating independently of each other. It's a stretch, and it's not a probability, but it's a possibility. We have to at least keep that in mind."
"But who could that be," Crabolli blurted out, "unless it's someone we haven't considered or even know exists?"
"No, look," Ballack put up his hands, his fingers covered with a greasy sheen from his drumstick, "I'm not suggesting we chase rabbit trails for the sake of the might-have-been. I just want us to keep it in mind. Certainly, there's a slim chance a singular psycho shot up the Innsbrook location this morning. But if we put that in the overall context of what we have, it doesn't wash. Our resources and time have to move in the direction of Occam's razor--all things being equal, the simplest reason must be the correct one. A murder takes place Saturday morning at St. Matthew's Grove. I call the nursing director's office last night to let her know where we'd be this morning. We get ambushed. It seems crystal clear that someone--internal to St. Matthew's Grove--discovered our movements. It was technically on Isabel Andrews' phone, but anyone who might have access to her office--or could connect remotely to voice mail--could be it."
"They'd need a code to access that voicemail, though," Tori added, "so I can't imagine that goes beyond Isabel Andrews."
"Monsters can be very resourceful, Tor," Ballack replied, tossing the chicken bone into the KFC bucket.
"Still debating the wiles of evil?" The voice of SID Commander Stu Krieger filled the room as he came through the door. Their boss stood an imposing six feet, two inches and was dressed immaculately in a navy suit, white starched shirt, and a tie alternating blood red and Columbia blue stripes.
"Nice to see you, Chief," said Ballack. "What's the occasion?"
"My wife and I took my mother out to dinner in the Central West End," replied Krieger, his mustache showing a slightly larger touch of gray. "I finally checked my voicemail and got your message, plus I received a text from Sheilah, so I came out here as soon as was possible."
"Is your wife with you?" asked Tori. They all knew that Andi Krieger, due to a tumor on her spinal cord, had been in a wheelchair for several years and was living on borrowed time. It was the first thing that had forged a bond of mutual respect between Krieger and Ballack after some initial rough waters.
"I took her home. Her nurse was due to arrive at seven and we changed the shift to an eight-to-eight. So here I am."
They went through the entire day all over again. Kriger listened silently, never interjecting until they came up to the present moment.
"Okay, the first thing I'd say," Krieger said, holding up a preemptive palm to ward off Crabolli's protest, "is to Missy: You are out until that left wing of yours is functioning better."
"Just because I can't lift it doesn't mean I don't have another arm! And that other arm's my good one!" Crabolli hissed.
"Obviously, the drugs are wearing off," Ballack smirked.
"Are the doctors releasing you?" asked Krieger.
"Overnight observation," said Tori. "Don't even try to lie, Missy."
"Then it's Tuesday at the earliest," Krieger declared emphatically. "Maybe there'll be some stuff to do."
"At this rate, I don't doubt you," Ballack sighed.
"You know why, Detective Crabolli," said Krieger, pointing directly at the wounded cop's sling. "If you guys do make an arrest and you get in another shooting war, you need both hands on your gun. Until that point, you're window dressing, I hate to say. You can interview and make interrogations, but if you use a piece I will personally hide-strap your ass..."
"To a pine rail and send you up the Monon Line!" Ballack triumphantly added.
"What is your deal, you freak?" Tori exclaimed.
"Hoosiers! It's what George says to Coach Dale at the first practice!" Ballack retorted.
"He's right," acknowledged the flabbergasted Krieger.
"Thanks for the flattery, Chief," growled the clearly displeased Crabolli.
"Let Tori and Cameron sift through things tomorrow and we can reassess at the end of the day. If we need to, I can have Scotty rendezvous with you."
"Where is he, anyway?" asked Ballack. Scotty Bosco, a member of the SID, served primarily as a lieutenant for the Saint Charles Police Detective Bureau. It was he who had hired Ballack in the first place. "I usually only see him once a week at the main office out here."
"He called and told me he was dealing
"I think we all should," said Tori, tossing the bucket of chicken bones in the trash. "It'd be the right way to end the evening."
Hull's form lay in the recovery room, with wires and tubes flowing around the bed. Dr. Mugaba had gone home, but a nurse informed them there were enough painkillers in Hull to render conversation impossible. After rounds the next morning, they would be prepared to offer a clearer assessment.
