Family Education

By C. G. Eberle

When college student Jacob Ragnar is found shot to death, suspicion immediately falls on Professor Burke Kendall. After some time, John Seraph begins to investigate, leading to threats against him, and a murder attempt on his life.

Meanwhile, John’s old friend, Denise, has asked for his help with a delicate situation she’s in. A psychotic sadist, who happens to work for John’s father, is stalking one of her employees, an escort. This turns into a bigger problem for John than he can imagine.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Melange Books, LLC
• Release date: Mar 8, 2016
• ISBN: 9781680461923

C. G. Eberle

C.G. (Chris) Eberle is a proud life long resident of Buffalo, New York. A writer since he was 5 years old, Chris started with his homemade comic books and story books, and then seriously took to writing in high school. While in college, studying English Education, C.G. was published twice in 2004 & 2006, and then switched gears to one of his major passions, mysteries.Besides writing C.G. also is a amateur Old West Historian, an avid classic movie fan & collector, a lover of most styles of music, an avid reader, a student of cryptozoology, an amateur Ripperologist, and dabbles in the kitchen quite well. Currently he is finishing his follow up mysteries Family Plots, Family Education, and Family Friend.

Book preview

FAMILY EDUCATION

by C. G. Eberle

When college student Jacob Ragnar is found shot to death, suspicion immediately falls on Professor Burke Kendall. After some time, John Seraph begins to investigate, leading to threats against him, and a murder attempt on his life.

Meanwhile, John’s old friend, Denise, has asked for his help with a delicate situation she’s in. A psychotic sadist, who happens to work for John’s father, is stalking one of her employees, an escort. This turns into a bigger problem for John than he can imagine.

To my parents George & Dottie Eberle;

You have my everlasting thanks & love for all the support you have given me & my ideas over the years, no matter how hair-brained some of them were, or may be. And Lord knows what’s to come. God help us all.

To my friend Theresa Schrenk;

Thank you for reminding about taking professionalism in my work, no matter what I am doing, even in my writing. It may be a different type of job than what we did, but your lessons still apply.

To my Family;

my Great-Great Grandfather Arthur Conan Doyle, my Great Uncle Edgar Allen Poe, my Great Aunt Agatha Christie, my distance cousin Dan Brown, my Aunt Sue Grafton, my mother Janet Evanovich, & my father Robert B. Parker Thank you all for your inspiration, my passion for mysteries, and giving me a new outlook onto the world.

If you hate a person, you hate something in him that is a part of yourself. What isn’t part of ourselves doesn’t disturb us.

– Herman Hesse Demian (1919) Ch.6

Chapter One

~ Monday ~

I’ve been luckier than a lot of folks and I know it. I’m extremely grateful to still alive, but lately my life has become chaotic and confused. It feels like I’ve been riding bareback in a burning barn. And I don’t know how or if I’ll be able to get the control back.

At Buffalo State College, Professor Burke Kendall was accused of murdering Jacob Ragnar, one of his students, by the time the truth came out I felt like thirty miles of road kill. I had the shit beat out of me, I’d nearly been set on fire, and the frosting on the cake is that most of the student body hates me. But that’s not a real problem for me, since I’ve been suspended from Buff State—more about that later.

I’ve also been dealing with an associate of my old man’s and I may

have pissed off some of his boys. The cherry on top is the problems from Crystal Bell and Bobbie Bedell. Things have changed with both of them and I’m not sure what’s happening with either girl, but I do know these standoffs can’t go for much longer. Finally, a contract killer, who no one’s ever seen, except his victims, is targeting me.

Thankfully there was some good that came out of this mess; I cleared Kendall’s name and I kept a sexual sadist from abusing his victim further. I just wish everything else in my life was going as well.

* * * *

May was more than half over and the spring semester was coming to a quick end. Most of the student body seemed to be in a state of semi-panic, finals were in seventeen days

In the final month of any semester, the library’s open twenty-four/seven. People run in and out doing research, finishing their papers and research projects, and studying for finals. At any given point, it’s a safe bet you’ll see frazzled, over-caffeinated, exhausted bodies on the verge of collapse. It’s always entertaining to sit back, watch, and figure out which students are the ones who’ve been on top of their assignments, and who are the procrastinators, those fools who put everything off till the last possible minute and look like crack addicts. They’re my favorite to sit back and watch, as they freak out and attempt to get a passing grade.

As insane as college life has been it’s given me the stability I’ve needed for the past four years. College has represented a long-term goal of earning my bachelors in English Education, then teaching English literature. The plan is after I earn my master’s degree, I want to teach at the college level. Plus all the hard work fulfills a blood oath I made to my mother, Sophia, just before I walked away from my family, four and half years ago.

