Cry From The Grave (Chapter 10)

Cry From The Grave

Chapter 10

     The chapel at St. Matthew's Grove fit the mold of most institutional sanctuaries--practical, banal, and impaired by standard-pattern acrylic stained glass that hearkened back to the seventies. Ballack saw little point to the colored tiles when there was a scant amount of natural light entering the room. There were two small pews on either side of the middle aisle, which led to a rail that stood in front of the altar. To either side of that edifice, slender yet sturdy lecterns faced what would be a meager congregation. Ballack saw the one to the left was slightly larger than the other and wondered if the smaller was a functional reader's post.

     Father Giles motioned Tori to sit in the front pew and he sat four feet to her left. He handed several papers to Ballack, and on these sheaves, the detective found the addresses and phone numbers of the entire staff at St. Matthew's Grove.  Ballack positioned himself in front, splitting the distance between the two of them and nodding to Tori his expectation that she should take the lead. He would enter the fray when good and ready.

     Tori's initial questions covered the mundane matters of Giles' background and work. He had graduated from Virginia Theological Seminary, but after five years spent as a vicar in Delaware, he decided to try his hand at collegiate ministry. He pastored a small parish in Williamsburg, Kentucky, while starting an Episcopal student group at what was then Cumberland College. In the process, he had become more taken with the idea of chaplaincy and began working toward his certification. 

     "Did you complete that in Kentucky?" asked Tori.

     Giles shook his head no. "Started it there at Baptist Regional Medical Center in Corbin, which is about ten miles from Williamsburg. But that area was the tightest buckle in the Bible Belt, and I needed a change of venue. I moved to another church here, Church of the Advent in Crestwood, after four years in Kentucky. That was just under twenty-two years ago and I finished my  CPEs at St. Luke's. I left Advent after five years and was a chaplain at Barnes for thirteen years before coming here. They had utilized volunteer chaplain's here for some time, but Nick Fisher was pushing to establish a permanent staff position. He's the rector across the street at Emmanuel Episcopal Church and he'd be a good resource for information about the hospice."

     "My father is a chaplain at St. Luke's," Ballack spoke for the first time, his notebook hiding the fact he was finishing a Sudoku puzzle. His eyes never left the page.

     Giles appraised the detective carefully. "Martin Ballack?"

     Ballack looked at the priest and nodded. "That's him. I gather you know of him?"

     "He's quite the comic," smiled Giles. "Very rare to meet someone in this field who combined concern and humor in equal measure."

     "I think many would call him the resident iconoclast wherever he is," replied Ballack. "But no matter what, my dad's a good man."

