by Sharon Hays
Joan returned to her desk, carefully thumbing through the papers that Irene had given her. Another document revealed some information about Harold J. Arnold. According to the papers, he had partial ownership of the Valencia Manor, prior to being incarcerated. The legal document indicated that John Farthington, subsequently, gained full ownership of the Valencia Manor. Harold J. Arnold’s signature was at the bottom of the page. Joan questioned the validity of the document, and decided to check it out at city hall.
“Hello Liz, I’m back again!” Joan held the document up with an inquisitive gesture. “Think you can help me out here? I have an interesting document I’d like you to check for validity, if you could please.”
Liz took the papers studying the content. “Hmmm… Harold J. Arnold. That name rings a bell, Joan. If I remember right, he is related to John Farthington—a cousin, I think. Harold went to prison for something awhile back. The document looks authentic, but one never knows. I can certainly check it out for you.” Liz went to her computer and returned shortly.
“Yes, that’s the man, and this document says that he had partial ownership of the Manor, but relinquished it to John Farthington before he went to prison.”
“Joan, I suppose he could have given up his part of the Manor, but unless he owed John Farthington money, why would he do that? That property is worth over a million as it is now. Imagine if someone were to restore it.”
“That is my reason for looking into this. I want to make sure the title is not tied up in some legal turmoil if I get the property sold for Mrs. Dirkshire. It would be a shame to tie it up with a bunch of legal battles and fees at her age. She really needs the money, and the stress of all that would be too much for her. Think you can help me?”
“Yes, Joan, that’s pretty much my specialty. I spend a lot of my time, verifying and tracking down similar information for many clients. You have known me for a long time. Have I ever let you down?”
“No, Liz, you haven’t, and that is exactly why I’m here. Take a copy of this, and then you can do the research when you get time. When you are finished, call me. Here’s my card. I know you have my number, but this makes it much easier. My cell number is on here, too. You can call me anytime night or day.” Liz handed her the document and set the copies on her desk.
“I will call you soon, Joan. Nice seeing you.” They exchange handshakes, and on the way back to her office, Joan took a little break, and drove through Starbucks to pick up her usual vanilla latte.
18
At Boulder Hospital, Detective Mario Ramos was recovering well, considering a concussion, a fractured wrist, three broken ribs and multiple abrasions he had received at the Valencia Manor. Doctor Mark Sandoval was preparing to release him. Chief of police Olson entered the room to see Mario beaming with relief after hearing the news of his release.
“I hear you’re finally getting the hell out of here, Mario. Congratulations. I know you’ve been through a lot, and I’m looking forward to the day you can return to work. We all miss you down at the station. The guys send their best. Can I do anything for you, or bring something? Want me to pick you up? We’re anxious to have you back at the department.” Chief Olson shook Mario’s hand with a concerned look on his face.
“I have everything I need. Have had for two days, since they told me I would be leaving. I appreciate all the precinct did while I was here. I miss working, and all the guys. Should be leaving here, today if all goes well. I’ll call you if I need a ride. You know how the red tape slows things down. Typical hospital procedure; you know the drill. My first concern is getting out of here to find Maryanne. Thanks for keeping me informed on the progress, and hopefully I can help you with that when I am out.”
The Chief listened as Mario went on, and then his face took on a serious look. “I don’t want you doing too much at first. You can’t afford to take any chances. Your memory is still a little fuzzy, so just take it easy. We are handling it just fine. Don’t worry. In addition, yes, I do know how bad hospitals are, Mario. I spent a stretch in here when that shooting went down a few years ago with Harold Arnold, and the robbery. Hated every minute of this place. Hey, almost forgot.” He took a box off the table, by the door. “I brought you something.” The chief handed him a box of chocolates and a card signed by all the officers. “Hope the doctors don’t object. I heard dark chocolate is supposed to be good for you. That is, if you don’t overdo it,” he chuckled.
“Thanks, Chief. You guys have already done so much. And yes, I will eat it carefully, if you insist.” He smiled.
