MASS MURDER (11 page)

“This ought to strip
the lining from your stomach.”

“Finally,” Gior
gio smiled, rescuing the Styrofoam cup from Swan’s stubby fingers.
Swan was an imposing figure, even in a suit and tie. Giorgio
remembered that Swan had been a wrestler in college.
At a good fifty pounds lighter, Giorgio contemplated with some anxiety what it must have been like to face Swan across a wrestling mat
.
“Where’s the janitor?”
he asked, taking a swig of coffee.

“He’s in the kitchen.
I told him you’d be in soon.”

“Okay, I’ll go talk with him.”

T
he sound of men’s voices raised in chant made both
officers
turn towards the arched windows on the other side of the bell tower.
A line of monks
holding candles
was
visible through the window,
descending a staircase and crossing into the chapel
. T
heir faces
were
hidden by hoods
and
the hypnotic chant fill
ed
the night like a doomsday warning
.

“What the
…
?” Swan uttered.

Giorgio swallowed a
nother
swig of coffee and stared at the eerie scene feeling the hairs on the back of his neck stand up for the second time that night.

“Mass.
Probably for the girl,” Giorgio speculated.

“Gives me the creeps,” Swan shuddered
,
as the monks continued to file like lemmings into the chapel, their voices undulating in a Latin verse.

“Yeah, well so much for keeping them separate so they can’t share information.
I’ll have to have another talk with Father Damian.”

Giorgio turned and made it back to the front door just as the fe
male reporter
came running up from the driveway.
Her microphone was extended for a statement
;
the cameraman loomed behind her.

“Detective, can I have a minute?”

Giorgio twisted around to Swan. “Handle it,” he clipped
and then disappeared
inside.

He returned to the kitchen where he found a man in his sixties sitting hunched over the small table, staring at his hands as if he were mapping them for later reference.
Giorgio took a seat across from him.
The man didn’t look up.
He just sat staring at his hands as if Giorgio didn’t exist.
This kind of shell shock reminded Giorgio of a case in New York
,
in which a father had been rendered helpless by the hedonistic murder of his only son.
The man had arms the size of canoe paddles
and
yet
he
sat lifeless
as a
doll on a toy store shelf while Giorgio tried without success to interview him.
Giorgio could only hope this time it would go better.

“I’m Detective Salvatori.”

The man turned vacant gray eyes in his direction and said nothing for a full five seconds.
Finally, he
dropped his head and
whispered.

“I’ve
never seen a corpse up close.”

“I understand,” Giorgio nodded.
“What’s your name?”

“Syd Norville.”
His chest heaved.
“I’ve never been through anything like this.
That young girl was dead, you know?”
His lip
twitched.

“I know.
You’re the janitor?”

“That’s right.
I
come on duty at nine o’clock.”

Norville was a handsome man, with wide set eyes and skin as supple as soft leather. Coarse gray hair was cropped close to his head
,
and he wore a blue work shirt and crisp blue jeans.

“What’s the first thing you did when you arrived tonight?”

“I went to the supply closet, like I always do.
That’s where I fou
nd her.”

“Had y
ou ever seen the woman before?”

Giorgio knew what the answer would be, b
ut the question had to be asked.

“I only come in at night.
I don’t know any of the p
eople who attend these things.”

“Where do you park?”

A gnarly finger gestured towards the back door.
“That’s my truck out there.”

Giorgio nodded, took a sip of coffee and wrote a note in his book.
“Did you come straight in from the parking lot and go directly to the closet?”

Norville finally looked up at Giorgio.
“Didn’t have nowhere else to go.”

“I understand, but it’s important.
You didn’t come in here first for coffee or go see Father Damian?”

“Father Damian would have been at the night prayer.
I went straight to work.
I take a break at eleven-thirty.
That’s when I have my coffee.
I bring it in a thermos, in my lunchbox.”

“And where is the thermos now?”

“Oh!”
The gray eyes expanded into near circles.
“It’s in the closet.”

“We’ll make sure it’s returned to you.
Did you see anyone else when you came in?”

“No.
I went straight to the closet.”
His hands relaxed a bit and he looked back
down
at the table again.

“You didn’t see the catering staff?”

“I heard them
,
but figured I’d start at the other end of the building.”

“Did you see anyone at all?
Inside or out?”

“Just Ms. Peters.”
The wide shoulders shrugged as if
this fact was unimportant.

“Ms. Peters?”

“She organizes the events.
Just as I
was coming in
,
she
pull
ed
out of the parking lot.”

Giorgio made a note.
“Is she usually here this late?”

“Sometimes.”

“Did she see you?”

“I don’t know.
Why?”

“Tell me what happened when you found the body.”

“Like I told the other officer, I went in there to get the mop and found a shoe on the floor.
I was leaning over to pick it up when I bumped against something hanging on the wall.
It was her foot.”

His shoulders jerked at the memory.
Giorgio let him re
late the story at his own pace.

“What did you do then?”

Norville gazed at Giorgio as if he were looking right through him. “I went to find
the abbot
.”

“You
didn’t call the police first?”

“No.
Should I have?”

“What you did was fine.
Did you see anyone when you went to find Father Damian?”

“I went through the kitchen and the bartenders were still in the lobby.
They were getting ready to leave.
I started toward the Chapel thinking
Father Damian would
be leading the night prayer, but I saw him just outside his office door.
I told him what happened
,
and he called the police.”

“Thank you, Mr. Norville. I hope you’ll remain available if we need to talk again.”

“Father Damian knows where to find me.
Can I go now?
I don’t feel too much like cleaning up tonight.
I haven’t even told Mabel, yet.”

“Mabel?”

“My wife.”

“You can leave, but don’t clean anything up until I let you know.”

Norville pushed away from the table and stood.
“Most likely I’ll be finding a new job
anyway
.
T
his place gives me the creeps.”

Giorgio stood with him. “By the way, Mr. Norville, did you find anything besides the shoe on the floor?”

Norville paused,
giving Giorgio a curious look.

“I don’t understand.”

This was one of the parts Giorgio hated most about his job, destroying the image people like Syd Norville had of the world.
As big as he was, he was clearly someone who had not been exposed much to violence.

“The woman’s finger was cut off.
We haven’t found it.”

Norville’s face blanched and he sw
allowed as if he might be sick.

“I didn’t find anything like that.”

Norville began to gulp air the way you might when you
know you’re going to throw up.
Giorgio needed to get t
he man’s head around the facts.

“Are all the doors
to the outside locked at night?”

“I lock up as I move through the building.
I don’t finish until after one o’clock in the morning.”

“Do you ever see any of the monks?”

“Not usually.
T
hey go to bed early.
They have a pretty strict routine.
I’ve been told they’re up at four o’clock most days.
I’ve seen the odd man about, taking a short walk or grabbing a snack from the kitchen, but not often.”

“Does Father Damian go to bed at the same time?”

“Sometimes he works late.
I’ve seen the light on in his office past midnight at times, but he sleeps out in the bungalow, so I really couldn’t say what time he goes to bed.”

“I see.
Can I get a copy of the building plans?”

“You’d have to ask Father Damian
for
that.”

“Thank you.
We’ll be in
touch if we need anything else.”

The older man grabbed his jean jacket from the chair before leaving through the back door.
Giorgio followed him outside, stepping into the glow of the small light mounted above the kitchen door.
Giorgio peered over a four-foot wall to his left topped by large clay pots
. A
truck engine flared
and a
moment later, the headlights of an old Ford pickup came on as the janitor
pulled out of the parking lot.