MASS MURDER Read online

  Mass Murder

  By

  Lynn Bohart

  Dedicated to my dad, who loved a good mystery.

  Cover Photo: John Bohart

  Cover Design: Jaynee Bohart

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  My sincere thanks go to Grub Street Reads for endorsing my book. It feels great to be acknowledged as an “indie” author. Thanks also go to my friends, family, co-workers, and fellow writers who continue to support this obsession I have with writing. It can’t be easy. Special thanks to my good friend Chris Lavender for giving me Grosvner’s name. So perfect! Thanks to those who vetted fact: Kevin & Pam Miles (retired Catholic priest and nun) and retired police officer, Don Persson. Thanks to my friend Valerie O’Halloran who gave me some good revision advice, and my brother for the wonderful cover photo. I couldn’t have written Detective Giorgio Salvatori so authentically if it weren’t for my long-time friend, fellow thespian, and police detective, Mike Magnotti, on whom some, but not all, of the character is based. He actually did say that becoming a police officer cured his insatiable desire to be on stage. That statement was one of the things that inspired me to write the book. I would be remiss if I didn’t acknowledge my home town of Sierra Madre, a lovely community of only about 20,000 that really is nestled in the foothills of the San Gabriel Mountains. While I lived very near the resident Catholic monastery there, I chose to create a completely fictitious monastery for this story. Most of all, thanks to my daughter, Jaynee, not only for designing the cover, but for putting up with me on a day-to-day basis!

  Chapter One

  Premonitions were taken seriously in the Norville family. When Syd Norville was six years old his mother abruptly aborted a trip to Florida to celebrate the birth of her niece because of a dream she’d had the night before in which the plane crashed. The plane she’d been scheduled to board the next day did, in fact, crash on take-off due to a faulty suspension rig, killing all two hundred and forty passengers. When Syd was twelve, his older sister abandoned her millionaire husband-to-be at the altar because of a bad feeling about the honeymoon. The groom went on to Aruba alone and was killed two days later when his rented car flew off a cliff. When Syd was home on leave from the Navy, he’d been about to cross a downtown street when an inexplicable feeling made him suddenly retreat to the curb. A moment later, an old van barreled through the intersection followed by a police car, both coming to within inches of where Syd would have been standing.

  Yes, premonitions were taken seriously in the Norville family.

  Syd’s old Chevy truck pulled into the west parking lot of the massive Catholic monastery where he worked five nights a week as a janitor. He climbed down from the cab and let his right hand linger on the tattered steering wheel cover. A glance at the hazy moon peeking through a clump of trees at the south end of the property made him shudder. Something was wrong. He could feel it. And his impulse was to run.

  He turned his head to listen, remembering the night several months before when a child’s voice had sent him scurrying through the mammoth building looking for the source. Since then, cold spots had stopped him in the middle of heated hallways and once, when a pair of invisible fingers slid across his forearm, he’d thought seriously about finding another job. The acid pouring into his stomach now made him wish he had. A penetrating breeze rising up from the southern tip of the property sent shivers across his shoulders like a thousand sand crabs running for cover. It was five minutes to nine. He had to make up his mind.

  Syd grabbed his lunchbox from behind the seat and closed the battered truck door. He needed to ignore the voices in his head and get to work. His fingers flexed around the Rosary in his pocket for comfort. With a shake of his shoulders, he hurried toward the west door before he could change his mind.

  Lights blazed in the banquet room, and the sound of laughter replaced thoughts of impending disaster. The white catering van was still parked in the lot. The young Miss Fields would depart soon, leaving behind a small clean-up crew. These parties often lasted until well past midnight, so no telling when he’d have access to the banquet room where his job was only to pick up the trash, vacuum, and spot clean the carpet. The ignition of a car engine made him turn around as he reached for the door. A pair of headlights flicked on in the parking lot. A moment later, a familiar Toyota Camry pulled out.

