All the Dead Fathers

by David J. Walker

  “Visitors? No way. Not at night, not when I’m here. He was only in the hospital a few days. Got that pain quieted down with meds, and then yesterday he pass that stone and I know he feeling better after that. Me, I wouldn’t stay up in no hospital, neither, once I got to feeling better.”

  “So, last night,” Kirsten said, “no visitors? Nobody came to see him?”

  “Like I say, he never—” She shrugged. “Except … it was this woman by his room asking about him, but she wasn’t a visitor. She from the insurance company.”

  “A woman?” Kirsten’s heart picked up speed. “Did she talk to him? What was her name?”

  “I don’t know if she even found him. I told her he must be out walking around somewhere. Maybe downstairs by the candy machines, ’cause he had asked me where they were. If she said her name, I didn’t get it.”

  “What did she look like?”

  “Look like? I guess … like a woman from an insurance company. Tall white lady. Kinda big, but not fat. Big smile on her face the whole time. But definitely on business. Italian-looking, except reddishlike hair.”

  “How old?”

  “Oh, I’m no good at ages. Maybe your age, maybe older. Hard to say. Not old, though; not like me.” She laughed.

  “She talk to anyone else?”

  “Not as I know of. She just say thank you and turn and walk away. Last I seen of her.”

  “Did you tell anyone about her? I mean, like someone from the hospital administration?”

  “Tell anyone? I mean, no one asked—”

  “Clara Johns.” The soft, disembodied call came from a speaker hidden in the ceiling. “Clara Johns. To the nursing station.”

  “You go ahead,” Kirsten said. “And thanks.”

  The woman left in a hurry, and Kirsten turned to Doreena Brown. “You better make a report. I mean, you don’t have to say you found Clara for me, if you don’t want to. Just say I talked to her on my way out and that’s what she said.”

  “Right. And … you better go now.”

  * * *

  Kirsten had no real right to be in the hospital, and didn’t want to press her luck. Besides, poking around in the candy machine area when it had been five or six hours since Stieboldt was there—if he ever was there—would have been useless.

  Doreena Brown told her the shortest way to the hospital parking garage. She had to negotiate a maze of corridors and two elevators. Her mind was whirling. She didn’t know Father Carl Stieboldt at all, but she didn’t believe for a minute that he’d simply walked out of the hospital on his own, without explanation. Shoes or no shoes. Michael had said he wouldn’t. She kept imagining a custodian with a mop yanking open a closet to find a naked, bloody man folded into the slop sink.

  And who was that damn woman? Supposedly from the insurance company. Wasn’t the Archdiocese of Chicago self-insured? Still, though, someone had to administer the program, investigate and verify claims. But going to a patient’s room? In the evening?

  She stepped out of the second elevator and went through a glass door into the garage. Her footsteps on the concrete seemed suddenly too loud—as though the floor were hollow. She stopped walking and listened. Traffic noises in the distance; a constant hum from what must be the hospital’s ventilation system. It was three in the morning and there wasn’t a living soul around. She was quite sure no one had followed her up here from home, but still she had to force herself to walk again … and not to run.

  The Celica was down at the end of a row of parked vehicles, hidden from view behind that Ford Explorer. What if…? But there was no flat tire. She got behind the wheel and slid the key into the ignition, then hesitated. What if…? But the engine turned over and took hold and she wasn’t swallowed up in a roaring fireball. She drove west to the interstate. There was a Motel 6 there and she got a room and called to tell Dugan where she was. Then she went to bed.

  Nothing bad happened. Not to her, anyway. Not so far.

  22.

  By eight-thirty A.M. Kirsten was back at Villa St. George. She found Michael sitting alone on a bench overlooking the lawn, reading the morning Tribune. He said there’d been no word from Carl Stieboldt.

  “Why’d he put you down as next of kin?” she asked.

  “He’s got no family except some cousins who live out of state. I’m the one who drove him to the hospital, and the woman there said he should name someone nearby they could call.”

