The Monolith Murders

by Lorne L. Bentley

  The communication process with Maureen had continued smoothly until now. But this Friday Fred sat in the conference room, impatiently waiting for a call that never came.

  At first Fred thought that Atwell been delayed or returned unexpectedly to his condo for some reason, thus precluding Maureen from making the call. But Maureen had been insistent that the situation was inviolate; she would always phone Fred at the time they had set. She said Atwell was as predictable as southern Florida’s elevated humidity in the summer and extensive drought during the winter.

  Fred restlessly waited another hour—still no call. Outside, an impatient Schultz used the conference intercom to buzz Fred. As Fred picked up, an increasingly impatient Schultz said, “Fred, our agreement was for one hour and no more than that. I have a meeting scheduled in there right now. I want you to get the hell out.”

  “Okay, George, I’ll be right out.” Out of desperation Fred placed a call to the condo’s number, although he was fearful that Atwell might pick up and realize it was Fred on the other end. No answer. He then took a calculated risk and called Atwell’s office. He re-introduced himself to the receptionist. She responded, “Yes, sir, I remember you. In fact, Mr. Atwell allowed you to enter his office without an appointment; I can tell you that’s a very rare event in his orderly life.”

  “Well, could you please connect me now.”

  “I would if I could; but Mr. Atwell never showed up for work this morning.”

  “Did he call to tell you he wouldn’t be in?”

  “No, sir, he didn’t.”

  “Is it unusual that he doesn’t show up for work?”

  “Oh, yes, sir! In fact this is the first time it has ever happened since I’ve been employed here.”

  “Did you try to contact him?”

  “Oh, no sir, he said he would –excuse the expression, fire my ass, if I ever called him at home or on his cell phone. You have to realize that Mr. Atwell is a very private person.”

  Fred was on the next plane headed to San Diego. He arrived at the condo’s lobby, showed the doorman his badge and told him that he wanted to see Atwell right away; it’s an emergency, he stressed. Fred had worried that the doorman might not have considered a Sarasota, Florida badge in southern California worthy of recognition; but fortunately the doorman never challenged his authority.

  The doorman said, “I’ll ring Mr. Atwell, but he won’t like it.”

  A likely waste of time, Fred thought. But maybe, just maybe he had returned home during the time I was flying out here.

  The doorman said, “I’m sorry, but he doesn’t answer.”

  “This is a law enforcement matter; I need to get to his penthouse right away.”

  “Sure, since it’s police business, here’s the spare key to the penthouse elevator that Mr. Atwell provided me with. His private elevator is number 5. The elevator button in the lobby has a key slot next to it, just turn the key and it will call the elevator. Its door will automatically open when it reaches the lobby. When you get in, you have to use the key again to take the elevator to the penthouse.”

  “Isn’t that a bit complicated?” Fred asked.

  “Yes, sir, but Mr. Atwell insisted on those security safeguards when he first bought his unit. It must have cost him a bundle for all the additions he insisted on, but that’s just the way he is.”

  Fred attempted to follow the doorman’s instructions, but he quickly realized that the key didn’t work.

  The doorman also tried unsuccessfully to put the key in the elevator’s key slot. He said, “It must be defective. I have no other key to his elevator. What I have is the duplicate that Mr. Atwell provided me with. But there is another key to his penthouse via the stairs. You can take any elevator up to the 14th floor and go through the stairs door on that floor. Use this key to enter the door on the stairs that provides security for entry to his penthouse suite.”

  Again Fred complied, and again the key didn’t work. When Fred returned to the lobby, he asked the obvious. “You must have another key?”

  “No, that’s all I have. I’m so sorry; I’ll call a locksmith.”

  “Not enough time—it’s an emergency. Do you have an architect’s drawing or specifications for the building?”

  “Yes, in my office drawer, but I don’t understand.”

  “Let me see the drawings.”

  The guard flipped through some charts, and pulled one out. “This diagram shows the location of the water lines, the electrical hookups and so forth.”

