Cry From The Grave (Chapter 5)

Cry From The Grave

Chapter 5

     Saturday morning began with significant cloud cover and a threat of rain, but by nine o'clock a stiff wind had blown the gray stormheads onwards toward Illinois. Ballack had fixed his breakfast, securing a hard-boiled egg from the refrigerator, placing a slice of French bread on his plate as well, and then wrenching a banana from the bunch on the kitchen counter. He fit all his food on the plate and whisked himself outdoors onto the deck. Placing his breakfast on the patio table, he zoomed back inside to get a glass of water. Although walking on his own had not been an option for some time, and even though he still lived in his parents' residence, he still valued whatever scraps of independence he could garner. Making breakfast was one such sliver of this liberty. He finished getting his drink from the filtered tap at the sink as Karen Calabria, one of the nurses who attended to him, called up that she was still getting his laundry gathered up. As he headed toward the door, he snagged an enclosed envelope from the counter and placed it in his stack of stuff for the day. He had just returned to the patio table outside when his cell phone jarred his attention and he answered it after four rings.

     "So I see you can't stand down even when you've had a late start," he began.

     "That's a backhanded way of saying hello," Tori Vaughan huffed on the other end of the line. "I guess your parents already headed out."

     "Dad is on call this weekend, so he should be getting to St. Luke's in a couple of shakes. Mom went to church to help with re-painting the nursery and preschool classrooms, so I get a quiet morning of 'me-time'. Karen's doing some laundry downstairs."

     "I thought she was scheduled for nights."

     "She is. She's just staying over, as we adjusted her schedule to fit mine today. She just finished my nebulizer treatment and now I'm ready to do some Sudoku, a little reading, and catching some autumn rays. What's up? You never call me in the morning unless you're on the way over, and given that I hear no background noise of the Sprinter, I gather you are nowhere near."

     "What are you reading? More of that Icelandic guy?"

     "Not today. It's Margaret Thatcher: The Downing Street Years," replied Ballack. "Quit jerking me around. What's up?"

     Tori sighed into the mouthpiece. "I just haven't come to grips with Janie's situation. I can't imagine what that has to be like. I know what your parents did for you is admirable, but..." She trailed off.

     "I know," Ballack responded, somewhat gently. "There has already been a chance I could die at any point from what I have. With Jennifer, it's a given."
     Tori said nothing. Ballack's sixth sense told him she was close to tears.
     "Listen, Tor," he continued. "I think we have to put this in the context of what Janie wants. She chose to do this for however long she has Jennifer alive. And I spoke to Roger last night when I got home. He got promoted at the bank, so even with some budget trimming, they're not going to go hungry or lose their home. And whenever Jennifer dies, Janie is not only welcome back on the force, but I'd imagine she'd run back to us. I would imagine she'd do that for a sense of life structure if nothing else."
     "I know," said Tori, "but it's just that I keep thinking about Paula."
     "Tori, you didn't lose her."
     "I have a lot of guilt over what's happened, and yesterday made it a lot worse. Janie's going to be there for her daughter in a way I haven't been for mine. She's fifteen and pregnant. She's due in early December, for heaven's sake. I can't help but think that if I'd been a better mom..."
     "Oh, you are so full of crap," Ballack sighed, rolling his eyes. Just last April, his partner discovered her high school freshman daughter was pregnant. Tori's road of remorse had grown more choppy since the summer ended. Perhaps it had to do with the beginning of a school year that would be interrupted by an unintended birth. "Paula's pregnant because that's the way the reproductive system works," he sighed. "It happened. Thousands of kids all over America are huddling in basements or cars or who knows where and getting it on because they're sexual arsonists and refuse to put out their own fires. Paula got pregnant because it just happened. It has nothing to do with you, so stop acting like it does. How are her appointments coming along?"
     "Good enough. She's huge."
     "And she still doesn't want to know the sex of the baby?"
     "She wants to be flying blind right up until the delivery. I think it's because she doesn't want a boy because it might remind her of Will."
     Ballack remained silent. He hoped that was the end of that subject. He gritted his teeth when he heard the next thing out of Tori's mouth.
     "I need to take time off."
     "What? Now?" Ballack loathed most surprises, and this one was more than he could take. "Get this guilt out of your head right now, Tori! I just said..."
     "I'm not talking about that. I mean when the baby comes, when Paula delivers. It's not like my family is all that helpful, or Eddie is that reliable."
     "Eddie might surprise you in a situation like this," said Ballack, trying to get her off the phone so he could eat his breakfast in peace.
     "Maybe. I'm sorry. I just haven't been able to get Janie's situation out of my mind."
     "It's your Catholic schoolgirl guilt coming out, Tori. You chase too many rats inside your skull and you connect the dots of blame back to yourself. You can't change the fact your daughter is pregnant. Make the days ahead of you count." He took a bite of his egg, blanching at how it was less cold than before. "I think we need another SID case to put this misery aside."
     "Why did you say that?" asked Tori.
     "Just a feeling I have," sniffed Ballack.
     "The armies of Satan tremble when you get those feelings, partner," said Tori. "Although another case could be just what I need." It was her turn to pressure her co-worker. "By the way, don't tell me you never have a few looks back about your ex and wonder what if."
     Ballack stopped himself from telling her off, but the raw memory penetrated his psyche before he could close that gate. It had been six months since he and Dana Witten had parted ways. In his estimation, he had listened kindly to the sadness of her own history. His heart still ached that she believed her past disqualified them from a conceivable future. His reply had been less than fully charitable, and now they were independently navigating the oceans of distance. While he had plowed ahead, determined to keep his focus, he admitted to himself that there was considerably less light on his path since their breakup. He believed, though, that he couldn't allow himself to slip professionally. Besides, he had made proactive demands on Dana she wasn't willing to meet. Tori, on the other hand, had her daughter's pregnancy thrust upon her.
     "Fine, I won't lie to you," he grumbled, "because it's hard to wake up and realize all that water under the proverbial bridge. But it did happen. And the difficult thing was realizing it was out of my control, convincing her it was worth sticking out."
     "If I remember, sport, you were the one who threw down a gauntlet of some kind."
     "Because if she can't believe me, why would anything work with me? Come on, Tor. I have the energy to chase down a lot of things. But the one thing I won't do is keep trying to convince someone the past is truly the past when they project it into the present."
     He paused for effect, then continued. "None of that has anything to do with the here and now, Tori. What happened to Paula happened. You can believe it's sheer Darwinian chance or you can trust it occurred for a reason beyond what we can presently imagine. But it's no reflection on you. And whether we have Janie on the force or not, we still have work to do."
     "Whenever we get a case."
     Ballack sighed. They were running around in circles. He wasn't up for this verbal journey on this morning and a chilly wind had just rippled over the deck.
     "Just come on over, Tori, and let's go into the office. Maybe your guilt will dissipate," he finally charged her. "You're no good to me otherwise." He said goodbye and snatched his plate from the patio table, turned into the house, an environment more certain to warm his bones.

