Cry From The Grave
Chapter 32
The elevator creaked after a slight delay, but Ballack and Tori had no other problems ascending to the fifth floor and the offices of Palmer, Sumner, and Wilson in one of the many fashionable loft buildings of the Central West End of St. Louis. The full-glass elevator gave the rising duo a marvelous view of Forest Park, Barnes-Jewish Hospital, St. Louis Children's Hospital, and the Chase Plaza. Ballack quietly marveled that he was looking over expansive ground containing rich history. Here, Tennessee Williams and T.S. Eliot had maintained residences. Just west of where they were, the 1904 Summer Olympics had brought the world to the gateway of the West at Washington University's Francis Field.
The muted chime announced they had arrived at the designated floor. A quick journey down the hallway brought them to a spacious waiting area tastefully decorated with IKEA-style furniture. The receptionist, bearing a weary look and bronzed skin, confirmed that Daniel Sumner was in his office. She pressed the intercom and informed him that he was needed up at the front. Ballack judged her accent to be South American, perhaps Argentine.
The man who approached them holding out his hand struck Ballack as one of the more unlikely suspects for murder. He stood a mere five feet, eight inches tall, with closely cropped blond hair, and was decked in a light blue shirt, yellow tie, and navy slacks. Tori took a half-step back and Ballack wondered if it was because Sumner had overdone it on the Aramis.
"Can I help you?" Sumner's voice was high-pitched. His eyes darted from Ballack to Tori and back again, no doubt pondering the wheelchair's presence.
"Mr. Sumner, I am Detective Cameron Ballack and this is my partner, Tori Vaughan. We are here on a matter of extreme urgency, representing the Special Investigative Division of Metro St. Louis. We'd like a few minutes of your time, if you can spare them."
Sumner's demeanor turned gloomy, and a storm of worry brewed behind his watery blue eyes. "Is this about Dean Hibbler?"
"You're quick on the update," Tori remarked.
The attorney nodded and turned to his receptionist. "Hold my calls, Silvia." Fixing both detectives with a skittish look, he said, "Follow me. It's the corner office in the rear."
From the look of the eclectic waiting area, Ballack was expecting Sumner's office to follow suit. He was surprised to discover a traditional ambiance, with the faceless law books situated on dazzlingly white built-in bookshelves with ornate carvings. an oak coat rack stood in one corner and a printer sat in another, churning out documents at a feverish rate. Sumner beckoned them toward the chair by his desk and moved another one to give Ballack plenty of room to glide in.
"I still have difficulty getting my head around this," the attorney said. "Dean dead. Don't get me wrong. We all face our final breath at some point. But these sorts of things shouldn't happen in the way they happen. I assume you are part of the detail investigating his murder?"
"That's the word you heard? Murder?" asked Tori, unsure how much to trust him.
"All over the news last night, Miss Vaughan. Couldn't miss it. And I'll ask again: Are you both part of the detail investigating Dean's murder?"
"You don't need to know the entire backstory," said Ballack, with an edge to his voice, "but for now--due to circumstances that have befallen others--we are the detail."
"What?" Sumner snapped, upset. "Just the two of you?"
"And to be honest," added Tori, "Dr. Hibbler's death is not the only one, so we're burning the candle at both ends."
Sumner now seemed genuinely confused. "Who?"
"Mr. Sumner, we're the ones asking the questions, not you," Ballack replied, reining in his temper and making sure his Dragon software was running unhindered. "But we'll not leave you in the dark forever. Let's focus on Dr. Hibbler, since he is the primary reason we are here today. How long did you know him?"
Sumner leaned back in his chair, a faraway, appreciative look covering his face and his lips forming a smile forged by sadness and the march of memory. "I've actually known him for twenty-five years. All the way back to my high school days."
"That long?"