My name’s John Seraph, but it wasn’t always. My parents named me Giovanni Angelo, for an uncle no one’s seen in almost thirty years.

Another complication in my life is I attract murders the way chum draws in sharks. After being involved in a third homicide investigation in almost two years I gotta admit the shit’s getting old.

* * * *

The week started off with a bang; Sunday night the Buffalo Sabers swept the Boston Bruins in the second round of the playoffs, which nobody expected, and they made it to the semi-finals. Now everyone was waiting to see if they’d play the Toronto Maple Leafs or the Detroit Red Wings, so most of Western New York was in a good mood, which was slightly infectious. I’m no hockey fan, but I was hopeful. My disposition changed when I got back to school Monday morning, because that’s when I learned about the death of Jacob Ragnar.

Temperatures were in the mid-sixties, with partly cloudy skies out and I knew something was wrong when I walked up from the student parking lot, behind the Butler Library, and headed towards the student union. The flashing red and blue lights of three Buffalo Police Department units, an ambulance, and two Campus police cars dizzyingly danced in my peripheral vision. They were all jammed into the visitor’s lot, at the center of the campus.

Bishop Hall is just off Rockwell Road, which runs the entire length of the campus. The main function of Bishop Hall, and her next door twin, Neuman Hall, is to house offices for professors, although there’s been recent talk the buildings maybe converted to house students.

A large crowd of students, staff, and visitors gathered outside of Bishop Hall and heard people asking questions, wanting to know what happened, or they tried to get inside to meet with their professors. From past experience I knew that wasn’t going to happen. Campus police and the B.P.D. cleared the building and some students demanded to get back into the building, rather loudly. Some of the more vocal ones looked like they were going to get rowdy, until the campus security and the regular police backed them down with threats of arrests, and the city cops were happy to have the support. Finally, the crowd forced some uniformed officers to move the police line back ten feet. There’s always some idiots who just have to ruin it for the rest of us.

All I heard was What happened? and Did somebody die? A girl said, I think Professor Julienne said something about Jacob Ragnar. Disbelief spread throughout the crowd because Ragnar was an extremely popular student. This was followed up by a lot of Oh my Gods. I admit I was stunned like everyone else, but I also knew it was best to ignore gossip and wait for the facts.

Rumors spread like a virus during flu season and theories were tossed around like baseballs at spring training. And that’s when I felt a familiar tingling sensation, of what I call my tuning fork went off. It’s my personal ‘Bat-signal’, that tells me to pay attention. A long time ago, I learned to listen to it, but this was one time I ignored my intuition, which was a mistake.

Since I had a Women’s Literature class to get to, I hustled through the student union to avoid being late, knowing I’d hear about what happened later on.

* * * *

During class a strong gust picked up off Lake Erie, blew its way throughout the Queen City, and with it the blue skies and sun finally broke through the clouds. The afternoon transformed into a spectacular spring day and I wished I could play hooky and go for a joy ride with the windows open, blasting some of the best from the Rat Pack.

I had time to grab lunch before going to work, but overheard a couple girls near the bookstore say it was confirmed, Jacob Ragnar had been shot to death. For some instinctual reason I rushed back towards Bishop Hall. When will I ever learn?

The crowd of students, faculty, and staff were still circling Bishop, and it looked like it had grown larger. Having been through two murder investigations before, my common sense ordered me to get the hell out of there, but my curiosity has vetoing powers and wanted to learn whatever I could. I wanted to stick around, but I had to work after lunch. Before leaving I saw a pair of familiar faces, Detectives Hannah Chancellor and Laila Bishop talking to someone I knew was a medical examiner from his overall uniform.

I’d met the ladies last year; Bishop a year ago in the spring, then Chancellor in December. Not seeing either of their regular partners was a plus in one case, and I wondered if they were partnered together. I thought Chi cerca trova which is Italian for seek and you shall find. Besides I figured it couldn’t hurt to say hi.

Not much had changed since I last saw them. Chancellor was still sporting her short, platinum blond, pageboy haircut. Bishop was her opposite, a long-haired brunette, dressed in a bomber jacket snuggly fitting her figure. When I was far enough away from the crowd, but close enough to hear them talking, I knew they were discussing what had happened inside Bishop Hall with the balding, black M.E. As soon as he walked away I said hello with a bad joke, I’ve an alibi, detectives.

Bishop jerked her head towards me in surprise. What are you doing here? We shook hands, after I swung my bookbag over my left shoulder,

I should be offended. Don’t you remember I’m a student here Detective?

It’s been a while, Mr. Seraph. Chancellor sounded civil, but I couldn’t tell if she was happy to see me. To be honest I can’t read women to save my life. Hell, Chinese algebra is easier to figure out.

