THE MONOLITH MURDERS
Murder Mystery by Lorne L. Bentley
Kindle: 978-1-58124-939-2
ePub: 978-1-58124-938-5
©2012 by Lorne L. Bentley
Published 2012 by The Fiction Works
http://www.fictionworks.com
[email protected]
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced without written permission, except for brief quotations to books and critical reviews. This story is a work of fiction. Characters and events are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Epilogue
About the Author
Prologue
It was strange, Maureen thought, how experiencing extreme trauma seems to dramatically slow down the progression of time. She realized that it also somehow concurrently fires one’s memory cells, allowing us to recall select details stored in the deeper recesses of our minds.
Maureen reflected about there being a definite ebb and flow to life, punctuated by the celebration of the good times: her grade school puppy love, graduation from college, becoming a well known author, and a stable, joy-filled marriage. She contemplated that she also somehow had endured the bad times, her first failure in school, the death of both of her parents, her recent almost fatal auto accident and now, at this very moment, her impending death.
The Bible states that we will never be certain about the year or the hour of our death—that precious information is held in strict confidence by God alone. But Maureen knew that at most she had no more than a couple of minutes of life remaining. Maureen’s judgment was rarely wrong; and on this occasion she was certain that she was correct.
Maureen retreated backward. The knife’s sharp blade had already cut deeply into her right arm. Blood was gushing out, dampening her light blue dress. Now it was starting to accumulate on the motel’s newly tiled floor beneath her feet. She knew that the human body held about five liters of blood and death occurs quickly after the loss of 40% of that. She wondered how much she had already lost –she was sure it was significant. She instinctively pressed hard against her bleeding arm with her left hand, but it did little to stem the blood’s flow.
As she continued to retreat, her adversary brought the knife over her head seeking to end the dance of death with one final savage blow directed to the center of Maureen’s chest.
Maureen continued to move backward until her back was firmly pressed against the motel’s outer wall. As she was retreating, she momentarily glanced at the large digital clock on the nightstand. It was exactly 6 p.m. Fred had said he would meet her at promptly 8 p.m. Airlines are rarely on time and never, in Maureen’s experience, two hours early. Besides, their agreed upon meeting place was ten miles distant at the local airport. She would not be saved; her heart and mind were uniform in that judgment.
Maureen was limited to one last feeble defensive action which might be somewhat effective against an inept killer; but she knew this was a dedicated killer relentlessly advancing toward her holding the knife. Nevertheless, Maureen employed her last defense—she screamed; she screamed as loud as she could.
In her last seconds of remaining life, Maureen’s mind floated backward to when the nightmare first began.
Chapter 1
One month earlier
Outside, the air recently cleansed and cooled with an early morning downpour, was pure and brisk. A flaming scarlet-orange sunrise lit up the sky, illuminating the wet pastureland below with an iridescent glow. Dairy cattle, having just left their nighttime shelter, wandered untroubled across an expansive soft green landscape.
The animals could barely detect the outline of a dark stone fortress in the distance. Not having been programmed with complex emotions, they could only experience a transitory dim uneasiness at the sight of the massive structure that clashed with the placid continuity of nature’s architecture.
Inside, early morning sunlight filtered through the fortress’s rows of wrought iron barred windows casting deep-striped shadows over an extended utilitarian dining table. In the center of the room, just below ceiling height, hung a massive clock; its lengthy hands behind a sturdy wire cage, were well protected from the barrage of food articles hurled at it over the years. The clock, authorized for purchase by an earlier highly structured warden, displayed not just the time but the day, date and year as well. Both complex and expensive for its period, it symbolically reinforced the hard daily regiment of prison life. Its bells signaled the start of the day’s three eating periods as well as their termination after the expenditure of the allotted half-hour period. As prisoners looked up at the clock, they might calculate the remaining time left on their sentence; but lifers could only view the clock with despair and frustration. Most prisoners perceived this instrument as a macabre act of spite; but a secession of wardens had left the unique clock where it had been placed many years earlier.
This early morning the massive room’s soggy Florida air was saturated with the heavy scent of fried ham, powered eggs and strong coffee. As usual, emotions were raw and barely held in check; any minor disruption held the potential to fire the violent wrath of another prisoner.
At the far edge of the bruised metal table, two women sat alone. Reality is a function of perception; they both gazed up at the clock with renewed optimism. It was almost over.
