 
The Asylum

A Phil Sawyer and Lorelei Crawford Mystery

By Darryl Matter

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2019 by Darryl Matter

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The Asylum

A Phil Sawyer and Lorelei Crawford Mystery

This is a work of fiction. The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.

* * * * *
Chapter 1

I crouched on my haunches, leaned back against the rough concrete wall of the long-abandoned storm sewer, and played my flashlight beam up on the underside of the rusty iron grate positioned in the stone floor about eighteen or twenty inches above our heads. If the old maps we'd studied were accurate and if we'd calculated our movements correctly that night, my friend, Lorelei Crawford, and I now were directly under the massive stone structure known as the Rothchild Asylum for the Criminally Insane. More specifically to the point of this particular underground exploration, we were directly under the old Asylum's sub-basement, a reportedly cavernous room said to have been referred to in hushed whispers by the earlier inmates as "the dungeon" because of the horrible things that had regularly happened there.

The Rothchild Asylum for the Criminally Insane, an institution established in the early- to mid-1800s, had been closed during the late 1970s, its last inmates having been transferred to more modern institutions at that time. The dungeon directly above us, however, had officially been sealed off and abandoned in 1940, almost forty years before the institution itself closed. Lorelei and I were there to explore the old sub-basement, partly because exploring the underground passageways and abandoned structures of the city is our passionate hobby--and partly because there was a chance that the old dungeon might yet reveal secrets to a bizarre unsolved mystery from the late 1930s involving an inmate at the asylum named Benny Cole.

Whether the dungeon still held any secrets regarding the Benny Cole incidents, and whether Lorelei and I might decipher them if it did, remained to be seen, of course. At any rate, the rusty iron grate above our heads that had been installed in the dungeon's floor as a drain into the storm sewer now hopefully would serve as our unique entrance to the long-sealed room.

The grate itself appeared to be approximately 18 inches by 18 inches in size and was constructed of sturdy iron bars measuring perhaps an inch across and set at spaced intervals in the rugged frame. Its removal should certainly leave an opening large enough for us to climb through.

Lifting that floor drain so that we could push it aside and climb through the opening and into the dungeon was not going to be an easy task. From the looks of the iron grillwork, that grate would prove to be extremely heavy. Furthermore, it likely was held in place with countless years of rust, debris, and eroding stone. Nevertheless, we'd tackled similar obstacles in the past, and I'd bet we could master it. We'd certainly give it our best shot.

"We're really here, aren't we, Phil!" Lorelei's whispered excitement broke through my thoughts. We didn't have to whisper, of course, because there weren't any other people around to hear us, or at least we didn't think there were, but we almost always whispered when we were exploring the underground.

"I think so. If we calculated correctly, this is it," I replied, whispering as she had, as I continued to examine the underside of the grate that was revealed in the flashlight's incandescent beam.

"We made good time, Phil. It's only ten o'clock," Lorelei continued, whispering in hushed tones, as she eased herself close to me, put her hand on my arm, and carefully studied the iron grate above our heads with me. I could tell from her voice that she was just as excited to be there as I was. We'd been planning this venture for some time, and now it was happening.

Although I couldn't see Lorelei clearly in the semi-darkness, I caught the scent of her perfume as she came near. Even though she was dressed for exploration in rugged blue jeans, a heavy denim shirt, and sturdy trail shoes, and now was covered with dust from our underground hike, that fragrance avowed what I already knew: Lorelei was every inch a lady!

"Right. We did made good time."

Indeed, we had. We'd entered the storm sewer several miles away about seven o'clock, three hours ago, being extremely careful to avoid detection. And on our way to the asylum, we'd taken our time to explore the entrances to several interesting underground passageways accessible from that sewer, passageways that we would want to explore further in the near future.

Our travel inside the abandoned sewer had not been especially easy that night. The ancient concrete was cracked and broken or actually crumbling in several locations, and we had to carefully pick our way over those treacherous spots. Then, too, several tree roots had broken through the concrete, and we'd had to cut through one of the larger ones in order to continue on our way. Never mind those problems now, however. We'd reached our destination.

Lorelei's been my constant companion in exploring the city's underground for almost five years now, and she's the best companion that anyone could ever hope for. Maybe I should say that I've been her companion for almost five years now, because it was, in fact, she who encouraged me to join her in exploring the storm sewers and tunnels and other underground structures that criss-cross the belly of the city after she'd learned of my experiences as a tunnel-rat in Vietnam.

I grinned at Lorelei and handed the flashlight to her. "Let's take a closer look-see at this grate."

"Yes, let's!" Lorelei's eyes danced excitedly in the semi-darkness as she smiled back. She knew exactly where we were as well as I did, of course, having studied the maps with me. Furthermore, she'd checked off the landmarks on our maps as we'd made our way along the old storm sewer. There was no doubt in my mind that Lorelei could navigate the city's underground as well as I could, or even better because of her uncanny sense of direction.

Neither Lorelei or I had any idea of exactly what was up beyond that ancient grate, and we weren't going to take any chances. While Lorelei held the flashlight steadily focused on the iron grillwork, I carefully ran my fingers through and along the bars, cautiously feeling for any trip-wires that might have been attached.

Although it's been almost thirty years since I was in Vietnam, I've never forgotten the lessons I learned there. Whenever I'm confronted with a gate or a doorway of any kind to a new passageway, the first thing I do is check for obvious booby traps. You can bet that I'm paranoid, have been for many years, and that paranoia kept me alive in some exceedingly scary situations, both in Vietnam and in my more recent employ as a cop.

Once I was satisfied that there were no obvious trip wires fastened to the grate, I tested its resistance by pushing up against it with both hands. That heavy iron grate didn't budge.

Reaching into my tool kit, I extracted a lightweight but extra-strong titanium pry bar, wedged it between the grate and the stonework, and slowly worked it back and forth. Flecks of rust and crumbling stone drifted down around us as I worked the pry bar around the edges of the old floor drain until it began to shift ever so slightly in its stone recess.

I kept working with the pry bar, freeing the grate from the stone until I could move it a little in each direction. Then, shifting ends of my pry bar so that the curved end now was wedged between the stonework and the iron grate, I shoved hard--and was able to lift the grate ever so slightly in its opening. It was beginning to work loose, but it wasn't ready to be lifted out of its opening just yet.

Once again, I worked the pry bar around the grate, this time lifting the grate against the dirt and debris that had settled against it over the past who knows how many years. Before long, I had dislodged quite a bit of the debris and was able to shift the grate a noticeable amount each way. Our "doorway" into the dungeon was almost ours.

"Ready for me to help you lift that grate out of there?" Lorelei whispered her question. She'd been watching me work on the grate and knew that it was almost loose. We'd worked these kind of grates loose before.

"Yes. I think it's loose enough. Let's try it."

"Okay." Lorelei placed the flashlight down on the storm sewer floor and angled the beam up at the grate. Then she and I crouched under the iron grate side by side, ready to lift the floor drain if we could. We've worked together on obstacles such as this one many times, and each of us knew how to best coordinate our efforts.

While I pried up on one edge of the grate using my pry bar, all the time pushing up at the grate for all I was worth with my free hand, Lorelei shoved upward against the grate with all her strength. Rust particles, debris, and crumbling stone rained down on us, bouncing against our boonie hats and spilling off onto the floor, as we managed to shove the stubborn grate high enough to push it completely out of its recess, then slide it sideways and onto the stone floor above us. We'd done it. Ready access to the long-sealed dungeon of the Rothchild Asylum for the Criminally Insane was ours!

Once we'd pushed the grate aside, I cautiously beamed my flashlight up through the opening, wanting to make sure that nothing was poised to fall down on our heads when we attempted to enter the dungeon. There didn't appear to be, but I had to be sure. The stonework that was visible in the flashlight's beam appeared to be solid, and the area around the floor drain appeared to be clear.

"Is the entryway clear? Does everything look solid, Phil?" Lorelei anxiously whispered her questions. She, too, was excited about exploring the dungeon, but she also was cautious.

"I think so."

Lorelei grinned up at me, her big brown eyes twinkling in the dim light. "Can I have the very first look?" She already had her palm-sized night-vision monocular in her hand. It would illuminate distances better than the flashlight, and although we really had no need for secrecy in this setting, the monocular didn't give us away like the flashlight's bright beam surely would.

"Sure, Lorelei. Go ahead and look just as soon as I set up the lantern."

Lorelei's monocular is an excellent device for viewing in darkness. Still, in the near total darkness we expected to encounter in the dungeon, a little extra light would be most helpful, even with the monocular--and we were prepared to provide that light. While Lorelei waited, I retrieved our battery-powered florescent lantern from my tool kit, switched it on, raised it through the opening above us, and placed it on the floor of the dungeon.

Lorelei switched on her monocular's infrared illuminator as she straightened up and cautiously raised her head through the opening we'd just cleared. Slowly she scanned the entire room above us while I waited and kept watch in both directions in the tunnel-like storm sewer through which we'd traveled. Not that we were expecting company, but then you never know.

"Very, very interesting," Lorelei mused as she finished her scan and settled back down beside me on the floor of the abandoned storm sewer.

"See anything especially intriguing, Lorelei?" I knew from the way she summarized her initial view of the dungeon that she had seen something intriguing, but I asked anyway.

"I sure did. It's going to take us awhile to look things over the way we want to, Phil, much longer than we originally thought, and . . . ." She hesitated. I knew by the tone of her voice that she had something important to tell me.

"What is it, Lorelei?"

"You'll see. It's all over the east wall. And it's all over the floor, too." Lorelei looked up at me. "It's your turn, Phil."

"Okay, I'll take a look."

"Phil?"

"Yes?"

"Tell me it isn't what I think it is." Lorelei handed me her night-vision monocular. Her voice was almost hard, strained. I had a good idea of what she'd seen.

"Hmmm? Okay. I'll take a look." I straightened up, switched on the monocular's infrared illuminator, and while Lorelei kept watch in the sewer, began to visually explore the room above us.

The room known as the dungeon was not all that large, certainly not as large as my imagination had led me to believe it was. I judged it to be perhaps twelve by twenty feet in size, north-south being the longer dimension, with a ceiling I estimated to be about eight feet above the floor. Our floor-drain entrance was centered close to the south end of the room, and the floor did appear to slope ever so slightly in that direction.

Scanning first toward the east side of the room, I saw the original door that opened into the room. It appeared to have been constructed of heavy steel plate and set in a thick steel frame within the massive stone wall. When the room had been sealed off many years ago, that steel door had been welded to the frame and its tiny window covered with a plate of steel. Somebody had wanted that door sealed once and for all to judge from the way they'd welded it shut. Lorelei and I would check out that doorway more thoroughly once we were inside the room to see what it would take to open it again.

And I did wonder just what might be on the other side of that old entrance door. Had the stairway leading to that door been filled in with rubble? Never mind that for now, however. There would be time to find the answer to that question later if we decided gaining full and easy access to the room warranted it.

Along the east wall, from the doorway nearly to the opposite end of the room, was positioned a heavy stone bench. Sturdy leg irons with heavy chains embedded in the stone at regular intervals along the bench now rested askew on the floor, and chains that may once have held arm cuffs or some such restraint dangled from the wall above and behind the bench. In the old days, of course, they'd kept the mentally ill prisoners locked up in such restraints.

At the north end of the room sat a heavy wooden table. Two legs on one end had been broken off and the table now rested at an approximately thirty-degree angle, its west end with the broken legs resting on the floor while the east end stood tall on its original legs. The broken legs were visible under the table, as if someone had simply tossed them there.

Behind the table was an overturned chair, its back resting on top of an overturned file cabinet. Several large cardboard boxes were stacked in a haphazard manner along the north wall of the room, and miscellaneous papers littered the floor around them.

The west and south walls of the dungeon were mostly bare. An occasional chain was fastened to the east wall near the ceiling and I could only guess that the chains, like the leg irons fastened to the stone bench, were at one time used to restrain inmates.

Heavy wooden beams placed at regular intervals supported the ceiling of the dungeon, while the ceiling itself appeared to be constructed of well-fitted stone slabs. I had no way of knowing just how far the dungeon was built below the basement of the asylum, but my guess was that the stones above us formed the under-floor of the asylum's regular basement.

Two other things about the dungeon caught my attention. The first was what appeared to be a vent of some sort, an air-shaft constructed through the ceiling at the north-west corner of the room. Perhaps this vent system accounted for the fact that the air in the dungeon did not seem particularly stale, as one might expect the air to be in a semi-sealed dungeon room.

The second thing that caught my attention was the arrangement that had been made for lighting the sub-basement room. That room had been fitted with electric lights and the old-fashioned fixtures were secured on the east wall. One fixture was located near the entry door, the second located at the north end of the room. I could make out small, old-fashioned bulbs in each fixture. There was no way they could have provided a great deal of light in the dungeon. I couldn't help but wonder what they had used for light in the room before electricity. Lanterns or candles, perhaps?

Of course, I had no way of knowing if there was more than one "dungeon" or, more correctly, perhaps, more than one sub-basement room similar to this one. Another sub-basement dungeon might easily be located under another part of the asylum. After all, the asylum was, and is, a massive structure, capable of holding many similar rooms well below ground level that never would be visited by outsiders.

Lorelei and I had carefully searched the abandoned storm sewer under the asylum, and we hadn't found any other floor drains that looked as if they drained from a similar sub-basement room. That didn't mean there wasn't another dungeon, of course. It just meant that there wasn't a visible floor drain connected from that hypothetical room into the abandoned storm sewer. Other sub-basement rooms might not have a drain of any kind.

Lorelei and I did find another drain connection to the sewer that once collected water from somewhere in the building or, more likely, from the asylum's roof drains. It appeared to be badly choked with weeds and debris, an indication that it had not been maintained.

That drainage system would have been abandoned when a new storm sewer was installed, probably in the 1950s. Exploration of that drain connection might prove interesting, of course, but would have to wait until later, and perhaps we'd have a chance to check out the drain entrance above ground once we gained entrance to the asylum grounds--not an easy task considering the sturdy fence with locked gates that surrounded the complex. But then, even the most secure fences can be breached. Lorelei and I have managed to find a way through a variety of such "impassible" obstacles.

During my years of service in Vietnam and later as a homicide cop, I've seen my share of massive bloodstains. Lorelei had implied that I should pay particular attention to the east wall, and there was no mistaking the splashed blood that had dried on that wall and on the stone bench below it. Not only that, but there appeared to be a virtual pool of dried blood in a slight depression on the stone floor.

To judge from the amount of blood that had been splashed around, someone had most likely lost his or her life in that room. Without immediate medical attention, it's highly likely that anyone losing that much blood would have died there. My guess was that someone had.

Withdrawing my head from the opening, I hunkered down next to confer with Lorelei in the storm sewer. "It's dried blood, all right," I whispered to her.

"I knew it. It's sickening. There's been a whole lot of blood splashed around in there, hasn't there?" Lorelei whispered back. She has seen her share of bloodstained rooms before, and it was more of a statement of fact than a question.

"There sure has been a lot of blood splashed around in there." I reaffirmed her statement as I automatically reached into my tool kit and checked to be sure that the evidence bags I always carry were there. We'd take a sample of the blood with us when we left. Not that it would likely tell us a great deal because the person I suspected of dying there had been cremated over 50 years ago, long before DNA information was available. Furthermore, what medical information existed on this particular individual had been destroyed, accidentally or deliberately, I could not yet say. But then, perhaps not to my surprise, I'd also discovered that many if not most of the asylum's general records were now missing from the archives of the state office where they'd been placed when the asylum closed!

But then again, you never know. Maybe an analysis of those blood stains would provide at least a clue to our mystery. And, at this stage in our investigation, any factual information would be much better than what we had now. (As my old Police Academy Instructor once said: 'Crime scenes don't lie; it's the witnesses who lie.'")

Furthermore, it's often possible to determine a number of details about a violent crime by examining the way in which blood has been splashed around. For example, you often can determine the size and sex of the individuals involved and the type of weapon used. We'd certainly take some photographs of those bloodstains once we were in the room.

Seeing that dried blood may have answered a question that had been on my mind: Why would someone have installed a large floor drain in that room, anyway? Or maybe seeing how that floor sloped toward the drain raised even more questions. Could it be that the drain facilitated cleaning that room? I could imagine buckets of soapy water swishing across the floor, but cleaning away what? Blood? Bath water from cleaning up earlier inmates? I did not have an answer. At any rate, no one had bothered to clean up the blood now staining the floor and wall--and I wondered why. Had they simply welded the door shut instead of cleaning the room?

That blood-stained sub-basement room was beginning to resemble a regular crime scene in my mind. With any luck, we might even find some recognizable fingerprints, although most of them left in that room so many years ago would have completely disintegrated by now. Even so, I had my fingerprint kit with me, just in case.

"Are you ready to go inside that room and look around, Phil?" Lorelei whispered, a tingle of excitement rising in her voice as she gently prodded me out of my throughts.

"Just one more thing to do before we go in," I replied.

Lorelei nodded. She knew what I had to do before we entered the dungeon.

While Lorelei rocked back on her heels and watched, I retrieved a tiny dual-purpose transmitter from my tool kit, a "bug" as it's often called in popular detective fiction, and placed it in a niche where the concrete was broken out on the wall of the abandoned storm sewer in which we'd been working. That transmitter would pick up any sounds or motion activity in the storm sewer and alert us once we were in the room above. If the receiver on my belt vibrated, we'd know instantly that someone or something was in the storm sewer and we could prepare for visitors.

Neither Lorelei or I had any reason to suspect that anyone had followed us or was especially interested in what we were doing that night. Still, I'd been cautioned to be extremely careful if I "went poking around in the Benny Cole affair," and I've always heeded such warnings. Maybe that's what has kept me alive.

"All set, Phil?" Lorelei whispered, after I tested the transmitter to be sure it was working.

"Sure thing, Lorelei. It's working. Let's go in."
Chapter 2

Before Lorelei and I take you into the asylum's dungeon, let me interrupt our exploration to tell you Benny Cole's story and what brought us underground to investigate that sub-basement room.

As I mentioned earlier, exploring the city's underground is a hobby with Lorelei and me. Exploring underground passages isn't exactly new to me, and I'd like to tell you about my background as well as my interest in Benny Cole.

I spent twelve years of my life in Vietnam, from the early-1960s until 1975. Although I was with a special forces unit, when we discovered the networks of tunnels constructed by the Vietcong in our area, my commanding officer asked for volunteers to go into those tunnels--and I elected to be a "tunnel-rat."

The people who constructed those tunnels are somewhat smaller than the typical American, and at five-eleven and 175 pounds I was too tall and thick to fit comfortable in those narrow passageways--but somebody had to attempt it, and I did it. Of course, there were some tunnels I couldn't begin to navigate because they were simply too narrow. Smaller guys worked those.

I was outfitted with a light on my forehead something like a miner's lamp, a silenced pistol, a telephone headset, and a compass, and after training with some guys from another unit who'd already spent time in those tunnels and who could teach me not only about how they were typically constructed but also about the countless booby traps likely to be found--in I went.

Eventually, we found enough smaller men who could more easily navigate and work the tunnels than I could, and I became a trainer for awhile before rejoining my special operations unit. With experience and improved communications equipment, we were able to flush out a number of Vietcong from those tunnels and neutralize the ability of the Cong to infiltrate our positions through underground passageways.

After I returned to the United States in 1975, I became a cop. Two months ago, after spending 25 years with the police, first as an undercover agent assigned to drug enforcement and later as a homicide detective, I retired from the force.

Even though my fellow officers told me that I had done excellent work as a detective, having solved about 94 percent of my assigned homicide cases, the political cops who run the force were more than happy to see me go. They said I was a "cowboy" and too quick with a gun, an old-fashioned "shoot 'em up cop" who embarrassed the city. (Of course, most of them never drew a weapon in their career--or had reason to.)

Some of my friends on the force weren't quick with a gun--and they're dead now. I'm not ashamed of being quick with a gun, but in being so I did involve the city in four major lawsuits. In each case, Lorelei Crawford defended me. She's a crackerjack attorney, and she won quick acquittals or dismissals in each case. That's how I met Lorelei, and as I told you, she's actually the one who first involved me in this hobby--her hobby--of exploring the city's underground.

Ever since I joined the police force, I've been interested in some of the unsolved cases, especially the older ones that seem destined to be forgotten. As I had time, which wasn't often, I pulled and studied the old case folders related to those several unsolved cases that I found especially interesting. Photocopies of those files went with me when I left the force, with the thought that I might be able to do a little unofficial sleuthing on my own--with Lorelei to aid me, of course, whenever possible, because she, too, is interested in some of the older, unsolved mysteries. And that brings us to the strange case of Benny Cole.

Benny Cole was a bank robber and a jewel thief who made something of a reputation for himself in the late 1930s. Those exploits by themselves, however, did not earn him incarceration in the Rothchild Asylum for the Criminally Insane. What earned him that distinction was the penchant he had for setting major fires, of being a "fire-bug" as the newspapers of his era called him. And the fact that several people died in the fires Benny Cole set helped assure him a lengthy sentence in the asylum.

Then the Benny Cole story takes a bizarre twist. On the morning of the last Friday in December of 1939, while he was supposedly locked up tight in the asylum, Benny Cole apparently robbed both a bank and a jewelry store. Positive identification from police photographs was made by several witnesses.

The police had absolutely no trouble in locating Benny Cole for questioning. By the time they came looking for him that Friday evening, however, Benny was in his cell in the asylum. Of course, he denied any involvement in the robberies, and the asylum staff backed him up. Supposedly, he was locked up tight in the asylum all that day--just as he was supposed to be.

And then the Benny Cole story takes yet another bizarre twist. The day after the robbery, which netted a good heist of both cash and jewelry, mostly diamonds to be exact, Benny abruptly died. According to the official report, he tripped, fell down a long flight of stairs, and broke his neck. Before anyone quite knew what was happening, the remains of Benny Cole had been cremated--in keeping with his wishes, according to the asylum staff.

For whatever reason, the police apparently accepted the story that Benny Cole had met with a fatal accident within the asylum. Little, if any, investigation into his death was carried out, or at least there was no record of such an investigation that I could find.

Interestingly, the cash and diamonds Benny Cole was accused of stealing were never accounted for, nor was anyone ever charged with the crime. Over $40,000 in cash, a sizable sum at that time, had been placed in a small briefcase for the robber during the bank robbery but never had been located. Nor was the small bag of diamonds, valued at over $80,000, or the other jewels taken from the jewelry store.

The story of Benny Cole's misadventure intrigued Lorelei as much as it interested me. The official account obviously raised many questions, and we began to consider how we might investigate this episode.

As I had time, I began to consider questions related to what I considered a very bizarre case: Had Benny Cole actually left the asylum to commit the robbery? If so, did he have help from someone inside the asylum? Where had he stashed the cash and jewelry--or what had become of it? Furthermore, Benny Cole had died immediately following the bank and jewelry story robberies. Accidentally? A number of things simply didn't add up.

The first thing I'd wanted to do was locate any of the inmates yet living who had been incarcerated at the asylum while Benny Cole was there. With that in mind, I went looking for records that were kept by the asylum--only to discover that such records were unaccounted for. When the asylum closed in the 1970s, inmates were removed to other facilities, but I could find no records of exactly who was moved or to where they were taken.

After searching through a number of microfilmed newspapers at the library, however, I located the names of three men who would have been incarcerated at the asylum during the time Benny Cole was there. All of them would be in their 80s now, if they were still alive.

I discovered something else while reading those 1930s-vintage newspapers--something that seemed almost sinister! During the late 1930s, from about 1936 to 1940, at least eight inmates had died as a result of accidents while they were incarcerated at the asylum. Although little about the causes of these deaths was discussed in the newspapers, what little information was available suggested to me that these men had indeed died under rather curious circumstances. Three of the men were reported to have met their deaths as Benny Cole met his--as the result of a bad fall. Two others were reported to have drowned while bathing! (The causes of death in the other cases were not reported.) Apparently there had been no investigation of these deaths by the police. At least there was nothing in the newspapers to indicate there was an inquiry into the deaths. And, these men who died were not elderly. In fact, they were all young to middle-aged.

Not knowing exactly of what use the names of the men who died during that time period might be to me, I wrote them into my notebook along with all the details of their deaths that I could find. Then I began to concentrate on finding one of the three men who might still be living.

Telephone calls to area nursing homes finally located one of the three men incarcerated at the asylum while Benny Cole was there, an 87-year-old man named Travis O'Call, better known, according to the 1935 newspaper account, as "Buggy," because of the way his eyes bulged in his head. (The way his eyes bulged was noted as a sure sign that Travis O'Call was, again to quote the newspaper, "crazy as a loon," and the editor was "thankful" that Buggy was "tightly locked up.")

A few afternoons later when I had some free time, I paid a visit to Travis O'Call. He was partially paralyzed and bedfast, but as the nursing home administrator smilingly told me, "Buggy's still got a sharp mind."