     His eyes turned back to the puzzle. Tori leaned in slightly toward Giles and asked, "In the last few days, had you noticed any signs that there was trouble here around St. Matthew's? Any sense you had that Dr. Hibbler's life was at risk?"
     "You mean that someone would kill him?" asked Giles, his eyes widening even as his body shrunk back, making him appear even smaller than normal.
     "That's the general idea," Tori remarked. "I know you saw his body and this has to be very disturbing for you."
     "I can't imagine that anyone would feel that way."
     "What about anyone working in this facility?"
     "Even more unbelievable that any member of this place, of any faith community, would do that."
     "Our experience on our murder investigations," said Ballack firmly but evenly, "proves just the opposite." He marked the last few numbers in the remaining blocks, completing the puzzle.
     "Well," said Giles, after a considerable pause, "I'm not telling you any more than you'll eventually find out. Two days ago, we met off-campus at Robust Wine Bar down the street."
     "We meaning who?" asked Tori.
     "Whom," corrected the grammatically compulsive Ballack.
     "Thanks, professor," his partner grumbled.
     "Myself, for one," Giles answered. "Nick Fisher joined us--and in fact he called the meeting as he is the diocesan liaison to St. Matthew's Grove. Dr. Hibbler was there and the fourth was Isabel Andrews. The purpose was to discuss the reality that the hospice might be closed or bought as part of a corporate takeover."
      "Was anyone upset by that?" asked Tori.
     Giles hesitated.
     "You may speak freely, Father," Ballack offered gently, entreatingly.
     "Well," Giles eventually replied, "it wasn't the most thrilling news. None of wanted to hear it."
     "None of you?"
     "What do you mean?"
     "Very simply," said Ballack, stuffing the notebook in the side pocket of his wheelchair, "we get the fact this was less than ideal. But to everyone? And on Thursday, this news gets dropped in everyone's lap. This morning, Dr. Hibbler is found dead at his desk. Father, you saw the body. Put two and two together. What was Hibbler's role in all this? It would throw light on why we're sitting here now talking about his lifeless corpse just eighty feet away."
     Knowing he could delay the inevitable no longer, Giles exhaled deeply and shared the details of Hibbler's negotiations with Dignity Care, Isabel's vociferous reaction, and Fisher's vain attempts to restore order. Tori wrote copiously while Ballack's stony brown eyes never left Giles' form. There was a long pause when the chaplain finished.
     "Did Mrs. Andrews' response surprise you?" asked Tori.
     "She has never personally cared for Dr. Hibbler," Giles replied, "although professionally there has always been a working detente for some time. I guess what I'm trying to say is that her words did not shock me. It was her tone that was truly upsetting."
     "There's upsetting and then there's off-the-cliff-of-goodwill-and-reason," Ballack interjected, tapping his finger on his knee. "From what you're describing, this leaned more toward acrimony than exasperation."
     "What are you saying, detective?"
     "Just that," said Tori, "Mrs. Andrews didn't handle it that well. I can appreciate her concern for the staff, but her reaction--if you're describing it accurately--goes beyond a touch of compassion."
     "And I can't imagine," Ballack remarked as he leaned forward, "that either closure or corporate maneuvering would benefit you either. That's pretty clear."
     "I said nothing about that," Giles retorted.
     "You didn't have to, and I wouldn't expect you to volunteer that information. But I was tracking your life story there and I imagine that even if you entered seminary right out of college...let's see, as an Episcopalian you'd have educational training, then postulancy...if you did that one after the other, and all your time periods follow, you're looking at a minimum age of fifty-eight right now."
     Giles was stunned at Ballack's quick mind. "Almost fifty-nine. I'm impressed."
     "And I'm just saying that is something to consider from my perspective, Father. Even a skeptic like me knows that in your denomination, parishes, membership, and attendance are shrinking. Funerals outnumber baptisms for the Episcopal Church. You might be a diligent priest, but you're nearing sixty. Surely you're not such an idealist that you believe a position is waiting just around the corner for you? In this economy? In your denomination?"
     Giles crossed his arms defiantly and squirmed in his pew. "Again, detective. what's your point?"
     Ballack returned to an erect posture. He knew that--given the savage nature of the killing blow to Hibbler's neck--it might be unlikely Giles had the strength to wield the blade from that position. Still, he wanted the chaplain to sweat a little. "I'm saying Isabel Andrews might not have been the only one with her vocation on the line. Did you combat this possibility of closure? Or if this company...what's its name? Dignity? Let's face it, Father. Filling or establishing a chaplain's position might not be in the uber-critical column of their to-do list."
     Horrified, Giles looked to Tori and back to Ballack. "Are you declaring me a suspect?"
     "Person of interest is more likely," Tori said, "but to make sure, it would help us to know where you were this morning between six and ten."
     "I woke up at six-thirty and had tea on my back porch with my wife. Karen and I live in Crestwood. She left to go to Dierbergs around eight, but she called around eight-thirty to our home line and I took the call. She was asking if we had enough potatoes or if she needed to buy more. Our son and daughter-in-law are coming to town next week, so Karen wanted to have plenty of food on hand."
     "And when did you leave the house?" Ballack inquired, irritated the conversation wasn't moving along fast enough.
     "It was soon after Karen called. I stopped at a coffee shop to buy a newspaper and sat in my car reading it for a few minutes."
     "Which coffee shop?" asked Ballack.
     "The Bread Co. by Watson," Giles shrugged. "I paid cash. No receipt."
     Indeed, thought Ballack.
     As if reading the detective's thoughts, Giles continued, "If you want to confirm, the paper is in the passenger seat of my car outside."
     "And then?" asked Tori.
     "I went to Emmanuel to speak with Nick Fisher. I got there about nine-fifteen."
     "Speak to him about what?"
     "Several concerns I had about where we were headed in this next sequence of events."
     "The closure? The Dignity move?"
     "Yes, whichever."
     "And he said?"
     "Nick seemed to be coming around that there were several reasons why Dr. Hibbler should not head up any reorganization attempts. I brought some matters to his attention, things which I am sure he might share with you. We spoke from nine-fifteen until five till ten. I got her a few minutes after the hour."
     Ballack had heard enough, more intrigued now at the chance to cross-check these revelations with Nick Fisher. Tori quietly dismissed Giles and the priest rose, slowly turning to head back down the aisle.
     "Father," Tori asked, "may I accompany you, please? I'll need to ask Mrs. Andrews to see us now."
     The chaplain wearily nodded his acquiescence. He had moved past the first pew when Ballack spoke up.
     "Father Giles, are you sorry Dr. Hibbler is dead?"
     Giles turned slowly. His small, exhausted eyes looked once more at Ballack. If he believed the question to be callous, his gaze didn't betray that notion.
     "He was my colleague even if he wasn't a friend," he said. "We disagreed on many things, but when has the workplace ever been a den of perpetual concord? I know I should feel a great wave of sadness, but more than anything I feel numb. I guess I feel sorry because he is dead and I can conjure no passion whatsoever. And for me to possess that apathy as a priest is especially pathetic." And with that, he walked out of the chapel with Tori trailing him.
     
