MASS MURDER (6 page)

“Thank you, but who are all of these people?”
Giorgio nodded toward the women huddled by the fireplace.

“We’re hosting a writer’s conference.
They’ve been asked to remain available for questioning.
I really don’t know much more than that.”

“Why are they dressed like that?”

The little man shrugged
,
and his hooded robe nearly encased his head.
Watching him, Giorgio couldn’t decide if he was the real thing or another character at the costumed ball.

“I couldn’t tell you,” he said, ey
e
ing the women with a pinched expression, “but I can tell you that we’ve never had a murder here.
It’s all quite troubling.”

Without comment, Giorgio turned and led the way around the bas
e of the stairs, past a
portable bar
,
and down the hallway.
They passed several closed doors before the hallway opened into a large, square kitchen.
A dichotomy in time, the kitchen sported shiny, commercial size appliances in contrast to a worn, tiled floor, dirty stucco walls
,
and two small, antiquated windows set near the ceiling.
A chunky, wooden table marred by years of knife cuts and mallet whacks now served as crime scene central where Patrol Sergeant, Abe Terrero, had set up shop
.
Tall and lanky, Sergeant Terrero was a man of few words
.
With an almost inaudible grunt, he shoved a clipboard at the brothers as they entered
.
Rocky and Giorgio logged in and then donned rubber gloves and booties
before picking
up radios
.
Terrero shrugged in the direction of a short hallway, mumbling, “Down there.”

The brothers passed through the kitchen to a short hallway that ended with a door to the outside. To their right was a tiny, tiled bathroom with only a toilet and
a
sink. Another hallway cut off to the left where they met Francis Mulhaney who often acted as the police photographer.

“Joe!  Glad to see you. We didn’t take you away from a standing ovation did we?”

Mulhaney grinned as he swung his camera over one shoulder.
Giorgio returned a brief smile.

“After three curtain calls, I told the stage manager I had to go. What do we have?”

Mulhaney turned and gestured to the other end of the hallway where a small Asian man in a white jumpsuit and rubber gloves dusted a door for fingerprints. Sierra Madre was too small to employ a full-time forensic specialist and so partnered with neighboring communities when the need arose. Giorgio recognized Jon Fong from the Pasadena Police Department and felt a flood of relief. Fong was one of the best they had. The door he was dusting stood open, revealing a set of shelves with cleaning supplies stowed neatly beyond.

“A woman,” Mulhaney replied, allowing Giorgio to duck under the crime scene tape. “Looks like she’s been strangled. Whoever did it hung her in the closet. Literally,” he emphasized, following behind. “The closet tucks back in there a bit. She’s been hung on a utility hook by the back strap of her bra. The ME has done a preliminary on her, but they were waiting for you.”

“Was it rape?” Rocky asked, bringing up the rear.

Mulhaney turned as if only now realizing Rocky was there. He acknowledged Roc
ky with a nod before answering.

“Don’t know
. B
ut she’s fully clothed. And she’s missing the tip of her little finger.”

“We heard. Who found her?” Giorgio asked, moving toward the open doorway.

“The night janitor,” Mulhaney replied, following him. “He comes on about nine o’clock and went into the storeroom for the mop bucket. As you can see, the light ain’t too good in there
and
he bumped into her. The old man’s pretty spooked, to say the least.”

Giorgio approached the door, glancing up at the ceiling as he passed through the hallway.

“N
o security cameras I take it?”

Mulhaney shook his head. “No such luck. I doubt they had any reason before tonight.”

The forensics man acknowledged Giorgio and then stepped aside, allowing
him to poke his head inside
. The overhead light
did
little to illuminate the room. Gio
rgio could see the closet was large as closets go
−
big enough for a full set of shelves on one wall, an industrial vacuum, floor buffer, and various
cleaning
supplies.
On the back wall, cast in deep shadow
,
was
a row of hooks that held mops, brooms, utility jackets, and now the
dark
outline of a dead wom
an.

“You done inside?” he asked Fong.

“Just be careful.”

Giorgio stepped inside and glanced around
. He took
shallow breaths to minimize the stench left behind by death, made all the more unpleasant by the sharp odor of cleaning solvents. There was only the one door. No windows. The floor was clean
−
cleaner than his kitchen at home. All the supplies were lined up in rows and clearly labeled except for the strewn rolls of paper towels the janitor had probably knocked over when he found the body. There was no trash thrown into corners and no dirty cl
eaning rags. Just a bunch of crime scene markers and a dead body.

