Private Detective: BENNINGTON P.I.: A thrilling four-novel political murder mystery private detective series...

by D. W. Ulsterman

  “Hah-hah!”

  And then, predictably, I face-planted into the soft, wet, ground beneath me with enough force I came back up tasting dirt, which I promptly spit out as the sound of Alberto’s laughter echoed around me.

  “Apologies, Bennington, but that was beautiful! Just beautiful! You ok?”

  I managed a half smile as I got back onto my feet, wiping as much of the grass and mud from the front of my clothes as I could.

  “Yeah, Alberto, I’m doing great.”

  Alberto was struggling not to smile as he pointed to the door below the stairs.

  “We go in this way?”

  I nodded, trying to look tough, but knowing I wasn’t quite pulling it off.

  “Yeah, let me see if it’s locked.”

  Before I reached the door, I spotted several small areas of something dark smeared against the stairwell wall.

  Blood.

  I knelt down to get a closer look, running a finger along one of spots and confirming it was in fact just that – someone’s blood.

  Alberto had made his way halfway down the stairs and was looking at an area of blood as well, and then nodded toward the entrance door to the monastery basement. It was ajar, and completely dark on the other side.

  My earlier sense of foreboding was now proving correct. Something was very wrong.

  26.

  I was stunned to see Alberto withdraw a very wicked looking M9 Beretta pistol, a weapon I would later come to know as being standard issue for Army Rangers.

  Alberto held up a finger to his lips and motioned he would enter the basement first. When I shook my head no, he waved the refusal away and whispered his rebuttal into my left ear.

  “If there’s an armed hostile still inside that place, they’ll be expecting someone coming in who stands on two legs, not someone sitting as low to the ground as I am. If they fire on me, they’ll miss, and then I take them out - simple. I’m here to protect you Bennington. Stand aside and let me do my damn job.”

  I was about to refuse the request, but Alberto simply pushed me aside and crawled quietly down to the entrance, pushed himself back up into a sitting position, and fully opened the door with his left hand while holding the Beretta in his right hand.

  There was no sound of movement from inside the basement, only darkness and the unknown of what lay beyond the entrance.

  Alberto peered into the darkness, allowing his eyes to adjust to the absence of light. After nearly a minute, he moved himself fully inside as I followed close behind.

  I remembered the floor lamp was to the left of the entrance near the small bed. Shuffling slowly, and as quietly as possible, I felt my way to that area and soon found the floor lamp and turned it on. The basement was exactly as it was the day before. The shadows of multiple bookshelves loomed just beyond the floor lamp’s light. There was no sign of a struggle, or foul play. The bed was neatly made, and no blood was to be found on or around it. Whatever struggle took place, seemed to have been contained outside the basement.

  I slowly sat down on the bed, my mind working to figure out what could have happened to the priest. The blood outside the entrance appeared relatively fresh, likely having been put there no more than a few hours ago. That would mean Father Barnes was likely attacked after leaving the basement, because the door could only be locked from the inside. Perhaps he was attacked just outside the entrance, or on his way back to the shed where the truck was parked.

  The truck. Check the truck.

  “There’s a vehicle the priest used. It’s kept in a shed about a hundred yards from here. I’m gonna go take a look.”

  Alberto gave a silent nod, placed his weapon back into the leather pack, and then propelled his body out the door and up the stairs, leaving me to again marvel at how well he managed to move with just the use of his hands and arms.

  Moments later we were both looking down at an area halfway between the basement entrance and the red bricked garage that housed the Ford truck. The grass was ripped up in several places, the ground muddied and torn. We also found drips of blood scattered throughout the area as well, some of them appearing to lead back to the monastery basement.

  “Somebody got jumped here. Put up a hell of a fight too.”

  Alberto was right, and I also knew that the priest was more than capable of defending himself. In fact, it looked like he had temporarily gained the advantage, though had been wounded, and made his way across the grounds to the stairwell where he was then overpowered – or killed.

  “C’mon, let’s take a look at the truck.”

  Alberto followed me the remainder of the way to the small, narrow garage. The white door was closed tight. Upon opening it, I discovered the truck parked there exactly as it had been the night before. There was no sign of a struggle, no blood, no indication that whatever had happened, took place in the garage.

