MASS MURDER (40 page)

The front door to the bar banged open extinguishing the chilling voice in his head.
Three young business
men
entered the bar, their arrogant disregard for others preceding them.
He ignored them, turning his gaze to the flat screen TV that hung behind the bar.
It was tuned to the local news.
A brunette woman reported that a young man named Jeff
Dorman
had been found buried in the vegetable garden on the grounds of the monastery.
She went on to say the victim had attended the same writers’ conference as Mallery Olsen and may have been killed on the same night.
The picture switched to tape of a news conference apparently held earlier in the day where the lead detective on the case, a Giorgio Salvatori, was making a statement.

Cato leaned forward to listen more closely.
This was the man he had seen in the gift shop.
This Salvatori reported that the police didn’t know if the two deaths were related yet, or if the two victims had even known each other.
Cato smiled.
He had no idea who the dead guy was, nor did he care.
He only hoped the second murder would lead the authorities away from him.
The detective went on to say they were still running down leads on the Olsen murder and had no idea why the killer had removed her little finger.
This sparked a flurry of interruptions as reporters clamored for questions, but Detective Salvatori abruptly ended the press conference and went back inside.

Cato leaned back.
His little package would have gone out in the mail today and he practically salivated at the thought of what it would do to the next press conference.
Although there wouldn’t be any congr
atulatory phone calls
, his uncle would recognize the message
because h
e’d
also
removed Mangano’s little finger.
His reward for having waited fifteen years.

Glancing at the TV again, he caught the fleeting picture of Jeff
Dorman
as the reporter signed off.
Thinking about
Dorman
gave rise to a concern.
He still had one loose end, a big loose end that demanded attention.
It would require taking another risk, but the risk was greater if he did nothing.
Jeff
Dorman’s
murder might actually help deflect attention
;
even confuse the matter to the point of obfuscation.
Since it was probably an amateur who had killed
Dorman
, the police were more likely to solve that murder.
So, what if there was a third murder and they were all pinned on the same person?

He smiled.

Bodies piling up all over the place at the Catholic monastery.
What a hoot.
His uncle wouldn’t see the poetic justice, but he would recognize the clarity with how it was accomplished.

Cato’s lips played with the rim of the bottle as he contemplated his next move.
He would take no trophy this time.
In fact, it was time for something bold.
Something different.
Something that would eliminate any patterns the police might follow.
He contemplated a few possibilities and then nodded to himself.

Ah, yes.
He knew just what to do.

With a quick chug, he finished the beer and slid out of the booth, leaving a small pile of shredded paper behind
.

Chapter Twenty-
Eight

Father O’Leary lifted his huge bulk out of the wooden chair in the library, stretching his arms over his head to alleviate the ache in his back.
He really should lose a few pounds.
Always overweight as a child, he’d grown to be an overweight adult.
It had never posed a problem until the monks had begun baking bread for additional income.
A freshly baked loaf of sourdough bread was something he couldn’t resist.
Add the real butter Mrs. Tilkens snuck to him on Sundays
,
and a warm slab of bread took on the mouth-watering appeal of a piece of double chocolate cake.
Soon enough, his affliction had taken on new proportions,
literally.

H
e stretched his back
feeling
a slight lightheadedness.
These had been the first few hours out of bed and perhaps he wasn’t yet fully recovered from the intestinal tract infection he’d come down with on Saturday night
;
the night the young woman was found hanging in the closet.
He placed
his hand across his mid-drift,
feeling
his intestines grinding slowly inside.

What was it that made him so sick he would still be feeling the effects?
Dinner that night had been a rather plain beef stew and no one else was taken ill.
It might have been the sardines he’d feasted on in his room earlier that day
. B
ut most assuredly, if they had been tainted,
he would have felt the effects
sooner than evening time.
The only other possibility was the chocolate bar one of the brothers had slipped him right after dinner in appreciation for a helping hand.
But he couldn’t imagine a chocolate bar giving him so much trouble.
It was a mystery to be sure.

