MASS MURDER

by Lynn Bohart

  Blending in with the foot of the staircase stood a monk clad in a traditional, cowl-necked brown robe. One hand rested on the elaborately carved banister, while the other fiddled with the crucifix that hung from the tassels of his rope belt. His small stature made him inconsequential in such broad surroundings and Giorgio would have missed him if the priest hadn’t noticed them first. The two strangers seemed to give him purpose, and he stepped forward.

  “May I help you? I’m Brother Rosario.”

  Giorgio produced his badge. “I’m officer Salvatori. So is he.”

  The monk’s pale eyebrows arched in question, so Rocky produced his own identification.

  “We’re brothers.”

  The little man squinted through a pair of wire-framed glasses.

  “You’ll want to go through there,” he said, smiling briefly. He used the crucifix to point through an arched opening behind the staircase, thought better of it, and retracted his arm as he cleared his throat. “Sorry. I believe you’ll find what you want down that hallway to your left and through the kitchen.”

  “Thank you, but who are all of these people?” Giorgio nodded toward the women huddled by the fireplace.

  “We’re hosting a writer’s conference. They’ve been asked to remain available for questioning. I really don’t know much more than that.”

  “Why are they dressed like that?”

  The little man shrugged, and his hooded robe nearly encased his head. Watching him, Giorgio couldn’t decide if he was the real thing or another character at the costumed ball.

  “I couldn’t tell you,” he said, eyeing the women with a pinched expression, “but I can tell you that we’ve never had a murder here. It’s all quite troubling.”

  Without comment, Giorgio turned and led the way around the base of the stairs, past a portable bar, and down the hallway. They passed several closed doors before the hallway opened into a large, square kitchen. A dichotomy in time, the kitchen sported shiny, commercial size appliances in contrast to a worn, tiled floor, dirty stucco walls, and two small, antiquated windows set near the ceiling. A chunky, wooden table marred by years of knife cuts and mallet whacks now served as crime scene central where Patrol Sergeant, Abe Terrero, had set up shop. Tall and lanky, Sergeant Terrero was a man of few words. With an almost inaudible grunt, he shoved a clipboard at the brothers as they entered. Rocky and Giorgio logged in and then donned rubber gloves and booties before picking up radios. Terrero shrugged in the direction of a short hallway, mumbling, “Down there.”

  The brothers passed through the kitchen to a short hallway that ended with a door to the outside. To their right was a tiny, tiled bathroom with only a toilet and a sink. Another hallway cut off to the left where they met Francis Mulhaney who often acted as the police photographer.

  “Joe! Glad to see you. We didn’t take you away from a standing ovation did we?”

  Mulhaney grinned as he swung his camera over one shoulder. Giorgio returned a brief smile.

  “After three curtain calls, I told the stage manager I had to go. What do we have?”

  Mulhaney turned and gestured to the other end of the hallway where a small Asian man in a white jumpsuit and rubber gloves dusted a door for fingerprints. Sierra Madre was too small to employ a full-time forensic specialist and so partnered with neighboring communities when the need arose. Giorgio recognized Jon Fong from the Pasadena Police Department and felt a flood of relief. Fong was one of the best they had. The door he was dusting stood open, revealing a set of shelves with cleaning supplies stowed neatly beyond.

  “A woman,” Mulhaney replied, allowing Giorgio to duck under the crime scene tape. “Looks like she’s been strangled. Whoever did it hung her in the closet. Literally,” he emphasized, following behind. “The closet tucks back in there a bit. She’s been hung on a utility hook by the back strap of her bra. The ME has done a preliminary on her, but they were waiting for you.”

  “Was it rape?” Rocky asked, bringing up the rear.

  Mulhaney turned as if only now realizing Rocky was there. He acknowledged Rocky with a nod before answering.

  “Don’t know. But she’s fully clothed. And she’s missing the tip of her little finger.”

  “We heard. Who found her?” Giorgio asked, moving toward the open doorway.

