Finding a Killer Read online

  Greta began to argue back but Sheriff Whitfield held up a firm hand and pointed back toward the stairs. Greta threw her hateful eyes at Mary and Betty and then stormed off.

  “What a horrible woman,” Betty said in a disgusted voice. “Why would Dr. Cappes ever hire such a person? I mean…I didn’t know the poor man, but Uncle Albert said he had a good heart…surely he wouldn’t hire someone so hateful.”

  “I was wondering the very same thing myself, honey,” Mary told Betty. She looked at Sheriff Whitfield. “Sheriff, Uncle Albert didn’t kill Dr. Cappes.”

  “I’m sure he didn’t,” Sheriff Whitfield agreed. “My guess is there’s more to this murder than what the horse is chewing.” Sheriff Whitfield watched Greta reach the stairs and hurry down back to the first floor. “That woman broke the law by sending the staff members home. I would order her to bring them back, but my gut is telling me the big fish in the lake didn’t escape.”

  “You think Nurse Greta is the killer?” Betty asked in a quick voice. “Oh, please say yes, please say yes, please say yes.”

  “I wish I could,” Sheriff Whitfield said in a regretful voice, “but whoever stabbed Dr. Cappes is a lot stronger than Nurse Greta. The knife…well, it’s pretty deep.”

  “I noticed the depth of the knife, too,” Mary confessed. “Are you sure it’s not possible that Nurse Greta is the killer? She does seem to be a very strong woman.”

  Sheriff Whitfield shook his head no. “Dr. Cappes was killed by a man, not a woman.”

  “How can you be so sure?” Mary asked.

  “Well,” Sheriff Whitfield explained, keeping a careful eye on Albert, “I served in the First World War…saw some brutal deaths. I know how a man kills.” Worry filled Sheriff Whitfield’s eyes. “I…know how a man kills,” he whispered and then shook his head. “Let’s go inside and speak with Albert Malone.”

  “Okay,” Mary said and looked at Betty. “Do you want to stay out here in the hallway?”

  “No way,” Betty exclaimed and quickly followed Mary into a large room that resembled a magic trick and a clown face. The walls were decorated with old nostalgic circus photos from the 1920s and 1930s along with photos of magicians performing curious acts. The walls ran around to a wooden writing desk that sat under a square window covered with a green curtain. A large bed decorated with a thick green cover sat in the middle of the room like a lost whisper trapped in a forgotten circus.

  “Hello, Uncle Albert,” Mary said in a careful voice.

  Albert raised his eyes, spotted Sheriff Whitfield, and then went back to his song. “A house of cards falls down when the rabbit stops its tricks.”

  “He’s not…crazy,” Mary whispered. “At least, I don’t think he is.”

  “I don’t either,” Betty added, staring at Albert with scared and confused eyes. The Uncle Albert who visited Pineville with a bag full of pranks—the Uncle Albert she remembered—now seemed like a very strange man lost in a shadowy world filled with insanity and confusion.

  “Mr. Malone,” the sheriff said in a clear voice, “my name is Sheriff Whitfield. I would like to talk to you.”

  Alert, Albert stopped humming. “Dr. Cappes is dead and the shadows are loose,” he said and then quickly held up a three of hearts. “My favorite card.”

  Sheriff Whitfield removed his brown hat and eased closer to Albert’s bed. “Did you kill Dr. Cappes, Mr. Malone?” he asked in a straightforward voice, deciding it would be wiser to treat Albert like he was sane instead of insane.

  “What do you believe?” Albert asked and tossed the three of hearts into the hat sitting at his feet.

  “I’m not sure,” Sheriff Whitfield answered. “A man is dead, and we have a very angry nurse insisting you are the killer.”

  Albert looked up at Sheriff Whitfield and studied the man’s face and eyes. “You have an honest face.”

  “The Bible teaches a man to do the right thing in the eyes of the Lord,” Sheriff Whitfield told Albert.

  “Uncle Albert, please,” Mary pleaded, “cooperate with the sheriff. A man has been murdered.”

  “So he has,” Albert agreed and gently set down the rest of the cards he was holding onto the bed. As he did, a strange expression covered his face—an expression filled with deep worry and confusion. “But not by the shadows I believed would attack at high noon.”

  Sheriff Whitfield lifted his left hand and rubbed his beard. “Who do you believe killed Dr. Cappes, Mr. Malone?” he asked. “Nurse Greta?”

