MASS MURDER

by Lynn Bohart

  Swan replaced the coffee pot and returned to his chair where he picked up his pencil before answering. Giorgio looked up and mentally braced himself for the truth.

  “They just found his car in a ditch. He was in the trunk. Sampson is on his way over to his parents’ house.”

  The cup of coffee slipped in Giorgio’s hand, spilling hot liquid onto the desk blotter. He put the cup down and just stared at it, remembering how the janitor felt the night of Olsen’s murder. Swan kept quiet in the background. Giorgio got up and grabbed a paper towel to wipe up the spilled liquid. Then he retrieved the cup and went to refill it.

  “Tell me more,” he commanded, before returning rigidly to his desk.

  “The car was wiped clean. Palomar was killed by a blow to the head. No weapon was found, but he was lured down to the theater the same way you were. We’ve been to his apartment and there was a message on his answering machine asking him to come to the theater. The voice is disguised, but the call was made from a pay phone only two blocks from where Poindexter lives.”

  “You’ve been busy.”

  “Yeah, well, the problem is he was found on Kramer Ave. in Pasadena, so we had to bring in the Pasadena department.”

  “Shit!”

  “It’s okay. We’ll have joint jurisdiction since Poindexter probably killed him down at the theater, but I had one of their detectives here for the lineup. By the way, Oliver picked him out about twenty minutes ago. That and your testimony about the note you found in the basement should put him away.”

  Giorgio stared out the window. All he could think about was young Marvin Palomar stuffed into the trunk of a car and Angie lying upstairs at home, her dream of a baby gone. His insides roiled to the point he was actually jittery, as if he’d already drunk the entire pot of coffee. He would have to find a way to deal with this. Find a way, or fall apart.

  “I want more,” Giorgio snapped. “There were three murders up there. We don’t have any proof that Poindexter killed anyone at the monastery, only that he killed Marvin and tried to kill me.”

  Swan tapped the pencil on his desk, eyeing Giorgio as if measuring the extent of his stress. “There were two sets of fingerprints on that flashlight you found in the birdhouse. One was Dorman’s. The other was Poindexter’s.”

  “We need more than that,” Giorgio snapped before getting up and going to the window. “I want this guy put away for life.” He was wound as tight as the underpinnings of a tennis ball.

  “There’s dried blood on the ridge of the flashlight. It’s being checked, but Poindexter must have killed Dorman. Why else would he have come after you?”

  Giorgio slammed his fist into the side of a file cabinet. “I want this guy to fry!”

  The air between them bristled and Swan let his eyes drop. Grosvner slunk away to the cover of a nearby desk. Giorgio turned away from the file cabinet, rubbing his forearm.

  “You don’t need to be here, Joe,” Swan reassured him. “We’d all understand. Go home and take care of Angie.”

  Giorgio stared across the street at the funeral home for a full minute, thinking how close he’d come to being another one of the mortuary’s guests. At this very moment Marvin Palomar was probably laid out in a cold storage unit there. He took a deep breath and leaned into the wall.

  “I moved here to get away from all of this. I wanted Angie to have a better life. Now, because of me…”

  “You didn’t do this to her, Joe. Cory Poindexter might have, but you didn’t.”

  “Poindexter was after me,” he said, turning to Swan. “I got injured and went to the hospital and because of that, Angie fell.”

  “Right, and don’t forget, because you were born, went to high school and married Angie, none of this would have happened. I mean, if you’re going to blame yourself, get it right.”

  Giorgio had heard that same tone in his father’s voice many times when he’d blamed himself for some failure he felt could have been avoided if only he’d tried harder. He thought Swan was just acting like the big brother he didn’t have. Giorgio felt some of the weight lift from his shoulders as he sat back down, putting his hands flat on the desk in front of him.

  “It’s not that easy, you know. This is my Angie we’re talking about.”

  “I know that, Joe, but this didn’t happen just because you’re a cop. You could have been hurt in a baseball game, or in a car accident, or on stage for God’s sake. Christ, some of those plays you’re in have nearly killed me.”

  He smiled and Giorgio felt the wall begin to crack.

