The Bucktown Babies (Father Gunter, Demon Hunter Book 1)

by Janine R Pestel

  “I'm fine, thank you. What can I do for you, Mister Sherwood?”

  “Miss Olson. We understand that you are experiencing what we would call a severe outbreak of Sudden Infant Death Syndrome in your town, is that correct?”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “We have dispatched one of our field agents, Agent Bill Berman. He will be arriving there this morning, to investigate this outbreak. Can we count on your complete cooperation?”

  “Absolutely. We will do all we can to assist Agent Berman.”

  “Thank you, kindly. If you should have any questions, I would recommend that you contact Agent Berman directly. His number is 445 555-1021.”

  “445-555-1021,” she repeated to make sure she had the number correct.

  “That's right. Thank you very much, Miss Olson. You have a nice day, now.”

  After ending the call, Johann decided it was time to head out, look over the town, and eventually make his way over to the hospital to begin his investigation.

  A few minutes later, Johann found himself driving down the main street of the town. He glanced at the rows of shops on either side, and made a mental note of some of the stores. He made note of a hardware store, several small eating establishments, a barber shop, a general store and a small building which appeared to house several medical practices. Behind that building was a much larger building several stories tall. A sign which read “Emergency Room Entrance” told Johann he had located the town hospital.

  Further down the road, he found the local fire and first aid stations and the police headquarters. After that, buildings disappeared, and nothing but farmland stretched out everywhere, save for the one lone church in town. Being a former man of the cloth, he couldn't help but to stop in and visit the house of worship. He parked his car out front, and studied the small wooden building for a moment.

  The small structure appeared to be quite old and was constructed of wood with a tall bell tower. With a new paint job, it would be reminiscent of a church which could have been the model for a Norman Rockwell painting. Father Gunter got out of his car and walked up the short steps. The two towering front doors were darkly stained oak and the hinges creaked and moaned as Johann pushed them open.

  Inside, the air was slightly musky, as though the place was neglected. Johann took note of a small, porcelain basin on the wall near the door which contained holy water. He dipped his fingers in and blessed himself as he entered.

  Johann reached the front of the church, genuflected in front of the large wooden crucifix and knelt at the altar.

  “Welcome to Saint Isidore,” a man's voice said from somewhere to his right, and echoed through the empty building. Johann glanced over and spotted a man marginally older than himself, who stood nearby with his hands grasping each other at chest level as though he were praying. The man had short, well-groomed brown hair and a friendly, welcoming smile. His attire was the usual black shirt and pants with the little white square at the neck.

  “Thank you, Father,” Johann responded, standing to walk over to the priest.

  “I'm Father Tuttle,” the priest said, as he reached his hand out.

  “Bill Berman, Father,” Johann said, as he introduced himself, and shook hands with his new acquaintance. He couldn't help but detect how soft the priest's hands were.

  “You're a stranger in town.”

  “Yes,” Johann said. He took out his ID and showed it to the priest. “I'm an inspector with the CDC. Here to investigate the deaths of the infants and all the miscarriages.”

  Father Tuttle examined the ID with a critical eye, before he returned the small card to Johann. “I'm sure you will find it is the will of God, my son,” he said. Father Gunter considered this carefully before saying anything.

  “I'm sure it is, Father. I just need to make sure that there is no other reason.” He said. He broke his gaze away from the priest and glanced around the church. “Very appropriate that the church's name is Saint Isadore,” he pointed out, he was trying to change the subject.

  “You know of Saint Isidore,” the priest asked.

  “Oh, yes, Father. He's the patron saint of Farmers,” Johann said, as he returned his gaze to Father Tuttle, “My father was a farmer, and we asked Saint Isidore for help all the time.”

  “I see,” the priest said as he turned to leave, “Enjoy your stay in this town Mr -,” he glanced back over his shoulder at Johann

  “Berman… Bill Berman.”

  “Mister Berman. Please remember you will always be welcome here.”

