MASS MURDER

by Lynn Bohart

  Giorgio made it back to where the landing at the head of the stairs had been made into a sitting area. Two windows covered by heavy brocade curtains looked out over the north side of the property. Giorgio pushed one set of curtains aside and found a tall, leaded window. Dust lifted off the curtain making him pinch his nose to avoid sneezing. When the urge subsided, he reached out to test the crank window. It was also securely locked. He checked the second window and found it locked as well. The view from either window revealed little. It was virtually dark outside except for a string of lights strategically positioned along the walkway below. Yet even these were obscured by a canopy of mature trees now restlessly moving back and forth in a healthy breeze.

  Since there was nothing to learn here, Giorgio turned away and started to leave, when a sharp “click” stopped him. He paused. Perhaps someone had opened one of the nearby doors. But all doors in close proximity remained closed. A soft whapping noise directly behind him made him turn back to the window. The heavy curtain billowed away from the wall now as if a floor heater had been ignited. Slowly, he reached out to draw the curtain aside again. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. The old-fashioned crank window stood open now allowing a crisp breeze to fill the narrow hallway.

  Giorgio cautiously craned his neck forward to see below, half expecting someone to suddenly appear on the windowsill. But there was no one outside, just a damp pocket of mist hanging in the air just beyond the ledge. He reached down and jiggled the antique hardware, curious as to how the window had popped opened. The crank moved generously from side to side. Convinced it was just old hardware Giorgio shut the window tight and cast a final, skeptical glance into the misty night before returning to Swan.

  “Where’s Olsen’s room?” Giorgio snapped when Swan emerged into the hallway.

  “Over here. Number 18. You okay?” Swan asked with a defensive posture.

  “Fine. Just tired,” he said, on edge.

  They crossed the landing into a matching hallway and passed two rooms before stopping at the yellow tape marking off Mallery Olsen’s bedroom. The hallway ended with a supply closet. Olsen’s bedroom was the last room on the right, directly across from a large guest laundry and an alcove with vending machines. Giorgio noticed the apparent isolation of Olsen’s room and made a note to find out who occupied the only room adjacent to hers.

  “Make sure Fong gets up here as soon as he’s done downstairs to dust for prints.”

  Swan nodded before slipping paper booties over his shoes and handing a pair to Giorgio. Olsen’s room was similar to the one Swan had just left, Spartan and without personality. A cheap nightstand and small chest of drawers filled one wall, while a worm-eaten writing desk and straight-backed chair sat under the window. A small bible sat in the corner of the writing desk, along with an inexpensive wooden crucifix. There was one, bell-shaped lamp on the writing desk which did nothing more than light the area right around it. A single upholstery fabric suitcase sat at the foot of the single bed with the same green chenille blanket laid across the end.

  “Not much to look at is it?” Giorgio said with some sadness.

  “No,” Swan agreed. “The rooms are all basically the same, although a few are a bit larger. It is a monastery after all, and I assume the cost of the conference reflects it.”

  Giorgio wandered into the bathroom with its dated black and white mosaic tiled floor and frosted double-hung window. Olsen’s bag of toiletries sat on the top of the commode’s water tank. Her toothbrush and toothpaste lay on the chrome shelf above the sink, a small dab of water pooled under the bristles. The bathroom still held the faint aroma of the White Diamonds spray perfume that sat off to one side. A plastic cup wrapped in cellophane was placed upside down at the end of the shelf.

  As Giorgio looked around he asked Swan, “Anyone report seeing her at any time before the dinner?”

  “One of the other agents said she saw Olsen going back upstairs just before six o’clock.”

  Giorgio turned to Swan. “Going back upstairs? Did the woman say why?”

  “Olsen said she was having a drink with a friend and would join the banquet later.”

  Giorgio’s eyes narrowed. “A friend? I wonder if it was someone from the conference.”

  Swan shrugged. “Maybe one of the caterers. Who knows? Could’ve been anyone.”

  “A caterer couldn’t have left his post. They were working.”