  “The night janitor,” Mulhaney replied, following him. “He comes on about nine o’clock and went into the storeroom for the mop bucket. As you can see, the light ain’t too good in there and he bumped into her. The old man’s pretty spooked, to say the least.”

  Giorgio approached the door, glancing up at the ceiling as he passed through the hallway.

  “No security cameras I take it?”

  Mulhaney shook his head. “No such luck. I doubt they had any reason before tonight.”

  The forensics man acknowledged Giorgio and then stepped aside, allowing him to poke his head inside. The overhead light did little to illuminate the room. Giorgio could see the closet was large as closets go − big enough for a full set of shelves on one wall, an industrial vacuum, floor buffer, and various cleaning supplies. On the back wall, cast in deep shadow, was a row of hooks that held mops, brooms, utility jackets, and now the dark outline of a dead woman.

  “You done inside?” he asked Fong.

  “Just be careful.”

  Giorgio stepped inside and glanced around. He took shallow breaths to minimize the stench left behind by death, made all the more unpleasant by the sharp odor of cleaning solvents. There was only the one door. No windows. The floor was clean − cleaner than his kitchen at home. All the supplies were lined up in rows and clearly labeled except for the strewn rolls of paper towels the janitor had probably knocked over when he found the body. There was no trash thrown into corners and no dirty cleaning rags. Just a bunch of crime scene markers and a dead body.

  She was hung next to a pair of painter’s overalls, her feet dangling in mid-air. One foot was bare except for her black stockings. Giorgio guessed she wasn’t more than five-feet tall, if that. Her head was flopped forward with several long curls of red hair hanging free. Her petite frame was encased in a long-sleeved, black velvet cocktail dress, her arms hanging limply at her sides. Except for the dress and the bags used to protect possible evidence underneath the fingernails, she looked very much like the rag doll he’d given Marie on her fourth birthday. A gold chain encircled her slender neck, and a large amethyst pendant was cradled just above her full bosom. Giorgio looked past the necklace to the translucent flesh beneath. Even in the poor light he could see the wide, uneven ligature line that extended underneath her chin making him suspect the weapon was a scarf or piece of cloth.

  The dead woman’s face was puffy and looked bruised as the blood settled into her cheeks. He lifted the corner of an eyelid. A bloodshot, blue eye peeked out staring straight ahead. A thought made Giorgio lift her hair at the nape of the neck, using his penlight to identify the bruising he knew he would find. He touched her cheek with two fingers just behind the ear. The skin was cool to the touch, not clammy, indicating she’d been dead less than six hours.

  Rocky stood at the doorway. “So?”

  “She’s been strangled, sometime earlier this evening. Doesn’t look like she struggled much, but the autopsy will have to tell us that.”

  He lifted her right hand, noting the blood stain on the corner of the bag covering her hand. It was a natural reaction to turn and look around the small room as if the missing appendage might reveal itself only to him. Just below where her hand dangled lay a pool of blood marked with an evidence marker. Lying close by was the woman’s black pump, outlined in chalk, and also marked. Everything else seemed in place.

  “I doubt she was killed in here,” he concluded out loud to Rocky. “But this is where her finger was removed.”

  Giorgio stepped into the hallway allowing Fong to resume his work. Mulhaney was gone, so the brothers went to find someone who could provide more information. They pushed through a swinging door off the kitch
en and entered a modest sized banquet room filled with round tables. Cigarette smoke hung in the air along with the smell of cheap wine. Tables had been cleared except for the wine glasses and opened bottles of Crystal Moon Chardonnay.

  Six or seven people sat huddled at the far side of the room. Two of the men were dressed in black pants, white shirts, and black vests. Probably the bartenders. One officer questioned a slender woman dressed in a long, silver lamé dress with shoulder-length hair draped alluringly over one eye. Another detective, named Swan, talked to a tall monk with gray hair. When Swan saw Giorgio, he broke away.

  “Joe, glad you’re here. How was closing night?”

  “Good.” Giorgio answered, his eyes searching the room.

