Cry From The Grave
Chapter 35
Their conversation with Donna Yeast had pushed well past-five thirty, and Ballack felt the day's weariness cloak his bones as Tori merged into traffic heading west on Interstate 270. He checked his email as a few drops of rain spattered against the Sprinter's windshield. True to his word, John Rearden had sent attachments of several articles and appended those with his personal notes in the body of the email. Ballack found it profoundly annoying to flip back and forth amongst documents, but he was equally grateful for Rearden's yeoman diligence.
"Anything these?" asked Tori.
"Even he admits it may not be helpful, but it's all he has." Ballack looked closely at the screen. "He did some follow-up on Jennifer Trafford. She did get married on July 23, 1994, to Howie Dunnigan. He was an American history teacher, assistant football coach, and head girls' track coach at Ladue High School."
"Maybe we can check with them."
"Doubtful, according to John. They divorced two years later. He sent a link to that article. Dunnigan left her to run off with one Melanie Bonner, who ran a lucrative girls' basketball camp in the Ozarks. We could track him down but I can't see any motive brewing."
"Did he say anything more about Jennifer Trafford-Dunnigan?"
"Nothing," Ballack said before emitting several thick coughs. The finicky weather played havoc with his lungs, and he felt his head. Warmer than normal, he wondered if he had a slight temperature. He didn't want the trail to grow cold by taking any sick time off. They were already pulling a heavier sled due to their loss of Hull and Crabolli. On the other hand, if he didn't take care of his airway passages, he could find himself laid up for a much longer stretch.
"You look terrible," Tori mentioned, jolting Ballack with her ability to read his thoughts.
He reached for the portable suction and whooshed the gurgling secretions from his tracheotomy tube. "I wonder," he said. "I hate to be pre-emptive and call it a day. On the other hand, I have this feeling that we have a bunch of pieces on the chess board but we haven't aligned them yet. I swear, the answer is out there, but we're one tweak away."
"What do you suggest? I think we at least need to check in on our pals."
"I'm just glad that Zane pulled back into consciousness without having to get transferred elsewhere. Frankly, I'm surprised they didn't move him to St. Joe's by the river.
They had turned from 270 to westbound I-70. As expected, they slowed down due to rush hour traffic. But that wasn't the only problem, and further complications became apparent as they approached the Blanchette Bridge that spanned the Missouri River.
"Oh, brother," growled Ballack. "This wasn't a problem when we came through here yesterday."
"Because no one was on the highway Sunday morning when we were going the other direction, professor," chuckled Tori. The bridge was the target of a reconstruction project, and the westbound artery was shut down, diverting three lanes to the eastbound route and cramming an overload of vehicles into a confined space.They had experienced no issues with it the day before, but--as Tori had pointed out--Sunday morning in St. Charles was not exactly a high traffic time. It was a grinding and exasperating thirty minutes to go two miles this evening, and by the time they passed the Fifth Street exit, Ballack had suctioned himself twice more.
"I should've taken 370 around this mess," Tori muttered before pointing at the caddy in between them. "You look like yesterday's garbage. Give me a reading." Without taking her eyes off the road, she deftly unzipped a clear container and flipped a digital thermometer into Ballack's lap.
"Thanks, partner," he grunted.
"This isn't a viral reaction to your reconnection attempt last week, is it?"
He glared at Tori. "I don't order you how to raise your daughter," he snapped. "I think you'd know better than to bring this up."
"Just saying..."
"Yeah, yeah. You're always 'just saying'. Drop it," Ballack snorted as he slid the thermometer into his mouth. Tori edged into the left-hand lane as they passed Zumbehl Road. Neither spoke until there was a triple beep announcing a readout. Ballack looked at the number.
"Ninety-nine-three," he muttered worriedly.
"It's never that high, Cam," Tori replied, the mischief stripped from her voice. "Given all the fluids you drink, your body temp tends to be a degree below normal."