  “I assumed that vicious woman would lead the final charge against me,” Albert confessed, “but now it doesn’t seem that she is the foe that placed a knife into poor Dr. Cappes.”

  Mary walked over to the bed. “Uncle Albert, who killed Dr. Cappes?”

  “I don’t know,” Albert confessed in a truthful voice. “There seems to be a hidden foe lurking about.” Albert slowly sat up, eased off the bed, and got to his legs. “Nurse Greta and her evil foe surely were planning to kill Dr. Cappes. I warned the poor man, but he insisted I was being paranoid. I was forced to wait for the inevitable. Now that the inevitable has taken place,” Albert frowned, “a new actor has appeared on stage wearing a hidden mask.”

  Sheriff Whitfield listened to Albert, soaked in his words, and then decided to break down the conversation into important sections without overwhelming anyone with too many questions. “Why would Nurse Greta want to kill Dr. Cappes?” he asked.

  “To force me to surrender,” Albert answered in a quick voice. He threw his eyes toward the room door. “That shadow does not walk alone. Yet the third shadow that is chained to the stage is a victim and not a part of the guilty squad.”

  “You mean Nurse Ellie?” Mary asked in a careful voice.

  Albert shifted his eyes to Mary. “You have spoken to the dear woman, I assume?” he asked.

  Mary nodded. “I learned that Sam, the guard, is her husband and that Nurse Greta is her daughter.”

  Sheriff Whitfield turned and looked at Mary. “You did?” he asked.

  Mary nodded her head. “I was going to tell you as soon as possible.”

  “Honest,” Betty promised. “Mary didn’t want to tell you in front of Nurse Greta.”

  “I believe you,” Sheriff Whitfield assured Mary and Betty. He turned his attention back to Albert. “Were you aware of this?” he asked.

  Albert sighed. “For many, many years, I’m afraid.”

  Sheriff Whitfield decided to return to his earlier question. “Why would Nurse Greta want to kill Dr. Cappes?”

  “I already told you—”

  “I need direct answers,” Sheriff Whitfield interrupted in a stern voice. “Let’s sidestep the shadow talk and speak in simple voices, okay?”

  Mary studied Albert’s face. It was clear to her that her uncle wasn’t finding Sheriff Whitfield’s presence very comforting. “Uncle Albert, please,” she pleaded. “Cooperate.”

  “Why?” Albert asked in a tired voice. He sat back down on his bed, grabbed the black hat, and yanked out a bouquet of pink flowers. “What is fake is never real…unless one is tricked into believing so. That was the goal of my foes.”

  Sheriff Whitfield watched Albert stare at the fake flowers with lost eyes. “Mr. Malone…correct me if I’m wrong, but…is blackmail a factor here? I may be way in the outfield by asking, but something tells me I’m not.”

  Albert raised his eyes. “You are a very clever man,” he said. “Unfortunately, the attack of my foes has been altered by an unseen actor. This does not change the fact that those who wish me harm will attempt to carry out their mission in the future, but for now, they are sitting in a pool of confusion just the same as I am.”

  Sheriff Whitfield rubbed his beard again. “Any idea who might have killed Dr. Cappes?” he asked, even though he knew the answer that Albert was going to shoot back at him.

  “No,” Albert answered. He replaced the fake flowers back in the black hat and looked up at Mary. “You must leave this place, my dear. The stage has cha
nged, and now it is far too dangerous for you or dear Betty to be here. My desire to have you help me escape has been foiled.”

  “I’m not leaving you, Uncle Albert,” Mary promised, “no matter how dangerous the situation has become.”

  “Same…here,” Betty said and made a pained face. “We’re…not leaving.”

  Sheriff Whitfield continued to rub his beard. He wasn’t sure what to do. There were many options to consider and many suspects to investigate. What he did know was that no one, not even Mary and Betty, was leaving the hospital. If an unknown killer was loose, he needed to trap the killer in one place and not have the killer chasing after more victims at different locations.

  “We’re all staying for the time being,” Sheriff Whitfield explained. “I need answers, and unless I get those answers…whoever killed Dr. Cappes might do one of two things.”

  “Two things?” Betty asked.

  Sheriff Whitfield nodded. “Escape…or continue to kill,” he said and focused on Albert. “Don’t you agree, Mr. Malone?”

