by Lynn Bohart
“Which what?”
“Which murder?”
Giorgio sighed. “That’s right. We have two murders and no idea if they’re related. Let’s keep going. John Marsh was absent from the dinner for at least a few minutes when he went to use the restroom behind the kitchen.”
“And Colin Jewett left the kitchen for a cigarette break around eight o’clock,” McCready added. “The problem is that no one remembers when either of them returned.”
Giorgio approached the bulletin board, studying the cards. “So at least four people had opportunity: Damian; Peters; Marsh; and Jewett.”
“The questions seem to be; were the two murders committed at the same time, by the same people, and for the same reason?” Swan added.
“You know we’re ignoring one whole group of people.” McCready stood off to one side as if giving Giorgio ample space to think out loud. “Any one of the monks could have committed these crimes, especially if the coroner places Dorman’s death before nine o’clock.” He approached the wall of cards. “There are at least ten or twelve of them that reported being alone at some point early in the evening.”
“Is there any way to know if a monk didn’t have an alibi?” Giorgio watched McCready scan the cards.
McCready pulled several off the board.
“Okay,” Giorgio said counting them. “We have four with no alibi.” Giorgio looked at McCready. “I understand a Father O’Leary took a walk that night.”
“That’s right!” McCready went back to the board. “Father O’Leary said he took a walk about seven o’clock.”
“Isn’t he the one who became ill later?”
“You got a hunch?” Swan asked.
Giorgio sat on the edge of the table. “I saw someone sneak out for a smoke later that night.”
“O’Leary was in the infirmary by the time we got there,” McCready interjected. “But the housekeeper reported she found dirt on one of the floors in the guest bedrooms.”
Giorgio shook his head. “No, I saw a monk outside. Which room had mud though?”
“Room 8.”
“That’s Cory Poindexter’s room,” Giorgio confirmed. “He said he took a walk. Let’s add him to our list. What else can you tell us?”
The young officer referred to his Blackberry. “Olsen sold real estate and met Beth Tomlinson when she sold her a house. Olsen told Tomlinsen about her journalism background and how much she hated real estate, so Tomlinsen gave Olsen the name of an agency looking to hire. According to Tomlinson, she began to make a name for herself pretty quickly. When Tomlinson’s dad died and had to fly home for the funeral, she called Olsen to stand in at the conference.”
“Was she a California native?”
Giorgio sat on the corner of the table, the empty soda pop can by his side. Swan picked it up and began punching dents into it.
“No. She was a Chicago native. She graduated from the University of Illinois with a degree in journalism, served as the editor for the school newspaper, was in the drama department and on the debate team.” He looked up to see if the others were listening, then continued. “She’s never been arrested, never belonged to a political party, but she is Catholic. And,” he added with a twinkle in his eye, “there is one connection you may find interesting.”
“What’s that,” Giorgio asked.
“She lived briefly in San Marino where Father Damian was senior pastor at St. Anselmo’s. He was asked to leave five years ago for having an affair with the wife of a church elder.”
“Well, that’s a nice piece of information,” Giorgio cooed. “Especially since he’s probably guilty of it again.”
“Care to share,” Swan prodded.
“The janitor saw Peters pulling out of the parking lot when he arrived, but Peters said she left around seven that evening.”
“That’s not much to go on,” Swan said skeptically.
“No, but she had a weak excuse for lying.” Giorgio told them about Peters’ earring and the fact that Syd Norville had found Father Damian in the hallway rather than in the chapel when he went to report finding the body.
“How does an affair fit into the crime though?” Swan wasn’t convinced.
“Damian was publicly chastised and relocated during the time Olsen was a member of the church,” McCready offered.
“And you think Olsen became aware of his little tryst with Anya Peters and he killed her for it?”
“I don’t judge the information, I just dig it up,” McCready stated flatly.
