MASS MURDER

by Lynn Bohart

  Giorgio called Grosvner and the dog followed, ears swaying back and forth. They passed the cemetery, moving slowly so that Grosvner could stop every few feet to mark his territory. Giorgio had trained with a few police dogs and knew that the canine’s sense of smell was some five hundred times stronger than humans. Dogs gather all sorts of information by sniffing what other dogs leave behind. Giorgio estimated that Grosvner was gathering enough information to write a short novel on the grounds of the monastery.

  Giorgio glanced over the fence to the graveyard, reading some of the inscriptions on the gravestones. At the far end, an imposing marble statue of an angel, her wings pulled back, her head lowered as if gazing at the ground, appeared to stand guard over the gravestones. Directly in front of him, near the fence, was a grave marker carved out of a heavy block of granite with a perfectly polished round ball on top. The inscription read, “Father Anton Wingate – Lost, But Not Forgotten.” It was a curious sentiment, especially for a priest.

  Giorgio passed the corner of the building looking up at the windows and taking note of their proximity to each other, all the while thinking about stairways and backdoors. He strolled through the circular courtyard and climbed the hill past the abbot’s cottage, then crossed over to the tool shed and the vegetable garden.

  The shed’s windows were almost opaque with dirt. He pulled the creaking door open and stepped inside leaving Grosvner to sniff his way around the garden. Inside, Giorgio found nothing more than an old push lawn mower, some weathered rakes, hoes, garden tools, and bags of fertilizer. He sifted through some shelves against the wall, lifting a layer of dust that made him sneeze. He decided there was nothing here related to the murder and emerged from the shed into a light drizzle, cursing at being caught without an umbrella.

  Wiping the moisture from his face, he called for Grosvner, but the dog was nowhere to be found. Giorgio whistled just as the skies opened up and it began to pour. He marched into the vegetable garden, angry now that the dog had strayed. He found Grosvner at the end of a cornrow, nose to the ground, digging a hole in the quickly forming mud. Giorgio shouted a command, but the dog’s short, stubby legs worked like earthmovers pulling up mounds of dirt while his ears hung into the ever-deepening hole. He looked up once and was hardly recognizable as the same dog. Although he looked more comical than ever, Giorgio was not amused and moved over to take hold of his collar.

  “Grosvner!” he yelled, “let’s go!”

  Giorgio yanked on Grosvner’s collar just as the dog’s paw snagged on something, bringing it out of the dirt. Giorgio froze holding the dog mid air, his eyes locked on a single, muddy finger casually curled up in the dreary morning light like the last shrimp on the “barbee”. The appendage was adorned with a deep blue class ring.

  Giorgio pushed Grosvner aside and squatted down, scooping out handfuls of mud, releasing several more fingers, a man’s wristwatch, and shirt cuff. Grosvner whined at having lost his prize while Giorgio pulled out his cell phone to report what was probably a second murder on the grounds of the Catholic monastery. Then, he sat back on his heels and glanced over at the dog. For the second time in two days, he said, “Good boy, Grosvner.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  By the time a tent was erected the ground had disintegrated into a sloppy mess, eliminating any possibility of footprints. Rain-filled pockets glistened in the mid-day light, creating small, muddy swimming pools. The police worked quickly in their slickers and rubber boots to section off the entire area with yellow tape while Mulhaney moved around the site in a cellophane-covered hat snapping pictures from every angle. Giorgio directed the operation, sans rain gear, looking very much like he’d just climbed out of a swimming pool fully clothed. Off duty officers had been called in to intercept anyone, especially reporters, who wished to get a closer look by sneaking through neighboring homes. Giorgio had no illusions this time that he would be able to avoid the media.

  Father Damian stood by protected by a golf-sized umbrella Father Rosario held above his head, his face a bland mask of self-defeat. Several other monks, including all three young recruits, huddled a few feet away under a bank of trees. Grosvner had retreated quietly to the tool shed.