  “Thank you, Father. I will,” Johann said as the priest walked away, back to his rectory.

  Johann returned to kneeling at the altar. Even though he was no longer a priest himself, he still prayed for help every time he was on one of his gigs. He believed, doing so not only made him stronger, but contributed to keeping him from hurting or even killing innocents.

  Johann finished his business at the altar, and as he walked back to the door, he glanced all around the quaint little church. He was unaware of Father Tuttle, who stood in the shadows at the door between the church and the rectory, studying every move Johann made.

  He walked out of the church, and the stillness of the air was disturbed by the sound of a roaring engine and screeching tires from around the corner. He stood, frozen in place, almost mesmerized as a car screamed around the corner, the tires crying and smoking as they struggled to retain a grip on the asphalt. The vehicle was a black Dodge Challenger. He suspected the car was the same one that tried to run him off the road the night before. Now he discovered why he couldn't see the driver; the windows were all blacked out. The engine roared and thick, black marks were left on the asphalt as the vehicle sped away, leaving only tire smoke and the oily stench of burned rubber which filled the air in its wake.

  Johann ran to his car and hurriedly slammed the door as he got in. He started the engine. He was going to give chase, but immediately realized that by the time he turned around, the offending car would be long gone. “Damn it,” he shouted, pounding his steering wheel and peering in his rear-view mirror, “I'll find you, you son of a bitch.” He put his car into gear and drove away, not having noticed Father Tuttle, who was at the church door. He kept vigil, as Johann pulled away, and made a sign of the cross, kissing the rosary he held in his hand. “Please protect him,” he whispered as he stepped back into the church and closed the door.

  Father Tuttle walked back to his rectory and sat at his desk. He glanced around his office for a few minutes, as he thought. The priest closed his eyes and clasped his hands together in prayer.

  “Oh, please,” the priest pleaded as he rested his forehead on his clasped hands, “Tell me what I can do to help.”

  After a few moments, he opened his eyes and reached for his telephone. A smile came across his lips as he dialed a number.

  “Hi. It's me,” the priest said when the other person answered, “It worked. I told you it would.”

  Johann made his way through the farmland of the area, as he headed back into town. With his windows rolled down, the fragrance of fresh cut hay filtered into his car. He turned on his radio. The reporter on the radio was from a local station and was saying more infant deaths occurred during the night.

  “Damn it,” he shouted, as he slapped his hand down on the dashboard, “I gotta find this thing and send him back to the slimy hole he crawled out of.”

  As Johann made his way through town to the hospital, he leered down every side street and in every parking lot, hoping to get a glimpse of the black Challenger. He arrived at the local hospital, and drove around in the parking area for a short time before he, at long last, pulled into a space near the front entrance. He had no luck in finding the car he was searching for.

  At the same moment he was getting out of his car, an ambulance pulled onto the hospital grounds, lights flashing and siren screaming. It drove up to the emergency room entrance. Followed by an old pickup truck. Johann was able to see a young man driving the old truck, and sittin
g next to him was his wife. It was evident they were with whoever was in the ambulance. The truck stopped, and the distressed couple exited the vehicle and ran to the ambulance as the rescue workers removed the gurney from the back.

  On the gurney was a tiny person; apparently a baby. The EMTs appeared to be administering CPR to the little person. They held the couple away from the baby as they rushed inside. Johann came over and managed to slip in, unnoticed in the chaos.

  Once inside, the area exploded with activity. Emergency room personnel scrambled to place the baby on a hospital gurney and whisked the little patient away to an examination room. A female doctor walked up to the couple and tried to console them. Johann couldn't help but eavesdrop.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Bridger, please stay calm. We're going to do all we can for her -”

  “She wasn't even sick,” Mrs. Bridger said, interrupting the doctor. Tears streamed down her young face.

  “I know. She is a very healthy infant. Please sit here. I will be back as soon as I have news for you both.” She walked away toward the room where they had taken the baby. Johann found it odd that the hospital did not have a chaplain here to comfort the family.

