MASS MURDER

by Lynn Bohart

  “It just gets better and better for Mr. Marsh doesn’t it? Listen, I want you to find out everything you can about a murder committed at the monastery back in 1943.”

  McCready looked up with surprise. “You don’t think we have enough murders to investigate?”

  “They may be related.” Giorgio needed to know what, if anything, the decades-old murder had to do with the three killings facing him now. “A monk was murdered up there by one of the students when it was still a boys’ school. We found these,” Giorgio gave him the articles from the time capsule. “See what else you can find out.”

  If McCready suspected anything, he said nothing. He took the articles to photocopy them and then log them in as evidence. Giorgio went to his desk to sort through his messages. There was a message from the District Attorney and one from Elvira Applebaum.

  “He glanced at his watch and decided to take a chance Ms. Applebaum would be up early. She answered on the third ring.

  “I hope I didn’t disturb you.”

  “No, detective. I’m glad you called. I had trouble sleeping. I’ve been up most of the night going through mother’s things. It helped me hang on to her a little longer. You understand?”

  “I do. I did the same thing when my father died.”

  “I found a box of my father’s things,” Elvira Applebaum said with a sigh. “It’s very old and filled with many of his original drafting tools. I think I may have something for you.”

  “I don’t want to disturb you,” he said apologetically, but knew he would go right away if she offered.

  “It’s all right, Detective. You can stop by any time. My mother’s presence is still here. If I go to sleep, I’m afraid she won’t be here when I wake up. I know that probably sounds foolish.” Her voice wavered.

  “It doesn’t sound foolish at all. I’ll be right out. Thank you.”

  He put in a call to the District Attorney and found that Anya Peters was holding fast. Giorgio still couldn’t eliminate Peters as a suspect, but something in his gut said she was just a cold-hearted business woman.

  He arrived at Ms. Applebaum’s spacious home only twenty minutes later. She answered the door in a wrinkled pantsuit. Her makeup had worn off, and the skin around her mouth sagged, but she attempted a smile when she invited him inside.

  “Come in, Detective. Can I get you anything?”

  Giorgio remembered the granola bar he’d eaten in the car and pondered a cup of hot coffee, but the house was cold and still and somehow asking her to brew coffee seemed invasive.

  “No, thank you. I just had a full breakfast. What is it you wanted to show me?”

  “It’s over here.”

  She drew him to the dining room where the bay window allowed filtered light to warm the room. A cherry wood table with four matching chairs and a china cabinet filled the small space. Laid out on the lace tablecloth were tools of another age; a thick, worn pencil, metal triangle, and a gum eraser.

  “Don’t be sorry. We keep people we love alive through memories.”

  She looked at him with a weak smile. “You’re not what I thought a detective would be like.”

  “What did you think we’d be like?”

  “Callous and shallow, I guess. Maybe I’ve seen too many bad movies.” This made her chuckle, lifting the pall that hung over the room. To fill an awkward pause, she reached out and lifted up an iron key about two inches long. “My father loved ornate things. He made that buffet.” She pointed to an elaborately carved oak buffet that sat under the window. “He was good with his hands. Even though the priests didn’t want embellishments, he often added accents in subtle places, like the spindles on the staircase. Like this key. This is what I was talking about,” she said, holding it out for him. “It was in the box with his tools.”

  Giorgio took the long, graceful key, embellished with an intricate set of curls. It was labeled with a tag inscribed with only four capital letters.

  “The tag made me think of your investigation,” she finished.

  Giorgio stared at the tag. “It looks like ‘ORI…something.”

  “The letters spell ORIG, meaning it’s the original,” she replied. “There were probably duplicates made, but he kept the original key. I’m not sure why.”

  “How do you know this could be useful to me? It could be a key for anything.”

  “My father wouldn’t have kept it unless it was important. And, it was in this.”

  She handed him an envelope browned with age. The envelope had a single word written across the front in the same, cursive handwriting – Monastery.

  Giorgio was back in his car contemplating the antique key when his cell phone rang. It was McCready telling him that Father Damian had called to say that one of the monks had gone missing. Since Giorgio wanted an opportunity to research the key’s significance anyway, he made a beeline for Sunnyside Drive.

  He entered the familiar lobby, going directly to Father Damian’s office. He knocked softy and was admitted with an even softer reply. The monk stood staring at the painting of the Last Supper, one hand tucked behind his back. In the other, he held his crucifix. Giorgio was shocked by his appearance when he pivoted to receive him. The monk seemed to be deteriorating right before his eyes. The man’s gray eyes seemed to have sunk into his skull, and the pallid cast to his skin was alarming. Though he was looking directly at Giorgio, he seemed to stare straight through him.

  “He’s gone,” the monk said flatly.

  “Who’s gone?”

  “Father Daniel. When he didn’t come to breakfast, we checked his room thinking he might be ill. He was gone.”

  “I take it he didn’t just go for a run.” Giorgio couldn’t help feeling smug at the thought of putting handcuffs on the handsome young monk. But again, something told him he wouldn’t get that pleasure.