That observation proved to be true. The moment I introduced myself, the wrinkled old man lying there in bed with the covers pulled up to his chin responded with: "You're a cop, ain'tcha?"

"Not any more. I'm retired," I told him, holding out my identification card so he could read it.

The old man grinned up at me. "Officer, I swear I didn't do it! Ya gotta believe me, Officer! Whatever happened, I didn't do it!" he exclaimed, breaking into a crackling laugh.

I had to grin back at the shrunken figure with the twinkling eyes in the bed. "No. I don't think you did it either. But I'd like to talk with you anyway, Mr. O'Call," I replied.

"Aw, heck, Officer. Call me 'Buggy' like everybody else here does. That's what people called me all my life. What wouldya like to talk with me about?"

"'Buggy?' Okay, I'll call you Buggy. And then you'll call me Phil. How will that be?"

"Yessir, Phil it is. Buggy and Phil." The old man's eyes twinkled as he laughed again.

"Do you remember Benny Cole?"

The old man closed his eyes and sighed. "Benny Cole. So that's what this is about," he murmured.

"Yes. You obviously remember him."

"Yeah, I knew Benny Cole," he breathed.

"How well did you know him?"

Travis opened one eye just a bit and eyed me as if he weren't sure just where this conversation was going. Finally, after several moments of silence, he replied: "Benny and me, we were pretty good friends. We talked quite a bit. Had some common interests, too. It was a shame what happened to him, a real shame. I . . . I tried to . . . ." Travis's voice trailed off.

"Do you remember about how he was accused of getting out of the asylum and robbing a bank and a jewelry store just a day or so before he died?"

"Yeah, I remember the whole episode. Clear as if it happened yesterday." Travis's eyes were wide open now, staring at me, and his voice was stronger.

"I'd like to hear your thoughts about what happened on the day of the bank and jewelry store robberies--and on the day he died."

Travis's eyes darted around the room, then back to me. "Whew! You're askin' a lot." Travis sighed. "You know nobody's gonna believe what I think happened, don'tcha?"

"I might believe you."

"I mean, nobody who's . . . . Like in a court of law, my word won't mean nothin'. You know that's so, 'cause they'll say I'm crazy. 'Crazy as a loon,' they said in the paper. Always have been crazy, they said. That's why guys like Benny Cole and me were in the asylum, wasn't it?"

"We aren't in court now, Buggy. Or in the asylum. What you say is between you and me. And, I'll listen to you."

Travis's voice dropped to a soft whisper. "Never told anybody what I thought happened with my friend, Benny. Of course, nobody ever asked me, either. Maybe that was a good thing. Nobody'd believe a crazy man, anyway. Mighta done me more harm than good if I'da told somebody what I thought."

I had a feeling that I knew exactly where this conversation with Travis was going. I'd heard similar words before from witnesses. "Are you afraid that even yet today somebody might learn that you'd been talking about what you think happened with Benny Cole?" I asked.

"Yeah, Officer, er . . . er Phil. I woulda been real scared when I was still in the asylum. There were people around there who'da had me dead just like Benny if I'da talked. Some of 'em may still be alive. I don't know. I just don't know. Guess it's too late for me to worry much about that now, what with being 87 years old and halfway paralyzed." Travis's voice sagged.

"I'd like to know what you think happened with Benny Cole."

"Okay." Travis's big eyes darted furtively around the room. "We alone here, are we, Phil?" he asked.

"Yes, we're alone. Want me to close the door?"

Travis nodded. I looked up and down the hall before closing the door. There wasn't anyone in the hallway. Closing that door probably wouldn't prevent someone from hearing us talk because it wasn't much of a door. Anyone standing outside it could probably hear right through it. Still, if it made Travis feel better, we'd keep the door closed.

"Okay, Phil. Like I said, me and Benny was good friends," Travis began as I sat back down by his bed. His mouth twisted into a grin. "We was both fire-bugs, ya know. That's what they called us. Fire-bugs."

"Yes, I know that."

Travis chuckled. "Guess it won't hurt to tell you now."

"What's that?"

"Callin' Benny a fire-bug like me, got me to thinkin' about how Benny always said he'd like to torch the big ol' asylum." Travis chuckled again. "'Course, we'd all have liked to torch the asylum. Burn it to the ground. In fact, me an' Benny used to talk about how we'd go about torchin' the place, about how it'd look burnin' with the flames shootin' up higher an' higher, and how we'd find a nice grassy place on that hill 'cross town where we could lay back and watch it go up.' He paused, thinking, then shook his head. "Sorry for all the nonsense talk. You didn't need to hear all that, didja? Now, back to what you were askin' about. It was Benny who pulled those jobs you mentioned, all right, the bank and the jewelry store. I'm sure of that. But he had help. I'm sure of that, too. And . . . ." Travis stopped abruptly, as if he weren't sure he should be talking about what he knew.

"And what?"

"And, well, 'tween you an' me, I ain't so sure those were the first robberies that pair pulled off. Same way, only that last time, somebody recognized Benny."

"Okay, I hear you, but you said, 'that pair.' So, who helped Benny?"

"You ever hear of a guy named Ivan Mako?"

"No."

There were footsteps in the hallway outside Travis's room and he paused, his eyes alert, listening quietly until the footsteps were past before he continued.

"Never did know what his official capacity was, or if he had any, but Ivan Mako was related to the warden--nephew or son or somehow, I don't know. What I do know is that he had the run of the asylum--and he was one mean man. Big guy. Two-hundred fifty pounds, maybe more. Big and mean and sadistic. Awful. We all were afraid of him. He used to take an inmate down into a room under the basement and beat 'em up every now and then, just for the fun of it. Almost kill 'em, just for sport. Sometimes he'd beat a confession out of an inmate and give it to the cops. Didn't make any difference if it was the truth or not. 'Course the real cops weren't much better. They'd beat up on a guy just for the sport of it, just like Mako did.

"Oh, yeah, here's another thing. Mako was in solid with the cops, too. Rumor had it that his brother or cousin was cosy with the Chief of Police. Maybe his brother or cousin was a cop. I don't know. At any rate, the cops wouldn't do anything to Ivan Mako even though they had to know how he was getting confessions for them. Truth is, they really didn't care. Behind his back, we inmates called Ivan Mako 'Ivan the Terrible.'" Travis paused, a lopsided grin on his face, then continued. "Some of the guys, the inmates that is, called him 'the gorilla.' Not to his face, of course. He'da killed anyone who called him that to his face."

"So you think Ivan Mako helped Benny Cole--?"

"One time," Travis continued, interrupting my question, "a guy told me how Mako found out that one of the inmates had hidden stolen cash somewhere and the cops hadn't been able to find it. Well, Mako found out where the loot was hid. Ya know how? He took this guy down into this room, the one I was telling you about. Nearly killed the guy, but he found out where he'd stashed his goods." Travis paused and his eyes darted around the room. "Do ya think Mako gave that information to the cops? No sir. Not Mako. He raided the guy's stash, raided it himself. Kept the stolen cash for himself, too. Anyway, that was the story goin' 'round, and I believed it. It was somethin' Mako woulda done."

"And you think Ivan Mako helped Benny Cole get out of the asylum that day and . . . ?"

"Yeah. Mako kinda wormed his way into Benny's confidence, a little at a time. I saw it happening and I tried to warn Benny to be careful with Mako, but he wouldn't listen. Pretty soon, Mako was takin' Benny off somewhere to talk. Benny told me they were planning somethin' big and I warned him to be real careful plannin' somethin' with Mako. He said he would." Travis sighed and repeated, "He said he would."

"So you think they were planning to get Benny out of the asylum so he could rob the bank and jewelry store--with a perfect alibi?"

"Yeah, I'd swear to it--for all that'd be worth."

There were more footsteps in the hall and, once again, Travis paused, eyes alert, listening. Once the footsteps passed, I raised another question. "Before ou go on, Buggy, what about this room where Mako took the inmates to beat 'em up? What kind of a room was it?"

"I never saw it myself, but from what I heard, it was just like a dungeon. In fact, that's just what the older inmates called it--a dungeon. See, in the old days they'd used that room to lock up the inmates they couldn't control. The really crazy ones, ya know. There was leg-irons and wrist-cuffs they could lock 'em into, or at least that's what the old-timers said. Ya get the picture?"

"Yes. I get the picture."

"To get to that room," Travis continued, "ya had to go into the basement, lift a heavy trap-door in the floor, and go down another flight of stairs. A long, long flight of stairs, they said." Travis paused, then added, "Once ya were way down there in the dungeon and the door was closed, nobody could hear ya yell when they beat ya."

"Okay, Buggy, I hear you. Now, let's go back to Benny Cole. How do you think Mako got him out of the asylum without the two of them being seen? I'm asking because the guards at the entrances testified that Benny Cole never left the asylum on that day."

BAM! BAM! BAM! BAM! Before Travis could respond to my question, knuckles hit the door to his room like gunshots, announcing someone's presence. My paranoia took over, and I instinctively slipped my hand under my jacket and to the butt of the hideout .40 caliber Beretta semi-automatic pistol I was carrying in the small of my back, then spun around toward the door just before it flew open and a short, heavy-set, blonde wearing a white uniform strode like a storm-trooper into the room. "Time for your medicine, Buggy dear," she announced, ignoring me and holding out a small paper cup.

I read her name tag: "MS. DOLMAN." She didn't so much as look my way.

"Don't want to take anything that'll make me sleepy, 'cause I've got a visitor an' I wantta talk to him, ya hear?" Travis was more defiant than I imagined he could be.

"This won't make you sleepy, Buggy," the woman retorted, turning and winking at me as she did so. She held the little cup to Travis's lips and, when he opened his mouth, tipped the pill into it.

With the pill in Travis's mouth, the woman quickly produced a cup of water and held it to Travis's lips. "Here you go, Buggy," she said, tipping the water into his mouth as he swallowed. With that task finished, she was out the door, her footsteps echoing their way down the hall as she pushed her cart loaded with pills toward the next room.

Ms. Dolman left Travis's door wide open when she left the room, so I closed it again, wondering only briefly if the woman had overheard any of our conversation before she'd knocked--or if it made any difference if she had.

The moment he saw the door was closed, Travis spit the little green pill out of his mouth and onto the faded green bedspread that covered him. His eyes followed it as it rolled to the edge of the bed, and I watched it drop to the floor and roll under a cabinet by the side of his bed. "She says that pill won't make me sleepy, but it will," he said, then laughed derisively. "They give us sleeping pills all the time," he added, "and I spit 'em right out. They think crazy ol' guys like me don't know the difference--but we do. Now, where were we?"

"Buggy?"

"Yeah? What is it?"

"I'm going to take that pill with me, okay?"

"Sure."

I tugged a tissue from the box on Travis's bedside stand, collected the pill from the floor, wrapped it, and tucked it into my pocket. We'd see what kind of medicine Ms. Dolman was handing out.

Travis's eyes followed my every move. "Gonna see what they're feedin' us?" he asked.

"Yes, and you were going to tell me how Mako got Benny out of the asylum."

"Right. I don't know for sure how they did it, of course, but let me tell you, that asylum building was just filled with hidden passages. At least, that's what the old-timers said. A person who knew where those passageways were could get from one part of the place to another without anyone knowing it. Are you with me?"

"Yes. I'm with you."

"Okay. You know where the warden lived? In a big ol' stone house just to the north of the asylum? It was on the asylum grounds, but separate."

"Yes, I know where the warden lived."

"Well, the warden had a big two-car garage attached to his house. The way I got it figured, there must have been a tunnel of some sort from the asylum to that garage."

"And you think Mako took Benny through that tunnel to the garage?"

"I'm sure he did. At least, he coulda. Mako coulda put Benny in the trunk and drove the warden's car right out of the front gate. Nobody woulda questioned what he was doing, not with him drivin' the warden's car. Later, the two of 'em coulda come right back in through the front gate with Benny in the trunk, right past the guards and all. No problem there. And all the cops knew the warden's car by sight, so they wouldn't have stopped Mako driving it even if they were spotted near where a robbery took place. They'da figured Mako was on some official business for the warden."

"Okay, Buggy. So, let's say Mako and Benny went from the asylum through the tunnel to the warden's garage. Then Mako drove the warden's car with Benny in the trunk. Once outside, Benny pulls off the bank and jewelry store robberies, and Mako sneaks him back inside the asylum the same way. What then?"

"Truth is, I never got a chance to talk to Benny again, not after he pulled those robberies. My guess is that Mako killed him. Figured he didn't need Benny again, so he killed him. Either that, or he figured Benny might rat on him. What kinda deal they made about dividin' the stolen cash and jewels, I don't know, but I doubt that Mako coulda let Benny have any of it for keeps. And, Mako sure couldn't have let Benny go talkin' about the caper. You know that."

"I follow you. So you think Mako killed Benny Cole?"

"Yeah. I'd say he took him down into that dungeon room I told you about and killed him. Funny thing was, though, Mako wasn't around after Benny died either."

"Mako wasn't around? Where was he?"

"Story we got was that Mako was off on a cruise to Europe--or some nice, sunny place. There was different stories about where he was. Anyway, he got out of the asylum, and I never saw him again. None of the other inmates I knew did either. My guess is that he used the loot Benny stole along with that I told you he got outa another inmate to finance his trip. Or maybe he and Benny had pulled that same kinda caper before and nobody knew about it 'cause nobody identified Benny."

"And you never saw Mako again?"

"Nope. Maybe he moved away, got a job somewhere else, or . . . I don't know where he went. Nobody else did either. We were just glad he was gone. Of course, there was talk. You know how guys like to talk. Some of the inmates thought things were too hot for Mako to be around the asylum and the warden got him outta there. Coulda been, I guess."

"Can you describe Mako?"

"Sure can. I told you he was a big guy. Over six feet tall and maybe 250 pounds. Bull neck. Barrel chested. Beefy arms. Man, when he made a fist, his hand looked like a boxing glove. I'll bet it hit like one, too."

"What color was his hair?"

Travis closed his eyes. "Let me think. His hair was dark, dark brown, I think. Close cut. Almost a military-style cut. And his eyes, they were dark brown, too. At least that's the way I remember him. Of course, I didn't want to get close enough to him to look into his eyes. Nobody did."

"Did he have any scars? A tattoo, maybe? Anything that would identify him?"

"Scars? Yeah. There was somethin', on his left arm, I think. Oh, yeah. Sure. When he wore a short-sleeved shirt, you could see somethin' like a scar on his left arm. Some of the guys thought it looked like an old knife wound. Maybe so, maybe not. I don't know. Maybe Mako had been burned or somethin'. I never got a real good look at his arm. Like I said, I avoided gettin' too close to him. Didn't want him to take me down into that dungeon. Nosir!"

"Anything else you could tell me about him that might help identify him? What about the way he walked? Or talked? Or--?"

"Talked? Mako talked tough. Tough, and kinda mean. Kinda outa the side of his mouth, like you'd see in the old gangster movies. Walked? Yeah, now that you mention it, he walked with a kind of swagger. Like he owned the place."

"Mako was bigger than Benny, wasn't he?"

"Oh, sure!" Travis exclaimed. "They were opposite kinds of people. Benny was a little guy, probably didn't weigh over 140 pounds. He was more refined, too, in the way he talked and behaved. But he was a little guy, all right, and he wouldn'ta been much of a match for Mako in a fight."

Travis fell silent and his frail body seemed to sink more deeply into the bed. There were other things I wanted to ask him, but he looked terribly tired, and I figured they could wait. Even without that sleeping pill, if that was what it was, Travis O'Call looked mighty sleepy. Tired and sleepy. I got up and thanked him for his help.

"Wait a minute." Travis's voice was almost a whisper.

I stopped. "Sure. What is it?"

Travis raised his head ever so slightly, motion that must have taken a great deal of energy to judge from the distortion on his face. "I'm glad you're lookin' into Benny's case," he whispered, "but you gotta remember somethin', Phil."

"What's that?"

"You gotta be real careful, pokin' around in that old business about Benny Cole. Somebody went to a lot of trouble back then to sweep that mess under the carpet, and I figure the warden had to have been in on keeping the police from looking into things very carefully. Like I said, the warden had connections with the cops. Mako, too. And Ivan Mako probably is still alive." Travis fixed his eyes on mine. "You're carryin', ain'tcha?"

"Yes."

"I thought so. Saw your hand just glide under your jacket, kinda natural-like, when that nurse knocked on the door. It's good that you're carryin', but even so, you be awful careful."

"Thanks. I'll be careful," I reassured the old man.

"You do that, 'cause I'd like to see Mako hang for the things he did. Maybe the warden, too, if he's still alive." Travis hesitated, his eyes darting around the room once again, then continued. "There was a lot of odd stuff going on in that ol' asylum. Benny wasn't the only inmate to have an accident. Come back and we'll talk some more. I'll see what else I can remember that'll interest you."

I assured him that I would come back. By the time I reached the door and looked back at him, Travis O'Call was sound asleep.

I furtively switched off the tape recorded in my pocket as I walked down he corridor toward the building exit. Then, as I crossed the parking lot and climbed into my car, I had an eerie sensation that I was being watched. There wasn't anyone in the parking lot that I could see, but the feeling persisted until I was well on my way home. I knew then that if I wanted to investigate the exploits and death of Benny Cole, I had my work cut out for me--and that work might begin by a visit to the sub-basement room under the asylum.

Whether Travis O'Call's story held elements of truth or simply was the fabrication of an old man long ago incarcerated as criminally insane, I could not now even speculate. At any rate, his remarks gave me a place to start in my investigation of Benny Cole's alleged robberies and untimely death. The investigation had to start somewhere, and the room Travis called the dungeon where Benny Cole just might have met his death was as good a place as any.

Lorelei and I had examined every old city map we could get our hands on ever since we started exploring the city's underground. If I remembered correctly, an abandoned storm sewer passed directly under the asylum--and was, I believed, connected to a drain from that dungeon. Actually, we'd noted that there were several connections to the storm sewer under and around the asylum and had even talked about the possibility of exploring that facility. After all, there's something rather exciting to both of us about exploring a facility such as the abandoned asylum--and especially exciting to think that we'd be able to explore what I believed to be a crime scene that had been sealed for 60 years. Yes, indeed! Lorelei and I were going to love exploring that sub-basement room Travis O'Call called the dungeon, as well as the rest of the asylum as time permitted.
Chapter 3

Lorelei stood up to her full height in the abandoned storm sewer, her head and shoulders now through the floor-drain opening taking us into the asylum's long-abandoned dungeon. "I'm ready. Guide me up, Phil," she whispered down to me.

Excitement was in Lorelei's voice. She loved exploring the underside of the city, and tonight's exploration of the dungeon would have been exciting for her even if we hadn't had a specific reason for being there.

I hunkered down on the floor of the sewer and braced myself, then guided Lorelei's feet as she easily pulled herself up through the floor-drain opening and into the dungeon above us. Moments later she was on her hands and knees on the stone floor above us, looking down at me. "Everything's cool. Come on up, Phil," she whispered.

After casting a long, searching scan with Lorelei's night-vision monocular both ways down the storm sewer through which we'd reached the dungeon and assuring myself that we were alone on our quest, I handed my tool kit and flashlight up through the opening to Lorelei. Then I pulled myself through the opening to join her in the dungeon.

We placed the florescent lantern on the floor near the center of the room. The lantern's soft glow illuminated the major portion of the dungeon, allowing us to see well enough to move about freely while we used our flashlights to closely examine the room and its contents.

Although we both were anxious to examine the bloodstained side of the room we planned to proceed with systematic thoroughness. First, we made our way to the door that once had served as the walk-in entrance to the dungeon. As we had observed earlier, it had been constructed of heavy steel. When the room had been sealed from the outside, the door had, indeed, been welded to its steel door frame. We could see how the metal around the edge of the door had discolored from the heat of welding. Also, as we had observed earlier, a steel plate had been welded over what had once been a small cut-out window in the upper part of the door.

We had no way of knowing what was on the other side of that door. I had thought, indeed, had hoped, that there might at least be a keyhole or a gap in the welding to look through, but even the keyhole had been welded shut. Whoever had welded the door shut had done an exceedingly thorough job. There wasn't even a pinhole in the entire doorway through which to seek a glimpse of the passageway outside.

The door itself had been constructed of heavy steel plate. I pushed hard against it, but the metal would not even flex. Never mind. If it became important for us to open that door, I could bring in a small cutting torch and cut through it--gaining access to the door either from the storm sewer route through which we'd just gained entrance to the dungeon or down the stairway from inside the asylum if we wanted to come in that way. If the stairway was blocked with debris, we'd clear it--simple as that.

Before we left the sealed doorway, I retrieved my camera from my tool kit and photographed the door and frame. Lorelei had her pocket notebook open, recording our night's activities, using her pen equipped with a small LED light in the tip to write in the semi-darkness. If I knew Lorelei, by now she'd have drawn a diagram of the room and, as usual, was already annotating our findings in her notebook. Her notes along with my photographs might prove invaluable in the future, and certainly would be of interest to us as we planned future explorations in and around the asylum.

Moving around the room from the original doorway to our left, Lorelei and I next examined the heavy stone bench along the east wall. That bench obviously had been well used, because the seating areas were polished into distinct depressions directly over the attached leg irons. The stone undoubtedly had been worn away by inmates who were struggling against their confinement in the dungeon.

Before we moved further north to examine the bloodstains more closely, I took a number of photographs of the bloodstained area. I'm not a forensic technician, but I've seen a number of bloody crime scenes. Considering the way the blood had been splashed around in that room, my best guess was that someone had been stabbed with a knife, that a major artery had been severed, and that the person had died right there on the floor where we observed the pool of dried blood. Maybe that person had been Benny Cole. Maybe he hadn't fallen down a flight of stairs after all.

After we'd carefully examined the pattern of bloodstains, I scraped some of the dried blood from the floor and wall and placed the samples in evidence bags. Then we began looking for obvious fingerprints.

"Here's something for you, Phil," Lorelei whispered. She'd found the first clear fingerprints.

I hadn't expected to find any fingerprints in the dungeon after all these years, but what a find she'd made. There were three bloody fingerprints clearly visible on the edge of the broken wooden table--positioned as if a bloody hand had clutched at the table for support.

After photographing the prints, I sprayed them with an agent that would both harden and preserve them, then used my knife to cut away the veneer from the edge of the table. I'd take the prints away with a small section of the veneer. Moments later, I'd secured the wood and prints into another evidence bag.

Five heavy cardboard boxes with lids rested neatly against the north wall. While I looked for additional fingerprints, Lorelei began an examination of the content of those boxes.

Moments later, Lorelei made another spectacular find. When she moved one of the boxes away from the wall in order to open it more easily, something rolled toward her along the floor behind it. "Come here, Phil," she urged excitedly.

We both recognized the object for what it was, a short section perhaps 16 inches long, broken from one of the table's ruined legs--and this section was stained with blood.

My guess was that this chunk of wood had been used as a club. Under further examination, it appeared that a hand had gripped this club--and that the handprint remained, preserved in the blood. We'd take this club with us, carefully wrapped to preserve whatever prints might remain, and ask Red Donovan, a fingerprint expert and friend of mine, to see what he could do with it, along with any other prints we could find.

The remains of the two broken table legs lay under the table. I looked them over carefully, but couldn't find any evidence that they had been used as clubs. At least, they weren't bloody.

Before long, I located another relatively well-preserved blood-fingerprint on the table. After preserving and lifting it as best I could, I went over to see what Lorelei had found in the boxes.

As I stood beside her, Lorelei removed the lid from one of the boxes and showed me what she'd found. The box was tightly packed with sturdy file folders, some thick with papers, others quite thin.

"Can you believe it, Phil? These are records from the asylum," Lorelei whispered. "Every box is stuffed full, just like that one," she added.

"Early records?" I had to ask because the papers appeared to be brown with age.

"Yes. Some of these appear to be from the late 1800s. This would be a gold mine for an archivist."

"And they stored them here in the dungeon?" I mused.

"It looks like it. These boxes haven't been disturbed in years. Maybe somebody didn't want them disturbed--ever?"

"Could be. Anything in the stuff you've looked at that's related to Benny Cole?"

"No. Not unless it's very well hidden, and I did scan each box. There doesn't appear to be anything here later than about 1920."

After Lorelei replaced the lid on the box she had opened for me, we turned our attention to the overturned file cabinet. After photographing it, I lifted it upright, then dusted the drawer handles for fingerprints before Lorelei looked inside. Unfortunately, but not unexpectedly, there were no preserved fingerprints on the handles.

From the relatively light weight of the file cabinet, I suspected it to be empty--and it was. Although there were a few cardboard file folders inside, there were no records of any kind.

"It's empty. That's rather odd, don't you think, Phil?" Lorelei expressed exactly what I'd been thinking.