      

Cry From The Grave (Chapter 9)

Cry From The Grave

Chapter 9

     Evan Holbrook looked up as Ballack and Tori entered the door from the narthex into Hibbler's office. The former Illinois State fullback bore a thin glaze of sweat on his forehead and was already in his gear. He hadn't worked with either of them since the St. Basil's Seminary killings, and the present reunion--despite the fact they'd seen each other two days before--was most surreal.

     "I'm just getting started," he announced with surprising boldness. "Although an accurate read on time of death is going to be a tightrope walk."

     "You're going to get a temperature before Sheilah checks out the desk area?" asked Tori.

     Holbrook shook his head, indicating he'd wait. "Impossible at the seated angle. But I'll wait. She seems an efficient type."

     "One of the best," Ballack agreed. "To be honest, we're probably looking at a time of death between seven and ten o'clock this morning."

     "That was fast. You obviously have access to data that I don't."

     Ballack waved off the compliment. "The benefits of being able to canvas the residents and staff."

     "So, this Hibbler guy is..."

     "The hospice director, executive director, or, well, I forget. Either title will do."

     "One of the patients claimed they heard him roll into the parking lot this morning," explained Tori.

     "How did they know that?" Holbrook asked. "Did an explosive muffler announce his arrival from twenty yards?"

     "He has--or had--a tendency to blast his Rachmaninoff at high decibels," Ballack corrected.

     "Well then," the medical examiner said, rubbing his gloved hands, "there's not much to say on the time of death. But I'd go with your guess even before getting a rectal temp. Given that rigor mortis hasn't set in yet, your assessment is likely the right one. Mode of death is without any doubt. Stab wound on the right side of the neck. Odd place for an entry, but it did the job. I know from experience neither of you is squeamish, so come on around and take a look."

     Tori allowed Ballack to wheel around, both of them careful not to touch the desk and Tori wearing soft shoe covers over her low-cut boots. Both of them looked closely as Holbrook tenderly prodded around the wound.

     "Tremendous force here. Ideally, he only suffered for a second. I've known people to take their lives in the office or elsewhere at work, but this was no suicide. It's located at an unusual point on the body. There's no trace of the weapon, either. Plus, the entry point is toward the front of the neck and begins just an inch to the right of the laryngeal prominence--you know, the Adam's apple. Hibbler couldn't have had the leverage to do this himself. Whoever did this then pulled back on the blade and severed the exterior carotid artery and the internal jugular vein, both snapping like ribbons along with the vagus nerve."

     It was a particularly ghastly wound, thought Ballack. Hibbler's neck area was exposed like some cross-section anatomical display from high school biology class.

     "Rather unsettling, if you ask me," Holbrook continued. "Only one wound, but the way it was done suggests passion in the attack, even if it lasted only a few seconds. Has all the hallmarks of brutality and surgical precision in the same motion. Pretty chilling, that's for sure."

     Tori took a closer look at the same time Hull poked his head into the room.

     "We're interviewing Beverly Overton after we speak with the patients. Missy has already finished with two of them."

     "Take Anna Barber after you're done with her," directed Ballack. "We'll corner Father Giles and Isabel Andrews in the chapel, and then we'll see where we are from there."

Cry From The Grave (Chapter 8)

Cry From The Grave

Chapter 8

     Within ninety minutes, a silver Chevy Cruze and a white Dodge Sprinter rolled into the parking lot at St. Matthew's Grove seconds apart. Father Giles' call to the Special Investigative Division was received, and Commander Stu Krieger had no doubt which team would take the case. Cameron Ballack and Tori Vaughan had been en route from their office to an interrogation near the Family Arena in St. Charles, but Krieger intervened through the St. Charles Police Detective Bureau, ordering another cop to that site. Even before Ballack could make the request for Zane Hull and Missy Crabolli to join their team, Krieger pre-emptively gladdened the detective's heart with that assignment. After Tori unleashed Ballack's wheelchair from the locks, he rolled down the Sprinter ramp to greet their collaborators.

     "My heroes," grinned Hull as Ballack glided towards him. "Always giving us a chance at another jagged puzzle."

     "Hardly heroic," replied Ballack. "Whom else would we want for this sort of plunge? I'm kind of shocked by the speed of it all."

