As we sat in the movie, the pain in my back intensified and spread around my left side. It would subside and then return with a flourish. Every time it struck again, I would squirm. I finally was squirming so much I was distracting everyone around us. We got a lot of dirty looks. I couldn’t concentrate on the movie plot, and by the time it was over, I had no idea what we had just seen. It really didn’t matter. It was a chick flick, and I probably wouldn’t have understood it anyway.
Earlier in the day, Mr. Winkie and I had discussed the possibility of him becoming Mr. Happy, but as we drove home Mr. Back had the final word, and the message to Mr. Winkie was, “No way!”
I dropped Maggie at her door, returned home, and spent most of the night pacing the floor in pain. In the morning I dressed and went straight to Doc Johnson’s office.
After spending what seemed an eternity in the waiting room, the nurse called me back, took my temperature and blood pressure, and had me stand on the scale. She took the reading and gave me a glance. “It’s the chicken fried steak,” I muttered.
She asked what had brought me into the office, and I told her of my night’s ordeal.
“Here,” she said, “go pee in this cup and wait in room three. The doc will be right with you.”
First of all, I don’t like doctors. Not Doc Johnson. He’s okay. Just doctors and hospitals in general and all those places that smell funny. And I especially don’t like peeing in a cup. I don’t really know why. When I was a kid, my buddies and I would write our names in the snow and see who could pee the highest and farthest. But somehow that’s different than peeing in a cup.
Anyway, I finished and waited in room three. Pretty soon Doc Johnson came in. “Got blood in your urine, Walt,” he said. “You might be passing a kidney stone. I’m going to send you across the street for a CT scan. Let’s see if we can find the little bugger.”
Swell!
I’d heard about these things, and nothing I’d heard had been good. In fact, I didn’t know anyone who had said, “Gee, I wish I had a kidney stone!”
So I went to the radiology lab and was escorted into a little room. The nurse said to strip and put on this little gown hanging on the door and someone would come get me. Who invented these gowns, anyway? Why don’t they go on like a robe, with the slit in front? And why is there only one tie and it’s in the back? You put the thing on and then you have to walk around with your hand clutched behind your back so your butt won’t hang out.
Then Nurse Ratchet walked in. Why do all my nurses have to look like her? My hiney did a little pucker as I remembered my examination at the police academy.
She led me to a room with a sliding table that I was to lie down on. The table would then slowly carry me forward into this giant tube with whirling lights. “This won’t hurt a bit,” she said.
Yeah, I thought, easy for you to say!
As the table slowly moved me toward that gaping hole, all I could think of was James Bond in Goldfinger. He was strapped in a similar machine that was moving him and his privates toward a burning laser.
Remember that one?
I closed my eyes and gripped the side of the table. The machine whirred and pulled me out. It was over, and I still had my privates. What a relief.
I returned to Doc Johnson’s office and again waited in room three. The doc came in and said, “Yep, Walt, you’re about to give birth to a 4mm kidney stone.”
Lucky me.
“So what do I do?” I asked.
“Just drink a lot and pee a lot,” he said. “It will naturally come out by itself. I’m going to give you a prescription for an antibiotic. We don’t want you getting an infection, and also a pain killer, if you need it.”
Great. Painkiller. Just what I wanted to hear.
I took the prescription to Wally Crumpet, the pharmacist at Watkins Drugstore. I handed Wally the prescription and said, “What’s he giving me, Wally?” I can never read what a doctor writes. They must have a special class at pharmacy school to learn to read doc-write.
“Well, it looks like Sepra and Naproxen.”
“What is it and what does it do?”
“Well, the Sepra is an antibiotic, and Naproxen is Aleve, a painkiller.”
“Why didn’t he just say Aleve?”
“Most drugs have two names,” he said. “Tylenol is acetaminophen, Advil is ibuprofen, and Aleve is naproxen.”
Good to know.
He thought for a moment and with a sly smile said, “I bet you don’t know the other name for Viagra?”
I shook my head.
“Mycoxafloppin.”
Pharmacist humor.
“Oh,” he said, “you’ll be needing this too.” He whipped out a tea strainer. “Use this to catch the stone. The doctor will want it to have it analyzed.”
Great. Now pee through a strainer. That’s worse than a cup.
I paid for my prescriptions and returned home.
Willie was sitting on the porch. “Hey, Mr. Walt,” he said. “I heard from Leo. He said tell you if you ever need yo’ car shine, jes come on by. It’s on the house. Where you been all day?”
I told him about my physical impairment.
“Oh, Mr. Walt, I knowed a guy had dem stones. Like to damn near killed him. He moaned and groaned for days. Had to pump hisself full of dat Valium stuff to keep from scremin’. When he finally passed ‘em, it was like shootin BBs out his pecker.”
Willie, you’re such a comfort.
I spent the rest of the afternoon and early evening drinking and peeing through the strainer. I needed a hobby. I had just started a stream when I got the feeling that someone had put a blowtorch to Mr. Winkie.
Then plop, there it was. Right there in the strainer. I had given birth to a tiny little piece of gravel. My very own kidney stone. It looked like it might be a girl, so I named it Pebbles. You know, like Fred and Wilma’s kid.
