Dry Bones

by Carole Morden

  “What happened?” Rachel asked.

  Chuck reached over and squeezed his wife’s hand, then let go so he could speak and sign at the same time. “It was about a month before their wedding when my mother passed away. She was one hundred and one. She got a birthday card from President Reagan, God rest his soul, when she turned one hundred. It had the presidential seal, Mr. Reagan’s signature, the real deal. She kept the card in her Bible, and they read it at her funeral.”

  “The fire?” I interrupted.

  “Anyway, we were at the funeral down in Champaign, Illinois, and Kelly, a young gal from our church, came over to stay with Sassy and Molasses. Nicest girl you’d ever want to meet. We asked her to feed them, keep them company, and walk them. We planned to be gone for three days. How I wish we’d taken the dogs with us.” Mr. Stewart cleared his throat. Hesitated. Continued, slower, more tears.

  “The night after the funeral our house burned to the ground. The police called us at about two in the morning. The place went so fast, the only thing the fire department could do was protect the nearby houses. Ours was too far gone by the time they reached it. Kelly died in the fire . . . so did our dogs.”

  “That’s horrible.”

  Mr. Stewart nodded. “It was worse than horrible. It was arson. Fire marshal investigated. The porches had been soaked with gasoline. Our home burned in a matter of minutes. Nothing anybody could do. They still don’t know who did it.”

  “Not good,” Rachel said.

  “That’s the last we saw of Craig. Never came around again.”

  “Did he know you were going to a funeral?” I asked.

  “No, we couldn’t reach him the day Mom died. We left as soon as we got our clothes together.”

  Dottie chimed in, hands in action. “That’s when he walked away from us. I think he blamed himself, but there was nothing he could’ve done. Nothing.”

  “What makes you think he blamed himself?” Rachel asked.

  Dottie and Chuck made such a good team it was hard to tell when one finished talking and the other began.

  “Shortly after that we got a curt note from him, asking us not to come to the wedding. He wrote that he needed to distance himself from the past and look to the future.”

  “That must have hurt,” I said. My mind raced with possibilities. The unraveling pattern put Craig right smack-dab in my most-favorite-suspect category.

  “We honored his wishes, but we still checked on him through friends. When his wife and child died, we went to the funeral. He acted as if he didn’t see us. The last we heard, he was seeing a psychologist and had taken a leave of absence from the school. Poor Craig. Too much death.”

  I stood up. “Well, we’ve bothered you long enough. Appreciate all you’ve told us. We’ll get back to you if we find anything that ties Dacia’s murder to Tim’s.” I couldn’t wait to get outside to talk to Rachel alone. I wanted to test my theory on her.

  “One more thing,” Rachel said, always thinking of the next move. “Do you remember what psychologist Craig went to see?”

  “No, sorry, I don’t. Some fella down in Indy. Worked in an office with lots of other head doctors. I wonder how much good it did him. Sometimes you just have to buck up and accept life as it comes. No psychologist in the world would have made us hurt less when our Dacia disappeared . . . unless he could have brought her back to us. And that sure didn’t happen.”

  “Thanks for talking to us,” I said.

  Mr. Stewart nodded, took my hand for a moment, and walked us to the door.

  I tried to organize the jumbled thoughts that spun in my head. Another death had occurred surrounding Craig that we hadn’t known about. He was seeing a psychologist—mental problems or just grief? He might have a sister somewhere. Was she alive or dead?

  Back in the vehicle, I said, “This is creeping me out. Anyone who gets near Craig dies.”

  “The Stewarts’ aren’t dead,” Rachel said.

  “You know what I mean. They’d be dead if they hadn’t gone to a funeral.”

  “I know. But they don’t suspect him in the least. They still love him.”

  “Doesn’t make him innocent—makes them trusting. I gotta tell you, he’s fast rising to the top of my suspect list.”

  “So now House is Mr. Nice Guy?” Rachel sounded defensive, angry, and small—all at the same time.

  “I didn’t say that. I don’t think it. He’s the scum of the earth for what he did to you. I’m just not sure he killed Tim. We need to look at Craig with an open mind.”