"I was not the model student in school, to begin with, and our family situation was hardly ideal," Sumner began. "My folks split up during my freshman year--I went to Vianney--and I reacted in the typical fashion. My math teacher during my junior year suggested I see a psychiatrist and I was predictably resistant. I cheated on an exam that winter and the administration were set to kick me off campus, if not out of the Milky Way. But Mr. Franco, my math teacher, went to bat for me. Part of the agreement for me to stay on at Vianney was I had to agree to weekly sessions with Dr. Hibbler."
"You were determined to stay on there?" Tori inquired suspiciously.
"Part of it was for selfish reasons. I played baseball--in fact, I went on to play college ball at Eastern Illinois. I didn't want to give that up. But another part was that I really liked and appreciated the school. Despite the fact I was a pretty snarky kid and was often in trouble, the truth is Vianney was a piece of concrete at the bottom of my existence. The school was my constant, so I figured a shrink visit couldn't hurt."
"I would guess," said Ballack, "that if you maintained a cordial relationship after a quarter-century then the sessions must've been a success."
"He was a good psychiatrist. I know some have taken issue with him and felt he didn't care about their cases, but that was never the way it was with me. In fact, Dean is the reason I'm in this office now. Soon after I got through law school--I went to DePaul in Chicago--Doug Palmer recruited me here based on Dean's recommendation. Doug is a friend of Dean's and went with him on a number of hunting trips. Dean let him know about my impending school completion and availability, and this has been the only place I've worked as an attorney."
Ballack's phone pulsed, and a quick glance at the screen revealed Crabolli's number and a text message: CALL ME WHEN U CAN!
"Did you represent Dr. Hibbler during his time at the Delmar Psychiatric Clinic?" asked Tori.
"He selected me as his legal representation after some issues with the previous guy," Sumner answered, his eyes taking on a greater wariness. "It was about ten years ago and he was hit with a slew of lawsuits. To be truthful, whatever accuracy his accusers might have felt was in their cases, their timing was a little too clustered to be a coincidence."
"You're saying," Ballack spoke slowly, "that there were previous patients who ponied up at the same time and thought they'd get a quick and generous settlement from the good doctor."
"I'm saying that so-called victims know ahead of time how the game is played, and then they grab at the weak spots and squeeze."
"Did you settle with any of them?"
"Went the full limit with all, and in truth, only three families took him to court for negligence and malpractice over the years. The rest dropped their charges. Still, the process ruined him and of course, Delmar didn't stand by him. The director there ordered him to leave the practice, and we counter-sued Delmar."
"What was the result," asked Tori, "of the suits involving the three families, I mean."
"The monetary payout wasn't terrible for the two of the three I actually worked on," Sumner said, going to a cabinet with hanging files and searching for the one in question. "Ah, here we are. The 2002 cases. Winchell v. Hibbler and Delmar Psychiatric Clinic, followed by McGregor v. Hibbler and Delmar Psychiatric Clinic. Each lasted over a week, the plaintiffs both seeking millions. We fought them tooth and nail, and neither got more than two hundred fifty thousand, but the humiliation of the public disgrace was too much for Delmar. Dean, too. Part of the judgment was the stripping of his psychiatric credentials, even though he could still practice medicine."
"Can a judge declare that as part of the sentencing?" Ballack wondered aloud. "I'd think he or she could recommend it or order regulations to revoke the license, but sentencing it outright seemed to go beyond his bounds."
"Judge Michael Everhart sure believed he had the powers of God, and only an outcry of support from the public kept the fraternity of jurisprudence from picking him apart like a meal for crows. In the end, he changed his wording to just that, ordering the financial settlement and strongly recommending state medical regulators to 'downgrade' Dean, as the Post-Dispatch so eloquently put it."
Ballack privately wondered if that journalistic soliloquy had come from the keyboard of one John Rearden. He made a note to ask him later.
"And he was done after that?" asked Tori. "And that's how he ended up as medical director at St. Matthew's Grove?"
"That's his wandering path, yes," replied Sumner, peering into the file as if trying to divine prophetic guidance from its contents. "As Dean has passed and you are investigating his murder, would you want the information for yourself?"
Ballack shrugged slightly, expecting Tori to respond. It had been she who, along with Crabolli, had taken photos of Hibbler's notations at the lakehouse.
