Then he abruptly lunged for it, snatching the receiver from the cradle before it could ring again, pressing the phone to his ear and mouth. And here he faltered once more, unable to speak a word.
A voice crackled down the line. “Hello?”
Volker closed his eyes in relief. A stranger’s voice. Not his handler. Not the warden. Not the cool formality he imagined the police would use.
After a moment, the voice said, “Dr. Volker?”
The doctor swallowed a lump in his throat that felt as big as a fist. “Y-yes…?”
“Oh, good,” said the caller brightly. “Thought I’d misdialed. ”
“Who’s calling?”
“Ooops, sorry. This is Billy Trout, Regional Satellite News. I was at the prison yesterday and—”
“Please,” interrupted Volker, his irritation immediately overriding his fear, “I cannot comment on that event; and I would appreciate it if you—”
Trout cut him off. “This isn’t about the execution. Not exactly…”
Volker said nothing. God! Did this man know about Lucifer 113? If so—how?
“I apologize for calling you at your home, doctor,” Trout continued. “I tried your office and your cell. ”
“Then why are you calling me?”
“I’d like to talk with you about Aunt Selma. ”
“Who?” He knew it sounded like the lie it was.
“Selma Conroy,” prompted Trout. “Homer Gibbon’s aunt. The one who claimed the body…? It’s my understanding that you released the body to her?”
“Yes,” said Volker woodenly. Even to his own ears his voice sounded dead. He glanced at the pistol lying on the table. He closed his eyes. “How do you know about her, Mr. Trout? It was my understanding that such information was not to be released to the press. How did you find out?”
“Sorry, Dr. Volker. Confidential sources,” said Trout.
Volker gave a disgusted grunt. “What do you want? My part in this is over. If you were at the prison as you say, then you know that. ”
“Ye-e-es,” Trout said, stretching the word to imply other possible meanings.
“Then what do you want?” Volker asked again. Was the phone tapped? It would not surprise him if the CIA had kept this place tapped since they moved him in.
He looked around as if he could see agents huddled over elaborate wiretapping equipment, but all that surrounded him were the empty shadows of his sterile home.
“I want an opinion, Doctor,” said Trout. “As the prison’s senior medical officer you would be in a unique position to know Homer Gibbon. On a personal level, I mean. People talk to their doctors. ”
“No,” Volker said evasively. “I was the doctor for the whole facility. I had a large staff. I was not that man’s therapist or caseworker. ”
“I understand that, but can we agree that you knew Homer Gibbon? I mean, at least as well as anyone on the medical staff?”
“I…” Volker said and let his voice trail off, not knowing which answer was safest.
“So,” continued Trout as if Volker had given his agreement, “could you speculate, doctor, as to why someone might want to steal his body?”
“‘Steal’?” Volker’s chest heaved so sharply that he almost vomited onto the phone. He slammed down the receiver and backed away from the instrument as if it could bite him. “Oh, God,” he said to the brown shadows that filled the room. “Oh, God. What have I done?”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
FAIRVIEW SHOPPING CENTER PARKING LOT