Missy bade them a brief goodnight, her own reserves fading as the exhaustion of the past twelve hours cloaked her flagging body and spirit. The ride home was a mostly silent one. Even when Tori lowered the ramp in Ballack's driveway, she only muttered a quiet goodbye.
A stop by the kitchen counter yielded only a mini Kit Kat for a quick sugar rush. He had a few minutes before Ellen Lester showed up for her night shift as his nurse. He placed the Kit Kat in his lap and made for his quarters in the basement.
He could hear that the cool breeze from before had morphed into a whistling series of light gusts. He checked the weather report on his phone and noted a twenty percent chance of rain the next day. He leaned back in his wheelchair, trying to go over the case one more time in his head, but focus was not a gift he was to receive at this time.
What he kept seeing was a bullet, hot and fiery, skipping through the Innsbrook air against the background of a manicured garden and a rocky levee backing up to the main road. He saw it, the hollow point actually opening up like the mouth of a piranha, a missile seeking to swallow him whole. He closed his eyes, certain death coming in a vicious, streaking form, and when he opened them he saw the squirming form of Zane Hull, whose desperate fingers were slipping around the reddish flow bursting from his chest. He saw his fellow detective and friend, words spilling unbidden from his mouth yet incomprehensible at the same time. Sound ceased. Even the thundering steps of Tori and Crabolli were muffled whumps in his ears as they stormed onto the deck.
Once again, he had been saved while evil had befallen another. No matter what danger he was in, fate assigned another warrior to take the fall. Today it was Hull. Last Easter, it had been his sister in the demonic gun sights. And even though he resisted it with all his heart, he couldn't forget how--for all his muscular weakness and health risk--it had been his brother who had died, not him. Why others? Why Christopher? Why not me? He brooded, the chocolate congealing into a slick, sugary mess in his mouth. As he swallowed, a darker, more gloomy thought replaced his musings. When will it be me?
He knew he still had his phone firmly in his left hand, but he suddenly became aware he'd been unconsciously twitching his finger over the screen for a few moments. Looking at it, his heart leaped in his throat when he saw he'd accidentally sent an outgoing call. Nearly dropping his phone from the shock, he ended the call before it connected. He forced a gasp from within him. He knew the name to whom the call nearly went. It was the one that had given him more happiness and joy that he could ever imagine and yet presently yielded more melancholy and misgivings than he could understand. He rested his head on the fingertips of his right hand, drawing breaths as deeply as his restricted lungs would allow.
About twenty minutes south of where Ballack sought resolution, in a first-floor dwelling at Schoettler Village Apartments, a torchiere lamp flooded a queen bed with soft light. Typed essays were scattered about the covers, reflecting the struggling efforts of high school sophomores to explain the twin themes of hope and fear in Dickens' Great Expectations. Situating herself against the firm pillows and bulky shams to her back, a young lady crossed her tired legs as she used a green ballpoint pen to mark a rebuke for wrongful subject-verb agreement. Craning her neck, she wished the exhaustion to fall to the side of the day's road. She flexed her strained calf muscles and shook her head, causing her hair to spill around her shoulders. Looking at herself in the mirror on her hutch to the right, she took stock of her figure. Although her two-mile run that afternoon had been especially hilly and brutal, she was proud of the aerobic conditioning program that had shed ten pounds from her body. The highlights in her light brown tresses gleamed with shine. Weight and boring hair color, she thought. Two things I needed to lose and I'm glad I did. Yet as soon as the notion crossed her mind, she cursed herself for it. There was one thing she had lost within the past year that she regretted, and she knew what she was missing.
She felt rather than heard a pulsing sound nearby, and she reached under her sheets to pull out her cell phone. But when she gazed at the screen, nothing registered. That's odd, she pondered. I could have sworn it rang. Scrolling through her contacts at random, the movement stopped at the name of the one she had lost only seven months before.
Wishing it had rung, with that number being its provenance, she sensed her heart falling into a void she couldn't escape. Dropping her phone, her pen, and the mediocre essay from her hands, she brought her comforter to her face, and tears began tumbling from Dana Witten's shimmering gray eyes.
