Cry From The Grave (Chapter 38)

Cry From The Grave

Chapter 38

     Upon receiving news of a third death at St. Matthew's Grove, Ballack head-butted the side of the refrigerator, earning himself a bruise above his right eye. Martin procured an ice pack from the freezer and stayed until Tori arrived. She had remembered the bean bag chair for Crabolli's comfort and within a half hour, they had reached her two-bedroom house in Overland. They didn't expect the most energetic version of their colleague to hop in the Sprinter at that time of the morning, given what she had been through two days before. But neither did they take kindly to her gruff expression or her snippy replies.

     "You comfortable?" asked Ballack, both for certainty and for the sake of making conversation.

     "Just drive," Crabolli barked as she checked her phone.

     "Is there something you need to get out of your system?" he replied.

     "Something I should talk about, but not here, not now." She gingerly lowered herself, favoring her left arm in the sling, into the bean bag chair before she tossed a lunchbox cooler to her side. "Just a few things I have to figure out."

     First, Tori playing therapist, and now this, thought Ballack. Maybe I should give up on trying to figure out the female gender.

     Whatever the case, as Ballack brought her up to date on Helen Smith's untimely passing, Crabolli slowly merged into detective mode. It was just as well for the no-nonsense Ballack, who had managed little sleep himself and signaled Rhoda to get him up at five-thirty that morning. He passed most of his wait time prior to Tori's arrival by putting together his observations on one flow sheet, copying, pasting, and moving around a series of comments, date-and-time notations, and possible angles. It frustrated him to no end that they were reverse-engineering this case, being so weak on motive. At first, he strongly believed the future of St. Matthew's Grove was the controlling reason for Bowie's slayings. But he could no longer say that with certainty. And now another death was calling them back to the modest campus. He was aching to get going on this most recent fatality, and he was in no mood for delays.

     Krieger was waiting there in the narthex and waved them down the hallway toward Helen Smith's room.

     "Evan's finishing up," said the SID Commander. "For now, we can get you started. I have to get to a case out in Fenton, but I wanted to see you all here. Missy," he nodded to Crabolli, "it's good to see you back."

     "Such as I am," Crabolli grunted.

     "What's the report so far, sir?" asked Tori.

     "At the beginning of the nursing shift, Beverly Overton entered Mrs. Smith's room and..."

     "Uh-huh," Ballack said. 

     Krieger gave the detective an annoyed stare. "I beg your pardon."

     Ballack looked around at the confused faces of his colleagues. "I was just agreeing with him. Carry on. Sorry."

     "She went in to get her up for breakfast as she had noticed Mrs. Smith had not rung for assistance to get her out of bed. Not much to say, but Evan's had a look and so should you."

     Ballack looked down the hallway at the staff entry door, then to the entrance of Helen Smith's room. A full life lived, he thought, but death is still a skewed passage. Her cancer-ridden body was at peace, and all she had left behind for them was a cryptic sighting of an apparition fleeing north of the hospice.

     "Let's go in," he said, as Tori and Crabolli put on soft slippers. "I assume everyone is in the cafeteria?"

     "Actually, they requested the chapel today," sighed Krieger.

     "Tired of the specter of death nagging over their meals?"

     "I think they're wanting peace, Detective, and an altar and stained glass are as good candidates to provide that as anything else. Stay in touch."

     Holbrook was finishing his tasks as they entered the spacious confines of Helen Smith's quarters. Framed pictures on the walls and scrapbooks on tables bordered the perimeter of the room. For someone who had been facing a brutal demise, Ballack had to admit that the ambiance of her territory could lift the spirits of Eeyore the Donkey. Various shades of orange and peach fabric were woven into the quilt on her bed, and most of the picture frames were painted in such bright colors that Ballack swore he had wandered into an orchard of lemons and grapefruit. Holbrook was on the other side of the bed and straightened up.

     "Before you start on the room," he said, "time of death was about a quarter before six this morning, based on the beginnings of rigor mortis and the body temperature."

     "Nothing in here to alert the nurses' station, I see," noted Tori.

     "Doesn't look like it," Ballack said firmly. "She wasn't hooked up to anything at night. No ventilator, not even a pulse oximeter. If she had passed away in her sleep, no one would have known until they came and got her." He gestured to Crabolli. "Missy, close the door."

     When she had done so, Ballack turned to Holbrook. "Okay, Evan. I'm sure you want to tell us about the mode of death. You're here for a reason."

     "Yes, as Stu told you, the death was reported by Beverly Overton, who asked Isabel Andrews to call the SID."

     Ballack sighed. "Okay." Then after a pause, "Okay. Mode of death?"

     Holbrook grinned. "Yeah, I noticed you said 'if she died in her sleep.' This has all the hallmarks of a heart attack except for this one little item." He produced a small penlight and shone it on the left side of Helen Smith's neck, waving them closer.

     The detectives all drew near in turn. Each saw the marks Holbrook intended them to view, two small bruises, the color of muscadine grapes. One adorned Helen's skin in the mid-throat area, just below the jawline. The second lay squarely on the left corner of her jaw.

     "Manual strangulation?" Ballack asked.

     "Looks like it could be," said Holbrook. "The bruise under the chin is slighter yet longer, and the one  at the back of the jaw is smaller and darker."

     "Thoughts?"

     "Well, if it's murder, it seems as if the perp might have approached the bed from this side and grasped her throat with the left hand. With this woman's frailty, it might have been over in a matter of seconds. Especially," he continued, shining the light on the swollen area at the end of and underneath Helen's nose, "when you look at this. It's as if whoever did this had two hands free."

     "So, manual ligature combined with asphyxiation," Crabolli commented.

     "It could be that she bruised easily and these could be natural spots of everyday damage," rejoined Holbrook. "But to be honest, why in those places? We could say it's the skin discoloration that comes with being elderly, but these are bruises, not liver spots. I think you've got your third murder in four days."

     "And we're seventy-two hours from the original one," growled Ballack, "which is a place I don't like to be. Tori and Missy, while we're waiting for Sheilah to get here, take pictures and notes. I'll meet you in the narthex when you're done." He turned toward the door.

     "Where are you headed?" Tori asked demandingly.

     "To find out next of kin and speak with the pantheon in the chapel," Ballack announced. As he scooted down the hallway, he looked at the display screen on his cell phone. If we're going to snoop out Hibbler's funeral this afternoon, he told himself, we really need to hustle.