  Fred said, “Great, but I’m looking for something else on this diagram.” Fred studied the drawing intently. ‘‘It looks like the number six elevator is the one that’s closest to the penthouse elevator. What floor does the penthouse elevator go to?”

  “The 15th.”

  “And elevator number six?”

  “It stops at the floor just below the 15th.”

  Fred said, “I’m taking that elevator to floor 14. Give me your phone number; I want you to make sure that elevator six stays put on the 14th floor until I call you on my cell phone. I’d also suggest you get a locksmith over here real quick so we can eventually activate the penthouse elevator. I don’t want, under any circumstances, to come down the same way I’m going up.”

  Fred was not sure what he would find in the condo, but he knew it would be a hell of a lot easier for emergency personnel to use some method to get to the 15th floor by conventional means than go up the way he was going. But time was critical for him.

  Fred borrowed a chair from the lobby, and removed the decorative plastic ceiling panel from elevator six. Above it was a small industrial steel door with four screws holding it. Fred obtained a standard screwdriver and a crow bar, both of which the doorman had stored in his utility closet. He also obtained a large cleaning rag.

  Fred rode the elevator to the 14th floor and called the doorman to hold the elevator there. He then unscrewed the four screws securing the ceiling’s escape door, and crawled through to the elevator’s roof.

  On the elevator’s roof he looked six feet across at the penthouse elevator. It was positioned one floor above where Fred was standing. The cables holding the elevator that Fred was standing on were connected to a large metal wheel which was positioned just above the 15th floor. Fred assumed that all the elevator mechanisms were built to go as far as the 15th floor; but likely it was the electronic control system that forced a stop no higher than the 14th floor for all elevators other than the dedicated one going to the penthouse apartment.

  Fred would have to shimmy up the cable to a point above the penthouse elevator’s roof and then jump across the six feet interval separating the two elevator shafts. Fred needed to climb up a total of about ten feet to make the jump; but when he started to climb he immediately began to slide on the heavily greased cable. Pressing his body tightly against the cable, he was able to stop his slide. He embraced the cable with his two legs as tightly as he could; and with one hand took the cleaning rag out of his pocket. He used his free hand to wipe as much grease off the cable as he could. He continued that process as he laboriously shimmied up the cable foot by foot until he reached a point above the penthouse elevator’s roof. He started swinging back and forth on the cable until he felt he had enough momentum to successfully make the jump across to the penthouse elevator. As he jumped, his feet touched the edge of the penthouse elevator’s roof. Then one of his feet slid off the edge. His body was now awkwardly angled, momentarily hanging in space over the expansive gap between the two elevators. He could no longer regain his balance. He started plummeting fifteen floors to the cement basement floor below!

  Chapter 31

  The day before, Donna had taken the red eye flight back to Sarasota. She relaxed in the luxury of the first class compartment, mentally reviewing her activities during the day; let’s see—I went to the zoo; I bought a new summer dress, light green, just my color. I even took a bus trip to Tijuana and bought a hand-carved ebony chess set. Not bad for one day’s work, she thou
ght. And, oh yes, I almost forgot, I also got rid of a couple of trouble makers. Atwell thought he was invincible, the dead bastard. I usually normally hate killing women, but her death was necessary just as Jane Doe’s was. Yes, I had a very productive day, she thought.

  The woman next to her was thinking about the ramifications of the recent recession, its impact on monetary policy and if silver was an effective hedge during these turbulent times.

  Donna turned to face the woman. She said, “You would be an idiot if you bought silver.”

  The woman looked at her in astonishment. Donna had picked up the woman’s thoughts so clearly that Donna thought she had spoken them out loud. My powers are getting stronger, Donna thought. The operation was fully successful!

  Chapter 32

  Fred knew he could no longer maintain his balance; and as he started to fall off the edge of the elevator’s roof, he pushed off its edge as hard as he could. The elevator which Fred had used to travel to the 14th floor had two large structural metal braces on its side which crossed in the middle. As Fred was dropping he frantically grabbed at one of the braces. His body slammed into the side of the elevator, immediately knocking the wind out of him and simultaneously breaking his nose. Somehow, Fred was able to grab and cling to one of the braces.