  “Thing is, Joe…life is what it is. Don’t try to second-guess it. If Angie is meant to have another child, she will. If she’s not, well, she won’t.”

  “You get what you get and don’t throw a fit,” Giorgio said under his breath.

  “What?”

  Giorgio looked up, “Nothing.”

  McCready entered the room holding one of the blue note cards. “I found something.”

  Giorgio perked up with the first hint of interest. “What is it?”

  “I was re-reading the cards and noticed something we missed. Remember the woman who said she spoke with Mallery Olsen as she left the cocktail party? And Olsen said that she would be late for the dinner because she was having a drink with a friend?”

  “Yeah?” Giorgio prodded.

  McCready’s eyes were alight as if he’d just found a ten-dollar bill. “Actually, that’s not what this woman said. She quoted Olsen as having said she was going to have a drink with an old friend.”

  Giorgio took the card from his hand and read the notation. “You’re right. An old friend.” He got up and wandered around his desk with the card in his hand. “Someone from the past.”

  “That leaves out the boyfriend,” Swan offered.

  “I would assume it leaves out Father Damian, too.” McCready said this almost sadly since the connection with Damian was his idea.

  “It would leave out Marsh as well,” Giorgio added. “She wouldn’t have referred to him as a friend at all.”

  “I think it means she met someone at the conference she hadn’t seen in some time,” Swan speculated. “How long did we say she’d lived here?”

  “Four years,” McCready answered readily. “She came from Chicago.”

  Giorgio turned to him, his face re-animated. “Didn’t she go to school there?”

  “She studied journalism.”

  “We need to know who else may have known her in Chicago,” he said, slapping the card on the desk. “And we need to know now.”

  “Okay,” McCready agreed. “By the way, this came in the mail this morning. It’s addressed to the Homicide Unit.” McCready chuckled. “Wonder who thinks we have a Homicide Unit.”

  Giorgio spied the padded brown envelope with suspicion. He reached into his drawer and pulled out a pair of rubber gloves. The handwriting was a ragged, irregular block style as if someone had tried to disguise it, and the envelope felt as if it was filled with padding. Giorgio turned it over and saw that it had been taped shut. Taking a letter opener from his desk, he carefully lifted the tape without touching it. McCready watched with interest. Swan even got up from his desk to come over and look over Giorgio’s shoulder.

  “What do you think it is?”

  Giorgio could only look at him with the kind of dead-pan expression that meant he thought this wouldn’t be good. He used the letter opener to pull the ends of the envelope apart and then slid out a thick wad of toilet paper. When he turned it over, they all stared at a pale red stain that spread across one corner, as if something inside had leaked through. The tension in the room quickly rose.

  “Jesus, Joe, what do you think it is?”

  Giorgio slowly unrolled the toilet paper to reveal the blood soaked baggie with the tip of Mallery Olsen’s little finger peeking through.

  “Christ,” McCready whispered.

  “I think it’s a message,” Giorgio whispered.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  The baggie and
envelope were sent to the crime lab in Pasadena. The envelope had been postmarked in Sierra Madre. A phone call to the post office confirmed that mail was picked up at the monastery every day around noon, except Sunday. Since Mallery Olsen had been murdered Saturday night, the envelope wouldn’t have gone out until Monday. Why then had it taken two days to arrive at the police station? The answer would take a second call to the Monastery. It seemed Father Damian had sent the gift shop volunteers home the morning Jeff Dorman’s body was found in the vegetable garden, so the gift shop was closed when the mail man arrived. Mail hadn’t been picked up until Tuesday. Today was Wednesday.

  “Cap’n wants to know what you’re going to do about the envelope,” Swan said in the background.

  Giorgio looked up from his desk. “I’m not sure, yet.”

  Swan leaned against the doorframe, a toothpick stuck between his teeth. Opening the envelope had cast a pall over the entire station. These officers weren’t used to multiple murders, let alone having body parts mailed to them as casually as a greeting card.

  “The mayor is hounding him for answers. There’s talk of a major press conference.”

  “No,” Giorgio suddenly came to attention. “That’s what this guy wants. This is all for attention. Just like hanging her by her bra strap in the closet. He’s showing off. Better to keep him off balance. I’ll talk to the Captain.”