Cry From The Grave (Chapter 4)

Cry From The Grave

Chapter 4

     At that same moment, well across the Missouri River, Dr. Musa Zakhary opened the door of his garnet Acura ILX, a vehicle he termed his "mid-life crisis self-gift". With his classes done for the week at Webster University, and with a half-hour of discretionary time in hand, Zakhary remote locked his car and sauntered through the parking lot of St. Matthew's Grove to visit his mother-in-law, Verna McBride. Since Verna's ovarian cancer had spread into her bones within the last couple of months, she had also developed a dreaded case of bleeding out. Nothing seemed to turn the tide and yet, Zakhary and his wife Kerry knew homebound care would be a hardship with their three young children witnessing the horrific, measured slide toward their grandmother's death. St. Matthew's was just a short distance away from Zakhary's office in the Sam Priest Center that housed Webster's history and political science department. Putting the deadlines of grading and lectures behind him, he opened the front doors and walked in.

     The facility of St. Matthew's Grove was laid out like an extended letter X with a massive oblong bulge in the middle. The large narthex sat at the enlarged crosspoint of the hospice, with a functional welcome center manned by volunteers. A fountain bubbled behind that desk near the back doors that opened out onto the courtyard. Down the slanted hallways toward the building's front were patient rooms and Isabel Andrews' office. Dean Hibbler's office was located off the north side of the narthex in between two wings, the back one which led down to the library, the nurses' lounge, and a small cafeteria. The chapel faced Hibbler's office from the south side of the narthex, and down the back hall from the chapel were two more patient rooms, a supply nook, and the therapy room.

     It was in the therapy center that Zahkary found his beloved mother-in-law. Here, Verna McBride and her fellow patient James Caple were displaying more annoyance than usual, and each claimed the frustration was largely the fault of the therapist. Zahkary chuckled, glad to see Verna so feisty for a change, and grabbed a magazine before seating himself in the hallway at an angle where he could see most of the activity. He didn't want to intrude yet he believed it was critical to keep a keen eye on the proceedings. The physical therapist was the butt of considerable complaints. Eric Carter, who was working with Verna on her wrist joints and her fine motor skills, was part-time at St. Matthew's Grove and spent the majority of his day as a student at Eden Theological Seminary across the grounds, taking classes in the morning and helping out at the school bookstore in the early afternoon. Zahkary wondered what caused this man to go from physical therapy to a pursuit of the ministry. Highly anxious and never sure of himself, Carter tended to rub his fingertips together when he became extremely nervous, and his fingers were going at warp speed that very moment.

     "Good afternoon, Dr. Zakhary," a pleasant voice said to his right. Zakhary turned his head and saw Isabel Andrews coming toward him, with two other people he recognized. Staff nurses Beverly Overton and Billy Hanspard both gave quick nods to him before heading into the therapy room. Presumably, the sessions were nearly over. Isabel stayed behind and Zakhary got up to greet her.

     "Hello, Isabel," he smiled, dwelling briefly on the notion that she was the only staff member he hailed on a first-name basis. "Looks like Mother is holding her own in there. Eric isn't flogging her like he normally does."

     She refused to take the bait and nodded, with a glimpse of sorrow in her eyes. "Eric is still learnign that hospice PT is different from the outpatient variety with the vibrant. He needs to listen to the patients and not control the proceedings. It's still helpful to have someone around who is trained and licensed and willing to do this to accommodate our budget. Not that it matters much in the long run."

     She noticed the nebula of confusion on Zakhary's face. "I am sorry, Musa," she said, surprising him by using his Christian name. "You're here to see Verna and to enjoy her for a bit and there I go moaning about the future."

     Zakhary leaned in, touching her arm. "Isabel," he said, "you wouldn't be moaning about the future for no reason. Even in the short time we've known you, you're not the type to drop your guard. 'Not in the long run.' What did you mean by that?"