She was hung next to a pair of painter’s ove
ralls, her feet dangling in mid-
air. One foot was bare except for her black stockings. Giorgio guessed she wasn’t more than five
-
feet tall, if that. Her head was flopped forward with several long curls of red hair hanging free. Her petite frame was encased in a long-sleeved, black velvet cocktail dress, her arms hanging limply at her sides. Except for the dress and the bags used to protect possible evidence underneath the fingernails, she looked very much like the rag doll he’d given Marie on her fourth birthday. A gold chain encircled her slender neck
,
and a large amethyst pendant was cradled just above her full bosom. Giorgio looked past the necklace to the translucent flesh beneath. Even in the poor light he could see the wide, uneven ligature line that extended underneath her chin making him suspect the weapon
was a scarf or piece of cloth.

The dead woman’s face was puffy and looked bruised as the blood settled into her cheeks. He lifted the corner of an eyelid
. A
bloodshot
,
blue eye peeked out staring straight ahead. A thought made
Giorgio
lift her hair at the nape of the neck, using his penlight to identify the bruising he knew he would find. He touched her cheek with two fingers just behind the ear. The skin was cool to the touch, not clammy, indicating she’d
been dead less than six hours.

Ro
cky stood at the doorway. “So?”

“She’s been strangled, sometime earlier this evening. Doesn’t look like she struggled much, but the auto
psy will have to tell us that.”

He lifted her right hand, noting the blood stain on the corner of the bag covering her hand. It was a natural reaction to turn and look around the small room as if the missing appendage might reveal itself only to him
. Just below where her hand
dangled lay a pool of blood marked with an evidence marker. Lying close by was the woman’s black pump, outlined in chalk
,
and also marked. E
verything else seemed in place.

“I doubt she was killed in here,” he concluded out loud to Rocky. “But this is where her finger was removed.”

Giorgio stepped into the hallway allowing Fong to resume his work. Mulhaney was gone, so the brothers went to find someone who could provide more information. They pushed through a swinging door off the kitchen and entered a modest sized banquet room filled with round tables. Cigarette smoke hung in the air along with the smell of cheap wine. Tables had been cleared except for the wine glasses and opened bottles of Crystal Moon Chardonnay.

Six or seven people sat huddled at the far side of the room. Two of the men were dressed in black pants, white shirts
,
and black vests. Probably the bartenders. One officer questioned a slender woman dressed in a long, silver lamé dress with shoulder-length hair draped alluringly over one eye. Another detective, named Swan, talked to a tall monk with gray hair. When Swan saw Giorgio, he broke away.

“Joe, glad you’re here. How was closing night?”

“Good.” Giorgio answere
d, his eyes searching the room.

“Sorry you had to leave t
he party, but the Captain’s
gone
and thought you should take the lead on this. I didn’t think you’d want to get the information second
-
hand tomorrow, so I sent Samson to pick you up after the perf
orman
ce.”

“No problem. What do we know so far?”

“Not much. The monastery booked a writers
’
conference. During their dinner tonight the janitor found the body. We
have
a list of every
guest
in attendance and every priest on the premises
, but we’ve sent most people back to their rooms until we can interview them
. The people you see
down here
have all been questioned. We’re also working on a list of employees who were here tonight.”

Giorgio looked at Swan. “First of all, they’re monks.”

Swan shrugged. “What’s the difference?”

Giorgio continued to survey the room. “Priests are ordained to public ministry. These guys like to stay all to themselves. Is the janitor still around?”

“He’s waiting outside.” Swan indicated the back door.

“Who’s the woman hanging in the closet?”

“Her name is Mallery Olsen. She was attending the conference.”

“When was the last time anyone saw her alive?”

“So far, no one’s really sure. She was dressed for the dinner
,
but we haven’t found anyone who saw her come into the banquet room. The coroner will have to tell us what time she was killed and whether she even ate dinner.”

“How many people attended the di
nner tonight?”

Giorgio studied the people at the back of the room, taking in the details of their clothing, their demeanor
,
and blank expressions. He felt himself entering a familiar groove
,
g
ather information quickly and make determinations later. Swan c
onsulted his notes.

“There were about forty people in the banquet room. Four employees in the kitchen. Two bartenders out in the lobby.”

“What about the monks?”

“Abou
t twenty live on the premises.”

Giorgio sighed and ran his fingers through his hair, setting a few strands free to fall across his forehe
ad. This would be a long night.

“We interviewed the caterers and sent them home, but we’ve warned everyone else not to leave.” Swan closed his notebook. “But there’s a problem. The conference ended tonight. Everyone is scheduled to leave tomorrow.”