  I leaned against the Ford and again focused my mind on working out what had taken place. The priest had awoken, and was on his way to the truck when he was attacked before reaching the garage, likely by more than just one assailant. There was a struggle, and Father Barnes then attempted to make his way back inside the monastery, but was stopped at the stairwell. Both the priest and the formulation given to us by Gabriel were gone.

  The sound of a breaking twig came from just outside the garage door, followed by footsteps running in the wet grass. I bolted past the door and looked to my right where a young, dark skinned man dressed in light blue overalls, was moving as fast as he could toward the large monastery structure, his eyes darting behind him to see if he was being followed.

  “Wait, we’re friends of Father Barnes! Do you know what happened to him?”

  The man’s pace slowed and then he stopped just a few feet from a set of stone steps that led up to a large double-door entrance into the monastery. He was staring back at me, likely wondering if I was friend or foe. The fact he had taken off running told me he knew something about what might have happened to the priest, and I intended to find out what it was.

  Alberto had positioned himself to my left and was peering intently at the man across the grounds as well.

  “Looks like a groundskeeper. Might be an illegal you know, worried we’ll call immigration on him.”

  I hadn’t considered that possibility. Before I could say anything more to the man, Alberto began speaking to him in Spanish. Soon after, the man was making his way slowly back toward us.

  “What the hell did you say?”

  Alberto looked up at me and shrugged.

  “Just told him we are friends of the church, and are trying to find out what happened to Father Barnes, and that he has nothing to fear from us. Oh, and that we are trying to save the life of a woman, and so God requires he helps us.”

  The man stood nervously in front of us, his eyes repeatedly looking down at the legless Alberto.

  “You work here, right?”

  The man nodded, his eyes full of fear and suspicion.

  “Did you see what happened to Father Barnes?”

  The man nodded again, but remained silent.

  Alberto proceeded to again speak to him in Spanish. I watched intently as the man nodded several more times, while occasionally speaking a few words of his own, and then speaking, uninterrupted, for nearly a minute.

  “He says the priest who stays in the basement was walking across the lawn early this morning and three men ran toward him from the fence line. They were pointing guns at him. They surrounded the priest, and then there was a struggle. Two of the men were knocked down and the priest was running back toward the main building. There was a gunshot, but it wasn’t loud. He says it was quiet, like the bad guys in the movies. Then all three of the men dragged the priest across the grounds and disappeared behind the fence. That was about two hours ago.”

  I knew the description of a quiet gunshot meant they used a silencer. That would explain why nobody else had called the cops, or others inside the monastery weren’t aware of what had happened.

&
nbsp; “Did he tell anyone inside about what he saw?”

  Alberto again addressed the groundskeeper in Spanish.

  “No, he’s been praying since it happened. He’s convinced it was the devil who took the priest, for only the devil would dare attack a man of God in a place of worship.”

  I looked at the groundskeeper and then down at Alberto. Both men appeared to be waiting for me to say something.

  “Was there any word, or name, the three men were repeating, or saying with more emphasis?”

  Alberto repeated the question in Spanish. The groundskeeper nodded with a hint of enthusiasm, his dark eyes growing wider. He looked directly at me, and with his heavy accent, uttered a single name.

  “Morehouse.”

  27.

  I cursed under my breath, causing Alberto to look up at me.

  “I take it you know the name?”

  My eyes looked toward the fence line of the property, my mind wandering far beyond its borders, recounting my meeting with the D.C. lobbyist just days ago.

  “Yeah, I know the bastard, and I know he was the one who ordered the priest to be taken. The question now is where?”

  The former Army Ranger tapped me on the lower half of my left leg.

  “You know where this Morehouse lives, right?”

  Again I nodded.

  “I do.”

  Alberto was already making his way back toward the fence and the street on the other side.

  “Ok, then let’s go pay him a visit.”

  I didn’t have a better idea, so I just followed behind Alberto, and soon found myself sitting in the back of another cab heading to the Morehouse residence.

  “He’s got a security gate and cameras. I don’t think he’ll let us just waltz on in.”

  Alberto remained silent for a moment before shaking his head slowly.

  “They took a hostage on purpose Bennington. They want you too. The priest is bait to draw you in. They’re counting on you to come to them.”

  I considered the possibility Alberto was right. Then again, the groundskeeper heard a gunshot. Maybe Father Barnes was already dead. If so, they were sure to kill me too, and by going directly to Morehouse, I was making it that much easier for them to do just that.

  My T3 phone began ringing. It was the Congresswoman. Her voice was strained, though her tone strangely devoid of emotion.