  While several officers combed the area for evidence, two more used shovels to carefully remove dirt from around the body. A shirt cuff and sweater sleeve emerged first, then an arm resting on the hip of the corpse. Eventually, a dark-haired young man dressed in black slacks and a black sweater was revealed lying on his side only inches beneath the surface, his head twisted to one side as if he had been tossed carelessly into the makeshift grave. Although rigor mortis wasn’t evident, Giorgio knew from long experience that about thirty-six hours after death, rigor mortis reverses itself relaxing the muscles. That and the reddish-green color of the skin gave him the eerie feeling he was looking at a man who had died the same night as Mallery Olsen. It was the dirt-stained blood caked to the side of the man’s head however, that confirmed he was looking at a second murder.

  Before the body could be removed, the coroner stepped in to examine the position and condition of the body. He recorded the air temperature and time of day and then extracted samples of dirt from around the corpse, checking for any insects already living on the body that might help determine the time of death. More pictures were taken, and thirty minutes later the body was loaded into the coroner’s van.

  Several officers continued to search the surrounding area, dividing it into grids. They pushed their way through bushes and looked under benches and in between the rows of corn. They even worked their way out a hundred feet into the underbrush. Anything found was photographed and bagged and the spot marked with a small colored flag. Giorgio had worked crime scenes with so many evidence markers they’d created a maze, difficult to negotiate without squashing one into the ground.

  It was clear this body hadn’t been in the grave long, and hope remained that clues could be found when the weather cleared. However, after almost four hours, the only evidence collected was an old shoe from behind the shed, a torn cover from a girlie magazine, and a half-smoked cigarette found near the burial site. The paper casing from the cigarette bore half of a capital “M”. Finally, an officer was assigned to stand guard while the rest of the police entourage returned to the station. Giorgio was left to wander the crime scene alone. It was three o’clock.

  Giorgio sent Grosvner back to the station with McCready. After a cursory turn around the perimeter of the gravesite, he walked the length of the upper hillside studying the characteristics of what he could see of the main building. Something about this building bothered him. It was a typical Spanish design with a red-tiled roof that overhung the walls by at least two feet and a tower that extended upwards in three ornate tiers heavily supported by large masonry buttresses. The middle tier of the tower had an arched window on each wall that revealed a small hanging bell. The top level had no openings along the north side, but Giorgio had seen three arched windows along the front of the building. The roof was domed and accented with a cupola crowned with a cross and decorated with broad bands of etched stone. Cornices rimmed all three sections.

  Giorgio moved off the hillside down to the path that extended along the backside of the building, mentally counting windows and imagining what lay behind them. He passed the monks’ quarters and stopped at the window he believed stood at the top of the main staircase in the conference center.

  Something didn’t add up. Unless Mallery Olsen left her room at some point and was killed outside, she had to have been killed in her room. That complicated everything because no one could have gotten her down the staircase without being seen. And while someone from the conference could have slipped upstairs to her room unnoticed, a monk going upstairs would have stood out to the bartenders unless he was dressed in street clothes.

  And what about this second murder? Whoever the young man was buried in the garden, anyone could have arranged to meet him outside during the dinner, including a monk. And did his murder have an
ything to do with Olsen’s?

  Giorgio stood contemplating all of this when a creepy-crawly feeling began to inch its way across his shoulders. He came to attention and looked around thinking someone must have come outside again. But there was no one around. Giorgio looked up the hill, but the officer guarding the muddy hole stood with his back to Giorgio. Giorgio looked toward the kitchen, but there was no one visible there either. Was he being watched? He’d had the same feeling once at the scene of a shooting when the shooter had been standing only a few feet behind him in a crowd of onlookers.

  On a hunch, he turned back to the second floor window at the head of the stairs. An overhanging tree threw a shadow across the window, yet a faint image was barely visible against the glass. He squinted, straining to make it out. Suddenly, a chill jolted its way down his spine. It was the boy staring at him, his white shirt and black suspenders only dimly outlined behind the glass. The youth raised his hand to point a finger directly at Giorgio, turning the creepy-crawly feeling into a full-blown shiver.