"Well, we can't sacrifice our team meeting. Let's get on out and see Zane and Missy. They both have to be going stir crazy, so they'll be glad for this distraction."
"They decided early today on minor surgery for me," Crabolli explained as they walked down the hallway toward Hull's room. "Surgical team reconnected everything, but I'm not to be in a position where I have to raise my arm to shoulder height or above. That rules out firing a gun until it fully heals, and only a post-op follow-up can clear me then."
"Those were their exact words?" asked Ballack. "Can't raise your arm? That doesn't mean you can't rejoin us tomorrow."
"What's the use in tagging along if you can't arrest someone?" Crabolli replied glumly.
"It doesn't mean you're forbidden from coming with us, from interrogating suspects," Tori encouraged her.
"And if we make an arrest," added Ballack, "by some stroke of luck, I'll even tell Stu that you get to cuff the perp."
"Cuff them?" asked Crabolli.
"Don't need to raise your arm above shoulder-height for that. And I think that Bowie will allow you to take your time."
"I hope you're aware that I can't even drive with my arm wrapped the way it is."
"Yeah, I know. Plus, your car's out at the lakehouse anyway. But if you're getting released."
"I was. Two hours ago. Just been waiting around for you two."
"Then we can arrange to have you taken home tonight, pick you up tomorrow, and you can ride along with us. We can use the help."
"I really doubt you've got an extra seat in your van. I've been in the interior with two good arms."
Ballack turned to his partner. "Tor, do you still have that beanbag chair of yours back at the apartment?"
"You know I do."
"There we go," Ballack said, smiling at Crabolli. "A little of what my dad calls Prussian practicality. You're back at it tomorrow as long as you don't pass out from the painkillers."
They entered Hull's room and discovered their colleague wasn't alone. A familiar form rose from the recliner and approached them.
"I was wondering when you'd get over here, you superstars," he said.
Ballack extended his hand. "Scotty Bosco, I was wondering when we'd see your face again. Checking up on the valiant wounded, Boss?"
"Guilty as charged," said the St. Charles lieutenant as he grasped Ballack's hand and then shook Tori's, as well. Scotty Bosco had been Ballack's official boss since he had joined the St. Charles Police Detective Bureau. The lieutenant's decision to take a chance on a disabled sleuth had been met with initial cynicism, but Ballack had justified Bosco's faith in him and had risen through the ranks with Tori as they solved one case after another. Despite their differing styles, Bosco and Ballack reciprocated honor and respect in spades. Even on the cases involving the SID, Ballack valued Bosco's input since the lieutenant was an official member of the elite force, although Bosco's SID work had been as spotty as the rest of the team over the past year.
Ballack looked at Hull, who sat up in his bed as well as possible. "You look like crap," he joked.
"I haven't shaved for three days," Hull laughed, "plus I got shot."
"From what Z-Man has been telling me," said Bosco, "you'd better be thanking God it wasn't an experienced gunman."
"Isn't that an assumption?" asked Tori.
"Sheilah and I spoke. It seems that the bullets used, with the likely range, means that whoever plunked you guys knew how to wield a gun but was no sniper. You're more likely to have John Q. Second Amendment trying to scattershot bullets. The general public isn't accurate from twenty-five yards or more, and given the number of shots that missed, I think you can discount cops or members of the military."
"Great, Boss," Ballack said as he recovered from a ferocious cough. "That narrows down the pool of suspects."
"I missed your sarcasm," replied Bosco with a comical sneer.
"And I'm not the only one who looks like a landslide from Waste Management," Hull pointed at Ballack. "You look like you're going to keel over, C.B."
"I'm fine," Ballack maintained. "Just a cough."
"With a forehead that rosy?"
"How you are feeling is the more critical matter," deflected Ballack.
Hull sipped from a glass of water at his bedside. "The bullet shaved my pericardium but got no closer. My chest is unbelievably sore and, of course, we need to watch for staph. But lucky to be alive."
