MASS MURDER

by Lynn Bohart

  “You think he killed O’Leary?”

  “Maybe, if O’Leary saw him kill Dorman. He said the monk didn’t see him, but earlier he told me he saw someone from the upstairs window when he was coming back down to dinner. Today, his story changed. He said he saw that person when he was outside by the north door, but that he couldn’t see the person clearly.”

  “Which one is a lie?”

  “That’s what I’d like to know. I’ve walked the property several times. Coming from the east side, as Poindexter says he was, nothing blocks your view of the back doorway. But if you’re coming down from the hill…well, that’s another story. Trees and bushes block you at almost every turn. I think he saw someone, but he didn’t see them clearly because he was coming down from the vegetable garden – after killing Dorman.”

  Swan shrugged his massive shoulders. “But why make up the story about seeing someone from the upstairs window?”

  “Because he had a piece of information that could lead suspicion away from him in the case of Mallery Olsen, but he had to use it in a way that wouldn’t place him on the hill, just in case Dorman was found.”

  “And, if he was coming down from the hill…” the big cop mused.

  “He killed Dorman,” Giorgio finished. “He slipped up by giving both answers. The question is - did he also see Olsen’s killer or just Anya Peters going out for her drug deal?”

  Swan let out a hefty sigh. “My, it was a busy place that night.”

  “No kidding,” Giorgio agreed.

  They were standing just inside the small emergency room lobby. A woman dressed in sweat pants and a sloppy t-shirt stood beside the counter holding a crying baby. The mother talked earnestly to the nurse who motioned her into the back. Giorgio and Swan stepped aside to allow her through. Giorgio watched the woman disappear thinking about the late night feedings, dirty diapers, and trips to the emergency room that would become a part of his life very soon. With a sigh, he turned his attention back to Swan who was still focused on the case.

  “So, did Poindexter kill Olsen?” Swan asked.

  “I don’t think so. Why would he bury Dorman and not the others?”

  “Time?” Swan replied, playing devil’s advocate.

  “Meaning he had more time to bury Dorman than he did the others?”

  “Could be.”

  “But they were killed around the same time, and there’s no evidence that Mallery Olsen was killed in the storeroom,” Giorgio argued. “That means her killer took great risk in carrying her body down there. Why would he do that when he could have just left her in her room? It’s the same thing with Father O’Leary. The killer could have easily dragged the monk into the trees and at least delayed discovery, or even just left him to die on the ground. Instead, O’Leary was purposely pushed into the pond. I think it was some kind of statement. Just like hanging Mallery Olsen in the supply closet and taking her little finger.”

  Swan was nodding in agreement when Officer Barnes entered through the automatic doors. “Detective,” he addressed Giorgio, “there’s a man here who wants to see you.”

  Giorgio followed him outside where Oliver, the homeless man, was standing next to the ambulance bay, nervously shifting his weight from one foot to the other. The light tucked under the overhang illuminated his droopy skin, patchy with dirt. His long, stringy hair was beginning to roll itself into ringlets, and the quilted jacket was torn in several places. The ripe odor of unwashed human flesh had already permeated the air around him. He looked around with a furtive glance as Giorgio approached.

  “Oliver,” Giorgio started, “what are you doing here?”

  “You okay, Detective?” Oliver clicked his teeth as if he wore dentures.

  “I’m fine. Is there something wrong?”

  “No.” The little man watched the other officers anxiously as if they might produce handcuffs at any moment. “I jest wanted to make sure you was all right.”

  “How did you know I was here?”

  “I saw the fire,” he slurred through rotting teeth. “I was working the cans around the park and I saw that young guy leave in a hurry. Then I smelled the smoke.”

  Giorgio grabbed for Oliver’s arm making him jerk away. “Wait. It’s okay. You saw someone leave the theater?”

  Oliver relaxed when he realized Giorgio meant no harm. “Some tall guy with blonde hair. He practically skidded out of the parking lot. Couple minutes later, I smelled the smoke and hurried to the shelter to call in the fire.”

  “What car?” Giorgio pushed him.

