A Went over Case

By Joseph A. McCaffrey

Former classics professor Bertrand McAbee, now a P.I. in Iowa, has been fated to handle difficult cases. A tortuously written note requesting his presence in Fort Lauderdale, Florida has been delivered. And from there A Went Over Case ignites.

Ostensibly, Francis McNulty was born on third base wealth and brains in abundance. But startlingly in 1984 he channels the renowned Medieval Saint Francis of Assisi by renouncing the material world in favor of a life of extreme poverty and religious devotion. Mysteriously he disappears in 1987 and is never heard from again, presumed dead by almost everyone.

Now his repentant and mega-rich brother, dying from ALS, pleads with McAbee to come at the matter with fresh eyes. A simple case of disappearance? Or does something sinister and vicious lie underneath this event from all those years back?

The story of a man who went over to Francis of Assisi will test McAbees skills as problems around Francis McNulty become increasingly complex and ultimately quite dangerous. The ACJ Agency operatives Augusta Satin, Barry Fisk, Pat Trump, and Jack Scholz will all be needed to assist McAbee in his efforts to clear up this case.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Feb 12, 2016
• ISBN: 9781504975827

Joseph A. McCaffrey

Dr. Joseph McCaffrey is a Professor Emeritus at St. Ambrose University in Davenport, Iowa. Years ago he was offered a job at a private investigation agency. He declined but the proposal renewed a long held objective of his to write a mystery novel around a character who actually took the offer he refused – thus, Bertrand McAbee. A Case of Agency is the 14th book in this series that began in 1997.

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© 2016 Joseph A. McCaffrey. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 02/11/2016

ISBN: 978-1-5049-7547-6 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5049-7546-9 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-5049-7582-7 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2016901438

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

COVER PICTURE; THE FOUNTAIN, CAPUCHOS MONASTERY, SINTRA, PORTUGAL. PHOTO BY JOSEPH A. MCCAFFREY

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

REVIEWS OF EARLIER

MCABEE ADVENTURES

The Pony Circus Wagon

The pre-WWI historical background and international intrigue distinguish this gripping and at times addictive mystery from the standard whodunits.

- Kirkus Reviews

The Marksman's Case

Classy ex-classics professor Bertrand McAbee and his multicultural mystery-solving posse go the distance with a former military sniper turned vigilante. An entertaining mystery, although not for the gun-shy.

- Kirkus Reviews

A Byzantine Case

McCaffrey's mystery thrills with well-drawn characters, solid procedural details and strong storytelling. Historical intrigue and well-narrated suspense make this adventure an absorbing mystery.

- Kirkus Reviews

Dedication

For Jack and Martha

Chapter 1

T he farmers say that you can hear corn grow, especially in August, and very especially in Iowa.

McAbee just disconnected from Eddie Trout who had a zillion acres in Scott County, the most easterly of counties in Iowa. Eddie was on a rant about the unrelenting heat and what he called a drought. No measurable rain in four days. Besides corn, Eddie also had a hog confinement building on one of his properties. That was the real issue behind the call. A seasonal hire, probably a plant, had taken some videos, presumably for PETA, that had quickly been uploaded to YouTube. The guy disappeared and the cops were at a loss as to his location. Trout wanted vengeance but apparently the sheriff couldn't give a damn as his department was engaged with an extraordinary spike in crime in the county as well as its biggest city -- Davenport.

Trout had gone through four divorces all laden with extraordinarily punitive pre-nup conditions for the unlucky bride. McAbee's ACJ Investigations had engaged for the final two. The last one got ugly as Trout bore down to protect his acreage and his family legacy, 'We've been around here for 131 years, goddamn the bitch'. McAbee regretted taking him as a client. Simply put, he was a mean bastard. But he was a client and McAbee had forwarded the issue of the missing hire to his tech wizard Barry Fisk who was attempting to locate the guy.

McAbee had also looked at the YouTube piece and was stunned at what he saw. Sickly piglets that probably did have to be euthanized but not by flinging them onto a cement floor. He felt ethically compromised. He often did in his line of work. He wanted to leave his office and hear corn grow. One of those things he did once in awhile especially when he felt out of sync.

He went to his book shelves and removed Aeschylus' The Persians. Knox College in Galesburg, Illinois, was putting on the tragic Greek play next weekend. He had never seen it in performance but had read it a few times, once in Greek, in those days when reading classical Greek was easy. He intended on making the drive to Galesburg, about an hour southeast on I-74.