  Syd slipped inside the back door and turned down a short hallway towards the cleaning closet. He would start tonight at the other end of the building in order to avoid the party guests. He liked to mix up his routine, sometimes going through the building clockwise, sometimes counter clockwise, sometimes all out of order. It helped to relieve the boredom. Thirty years as a shop manager made this work meaningless, but it helped to pay his wife’s medical bills. After surgery to remove a kidney, her prognosis was good. The image of his plump little wife sitting comfortably at home warmed his insides, helping to further reduce his jitters.

  With the feeling of dread beginning to fade, he stepped into the closet and flicked on the single 40-watt bulb that served as an overhead light. It only illuminated the area right next to the door, but Syd could have found his way around blind, he was that familiar with how things were organized. His lungs inhaled the comforting sweetness of the powdered soap that sat in boxes on a shelf to his left, but an almost imperceptible tingling at the back of his neck made him think there was something more. It was an odor he didn’t recognize, something dank among the aroma of pine and borax. With trembling fingers, he tucked his lunchbox under one arm and reached for the small flask he now carried in his pants pocket. He removed the cap with practiced ease and took a swig. The searing flow of whisky inflamed his throat. Within moments, his muscles relaxed, and the tremors in his hands began to disappear.

  Now he had to get to work. The flask was returned to its hiding place, and he placed his lunchbox on an empty shelf, surprised to find one of the monk’s wool blankets there. He reached for a handful of cleaning rags and then grabbed a spray bottle filled with his favorite cleaning solvent. A wire brush, rubber gloves, and a couple of old sponges completed his list of supplies. He stowed this all carefully onto a large metal cart, loaded on the vacuum cleaner, and then stepped around a supporting column to grab the rolling mop bucket.

  A small, dark object sitting on the floor half in shadow caught his attention. Something had fallen off one of the shelves. Syd leaned down to pick it up and gave a sharp intake of breath. It was a woman’s patent-leather pump, looking completely incongruous in such functional surroundings. The shoe probably belonged to a party guest who had rendezvoused here with a male counterpart earlier in the evening. The thought disgusted him, but the woman would be back. He’d have to take the shoe to the kitchen. How was she walking around with only one shoe anyway?

  He reached down again to pick it up when the back of his hand bumped something just above it, causing whatever it was to swing back and forth ever so slightly in the dark. Surprised, Syd glanced up, peering into the shadows just in front of his face. That’s when a small cry escaped his lips.

  He backed away, knocking over a box of paper towels in the process, stopping at the door, his lungs incapable of drawing breath. He remained frozen like that, staring at the back wall, the premonition finally revealed.

  Just above the shoe dangled a slender foot encased in a black silk stocking, attached to the body of a dead woman.

  Chapter Two

  Tension gathered in the courtroom like electricity forced through a high voltage cable. Every eye was focused on the dark-haired young man in the center of the room and the buxom blonde in his arms. The young man had been acquitted of murder making him careless, careless enough to turn his back on the only real threat in the room — his wife.

  With the delicacy of a whisper, she slip
ped up behind him and slammed the evidence knife between his shoulder blades. One juror screamed. The judge jumped to his feet. Everyone else watched in horror as the man crumpled to the floor. The buxom blonde shrank back while the wife remained posed above her husband’s body, her lips drawn back with the hint of a satisfied smile.

  Giorgio Salvatori stepped forward on cue, his robes rustling against the hushed stillness. The wife’s steadfast confidence, which had helped secure her husband’s acquittal only moments before, was gone. She’d been betrayed by the man she loved; life as she knew it was over. She relinquished the blade as the court constable moved in to take her elbow.

  “Guilty my lord,” she muttered to the judge.

  The constable led her toward the exit while the audience remained in stunned silence. A moment later, the heavy velvet curtains drew closed, awakening the first sounds of a rousing applause.

  It was closing night. Giorgio Salvatori faced a bank of glaring light bulbs using a handful of tissues to remove the heavy makeup that had helped create the illusion he was an aging British prosecutor. The small, cramped room bustled with chatter as actors changed into street clothes. Members of the production crew kept poking their heads in to shout closing night orders, while cast members entered and exited in various states of undress.