     Isabel looked down the hall each way, as if expecting the walls themselves to be eavesdropping on their conversation. "You have been such wonderful supporters of what we do here, Musa, even if that means we do things so frugally it seems Ebenezer Scrooge runs the place." She winced, looking down the hallway again. "I am just saying that if you have the opportunity to consider another facility for Verna, you should give it a close look."
     "Are you saying St. Matthew's might close?" Zakhary whispered stridently. "We practically just put Mother here!"
     "I can't tell you more, Musa, and even now I've told you too much," she replied, her eyes on the ground and her hands clutching a file. "I'm telling you this because you and Kerry are faithful visitors and want the best for Verna."
     She looked as if she wanted to say more, but at that moment they heard both a reactionary curse from Eric Carter and a painful yelp from Verna. Musa brushed past Isabel into the therapy room to fins his mother-in-law teetering precariously on the padded table. Carter was kneeling beside her, struggling to regain his own balance while trying to prevent her from falling. Wordlessly, Zakhary sprinted to Carter's side, lowering himself into a crouch, and bore Verna's weight against his own body.
     "What were you trying to do?" blurted Zakhary, frustrated but with no hint of anger in his voice.
     Carter got on Verna's other side. "The wheelchair. She wanted to transition from the chair to the table and back. She tottered and I nearly dropped her."
     Isabel Andrews came up from behind as Beverly Overton hovered nearby and Billy Hanspard stood at the ready in case he was needed. With a measured heave, both Zakhary and Carter swiveled Verna's frail figure into the wheelchair.
     Carter was clearly both exhausted and embarrassed. He nodded to Zakhary. "Thank you."
     "I haven't allowed her to fall yet," Zakhary replied, giving the briefest of smiles, "and I don't intend to start now."
     "What is this?" came the bellowing voice of Dr. Dean Hibbler from the door. "Can we have one day when we don't have a total disaster in therapy?" He strode into the center of the room, taking stock of the silent population upon the medical tableau. Both nurses stared at him with glassy eyes. Carter cowered from the force of the doctor's arrival, physically sliding himself onto the table yet avoiding eye contact. Isabel Andrews met Hibbler's blazing oculi with a muderous stare of her own. For his part, Zakhary stood upright, taking stock of Hibbler and drinking in the antagonism that steamed from his persona.
     "What just went on here?" the doctor barked. "Mr. Carter, I take it we almost had a patient injury?"
     "Sir, I..." began Carter. "It was...nothing happened. Thanks to Dr. Zakhary..."
     Hibbler looked around. "Two nurses, my nursing director, a therapist, and a bystander, and still we can't avert a disaster for the course of one afternoon! Mr. Carter, you were performing a prohibited maneuver! And given your defiance, did you at least have anyone assisting you with your action?"
     "Which was what, precisely, Doctor?" Isabel interrupted sharply.
     Hibbler weighed her response. "What do you mean by that?"
     "You're demanding that he have assistance. What, then, was he doing that demanded that?"
     Hibbler looked at Carter. "Well?" he snapped at the therapist.
     "No! No! No!" Isabel shot back. "You bit his head off. You must be the expert on these things. What was he doing? You tell me!"
     And now the fury was smoking at maximum force behind Hibbler's eyes. He had never gotten along with Isabel before, but this was the first time his nursing director had shown him up in public. He knew she had to be irate over their discussion yesterday, but that could not be helped. Her lack of professionalism could.
     "Nurse Andrews!" he bellowed. "If you believe that an unsafe environment is best for our patients, then by all means make that argument! But you do so at your own peril!"
     "I don't think..." began Beverly Overton.
     "I wasn't speaking to you!" growled Hibbler.
     "Doctor," Zakhary approached Hibbler standing before him nose to nose. Two-day-old gyro, he thought as he caught whiffs of the doctor's lunch. "I can assure you that this was the type of thing that could happen to anyone. I helped. We caught my mother-in-law. It happened in the blink of an eye."
     "Supreme standards of compassion you have there, sir," wheedled Hibbler, "but you're not the one running the facility."
     "Or running it into the ground," Zakhary heard himself reply to the executive director of St. Matthew's Grove. He saw everyone looking at him, in shock, unglued by the force of those damning words.
     Several moments went by before Hibbler turned his gaze to isabel. He pointed a weathered finger in her direction. "Since you obviously can't leave confidential matters to rest, I think we need to rectify that. You meet me in my office. Tomorrow at ten o'clock."
     No one made a sound. Hibbler made as if he was leaving when he turned around. He looked back and forth at Carter and Zakhary.
     "Eric, since you can't keep from screwing up, let alone doing what I've prohibited, perhaps we should take that evidence as divine guidance. Pack up your stuff. You're done." As the gathered souls let out a collective gasp at this bluster, Hibbler then wagged his finger at Zakhary, growling like a pit bull.
     "And if a raghead like you thinks I'm running this place into the ground, maybe you should take your precious Verna elsewhere." He strode out, his loafer heels clacking the tile as he swept past the threshold.
     The small congregation in the therapy center was drenched in gloom. Overton and Hanspard looked around, their eyes cast low in embarrassment, looking for equipment they could pretend to shift back into its proper places. Carter sat still, head in his hands, which had turned red with rage as the veins seemed to bulge from his fingers. Zakhary swore he heard the splatter of tears on the floor at the man's feet.
     He felt a hand on his arm, holding it firmly. It was Isabel.
     "I told you," she said. "I told you too much. And now it's over, Musa." She walked silently out of the room. Zakhary looked around at those who remained, the ones who now flitted around aimlessly as if he wasn't there.
     "Musa?"
     Zakhary awoke from his daze. "Mother," he said quietly, stooping next to her and embracing his mother-in-law gently. "Mother, I'm sorry."
     She nodded weaily. "I'm so tired, Musa. Do you think you could wheel me back to my room?"
     "I will, Mother. I will."
     He remembered little of the rest of his visit. Verna made some attempt at conversation, bickering faintly about the food, but within fifteen minutes, she appeared tired and ready for a nap. He let her doze in her chair as he slipped out of the room. He made his way through the central narthex and turned right toward the doors. A blast of anger stormed from his nostrils as he looked back toward Hibbler's office, a sliver of light seeping out through the crack in the door. Zakhary shook his head. He knew he shouldn't let his emotions get the better of him, and with Verna facing death there were more important issues than his own sensitivities to bear. But he couldn't shake the hurricane swelling within his heart as he approached his car. It was as he settled in the driver's seat and turned on the ignition that Hibbler's face appeared in his mind again, making him want to vomit. This was no passing annoyance. For the first time in his adult life, he felt absolute hatred toward another human being.
     
     

     

Cry From The Grave (Chapter 3)

Cry From The Grave

Chapter 3

     The photographer thanked them for their patience and made for the door, eager to get his film scanned before the office closed. The small crowd milled around the conference room, gutted of all standing furniture except for one rectangular table, which held an assortment of snacks and a cooler of lemonade. It wasn't a fancy spread but, given the last-minute choice of having a reception, it was the best that could be done.

     Scotty Bosco, lieutenant at the St. Charles Police Detective Bureau, slapped Evan Holbrook on the back as Stu Krieger shook Holbrook's hand. The commander of the Special Investigative Division had made a personal trip to O'Fallon for the swearing-in ceremony. Standing next to Holbrook was his wife Susan, along with their twin sons still decked in their soccer uniforms. They had evidently come straight from a game.

     Detectives Cameron Ballack and Tori Vaughan approached the Holbrook family as Bosco and Krieger turned toward a plate of brownies. "Congratulations, Evan," beamed Ballack, "on so many levels!" He reached out to shake his colleague's hand.

     "Levels?" asked Holbrook.

     "Yeah," quipped Tori, "because when we joined the SID, we sure didn't get a fancy party like this. Plus, a newspaper photo op. Not too shabby."

     "Hardly a fancy party," frowned Holbrook in his blue oxford shirt and navy slacks. "You have brownies and Triscuits and no alcohol. And the photographer was from MidRivers Magazine. Not like we're talking the Post-Dispatch. Still, it's nice to be recognized."