“I have to go now,” Chief Olson said. “Meeting at the station in an hour. Trying to work on the Valencia project, as you are well aware. We’re keeping a team of four on the investigation, full time, so relax. I’ll see you when you get out. If you want me to pick you up, just call. I’ll come running.”
Chief Olson returned to the station. The guys were all waiting for news on Mario when he made his entry into the meeting room. “Hey guys. Just left the hospital. Mario says to thank you all, and he’s getting out today, or maybe tomorrow. Anyway, he is now officially recovered” The guys clapped, yelled, and whistled with the good news.
“Okay. Let’s get down to the matter at hand. The same four officers will remain on the Valencia case, and I want Detective Corolla tailing Harold J. Arnold for a few days. Some things came up, and I’ll go over that with you this afternoon when we finish the meeting. The third item: evidence has been documented. Maryanne’s bag was found outside the Valencia this morning. It’s locked up, in the evidence locker and we’ll deal with that later today. Officer Pantella, you can finish working on that. Get the fingerprints, DNA, whatever it takes. We need to expedite this investigation. The longer it takes, the less likely we are going to find her alive. No ransom note or calls yet, so we have to work fast. All right guys, let’s get on it. I want Detective Corolla in my office in ten minutes. See you all later.” He abruptly left the room, briefcase in hand.
Chief Olson’s door was open, so Officer Corolla tapped on the door. “Detective Corolla, here. Are you ready, Chief?”
“Yeah, come on in. Just going over some paperwork. As for you, Corolla, here is the information on the last whereabouts of Harold Arnold. There is a file on him here. Go over it, and let’s roll. Too many unanswered questions are dragging this nightmare into a long, drawn out mess. We know Harold is hiding outside of town in an area where there are some abandoned cabins used years ago for hunters and fishermen. Sometimes they still get used. I want a team out there, today. Get to it, and quickly. Keep me informed, please.” He handed Corolla the file, and the detective walked out of the office. When Detective Corolla returned to his office, he placed the contents of the file across his desk and continued the investigation.
The four-man team met at the Valencia Manor. They spread out through the house, searching for anything and everything that could be a possible clue. Officer Pantella went to the evidence locker to pick up Maryanne’s leather bag, recently recovered outside the Manor. He returned to the lab, hoping to gather print and DNA evidence, on her abductor. He would work late into the night.
19
Maryanne opened her eyes, shivering in the darkness. Someone, probably that creature, had placed a small blanket over her body, but she was still cold and uncomfortable. The dark room smelled like a dead animal, she thought. Still lying on the damp floor, she was stiff and aching. She silently prayed for help to come, crying in her lonely, empty prison. She reached around as far as she could to feel for something, anything that would give her some understanding of where she was.
As her hand slid around the dirt floor, it touched a metal tray. She continued to feel around until her hand touched a bowl of water. It felt like a dog bowl, but she was so thirsty she scooted her way to the bowl and sat up, lifting the bowl to her parched lips. After taking in some water, she stopped drinking, saving some for later, just in case. Her survival mode was kicking in. She was beginning to plan her hopeful escape. Putting t
he water down, feeling for the tray, she felt something else. Carefully taking it into her hand, she smelled it. Like an animal would, she thought. She realized it was a semi hard chunk of French bread. She didn’t care how dry or how old it was, she immediately sank her teeth into the sustenance. It tasted so good. She chewed slowly, until it was completely wet and easier to swallow. Her throat was sore and dry, but the bread and water was a feast, at this point. She lay back down, weak and aching from the dampness, staring into nothingness. Sounds of predatory rats scurrying around broke the silence of the crypt. The rancid smells nauseated her. She heard rats scurrying back and forth, making curious sounds of chatter, as they ran up and down the walls burrowing into their hiding places. From time to time, she saw the glistening of tiny eyes searching for nocturnal victims. She did not want to be one of them.
There it was again, the sound of someone approaching. Fear rushed through her like an electric shock, but then she thought perhaps someone was coming to rescue her. Again, she tried to yell out. This time her voice was stronger. The food and water were doing their job.