  Giorgio turned and broke into a run, bursting through the kitchen door and sprinting down the hallway into the main lobby. Adrenalin surged through his veins as he took the stairs two at a time, sliding to a halt at the top of the landing for the second time in only a few days. The boy was gone, leaving only a cold hallway behind.

  Giorgio threw open doors on either side of the landing this time to make quick searches of the rooms, but he was left standing disoriented in the hallway feeling a chill pass to the core of his spine. What was going on? Was he seeing a ghost or just letting his imagination get the best of him? Not one person had mentioned the presence of a young boy on the premises, and yet he’d seen the same boy twice. Returning to the landing, he turned to the window where the boy had appeared. Why had the boy pointed at him?

  His eyes scanned the path below and then moved out into the flowerbeds and the area around the statues. Maybe the boy wasn’t pointing at him, but at something else. Giorgio surveyed the area inch by inch, quadrant by quadrant. When he found something that didn’t look as if it belonged there, namely something that looked manmade, he paused, focusing on that spot. Slowly, an image began to emerge. Lying in between the raised roots of a large tree was a dark object about fifteen inches long.

  He hurried down the stairs and returned to the area just below the window. The rain had stopped and he stepped off the path, climbing through low-growing shrubs to a small rise where a tree arched over a bank of prickly bushes. With his hands stuffed into his pockets to protect them, he pushed his way through the snagging foliage to a bare spot only visible from above. Tucked into a crevice made by two gnarly roots of the tree lay the object he sought. Grabbing a handkerchief, he reached out and lifted up a wine bottle labeled, “Crystal Moon Chardonnay”.

  Giorgio studied the bottle wondering if this was a clue or just a piece of trash. A quick glance to the window gave him the answer he was looking for. The boy was back. Giorgio held up the bottle and a moment later the boy vanished.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  By four o’clock that afternoon the second body had been identified as Jeff Dorman, a young man who had attended the conference but left before the banquet. None of the conference organizers knew anything about him. The preliminary report showed he was killed by a forceful blow to the side of the head. Time of death had not yet been established. Officer Maxwell had volunteered to stand in on the autopsy so Giorgio could go home and change into dry clothes.

  He came back wearing a Yankee baseball jacket and cap and was greeted by a small crowd of press people milling about the rear entrance. He was forced to make a brief statement, saying there would be a press conference later that afternoon. While this didn’t wholly satisfy anyone, it kept the throng at bay long enough for him to slip inside.

  Giorgio had missed lunch and so stopped at the vending machine for a Coke and a bag of corn nuts. Angie hadn’t been home when he’d gone back to change which was a good thing. He could stand down a killer but didn’t stand a chance with Angie. Swan was at his desk when Giorgio entered, his back arched and his head thrown backwards. The big cop let out a groan as his muscles stretched.

  “Want some ibuprofen or maybe a rack?” Giorgio inquired, not even trying to hide his cynicism.

  “Naw,” Swan said, straightening up. “I just need to start stretching again.” He gestured to Grosvner who was watching Giorgio pop corn nuts into his mouth. “He’s turning into a first-class police dog, don’t you think?”

  Giorgio looked down at the dog and tossed him a corn nut. “I guess,” he replied without conviction. “It was probably just dumb luck.”

  “I wouldn’t say that. Bassets have an extraordinary sense of smell.” Swan lifted his arms above his head as if reaching for the ceiling. “That’s what those long ears are for, you know. They were developed to stir up and hold the scent.” Swan’s voice squeezed out as he stretched upwards. “Same thing for all those folds in his skin. The folds trap the scent. I wouldn’t count him out. He was bred to hunt small game.”

  “So finding a corpse is the same as finding small game.” Giorgio crunched on a nut.

  Swan chortled as he lowered both arms. “No, but he knew what he was digging for.”

  “He could just be a digger,” Giorgio replied, taking a swig of coffee. “Some dogs are, you know.”