     "You forgot the cheesecake bits," reminded Susan. "That ups the class factor considerably."

     "I haven't seen your boys in a couple years," remarked Ballack. "They've grown a lot."

     "What's wrong with you?" blurted one of the boys.

     The room went dead silent.

     "Excuse me?" Ballack said evenly, though he knew what the child meant.

     "What's wrong with you that you're in that thing?" the lad continued, pointing at Ballack's wheelchair.

     "Joey!" hissed Holbrook. "That was hardly appropriate!"

     Ballack shook his head. He didn't mind the question coming from an eight-year-old child with no frame of reference. Joey had simply not been used to an adult looking at him from eye level and could hardly be expected to process why a wheelchair was needed by a grown-up. Ballack shrugged; he had received much worse from adults who knew better.

      "Forget it, Evan," he said quietly before turning to Joey. "My legs don't work anymore, buddy. Something went differently with my body before I was born. It couldn't be helped. It's called myotubular myopathy." He said the words slowly. "You didn't know. It's okay."

     "You do know better, Joey," Susan said, letting go of the hand of younger twin Jake and placing a firm grip on Joey's shoulder. "We raised you better than that."

     "So, what's it feel like to sign up for trench warfare in the SID?" asked Tori, seeking to redirect the conversation from the familial discomfort.

      "First thing Scotty told me was my first opportunity could come up before I knew it, to not think I'm always on call, but I could be in the thick of it."

     "Pretty much what he told us when he gave us our SID badges," Ballack said.

     "And the funny thing is that our first case erupted a few days later," chimed in Tori.

     "Unlikely I get that on my plate so soon," replied Holbrook.

     "The spread of evil can waft to St. Charles County and beyond" said Ballack in a mysterious, prophetic tone, "so never lose heart. Seriously, Evan. You're a fantastic M.E., you have a great eye for detail, and you get results quickly so we can do our jobs. You give us a strong option when we do get a case, and if Scotty assents to this, I'd say that if something happens anywhere, you're right in the mix of initial options."
     "Spoken like the gentleman you are," Holbrook grinned. "Not to mention a scholar." He pointed at the open bulge in the side pocket flap of Ballack's wheelchair. "Is your job not thrilling enough that you have to read crime fiction?"
     "Oh, that," laughed Ballack, tapping an Arnaldur Indridason novel in the compartment. "That's my night reading. I was actually doing my puzzle book on the way over."
     "You do puzzles?" asked Susan.
     "You have no idea," Tori rolled her eyes. "He does Sudoku on our way into the office, but he does the jumble and anagrams in the afternoon. I've never known anyone that structured life around their games."
     "Jumble and anagrams?" Holbrook uttered admiringly.
     "I like words," Ballack answered. Scotty Bosco approached them as Krieger made a hasty exit.
     "It's like the family is moving up in the world," said Bosco, easing into their circle with a plastic cup of lemonade. "Long have we wondered if we could get a St. Charles M.E. to join the pack. The company keeps growing."
     "You're practically giddy," deadpanned Tori. "You sure that's just lemonade in there?"
     "I'm fine," said Bosco.
     "That's not answering my question."
     "While congratulating you, Evan," continued Bosco, "I also wanted all of you to know something else that's less than ideal. It's why I was hung up with Stu for a few moments. Janie Buck called me this morning and withdrew her name from SID consideration."
     "But she was such a great candidate!" exclaimed Susan. "Everything Evan has said made me believe she was a lock for the forensics opportunity."
     Tori, suddenly downcast, barely looked up as she spoke. "Is it her daughter?"
     Bosco nodded. "That's correct. The good news is that they finally discovered what was causing Jennifer's seizures. The bad news is there's nothing that can be done. She said it was..." He fished out a card from his pocket and looked at the notes he had written upon it. "Creutzfeldt-Jakob Disease."
     "Meaning what?" asked Susan.
     "I've never heard of it," said Tori, "and I spent some time in nursing."
     "The long and the short of it is that Jennifer's brain has developed holes and is a rapidly degenerating sponge," Bosco paused, allowing the gravity of the subject to sink in. "Janie said it's becoming more like Swiss cheese every passing day. There's some sort of infectious protein causing this and, thus, causing the seizures. Not to mention why Jennifer is having memory loss and some violent mood swings. I have to say, even with Janie being at her wit's end, she was calmer than I would have been."
     Ballack groaned. Janie Buck had proven herself a meticulous crime scene investigator, and she had been with him and Tori on their murder case at St. Basil's Seminary eighteen months before. But deep down, he groaned for Janie herself and the angst of this diagnosis. And instinctively, he knew this wasn't all behind Janie's resolution. "There's more to it, isn't there? Scotty?"
     Bosco nodded sadly. "It's not only the SID she's turning down. Janie said she has to quit the force for a while. Extended leave of absence. The nerve cells in Jennifer's brain are dying, and the rate at which this is happening leads doctors to say she has less than six months to live. She's staying at home and getting assistance from a home health nursing agency, and she wants to have these last days with Jennifer."
     The Holbrooks' boys were at the table sampling more sweets and were oblivious to the devastating news that had ripped through the adult hearts in the room. Tori covered her eyes to hide her tears. Evan shook his head and took a deep breath. Bosco looked at his watch and put the card back in his pocket.
     "That's what I was mentioning to Stu," he said, "although I kept many of these details out of the official report. If you guys do get an SID case here, there, anywhere, you'll be getting a forensics person from inside of 270. At least you've worked with Sheilah before."
     There was a lengthy pause, after which Bosco said, "Well, I have some things to attend to. I'll get someone to clean this room up and put it back to standard form. I'll see you all later." And he walked away.
     Nobody spoke. Tori's jaw twitched. Finally, Ballack looked around and quietly said, "Well, working together on an SID case is now officially possible, but after this news, any labor seems awfully trivial now."

Cry From The Grave (Chapter 2)

Cry From The Grave

Chapter 2

     Ten minutes after Daryl Goodspeed and Helen Smith returned to the interior warmth of St. Matthew's Grove, a quartet of individuals gathered around a window table at Robust Wine Bar, some distance west of the hospice. An award-winning establishment in the heart of old Webster Groves, Robust countered its relatively plain yet stately brick exterior with a contemporary interior flair. Walls painted in varying shades of browns, tans, and creams accentuated the sand-and-black colored granite tables and bar. A small but growing number of connoisseurs placed their orders and waited patiently at their tables. Many were stopping for a social drink, a late afternoon snack, or an after-hours chat with a friend. The evening crowd would be more inclined toward music and entertainment, to be provided that night by a modern acoustic group known as the Six Napoleons. For now, an excited buzz ran through the establishment, as if the cooler weather had enlivened their souls toward increasing gregariousness.

