MASS MURDER

by Lynn Bohart

  “Yeah,” Tony agreed in between giggles. “She makes excuses that she’s going to the kitchen for a glass of water. Then we find her with her nose in the cupboards. Once, she took a piece of chicken off a plate in the icebox, ate half of it, and put it back. Mom was really mad.”

  Giorgio frowned as if the prospect of having Mrs. Greenspan was becoming less and less a viable option. All of a sudden, Tony rolled away from Grosvner with his hand over his nose.

  “Oh, no, he farted again!”

  “That’s it!” Giorgio stood up. “I’m calling Mrs. Greenspan.”

  By eight o’clock, Giorgio was parked on Eagleton Drive where Dorman’s car had been found. He hadn’t meant to return to the monastery, but decided on the after-dark excursion partly to get Grosvner out of the house, and partly because it would give him an opportunity to approach the property the same way he believed Dorman had the night he was killed.

  The moon sat high in the sky, illuminating a bank of clouds in a bright halo. Grabbing a flashlight and his cell phone, Giorgio got out of the car, conscious that if anyone saw the shadow of a man passing their windows they might call the police. The neighborhood was quiet except for the sound of a TV blaring.

  He set off down the path towards the dirt road he assumed Dorman had used. The road was riveted with deep tire tracks and runoff trenches, so Giorgio was forced to use the flashlight to avoid twisting an ankle. He breathed in the smell of sage brush just as Grosvner stopped to take a dump, making him hold his nose. Giorgio waited patiently while the dog did his business and then tried to mentally mark the spot so he wouldn’t step in it on the way back.

  He followed the road up and over an embankment until it turned north. This was a fire road that wound its way up into the hillsides. He’d participated a year earlier with the Sierra Madre Search and Rescue Team on a drill and remembered the road started to climb pretty steeply about a hundred feet ahead. It wasn’t going in the right direction.

  He found a small deer path and followed it over the crest of the hill in the direction of the upper gardens of the monastery. Although he couldn’t see the lights from the building yet, he judged he had less than a quarter of a mile to cover. Grosvner kept up, making Giorgio think he could see in the dark as well as a cat. They made their way through scrub oaks and scratchy underbrush until they climbed a small hill. In the distance, he could see the flickering lights from the retreat center.

  Moving at a faster pace now, he made it to the perimeter of the flower garden. Lights blazed at the entrance with yet another event. Apparently not everyone had cancelled bookings. Giorgio stayed to the north of the garden until he found the vegetable garden where Dorman had met his killer. They had released the guard earlier in the day, and so Giorgio was alone. He stopped to look at his watch. It had taken him only eleven minutes to make the trip in the dark and that included Grosvner’s bathroom break.

  The flashlight cut an arc around the surrounding area. To his right was a regiment of ghostly corn stalks. Together with the bushes and nearby trees, they camouflaged the building. It would have been easy for a conference guest to leave the cocktail party, kill Dorman and return unnoticed. It would have been more difficult for one of the catering staff since they would have had to leave the catering routine. Giorgio remembered however, that Colin Jewett routinely came out for a smoke after dinner. Perhaps Dorman was trafficking drugs and Jewett was the buyer. Corey Poindexter had also gone for a walk that night, as had John Marsh. Even the monks had to be considered now that he knew a few occasionally left the building after dark. Grand Central Station came to mind, with people crisscrossing the yard as they hurried to their various destinations. It was a wonder they didn’t all bump into each other in the dark.

  He glanced over at the tool shed. A dark image stood out in relief against the deep shadow of the shed’s outline. It was a tall, New England style bird feeder. He remembered seeing it during the daytime, but hadn’t thought much about it. A hunch made him walk over and shine his flashlight up into it. It was designed like a small octagonal building, complete with shingles and windows on all sides. It was secured onto a flat piece of wood that sat atop a steel pipe anchored into the ground. At the front was a wide doorway to let in its small, winged visitors. The feeder itself sat about a foot above his reach. As the beam of his flashlight cut into its interior, a glint from the inside made the hairs on the back of his neck bristle.