  Father Damian dropped into the chair behind the desk. “If only he had gone for a run. His closet and drawers were cleaned out.” He dropped his head into his hands. “I can’t believe it. I can’t believe he did it. He had such good references.”

  “Did what?”

  The other man lifted his chin with a pale glint to his eyes. “It’s clear isn’t it? He ran. He’s the one. The murderer. It was one of us after all.”

  His hand rested on the desk, but Giorgio could tell he was nervously tapping his heel against the floor. He was on the verge of a nervous breakdown.

  “Father, I’m not sure what Father Daniel’s disappearance means. Was there a note, or did he talk to anyone? Was there any indication as to where he went?”

  The monk shook his head without a word, staring at the blotter on his desk.

  “All right. Please block off his room. I’ll send someone up here right away to inspect it. We’ll check the bus and train stations, airlines and car rentals to see if we can track him down. You don’t know if a taxi arrived here today do you?”

  Damian looked up as if he’d heard a distant bird call. It was a full ten seconds before he shook his head no.

  “Okay, we’ll check on that, too.”

  The monk seemed oblivious anyone else was even in the room. Giorgio left him that way and went looking for help. He found Father Frances, the young monk he’d met raking leaves, and asked him to take matters in hand. As Father Frances left for the Abbot’s office, Giorgio went outside to call the station and Swan.

  An hour later, Swan and two other policemen finished searching Father Daniel’s small room. It was clear Daniel had left in a hurry. McCready called every bus station, train station, and local taxi service within thirty miles. No one remembered a young man with Daniel’s description. Giorgio wondered if Daniel was even his name. Priests were often asked to take a new name when they took their vows as a sign they were leaving their old lives behind. It would make identifying the “old” friend difficult. Meanwhile, he went upstairs to locate the secret door he now knew had to be there.

  He opened the closet door on the monks’ side of the building, this time pulling down b
lankets and whatever else lined the shelves. Since the bulb in the closet didn’t work, it was almost impossible to see any irregularities in the wood paneling. Giorgio pushed the door all the way back and threw open the heavy drapes covering the hallway window only a few feet away. He studied the small enclosure trying to see the space as Edward Applebaum would have seen it when he designed it. His fingers played with the key in his pocket, but there was no keyhole.

  He began running his fingers into every crevice, across every surface, and into every hole he could find. He pushed anything that looked remotely like it might be a lever. Five minutes later, he stopped and tried to think clearly. Wherever the lever was positioned, it had to be in a place that wouldn’t be found by mistake. That eliminated the wall sconce because routine maintenance might reveal its secret. As he contemplated the situation, a cold draft filled the enclosure, forcing him to step back and check the window. It was closed. A clinking sound made him turn back to see if something had fallen to the floor. His eyes caught sight of an old button sitting on the bottom shelf. A familiar chill swept through him.

  Slowly, he bent down to pick it up, wondering if the boy would make himself known. As his fingers reached out for the brass object however, he paused. The shelf support just below the button was finished with a small finial, as all the others were. Alvira Applebaum had said her father loved to add embellishments to otherwise plain architecture. Closets didn’t normally have finials.

  He crouched down and shined his flashlight underneath the shelves and into the crevices where the shelf supports met the wall. All the supports had been cut flat and butted up against the inside wall except for the one on the far right. It seemed to extend into the wall and sat ever so slightly above the supporting bracket. Giorgio could hardly contain himself as he backed up and grasped the small finial that embellished the front edge of that support.

  With a solid tug, the knob slid easily forward and the wooden beam came free of the wall. The wall didn’t move, but he could feel it release. With a shove, it swiveled away from him about two feet, scraping softly across the floor and allowing just enough space for a person to slip through to the other side. He crossed into the adjoining closet and out the other door. Mallery Olsen’s room was the first door to his left.

  Giorgio pulled out his cell phone and called the station. Then he slipped back through the opening, remembering the sound that had led him to his discovery. He bent down to pick up the old, brass button. A voice whispered past his ear sending him tripping backwards into the hallway so quickly he actually fell onto his backside.

  Giorgio sat there dumbfounded for a moment, the button still held tightly in his hand. He stared into the closet, waiting for the boy to materialize. A clicking noise made him turn towards the window instead. The old-fashioned window clasp had unlatched, letting in a draft of fresh air, the same way the window by the main staircase had the night of the murder. The boy had been trying to communicate with him from the moment he was presented the case − from the theater parking lot to now. What had the voice just whispered?

  Giorgio got to his feet and glanced down into the courtyard. He could see a portion of the path below. But from where he stood, he couldn’t see the statue of the Virgin Mary. Yet according to McCready’s notes, Father Frances had claimed to see someone that night moving past the statue of Mary. The moment he made the connection, the window latched again with a loud snap, and he remembered what the voice had whispered.

  “Mary.”

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Giorgio found Father Frances in the small kitchen helping with the noon meal.

  “I called the doctor for Father Damian,” Frances reported. He wiped his hands on a towel as they stepped into the hallway. “The doctor just gave him a light sedative. He’s resting now. Did you find Brother Daniel?”

  His voice didn’t register the same accusation expressed by Father Damian. Perhaps the two men had become friends.