     The only solemnity in the restaurant came from four people seated near the window. Exchanging pleasantries and initial small talk, they sipped their drinks and picked at the food they agreed to share. The most frail and venerable among them had just taken a minimal swallow of his Hopler Pinot Blanc. Rory Giles, part-time chaplain at St. Matthew's Grove, was exhausted both by a lack of sleep and the worry this gathering would produce. The eldest of the group, he both looked and felt older than his sixty-four years, his gray hair thinning and his slight frame more stooped as the days passed. Watching him with much concern was the Reverend Nicholas Fisher, rector of Emmanuel Episcopal Church and diocesan liaison to the hospice. Many assumed Fisher to be aloof in conversation, but in truth, there was little that escaped his sharp ears and sky-blue eyes. He lifted a glass of 2010 Pierre Chermette Gamay to his lips and passed a bowl of red pepper hummus to Dr. Dean Hibbler. Absent-mindedly, Hibbler's fingers played with the neck of his Smithwick's Irish Ale as he scooped some hummus on a pita chip and thrust it into his mouth. The one person refusing Hibbler's culinary order was Isabel Andrews, the nursing director at St. Matthew's Grove. She had selected a goat cheese tartlette to share with the men, but she had eaten much of it while finishing most of her glass of Catana Malbee.
     Fisher set his wine glass on the table and sat erect in his chair. What he had to say could wait no longer.
     "Thank you all for coming," he began, souring at his forced decency. "I know this is not very convenient, but I felt the need to have us discuss things away from the hospice. I promise I won't keep you very long. I know you, Isabel and Dean, need to get back soon.
     "However, it is critical that you be apprised of some matters that have been in the works for some time but which will affect the operation of St. Matthew's Grove in the future. As the diocese has considered how best to be responsible with our budget, it falls to me to deliver these matters to you. Above all else, I hope you take what I say in the spirit it is given. What we discuss today is intended to make St. Matthew's better."
     Isabel Andrews was wiping her glasses while Fisher spoke. As the rector paused, she looked at him apprehensively. "Nick, that sounds like the sort of monologue given when pink slips are going out."
     Fisher put up his hand in a cautionary gesture. "No one is saying that, but I do want us to be aware of a few things. No one can deny that in today's economy, everyone needs to tighten the belt. The Diocese of Missouri knows it can't operate according to financial dreams but rather by facing monetary realities. We've had to cut programs and measures across the board. One of those hard choices happens to be St. Matthew's. Not in the sense that we have to unload it, but rather that we need to reshape how the hospice operates."
     "As if we're not operating on a tight budget as it is?" the nursing director implored.
     "This is about confronting a few realities, Isabel," replied Fisher, irked by the interruptions. We are faced with either closure or radical change. St. Matthew's has a quality reputation, no doubt, for personal attention. But it gives that function because it is small, too small to function as a viable alternative in the hospice market. We have too much competition just in St. Louis alone. And let's face it--it is incredibly difficult to draw nurses and staff to hospice care anyway. The problem is more abject when our average daily census remains at historic lows. With the changes coming to health care nationally, we can't be sure of how our billing and revenue stream will change. We operate on a shoestring, but it is still not enough. Competitive hospice care demands we have a larger staff than we do now, and for that, we need more room and more patients. St. Matthew's Grove is too small and has too few resources.
     "But we can fix things as they stand. It will just require changes. Thanks to some groundwork laid by Dean, we have had conversations with several hospice corporations interested in taking St. Matthew's Grove on as a participating center. One of these groups that seems to have genuine possibilities is Dignity Care. Now, this might require some other things. We might remain as we are in the same facility, but that doesn't seem likely. We could be linked as a satellite campus in Dignity's orbit. But the most plausible scenario is that St. Matthew's Grove would dissolve and the diocese would receive a settlement from the sale of the grounds. Additionally, what would then happen is that our patients and staff would matriculate to another center in the area under Dignity's banner."
     "Locally, you mean?" It was the first time Rory Giles spoke.
     "That is the intention," Fisher nodded, understanding Giles' trepidation. Nearing retirement, the chaplain was likely not high on the priority list in the tailwinds of a corporate takeover. "There are obviously several matters to be dealt with. Going forward will be extremely difficult for all of us, the patients especially. But staying where we are is not cost-effective, either for the hospice or the diocese. And we have no room to grow. We occupy a tiny space on the seminary grounds, one that isn't even Episcopalian, so as it is Eden is being extraordinarily generous! We hardly have the option for expansion or modernization."
     "I disagree," Isabel blurted out, confirming her position as the primary nonconformist. "If there is a matter of cost, then of course we must deal with it. But Nick, even you have to admit this is a bit sleight-of-hand. We had a written promise from the diocese last year that you would continue the financial support and oversight for two more years. The diocese told us nothing would be touched, no re-arrangement at all, until September of next year. That gives us almost eleven months to consider what austerity looks like. You act as if the decision to cut loose has already been made."
     "Nick, if I may?" asked Hibbler, and Fisher wearily nodded his assent. "Isabel, no one doubts our desire to make this work, but the reality is we have to prepare for change. And it is coming. We are a small staff and we can provide only so much care. We have to face the likely reality of closure now and the transition next year will be much smoother if that must be one of our options."
     "What's to become of us?" asked Giles, his normally timid eyes exploding with fresh boldness.
     "What do you mean?" Hibbler inquired.
     "The staff. The nurses. Isabel. The cafeteria workers. The janitors. You seriously don't expect a corporate entity to take everyone on as one big happy family."
     "We have no reason to believe..."
     "That they won't consider all the options," Giles interrupted dourly. "Of course, but we all know that staffing decisions in health care, especially with outside agencies, are done with the bottom line in view. My point is that obviously Dignity Care--if that's who St. Matthew's Grove goes with--will keep an executive director and a nursing director, but I doubt a chaplain is high on their list of priorities."
     "And," said Isabel firmly, piercing the air with a thick yet beautifully manicured index finger, "we can pretty well guarantee that a doctor would be welcome on staff, but the odds of my keeping the same position is minimal at best."
     Her words hung in the air. Hibbler glared at her over the top of his glass as he drained the remainder of his wine.
     Isabel returned the burning stare. "You've set it all in motion, Dean. You've manipulated this whole effort so you'd have a job in exchange, the rest of us be damned!"
     "That," replied Hibbler sharply, "is your conjecture. It might help to root a few of your assertions in reality."
     "Dean!" snapped Fisher, more loudly than he intended, as several patrons turned toward the brewing clash.
     "If this was to be a potential event, then we should have been moving toward consensus this whole time!" Isabel grumbled, picking up her purse and grabbing her jacket. "This is on your hands, Nick, Dean! The diocese shouldn't have gone back on its word, and Dean had no business taking part in isolated negotiations without our knowledge!"
     "You're upset because it has to do with your job, Isabel," Fisher said soothingly, like a mother comforting her sick child.
     "I'm upset because it has to do with a lot of people, loyal people who have been at St. Matthew's for some time. Not just me, but Rory here. Anna and Beverly and Billy and the other nurses. And Melba is only part-time, but what about her? And the patients, for heaven's sake! I doubt any of them make a difference to you."
     She turned and stormed out, nearly knocking over a young urbanite who was nursing a beer. The three men watched her go, Hibbler with a smirking insouciance, Fisher looking grim, and Giles shaking his head in morose fashion. The chaplain wearily got to his feet and checked his pocket watch.
     "Nick, I'll need to talk to you," he said. "Some time tomorrow morning? Your office?"
     Fisher painfully smiled his assent and watched Giles head toward the door. With a heavy heart, he glimpsed his friend's bowed head as he turned down Lockwood Avenue toward his parking space. He's a good man, thought the rector. This can't be easy for him and it's the end of everything he knows.