  Quickly, he surveyed the surrounding area until he found an old bucket thrown against the side of the shed. He took it back to the birdfeeder, turned it upside down and climbed onto its rickety bottom hanging onto the metal pole to gain his balance. The bucket sank into the soft earth, but gave him enough elevation so that with only a slight waver he could reach into the opening.

  His fingers scraped across old birdseed, splintered wood, and bird droppings. The bird droppings made him shudder, but when his fingers touched cold metal he smiled. With his handkerchief, he reached in and carefully removed a heavy, military style flashlight. Across one side was a dark splash of color.

  A little bird, he thought, may have just led him to Jeff Dorman’s murder weapon.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Giorgio returned to his car to deposit the flashlight into an evidence bag and then decided to drive to the monastery. He could return the architectural drawings to Father Damian and maybe find Father O’Leary. When he got there, Anya Peters was just disappearing into her office. Not wanting another confrontation, he proceeded to Father Damian’s door, but there was no answer and the door was locked. He’d have to leave them with Peters after all.

  He went to her office and knocked, but there was no answer there either. Confused, he tried the door knob and found it open. The room was empty. He took a quick glance down the hallway as Grosvner pushed past him, sniffing the carpeted floor. The dog stopped briefly at the desk and then made a beeline for the closet. He pressed his nose against the baseboard, inhaling with loud sucking noises.

  Curious, Giorgio placed the drawings on the desk and pushed Grosvner aside to open the full-length closet door. The closet wasn’t any bigger than a phone booth, but was empty. Peters’ coat was hung outside the closet on an antique coat tree, yet the smell of her perfume was overpowering inside the closet. Giorgio stared into the blank interior for thirty seconds feeling like a dancer who’d just missed a step onstage.

  What was going on here? It was clear Anya Peters had been in her office recently. But why would her scent remain in the closet if her coat was hung on the other side of the room? As his eyes roamed around the small space, the tiniest sliver of light near the floor at the back of the closet gave him the answer. He quickly flicked off the overhead light behind him and came back to the closet. He couldn’t help the smile that flickered across his face. There was a light leak from somewhere behind the back wall.

  He turned the light back on and then ran his fingers around the edges of the closet. He pushed knobs and twisted hooks looking for some secret lever. Nothing happened. His fingers pressed into corners and pulled on anything that hung loose. He even yanked at the coat rod. Nothing moved. He stood back and used his flashlight to play across the knotty pine panels. The beam of light inched across the wood surface, revealing the irregular wood grain that flowed in river patterns. Everything looked normal until he noticed a swirl of dark brown wood in the far upper right corner of the side panel. It appeared to be just another imperfection, but closer inspection revealed that it didn’t blend into the wood as the rest of the patterns did.

  His heart skipped a beat. He used the knuckle of his index finger to press the center of the demarcation. The circle receded into the wall a good half inch as the back wall opened silently toward him, bringing with it the musty smell of earth and decayed wood.

  Giorgio ordered Grosvner to stay put, pulled out his own flashlight and slipped through the opening. He found himself in a narrow hallway lit by a single wall sconce, with a low ceiling and a set of stairs descending to his right into a
well of darkness. A duplicate wood panel lined the opposite wall making him pretty certain Peters’ office backed up against Father Damian’s. If he was right, he was standing in between the two.

  Remembering the lost earring and the discrepancy in time, he was forced to assume there was another hidden doorway to Father Damian’s office, allowing the two to pass back and forth undetected. He listened at Damian’s wall for a moment, but heard nothing. Either they were engaged in something private, or Anya Peters had taken the stairs to places unknown.

  Giorgio followed his instincts and decided to descend the short set of stairs. He stepped into an earthen tunnel carved into shale rock that formed the foundation of the building. It had a low ceiling that appeared to be the underside of the floor above. The air was dank and musty and there was hard packed dirt beneath his feet. He used the flashlight to get his bearings.