  When Giorgio returned he found Swan guzzling a soft drink while he contemplated a chess move by the window. “What did Captain Ramos say?”

  “He’s getting phone calls and letters demanding answers and the mayor is breathing down his neck. Even the Governor has weighed in. They want these murders wrapped up. If we don’t get some answers soon, he’ll be forced to bring in help.” Giorgio sighed and dropped into his chair. “We have twenty-four hours.”

  “Well, then I guess it’s back to work,” Swan said, returning to his desk.

  Giorgio filled out paperwork on the fire and then put in a call to Marvin’s father. That afternoon, Giorgio visited with the District Attorney who would prosecute Poindexter. Poindexter wasn’t talking, and they had yet to pin down a motive for Dorman’s murder, but a partial fingerprint had been lifted off Marvin’s sedan. That and Oliver’s testimony should make Poindexter spend the rest of his life in jail. Giorgio’s job now was to find out how, or if, Poindexter was connected to any of the deaths at the monastery while Swan and McCready mapped Mallery Olsen’s life in Chicago.

  He checked in twice with Mrs. Greenspan during the day. His first call was all but drowned out by the whirring of the electric mixer. He only hoped Angie didn’t feel well enough to come downstairs. The sight of Mrs. Greenspan firmly planted in her kitchen would be enough to send her into a tailspin. The second time he called, Mrs. Greenspan was on her way upstairs with a tray of tea and freshly baked cookies, and, no, now was not a good time to talk with Angie. She would pass along his well wishes and tell his wife he’d be home before eight. Feeling a little put out and more than a little unnecessary, he returned to his paperwork.

  By seven-thirty, he came through the door with a bouquet of flowers and a box of Mallery Olsen’s college papers. Grosvner headed straight for the kitchen with his nose in the air, sucking in the odors of roast beef and onions. Saliva filled Giorgio’s mouth like a tub filling with water, and he dropped the box on a chair when Tony appeared at the doorway to the den. His son’s normally jovial manner had disappeared, and he seemed on the verge of tears.

  “What’s the matter, Buddy?”

  The boy faded back into the room without a word. Giorgio followed and found Marie on the sofa with her hands in her lap, her features pinched, a sullen Tony beside her. It was obvious they’d both been crying. The heart-wrenching tableau made Giorgio turn and go directly to the kitchen where he found Mrs. Greenspan cleaning up the dishes.

  “Mrs. Greenspan…”

  She turned in surprise, a dish between her hands. “Oh, Mr. Salvatori, I didn’t hear you come in.”

  “What’s wrong? How is Angie?”

  The stern little woman set the bowl on the counter and grabbed a towel to wipe her hands. “As good as can be expected,” she mumbled.

  “What do you mean, as good as can be expected?”

  She paused, using the towel to distract her attention. Then she sighed and sat at the table while Giorgio’s heart raced.

  “The doctor stopped by. He spoke to Mrs. Salvatori.” She stopped again, avoiding his gaze. When a tear appeared in the corner of her eye, Giorgio ran for the stairs.

  He burst through the bedroom door only to find the bed empty. Angie sat at her dressing table in a long blue robe, staring at her image in the glass before her. He went to stand behind her.

  “Angie, what is it?”

  She looked up, her eyes floating in pools of tears. “No more, Joe. No more.” Her voice was so soft he could barely hear her.

  “What do you mean, Angie? No more what?”

  She began shaking her head slowly and then dropped her head and wept, her narrow shoulders convulsing in spasms. The flowers fell to the floor in a heap of petals and stems, and Giorgio swept forward and lifted her out of the chair, carrying her to the bed where he laid her gently down. She continued to sob, her hands covering her face. Distraught, he stretched out on the bed next to her, encouraging her to curl into his arms. He stayed with her, holding her, rocking her, until her sobs subsided and she finally fell asleep.

  Later, he slipped downstairs to get the children to bed. Mrs. Greenspan had left a note to call if she was needed. A plate of food sat in the refrigerator wrapped in cellophane, but he had no appetite now. Instead, he settled down in his big chair in the den and stared at the television’s blank screen. Grosvner moved in to sit by his side. The two of them remained like that for more than an hour.

