MASS MURDER

by Lynn Bohart

  “Detective,” his voice had weakened to just above a whisper. “I’m sorry, I was resting. What is it now?”

  “I wanted to ask you a few questions about Father O’Leary. May I come in?”

  He sighed but stood back to allow Giorgio inside. “Certainly.”

  Giorgio followed him to the small sitting room furnished in turn-of-the-century antiques. The bedroom lay at the back, and Giorgio could see the single bed from which Father Damian had just risen. A studio-sized kitchen was set in a small alcove to the right. The bathroom door was to the left of the entry. Giorgio waited until the monk had taken a straight-backed chair in the middle of the room and then sat on a Queen Anne style sofa.

  “I’m afraid the doctor gave me a light sedative.” The once proud and erect man was slouched in the chair, his hands limp in his lap.

  “We found the time capsule last night.” The monk’s eyebrows arched, but he didn’t say anything. “Just in front of the statue of the angel.”

  “Yes,” he nodded in understanding. “After you called last night, I got to thinking that I remembered reading something in the old records about a time capsule. Did you find anything of value?”

  “We found the original drawings which indicated a secret door on the second floor.”

  Father Damian sat back as if he expected another blow, his face drawn with suspicions.

  “I found the door this morning. It’s in the upstairs closet…the one that separates the east and west wings.” Giorgio paused, letting the significance of that information settle in.

  Father Damian’s face relaxed, and he looked out the window to a large Eucalyptus tree that shaded the corner window. His skin drooped around his jaw line making look a good ten years older than he probably was. When he looked back, he sighed again.

  “You should know there were problems here a long time ago, back when the boy’s school was here.”

  “Indiscretions with the boys?”

  He nodded and dropped his shoulders. “It almost ruined the monastery. They had to close the school, and the church was forced to pay a lot of money to the families in order to keep things out of court.”

  “What about the murder?”

  “You mean Father Wingate. The boy who committed the murder killed himself. Back in those days, the Rectory was up on that floor, at the end of the hall. I didn’t know about the secret door, but I suppose that’s how Father Wingate gained access to the boys.”

  “Was it only Father Wingate?”

  “I don’t think so. I have some letters written back then from the Bishop. Several monks were relocated and a new Abbott was brought in. It was a difficult time.”

  “Was Father O’Leary a student then?”

  “I don’t know. I suppose he was old enough to have lived here then. We have the records. You could take a look.”

  The look on his face made Giorgio believe he really didn’t know.

  “What was his job here?”

  “He worked in the library and served as the building manager. He hired the janitors and oversaw all aspects of the building’s maintenance.” Father Damian shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “The Bishop has cancelled the forum this weekend. He doesn’t want to draw any more attention to the monastery, although he will be coming here directly after the meeting early next week. He wants to lend a ‘steady’ hand, as he put it.”

  “I’m sorry. I know how difficult this has been. May I take a look at those old records?”

  “I keep my keys in that little carved box on the top shelf of that bookshelf. The small, silver key unlocks the file cabinet in my office. If you look in the bottom drawer, you’ll find a set of old files.”

  Giorgio located the box and the key. As he lifted them out, he noticed the door to the bathroom stood ajar. The light was off, but the toilet was still running. Water was pooling on the tiled floor just inside the door.

  “Father Damian, I think your toilet may be running over.”

  Giorgio reached in and turned on the light. Water was cascading over the top of the commode, soaking the floor mat and getting ready to invade the living room. He reached behind the commode and turned off the valve that fed the toilet. Father Damian appeared at the doorway and moaned.

  “Oh my. Let me get a mop.”

  The monk disappeared into the kitchen, while Giorgio grabbed a few hand towels. When Damian returned, he asked, “Do you have a plunger?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  The man seemed disoriented and left the mop propped against the door while he went in search of the plunger. Giorgio used the mop to soak up some of the water, but had nowhere to dispose of it.

  “Here it is,” Father Damian said, appearing with a long-handled plunger. “But I can call Father Abernathy. He’ll take care of it, Detective. Please, you don’t have to do this.” He hadn’t handed over the plunger yet, making Giorgio reach for it.