"Yes, it is. Considering the fact that many records from the asylum are missing, maybe it's not surprising that someone emptied the file cabinet before sealing it in this room."

Lorelei and I explored and photographed the rest of the room, and after finding little else of interest to our immediate investigation, sat down by the floor drain to allow Lorelei time to catch up on her notes. Moments later, she turned to me. "Phil?"

"Yes?"

"Travis O'Call told you that the asylum contains a number of hidden passageways. Do you think any lead into this room?"

"I don't know," I acknowledged. "Let's look around and see if we can spot anything out of the ordinary that might indicate a passageway."

Over the next half hour, we examined every inch of the room, the walls, ceiling, and floor. We pushed at the stone blocks and the ceiling beams--but nothing moved or gave indication that there might be an opening into a hidden passageway. There didn't seem to be any unusual cement-work that would indicate a sealed opening. Nothing. Still, there just might have been a hidden passageway opening into this room at one time, or perhaps yet today--and we simply hadn't found it. And, maybe a hidden passageway was accessible just outside the door that once served the room?

Our search for a hidden passageway over, we sat down by the floor drain. Lorelei made a few more notes in her notebook, then looked up at me, her big brown eyes narrowed in thought. "Phil?"

"Yes?"

Could Benny Cole or Ivan Mako have exited and reentered this room through that floor drain and out the storm sewer, just as you and I did tonight?"

"I don't see why not. What are you thinking?"

"Travis O'Call may have figured out how those two left and reentered the asylum. Or he might not have. Anyway, they could have exited and reentered through the old sewer."

"Right. They sure could have."

"What if? Okay?"

"Okay. What if?"

"What if one of those guys, either Cole or Mako, whoever ended up with the loot, wanted to stash either the cash or jewels from those robberies in this room or in the sewer. Where would they have done so?"

"I don't know. Let's look around."

Lorelei and I once again carefully searched the room, this time looking for a hiding place large enough to secret a fair amount of cash or jewels. We examined the ceiling beams to see if any of them might have been hollowed out, and we examined the walls where they met the ceiling stones. I even removed the ancient light bulbs from the lighting fixtures and checked the fixtures. Once again, we found nothing unusual. If someone had hidden things in that dungeon room, we didn't find them--or even their hiding place.

I had a feeling we'd done all we could in the dungeon for now. Lorelei agreed. "Let's get out of here, at least for tonight," she whispered. "We can look around in the sewer for hiding places as we leave."

The transmitter I'd placed in the sewer hadn't detected any activity. At least, it hadn't alerted us via the receiver on my belt. Even so, I was extremely cautious as I lowered myself through the floor drain opening. Using Lorelei's night-vision monocular, I searched the sewer in both directions before I was sure it was safe for Lorelei to join me.

Once Lorelei was down in the sewer with me and we'd removed our gear from the room above, we eased the grate back into position over the floor drain. Anyone who explored this part of the city's underground would likely know that someone had been here by the marks my pry bar had left in the stonework, but we didn't want to make our inspection tour overly obvious.

Before we retreated down the storm sewer by the way we came, we followed it for perhaps a hundred feet beyond the floor drain where we'd entered the dungeon. From our maps, we'd determined that the sewer would most likely be much harder to navigate from that direction--and it certainly would have been. The further that way we went, the smaller and more congested it became. Finally, we turned back, knowing that if Benny Cole or Ivan Mako had exited the asylum through the storm sewer in that direction, they'd have had a much harder time than if they'd went the way we came in, unless, of course, things had changed a great deal over the past 60 years.

Still, there just might be more hiding places in that further portion of the old storm sewer than in the part we'd traversed. We'd explore the entire sewer further as time permitted. After all, this was a hobby, our hobby, and we were free to explore the underground at our pleasure.

It had taken us approximately three hours to traverse the abandoned storm sewer from our point of entry to the floor-drain entrance to the dungeon. We'd spent about three hours exploring the dungeon, and just twenty minutes or so searching the sewer that led away from the dungeon.

Our return back the way we'd come through the sewer was much faster. We didn't talk or rest, and just a little over two hours later, we were under the man-hole cover near where we'd parked my old blue four-door Chevy Lumina in a line-up of cars in front of a salvage yard. A glance at my watch indicated that it was three o'clock in the morning.

Man-hole covers are heavy. The old ones were made of heavy cast iron, and are almost impossible for a person to lift without a tool of some sort. Certainly, they'd be awfully awkward and downright heavy to push up from inside the sewer. That's why we'd replaced the original cast iron man-hole cover with a look-alike cover made of three-quarter inch plywood and painted black. It might not fool anyone in the daylight, but anyone coming by at night wouldn't easily detect it, and we'd replace it with the original when we came back through.

Ever wary, I lifted the substitute man-hole cover just enough to view the area where we'd parked, my car illuminated by the salvage yard's security light. There weren't any unidentifiable vehicles in sight, nor did I see anyone close to my old Chevrolet. So far, so good.

As a cop, I've helped send a number of criminals to prison, many for extremely serious crimes, and thanks to our lenient court system, a share of them are already out--walking the streets and vowing to kill me. One way that I cover my trail and make life harder for those out to get me to keep track of my whereabouts is to drive a different older and nondescript car every couple of weeks of so. I can do this because I'm a good friend with Jim Osborne, the guy who operates the salvage yard across the street where Lorelei and I had parked the old Chevrolet I'm currently driving.

In addition to an automobile salvage yard, Jim operates a small used car dealership and an automotive repair shop on the side, and he lets me drive different cars from his used car inventory. It is fortuitous that Jim's salvage yard is located across the street from the man-hole through which Lorelei and I made our entry into the abandoned storm sewer on our way to check out the asylum's dungeon. In fact, because we have an inconspicuous place to park nearby, Lorelei and I have used that same man-hole to descend into the storm sewer several times with different underground explorations in mind.

Having looked around and assured myself that we were probably alone in that part of the city, I raised and tilted the man-hole cover so that I could look more carefully in each direction and assure myself again that nobody else was nearby. That done, I pushed the plywood cover aside and climbed out of the sewer, leaving Lorelei out of sight and underground. If something happened and I didn't make it to the car, she could escape back into the storm sewer and dial for help using her cell-phone.

That early morning we were lucky. No one took a shot at me as I walked quickly across the street and parking lot to my car and then checked around to be sure that everything with it was in order. No one had slashed the tires and there was no evidence that anyone had tampered with the doors, hood, or trunk locks. Nor did I see any bombs attached when I looked underneath. At least there weren't any bombs wired under it in the most common spots crooks place their car-bombs.

Taking a deep breath, I placed my key in the driver's side door lock, breathed relief when it opened smoothly, quickly climbed into the driver's seat, and inserted the key into the ignition. I was, I must admit, greatly relieved when the engine came to life--and no bombs went off!

After allowing the engine to warm slightly, I eased back out of the parking spot and drove the car close to the man-hole where Lorelei was waiting, then covered her with my Beretta as she climbed from the sewer and into the car. Let's face it, Lorelei has made her share of enemies over the years just as I have, and I'm sure that she's as much a target for ex-con's hate as I am.

Once Lorelei was in the car, I handed her the gun. She knows how to use it. I've seen to that. She covered me while I replaced the original cast iron man-hole cover and put our fake one in the car trunk. Our plywood cover would come in handy another time just as it had in the past, of that I was certain. Then, with a last glance around to be sure that no one had us under surveillance, we were on our way.

Lorelei helped me keep an eye on our surroundings until we were reasonably sure that no one was following us. Only then did she settle back into the passenger's seat and put her hand on my shoulder. "Tonight's was a great adventure, Phil! A great adventure!" she exclaimed in a hushed whisper, then added, "I loved getting into that dungeon, and I've got a good record of what we saw to go with the photos that you took." Lorelei waved her pocket notebook.

"It sure was a great adventure, Lorelei," I replied, turning briefly to smile at her as I did so. I meant it.

Lorelei's big brown eyes were dancing with pleasure. "I wish tonight's adventure hadn't had to end, but we'll be set for another night of exploration come tonight, right, Phil?"

"Right! Travis O'Call's story about a dungeon where bad things happened to people certainly checked out. We'll check out his thinking about there being a tunnel from the garage to the asylum's main building tonight, and . . . ." I glanced at my watch. ". . . . tonight's not all that far off!" I was looking forward to it just as Lorelei was, and the anticipation had me pumped already.
Chapter 4

I drove Lorelei home to her house and walked her through the attached garage and inside. Once we'd checked to be sure that no one had broken in and was waiting inside for her, we said "goodnight" at the front door. I knew that she'd keep an eye on my back as I walked to my car.

With Lorelei safely inside her home, I slowly drove the streets in her neighborhood, checking for anything that might be suspicious. Lorelei's been the subject of numerous threats, just as I have, and we take all the precautions we reasonably can. After my second time around the block, I saw that Lorelei had turned on a lamp in her second bedroom, a prearranged signal to me that everything appeared to be okay.

My watch indicated about four o'clock, and the general tiredness in my bones reminded me that I'd been up and active almost all night. It was time for some serious shut-eye.

There are two places where I can sleep. My primary residence, if you can call it that, is a room in a residential hotel up on Fourth and Frontier Street. Another place where I sometimes spend the night is a room up over the Mill Street Bar, an establishment owned by a friend of mine named Fred Overmiller. It's located, appropriately enough, on Mill Street, and that's where I planned to spend what was left of the night and a share of tomorrow morning.

Maybe I'm overly cautious and, yes, paranoid, but I rather enjoy having two places where I can crash and sleep. To my way of thinking, it's just another way to keep anybody who's looking for me a little off balance.

I've done my best to take security precautions and installed some low- and medium-tech devices that should alert me if anyone messes with either of my rooms or my car. Tonight, things appeared quite calm as I drove down the alley in back of the bar, circled around the block once just to see what might be going on, and then pulled the Chevrolet into a parking place under the security light and near the stairs to my sleeping room.

The little green light glowing on an inconspicuous panel in a fake mail box at the back of the bar indicated that no one had been in my room since the last time I'd slept there. That little light is wired to motion and sound detectors inside my room. It glows red to alert me if it detects sounds or motions. I've got a similar arrangement in my hotel room.

Careful to avoid the trip-wires I've installed that trigger an alert if someone disturbs them, I climbed the stairs and was relieved to find that the door to my room appeared secure. Without further concern, I unlocked the door and let myself inside.

It's not a large nor fancy room. There's room for my bed, a small oak chest, a small table that serves as a desk, and a straight-back chair. A few of the mementoes I've collected over the years are in the chest, and I keep a few clothes in the closet. Then, too, there's a bath room complete with shower right off my sleeping room.

A small lamp that sits on my table-desk is fitted with an electrical timer. Sometimes when I'm going to be out, I set the timer to keep the lamp lit for awhile, suggesting to anyone who is curious that I'm really there.

The telephone in my room is on a supposedly secure line, as is the one in my hotel room. Even so, I've installed a tap-detector on each one. A little green light on the detector glows constantly to assure me that the line is secure. If anyone taps the line, a red light flickers to alert me. Tonight, the glow of the green light was reassuring.

An interior door in my room opens on a hallway above the bar. There are other sleeping rooms similar to mine available along that hall, but none are currently rented, and some are now used strictly for storage. My friend who owns the bar gave me a key to an interior stairway that leads to the kitchen, and told me to help myself if I got hungry when the bar was closed. All the comforts of home!

Tonight, I wasn't hungry, but I was dirty and in need of a quick shower. Twenty minutes later, I'd showered and turned in, hopeful of getting a few hours of sleep before working more on the Benny Cole case. At least, I thought of what I was doing as working on the Benny Cole case, and seeing the dungeon where inmates at the asylum had been mistreated and perhaps actually killed made me even more anxious to see what I could determine about Benny Cole's activities.

I didn't always live in sleeping rooms. When I first became a cop, I owned a neat little house that I shared with my wife, Joanna. Those were happy days, but they ended suddenly one day when an overly lenient judge granted bail to a killer I'd arrested. That same night, the killer came looking for me. He didn't find me at home, but he found Joanna there--and killed her.

There was no doubt in anyone's mind who had killed Joanna. Her killer left fingerprints all over the house.

Joanna's killer never got his day in court, however--because I got to him first. Believe me, he died hard. His body was never found, and it never will be--because he's buried in a very deep hole under a pile of junked vehicles in my friend's auto salvage yard. His death didn't bring Joanna back to me, of course, but it insured that he wouldn't kill anybody again.

There was no way I could continue to live in that house I'd shared with Joanna, so I sold it along with all the furnishings right after her funeral. From that time on, I've lived in the residential hotel I mentioned, and sometimes in the room over the bar where I'd sleep tonight.

My room has always been a quiet place to sleep, at least in the early hours of the morning, and I slept until almost nine o'clock. By the time I was dressed, it was nine-thirty--high time to get the day's activities underway.

My first stop was to drop off the film I'd taken last night at the photofinishers just down the street from the Mill Street Bar. The photo lab offers a six hour service, and they assured me that my photos would be ready that afternoon. That done, I headed over to the police lab where my friend, Sean Donovan, works.

Sean, better known as "Red" because of his bushy red hair, is a fingerprint specialist par excellence. If he can't do something by way of identifying a print, nobody can. We worked together ever since I became a cop, and even though I'm not a cop any more, he'd told me he'd be happy to help me out if I was working on something on my own--and I was about to take advantage of his invitation.

Red was sitting at his desk when I walked into his office, drinking coffee as he studied some official looking papers. I'd thought that my sixty year old prints would prove an interesting challenge to him, though, and I was right. Without letting him know exactly where I'd picked up the prints and the broken table leg, I told him a little about the case--and cautioned him to keep my explorations to himself, at least for the time being. He said he'd see what he could do, and that he'd call me if he got anything interesting.

With the film delivered to the photo lab and the fingerprints delivered to Red Donovan,I drove over to a small cafe down the street a few blocks from the Mill Street Bar. On my way in, I picked up a newspaper to read while I ate breakfast.

I'd just taken a couple of sips of coffee and was scanning the newspaper when something caught my eye and brought me up short. Under the death notice section was the listing of Travis O'Call.

Quickly alerting the waitress that I'd be right back for my breakfast, I went outside the cafe and across the street to a public telephone. Oh, I had my cell phone, but this call was one I wanted to make sure no one could monitor. At the public telephone, I dialed Coral Lea's number.

Coral Lea Johnson is a detective, a lady I'd worked with for about ten years. Travis O'Call's death was something I thought she should know about, considering the things he told me when I'd visited him, and Coral Lea could at least ask a few questions without making his death a formal investigation--unless a formal investigation was warranted.

After exchanging brief pleasantries with Coral Lea, I got down to business and asked her if anyone was looking into Travis O'Call's death. She knew of his death, but as I suspected, said his death hadn't been considered suspicious--just another old man in a nursing home who'd died during the night.

"I think you'd better take a close look at his death," I told her.

"I was afraid you were going to say that, Phil," she replied, resigned weariness in her voice. "Have you got something for me related to O'Call's death?"

"Maybe. I've got a tape I'd like you to listen to."

"I thought you'd have something that made you suspicious. Okay. When can I listen to your tape?"

"Can you meet me at Lorelei's office, say in thirty minutes? She's got a copy of the tape you can listen to, and a duplicating machine so we can make a copy for you."

"Done."

I called Lorelei's secretary, Samantha "call me Sam" Tobias, to let her know we were on our way, went back to my eggs and toast, wolfed them down, and drove over to meet Coral Lea, arriving in Lorelei's parking lot just as she was getting out of her car.

Coral Lea's a tall, attractive woman with styled salt-and-pepper hair that, combined with the horned-rimmed glasses she wears, makes her look positively scholarly. She was dressed in navy-blue slacks, a white blouse, and navy-blue blazer, and might have been mistaken for a college professor if one hadn't noticed the bulge of the semi-automatic pistol in a cross-draw position under her jacket--or her cool grey eyes. And Coral Lea is, in my estimation, one fine detective.

Sam waved us into Lorelei's office the moment we walked in. Lorelei was practicing her version of the old shell game, shuffling three walnut shells around on her desk, deftly inserting or removing a pea from under each shell as she did so. It was an old street game that her father had taught her as a child, and she said it not only helped keep her fingers nimble but that manipulating the shells and peas helped her think.

"Hey diddle-diddle, it's the one in the middle. Which one is it now?" Lorelei chanted as she looked from Coral Lea to me and back again, all the time keeping those shells and peas moving around and around on her desk top.

There was no doubt in my mind that Lorelei was a master of the shell game. With those three walnut shells and one pea, she could certainly convince me that the pea was under any particular shell of her choice, or under none--or all--of them. She could secretly remove the pea and put it back under the shell of her choice or none of them so fast that I couldn't follow her hand. And she probably could add a couple of peas to the game so that one would appear under each shell if she wanted to. No! No way would either Coral Lea or I bet against Lorelei--or any grifter playing this game on the street, for that matter. Nobody beats the ol' shell game.

Lorelei was on her way to court, dressed in her smartly tailored gray business suit and looking extremely professional with all the proper accessories. She's one of those women who looks good in any outfit, from the professional attire she now wore to the rugged clothing she wears when we're out exploring the city's underground. And, yes, Lorelei's perfume, soft and delicate and feminine, hung in the air.

"Which one is it now?" Lorelei's nimble fingers shifted the walnut shells around on her desk, knowing full well that she'd have no takers. "The middle one!" she exclaimed, lifting the middle shell to demonstrate that the pea was really there. "Hey diddle-diddle, it's the one in the middle. Which one is it now?" Lorelei shuffled the shells again. "It's the one on my right!" She lifted the one on her right to prove that the pea really was there, her eyes laughing at us as she did so. "But you guys didn't come to bet on the ol' shell game."

Coral Lea grinned down at Lorelei. "We ain't suckers, girl!"

"That I know for a fact!" Lorelei replied, her eyes suddenly serious. She placed the shells and pea in her desk drawer, then stood up and led us down a short hall to another room where her tape recording equipment was located. "You know how to run this stuff, Phil. Help yourself. I've got to be in court in half an hour. Okay?"

"Okay. See you tonight."

"Wouldn't miss it!"

Coral Lea opened her notebook while I loaded the tape player, then filled her in on how I'd come to interview Travis O'Call and what Lorelei and I had found last night in the asylum's dungeon. After I told my story, we listened to the tape and made a copy for her at the same time.

Once we finished listening to the tape, Coral Lea shook her head. "It's a little thin to take straight to my boss," she said, "but I see your point about the suddenness and timing of O'Call's death. And, I do respect your hunches, Phil." She shook her head. "If you say it's a suspicious death, it probably is."

"I don't want a lot of publicity about my suspicions just yet, but maybe you can take a low-key look-see?" I asked.

Coral Lea closed her notebook. "I'll poke around a little, and let you know what I can turn up--if anything, okay?"

"Thanks. I appreciate that."

Coral Lea and I walked out to her car in the parking lot together. It was obvious she was thinking about something and I wasn't surprised when she motioned toward the passenger seat and asked if I had a minute to talk.

"Sure. Any time." I climbed into the passenger seat while Coral Lea went around and got into the driver's seat.

"Personal question, Phil?" Coral Lea smoothed her blazer and her cool grey eyes lightened.

"Okay/"

"You and Lorelei have been doing things together for several years now, am I right?"

"You're right."

"Now you can tell me to mind my own business if you want to . . . ." Coral Lea's voice trailed off.

"You and me, we've known each other a long time, Coral Lea. and I consider you the best of the best. Whatever you want to ask, it's okay. Just ask."

"Well then, here goes. When I see how Lorelei glows when she looks at you, I just have to ask. When are you going to marry her, Phil?"

A question like that from anyone else might have prompted me to tell them to mind their own business, but coming from Coral Lea, well, she probably wouldn't like my answer, but . . . . "I'm very fond of Lorelei," I told her, "but marriage? Probably never."

"And why's that?"

"Because she's so young."

"Young?"

"Yeah. She's only 38."

"What's that got to do with anything?"

"Coral Lea, I'm 62. Lorelei's 24 years younger than me. That's a lot of years."

"Oh, Phil." Coral Lea sounded as if she'd heard that line before and didn't buy it. "Age doesn't make much difference any more. There are lots of young girls who marry older guys these days. And there are some older girls who marry young guys, too. It's not like it used to be."

"I know. But you have to think about the future. In ten years when Lorelei's only 48, I'll be an ancient 72. In 20 years when she's 58, I'll be--"

"Phil, that's silly reasoning!" Coral Lea interrupted.

"What's silly about it?"

"The future thing you're talking about. Unless you;ve got a better crystal ball than I have, none of us can know we'll be around ten years from now, or even ten days for that matter. For me, I'd trade a maybe never-future for the best of the present."

"But Coral Lea--" I started to object.

"No buts allowed. We may not have ten years, or ten hours--or even ten minutes. You know that. The now is all we've got, Phil. And we've got to make the most of it. I'm telling you, don't let the negative thoughts of the distant, maybe-future get in the way of doing what is right for today. But, hey! You didn't ask me for a lecture."

"It's okay. Thanks for your thoughts."

"Phil?"

"Yes?"

When Coral Lea didn't continue, I looked her way--straight into her mischievous grey eyes. "Phil? Speaking of ages, do you think I'm too young for you?"

"That's not a fair question, Coral Lea. You're already married."

Coral Lea put her hand on my wrist. "I know, but I'd like to know your answer anyway. You see, if I weren't married, I'd be after you with every charm I could muster."

All I could do was look at Coral Lea.

Coral Lea smiled impishly when I didn't respond. "I'll take your non-answer as a 'no' answer, as in "I'm not too young for you.'"

"Well, . . . ." I began.

"No need to pursue this right now. Like you said, I'm married. But, Phil, if I ever get unmarried--look out! And now, before we both get back to work, let me say one more thing."

"Okay."

"I know that you and Lorelei are going back to that old asylum to check out O'Call's story about there being a tunnel between the garage and the main building."

"Yes, we are going to check that out. We're going out to the asylum later tonight."

"Well, Phil, since we don't quite know what we're dealing with here, what with O'Call's dying just after he talks with you and all that, I just want you guys to be awfully careful. Awfully careful. You hear me, Phil."
Chapter 5

I drove back toward my room above the bar where I hoped to grab some sleep before picking up Lorelei for our night's adventure. On the way, I stopped at a little corner pharmacy located about two blocks from the bar. The druggist there, Lawrence Coleman, had done a number of favors for me over the years, and I needed another one now.

On the way into the pharmacy, I retrieved from my pocket the little green pill Ms. Dolman had attempted to give to Travis O'Call. I had a good idea of what it was, but I wanted a professional opinion. Furthermore, I knew that Lawrence would give me his opinion in plain English, not medical-babble.

"Hello, Phil!" Lawrence called cheerfully when he saw me. He's about my age, a pleasant man, greatly overweight, with coal-black hair, and brown eyes--one of the most competent druggists I've ever known. And, I've never seen him when he was in a bad mood.

"Good afternoon, Lawrence."

"What can I do you you, my friend?"

I held out the green pill for his inspection. "What can you tell me about this little pill?" I asked.

Lawrence's brown eyes focused intently on the pill for a moment. "I think I know exactly what it is, but let me confirm that opinion." He turned back to his bookshelf and retrieved a thick book, then opened and placed it on the counter where I could see the illustrations. "There it is." He pointed to the picture of a pill identical to the one I'd shown him. "You get this at a nursing home?"

"Yes."

"I thought so. They use a lot of 'em." Lawrence sighed his disapproval, then continued. "It's basically a super-sized sleeping pill. I say that because that medication comes in several dosages, meaning that there are different sized pills, and this one's the largest they make."

"How big a person is it suitable for?"

Lawrence scratched his head and consulted the book. "That pill should put a 250 pound guy right to sleep. Zap! Keep him asleep all night, too."

"What would it do for an old man who, say, weighs maybe 140 at most, is partially paralyzed, and in general isn't in the best of health?"

Lawrence's eyes searched mine, and he shook his head. "That wouldn't be good for him. Taken on an empty stomach, it might kill him. If it didn't kill him, it sure would knock him out for, say, 24 hours, maybe more."

I thanked the druggist. He'd told me what I wanted to know--exactly what I'd suspected. Then, as I was turning to leave, he asked me to wait a bit, while he waited on a customer. "Give you a little more information on that pill," he promised.

"They use that particular medication a lot in nursing homes," Lawrence told me, once he'd dispensed a prescription for a customer. "They buy 'em by the barrel and cheap, not from me, but from druggists who'll sell 'em that way, and they give 'em to all the patients. Makes the patients sleepy and much easier to deal with. Not that that's always a bad thing, only they ought to be more selective with the dosages and give the smaller pills to the smaller patients." He studied the pill I'd showed him again and then looked up at me. "From the way the coating is smeared, it looks to me as if the guy they gave this one to kept it in the side of his mouth and then spit it out after the nurse left."

"That's exactly what happened. I think he made a habit of doing just that."