In his judgment, Aeschylus was continuing the long tradition of Greek arrogance fueled by a massive military defeat given to the supposed barbarian Persians, portrayed as effeminate, mercurial, arrogant, and so un-Greek and inferior.

McAbee recalled one of his classics professors arguing that The Persians was a foundational piece for creating the great divide between the east and west. This University of Chicago prof held the Greeks at blame for this devastating divide. As was his custom McAbee gave it a percentage, things were never that simple, but a 20% minimum responsibility on the Greeks. That professor, long dead and ostracized by his fellow classicists, had given it an 80%. But there was something of merit in his argument, not that the dead care anymore.

He started to read the renowned Greek dramatist's take on what happened when Xerxes' defeat is reported back to Susa in Persia. Aeschylus used the ghost of Darius, Xerxes' dead father, to portray hubris as the source of the tragedy and an angry chorus to render dismay and anger.

All of the lives lost, all of the terror, all of the brutality, were as nothing compared to this thin legacy piece that proved to be so important to the development of stage tragedy.

So he read and forgot about listening to the corn. Maybe later.

About a half hour into his green covered book of the Loeb Classics edition which had the convenience of Greek on the left page and its English translation on the right, McAbee became aware of a presence. It was Pat Trump, his aide from the very start of his venture as a P.I. She was short, thin as a blade, red-haired, and as she grew older her foxlike features prevailed. McAbee thought the world of her. In fact, he didn't think that he could continue in this business without her.

She stood in front of him. Don't get too comfortable Bertrand. I see you're back with the Greeks. I like the red Loebs better, at least I can read the Latin letters but the Greeks, my God! And look at your office, there must be 20 opened books all over the place.

I know, I know. I'm only about five pages into this play. I'm going back and forth with the Greek. I have forgotten so much. So, what's in your hands?

I don't know. It was just delivered. It has ten miles of Scotch tape across it. The man who delivered it was about 45, a bit on the heavy side and insistent that I hand this over to you immediately. Then he just flew out the door, like a fast...otter. Yeah, that's what he reminded me of -- an otter.

McAbee reached across and took it in his hands. The 9 by 12 inch packet was imprisoned by Scotch tape. Under the tape was written: 'Doctor Bertrand McAbee -- URGENT, CRITICAL'. But the writing needed scrutiny; the hand had been unsteady. Letters had been strung together in long uneven weaves. The heft of it was due to the tape and the packet itself. He wondered what was in it.

I have my extra-sharp opener here. I'll do some surgery on it if you'd like.

I'd like, he said as he laid aside Aeschylus.

Pat worked on the damn thing for a few minutes and twice narrowly missed slashing herself. Once she looked at Bertrand who had a suspect smile on his face. Somewhere in the process she heard from him a faint 'Can I help?' but it wasn't convincing. Even if it had been she wouldn't want his help. She didn't trust him around sharp objects. He'd probably end up with 50 stitches. She finally got the tape-ladened parcel opened and squeezed the sides to see what was in it. She only saw one page of paper, no money, no certificates of deposit, nothing except for a single page which stood in the middle of the squeezed packet.

Bertrand was sitting there looking at her expectantly. As she was about to reach into it she paused and wondered what could possibly come of this. She was convinced that McAbee had a hex over his head. Seemingly small and insignificant matters had a way of becoming labyrinthine and distressing. There was something about this packet, its mode of delivery, its multi-layered taping and almost absurd contents -- a single page.

What's in there Pat? A snake?

She reflected on that comment. Something told her that McAbee was perhaps quite prescient about the thing. She removed the page, fingertips barely touching the top edge. McAbee must have sensed her apprehension as he stood and went across to his desk. Pat, just lay it down on the desk. Don't throw away the packet.

Hey, caution now went into overdrive. This was, after all, ACJ Investigations. Very little got thrown away and any unnecessary touching of objects of potential importance was frowned upon. The bell emitted its soft tone indicating that McAbee's 11:00 a.m. appointment had arrived 20 minutes ahead of time. She left him to his own devices, noticing that he already had removed a magnifying glass from his desk drawer.

Chapter 2

M cAbee's quick scan was enough to convince him that there was no written threat on the page, nor was there any mysterious powder. But the writing -- that was something else. Each letter indicated a struggle for the writer. The entire page required decipher-combat. He decided that it would serve good sense to transcribe it. Ten minutes passed before he felt that he had the precise reading of the page in his own hand. There was some clear irony here as he gazed at all of his Loebs, faithful translations of another text. But here the problem was with hand-writing legibility and not Latin or G reek.

