MASS MURDER

by Lynn Bohart

  “Open the door, Cato.”

  His uncle. It hadn’t been a spontaneous visit. Oh, no. There were people who watched and reported what went on in the neighborhood. His uncle had come for a reason.

  When his uncle entered the apartment, Cato had closed the door and leaned against it in an attempt to appear casual.

  “Uncle Nick, what brings you here at this hour?” The dryness in his throat had cried out for the cool ale in his hand, but he held the bottle at his side.

  His uncle stood looking out the window, most likely at his black Mercedes waiting at the curb. The pure elegance of this man had always held Cato in awe. His rich black suit and blue silk tie seemed to define the very air around him.

  “You been busy tonight, Cato. Am I right? I hear things, and some things I hear ain’t so good.

  Cato had flicked the beer bottle with his forefinger just as he was doing now, filling the small apartment with a dull echo.

  “I don’t know what you mean, Uncle Nick.

  “You went to Alfonso’s tonight. You think I wouldn’t find out?

  He’d tried to respond, but a papal gesture from his uncle had stopped him, the sparkle of gold glinting off the ring finger of his right hand.

  “Mangano had to be eliminated. You had a right, Cato, but not like this. You’re inexperienced. You should have waited. You made mistakes. Mistakes that will raise questions. Questions I can’t afford.

  Cato’s thumb nail raked across the bottle label at the memory, shredding the last of it and forming a small pile on the bar room table.

  “I’ll lay low for awhile. I can do that. You always said I’m like a mole that goes underground.

  “Moles leave little piles of dirt around for others to find, Cato. That’s how they catch moles. No, I’m afraid something more permanent must be arranged.

  The front door to the bar banged open extinguishing the chilling voice in his head. Three young businessmen entered the bar, their arrogant disregard for others preceding them. He ignored them, turning his gaze to the flat screen TV that hung behind the bar. It was tuned to the local news. A brunette woman reported that a young man named Jeff Dorman had been found buried in the vegetable garden on the grounds of the monastery. She went on to say the victim had attended the same writers’ conference as Mallery Olsen and may have been killed on the same night. The picture switched to tape of a news conference apparently held earlier in the day where the lead detective on the case, a Giorgio Salvatori, was making a statement.

  Cato leaned forward to listen more closely. This was the man he had seen in the gift shop. This Salvatori reported that the police didn’t know if the two deaths were related yet, or if the two victims had even known each other. Cato smiled. He had no idea who the dead guy was, nor did he care. He only hoped the second murder would lead the authorities away from him. The detective went on to say they were still running down leads on the Olsen murder and had no idea why the killer had removed her little finger. This sparked a flurry of interruptions as reporters clamored for questions, but Detective Salvatori abruptly ended the press conference and went back inside.

  Cato leaned back. His little package would have gone out in the mail today and he practically salivated at the thought of what it would do to the next press conference. Although there wouldn’t be any congratulatory phone calls, his uncle would recognize the message because he’d also removed Mangano’s little finger. His reward for having waited fifteen years.

  Glancing at the TV again, he caught the fleeting picture of Jeff Dorman as the reporter signed off. Thinking about Dorman gave rise to a concern. He still had one loose end, a big loose end that demanded attention. It would require taking another risk, but the risk was greater if he did nothing. Jeff Dorman’s murder might actually help deflect attention; even confuse the matter to the point of obfuscation. Since it was probably an amateur who had killed Dorman, the police were more likely to solve that murder. So, what if there was a third murder and they were all pinned on the same person?

  He smiled.

  Bodies piling up all over the place at the Catholic monastery. What a hoot. His uncle wouldn’t see the poetic justice, but he would recognize the clarity with how it was accomplished.

  Cato’s lips played with the rim of the bottle as he contemplated his next move. He would take no trophy this time. In fact, it was time for something bold. Something different. Something that would eliminate any patterns the police might follow. He contemplated a few possibilities and then nodded to himself.

