All the Dead Fathers (12 page)

He was the only person in the room, seated at a table near the door, drinking Diet Coke from a plastic bottle and looking down at a newspaper. About her height, she thought; a thin, delicate-looking man. When he reached for the bottle she noticed he had unusually long, slender fingers. An artist's fingers, or a musician's.

She stood in the doorway and looked up and down the hallway. No one else was around. “Hi there, big fella.” When he looked up he was staring right at the pistol pointed at his face, shielded from view through the window by the attaché case. “Do exactly as I tell you,” she said, “and I won't hurt you. I promise.”

20.

With the light back on and the priests settled down and facing her again, Kirsten introduced the man who'd come through the window. “My man in charge of security,” she said, “Milo Radovich. But you can call him Cuffs.” She turned to him. “Right, Cuffs?” She waited, but his only answer was a scowl, so she addressed him again. “Some of these gentlemen here were questioning whether you were actually on duty last night.”

Cuffs Radovich was a rectangle, the shape of the window he'd come through, and seemed only slightly smaller. His black raincoat hung open over a black turtleneck and black pants. His black fedora was narrow-brimmed and looked too small for him. His face was dark and deeply lined, and a thick gray mustache drooped down along both sides of his mouth. He studied the priests in front of him like they were creatures in a zoo.

Finally he shifted his attention to Kirsten. “I'm not
your
man—or anyone
else's
man.” His voice was deep and harsh. “And I don't give a fuck
what
these ‘gentlemen' question. As long as I get paid, I'll keep their sorry asses in one piece.”

*   *   *

An hour later Kirsten pulled out through the seminary gate and they headed for home. “Cuffs is always such a treat, isn't he?” she said. “I love the raincoat. And that fedora!”

“The only treat about Cuffs,” Dugan said, “is watching people meet him for the first time. Are the seminary's security people happy about him hiding in the bushes?”

“It won't always be him. He's got another job going, too, so he's hiring guys to be there when he can't. Anyway, he worked it out with the chief of security. I guess he's an ex-cop Cuffs knows from somewhere.”

“Uh-huh.” Dugan shifted around in his seat, and she knew he was hoping to get some sleep.

“By the way,” she said, “I really enjoyed that little act you put on.” She laughed. “I mean, pretending to struggle with the window like that? So those priests would think Cuffs was super strong? Nice touch.”

“Very funny,” he said. “Why didn't you
tell
me he was already on the job?”

“Because you aren't interested in the case. You only came along to be with
me.
If Michael and those other men are tortured and murdered … hey … they brought it on themselves, right?”

“I didn't say that.”

“I think you did, but let's not get into it.”

“Right.” He squirmed around some more, but was too large a man to get really comfortable in the Celica. Finally he said, “Those guys … the priests … they can really knock down the alcohol.”

“Yeah … well … so can you when you put your mind to it.”

“And most of them are overweight.”

“Yeah … well…” She let that one go.

“I know, I know,” he said. “I need to get to the gym.”

“I didn't say that.”

“I think you did, but let's not— Anyway, I was watching those priests, and I talked to some of them. After the meeting, you know?”

“Uh-huh.”

“A couple of them are really oddballs,” he said. “But some of the others, I don't know. They're scared shitless, but they seemed pretty … normal.”

“Watch out, Dugan. Pretty soon you'll be thinking these are actual human beings.”

“Just barely,” he said. “You can't separate them from what they did. Disgusting, repugnant. And don't tell me the charges haven't been—”

“Michael gave me a list of the charges against each one,” she said, “and what each one has admitted or denied. But the way I think about it? In my own mind? It's that every last one of them did exactly what he's accused of.”

“Really. So why keep reminding me that not all the charges have been proven?”

“Because that's the truth. Just like it's true that way too many people are found ‘guilty' of things they didn't do. But let's face it: a few of those guys might be innocent, but probably
most
of them are guilty. I know Michael is. And since I don't
know
about the others, I've decided to assume that they're
all
guilty and not try to kid myself about any of them.”

