MASS MURDER

by Lynn Bohart

  “She would be delighted to see you. I must warn you though, she’s very weak. She’s ninety-one and has been bedridden for some time.”

  “I’ll just take a minute.”

  She had him follow her to a back bedroom. The curtains were open, allowing filtered sunlight to enter the room. A frail woman lay propped up by pillows in a single bed with a high, carved headboard. The room was neat and clean, yet the smell of urine hung in the air making him think of his grandmother who had lived with his family for two years before she died. Mrs. Applebaum’s hair was an iridescent white and lay in soft curls on her pillow. Milky blue eyes met him with a weak smile as she lifted a thin hand towards him.

  “Mrs. Applebaum, thank you for seeing me.” Her skin was cold to the touch and so fragile he felt if he squeezed too tightly he might break all the bones in her hand.

  “It’s a pleasure,” she whispered. “Elvira said someone’s been killed up at the monastery. You’re the detective, is that right?”

  She seemed spry, despite her infirmity.

  “Yes, I’m looking into the murders. Could you answer a few questions about the building?”

  “I can try,” she said letting her hand fall back to the bed. “What do you want to know?”

  “Your husband was the architect.”

  “That’s right. It was Joseph’s first real job.”

  “Your daughter said that some major changes were made to the building plans at the last minute. Could you tell me about that?”

  “Joseph was very angry,” she said, coughing. “He’d spent nearly a month doing the original plans. Father Simon, I think it was, ordered him to make some changes that caused Joseph to stay up for two nights in a row to finish on time.”

  “Do you know what those changes were?”

  “He wasn’t allowed to talk about them, but I remember he was asked to make some kind of internal adjustments that threw everything off. He had to practically start over, and yet the deadline for the drawings wasn’t changed. Neither was the fee. We needed the money and so he completed the work.”

  “But you don’t know what those adjustments were?”

  “I’m afraid not. He was good to his word and didn’t share anything with us.” She punctuated the reply with a deep, throaty cough, which triggered a series of smaller coughs. Her daughter stepped in to pull up an afghan.

  “I’m afraid you’ll have to go,” she said.

  “No!” the old woman almost choked out the word. “Please, don’t leave. I want to help.” She had trouble getting the words out, but her face was set with determination.

  “Would you know who did the construction work during the time your husband was the architect?” He asked the questions now with a growing sense of guilt.

  “Not the name of the company,” she almost whispered, her head dangling to the side weakly. “But I do know they were from out of town. Joseph commented on it a number of times. He joked once that even the Catholic Church knew how to be deceptive.” She started to cough again, but put up a hand telling him to wait a moment. When her lungs relaxed, she whispered, “Please, go on.”

  Giorgio admired her. She reminded him of his Grandmother who had fought right up to the very end, finally succumbing to the cancer that destroyed her liver.

  “You wouldn’t happen to have copies of the original drawings would you?” He asked this as much to the elder woman as to the daughter.

  “No,” the daughter replied. “We got rid of everything when my father passed away. I’m sorry.”

  Giorgio was disappointed. “Well, thank you Mrs. Applebaum. I appreciate your time.”

  She smiled warmly. “Not at all, detective. I’m happy to help.” She was wheezing now and her voice faltered. “Joseph was very proud of the work he did up there. I was surprised he ever worked for them again.”

  Giorgio stopped at the door. “Again? You mean he did additional work at the monastery?”

  “Yes, it was around the time of the war,” she paused trying to remember. Her eyes fluttered briefly before she continued. “A Father Wingate asked him to do the work.”

  “Do you know what he was asked to do?”

  “He was asked to separate the monk’s quarters from the boy’s quarters, but something about it made him very angry again. He said they’re all alike. He was disgusted enough to say he’d never work there again. In fact, he’d never work for the Catholic Church, period.”

  Giorgio turned an inquisitive eye to the daughter.

  “He said the monks were no better than the sinners who confessed to them, and that he was no engineer.”