  Bruised and hurting all over, he climbed up the braces to the top of the elevator. Now he had to repeat the arduous process of climbing up the cable and swinging over to the penthouse elevator. This time he was successful.

  He entered the elevator through its door in the ceiling. For security purposes each floor had a security cage which remained closed until the elevator reached its designed floor and the elevator’s main door had opened. But for some reason the penthouse’s elevator door remained closed. Fred wedged his crowbar into the door to defeat its lock. When it finally opened, he used the same lever to open the outer metal door cage. Almost exhausted, after what seemed like endless effort, Fred was able go get both doors opened. Thank God, I work out at the Y religiously, he thought.

  As Fred walked into the multi-million dollar condo, he was immediately impressed for two reasons. One, because the site exuded luxury, more so than Fred had ever before viewed in anyone’s living quarters. Even George Schultz’s elegant home didn’t compare to this, Fred thought. The ceiling had to be at least 20 feet high. The wall facing him was covered with peach, pink and orange Italian tile. Fred was sure that is was the same type of marble that graced the brassy and bold Trump Towers in downtown Manhattan. Atwell tended to emulate, not create.

  Water was cascading from a mammoth fountain to his right. On the wall to his left was what Fred assumed was a Picasso original; he didn’t know of too many artists who painted women with three breasts and he was sure, knowing Atwell’s ego, that it had to be an original. Another strange painting graced the same wall; it was of a male figure with no eyes, looking over the downtown San Diego area. Fred had never heard of the painter—Harry Cramer—but he certainly must have a strange distorted viewpoint of the world, Fred thought.

  Another surprise for Fred was how meticulous the unit was kept. Fred had hoped that Atwell didn’t have Maureen on her hands and knees scrubbing the place until the last spot of dust had been removed.

  Fred noticed a set of glass patio doors leading to a large enclosed terrace overlooking downtown San Diego. Then he heard a loud metallic noise. He pulled his revolver out, scanning the room as he did. Pausing for a moment, he realized that the condo’s terrace doors were banging against their metal frame. He could hear the power of the wind ferociously beating at them. Fred knew that wind often generated more velocity, the higher one was; and at this altitude wind was more than likely constant company. Fred wondered why, in an expensive place like this, the designer hadn’t provided a better engineered structure so that wind noise wouldn’t be so irritating. Fred went out to the wrap-around terrace, where a quick glance told him no one was out there.

  He proceeded to the study and his blood ran cold as he saw Atwell on the floor looking directly up at him. It was a cold stare, devoid of emotion or sight. A bullet hole was in the middle of Atwell’s head—Donna’s macabre calling card.

  Now filled with panic and cold fear for Maureen, Fred ran down the hall. He saw female legs extending out from a bathroom door. Fred walked into the bathroom observing that the dead body had a bath towel thrown over her face. When saw he saw the soft bright red hair that showed around the edges of the towel, Fred let out an agonized scream, “Oh, God, Maureen! No!”

  Chapter 33

  Fred fell to his knees on the ivory tile hall floor just outside Atwell’s bathroom, sobbing uncontrollably. A string of emotionally propelled thoughts were bombarding his mind. My job was to protect Maureen but I couldn’t even do that; Atwell’s a piece of shit; if he didn’t have that insane ego of his, neither he nor Maureen would be dead now. I’ve got nothing to live for other than to catch that blonde bitch. And when I catch her she will never have to stand trial. I’ll see to that, Goddamn right, I will!

  His emotions abruptly shifted, quickly tracking over his life with Maureen. I loved Maureen more than anyone in my life, he thought. I’m not a sentimental guy, but every year on our anniversary I’ve worn the same tie that I had on our first date. And despite Maureen’s protest I haven’t ever had it dry-cleaned, I never did it to irritate Maureen. I did because if I altered it in any way it would have lost some of the magic of our first meeting. Fred even released a smile, the last time I put it on in our bedroom Maureen said it smells like a damn cheap coffee and donut shop in here.

  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 l
eave 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.