"It could have been me," Ballack reflected.
"It could have been any of us," reminded Tori. "We can't live on survivor's guilt."
"On a more practical level," interrupted Crabolli, "if you want me to tag along, as you say, tomorrow, I need to find a way home tonight."
"I can give you a lift," offered Bosco quickly. "I just need to grab something to eat. Give me a few minutes."
"We'll just be briefing them," said Tori. "Take your time."
"Okay," said Hull once Bosco had departed. "I feel as lost as Hogan's goat with this case now."
"That's about to change significantly," Ballack warned. "Missy, did you mention anything I told you earlier?"
"I was waiting for you," replied Crabolli. "I mean, I let him know what you did yesterday, but then the IV drip overwhelmed Zane and he dropped off."
"Here's what we had today," Ballack said, and he went into a concise yet full report about Father Giles' murder, his body's positioning, and Holbrook's findings. "Given the security system is a joke," he continued, "anyone with an entry card could have gotten in last night unnoticed, since there's no tracking system."
"Alibis solid? Anyone see anything?" Hull asked.
"On the first one," Ballack said, pausing, calling to mind his private suspicions, "on balance, I'd say yes."
"What do you mean, 'on balance'?" Tori inquired.
"On the whole. Generally speaking. Nothing that clinched the Bowie designation on anyone. On the sight question, Helen Smith claimed to have peered out her window and saw someone in the darkness, scampering across the lawn toward Eden Seminary."
"Was it Carter?" asked Crabolli.
"Didn't say. She said it appeared to be a man, but from that angle and distance we can't bet the farm on it."
"You spoke to the widow?"
"We did. She had fallen asleep at home while Giles was working later at St. Matthew's. She said he told her he'd be home, not to wait up. This morning, she got suspicious waking up in an empty house."
"But," Tori broke in, "she can't believe anyone from the hospice is an eligible murderer. Nor did she think her husband was in any physical danger."
"That's her contention," groaned Ballack. "We know better. We not only have two murders. We have the killings taking place in what is in all respects a safe place."
"To bring down St. Matthew's?" asked Crabolli.
"That would be going a bit far, I think." Ballack sorted his ideas in his head. "Unless we're missing something, everyone there has a reason for St. Matthew's Grove to continue, and the most advantageous path for them would be for the facility to go on as is, even though it is not the most fiscally realistic method."
"Except for Nick Fisher, who is on the periphery looking in," cautioned Tori.
"And who wasn't there at the time of Hibbler's murder, if his word and that of Giles are to be believed," agreed Ballack. Feeling his body downshift, he changed emphases. "What came up today with Hibbler's attorney was interesting. Out of the lawsuits brought against the good doctor over the years, the real zinger was Paul and Marta Trafford's three million dollar victory against him for culpability in the death of their bipolar son, Dave, back in 1992. But then, seven years ago, they met with Hibbler and gave the amount back."
"Totally back?" Hull exclaimed, wincing as if anxious he'd burst his stitches. "Like one hundred percent?"
"Stunning, but yes." Ballack looked at his notes to make sure he missed nothing. "And the kicker is Paul and Marta Trafford were found dead in their home one month after the giveback. Arson. Tied to their bed."
"You said earlier there was a daughter, as well?" asked Crabolli.
Ballack read directly from his laptop screen where he had Rearden's compilation of facts. "Jennifer Trafford. Married a Howie Dunnigan and divorced two years later. She dropped off the map."
"Could be her."
"No one by those names at St. Matthew's, and no one there has mentioned anyone under that identity," said Tori.
"Which doesn't mean she doesn't exist," Ballack responded thoughtfully. "A neighbor, Donna Yeast, gave details of the house fire and seemed fairly upset by the whole affair."
"All this means we are at what point?" asked Crabolli.