  “Interesting,” Giorgio mused. “Thank you both very much”

  He left the room and Elvira Applebaum walked him to the door. “I’m sorry we couldn’t be of more help.”

  “You’ve helped quite a bit.” He pulled out his card and handed it to her. “Please, call me if you think of anything else.”

  She put up a hand to make him pause and faded back into the house, returning with her own business card. It read, “Elvira Applebaum, Executive Director, The Childcare Consortium”.

  “I have a healthcare worker who stays with my mom during the day, but I can be reached at work.”

  “Thanks. I appreciate that.”

  He left her at the door and strolled down the cement walkway thinking about what might have been contained in those original plans. He knew there were secret tunnels. If there was a secret passage between the two halves of the building, it could have provided a means for murder. But only a thorough search of the premises would answer the question, and it might take weeks. And he had a feeling he didn’t have that much time.

  It was almost seven o’clock by the time Giorgio arrived home. The children bombarded him at the doorway, herding Grosvner off to the living room. He poked his head into the kitchen and spied a plate set off to one side covered with aluminum foil. The tangy aroma of fried chicken was too great, and he pulled the plate off the counter and sat at the table before seeking out his wife. The mashed potatoes were cold, so he shoved them into the microwave and was standing at the counter ripping the flesh off the chicken bone when Angie appeared at the arched doorway.

  “You find food like most hunting dogs find game,” she sneered.

  He turned to her with a greasy smile. She passed behind him and went to the refrigerator to pour him a glass of milk. He retrieved his potatoes, quickly smothering them in rich butter. She placed the glass of milk on the table and started to leave without another word.

  “Angie, we should talk,” he said, swallowing quickly.

  She turned with a look of restrained patience. “We don’t talk, Joe. I talk. You whine. You complain. You lecture. But you don’t talk.”

  He stood motionless, plate in one hand, drumstick in the other. Slowly, he set them both on the table, wiped his hands and sat down.

  “C’mon, Angie. I can’t stand being mad at each other. I’m sorry.”

  She continued to stand in the doorway, arms folded across her chest. He lowered his eyes knowing it made him look pathetic.

  “Did you really think the dog would make things okay?” she asked with only slightly more warmth. “He’s just one more slob for me to clean up after.”

  He looked up at her while a sly smile crept across his face. “Yeah, but if you put dish towels on those ears of his, he could sweep the floor.”

  In spite of her anger, she smiled and he felt the ice begin to break. She came to the table and sat across from him. There was a long pause before she spoke.

  “I didn’t mean to keep it from you, Joe. Really, I didn’t.”

  He reached out a hand and clasped her fingers. “And I didn’t mean to yell. It just scares me, Angie. We don’t save enough now. How are we going to feed another mouth, save for college, and plan for our own retirement?”

  She lifted those soft brown eyes and placed her other hand over his, turning his heart to mush. “We’ll manage, Joe. We always do. God wants us to have this child.”
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  Her faith was so complete, so unwavering. He’d never been able to match her in that department. As a young boy, he’d wondered if somehow God had passed him over − sprinkled the fairy dust on everyone but him.

  Looking at Angie now, he knew there was no argument to win here. They would have this child, and it would warm his heart as it had twice before. A cold nose pushed up against his elbow, and Grosvner laid his long snout across Giorgio’s lap.

  “Do you want me to take him back?” he asked without much conviction.

  She stood and walked around to his side of the table. Grosvner looked up with his droopy, pathetic eyes. She smiled.

  “I think God meant for us to have this dog, too. I’m not sure why,” she said, reaching out a hand to pull at one ear, “but there’s a reason.”

  She bent down to kiss her husband when they both wrinkled their noses and pulled away, looking at the dog.

  Giorgio exclaimed. “Christ, what did you feed him?”

  “Phew, he’s worse than you!” Angie backed away, waving her hand in front of her face. “Maybe he has to go outside.”

  She called the kids and ordered them to take him outside. They did so willingly, and Angie left the room laughing while Giorgio moved to the counter to finish his dinner.