     "I don't see any Webster police around," said Crabolli, "and they're just down the street."

     "Evidently, Stu's office took the call here from a Father Rory Giles, who serves as a chaplain of sorts," Ballack relayed from memory. His mind was sharp enough to recall almost every detail of conversation, letter, or report. "Give the Commander credit. He didn't waste any time getting us out here."

     "I just hope no one's messed with the body," said Tori.

     Ballack shook his head. "Stu just texted me and let me know that he ordered this Giles guy to herd everyone they had on site into the largest available room. For all intents and purposes, that was going to be the cafeteria, which I'm told..." and here he pointed over the roof of the building, "is on the back side to the left. Got our police tape? Good. We'll stop by the doctor's office, which should be to the left off the lobby when we enter. After a quick view, we'll head down to the cafeteria and meet with everyone before checking the room in greater detail and questioning folks."

     Hull was anxious to get started. They all were. Homicide was a nasty business, but the one thing they all shared was the initial surge of vocational adrenaline when they were gifted a case involving suspicious death. Bouncing on the balls of his feet, Hull asked, "So who's the victim?"

     Ballack tapped his knuckles together. "Dr. Dean Hibbler, director of St. Matthew's Grove hospice. Stu had nothing more on him--maybe the chaplain was sparing with the details--so we'll need to harvest all the juicy matters from the assembly inside. We have some time, because forensics won't be here for another thirty minutes."

     "Sheilah and Marcus?" Crabolli asked with hope. Forensic pathologist Sheilah Grimshaw and medical examiner Marcus Broadnax had worked the team's SID cases before. Ballack enjoyed watching Grimshaw--who dressed colorfully as if she ran a day-care center but was a formidable mind and eye--sliding around table tops, chairs, and disheveled objects in search of evidence that truly mattered. Broadnax had entered the medical field after a career in baseball fizzled out. He amazed Ballack with razor-sharp intellect and uncanny efficiency, his educated guesses on manner and time of death always correct. Ballack knew, however, that only half the duo would be arriving on scene today.

     "We get Sheilah," he began, turning up the ramp that led to the front door, "but according to Stu, Marcus is in Indianapolis as a speaker for the regional M.E. conference, and while  he's there, he will be negotiating for a donation from the Zachariah Hampton Foundation to pool it toward more funding for work such as that of the SID. We're in luck, though. Evan Holbrook, who just joined up, is on his way in. He's worked cases for us in the past. He's different from Marcus, more cagey. You'll have to be a bit more patient with some of his assessments, but he's quite good."

     "Never given us a reason not to trust you, C.B.," said Hull, entering the front door as Ballack wheeled into the narthex ahead of the group.

     The entry was gloomy, the spirit of death hanging in the atmosphere like the smell of a landfill. Ballack stopped his chair at the fountain, looking toward the chapel to his right and down the southernmost hallways to ensure no one was there before turning to Tori. He nodded toward the door of Hibbler's office, which bore the nameplate of the deceased.

     "Might as well go ahead and tape it off, Tor," he said. She nodded and yanked a section of the tape as she headed for the door. 

     "We need a key?" asked Crabolli.

     "Krieger said the chaplain left it under the trash can by the door," said Ballack, motioning toward the metallice cylinder. Tori, her hands gloved, procured the key and in a minute, they were inside the spacious office.

     The blood had slowed to a halt, having smeared much of one side of the desk. Hull swept around to the doctor's right and inspected the wound, squinting as if to divine some insight of the moment of death. Tori handed the roll of tape to Crabolli and fished out her digital camera, snapping more than fifteen pictures over two minutes' time.

     Ballack never took his eyes off Hibbler's body. Hull glanced at the corpse before, with gloved fingers, checking the doorway to the copy room.

     "Locked," he reported as Crabolli went to the door leading to the library and nodded likewise.

     "So, what do you think, C.B.?" Hull continued. "That's a lot of bluster to come in on a Saturday morning right off the lobby and skewer the big guy in his office."

     "We can obviously rule out suicide," said Crabolli.

     Ballack flipped open his laptop on his sidewinder tray, letting his colleagues talk.

     "No order to the room," Tori spoke up as she put her camera away. "Papers everywhere. Stacks of files. If anything was dislodged when the killer came in, it'd be difficult to know how that would change the layout significantly."

     "In a small facility like this, with few patients," Ballack rasped, "security looks like a joke. I'd imagine anyone could pull this off whether an inside or outside job, except for the patients. Somehow, I don't think an octogenarian stricken with terminal cancer would have th strength to open up a gaping wound like that. Even with the element of surprise."