“Help me, someone. I’m here. Can you hear me?” She pleaded in her loudest voice. “Here! You must come. Please help me!”
The sound came closer, and the familiar creaks of the door rang out as it opened again.
“Who is it? It’s Maryanne! Can you help me?” No one answered, but she could hear the relentless breathing and the familiar shuffling, as it came closer. She stepped backwards, leaning against the wall. “Who are you? Please answer me,” she begged. She heard only the breathing. Short, quick gasps, as if it were suffering from a lung disease. She remembered her Aunt Carolyn who was sick for so long with emphysema. She used to breathe like that, up until her death a few years ago.
“Are you sick? Let me help you. I can help,” Maryanne pleaded again with the ghastly stranger.
A cold, rough hand touched her again, not hurting, but carefully feeling her hair and face. Like an animal cautiously checking out its kill. Maryanne gently placed her hand on the creature’s rough and calloused arm, as if to console the unknown being. She was beginning to act on reason, rather than fear. The creature pulled away, shrieking the horrible screams that had become so familiar. Maryanne stood frozen, trying to remain calm.
“It’s going to be fine. I can help you.” She tried to reassure her visitor in a composed and quiet voice. She wanted to calm the mysterious being, the invisible creature. She felt the hand again, touching her in a gentle, subtler manner. Was she actually getting through? Was she gaining the trust of her captor? Maryanne gently spoke again. “I will help you; I am not here to hurt you.” She touched the scaled, dry arm and patted it in a loving motion, trying not to scare or offend the assailant. It did not back away this time and stood next to her, breathing. A foul, rancid odor permeated the space surrounding her. Maryanne became queasy but did not let it affect her reason.
The beast made a crying sound. It was not like before, but truly one that she interpreted as being sad or afraid, and not evil. Maryanne felt pangs of empathy for her visitor. She knew there was something terribly wrong with this creature. It was sick and needed help. Maryanne had to find a way to communicate and get out of this pit of hell. Again, she touched the clammy hand with compassionate, careful movements, trying to convince the stranger to let her go, slightly pulling at its arm toward the entrance where the door and ladder led to freedom.
“Everything will be fine. I’ll help you get well, if you let me.” Maryanne appealed to her captor softly and carefully. The creature stood still only breathing, watching and then its rough, calloused hand took hold of Maryanne’s, and started to walk with her toward the exit of the underground room.
“That’s good. Let’s get you some help. I am not going to let anyone hurt you.” Maryanne could feel the stranger’s long, coarse hair as it fell down across its lower back. The fetid smell was nauseating. She knew the exit was close and prayed this being would take her out of here. Maryanne knew that if she could get out, she would do her best to make sure this creature would be protected. It pulled on the metal fixture, bringing down the ladder, which led to the top of the cell. It began to pull itself up. From the light at the opening, Maryanne could see it climbing onto the rungs of the ladder. She could hear its harsh breathing as it ascended to the opening and into the chamber that led out of this prison. Now Maryanne could only pray she would be able to escape this hopeless tomb. The light from the shaft illuminated the being, exposing some of its features. It looked more human than animal, but it was too dark to know exactly. Maryanne waited with apprehension for her turn to ascend the ladder. As she was preparing for her climb, she placed her hand on the lower rung, and the ladder was suddenly yanked up. She lost her grip. She watched the ladder rise to where she could not reach it. Her hope changed to horror when the door closed with a loud, resounding bang.
Darkness again. No way out. She could not last much longer. In the distance, as the shaft took the creature upward, eerie screams echoed through the walls of her chamber.
“Please, don’t go! Take me out of here. I promise, I will help you,” she sobbed again in terror and hopelessness. Falling to her knees under the exit, she leaned against the cold rock wall. Her hope was diminishing hour by hour. Again exhausted, sleep embraced her, and she willingly succumbed to its calling.