"Good boy. You tell him to spit out all of these kind of pills unless he's really in a lot of pain and can't sleep. Or, if his teeth are good, he can bite it in half and just swallow half of it."

I shook my head. "It's too late for that advice."

"Too late?"

"Yes. The old gentleman died last night. He was 87 and, like I said, wasn't in the best of health, but his mind was clear."

Lawrence looked at me, his brown eyes now heavy. "You're the cop. You think somebody gave him one of these and it killed him?"

"Maybe. I don't know."

"But you're going to try to find out."

"You can bet on it."

I thanked Lawrence for his help, left the pharmacy, walked to a public telephone across the street, and dialed Coral Lea's number. When she picked up, I relayed to her what Lawrence had told me about the green pill I'd picked up the day I visited Travis.

Coral Lea had news for me, too. "I went out to see Ms. Dolman, the nurse who attended O'Call while you were visiting him, that afternoon," she began, "but I was too late."

"Too late? How so?"

"She's dead, Phil."

"She's dead?"

"Hit and run in the nursing home parking lot, apparently when she left work last evening. Nobody saw the hit and run, or at least nobody will admit to it. But the hit and run almost had to have been deliberate, because she was hit hard and then run over."

"Who's investigating?"

"A detective named Alan Grey. Do you know him?"

"Just his name."

"He's okay. He's young, but I've known him for a year of so--and he's okay."

"Have you talked with him?"

"Yes. I told him as little as possible about your interest in Benny Cole and why you were talking with Travis O'Call, but I let him know about Dolman's having given O'Call a pill while you were there. And I let him know about O'Call's death. He said he'd see if he could find any connection between O'Call's and Dolman's deaths, and that he'd keep in touch."

"Good. You can call him and tell him what I learned about the pill Dolman tried to give Travis."

"I'll do that. Oh, and there's more to Dolman's death that makes me even more suspicious about there being a connection between her death and O'Call's--or her death and some other activity she was involved with."

"There's more?"

"Yes. Grey told me that Dolman had $3,000 in cash in her purse. Three thousand dollars in circulated fifty dollar bills. The people she worked with say that's highly unusual, that they have never known her to carry large amounts of cash, and nobody admits to knowing how or why the cash got there. Anyway, I'll let Grey handle the Dolman investigation and I'll continue to poke around on the O'Call end of things without going official."

"Okay, I guess."

"Phil? What do you mean by 'I guess?'"

"It's just an old cop's hunch, Coral Lea, but try to determine if Grey is giving it his best shot, and if he's giving you all the information he uncovers."

"You think he wouldn't?"

"Like I said, it's just an old cop's hunch, but all along I've heard how the warden and staff at the asylum had mighty close ties to the cops, and how people and situations somehow just got taken care of without too much outside scrutiny. Now some of those old cops are still around, and some of them probably are in supervisory positions. Let's try to be sure Dolman's and O'Call's deaths aren't just shuttled aside and not thoroughly investigated."

"Okay. Tell you what. Grey's young, and he seemed interested in having someone to talk with about the case. Maybe it's his first hit-and-run. I'll try to meet with him and go over what he's found--and I'll keep in touch with you."

We talked for a few minutes more, mostly exchanging pleasantries, then got off the line. It was mid-afternoon and I was hungry, so I drove to the little cafe where I'd had breakfast. After eating my usual steak and eggs, I picked up the film I'd dropped off at the film processor that morning. It was getting late, but I still had hopes for a little shut-eye in my room above the Mill Street Bar before Lorelei and I went out to the asylum.

Sleep wasn't in the works. Just as I opened the door to my room, the telephone rang. My Caller ID indicated it was the nursing home where I'd visited Travis O'Call, so after checking quickly to see that my phone tap alert wasn't blinking red to let me know that my phone had been tapped, I picked up.

It was indeed the administrator, the Mr. Jackson I'd talked with a few days ago about visiting Travis O'Call. "You're a difficult man to locate, Mr. Sawyer," he began, rather abruptly.

"Sorry about that, but I guess I am."

The administrator chuckled. "It's okay. I left a message for you at your hotel and when you didn't reply, I called the cops. Figured they'd have another number for you, and they did."

"Thanks for being persistent. Can I help you with something?"

"I think so. You see, you were the last person to visit with Mr. O'Call before his death. In fact, you were one of the few people to ever visit with him in the many months he's been here with us."

"I was afraid of that."

"Yes. I'm afraid that Mr. O'Call had very few friends. Oh, there was one old guy who used to stop by and see him once in awhile, but right now I don't recall his name--and he was so old he's probably dead by now. Can't think of anyone else who came to visit him. Anyway, Mr. O'Call left a very few personal possessions, a shoe box full, to be exact. I didn't go through everything, but it looks to be mostly old newspaper clippings and a few mementoes he picked up along the way. I thought his daughter, Elaine Jefferson, would be interested in having them sent to her. Unfortunately, when I called her, she said she didn't want anything to do with Travis O'Call, said she'd forgotten all about him, and wished to keep it that way. Said her mother had divorced her father many years ago, that her father was crazy, and that nobody in the entire family wanted anything to do with Travis O'Call. Truth is, it sounded to me as if the family was glad to hear that he's dead. Anyway, I thought that if the family didn't want the few personal things he'd saved, maybe you would. At least I didn't figure it would hurt to ask you."

"I'm glad you thought of me. I'll be happy to take Travis's things," I replied. "In fact, if it's okay with you, I'll come right out and get them."

"Right now? Well, sure. That'll be fine. I'll keep them in my office until you get here." He hesitated, and I waited. "In fact, . . . ." He hesitated again.

When he didn't continue, I broke the silence. "How's that?"

"Well, you see," Mr. Jackson continued, "I thought Travis's daughter would want the few things he had, but even more than that, I thought she or someone in the family would take care of his getting a proper funeral. Most families do, you know."

"Travis's family didn't?"

"No way. They didn't want anything to do with him, and it was obvious they weren't going to spend any money on a proper funeral for him. I had to do something, of course, so I sent him off to the crematorium." Mr. Jackson suddenly chuckled, as if he'd made a joke. "Maybe that was fitting, though."

I'm afraid I didn't see any humor in what he was saying. "How's that?"

"Well, he was a fire-bug, you know. The crematorium for the fire-bug!" Mr. Jackson chuckled again.

Not wanting to express my displeasure with the administrator's questionable sense of humor, I ignored his comment, and thanked him again for keeping Travis's things for me, all the time wondering what kind of secrets Travis O'Call had taken to the grave with him--and also wondering just why the administrator had been so fast to send his body to the crematorium.

Mr. Jackson and I exchanged a few additional pleasantries. The conversation over, I hung up the telephone and started for the door, eager to see what Travis had saved in his shoe box over the years, but then caution kicked in before I could turn the door knob. "Not so fast, Phil," I breathed to myself.

"Not so fast, Phil." Suddenly, I felt extremely tired, and I realized that my mind was not clear. I simply wasn't in good shape to go racing off to pick up some things saved by a man who just might have been murdered, from a place where a woman most likely had been murdered, from an administrator who just might have been happy to see either or both of them dead.

With those thoughts racing through my mind, I sat down at my table, thought a moment--and then dialed Coral Lea's number.

"Coral Lea, I need your help," I blurted out when she answered.

"Any time. How can I help you, Phil?"

I explained the situation. "I don't know exactly why I'm feeling so cautious or insecure or whatever it is I'm feeling, but I'd like you to back me up. Drive through the parking lot at the nursing home while I'm parked there and keep an eye on things. Make sure that I get in and out of the nursing home alive. Can you do that for me?"

"Phil, I can do you one better."

"How's that?"

"Let me pick you up out front of that bar where you sleep, say in twenty minutes. I'll drive you over to the nursing home, keep an eye on your back while you're inside, and drive you back. Besides, there's a selfish motive in my idea. What do you say?"

"Thank you. I'll be waiting out front of the bar. Now, what's the selfish motive?"

"I want to . . . need to . . . talk to you, Phil, because I need your help with something. We'll talk while I drive you over to the nursing home, okay? Not now on the phone, okay?"

"Okay."

True to her word, Coral Lea picked me up and drove us to the nursing home. She wasn't eager to talk about whatever she wanted me to help her with, and I didn't press her. That could come later, at her own good time.

Mr. Jackson had Travis O'Call's shoe box sitting on his desk, and handed it to me the moment I entered his office, seemingly right glad to be rid of it. I thanked him again for thinking of me, tucked the shoe box under my arm, and left him at his desk working with what appeared to be a great deal of urgency on a huge account ledger. Busy administrator. Busy administrators always give me pause.

Once I was back in Coral Lea's car with Travis's shoe box safely settled between my feet on the floor, she drove me to the location in the parking lot where Ms. Dolman had been killed. Coral Lea pointed out a now vacant parking space in the employee parking row. "That's where Ms. Dolman usually parked her car, or at least that's what I'm told."

"How do you think it went down?"

Coral Lea motioned toward some overhanging trees to our right. "I'd say somebody was parked and waiting for her over by those trees, somebody who knew where she parked and what path she usually took to reach her car. Once she was out in the open, they accelerated and hit her, then drove off down that street there. You can see how we're relatively shielded from view from the nursing home. And there aren't many people out around here at that time of night. As I told you, nobody admits to seeing anything unusual happen out here that night."

"You hear any more from Alan Grey about the hit-and run?"

"Not a word." Coral Lea frowned. "Phil?"

"Yes?"

"Let me see if I'm understanding your thinking. You're thinking that Dolman was paid off for keeping an eye on O'Call, right?"

"Yes. I think she kept an eye on him and alerted someone to the fact that he had a visitor--me."

"You think she overheard what the two of you were talking about?"

"Probably. At least, part of it."

"Once she found out that O'Call had a visitor and that you were talking about the old days in the asylum or Benny Cole or whatever, she notified someone?"

"That's how I'm thinking."

"Do you think Dolman killed O'Call?"

"I don't know what to think about that. She tried to give him that little green sleeping pill, a pill that should have put him right to sleep and ended our conversation then and there if it didn't kill him, only Travis didn't swallow it. So, did she come back later and kill him, or did someone else? Or, maybe I'm wrong and it's just that Travis died a natural death, just another old man who died of natural causes. I don't know."

"But you don't think O'Call died of natural causes. And the cash that was found in Dolman's purse, you think that was a payoff of some sort?

"Probably. I don't know if how I'm thinking is the way things really happened, but that's what I'm thinking. Someone ought to check out her bank account to see if she's made cash deposits or withdrawals over the years."

"What I'm thinking is that whoever was keeping an eye on O'Call knows that you were there talking to him. They can't know what all the old man might have told you, but they know you had quite a visit. They also know your car. Phil, it's time you traded cars."

"You're right there, Coral Lea. Tomorrow, I'll get with Jim and have him get another car ready for me."

There wasn't much more to say about Travis O'Call's death--or Ms. Dolman's. We looked around the scene of the hit-and-run for a few more minutes, then Coral Lea drove me back toward my room. I waited, hoping that she'd tell me what she needed help with, but when she didn't, I knew I had to bring up the question: "Coral Lea, you said you needed my help. How so?"

Coral Lea pulled her car to the curb, then turned to face me. Her shoulders were thrown back, and her grey eyes were cold. "Thanks for pushing me. I needed the nudge, because what I've got to say hurts."

"Okay. I'm listening."

"I think Mark is cheating on me." Coral Lea picked her words carefullky, her voice tight with emotion.

I nodded my understanding. "What's going on?"

"He's giving me all the classic signs, working late several nights each week, running errands like he never did before, things like that. And then I found a motel receipt on the floor of his car."

"Have you confronted him?"

"Not yet. I'd like to have some real evidence, and I'm hoping you can help me with that."

"You want me to shadow him?"

"Yes."

"When?"

"Tomorrow night after he leaves his office. If the pattern he's established holds true, he'll call me tomorrow afternoon to say he's working late. My guess is that he'll take his girl friend out to eat and then to a motel."

I got out my notebook. "Okay, Coral Lea. Tell me what you can about Mark and this whole mess." Moments later, I had a description of the parking lot where Mark parks during the day, the time when he usually leaves work in the afternoon, and a description of the car he'd be driving.

"Any idea who the other woman is?" I asked.

"No. Well, maybe. About two weeks ago, and that's about when I began to get suspicious, Mark hired a new secretary. her name is Nancy, that's all I know, and from the way he described her, she's about half his age."

We talked for awhile about her suspicions and I made notes that I thought might be helpful to me in shadowing Mark. Then I closed my notebook and returned it to my shirt pocket. "I'll see what I can find out for you. If you think of any other information that might be helpful, let me know."

"Thanks, Phil." Coral Lea paused, then pursed her lips as if she were about to continue.

When she didn't continue, I asked, "What is it?"

"You do have a camera that takes pictures at night without flash? Something you could get a picture of Mark and his girl friend with?"

"Yes."

"Good. Get some photographs of the happy couple if you can. That's the kind of evidence I really need.

"I'll see what I can do."

"Thanks, Phil. Now, there's something else I want to talk with you about."

"Okay."

Coral Lea smiled. "I know that you and Lorelei are going out tonight and look around inside that asylum."

"Yes."

"Well, I'm going to be out doing a little surveillance by myself tonight."

"Keeping an eye on Mark?"

"Yes."

"Don't get too close to him, Coral Lea," I cautioned. "Let me do that tomorrow night."

"I'll keep my distance, and maybe I'll have some additional information about Mark and his girl friend for you by tomorrow. Anyway, that wasn't what I wanted to get off on."

"Sorry for the interruption. Go ahead."

"I don't want to tell you what to do, but I don't much like the idea of you and Lorelei going into that asylum without anybody keeping an eye on you. If you'll show me where you'll be parking your car later tonight, I'll drive by and check things out every now and then. And, if you'll give me an idea of when you'll be leaving the asylum buildings and coming back to your car, I'll make sure I'm there in the shadows. Okay?"

I liked that idea. "Sure. Lorelei and I will appreciate your being there."

Coral Lea drove us over to and around the asylum. I showed her where we'd be parking the car, where we planned to enter the grounds, and where we'd be going once we were inside the fence. Only when Coral Lea was satisfied that she knew her way around the area where Lorelei and I would be at that night did she drive me back to the bar where I had my sleeping room.

"Hang in there, Coral Lea," I encouraged her as I got out of her car. She smiled, grabbed my hand, thanked me, and said she'd try. Her cool grey eyes were ice-hard even as she smiled. She'd be okay.

I took Travis's shoe box inside the bar with me. Even though I really wanted to spend time going through it, I surely needed some sleep if I was going to be sharp tonight when Lorelei and I explored the asylum and looked for the hidden passageway Travis thought existed. With that in mind, I took the shoe box and placed it in the safe in Fred Overmiller's office.

Actually, there are two safes in Fred's bar. The smaller one is located out near the cashier's station under the counter in the bar itself. That's the one Fred uses for routine transactions each night--and as a decoy. Anybody who tries to rob that safe isn't going to get much because it's emptied every hour or so--and he has a camera aimed at the safe just in case somebody messes with it. The safe he has in his office is much larger and more substantial. It's well hidden, and I was sure that Travis's shoe box would be secure there.

There's another reason that safe is secure. That's because Fred often sleeps in his office. He's an ex-Army Ranger, tough as steel, and he sleeps with a .45 Colt semi-automatic pistol under his pillow.

With the shoe box thus secured, I went to my room lay down on my bed, and promptly fell asleep. At eight o'clock my telephone rang with my wake-up call. It was Lorelei letting me know that it was time for us to get going.
Chapter 6

I parked the Chevy Lumina in a densely wooded area about half a mile from the chain-link fence that surrounds the asylum. To the best of our knowledge we hadn't been followed, and there in the woods the car wouldn't be overly obvious to anyone out prowling around. Still, I was glad that Coral Lea knew where we planned to park and would be keeping an eye on both the car and on us that night.

Both Lorelei and I were wearing our usual dark grey clothing, the better to remain as invisible as possible during our trek to the fence and across the asylum grounds. The stars were out and the moon was about one quarter full, so we'd have a little natural light, meaning we'd not have to use our flashlights much--and hopefully not call undue attention to ourselves by using them. The downside, of course, was that even the slight moonlight would illuminate us to anyone who might be curious about our activities.

A few clouds drifted across the moon as Lorelei and I hiked steadily toward the fence, sending moving shadows across our path and extending our shadows across the brush. As we halted at the fence, Lorelei clutched my arm. "This is getting downright spooky, Phil, what with the clouds and all," she whispered. I looked down at her and her big brown eyes were dancing from shadow to shadow. "I love spooky adventures!" she added, her whispering voice echoing her excitement.

"It's going to be a spooky night, all right," I whispered back. Knowing the answer already, I teased her: "Are you afraid?"

"No. Not when I'm with you!" Lorelei replied emphatically. Pausing for only a moment, she giggled and added, "You know, Phil, I rather like being scared--and this old asylum is one spooky place!"

In the distance a dog howled. Lorelei looked up at me and grinned her acknowledgment of the howl. The night and the asylum--spooky, indeed! I chuckled. "I know that you like spooky places, Lorelei," I whispered, "and we may be in for a very spooky night." She laughed softly in agreement.

Across the asylum grounds, Lorelei and I could see the large stone house with its attached garage where the wardens once lived. That garage was our destination, but first we had to dig our way under the fence.

The chain-link fence was made of industrial strength wire mesh, eight feet tall, and topped by three rows of barb wire angled toward the outside. There wasn't an easy way of going over or through the sturdy fence, but we didn't intend to. Instead, we'd go under it.

While Lorelei scanned the woods in the direction we'd come and then the asylum grounds and buildings with her night-vision monocular, I unfolded the lightweight, folding entrenchment tool, locked the blade into position for digging, and began to dig along side the fence.

The soil near the fence was soft and relatively free of roots and rocks, making my task fairly easy. After a few moments of digging, I discovered the bottom of the fence buried perhaps eight inches below ground level.

I had done quite a bit of digging in Vietnam with an E-tool similar to the one I was using, and the soil there was usually much harder than that I was working in tonight. Before long, I had a fairly deep trench dug beside the fence. When I stopped briefly to inspect the excavation, Lorelei whispered, "Take a look through the monocular, Phil, and let me dig for awhile."

We traded positions. I scanned the semi-darkness for unwanted visitors while Lorelei deepened the trench and began digging under the fence. There didn't appear to be anyone in sight. When Lorelei stopped digging to inspect her work a few minutes later, we traded off tasks again.

Going under a fence isn't all that much work, especially if the ground is soft and you have a good E-tool. We quickly completed a shallow trench under and on both sides of the fence. It was then a simple matter to lay on our backs in the trench, twist a little, and sit up on the opposite side. And, we'd scattered the dirt so that no large mounds would attract attention but so that we could quickly fill in the trench when we left the asylum grounds.

We'd made it inside the fence without any problems. Before we resumed our trek toward the warden's house, however, I placed a motion/sound-detector on the nearest fence post. If anyone came near the fence where we'd dug our way under it, the detector would transmit a signal to the receiver on my belt. After checking to be sure my receiver was set to its silent mode, meaning that a signal from the detector would trigger both a tiny red light and vibrations but not an audible alarm, Lorelei and I started across the grounds, moving quickly toward the garage in a wary, running-crouch as we did so. So far, so good! Then, as we reached the half-way point, a car rounded the bend of a little-used highway about half a mile away, its headlights abruptly sweeping the asylum grounds.

Lorelei and I hit the dirt fast as the bright headlights swept over our heads, then watched the car lights slowly move on down the highway and out of sight.

"You think that was anything but chance?" Lorelei whispered.

I didn't think so. "No. Let's go," I whispered back.

The asylum grounds once were well-kept and grassy. Now, however, they were overgrown with weeds. In a way, the clumps of weeds helped camouflage our movements, breaking up the pattern of shadows formed by the sweeping headlights as well as the moonlight shifting to the movement of the clouds.

Lorelei and I continued toward the garage, and for a time there were no other cars traveling that highway in such a manner that their headlights illuminated the asylum grounds. Moments later, we were sheltered from any such lights by the shadow of the garage.

We made our way cautiously around the garage, along the outside wall which had one small window set midway along the side. Light from the moon provided very little illumination in our shadowy area, but we were able to peer through that window using Lorelei's night-vision monocular and determine that the garage was empty.

Once we had determined that there was no activity inside the garage, at least any activity that we could detect from that window, we continued around the side of the garage to the front where there were two large overhead doors and one windowless walk-in door. I tested each of them, and found all three were locked. Nevermind that, however, because I had my locksmith tools with me--and none of those older locks would prove a great challenge.

Once again, Lorelei scanned the area with her night-vision monocular while I went to work on the lock on the walk-in door. She didn't discover any signs of human activity, and five minutes later the lock was unlatched.

I never go through a door in a situation such as this without checking it for trip wires and booby traps. It's a habit I developed in Vietnam. After listening intently at the door, I pushed it open ever so slightly. When there didn't seem to be any resistance and no audible alarm, I pushed it open far enough that I could feel around the door and its frame. Only when I was sure there wasn't any wire attached, did I push the door open far enough for Lorelei to scan the inside of the garage with her monocular.

Lorelei took her time scanning the interior of the garage. Only when she was sure of what she was viewing did she whisper, "Looks okay."

We pushed the door open and went inside. Once inside the garage, I checked with my flashlight to be sure there hadn't been an alarm connected to the door that might alert someone that we were there. Maybe that sounds ridiculous, given the time that the asylum has been closed, but I didn't want a silent alarm bringing a security guard or the police. Fortunately, there didn't appear to be any alarms--silent or otherwise--attached to the door.

Just as we thought from our view into the building's interior from the window, the garage was completely empty. We'd brought along a piece of heavy black plastic sheeting and the first thing we did was to carefully black-out the window by taping the sheeting in place over it, a move calculated to allow us to use a minimum of light inside the garage without its being detected from the outside.

We next carefully checked the windowless door that led from the garage to the house. It was locked, and I opened it so that we could listen for any signs of human activity in the house where the wardens and their families once lived. We didn't think we'd find signs of activity in the house, but neither Lorelei nor I like surprises. Perhaps we'd go inside the house one of these days, but for now our mission was to discover a hidden passageway from the garage to the asylum if one actually existed--and Travis O'Call certainly had thought that one did. We'd see.

Once we were sure there was no activity inside the house, I relocked both the door leading to the house and the exterior walk-in door through which we'd entered the garage. It was time to get to work.

I set up our florescent lantern so that it would give only the minimum of illumination and Lorelei and I began to inspect the interior of the garage. It was a large garge even by today's standards, apparently designed to hold two of the largest cars available when it was built, that being perhaps during the 1920s. The walls were constructed of stone and heavy wooden beams supported the roof. An aged concrete floor, somewhat stained by drops of oil, was underfoot.

The garage had been built on the site of the original carriage house, using stone from that structure as well as additional materials. It was the far end of the garage that especially intereted us, the part of the garage constructed of stone from the carriage house. Three windowless, heavy wooden doors were set at intervals in an interior wall across that end of the garage. It appeared likely that they opened on storage areas--or hidden passages.

The first door, to our far left, was unlocked. It opened upon a relatively large storage area, walled off by an interior partition. Inside were two badly dented and rusty metal buckets, one of which was missing its bail, and a well-worn mop. Lorelei and I carefully inspected the area for signs of a hidden door, but we didn't find any such opening.

The middle door was locked, and I opened the lock, then carefully opened the door. That storage compartment, also walled off by interior partitions, was completely empty. A careful search revealed no hidden doors, and I relocked the door as we'd found it.

The door to our right also was locked. Unlike the second door with its ancient lock, however, this one had a more modern dead-bolt lock. It proved only slightly more of a challenge, however, and I soon had it unlocked.

"The third time's the charm! Let me open this door, Phil!" Lorelei exclaimed in a hushed whisper.

"Okay. Just let me check it for trip-wires first."

Lorelei backed away slightly. "Okay."

I checked the door carefully for trip-wires, then moved back so that Lorelei could completely open the door. When I heard her exclaim, "Ah ha!" I knew we'd found what we were looking for.

Lorelei stepped back from the door so I could see past her. "Look, Phil!" she excitedly exclaimed.

I beamed my flashlight through the door to better illuminate the area--and the light revealed a second door close behind the locked door we'd just opened.

The second door was slightly ajar, and we could see the first of several steps that led down--underground. Even though I was excited at our find, I took my time and ran my fingers around the edge to make sure that door wasn't booby trapped. When I was sure it wasn't trip-wired, I motioned for Lorelei to go ahead and open it.

I beamed our flashlight down that dark passageway and studied the steps leading downward into the tunnel. The steps were small, perhaps six inches wide with six inch risers, and the stairway itself appeared to be quite narrow. Whereas the first few steps were constructed of wood, the rest were stone.

"Wow! This is exciting--and maybe a little spooky! Let's go down there!" Lorelei whispered excitedly. "Let's see where the tunnel goes."

