by Meg Lelvis
“Ha,” Maureen said. “That’s a lame excuse. You don’t work on Saturdays and they know that.”
“Ma, I’m sick of her riding my ass about this. Every year it’s the same thing, and then there’s Elizabeth’s birthday in the summer.”
“It won’t be so bad. Laura will be there this year.”
“Guess that’ll be the best part.” Jack had always liked Karen’s older sister who lived in Denver. She’d helped Jack through his grief after Karen’s death by talking with him over drinks well into countless nights.
“Okay, Jacky, you come over for an early lunch and we’ll go together. Maybe Tommy will come too.”
“How ‘bout Jenny?” Jack’s sister lived with her husband and family several blocks from Maureen’s house.
“Maybe. I’ll find out.”
Jack sighed. “Yeah. Gotta go.” Too much family drama. “See ya, Ma.”
“Wait a minute. When are you seeing Bonnie again?”
Shit. He’d forgotten. “Tomorrow night, Ma. I’ll call the next day and give you all the sordid details.”
“Goodbye, Mr. Smart Aleck.”
Jack sighed. Seeing Karen’s family two or three times a year was a real burden. He’d never liked Beth, who looked down her nose at Jack and his family, giving him the distinct impression he wasn’t good enough for her daughter. Despite Karen’s denials, he knew otherwise. He could hear her laughing. Oh, Jack honey, don’t be silly. Mom likes you a lot, she knows you’re a wonderful man.
He’d never forget the first time he met Karen’s parents in their pricey brick house in Park Ridge, a Chicago suburb a cut above Jack’s Bridgeport roots. Stewart Buckley, a successful corporate lawyer, was welcoming and warmer than his wife, Beth, who Jack found distant and reserved. She grew a little friendlier after the wedding, but he never cared for the woman. Times like this he wished he were back in Texas.
Boone plodded over to Jack’s chair and put his large snout on his knee. “How you doing, big guy?” He ruffled the dog’s furry head and ears. “Big day comin’ up. Let’s call it a night.”
. . . . .
Jack tossed and turned, but sleep eluded him. He thought of Sister Anne’s funeral tomorrow. Wished Sherk would go alone, but LePere wanted two sets of eyes on the look-out for possible suspects. Since the Bible thumper was no doubt a wack job, maybe he would show up at the church. Then there was his un-date with Bonnie at the pub tomorrow after work. How would that go? So far, he liked her pretty well. No dynamic chemistry knocked him off his feet, but you can’t have everything. Not like twelve years ago.
Chapter 11
Tuesday morning Donald Sowder awoke in a good mood. Glad he signed up for a vacation day so he could stay home from his miserable computer job at Midway Airport. Yes, this was a special day. He stumbled out of bed, pajama bottoms sagging below his waist. Was he getting too skinny? No appetite lately.
Shuffling to the kitchen, he noted his dingy apartment didn’t depress him for once. The gray unadorned walls seemed brighter, the threadbare tan sofa inviting. He measured coffee and water, turned on the pot. As a strong chicory scent filled the air, he felt hungry for a change, so he fried a couple eggs and toasted two slices of bread. Eggs sizzled in the pan, the edges turned brittle and brown. With a spatula he scooped them from the pan and placed them just so on the plate. Piercing the bright yellow center with a corner of toast, he watched as the gooey liquid streamed over the white part and onto the dish. He sopped up the runny yoke with the rest of his toast. Cooked to perfection. Umm.
Donald smirked as he devoured his remaining breakfast and slurped coffee. Getting rid of that scum Bruce Welton was easier than he’d thought. Easier than Sister. He felt proud of the research he’d done. Not everyone could accomplish such a task, although sex registry lists were public nowadays. And rightly so.
He felt great empathy for the little boy Welton abused. The prick most likely got what he deserved in the slammer. Poetic justice. How do you like it, asshole?