He gazed at the transcribed page, reading it three times always trying to recapture the face of a young student some 30, 35 years ago who went by the name of Patrick Xavier McNulty. His features came to him as if in a heavy mist. The letter, or whatever one would call it, saddened McAbee. Aging did that -- recalling someone in their youth and being smacked by what the years had done. A decades long hiatus made the smack even worse. Amyotrophic lateral sclerosis (ALS), Lou Gehrig's disease, quadrupled the effect. The piece read:

Dr. McAbee,

Hopefully you remember me, a stupid and insulting student at St. Andrews. I am of an age and condition where regrets abound. I have contracted ALS and am dying. A month at most. My wealth is useless on its face. Of all my sorrows, the one that staggers me is the disappearance of my older brother Francis. I need, I beg, your assistance.

My Gulfstream is at the Quad Cities Airport in Moline. I wish you to take it tomorrow to Fort Lauderdale. I need to speak with you urgently. I will have you returned tomorrow night or as you wish. I will give you $10,000 in cash just to hear me out. My pilot's number is on the other side of this page. He is waiting for your response.

Patrick Xavier McNulty

Pat entered his office. She said, Your 11:00 is here. Bertrand, what's wrong? Are you okay?

His head cleared. Impatiently, he said, Yeah. I'm okay, I'm okay.

She looked doubtful but didn't say anything about his curt response. You have my intake about this client -- to your right in the red folder. Just a reminder, you have a luncheon date with Augusta at 12:30. Woodfire Grill. I'll bring in the client in a minute. That okay? Also, a 1:30 with Caitlin Briggs.

Yes, thanks Pat. He quickly picked up the intake folder and scanned Pat's notes but surely she observed how he was badly distracted by the correspondence. And Pat? She probably saw another feature in him that he fought to conceal, a grinding sadness that came over him from the likes of Patrick Xavier McNulty.

Augusta Satin was at the Woodfire Grill by 12:15. She had lucked out on a parking place on 2nd Street, three spaces east of the restaurant door. She thanked the parking gods. The less she had to walk in this 90 degree sauna the better. The temperatures in Iowa and just across the Mississippi River in Illinois wouldn't be half bad except for the humidity, the heat index soaring into the triple digits.

There was seating in a courtyard next to the restaurant. A few tables were occupied by tourists, presumably. She entered the restaurant and snared a seat in the bar area that afforded her a view of 2nd Street and the downtown environs. Davenport had tried its hardest to rejuvenate itself but like so many cities wrestled with patches of blight intermixed with developed properties. She knew that Bertrand liked to look out onto 2nd Street. He'd be pleased with the seating. He had an extraordinary curiosity and sought out situations where he could observe and sometimes conjecture about passersby. How much he knew always surprised her. It contrasted with his monkish and removed persona.

She ordered a lemonade and went on to texting one of her daughters, a student at the University of Illinois in Champaign-Urbana. Her shoulder was tapped lightly. She turned and saw the subdued but smiling face of the Police Chief of Davenport -- Phil Pesky. Pesky had been her boss when she had been a detective with the Rock Island, Illinois Police Department, years back.

Augusta! Hope you're waiting for your date. Can't believe your being alone, he said with that slight leer he had nurtured over the years.

Good to see you again Phil. You're right, I'm waiting.

You still hanging around with McAbee? He leaned in a little too close for her.

In fact, I am and he's the man I'm waiting for. Would you like to have a seat? I'm sure he'd be glad to see you.

Staying leaned in, he whispered, If I was seen talking to him I'd have a departmental revolt on my hands. He's toxic. So is his agency. I'm sorry to hear that you still deal with him. That stuff last year with the Arab and the girlfriend, not good. Lots of damage. Be careful Augusta, your rep is getting shaky; you're starting to be seen as a too significant part of that agency.

She didn't respond.

Now he was within an inch of her ear. In a barely discernible whisper he said, He's being gunned for, my friend, and that goes for the two cretins who work for him, Scholz and Fisk. I don't want you to be the crow bar they use to get them. He backed away and looked at her expectantly.

I hear you Phil. Thanks for the heads up.