  Ah, yes. He knew just what to do.

  With a quick chug, he finished the beer and slid out of the booth, leaving a small pile of shredded paper behind.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Father O’Leary lifted his huge bulk out of the wooden chair in the library, stretching his arms over his head to alleviate the ache in his back. He really should lose a few pounds. Always overweight as a child, he’d grown to be an overweight adult. It had never posed a problem until the monks had begun baking bread for additional income. A freshly baked loaf of sourdough bread was something he couldn’t resist. Add the real butter Mrs. Tilkens snuck to him on Sundays, and a warm slab of bread took on the mouth-watering appeal of a piece of double chocolate cake. Soon enough, his affliction had taken on new proportions, literally.

  He stretched his back feeling a slight lightheadedness. These had been the first few hours out of bed and perhaps he wasn’t yet fully recovered from the intestinal tract infection he’d come down with on Saturday night; the night the young woman was found hanging in the closet. He placed his hand across his mid-drift, feeling his intestines grinding slowly inside.

  What was it that made him so sick he would still be feeling the effects? Dinner that night had been a rather plain beef stew and no one else was taken ill. It might have been the sardines he’d feasted on in his room earlier that day. But most assuredly, if they had been tainted, he would have felt the effects sooner than evening time. The only other possibility was the chocolate bar one of the brothers had slipped him right after dinner in appreciation for a helping hand. But he couldn’t imagine a chocolate bar giving him so much trouble. It was a mystery to be sure.

  He moved into the glow of a small lamp sitting on the table next to the window and gazed out across the east parking lot, flexing and relaxing the fingers on both hands. A cigarette right now would taste heavenly and might even serve to quiet his stomach. He was behind in cataloguing the new books delivered from the regional office, and he looked at the stack of tomes on the floor with a small pang of guilt. This was the first time he’d felt well enough to tackle the job, which had to be finished by the Bishop’s arrival on Friday. Of course, he wondered if the bishop would even come. The monastery was a-buzz with news of the second murder victim and the arrest of Anya Peters, the Event Coordinator. About fifteen abbots would be attending the regional forum. A multiple murder site could hardly be a place of peace and solitude, what with yellow police tape hanging everywhere, news vans blocking the entrance, and people getting arrested. The more he thought about it, the more he felt certain the bishop would change plans and his deadline would be a thing of the past.

  A fifteen-minute break was looking more and more like a good idea. It would refresh his spirits and allow him to work with more clarity. After all, it wouldn’t do to make a mistake. And if the bishop didn’t come this weekend, it wouldn’t matter if he finished by Friday anyway. He glanced back out at the night sky which displayed an inviting splash of stars and a crisp moon. Yes, a walk in the garden would surely do him good.

  Father O’Leary turned on his heel and left the library, disappearing down the hallway to his room where he pulled a single Marlboro from the pack hidden behind his shaving kit, along with a small pack of matches. A moment later, he was descending the stairs, his robes billowing behind him. A furtive glance down both hallways told him he was alone. Because the night offered a clear view of the valley, he decided to take his walk at the front of the building. It was
after midnight and the monks were expected to be in bed, ready to rise at four in the morning. The grounds would be free to roam in what Father O’Leary considered his personal time for quiet contemplation.

  When he reached the front door, the soft thud of a door closing upstairs warned him that someone else was feeling restless tonight. He hurried out the door and down the path leading to the large wooden cross. He stayed to the flagstone path, crossed the drive, and then lumbered down the embankment to the small duck pond. There, he lowered himself onto the wall that rimmed the shallow water and sighed. This was his favorite spot and the bushes gave him ample cover from prying eyes. A few seconds later, he was holding a lit cigarette and drawing the acrid smoke into his lungs with a feeling of reverence. His whole body relaxed as the nicotine flushed his veins. When he exhaled, he crossed one leg over the other and gazed with satisfaction out on the valley below.