"That would be fine," she replied.
"You said there was another lawsuit, as well," said Ballack, "but it must have occurred before you became Dr. Hibbler's attorney."
"Absolutely. That was a nasty piece of work. One of his bipolar patients died--in fact, it was twenty years ago this month. Dave Trafford. The story was he tried to make appointments, there was excessive neediness, cloying behavior. In short, all of Bill Murray's effort in What About Bob on steroids with zero humor. Dean couldn't take it. Anyhow, Dean headed out to do some hunting one long weekend and Trafford felt he was left high and dry. Lack of meds or something, but the kook wandered into traffic somewhere down by Kingshighway. Eventually, a car mowed him down late at night and he never had a chance. The Trafford family sued and won a medical malpractice suit the next year. His lawyer did such a slipshod job that the prosecution had no problem establishing Dean owed Dave Trafford a duty of care. Dean's attorney practically conceded that during cross-examination! Deviating from the sufficient standard of care was a harder target to hit. Dean had a reputation--a reputation, mind you--for too much leisure and not enough work, but I doubt anything short of bringing their son back from the dead would have satisfied the Traffords."
"How old was Dave Trafford?" asked Ballack.
"I can't be exact, but I think mid- to late-twenties."
"What was the sentence?"
"License probation ordered, plus three million dollars to the family. The parents put it in a trust, and I don't know the details of what and where. Seven years ago, Trafford's parents died in a house fire. Now that was a mystery."
"How so?"
"No proof of arson, but here's the thing--the police thought it might be just that. They'd been tied down in their beds and burned as the flames engulfed the house."
"That's sick," Tori protested.
"Agreed," acknowledged Sumner, "and here's the truly odd thing. One month before that, the Traffords called Dean. It was soon after he had started at St. Matthew's Grove. They wanted to make amends and wanted him to know they didn't blame him for their son's death. And as a token of this moment of clarity, they wanted to give the trust back to him."
"What?" Ballack and Tori exclaimed simultaneously.
"As my hand is raised to the Almighty, it's the honest truth. They came in here and I drew up the paperwork myself. I've done enough work on trusts and living wills to maneuver through the intricacies without much pain. So, when Dean was murdered, he was a rich man. Maybe whoever did this to him wanted money."
"No evidence of theft, either at his house or in his office," said Tori. "Our colleagues checked."
"More likely revenge," Ballack postulated.
Sumner thought it over but shook his head. "That's above my pay grade and so I'll gladly let the two of you ferret out any evidence on that count. Would you be wanting a copy of this Trafford brief?"
"That would be helpful," Ballack said graciously, "and a copy of the paperwork when they dissolved the trust and gave Hibbler back the money."
"I'll be right back," said Sumner, bolting out the door. "Silvia?" he called. "I need you to run something for me."
Tori tapped Ballack on the knee. "Now what?" she asked. "This changes things. We don't need to hit the clinic if what he says is true."
Ballack nodded. "Let's grab a bite and figure out the next move. We can look over these Trafford details and see if anything leaps off the page."
From the look of the eclectic waiting area, Ballack was expecting Sumner's office to follow suit. He was surprised to discover a traditional ambiance, with the faceless law books situated on dazzlingly white built-in bookshelves with ornate carvings. an oak coat rack stood in one corner and a printer sat in another, churning out documents at a feverish rate. Sumner beckoned them toward the chair by his desk and moved another one to give Ballack plenty of room to glide in.
"I still have difficulty getting my head around this," the attorney said. "Dean dead. Don't get me wrong. We all face our final breath at some point. But these sorts of things shouldn't happen in the way they happen. I assume you are part of the detail investigating his murder?"
"That's the word you heard? Murder?" asked Tori, unsure how much to trust him.
"All over the news last night, Miss Vaughan. Couldn't miss it. And I'll ask again: Are you both part of the detail investigating Dean's murder?"
"You don't need to know the entire backstory," said Ballack, with an edge to his voice, "but for now--due to circumstances that have befallen others--we are the detail."