  “No,” Giorgio replied, watching him. “We’re checking all the bus and train stations though.

  Listen, I just found a secret doorway between the east and west wings of the building.”

  The young priest’s eyes grew wide, causing his contact lenses to float free. “Another secret passage! This is beginning to sound like some cheap crime novel,” he lamented, shaking his head. “I’m worried about Father Damian. I don’t think he can stand too many more surprises.”

  “Father Frances, you reported that you saw someone outside the night of the murder.”

  The monk’s eyes lit up. “Yes, I did. I couldn’t see very well. I mean, I couldn’t see who it was. It was very dark.”

  “You said you were in the upstairs hallway when you saw this person?”

  “I was just coming out of my room. As I told you before, I got caught up writing some letters and was a little late getting to compline.”

  “Where is your room?”

  “At the end of the north hallway − first one around the corner?”

  “And you saw this person somewhere near the statue of Mary, out on the walkway?”

  “That’s right.”

  “I was just up there, Father. You can’t see the statue from up there.”

  There was a pause in which the monk merely stared back at Giorgio, his face a mixture of curiosity and inner thought. Finally, his eyebrows creased and he replied.

  “I’m sure you’re wrong. Where were you standing?”

  “At the end of the hallway by the last window.”

  His whole body relaxed. “Well, there are three windows along that hallway, Detective. That wasn’t the window I spoke of.”

  “Would you mind showing me?”

  “Of course not.”

  The two men climbed the staircase and followed the hallway to the end, passing Father O’Leary’s room, now barricaded by yellow police tape. Giorgio trailed the young monk who moved with an athletic sense of grace.

  “This is my room right here.” He indicated the first room around the corner, about twenty feet from the hall closet. “I came out of my door and turned down the hallway like this.” He imitated his movements, inching closer to the outside wall as he turned the corner. “I was somewhat distracted, and when I got to this second window I stopped to look at the pond. It’s lovely when it’s lit up at night. Anyway, I noticed him moving along the path toward the kitchen.” He turned and gestured in that direction. “You see, from here I can just barely see the statue.”

  Giorgio stepped forward. The statue of Mary was tucked in an alcove along the pathway to the left. From this vantage point, only her arm was visible.

  “How do you know it was a man?”

  His face fell. “Well, I guess I don’t know for sure. All I really saw was a shadow.” He stopped and thought for a moment. “I assumed it was one of the monks. The robes, you know.”

  “You saw the robes?”

  “Well, not clearly. I only saw an outline, but I think they were robes. Of course, it could have been a long dress. Ms. Peters was caught wearing robes, wasn’t she? This is all becoming so complicated. I guess I’m not positive of anything, other than I saw someone.”

  Giorgio stood for a moment, looking back along the pathway.

  “Is there anything else, Detective? I’m in charge of lunch today.” He smiled affably.

  “Thank you very much, Father.”

  The young monk disappeared down the stairs. Giorgio continued to look out the window, wondering why the monk would have stopped to gaze out the window in the first place when he was already late for prayer that night. A thought made him cross back through the secret door to the west hallway. There, he pulled aside the curtain that framed the window across from Mallery Olsen’s door. As he suspected, the statue of Mary was fully visible below him.

  As Giorgio contemplated Frances’ story, Swan approached from the main staircase.

  “I thought I’d find you up here. McCready called. The crime lab report came in on the fibers they found on Mallery Olsen.
The fibers match the blankets used by the monks. No surprise there, I guess.”

  Giorgio stuffed his hands in his pockets and returned his gaze out the window. “And we now know how the killer accessed her room.”

  Swan poked his head into the closet to see the secret door. “Well, well, well. You found it. I wonder how many more of these things are around here. Did you call for Fong?”

  “He should be here soon,” Giorgio confirmed.

  Swan came and stood beside Giorgio at the window. “So, it was a monk.”

  “I didn’t say that, but we have three murders and no connecting motive. I’ve never believed in coincidences, but that may be what we have here.”

  “Not the death of Father O’Leary.”

  “No. I think Poindexter killed Dorman, and O’Leary’s murder had everything to do with whoever killed Mallery Olsen. That’s the reason I think we’re looking for a monk. However, while they all had opportunity, none of them seem to have a motive.”

  The two men stood shoulder to shoulder, staring out the window for a long moment. Finally, Giorgio spoke.

  “I’m going to talk to Father Damian.”

  “I’ll wait here for Fong.”

  “Do me a favor. Call the janitor and ask him about this key.” Giorgio showed him the ornate key Alvira Applebaum had given him. “Describe it and see if he has any idea what it belongs to. We think there’s at least one duplicate. If so, I’d like to know who has it.”

  Swan turned the key over in his hand before giving it back to Giorgio. “I’ll see if I can find him. We might be able to get a locksmith to take a look at it too.”

  “Okay, catch up with you later.”

  Father Damian’s bungalow was tucked in a grove of trees directly up the hill from the courtyard pond. It was a small, square building with a tiled roof. Giorgio knocked on the arched door and then stood back and waited. He heard a toilet flush and then a moment later, the door opened and a haggard looking Father Damian appeared.