  It was a beautiful evening, though chilly, and the rich pine bouquet of the trees close by was intoxicating. Crickets kept up a healthy racket in the grasses that surrounded the pond and the soft breeze gently rustled the palm trees along the drive, making it sound as if a bubbling brook angled its way down the hill. The sound of music drifted across the open fields from one of the neighborhood houses, making him think of the conference and the murder.

  He’d missed much of the excitement surrounding the investigation because he’d been confined to the infirmary. But that hadn’t stopped him from thinking about it. The image of a young girl strangled and hanging alone in the supply closet was heartbreaking.

  He took another draw on the cigarette, allowing it to warm his insides. His muscles tingled as the nicotine brought them back to life.

  His mind drifted back to the girl in the closet and the question of how and why someone would commit such a heinous act on the monastery grounds. The monks had gossiped about it quietly all week and that gossip had reached him even in the infirmary. There was a running theory that the murder was the result of a lover’s spat gone bad, but that didn’t resonate with Father O’Leary. And it didn’t answer the question of how the murderer had killed her and placed her in the closet without detection. Unless she’d been killed outside, getting her down the staircase and into the closet without being seen was almost impossible. Yet, according to the police, she hadn’t been outside. She’d been seen going back to her room. The only way from her room to the kitchen was either down the main staircase or down the fire escape, and carrying a body down that fire escape seemed impractical to say the least.

  Thoughtfully, Father O’Leary took another draw on the cigarette, watching the ember burn flare.

  Of course, there was one other way. A route that only he and a few living persons knew about. The thought had bothered him all week and reminded him of the Snickers Bar he’d snacked on that night and the bitter aftertaste he thought was a bad peanut.

  He pulled another mouthful of smoke into his lungs, allowing it to escape slowly, curling up into the night air.

  A twig snapped in the thicket of bushes behind him and the crickets’ symphony abruptly ceased.

  “Who’s there?” he called out, his breath catching.

  He let the cigarette drop to the ground and snuffed it out. It wouldn’t be good to be caught smoking, even though he wasn’t the only one on the premises who did. He waved his hand in front of his face to dispel the lingering evidence and then stood up and turned around.

  “Anyone there?”

  His eyes strained to see in the darkness. Although it was still nearly a full moon, shadows filled every gap and crevice, making it difficult to distinguish shapes and forms beyond a few feet away.

  “It’s Father O’Leary here, enjoying a few moments alone. Come and join me.”

  A rustle to his right made him jerk in that direction. Was someone circling him? Was someone there at all? Perhaps it was just a rabbit. There were plenty of the little critters at this time of year.

  “Who’s there? Please. This isn’t funny.”

  His voice cracked, and he swallowed a wad of sour tasting saliva. There was another sound behind him, and he whirled around to face the open field that stretched away towards the south. Nothing. And still no crickets. He waited, listening until all he could hear was the beating of his own heart. Finally, he backed up a few steps. This was silly. He was letting his imagination run away with him. It was time to go inside. There was work to do. Those books needed cataloguing whether the bishop arrived this weekend or not.

  The trees rustled again, and the tips of the rose bushes swayed back and forth in the breeze. A chill snaked down his spine making him turn again. Someone was here with him. He knew it. He could feel it. He spun a full 360 degrees until he found a figure standing a few feet away, draped in shadows, yet fully recognizable.

  “Oh, it’s you!” Father O’Leary clapped his hand to his chest as he tried to catch his breath. “You frightened me. You shouldn’t sneak up on people. Shame on you. You don’t want a cigarette, do you? I’m flat out and I was just thinking of going back inside.”

  “Good idea,” the figure replied, “it’s chilly out here. And you’re not well.”

  “Yes, yes,” O’Leary acquiesced, “I agree. I just couldn’t resist. You know me. It’s so lovely out tonight.”

  The figure gestured. “I’ll follow you up. I want to make sure you get back safely.”

  Father O’Leary smiled, feeling a nervous twitch in his gut. “That’s very kind of you.”