"What?" Sumner snapped, upset. "Just the two of you?"
"And to be honest," added Tori, "Dr. Hibbler's death is not the only one, so we're burning the candle at both ends."
Sumner now seemed genuinely confused. "Who?"
"Mr. Sumner, we're the ones asking the questions, not you," Ballack replied, reining in his temper and making sure his Dragon software was running unhindered. "But we'll not leave you in the dark forever. Let's focus on Dr. Hibbler, since he is the primary reason we are here today. How long did you know him?"
Sumner leaned back in his chair, a faraway, appreciative look covering his face and his lips forming a smile forged by sadness and the march of memory. "I've actually known him for twenty-five years. All the way back to my high school days."
"That long?"
"I was not the model student in school, to begin with, and our family situation was hardly ideal," Sumner began. "My folks split up during my freshman year--I went to Vianney--and I reacted in the typical fashion. My math teacher during my junior year suggested I see a psychiatrist and I was predictably resistant. I cheated on an exam that winter and the administration were set to kick me off campus, if not out of the Milky Way. But Mr. Franco, my math teacher, went to bat for me. Part of the agreement for me to stay on at Vianney was I had to agree to weekly sessions with Dr. Hibbler."
"You were determined to stay on there?" Tori inquired suspiciously.
"Part of it was for selfish reasons. I played baseball--in fact, I went on to play college ball at Eastern Illinois. I didn't want to give that up. But another part was that I really liked and appreciated the school. Despite the fact I was a pretty snarky kid and was often in trouble, the truth is Vianney was a piece of concrete at the bottom of my existence. The school was my constant, so I figured a shrink visit couldn't hurt."
"I would guess," said Ballack, "that if you maintained a cordial relationship after a quarter-century then the sessions must've been a success."
"He was a good psychiatrist. I know some have taken issue with him and felt he didn't care about their cases, but that was never the way it was with me. In fact, Dean is the reason I'm in this office now. Soon after I got through law school--I went to DePaul in Chicago--Doug Palmer recruited me here based on Dean's recommendation. Doug is a friend of Dean's and went with him on a number of hunting trips. Dean let him know about my impending school completion and availability, and this has been the only place I've worked as an attorney."
Ballack's phone pulsed, and a quick glance at the screen revealed Crabolli's number and a text message: CALL ME WHEN U CAN!
"Did you represent Dr. Hibbler during his time at the Delmar Psychiatric Clinic?" asked Tori.
"He selected me as his legal representation after some issues with the previous guy," Sumner answered, his eyes taking on a greater wariness. "It was about ten years ago and he was hit with a slew of lawsuits. To be truthful, whatever accuracy his accusers might have felt was in their cases, their timing was a little too clustered to be a coincidence."
"You're saying," Ballack spoke slowly, "that there were previous patients who ponied up at the same time and thought they'd get a quick and generous settlement from the good doctor."
"I'm saying that so-called victims know ahead of time how the game is played, and then they grab at the weak spots and squeeze."
"Did you settle with any of them?"
"Went the full limit with all, and in truth, only three families took him to court for negligence and malpractice over the years. The rest dropped their charges. Still, the process ruined him and of course, Delmar didn't stand by him. The director there ordered him to leave the practice, and we counter-sued Delmar."
"What was the result," asked Tori, "of the suits involving the three families, I mean."
"The monetary payout wasn't terrible for the two of the three I actually worked on," Sumner said, going to a cabinet with hanging files and searching for the one in question. "Ah, here we are. The 2002 cases. Winchell v. Hibbler and Delmar Psychiatric Clinic, followed by McGregor v. Hibbler and Delmar Psychiatric Clinic. Each lasted over a week, the plaintiffs both seeking millions. We fought them tooth and nail, and neither got more than two hundred fifty thousand, but the humiliation of the public disgrace was too much for Delmar. Dean, too. Part of the judgment was the stripping of his psychiatric credentials, even though he could still practice medicine."
