MASS MURDER

by Lynn Bohart

  “I’m sure they could. We’re just not paying attention.”

  “Did any of your staff leave for any reason last night that you’re aware of?”

  She rubbed the back of her hand over her forehead, setting loose a few curls. “I told you. We’re busy during that time. I don’t pay much attention.”

  “Wouldn’t you know if someone wasn’t there to do their part?”

  “Look, catering is a little bit like a performance. If someone wasn’t there, someone else would have to step in. So, yes, I’d know.”

  “Who did you have with you last night?”

  “I brought two other caterers.” She leaned around to point into the back. “The same two here now. I also took Colin and Peter to serve, but they won’t come in until one o’clock.”

  “So, there were actually five of you?”

  She thought for a moment. “Yes. Plus two bartenders.”

  “Have they all been with you a long time?”

  She rubbed her forehead again. “Nancy and Austin have been with me since I started. Peter just started working part-time. Colin came on about four months ago. I contract for the bartenders. I’m sorry, Detective. It was a pretty standard night for us.”

  He stood up, extending a card. “Thank you. Call me if you think of anything else.”

  “I’ll send in Austin first,” she said, standing. “Nancy has to finish the crepes.”

  She disappeared into the kitchen and leaned over to speak into a man’s ear. The man named Austin glanced in Giorgio’s direction, finally coming out to the front. He was about the same height as Giorgio but had a slight build with a long nose and tortoise shell glasses.

  Giorgio asked him many of the same questions, eliciting the same answers. It seemed the caterers were single-focused in their tasks and took little notice of anything else. Austin did add one important piece of information. John Marsh came through the kitchen saying he was going to use the bathroom. Austin couldn’t remember the time or seeing him return.

  Nancy appeared shortly after Austin. She was about thirty-five with a mole in the middle of her left cheek. She fluttered behind the desk, and Giorgio attempted to calm her by making her sit down. It only seemed to restrain her nervous energy until eventually she exploded into strange giggles.

  Nancy didn’t remember seeing Marsh, nor did she remember seeing anyone else. She only remembered serving the quail late so that it was nearly cold.

  “Peter and Colin do all the serving?”

  “That’s right. We prepare. They serve. Colin likes to have his cigarette, so he was hustling. They picked up around eight and we had the mousse on by eight-fifteen. We were ready to leave right around nine o’clock.”

  “You work fast.”

  “We all know what to do,” she said, beginning to calm down. “Mary and Austin and I have been together a long time. We have things down to a routine. We’re almost packed by the time the dessert is served. Austin and Colin stay behind to clean tables.”

  “You mentioned that Colin likes his cigarettes. Did he go out to have one last night?”

  “Yes, I think so. I think I remember him saying he’d be right back.” She looked up, realizing she may have implicated a co-worker. “But Colin couldn’t have done anything. I mean, why would he?”

  “I’m sure he didn’t,” Giorgio lied. “But he may have seen something that could be useful. I’ll need both Peter and Colin’s phone numbers and addresses.”

  She stood and backed up from the chair, nearly knocking it over. “I’ll get Mary. Oh, I didn’t mean to get Colin in trouble.”

  A moment later, Mary returned and gave him the required phone numbers. Giorgio left the shop thinking he hadn’t learned much except that Marsh had indeed left the head table at some point, and Colin Jewett had gone out for a cigarette. Both men would now be added to the growing list of people who had opportunity to commit the murder. The question was, did either one have motive?

  Chapter Sixteen

  Giorgio left Mary Fields to her crepes and used his cell phone to call the station. Swan wouldn’t be back from the monastery for about an hour, so he made a decision to take a little side trip. Fifteen minutes later, he pulled into the dirt parking lot of the Pasadena Humane Society focused now on assuaging his guilt instead of solving a murder. The manufactured image of Angie’s look of surprise when he came home with a new dog gave him all the confidence he needed.