Ballack's mind flipped through the array of upcoming matters. "Sheilah should have all forensic detail on the chapel scene first thing tomorrow. Evan emailed me earlier and said he was backed up but autopsy by ten in the morning on Giles. Like with Hibbler, it won't tell us anything we don't already know. The staff at St. Matthew's Grove would be glad to be rid of us, but we need to crowd them with another round of questions tomorrow. It wouldn't hurt to see how much they knew of Hibbler's background and his legal troubles. That goes for Nick Fisher, as well. Tori, can you make an appointment for us to see him tomorrow?"
"I'll call right now," Tori said, turning toward the hallway and almost bumping smack into the returning Scotty Bosco, who was licking Doritos residue from his fingertips.
"Mapping out tomorrow?" he asked.
"Can you join us?" Ballack requested.
Bosco shook his head. "A case of security system compromise and what looks like industrial espionage at a business park in Hazelwood hit me today and that will keep me for some time. But thanks for the invite." He turned to Crabolli. "Ready for that ride home?"
"I know you live in Overland, Missy," said Ballack, "but text me the address and Tori and I will make sure we're there by nine tomorrow."
"Sending it now," said Crabolli, her digits dancing on her phone before she waved a quick goodnight to Hull and followed Bosco out the door.
Tori returned. "Fisher said we can make it tomorrow any time before two. Hibbler's memorial service is to be at Emmanuel at four in the afternoon and he'll need the time to prepare."
"I wonder who all is going to be there from St. Matthew's," Ballack thought aloud, stroking his chin. His chest grew tight and his lungs felt as if someone lit a match in his bronchioles.
"Are you wanting to go?"
"Is there a problem if we do? You know funerals tend to open cases up for us, if you recall."
Tori rolled her eyes, remembering their experience at St. Basil's. Ballack knew she was exasperated for more than one reason.
"If I might plunk myself into this mix," pleaded Hull from his bed, "who is the most likely candidate to be Bowie, at this stage?"
"Given that Hibbler--the straw that stirred the drink of closure--is now gone, we have to ask Cui bono? Who benefits?" declared Ballack. "Anyone on staff staves off closure by taking out Hibbler, who was angling for closure. Yet that doesn't strike me as the strongest motive for murder. Even with Hibbler gone, Fisher and the diocese can still pick up and do an austerity sale of the facility. And we have the fact that someone battered Father Giles to death. We are faced with the fact that two men--on opposite sides of a high ideological fence, mind you--are dead, and both by vicious means."
"Seems no one really liked the doctor, while Giles was--if not loved--at least respected."
"That's everything. What are we missing, and what do we have left to do?"
"Helen Smith said she saw someone racing across the Eden lawn," said Tori. "We could ask someone at the seminary about that."
"A cursory glance at that area of the seminary grounds shows there are no outdoor cameras," replied Ballack, "but we can ask their security department if they noticed anyone."
"I'd suggest hitting up Eric Carter again," said Hull. He held up his hands at the protest that was coming, the pain in his chest limiting the range to no higher than his belly. "Yeah, I realize completely: he's not the one who shot at you yesterday. But that doesn't mean he's not Bowie."
"No, but by that logic, we'd have to re-check everyone else, like Musa Zakhary, for instance."
"At any rate," Tori yawned discreetly, "we're not going to get anywhere at this moment." She rapped her partner lightly on the shoulder. "You need to get a breathing treatment, Cam. Why don't we just say that the plan for tomorrow is to invade St. Matthew's, hit Eden Seminary, and then Nick Fisher?"
"Something tells me that's circular, but maybe we'll nail something the third time around," said Ballack.
Hull shifted in his bed. "As I'm stuck here until I'm officially recovered, is there anything you want me to do?"
"Absolutely. Do you feel up to making calls?"
"Tell me where. I'll be going stir crazy with nothing to do."