  “Well, there was only one other car in the lot besides yours. That gray sedan.”

  His answer hit Giorgio like a body blow. There could be only one reason why Poindexter would be driving Marvin Palomar’s car.

  “Any chance you could identify that man again?” Giorgio asked somberly.

  The old man appeared to chew on the inside of his cheek. “I saw him pull in earlier. I asked him for change, but he told me to fuck off! Yeah, I could probably identify the cheap bastard!” He grinned a nearly toothless grin.

  “Oliver,” Giorgio said, putting his hand on the thin shoulder. “I owe you. “Will you give an official statement? Will you do that for me?”

  Oliver clicked his teeth anxiously. “Maybe. Okay, Detective.” Oliver looked unsure.

  “Barnes!” Giorgio addressed the other officer. “Give Oliver a ride to the station and take his statement. Then, buy him a big dinner − a good dinner on me.”

  Barnes looked less than enthused about traveling in an enclosed car with the homeless man, but turned around and led him across the parking lot to a waiting squad car.

  “Well, well, well,” Swan chided, turning towards his own car. “You have more than a Guardian Angel by your side tonight. You’ve been visited by Lady Luck herself.”

  “Swan, I’ve told you a thousand times, good detective work is fifteen percent brains, fifteen percent timing, and seventy percent luck.”

  The two men laughed as an ambulance entered the ambulance bay. They glanced over as two emergency medical technicians quickly pulled a gurney from the back of the vehicle. Swan turned back to Giorgio and offered him a ride home, but Giorgio declined, saying he’d wait for Angie. As Swan pulled out of the parking lot, a male nurse came running across the parking lot.

  “Detective,” the young man said breathlessly. “You need to come back. It’s your wife.”

  But Giorgio had already bolted for the entrance. The blonde nurse behind the counter looked up in alarm when he burst through the ambulance bay doors. The mother and sick baby occupied the first treatment area. The second cubicle was empty. Across the central core of the room, medical personnel crowded around a third bed. He rushed in that direction. A stout woman intercepted him.

  “Detective,” she said, grabbing his good arm. “Let them do their work.”

  “What happened?” he asked, straining to see around her.

  His muscles had bunched up, and the throbbing in his arm was almost unbearable. He put his hand over the wound as a way to calm the trauma. The nurse was a good three inches shorter, but her hand remained on his elbow as a caution. A stethoscope hung lifeless around her neck.

  “Your wife fell down some stairs,” she replied in a soft voice. “They’re checking for broken bones, internal injuries, maybe a concussion.”

  He stared unblinking at her thinking she had probably spent the last twenty years explaining the obvious to anxious family members. He was about ready to step inside the enclosure when the doctor moved, giving Giorgio a glimpse of Angie. Her lustrous eyes were closed, and she appeared like a small child in the bed. The brown hair he loved to stroke lay in soft curls on the pillow. She looked so peaceful − too peaceful − and he wanted to die.

  “They’ll probably send her up for X rays and maybe even a cat scan,” the nurse spoke gently beside him. “She’ll be okay.”

  “Tell them to check her abdomen,” he whispered breathlessly to her.

  “What?” th
e nurse looked confused.

  “Her abdomen,” he choked, tears blurring his eyes. “Tell them to take a picture of her abdomen. She’s pregnant.”

  Giorgio sat drumming the fingers of his good hand on the armrest of a vinyl chair in the hospital waiting room as if drumming would make things happen faster. He’d tried to get information from the nurse, but hospitals were a little like the FBI where information was dribbled out little by little until they thought you were qualified to have it all. The nurse had said the doctor would be there in a few minutes, but how many was a few? Tony had asked him that question a dozen times growing up, usually when he’d been told he could only have a “few” of something. Giorgio’s answer had always been the same. A few is more than a couple but less than you probably want. Now Giorgio wanted to know. How many was a few?