“Do you finally understand, Jane?” the blonde whispered, frustration rising in her voice.
“Yes I guess so—well I’m not sure—but if I have any trouble you said just to follow your lead, right?”
“That’s correct, always follow my lead and you won’t get into any trouble. You must remember that.”
“Are you going to blow Miss Chang away on our way out of here?”
“No! And it’s not Chang, its Chung. Why would you possib
ly ask that, anyway?”
“It’s simple; I always wanted to see yellow blood. And if you blow her away she’ll give off a lot of yellow blood. Besides, Chang is not nice to me.”
“The Chinese don’t have yellow blood; that’s ridiculous.”
“Are you sure? I think I read about it in a comic book once.”
“No, I won’t be blowing her away; she’s not on duty tomorrow; and, besides, her blood is red just like yours and mine. Nationality has nothing to do with it; everyone’s blood is red. Understand?”
“No. I thought I was going to see black blood when I killed those two black men but it was just red. I wasn’t very happy about that. I like puppies. I like little puppies more than big ones. When we get out of here, I’m going to pet all the puppies I see.”
A bystander would wonder how any relationship between the two women could have ever formed. The blonde was brilliant; she carried a massive reservoir of knowledge in an array of varied and complex subjects. Her skinny companion possessed at best a low normal I.Q. and rarely displayed intellectual curiosity. But for now the blonde needed a willing associate, one that would react to her every want. From that uneven basis a temporary partnership was compacted.
“My God, Jane you’re mercurial.”
“I don’t know what that means; is it a nice thing to be more curlier?”
“Yes Jane, I paid you a nice compliment; being more curlier is a good thing. Watch it, the Gestapo is about to pass by.”
Jane froze as the guard passed their table. “I don’t like the Gestapo, do you? But I like their pretty uniforms and their shiny badges. Can I buy one when we get out tomorrow?”
“Yes, Jane. Tomorrow you’ll be able to buy anything that you want.”
Chapter 2
“What do ya think it’s made from, Shirley? My guess it’s soap, what do you think? In fact, I’ll bet its Dial soap; I’m told that brand’s soft and so easy to carve. It makes for realism but somehow you have to remove its delicious scent or it sure ain’t gonna smell like a weapon.”
The larger muscular black woman smiled widely, exposing two prominent well-worn gold teeth. She said, “No I disagree; it’s definitely made of wood—a soft pine, I’d guess, but the black shoe polish has smeared somewhat. Obviously she failed woodworking or an art class—perhaps both.”
Both women issued a robust laugh at the expense of the small prisoner standing before them.
The blonde was holding a strange looking revolver pointed directly at the center of the chest of the larger of the two prison guards. A quiet, wide-eyed razor thin woman stood just behind the blonde looking baffled, seemingly not knowing what to do in this complex situation.
The guards had closely observed the blonde’s behavior over several years and concluded, due to her size and reticent demeanor, that she would never be capable of posing a serious threat to them.
The larger woman said, “Okay, now, little lady, why don’t you just hand over that poor imitation of a revolver you’re holding and then you can march peacefully back to your cell. But if you continue with your unacceptable behavior you might get poor skinny Jane standing behind you in a host of trouble as well, and neither of us would want that to happen now, would we? If you cooperate, I might not tell my sergeant about this and maybe, just maybe, you can even avoid going into that terrible dark penalty hole for God knows what would be how long. So what do you say, dearie? Now hand me your fake gun and let’s get this nonsense over with!”
Finally the blonde spoke, “Do you really want my gun?”
“Damn it, bitch, give to me, I’m tired of shitting around with you, and in the future you will always address me as Ma’am! Do you understand me clearly, young lady?”
“Yes, Ma’am, loud and clear. And by the way it’s not shoe polish, its grease. Sorry I’m so messy.”
The “fake” revolver issued a low puff sound, its subdued noise concealed by the constant screams and loud curses emanating from the over-filled prison cells above.
The large lady crumbled quietly to the ground without releasing a word of protest or pain.
The smaller guard said, “Shirley, get up! What the hell’s the matter with you? This is no joke.”
The blonde said, “Ma’am, Shirley would love to get up for you but she’s indisposed right now because she’s fucking dead. Now, Ma’am, do as I say and you won’t have to wind up like Shirley down there.”
“Okay, okay, now, take it easy, Ma’am. What do you want me to do?”