“It’s unlikely,” Giorgio admitted, “especially if the reprimand was public, but we can’t ignore it. We’ll drill down further to see if we strike oil. Keep going,” he directed McCready.
“Our second victim, Jeff Dorman, was twenty-three,” McCready said, returning to his notes. “He lived in Altadena and worked for Sanchez Produce Company. He also registered for the conference at the last minute and didn’t meet with any of the agents.”
“Maybe he wasn’t a writer?” Giorgio speculated.
“Possibly,” McCready agreed. “I called a number of the conference regulars and no one had ever seen him before. In short, he was an unknown, much like Olsen. He was arrested two years ago for possession of marijuana though,” McCready continued. “and charged a year later with selling it, although they couldn’t make that one stick.”
This captured Giorgio’s interest. “You think maybe he came to the conference to traffic dope?”
“I don’t know, but I spoke with a young woman who attempted to engage him in conversation. She said he didn’t know the difference between a mainstream novel and romance.”
“Any chance he and Olsen knew each other?”
“No connection there, yet.”
“And nothing in her past to suggest narcotics or a brush with the law?”
“None.”
Giorgio began to pace around the table again. Grosvner opened his eyes and watched him.
“Okay, what else do you have?”
“One of the new recruits, Father Julio, is also from Chicago. Maybe he has a past history with Olsen,” McCready speculated.
“What’d you find out at the caterers, Joe?”
Swan had found a toothpick in his coat pocket and was picking his teeth. Giorgio turned and watched him thinking he and Rocky could compete for attention-getting mannerisms.
“Not much. You know about Marsh, and Colin Jewett, one of the servers, went outside around eight o’clock for his usual cigarette. But again, no one paid any attention to when he returned.”
“Speaking of Marsh,” McCready interjected. “I have something on him.” He thumbed through a folder and pulled out some papers. “We found this in Olsen’s office.”
McCready handed a piece of paper to Giorgio. “What is it?”
“It’s what they call a query letter. I asked Beth Tomlinsen about it. Writers send them out to agents and editors offering up their work. If the agent is interested, they’ll ask for the whole manuscript.”
“But we don’t know if Mallery Olsen ever read this.”
“Actually, we do,” McReady countered as he found another piece of paper. “I went through her computer files this morning and she logged in Marsh’s query. I found a copy of her response.” He handed the second sheet of paper to Giorgio.
Giorgio skimmed both copies. “Not only was he lying about not knowing her, this might have given him a reason to want her dead.” He handed it to Swan.
Swan read a snippet out loud. “Your descriptions are mundane. Even your clichés are cliché. Ouch!”
“There’s more,” McCready continued with a burst of enthusiasm. “One of the attendees saw Marsh arguing with Olsen just before the dinner. This person couldn’t hear what they said, but Olsen walked away in a huff.”
Giorgio pulled out one of the chairs and sat down. “Marsh swore to me he didn’t know her. Perhaps he isn’t the beleaguered conference chair he claims to be.”
“I’ll do some more checking on Marsh,” McCread
y offered.
“Add Colin Jewett to your list,” Giorgio said as McCready wrote down the name. “And give Cory Poindexter the once over too. I didn’t like him, or his answers. And don’t forget to check the social media sites, for all of these guys.”
The door opened and a uniformed officer entered. He stepped over the dog to hand Giorgio a note.
“The medical examiner faxed this over. Said you’d probably want it right away.”
The officer left and Giorgio read the documents. Swan and McCready waited until Giorgio finally looked up.
“He hasn’t pinned Dorman’s time of death down but thinks it was sometime between six and ten o’clock Saturday night. Looks like we have two murders in almost the same location at almost the same time.” He handed the sheets over to Swan.
“And only about sixty possible suspects.” Swan sighed, glancing at the report.
“Perhaps the murders aren’t connected.”
Giorgio and Swan looked up to where McCready held Olsen’s folder close to his chest like a college student about to make a book report.