"Okay."

We moved the florescent lantern from the floor of the garage, placed it at the top of the stairs, and closed the doors. As we prepared to explore the underground passageway, I placed another listening device on the inside of the entrance door. If anyone came near the door leading to the stairway, the monitor on my belt would alert us to that fact.

The walls of the stairway were constructed of stone, and the stairway was, as I'd noted, quite narrow, being perhaps about eighteen inches wide. It was no stairway for a large man, and I got to thinking how Travis O'Call had described Benny Cole as small but Ivan Mako as quite large. If Mako was as large as Travis had described him, he wuld not have had an easy time moving through this stairway.

The steps were steep, but they appeared to be solid under my feet. Indeed, considering its age, the entire stairway appeared to be quite sound and sturdy in its construction.

I've always counted steps when I've encountered a new and potentially significant stairway, and this time was no exception. There were exactly twenty two steps, taking us down approximately ten feet underground to the entrance of a passageway leading in the direction of the asylum.

That passageway, like the stairway, was quite narrow, with little headroom. There was barely room for me to stand upright without bumping into the beams that supported the ceiling.

Lorelei carried the florescent lantern and I had our large flashlight as we set off to follow the passageway. Before we'd progressed twenty feet or so, the passageway narrowed even more so that it was necessary for me to turn sideways for the greatest ease of passage. Big Ivan Mako would have, indeed, had slow going in this passageway.

The passageway extended before us in a nearly straight line. In the far distance we could see another stairway leading upward.

Stonework on both sides and above us appeared extremely solid as did the cobblestone floor, and to judge from the appearance of the stones, the passageway must have been constructed many years ago, perhaps when the asylum itself was constructed in the mid-1800s.

By my best estimate, we walked the distance between the garage and the asylum's main building and then another twenty feet or so before we came to the other stairway--leading up. This stairway was similar to the one we'd entered and descended through the garage, being made of stone with the top three steps made of wood. Again, I counted twenty two steps before we reached a landing.

At the side of the rectangular landing we faced a door similar to the one we'd entered through in the garage. "Where do you think we are?" Lorelei whispered.

"Near or in the warden's office."

"Then this was a direct passageway from his office to his garage and house, so it looks as if Travis O'Call's story has some validity."

"Yes. It certainly appears so." To be honest, I was rather gratified to discover that Treavis knew what he was talking about. Perhaps the rest of his story also was true.

We both dropped to our knees and put our ears to the door, listening intently for any sounds that might indicate human activity. Hearing none, yet still being overly cautious, we turned off our lights while I tried the door--and found it locked.

Moments later, I had the door unlocked. Once again, we turned off our lights and tried the door. This time it opened, swinging smoothly on hinges that probably hadn't been used for at least thirty years, and maybe a whole lot more. With the door ajar, we listened intently but didn't hear any noise.

I didn't really think this door would be booby trapped, but being cautious as I am, I ran my fingers around it and the door frame to be sure. Finding no sign of a trap or an alarm, we pushed the door open. Lorelei turned the florescent lantern on at a very low intensity and we looked around the space beyond the door.

By the light of our lantern combined with the moonlight that filtered in through a large window, we could see that we were indeed in the warden's office. In the corner of the large, nearly empty room, was a large wooden desk. On that desk was a metal stand marked with the title "WARDEN" and a place for the warden's name to be attached.

From the larger window in the warden's office I could see the heavy steel gate at the front of the asylum grounds. Lorelei and I had driven past it a number of times and I knew that it was chained shut with a heavy padlock to keep it closed. Just beyond the gate is a small parking area, long abandoned to weeds, and for a moment I could imagine the warden seated at his desk keeping an eye on anyone who might approach the asylum.

Two doors beckoned us. To our left, the first and smaller one most likely opened upon an adjacent room, perhaps once used by the warden's secretary or administrative assistant, while the second and larger one most likely opened on a hallway.

There was no other furniture in the room save for a large, five-drawer metal file cabinet. While I checked each door, opened them slightly, and determined that we were alone in our corner of the old asylum, Lorelei made her way to the file cabinet, being careful to avoid the windows, and checked each drawer--only to find each one to be empty.

Lorelei knows the various ways that people attempt to hide things, and she checked the bottom and back of each drawer as well as the back and bottom of the file cabinet itself. If there had been anything hidden around that file cabinet, and we had no reason to believe anything every had been, it wasn't there now.

Havin searched the file cabinet, Lorelei next searched the desk, removing each drawer and searching for anything hidden around the desk. Moments later, I heard her hushed whisper, "Phil?"

"Yes?"

"Can you open the drawer on the top and to the right?"

"Maybe."

We changed positions. Lorelei monitored the door that opened on the hall while I worked on the desk drawer lock. It didn't prove to be much of a challenge, and when I'd unlocked the drawer, I called softly, "It's yours, Lorelei."

I took up my position at the door while Lorelei opened the desk drawer I'd just unlocked and looked inside. She saw me watching and shook her head. "It's empty," she whispered.

"Look around it, behind it, and at the bottom."

Lorelei continued her searching. Moments later, she whispered, "I've found it!" and held up a key.

I nodded my understanding and turned my attention back to the hallway. Lorelei was good at finding things.

Moments later, when Lorelei had finished her search of the old desk, she brought the key over to me. It was hard to tell exactly what it might fit. While it obviously wasn't a door key, it might fit a padlock or small lock of some kind. Maybe we'd get lucky and discover a lock it would fit.

"Where was it?" I asked.

"In a little pocket fastened on the back of that locked drawer." Lorelei showed me with her hands how there was a heavy cardboard envelope tacked to the back of that drawer and how the key rested there.

While Lorelei kept an eye and an ear on the hallway, I returned to the desk and relocked the drawer I'd unlocked earlier. When I rejoined her, she'd opened the door even further and was using her night-vision monocular to study the hallway and adjoining rooms. "Phil?" she whispered as she placed a hand on my arm.

"Yes?"

"I can't wait to explore this place!" she excitedly whispered.

I knew how she felt. I also wanted to explore the old asylum. "I know. We'll come back soon and do just that. Right now, though, let's explore this room."

"Okay. What exactly are we looking for?"

"Hiding places. A floor or wall safe, maybe."

We carefully explored the room, but there did not appear to be any secret hiding places. A door opened on a closet next to the entrance to the hidden passageway through which we'd entered the room, but that closet was now empty.

We entered and briefly explored the smaller room adjoining the warden's office. It, too, was empty.

Much as we both wanted to explore the entire asylum, we knew that we'd done all of the exploring we had time for that night. After carefully closing the doors we'd opened, we returned to the hidden passageway through which we'd made our way from the warden's garage to his office in the asylum.

Once in the passageway, we retraced our steps to the garage, then exited the garage just as we'd entered it, careful to re-lock the doors as we passed through them and reclaim the motion detector I'd posted. It was almost three o'clock by my watch when we approached the fence. Lorelei took my gun and crouched in the weeds, covering me as I crossed to the fence and then went under it. Only when I was on the outside and relatively sure that no one was nearby did I motion for Lorelei to join me.

Once on the outside, we quickly filled in the trench we'd made under the fence, retrieved the motion detector from the fence post, and made our way cautiously to our car. Lorelei scanned the area with her night-vision monocular, and again waited until I'd made sure the car was secure and nobody was around before joining me.

As we pulled out of our parking place and headed for Lorelei's house, I was momentarily startled to find that we were being tailed--before I remembered that Coral Lea had promised to keep an eye on us. She'd done such a good job that I'd had no idea we were being watched--a fact which unnerved me just a little as I thought about how maybe other people could keep us under surveillance as well as she could.
Chapter 7

After breakfast that morning, I took the key Lorelei had found hidden in the old warden's desk to a friend of mine named Hans Hess. Hans has been a locksmith for about 65 of his 80 years, and although he claims that he's retired, still operates the shop he's owned all of his life.

"So, Phil? What have you got for me this morning?" Hans asked after we'd exchanged pleasantries. I held out the key.

Hans is a tall man, now stooped and with a shock of grey hair, and he straightened up as he took the key and examined it. "Oh, my! This is interesting. I haven't seen one of these in maybe 40 years," he announced. He turned the key over in his hand and studied it closely, then retreated into his office only to emerge a few moments later with a well-worn notebook which he opened and placed on the counter between us. "Here it is." He pointed to an illustration accompanied by a brief description of a key.

I looked at the illustration in his notebook. The key type was, indeed, pictured. "What can you tell me about it?" I asked.

"It's a rather unusual key, at least in this day and age," Hans began. He studied the key and the illustration, then continued. "I'd say that it fits--or did fit--a small safe, the kind that would have been used in a home or small office--say a wall safe or floor safe or maybe a small stand-alone safe."

"Maybe 40 years or more ago?"

"Yes. More, most likely. Safes with locks taking this type of key were popular in the 1920s and 1930s, and to some extent, in the 1940s, but then most later safes were fitted with a different kind of lock that took a distinctly different type of key. The locks that took this key were rather difficult to pick, but the later ones were even harder."

I thanked Hans for his information and asked him to make a copy of the key so that I could give the original to Lorelei. Finding the safe the key fits might prove impossible, but then again, who knows, that safe might still be in the asylum or the warden's house or garage.

It took a few minutes for Hans to locate a key blank from which to make a duplicate of the key. After all, he explained, he hadn't made duplicates of keys like that for thirty years or more. Still, being well organized as Hans is, he had me outfitted with a duplicate key in less than fifteen minutes.

I'd just returned to my room over the Mill Street Bar and was settling in for some shut-eye, all the time thinking about looking over Travis O'Call's mementoes later that day when my telephone rang. Red Donovan was on the line, and the moment I picked up the receiver I knew something was amiss because he was calling from a public phone instead of from his office. I knew that because I could hear all sorts of traffic sounds in the background.

Red didn't take time to chit-chat. "Got something for you, Phil." His voice was little more than a harsh whisper--and tense.

"Okay?"

"This a secure line?" Red was taking precautions.

"I think so. Let me check." I checked to be sure the little green light that tells me the line hasn't been tapped was glowing. "Looks okay from this end. What's up?"

"This may be hot, maybe even deadly." I'd never known Red to sound so serious.

"Okay. Let's hear it."

"You gave me some fingerprints to check out, remember? Unusual stuff."

"Right."

"Well, I haven't found a match with any of them except for the handprint on the broken table leg. That is, I'm not through searching for a match with the others, but checking fingerprint records for those names you gave me from the 1930s is awfully slow going. I doubt that anybody has prints on any of those guys yet today."

"And the one from the table leg?"

"Phil?" Red lowered his voice even more.

"Yes?"

"I don't know what you're looking into, but that one scares me. It belongs to a retired cop, a guy by the name of Alex Dymond. You know him?"

"Alex Dymond? Retired cop?" I thought a few moments. "Yes, I think I've met him. He must be in his late 70s or early 80s now. Am I right?"

"Yes."

"Can you describe him? Refresh my memory?"

"Sure. Tall guy. Bushy grey hair. Muscular. Hard gut. Hard eyes, too. Spring in his step when he walks. Quick moves. Used to be a boxer. Sometimes shadow boxed around the office just for fun."

"Okay. I know who you mean. The prints on the broken table leg are his?"

"Yes, they are." Red's voice was flat. Serious.

"You're certain?"

"Absolutely certain. Now, Phil?"

There was more. "Yes?"

"Here's the scary part."

"Okay."

"I was working on the prints on that broken table leg this morning when I looked up, and Alex Dymond was right there in the office--watching me. I hadn't heard him come in."

"He saw the broken table leg?"

"He saw it, all right. And the insane look in his eyes told me that he knew exactly what it was and that his prints were on it."

"Did he say anything? Challenge you?"

"No. The look in his eyes was enough. But I'm betting there'll be some files missing from the storage room."

I thought I knew what Red was getting at, but I wanted to be sure. "Files missing, you say?"

"Yes. Alex Dymond didn't say a word to me. Just turned on his heel and walked out of my office. But, and here's the kicker, a little later I saw him heading straight for the building where the police files are archived."

"You think he was off to destroy some evidence?"

"Phil, I may be way off, but if Alex Dymond's prints on that broken table leg were able to connect him to any crime, my guess is that he was going to destroy any evidence he could find. Now, Phil, am I way off base with that assumption, considering what you know?"

I had to be honest, and I could afford to be with Red Donovan. "Red, I don't know what we've got here. As near as I know, that broken table leg hasn't seen the light of day for 60 years or so. I suspect, and let me emphasize that I only suspect, that broken table leg was used on somebody as a club. Furthermore, I do know that several of those men whose names I gave you died around that time, and they died in rather mysterious ways while they were incarcerated at the Rothchild Asylum for the Criminally Insane. Whether that club was used to beat one of them to death, right now I have to say that I don't know."

"I hear you, Phil, and I figured it was something like that. That's why I wanted you to know about Alex Dymond being in my office, and what he'd seen there."

"Question, Red. Is it usual for Dymond to be in your office, looking over your shoulder?"

"No, it isn't. He used to come in every now and then when he was on the force, of course, but I haven't seen him for years, not since he retired 12 or 15 years ago. Now, what suddenly brings him out and about, I can't say--but I never did like the term 'coincidence.' So, Phil, he may know exactly what you're doing, how, I don't know, but if that's the case, I've got to say it again--you be careful, because in my estimation Dymond is an extremely dangerous man."

"An extremely dangerous man, you say?"

"That's what I said. He's got a red-hot temper, and he had a serious reputation for beating up people without much provocation. What you said you thought about him using that broken table leg as a club fits right in with what I know about him."

"I didn't know him that well. Fill me in on his reputation as a hot-head."

"He's a hot-head, all right. In his youth, he was a boxer, a good one in the Police League. A boxer--and a brawler. Some people said he couldn't stay out of a fight, and he got reprimanded a bunch of times for beating up on some guy--usually a suspect. He beat up on a woman once, too. That was before the days when lawsuits were easy to file and the guys he beat up on weren't the finest members of society, so most of the time nobody cared. But, and I'll say this just once so we both know that I know as a fact, Dymond actually killed a man one time in a bar fight. Seems as if the guy insulted Dymond's girl friend--and the killing was deemed self-defense. The cops who knew Dymond knew it wasn't so--but they didn't dare say anything because Dymond was well connected within the police hierarchy. The long and short of it was that Dymond was just a sadistic cop, and he loved beating up on people, with little provocation. Phil, are you with me?"

"Yes."

"Okay. Then you remember what I'm telling you. That look in Dymond's eyes when he saw that broken table leg spelled only one thing--murder. I honestly think he'd kill to have that club destroyed and the information I'm giving you about his fingerprints swept under the table."

"Thanks, Red. What about the stuff I gave you--including the broken table leg? You want me to come pick it up?"

"No. I'll want to work on some of that stuff again, and I've got a safe where I can put it until I can get it back to you. Not to worry, because Dymond doesn't know about the safe I'll use. Nobody does. It's my personal safe, designed to keep stuff like we've got here secure. Things here have come to that, you know."

"What do you mean, Red?"

"Stuff sometimes disappears from the evidence lockers, Phil. It doesn't disappear from my safe."

"Good. Thanks for taking care of that stuff for me. You'll send me copies of the information we've just talked about, right?"

"Yes. In fact, it's already in the mail. Now, I've got to be getting back to my office before somebody comes looking for me. Keep in touch."

"Red, another quick question before you go."

"Okay. Make it brief. No offense, but I've got to go."

"Who else besides Dymond knew you were working on those prints I brought you? I'm wondering if anyone who might have recognized that broken table leg saw it before Dymond showed up, anyone who might have alerted him to what you had there."

"I see what you're getting at. Let me think. Okay. Lieutenant Carson was by this morning to talk about another case and I had your stuff in a box on my desk."

"Lieutenant Carson? Bret Carson. Any connection with Alex Dymond that you know of?"

"I don't know of any relationship between them, but I'll check around."

"Anyone else come by your office this morning?"

"Couple of detectives. Let's see. Runyon. Matt Runyon. And, O'Brian. Tom O'Brian."

"Tom O'Brian? Isn't he the one who transports prisoners? Got a surly reputation, like he'd as soon kill you as look at you?"

"The same."

"So, what's he doing in your office?"

"I can't answer that. Now that you mention it, it does seem strange to find him there?"

"Any connections that you know of between either of them and Alex Dymond? Or, Lieutenant Carson?"

"Again, no, but I'll check around and let you know if I find anything. Hey, one more thing."

"What's that?"

"Speaking of Matt Runyon. He's one of the reasons I got my own safe."

"How so?"

"A few years ago, he was questioned about the disappearance of some stuff from the evidence lockers. He never was convicted of wrongdoing, but my guess was that he was guilty."

I thanked Red again for his work, and for what he'd taken the care to tell me. I'd do some checking on my own about any relationship between Alex Dymond and those three cops--and my guess was that there was a close relationship of some sort between Dymond and at least one of the others, maybe Runyon.

If Red looked very hard, he most likely would find some connection between Lieutenant Carson and Alex Dymond. Of that, I was absolutely certain. There was just too much going on, and I, like Red, don't believe in coincidence.

You see, Lieutenant Carson was one of the politically correct cops who censured me when I was involoved in several shoot-outs. Because I'd been worried that he might be able to wreck my career, I spent some personal leave time looking into his past. Once I had uncovered some of his secrets, documented them, and gave him just a hint about what I knew about him, I slept much better.

Oh, Lieutenant Carson didn't know exactly what I knew about him, if course. But he knew that I knew, and that Lorelei as my attorney also knew, about the cover-up he'd done for one of the wealthy citizens of our community. Won the guy a seat in the House of Representatives, too!

In fact, I discovered that Lieutenant Carson had quite a history of disreputable behaviors--beginning, it seems, while he was in college. Let me digress and share one of the first things I learned about him.

One morning while I was eating breakfast in the little restaurant not far from my room over the Mill Street Bar, Lieutenant Carson was the guest on a television talk show playing on the television set over the counter. Several of the patrons were watching him, and I noticed one man in particular who did not seem pleased with what he saw.

As I got up to leave, the man approached me and asked if we could talk for a few minutes. I said, "sure," and we went outside.

"You're a cop, ain't ya?" he began.

"Yes."

"Ya know that guy on the television?"

"Lieutenant Bret Carson?"

"The same."

"Ya work under him?"

"No, not directly."

"You're lucky. Me, I hate that guy." The man spat out the words, then spit at the sidewalk, before he continued. "I knew him while he was in college," he told me, then dropped his voice even lower and added, "Carson played basketball--and he shaved points."

"He shaved points?" I asked, wanting to be sure of what I was hearing.

"That's right. Three of the players were involved with shaving points that year. There was a real stink about it, and two of the players got kicked out of school. Carson managed not only to stay in school but to keep his position on the team because the president of the college intervened, but there is no doubt at all in my mind but what Carson was shaving points. Shaving points--and gambling."

"Carson had connections, and he got away with shaving points?"

"Yeah. He must have made a bunch of money shavin' points, too, 'cause he always drove an expensive car and wore expensive clothes."

The man turned to walk away, but I reached out my hand and stayed him. "Wait a minute. How do you know he was shaving points?" I asked.

He turned back to me. "I was his coach. I watched him shave points. It's not hard to tell what's going on on the the court when you know the game. It was a year we coulda went all the way to the top of our league--if those guys woulda played the game. They were that talented. We coulda won our league. As it was, I got out of coaching. Went to work as an insurance agent."

The man turned away, then turned back to me once more. "Check out my story. The scandal made headlines in the newspapers. Only the papers don't tell the story I've just told you." He hesitated, then added bitterly, "You can ask any of the coaches in our league from that year. They all knew Carson was shavin' points."

It didn't take me long to check out the man's story. From the newspaper accounts, there indeed was a point shaving scandal at the college where Carson played basketball. And, I looked up another man who'd coached in Carson's league that year. He verified the story about Carson's involvement in shaving points and gambling.

I'd learned some other things about Carson. He had risen to his position quite rapidly, most said, because of his friendship with several well-placed politicians. And, he'd payed them off by fixing everything from DUI charges and traffic tickets to a hit-and-run.

The rest of the politician-cops had formed a shield around Lieutenant Carson. They all protect each other. Still, I'd managed to document a number of his questionable doings and secret them away.

When it appeared that Carson would try to scuttle my career, I let him know that I had some interesting information on him. You should have seen his face when I asked him if he still played basketball like he did in college. And, I was in his office when a tabloid reporter, acting on a tip from me, called to ask him about a particular senator's traffic tickets.

There was more--and more explosive--stuff, of course, but I didn't have to use it just then. He got off my case.

As for Alex Dymond destroying files, we'd just have to see. I'd already pulled and copied those of people I knew to have been incarcerated in the Rothchild Asylum for the Criminally Insane during the late 1930s and early 1940s. But then, Dymond may know things that I don't. In fact, he probably does.

When I finished talking with Red, I called Lorelei. She wasn't in her office, but I gave Sam a little summary of what I'd learned from Red and what I wanted to know--and she said she'd pass along the information and question to Lorelei when she came back to her office.

Next, I called Coral Lea and asked her about a relationship between Carson and Dymond. Bingo! "That's an easy question, Phil," she replied immediately. "I don't know about the two detectives, but Bret Carson, Lieutenant Bret Carson that is, is Alex Dymond's nephew." Things were beginning to come together.

I set my alarm clock and went to sleep, thinking about that retired cop, Alex Dymond, and what he'd most likely done with that club in that dungeon under the asylum. Travis O'Call had warned me that cops might yet be involved in covering up the things that had taken place at the asylum. As I drifted off to sleep, I wondered what Lieutenant Carson knew about his Uncle Alex, and the extreme measures either of them might take to insure that nobody discovered exactly what Dymond was involved with in that dungeon those many years ago.

My alarm clock awakened me after an hour of sleep, and I felt quite refreshed, eager to look over the box of Travis O'Call's mementoes. Not that I expected to discover anything of great importance or significance, certainly nothing that would shed light on the strange case of Benny Cole or on what Alex Dymond had done in the asylum's dungeon, but perhaps a glimpse into Travis O'Call's life would prove interesting in and of itself. Still, I admit that I was excited as I untied the string around Travis's shoe box and lifted the cardboard lid.

I had assumed that Mr. Jackson, the nursing home administrator who had given me the box containing Travis O'Call's mementoes, would have thoroughly examined its contents. To my surprise, it didn't appear that he, nor anyone else for that matter, had more than simply thumbed through the papers at the top of the box. At least, the newspaper clippings appeared to have been undisturbed in a very long time.

The clippings were faded to a yellow-brown color and obviously were brittle with age, the ragged edges where they'd been torn from a newspaper already turning to dust. Gently lifting the first clipping, I saw that it was a wedding announcement for Travis's daughter, Elaine, the daughter who now totally rejected her father. A birth announcement for Elaine and her husband came next, citing Travis and his wife Elsie as the proud grandparents of a baby girl. Those had to have been happier times for Travis O'Call.

More clippings followed, mostly related to Elaine. One told of her winning a prize in high school for an essay she'd written. Another told of her attending a cheerleader camp, and of her being elected head cheerleader. Still another told of her receiving a scholarship to attend college, and yet another reported her graduation. Somehow, I imagined Travis being quite proud of his daughter and keeping a record of her successes. I wondered if she ever knew just how proud he was of her accomplishments--or if she even cared.

Below the clippings was what appeared to be a packet of old letters bound together with string. A tiny pair of red and white mittens, probably once worn by a baby, were tucked into one side of the box, partially wrapped around the packet of letters.

I lifted out the well-worn mittens and almost put them aside without a second glance. Then as I set them aside, I noticed how they seemed somewhat strangely balanced--and I fortuitously paused to look more closely at them. Probing inside the left mitten with my right index finger, I felt something in the thumb. Moments later, I removed a tight little wad of paper.

It was a small wad of newsprint and looked as if it had been wadded tight and then soaked with water to compact it. Age, however, had loosed the paper and I carefully teased it open--to reveal a small diamond secreted inside. Even under the relatively dim glow of my table lamp, that gem sparkled!

I had no way of knowing for sure how Travis might have acquired this diamond, of course. Still, knowing that Benny Cole had stolen a bag of diamonds on his last robbery gave me pause to wonder if this was one of those.

Placing the diamond and mitten aside, I examined the other mitten. Again, secreted in a tightly rolled wad of paper in the thumb, there was a small glittering diamond.

Somehow, Travis had managed to acquire these two beautiful diamonds. I could only surmise that they were given to him by Benny Cole, and had remained hidden where he'd placed them in those mittens for over 60 years. Travis's box of mementoes now had added to the mysteries surrounding both men.

When I was in high school, I worked part-time for a jeweler who had a small shop in one corner of a pawn shop. He taught me the basics of how to grade diamonds, and while it has been a number of years since I worked with him, I can still remember the basics of grading, the so-called four C's--cut, clarity, carat, and color.