  That night, the couple sat together watching TV, and later, in bed, Giorgio played his favorite role − that of ardent lover. Although there would be no curtain call or applause, there was at least one repeat performance, making him feel perfectly cast for the part.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  When Giorgio arrived at the station the next day, he couldn’t hide the smile. Even Grosvner seemed to walk with an extra spring to his step. Giorgio stopped to get coffee at the vending machine and then sauntered the rest of the way down the hallway humming. Swan looked up and seemed to assess the situation immediately.

  “Angie change her mind about the dog?”

  The sly smile told Giorgio to be careful. He shrugged his shoulders. “It just took some time.”

  “And a little nookie? Glad to see you’ve still got it in you, Joe.”

  “So, what do we know about Father O’Leary?”

  Swan’s smile hung loosely on his face another few seconds and then he let it fade.

  “The coroner’s report came in early this morning. O’Leary suffered a blow to the left frontal lobe and one to the crown, but that’s not what killed him. He was drowned. There was quite a bit of pond water found in his lungs. One tooth was cracked and his lip was split. It appears someone held his head under water until he stopped breathing sometime between eleven o’clock last night and four a.m.”

  “Another late night rendezvous,” Giorgio said distantly. “Was the blood on the rock his?”

  “It matches his blood type, but we don’t have DNA back yet. He might have died eventually from the blow to his head, but the pond was convenient and provided the exclamation point at the end of the sentence.”

  Giorgio looked up. “That’s a rather poetic statement for a cop.”

  Swan shrugged. “Well, the good news is that we have the rock, but we’ll never get any fingerprints off of it so it doesn’t really help much. Anyway, chances are O’Leary was killed because he saw who killed Olsen. Maybe even Dorman.”

  “If O’Leary saw Olsen’s killer,” Giorgio speculated, “then whoever killed her must have been a monk.”

  “How so?”

  “Because otherwise, O’Leary would have told Rocky when he interviewed him. On the other hand, he might have wanted to protect a fellow monk. By the way, O’Leary left me a message yesterday.”

  “Too bad.”

  The sound of rustling papers made them look up. McCready stood in the doorway.

  “When you think about it,” the young cop began, “if O’Leary had seen the murderer outside, what are the chances he could identify him? Even Father Frances said he saw someone from an upstairs window but couldn’t tell who it was.”

  “True,” Giorgio agreed. “It was cloudy that night, and I’ve been up there several times now in the dark. Sightlines are blocked from almost any angle, and there’s no light out there. It’s likely he wouldn’t have been able to tell who it was. But I bet you twenty dollars he could tell if it was a monk.”

  “Only if the monk was wearing robes.”

  “Right again.” Giorgio shrugged and glanced at his desk. “But it could have been something else. O’Leary could have known something only the killer knew, maybe something that gave the killer motive or means.”

  Swan leaned back and threw his legs onto the desk. “The forensics report came back on the bottle you found in Olsen’s room. It was clean.”

  Giorgio looked disappointed. “What about the second bottle I found outside?”

  Swan and McCready exchanged a glance. “No fingerprints, but it showed traces of chloral hydrate,” Swan replied. “So, I guess you were right. Whoever killed Olsen carried both her and the bottle outside.”

  “Unless he disposed of the bottle later,” Giorgio offered. “He could have hidden it until the next day and then thrown it into the trees when no one was around.”

  “Why would he do that? Why not get rid of it?”

  “Maybe we were supposed to find it. Maybe it was a red herring.”

  “A what?” McCready’s face screwed up into a question.

  “A false clue. Crystal Chardonnay was the same wine served that night by the caterers. He could have thrown been trying to lead us to a conference attendee or a caterer.”

  “How’d you find that bottle anyway? We combed that entire area,” Swan wanted to know.

  Giorgio dared not look at either man or risk exposing his own doubts about how he found it. And he wasn’t about to tell them a little ghost had told him.

  “That’s what makes me think it was placed there later,” he said, avoiding Swan’s question.

  “Otherwise you would’ve found it.”