  “I know. I was just hoping . . . well, it doesn’t matter. You’re right. We need to look at Craig.” Rachel sounded like she was trying to convince herself. Her eyes that just moments before had sparkled with interest were flat and lifeless. She looked hopeless. I needed to change the subject.

  “Let’s stop in Indy on our way back to Anderson and see if we can locate Craig’s shrink. Maybe he can give us some answers.” I knew confidentiality laws might prohibit getting much, but anything might help at this point.

  “That would have been back in 2000, 2001, or so. Do you think he’s still seeing someone?” Rachel asked.

  “I don’t know. I don’t even know how to approach a psychologist to find out if Craig was a client.” I thought hard but couldn’t come up with a workable idea.

  Rachel looked over at me and smiled. “Well, Mrs. Pastor’s Wife, I have an idea, but you might have to close your ears while I do it. Get me to a wi-fi hotspot. I need an Indianapolis directory.”

  We pulled up outside a Starbucks and logged on to her laptop. After searching under the listing for psychologists, Rachel punched in the numbers on her cell. I listened in disbelief to the one-sided conversation. Rachel was very good.

  “Hello, ma’am. This is Rachel King of King, Storm, and King out of Champaign, Illinois. We represent a Mr. Craig Haskell who passed away several months ago. We need to find out which doctor treated him back in 2001.

  “Yes, ma’am, I am sure that is confidential information, but Mr. Haskell left a considerable share of his estate to, and I quote, ‘the shrink who helped me find the light.’ If we can’t locate the doctor he is referring to in his will, his share will go to one of the other beneficiaries. We’ve tried all the normal procedures to find out this information, and we sure could use your help. I suspect if your doctor is the right one, he’ll not be too happy if you let this drop. Please look up your client list from 2001 and check to see if there is a Craig Haskell on it. We’ll do the rest.”

  Rachel was silent for a minute and then said, “Okay, thank you. I appreciate your help.” Hanging up she told me, “No luck on my first try.”

  I didn’t know what to say. I was impressed with Rachel’s gutsy methods, if not her truthfulness. My pastor’s wife conscience had given up doing jumping jacks on my shoulder, and I sat shaking my head. I hoped God wouldn’t give up on me. I had a brief moment of being glad David couldn’t see me. As Rachel continued down the list of psychologists, I let my thoughts drift back to Great Falls and the simpler, gentler life. I caught myself smiling at the thought of Sister Thornbush’s reaction if she could see me now.

  “Well, well, well, it’ a fine how-do-you-do when the pastor’s wife condones lying. My gracious, it’s a good thing the good Lord raised up from the dead, or He’d be turning over in His grave at such sinfulness. I knew it was too good to be true. Just because a person can bake a couple of apple pies don’t mean she’ll get to heaven. Serving the Lord is more than bake sales and mission trips. Quite the example to set to the youngsters in this congregation. The next thing you know, she’ll be clapping during the singing.”

  Rachel’s question broke into my drifting thoughts. “Do you think there’s a way to narrow the search? How can one city have so many psychologists, psychiatrists, and therapists?”

  “Try looking under death, or grief counselors, or loss victims—something like that. Medical doctors have specialties. So do head doctors.”

  “Okay, let
’s see. Huh. There are psychiatrists and psychologists for everything. Aging, addictions, bi-polar disorder, physical- and sexual-abuse victims, grief, PTSD, and every other dysfunction known to man.”

  My voice softened. “Maybe you should see someone about the abuse you experienced. It might help you see the truth about what happened.”

  “Good segue—not off the topic at all. I . . . I don’t know. I don’t know if I could betray my parents like that after all they did for me.”

  “Woo-hoo. They gave you a home and food. Real big of them. Parents are supposed to do more than that—like protect you from the bad guys and not be the bad guys.” Sarcasm poured out of my mouth. “Your dad did things that are unspeakable, and you still think it’s your fault. Maybe a shrink could help you see the truth. I know the truth, Rachel, but I don’t think you do. Not in your heart of hearts. And I want that for you more than anything.”