Of course, I didn't have the specialized equipment to grade these diamonds as a jeweler would, but I examined them carefully under my magnifying glass with an eye to what I remembered about quality. To my way of thinking, these diamonds were relatively small, but in cut, clarity, and color, I'd grade them excellent. They certainly were better on these characteristics than many of the diamonds that we got through the pawn shop back when I was in high school. Ol' Benny Cole, if he indeed was the one who'd "selected" these diamonds, certainly knew his stuff!

The bundle of old letters was bound with string and rubber bands which had deteriorated with age and fell away as I lifted the letters from the box. The string was loosely tied, but to my surprise, the majority of the envelopes containing the letters did not separate. Instead, they appeared to be stuck together.

I've seen books that have been hollowed out to form a hiding place. As I worked to separate the envelopes, it appeared that something similar had been done with them. While the first and last envelopes were loose, those between them had been glued together to form a thick packet, and as I carefully separated them, I discovered that the interior had been cut away to form a small hiding place.

Inside that hiding place was a folded piece of tablet paper wrapped around something lumpy. When I unfolded that paper, another small diamond similar to those I'd already found in the mittens, tumbled out--but it was the paper itself that most interested me.

On that paper was a small jagged line that resembled several stair steps ascending to the right, six or seven steps depending upon how one counted them. One of those stair steps was circled, and the number "3-22" was written to the side above the step. Furthermore, a diamond was sketched below the steps.

To the bottom of this exceedingly interesting paper appeared a penciled stylized letter "B" inside of what first appeared to be a circle. Upon closer examination, however, the penciled circle proved to be incomplete--forming the letter "C" around the "B." In my mind, that "BC" had to be Benny Cole's "signature." Or was that merely fantasy thinking on my part?

Three stair steps? Twenty-two stair steps? The steps leading from the old warden's garage down to the underground passageway numbered 22 as did the steps leading up from the passageway to the warden's office in the asylum. If "BC" indeed was Benny Cole's signature, then the diagram of steps plus the number 22 might well refer to those very steps.

Of course, there might be other underground passages around the asylum with that same number of steps, and there also might be stairs within the asylum, say from the first to the second or third floor, containing 22 steps. Lorelei would certainly enjoy investigating that possibility as we explored the entire asylum together.

In my mind, however, was the thought that something was very special about the third step of a 22-step stairway within the asylum. And, I remembered just how narrow that passageway was that led from the warden's garage to his office--a narrow passageway that slight-built Benny Cole could pass through with ease whereas others might not be able to do so.

One possibility, if Travis was correct, was that Benny Cole might have passed through that passageway from the asylum to the warden's garage while his pal, Ivan Mako, being a big guy who wouldn't have moved through that narrow passageway nearly as easily as Benny, would have taken another route--outside the asylum, perhaps. Benny just might have had time to stash something in that passageway, well out of Mako's prying eyes. What we needed to do was discover what that drawing referred to, and there would be four such third steps, counting from the top and bottom of each stairway.

And, what was the meaning of the diamond drawn under the stairs? Was this a kind of map indicating where Benny Cole had stashed his stolen diamonds? Or, could it be in reference to the cop named Dymond--Alex Dymond?

Lorelei and I would check those steps as soon as possible, perhaps tomorrow night, because I'd promised Coral Lea that I'd shadow her husband tonight. At any rate, Travis O'Call had kept secrets for 60 years--including Benny Cole's secrets, if I was correct in my thinking--and they'd keep still another day.

There were several more mementoes in Travis's box. Eager as I was to examine them, they, too, would have to wait until tomorrow because I needed to get ready to shadow Mark Johnson that night. With great reluctance, I replaced Travis's box, newly discovered diamonds and all, in Fred Overmiller's safe, confident that they'd be there tomorrow.

Back in my room I sat at my table and thought about the equipment I'd need to shadow Mark Johnson and obtain any evidence of his amorous adventures. I had the information about his suspected night adventures that Coral Lea had given me, and I was able to map out his most likely route. If he followed his usual routine, he'd pick up his secretary at her apartment shortly after work and take her to the Delorian Bar. From there they'd likely have a leisurely dinner at one of two or three restaurants, and from there they'd retire for the rest of the evening to the Three Pines Motel--an upscale motel near Three Pines Lake, about ten miles outside of town.

I've been on several stakeouts at the Three Pines Motel and know how the rather secluded parking lot is arranged. There should be no trouble parking in the shadows where I could keep an eye on Mark's car and the door to the couple's room--if indeed they went to the motel as Coral Lea suspected they would.

I couldn't be certain, of course, that Mark Johnson and his girl friend would follow their usual routine. Therefore, I'd have to shadow them throughout the evening to see exactly where they went. Still, knowing their usual pattern of nighttime activity would give me an edge in keeping them in sight.

Coral Lea would want photographic evidence of her husband's activities if at all possible. I'd need to load my camera with ultra-fast film in order to take natural-light photographs of the couple throughout the evening and especially as they materialized at the motel--if indeed they did.

Film and my Nikon 35-mm camera with its zoom lens were in my top dresser drawer. Moments later, I had the camera loaded and placed it on the table along with my notebook and several maps that I'd need that night.

A few months ago I bought a digital camera, a Nikon Coolpix with a 4X optical zoom lens. Although I'd not had much experience using it in low-light situations, I planned to take it as a backup camera just to gain some experience in using it, and that camera was in my car which was parked downstairs behind the bar. Knowing that I had better practice a little with the Coolpix to more completely familiarize myself with its controls, I stood up, started for the door to retrieve it, then paused on my way to peer through the peephole, and whoa! What is this!
Chapter 8

As I peered through my peephole, a black Ford sedan cruised slowly down the alley and slowed even more as it passed behind my parked Chevrolet before resuming its prowl. There was no way that I could read the Ford's tag from my peephole, and the deeply tinted windows prohibited me from seeing into the car--but I guessed it to be an unmarked police car.

Red Donovan had said that he didn't know what I had stumbled onto, what with having discovered that bloody broken table leg, and I didn't either, not for sure, anyway, but someone with authority now was keeping an eye on me--perhaps because of that table leg and the knowledge of the fingerprints on it that Red had identified.

A bunch of people have tried to intimidate me over the years since I became a cop. It just doesn't work. In fact, such attempts at intimidation just make me more cautious and eager to solve the case--regardless of who may be involved. They weren't going to intimidate me now.

I watched the car until it was out of sight, then dialed the bar phone and asked for Fred Overmiller, all the while watching up and down the alley to see if the car would come back. When Fred came on the line, I told him about the car and asked if there were any of his patrons who looked like cops. He took a look around and said said there weren't. Said he'd keep his eyes open for undercover cops in the bar, and that if I needed any help in eluding those in the unmarked Ford, I should let him know. The black Ford hadn't reappeared, but I had no doubt that it would be back sometime. Sooner or later.

Fred can spot an undercover cop the moment he or she walks into his bar. If he said there weren't any in the bar right now, then there weren't any there.

Furthermore, Fred's quite resourceful in outwitting surveillance teams. Ranger training taught him to be. I thanked Fred for his help and for his offer, and said I would call him if I needed help later than night.

After checking carefully to make sure the black Ford wasn't in sight, and that there wasn't anything else out of place in the alley, I made a hasty dash to my car and retrieved the Coolpix from the trunk.

Camera in hand, I was just starting to move away from the Chevrolet when I glanced in through the driver's side window and noticed a folded sheet of paper on the front seat. My name was scrawled across it with black ink. It looked like someone had used a felt-tip pen.

I checked the car doors. They all were locked, exactly as they were when I'd left the car. Someone had opened one of the doors and left the paper, then locked the door again.

Okay. Let's see what this is all about. I unlocked the driver's door, studied the paper for a moment, then flipped it over to read the printed message: "DROP IT SAWYER. THE NEXT TIME THIS WILL BE A BOMB!"

I didn't know that anyone left messages like that one anymore.

A quick glance up and down the alley assured me that the black car still wasn't anywhere in sight. With the hope that no one had seen me read the message, I flipped the paper over and left it on the seat exactly as it had been when I first discovered it, relocked the door, and hurried back up the steps to my room. Anyone looking into the car probably wouldn't be able to tell if I'd yet discovered and read the message. I'd keep them guessing as long as possible.

As I said, a number of people have tried to intimidate me. That's just a part of a cop's life. Leaving a message such as the one I'd just read is a rather old fashioned way of warning someone to back off a case, like something out of an old-time mystery novel. Maybe I was dealing with an old fashioned perpetrator. At any rate, warnings like this don't work--at least not with me.

Back in my room, I dialed Coral Lea. "It's time I traded cars," I told her, after filling her in on what was going on, "and I'll need a ride to pick one up."

We agreed on a plan. I'd arrange with my friend, Jim Osborne, who keeps me supplied with cars, to pick up another one later that afternoon. I'd leave the Chevrolet in its parking spot behind the bar as a decoy. It might not fool anyone into thinking I was in my room, but then they wouldn't know what I was driving either. And they might not know that I'd discovered the message. To further the illusion that I was "home," I set the timer on my lamp to keep it on until later that night.

Coral Lea would check out the activities on the street, pick me up in front of the bar, and take me to pick up the "new" car. Fred Overmiller would tail us, just to make sure we weren't being followed.

I called Jim Osborne, explained why I need to keep the Chevrolet parked behind the bar, and asked if I could pick up another vehicle. He said he'd have one ready for me, a scruffy looking grey Dodge Caravan this time for variety, and that it would be in front of his office door with the keys in the ignition. "It looks awful ratty, inside and out," he confided, "but it's mechanically perfect and has excellent tires." Hey! What more could I ask for on a moments notice?

I packed my bag with the cameras and other things I might need for that night assignment, then waited in Fred's office where I could watch the street out front. When Coral Lea pulled up in front of the bar, I slipped out and into her car. Moments later, we were on our way to pick up the Dodge.

It was still light, but try as I might, I couldn't see Fred Overmiller tailing us. Still, I knew he was back there, keeping an eye on things.

Fred's a good man to have on your team. He learned surveillance and evasion techniques as a part of his military training with the Rangers, and he's helped me out several times.

While we drove out to pick up the Dodge Caravan, I filled Coral Lea in on what I'd found in Travis O'Call's box of mementoes. She was highly interested, of course, and said she'd check further into any relationship between the cops I'd mentioned as having been in Red's office while he was working on the broken table leg. Knowing that Lieutenant Bret Carson was Alex Dymond's nephew supplied what I thought would be the key relationship, but it might help to know if either Matt Runyon or Tom O'Brian were related to Dymond or Carson as well. In police work, you can't leave anything unchecked.

I thought Coral Lea would want to ride along with me while I tailed Mark later that night, but she said, "No," and explained that her husband often called her several times during the longer evenings when he was out. "I think he wants to be sure that I'm home and not checking up on him," she added. Her voice was tight, and I knew that she didn't like what was going on one bit. Few women do like to think about a potentially cheating husband, but it's usually better that they know the truth rather than guess at their husband's activities. I knew that this would be true in Coral Lea's case.

As for Mark calling Coral Lea at home while he's off with another woman, maybe guys who are cheating on their wives like to think that she's at home and therefore won't know what they're up to. That's a laugh, of course, but at any rate, I've heard of that behavior before. Because Coral Lea wouldn't be riding with me, though, I asked her to call Lorelei later that evening when she got home and fill her in on what I'd discovered in Travis's box and what was happening with someone shadowing me, as well as what was going on with her husband, Mark. She said she would.

The Dodge was right where Jim said it would be. Ratty looking, yes, but I had Jim's word that it would be reliable--and that was good enough for me. The engine started right off, and the three of us parted ways. Coral Lea headed home, Fred headed back to his bar, and I headed out to see what I could discover about Mark Johnson's extra-marital activities.

One thing about Mark Johnson, he was entirely predictable in his escapades that night. I got photographs of him picking up his secretary at her apartment, more of the happy couple at their favorite bar and restaurant, and most important for Coral Lea's purposes, still more of them at the Three Pines Motel.

After watching the couple drive away from the motel, I took the film from my camera to one of the quickie 24/7 photo labs. An hour later, I had all of the evidence Coral Lea would ever need to prove that her husband was romancing another woman.

Once I had the prints from the film-camera, I gave the photo lab technician the Nikon digital camera. He downloaded the pictures I'd taken with it, copied them onto a disk, and printed them out using a color printer. To my delight, they were equally good--and equally incriminating.

I'd been wanting to try out the Nikon Coolpix in a low-light setting, and this night's surveillance had provided an excellent opportunity to do so. The Coolpix had taken excellent pictures, as good as those my other Nikon had taken on film. Maybe in the future I could use the digital camera on some of the underground explorations Lorelei and I would be making. Or, maybe I'd always feel best about using a camera with film? I had a feeling that as I got more familiar with the Coolpix, I'd be using it more and more instead of the other camera.

Coral Lea would want at least three sets of prints, one set to secret away for herself, one set to show her husband, and one set for her attorney. I'd keep a set for myself. Minutes later, I had three sets of prints from both cameras ready for Coral Lea in addition to the set I'd keep for myself. I had told her that I'd talk with her about the results of my surveillance in the morning, and she said that would be fine. My work was finished for the night.

Even though I was sure Coral Lea would be okay that night, I went out of my way to drive by her house on my way back to my room. When I drove by her house, however, I saw that her car was not in its usual place. The house was entirely dark and Mark's car was already there, but not Coral Lea's.

I circled through the neighborhood, thinking that she might have parked on a nearby side street. Wrong! Coral Lea's car simply wasn't anywhere to be found near her home. It wasn't usual for her to be on a police assignment at that time of night, but not knowing where she might be, I drove by he police parking lot where she often parks. Her car wasn't there, either.

There's a secure parking garage about two blocks from the Mill Street Bar where I've been staying. I wasn't about to park the Dodge behind my room that night, so I parked it in the garage and walked to the bar, keeping to the shadows and checking out the occasional vehicle that prowled the streets to be sure it wasn't someone looking for me.

I wanted to check out the alley that led to my room and I had Lorelei's night-vision scope to better peer into every dark corner where someone might be parked or in some way keeping me under surveillance. Then the moment I turned down the alley, I saw Coral Lea's car--parked next to the Chevrolet I've been driving. She had parked to the left of the stairs leading up to my room over the bar, in the one spot where her car would be in the shadows and not immediately visible to someone casually patrolling the alley.

Coral Lea was seated in her car, waiting for me. "Come on up," I invited.

"Thanks. I hope I'm not interfering with your plans by showing up here unannounced? I . . . I just couldn't wait to see what you had for me." She managed a smile although her face showed the strain that she was experiencing.

"No problem with your being here," I told her. "In fact, I'm glad you're here."

Coral Lea grabbed my arm and gave it a gentle squeeze. "Thanks, Phil. I'm glad I'm here, too."

I checked the security gadgets monitoring my room, and thanked my lucky stars that everything seemed to be in order. "Did you see anyone prowling the alley while you were waiting for me, someone keeping an eye on my room or my car?" I asked.

Coral Lea shook her head. "No. In fact there wasn't any traffic while I was parked there."

"Good."

I showed the pictures I'd taken to Coral Lea and told her I'd made three sets of them for her. She carefully studied each of the photographs in turn, then turned to me, her cool grey eyes wide. "I knew Mark was cheating on me," she said, her voice now hushed and cold, "and this just confirms it, and gives me the evidence I need to send him packing. So . . . thanks a bunch, Phil."

"I'd say I'm sorry, but--"

"No. Don't say that," Coral Lea interrupted. "I don't want you to say you're sorry, because I'm not really sorry myself. Living with Mark hasn't been much fun, and this isn't the first time he's cheated on me. Not the first time, and not the second, nor even the third. This time, though, I've got the proof--and I'm through with him. Enough is enough! I've had it!"

I remembered that Mark's car was parked on the drive in front of their house. "You're not going back home tonight, Coral Lea?" I asked. It was more of a statement than a question, because I didn't want her going back home, not with Mark there.

Coral Lea reached out and took my hand with both of hers. "I . . . I . . . I don't think so, but I don't quite know where to go or . . . or, what to do. I . . . I'm . . . I'm not thinking very clearly right now."

I held her hands between mine, trying to be reassuring. "If you want to stay here, Fred's got another room similar to this one right down the hall next to mine. You'd be welcome to stay tonight, or as long as you wanted to for that matter."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, I'm sure. Did you bring some clothes and an overnight bag?"

"I sure did. I knew I wouldn't want to go back home, not tonight, not knowing . . . ." Coral Lea's voice trailed off, but her intended message was clear.

I squeezed her hand. "Would you like to stay down the hall? At least for the night?"

"I sure would, Phil. How do I go about arranging to do that?" Coral Lea's voice was stronger now.

"Easy. I'll just call Fred and let him know you want to use the room for awhile. He'll bring up a key and have someone check to make sure that everything's okay with the room--that it's clean, with fresh bedding, things like that. Then it's yours for as long as you want to stay. He's right down stairs. Want me to call him?"

"Please do."

"Okay." I was ready to dial Fred's number when I thought of something. "Coral Lea, have you ever actually met my landlord, Fred Overmiller, the guy who owns the Mill Street Bar? The guy I'm going to call about your room?"

"No, I don't think so. You've talked about him and I caught a glimpse of a person I thought was him from a distance tonight when he stepped out of the back door and looked around. Maybe he knew someone had parked out back and was checking on them. Anyway, I sort of feel like I know him, but I've never actually met him. Not in person."

"I thought maybe you hadn't, and I want to tell you some things about Fred--because he's a scary guy if you're not prepared for him."

"He's scary? How so?" Coral Lea's eyes searched my face.

"Fred's an ex-Army Ranger. He's a big guy, beefy, and hard as nails--the kind of guy who makes a great Ranger. But once when Fred's outfit was in action, the helicopter he was riding in crashed and caught fire. He got out okay, and he could have just let well enough alone, but Fred's not that kind of a guy. He made three dashes back inside that burning helicopter to rescue guys who were trapped inside. He pulled three of his buddies to safety, too, but he got burned badly in the process. Spent a bunch of time in two or three hospitals.

"So, I'm telling you this because Fred's got some deep scars on his left side, on his arm, his shoulder, and his face. Like I say, with those scars, he's a little scary to meet face to face for the first time, especially if you view him from the left. He's adjusted to the looks he gets from people when they see him for the first time, but . . . well, I wanted you to know. And, I just got to add something; Fred's the kind of guy you want on your side when the going gets tough. He's helped me out in several sticky situations, just like he did last night. He'll be a good man for you to know, and if you need anything, you just have to ask, okay?"

"Okay. Thanks, Phil."

I called Fred and explained a little of what was going on. Five minutes later, he was knocking on my door.

Fred's not the kind of guy to make small talk. After I introduced him to Coral Lea, he understood her situation and got right involved in what she was going through and how he might be of help. Of course, she could stay in the room next to mine as long as she wanted to. Fred made a quick call and asked one of his staff to check out the room, then turned to Coral Lea. "May I see a picture of your husband?"

"Sure." She handed him one of the photos I'd taken. Fred has an exceptional memory for people. Once he'd seen Mark's picture, he'd never forget what he looked like.

Fred studied the photograph for a few moments, then handed it back to Coral Lea and asked, "Thanks. I wanted to see who we were dealing with. Is this guy dangerous?"

"I don't know. Well, I guess he could be. He's got a nasty temper, and . . . sometimes he's very irrational." Coral Lea's voice trailed off.

"I see. Has he got a gun?"

"A gun? Oh, yes. Mark used to do a lot of hunting. He owns two shotguns and two rifles. He also owns a .38 Smith & Wesson revolver, and at least one other revolver, a small-caliber one I think. And, Mark's a crack shot. At least he was when he was hunting. He has scopes on both rifles, and I've seen him put five shots into a two-inch target at 100 years."

"So when he finds out you've got these pictures or hears from you or your lawyer that you're booting him out of your life and out of the house, he just might go ballistic?"

"He just might."

"When's he going to find out what you know about him?"

"Tomorrow, probably. I'll be getting in touch with my attorney first thing in the morning. Of course, my not being home tonight will certainly raise suspicions that something's amiss."

"Okay, tell you what." Fred's voice was hard. "I don't want you confronting him without one or the other of us present." He motioned to me and then himself. "Agreed?"

"Well, . . ."

Fred scowled. "That's not the right answer. I'm serious, Coral Lea. I lost a freind a few years ago in a situation like yours. She laid out the pictures she had of her cheating husband and his girlfriend and told him to get out of the house. He knew that the negative publicity would wreck his career, so he pulled a gun and killed her on the spot. Then he tried to make it look like a burglar got her. Nearly pulled it off and beat the rap, too. You remember that incident, don't you Phil?"

"I sure do." I turned to Coral Lea. "Fred's right. You take one of us with you whenever you've got to confront Mark."

"I hear you guys. I'll talk to my attorney tomorrow morning, and we'll go from there. And, I'll do as you say. I'll take one of you guys with me whenever I'll be confronting Mark. Thanks for being concerned about me." Coral Lea managed a slight smile.

Fred smiled back at her. "Another thing, Coral Lea. We don't want you alone in the house with him once you've made your intentions about booting him out clear. If he wants to meet you there to get his gear or whatever, let one of us know. We'll stay with you until he's out of there. And, we'll keep an eye on you for awhile, too. Oh, and incidentally, I'll sleep in my office for the next few nights, so call me if anything comes up."

Coral Lea nodded. "Okay." She offered Fred her hand and he took it. "Thanks. I really appreciate both of you."

Before Fred could respond, there was a knock at my inside door. It was the lady Fred had asked to check over the room Coral Lea would be using. "Everything's ready," the lady told Fred as she handed him the key to the room. Fred thanked her, and she turned to go back downstairs.

Fred motioned for us to come with him, and he led us to Coral Lea's room. It resembled mine, and would be a comfortable if not lavish place for her to stay while she was working through the process of eliminating Mark from her life.

Once Fred was sure everything was in order and that Coral Lea knew how to get in touch with him using the phone in her room, he gave her the key and went back downstairs to his bar. A little later, after surveying the alley with Lorelei's night-vision scope and finding it apparently safe, I accompanied Coral Lea down the outside stairway to her car to bring in her overnight bag.

The eastern sky was still dark but just beginning to lighten as we climbed the stairs back up to our rooms. It had been a long night for both of us, and Coral Lea looked completely drained. I encouraged her to get some sleep, and she said she'd try.

As for myself, I wasn't sleepy so I sat on my bed and reviewed the events of the past few days. I wanted to get back inside that asylum as soon as possible to see if my thinking about the significance of the drawing and the numbers 3-22 were correct. How to gain access to the asylum without arousing suspicion would be an even greater challenge now that somebody was shadowing us. At least, just thinking about the possibilities, I found myself growing sleepy.

Sleep wasn't in the cards for me that night, however. I'd just dropped of to sleep when I was awakened by a slight vibration from the motion-detector monitor on my night stand. Somebody was climbing the stairs outside my room!

Just as I've trained myself to do, I rolled off my bed away from the window fast, drawing the Beretta from under my pillow as I did so. BAM! As I hit the floor, the blast of a shotgun roared through my room.

Glass shards flew as the window shattered. Buckshot pellets tore at the bedding where I'd been sleeping moments before, then embedded themselves in the wall behind me. Plaster dust flew as the pellets struck and lodged in the wall.

I didn't dare move from behind the bed for a moment for fear that another shot might follow. When I heard footsteps retreating down the stairs, however, I managed to get to my feet. Carefully avoiding the window, still fearful of a second shot, perhaps even from a window or rooftop across the street, I stumbled to my door and checked the peephole, pulling on my clothes as I did so.

As I scanned the alley, to my distant left a man was just scrambling into the passenger seat of a dark blue Chevrolet Camero. Even before he'd completely closed the door, the driver hit the gas and roared away, tires squealing on the pavement.

I couldn't identify the man I'd seen enter the Camero, except to say that by his movements he appeared to be middle aged. He was wearing dark clothing, probably a sweat shirt and jeans, and a dark baseball cap. There wasn't any way I could make out the Camero's tag number, not at the distance and angle at which I was viewing them. So much for having a clue as to who the shooter was, if indeed the man I saw was the shooter--which I had to assume he was.

Actually, I hadn't even seen the gun. He'd probably pitched the shotgun into the car before he jumped into the passenter seat. And, by now, they were long gone.