  “You’re a close friend?”

  “We both love music. He plays the violin and I play at the piano. I may know him better than most, but he has no close friends that I know of. Well, maybe one. But not anymore. That is, he and Emmett were—”

  “Emmett Regan? The one who—”

  “Yes. They’re both … you know … gay. I believe they … they saw each other fairly often.”

  “Really? Is that consistent with Stieboldt’s remaining a priest?”

  “I don’t know that they were sexually involved any longer. Actually, I don’t know that they ever were. I just—”

  “Anyway,” she said, “the hospital’s suggesting that a friend or relative might have come and picked him up last night.”

  “Not possible. Even if Carl would ever leave against medical advice—which he wouldn’t—I can’t imagine who there’d be to pick him up. It obviously wasn’t Emmett. He was … his body was found sometime Tuesday. You mentioned it to me, but didn’t say who it was. It’s here in the paper.” He showed her the article, which included Regan’s photo, and let her tear it out and keep it. “I suppose Carl could have called a cab,” he said, “but that—”

  “They suggested someone came, brought him a pair of shoes.”

  “Shoes?”

  “When you took him in, did you bring along extra shoes or clothes?”

  “Nothing. Let’s see … this is Thursday. It was Sunday evening. Carl was in terrible pain, and he hadn’t told anyone until he couldn’t stand it anymore. I managed to reach my own doctor and he said it sounded like a kidney stone and to take him to the hospital right away. Carl was doubled over and crying from the pain, and I just grabbed him by the arm and dragged him to the car. We didn’t go back to his room for anything. At the hospital they said they could get things like a razor and slippers for him.”

  “So he was there Monday, Tuesday, and yesterday. And sometime yesterday afternoon he passed the stone.”

  “You said something about shoes,” Michael said.

  “He was dressed and up walking around after supper before he disappeared. I suppose he could have been wearing hospital slippers. I checked his room and his shoes were still there, and a jacket, too.”

  “My God, what do you think happened to—”

  “What I think is that you should call the Waukegan police and insist that they treat Carl Stieboldt as a missing person, try to get them involved. Plus, you should notify the archdiocese. Maybe the cardinal can pressure the cops.”

  “I hate to say it,” Michael said, “but my guess is the cardinal would be delighted—I mean, not to have something terrible happen to Carl—but to have him disappear. And to have one less of … of us … to deal with. Everyone wishes we’d just crawl back into the woodwork.”

  “Yeah, well…” She stood up. “I better be on my way.”

  “Wait.” He stood, too, and started to reach out toward her, but then withdrew his hand. “I didn’t mean you. That is, I’m sorry I got you into this.”

  “Look, Michael, you didn’t get me into anything. Like I told you, I’m here because … well, because you were there for me when I needed someone. I owe you for that.”

  “I know. I wish … The thing is, when I helped you it was because I wanted to. And it didn’t create any debt on your part. I appreciate what you’re doing, but I wish…” He didn’t finish.

  “You wish I was helping you, not out of debt, but because I care about what happens to you. Well, I do care. I mean, maybe it’s not like it was … before I found out.” She shook her head. “It m
ight be different if you’d told me yourself, I don’t know.”

  “I should have, but—”

  “Let’s let it go, okay? It’s over, and there are more important things to do than sit around talking about things we can’t change.”

  She turned and left quickly, so he wouldn’t see the tears in her eyes.

  * * *

  She drove back to Queen of Mercy Medical Center and at ten o’clock met with Howard Arnett in his office. He was a sharp-featured, bespectacled man and—given that he was the hospital’s in-house counsel—surprisingly agreeable. He knew she had spoken the night before with Clara Johns, and he didn’t complain about that. He told her he had already checked with the day shift and turned up one person, a nurse, who recalled Stieboldt having a visitor. “It was a man,” he said, “and he was here on Monday. But she never saw him before and doesn’t know his name. The shift changes at three, and I’ll have someone speak with them, also. We don’t keep a record of visitors, so it’s a matter of someone noticing someone, and then remembering.”