  He walked over to the nurses' station. “I'm Bill Berman. I'm an inspector with the CDC, Administrator Olson is expecting me,” he said, as he showed his ID card to the head nurse. “May I ask what the infant who arrived a few minutes ago was brought in for?”

  The nurse studied him and his ID for a moment, as she tried to make sure he was legitimate.

  “If you don't mind. I will have to clear this with her,” she said, picking up the telephone and dialling Administrator Olson's extension. A moment later, the administrator answered.

  “Administrator Olson,” the administrator answered.

  “Ma'am, I have a gentleman here who is claiming to be with the CDC,” the nurse said, as she studied Johann.

  “What is his name,” asked the administrator.

  “He said his name is Bill Berman. He gave me his card as well.”

  “Yes, I was informed he was coming. Cooperate with him. Give him whatever information he needs, within the HIPAA guidelines, of course.” She was reminding her nurse of the Health Insurance Portability and Accountability Act, which governs how patient information is transmitted.

  “Yes, Ma'am. Thank you,” said the nurse. She disconnected the call, and turned her attention back to Johann.

  “I'm sure you understand, Mister Berman,” she said, as she glanced down at the chart in front of her. “The doctor hasn't finished her examination yet, but the EMT's reported the infant as being unconscious and unresponsive upon their arrival at the scene,” she answered, with a touch of sadness in her voice.

  “I see. Who is the attending physician?”

  “That would be Doctor Zou,” the nurse said, as she again glanced at the chart, and pointed in the direction Doctor Zou went with the baby.

  “Thank you. Would I, by chance, be able to meet and talk with the hospital administrator?”

  A heart-breaking shriek pierced the muffled din of the room, coming from behind Johann. He turned and spotted the young woman, as she collapsed into her husband's arms. Doctor Zou was, at that moment, leaving them and walking toward the nurses' station. It was obvious the doctor informed them of their daughter's passing.

  Doctor Zou purposely positioned herself a few feet away from Johann. She leaned closer to the nurse and almost whispered “SIDS.” She turned and all but leered at Johann, who put his hand out.

  “Doctor Zou,” he said, “I'm Bill Berman -.”

  “Good for you,” she said, rudely interrupting his introduction. “Now, if you don't mind, I have patients to attend to.” She turned and walked away. He slowly dropped his hand to the counter and turned to the nurse, who wore an expression of non-belief on her face. “Is she always this charming,” he asked, sarcastically.

  “No,” the nurse replied, “Actually, I've never seen her like that before. She's usually very cordial to everyone. You must have done something to piss her off.”

  “Interesting.” He said, as he walked toward the couple.

  “My condolences on your loss,” he said, solemnly, to the grieving couple. All they could do was acknowledge his presence.

  “Thank you,” the wife sobbed weakly.

  Johann dropped his gaze to the floor for a moment. He glimpsed back at the couple and opened his mouth to speak, but was interrupted by the nurse.

  “Mister Berman. Miss Olson will see you now.”

  He walked back over to the nurses' station. “Thank you,” he said.

  “Her office is through those doors, and take the elevator to the top floor. When you exit the elevator, go to your left. Her office is at the end of the hall. You can't miss it. I'll let security know you're coming.”

  “Much obliged,” he said. He turned, and began to make his way to the administrator's office.

  -3-

  Johann exited the elevator and walked down the corridor to the hospital administrator's office. The click of the dress shoe heels on the tile floor echoed off the walls in the deserted hallway. When he reached his destination, he found the door open, but courteously gave a light knock. The woman behind the desk glanced up and waved him in. “Come on in, Mr. Berman,” she said, as she continued her work.

  Sylvia Olson, the hospital administrator, was a woman most would refer to as being handsome. Her blond shoulder length hair well matched her blue eyes. She was in her mid to late fifties and was of average build for a woman her age. Her perfume was enchanting without being overwhelming. She wore glasses which gave her an elegant and yet authoritative appearance. She glanced over the top of them, and watched Johann as he entered the room.