Even though my ears were still ringing from the shotgun's blast, I heard Coral Lea's insistent pounding on my interior door. She was calling my name, asking if I was okay, and letting me know that she'd already alerted Lorelei to the fact that there was trouble. Moments later, as I let Coral Lea into my room, all the time assuring her that I was okay, I heard Fred Overmiller's light footsteps in the hall below the stairs. He'd be checking the alley from the back entrance to the bar, but like me, he'd be too late to see anything of significance.
Chapter 9

After assuring ourselves that the shooter was really gone and that no snipers were poised and waiting for us to show our faces, the three of us, Coral Lea, Fred, and myself, carefully searched the entire length of the alley, the stairs leading up to my room, and the balcony outside my window where the shooter had stood. Not surprisingly, we found absolutely nothing that would provide a clue as to the shooter's identity. The fact that there wasn't a spent shotgun shell anywhere to be found suggested that the shooter hadn't used a semi-automatic shotgun, but then again maybe he managed to pick up the shell as he ran away. Of course, it wouldn't really help us to identify the shooter even if we knew the style of shotgun he used.

It wasn't likely that anyone would have been around at that time of the morning to actually see the shooter, the Camero, or the driver. Still, we knocked on doors up and down the alley--to no avail. Businesses hadn't opened yet, and nobody was around. The shooter had picked his time to minimize the likelihood of his being seen. This wasn't a bungling amateur at work.

My room was a mess. Glass shards were everywhere, the bedding was ripped and torn, and the shotgun pellets had done a real number on the wall behind my bed. As the three of us began to inspect the damage, Lorelei called. "What's going on there, Phil?" she asked.

I filled Lorelei in on what had happened, all the time watching Fred dig some of the pellets out of the wall behind my bed. Moments later, he held out a handful. "Twelve gauge, double O Buckshot," he reported, then motioned for me to ask Lorelei to hold for a moment. "I'll get someone in here to fix up the damage this afternoon, window and all," he assured me while glancing at his watch, "but right now I've got to keep an appointment. In fact, I'm late!"

I nodded my understanding. "Okay, and thanks for checking on things."

Fred turned and walked toward the interior door of my room, then turned back and added, "Let me know if I can be of any help with investigating this."

"Thanks, Fred. We will."

Coral Lea continued to poke around the room, examining it as she would a crime scene--as indeed it was--while I talked to Lorelei.

"We've just got to get back inside that asylum--and I can't wait!" Lorelei exclaimed, once we'd exhausted the immediate story of someone shooting at me and speculated abut who might have taken that shot. Oh, Lorelei was concerned about my safety, all right. It is just that she's learned to put things behind her that she can't do anything about at the moment, and there was nothing she could do to help determine who'd shot into my room.

In fact, we couldn't be absolutely certain whether someone was shooting at me or at Coral Lea. It's possible that someone followed her and though that she'd be sleeping in my bed or that we'd be in bed together. Most likely, of course, the shooter had been on my balcony before and observed the location of the bed through the window. And, yes, the motion-sensor on the stairs leading to my room had been tripped recently.

"I'm anxious to explore the asylum, too," I acknowledged Lorelei's enthusiasm, "especially now that I've looked over some of Travis's stuff. Since we don't know who's shooting at me, we'll have to be extremely careful, though," I cautioned her. It wasn't that I thought she hadn't thought of that, but we'd need to seriously take this new development into account as we planned our nightly explorations.

"Phil?" When Lorelei begins a statement like that, I know she's been thinking and planning. Unless I missed my guess, she'd have come up with something new and different.

"Yes. What are you thinking?"

"I agree with you about our need to be extra careful when we go exploring, of course, but just to tease you, I think I've discovered another way to get into the asylum."

Ah, ha! I thought she'd come up with something new. "Another way? A way we haven't used before?"

"Right. Not through the storm sewer or under the fence, but, . . ." Lorelei hesitated. "Wait a minute, Phil," she continued, "there's no point in our giving away little secrets. Is your phone absolutely secure?"

Smart girl. She wasn't going to give away our plans to anyone who might be listening in on our conversation. "I think so, Lorelei, but let me check." I studied the little tap-detector. It's green light was glowing, indicating a secure line--but could I be absolutely sure it was secure if the cops were involved in keeping an eye on me? After all, my tap-detector is probably adequate for most situations, but then who knows what the latest high-tech listening-in devices employed by the police will do.

"Okay, Phil," Lorelei responded when I told her my concerns. "I'll share my ideas with you later today--in person. And, I've got somethng else to talk over with you as well. When can we get together?"

We arranged to meet early that afternoon using a code that we'd devised a few years ago when I was working on a sensitive case and was positive that both my phone and hers were tapped.

Coral Lea hadn't had much sleep that night and was rather stressed out, but she was pumped about meeting with her attorney, so I suggested that we take a short walk and have breakfast at the little restaurant I usually frequent. Once we'd finished breakfast, I'd still have time to look over the rest of Travis O'Call's mementos before meeting Lorelei for lunch. "You remember what Fred told you about asking one of us to go with you if you'll be confronting Mark today, or any other time for that matter, right?" I cautioned her as we left the restaurant and walked back to pick up her car in the alley behind the Mill Street Bar.

"I sure do, Phil, and I'll do it. I'll be in touch, and I'll see you tonight before you and Lorelei go exploring." Coral Lea gave my hand a squeeze. "Thanks for being so helpful," she added as we reached her car.

We checked Coral Lea's car carefully to make sure someone hadn't planted a bomb under it, nor left a message as they had in mine. We didn't find anything. I wished her luck and waved "good-bye" as she drove away.

I'd been planning to look over the box of mementos left to me by Travis O'Call. The discussion I'd had with Lorelei about listening devices as well as some thinking I'd been doing about dark blue Cameros, however, prompted me to change my plans. After a brief stop at my room to pick up my telephone directory, I walked over to the parking garage where I'd left the Dodge Caravan.

Bret Carson, Matt Runyon, Tom O'Brian, and Alex Dymond had to be at least minor suspects in yesterday's surveillance and last night's shooting if those activities had anything to do with my finding the broken table leg in the dungeon of the asylum. I'd just drive by each of their residences and take a look around.

It wasn't that I expected to find a dark blue Camero with a 12-gauge shotgun in the back seat sitting in one of the men's driveways or on the street outside his house. At least, I didn't think that anyone who would have taken that shot at me would have been dumb enough to drive his own car, let along leave the weapon in the back seat, but then I couldn't rule anything out, not yet. Nor would I have expected anyone to use his own car in the hit-and-run that killed Nurse Dolman. Still, . . . . Sometimes people get careless.

I sat in the Caravan and located addresses for each of these men in the telephone directory, then calculated the easiest and most direct way to reach each address without backtracking. Once I'd drawn a little map to guide me in my quest and filled the minivan's gas tank, I was on my way.

Bret Carson lived in a very exclusive neighborhood over on Briarcliff Heights. I suppose Police Lieutenants have to live in exclusive neighborhoods, but I couldn't help but wonder how he was able to afford to do so on a cop's salary. Maybe his wife had money? And, maybe he was still shaving points. Or, taking payoffs. Coral Lea probably would know all of the scuttlebutt about the Lieutenant and his lifestyle. If she didn't, she knew people who did.

There weren't any vehicles parked on Carson's long, curving drive. There was, however, a huge three-car garage attached to his luxurious house. All of the garage doors were closed, so I couldn't see what was parked inside. I'd check with the Motor Vehicle Department to see if a dark blue Camero was registered to any member of Carson's family, but I doubted that I'd find that one was.

Matt Runyon lived in the kind of middle-class house you expect a cop to live in. His was a relatively small house with a well-kept yard in a middle-class neighborhood. It reflected a respectable lifestyle, but one on an honest cop's modest income.

An open carport was set back from the street. One parking space, probably where Matt parked at night when he came home, was vacant. A white Toyota, probably his wife's car, was parked under the carport in the second parking space.

A woman I presumed to be Runyon's wife was working in the yard, pruning bushes with a power trimmer. She appeared to be quite energetic and enjoying her work because I could hear her singing, although I couldn't make out the words to the song over the noise of the trimmer. There weren't any dark blue Cameros parked in the neighborhood.

Tom O'Brian lived in a large apartment complex over on Manhattan Avenue. I checked the address numbering system and determined approximately where he lived on the third floor. I also checked the parking lot and side streets, but didn't see any dark blue Cameros.

It was difficult to tell just how high on the hog O'Brian was living. Apartments within that complex no doubt rented in a wide variety of sizes and for a wide range of prices. His address didn't indicate a penthouse apartment, but I'd have to inquire further into his living style if it proved of interest.

Furthermore, I had to remember just who the O'Brian's were. The family had been here for generations. They'd owned land on the outskirts of the city that had proved extremely valuable once the city expanded and the O'Brian's had been exceptionally shrewd in investing in property now located in the heart of the city. Indeed, the O'Brian's were wealthy and influential, so Tom may have come by any funds he spent honestly.

I next turned my attention to locating Alex Dymond's residence on Catalina Shoals. It was the residence I most wanted to see. At one time, perhaps fifty or sixty years ago, Catalina Shoals had been a rather exclusive address. Large old houses shaded by huge trees still lined both sides of the street, but today most of them were in general disrepair. The desirable parts of the city had moved on west of town, leaving the old houses on Catalina Shoals in the hands of people who, for the most part, could not afford to keep them up to the standards of an earlier day. Not when paint jobs for these large houses could easily run into the tens of thousands of dollars, not to mention repairs to the plumbing and wiring! And, the cost to heat or cool these monster houses would be awesome.

Many of the older houses had been turned into apartments or rooming houses because the present owners needed the extra income just to maintain them, and Alex Dymond lived in one of those large houses that had been converted into apartments. As near as I could tell from the listed address and the numbers on the house, he occupied the downstairs of a huge old two-story house, the upstairs of which appeared to have been converted into several apartments. From the window arrangement, it looked like there would be one large apartment and perhaps a second, smaller, apartment on the second floor.

The house appeared rather dilapidated and forlorn. It was badly in need of paint, the windows were dirty, and the steps leading to the front door were decidedly sagging. The large yard, no doubt once a source of pride and delight to its owner, was overgrown and weedy. Limbs that had broken off from the trees littered the sidewalk and yard. Dymond's house, like the entire neighborhood in which it stood, had fallen on hard times.

A large garage was located behind the house, its doors facing the alley so I could not see them from the street. The garage, like the house, appeared to be in general disrepair, its paint peeling, and the one garage window I could see appeared to be cracked.

I really didn't expect to find a dark blue Camero sitting in front of Alex Dymond's house. A car like that just wouldn't fit in with the shoddy neighborhood. Still, Dymond should have enough money from his pension to live where he wanted and drive whatever kind of car he desired. While I had no idea what might be in Dymond's garage, I could just make out what appeared to be a brown Toyota sitting in front of the garage. It might be Dymond's car, or it might belong to someone else who lived in the house.

A large "For Rent" sign complete with telephone number had been placed in one of the upstairs windows of Dymond's house. I assumed that meant that one of the apartments was for rent and not the entire house. I made a mental note to find out if Alex Dymond actually owned the house, or if he were renting.

Dymond's house wasn't the only one in that neighborhood with an apartment for rent. A quick glance up and down the street revealed several "For Rent" signs either in windows or out front on the lawns, and the deteriorating house across the street from Dymond's was advertised with a huge handmade sign as "For Sale or Rent."

After driving past Dymond's house, I drove down the street a few more blocks, where I located a pay telephone next to a convenience store--and dialed the number displayed with the "For Rent" sign in Dymond's upstairs window. After four rings, an answering machine kicked in, assured me that Alex Dymond wasn't home at the moment, and asked me to call back or leave a message.

I never trust answering machine messages to assure me that people really are or aren't home. If Dymond had answered his phone, I'd know that he was home, but this way I couldn't be sure, and I didn't want to hang around Dymond's neighborhood very long. He most likely knew every car that belonged there and would quickly identify me as an intruder if he saw the Dodge I was driving. And, he'd know who I was if he saw me. He'd know that I was the guy who'd located a bloody broken table leg with his fingerprints on it in the dungeon of a long-closed asylum.
Chapter 10

In addition to her office, Lorelei maintains a room in a hotel near the courthouse. It's a place where she can meet with clients or simply go to get away from the stresses of the day if she wishes to do so. It's maintained in a corporate name, so anyone checking the register can't immediately spot "her" room. I met Lorelei there at two o'clock as we'd agreed.

A retired detective who operates a security service and regularly sweeps Lorelei's office for listening devices also checks this room. Therefore, in addition to being a very private room, it's a very secure room--the perfect place for us to talk about things that we wanted to keep to ourselves.

Lorelei had a large pile of blueprints neatly stacked on the table in her room when I arrived. Although she was intently studying one particular blueprint on her desk, she also was engaged in her version of the shell game, shuffling the three walnut shells and the pea in the way she does when she's thinking. It's as if she does the intricate game with her skillful hands while her keen mind focuses on other things, integrating them one after another.

"Hey diddle-diddle, it's the one in the middle!" Lorelei caught my eye and lifted the middle shell to show me that the pea was under it. Then she whisked the shells around and around on the desk top. "Which one is it under now, big guy? Place your bets. Left, right, or middle? Place your bets now!"

Lorelei knows very well that I'm not going to bet against her, but she enjoys maneuvering the shells and pea much faster than any human eye can follow, and she enjoys the patter. She can actually remove the pea so that it's not to be found under any of the three shells, or place it back after she's shown you that the three shells are empty, and I never actually see her do any such maneuvers.

Lorelei's street-wise father had taught her the game when she was a child. There's no doubt in my mind that, were she on the street, she could do whatever it would take to win against any sucker who'd be dumb enough to bet that he or she can pick the shell where the pea resides!

I watched her work the shells and the pea, enjoying the patter with her. "No way, Lorelei. I'm not sucker enough to bet against you."

Lorelei grinned up at me. "I'm not trying to con you, Phil. You know that. And, I know that you're too street-smart to bet against me. It's just that the game helps me think."

I grinned back. "I know. So what have you got there?" I motioned toward the blueprints.

"Good stuff!" Lorelei exclaimed, "but before we look at them, let me share something extra good with you."

"Okay. What do you have that's extra good?"

Lorelei shoved the three walnut shells and the pea into a drawer and got right to the point. "Maybe I've got us a lead on who killed Travis O'Call's nurse, Ms. Dolman."

I didn't have to ask if she was serious. "Great! Tell me about it."

"Okay. It's a little shaky, but here goes: Coral Lea told us that a young detective named Alan Grey was investigating Dolman's hit-and-run, right?"

"Right."

"Well, this morning I had the opportunity to talk to him about another case, so I casually worked in a question about how that particular investigation was coming along."

"Smooth! And?"

"Bingo. He got a sheepish look on his face, so I figured something wasn't going the way he wanted it to. You've got to remember that he's young, Phil. And young cops sometimes don't hide their feelings very well, especially if they're honest and trying to do a good job."

"Right."

"I pressed him a little, and he told me he'd exhausted all of the leads he'd developed, which weren't many, and then he admitted that his Lieutenant had pulled him off the case. Said it probably would never be solved, and that there were more pressing cases to work on."

"That figures."

"Yes it does, but wait. I haven't told you the best part."

"Okay."

"I asked Grey about the leads he'd developed. Turns out that he didn't have much, but it seems as if he may have found a witness who saw the hit-and-run driver leaving the scene."

"A witness, you say? This is getting better all the time."

"Well, maybe. It's a long shot, but something you'll want to check out. You see, there was an elderly lady, 80-some years old, out walking her dog about the time the hit-and-run occurred. Anyway, she saw this car come tearing out of the nursing home parking lot, the same part of the parking lot where Dolman died."

"Did the driver see her?"

"We don't think so. She was in the shadows behind her apartment building, so he wouldn't have seen her, but she got a good look at the car when it slowed for the intersection."

"Could she identify the car?"

"Well, she saw the car, but she couldn't actually identify it as to make and model. Said it was small and sort of boxy, but that all of the modern cars look pretty much alike to her. Said it was a dark color, maybe brown, but she couldn't be sure because it was rather dark out and the lights distort colors at night."

"Right. Maybe I can help her identify the car. Did she get a look at the driver?"

"She got a look at the driver in profile. Not face-on, of course, but in profile."

"Could she describe him?"

"In general terms, yes."

"Did Grey get her to sit down with a police artist and try to describe the driver?"

"Nope!"

"Why not?"

"Because his Lieutenant told him it would be a waste of time, that the old lady couldn't make a positive identification that would stand up in court, and so on and so on, well, you know how that reasoning goes . . . ." Lorelei's voice trailed off.

"I get the picture. We'll get a drawing of the driver's face. Did you get the lady's name and address?"

"You bet I did. It's Viola Martin." Lorelei handed me a slip of paper where she'd written down not only the lady's name but her address.

Lorelei's big brown eyes met mine for a moment. They were smiling, like a cat's eyes smile when they focus on a mouse. "Go get him, Phil," she whispered.

I raised my hand, and Lorelei high-fived me. Maybe it was a little premature, but I had a feeling that we had Ms. Dolson's killer--and maybe we were making progress toward the bottom of this mess we'd dug up in the asylum.

"Let me make a couple of calls. I'll try to arrange for Coral Lea and Al Lapine to go with me to visit Viola. We'll go just as soon as we take a look at the blueprints."

Lorelei handed me the telephone. "Go get him," she repeated.

Al Lapine is a former police artist who quit the force, after a feud with his supervisor, to open his own tattoo parlor. With his shaved head and full red beard, he might be a little scary to an elderly lady like Viola, but having Coral Lea along should help put her at ease. And once Viola got to know Al, she'd probably want a tattoo--that's the kind of influence Al has on the ladies--young and old!

At any rate, getting out of police work has been good for Al, and for Al's bank account. He once confided to me that he tripled his income the first year he left the force. He's become known as the tattoo artist of choice in the city, and his income has improved ever since.

Al and I hit it off pretty good as cops, maybe because we both were mavericks. Over the years, Al's done several sketches for me, both before he left the force and since. Of course, not being currently employed as a cop, he doesn't have the latest technology a genuine police artist would have, but he makes up for this in genuine talent.

Actually, I didn't know if both Coral Lea and Al would be free to accompany me to visit Viola that afternoon, but I got lucky. Coral Lea had just finished a report she was working on in her office, and when I explained the urgency of the situation, Al said he'd cancel out his next two appointments and go with us. I arranged to pick up both of them. In the meantime, Lorelei called Viola and made arrangements for us to visit with her at her apartment later that afternoon. Once those arrangements were completed, I turned my attention back to Lorelei and the blueprints.

"Look at this, Phil." Lorelei pushed the blueprint she'd had on her desk around toward me.

It was an older, undated but perhaps pre-turn-of-the-century blueprint of the Rothchild Asylum for the Criminally Insane, not of the original construction but of an early renovation. As such, it would give us insight into what the asylum was like in its early days.

I studied the blueprint for a few moments. Then Lorelei picked up a later blueprint, came around the desk, placed it where we could compare it with the earlier blueprint, and stood behind me. "Over here," she pointed out, pointing to the early blueprint, "is where the original steam heating plant was located. It stood above ground as a one-story structure, but the furnaces were located below ground, in the basement."

"I see."

"The heating plant was located outside the original asylum building, and the interesting thing from our point of view is that there was a good-sized tunnel connecting it with the main building."

"Yes, I see." I could indeed see where the tunnel was shown on the blueprint. The dimensions indicated that we'd not be able to stand upright in the tunnel, but we wouldn't have to crawl on all fours either. Unless the tunnel was now full of debris, we could easily move through it.

"You can see where they ran the steam pipes and the other utilities," Lorelei continued. "Now, when they renovated the asylum for the second or third time, whatever this other blueprint represents, they moved the heating plant to a more central location under the asylum building and filled in the hole where it was located, but they left the tunnel where it was."

"So, you think this old utilities tunnel is still open?"

"I think so, because they used part of that existing tunnel for the new steam pipes when they built an addition onto the main asylum building and located it on the spot where the original heating plant was located. So, the tunnel should at least be open part of the way and, I hope, all the way to the sewer drain. Oh, and see here." Lorelei pointed to another blueprint. "There is a notation on this second blueprint requesting that the tunnel be left totally accessible for possible future use. I checked, and the tunnel is even shown as existing full-length on a later blueprint." Lorelei pointed to the pile of blueprints on the table.

"And this tunnel connects via a drain to the abandoned storm sewer that runs under the asylum?" I asked. "Something like the dungeon connected?"

"Right. Once we are in the sewer, coming from the opposite side of where we were the other night, we should be able to connect with and climb into the old tunnel. From there, it should be an easy passage to the basement room where the newer heating plant for the main asylum building is located--assuming, of course, that the blueprints are correct as they're notated, and that no one has filled in part of the tunnel."

"Looks good! You think we'd need to approach the asylum from the opposite direction from what we did the other night?"

"It'd be best. You remember how the sewer was rather well blocked with debris when we tried to explore it much beyond the dungeon drain?"

"Yes, but does that mean we'll have to battle the same degree of debris if we approach from the other direction?"

"I don't know. Of course, we won't use this entrance unless things get tight for us. You know what I mean?"

"Sure." We'd use this approach only if people were watching our other entrances.

"Where can we best enter the sewer upstream?" I knew Lorelei would have checked that out already.

"Well, . . . ." Lorelei hesitated.

"Problem?"

"Not really. If we go up the hill about a mile above the asylum, there's a manhole leading to the sewer. But the best manhole for us to use to climb into the sewer is over a couple of blocks, in a really trashy part of town. It would be best if someone could drop us off and pick us up so that we didn't have to spend much time in the area or leave a vehicle there."

"That shouldn't be difficult to arrange."

It's odd how a paranoid ex-cop tunnel-rat like myself likes the discovery of a new tunnel to explore. Thoughts of exploring another part of the abandoned sewer and tunnel Lorelei had discovered and then exploring the asylum itself gave me a heady rush. Still, I wanted first of all to explore the stairways we'd discovered leading to and from the secret passageway between the warden's garage and the asylum, and for that we'd be best served by going in under the fence as we had the past time.

By the time Lorelei and I had made plans to go in that way and check out that passageway and the stairs that very night, it was time for me to pick up Coral Lea and Al and pay a visit to Viola Martin.

Sometimes you have to help a witness. Before I picked up Coral Lea and Al, I stopped at a newsstand and bought a copy of a current car-trader magazine that showed both black-and-white and color photographs of a large number of cars, trucks, and vans that were for sale. I also stopped by a couple of large automobile dealerships and picked up literature showing various models. These pictures just might help Viola identify the kind of vehicle she'd seen speeding away from the parking lot where Ms. Dolman died. We'd see.
Chapter 11

Viola Martin, a short, rotund little lady, lived in a small apartment with her rotund little dog, Cheerio. Her apartment building was located on the corner just across the street from the nursing home where Travis O'Call had lived, only half a block away from the parking lot where Ms. Dolman had died. Lorelei had explained to Viola why we wanted to talk with her, and she was expecting us. Indeed, she was quite eager to tell us what she saw the night of the nurse's murder.

The apartment Viola shared with her dog was quite modest. It was small and rather sparsely furnished, but neat and clean as could be. Pictures of several children and an older man, perhaps a deceased husband, were situated on her desk. Everything was in its place, and it was obvious that Viola Martin took pride in her apartment's appearance.

Furthermore, Viola was a gracious woman. She motioned for us to be seated, suggesting various chairs and the sofa, and offered us soft drinks from her refrigerator, which we accepted.

All the time, Cheerio stayed by Viola's side, moving with her when she moved, and keeping an attentive eye on us. He didn't growl or bark, but he didn't appear to be intimidated by the three of us either. Once Viola had settled into a chair, the little dog leaped onto her lap and curled up, still keeping a watchful eye on us.

Coral Lea took the lead in interviewing Viola. After Viola had described what she'd seen, the five of us went outside. Viola showed us exactly where she and Cheerio were standing on the night in question, and where the speeding automobile came from. I did a quick diagram in my notebook by way of defining the scene, then stepped off the distance from where Viola had been standing in the shadow of her apartment building to the street. She'd been approximately 50 to 60 feet from the car, certainly close enough to get a good look at the car and at the driver.

According to Viola, the car had "roared" out of the nursing home parking lot, slowed momentarily for the intersection at the corner of her apartment building, and then "zipped" down the street for another block before turning left and disappearing from view. "I noticed it because it's highly unusual for a car to speed down our street like that," she said, using the correct speech of a former English teacher I'd been told she was, "and I got a good look at the driver when he slowed for the intersection."

The five of us went back inside Viola's apartment. Once again, Cheerio leapt onto her lap the moment she was seated. It was my turn to question Viola. Just to make sure what kind of vehicle Viola had actually seen, I first showed her pictures of various cars, station wagons, trucks, vans, and SUVs, and asked her to pick the type that most closely resembled the one she'd seen. Without hesitation, she indicated that it indeed was a car. "I don't know much about cars," she told me, "but I know a car from a truck or a van, and this was a small car." I believed her.

Next, I asked her to describe the car in her own terms. She let us know, as she had Alan Grey when he'd talked with her previously, that she didn't know "one make from another," and I encouraged her to describe the car without regard to make or model.

She remembered it as being "rather small and boxy, not sleek or sporty, probably a four-door, with not much chrome," but that was as far as she wanted to go, so I suggested that she look at some pictures and see if she could pick out one of a vehicle that matched the car she'd seen.