  Albert looked down at his old hands. “Many dark secrets lead to present misery,” he whispered. “Whoever the killer is, he surely isn’t visiting the hospital because he is interested in the scenery.” Albert kept his eyes low. “Sheriff, perhaps one of the patients is our killer? That is the only solution, is it not?”

  Sheriff Whitfield looked at Mary and Betty with concerned eyes. “That’s my way of thinking about it,” he admitted. “A man killed Dr. Cappes…and that man sure wasn’t that old man sitting outside in the guard box. Whoever put that knife into Dr. Cappes is a strong fella.”

  Albert raised his eyes. “Hate can make an old hand very powerful,” he warned.

  “Yeah, that’s true,” Sheriff Whitfield said, nodding. “Sit tight, Mr. Malone. I’m going downstairs to speak with Nurse Greta. Mary, Betty, stay here with Mr. Malone and lock the door behind me when I leave.”

  “Okay,” Mary said. She followed Sheriff Whitfield to the door, watched him walk out into the hallway, and then quickly glanced up and down the corridor. It was bare…silent…and creepy. Somewhere amidst all the silence a killer was lurking. “Oh,” Mary whispered in a scared voice. She quickly closed and locked the door and hurried back to Betty. Albert looked at Mary, lay back down on his bed, and began singing a song.

  Downstairs, Greta was talking to Ellie. When she saw Sheriff Whitfield appear, she stiffened, made a sour face, and prepared to show as much resistance as possible. Someone had killed Dr. Cappes, and that someone had done so with a knife instead of the glass of poison she had prepared.

  Greta handed Sheriff Whitfield a list holding the names of five patients. “Only five?” he asked, staring at the list. “This hospital is huge. I’d expect there would be at least twenty or more folks here.”

  “Three patients left last week,” Greta explained in a hard voice. “This is a private hospital, Sheriff Whitfield. It costs a lot of money to stay here. Unlike public mental facilities, Deep Woods is reserved for people who can afford luxury.”

  “Yeah, I can see that,” Sheriff Whitfield replied. He put the list into his front pocket and looked at Ellie. Ellie was standing at the front door with her hands tucked behind her back. “Planning to leave?” he asked.

  “Tour the grounds,” Ellie explained in a humble voice. “It’s my turn to check the grounds.”

  Or maybe go speak with your husband? Sheriff Whitfield thought but didn’t let his mouth form the words. “Ma’am, I’d prefer you stay indoors for now. Please.”

  Greta rolled her eyes. “Sheriff, we still have our duties to—”

  “Indoors, please,” Sheriff Whitfield spoke over Greta. “Keep the front door locked and don’t let anyone inside, including the guard.”

  “But—” Greta began to protest.

  Sheriff Whitfield held up a firm hand. “No one leaves or enters this hospital unless I say so,” he ordered in a voice that didn’t leave any room for debate. “A man is dead, and a killer is loose. If you leave or let anyone inside, I’m going to assume you’re the killer and arrest you,” he told Greta. “Is that clear?”

  “I…yes,” Greta said through gritted teeth. “I’ll take you to the patient rooms.”

  “No thanks,” Sheriff Whitfield said. “I need to talk to each patient alone. What you can do is tell me a little about the people I’m going to talk with.”

  “Very well,” Greta said. She walked over to the nurses’ desk and sat down. “The first patient is Elizabeth Church.”

  “Who is Elizabeth Church?”

  “An eighty-two-year-old retired schoolteacher from Nevada,” Greta explained, throwing her hard hands together. “Elizabeth moved to Georgia when she retired from teaching in 1921 after her husband died.”

  “Why did she move to Georgia?” Sheriff Whitfield asked.

  “To be close to her son, who is a wealthy businessman living in Savannah.”

  Sheriff Whitfield gave a brief nod. “Who is next?”

  “Sarah Maybrook,” Greta grumbled. “Sarah is a seventy-eight-year-old woman—”

  “Artist,” Ellie added in a soft voice.

  Greta shot her mother a cruel eye. “Artist,” she continued. “Sarah is a widow and comes to stay at Deep Woods when she falls into one of her depressed states.”

  Sheriff Whitfield could clearly see that Greta had no compassion for any of her patients. He wanted to scold the woman and lock her behind bars but decided to move forward instead. “Who else?”