"Can a judge declare that as part of the sentencing?" Ballack wondered aloud. "I'd think he or she could recommend it or order regulations to revoke the license, but sentencing it outright seemed to go beyond his bounds."
"Judge Michael Everhart sure believed he had the powers of God, and only an outcry of support from the public kept the fraternity of jurisprudence from picking him apart like a meal for crows. In the end, he changed his wording to just that, ordering the financial settlement and strongly recommending state medical regulators to 'downgrade' Dean, as the Post-Dispatch so eloquently put it."
Ballack privately wondered if that journalistic soliloquy had come from the keyboard of one John Rearden. He made a note to ask him later.
"And he was done after that?" asked Tori. "And that's how he ended up as medical director at St. Matthew's Grove?"
"That's his wandering path, yes," replied Sumner, peering into the file as if trying to divine prophetic guidance from its contents. "As Dean has passed and you are investigating his murder, would you want the information for yourself?"
Ballack shrugged slightly, expecting Tori to respond. It had been she who, along with Crabolli, had taken photos of Hibbler's notations at the lakehouse.
"That would be fine," she replied.
"You said there was another lawsuit, as well," said Ballack, "but it must have occurred before you became Dr. Hibbler's attorney."
"Absolutely. That was a nasty piece of work. One of his bipolar patients died--in fact, it was twenty years ago this month. Dave Trafford. The story was he tried to make appointments, there was excessive neediness, cloying behavior. In short, all of Bill Murray's effort in What About Bob on steroids with zero humor. Dean couldn't take it. Anyhow, Dean headed out to do some hunting one long weekend and Trafford felt he was left high and dry. Lack of meds or something, but the kook wandered into traffic somewhere down by Kingshighway. Eventually, a car mowed him down late at night and he never had a chance. The Trafford family sued and won a medical malpractice suit the next year. His lawyer did such a slipshod job that the prosecution had no problem establishing Dean owed Dave Trafford a duty of care. Dean's attorney practically conceded that during cross-examination! Deviating from the sufficient standard of care was a harder target to hit. Dean had a reputation--a reputation, mind you--for too much leisure and not enough work, but I doubt anything short of bringing their son back from the dead would have satisfied the Traffords."
"How old was Dave Trafford?" asked Ballack.
"I can't be exact, but I think mid- to late-twenties."
"What was the sentence?"
"License probation ordered, plus three million dollars to the family. The parents put it in a trust, and I don't know the details of what and where. Seven years ago, Trafford's parents died in a house fire. Now that was a mystery."
"How so?"
"No proof of arson, but here's the thing--the police thought it might be just that. They'd been tied down in their beds and burned as the flames engulfed the house."
"That's sick," Tori protested.
"Agreed," acknowledged Sumner, "and here's the truly odd thing. One month before that, the Traffords called Dean. It was soon after he had started at St. Matthew's Grove. They wanted to make amends and wanted him to know they didn't blame him for their son's death. And as a token of this moment of clarity, they wanted to give the trust back to him."
"What?" Ballack and Tori exclaimed simultaneously.
"As my hand is raised to the Almighty, it's the honest truth. They came in here and I drew up the paperwork myself. I've done enough work on trusts and living wills to maneuver through the intricacies without much pain. So, when Dean was murdered, he was a rich man. Maybe whoever did this to him wanted money."
"No evidence of theft, either at his house or in his office," said Tori. "Our colleagues checked."
"More likely revenge," Ballack postulated.
Sumner thought it over but shook his head. "That's above my pay grade and so I'll gladly let the two of you ferret out any evidence on that count. Would you be wanting a copy of this Trafford brief?"
"That would be helpful," Ballack said graciously, "and a copy of the paperwork when they dissolved the trust and gave Hibbler back the money."
"I'll be right back," said Sumner, bolting out the door. "Silvia?" he called. "I need you to run something for me."
Tori tapped Ballack on the knee. "Now what?" she asked. "This changes things. We don't need to hit the clinic if what he says is true."
Ballack nodded. "Let's grab a bite and figure out the next move. We can look over these Trafford details and see if anything leaps off the page."
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