After everything that’s gone down you can call me John. I’m really tempted to ask you what happened, but I know your rules.

Bishop gave a slight nod as she came closer to me. That’s right, at least until we make notifications. But how familiar are you with Bishop Hall?

I tilted my head a little to the left. I’m in and out of Bishop all the time, just like a lot of students, I answered, while re-securing my book bag, which slipped.

Chancellor said, All we can say is there was a death involving a student.

Jacob Ragnar? Their shared glance was uncomfortable, but it told me I was right. You should know students have been tossing his name around. I know how Buffalo’s finest feel about outside help, but if I can do anything let me know.

We appreciate the offer, John, Bishop said. Do you have the same phone numbers? I nodded but then she reminded me the B.P.D. didn’t need or want my help. I did my best to assure them I’d stay out of this mess.

Trust me, ladies, I’m going to crash this party. Before I was personally involved, that isn’t the case this time. I barely knew Ragnar, other than being a guest on his radio program once and having a class or two with him. Besides, I’ve a couple papers to get started and a chapter to read for art history by next week. Now that class is a real case of murder, believe me.

We small-talked for a minute or two longer before I said goodbye and went to grab my lunch, then to work at the Butler Library. As I hurried, I silently thanked God I wasn’t involved. The feeling wouldn’t last.

Chapter Two

Most of my workday goes like this; I man the check-out desk, check books in and out, help visitors with the photocopiers or the school’s computers, and file away articles, papers, and documents professors bring in for their various classes. Some paperwork includes required documents for New York State if students are taking any kind of educational training. My shift at work was so dull I was able to read Monday’s edition of The Buffalo News, from the front page to last. Personally, I liked it like that. I worked the checkout desk from noon till three and after work I sat through my Literary, Criticism, and Theory class. At least it’s better than art history.

After class, I made good time and got home just before five, despite the rush-hour traffic along the 1-90. Technically South Buffalo is part of the Queen City, but once you cross over certain streets, you know you’re nowhere else. To be honest South Buffalo feels more like a suburb of the city, instead of part of it. The neighborhood’s a collection of one and two family houses, with apartment buildings scattered throughout tree lined streets. Most are occupied by couples starting out, growing families, and retirees who’ve been living in the predominantly Irish neighborhood for generations. Being a bachelor with no plans for marriage, I don’t exactly fit in, but its home, and I don’t see fitting in anywhere else.

The sky glowed with a pale blue, high clouds and a jet trail hung high above me. I headed in the back door of my building and stopped before going into my apartment. Across the hall was the former apartment of the Duffys, Rory and his wife, Harriet. I sometimes forget what happened, but just for a moment and when the moment passes the past crashes into me like a linebacker

Rory was murdered just before last Christmas, almost six months ago. I found his body then I hunted down and punished his killer At the time, Harriet was recovering from her bypass surgery, then she moved into a nearby senior living facility. I visit when I can and her daughter, Marcia Coulter and I talk at least once a week. The apartment hasn’t been rented and after the family who lived upstairs moved out last year so I’ve had the entire building to myself. I guess management has a hard time renting apartments in a building where a World War II veteran was bludgeoned to death.

Home’s a five-room apartment, which isn’t huge or fancy but it’s clean, neat, reasonably priced, and mine. I decorated in a Southwestern/ Native American style with various wall-hangings, Dreamcatchers, and animal portraits throughout. The only piece that doesn’t fit the décor is a small framed rendering of the Angelo coat-of-arms in my bedroom. The crest pictures an angel, dressed in blue and silver, with wings spread carrying a sword and spear. I know it’s ironic considering my falling-out, but it helps me keep things in perspective.

On the kitchen counter, my answering machine showed a red zero, so I turned on the news and started dinner. Tonight it was potato soup with cheddar and bacon and a side of three-cheese baked biscuits. Guy Fieri I’m not, but I can handle myself in the kitchen, which is very useful when you live alone.

While I cooked, I listened to the news to see what the media had to report about Ragnar’s death. There wasn’t much to report and I wasn’t surprised. Police spokesman, Mike DeGeorge confirmed a student at Buffalo State College had been found shot to death, the investigation was in the preliminary stages, and police weren’t releasing the student’s name until they could notify the victim’s family. The usual dribble the media pumps out in cases like these.

* * * *

After dinner, I started my homework and as I got into a good flow on the first draft of my report when my phone rang. Hello.

Hi John. It was Crystal. How are you doing?

I could only say, Hi Crys. What do you want? My stomach felt like it’d been kicked out of a plane without a parachute, already knowing what her answer was going to be. I had a cold sick feeling that shot its way throughout my bloodstream. ‘Figlio di puttana, I thought. That’s Italian for son-of-a-bitch.