  A claustrophobic tunnel twisted and turned as it followed the outline of the building above east. Wherever Peters had gone, she may return at any moment, and she might not be alone. He’d have to hurry.

  Old wall sconces dotted the interior wall, but offered no help now. Draped in cobwebs, they looked more like props from a Halloween fright house. The hard packed floor was uneven enough to increase the chance of mishap, so he had to be careful. In fact, he nearly tripped over a timber that framed a doorway as he hurried forward. Just beyond the heavy timber a small room opened up with a second set of stairs. A tiny light, the size of a nightlight, gave off a soft illumination at the top of the stairs. Giorgio carefully climbed the stairs but was forced to stop at a blank wall.

  He used his flashlight to search for what he knew had to be there, a mechanism to open the wall. Unfortunately, this area had not been constructed in anything as nice as knotty pine and there were no visible hooks, knobs, or levers. He pushed on the wall in several places, but it didn’t budge. He used the toe of his shoe to push against a shallow step. Nothing happened. He ran his fingers around what he thought must be the edges of a doorway. Still, nothing happened.

  The light switch and tiny bulb set into the ceiling were the only indications any technology existed here. Using his forefinger, he flicked the light switch. The light above him went out. He quickly flicked the light back on − but not before he heard a scraping noise that started and stopped. His heart fluttered again. He flicked the light back off and the wall began to move.

  “Whoa!” he whispered.

  With a rush of adrenaline, he stepped back just in time to allow the wall to open all the way. When he stepped forward, he was in the supply closet he and Rocky had visited earlier that day. The smell of turpentine and cleaning solutions were intertwined with the lingering aroma of Anya Peters’ perfume. With a soft moan, the wall swung closed behind him, leaving him in the dark. Very clever. As a safeguard, the light on the other side of the secret door went out as the door opened. When the door closed, the wall inside the closet appeared normal.

  Giorgio was just about to find the door to the stairwell when the scraping of metal alerted him that someone had entered the stairwell through the outside door. The closet extended all the way under the stairs, so he ducked back until he was able to effectively hide himself from view of the entrance − the way his ambusher had probably done the night he was attacked. And just in time. The door to the closet opened and a robed figure slipped through. The figure closed the door and flicked on a small pen light. The figure reached for something directly above the door. A moment later, the wall opened again, allowing the monk to glide silently into the tunnel.

  Giorgio allowed the secret door to close again before emerging from his hiding place. Quickly, he turned and shined his flashlight above the hallway doorframe where an enameled crucifix hung on the wall. He counted to twenty before reaching up and pulling on the crossed ankles of the Christ figure. The entire symbol slid silently down as if mounted on a well-oiled runner. The wall behind him opened and Giorgio wasted no time in following the furtive robed figure.

  He descended the steps as quietly as possible, conscious that the person he pursued could be waiting around any corner. He hurried through the tunnel, crouching around corners and hugging the outer wall. He made it to the small hallway outside of Peters’ office just as Anya Peters flew backwards out of her closet, nearly landing in his arms. A sharp bark signaled that Grosvner was the reason. Peters disengaged herself from Giorgio and turned to stare at him in surprise. The look on her face was a mixture of shock and anger as she realized her predicament.

  “That dog should be caged,” she bluffed. “What’s he doing in my office?”

  “I think the bigger question, Ms. Peters, is what are you doing making secret trips through an underground passage dressed as a monk?”

  “I don’t know what you mean. That dog nearly attacked me. I could bring charges.”

  She stopped talking when she realized Giorgio had noticed a set of monk’s robes hanging on a hook just inside the small enclosure.

  “Ah, the costume,” he said, starting towards it. When his foot kicked something lying in the dirt, he looked down to find a brown paper package lying in the dust. “Well, well, what’s this?” Giorgio stooped to pick it up.

  The pause Ms. Peters took before answering spoke volumes. “I have no idea,” she stammered, flinging her head in the air. “I’m not even sure where we are.”

  She made a vain attempt at looking lost, as if she’d fallen through the wall by mistake. Giorgio prodded her forward with his flashlight.