Cry From The Grave (Chapter 1)

Cry From The Grave

PART ONE
Stillness and Suffering

November 8-10

Chapter 1

     Helen Smith despised the cafeteria, the checkups on her vital signs, and even the passing invitations to chapel services. Little about the microscopic community of St. Matthew's Grove gave her much pleasure anymore. The checkups annoyed her, for any physical shift in her chair or bed brought about an eruption of discomfort. She knew she was marking time. Lung cancer had ravaged her body and presently spread more rapidly than ever before. She could barely keep her eyes open once she consumed a passable lunch. Helen couldn't bear the quizzical eyes of the other patients, their knowing looks drawn to her wig she used to cover the few wisps remaining on her despoiled cranium.

     Her escape on this cold October day was the courtyard on the east side of the building. Formerly overlaid with bricks, the area had been recently refurbished with a rubberized surface made from crushed tire treads painted a neutral gray. Although not as aesthetically pleasing, it made for more efficient movement for patients such as Helen on the occasions she used her wheelchair. looking through the trees, she could make out the vehicles maneuvering north and south on Bompart Avenue. She glanced at her watch. Three o'clock. David would visit her in approximately two hours, driving over from Webster Groves High School, where he served as a science teacher. Her son was the only family who counted for anything at the moment. Gene had died seven years ago, ending a happy marriage of forty-six years. Their other children lived far away and rarely returned to St. Louis, let alone find a reason to call.

      Her thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of Daryl Goodspeed, who eased his affable self onto the bench closest to her. Sixty-four years old and stricken with pancreatic cancer, Daryl was the newest addition to St. Matthew's Grove. The tiny hospice center, shoehorned into the southeast corner of Eden Theological Seminary's campus, could boast of only a small staff and six patients. Daryl had proven to be the friendliest soul in the crowd, and Helen was grateful for these interludes. She watched as Daryl shifted his enormous bulk and turned toward her. Looking directly into the sun's glare, he lifted his hand to shield his eyes, grimacing at the sharp pain in his back and side.
     It was several moments before Daryl spoke. "Quiet in there today," he rasped.
     "I don't doubt that," replied Helen. "Mid-afternoon. It's time for almost everyone to take a nap. I was considering it myself."
     Daryl shook his head. "Not what I meant. Lawrence and Verna are in the library reading the paper. Sandra's by the fountain, and even James is up out of bed. It's almost like we got a signal to move around with no one there."
     Helen shot a worried look his way. "What do you mean, no one there?"
     "Well..."
     "Anna and Beverly are still here?"
     "Of course, of course," said Daryl reassuringly. "They wouldn't leave in the middle of their shift. It's infinitely better having them in the house than Billy Hanspard."
     "You're just upset Billy barked at you the other day," began Helen, but her words faded as Daryl held up a beefy hand.
     "Forcing me to take my medication? Helen, I have pancreatic cancer. One day I'm playing golf at Aberdeen with my neighbor and I'm setting up a chip shot on the ninth hole. Next thing I know, I'm in the middle of my backswing and I get a piercing stinger barely west of my spine. That was the week before Easter. Now I'm here, poked and prodded in the morning, shuffling around in the afternoon, and that Hanspard thinks he's doing me a favor giving me painkillers when my colon is clogging itself."
     He paused, stifling a cough, and he pulled out a handkerchief to wipe his mouth. "Nothing tastes good in the cafeteria anymore. That Anna girl is forever trying to get my vitals. What's the point anyway? In a couple months, I should be dead. Why worry about vitals?"
     "This is hardly your usual self, dear," remarked Helen soothingly. "And Anna's just doing her job."
     "I'm sorry for my demeanor, Helen," he replied. "But she's an ogre. Not that complaining about it would do any good. Giles, Hibbler, Edwards--none of them care enough to deal with her. And mark my words, if no one confronts her, she's liable to kill one of us before it's all said and done."
     Helen grimaced as the chilly breeze swirled around them. "You're concerned about getting killed by a trusted professional when you happen to be staring death in the face anyhow?"
     Daryl growled. "You're the queen of irony, as usual. But the reason why I said it was quiet in there is this: Aside from the nurses, no one in the administration is around. It's like..." He craned his neck, looking back over his shoulder. The back door of the building had opened and a tall, full-figured, yet graceful woman glided over the threshold and began traversing the courtyard. Her wavy auburn hair fell to her shoulders and contrasted with her bright green scrubs. Covering the space from the door to the shivering duo in little time, she approached them with an effusive smile.
     "Nurse Bev, I can safely assume this is the warning call to return to the fireplace and thaw out?" asked Daryl.
     Beverly Overton gave a lilting laugh that seemed out of place with her stature. She laid her hand gently on Helen's shoulder, a reassuring touch that visibly relaxed the patient. "I'm under no delusions I'll be able to lasso the both of you inside," the nurse replied, her words glistening with mirth. "Just checking on you. It's a tad breezy and I was just wondering how long you've been exposed to the elements."
     Helen was about to thank her for her concern when another thought intervened. "Nurse Beverly, it's so quiet inside. And Dar...well, we haven't seen Dr. Hibbler or Mrs. Andrews around in the past hour. Are they even around?"
     For the first time, Helen thought she caught a flicker of anxiety in Beverly Overton's eyes, but the worrisome flare extinguished itself as soon as it ignited. The nurse shook her head slowly, her red curls swaying in the quickening wind.
     "Stepped out for a brief moment," she said. "Something off campus, but they should be back soon."
     "That's not all," retorted Daryl after another round of coughing. "Reverend Giles got in his car ten minutes ago and started heading west on Lockwood. So that looks like it makes you the senior warden here."
     Beverly slapped him playfully on the arm. "Stop that," she said. "You know his chaplaincy is only part-time. He's not tied down here nine to five."
     Daryl peered back at the building. "Still awfully quiet." He paused reflectively. "Like a storm's a-coming."
     No one spoke for about twenty seconds. Then, feigning a look at her watch, Beverly Overton moved behind Helen's wheelchair. "Come on, both of you," she said. "It's probably time we got back inside anyway." She grasped the handles and began pushing Helen back toward the building and its temperate interior, with Daryl lumbering along in their wake.