"But who could that be," Crabolli blurted out, "unless it's someone we haven't considered or even know exists?"
"No, look," Ballack put up his hands, his fingers covered with a greasy sheen from his drumstick, "I'm not suggesting we chase rabbit trails for the sake of the might-have-been. I just want us to keep it in mind. Certainly, there's a slim chance a singular psycho shot up the Innsbrook location this morning. But if we put that in the overall context of what we have, it doesn't wash. Our resources and time have to move in the direction of Occam's razor--all things being equal, the simplest reason must be the correct one. A murder takes place Saturday morning at St. Matthew's Grove. I call the nursing director's office last night to let her know where we'd be this morning. We get ambushed. It seems crystal clear that someone--internal to St. Matthew's Grove--discovered our movements. It was technically on Isabel Andrews' phone, but anyone who might have access to her office--or could connect remotely to voice mail--could be it."
"They'd need a code to access that voicemail, though," Tori added, "so I can't imagine that goes beyond Isabel Andrews."
"Monsters can be very resourceful, Tor," Ballack replied, tossing the chicken bone into the KFC bucket.
"Still debating the wiles of evil?" The voice of SID Commander Stu Krieger filled the room as he came through the door. Their boss stood an imposing six feet, two inches and was dressed immaculately in a navy suit, white starched shirt, and a tie alternating blood red and Columbia blue stripes.
"Nice to see you, Chief," said Ballack. "What's the occasion?"
"My wife and I took my mother out to dinner in the Central West End," replied Krieger, his mustache showing a slightly larger touch of gray. "I finally checked my voicemail and got your message, plus I received a text from Sheilah, so I came out here as soon as was possible."
"Is your wife with you?" asked Tori. They all knew that Andi Krieger, due to a tumor on her spinal cord, had been in a wheelchair for several years and was living on borrowed time. It was the first thing that had forged a bond of mutual respect between Krieger and Ballack after some initial rough waters.
"I took her home. Her nurse was due to arrive at seven and we changed the shift to an eight-to-eight. So here I am."
They went through the entire day all over again. Kriger listened silently, never interjecting until they came up to the present moment.
"Okay, the first thing I'd say," Krieger said, holding up a preemptive palm to ward off Crabolli's protest, "is to Missy: You are out until that left wing of yours is functioning better."
"Just because I can't lift it doesn't mean I don't have another arm! And that other arm's my good one!" Crabolli hissed.
"Obviously, the drugs are wearing off," Ballack smirked.
"Are the doctors releasing you?" asked Krieger.
"Overnight observation," said Tori. "Don't even try to lie, Missy."
"Then it's Tuesday at the earliest," Krieger declared emphatically. "Maybe there'll be some stuff to do."
"At this rate, I don't doubt you," Ballack sighed.
"You know why, Detective Crabolli," said Krieger, pointing directly at the wounded cop's sling. "If you guys do make an arrest and you get in another shooting war, you need both hands on your gun. Until that point, you're window dressing, I hate to say. You can interview and make interrogations, but if you use a piece I will personally hide-strap your ass..."
"To a pine rail and send you up the Monon Line!" Ballack triumphantly added.
"What is your deal, you freak?" Tori exclaimed.
"Hoosiers! It's what George says to Coach Dale at the first practice!" Ballack retorted.
"He's right," acknowledged the flabbergasted Krieger.
"Thanks for the flattery, Chief," growled the clearly displeased Crabolli.
"Let Tori and Cameron sift through things tomorrow and we can reassess at the end of the day. If we need to, I can have Scotty rendezvous with you."
"Where is he, anyway?" asked Ballack. Scotty Bosco, a member of the SID, served primarily as a lieutenant for the Saint Charles Police Detective Bureau. It was he who had hired Ballack in the first place. "I usually only see him once a week at the main office out here."
"He called and told me he was dealing
"I think we all should," said Tori, tossing the bucket of chicken bones in the trash. "It'd be the right way to end the evening."
Hull's form lay in the recovery room, with wires and tubes flowing around the bed. Dr. Mugaba had gone home, but a nurse informed them there were enough painkillers in Hull to render conversation impossible. After rounds the next morning, they would be prepared to offer a clearer assessment.