Wouldn’t it be great to see the cops’ reaction when they find out what killed Welton? Bet they’re scratching their heads on this one. No sign of struggle; Welton had done exactly as ordered. Trudged into the bedroom without a peep, lay down on his bed. Guns talk. Nice little Ruger LC9. Never used it. Bought it two years ago for protection. Chicago’s claim to fame: gun violence.
His method of ridding the world of Bruce Welton? Sheer genius. People think it’s easy to bump someone off. Not so. Takes careful planning. He wasn’t sure how his plan formulated, but he knew when.
Two years ago he’d stopped in to visit his mother when his younger sister showed up, freaking out because the vet put down her favorite horse. She worked part-time at the Circle C Ranch ten miles south off 294.
Ignoring her ranting and tears, he experienced a lightbulb moment.
“Must take a strong dose of medicine to put down a horse,” he’d said.
His sister had sniffed, told him to piss off, and continued bawling to their mother.
Later, Donald googled the appropriate anesthetic, and figured he could order it online.
It took him six months to think about the idea. Always was indecisive. He’d finally ordered the drug, and two weeks later it arrived; he patted himself on the back for his brilliance.
Donald wondered if the cops received the autopsy report yet. God, he wished he were a fly on the wall when they heard the news. Bet that Japanese medical guy never saw the drug used before, not on a human anyway.
Too bad Donald’s cleverness didn’t pay off in a real job. With his brains, he could’ve been a doctor or scientist. Shown the playground bullies of his childhood a thing or two. There goes Donny Sowder puss. Donny Sowder smells sour. The taunts refused to release him.
But he was ruined, damaged long ago by that—never mind, don’t go there. Keep it in the past. Stay in the now. Seek justice after all these years. When it is finished, bringeth forth death. The book of James. Hit the nail on the head.
Blinking himself back to the present, Donald sat at his old Formica kitchen table. Gotta get going. He rinsed off the egg-crusted plate and silverware, and placed them in the dishwasher. Next, hit the shower. Had to ready himself for the morning’s event.
. . . . .
Exhilarated as the steaming water poured over him pinpricking his smooth flesh, Donald breathed in deeply. He lathered his face with Yardley Lavender soap for men. Soothing fragrance.
Would the detectives in charge be at the funeral this morning? He should be able to spot them. No worries, they wouldn’t notice him. He knew how to play it smart, play it cool, blend into the woodwork. He was Mr. Average.
After much deliberation over the past week, he’d decided to visit Sister Anne Celeste one more time. Later this morning. Render a proper good bye. Have the last word.
Chapter 12
Daisy LePere was lying in wait for Jack the minute he sauntered into the bull pen the next morning. She stood erect, arms crossed over her gray silk blouse.
“I got a message from Hal Araki. He wants you to call him about the autopsy report on the Welton murder.”
Jack threw off his jacket and hung it on the rack. “What’s the rush, Sarge? Why didn’t he email it over?”
“Ms. LePere to you, Bailey.” She led Jack to his desk. “He found the cause of death somewhat curious. First time he’s seen it. Hal wanted to tell you or Sherkenbach before sending it.”
“Why? Afraid we’re remedial readers?”
“Lose the attitude, Bailey. Just call him.” She turned and strutted away.
“Wait. Did Araki tell you what killed Welton?”
“Just call him.”
Araki answered. “About time. Who’s this?”
“Bailey, and Sherk’s listening in.”
“Velly intah-restink, Detectives. You want to hear?”
Jack retorted, “No, I’m calling to ask you to tea. Come on, Araki.”
“Okay, okay. Your young Mr. Welton was killed by an injection given in the left side of his neck. Just a pinprick, hard to see. That’s why you missed it.”
Jack scoffed. “I didn’t miss it. I didn’t do the exam, CSI did.”
“I know, I know. Just meant you meaning the, how you say, everyone.”
Sherk nodded. “The collective you. Go on, Hal.”