He gave her a few knowing nods. As he was opening the door to exit the Woodfire Grill in came McAbee. Pesky looked back at her and shook his head once. Bertrand didn't seem to have noticed that he had just walked past the chief. Pure Bertrand McAbee, she smiled to herself, so alert and so oblivious all in one package.

Once through the door, in less than a second, his eyes found her. He was odd that way. He had to be in a place, as it were, before attention came to an object. Pesky was leaving and McAbee's attention was elsewhere. Give it another two seconds and Bertrand would have been on him, light from a searchlight. His mind moved in steps and when he was on the correct step his focus was incredible. But on the wrong step? Forget it. His smile caught her full and center.

Augusta was as elegant as ever. She wore a simply styled short-sleeved white shirt dress, with black lines angling upwards. Earrings matched the silver chain that hung about six inches below her throat. Her complexion was without wear on first glance but at second glance, signs of aging forced a mini-revision. Her personality evidenced itself through her dark brown eyes which carried an invitation to intelligence and savvy. She was now in her early 50s but she had the physical condition of a 30 year old athlete. Her glasses rested on the tip of her nose, as she engaged with her iPhone. The rare strands of whiteness in her hair concluded his take on his best friend and colleague.

She removed her glasses and placed them on the table, stood, and spread her arms. They hugged, both smiling, both happy in each other's presence.

Got you the best seat in the house, Mistah, she said.

They sat. He said, You just want me to pronounce judgments on the poor people who have to walk in this hot mist.

Well, yes. Why else?

My good looks? My excellence of character?

Ah. I see. You've been reading those self-improvement books. Who am I to dampen such grandiosity?

Fortunately, you're the only one who could and you don't.

McAbee getting serious in two minutes flat. This is a sign that something has come up. Want to talk about it?

Yeah. But only after I find out about you.

I'm okay Bertrand. The kids are doing fine at Champaign-Urbana and I'm keeping busy with the new house. Time swallower. You shouldn't have given me all that money, she said with a smile.

Hey, we're in the same boat.

Yes, except you don't spend anything. You still live in a condo. Handy yes, but it could be so much nicer and you know it.

I have an aversion to moving. I have things reasonably under control. If I move the world would no longer be déjà vu every morning.

Something to be said for that. I can't believe the detail and the takeover of my time by this house. I wonder if I own the house or it owns me, she said with a disdainful look. But before we go any further, how are you? Haven't seen you for what, five days?

I'm doing okay. The agency is slowing down. I'm backing away. But I can't let it go yet -- too much still on the books. A pretty weird event this morning. It's as though the gods know that I was meeting with you.

Bertrand! Don't tell me you're going to get involved again in some complicated affair, she said with obviously faked exasperation.

I don't know. Usually the tangled cases develop over time. This one has complications on the face of it.

All ears.

Do you remember the name Francis McNulty?

Can't say I do. But I know the McNulty name. Finance people. Mega rich. Same?

Yes. Same tribe. An extraordinary family. They still have interests in the Quad Cities. But they're mostly national now to the best of my knowledge. So to the issue. I received a packet this morning from a former student, a McNulty, the younger brother of Francis. His name is Patrick and he is dying. He wants me to visit him in Fort Lauderdale tomorrow. He sent his Gulfstream up -- I go down to listen to him and return. $10,000 cash.

Warning lights! She said.

I know. Anyway, Francis disappeared back in the late 80s. Poof -- gone. Never heard from again. He wants me to study the matter. I don't think you lived here then when he disappeared. It was a huge matter.

Why?

Francis McNulty, a few years previous to his disappearance, went off the reservation. This family is Roman Catholic to the core. It was known for giving large sums of money to all sorts of Catholic causes. Holier than the Pope sort of thing. Francis was the President of McNulty Investment Counselling. Banking, investment funds, overseeing retirement accounts, you name it -- he was into it. Still are as far as I know. Back in the early 80s Francis was probably one of the richest men in Iowa. He was brilliant. Notre Dame, Georgetown -- the whole thing. Always Catholic. But as I recall, considered to be fair and beyond negative judgment. I have Barry dredging up details if I go tomorrow.

You said, Augusta commented, he went off the reservation. What does that mean?

His name, Francis, was his destiny. He had a fixation on St. Francis of Assisi. This was the common take on him. I only met him once or twice and my knowledge of him is scant. I'm hesitant to say much until I confirm some things.

Augusta raised hands in exasperation and said, Bertrand, I heard you. I understand that you're unsure of things. I'm not going to post what you say on Facebook. You're talking to me, Mistah. I understand the provisos in your comments. Bertrand McAbee, the careful professor. She smiled.