  He hesitated before stepping past the other figure, never seeing the arm that swung around to land a crushing blow to the side of his head. One knee buckled, and he reached out for help, grabbing only a handful of cloth as the figure pulled away.

  “Please,” Father O’Leary groaned.

  His plea was rewarded with a second blow to the crown. He collapsed sideways onto the rim of the pond, his breath coming in short rasps as something warm begin to run down the side of his face and into his mouth. Incapacitated, he couldn’t resist when two strong hands grabbed his legs and pulled them onto the ledge.

  “Why?” he muttered through blood and spittle. “Why are you doing this?”

  But he knew the answer, and before he could resist, the hands gripped the edges of his robes and rolled him into the water, face down. He struggled to get his knees underneath him, but the hand found the back of his head and pressed his face to the bottom. His nose glanced off the mossy stones and panic seized him. He struggled to pull his head away, but the hand pressed harder, breaking his lips and cracking his teeth against the stones. Algae and blood flowed into his mouth, and he coughed and sputtered before taking a final, large gulp. The foul tasting water filled his lungs, expanding his chest like a water balloon.

  For a brief moment, he was flying above the wheat fields in Illinois where he’d grown up. Below him he saw his little sister running with her kite through the tall grasses, the family dog chasing after her. The sky was a brilliant blue, the clouds a starchy white, and then there was only darkness.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Giorgio woke to a persistent ringing and turned toward the noise, his pupils bringing the room slowly into focus. Angie moved underneath the blanket, motivating him to reach for the phone before it woke her completely.

  “Hello,” he croaked.

  “Joe,” someone said sharply. “You’d better get up to the monastery. There’s been another murder.”

  Giorgio sat up. He recognized Jack Barnes, one of the officers who worked the graveyard shift. “You’re kidding?” he whispered, rubbing the stubble on his face.

  “They just called it in. One of the monks was found floating in the pond.”

  “Jesus. Which one?” he sighed.

  His eyes were fully open now. It was barely light outside and the elm tree that bordered the house danced gently to a soft breeze.

  “Someone named O’Leary.”

  Giorgio groaned. “Okay,” he exhaled, “I’m on my way.”

  He approached the duck pond
by the flagstone path. There were no ducks, probably never had been, but still it was a peaceful spot, a grassy spot, a place for quiet contemplation – or a murder.

  The morning sun was just rising above the sycamores casting the sky in a warm glaze. The small body of water sat about two hundred feet down the slope from the southeast corner of the building. A bank of large Rhododendron and Camilla bushes rimmed the pond along the east side. Roses along the west. A stone bench offered the only seating. The pond wasn’t much larger than a backyard pool, but quite shallow. Giorgio gazed down on the dark Lily pads that floated on top of the murky green water along with the billowy shape of a brown robe. He suddenly felt very old.

  A group of officers were already processing the crime scene. Mulhaney stood on the two-foot retaining wall that encircled the pond, legs spread for balance, his camera poised to take aerial shots of the dead priest. The medical examiner was close by, taking note of the air and water temperature. An officer contained a gaggle of reporters down by the entrance. Three murders at a Catholic monastery had put both the town and the retreat center on the media map.

  Officer Barnes stood off to one side talking with Father Damian who stared blankly in the direction of the water-logged priest as if this new murder had suddenly turned him to stone.

  Giorgio glanced at his watch. It was only seven o’clock and he hadn’t even had his morning coffee. He ignored the rumbling in his stomach and approached Barnes.

  “What do we know so far?”

  “Not much. Father Daniel found him. He was out for an early morning jog.”

  Giorgio looked over to where the good-looking Father Daniel stood with the group of monks openly gawking at the floating image of their fellow Jesuit. Daniel wore a loose fitting black, nylon running suit with a sweatband around his thick, dark hair. His expression was placid, the brown eyes calm in stark contrast to the tense anxiety of those around him.