Murder In the Past Tense (A Giorgio Salvatori Mystery Book 2)

MURDER IN THE

PAST TENSE

By Lynn Bohart

Dedicated to my high school alma mater, Pasadena High School, and all the great friends with whom I graduated and who encouraged me in this endeavor.

Cover Art: Mia
Yoshihara-
Bradshaw

Copyright © 2014 by Lynn Bohart

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher, with the exception of brief quotations for the use of reviews or promotional articles approved by the author.

Published by Little Dog Press

Disclaimer:
This book is a work of fiction and while many of the businesses, locations, and organizations referenced in the book are real, they are used in a way that is purely fictional.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

I now realize that writing a successful novel takes a village (not to steal a quote). It is a long and complicated process that certainly requires more collective knowledge than I personally possess. Therefore, my sincere thanks go to the following people:

First and foremost to my writing group (Tim McDaniel, Lori-Church Pursely, Michael Manzer, Timera Drake and Gary Larsen) who painstakingly read this book chapter by chapter over a period of several months, giving me invaluable feedback as the story developed. I’d also like to thank my ‘beta’ readers: Kathy Perrin, Karen Gilb, Bill Dolan, Chris Spahn and Valerie O’Halloran, who read it cover-to-cover and helped to find weak spots and small mistakes. And lastly, thanks goes to Liz Stewart, who serves as my editor and does a thorough job line-editing every page.

Beyond the writing folks however, is a long list of experts and professionals who helped to vet this book. My personal thanks to Renton Fire Chief, Mark Peterson and Andy Speier,
Battalion Chief of the McLane-Black Lake Fire Department and Thurston County SORT. Andy teaches search and rescue and
gave me detailed information on the search and rescue aspects. Thanks also goes to the following: Dr. Dinesh Rao (India), forensic pathologist, who generously offered his advice on the forensics details; Dale Tallman, retired Seattle homicide detective, who vetted the police procedural aspects (and allowed me some literary license); Dr. Katherine Taylor, forensic anthropologist and King County Medical Examiner, who helped me with the cadaver dog and bone discovery information, and Rich Wagner, Baylis Architects.

Once again, I applaud my cover designer, Mia Yoshihara-Bradshaw for a fantastic cover. Please check out her website at:
www.miayoshihara.com
. I would also like to thank
all the women who so lovingly offered to have their pictures grace the front of the book: Cindy Warden LaSance; Pat Auten; Chrystine Warden Dimitry; Sheila Lynn Horn Kaplan; Diane Clauder-Liefke; Lisa Hodgkin Thomas; Pat Butler Nolan; Linda Madeira; and Dana Whitney. Oh yeah, and there’s one more – me.

MURDER IN THE PAST TENSE

May, 1967

Her body was stuffed into a duffle bag and tossed carelessly into the old well as if it were nothing more than a bag of garbage. Those doing the tossing waited to hear the thud when she hit bottom and then threw a few shovelfuls of dirt in behind her for good measure. Since the shovel was caked with her blood, it followed a moment later.

The night was unseasonably warm, and a rustling sound made them stop. Were they being watched? The taller one glanced around, but all was quiet. The parking lot was empty and all the windows at this end of the big building appeared dark.

Satisfied the noise had come from a rodent, he gestured to his companion to help him roll the well cap back to seal the girl into her makeshift tomb. Once their secret was safe, the two dark figures climbed into the long, black car and glided silently away.

Thirty-five feet below ground, the girl’s once graceful figure lay twisted and broken like a forgotten Barbie Doll. The lovely forest green prom dress her mother had splurged on for that night was torn and stained, and her lustrous brown hair was soaked in blood. Her dreams of becoming a teacher were gone, along with the dream of marrying the boy she loved.

As a flurry of bats swooped down from the silent bell tower above, only memories of this once beautiful girl would be left behind to remind the world of such a heartbreaking loss.

CHAPTER ONE

Present Day

The image of the once proud Catholic monastery emerged from the Southern California morning mist like the war-torn ruins of Nuremberg. One-third of the sprawling complex had been demolished. And, like the bombed-out buildings in Germany, a jagged and ugly scar now marked the spot where the retreat center had been ripped away from the rest of the building.

The demolition crew had spent more than a week removing enormous chunks of concrete, scrap lumber and broken roof tiles. But the monastery had been built over the ruins of an old Spanish rancho, which had been destroyed more than a century before when a hillside had collapsed during a torrential rain storm. Buried in the mud, the rancho’s hallways and courtyard had created ancient tunnels, discovered when the monks had dropped below ground to lay the foundation for the monastery’s bell tower.

When the demolition crew was ready to fill in those tunnels, the work had to be stopped because they’d found the skeletal remains of two people killed in the century-old mudslide. A team of archaeologists were called in to catalogue and remove the bones.

When their work was complete, the contractors returned to remove patio tiles, laid when the monastery had been remodeled to include a retreat center. But the contractors were caught by yet one more surprise.

They found an old well.

The well had probably been part of the old rancho, covered over when the patio was built for the modern-day banquet room. To be safe, the workers shone a light inside and were surprised again when something metallic at the bottom glinted back.

The company’s owner, Jock Peters, called for a volunteer. He wanted someone to be lowered into the well to make sure there wasn’t anything of value hidden down there.