  Rachel turned away and punched in the number for the third grief counselor. Nine doctors were listed as being a part of the Healing Hearts Clinic. I realized our conversation was over. Listening to Rachel chat about the phantom estate, I wondered if I would have coped as well if the circumstances had been reversed. It made me shudder to think of my dad, the gentle and loving Vincent Waymire, degrading me in that way as a child. I had no business thinking I knew what was best for Rachel. No business at all.

  “Yes, ma’am, we’ll be right over. Could you repeat the address for me?” Furiously motioning to me to hand over a pen, Rachel wrote and repeated, “478 North Meridian. Dr. Julianne Trueax. Got it. Thank you.”

  “It looks like our carrot dangling did the trick,” Rachel said. “We have one eager rabbit ready to nibble. The receptionist at this clinic serves all nine doctors, and in about thirty seconds, she con firmed Craig had been a client of the clinic back in 2000 and 2001.”

  “So this Dr. Trueax was his shrink?”

  “She didn’t specifically say. She just said Trueax was who we needed to talk to. She also warned us that all client information is privileged and that the doctor would not be able to give us any information regarding Haskell. And one other thing, we’ll have to pay the going rate for the doctor’s time. And we can’t mention how we got her name, but other than that, we’re good to go.”

  “So what you’re saying is that this Dr. Trueax doesn’t even know we’re coming, or what we want to talk to her about. We simply have an appointment with her like any other Joe Blow off the street?”

  “That’s correct, and her fee is $340 an hour, and I promised the receptionist $100 for the information.”

  I swallowed. “I guess it’s a good thing Tim left me plenty of money to come out here this week. That’s a weeks’ pay for David and me. How can people afford to get mental help?”

  The drive to North Meridian was spent chatting about the cost of health insurance, frivolous lawsuits, and a country obsessed with self-esteem and personal awareness.

  Pulling into the clinic parking lot, we could see where much of the money went. The clinic sat on more than an acre of land. The grounds looked like Adrian Monk was the gardener. A large fountain splashed water onto the backs of geese swimming in the huge, man-made pond. Shrubs and flowers lined the walks, and tall maples provided shade for waiting clients. The clinic itself looked like an inviting mansion where one could imagine bread baking in the oven rather than minds being dissected, redirected, and put back together again. Here, in the busiest part of Indianapolis, was a respite from the hurried and frenzied pace of a world gone crazy. A little ironic.

  The reception area was as inviting as the grounds had been, with beautiful marble and oak flooring with comfortable leather furniture sprinkled throughout. Plants of every size and shape were tastefully displayed in brass and marble pots. Classical music floated out of the hidden wall speakers, inviting muscles to relax and clenched jaws to unclench. It had an almost sanctuary feel. Peaceful, serene, and soul mending. Rachel and I walked to the middle of the room where a round oak desk with several flat-screen monitors hummed and three receptionists sat.

  “We have an appointment with Dr. Trueax,” Rachel said to no one in particular.

  A plump redhead with just a touch too much lipstick motioned us over to her station. “Are you the woman who just called?”

  Rachel nodded.

  “You need to pay up front,” the receptionist stated. “For the visit and my computer research services.”

  I pulled out five one-hundred-dollar bills from my pants pocket and laid them on the desk. Redhead beamed and handed me back three twenties.

  “Walk down that hall to the right and enter the door labeled Green Room. Dr. Trueax is waiting for you.” The nametag on her muted orange shirt was labeled Teena.

  “Could I have a receipt please?” My voice was firm—no nonsense.

  Teena pulled out a book and made out a receipt for $340.

  “And I need a receipt for computer research,” I added. If I was going to be robbed in this plush office, the least she could do was give me a receipt.

  The other two receptionists looked up from their tasks and eyed Teena. The redhead scribbled on a piece of plain, white paper: “For services rendered, $100.” She dated and signed it, but her signature was unreadable.