  Giorgio wandered back into the bedroom. The room reminded him of his dormitory room at the police academy, except this room was peaceful. Here, he could picture a monk sitting at the desk late into the evening with only a candle to light his studies. It was that kind of solitary life that had prevented Giorgio from entering the seminary − that and the vow of celibacy.

  “So, she was dressed for the dinner but didn’t go.”

  “Looks that way,” Swan confirmed.

  “Someone changed her mind.”

  Giorgio moved to the writing desk where a bottle of corked, red wine sat next to another plastic cup. This one had been used, and he bent over to take a sniff.

  “It looks as if this is where she had her drink.” He twisted around. “But where’s the other cup? The one in the bathroom hasn’t been used.”

  “Maybe they didn’t meet in here.”

  “Where else would she go? We’re three miles from the nearest restaurant and she left the cocktail party downstairs and didn’t leave the premises. No,” he said pulling a handkerchief from his pocket, “I think she came back here to meet her mysterious friend and never left.” Giorgio used the handkerchief to begin opening drawers.

  Swan pulled out a pair of rubber gloves and joined him in a careful search of the room. Giorgio found nothing but Olsen’s neatly folded clothes and personal belongings in the small chest. Swan looked into her briefcase and purse and then searched the suitcase. The room was neat and clean, offering no evidence to identify a guest, or a murderer.

  Giorgio put the handkerchief back in his pocket. “Get Fong up here fast. I want forensics to check the remaining contents of that glass.” Swan started to leave as Giorgio glanced at the bed. “Swan,” he said. “This woman was incredibly neat, wouldn’t you say?”

  “I guess so, yeah,” his colleague shrugged.

  Giorgio gestured around him. “Look around the room. The bed is neatly made. All her clothes are folded and put away in the drawers. Even the bathroom is neat as a pin, although she’d just gotten ready for a fancy dinner. Nothing is out of place.”

  “So?”

  Giorgio pointed to the bed. “Why is there a pair of pantyhose lying crumpled up in the middle of the bed?”

  Swan followed Giorgio’s gaze and shrugged again. “I don’t know. Women always leave those things lying around. I know my wife does.”

  “Doesn’t it seem out-of-character to leave something so personal out in the open when a guest is expected?” Giorgio pulled a pencil from his pocket and lifted the toe of the nylon foot off the bedspread. “I have a feeling we may have just found the murder weapon.”

  “But you don’t know she was killed up here,” Swan said skeptically. “If she was killed in this room, the murderer would have had to carry her all the way down the stairs, down a hallway, and through the kitchen in order to get her to the supply closet.”

  “Maybe there’s a back staircase. She didn’t look very heavy. Under the cover of darkness, it could have been done pretty easily, especially for a man.”

  “Then you’re eliminating any female suspects?”

  “Not necessarily. I saw a few women downstairs built well enough to accomplish the task.” Giorgio gave a wicked smile.

  “But how did he get to the back stairs? The hallway ends right here.”

  Giorgio arched his back, feeling his fatigue. “I don’t know, but I bet there’s a way.”

  “She could have been killed somewhere else,” Swan argued. “The parking lot for instance.”

  “The parking lot is lit. Plus, the caterers probably
parked there. Too risky.”

  “What about out in the garden, then? She could’ve been killed out there.”

  “Her shoes will tell us that. But something tells me she was strangled right here, with this pair of nylons.”

  “Why?”

  “The dead woman in the closet is wearing a black cocktail dress and black pantyhose.”

  Giorgio drew Swan’s attention to the pale colored nylons lying on the bed.

  Swan lifted his eyebrows. “Oh.”

  Chapter Eight

  Swan went to help the other officers allowing Giorgio to step outside for a short break. He stretched his arms above his head, groaning a bit as his muscles pulled. A bank of clouds had begun their march across the night sky snuffing out stars one by one, while a brisk wind stirred up the rich aroma of sage from the bushes near the entrance. Giorgio sucked in the tantalizing smell and then ambled along the gravel path that led him into the center of a large cactus garden. A tall, unadorned wooden cross rose out of a round, cement slab. It was the same kind of religious symbol Giorgio had come to associate with the church − rigid, unyielding, and solid as a rock. He stood for a moment lost in thought, until a tap on the shoulder startled him. Giorgio turned to find Swan holding out a steaming cup of coffee.

