The Monolith Murders (20 page)

Fred then noticed something he hadn’t before—the corpse’s shoes. The shoes were causal, something Maureen would wear often but not with height enhancement. The shoes he was looking at had soles that were at least an inch think. Did that bastard Atwell make her wear heels to make her uncomfortable, he questioned.
 

But that doesn’t make sense. Atwell was more conscious of his lack of height than I am, he thought. With just a momentary flicker of hope, Fred removed the towel from the dead woman’s head. And for the second time in the last ten minutes he was filled with shock.

Fred could barely detect the distant hum of an elevator. The doorman had called 911. Within minutes the firemen and the police had arrived. They had been able to call down the penthouse elevator from the lobby. They shorted the call button to bring down the elevator and open its doors. When they entered the elevator, the firemen didn’t have to worry about a key; they removed the button’s panel and touched together the two bare wires activating the elevator. They were now on their way up to the penthouse.
 

A tall thin cop exiting the elevator door was the first to see Fred. His revolver was drawn. “The doorman told me that you’re a cop. Let’s see your badge.”
 

The cop looked at Fred, noticing the grease and blood covering his suit coat and what had earlier been his white shirt. He asked, “What barroom brawl did you just come out of?”
 

“It’s a long story, but now’s not the time to discuss it.”
 

Down the hall one of the cops was yelling, “Shit, there’s a dead body down here!”
 

Another cop looked past Fred towards the bathroom. “Mike, there’s one down here, too! What the hell was this, a killing orgy?”

The cops asked Fred, “Who are the dead people?”
 

Fred said, “The male is Marv Atwell.”

The cop asked, “Do you mean the multi-millionaire?”
 

“Yes, that’s the one.”

“And the female?”

Fred said, his voice breaking, “I don’t know who the woman is.”
 

The thin cop said, “Let’s get the doorman up here; he should know who lives in the condo.”
 

When the doorman arrived he was taken to the guest bathroom. The doorman recognized the body right away—“She’s Mr. Atwell’s maid and cook.”
 

The thin cop said, “I believe you got the tense wrong.”

Fred asked the doorman, “My wife is staying here as well; do you recall seeing her leave the condo at any time today?”

 
“Sorry, I don’t remember, but I do recall a dark haired woman in her mid thirties leaving the penthouse elevator about 4 p.m. yesterday.”
 

Fred turned to officer next to him,” I think I know who that was.” He then asked the doorman if she was short and slim.
 

 
“Come to think of it, she was.”
 

Fred turned to face the investigating cops, “Gentlemen, I think you can be sure that person was Donna Lang. She’s the murderer who escaped from the Tallahassee Women’s prison in Florida a short time ago. I can get a picture of her faxed from my station to you; and although I suspect she had on a wig or was the benefactor of a good dye job, she will prove to be the same person.”

Fred explained to the officers that his wife was staying at Atwell’s house as a friend. Fred had no desire to get into the fact that Maureen was there for protection because that would simply add to the case’s confusion. He did say that Donna had a vendetta against Atwell, because he had helped capture her four years ago.
 

Fred was careful to release just enough data so that the San Diego police could proceed in the right direction, but he held back enough details so that the story would remain plausible even to an outsider.
 

Fred helped in the investigation of the crime scene, hoping he could find a clue as to Maureen’s whereabouts. When he went back to take a look at Atwell’s body, he noticed for the first time an edge of a piece of paper was just barely sticking out from under his back. Fred pulled it out; printed in bold red letters; it said, “
Hello Fred, sorry your wife wasn’t here but at least your good friend Atwell is here to greet you.
”

Fred recognized Donna’s trademarks right away—the red marker reinforced by the hole in the middle of Atwell’s forehead. He also recognized the writing—no question about it, Donna was the murderer.

After an exhaustive search of the condo, the team could find no clues as to where Maureen was. Fred didn’t know if she was a captive of Donna’s, had been murdered and the body placed somewhere else, or God knew what else. He only knew that if she were all right, she would call him as soon as she safely could. The only thing they found out of place, except for the two dead bodies, was a large Stephen King book at the edge of the hall. I wonder why this is here, he thought—everything else seems to be as it should be in the over-organized condo. Fred would never know that the book on the hall floor was the sole reason for the maid’s death.
 

* * *

The day earlier, Donna had arrived at the condo while Atwell was out getting a box of cigars. She struck up a conversation with the doorman, asking him for a key to the penthouse elevator. The doorman said, “No way; I’d be fired for that.”
 

Donna was wearing a low cut dress that day; she knew from long experience that male creatures are created by nature with an overflowing supply of testosterone. Donna had known throughout her life how to use that knowledge to her advantage.
 

She bent over and touched the doorman’s leg, calling his attention to a hair on his pant’s leg. “Do you know where Mr. Atwell might be?” she asked in a low seductive voice.
 

In a stuttering response, the doorman revealed to her the location of the cigar store where Atwell had gone and when he expected Atwell to return. eHe apologized profusely that he couldn’t allow Donna in Atwell’s unit.
 

Donna said, “That’s okay, I’m an old friend who Marv will be delighted to see.”
 

The doorman said, “Maybe you and I can get together after you visit Mr. Atwell.”

“That would be fine,” Donna said as she positioned herself behind the doorman and out of direct sight from anyone entering the revolving front door.

Fifteen minutes later, when Atwell entered the condo lobby, he didn’t notice Donna whose small frame was concealed completely behind the large doorman. In a second she was next to Atwell, with her gun that she made sure the doorman couldn’t see, pressed firmly against Atwell’s side. She put her lips next to Atwell’s ear and whispered, “If you try for a moment to effect some physic mumbo jumbo on me, I swear I won’t hesitate to kill you.”
 