"Tori will give you a copy of the staff contact information from St. Matthew's as you don't have yours. Call around to different gun and knife shops. You don't have a laptop, so you'll have to go old school and use the Yellow Pages. It could be that someone there--either a member of the staff or a family member--might have paid for a weapon via credit card."
"Pretty dumb to do so, if you ask me."
"We capitalize on the stupid," said Tori.
"And believe me, making mistakes is an equal-opportunity endeavor for criminals," Ballack coughed, clutching his chest again.
"Let's go," replied Tori. "You're about to disintegrate. And why do I get the feeling you have a sense of someone being guilty, but you won't share the goodies?"
"Don't want to jeopardize our chances with theories, Tor. It could mean nothing."
"Which means it's there," Hull guffawed, bringing a spasm of his own pain. "Beat it out of him, Tori. Don't let the great Cameron Ballack have all the fun."
"You look terrible," Tori mentioned, jolting Ballack with her ability to read his thoughts.
He reached for the portable suction and whooshed the gurgling secretions from his tracheotomy tube. "I wonder," he said. "I hate to be pre-emptive and call it a day. On the other hand, I have this feeling that we have a bunch of pieces on the chess board but we haven't aligned them yet. I swear, the answer is out there, but we're one tweak away."
"What do you suggest? I think we at least need to check in on our pals."
"I'm just glad that Zane pulled back into consciousness without having to get transferred elsewhere. Frankly, I'm surprised they didn't move him to St. Joe's by the river.
They had turned from 270 to westbound I-70. As expected, they slowed down due to rush hour traffic. But that wasn't the only problem, and further complications became apparent as they approached the Blanchette Bridge that spanned the Missouri River.
"Oh, brother," growled Ballack. "This wasn't a problem when we came through here yesterday."
"Because no one was on the highway Sunday morning when we were going the other direction, professor," chuckled Tori. The bridge was the target of a reconstruction project, and the westbound artery was shut down, diverting three lanes to the eastbound route and cramming an overload of vehicles into a confined space.They had experienced no issues with it the day before, but--as Tori had pointed out--Sunday morning in St. Charles was not exactly a high traffic time. It was a grinding and exasperating thirty minutes to go two miles this evening, and by the time they passed the Fifth Street exit, Ballack had suctioned himself twice more.
"I should've taken 370 around this mess," Tori muttered before pointing at the caddy in between them. "You look like yesterday's garbage. Give me a reading." Without taking her eyes off the road, she deftly unzipped a clear container and flipped a digital thermometer into Ballack's lap.
"Thanks, partner," he grunted.
"This isn't a viral reaction to your reconnection attempt last week, is it?"
He glared at Tori. "I don't order you how to raise your daughter," he snapped. "I think you'd know better than to bring this up."
"Just saying..."
"Yeah, yeah. You're always 'just saying'. Drop it," Ballack snorted as he slid the thermometer into his mouth. Tori edged into the left-hand lane as they passed Zumbehl Road. Neither spoke until there was a triple beep announcing a readout. Ballack looked at the number.
"Ninety-nine-three," he muttered worriedly.
"It's never that high, Cam," Tori replied, the mischief stripped from her voice. "Given all the fluids you drink, your body temp tends to be a degree below normal."
"Well, we can't sacrifice our team meeting. Let's get on out and see Zane and Missy. They both have to be going stir crazy, so they'll be glad for this distraction."
"They decided early today on minor surgery for me," Crabolli explained as they walked down the hallway toward Hull's room. "Surgical team reconnected everything, but I'm not to be in a position where I have to raise my arm to shoulder height or above. That rules out firing a gun until it fully heals, and only a post-op follow-up can clear me then."
"Those were their exact words?" asked Ballack. "Can't raise your arm? That doesn't mean you can't rejoin us tomorrow."
"What's the use in tagging along if you can't arrest someone?" Crabolli replied glumly.
"It doesn't mean you're forbidden from coming with us, from interrogating suspects," Tori encouraged her.