“Think about it,” he said. “The murders were completely different. Whoever killed Olsen wasn’t afraid of the body being discovered. In fact, the body was left in the closet where someone was bound to find it, making a big news splash. On the other hand, Dorman was buried.”
“Hurriedly, I might add,” Swan added, catching on.
“Right,” McCready agreed. “So, in one case, the body was placed where it would be found. In the other, the body was hidden.”
“Two different murderers,” Giorgio mused. “Could be.”
“But is it just a coincidence they were murdered on the same night?” Swan asked skeptically.
“Why not?” McCready defended his theory. “You said yourself there were sixty people on the premises that night. We don’t have a motive yet, just opportunity.”
Giorgio looked at Swan. “Do we have anything back from the lab yet?”
“No.”
“Then ride them. I need to know about that wine glass and the wine bottles. Also that cigarette butt.” He looked at McCready. “And I want to know everything you can find out about Dorman. Why he would have gone to a writers’ conference. Who would have even suggested it to him? Did he know Olsen or anybody else on that list? Canvass his neighborhood, his acquaintances, even people at work.”
“Right,” McCready gave a mock salute as he left.
“Here’s something else,” Swan interrupted, reading the third page of the fax. “It says Dorman’s injury was consistent with being hit from behind. What if he met someone out there to buy drugs? They got in an argument; he turned to leave and was hit from behind.” Swan handed the fax back to Giorgio.
“Maybe. Okay, catch McCready and get him to check up on Dorman’s bank accounts and his job. Also, anything we can find out about his personal life.”
Swan got up to leave but McCready met him on the way out.
“More information,” the young cop said. “They found Dorman’s car on a street called Eagleton Drive.”
“Where’s that?”
McCready squeezed past Swan and went to the map on the wall. He pointed to the base of the San Gabriel Mountains.
“Here’s the monastery. Just west of the property is a residential area, and here’s Eagleton Drive. It cuts off Michillinda and tucks back into a cul de sac. The backyards along here border the Fathers’ property. The car was parked up here. Dorman must have cut in between these two houses and across this hill. There’s a forest service access road in there. He must have gone through this short stretch of trees, crossed this hill, and come up through the garden. No one would have seen him.”
“Which is what he wanted,” Giorgio added as they all stood surveying the map.
“But why would he attend the conference and then check out only to sneak back onto the property?” Swan asked.
“To provide cover in case someone saw him,” McCready suggested.
Giorgio gave McCready an appreciative look, thinking the kid was a natural at this.
“He had to have a flashlight,” Giorgio said. “Otherwise he would have killed himself in the dark.”
McCready shrugged. “Unless he came back onto the property before it was completely dark.”
“No,” Giorgio cut him off. “If he went to that much trouble to conceal himself, he wouldn’t take a chance of being seen by some neighbor out for an evening stroll.” Giorgio gestured to the residential area on the map. “I’m going back up there to see what I can find.”
“But, Joe,” Swan began, “we searched that whole area.”
“If Dorman had a flashlight, where is it?” He turned to McCready. “Keep at it. I need to know whatever we can find out about Dorman.”
“Will do.”
Giorgio got up signaling to Grosvner his nap was over. “I’m going to see Marsh first,” Giorgio said pinning the fax to the bulletin board. “He has some ‘splaining to do.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
John Marsh lived in a lower middleclass part of Pasadena where the houses were small, box-like structures covered in a variety of pastel stucco. His pale green house sat at the end of a tree-lined street and was badly in need of paint. An old Ford sedan sat in the driveway.
Giorgio left Grosvner in the car and knocked on the screen door. The door opened to reveal Marsh dressed in baggy blue jeans and a faded red shirt that hung outside his pants. His hair stuck out at odd angles, and he hadn’t yet shaved. A far cry, Giorgio thought, from the prim and proper image he’d presented at the conference. Marsh seemed surprised to see the detective but pushed open the screen door and invited him in.
