A Certain Mercy: Why are Grand Island's Most Vulnerable Dying Violently

Genre
Award Type
Manuscript Type
A lonely man carrying his coat walks across the white lines in a parking lot light dimly by a street lamp.
When his business card turns up on the bodies of two dead homeless men, Stephen Brown, the Director of Social Services at the Salvation Army in Grand Island, Nebraska, falls under suspicion. The fact that each card contains a message to the deceased raises the stakes. Soon more bodies are found.

A CERTAIN MERCY

a novel by

William L. Silvaneus

This is a work of fiction.

All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Copyright © 2019 William L. Silvaneus All rights reserved.

Printed in the United States of America

Published by Author Academy Elite P.O. Box 43, Powell, OH 43035 www.authorcademyelite.com

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—for example, electronic, photocopy, recording—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

Paperback ISBN-978-1-64085-990-6 Hardcover ISBN-13: 978-1-64085-991-3

Library of Congress Control Number: 2019931458

CHAPTER 1

Quote from the Journal of a Killer:

For it would be better to die once and for all

than to suffer pain for all one’s life.

Aeschylus

~

WHEELCHAIR BOUND HOMELESS MAN COMMITS SUICIDE

The First Homeless Suicide Reported In Grand Island History

GRAND ISLAND, Tuesday May 29, 2013 – 33 year old wheelchair bound Joseph E. Riederhof was found Sunday hanging in a tree south of the McDermott & Miller PC parking lot off South Locust. Items at the location indicate Mr. Riederhof was homeless. The Hall County Coroner officially ruled the death a suicide—according to the Independent, the first reported homeless suicide in Grand Island history. Chief of Police Greywright stated the man has no known …

~

Stephen Brown studied the three-column picture printed below the headline. In the upper right-hand corner, he noticed a thin debris covered slab of ice or snow, odd for this time of year even if it had been a cool spring. Scattered clothes and assorted trash littered the ground.

Wonder if that’s the man I bought arctic coveralls for.

Newspaper in hand, he headed toward the kitchen to see if Andy or his staff remembered Riederhof. Surely the man came for meals.

~

Angelina Abbott stormed through the outside dining room doors just as Stephen stepped around the corner by the black garbage cans under the dishwashing window.

Every time Stephen saw Angelina in all her 19th century regalia, lace and buttons, he expected her to pop open an umbrella. No, actually he expected her to pop him with an umbrella. He also expected her to swing her butt around to show off a huge bustle with a matching bow perched on top. She never carried an umbrella. Thank God. And she never wore a bustle and bow. But crab and bustle, and sass and boss, that she did.

An equal opportunity pest, her sass and boss leveled against Stephen felt personal—threatening.

“Why aren’t these empty?” she demanded pointing to the near full garbage cans.

“Staff will do it in a minute.” Stephen lifted his chin and donned a placid face.

“The diners should do it!”

Stephen recoiled from her spit as Angelina stepped forward. She’d invaded his personal space now. Eyes narrowed. Mouth in a pucker. The twelve-inch difference in their height accentuated the ever present spark of tension arcing between them.

“I don’t know how many times I’ve told you, Stephen; get the diners to do it. It’s the least they can do for a free meal.”

Angelina gestured toward the flip top canning jar setting around the corner in the serving window. There was only a gum wrapper in the jar.

“I don’t see any money in that donation jar and half these freeloaders are working.”

At minimum wage and not making enough for rent let alone food. Stephen kept the comeback in his head.

“If Grace Abbott were around,” Angelina continued, “she’d see to it that these poor souls acted proper. It was her wish that her money be used to help the poor. I intend to see that it does.”

She didn’t say it, but Stephen heard, “when are you going to do as I say?” plus a threat to withdraw the sizeable annual Abbott Foundation contribution. The men’s shelter could not absorb such a hit. Come to think of it, how did that shelter money give Angelina any say over the feeding program?