     Hull's eyes had been roving the room. "Can't see a weapon anywhere."

     Ballack straightened up in his wheelchair. "Okay, that's good for an initial look. Let's meet the gallery."

     The scene that greeted Ballack and his mates in the cafeteria was unlike any group setting he'd experienced on a case. Six elderly individuals across the senior citizen spectrum emitted glassy stares. Four of them, like Ballack, were in wheelchairs, although the detective owned the only powered contraption. Three women were clad in hospital scrubs, although only one--who stood--wore a white jacket over her clothing. As the detectives approached, a short, frail man in clerical garb circled from behind the patients and drew near to Ballack, extending his hand. Ballack noticed the fingers were slender and cold to the touch, and the index finger on the priest's right hand was gnarled with a crusty, calloused knuckle.

     "Detective Ballack?" the priest asked.

     "You've got him," said Ballack quietly, although he judged many of the patients would have difficulty hearing him from fifteen feet away. "You must be Father Giles, who telephoned in the report."

     "I am," replied Giles. "The chaplain here at St. Matthew's Grove, to be precise. I suppose you will have to address us about your needs, but perhaps I can make some introductions for the time being."

     "That would be fine."
     Giles nodded and introduced himself to the other detectives, then turned slightly and gestured toward each of the others present. "Allow me to introduce you. Seated here are our patients: Helen Smith, Daryl Goodspeed, Lawrence Gildea, Verna McBride, Sandra Thomas, and James Caple. Alongside them are our nursing staff who were here at the time, Anna Barber and Beverly Overton. We have other nurses, of course, but they were not scheduled for this shift. And stading here on the right is our nursing director, Isabel Andrews. Our cafeteria personnel, Bob and Patricia Hagan, are seated behind the patients. And me, you've met."
     Ballack swept his eyes over the small crowd, looking for any glance that could be a tell of guilt or fear, although he knew full well that Tori was a better judge of those matters on the spot. He paused, drumming his fingers on his laptop before clearing his throat and addressing the group.
     "Thank you for coming, and I apologize for the cryptic nature of this meeting and I shall try to avoid taking up too much of your time." Ballack swalloed hard, the apology smacking of insincerity. "But what brings us here is critical. If you heard a commotion earlier, it was because Dr. Dean Hibbler was found dead in his office and Father Giles called us in. I am Detective Cameron Ballack of the Special Investigative Division of Metro St. Louis, and my colleagues you see here from left to right are Zane Hull, Missy Crabolli, and Tori Vaughan. We will be investigating this matter and thus you will see a lot of us for the next few days, since the first forty-eight hours tend to be critical to the success of an inquiry. We will necessarily have to upset your routine for a short time and use rooms for analysis and interrogation, yet we will aim to be as inobtrusive as humanly possible. We must speak to each of you in turn and attempt to complete those itnerviews this afternoon. However, one question requires immediate clarity: Did any of you see Dr. Hibbler this morning or did you enter his office prior to the discovery of his body?"
     It was a direct query, one that Ballack knew would likely not get an affirmative response, but it had to be asked. The elderly folks mostly stared at the floor straight ahead, but one shook her head vigorously.
     "I heard Dr. Hibbler when he entered this morning," she proclaimed wearily. "He got out of his car in the lot."
     "You didn't see him?" asked Tori.
     "Pardon me, Tori," said Ballack. "Ma'am, your name?"
     "Smith, sir. Helen Smith. I did not see him, but my room is in the hallway near the parking lot. I can tell when he arrives because he's got his music playing abysmally loud."
     "Loud?"
     "Classical music," Helen nodded. "But the volumr id up so high that he's woken me up at times. I was mad because it was early. Around seven."
     So, thought Ballack, if her memory was accurate, this was a murder with a three-hour window. The ramifications were daunting. He muttered Helen's information into his wireless set and the words appeared on his laptop, thanks to his Dragon software. He peered at the others. "Anyone else?"
     Anna BArber scowled at both Father Giles and Isabel Andrews before blurting out, "Why the questions? Do you really think someone in this room is involved?"
     Ballack tapped his right temple several times as he looked briefly at Hull, who said, "We are just getting a feel for what people might have seen or heard. We don't make suggestions but rather will let the evidence bear that out."
     "And what is it?" asked Anna, her voice rising noticeably. "I mean, how did he die?"
     Ballack held up a finger. Either she was a good actress or else no one knew that fact, either. "We are not verbally confirming that at the present. I will say that--given our initial observations--we are investigating this as a suspicious death. I will also ask: Who was it that discovered Dr. Hibbler first?"
      Father Giles, after a painful pause, looked at the group and then Ballack before answering, "Mrs. Overton and Mrs. Andrews were going into his office via the narthex and saw his body first."
     Ballack looked in the nurses' direction, including Anna Barber in his stony glare. No one said anything for several moments. Finally, Giles' tremulous voice found itself. "Suspicious death?"
     Ballack continued to stare at the nurses. Sensing Giles needed assurance he'd been heard rightly, Hull and Crabolli both nodded their assent.
     The word suspicious, since Ballack had spoken it, remained suspended in the room like a repugnant odor. Several of those gathered, patients and staff, squirmed slightly, as if their very movement might cleanse them of the film of potential distrust. Ballack sensed it and turned to Father Giles.
     "Father, we will need to set up in a room or two for the purposes of interviews. The cafeteria, while large, is too public and we will need some isolation for our needs. What two rooms would be both large and private enough in this facility?"
     "You can use the library for one of your rooms," replied the chaplain. "The only other room that is private enough is the chapel, opposite the narthex from Dr. Hibbler's office. I wanted to keep it clear but, given your needs and the fact it is an unconsecrated chapel, you are welcome to utilize it. I do have Evening Prayer in there on Saturdays and, as I don't know how long your work might take and I'll need to prepare for the service, if you can find another location instead, please do so."
     Ballack exhaled slowly. "The library is fine, and I understand your desire to stick to your liturgical schedule, Father. However, given the nature of our job, we need the life of the facility to function solely with activities that are critical. Nurses, maintenance, housekeeping...no one disputes those. But I think that, given the circumstances, we can postpone services in the chapel for the time being. Perhaps serve Communion in patients' rooms, meet here in the cafeteria for prayer, something like that. As I said, we'll be as efficient as we can. Also, Father, we'd appreciate a directory of the entire staff with contact information, as well."
     Ballack could tell the chaplain was unhappy with the order, but to Giles' credit, he nodded his grudging assent. "Very well," he replied to the detectives. "I take it there is no problem with keeping to the rest of the routine as much as possible?"
     "Not at all," said Ballack, looking back at his notes and motioning for Tori to step forward. Giles dismissed the group and he and Isabel joined Tori to the side. The two nurses began guiding the patients toward the door. Ballack wheeled around and spoke to Hull and Crabolli. "Let's make these initial interviews with the patients," he said. "They may be coming up against lunch and naptime, so let's move through them as fast as possible."
     "Doubtful one of them is the perp," countered Hull.
     "But they might have seen something," Crabolli reminded him. "Both of us in on the questioning, C.B.?"
     Ballack nodded. "And if ferrying them into the library is too much for them, meet with them in their rooms. Not so with the staff members."
     Crabolli looked past Ballack toward the doorway, where a lithe blond lady stood expectantly.
     "Hi, Sheilah," she called out to Sheilah Grimshaw. Ballack turned and was nearly blinded by the forensic pathologist's bright yellow sweater and hot pink headband.
     "Nice to see you," he added.
     "And you," Grimshaw replied. "Evan's already here and is ready to work. He introduced himself."
     "Let's get moving then," Ballack murmured as he zoomed out of the cafeteria. "We have considerable mileage to chew up on this one."