  Angie would have no more children. That was a fact. Only forty-eight hours ago she had announced they would have a third child, trapping him into a lifetime of limitations. Now, he felt trapped in a field of despair. God had taken the choice away, leaving a hole where his chest used to be. How odd life was. Now, more than anything else, he wanted that child. He wanted to go through the late night feedings. The thought of tiny feet and baby powder made his heart ache now that there wouldn’t be any. They wouldn’t go shopping for a new baby crib or stroller, nor would Angie’s eyes light up at the thought of buying a whole new set of baby clothes. When the tears threatened to explode, he quickly rubbed his eyes and jumped up to grab Mallery Olsen’s box in the hall, feeling the need to stay busy.

  He placed the box at his feet and spent the next hour sifting through old college papers, photos and yearbooks – only really seeing half of what he handled. He scanned articles she’d written for the school newspaper, book reports, and notes from boyfriends. There had been several men in her life. It seemed she was desirable in ways only a twenty-year old male can adequately express. None of the letters were current, and Giorgio found himself wondering if the old friend she had referred to lay hidden in any of the paperwork before him. He decided he would give them over to McCready in the morning.

  When the clock in the entryway struck ten, Giorgio heard a soft rustle behind him. Tony stood in the doorway in his pajamas, one pants leg tucked up above his socks. His hair was tousled, and he carried the raggedy teddy bear he hadn’t played with since he was a toddler. Giorgio gestured and the boy came forward and crawled into his father’s lap.

  “Is mom going to be okay?”

  Giorgio held him tightly. “Yes, she’ll be okay. We’ll all be okay.” He could smell the bubblegum toothpaste Tony insisted upon using and a little bit of the artist’s clay that was stuck underneath his fingernails from school.

  “Is it a bad thing?”

  “What?”

  “That she can’t have any more kids. She isn’t going to die is she?”

  His voice quivered, and Giorgio noticed he clutched the teddy bear as if he might squeeze the life out of it.

  “No, she isn
’t going to die, Buddy.” He wrapped his arms around his son’s shoulders. “She’ll be fine. She had an accident. That’s all. And now she won’t be able to have any more children.”

  He said it simply, but knew it wasn’t such a simple thing.

  “But mama loves us, doesn’t she? She doesn’t need another baby, does she?”

  Giorgio nearly cried out in pain. How complicated life was. Angie had just wanted another baby. In the process, she’d been verbally abused by her husband, lost the baby, lost the chance to have another one, and somehow made her own children feel unwanted in the process.

  “Mama loves you both very much,” he said, feeling his own voice catch. “We both do. I can’t explain why your mama wanted another baby. She just wanted to hold another baby in her arms.” He stopped to control his own emotions. When he continued, he lowered his voice. “Your mama will be very sad for awhile. It will take some time for her to heal. But then, she’ll be fine. She’ll love you like crazy, just like she always does.”

  He tousled Tony’s hair and attempted a smile. Tony smiled weakly in return.

  “You’ll have to help mom around the house, though, clean your room, you know, things like that. Can you do that?”

  Tony’s eyes lit up at being given something concrete to do. “Sure I can. I’ll tell Marie too. We can help.”

  “Good boy. Let’s just take it one day at a time. Let’s give your mom some time. Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  Giorgio hugged him and he slipped onto the floor. “Okay, I’ve got some work to do. You take off to bed.”

  “Okay, Dad.” Tony glanced into the box before leaving. “What’s all that? Are those our old pictures?”

  “No, just stuff from work. Get to bed.”

  But Tony reached for a picture stuck inside one of the box flaps. “Look, dad. Just like Grosvner!”

  He handed the picture to his dad and leaned over to pat the dog before leaving the room. Giorgio stared at the photo for the first time feeling a chill extend the length of his spine. A much younger version of Mallery Olsen sat on a lawn in front of what appeared to be an apartment building. Sprawled in front of her was a Basset Hound. A familiar looking blonde-haired young man sat on the grass next to her, his head thrown back in laughter. A second man stood in the foreground, his back to the camera, his light brown hair obscuring the top corner of the picture.