He moved into the glow of a small lamp sitting on the table next to the window and gazed out across the east parking lot, flexing and relaxing the fingers on both hands.
A cigarette right now would taste heavenly and might even serve to quiet his stomach.
He was behind in cataloguing the new books delivered from the regional office
,
and he looked at the stack of tomes on the floor with a small pang of guilt.
This was the first time he’d felt well enough to tackle the job, which h
ad to be finished by
the Bishop’s arrival
on Friday
.
Of course, he wondered if the
b
ishop would even come.
The monastery was a-buzz with news of the second murder victim and the arrest of Anya Peters, the Event Coordinator.
About fifteen
a
bbots would be attending the regional forum.
A multiple murder site could hardly be a place of peace and solitude, what with yellow police tape hanging everywhere, news vans blocking the entrance
,
and people getting arrested.
The more he thought about it, the more he felt certain
the
bishop
would chang
e
plans and his deadline would be a thing of the past.

A fifteen-minute break was looking more and more like a good idea.
It would refresh his spirits and allow him to work with more clarity.
After all, it wouldn’t do to make a mistake
.
And if the
b
ishop didn’t come this weekend, it wouldn’t matter if he finished by Friday anyway.
He glanced back out at the night sky which displayed an inviting splash of stars and a crisp moon.
Yes, a walk in the garden would surely do him good.

Father O’Leary turned on his heel and left the library, disappearing down the hallway to his room where he pulled a single Marlboro from the pack hidden behind his shaving kit, along with a small pack of matches.
A moment later, he was descending the stairs, his robes billowing behind him.
A furtive glance down both hallways told him he was alone.
Because the night offered a clear view of the valley, he decided to take his walk at the front of the building.
It was after
midnight
and the monks were expected to be in bed, ready to rise at four in the morning.
The grounds would be free to roam in what Father O’Leary considered his personal time for quiet contemplation.

When he reached the front door, the soft thud of a door closing upstairs warned him that someone else was feeling restless tonight.
H
e hurried out the door and down the path leading to the large wooden cross.
H
e
stayed to the flagstone path,
crossed the drive
,
and
then
lumbered down the embankment to the small duck pond.
There, he lowered himself onto the wall that rimmed the shallow water and sighed.
This was his favorite spot and the bushes gave him ample cover from prying eyes.
A few seconds later, he was holding a lit cigarette
and
drawing the acrid smoke into his lungs with a feeling of reverence.
His whole body relaxed as the nicotine flushed his veins.
When
he exhaled, he crossed one leg over the other and gazed with satisfaction out on the valley below.

It was a beautiful evening, though chilly, and the rich pine bouquet of the trees close
by was intoxicating.
Crickets kept up a healthy racket in the grasses that surrounded the pond and the soft breeze gently rustled the palm trees along the drive, making it sound as if a bubbling brook angled its way down the hill.
The sound of music drifted across the open fields from one of the neighborhood houses, making him think of the conference and the murder.

He’d missed much of the excitement surrounding the investigation because he’d been confined to the infirmary
. B
ut that hadn’t stopped him from thinking about it.
The image of a young girl strangled and hanging alone in the supply closet was heartbreaking.

He took another draw on the cigarette, allowing it to warm his insides.
His muscles tingled as the nicotine brought them back to life.

His mind drifted back to the girl in the closet and the question of how and why someone would commit such a heinous act on
the
monastery grounds.
The monks had gossiped ab
out it quietly
all week and that gossip had reached him even in the infirmary.
There was a running theory that the murder was the result of a lover’s spat gone bad, but that didn’t resonate with Father O’Leary.
And it didn’t answer the question of how the murderer had killed her and placed her in the closet without detection.
Unless she’d been killed outside, getting her down the staircase
and
into the closet
without being seen was almost impossible.
Yet, according to the police, she hadn’t been outside.
She’d been seen going back to her room.
The only way from her room to the kitchen was either down the main staircase or down the fire escape, and carrying a body down that fire escape seemed impractical to say the least.

Thoughtfully, Father O’Leary took another draw on the cigarette, watching the ember burn
flare
.