  He parked in front of a one-story gray building surrounded by a bunch of scrub oaks. The words “prison camp” came to mind as he emerged from the car. He entered a small, dreary office and stood at the counter until a young, affable man wearing gray overalls appeared through a side door. After explaining his mission, the young man led Giorgio through a metal door into the back of the building where fluorescent bulbs cast a pallid wash across a line of tall metal cages, and the odors of urine and feces rose distinctly above the bleach used in a vain attempt to neutralize the smell. It was enough to make Giorgio’s nose twitch.

  The young man left Giorgio to look around while he went to attend to the dogs in another room. Twenty cages lined each wall, and behind each gate was a friendly face. Wet noses pushed against the gates and every tail wagged in anticipation of a ride home. Giorgio remembered getting Butch at a place much like this, a forlorn puppy with brown, spiky hair, and a long wiry tail. Butch had spent six happy years with the family, guarding their small apartment with a ferocious tenacity that intimidated everyone except his mother who would snap him on the snout and say, “Not now, Butch!” It worked every time, making Giorgio wonder if that was how she’d managed his father’s equally ferocious libido. It wasn’t until he was in his twenties that Giorgio realized his mother’s frequent headaches had miraculously stopped after his father’s death.

  Staring into the eyes of all these homeless dogs, he remembered how much he’d enjoyed taking Butch to the park. Butch loved to play fetch, and Giorgio would always tuck a tennis ball into his pocket. One day, the ball took an errant bounce into the street. Before Giorgio could stop him, Butch followed the ball to the bitter end, coming to rest under the front wheel of a delivery truck. Although he’d maintained a stoic exterior for the kids, Giorgio was devastated. When Marie and Tony whined about getting another puppy, he’d cut them off. Even Angie said they should consider another dog, but Giorgio was adamant. Too much work. Too expensive. Too much trouble. Eventually, the requests stopped. The truth was − he didn’t think he could handle the emotional strain of losing another canine friend. But now, he would get a dog for Angie.

  He walked the kennel with his hands behind his back, glancing from side to side as if he were General Patton inspecting the troops. He didn’t know exactly what he was looking for but felt sure he would know it when he saw it. A small collie mix caught his attention, and he stopped for a closer look, squatting down and stretching out a finger for an enthusiastic lick. Her long brown and white fur felt like silk, and he imagined her sitting demurely in Angie’s lap. This one had possibilities.

  He finished the right side of the aisle, passing a bulky black dog with runny eyes and an overgrown cocker whose eyes were barely visible. The walkway ended at a cement wall. He turned around to start up the other side intending to visit the collie mix again when something in the last cage on his right stopped him. Sad, droopy eyes peered out from beneath a large, tattered blanket. A long, heavy snout lay flat against the floor. Giorgio stared through the wire, curious about this dog. The young kennel worker appeared again, and Giorgio flagged him down.

  “Is this dog ill?”

  “No,” he said, coming down the aisle. “He’s lonely. We found him on Pascal Boulevard about three weeks ago.”

  “How long do you keep them, before you…you know?”

  “Only about three weeks,” the worker replied. “This little guy’s time is about up I’m afraid.”

  “May I see him?”

  “Sure.” The worker pulled out a large ring filled with keys and opened the gate. �
�He’s very gentle.”

  Giorgio stepped in and the dog rose. The blanket slipped off revealing a young Basset Hound. Giorgio squatted down, and the dog pushed a wet nose into his hand. It was then Giorgio realized what had kept the dog from being adopted. Across his back were a series of small, round burn marks, as if someone had repeatedly placed a lit cigarette against the fur until it singed the flesh beneath. The wounds reminded him of the murder case of a small boy who was tortured to death in a similar fashion by his mother’s boyfriend. It was one of the last cases Giorgio had worked in New York and a big reason why he’d left. The haunting image of the fresh skin of a four-year old child disfigured in that way was still almost too much to bear. Now, here was a young dog, equally trusting as a child, and equally abused. It was cruel and unfair.

  Although the dog’s burns were scabbed over and would probably heal without much scarring, he looked as if he had small pox. Giorgio cupped the dog’s chin and turned the head sideways. Behind his right ear was a fresh, jagged scar.

  “Someone’s abused this dog.”

  “Yes,” the voice spoke softly behind him. “He was in pretty bad shape when we found him. The doctor stitched him up, and the burn marks will go away, but people think he can’t be trusted. But honestly, he hasn’t shown any aggression since he’s been here.”