  “Don’t worry. I’m chief handy man at home.”

  Giorgio took the plunger and lifted the lid to the toilet, placing the plunger over the opening. “I have two children, Father. I’ve found all sorts of ghoulish things in the toilet.” He gave the plunger a shove. “I think we need one more,” he exclaimed and pushed the plunger in again.

  As he pulled it back, he reached for the handle hoping to flush the toilet and be done with it, but an inadvertent glance into the bowl stopped him. Floating in the shallow water was the tip of green fabric. He reached inside his coat and grabbed a rubber glove before pulling out the obstruction. When a long, green silk scarf emerged, Giorgio heard a loud thud behind him and turned to find Father Damian out cold on the floor.

  Chapter Forty

  Father Damian was sent to the hospital, but Giorgio believed it unlikely he had it in him to commit murder. It was more likely he’d been set up. But by whom?

  Giorgio was spared the news conference. The Captain had taken the lead instead, refusing to confirm any information about the missing finger or secret passages. There was enough information about Anya Peters, Poindexter, Jeff Dorman, and Marvin Palomar to keep the reporters happy. He did say though that they were making progress.

  Since the children were spending the next few days with a friend to give Angie a break, Giorgio decided to work and called his brother. Mrs. Greenspan had made only soup that night for Angie, so Giorgio and Rocky shared artery-clogging burgers and fries at the kitchen table while Angie rested upstairs.

  “So, you think whoever killed Olsen is living a secret life,” Rocky slurred through a mouth full of food. “Someone trying to hide his identity, but Olsen recognized him, and he killed her.”

  Grosvner had planted himself next to Rocky, his eyes fixated on the French fry clutched between his fingers. The poor dog’s head turned circles as Rocky drew invisible curly cues in the air as he talked.

  “She didn’t plan on that drink,” Giorgio replied, swallowing. “It came as a surprise. She was already dressed for the dinner. At some point in between the time she dressed for dinner and when she was seen going back upstairs, I think she ran into someone she didn’t expect to see. We’ve cross-checked names of people she knew in high school and college, even a couple of part-time jobs she had, but nothing matches.”

  “So you think either a monk or one of the conference attendees was in disguise?”

  Rocky had finished his burger and got up to throw his trash into the can underneath the sink.

  Then he leaned against the counter and pulled out a cigarette and lighter.

  “It could have just been someone who changed his name.”

  “Which is it though? A monk or a conference attendee?”

  “I think the answer lies in why the two of them went to her room in the first place,” Giorgio replied. “If the old friend was a conference attendee, they could have shared drinks at the cocktail party rather than going to her room. On the other hand, a monk couldn’t be seen drinking socially with anyone.”

  Rocky flicked the lighter to life and was about to light the cig
arette when Grosvner suddenly barked at him and then began to growl. Rocky stopped and threw the cigarette into the sink.

  “Wow,” Giorgio exclaimed, leaning over to pat the dog. “It’s okay, little guy.”

  “Sorry, Grosvner,” Rocky said.

  Grosvner scooted over next to Giorgio watching Rocky with anxiety. Rocky remained with his back against the sink.

  “I didn’t mean to scare him.”

  Giorgio stroked Grosvner’s head. The dog began to pant.

  “I think he remembers all too well how he got those burn marks. We’ll have to be careful around him.”

  “Maybe there’s a doggie therapist somewhere who can help him.”

  “Maybe,” Giorgio mused, watching the dog. Grosvner seemed to relax now that the item in question was gone. He turned and gave Giorgio a quick lick as if to tell him everything was okay.

  Rocky returned to the table. “Well, no biggie. I should stop smoking anyway.”

  Giorgio gave Grosvner a last pat and sat back in his chair.

  “Wouldn’t it have seemed suspicious that a monk wanted to have a drink at all?” Rocky continued, grabbing his cup and sucking on the straw.

  “My guess is that Olsen knew him before he was a monk. She might not have questioned the walk down memory lane.”

  “And the monk arrived through the secret door.”