CHAPTER 18
I had lost a day with my labor pains, but I had spent the entire day before visiting realtor friends and offices and had come up empty.
Even with my background, I was faring no better than the detectives. The thought of another day spent shooting the bull with old cronies seemed pointless.
We were missing something. Out there somewhere was an interpersonal struggle that had enraged the killer and sent him over the edge. What was it that was so stressful as to cause this grievance?
Grievance!
Why hadn’t I thought of this before?
Relationships within the real estate industry are very complicated and governed by law. There are the relationships between clients and realtors, between realtors from different companies, between realtors in the same company, between realtors and their offices, et cetera. Most of the time everyone gets along, and if there is a dispute of some kind, folks will usually sit down and come to a rational compromise.
Not always.
Those cases that cannot be resolved amicably are submitted in writing to the Grievance Committee of the Board of Realtors. This group of real estate practitioners reviews the complaints that are submitted, and if they believe they have merit, they are sent on to the Professional Standards Committee for a formal hearing. Cases with no merit are dismissed.
Why try to find the needle in the haystack? Why not look in the pincushion?
I drove to the corporate offices of the Board of Realtors and asked to see Stella, the executive secretary of the board. She had been there for years and knew everything that was worth knowing in the real estate world.
Naturally, she was devastated at the carnage within her industry and was surprised to learn that I had traded my briefcase for a pair of handcuffs. The detectives in the case had interviewed her as well as the other board officers, trying to discover the link between our killer and the victims. They, of course, found none.
I explained my line of reasoning and asked her if there were any cases currently assigned to the Professional Standards Committee. She said that there were currently six cases scheduled
for formal hearing, but they were, of course, confidential.
“Stella,” I said, “how long have you known me?”
“That’s not the point, Walt,” she replied. “Those files are sealed until after the hearing and final determination.”
“Okay, then, how about Nancy and Samantha and Lucy? And how about the next one of our colleagues that is found floating in a lake? Please, Stella. Just let me take a look at the complaints. I’m not in the business anymore. I don’t give a rat’s ass who’s arguing with whom. I just want to nail this guy before he kills again.”
She sat motionless for several minutes. I could sense the internal struggle. She had to decide if the breach in protocol could be tolerated for the greater good. An ethical woman with a moral dilemma. I had always admired and respected her.
Finally, she retrieved the files and locked me in a conference room.
“Knock on the door when you’re finished,” she said.
I went to work.
There were six cases pending. Not many surprises as I looked through each one.
It was the usual run-of-the-mill stuff. A claim from a buyer that the agent didn’t disclose knowledge of a leaky basement, an agent complaining that another agent had approached her seller for their listing while it was still listed with her, yada, yada, yada. Serious stuff to the participants but petty in the overall scheme of things; certainly nothing to inspire mayhem.
Then there it was:
Case #1343
Complainant: Julie Bowen
Respondent: Jack Ballard
Charge: Sexual Harassment
Bingo!
I hurriedly read the file and made notes. Jack Ballard was the Broker-in-Charge of Upjohn and Associates Realty. Julie Bowen, an agent in the office, had filed a complaint stating that Ballard had, for some time, made suggestive remarks and sexual innuendos toward her. She had tried to ignore him, but the situation came to a head when he called her into his office under the ruse of a broker performance review and he made physical advances toward her. The case had been reviewed by the Grievance Committee and sent on to the Professional Standards Committee for a hearing.
I knocked on the door and Stella entered.
“Stella,” I said excitedly, “what do you know about this Jack Ballard case?”
“It’s so sad,” she said. “Jack was never a really popular broker, but he ran a tight ship and kept the agents on their toes. You know how difficult it is to find a good broker, so the owners overlooked his personality flaws to keep his organizational skills. But things changed after Julie filed her complaint. The owner knew that if the complaint was justified and they did nothing they could find themselves being sued for negligence, so they relieved Jack of his broker duties until after the hearing. He’s just an agent until it’s resolved.”
“Don’t tell me,” I said. “Let me guess. He was replaced by a woman.”
“That’s right. Brenda Martin was installed as broker at Upjohn.”
As I drove back to the precinct, the professor’s admonition jumped into my mind: “Man who fart in church sit in own pew.”
Ballard had farted in his church and was up to his perverted neck in pew!
This had to be it. I couldn’t wait to get back to the precinct to report my discovery to the captain.
CHAPTER 19
Jack Ballard was driving aimlessly around the city.
He couldn’t go to his office, or anyplace that he might be recognized. His eyes were red and swollen from the pepper spray and his cheek and neck bore the scratch marks of Lucy Lindquist’s sharp fingernails.
All he had wanted was a chance to talk and share his side of the story but Lucy had wanted no part of it.
In the end, he had choked the life out of one of the few people that he actually admired, and it was all because of Julie Bowen’s lies.
As he thought about the injustice of his situation, the sting of his wounds and the ache in his heart began to fuel the rage that had consumed him since his demotion.
He had stopped for a red light at the intersection of Brush Creek and Oak when he noticed the driver in the car heading south on Oak.