  Giorgio reflected on the closing of Agatha Christie’s “Witness for the Prosecution”. It had been one of his favorite movies as a boy, and he’d waited his entire life to do the stage play. Even so, he’d nearly lost the lead role ten weeks earlier when the director cast John Wilson as Sir Wilfrid — the crusty prosecuting attorney — arguing that a practicing lawyer would bring a sense of realism to the role. Giorgio had pouted for weeks. Wilson was a tax attorney and had probably never seen the inside of a courtroom other than to argue his own parking tickets. On the other hand, Giorgio was a veteran police detective and understood murder investigations and court proceedings.

  But Giorgio had swallowed his disappointment and offered to serve as stage manager. Fortunately, three weeks into rehearsals, Wilson fell and broke his leg repairing the gutters on his roof. Giorgio didn’t cheer exactly, but as stage manager he was the logical replacement. Besides, he was the better actor. He’d once told Angie that becoming a cop had replaced his irresistible desire to be on stage. But he’d never lost his love of the theater, and it was only moving to a small town with a rotating work schedule that provided this new opportunity. He glanced over at the costume table with a pang of regret. The discarded black robe and powdered wig were now only fond memories. Everything would be returned to the costume department to be saved for another production.

  “Jo Jo, you were great!”

  Giorgio looked up to find his brother’s six-foot, two-inch frame filling the doorway. Giorgio’s younger brother, Rocky, stepped forward and threw one long leg over the bench, grinning like a Cheshire cat.

  “I can’t believe it,” Rocky continued, “a cop playing an attorney. You’re gunna get ribbed about this one.” He gave Giorgio a rough slap on the shoulder, his dark eyes gleaming.

  “Glad you liked it,” Giorgio mumbled. “I’ll be ready in a minute.”

  Giorgio reached for another tissue watching Rocky out of the corner of his eye. At thirty-six, Giorgio was the older sibling by only two years, and yet he wondered why anyone would ever mistake the two as brothers. Rocky towered over Giorgio by at least four inches, and his broad shoulders and thick, dark hair made him look like he was still in his twenties. His brother’s casual good looks had always intimidated Giorgio. While Rocky took after their father — tall, slender and athletic — Giorgio had inherited all the flaws from his mother’s side — high forehead and a tendency to put on weight. Giorgio sucked in his stomach, believing that whatever he lacked in looks and grace, he made up in bulk and muscle.

  “Man those wigs were cool,” Rocky chattered on, rapping his fingers on the makeup table. “But I never thought I’d see you wearing a dress.”

  “It was a robe, not a dress.” Giorgio curled a lip as he slicked back the brown hair that was just beginning to show strands of gray.

  “Yeah, well it looked like a dress,” Rocky laughed. “But you get better every time I see you, you know? What’s the next play, a musical or something?”

  Rocky grabbed a powder puff and clasped it between his fingers, sending up enough fine dust to obscure his image in the mirror. Giorgio watched him thinking his brother was like a teakettle, always simmering and ready to whistle. He contemplated whether his mother had ever considered putting him on medication.

  “How’d they do that knife bit at the end, anyway?” Rocky continued. “It looked so real I thought I was gunna have to come up on stage and arrest somebody.”

  He faked a punch at Giorgio’s belly and laughed as Giorgio used a Kleenex to wipe off the mirror.

  “I’m glad you liked it. Where’s Angie?”

  “She’s waiting for you in the lobby with the kids. Hey, Tony loved the stabbing.” Rocky set down the powder puff and grabbed a makeup sponge. “He wants you to show him how they did it.”

  With a patience that belied his mood, Giorgio rescued the sponge and replaced it in a makeup box that belonged to another actor.

  “What did Angie say?”

  “Oh, you know Angie.” Rocky fingered the powder puff again, his dark eyes glinting as if the powder puff was a chocolate truffle. “She never says much, but she loved it. She loves everything you do.”