  Johann walked over to the desk. “Please sit,” Sylvia said. He sat in a chair in front of her. She took a moment to finish what she was doing on her computer. After finishing, she gave her full attention to the official looking gentleman in front of her. “How can I help you,” she asked.

  Father Gunter took out his ID and showed it to her. “I'm Inspector Bill Berman from the Centers for Disease Control,” he said, trying to sound as official as possible.

  “Yes, Mr. Berman, I'm well aware who you are. Your assistant director called me this morning and let me know you were coming, and Head Nurse Hensley informed me you were here. My name is Sylvia Olson. I am the hospital administrator. What can I do for you?”

  Johann took a small notebook and pen from his jacket pocket and cleared his throat a little before speaking. “I understand this town has experienced an abnormal amount of infant mortalities recently. Is this true,” he asked.

  “Yes,” she dropped her gaze for a moment, “unfortunately. Sad, but very true.”

  “I also understand along with the mortalities has been an unusual amount of miscarriages as well.”

  “This is also correct.”

  “Does the hospital have any indication as to what might be causing this anomaly?”

  Miss Olson did not answer right away. She glanced around the room and at her computer monitor, almost as though nervous.

  “Miss Olson,” Father Gunter said after a few moments. She redirected her gaze at him.

  “No,” she said, sounding a little sad, but resolved, “We haven't. I'm hoping perhaps you can tell us.”

  “I see,” Johann said as he wrote some notes in his book. “I would like to request to meet with the attending physicians, please.”

  “I can arrange a meeting,” she said. “I'll have them come to my office. One of them is off today, so he may take a little while to arrive here.”

  “That's quite alright. While I'm waiting, I would like to speak with the coroner, please.”

  “We'll do all we can to cooperate, Mr. Berman. I'll call him to come to my office at once,” she said, as she reached for the phone.

  “No,” Johann said, abruptly. “I'd rather meet with the coroner in the morgue, please.”

  “As you wish,” Sylvia replied, placing the p
hone receiver back down. “I assume you are familiar, of course, with where the morgue would be located?”

  “Yes,” he said, as he stood up.

  “Very well,” she said, while she reached for the phone again. “I'll inform Robert, our coroner, so he will be expecting you.”

  He reached his hand out to Sylvia. “Thank you so much for your help. It was a pleasure meeting you, Miss Olson. How long do you think it will be before the attending physicians are here in your office?”

  “About an hour,” she answered, as she shook his hand. “I'll call down to the morgue when they are here. It was a pleasure meeting you as well.” While Sylvia called down to the coroner, Johann made his way to the morgue.

  At the end of a short elevator ride, Johann stepped out into the basement of the hospital. The air was a little cooler down here than in the rest of the hospital and the lighting more utilitarian. In the hall outside the morgue were several stainless-steel gurneys parked against the walls. He entered the morgue itself, and the air now took on a distinct character. A touch of the odor of death mixed with formaldehyde and alcohol.

  Johann almost gagged as he took note of several gurneys against the wall here with corpses on them. The bodies themselves were covered and couldn't be seen, but the feet were sticking out from under the sheets, and each one was wearing a tag on the big toe. “God, rest their souls,” Johann whispered as he glanced at them.

  A few moments after he entered the room, a man approached him. Robert Durling, the hospital coroner, was a short, slightly rotund man in his early sixties with gray hair on the sides and back of his head. The top of his head was bald, but his gray moustache was quite bushy, and almost hid his upper lip completely. The growth extended a little down each side of his mouth, almost in a Fu Manchu style, but not quite. The rest of his facial hair was very clean shaven. He was dressed in hospital scrubs, and as he approached Johann, he lifted the plastic shield that protected the front of his face from any splatter during autopsies and such. He removed one of his rubber gloves and stuck his hand out in greeting.