     

Cry From The Grave (Chapter 7)

Cry From The Grave

Chapter 7

     Weekends at St. Matthew's Grove were slower affairs. After the breakfast delivery to patient rooms, the routine was mostly checking of vitals and dispensing of medication. By ten o'clock, the patients were either dozing in their rooms or arguing current events in the library. If not helping a patient, the nurses tended to chart their cases in the lounge or make copies as needed in a small room just off Dean Hibbler's office. With no receptionist manning the phones in the narthex today, no lights had been turned on in the entry, and the central space took on an unearthly, depressing pallor.

     Melba Gorman--plump, thirty-nine years of age, with curly, black hair--normally occupied a desk in the copy room. But since her position was part-time, she worked only Monday, Wednesday, and Thursday each week. This morning, Beverly Overton whistled a tune as she fed an undercarriage tray with two reams of white printer paper. She checked her watch as she slid the last of her documents into the feeder and pressed the start button. A normal Saturday, she thought to herself with a wry smile. Father Giles had arrived a full fifteen minutes ago, although she hadn't seen him since. Likely prepping the chapel for the service later. Her colleagues were probably shuffling through their own duties and arguing about who would have courtyard watch later with those souls brave enough to face the autumn chill.

     Beverly Overton grasped the printed copies from the finishing tray and tapped the stack into perfectly aligned submission. She had just turned toward the door leading into the hallway when she heard Isabel Andrews' voice slice through the morning calm.