  “Mandy Dalton,” Greta said, reading Sheriff Whitfield’s distaste. “Mandy is an eighty-year-old widow who was married to a wealthy railroad man. Mandy is a native of Texas but moved to Georgia after her last husband died. Why? She never told anyone, not even Dr. Cappes. Mandy has only visited Deep Woods twice.”

  “Twice?”

  “Last year for a short stay between March and June and this year for a longer stay.” Greta glanced up toward the ceiling. “Mandy Dalton arrived back at Deep Woods in March and hasn’t left.”

  “That’s three. Who else?” Sheriff Whitfield asked, hoping the last person would be a man.

  “Rose DeLane,” Greta finished on a sour note. “Rose is a seventy-one-year-old widow who is taken care of by a wealthy son. According to Dr. Cappes, Rose, like Sarah Maybrook, is plagued by depression.”

  “No men?” Sheriff Whitfield asked.

  “Ralph O’Malley went home last week,” Greta explained before she could catch her tongue. She grimaced and then added, “Ralph O’Malley, Gennifer Moran, and Alicia Restington all left last week.”

  Sheriff Whitfield glanced at Ellie, studied her face, and then looked back at Greta. “Who is Ralph O’Malley?” When Greta hesitated to answer, his voice hardened. “Nurse, I asked you a question.”

  Greta squeezed her hands together. “I’ve told you—”

  “Answer me or go to jail,” Sheriff Whitfield threatened Greta. “Let’s play nice, okay? Instead of making me go track down Judge Walker and have him order you to talk behind bars.”

  Greta bit down hard on her lip, considered her options, and caved. “Ralph O’Malley is a forty-four-year-old…banker,” she said and quickly threw her eyes at Ellie in a way that told Sheriff Whitfield the woman was ordering her mother to remain silent.

  “Why does this man come to Deep Woods?”

  “Depression,” Greta said, averting her eyes.

  “Where does he live?”

  “I…can’t—”

  “Where does this man live?” Sheriff Whitfield demanded.

  “Far away,” Ellie spoke up. Greta hit the desk with her right hand. “Go to the kitchen and prepare the lunches. The patients will be very hungry by now,” she ordered. Ellie flinched and quickly hurried away.

  Sheriff Whitfield shook his head in disgust. “You have an ugly way about you, lady,” he said. “But I don’t have time to care. Now, tell me where Ralph O’Malley lives or I’m slapping my handcuffs on you.”

  Greta watched in horror as She
riff Whitfield reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a pair of rusty handcuffs. “Ralph O’Malley…lives in New York,” she said in a quick, angry voice.

  “New York?” Sheriff Whitfield asked. He stared at Greta for a long time and then nodded his head. “Stay put right here, keep the front door locked, and don’t move until I come back. Are we clear?”

  Greta scowled. “Yes.”

  Sheriff Whitfield nodded his head again and then worked his way back upstairs. He found Mary and Betty standing outside of Albert’s room. “What are you doing?” he asked.

  Mary tossed a thumb at Albert’s door. “Uncle Albert drifted off to sleep,” she explained. “We didn’t want to wake him, so we came out into the hallway to talk.”

  “About what?” Sheriff Whitfield asked.

  Mary looked down the hallway toward the stairs. “Where is Nurse Greta, Sheriff?”

  “I told her to stay at the nurses’ desk. Nurse Ellie went to the kitchen to prepare lunch.”

  “Is that safe?” Betty asked in an alarmed voice.

  “I believe so,” Sheriff Whitfield replied in a careful voice. “I don’t believe our killer is interested in any more killing for now.”

  “Why do you say that?” Mary asked.

  Sheriff Whitfield pulled the list of patient names. “There are only five patients in this hospital right now,” he explained. “Four women and one man.” Sheriff Whitfield showed Mary and Betty the list. “The women listed sure aren’t strong enough to kill a man the way Dr. Cappes was killed, and I don’t think Albert Malone is the killer, either. His right hand shakes…not much, but some.”

  “I noticed that, too,” Mary told Sheriff Whitfield. “When Uncle Albert was throwing cards into his hat, I saw his right hand shaking.”

  “The killer is right-handed,” Sheriff Whitfield continued. “I guess if Albert Malone was set on killing Dr. Cappes he could have, but the way I saw his hands shaking…the look in his eyes…my gut is telling me the guy is innocent of murder.”