  Kirsten asked about the woman Clara Johns said had been looking for Stieboldt, and Arnett thought it unlikely she was from the company that handled insurance claims for the archdiocese. “I’ve already got a call in to them,” he said, “but I can almost guarantee the answer.”

  “You’ll call me when you hear, though, right?” Kirsten asked. “And leave a message one way or the other?”

  “Absolutely.” He stared down at his desk, and at the business card she’d given him, as though trying to make up his mind, then looked up and said, “I know who Father Stieboldt is. That is, I’ve seen the news reports and I know—or I think I know—what the concern is here.”

  “Oh?”

  “He’s one of the priests on the list of sex offenders. And two of them have been murdered.” It was actually three now, but she let that go. “The hospital notified the police once about him being missing, and I don’t intend to call them again or to tell them their business. But I want you to know that we’ll cooperate with them, and with you, to the extent that we—”

  “Right,” Kirsten said. “In the meantime, if I were you I’d have the hospital searched.”

  Arnett smiled. “Security is conducting a search as we speak. I’ll call you on that, too.”

  “One way or the other.”

  “Of course.” Arnett stood up. “I believe that’s all.”

  “Not quite. I need to talk to the nurse, the one who saw the visitor.”

  “She’s nurse manager of a double unit, and she’s very busy. She doesn’t know his name.”

  “It’ll just take a minute. You can come along if you like. I want her to look at something.” Kirsten pulled the folded newspaper clipping from her purse. “It may be a picture of Carl Stieboldt’s visitor.”

  * * *

  The nurse manager’s name was Irene Delgado, and from the newspaper photo she recognized Emmett Regan. “It was, oh, about four in the afternoon,” she said. “I’m supposed to be off at three, you know? But on Monday I stayed late because … well … that’s a long story. Anyway, that’s how I remember it was Monday. He came up looking for Father Stieboldt’s room and I showed him. I don’t know what time he left.”

  “Was there anyone with him?” Kirsten asked.

  “Not that I noticed,” she said. “But there were lots of people coming and going, you know. Staff and visitors alike.” She stared at Kirsten. “Why? Is there something wrong?”

  “Just routine,” Kirsten said, as if she were a cop, and as if the answer made sense.

  23.

  Kirsten left the hospital and drove back to Chicago. She left the punctured tire, along with the postcard and the mail that came with it, at Renfroe Laboratories, and then went to her office. She was two steps into the little waiting room when she stopped, dead still. She looked around but didn’t touch anything. She moved to the inner office door, opened it and again looked around without touching anything. Back out in the hall she called Dugan on her cell phone.

  “It’s no use,” Mollie said. “He’s in the middle of settling two cases. I try to put calls through and he won’t even answer. I guess I could go down there and—”

  “No,” Kirsten said, “that’s all right.” She considered going next door for Mark Brumstein or one of his people, but it was Dugan she wanted.

  * * *

  When she got there Dugan had his back to her, looking out his office window with the phone to his ear. “Hey,” she said.

  He turned and waved her in, but kept talking into the phone. “Don’t be silly, Julie,” he said. “My guy will prove he earned seventy thou, and if you prove he only reported thirty-five to the IRS, half the jury will ignore it and the other half will give him extra points. I mean, the guy’s got five major fractures and a punctured lung, for chrissake. And three kids.” He paused, obviously listening.

  “Dugan,” Kirsten said, “I’m in a hurry.”

  He grinned at her and, still listening to whoever was on the phone, gestured her toward one of his client’s chairs. When she made no move to sit down, he just shrugged.

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” he finally said. “I know, I know. But if I don’t hear from you in a week, Julie, I’m sending the case out to Milt Tunney to try the damn thing. You could lose big on this.” He listened some more. “Uh-huh, love you too. ’Bye.” He hung up, and at once his phone rang.

  “Don’t answer it,” Kirsten said. “Period. We’re getting out of here.”