20
The team arrived at Valencia Manor, eager to solve the menacing crime and find Maryanne O’Donnell. Jack Sparks, and Detectives Monte Jackson, David Griffin, and Martin Mahoney continued the search and investigation of the historical home that had been the recent scene of a police officer injury and possible kidnapping. They approached the Manor with anticipation that this day would bring results and an end to the continuing saga of this diabolical house.
“Hey, the door’s open! I’m sure I locked it last night. Have any of you been over here today?” Jack Sparks questioned the three officers, with negative results. Jack unsnapped his holster in ready position, and all three followed suit. They began searching the house from end to end. Martin called from the upper floor.
“Come up here. I think I found something!” The officers hurried up the stairs to the door of the first room. “Someone has been staying in here. Check it out. Bread, a bucket with water, and a can of baked beans opened with a beer can opener. The can is empty, tipped over with a spoon inside. It’s still fresh, probably eaten within a couple of hours. Somebody has a key to this place. We need to change the locks today! I’m calling’ it in. Al’s Lock and Key can do it right away. He said the other day business was slower than hell. I’ll call him; he’s a friend of mine. Got his number right here in my cell.” Martin dialed Al and set it up for three o’clock.
“Dave, bag this stuff, please,” Jack ordered. “Martin and I will check out the rest of the rooms, upstairs. Monte, you go down stairs and comb through everything. I don’t want anything missed.”
Monte went downstairs to the kitchen and pantry area. There hadn’t been any food in the rooms except for a few cans in the pantry, so Monte checked it out. He noticed a can opener and miscellaneous kitchen utensils lying on the cupboards. He always used his camera to photograph everything before anyone moved it. He was meticulous about his job, and even though he had only been in Boulder for six months, he had gotten two raises and two promotions. He usually didn’t miss much.
The bathroom was in disarray, reeking with disgusting odors, and the toilet was still in operation but seriously filthy. He knew someone had very recently been using this room. When he turned the faucet on, a stream of brown, rusty water slowly seeped through the tap, and the drain was plugged up tight. When he turned it off, the contaminated water remained inside the basin. An antique claw foot bathtub was completely covered with rust and grime from years of neglect. He found a brush on the windowsill. He put on rubber gloves, picked it up, and made note of the long, coarse, dark hairs clinging to its bristles. Taking a small evidence bag from his pocket and carefully sealing away t
he brush, he spotted an old blanket lying on the floor between the kitchen and bedroom. It had not been here yesterday. He had photographed the room, remembering distinctly.
“Dave,” he called out to the upstairs. “Dave! When you get done, bring a couple bags down here and take care of this for me, will you?”
Dave shined the flashlight over the balcony toward Monte. “Yeah, Monte, I’ll be done in a few minutes. I’ll take care of it.” Dave ascended to the room upstairs to finish his work.
Monte entered the dining room, going over every inch of space. A shiny object reflected when his light passed across the buffet. He discovered a rather expensive, silver compact. Still wearing the gloves, he opened it, revealing a mirror and face powder. On the back of the inside cover was the initials ‘MBO.’ He assumed for Maryanne O’Donnell. He was not sure of her middle name, but it made obvious sense. He enclosed the compact securely in an evidence bag. He had already gone through the buffet drawers the day before, but due to this unexpected surprise, he again opened each drawer and meticulously made sure he left nothing unsearched.
Monte returned to the main room where Jack had just entered. “It’s almost three p.m. and Al should be here anytime now,” he said. “Once the new locks are installed, the house will be secure.” Monte gave Jack the evidence he had accumulated.
“What is Maryanne O’Donnell’s middle name? I found a woman’s compact with the initials MBO.”
“Not sure, I’ll have to check it out when we get back to the station,” Jack said.
About that time, a heavyset man appeared at the front door with a tool kit. “Martin, is that you?”
“I’m Officer Jack Sparks. Martin’s upstairs. You must be Al. I’ll get him. Meanwhile, that front door needs new locks and also the back doors while you’re here. Someone has keys to this place. We need to secure it with impenetrable locks, if that’s possible,” Jack said. Then he turned and called toward the upstairs balcony, “Martin, Al’s here!”