  I gave her what I hoped was an amused smile, and we walked to the Green Room. And green it was. The walls were painted with sea-foam green, lighter green, and a smattering of vanilla. The couch and recliner in the office consisted of plush, forest-green fabric with oak and brass trim. Plants contributed a serene feel to the room. Dr. Trueax was a small lady with an extremely short haircut. It was shorter than the average flattop had been in the ’50s. Her eyes sparkled, which lessened the severity of the haircut, and she asked, “What is on your minds today?”

  Evidently, Teena had not explained anything about our interest. Rachel started and finished with the lie. “So if we can just ask you a few questions to make sure you are the psychologist who helped Craig Haskell find some peace, we can issue a check from his estate and be on our way.”

  I couldn’t believe my ears. Surely Rachel understood that we had no check and that this was merely a figment of her overactive imagination. It would be practically impossible to back away from this situation with any credibility at all.

  Dr. Trueax smiled at both of us. “Well, I’m sorry to disappoint, but I purchased this practice from Dr. Rice’s wife. If Craig was treated in 2001, Dr. Rice would have been his doctor.”

  “Do you know where we can find Dr. Rice?” I asked.

  “You can find him at Crown Hill, but I don’t think he’ll be of much help to you.”

  “Crown Hill?”

  “Crown Hill Cemetery. Dr. Rice died in January of 2002. One of the anthrax victims in the wake of 9/11. Sorry.”

  I couldn’t believe my ears. Another death surrounding Craig? This was unbelievable. This could no longer be a coincidence. Rachel was at a loss for words also.

  Dr. Trueax stepped from around her desk. “Listen, ladies, it looks like you are both pretty shocked. Is there more to this inquiry than meets the eye?”

  “No, no, we’re just shocked that we can’t follow Craig’s wishes.” Rachel lied with ease.

  “Anthrax death? Was the killer ever found and convicted?” I asked.

  “Well, that’s the tricky part. The anthrax that killed Dr. Rice was not the same strain that killed the other victims. You would think that anthrax is anthrax, but there are several strains, and several methods of delivery, and Dr. Rice’s differed completely from the others. At first the police were afraid of a copycat killer, but it seems Dr. Rice was the odd one out. Gastrointestinal anthrax. Ate contaminated meat. The other deaths—all inhalation form—were related to the man whom the FBI finally caught. He was charged in every death but Dr. Rice’s.”

  “So was Dr. Rice’s killer ever found?” Rachel asked.

  “Not as far as I know. But the FBI got warrants for all his client files, and they didn’t find anything compelling e
nough to make them warn me about anyone.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Rachel and I hurried out to the Escape. “We have to warn Scott. He should be interviewing Craig right now.” Rachel grabbed my cell and dialed Scott’s number. No answer.

  “I have a bad feeling about this,” I said. “You keep trying to reach him. Call the others and see if they have heard from him. Hang on!”

  With adrenaline surging through my veins, I weaved through traffic until I reached Interstate 69 North. With little regard for the posted speed limit, I reached Anderson in twenty-eight minutes. Taking Scatterfield to Highway 32 took longer than the entire drive from Indy. With stoplights, ongoing construction, and congestion, I couldn’t catch a break. Drumming my fingers on the steering wheel, I prayed, “God, let Scott stay safe.”

  Rachel tried to calm me down. “Scott is going to be fine. He’s got a gun, he knows how to use it, and he’s a cop. I’m sure when he questions a suspect he’s always on the lookout for trouble.”

  “I was just so sure it was Phillip House. Craig seems like such a nice guy. But then that’s what they said about the Son of Sam and Ted Bundy.”

  “Okay, now I think you’re getting a little carried away. None of the deaths surrounding Craig are serial-killer deaths. There was nothing similar about any of them, and some were accidental. He wasn’t even around when most of them occurred. I think you need to take a deep breath and chill.”

  I turned left onto Range Line Road and headed toward Highland High. “Too many deaths to be coincidental. Craig is right in the middle of all this, and I don’t know if he paid someone to do it or what, but he’s involved. Scott’s in danger. I can feel it.”