"And if we make an arrest," added Ballack, "by some stroke of luck, I'll even tell Stu that you get to cuff the perp."
"Cuff them?" asked Crabolli.
"Don't need to raise your arm above shoulder-height for that. And I think that Bowie will allow you to take your time."
"I hope you're aware that I can't even drive with my arm wrapped the way it is."
"Yeah, I know. Plus, your car's out at the lakehouse anyway. But if you're getting released."
"I was. Two hours ago. Just been waiting around for you two."
"Then we can arrange to have you taken home tonight, pick you up tomorrow, and you can ride along with us. We can use the help."
"I really doubt you've got an extra seat in your van. I've been in the interior with two good arms."
Ballack turned to his partner. "Tor, do you still have that beanbag chair of yours back at the apartment?"
"You know I do."
"There we go," Ballack said, smiling at Crabolli. "A little of what my dad calls Prussian practicality. You're back at it tomorrow as long as you don't pass out from the painkillers."
They entered Hull's room and discovered their colleague wasn't alone. A familiar form rose from the recliner and approached them.
"I was wondering when you'd get over here, you superstars," he said.
Ballack extended his hand. "Scotty Bosco, I was wondering when we'd see your face again. Checking up on the valiant wounded, Boss?"
"Guilty as charged," said the St. Charles lieutenant as he grasped Ballack's hand and then shook Tori's, as well. Scotty Bosco had been Ballack's official boss since he had joined the St. Charles Police Detective Bureau. The lieutenant's decision to take a chance on a disabled sleuth had been met with initial cynicism, but Ballack had justified Bosco's faith in him and had risen through the ranks with Tori as they solved one case after another. Despite their differing styles, Bosco and Ballack reciprocated honor and respect in spades. Even on the cases involving the SID, Ballack valued Bosco's input since the lieutenant was an official member of the elite force, although Bosco's SID work had been as spotty as the rest of the team over the past year.
Ballack looked at Hull, who sat up in his bed as well as possible. "You look like crap," he joked.
"I haven't shaved for three days," Hull laughed, "plus I got shot."
"From what Z-Man has been telling me," said Bosco, "you'd better be thanking God it wasn't an experienced gunman."
"Isn't that an assumption?" asked Tori.
"Sheilah and I spoke. It seems that the bullets used, with the likely range, means that whoever plunked you guys knew how to wield a gun but was no sniper. You're more likely to have John Q. Second Amendment trying to scattershot bullets. The general public isn't accurate from twenty-five yards or more, and given the number of shots that missed, I think you can discount cops or members of the military."
"Great, Boss," Ballack said as he recovered from a ferocious cough. "That narrows down the pool of suspects."
"I missed your sarcasm," replied Bosco with a comical sneer.
"And I'm not the only one who looks like a landslide from Waste Management," Hull pointed at Ballack. "You look like you're going to keel over, C.B."
"I'm fine," Ballack maintained. "Just a cough."
"With a forehead that rosy?"
"How you are feeling is the more critical matter," deflected Ballack.
Hull sipped from a glass of water at his bedside. "The bullet shaved my pericardium but got no closer. My chest is unbelievably sore and, of course, we need to watch for staph. But lucky to be alive."
"It could have been me," Ballack reflected.
"It could have been any of us," reminded Tori. "We can't live on survivor's guilt."
"On a more practical level," interrupted Crabolli, "if you want me to tag along, as you say, tomorrow, I need to find a way home tonight."
"I can give you a lift," offered Bosco quickly. "I just need to grab something to eat. Give me a few minutes."
"We'll just be briefing them," said Tori. "Take your time."
"Okay," said Hull once Bosco had departed. "I feel as lost as Hogan's goat with this case now."
"That's about to change significantly," Ballack warned. "Missy, did you mention anything I told you earlier?"
"I was waiting for you," replied Crabolli. "I mean, I let him know what you did yesterday, but then the IV drip overwhelmed Zane and he dropped off."