It was the McBride woman from City Wide Realty, a top producer in her office that had repeatedly rejected his offers of transferring to Upjohn Realty.
He had nothing more pressing to do, so he turned onto Oak and followed several cars behind.
After several turns, she pulled up in front of her listing on Cherry Street, parked and went inside.
Ballard pulled to the curb a block away, waited and watched.
A few minutes later, an Ajax Exterminating panel truck pulled up behind her car.
Evidently, the house had been sold and she was meeting the Ajax guy for the termite inspection.
The house appeared vacant and the only thing standing between him and bitch that had wanted no part of him was the termite guy.
His battle with Lucy Lindquist had convinced him that he needed more than just his hands for his next conquest, and he wrapped his fingers around the hunting knife lying beside him in the seat.
The Ajax guy was still in the front seat of the panel truck putting together his paperwork when Ballard tapped in the window.
“Hey, Jack,” he said, rolling down his window. “What’s up?”
The only answer was the blade of the knife as it plunged into his chest.
Ballard wiped the bloody blade on the Ajax uniform, rolled the body off of the seat, walked to the door of the home and knocked.
The agent, expecting to see the termite inspector, opened the door immediately. Her surprise turned to fear as she looked into the red, swollen face of Jack Ballard.
“Hello, Maggie.”
As I was pulling into the precinct parking lot, my cell phone vibrated. I looked, and the screen said, “One new voice mail.”
Oh crap, I thought. I had turned off my phone while in the board office and had missed a call.
I dialed up voice mail and heard Maggie’s sweet voice. “Hi, honey, just doing what I promised. We got loan approval on Campbell today, so I set up a termite inspection on Cherry Street. It’s about ten thirty now. I’m meeting Ajax Exterminating at eleven. Maybe we can grab a bite of lunch afterward. Give me a call and let me know if you are available. Otherwise, I’ll make other plans. Bye. Love you.”
I checked my watch. 11:20, still plenty of time to catch her for lunch. I could visit with Captain Short after lunch. I rang her cell phone. No answer. Straight to voice mail.
Hmm! That wasn’t like Maggie. She always picked up. She was always afraid that next caller might be a cash buyer. On the job 24/7. That’s the life of a realtor. So I dialed again. No answer. Straight to voice mail.
A chill suddenly racked my body. Surely not Maggie! Just my imagination. After all, she’s not meeting a stranger; it’s Ajax for heaven’s sake. But I couldn’t shake the feeling.
I called the real estate office and asked for Joan, the office secretary. Protocol now dictated that agents had to leave detailed accounts of their coming and going with the secretary.
When Joan came on the line, I said, “Hey, Joan. It’s Walt. Maggie left a message she was going to a termite inspection on Cherry Street. Do you have the exact address? And while you’re at it, could you look up the phone number for Upjohn Realty in the board directory? And, oh, could you see if Jack Ballard’s address is in the directory too?”
“Sure,” she replied, and she soon came back on the line with the information.
I was about ten minutes from the Cherry Street address, so I headed that direction hoping to catch her there with the inspector.
I felt a wave of relief as I pulled up behind the panel truck, which read, “Ajax Exterminating. If it crawls, it falls. If it flies, it dies.”
Clever.
Maggie’s car was parked just ahead of the panel truck, so I had caught them both.
I hurried to the door and rang the bell. No answer. Must be in the basement, I thought and rang again. No one
came. So I knocked. No one came.
I circled the house thinking they might be checking the foundation.
Nobody there.
My feeling of relief was replaced by panic.
I rushed around the house and back out to the panel truck. The sliding side door was closed but not locked. I slid the door open and to my horror discovered the blood-soaked body of the termite inspector.
My God! Maggie!
After all we had done, after all our precautions, he had found a way to claim another victim.
Only this time it was personal.
It had to be someone with intimate knowledge of an agent’s activities and scheduling. Someone who would know when your guard would be down and you’d be vulnerable.
Jack Ballard!
I called 911 and reported the location of the body. I didn’t want to identify myself and be tied up the rest of the afternoon with red tape. I had to find Maggie!
I knew in my heart it was Ballard. It all fit. But just to be sure, I dialed the Upjohn Realty office and asked for Ballard. I’d feel pretty stupid making accusations when he’d been in the office all morning. But he wasn’t. No one had seen him that day.
I knew I didn’t have much time. The bodies of the other victims had been found the morning after their abductions. I had no way of knowing if he had killed them quickly or waited until the cover of darkness. My guess, judging from the condition of the bodies, was that he took his sweet time and inflicted as much pain as possible before he killed them. My stomach lurched as I thought of Maggie in the hands of this human garbage.
I had Ballard’s address. It was on Rockhill Road near the UMKC college campus, about fifteen minutes from my location.
I called Ox on his cell. “Hey, whatcha doing, partner?” he bellowed. “I’ve been missing you.”
“Ox, I need your help. He’s got Maggie.” I explained what had transpired and asked him to meet me at Ballard’s home.
We didn’t want him to see us and provoke him to expedite his twisted plan, so we agreed to meet on the next block and approach on foot.
[Lady Justice 01] - Lady Justice Takes a C.R.A.P. Page 11