  Giorgio nodded. “That’s another reason why I think it had to be a monk. A conference attendee wouldn’t have known about the door. The program chair said she heard someone knocking on Olsen’s door when she went to look for her mystery props. That meant Olsen was waiting inside for him.”

  Giorgio got up and tossed the last of his fries to Grosvner who snapped them up like a flytrap, all signs of his previous rage gone. Giorgio threw away his trash and reached into the refrigerator for a can of pop.

  “Our killer took a big chance if Levinsky’s door was open,” Rocky speculated.

  “Yes, but if he used the secret door, he wouldn’t have had to pass Levinsky’s door. And he may not have been dressed in his robes. So, he wouldn’t have raised suspicion.”

  “Right, but then he must have drugged Olsen first so there wouldn’t be any noise, killed her, wrapped her in a blanket, and carried her out through a secret door after Levinsky left, down the back staircase and around the exterior of the building to the kitchen? Pretty gutsy,” Rocky said skeptically.

  “But only a monk would know that much about the property and everyone’s routine. Olsen was petite. Wrapped in a blanket, no one outside would have been able to tell what he was carrying.”

  Rocky leaned back in his chair, finishing his drink. “Still pretty gutsy. There’s a light outside the kitchen door, and someone could have seen him go to the closet.”

  “The backdoor is blocked by the bend in the hallway. His only risk was if someone was going out to the parking lot.”

  “Which in the case of Colin Jewett was a pretty big risk!”

  “Yes, but our monk didn’t know that,” Giorgio emphasized with a raised finger. “This monk was not only gutsy, he was extremely lucky. He could’ve run into Colin Jewett, Anya Peters, Corey Poindexter, or Jeff Dorman.”

  “Not to mention Father O’Leary smoking his lungs out.”

  “I don’t think Tommy Tune could’ve choreographed it any better,” Giorgio laughed. “He must have hit the perfect time window.”

  “Of course,” Rocky began twirling the straw in the bottom of the cup, “he could have been seen by all of those people and they just didn’t report it. O’Leary was killed before he could tell us anything useful, and none of the others would have said anything because they would have incriminated themselves if they did.”

  “Poindexter was the only one who tried and he botched it.”

  “And remember, O’Leary was taken ill that night. It’s just possible our man made sure O’Leary would be out of the way.” Rocky took a last drink and began a loud slurping noise.

  “You know, if you rip the cup apart you could lick the sides clean,” Giorgio smirked.

  Rocky smiled as he threw it away. “Very funny. Okay, so how do we figure out which monk we have to arrest?”

  Giorgio was already heading for the living room. “I want to go back through Olsen’s box and see if we can find anything that would lead us to the old friend she mentioned.”

  The brothers spent the next hour re-reading old love letters and searching through photo albums. Giorgio recognized several individuals from pictures on the wall in Olson’s home, but very few were identified by name. They thumbed through college annuals reading the notes written by friends. It seemed Olsen was popular, especially with young men who often referred to her smile lighting up a room. Giorgio suspected they really meant she had big breasts. There was nothing that would lead them to one of the monks.

  By eleven o’clock they were both rubbing their eyes. Rocky got up to stretch his legs and was about to go to the kitchen when Giorgio called out, “Ah! Ha!”

  “What is it?” Rocky asked, coming back to look over his shoulder.

  “Look at this kid.”

  Giorgio was sitting on the ottoman and held a picture taken on the steps of a gothic looking fraternity house. Three rows of young men grinned into the camera, each wearing dark fraternity sweaters. He pointed to the middle row where an athletic-looking kid with glasses and brown hair stood next to a gothic column.

  “I’ll bet next month’s salary that’s Father Frances.”

  “Frances has blonde hair.”

  “Easily fixed. It’s obviously a younger version, but he’s the same, I’d swear it. And one more thing,” Giorgio went to the box and took out the picture Tony had found of Mallery Olsen with the Basset Hound. “Here he is again, and in this picture he’s blonde.” He pointed to the kid sitting next to Olsen.

  Rocky studied the two pictures. “Wait a minute, Joe. They look alike, but not exactly alike. It’s hard to tell because in this picture we only see the blonde from the side. I wonder, though….” Rocky picked up a college annual from the floor and flipped to the back. “I saw a guy that might be a match to the brunette.” He spent several minutes going through Mallery Olsen’s senior yearbook. “I thought so. Here, take a look.”