"Here's what we had today," Ballack said, and he went into a concise yet full report about Father Giles' murder, his body's positioning, and Holbrook's findings. "Given the security system is a joke," he continued, "anyone with an entry card could have gotten in last night unnoticed, since there's no tracking system."
"Alibis solid? Anyone see anything?" Hull asked.
"On the first one," Ballack said, pausing, calling to mind his private suspicions, "on balance, I'd say yes."
"What do you mean, 'on balance'?" Tori inquired.
"On the whole. Generally speaking. Nothing that clinched the Bowie designation on anyone. On the sight question, Helen Smith claimed to have peered out her window and saw someone in the darkness, scampering across the lawn toward Eden Seminary."
"Was it Carter?" asked Crabolli.
"Didn't say. She said it appeared to be a man, but from that angle and distance we can't bet the farm on it."
"You spoke to the widow?"
"We did. She had fallen asleep at home while Giles was working later at St. Matthew's. She said he told her he'd be home, not to wait up. This morning, she got suspicious waking up in an empty house."
"But," Tori broke in, "she can't believe anyone from the hospice is an eligible murderer. Nor did she think her husband was in any physical danger."
"That's her contention," groaned Ballack. "We know better. We not only have two murders. We have the killings taking place in what is in all respects a safe place."
"To bring down St. Matthew's?" asked Crabolli.
"That would be going a bit far, I think." Ballack sorted his ideas in his head. "Unless we're missing something, everyone there has a reason for St. Matthew's Grove to continue, and the most advantageous path for them would be for the facility to go on as is, even though it is not the most fiscally realistic method."
"Except for Nick Fisher, who is on the periphery looking in," cautioned Tori.
"And who wasn't there at the time of Hibbler's murder, if his word and that of Giles are to be believed," agreed Ballack. Feeling his body downshift, he changed emphases. "What came up today with Hibbler's attorney was interesting. Out of the lawsuits brought against the good doctor over the years, the real zinger was Paul and Marta Trafford's three million dollar victory against him for culpability in the death of their bipolar son, Dave, back in 1992. But then, seven years ago, they met with Hibbler and gave the amount back."
"Totally back?" Hull exclaimed, wincing as if anxious he'd burst his stitches. "Like one hundred percent?"
"Stunning, but yes." Ballack looked at his notes to make sure he missed nothing. "And the kicker is Paul and Marta Trafford were found dead in their home one month after the giveback. Arson. Tied to their bed."
"You said earlier there was a daughter, as well?" asked Crabolli.
Ballack read directly from his laptop screen where he had Rearden's compilation of facts. "Jennifer Trafford. Married a Howie Dunnigan and divorced two years later. She dropped off the map."
"Could be her."
"No one by those names at St. Matthew's, and no one there has mentioned anyone under that identity," said Tori.
"Which doesn't mean she doesn't exist," Ballack responded thoughtfully. "A neighbor, Donna Yeast, gave details of the house fire and seemed fairly upset by the whole affair."
"All this means we are at what point?" asked Crabolli.
Ballack's mind flipped through the array of upcoming matters. "Sheilah should have all forensic detail on the chapel scene first thing tomorrow. Evan emailed me earlier and said he was backed up but autopsy by ten in the morning on Giles. Like with Hibbler, it won't tell us anything we don't already know. The staff at St. Matthew's Grove would be glad to be rid of us, but we need to crowd them with another round of questions tomorrow. It wouldn't hurt to see how much they knew of Hibbler's background and his legal troubles. That goes for Nick Fisher, as well. Tori, can you make an appointment for us to see him tomorrow?"
"I'll call right now," Tori said, turning toward the hallway and almost bumping smack into the returning Scotty Bosco, who was licking Doritos residue from his fingertips.
"Mapping out tomorrow?" he asked.
"Can you join us?" Ballack requested.