  He stared at her, but he let the phone keep ringing and grabbed his suit coat from the back of a chair. “Yeah, I think a nap nap is a great i—”

  “Stop that, dammit! I need you for something. Let’s go.”

  On their way out Dugan told Mollie he’d be back “sometime this afternoon.” Mollie just shook her head and they walked on through the suite and out into the corridor. Kirsten didn’t like admitting it to herself, but she felt better—no, dammit, safer—in Dugan’s presence. Not physically safer, exactly, but psychologically.

  They waited for the elevator and Dugan said, “I know I shouldn’t say this, but you seem … well … scared, or—”

  “That’s bullshit.”

  “I was going to say ‘or concerned.’ How’s that?” She didn’t answer. The elevator came and they stepped inside and rode down. “It’s not too early for lunch,” he said, as the doors opened onto the lobby.

  “We’re going to my office. I want to see if … if you notice anything.”

  * * *

  It was a walk—actually, nearly a run—of only a few blocks and neither of them said anything on the way. At her office she unlocked the glass door but didn’t open it. “I want you to step inside and close the door,” she said. “Just stand there. See if anything’s … unusual. And then come back out. Okay?”

  “Yeah, sure.” He went in and stood in one place and looked around.

  When he came back out she said, “Well?”

  “There’s the odor, right?” She nodded and he went on. “It’s … don’t know if it’s cologne … or perfume. But it’s a pretty common smell. To me it almost smells like soap or something.”

  “But is it a scent I ever wear?”

  “No,” he said. “Maybe a cleaning person?”

  “They only come in once a week. That’ll be tonight.” She felt a little better knowing he’d smelled it, too. She locked the door again. “Let’s go get—”

  “And the magazine on the table,” he said. “The Smithsonian. Part of the cover’s been cut off.”

  “You’re right,” she said, peering back in through the glass.

  “So you think that’s where the mailing label on your HERE I COME postcard came from?”

  “I … I guess so.”

  “Is it possible the magazine’s been there all along and you just overlooked it before today?”

  “Not a chance.”

  “I believe you,” he said, but she wasn’t sure he did. “So then, how did it get back in there? You
always lock the door when you leave, right?”

  “It’s not that great a lock. There’s nothing in there worth stealing. But yes, I always lock it.”

  He took her arm. “Let’s get some lunch.”

  She walked with him but doubted she’d be able to eat.

  At the elevator he put his arm around her shoulders and pulled her close to his side. “You’re probably surprised I got ’em both, huh?” he said. “The smell and the magazine?”

  “Yes, I am,” she said.

  What she didn’t say was that just twenty minutes earlier, when she left to get him and bring him back, there’d been no Smithsonian magazine on that table.

  24.

  Debra stood on the crowded sidewalk beneath the el tracks and watched the two of them come back out of the building. She was too far away to hear what they said, but she knew they’d been up to the bitch’s office and found the magazine. The bitch was hiding it well, but she’d gone at once for her husband … and she was afraid. Debra smiled.

  Fear was a darkness that had clouded Debra’s days as a child, crept into her dreams at night. But as she grew older, the shadow of fear was slowly replaced by anger. And anger became rage that grew and glowed red, until the day came when, still in her teens, she struck for the first time to take her revenge. By then she felt no fear at all. And now, though determined not to be caught, she still felt none. Or none for herself, at least, but only for Carlo. He could not survive without her.

  As she crossed the street a train roared past overhead and she closed her eyes against the grit and dust that fell from the tracks above. When she reached the sidewalk she turned and headed for where she’d parked the van. No need to follow those two now. God had already turned another disappointment into a blessing.

  She had intended to take Father Stieboldt back home with her, where she could help him atone fully for the pain and terror he had inflicted. But he was cowardly, weak. While she was removing something from him to leave behind, to show that she had taken him and he hadn’t just wandered off, his heart gave out and he died right there in her van. She’d been upset and angry at first, almost in tears. Then, though, she remembered that the pervert’s premature death was obviously God’s will, so something good would come of it.