  It was almost an hour before the doctor finally came out to join him. The news he had wasn’t good, making the walk to Angie’s room the longest few minutes of Giorgio’s life. The lights in her room were off leaving the small room in shadow. A narrow window looked out on the street. He sat by the bed with Angie’s slender fingers laced through his. It was some time before her eyelids fluttered open, and a brown eye peeked out from under a long lash. Then both eyes opened dreamily, and she smiled.

  “Joe,” she whispered.

  He hushed her like a small child and patted her hand. “Just rest.”

  She looked around, allowing her eyes to focus. “Where am I?” Her voice was weak and her words came out a little garbled.

  “You fell. Do you remember?”

  Her brows knitted as she tried to recall. Then she nodded slowly, turning her brown eyes to search his face.

  “You might have a concussion,” he said.

  He tried to maintain eye contact but dropped his head to stare at the crisp white bed sheet. Slowly, she regained wakefulness and understood without being told. The rich sienna eyes went dull as if looking into a deep well. She turned her head toward the windows, and he squeezed her hand as a tear trailed down his cheek.

  “Where are the children?” she asked after a long moment.

  Her voice was like a breeze on a summer afternoon, no force behind it, just a gentle movement of air in an otherwise still environment.

  “They’re with Mrs. Greenspan.” He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand.

  She nodded and when he reached for her hand again, she drew it away and curled into a fetal position turned to the wall.

  “I’m sorry, Angie,” he practically swallowed the words. “I’m so sorry.”

  The tears began to flow, and he buried his head and wept. The doctor had said that she’d fallen hard, landing on her back across the bottom step. The small embryo in her womb, barely ten weeks old, had split open. The news had swelled his heart so that he found it hard to breathe. How could this happen to his Angie? He’d promised her only the other day that she’d never lose a child.

  His tears soaked the sheet until a feather-light hand reached out and stroked the top of his head. He lifted his chin to see her soft gaze and reached up to brush her cheek with the back of his hand. He knew the rough texture of his skin had to feel like sandpaper against hers.

  “I love you, Angie.”

  She gave him a half smile. “I know. When God is ready, Joe, he’ll bless us with another child. Perhaps this little one was just a wake-up call.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Telling us to be more careful, Joe. To cherish each day. That life is precious.”

  “Oh, Angie,” he choked, climbing onto the bed next to her.

  They curled into each other’s arms and cried together until he rocked her back to sleep, smoothing her hair with his hand.

  Later, as Giorgio lay in bed at home, he reached out to the spot where Angie usually lay beside him. The sheets were cold, and the room felt empty. He stared at her pillow wondering how he could heal this hurt. No dog would fix this. This was a life-changing event. He didn’t pretend to understand a woman’s need to have more children. Giorgio only knew that Angie had desperately wanted this baby. And now he wanted the baby, too.

  His mind began to ponder a variety of solutions, including taking a cruise, buying new furniture, or a car. But it wasn’t about all of that. It never had been. With Angie, it was all about children.

  Giorgio continued to concentrate, sifting through potential options until his head began to throb. He rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling, letting his mind play across the last few days. The murders. The monastery. The theater. By the time his eyes began to close, he thought he had an answer.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  The next morning, Giorgio moved about the house on autopilot, doing what had to be done without registering pain or pleasure. The doorbell rang around seven-thirty. It was Mrs. Greenspan returning the children. She asked about Angie and said she’d stop by later in the afternoon. Breakfast with the children was a quiet affair. No yelling or fighting. No running after Grosvner. Only cereal and bananas and then Giorgio bundled them off to the school bus.

  He returned to clean the kitchen and put clean sheets on the bed. He even threw a load of laundry into the washer before going to Angie’s garden to find a mixture of red and pink camellias. These he arranged in a shallow bowl and placed on her nightstand. Grosvner followed him wherever he went as if he somehow understood Giorgio’s despair.

  Swan called to say they had arrested Poindexter earlier that morning. He did, in fact, have an open cut on his left cheek. He was scheduled for a line up as soon as they could bring Oliver in for identification. There was no sign of Marvin Palomar or his car but they were still looking. With a silent prayer, Giorgio hung up and left to pick up Angie at the hospital.