The doorman, watching from about fifteen feet away, thought he was witnessing Donna seductively blowing into Atwell’s ear. Atwell’s sure going to get lucky tonight, he thought.
 

Atwell put his key into the elevator slot as directed, his shaking hand just barely finding the slot. Donna had decided she was going to make Atwell suffer quite a bit before she killed him, but as soon as they exited the elevator into his penthouse, Atwell took off running down the hall. Losing control, he slid on his overly waxed marble floor into his large wooded den. Donna was right behind him, yelling for him to turn around. Atwell panicked and turned to face Donna, concurrently putting his hands up. Donna immediately shot him in the middle of the forehead. Then, hearing a noise down the hall, Donna thought Maureen was there. But the noise was that of the live-in maid who had heard the gun shot.
 

The maid picked up the heaviest object she could find—a thick Stephen King novel that Atwell had been reading in his bathroom. Atwell had no loyalty to his maid, but she did to him. She didn’t know what had happened to Atwell, but as Donna entered the hallway, the maid threw the book as hard as she could at the intruder.

The book glanced off Donna’s arm causing no damage, but the maid’s action had enraged Donna. “Hell, maybe I would’ve let you live, but now—” The maid ran back in the bathroom; in a second Donna was behind her. The maid faced Donna, putting her hands up. Donna laughed. “This isn’t the animal world, sweetie, where pleading and surrender ends the conflict,” she said, smiling as she fired into the maid’s heart.

She investigated all the remaining rooms in the condo looking for Maureen. Satisfied she was not there, Donna decided to relax while she waited for Maureen to return. Donna took a bowl out of the cupboard, and finding a box of heavily salted pretzels she filled the bowl and sat down. Facing her was a 60-inch three dimensional TV. She turned on a nearby Blue Ray DVD with a recent 3D movie already inserted and entertained herself for the next hour.
 

She had that damn recurring headache again. That was the only reason she allowed Dr. Anderson to live, to take care of any of any potential physical problems resulting from the operation. She knew if she had to go under the knife again, only Anderson would have the expertise to accomplish it. Other neurosurgeons wouldn’t know what the hell the electronic unit was that was planted in her head. Besides, it was possible they might have even heard about the previous operation and would contact the police.
 

She went into the bathroom to get an aspirin. As she opened the medicine cabinet, she couldn’t avoid the sight of the maid’s dead eyes staring up at her. Donna said, “What in hell do you want? You’re dead!” She tossed a bath towel over the lifeless head. “That takes care of it; she won’t be staring at me anymore.”
 

Maureen still hadn’t returned after another hour had passed, and Donna still had some personal business to take care of. She was in San Diego, so why not enjoy myself, she thought. Before she left she decided to leave her calling card, a note boldly written with a red marker pen. She left the note for Fred. She had hoped to leave the note on the dead body of Maureen; but she decided in a compromised situation Atwell would do nicely instead.
 

As she left the revolving door of the condo building, she sensed a presence nearby. Before she could focus her mind, a car almost ran her over as she was crossing the street. With her mind diverted, she didn’t pick up the mental scent of Maureen who had just passed the condo driving Atwell’s Mercedes.
 

Maureen had been fortunate because Atwell had given her the keys to his 2012 Mercedes, telling her to go to the grocery store and get a week’s worth of groceries. Maureen initially wasn’t sure why he told her to do that; it was normally a job he assigned to his live in maid. But lately Atwell was giving more and more duties to Maureen—always the least desirable ones. Maureen had once mentioned to Atwell that she didn’t like to drive in the busy downtown area of large cities. Atwell recalled that fact, and out of pure vindictiveness had sent Maureen to a downtown grocery store in the busiest and most violent area of town.
 

Maureen knew there were several stores nearby which were much easier to get to, but she realized that somehow Atwell would know if she disobeyed his orders and chose to shop in a closer area than he had directed. She couldn’t afford for that to happen.
 

When Maureen had completed the week’s shopping and returned to Atwell’s condo, she started to turn into the lower garage area. At that moment she saw a woman hurrying out of the condo’s front door. She didn’t think about it immediately, but a second later it hit her—that was Donna Lang! Donna was wearing a dark wig, but Maureen knew instinctively who it was.
 

 
Fred had told Maureen about a psychic’s need to have some degree of proximity to their subjects in order for them to effectively read one’s mind. Maureen’s first tendency was to pull into the condo’s garage, park the car and hide there until Donna was gone. As she thought it through, she realized that isolated in the garage she would be trapped with nowhere to escape. She reflected that Donna might pick up her mental scent if she hung around the area.
 

Instead of driving into the garage, Maureen continued down the street until she reached the intersection of I-5 heading north. She traveled continuously through most of the night, checking her rear view mirror every mile of the way. The heavy traffic was continuous.

When she reached the Oregon line she was exhausted. She left the interstate, spotting the welcoming bright neon sign of a Motel Six. She recalled Tom Bodett’s famous advertising line about his leaving the light on. She desperately needed to enter a motel room already well lit to help cast away her fears of the dark. She convinced the motel manager to accompany her to her room to make sure that Bodett’s spiel about guaranteed room illumination upon arrival was in fact literal.
 

She had purposely obtained a room on the second floor, strategically centered in the middle of the motel. That would be a good area to spot anyone coming up the stairs, she thought. She opened the curtains slightly; and after thoroughly making sure there were no residual night creatures in the room, she turned the room light off. She pulled a chair next to the large front window and peered through the curtains for the next three hours, watching the continuous stream of north and southbound cars coming and going. She didn’t want to call Fred for fear that somehow her call would be intercepted by Donna. Eventually she fell asleep, exhausted, with her head resting awkwardly on the cold marble window sill.