  “Sorry you had to leave the party, but the Captain’s gone and thought you should take the lead on this. I didn’t think you’d want to get the information second-hand tomorrow, so I sent Samson to pick you up after the performance.”

  “No problem. What do we know so far?”

  “Not much. The monastery booked a writers’ conference. During their dinner tonight the janitor found the body. We have a list of every guest in attendance and every priest on the premises, but we’ve sent most people back to their rooms until we can interview them. The people you see down here have all been questioned. We’re also working on a list of employees who were here tonight.”

  Giorgio looked at Swan. “First of all, they’re monks.”

  Swan shrugged. “What’s the difference?”

  Giorgio continued to survey the room. “Priests are ordained to public ministry. These guys like to stay all to themselves. Is the janitor still around?”

  “He’s waiting outside.” Swan indicated the back door.

  “Who’s the woman hanging in the closet?”

  “Her name is Mallery Olsen. She was attending the conference.”

  “When was the last time anyone saw her alive?”

  “So far, no one’s really sure. She was dressed for the dinner, but we haven’t found anyone who saw her come into the banquet room. The coroner will have to tell us what time she was killed and whether she even ate dinner.”

  “How many people attended the dinner tonight?”

  Giorgio studied the people at the back of the room, taking in the details of their clothing, their demeanor, and blank expressions. He felt himself entering a familiar groove, gather information quickly and make determinations later. Swan consulted his notes.

  “There were about forty people in the banquet room. Four employees in the kitchen. Two bartenders out in the lobby.”

  “What about the monks?”

  “About twenty live on the premises.”

  Giorgio sighed and ran his fingers through his hair, setting a few strands free to fall across his forehead. This would be a long night.

  “We interviewed the caterers and sent them home, but we’ve warned everyone else not to leave.” Swan closed his notebook. “But there’s a problem. The conference ended tonight. Everyone is scheduled to leave tomorrow.”

  “Then we’ve got to finish the interviews tonight — at least preliminary statements.”

  “We’ve called for extra help.” Swan glanced at Rocky.

  “I’ll stick around. Who’s got a pen and paper?”

  “Ask Father Damian over there. He’s the abbot.” Rocky left and Swan turned back to Giorgio. “The woman was a literary agent from Marina del Ray. According to the conference chairperson, she showed up at the last minute, pinch-hitting for someone who couldn’t make it. No one really knew her, although a few of the would-be writers interviewed with her.”

  “Who was she replacing?”

  Swan consulted his notes again. “A woman named Beth Tomlinson, also from Marina del Rey.”

  “Okay. We’ll need to talk with Ms. Tomlinson. See if you can get someone over there tonight.”

  “Will do. Anything else?”

  “Yeah, I need a cup of coffee.”

  “No problem.”

  Swan paused, his hazel eyes peeking coyly out from under a set of straight brows. “You know, Joe, you don’t look too bad in eye makeup. Makes those soft brown eyes really pop. Know what I mean?”

  Swan gave him a seductive wink and walked away smiling to himself. Yep, Giorgio thought, this would be a long night.

  Chapter Five

  Father Damian rested a limp hand across the shoulder of a woman dabbing at her eyes with a burgundy cloth napkin, his face an expressionless mask of boredom. Yet, the moment Rocky approached the monk’s visage became suddenly animated, and he stepped away from the weeping woman to give Rocky his full attention. After a brief exchange, the abbot pointed to a set of double doors and Rocky departed. The monk gazed after him as if Rocky had taken the only light from a darkened room. Giorgio decided the abbot required some attention of his own and headed in that direction.

  “May I ask you some questions?” he called out.

  The abbot made a full turn as Giorgio approached, his generous mouth stretching into an expectant smile.

  “Are you with the police?”

  His thick white hair matched a set of unruly brows that crowded narrow eye sockets, making Giorgio hunt for the small brown eyes hidden within.

  “I’m a detective. Is there somewhere we can talk privately?”

  The monk snuck a glance at the tearful woman behind him, perhaps feeling guilty for leaving her to her own devices. “We can go to my office, he offered.”