  “This ought to strip the lining from your stomach.”

  “Finally,” Giorgio smiled, rescuing the Styrofoam cup from Swan’s stubby fingers. Swan was an imposing figure, even in a suit and tie. Giorgio remembered that Swan had been a wrestler in college. At a good fifty pounds lighter, Giorgio contemplated with some anxiety what it must have been like to face Swan across a wrestling mat. “Where’s the janitor?” he asked, taking a swig of coffee.

  “He’s in the kitchen. I told him you’d be in soon.”

  “Okay, I’ll go talk with him.”

  The sound of men’s voices raised in chant made both officers turn towards the arched windows on the other side of the bell tower. A line of monks holding candles was visible through the window, descending a staircase and crossing into the chapel. Their faces were hidden by hoods and the hypnotic chant filled the night like a doomsday warning.

  “What the…?” Swan uttered.

  Giorgio swallowed another swig of coffee and stared at the eerie scene feeling the hairs on the back of his neck stand up for the second time that night.

  “Mass. Probably for the girl,” Giorgio speculated.

  “Gives me the creeps,” Swan shuddered, as the monks continued to file like lemmings into the chapel, their voices undulating in a Latin verse.

  “Yeah, well so much for keeping them separate so they can’t share information. I’ll have to have another talk with Father Damian.”

  Giorgio turned and made it back to the front door just as the female reporter came running up from the driveway. Her microphone was extended for a statement; the cameraman loomed behind her.

  “Detective, can I have a minute?”

  Giorgio twisted around to Swan. “Handle it,” he clipped and then disappeared inside.

  He returned to the kitchen where he found a man in his sixties sitting hunched over the small table, staring at his hands as if he were mapping them for later reference. Giorgio took a seat across from him. The man didn’t look up. He just sat staring at his hands as if Giorgio didn’t exist. This kind of shell shock reminded Giorgio of a case in New York, in which a father had been rendered helpless by the hedonistic murder of his only son. The man had arms the size of canoe paddles and yet he sat lifeless as a doll on a toy store shelf while Giorgio tried without success to interview him. Giorgio could only hope this time it would go better.

  “I’m Detective Salvatori.”

  The man turned vacant gray eyes in his direction and said nothing for a full five seconds. Finally, he dropped his head and whispered.

  “I’ve never seen a corpse up close.”

  “I understand,” Giorgio nodded. “What’s your name?”

  “Syd Norville.” His chest heaved. “I’ve never been through anything like this. That young girl was dead, you know?” His lip twitched.

  “I know. You’re the janitor?”

  “That’s right. I come on duty at nine o’clock.”

  Norville was a handsome man, with wide set eyes and skin as supple as soft leather. Coarse gray hair was cropped close to his head, and he wore a blue work shirt and crisp blue jeans.

  “What’s the first thing you did when you arrived tonight?”

  “I went to the supply closet, like I always do. That’s where I found her.”

  “Had you ever seen the woman before?”

  Giorgio knew what the answer would be, but the question had to be asked.

  “I only come in at night. I don’t know any of the people who attend these things.”

  “Where do you park?”

  A gnarly finger gestured towards the back door. “That’s my truck out there.”

  Giorgio nodded, took a sip of coffee and wrote a note in his book. “Did you come straight in from the parking lot and go directly to the closet?”

  Norville finally looked up at Giorgio. “Didn’t have nowhere else to go.”

  “I understand, but it’s important. You didn’t come in here first for coffee or go see Father Damian?”

  “Father Damian would have been at the night prayer. I went straight to work. I take a break at eleven-thirty. That’s when I have my coffee. I bring it in a thermos, in my lunchbox.”

  “And where is the thermos now?”

  “Oh!” The gray eyes expanded into near circles. “It’s in the closet.”