     "Dr. Hibbler!" The nursing director was normally annoyed when she had to deal with her boss, thought Beverly, but this command was exceedingly shrill. Beverly circled out into the narthex and came face to face with her supervisor, who was slapping the palm of her hand against the office door.

     "Dr. Hibbler, I know you're in there, and you know we have to talk!" She slammed her fist on the door and grimaced from the impact. Looking at Beverly, she said, "Can you believe this? After ten in the morning, his car in the lot, and his lights out in his office. I'm in no mood for this cat-and-mouse!"
     "It's locked?" asked Beverly, trying the handle.
     "Of course, it's locked, Beverly!" popped an exasperated Isabel. "I don't think I'd stand here yelling if I hadn't tried the door!"
     Beverly raised her finger and wagged it toward the northwest hallway. "Follow me. We can see if the door from Melba's room is unlocked, although I doubt it would be. If not there, perhaps from the library."
     "Unlikely, but it's worth a shot," replied Isabel, who followed her most competent nurse into the copy room. There was a door leading into Hibbler's office, and as they expected, it was locked. They swept around to the northeast hallway and went into the library. Helen Smith sat in a recliner, reading the morning edition of the Post-Dispatch. She said nothing to either woman, rather peering guardedly over the edge of the front page.
     "As I guessed," Isabel huffed. "Well, either his office is empty or he's playing video poker on his laptop in the dark. Either way, I'm meeting with him, so I'll go in and wait. I don't expect you have a key, but perhaps Father Giles does?"
     Beverly frowned. "I doubt even he would. He's not the type, you know." 
     A sudden look of enlightenment came to Isabel's face. "We're probably not out of luck. Go to the maintenance closet. They might have some keys available, you'd think. Let's get them quickly," Isabel ordered, ignoring the obvious compromise to office security. "I'm losing patience."
     Beverly nodded, striding around through the narthex and going back down the hallway past the copy room to a door on the other side. Opening it, she found a trash cart and cleaning equipment, which she pulled out into the hall. Turning on the light, she looked at a small Formica table before finding a series of hooks on the wall to the right. A ring of keys hung on a brass-plated hook. She snatched them and began examining each one as she headed back.
     She saw Isabel at the end of the hallway, tapping her foot, chafing at the delay. Approaching her, Beverly held up two keys.
     "I'm not sure which one is the key to his room, but this blue-colored one is next to the key for the copy room. I wonder if that's the one."
     Isabel stifled her temper, trying to appreciate Beverly's desire to be thorough. "Bev, just come out here. The narthex entry will do."
     Beverly nodded curtly and soon was standing in front of the main door to Hibbler's office. She had guessed wrong on the exact key, and it took several attempts before she found the key, shoved it in the lock, and turned it easily. Beverly reached for the light as Isabel entered after her.
     "Oh no!" Beverly screamed. "Oh, heavens!" She slumped to the floor, conquered by shock in both body and spirit.
     Isabel Andrews approached and saw the sprawled, seated figure of Dr. Dean Hibbler, face down on the top of his desk in a small lake of viscous red. Steadily, she moved around the right side, taking care to touch nothing. Finally, she drew next to the doctor's chair and viewed his body. No movement.
     "No! No! No!" Beverly Overton's screams were bombing the facility with frantic terror. She had crawled out the door into the narthex and curled on the floor in a quivering fetal position.
     Isabel was out of the office in a shot, immediately crouched next to her worker and friend, leaving the horrific scene behind her. A gaping wound lay open on the right side of Hibbler's neck, the insides of the throat area split wide open. Isabel looked up as she heard footsteps approaching, and there were Anna Barber and Father Rory Giles staring at the gory scene and then at her.
     Father Giles, stone-faced, made the sign of the cross. "Dear God, what happened?"
     Beverly's voice trailed away in sobs. "It's bad...it's bad...it's bad."
     Isabel looked from Father Giles to Anna--who beheld the corpse of Dean Hibbler with an eerily contemptuous look--and then back to the chaplain again. "Father, we need to call the police."
     Giles shook his head, clearly drunk with confusion but clutching for a sense of control. "This is beyond the Webster Groves force, my dear. I know just whom to call. Give me a moment." And he was gone.