Steve Nicely raised his hand.

The crew brought in large sheets of plywood and laid them around the lip of the well. This would distribute weight around the old cistern. Then they backed up a skip loader and raised its bucket high, rigging a pulley system that would lower Nicely straight down the middle, strapped into a harness and wearing safety glasses.

Anxious to show up the older men on the crew, young Nicely flashed a broad smile as he made ready to go. Billy Cooper, the team clown, couldn’t let the moment pass, however, and called out, “Hey, Nicely, got a will? Don’t want to leave that pretty little wife with nothing!”

Billy chortled and jabbed his elbow into Kevin Olney’s ribs.

“Yeah, Nicely,” Kevin laughed. “And keep your eye out for those ghosts we keep hearing about.”

The two men broke into a peal of laughter and started singing the theme song from
Ghost Busters!
The rest of the team merely chuckled as two guys lifted up a heavy rope.

“You ready, Steve?” Mr. Peters asked, handing him a flashlight.

Nicely nodded, though the acid churned in his stomach.

Mr. Peters gave the signal, and the men handling the rope started to let it out.

Nicely began his descent with a jerk and felt the last of his morning’s breakfast refresh itself in his throat. The world disappeared one inch at a time. His anxiety rose with every inch.

When he passed the lip of the well and sank lower into the dark, dank interior, he glanced nervously around, remembering the rumors about ghosts. Maybe this hadn’t been such a good idea.

He surveyed his surroundings in the disappearing light, and realized that he was in a space that was only four or five feet across. The air was heavy with dust, and a cloying, organic smell that brought a feeling of panic bubbling up in his chest.

But Steve Nicely was nothing if not stubborn. He would die of suffocation before he gave in to his fears or allowed anyone to suspect his weakness. So he sucked in several deep breaths and tried to focus his thoughts on his surroundings.

Sounds above became amplified as he went deeper into the shaft: the squeaking sound of the pulley as the rope slid through the metal roller, and the crunching of feet as the men moved back and forth up above. And then there was a rustling sound he couldn’t identify.

He clicked on the flashlight and tried desperately to see below him. Were there rats? He hated rats. But all he could see was the cramped space right around him.

As a chill rippled across his shoulders, he focused straight ahead, trying to block out the sounds. His gaze scanned the walls, which were made mostly of clay bricks. And the lower he sank, the more the bricks began to sag under the weight of the ground above.

His throat constricted at the thought they had backed that heavy skip loader to within fifteen feet of the well.

What a fucking idiot he was, he thought. One wrong move and these walls could collapse. He’d been way too quick to raise his hand on this one.

By the time his feet touched the bottom, young Steve Nicely was practically hyperventilating.

Then, when he adjusted his weight and something snapped, he rebounded as if he’d been bitten by a snake. The beam from the flashlight bounced around erratically, casting ghostly shadows on the walls.

The acid was flowing freely into his mouth now, and he swallowed with difficulty. He closed his eyes and counted to three, forcing his mind to focus. Then he called up in a weak voice to let them know he was at the bottom.

Nicely took a deep breath, trying to lower his heart rate. He had to get control of himself; otherwise, he’d never live this down.

After another deep breath, he carefully skimmed the floor with the flashlight, keeping one hand on the rope that led to safety. He didn’t know much about wells, so wasn’t sure if the well had just dried up, or if it had been filled in up to the level where he stood. Either way, the bottom wasn’t flat. The small space seemed to rise in the middle, and every time he shifted his weight, something crackled.

It gave him the creeps.

He finally moved over to the wall, where it was level, and the crackling stopped.

Nicely studied the uneven ground around him. When he noticed something protruding from the dirt next to his right foot, he froze.

Curious, he leaned over and used his fingers to dig it out.

It was an old army shovel – the kind troops could fold up and carry on their packs. Although made of metal, this wasn’t what he’d been sent to find. It was supposed to be shiny. This shovel was Army green and as dull as his mother-in-law’s personality.

Nicely dropped the shovel and rotated the flashlight slowly back and forth over the rest of the floor, hoping to find something important enough to spark a story or two at the Brewmeister Pub near his home. Finally, the light reflected off something a few inches in front of him. He scooted forward and reached out with his thumb and index finger to pull it out.

It was a small, metal heart attached to a heavy chain that was still imbedded in the dirt. This must have been what Mr. Peters had seen.

Nicely pulled on it, but it was caught on something hidden beneath the surface. Not one to give up easily, he leaned in and looped his fingers through the chain. With a tug, he pulled the chain one way and then the other.

Each time, something in the dirt moved, but the chain didn’t budge.

Frustrated, he crouched down and placed the flashlight on the ground. Then he bunched up the chain in his hand and yanked on it, hard.

Whap
!

A dirty skull popped out of the ground and nearly smacked him in the face.

Nicely flew backwards, landing on his butt. The skull rolled free, strands of long, dark hair trailing behind, a worm curling its way through the eye hole.

He stared wide-eyed at the skull, while its hollow eye sockets leered back at him.

Nicely tried to draw in a breath. But his lungs wouldn’t expand.

He tried a second time. Then a third.

Finally, he sucked in a large gulp of air.

And that’s when Steve Nicely’s little girl scream echoed all the way up the well to chill the hardy men waiting above.