Cry From the Grave (Prologue)

Cry From the Grave

Prologue: The Nave of Ruin

Twenty years ago

     The phone beeped, barely registering with Bekah Jensen on this cool November afternoon. Desperate to finish scribbling a message lest she forgot, she ignored the sound of the second ring. She finished the inscription with a flourish and set the paper on top of a set of file folders to her left. Scanning the waiting room to make sure no one would approach and interrupt things, she wrapped her fingers lightly around the phone handle and cradled it to her ear.

     "Delmar Psychiatric Clinic," she voiced with trained, stilted professionalism. "This is Bekah. How may I help you?"

     The sounds on the other end of the line came out in a broken series of chokes and sobs. Bekah rolled her eyes, looking at the clock on the wall. Three-thirty, she thought. Not late enough. And I can just guess who this is.

     "Can I help you?" she pressed. The caller was obviously in acute distress, worked into a dramatic lather. She looked at the caller ID. Of course, she groaned within herself. I could be here all afternoon.

     "Ye...yes, Bekah, it's me..." the voice began. "It's Dave. Dave Trafford. I was wondering if I could come in...in to se...to see Dr. Hibbler." The heavy racking breaths were pregnant with anxiety, going puff, puff, puff like an overweight couch potato running a mile.
     Great, thought Bekah. Her mind spun through her Rolodex of excuses for her boss. Dr. Hibbler, determined to get a move on toward his weekend of goose hunting, had left the office early so he could speed onward to Oklahoma. No one was to disturb him, he had mentioned curtly on his way out the door. Only clearly potential suicide threats were to be patched through to him. That was information, though, that Dave Trafford--eccentric, twentysomething schizophrenia patient--could not have.
     "You aren't scheduled for today, are you, Dave?" asked Bekah, rustling some papers in the empty receptionist area to give every impression she was searching furtively for the appointment book. Of course, they booked times on the computer but she doubted if Trafford ever noticed that.
     "No...I'm not," slurred Trafford. "I was...just wondering if I could come in and...and while in there I could...get my Clozapine prescription redone. I'm out and I really need to stock up again."
     Bekah hesitated. If this was a true crisis, she didn't want to jettison Trafford to the demons of his illness. Her mind whisked through her options before she recalled a necessary measure certain to be a roadblock. "Dave, have you had your white blood cell and neutrophil counts checked? That is a requirement, after all. Every four weeks."
     She had him. The silence was palpable from the other end, and Trafford sheepishly panted, a clear sign his anxiety was kicking in. "Um, no...I mean, well...No, I haven't."
     She shook her head sadly, actually feeling a rare surge of compassion for him. "I'm sorry, Dave. But you know the requirement. And it's a point on which we have to toe the line; otherwise, we get into trouble."
     She heard sniffling, another choke, and then his voice again. "I'm scared. I just...I can't live with it...knowing they will get me."
     This was truly above her pay grade, thought Bekah. Hibbler would be in the next state in less than five hours and the on-call psychiatrist was no one she'd trust with Dave Trafford's treatment. She looked at the clock, craned her neck, and felt something loosen. "Listen, Dave. I truly am sorry. Dr. Hibbler is not here, but you know...Thanksgiving week and all. If something is going on and you need help now, you know the standard procedure when no one is here. Call 9-1-1 or get to the nearest hospital. You're three miles from DePaul, of course. That's what you need to do."
     There was another pained silence on the other end, so dead and cold that Bekah Jensen was positive he'd hung up the phone. She counted to ten, her normal modus operandi in these situations, and began to pull the phone from her ear when Trafford said, "Okay...okay...I just need help."
     Bekah realized she's been holding her own breath. "Good. Good," she said quietly. It was then that a horrible thought struck her. "Dave, are you going to have someone take you? Your parents? Your sister, perhaps? Or do I need to call the hospital and have someone come get you?"
     "I don't know...I don't know," Trafford began pleading, and Bekah could sense the fear bubbling in his voice like boiling water. "I can't...Someone will kill me...A knife...A gun...It doesn't matter."
     "What?" exclaimed Bekah. She swore under her breath, angry she was having to deal with this. Just three weeks ago, she got stuck on the phone with one of Dr. Sanders' patients who cursed the election results when Bill Clinton defeated George Bush. "Mr. Trafford," she said urgently, standing from her chair, hoping a tone of formality would snap him into action.
     "Mr. Trafford!" she shouted. A film of sweat glistened on her forehead.
     Nothing.