Bosco shook his head. "A case of security system compromise and what looks like industrial espionage at a business park in Hazelwood hit me today and that will keep me for some time. But thanks for the invite." He turned to Crabolli. "Ready for that ride home?"
"I know you live in Overland, Missy," said Ballack, "but text me the address and Tori and I will make sure we're there by nine tomorrow."
"Sending it now," said Crabolli, her digits dancing on her phone before she waved a quick goodnight to Hull and followed Bosco out the door.
Tori returned. "Fisher said we can make it tomorrow any time before two. Hibbler's memorial service is to be at Emmanuel at four in the afternoon and he'll need the time to prepare."
"I wonder who all is going to be there from St. Matthew's," Ballack thought aloud, stroking his chin. His chest grew tight and his lungs felt as if someone lit a match in his bronchioles.
"Are you wanting to go?"
"Is there a problem if we do? You know funerals tend to open cases up for us, if you recall."
Tori rolled her eyes, remembering their experience at St. Basil's. Ballack knew she was exasperated for more than one reason.
"If I might plunk myself into this mix," pleaded Hull from his bed, "who is the most likely candidate to be Bowie, at this stage?"
"Given that Hibbler--the straw that stirred the drink of closure--is now gone, we have to ask Cui bono? Who benefits?" declared Ballack. "Anyone on staff staves off closure by taking out Hibbler, who was angling for closure. Yet that doesn't strike me as the strongest motive for murder. Even with Hibbler gone, Fisher and the diocese can still pick up and do an austerity sale of the facility. And we have the fact that someone battered Father Giles to death. We are faced with the fact that two men--on opposite sides of a high ideological fence, mind you--are dead, and both by vicious means."
"Seems no one really liked the doctor, while Giles was--if not loved--at least respected."
"That's everything. What are we missing, and what do we have left to do?"
"Helen Smith said she saw someone racing across the Eden lawn," said Tori. "We could ask someone at the seminary about that."
"A cursory glance at that area of the seminary grounds shows there are no outdoor cameras," replied Ballack, "but we can ask their security department if they noticed anyone."
"I'd suggest hitting up Eric Carter again," said Hull. He held up his hands at the protest that was coming, the pain in his chest limiting the range to no higher than his belly. "Yeah, I realize completely: he's not the one who shot at you yesterday. But that doesn't mean he's not Bowie."
"No, but by that logic, we'd have to re-check everyone else, like Musa Zakhary, for instance."
"At any rate," Tori yawned discreetly, "we're not going to get anywhere at this moment." She rapped her partner lightly on the shoulder. "You need to get a breathing treatment, Cam. Why don't we just say that the plan for tomorrow is to invade St. Matthew's, hit Eden Seminary, and then Nick Fisher?"
"Something tells me that's circular, but maybe we'll nail something the third time around," said Ballack.
Hull shifted in his bed. "As I'm stuck here until I'm officially recovered, is there anything you want me to do?"
"Absolutely. Do you feel up to making calls?"
"Tell me where. I'll be going stir crazy with nothing to do."
"Tori will give you a copy of the staff contact information from St. Matthew's as you don't have yours. Call around to different gun and knife shops. You don't have a laptop, so you'll have to go old school and use the Yellow Pages. It could be that someone there--either a member of the staff or a family member--might have paid for a weapon via credit card."
"Pretty dumb to do so, if you ask me."
"We capitalize on the stupid," said Tori.
"And believe me, making mistakes is an equal-opportunity endeavor for criminals," Ballack coughed, clutching his chest again.
"Let's go," replied Tori. "You're about to disintegrate. And why do I get the feeling you have a sense of someone being guilty, but you won't share the goodies?"
"Don't want to jeopardize our chances with theories, Tor. It could mean nothing."
"Which means it's there," Hull guffawed, bringing a spasm of his own pain. "Beat it out of him, Tori. Don't let the great Cameron Ballack have all the fun."
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