“Someone injected somulose, precisely known as secobarbital or cinchocaine. I ascertained they used 120 cubic centimeters.” Araki paused.
“Is that supposed to mean something?” Jack asked. “We’re not frickin’ scientists.”
“Sorry, Detectives. In layman’s terms, the drug amount used on Welton was enough to kill a thousand-pound horse.”
Sherk raised his eyebrows.
Jack said, “Jesus, doc. Where would someone get that? Steal it from a vet?”
Araki smirked. “You catch on quick, Bailey. I got DNA samples from clothing and the body. Am comparing them to your nun’s murder. Ready tomorrow if we’re lucky.”
“I assume this somulose is used to euthanize animals,” Sherk said.
“Ah, another sharp-witted detective. I think your assumption is correct, but check with vets. I’d ask around clinics, see if anyone is missing the drug.”
“Thanks for the heads up on how to do our job, Doc,” Jack said. “We’ll get on it.”
Araki scoffed. “I’ll email the report over. Talk later.”
Jack hung up. “Enough drugs to kill a horse. Guy left nothing to chance.”
“We have two hours before the Sister’s funeral. Do you want to question Welton’s victim’s parents or call veterinary clinics?”
Jack rubbed his forehead. “I need coffee. Let’s get Calvin to pull up contact info on animal clinics in a twenty, thirty-mile radius. Check horse stables too.”
“I’ll get the parents’ numbers from Gary. If they live close by, we could talk to them, then go directly to the funeral.”
“What’s your mad rush, Sherk? We can see them after the funeral.” Jack hated dredging up painful memories for parents or anyone. He knew too well how that felt.
Sherk shrugged. “Fine. We’ll wait. I sense your hesitation.”
“Oh, so you’re Freud now? Oh yeah, forgot you Germans are smarter than all of us.”
“Austrian.”
“Huh?”
“Freud was Austrian, Jack. Born in Vienna. His family was fortunate to escape—”
“Enough of the history lesson, dude. Not in the mood.”
Sherk held up his hands in mock defeat. “Let’s get coffee.”
Jack reached for his stained White Sox mug and followed Sherk to the break room. “Hope they have donuts.”
. . . . .
After sloshing their coffee down with a couple stale vanilla wafers, Sherk and Jack stopped at Gary Calvin’s desk. The pudgy man wore a gray sweatshirt with black letters.
“Gotta read the shirt first,” Jack said. Hunched over his keyboard, Calvin looked up and stuck out his chest to show the front of his shirt.
“Quite clever,” Sherk laughed as he read the words, HARVARD LAW, and halfway down the shirt, Just Kidding.
“And I thought I didn’t have a life,” Jack said. “How much time do you spend online ordering your duds?”
Calvin swept his red mop behind his ear. “Lots of time, Bailey. But hey, look at all the chicks I get.”
Jack looked around. “Don’t see any.”
Sherk said, “We could engage in witty repartee all day, Gary, but duty calls. What can you tell us about the parents of Welton’s victim?”
“They’re both at work now, off at five-thirty. Said they’d be home by six. Here’s the info.” Calvin handed Jack a post-it note. “I told the mom you had some information to talk about, so she’s expecting your call.”
“Thanks,” Sherk said. “By the way, how hard would it be to order somulose used to euthanize animals?”
Calvin raised his bushy eyebrows. “Interesting. That used on Welton?”
“Yeah,” Jack said. “Any ideas?”
“I’d say a geek could do it, order the drug online.”
“You got time to call vet clinics in a thirty-mile radius? See if anyone’s missing the drug?”
“Sorry, Bailey. LePere has me on a robbery case. Know what I have to dig up by— “
“Save the sad story, Calvin. Catch ya later.”
Jack and Sherk returned to their desks and divvied up the task of calling veterinary clinics within a thirty or forty-mile radius of Bedford Park, the area where Welton’s murder occurred. Jack hated doing crap like this. The time dragged by, and the result from calling thirty-two clinics was zilch.