  The dog allowed Giorgio to look him over as if he were a patient having his yearly exam. The liquid brown eyes watched him, and the long rough tongue found its way to give Giorgio one good lick. Giorgio wondered why dogs had ever allowed man to tame them. He’d read once that horses aren’t really broken. They allow themselves to be ridden. Dogs are different; they welcome human companionship. And a dog’s deep-rooted trust is with them for life.

  Giorgio played with the long ears, carefully avoiding the recent injury. The dog began to relax allowing his long tail to whip back and forth across the floor. There was no anger in this dog. No hatred for what humans had done to him. Only a longing to be taken home and loved. A tag hooked to his collar was inscribed with the name “Grosvner”. Giorgio attempted to say it out loud.

  “According to my supervisor, you don’t pronounce the s,” the young man corrected him. “I guess it’s an English name. You pronounce it like a grove of trees. Grove-ner.” He enunciated it as if he were instructing someone in a foreign language.

  Giorgio looked down at the dog again, completely smitten with the droopy eyes and heavy, bowed legs. The Basset had beautiful black and brown markings and was clearly eager to please. He’d already tucked his head under one of Giorgio’s legs, pushing against him for more attention. Before he could think of a reason not to, Giorgio said, “I’ll take him!”

  The young man gave a broad smile. “You won’t be sorry. He’s a nice dog. My aunt used to raise Bassets. They make wonderful pets. Do you have kids?”

  “Yes, two,” Giorgio answered, as they started for the office.

  “Great,” the man said. “Bassets are very good with kids.”

  When they reached the exit the dog let out a melodious woof, telling Giorgio to hurry back.

  The paper work took only a few minutes, and Grosvner emerged from the wire kennel as if he knew he was embarking on a new life. Giorgio took the new leash and collar he’d just purchased and snapped it around the dog’s thick neck. The dog wiggled in between his legs as a way of accepting Giorgio as his new owner. Dogs, Giorgio thought, were amazing animals. Forgive and forget.

  “Bye, Grosvner.” The young man leaned over to pat the dog on the head. “I’m glad you’re getting a new home. You be a good dog.”

  Grosvner whined and slapped him with his tail, then pulled at the leash to be gone. Giorgio led the dog into the parking lot, shortening his stride to match his new friend. When they reached the car, Grosvner needed a little push from behind to get into the police issued sedan. When Giorgio attempted to shut the door behind him though, the latch didn’t catch and Grosvner almost fell out again. Giorgio opened the door and slammed it a second time, but it just bounced open, making him curse under his breath. He’d reported the malfunction several times to the maintenance department, but gotten no response. Finally, holding the handle up, Giorgio pressed the door closed with his hip until it latched.

  When Giorgio walked around to the driver’s side, Grosvner met him. Giorgio held him back and climbed in behind the wheel.

  “Okay, buddy, we’re off,” he said.

  The oversized head, squat body, and long ears made the young Basset both humorous and endearing. Giorgio couldn’t help but chuckle. Unaware of his funny looks, Grosvner sat down, happily waiting for what the rest of the day would bring. More than once in his life, Giorgio had felt things had happened for a purpose. He had that feeling now.

  Giorgio returned to the station and left Grosvner in the car while he went in through the back door to see if Swan had returned. Swan was still at the monastery, but McCready had information he wanted to share and offered to ride with Giorgio to Olsen’s apartment. When McCready got to the car, he took one look at Grosvner and cooed.

  “Whoa, that’s a good looking dog. Where’d you get him?”

  “He’s a present for my wife,” Giorgio responded, opening the back door. “Let’s put him in the back.”

  He and the young cop hauled Grosvner onto the back seat. It was a little like wrangling with a sea lion, but eventually the two men got him safely situated and climbed into the front seat. McCready turned around and scratched the dog under his neck. Grosvner whined in pure ecstasy.

  “My family had a Basset when I was little,” McCready chattered good-naturedly. “I used to ride him around the house pretending I was a cowboy. I’ll never forget that dog. His name was Rags on account of his ears used to wipe the floor like two dishrags.”