Giorgio entered a dingy living room with brown shag carpet. Stale cigarette smoke hung in the air. Lopsided stacks of books filled either side of the brick fireplace and writing magazines were scattered across the seventies’ style wood coffee table. Mismatching table lamps cast a dim glow across a large, velvet painting of a scantily-clad woman with big breasts leaning against a vintage car while a pack of hungry wolves circled around her. It was a cheap and tawdry piece of artwork, lending a cheap and tawdry feel to the room. It reminded Giorgio of the small apartment where his uncle had lived after his aunt died. Although it was clean enough, the lack of personality and musty smell, worn furniture, and dirty magazines spoke volumes about his uncle’s state of mind. Either Marsh lived on a meager income or had a dim view of his prospects in the world. Giorgio suspected both.
“May I offer you a beer?”
Giorgio shook his head. “No, thank you. I just need a few minutes. I’m surprised I caught you.”
“I work at home,” he gestured to the dining room where a computer was set up on a small dining room table. The entire table was filled with books and dirty dishes. There was only one chair. Apparently Mr. Marsh didn’t entertain.
“Please, have a seat. What can I do for you?”
Marsh sat on the frayed, green sofa, extending bare feet housed in open leather sandals. Giorgio sat across from him in a rickety swivel chair. He found himself staring at Marsh’s feet with their long toes and toenails. It was a moment before he realized Marsh had spoken.
“Did you find the killer?” Marsh continued.
“Not yet. We have a long way to go.”
Giorgio’s eyes came to rest on an ashtray sitting on the coffee table. It was overflowing and he tried to see what brand of cigarette Marsh smoked.
“Well, how can I help?”
It was clear Marsh felt edgy by Giorgio’s unannounced visit. He sat forward on the sofa, his forearms resting on his knees, his right leg bouncing up and down in a nervous rhythm.
“I was told you were seen arguing with Ms. Olsen just before dinner that night.”
Marsh shifted in his seat, drawing his feet close to the base of the sofa.
“I believe I had some words with her. I’m not sure I would characterize it as an argument.”
“What was it was about?” The chair Giorgio
had selected had a lumpy cushion that made him feel like he was sitting over the edge of a bucket. He shifted in his seat to find a more comfortable spot.
“She wanted to sit at a front table at the banquet. But the front tables were reserved for the conference committee and a few of the more well-known agents.” Marsh folded his arms across his chest in an attempt to appear relaxed, but it wasn’t working. “I was called to settle the dispute by Ms. Chase,” he said. “We stepped aside so I wouldn’t embarrass her, but Ms. Olsen wouldn’t listen to reason. She argued that she was as important as any of the other agents and deserved to sit at the front of the room.”
“How did the discussion end?”
He hesitated as he ran his tongue across his teeth. “She said something rude and walked away.”
“Mr. Marsh, are you an aspiring author like the rest of your members?”
“I write science fiction. I have four novels completed.”
“Any of them ever published?”
“I’m not sure where you’re going with this, Detective.”
He began to wriggle his toes nervously, making them look like long worms poking their heads out of a can.
“It’s a simple question. I’d just like to know if any of your work has ever been published.”
“No.”
“Do you have a literary agent?”
He sat forward with an angry expression. “Why are you asking me these questions? I had nothing to do with Mallery Olsen’s death!”
“I like to know who I’m dealing with. Do you have an agent?” Giorgio remained calm, looking directly into Marsh’s eyes.
“No,” he said with exasperation. “I’ve received some very nice comments about my work, but so far the timing has been off.”
“Did you ever submit anything to Ms. Olsen?”
“I told you, I didn’t know her.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
Marsh paused, chewing his lip. “I sent her a query letter back in August.” Marsh paused again, sorting out how to continue. “She asked for the first fifty pages of my novel.”
“What happened?”
As the color drained from his cheeks, he began to wring his hands. “She rejected it, but I wasn’t lying to you. I had never met her before she came to this conference.”