John, we need to talk. I miss you.

Crys, we’ve hashed everything out at least six times. You know how I feel, I don’t know if there’s anything more to talk about.

John, you have to see my decision from my perspective, she fired back and I knew there was no getting out of this one.

I’d been putting this conversation off, so I guess it’s time had come. I’ll try and explain one final time. I understand your choice and although it wasn’t one I’d personally make, you knew I’d support you. The trouble I’m having isn’t with the abortion, it’s that you should’ve told me before you went to the clinic. Regretful and grim memories from the last five months swept over both of us, like an incoming tsunami, and I hated it.

After I handled Rory’s killer, Crystal called me and told me she was pregnant. We weren’t ready to become parents and we both knew it. We discussed every option available for over four months, abortion, adoption, foster care, even keeping the child. Finally, Crystal told me she needed time by herself to think, I told her I’d support her decision. She knew I was with her no matter what. My problems came from what Crystal did next; she had her sister and her girlfriend take her to a clinic without telling me, until a week and a half after the fact.

For me it came down to a matter of trust. I loved her, but I didn’t know if loving her was enough anymore. I think there’s more to than that, but I’ll get into that later.

Don’t you think this has been difficult for me too? This has been going on too long. We’ve hardly talked since just after St. Patrick’s Day. I’ve called, texted, or emailed you and you’ve barely said anything to me since March. John, I deserve better than that.

Crys was right. What do you want?

She let out a drawn out sigh. I want to know what is going on with us. Have we broken up or are we still together? Talk to me, she demanded. Lord I knew that tone well.

In the past nine weeks, we talked on and off, trying to reconcile things, attempting to salvage or rebuild our relationship, but I couldn’t answer her when I didn’t know what I wanted anymore. Crystal and I went to war and it’d been a mine field. We came out on opposite sides and there weren’t any winners. We both sent out feelers for an armistice, but no peace treaty had been signed. After a while I began to wonder if Henry Kissinger was available for negotiations.

I could only be honest with her. Crys, I don’t know. Part of me wants to come over to your place, talk things out and make love to you. The squealing gasp I heard told me I’d struck a nerve with her. She knew I meant it when I said, I’m not ready for that.

This is exactly what we need. Time to finally talk things out.

I’m still upset. Crys, I don’t know how long I’m going to feel like this. I’ve been accused of being too bullheaded and maybe this is one of those times... I don’t know. I never forced my personal beliefs on you, you know I how I felt. I’d have gone with you if you’d given me the chance. I stopped for a moment, the silence weighed down on Crystal as much as it did on me. See, I don’t know if I can trust you anymore. You took that away from me, how can I forget that? As soon as the words escaped my lips I regretted saying them and neither of us knew what to say. The only thing that came to mind was, You caught me as I was heading out. I’ll call you later. Bye.

John, don’t hang...

I did.

A minute later my phone rang and I let my answering machine do its job. This was a ton of shit to sort through and it sure as hell wasn’t going to be settled that night. I may have signed our relationships’ death warrant, I didn’t know and I might not for some time.

* * * *

Two hours later, I finished my thesis on how to work with children in a modern classroom when my phone rang again. I gave Crystal credit for being persistent. I was finally going to man up and tell her not to call me till I called her first. Hello?

Giovanni Angelo?

Oh shit. It was a woman’s voice I didn’t recognize and I froze. The last time someone I didn’t know called me by my birth name it turned out to be an escaped Nazi, who is still wanted by the German authorities for war crimes at Dachau. The bastard said I was dead because I killed one of his grandsons, defending myself. His other grandson was shanked in the Erie County Holding Center, awaiting trial. Unsettling became the word of the day. Yes?

Maybe I should call you John Seraph. The voice seemed familiar and warm, but I couldn’t place it. It wasn’t Crystal, either of the lady detectives, any of my female relatives, or anyone else I knew.

That’s right. Who is this? I muted the T.V. to hear her better.

John it’s me, Denise, Denise Gevira. Holy Shitballs! Relief washed over me like a refreshing shower. I hadn’t heard from Denise Gevira in almost six years. Denise ran a very high-class, exclusive, and successful escort service in the Buffalo area. Her operation ran out of a classy residence hotel in downtown Buffalo. She didn’t have the legal problems others have because Denise is an affiliate of the Arm, and they watch out for her operation. Also Denise and I have history.

The week of my seventeenth birthday the old man took me to see a local madam, Denise’s boss. Of course Mama didn’t know and from what I understand, it’s an old tradition, and a pretty good one if you ask me. Denise was an escort, working her way up the ranks and boy she taught me a lot. I always thought of her as a caring teacher. I really valued our time together and