Donna smiled, realizing that the guard was now condescendingly addressing her in the same servile way that she had been forced to address her guards for four unbearably long years.
“To help us escape, stupid; what else? Now go to the mike over there and tell them in no uncertain terms that you want out. If you give them the wrong code, you’ll join Shirley, wherever in hell she’s residing now.”
The skinny brunette tapped her leader on the shoulder.
“For Christ’s sake, Jane, now what do you want?”
“I’m still not sure how we’re gonna escape from here; you never told me that part of your plan. At least I don’t think you did.”
“Jane, you just follow right behind me and do what I do; understand?”
Jane nodded.
The blonde had no idea what the correct code was to open the steel door, but she had closely observed for years, the consistent communication that went on between the outer and inner guards as they exited and entered the passage to each other’s chamber. Outer guards often rotated in their duties; over an extended observation time, she had been able to discern the degree of commitment each put into their shift’s work activities. She knew that the two that currently manned the outer area were the least trained and regimented of the entire guard staff. She depended on that vulnerability in part to make good her escape. For the moment she and her friend were encased in a huge open area, above which were three massive floors of overcrowded cells. None of the few guards assigned to the immediate area in which she was standing were allowed to carry weapons; the threat was too high that an inmate would overpower them and take their weapons away. Instead the system relied on heavy oak clubs, voice control and the physicality of large strong women to maintain the requisite degree of vigilance and discipline.
Two experienced prison guards normally staffed the outer area. Unlike in the inner area, each of the outer guards carried a fully loaded 45-caliber revolver. When prisoners were permitted to enter the outer area, the move was always executed as quickly as possible.
Whatever the magic word was, the nervous guard communicated it to the outer guard and the heavily reinforced steel door gradually swung open.
When the two prisoners entered the outer area, one of the outer guards, seeing the blonde’s weapon shouted, “You won’t get away with this; you’re being very foolish!”
There was not an instant of indecision; the blonde shot her in the stomach immediately. Realizing that the prisoner’s threats were real and sustainable, the other guard fully cooperated in aiding the prisoners’ escape to the main parking area.
A small beat up faded red sedan was waiting next to the exit door, its tinny radio playing the chirpy tones of Dolly Parton, pleading with the evil Jolene to “Please don’t take him just because you can.”
“Damn it, hurry up, get into the back of the car,” the male driver said. “Both of you lay flat down on the floor, one on top of the other. I’ll put a blanket over you. Make sure you don’t move until we get well past the gates.”
From beneath the blanket, Jane uttered, “Donna said I was more curlier.”
“Shut the hell up, Jane, and lie perfectly still. Pretend you’re dead, for God’s sake.”
In a short time the car was headed due east on the flat Florida panhandle in the direction of freedom and delayed revenge. The blonde was smiling, internally congratulating herself on the effectiveness of her escape plan. Jane was having pleasant visions of being able to soon hold a small puppy while havi
ng a shiny gold badge pinned on her blouse.
Chapter 3
Lieutenant Fred Harris abruptly woke from a deeply troubled sleep; a bottomless, seemingly unending slumber, flooded with nightmarish dreams of pursuit, capture and ultimate death—his own. As the fog in his eyes gradually cleared, and the stupor still resident in his mind washed away, he repeated the first thing he mechanically did every morning upon rising—he stared angrily and uncertainly at the tiny metal monolith sitting on his dresser.
It was not even remotely a monolith; he employed that term only in a sardonic context.
He recalled many years ago, in his high school creative writing class, he was shown a picture of NASA’s lunar module not too long after its magnificent technical creation. He was allowed thirty seconds of intense concentration to examine and mentally catalog all of its harsh unconventional features before it was taken away. He was then handed a blank paper and given five minutes to fully depict the indescribable thing. That was the entire exercise, just to describe the object, to give it substance and structure via the strength of words. After one minute passed, his mind had already sorted over a thicket of possible descriptions but Fred’s page remained blank, after three still unmarked, after five he received his first and only F in the class. In fact, he was a bright student, and that was the only F he ever received in any of his classes. During the fourth minute, he had put down his singular sarcastic answer to the problem—monolith. He selected that response out of sheer frustration because monolith was the opposite of what the thing looked like to him; and nothing whatsoever had come to mind. Although his instructor smiled broadly when he read Fred’s paper, he immediately scrawled a large bold F on the failed effort, together with the insulting words better luck next time.
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