Missy bade them a brief goodnight, her own reserves fading as the exhaustion of the past twelve hours cloaked her flagging body and spirit. The ride home was a mostly silent one. Even when Tori lowered the ramp in Ballack's driveway, she only muttered a quiet goodbye.
A stop by the kitchen counter yielded only a mini Kit Kat for a quick sugar rush. He had a few minutes before Ellen Lester showed up for her night shift as his nurse. He placed the Kit Kat in his lap and made for his quarters in the basement.
He could hear that the cool breeze from before had morphed into a whistling series of light gusts. He checked the weather report on his phone and noted a twenty percent chance of rain the next day. He leaned back in his wheelchair, trying to go over the case one more time in his head, but focus was not a gift he was to receive at this time.
What he kept seeing was a bullet, hot and fiery, skipping through the Innsbrook air against the background of a manicured garden and a rocky levee backing up to the main road. He saw it, the hollow point actually opening up like the mouth of a piranha, a missile seeking to swallow him whole. He closed his eyes, certain death coming in a vicious, streaking form, and when he opened them he saw the squirming form of Zane Hull, whose desperate fingers were slipping around the reddish flow bursting from his chest. He saw his fellow detective and friend, words spilling unbidden from his mouth yet incomprehensible at the same time. Sound ceased. Even the thundering steps of Tori and Crabolli were muffled whumps in his ears as they stormed onto the deck.
Once again, he had been saved while evil had befallen another. No matter what danger he was in, fate assigned another warrior to take the fall. Today it was Hull. Last Easter, it had been his sister in the demonic gun sights. And even though he resisted it with all his heart, he couldn't forget how--for all his muscular weakness and health risk--it had been his brother who had died, not him. Why others? Why Christopher? Why not me? He brooded, the chocolate congealing into a slick, sugary mess in his mouth. As he swallowed, a darker, more gloomy thought replaced his musings. When will it be me?
He knew he still had his phone firmly in his left hand, but he suddenly became aware he'd been unconsciously twitching his finger over the screen for a few moments. Looking at it, his heart leaped in his throat when he saw he'd accidentally sent an outgoing call. Nearly dropping his phone from the shock, he ended the call before it connected. He forced a gasp from within him. He knew the name to whom the call nearly went. It was the one that had given him more happiness and joy that he could ever imagine and yet presently yielded more melancholy and misgivings than he could understand. He rested his head on the fingertips of his right hand, drawing breaths as deeply as his restricted lungs would allow.
About twenty minutes south of where Ballack sought resolution, in a first-floor dwelling at Schoettler Village Apartments, a torchiere lamp flooded a queen bed with soft light. Typed essays were scattered about the covers, reflecting the struggling efforts of high school sophomores to explain the twin themes of hope and fear in Dickens' Great Expectations. Situating herself against the firm pillows and bulky shams to her back, a young lady crossed her tired legs as she used a green ballpoint pen to mark a rebuke for wrongful subject-verb agreement. Craning her neck, she wished the exhaustion to fall to the side of the day's road. She flexed her strained calf muscles and shook her head, causing her hair to spill around her shoulders. Looking at herself in the mirror on her hutch to the right, she took stock of her figure. Although her two-mile run that afternoon had been especially hilly and brutal, she was proud of the aerobic conditioning program that had shed ten pounds from her body. The highlights in her light brown tresses gleamed with shine. Weight and boring hair color, she thought. Two things I needed to lose and I'm glad I did. Yet as soon as the notion crossed her mind, she cursed herself for it. There was one thing she had lost within the past year that she regretted, and she knew what she was missing.
She felt rather than heard a pulsing sound nearby, and she reached under her sheets to pull out her cell phone. But when she gazed at the screen, nothing registered. That's odd, she pondered. I could have sworn it rang. Scrolling through her contacts at random, the movement stopped at the name of the one she had lost only seven months before.
Wishing it had rung, with that number being its provenance, she sensed her heart falling into a void she couldn't escape. Dropping her phone, her pen, and the mediocre essay from her hands, she brought her comforter to her face, and tears began tumbling from Dana Witten's shimmering gray eyes.
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