  He brought her home around noon, carefully helping her up the stairs and into bed. Her face was as pale as the clean sheets he’d just laid out. They hadn’t spoken at all in the car, letting a suffocating pressure build around them. Now Giorgio wasn’t sure what to say, so he just tucked her into bed and kissed her gently on the forehead. Her eyes found his for a brief moment, but there was no message in them, only a deep pain. His fingers stroked her cheek before he turned to leave the room.

  “Joe,” her voice stopped him. “You knew why, didn’t you? About the baby? The kids are growing up. They don’t need me anymore. That’s why.” She turned to the window, ending the short-lived conversation.

  He left the room and made it to the head of the stairs before stopping and grasping the banister in a vice-like grip. All his life, he had taken the good with the bad. “Take it one day at a time,” his dad had always said. “Things will always look better the next day.” It was a motto he’d lived by. From the time he was rejected by the most popular girl in the ninth grade, to when he was cut from first string football, to when his father died. But this was different. This was Angie. As far as he was concerned, his father’s motto didn’t apply to Angie. For Angie, he expected life to be good all the time.

  Giorgio took a deep breath and descended the stairs, thinking about fixing Angie some lunch when the doorbell rang. He hurried to open the door and found Mrs. Greenspan standing there. She was a short, spry woman, approximately thirty pounds overweight, with quick movements and bright, gray eyes. She stood straight as a pin, with her knitting bag in one hand and a recipe book in the other.

  “I saw you bring the missus home.”

  “We’ll be okay, Mrs. Greenspan. The children are in school.”

  “I’m here to take care of Angie, not the kids. You go on to work.” She brushed past him, heading for the kitchen.

  “No, really, Mrs. Greenspan,” he said, closing the door and following her. “I can stay home. I’m going to stay home.”

  She ignored him and entered the kitchen, laid the cookbook on the counter, and began putting on one of Angie’s aprons.

  “I don’t think Angie is hungry right now,” he said, thinking he wanted to be the one to make her lunch. “She’s resting.”

  M
rs. Greenspan turned to him, her gray hair curled into tight little knots about her head. “I don’t care if anybody eats it,” she snapped. “It’s the smell I’m after.” She turned and opened the cookbook and then went to the spice cupboard. “It’s cinnamon and vanilla I want. Cookies and maybe a cake. Maybe even some bread.”

  “But Mrs. Greenspan…”

  “The smell will make it all the way upstairs. You’ll see,” she said over her shoulder as she rummaged through the spice shelf. “She’ll feel better for it.”

  Giorgio stood in the kitchen doorway feeling helpless for the second time that morning. When the phone rang, he returned to the hallway. It was Rocky, responding to the message he’d left the night before. He passed along the information about Angie and told Rocky he’d see him at the station. Giorgio hung up and went upstairs.

  The hospital had given Angie a sedative, and she was already asleep. So he left her a note telling her to call him if she wanted him for any reason, and warning her about Mrs. Greenspan. By the time he returned to the kitchen, Mrs. Greenspan already had a large ceramic bowl on the counter and was opening the sugar canister. Grosvner sat behind her. Giorgio snapped his fingers and the dog reluctantly obeyed.

  “I can be reached on my cell phone, Mrs. Greenspan. For anything. Please don’t hesitate to call.”

  “Yes, yes. I have the number in my bag,” she waved him away without ever turning around. Instead, she deftly cracked an egg with one hand and dumped it into the bowl.

  Swan looked up in surprise when Giorgio appeared in the office doorway.

  “You okay?”

  Giorgio didn’t answer. He merely slumped into his desk chair. Swan got up and lifted the glass coffee pot off the burner, poured out a cup and set it in front of his partner.

  “Thanks.” Giorgio started to pick it up with his right hand, but the muscles flared into action. He picked up the coffee with his left hand and took a sip. “Angie is asleep,” he said finally. “Mrs. Greenspan is conducting a one woman aroma therapy experiment and I feel like someone rolled over me with a truck.” He flexed his fingers again. “Any news on Marvin Palomar?”