  He turned to Olsen’s file, which lay on top of his desk. The distraction worked, and there were no follow up questions. Clipped inside Olsen’s folder were photos of the crime scene taken from every angle. The supply closet appeared dark and crowded. Along the left wall was a peg-board covered with hammers, pliers and other small tools used in general repairs. Two brooms and a mop hung on the far wall. Just beyond the mop was a ladder leaning up against the circuit breaker box. Built-in shelving along the right wall held bottles of cleaners, rags, light bulbs, blankets, and other supplies. In the corner sat a mop bucket, an electric floor buffer, and vacuum. Across the back was a wall-mounted coat rack. A green utility jacket hung on the first hook. Mallery Olsen hung on the third hook, partially blocked by the ladder. The shadows were deepest at that part of the small room and explained why the janitor hadn’t seen her right away.

  Giorgio stared at the pictures. This wasn’t just a mystery anymore, it was a puzzle. As he recalled, several monks had either been late to compline that night or absent all together. And because of the time window, the murder could have been committed earlier, perhaps even during the five o’clock Mass. So there was opportunity. But it didn’t answer the questions of why a monk would kill a young woman attending a conference in the first place, or how he could pull it off.

  “We did check on those gray fibers,” he heard Swan saying in the background.

  “Yeah?” Giorgio replied absently, still staring at the photos.

  “All of the guest rooms have blue or green chenille blankets. The monks use heavy gray, wool blankets.”

  “Blankets?” Giorgio looked up as if waking from a dream. “What did you say about blankets?”

  “Remember the gray fibers? You thought they must have come from something the body was wrapped in. Well, we haven’t found a gray carpet anywhere, but the blankets are a possibility.”

  Giorgio wasn’t listening. He’d quickly returned to the pile of photos grabbing one from the bottom. The photo he pulled out showed the right wall of the supply closet with the built in shelving.
He picked it up and peered closely at it.

  “You know when I’m reciting, I expect you to listen,” Swan said in the background. “I’ve been forced to listen to enough of your play rehearsals.”

  Giorgio looked over at him with a smile. “Did you ever read the Purloined Letter in high school?”

  “The what?”

  “The story about the guy who left the letter in plain sight. No one found it because they assumed it was hidden?”

  Swan looked confused. “What are you talking about?”

  Giorgio got up and moved around his desk so that he could drop the picture squarely in front of Swan. “Our murderer has a sense of humor, don’t you think?”

  Swan dropped his feet to the floor and looked at where Giorgio pointed a finger − the dimly lit shelves in the closet. One shelf was filled with cleaning supplies and a single gray blanket.

  “Let’s go get that blanket. Then, we need to figure out how a monk got into Olsen’s room without being noticed.” Giorgio stepped to the window to look out onto the street, talking as he moved. “We know there are secret tunnels up there, perhaps there are secret connecting doors, too.”

  He watched the street outside feeling the warmth of having achieved a small victory. The police station sat across from the town’s mortuary, a two-story Edwardian looking building with steep front steps. Giorgio stood with his hands in his pockets thinking about a high school friend whose father was a mortician. Brady Mandero looked like one of his father’s stiffs: thin and pale, with dark circles under his eyes. He’d fascinated Giorgio with stories about how his dad fixed up dead people to look like they were still alive. He even gave Giorgio a small tin of mortician’s wax once to play with. Giorgio remembered the smell of the creamy wax made to look like the translucent color of skin. Giorgio had experimented with adding several warts to his cheek one summer, and once nearly scared his mother to death making her think he had small pox.

  But all memories of the mortuary weren’t fun and games. Giorgio had gotten lost at night once in the basement of Brady’s mortuary, a cavernous three-story building on the lower east side of New York. He’d searched frantically through empty hallways in the dark looking for the elevator, but found the casket room instead. The memory still gave him a chill. Staring at the building across the street now, he pictured the string of bodies brought there recently and envisioned corpses lying behind closed doors along the same sort of narrow hallways that had frightened him as a child.