Hands on hips, lips pursed, she continued to stare up at Stephen.

One of the staff snickered in the kitchen.

Stephen almost burst out laughing. Of course it wasn’t funny.

“Jesus said, ‘whosoever will to the Lord may come.’” Stephen began to lecture. “That’s the Salvation Army motto.” Factually, it was “Heart to God. Hand to Man” but “‘whosoever will may come” was painted on the wall over the serving window and Stephen knew Angelina could see it at this angle.

Give without thought of return, he wanted to scold her, but didn’t.

“The Salvation Army position is we are here to serve whoever comes into this dining room. We consider serving them to be the same as serving Jesus. If someone volunteers, their assistance is gratefully received, but the diners are not required to serve the Salvation Army, just like the Salvation Army would never require Jesus to do something if he came in to eat.”

“But they are not Jesus,” Angelina shot back. “’Whoever does not work shall not eat.’ That’s one of your precious scriptures too. If they eat, let them haul out the trash. This—” she pointed at the gross food in the can, “is disrespectful to the people who donate time and money to this feeding program. You’re treating these clients like they’re some kind of kings or queens.”

Stephen’s glare hardened.

Angelina tightened her shoulders. “Maybe I should put my money elsewhere,” she mumbled, then hitched her hip to the right, turned, and marched, nose in the air, through the door towards the offices.

~

“You goin-ta get yourself fired.” Andy’s voice lilted to the left, then he let out a belly laugh that rollicked into every corner of the kitchen. “Money talks.”

Stephen smiled, then wrinkled his nose at Andy and laid the newspaper on the serving counter. “You remember this guy?”

Andy, Chet, and Susan crowded around him to read the byline, scrutinize the picture, and skim the article below.

“Was this Riederhof?” Andy asked.

That’s Andy, thought Stephen, just read the headline and let someone else read the details.

“Yeh, that’s his wheelchair.”

Chet pointed to the picture.

“Saybra—you know the bag lady—made Joseph that scoubidou keychain tied on the armrest,” Susan said. “It’s green and yellow.”

Stephen’s eyebrows lifted. “So Riederhof did come here for meals?”

“Yeh,” the staff all answered in unison.

“I thought so,” he affirmed. “I think he’s the man I gave some coveralls last winter.”

He glanced toward the plate glass doors where Zachary Plues, one of the homeless regulars had slipped in to pick up some bread from the giveaway table. His eyebrows furrowed.

“That’s right,” said Andy. “You used the Christmas money from your mom for that.”

“But suicide?” Chet propped a hand to his right hip. “That doesn’t sound like Joe. Are they sure?”

Susan picked up the paper and scanned the article again. “It says here he hanged himself from a tree.” She furrowed her eyebrows. “Joseph could hardly move without help. He couldn’t even make a slip knot. How could he get a rope up a tree? He told us he’d been unable to lift his arms over shoulder since some auto accident. Lately, someone had to feed him. He couldn’t get a spoon to his mouth nor his face down to the plate. Zachary Plues’s been helping him the last couple weeks.”

“So when did you last see Riederhof?” Stephen looked at each person in turn.

“Oh, I guess it’s been a week or two,” said Andy. “I don’t know. People come and go. I lose track of time.”

“He was here last Tuesday,” Chet stated. “That’s the morning he brought in the blue columbine, his favorite flower. Said they grow in Colorado, high up in the mountain passes. I haven’t seen him since.”

“I figured he left town.” Susan spoke up. “He always said he was going to Colorado, going to move on when he got his disability check. I just figured the columbine was his way to say he was leaving—the first was a week ago. I never figured he’d commit suicide.”

Thoughtful, silent, everyone looked down.

Suicide makes a perfect cover for a murder. The thought came to Stephen unbidden, perhaps from the plot lines of the hundreds of detective novels he’d read, but just as abruptly, Susan interrupted the thought.

“Hey, did you see this article down here?” She looked back down at the second page.