Cry From The Grave (Chapter 6)

Cry From The Grave

Chapter 6

     Consecrated in 1867, Emmanuel Episcopal Church had faced South Bompart Avenue for decades, keeping its silent watch over Webster Groves and welcoming parishioners of all stripes. The sanctuary was situated under a pitched stone structure, with a circular stained-glass portal erected above the east doors. The majority of classroom and office space extended from behind the sanctuary in an outstretched edifice that extended toward Lockwood Avenue. On these late autumn days, the Reverend Nicholas Fisher could peer through the denuded trees north of his office window and see St. Matthew's Grove across the street. Lately, there had been a comfortable distance between him and the hospice--even in his role as diocesan liaison--but now that expanse had shrunk considerably with the events of yesterday. And now, Father Rory Giles had brought his diminutive yet uncomfortable presence into his office early this Saturday morning. It was Fisher's habit during his eight-year rectorship at Emmanuel to finalize his homily on Saturday mornings by nine-thirty before--weather permitting--riding his bicycle westward for several blocks to get his morning java at Abode Coffeehouse. With decent luck, he got back to the church most weekends to practice his sermon once or twice before heading home for a late lunch. He was normally happy to oblige Giles, but this visit was putting a serious crimp in his preparations.

     Nonetheless, Fisher was determined to play the role of gracious host. His offer of tea or soda having been refused, Fisher gestured Giles to be seated. The chaplain took the leather chair near the rector's desk and sank wearily into its frame, allowing an acute groan to escape his lips.

     Fisher wasted little time. "Rory, tell me truly. What are you worried about the possible closure or contraction? I understand the nobility of public altruism, but behind closed doors, I think you can speak freely. Surely this has nothing to do with Isabel and everything to do with your perceived standing. Yes, you mentioned the staff, janitors, cafeteria workers. But surely your modus operandi is centered on your perch."

     Giles fingered his clerical collar, refusing to make eye contact. His detached manner troubled Fisher. It seemed as if Giles was hiding something, a cloud, a thick darkness underneath his skin. The chaplain swallowed painfully, as if he was forcing down a tablespoon of repugnant cough syrup. He looked over at his friend.
     "Put yourself in my situation, Nick," he began. "Coming up on retirement in a few years, is there any realistic chance a church or hospital or school would take me? I know you could always say the diocese could move me into an administrative position but are they really prepared or cash-equipped to make such a maneuver? Seriously, Nick. I'm looking at the end of the ministry line. I'm a relic. If I can't be kept around the hospice industry, where can I go?"
     Fisher sat down next to Giles, shaking his head sorrowfully. "You can't believe that. And you can't believe there's a conspiracy by Hibbler to get you out."
     Giles finally looked Fisher square in the eye. "You draw some lightning-fast conclusions."
     "I have eyes that see what ears do not hear."
     "So be it," Giles shrugged. "I don't think there is any doubt that if St. Matthew's Grove is bartered off for a tax dodge that will be my fate. Dean was the one going ahead with this. And you must understand, Nick, that I'm not upset St. Matthew's faces this next step, whatever it might be. I just wish you and the diocese had taken a more proactive role in scouting the options. That was your responsibility, not the job of a man who shirks it."
     Giles' final words had pierced Fisher like a scalpel. The rector's brow creased, betrayed the obfuscation in his mind. "I'm not sure I follow you, Rory," he said placidly. "What do you mean by shirking responsibility?"
     Slowly, deliberately, with controlled suspense, the chaplain reached for his black trench coat and slid a gallon-size Ziploc bag from underneath it. He passed the packet to Fisher, placing it firmly in his hands.
     "What am I to do with this?" the rector asked.
     "The thinnest of smiles spread across Giles' wiry lips. "You read it. Hibbler's your man, correct? Before you believe that, you'd better read what's in that pile."
     Fisher looked at Giles as if the elder cleric had lost his senses. As if perceiving resistance, Giles got up form the chair and patted his friend on the shoulder.
     "You know, I think I'll have that cup of tea now and stay around a bit. I'd like to get your impression anyway. Take your time."
     Knowing he wouldn't receive a moment's peace without his own compliance, Fisher groaned and opened the bag. There were some official legal documents, a newspaper clipping or two, and even a handwritten note on St. Matthew's Grove letterhead. Fisher began reading the note as he heard the clink of the decanter against the familiar Mikasa mug while Giles poured the tea. Fisher turned back to the page. He was a slow, methodical reader and there was much within these pages that required serious thought. As he pored over the words, a cold clutch arrested deep within his gut. This was a man he didn't recognize, a soul whom he couldn't identify. Sweat broke out on his face, even though the room was reasonably cool. It took him twenty minutes to digest all the material.
     He delicately placed the papers within the bag and handed the package back to his friend. Giles watched him carefully for a few moments before placing his cup on a nearby table and clearing his throat.
     "Nick," he said, his voice finding its confident tone, "I can take this any way you want." He gathered his coat and stood up, looking down at Fisher.
     The rector drummed his fingertips together, grasping for an answer. "Well, this does call for a confrontation of sorts." He looked up at Giles. "What you have to do, Rory, do quickly."

    

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.