  “Let’s go back inside.”

  They squeezed through the closet door into the office again and he ordered Grosvner to the other side of the desk. Giorgio invited Ms. Peters to take a seat.

  “Want to tell me about it?” he asked, holding out the package.

  “I have nothing to tell,” she replied stubbornly. “I was working late and this dog attacked me in my own office. I’ll bring charges.”

  “You may want to revise that story, Ms. Peters. I followed you in here a few minutes ago, but when I got here, you were gone.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “I think I’d like to call a lawyer.”

  Her eyes flitted to the package and Giorgio smiled as he began to unwrap it. As he lifted the end flap, several plastic bags filled with white powder slid onto the desk. Anya Peters sank into her chair.

  “I think you’d better make that phone call right now,” he said, handing her the phone.

  With a grim look, she dialed a number while he pulled out his cell phone and called for a squad car. When she’d finished, he took out a pair of plastic ties, read her the Miranda rights, and cuffed her to an old radiator at the back of the room.

  “Now, don’t you go anywhere,” he chided, pointing at her with his flashlight.

  Giorgio and Grosvner hurried to the kitchen where the catering staff had begun to pack up. Mary Fields was at the sink rinsing out a chafing dish while Nancy placed empty platters into a large plastic storage container. Mary Fields stopped when she saw him enter.

  “Detective? Has there been another incident?”

  “Where’s Colin Jewett?”

  Grosvner had followed him into the kitchen and started a wide loop to where one of the assistants scraped leftovers into a large trash bin. At that moment, the back door slammed and Colin Jewett strolled in.

  “What’s next?” he asked Mary, freezing when he saw Giorgio.

  Giorgio held up his badge. “Colin Jewett, you’re under arrest. You have the right to remain silent; you have the right to….”

  Jewett turned and bolted for the back door. He would have made it except for Mary Fields’ foot which clipped him just above the ankles throwing him head first into the wall. Giorgio pulled his weapon and ordered the man to halt as he struggled to get up. Giorgio grabbed another set of plastic ties from his pocket and forced the man’s hands behind his back.

  “Nice work,” he said to Fields.

  Giorgio pushed Jewett against the wall and reached into his jacket pocket where he was
rewarded with an envelope filled with a stack of one hundred dollar bills. Just then a siren echoed in the distance, giving Grosvner a reason to join in for a good howl.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  It was after eleven o’clock and the bar was full. He sat alone in a red leather booth tucked in the far corner facing the door. Two worn pool tables commanded the center of the room. Neon signs advertising Bud Light and Draft Beer glowed in the window and an old-fashioned jute box played Kenny G, out-of-place here, especially for the group of bikers playing pool.

  The Guiness in his hand felt like an old friend and his thumb was already lifting the label, a habit he’d picked up as a child. Back then, every pop bottle or juice box had to be stripped of its label. It just did. It was an obsession. A nervous habit. His mother’s harsh voice still echoed in his head, screaming at him to stop making such a mess. What was she thinking these days, he wondered? His mother. She didn’t know the truth. His uncle felt she couldn’t be trusted and so was led to believe he was dead. It was the only guilt he’d felt since this all began.

  He glanced down at the small pile of paper on the table in front of him. What surprised him most was how lonely he was. He was isolated from everything and everyone he knew and he couldn’t be honest about anything. Every moment, every breath was a lie. And although he was good at lying − no, make that great at lying − living a continuous lie was harder than he thought it would be. There were moments when he wanted to scream at the top of his lungs that he wasn’t who he said he was just to see the look on everyone’s faces. But of course, he couldn’t. He was a ghost and had to stay that way.

  His short fingers cradled the cold bottle of beer while he half listened to two young women flirt with a couple of guys at the bar. His mind drifted back to when he’d held a cold bottle of Guiness the night he and Jacko had nicked Mangano. He’d been relaxing in his apartment, reliving the swell of pride at finally avenging his father’s death when a knock temporarily short-circuited his air supply. A familiar voice had called out from the hallway.