“Body found in a garage on the alley behind a house on First Street,” she read. “Says they found the body wrapped like a mummy. Investigating officer said it felt like entering a mausoleum.”

“Wonder who that was,” said Andy.

“Says victim could not be identified.” Susan replied.

Stephen shrugged and shook his head. Wordless, he again shook his head and headed back to the office.

Who notified the families? he wondered as he pushed open the dining room door.

Suicide makes a perfect cover for a murder.

Again the thought came unbidden.

CHAPTER 2

Quote from the Journal of a Killer:

God of justice, God of mercy,

Make us merciful and just!

Help us see all your creation

As from you a sacred trust.

And when people cry in anguish

For their own or others’ pain,

Show us ways to make a difference

O dear God, make us humane!

Jane Parker Huber

~

Stephen strode the twenty paces back to the Social Services Office. Laid the newspaper on the military green file cabinet next to the Food Pantry door. Relaxed into his cool black leather chair and swiveled to face his desktop computer.

He punched Ryderhof [sic] into the search bar of his Clients Served List. No entry. He knew the name would not show up as a shelter resident—the shelter was not wheelchair accessible—but it did not show up on the list at all.

How could a wheelchair bound homeless person not be on the Salvation Army Clients Served List? Didn’t Riederhof ever come ask for help? How did I know he needed those winter coveralls?

He entered Joseph Ryderhof [sic] into the search bar again— though he knew what the result would be. No matching entry.

The man came for meals—hundreds ate in the dining room on any given day, too many to type into the Clients Served List—but never for direct services.

But the coveralls?

Then it dawned on him. Riederhof never entered in his office. In fact Stephen never spoke to Joseph Riederhof in person. One morning he saw him sitting out front, his body jerking from the cold as he waited for breakfast. He sent an army blanket out to him. Chet tightened it around him.

At Christmas, Stephen’s mom shrugged off Stephen, her only child, by only sending a card. No note, no invitation to Christmas dinner, just a card, a signature, and a check with “buy what you want” on the memo line. Stephen vowed to destroy the heartless gift. That’s when the picture of Riederhof shivered through his brain again. Marching straight out of the apartment building, Stephen dropped the card in the front door trash. He cashed the check at the Second Street Overland Bank drive-thru. Sped down US Highway 30 to Orscheln Farm and Home. Bought the highest rated winter Carhartts. Stuffed the remaining $45.19 into a chest flap. Drove back to the Salvation Army. Left the coveralls and a note in the kitchen for Andy and his staff, then went home and fumed.

The next morning, Andy reported that Chet gave the Carhartts to Riederhof. Zachary Plues wheeled him into the bathroom, cut a slit to thread the catheter through, and helped him struggle into them. But Stephen had never spoken to the man. Not even then.

Not my finest hour.

“Brrrt.”

The phone snapped Stephen back to the present. Still looking at the “no matching entry” on the computer screen, he answered, “Stephen Brown.”

“Stephen Brown?” The voice was all business, but feminine.

“Yes.”

“The Secretary said you’re the Director of Social Services.”

Not a question. Just a fact check.

“This is Chief Investigator Ellison from the Grand Island Police Department. What is your relationship with Joseph Riederhof?”

“Joseph Riederhof?”

“Yes.”

“I never met the man.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.” He glanced at the plaque on his wall.

“Has he been a client of yours?”

“Only the meal program—nothing else.” “How can that be?”

“I’m sitting here asking myself that same question. I’ve checked the Client Served List two times and he’s not on here.”

“Can you explain, then, why there was a green army blanket marked ‘GI Salvation Army, Social Services’ at his campsite? You are the only employee in Social Services, aren’t you?”

“Yes, and yes. I saw him out front shaking in the cold one morning. So I had one of the kitchen staff take that blanket out to him. That’s how he got it.”

“But you never talked to him and he’s not in your client database?”

“Correct.”