  “We’ll make sure it’s returned to you. Did you see anyone else when you came in?”

  “No. I went straight to the closet.” His hands relaxed a bit and he looked back down at the table again.

  “You didn’t see the catering staff?”

  “I heard them, but figured I’d start at the other end of the building.”

  “Did you see anyone at all? Inside or out?”

  “Just Ms. Peters.” The wide shoulders shrugged as if this fact was unimportant.

  “Ms. Peters?”

  “She organizes the events. Just as I was coming in, she pulled out of the parking lot.”

  Giorgio made a note. “Is she usually here this late?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “Did she see you?”

  “I don’t know. Why?”

  “Tell me what happened when you found the body.”

  “Like I told the other officer, I went in there to get the mop and found a shoe on the floor. I was leaning over to pick it up when I bumped against something hanging on the wall. It was her foot.”

  His shoulders jerked at the memory. Giorgio let him relate the story at his own pace.

  “What did you do then?”

  Norville gazed at Giorgio as if he were looking right through him. “I went to find the abbot.”

  “You didn’t call the police first?”

  “No. Should I have?”

  “What you did was fine. Did you see anyone when you went to find Father Damian?”

  “I went through the kitchen and the bartenders were still in the lobby. They were getting ready to leave. I started toward the Chapel thinking Father Damian would be leading the night prayer, but I saw him just outside his office door. I told him what happened, and he called the police.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Norville. I hope you’ll remain available if we need to talk again.”

  “Father Damian knows where to find me. Can I go now? I don’t feel too much like cleaning up tonight. I haven’t even told Mabel, yet.”

  “Mabel?”

  “My wife.”

  “You can leave, but don’t clean anything up until I let you know.”

  Norville pushed away from the table and stood. “Most likely I’ll be finding a new job anyway. This place gives me the creeps.”

  Giorgio stood with him. “By the way, Mr. Norville, did you find anything besides the shoe on the floor?”

/>   Norville paused, giving Giorgio a curious look.

  “I don’t understand.”

  This was one of the parts Giorgio hated most about his job, destroying the image people like Syd Norville had of the world. As big as he was, he was clearly someone who had not been exposed much to violence.

  “The woman’s finger was cut off. We haven’t found it.”

  Norville’s face blanched and he swallowed as if he might be sick.

  “I didn’t find anything like that.”

  Norville began to gulp air the way you might when you know you’re going to throw up. Giorgio needed to get the man’s head around the facts.

  “Are all the doors to the outside locked at night?”

  “I lock up as I move through the building. I don’t finish until after one o’clock in the morning.”

  “Do you ever see any of the monks?”

  “Not usually. They go to bed early. They have a pretty strict routine. I’ve been told they’re up at four o’clock most days. I’ve seen the odd man about, taking a short walk or grabbing a snack from the kitchen, but not often.”

  “Does Father Damian go to bed at the same time?”

  “Sometimes he works late. I’ve seen the light on in his office past midnight at times, but he sleeps out in the bungalow, so I really couldn’t say what time he goes to bed.”

  “I see. Can I get a copy of the building plans?”

  “You’d have to ask Father Damian for that.”

  “Thank you. We’ll be in touch if we need anything else.”

  The older man grabbed his jean jacket from the chair before leaving through the back door. Giorgio followed him outside, stepping into the glow of the small light mounted above the kitchen door. Giorgio peered over a four-foot wall to his left topped by large clay pots. A truck engine flared and a moment later, the headlights of an old Ford pickup came on as the janitor pulled out of the parking lot.

  Giorgio watched the taillights disappear and then glanced around, mentally calculating distances and angles. From where he stood, the row of planters blocked any view from the banquet room windows only a few feet away. To his right, bushes crowded the exterior wall, spilling onto the walkway as a path curved around the building. A second path led up the slope to where an ivy-covered trellis opened onto a flower garden. Giorgio was familiar with the garden because he’d attended a wedding there earlier in the summer. It was protected by a low, trimmed hedge, with a circular patch of lawn, and a shrine set off to one side.