Two minutes later, Dr. Dean Hibbler had put the last of his guns and ammunition in the trunk of his Saab. One of the area's younger and more gifted psychiatrists, he nonetheless displayed a propensity for more time spent vacationing than in professional development. His car had been serviced the previous Friday, and a full tank of gas meant he would get to his college roommate's house in Tulsa without stopping. From there, it would be a jaunt over to the small town of Jet, "The Goose Hunting Capital of the World". Tired of the wear and tear of seeing patients during this holiday season, he was glad for a respite from phobias, neuroses, and the occasional split personality. There were times when he wondered why he stuck around the Delmar clinic, although his staggering medical school loans and his recent divorce tethered him to this profession for its lucrative nature.
     Taking one more pass through his Richmond Heights home near Tilles Park, he checked each room, making sure all lights were out and the back door locked. It was when he returned through the den his phone rang. Groaning at the prospect of putting out one last fire at the office, he snatched the handle and lifted it to his right temple, mouthing an annoyed greeting.
     "Dr. Hibbler," came the voice of Bekah Jensen. "I'm sorry to bug you, and I hope you haven't left yet..."
     "On my way out the door," Hibbler answered in a clipped tone.
     "It's just that Dave Trafford called," Bekah continued undaunted. "he sounds like he's going to do something to himself. Something harmful."
     "Harmful?" asked the doctor. "Is he threatening to kill himself?"
     "No, sir. At least he never said that. But he seems to be having strange ideas. That someone might be coming after him to kill him. He said he needed his medication refilled. And he might truly be out of it. But I remembered that since he has Clozapine, we need him to follow protocol and do this month's white blood count. I know that much about him. And I'm no nurse but I am in the know about regulations on blood tests."
     Hibbler looked at the time displayed on his Rolex. Five minutes later than he wanted to depart. The last thing I need is this, he thought. "Bekah?"
     "Yes, sir."
     "You did the right thing by not bringing him in. Did you tell him to head to a hospital? Something like DePaul?"
     "Yes, sir. That's closest to him."
     "Good suggestion, Bekah. They'd have a behavioral health department."
     "I offered. I asked if his family could help. He hung up."
     Hibbler was beside himself now. All he wanted was some peace and quiet as he shoved off for several days under the open sky. He knew he'd entered this profession with noble intentions, but that was before the clinginess of his clientele overwhelmed such gallant, fleeting purposes. Before he knew it, he heard a spew of frustrations from depths unknown. It was a voice. His voice.
     "I swear, I wish he'd just go away!"
     The reverberations of his howl hung in the air for a few seconds. He held his breath, for Bekah did not respond for some time. Only by her inadvertent hiccup on the other end of the line could he confirm she was still listening.
     "Bekah," he said. "Tomorrow morning, try to confirm with a few local hospitals that he's tried to check in. If he doesn't, then maybe his crisis has passed. Sometimes these things are done for attention, nothing more. Then, for heaven's sake, just get out of that office by noon tomorrow and have a decent holiday."
     "I will, sir," replied Bekah, pausing for any additional instructions. But Hibbler had hung up the phone. He passed through the kitchen to grab a six-pack of soda for the road when he heard the phone ring again. He shook his head as he continued out the door.
     "I wish you'd just go away."
     Ninety seconds later, he turned onto McKnight Road, harboring visions of blue skies on the Oklahoma prairie.

The police found him early Wednesday morning, shortly before three o'clock, sprawled lifelessly in a flowerbed on the south edge of Tower Grove Park. The tire marks yards away on Arsenal Street gave the cops the distinct impression that local youths had been up to their usual midnight racing chicanery. Dave Trafford's femur had been brutally shattered, presumably by one of the speeding vehicles. His spleen was ruptured and his skull apparently cracked on impact with the pavement. Detectives guessed he must have somehow crawled into the park where he expired moments later. The agonizing death enveloped him quickly, his glassy eyes seemingly pleading for more time, more help, and more pity. What he was doing there was anyone's guess, though at his funeral days later many whispered his afflictions and visions had finally driven him to his soul's tragic departure.

Cry From the Grave (Author's Preface)

Cry From the Grave

A Cameron Ballack Mystery

by Luke H. Davis

     The religious setting in crime fiction is a two-way street. For the author, there are many avenues where one can find fertile soil for the intrigue, the storm, and the stress of such a plot. Yet I repeatedly find the church, the seminary, the monastery, the parochial school, and even the synagogue or mosque can provide the proper surprise quotient necessary for a murderously good literary time. There are certain places humankind expects to feel safe, and holy ground is one of those venues. From a writer's point of view, I could hardly ask for a setting of better shock value. The same goes for organizations--such as hospitals, agencies, nursing homes, and the like--under the banner of faith communities. It is this dynamism that Cry From the Grave seeks to highlight with the location of St. Matthew's Grove.

     Readers who are diving in at this point to the Cameron Ballack series may have misgivings about nursing homes or hospice centers being used as stages of ultimate finality and murder. In no way do I wish to suggest that patients, employees, or visitors are in mortal danger while in the walls of such facilities. May it be fairly noted that the hospice of St. Matthew's Grove is a completely fictitious entity, existing only in the mind of the author. Also, characters in this story are the sole product of my imagination and do not represent anyone in real life, either the quick or the dead.

     If nothing else, this work has been greatly rewarding for me because of the chance to set the story within the space of one of St. Louis' truly wonderful inner-ring communities, the historic enclave of Webster Groves. During my graduate school days, I attended Old Orchard Presbyterian Church in east Webster and was always taken by the distinguished charm of a place that blended the traditional and progressive so magnificently. It is certainly shocking to imagine the crime of murder taking place in such a quaint area, yet the surrounding landmarks drew me to Webster like a Siren's song. Readers familiar with the area will find that locations such as Eden Theological Seminary, Robust Wine Bar, Emmanuel Episcopal Church, and Webster University make their way into the story with unimpeachable accuracy.

     Many thanks go to friends and loved ones who have encouraged and supported me throughout my writing endeavors. My family, especially my loving wife Christy, has made abundant room for my need to compose new worlds. Effusive thanks must go to Mark Sutherland of Dunrobin Publishing. It was he who published the first three volumes in this series before I decided to go with this transitory tale as a serial novel on my blog. I am also grateful to others who have borne well the questions of faith in these stories, even when such queries may appear unnerving and slightly abrasive. Much to their credit, these folks have borne the balance of these concerns with grace, an open mind, and willing dialogue.

All Souls' Day
2018