Sherk stood and stretched. “It’s time to leave for the church. I presume you have a tie to wear.”
“Tie? Are you kiddin’ me? This ain’t a state dinner.”
Sherk reached in a side drawer and took out a red tie. “You should always respect the dearly departed, Jack.”
“Sherk, you’re killin’ me. You’re the kid here. Those old school rules are down the toilet. You see people dressed like bums at a funeral Mass.” Jack didn’t know that for sure, but damned if he was going to worry about a frickin’ tie.
Ten minutes later they arrived at Nativity of Our Lord Church, Sherk sporting a tie, Jack tieless. They parked behind the vast gothic structure and climbed out of the car.
“A lot of people coming,” Jack said. “Folks the Sister’s age usually don’t draw a big crowd. Their friends have kicked the bucket already.”
“In keeping with everything we heard, her popularity follows her even in death.”
“Very poetic, Sherk.”
Jack led the way through massive wooden front doors. A waft of incense and burning candles reached his nostrils, causing a lurch in his gut. Old habits die hard, no pun intended. Resounding chords from the pipe organ filled the air as mourners wandered toward their seats, most genuflecting toward the altar before they sat.
Avoiding the font of holy water in the entry, Jack led Sherk to an empty pew in the back below the watchful gaze of a woeful-looking saint depicted on one of the multi-colored stained glass windows illuminating the church.
Jack glanced around at the group of congregants, young, old, fat, thin, men, women, a fair number of canes and walkers. No one caught his attention as a possible perp, but he’d keep his eyes open.
Five minutes later, everyone rose as six pallbearers wheeled the flower-laden rosewood coffin down the aisle and left it at the altar. Father Jim sprinkled the casket with holy water and then sauntered around, swinging his incense burner over the deceased and muttering Latin words of scripture.
“The good Sister is having a Requiem Mass,” Sherk whispered to Jack.
For a Lutheran, Sherk knew a lot about Catholics. Always said he should’ve been a professor.
The priest’s scripture readings brought back unpleasant memories of Karen and Elizabeth’s funeral. Jack’s former in-laws had insisted on a memorial Mass, and Jack had grudgingly acquiesced. The verses from John and Timothy rang as hollow today as they had twelve years ago. In
my Father’s house are many mansions… Yeah, right.
After another gospel reading, a male soloist sang Ave Maria, which always gave Jack goose bumps. He never tired of the haunting strains of its poignant melody, carrying him back to childhood days with his family in St. Bridget’s Church. The one pleasant memory he harbored.
“I’m impressed.” Sherk leaned toward Jack. “The singer is an excellent tenor.”
“We’ll be sure and tell him that.”
Father Jim’s homily was the usual brief sermon of encouragement, enhanced with Sister Anne Celeste’s highly esteemed attributes. “She devoted her life to Christ, and is now in His hands, to live in His house and serve Him forever.”
Jack questioned those words. Didn’t the poor woman deserve a rest after a life of service?
Before the Eucharist, the soloist sang Prayer of St. Francis. Jack’s mother would’ve approved.
As family members approached the altar, he noticed Molly Winters, Sister Anne’s niece, standing beside an older woman and two teenagers. Molly, attractive in her black dress, wore a small dark hat perched atop her brown shoulder-length hair. Was it lighter than when he met her last week? Must be in her fifties, and she still looked damn good. Jack planned to speak to Molly after the service, offer his condolences. For whatever reason, she sparked his interest.
More people rose and walked to receive communion. Jack looked at Sherk. “Before you ask, no, I’m not having my sins washed away today.”
“I didn’t think so, Jack. Only those in a state of grace can participate. How long since your last confession?”
Jack smirked. “Don’t make me cuss at you in church, Sherk.”
Communion seemed to last for hours, and finally the congregation rose and sang How Great Thou Art as Sister Anne made her last journey down the aisle and out the doors of the church toward her final resting place somewhere Jack had forgotten.