  Giorgio carefully closed the box that housed the powder puff and caught the faint smell of alcohol against the dense aroma of face paint and hair spray. He threw a suspicious glance at his brother, but said nothing. Rocky pulled his leg out from the bench and stood up.

  “C’mon, let’s go. We promised to take the kids for ice cream.”

  “Ice cream,” Giorgio perked up. “I’m right behind you.”

  The two brothers approached the theater lobby where Angie stood talking with an enormous woman dressed in a bulky red caftan and green cap. As though her size weren’t statement enough, Giorgio thought she looked like a giant tomato. He turned to Rocky with a snide remark poised on his lips when the woman’s husband glanced his way. Giorgio recovered quickly, faked a cough, and turned to find his children.

  Tony and his sister, Marie, were peering into a glass case that displayed props from the previous fall production of Dracula. Eight year-old Tony knelt with his face pressed against the glass staring at the bat. Marie, a year older, stood with her hands behind her back rocking back and forth so that her blue taffeta skirt flipped like waves on the ocean. Something caught in Giorgio’s throat at the image. Marie was so like her mother, slender and pretty, with honey-colored skin, and large doe-brown eyes. The only thing marring what Giorgio thought of as perfection, were the slightly crooked teeth that flashed whenever she smiled. Braces would fix that, he thought. Just a little more overtime.

  Marie’s eyes lit up when she saw her father, and she ran to him. He scooped her up in one easy movement.

  “Daddy, you were wonderful.”

  Her lips touched his cheek, flooding his nostrils with the smell of the chocolate pudding she’d had at dinner. He sucked it up like Hummingbirds suck nectar and then set her down and ruffled her hair.

  “Thanks honey. What’d your mom think?”

  “I think she liked it. We’re going for ice cream.” She grabbed his hand. “Mom promised.”

  “Okay. Let’s get your brother.”

  Giorgio yelled for Tony, but the appeal of the rubber bat suspended from the top of the case had glued him to the spot. Tony was slender like Marie but a head shorter. The uncomfortable looking suit and tie required by his mother for the show tonight made him look like a miniature used car salesman.

  “Hey, Tony!” Giorgio bellowed. “Apparently your hearing is impaired! Let’s go!”

  Everyone in the lobby turned with a jerk except Tony, who rose obediently and followed his father without a word. Angie said goodbye to the giant tomato, and
the family walked outside and down the steps towards the street.

  “You’re not on stage anymore, Joe,” Angie reprimanded him as they followed the cement walkway into the park. “You don’t have to yell.”

  “I know,” he snarled.

  They rounded the corner of the old granite courthouse converted years earlier into a community theater. The bulky, two-story building anchored the southeast corner of the town square and was flanked by a small parking lot, graceful eucalyptus trees, box hedges, and a stone marker commemorating 1930 as the year the old courthouse was built. It was late October, and leaves covered the sidewalk. Marie kicked at them playfully while she walked in between her parents. The news station had predicted a storm, and the air was dense with moisture. Rocky chased Tony around the swing set making Giorgio think how glad he was they had all moved here two years earlier. Life was good.

  Marie reached up and took the keys from her father’s hand and ran ahead to unlock the car leaving the couple to themselves.

  “So,” Giorgio began, “what’d you think?”

  Angie moved over to put her slender arm through his. “About what?”

  Her voice chimed the way a mellow church bell draws the hour, and Giorgio inhaled the sweet scent of her floral perfume.

  “Now, don’t do that to me, Angie. You know what I mean.”

  “I thought it was good,” she said simply.

  “That’s all? Just good?”

  “No. Very good. It was very good.”

  “Hmm,” he mumbled.

  “You were very good, Joe. You always are.” She lifted his hand and kissed the back of it. “I liked it.”

  He threw his arm around her slim waist drawing her close. “Thanks. I always wanted to do that part, you know.”

  “I know,” she said quietly.

  “Perhaps I should send Wilson a card thanking him. After all, I couldn’t have done it without him.” He chuckled, winning a look of eternal patience from his wife. “Okay, maybe not a thank you, but I should at least see how he’s doing. Tell him how the play went.”