This was not the first time that Augusta had come at him challenging his hesitancies, and in her eyes unnecessary precision, especially as he was at the beginning of a potential case. She was right, of course. Okay, okay. The bottom line is that he channeled the Saint to his core and took on the persona of Francis. A very dangerous path in a capitalistic society. He was dragging the ghost of a late 12th, early 13th century figure into the 21st century. Saint Francis was not your run of the mill Saint. He was one of the most fascinating characters in the history of Catholicism. His life was outsized. His impact in his time and even our time is hard to overestimate.

I'm not a big follower of Catholic saints. I am faintly aware of a group called the Franciscans. Brown robes. I'm thinking California and the missions out there. I went to a few of those missions ages ago. I forgot his name, Sierra? Don't you look at me that way, she said in feigned upset.

That's what happens to you when you go to a Lutheran college. You're deprived of a whole era. And by the way, what's an African American woman doing at a Lutheran college anyway? He teased Augusta who was looking upwards in faux peeve. Francis was an advocate of extreme poverty. He was from a privileged background, not nearly as much as McNulty, but still he had a number of economic perks for his time. He threw it all off. An act of extreme bravery or extreme foolishness depending on your point of view. But, no matter how it is perceived, he was a man of unusual courage. He suffered greatly and I believe that he died in sadness, pain, and frustration. But St. Francis had a psyche that saw pain as a route to God. The more the better.

A masochist?

That's where things get dodgy. I'm not quite sure that modern psychology has any bearing on an interpretation of St. Francis. But back to my point, because I have to meet with Caitlen Briggs about her divorce situation. Do you think I should go to Fort Lauderdale?

Augusta laughed gently and shook her head back and forth. Bertrand, you already made that decision. I am 99% sure that tomorrow you will be in the tropics of Florida. Let me know what I can do.

Augusta, what would I do if I didn't have you as my mirror? He got up, left $30 on the table and kissed Augusta. He was late for Caitlen Briggs, she of the bad temper and a litigiousness coded into her DNA.

Chapter 3

B arry Fisk arrived at McAbee's office at 9:00 a.m. sharp. ACJ Investigations was on the clock from the minute he left his house in north Davenport. It took him exactly a half hour from the time he left up to trying to park correctly in the half-assed four-tiered garage in downtown. Then the trudge to the ACJ offices through the unbearable heat, and most of all having to deal with McAbee's secretary, Medusa herself -- Pat. How and why McAbee kept her on was beyond his comprehension, the worthless shrew-b itch.

Happily, no one was present in the outer office; and McAbee's office door was closed. Maybe he got rid of her after all. He sat on a chair that he knew had been specially fitted for him, given his short stature and the difficulties with his back and shoulders. It was the least McAbee could do given the case-cracking skills that he brought to the table. He remembered back to those years when he left Western Illinois University, abandoning teaching forever. Fisk couldn't recall who found whom but his relationship with McAbee became one of his revenue sources. They were tough times for him, his Yale doctorate in history nastily disregarded by students who were barely literate. But McAbee appreciated his skills and quickly came to rely on him. The stipends were adequate and through his agency, ACJ, McAbee did help with computer paraphernalia once in awhile. Now, of course, he really didn't need McAbee anymore. Between his published articles, his research renown and his computer sleuthing abilities his income was quite sufficient, much higher than a career in academia could provide.

But he felt sorry for the misplaced classics prof. His being stuck between the red-headed cow and the probable blackmailer Jack Scholz, poor McAbee had dug himself a hole. And Augusta Satin? Just a hanger-on bleeding McAbee for all he was worth. Only Barry was McAbee's true support; he wondered many times if McAbee was cognizant of just how excellent he was.

The door to McAbee's office opened and out came the shrew in her officious best. She hated him for no reason he could decipher. Her mean and pinch-faced laser-gaze focused on him, probably disappointed that he was alive.

He's in there waiting for you, she said with the firmness of a Nazi commandant.

Well he's late and the office was unattended to. Someone could have come in here and robbed the place. Figured you were in the bathroom next door puffing on a cancer-stick, he said as dismissively as he could. He noticed that the intensity of the laser doubled but she didn't respond. She went to her desk, sat down and picked up the phone. She was playing pacifist-bitch today. He got up from his chair and as he walked toward Bertrand's