“So why spend all this time and money on them? They'll never be able to pay what it's worth, you know.” He finally managed to adjust the seat into a reclining position, and lay back. “I don't get it.”

“I have my reasons,” she said. “One, they'll pay
something,
hopefully at least enough to cover what I have to pay Cuffs and his crew. Two, I'm not in favor of maniacs running around torturing and murdering people, guilty or not.” He emitted a sort of groan, and she went on. “And three, I owe this to Michael. And maybe…” She paused. There would never be a perfect time to tell him, and she might as well get it over with. “Maybe it's about time I finally told you why. It's … sort of a long story.”

She paused again, holding her breath, but got no response at all. Dugan had fallen asleep. She let out her breath in a sigh … more of relief than exasperation.

*   *   *

When they got home they had one phone message. It was past ten o'clock and Dugan said to let it wait until morning. Kirsten would have preferred that, too. Instead, she listened to it.

“Kirsten, it's me … Michael. I couldn't find your cell phone number.” He sounded out of breath. “Remember I said one of the guys was … was in the hospital? With a kidney stone? Carl Stieboldt. Well, the hospital just called. He's gone. Disappeared.”

21.

Kirsten didn't return Michael's call. He had no cell phone, and the only phone she could reach him on was out in the corridor and would have woken up everyone.

The message had gone on to say that Stieboldt passed his kidney stone that afternoon and he was to be discharged tomorrow. “Except,” Michael said, “they called. Asked if someone from here picked him up. I said no, and they said they don't know where he is, that he must have walked out. But he'd
never
do that. Not Carl.”

Michael hadn't said the name of the hospital, but earlier he'd mentioned it was in Waukegan, a small city on the lake about forty miles north of Chicago, so she checked the phone book and found only two hospitals: Memorial and Queen of Mercy. She called Queen of Mercy because it had to be Catholic, and asked for Carl Stieboldt's room.

“Do you know the room number, ma'am?”

“No,” she said.

“No problem. I'll check.” There was a pause, and then, “I'm sorry, but I can't put a call through to the patient's room.”

Since she wasn't told that they
had
no such patient, she hung up without objection. It was getting late, but she'd slept that day until nearly noon. So—over Dugan's objection—she packed a small bag and was back on the road in less than an hour.

*   *   *

At about midnight Kirsten stepped into the emergency room at Queen of Mercy Medical Center and was stopped at once by a security guard. She told him she was there to see a patient, Carl Stieboldt, and identified herself as Stieboldt's “representative”—which sounded more official than “friend.” The guard was polite and said it was too late for visitors. She was equally polite and said she wasn't leaving. Finally she demanded to speak to whoever was in charge.

“Right now!” she said, when the guard still hesitated. “Or I'll file a complaint.” With whom, or about what, she had no idea.

“Wait here.” The guard stepped a few paces away, then turned aside and spoke softly into his two-way.

He turned back and invited her to sit on a nearby chair. She declined the invitation and the two of them stood there, Kirsten tapping her foot on the tile floor to show how she wasn't taking any shit from anyone when it came to her client's safety and welfare.

She had a growing sense, though, that it was a little too late for concern about Carl Stieboldt.

*   *   *

The interview room was small and brightly lit, and Kirsten sat at a tiny table across from Andrew Dexter, a nervous, likable young man in an inexpensive suit, whose name tag said
ADMINISTRATOR ON DUTY
. The room had only two chairs, so Doreena Brown,
SUPERVISOR, SECURITY
, a stout black woman of about forty, stood leaning against the wall, arms folded across her more-than-ample chest.

Kirsten showed her private detective ID and explained that she'd been retained to provide security services to Carl Stieboldt. She said she had assumed he would be safe within the confines of the hospital, then added that she certainly wasn't accusing the hospital of any misconduct. “At least,” she said, “not at this time.”