  He handed the book to Giorgio who peered down at a picture of the college theater club. The picture was a scene from Camelot in which Lancelot sings his heart out to Guenevere. Giorgio could almost hear the words from, “If Ever I Would Leave You,” as the young man playing Lancelot stood center stage, one hand on the hilt of his sword, his mouth open in song. Although his hair was tied back into a pony tail, and he wore stage make-up, he looked just like the brunette in the fraternity picture.

  “This guy’s name is Marino,” Rocky said, reading the caption. “Danny Marino.”

  They looked back and forth between the blonde and brunette. “They look almost exactly alike,” Giorgio muttered. “And look at this.” He pointed to Guenevere. “That’s Mallery Olsen. Damn! See if you can find a name for the blonde.”

  Rocky searched through the book again, coming across a picture of the college president with three student officers. “Hold it! Here’s the blonde. This is a better picture, too.” Rocky took the book to the light. “Give me your magnifying glass.”

  Giorgio rummaged through a drawer and pulled out an old magnifying glass. Rocky leaned in to study the photos, flipping back and forth from one picture to the other.

  “It’s uncanny,” Rocky murmured, holding the book out for his brother. “They do look like twins, or at least brothers. They’re about the same height and same build, although the blonde is slightly taller. And, they have the same general facial features.”

  “The brunette seems a little stockier and more muscular, with a fuller jaw line and he wears glasses, although on stage he was probably wearing contacts.” Giorgio said, peering through the glass. “And, here,” Giorgio exclaimed, reading the small text beneath the picture of the blonde. “This guy was Senior Class Preside
nt. His name is Jack Brye.” Giorgio felt a familiar tingling sensation as his eyes shifted back to the Camelot page.

  “The question is,” Rocky started, “which one do we have?”

  Giorgio stared at the picture of Lancelot, his eyes riveted on the tattoo on the back of the actor’s hand grasping the sword.

  “I think I know. Let’s go find out.”

  Chapter Forty-One

  He sat in the garden at the foot of Christ, where he’d seen another monk sit on the night he’d killed the girl. He wasn’t looking for any kind of solace, just a quiet place to think. His room had become claustrophobic. Out here the air was crisp and cool, allowing his lungs and mind to expand. Dressed as he was, fully clothed beneath his robes, he didn’t feel the cold. He felt invigorated and ready to take this little saga to the next level.

  Things at the monastery were coming to a close. He could feel it. The police had found the secret door; confirming the killer had to be a monk. He’d attempted to frame Father Damian, but the evidence against him was weak, and the police would quickly eliminate Damian as a suspect. Father O’Leary was dead and couldn’t tell what he knew, but the two had worked closely together in the library. Eventually, they would make the connection and come looking for him. Perhaps that would be soon. Perhaps not. Either way, something was about to break.

  He stroked the tattoo and contemplated his options. He needed to create a distraction, something to lead the police away from him. Mailing the package to the police station hadn’t worked. None of the media outlets had run the story. That bothered him. Maybe the police had never received it. Maybe they’d received it but sent it off to a lab somewhere. Either way the things he wanted, recognition and chaos, had been withheld, and the sour taste of disappointment roiled in his belly.

  He glanced up at the statue’s face. The alabaster expression was benevolent, with the eyes lowered with a graceful smile. The image moved Cato, as it always did. He couldn’t help but wonder at the serendipity of his being here at the monastery. His father had been killed on the steps of a Catholic church, yet instead of shunning the church, his mother had forced Cato to attend Catholic schools and even serve as an altar boy. It was one of the reasons he’d been able to pull off this masquerade so easily. Then, his best friend in college had moved to San Francisco after his senior year to become a priest. A fact he now used to his advantage. Finally, he and Jacko had shot Mangano on Easter Sunday. And, now, here he was not only living on the grounds of a Catholic monastery, but living as one of the monks. What were the odds? What did it mean? Would he somehow die by the cross? Was he meant to repent? Or, was it just life coming full circle?