“Is that unusual at the Salvation Army?”

“No, we often give unsolicited help and, if we haven’t done an intake, it doesn’t show up in the system.”

“I see.” Investigator Ellison paused.

Why do I feel I’m being interrogated?

“Do you remember a red Pendleton Sioux Star Blanket marked Salvation Army?”

“No.”

“Did you read about the murder scene on First Street in the alley?”

“An associate of mine just read it to us in the kitchen this morning.”

Stephen’s stomach knotted into a small walnut. An unseen hand held him by a rope in a black void over nothingness.

“You don’t remember the blanket.”

Again, a statement more than a question.

“It was found at the murder site wrapped around the body.

Would you care to explain how it got there?”

Tentative, unsure, Stephen answered, “No.”

“No?”

“No. I don’t know anything about it.” “Nothing?”

Silence. The black pit sunk deeper.

“Then why’s your name written on it?”

“You mean Salvation Army?”

“No. Stephen Brown.”

CHAPTER 3

Quote from the Journal of a Killer:

… death is but the next great adventure.

J.K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone

~

… then why’s your name written on it?

Stephen leaned in and placed his elbow on his mid-thigh, then propped his chin between his index finger and thumb. One finger pressed against his nose, he stared out the window

in the wall at the doorjamb in the hallway. He thought of his grandmother. He thought of the red brick cathedral in Anselmo. He thought of the Platte River in July—wide, its sand bars split by multiple channels. His thoughts, all pictorial, clicked in a random slideshow each time he blinked his eyes. Not a word, not a verbal memory dared intrude. In a grasp for control, he closed his eyes and reviewed the line between light and darkness which replaces outward sight. In the darkness he felt a clamp tightening around his head and a sour pit in his stomach. They brought him back into the tension of the moment.

Murder … why don’t you know him … your name … His recall remained as random as the slideshow he hid behind.

Pendleton Sioux Star blanket.

He typed the words into his Internet search bar, hit enter, then enlarged an image from the Northwest Museum Store.

So that’s what that garish red blanket looks like unfolded?

Yes. He remembered.

Joseph Running Bear, a veteran, dropped it off one January after he moved out of the shelter. That must have been in 2009 or 2010. Stephen received it with the dignity and honor its owner clearly felt toward the gift, then promptly gave it to the shelter manager. He’d not noticed his name on the label. Perhaps Joe meant the blanket as a gift for him, a sign of his gratitude. Didn’t matter. Staff were not permitted to accept gifts from clients. He’d have given it to the shelter anyway.

Shelter managers gave the full size blankets to residents who needed them when they moved out. When he was a night manager, Stephen passed out more than one wool blanket to a drunk or undocumented worker he’d turned away on a bitter cold night. Perhaps that’s how the blanket got to the murder scene.

~

Still numb, Stephen got up, walked through the commons area, and dropped himself into one of the two brown stuffed leather chairs in Captain Bramwell Higgins’ office.

“Yes,” Captain responded as he looked up then folded his large fingers together. His hazel blue eyes took in the younger man sitting in front of him.

Stephen shrugged…

I wish Captain was my father, he thought.

“Well you didn’t come in here for nothing,” Captain responded when Stephen remained silent.

He felt Captain’s eyes search his own without a hint of criticism, impatience, or fear. Six foot tall, broad shouldered, but not obese, Captain Higgins’s warm face creased by smile lines created a universal comfort zone.

As he visually examined Captain’s broad hands and fingers— working man’s hands, not an administrator’s or preacher’s hands— Stephen structured his thoughts and emotions. But before he started speaking, Captain said, “So you had a run in with Angelina Abbott.”

“Got ran into by Angelina Abbott.” Stephen shook his head. “But that’s nothing. She trounces me every time.” He paused, “Why does she have it in for me? Did she come blowing steam to you?” Stephen hoped not. He hated that game. “I suppose she threatened to withhold the Abbott Foundation money.”