  He led Giorgio out the door and across the now empty lobby, the silence emphasizing the soft rustle of his robes. The abbot paused at the foot of the staircase where a wall niche held a small, painted statue of Christ on the cross. Father Damian quickly touched his forehead and each shoulder just as a door opened and Rocky met them coming out with pen and paper in hand.

  “I’ll find Swan,” he said to Giorgio, “get a list of names and touch base with you later.” He pulled his radio from his belt. “What channel are we on?”

  “Three,” Giorgio responded.

  Rocky adjusted his radio and returned to the banquet room leaving Giorgio to follow the priest into a warmly lit office. Floor to ceiling bookcases filled with gold-leafed religious texts covered one full wall, while an impressive carved writing table sat in front of a wall closet. The table’s clawed feet grasped for a burgundy fringed carpet, its ribbon carving filled with enough shadow to make it appear as if a brown snake had coiled itself around its edge. A large brass lamp weighted one side of the desk, while a computer monitor balanced the other. To Giorgio’s right was a large, gold-framed painting of Christ’s descent from the cross held above a highly polished oak library table that sat against the wall. The table was graced with a red silk runner, hand-painted porcelain bowl, twin brass candlestick holders, and a large, gold-leafed Bible heavy enough to anchor a small ship. On the opposite wall was a red velvet settee and small, marble coffee table. As a lifelong Catholic, Giorgio felt right at home here and could almost hear the rich voice of Father Michael O’Hara patiently explaining the difference between obligatory prayer and true spiritual prayer.

  “Praying is a discipline, Mr. Salvatori,” Father Michael would say with a stiff lip. “However, God wants your heart, not merely your mind. When you pray, you talk directly to God. Let go of everything you think you already know. Be humble and speak from your heart.”

  Father Michael would tap Giorgio on the head after that as if to say, “Get that, Salvatori?” Then he would retreat with his hands clasped behind his back. To this day, Giorgio prayed because he’d been taught to do so, not because he held out any hope his prayers would be answered. His view of God was surprisingly cynical for someone who had at one time considered going into the ministry. When he caught himself staring at the limp figure of Jesus, Giorgio allowed the ghosts of his youth to fade and lowered himself into a richly upholstered Queen Anne chair facing Father Damian.

  “How can I help you, officer…uh…?”

  “Salvatori. I’m a detective with the
Sierra Madre police.”

  “I’m afraid we’re at a bit of a loss here, Detective. Nothing like this has ever happened.

  Father Damian pressed his fingers together as if kneading bread dough.

  “I understand, Father, but we have a problem. All your guests leave tomorrow. We have a lot of information to gather before then. I need some background details. For instance, how are these conferences booked?”

  “People find us through travel agents and travel guides. Our own Chamber of Commerce mentions us in their material. We even have a website.”

  “Who provides the food?”

  “We have a standing contract with a local catering company.”

  “May I have their name?” Giorgio pulled a small pad from his pocket.

  “Food for Thought.” The monk smiled when Giorgio appeared confused. “The name is meant to be clever. They specialize in conferences both here and at several other locations n the area. Their owner is Mary Fields. I’m sure she’ll be happy to talk with you.”

  “Were any of the catering staff still here when the body was found?”

  He looked thoughtful for a moment. “Yes, I saw Mary when the police arrived. I don’t know who else might have been here.”

  “What time did the dinner start?”

  “We don’t have much to do with the conference schedules. Our coordinator arranges everything. I can give you her name and phone number. She isn’t scheduled to be back here until Monday. Her name is Anya Peters.” He pulled out a Post-it Note from a drawer and wrote down a number. “I’m afraid she was only just notified about this. She leaves once the event is running smoothly.”

  Giorgio took the phone number, noticing the monk had known it by heart. Possibly an innocent fact, but one he would remember.

  “Would she have been the person who booked the conference?”

  “Yes. She’s our employee. We try to keep the monastery separate from the retreat center.”

  Giorgio made a note and then remembered that some priests move around. Father Michael had been relocated to a parish in Brooklyn when Giorgio was only a year short of graduation.