Dexter's eyes widened a bit. “I came on at eleven,” he said, “and was informed that the patient was not in the house—the hospital, that is. He left without checking out. And AMA, ‘against medical advice.'” He opened a file folder on the table before him and consulted its contents before speaking again. “The patient had passed a kidney stone, and Doctor Adamji wanted to examine him again in the morning before he went home.”

“But he disappeared,” Kirsten said.

“He's not in the house. When the patient didn't return to his room, and didn't appear to be on the premises, the administrator on duty at the time called…” Dexter consulted his papers again. “She called a Father Michael Nolan, whom the patient had listed as his next of kin. Father Nolan wasn't aware that the patient had left the hospital.”

“He has a name, you know.”

“Um … right.” Dexter looked confused. “Father Nolan.”

“No, I mean Carl Stieboldt. You keep calling him ‘the patient,' as though he had no name.”

“It's simply a way of speaking.”

“I know it is.” Like cops always speak of
the victim
or
the offender,
because names make things too personal. “I want to see his room.”

Dexter pursed his lips. “Father Nolan said you might be contacting the hospital, and I was told that if you called tonight, I was to tell you to contact Howard Arnett in the morning. Mr. Arnett is—”

“But I didn't call,” Kirsten said. “Instead, here I am, now.” She paused. “Mr. Dexter, I guess you know Carl Stieboldt's a priest?”

“Of course.”

“Are you aware that there might be a big problem here, about his disappearing?”

“A problem? I
do
know that the police were contacted about the matter. But I'm not sure why. It doesn't seem…” He turned back to his folder. “The police advised that an adult could come and go as he liked, and there was no reason for their involvement. Which sounds right to me. I mean, there's no indication of foul—”

“But you
do
have a folder about it.”

“That's procedure for an AMA.”

“Does your report say what Stieboldt was wearing?” Kirsten asked. “I mean when he was walking around.”

“Really, I don't think I—”

“Humor me. What harm can it do?”

Dexter consulted his papers. “At seven-thirty the patient was dressed and up walking.” He looked at her. “Patients—especially when they're feeling better—often don't like walking around in hospital gowns.”

“I want to see his room.”

“I'm afraid I'll have to draw the line there.”

“Listen to me!” Kirsten stood up. “This man disappeared from
your
premises, while under
your
care. His listed ‘next of kin' doesn't know where he is and tells you I'm his representative. It's my job to find him. The police don't want any part of it, so we're not interfering with them. You can come with me. Or Ms. Brown here can come. What's the problem?”

Dexter stood up, too. “Ms. Brown,” he said, “would you step outside with me a minute?”

It was more like five minutes, and maybe they called someone or maybe they just talked it over, but when they came back Dexter said, “Ms. Brown will accompany you. The room hasn't been cleaned yet. You're not to disturb anything.”

*   *   *

It was a private room, and other than Stieboldt's name on a sign on the wall above the bed there was nothing in sight that was personal to him. The two books on the bedside table—both paperback westerns—had
HOSPITAL LIBRARY
stamped on the title pages.

Kirsten opened the door of a small closet, then turned to the security guard. “Strange, isn't it, Ms. Brown? Wallking off without his jacket and shoes?”

“Happens all the time,” the woman said. “Family brings them fresh clothes to wear home and they forget what they came in with. Plus, it's such a warm night. Probably wouldn't have missed the jacket.”

The tan windbreaker, the only thing hanging on the rod, was marked size “S,” and the shoes, well-scuffed black oxfords with the beginnings of a hole in one sole, were size eight. “Not a large man,” Kirsten said.

“I really wouldn't know.”

“What ‘family' is there to bring him some ‘clothes to wear home'?”

“I don't know that, either.”

“The only ‘family' he lists,” Kirsten said, “is another priest, who says he didn't pick him up. Did he have any other visitors?”