  “Mr. Bennington, have you connected with Mr. Diaz?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good, is he with you now?”

  I found myself nodding to the phone conversation.

  “Yeah, he’s here.”

  The congresswoman sighed, then went silent.

  “Congresswoman Mears?”

  Several seconds passed before the congresswoman replied.

  “Mr. Bennington, if you wish to see Dedra before…”

  Once again, the congresswoman stopped speaking, and I could just make out a muffled sob, and then heard Congresswoman clear her throat. When she resumed speaking, her voice was calm and measured – all business.

  “If you wish to see Dedra again, I suggest you get to the hospital now. She had another episode late last night. She’s been assigned another doctor and she says Dedra’s condition is now critical, and that she may not survive another twenty four hours. I’ve personally directed hospital staff to allow both you and Mr. Diaz to be allowed in to see her. Dedra is holding on, she’s in and out of consciousness, but for how much longer is uncertain, and I know you two had a good relationship, and so, thought it best to allow you the opportunity to say goodbye to her.”

  Goodbye?

  The word seemed utterly inconceivable. Dedra was so strong, so determined. We had the formulation, we were going to try and figure out a way to begin her treatment with Father Barnes again. And now I was being told I had to get to the hospital to say goodbye?

  “You need to get there as soon as possible, Mr. Bennington. And please let Mr. Diaz know. I’m sorry.”

  I ended the call, my eyes staring into the nothingness of the taxi’s musty smelling, light tan interior as the word ‘goodbye’ replayed itself over and over again in my head.

  “What’s going on, Bennington? What did the congresswoman want?”

  I felt the sting of tears invading the corners of my eyes as my jaw clenched and my hands balled into fists.

  “It’s Dedra, she’s dying. They think she won’t make it…she’s got twenty four hours.”

  Alberto’s eyes filled with shocked confusion.

  “What? I knew she was sick, but she’s dying?”

  “That’s what she said. If we want to go see her before…”

  My voice trailed off. Alberto understood, instructing the cab driver to take us to George Washington University Hospital. Most people my age have had to make that kind of trip more than once. You know someone who’s cooped up inside a hospital bed, their days running out, and you’re on your way there to pretend it’s anything but to look at them alive one last time.

  I hate that shit. I really do. Not so much because of the dying part, or the strange, antiseptic smell of hospitals, but the look of regret in the dying person’s eyes. That’s the tragedy of life, right? That moment when one discovers there won’t be more time. That all those years spent saying to yourself, ‘Next year, we’ll do it next year’, has come to an abrupt, and all too final conclusion.

  Looking into those regret filled eyes always left me shaken, because I knew that some day, my moment was coming too. The thought had kept me awake many a night, staring up at the ceiling, afraid to shut my eyes for fear I wouldn’t wake to see morning, and another opportunity to tell myself, next time, I’ll do it next time.

  Regret might very well be the single biggest bitch in life. It’s the killer of hope, the rapist of contentment, the uninvited guest who never leaves your damn home.

  I’ve heard people talk about what hell is. You know, all the fire and brimstone shit. That ain’t hell. No sir. I know what hell is. I know what I got coming to me.

  A shit pile of regret.

  The ride to the hospital took ten minutes. Both Alberto and me said nothing during that time, our minds drifting to moments with Dedra, our appreciation of her sacrifice and dedication, her strength to continue living with the scars of her military service in a way dominated by the dignity of her spirit. Her life was an example a schmuck like me could learn a lot from, but it also left me questioning why someone like her, who deserved so much more, was taken too early, and someone like me, who deserved so much less, was allowed to keep on keepin’ on.

  It made no damn sense.

  The cab pulled into the hospital’s main entrance. I exited the right side of the cab while Alberto removed himself from the left side and sat waiting for his wheelchair to be extracted from the trunk by the cab driver. Upon entering the hospital, we informed reception we were there to see Dedra Donnigan. The receptionist, a kind looking, middle aged woman with medium length, reddish hair that hung in light curls just over her forehead and sides of her face, asked for us to take a seat in the waiting area.

  It took nearly twenty minutes before the same receptionist instructed us we could take the elevator up to the fourth floor of the hospital’s critical care cancer center where Dedra had been moved to. Upon entering the fourth floor, we were met with yet another reception desk, and asked to wait after telling the young male receptionist who we were there to see.