  “I doubt it,” Swan said leaning over to touch the floor. “He could’ve dug anywhere in that garden, but he went to the very spot where a body was buried.” He bounced once or twice, touching the floor and then straightened up, shaking out his shoulders. “You know about cadaver dogs don’t you? They can find a dead body under water.” Swan gave Giorgio an influential look as if he was selling Grosvner’s attributes short. “I think you’ve got a bloodhound on your hands. They are part of the hound family, you know?”

  Giorgio still looked unconvinced as he flipped another nut in the air. Grosvner snapped it up. “Well, I don’t think it will make much difference to Angie.”

  “I take it she still doesn’t like him.”

  Giorgio took his jacket off and draped it over the back of his chair. “Let’s just say the jury is still out on that one.”

  Swan took the hint and sat at his own desk. “So, what do we do next?”

  “If the Captain is back, I think we need to talk about meeting with the press.”

  “How much are you willing to tell them?”

  “Maybe it’s time to tell them everything. I noticed a CNN truck out there. If we don’t tell them what we know, they’ll find out anyway and we’ll look stupid. Can you watch Grosvner? I’ll be back in a few.” He stood up and threw the last few corn nuts into his mouth before heading down the hall to the Captain’s office.

  Forty-five minutes later, Giorgio stood on the front steps of the police department with ten or twelve microphones stuck in his face. The small brunette was front and center. Eventually, all reasonable questions were answered and he cut it off with the traditional, “That’s all for now,” and went back inside. Swan met him in the hallway.

  “How’d it go?”

  “We’ll find out on the six o’clock news. I just wish I knew how they found out about the finger. That’s all they kept asking about.” He threw a suspicious glance at Swan who threw up his hands.

  “Don’t look at me. There were a dozen officers there that night.” He turned and followed Giorgio back to their office. “Pretty hard to keep something like that a secret.”

  “Okay, let’s start putting this puzzle together. I want to find out what was in that second bottle of wine I found.” He avoided saying anything about the boy. No need to get the entire department talking about ghosts. “Get McCready and let’s meet in the conference room.”

  The lights flickered on in the conference room as Giorgio entered with another can of pop in hand. The chipped, gray walls were covered by an old chalkboard, a large map of the county, and several corkboards. Two large file cabinets sat in the corner. The linoleum floor
was scuffed and dirty, and a metal wastebasket sat in the corner overflowing with coffee cups and candy wrappers. A long tabled filled the center of the room surrounded by metal chairs.

  McCready had already tacked up individual profiles of every conference guest on blue 3x5 cards along with Polaroid photos taken the night of the murder. Information on the monks had been transferred to yellow cards. They filled one whole side of the largest bulletin board. Photos of the crime scene were tacked onto the smaller board and a general layout of the monastery grounds was sketched onto the chalkboard, highlighting the front, side, and rear entrances. Giorgio was studying the information when Swan returned with McCready. Grosvner plopped down on the floor near the file cabinets with a heavy sigh, fluttering his lips like the bellows of an old fashioned accordion.

  “Okay,” Giorgio started, “let’s go over what we have. According to Anya Peters, Dorman left the conference right after the last session on Saturday. That would have been around five-fifteen. No one reported seeing him at the dinner. And we know Mallery Olsen was killed between four o’clock in the afternoon and nine o’clock that evening. So, let’s try to establish opportunity for our list of suspects.” Giorgio circled the table and began pacing back and forth on the far side, the can of soda in his hand. “Father Damian was late to the night prayer. The janitor found him outside his office when he went to report the body.”

  “Do we know what he was doing?” Swan sat with his feet propped on the table. He had pulled out nail clippers and was concentrating on the little finger of his left hand.

  “I’m pretty sure he was with Anya Peters,” Giorgio replied.

  Both men raised their eyebrows but reserved comment.

  “According to him,” Giorgio continued, “the two parted company around seven. If true, that would have given either one of them the opportunity to commit the murder.”

  “Which one?” McCready’s question stopped Giorgio mid stride.