  Giorgio snuck a glance at Grosvner who was now happily looking out the back window, his short legs up on the arm rest. Giorgio couldn’t help but think how sometimes the stars align for good luck. This was his lucky day.

  He started to back out of his parking space just as the same young female reporter appeared. She saw Giorgio and made a beeline in his direction.

  “Shit, she must have radar or something.”

  He made full use of the car’s power steering, laying a small patch of rubber as he sped away. Grosvner gazed balefully out the back window at the retreating reporter. Giorgio found his way to the 210 Freeway heading west, and McCready began to fill Giorgio in on what he knew about the dead girl.

  “She was twenty-six and divorced,” McCready read from his notes. “She left her husband about two years ago. He’s an electrical contractor and beat her up pretty good a couple of times. She finally moved out. When he began following her around, she went to court for a restraining order.”

  Freeway overpasses whizzed past, and traffic squeezed around them. Driving in the Los Angeles basin was like serving a tour of duty in Iraq. You had to stay alert and drive offensively or die. Giorgio deftly switched lanes back and forth while McCready continued his report unabated.

  “We checked her bank records and she declared bankruptcy around the same time she left her husband.”

  “How did she make a living back then?”

  “Real estate. We finally got a hold of Beth Tomlinsen in Florida. She said Olsen only became a literary agent about eighteen months ago. She bought her home in Marina del Rey when she sold real estate. She was born in a small town outside of Chicago. Her parents were Elaine and Jack Young. Her father died six years ago, but her mother lives in San Diego.”

  “Any brothers or sisters?” Giorgio switched lanes to pass a slow moving delivery truck, checked his rear view mirror and then pulled in front of the truck again.

  “She had a sister named Lisa who lives in Tucson. The two women have been estranged for some time according to the mother. Apparently Lisa loaned Mallery money a few years ago and wasn’t paid back. The mother said the loan was pretty substantial and the two sisters haven’t spoken since.”

  “Hmmm,” Gior
gio was thinking, all the time keeping his eye on an elderly couple in an old Subaru station wagon next to him. They kept pace with traffic but also kept hugging the line.

  “Interesting,” he murmured. “Family squabbles can complicate matters. Anything else?”

  McCready referred the notes again in his hands. “The mother hasn’t seen Mallery since last Christmas when she came up to visit. She said everything seemed fine then, although Mallery had just broken up with a boyfriend.”

  “Any names?”

  “Pedro something. She never met him, but Mallery said he had a nasty temper and liked to hang out in bars too much for her taste.”

  Giorgio looked over at the red-haired young officer. “We need to find Pedro and the ex-husband.”

  “The mother is flying in this afternoon to arrange for the burial. I’ll see if she knows more about Pedro.” McCready made a note.

  Thirty minutes later they pulled up to a small, one-story Spanish style home with a manicured lawn. McCready produced a key ring extracted from the dead woman’s purse, and they entered a tiled foyer. The two officers wandered around to get a general picture of the place before beginning a complete search. The house was neat and tidy just as her room had been at the monastery. Olsen’s bedroom offered the only indication she had gone on a trip. An empty satchel sat on the floor, and an open make up case sat on a nearby dresser. A computer was set up in an extra bedroom and Giorgio turned to McCready.

  “Let’s take it. It may have something we can use.”

  McCready nodded and pulled on a pair of rubber gloves and the two men spent the next hour searching every room of the house. In the end, they filled three boxes with bank records, unopened mail, old high school and college year books, unpaid invoices, letters from old boyfriends, loan papers, and even medical records.

  Giorgio found a series of framed pictures displayed in the hallway and contemplated throwing them into a box as well. They included the dead woman with what appeared to be family members and friends. There were several other pictures with various young men dating back to when she was a teenager. In each picture, a happy Mallery Olsen smiled for the camera as if she might cheat death forever. But Giorgio knew better. He remembered her bruised neck and pallid skin. The beautiful young woman would live on now only in photographs, never growing old, but never smiling again either. As his eyes passed over the fresh and innocent faces of the boys from her youth, he couldn’t help wondering if somewhere amongst them was the face of a killer.