From Viola's description of the car, it wasn't anything close to being a dark blue Camero. Still, I'd picked up a brochure picturing a Camero similar to the one that I'd seen in the alley the night someone took a shot at me, so I showed her that picture first.

No, it wasn't a Camero. Viola was emphatic about that. Nor was it any one of a variety of new Cadillac, Pontiac, or Oldsmobile automobiles. I had brochures showing these cars--but none matched the one Viola had seen. Nor was it a new Chrysler or Ford product, at least not one I had brochures of.

We next turned our attention to the vehicles pictured in the car-trader magazine I'd purchased. Most were relatively new models, but there were a number of older vehicles in a wide variety of makes, models, and colors featured as well.

Viola didn't seem to tire of looking at the pictured vehicles, and she reacted to each one with a comparison to the one she'd seen leaving the nursing home parking lot. The Dodge Neon was about the right size, but it was too sleek, as were the Saturn and the Ford Escort. The Jeep was boxy like the car she'd seen, but too tall and much too high off the ground. Likewise, the Geo Tracker was relatively small and boxy, but not the right shape.

We were nearing the end of the car-trader magazine when I showed her the picture of a four-year-old Toyota Corolla--and Viola sat bolt upright. "That's it!" she exclaimed, as she pointed at the illustration. "That's the car I saw that night!"

I asked Viola if she was sure, and suggested that she continue to look at some other pictures with me, but she said that wouldn't be necessary. She'd recognized the car--and that was that! We talked some about the color of the car she'd seen, and determined that while it was night and the street lights do indeed distort color, it probably was some shade of maroon or brown.

The pictured Toyota was shown in a three-quarter view from the left front. I showed the picture to Al and he quickly made a sketch of the car from the angle Viola would have seen it at the intersection.

Viola stood behind him and watched with obvious interest as Al sketched the car. "That's it!" she exclaimed again when he'd completed the view.

"Did you notice anything unusual about the car?" Al asked.

Viola thought for a moment. "Unusual? Like what would it have been?" she questioned.

"Was it dented, or exceptionally muddy?"

"No. I didn't see any dents, and I probably would have noticed any major ones because the light would have reflected differently from a dented door or fender."

"Okay. Were any of the lights not working?"

"You know, that's a funny thing. Aren't license plates supposed to be lighted?"

"Yes, they are."

"Well, I don't remember seeing the tag lighted up. Of course, maybe I just didn't notice. I mean, I wasn't trying to get the guy's tag number or anything like that because I didn't know he'd done anything wrong."

"That's okay. So let's just say that maybe he'd taken out the bulb in the light that normally illuminates the tag."

"Wouldn't that be illegal?"

"Yes, but he probably was willing to take the chance that a cop who saw him wouldn't notice that his license plate wasn't lighted, or wouldn't much care. It was probably more important that nobody be able to read his tag number. And maybe he stopped and put the bulb back in just as soon as he thought he'd made good his escape."

"I see. Oh, there's one other thing."

"What's that?"

"You asked if the car was dirty. It sure was."

"How could you tell in the dark?"

Viola smiled. "A clean car reflects the light better than a dirty one, just like a clean window shows off better than a dull, dirty one."

"Good answer. So this car was dirty?"

"Right. Oh, not with gobs and gobs of mud on it or anything. It was just overall dirty, like it hadn't been washed recently. And it sure didn't have that shine that new cars have. And . . . And that's about the best I can do!"

Coral Lea spoke up. "You're doing just fine, Viola!" she said by way of encouragement.

"You sure are," I added. I meant it. Viola was doing a great job, and I hoped that the guy she'd seen was the one who'd run down the nurse. With the information she was providing, we just might have a chance at nailing hm.

Al next drew an enlargement of the window through which Viola had seen the driver, then turned to her. "Let's put the driver in the car," Al said.

"I . . . I'll try, but . . . ." Viola's voice was hesitant.

"We'll do it together." Al was reassuring. There was no doubt about it in my mind, Al is good not only at sketching but at helping people describe what they've seen. It's just a shame he got out of police work, but then . . . .

Al opened a flip-book he'd kept from his police-artist days. It allowed him to arrange facial features in countless ways and thereby define an individual's face. Before long, Vola warmed to her task of describing the driver of the car she'd seen, and a face began to take shape on Al's sketch pad.

When Viola agreed that the face on the sketch pad was as close as she could get to the driver's face, Al sketched the face in the car window. "That's him!" Viola exclaimed, as she watched the face take shape.

We thanked Viola Martin for her help and promised to let her know if she could be of more assistance--and if we were able to locate the driver of the car she'd described. Al gathered up his sketches, and the three of us left. Coral Lea had taped our entire conversation, and she promised to duplicate the tape for me. The information we'd gathered probably wouldn't be admissible in court, but we'd just have to figure out how best to proceed as we went along with our informal investigation.

Viola had, of course, provided us with the best information we had so far on the guy who probably was involved in the nurse's death, and maybe in a whole lot more. Of course, we weren't into a formal investigation of any kind, Coral Lea being the only "real" cop among us, so we had to decide what to do with the information and sketch of the suspect.

Maybe we were making a mistake, but we decided to hold the information for a day or so in order to attempt our own identification of the man pictured in Al's sketch. After all, I knew where a boxy, brown Toyota Corolla was located, and I wanted to check it out. And we needed a comparison photograph of my number one suspect--Alex Dymond.
Chapter 12

By the time I walked to the parking garage and picked up the Dodge Caravan, it was dark. I stayed in the shadows. The quarter-moon was just moving above the horizon and stars were beginning to become visible in the darkening sky.

It was a night similar to the one when Lorelei and I had last visited the asylum--a night with just enough natural illumination for us to see by but not enough to make us highly visible to anyone who might be tailing us. Once we made it inside the fence surrounding the asylum, we'd be relatively protected from anyone following us, or at least we'd be forewarned of intruders--unless someone was already inside the asylum and waiting for us. Things had been getting a little weird lately, what with someone shooting at me, so we had to be ready for anything.

Exploring the hidden places of the city has become a real passion for Lorelei, and the possibility that we might discover the solution to an old mystery made the exploration especially exciting. Needless to say, she was ready to explore the asylum again that night, and I confess that her enthusiasm was infectious. I was looking forward to the night.

Coral Lea had insisted on shadowing us. Actually, I think she's becoming interested in exploring the asylum with us, and maybe other mysterious places as well, still a little anxious about doing so perhaps--but interested. We'd take her with us one of these days, but tonight she said she'd watch our backs.

We could have gone under the fence at the same place where we'd entered last time, but I didn't think that would be wise. Instead, after driving the streets around the asylum to see if we could see any place where someone might have entered the grounds, we parked the Dodge behind an all-night service station and hiked abut half a mile through the woods to a spot near the old stone house once occupied by the asylum's wardens.

Once again, I broke out the folding entrenching tool while Lorelei carefully scanned the warden's house and garage, as well as the asylum building itself with her night-vision monocular. "I think we're clear," she whispered, as I started digging under the fence.

While I dug a passage for us, Lorelei turned her attention to the woods through which we'd hiked and scanned the area for any sign that someone had followed us. "So far, so good!" she whispered.

After another quick scan of the house, garage, and the asylum, Lorelei handed me the monocular and took the E-tool. She shoveled dirt from our entryway while I scanned tha area.

There didn't appear to be any activity visible with the monocular, and it wasn't long before Lorelei had cleared a pathway under the fence large enough for us to roll through. After we made it inside the asylum grounds, I attached two listening devices to the fence. Either of them would alert us if anyone came near the place where we'd dug our way under the fence.

The quarter-moon provided enough illumination for us to make our way across the asylum grounds. We stayed low and in whatever shadows the overgrown grounds provided until we came to the house. Once there, we were able to stay in the shadows as we made our way around the house and the attached garage to the walk-in door where we'd entered last time.

It didn't appear as if anyone had been there since we had explored the garage two nights ago. Even so, after I quickly picked the lock, I checked carefully for any kind of booby trap or alarm that might have been set for us. Once I was sure no one had tampered with anything, we pushed the walk-in door open and made our way inside.

We listened carefully at the door to the house and at the door that led to the underground passageway for any sounds that might indicate human activity. Only when we were reasonably sure we were alone in the place did I shut and lock the walk-in door behind us.

"It . . . It's a little . . . scary!" Lorelei whispered. She was standing before the door that opened on the hidden stair landing. Then she clutched my arm, giggled softly, and added, "And I love every minute of our safari. Being scared just adds to the fun for me. You know that, don't you, Phil?"

"I know. I like it, too, Lorelei," I whispered. I meant it. While I wasn't actually scared, the rush that always precedes and accompanies our explorations was right there, urging me on. "Are you ready to go downstairs?"

"Yes, down to three of twenty-two\--whatever those numbers mean!" She emphasized the numbers three and twenty-two.

"Let's find out if we can."

Lorelei cautiously opened the door leading to the stairs and I quickly checked it for any kind of alarm or booby trap. Somehow, I just couldn't assume that it would be exactly like we'd left it, what with someone having recently taken a shot at me.

When I was sure that there hadn't been any tampering with the door, Lorelei switched on her flashlight to provide some minimal light while I scanned the part of the passageway I could see with the night-vision monocular. Everything looked clear, so we made our way to the landing.

We'd brought our favorite light for use in dark passageways, the florescent lantern. Lorelei switched it on as we advanced into the semi-darkness.

As I noted the night we were first here, the top five steps are constructed of wood. The rest are constructed of stone. I'd done some thinking about how we might see if something was hidden under or behind one of those wooden steps, perhaps step number three, assuming that's what the number three referred to in the drawing. Not wanting to actually tear up the steps if I could help it, though, I'd brought along a fiber optic scope that I hoped would allow us that look.

Police use fiber optic scopes similar to the one I'd purchased to look under doors and inside walls, any space where there is enough room to insert the scope. Of course, electricians, carpenters, mechanics, and many other craftsmen use them for looking inside walls to locate hidden ductwork, wires, and pipes, and for other purposes as well.

The gadget looks something like a monocular with a long, slender and flexible fiber optic wand attached. That wand can be inserted under a door or inside a compartment. The wand on mine is about 36 inches long, allowing me to look some distance inside a crevice or wall, for example. The focus is adjustable, with a 40 degree field of view, and there is a built-in light to illuminate dark places.

These fiber optic scopes have been lifesavers for cops. For example, a cop can use it with the appropriate accessories to look under a hotel room door to determine exactly what or who is on the other side. Several guys I know have used the scopes and discovered that persons on the other side of that door they are facing have a gun in their hand. It obviously gives a cop an edge to know this in advance. Tonight, I hoped the scope would allow me to look under the wooden steps to see if anything was stashed there.

It wasn't difficult to work the scope under the riser on the third step down from the top one. A careful investigation of the area under the step suggested that there indeed was enough room to stash something like a notebook or small box, but there simply wasn't anything there now.

I checked under the other four steps that were made of wood. Unfortunately, there wasn't anything under any of them. To me, the drawing in Travis's box meant that something important, perhaps something relating to Benny Cole, would be found under that third step, but then things often aren't so simple as I'd like to think, and this was likely one of those times. Maybe it was all wishful thinking on my part, and then again, maybe we'd find something under a step on the stairs on the other end of the passageway.

After all, if Benny Cole had come through that passageway by himself, he would have had plenty of opportunity to stash something. Benny might have told Travis about the stash, but Mako might not have known. We could hope that anything Benny had stashed under one of those steps would still be there.

"Nothing?" Lorelei saw the expression on my face.

I shook my head. "Nothing."

"Come on. Let's go down and check the other steps where something might be hidden," Lorelei whispered. She obviously was in good spirits and undaunted by our lack of initial success. Sometimes she's more realistic than I am, and she knew that we'd be going for a long shot on this adventure.

"Okay."

While I held the florescent lantern, Lorelei scanned the stairway and the part of the tunnel that was within our view with her monocular. All was clear. As we continued down the flight of stairs, I checked each of the stone steps as well to see if there might be a space under it where something might be or have been hidden. Northing! Our next best bet would be the top three steps on the stairway leading up to the warden's office because they were constructed of wood.

The silence was eerie in that passageway. I'd noticed it the other night when we passed through it, but hadn't thought much about it. Now, the silence began to haunt me just a bit. It wasn't something I could put my finger on, but it brought back some of the feelings I'd experienced when I was crawling through those tunnels in Vietnam. It was the kind of silence that kept me on my guard in Vietnam. I wondered if Lorelei felt the silence in the same way I did, but I didn't want to spook her.

Twice we stopped as we made our way through the passageway, listening, trying to make sure that no sounds indicated that anyone was near. Then we reached the far stairs. Like the other stairway, most of the steps were made of stone but the top ones were constructed of wood.

We carefully inspected each step. The stone steps were quite solid and seemed to offer no place at all for anyone to hide anything. When we reached the wooden steps, I used the fiber-optic scope to look under each of the risers. Again, there was nothing to be found. Nothing! Absolutely nothing.

Lorelie and I looked at each other and shook our heads. I had been so certain that we'd find something under the third step on one end of the passageway or the other.

"Let's go in," Lorelei whispered. She pointed at the door leading to the warden's office.

"Okay." I was reluctant to leave the stairs where I was so sure we'd find something of importance.

Lorelei nudged the door open, and I checked it for trip-wires or alarms. There weren't any. We stood listening to assure ourselves that we were alone, then pushed the door open and stepped into the warden's office.

Once again, the moonlight was such that we could make our way around without using any artificial light. We listened at each of the doors leading out from the warden's office, again to assure ourselves that no one else was around. Then Lorelei put her hand on my arm and motioned for me to come with her.

Lorelei led us to a spot behind the big desk once used by the warden, then motioned for us to sit down on the floor. We'd be hidden behind the desk if anyone were to unexpectedly walk through one of the doors and we couldn't be seen through any of the windows from the outside. "Let's rest and think a bit," she whispered. "Besides," she added, "I've got a question for you about the guys who once sat behind that desk." She motioned toward the warden's desk.

I caught the faint but distinct fragrance of Lorelei's perfume as we sat there side by side in the shadows, wondering what question she'd have for me. It was fun to be with her. Times like these made me wish I was younger--a whole lot younger.

A few moments later, Lorelei turned to me, her big brown eyes wide and dancing in the semi-darkness. "I've been thinking, Phil. What do you know about the men who were the wardens of this asylum?" she asked, her voice a hushed whisper in the eerie silence.

"I know a little about some of them who served as warden since the 1930s."

Lorelei patted my arm. "I thought you would. Tell me what you know about them."

"Okay. A guy named Douglas Martin was the warden during the mid-1930s and 1940s. He was the warden when Benny Cole did his thing, whatever that was, and Travis O'Call was a young inmate. When Martin took over as warden, I think in 1934 or maybe 1935, the asylum was embroiled in a nasty scandal."

"A nasty scandal? Wow! Tell me about it." Lorelei's whisper perked.

"Yes, indeed. Seems as if the asylum had its own vegetable garden back then, and the inmates helped with the gardening. One day in the early 1930s while the inmates were working in the garden, one of them dug up some human bones. There was such a fuss that somebody called the cops."

"Human bones, huh! Could the cops identify them?"

"Oh, yes! The warden tried to pass them off as bones from an ancient Indian burial ground, but then the cops dug up a hand with a wedding ring on one finger. It so happened that the wedding ring was engraved, and the cops traced it. I forget the dead guy's name, but it was an inmate who had been reported missing and presumed to have escaped the asylum. Of course, nobody knew anything about what really happened to him, but somebody likely killed the guy and got him buried on the asylum grounds."

"Yet another unsolved murder?"

"I think so. At least, I don't know of it ever being solved. Of course, back then the inmates were considered crazy and nobody would believe a word they said, so it's likely that nobody asked them. Or they might have been afraid to speak out if they did know something. And the asylum guards and staff never admitted to knowing anything about what happened."

"So this Douglas Martin took over as warden?"

"Yes. The previous warden was a good friend of the governor, but the scandal got people stirred up and calling for his resignation, and the governor finally had to give him the boot. Incidentally, this new warden, Douglas Martin, also was a close friend of the governor. And so it goes and goes."

"Cozy system, huh?"

"It sure was. If I remember correctly, even the previous warden managed to land a job in the governor's administration after the scandal cooled off a little."

"So what did the new warden do?"

"Oh, he promised to investigate the inmate's death--and if he did, that went absolutely nowhere. And he promised to clean up any questions about wrongdoing by his staff--and we know that really didn't happen either. One thing that he did do, though, was to seal off the dungeon where we were the other night. Who knows what else he did."

"I wonder what Travis O'Call might have had to say about that inmate's death."

"So do I. Wish he were still alive so we could ask him."

"Is Douglas Martin still alive?"

"No. I'd sure like to interview him, but he passed away about fifteen years ago. As near as I could determine, everyone who held administrative positions under him is dead, too."

"And who succeeded Douglas Martin as warden?"

"A man by the name of Edwin Bridgers."

"Edwin Bridgers. Bridgers? Where do I know that name? Bridgers was the name of a governor during the 1950s. Any relation?"

"Yep! Edwin Bridgers was a first cousin of the governor."

"And if I remember correctly, the governor's cousin was a cop, make that our local chief of police, right?"

"Right. Edwin Bridgers was well connected, and he remained warden of the asylum until it closed in the 1970s."

We sat in silence for a few minutes, knowing that it was time to get moving again, yet a little uncertain of how to proceed. It was Lorelei who broke the silence. "Which way now, Phil?" she asked.

"There's a whole lot of asylum as well as the warden's house to explore, and it'll take us some time. What do you think? Shall we begin by taking a look at the offices next door."

"Okay. According to the blueprints, there should be a cluster of three administrative offices and a rest room just off the warden's office, right?"

"Right. And we need to look for a lock box or safe or some sort as well as another hidden passageway."

"Wouldn't it be cool to find the safe that key fits?" Lorelei squeezed my hand, then continued, "and maybe a secret passage, too. Of course, I'm dreaming, but let's go see what we can find."

Lorelei and I kept a low profile to avoid being seen through one of the windows as we made our way to the door that opened into the adjoining office. I checked the door for booby traps, and finding none, pushed it open.

The office we now were entering probably had been occupied b the warden's secretary or administrative assistant or assistants. It was slightly smaller than the warden's office, yet relatively large and with space for the two small desks and chairs and three file cabinets that remained.

Unlike the warden's office that appeared to have been carefully cleaned out, this office might best be described as a general mess. Scraps of papers were strewn about the floor, two file cabinet drawers hung partially open, and one of the chairs was upset and lying on its side. Someone had even left a large brown coffee mug sitting on one of the desks. Oh, and a waste basket lay on its side near one of the desks, scraps of paper spilling from its top.

There was enough moonlight coming through the large window to illuminate the room enough for us to make our way around without using our florescent lantern or flashlight. Lorelei listened at the door that led out into the hallway while I listened at the second door that led to a rest room and a third door that led to an adjoining office, checking once again to be sure we were alone in the huge old asylum. Once assured that we were indeed alone, we began to carefully inspect the room.

All of the offices had once been carpeted. To judge from the few scraps of worn carpet that remained in the room, someone apparently had just ripped out the carpet, perhaps when the asylum was closed, leaving the well-worn wood floors bare. That made our task of searching for floor safes and entrances to hidden passageways easier.

While I inspected the floor and walls for a built-in safe, Lorelei checked the file cabinets. Not only did she look to see if there were any papers left filed in them, but she looked under and beind the drawers for anything that might have been hidden there.

The few papers remaining in the file cabinet appeared to have been miscellaneous invoices for supplies. There weren't any personnel papers, or materials related to the inmates, although there were a few file folders that once held records on particular staff members and were labeled as such.

There weren't any safes built into the walls or floor that I could locate. Nor were there any obvious openings to any hidden passageways.

We next turned our attention to the two desks. They appeared to have been hastily cleaned out, because whoever did so left bent paper clips, pencil stubs, gum wrappers, and paper trash scattered about. Lorelei also checked the underside and back of each desk drawer, none of which were locked, but there wasn't anything hidden that she was able to locate.

Having satisfied ourselves that there wasn't anything to be found in the warden's administrative assistant's office, as we now called that office, we moved on to what likely was the administrator's rest room. Space had been taken from corners of this office and and also the third administrative office to construct the rest room, suggesting that the rest room had been constructed during one of the asylum's many renovations.

Lorelei switched the florescent lantern on its low-power setting as we pushed open the door leading into the rest room. There was only a tiny window in that tiny room and it had been painted black, so we needed the light source in order to more efficiently explore that area.

The rest room obviously had been updated several times over the years, but some of the fixtures must have dated from the early 1900s, giving me an eerie feeling as if I'd just stepped a long way back in time. Not too surprisingly, perhaps, there weren't any lock boxes or safes in the rest room, nor were there any entrances to hidden passageways that we could locate.

It's hard to describe to someone who's not into exploring old abandoned buildings or the underground, but looking through the asylum's long-abandoned rooms was proving to be extremely exhilarating for both Lorelei and me. Maybe it's the same kind of feeling that others get from playing a good game of golf or flying experimental airplanes.

Even though I was hoping to discover something that might help us understand the enigma of Benny Cole's mysterious activities or of Alex Dymond's misdeeds, I was able to let go of the disappointment of not finding anything on the stairways or in the rooms we'd searched and concentrate on the continuing exploration at hand--the third room that once had been a part of the administrative suite.

Lorelei and I quickly moved toward that room, Lorelei in the lead, once again keeping a low profile to avoid being seen from outside the asylum. The blueprints we'd seen indicated that it, too, was a relatively large room although, like the room just off the warden's office, a portion of it had been used to construct the administrator's rest room.

"Wow! Would you look at that!" Lorelei exclaimed in a hushed but exuberant whisper as she entered the room, indicating that she'd seen something extremely interesting.
Chapter 13

One of the pleasures of exploring unusual places such as the asylum is finding things that give me a sense of awe. It doesn't have to be something that is especially significant in terms of a mystery I'm trying to solve, but just something that is unique--and there in the corner of this room we'd entered, partially recessed into the wall, was a monstrous floor safe. It was this ancient safe that immediately attracted Lorelei's attention--and now attracted mine.

That massive safe completely dominated the room. It stood approximately five feet tall, and would have measured about five feet wide. A first glance indicated that it was perhaps four feet deep. That old-fashioned safe had to weigh tons--and my first thought was of how anyone would have been able to move it into the room.

The safe's two heavy steel doors, both of which were colorfully decorated in gold floral designs as was common with safes at the turn-of-the-century, stood slightly ajar. A huge dial which once worked the combination lock and a handle were visible on the right-hand door. The safe itself was on large cast iron rollers, yet I wondered how many individuals it would require to actually move that safe on those sturdy wheels. Outside of a bank vault, I don't believe I've ever seen such a massive safe!

"Would you say that this was the asylum's financial office?" Lorelei whispered.

It probably was. "I'd guess so, and they probably kept the payroll in that safe."

There wasn't much else by way of furniture in this room now, but it was large enough that it once might have held one large or two small desks and several file cabinets. Paper trash littered the floor, evidence that someone had done a hasty and uncaring job of clearing the room. What might prove to have been two supply storage cabinets were built into the side wall near the safe, and those immediately attracted our attention. In addition to the built-in cabinets and the safe, there was something else about that particular room itself that puzzled me and demanded further investigation.

When I was searching those Vietcong tunnels in Vietnam, I learned to be especially aware of incongruencies such as one tunnel being of a particular length while a parallel tunnel was shorter or longer. It was an awareness that sometimes meant life or death to us tunnel-rats. Later, that awareness was invaluable in searches I conducted as a cop. If something about a room or space of any kind didn't seem just right, it likely wasn't!

The room Lorelei and I were in adjoined the room we now referred to as the administrative assistant's office. For simplicity, we'd call it the financial office. Both of the rooms were of similar construction, with a corner having been taken from each to construct the rest room.

It was the space behind the safe that interested me. Whereas a space had been recessed to accommodate the safe, there appeared to be space behind the safe that wasn't easily accounted for. The safe would have to wait momentarily for my attention.

Instead of examining the safe, I tried the door to the storage cabinet built into the wall to its right. It was locked, just as the doors had been that opened upon the hidden passageway between the warden's garage and his office.

Lorelei joined me, watching intently as I went to work on the lock. She, too, was eager to see if this might be the entrance to another hidden passageway. Moments later, I had the door unlocked.

I gently edged the door open, checking around it as I always did for any kind of trip wire or booby trap. Having found none, I edged the door open enough so that Lorelei could beam her tiny flashlight into the opening. Her whispered, "Way to go, Phil!" told me that we'd uncovered something unusual.

I'm not sure exactly what we were expecting to find. Of course, there's a lure about hidden passageways, and both Lorelei and I were hoping we'd discovered another one. In a way we had, but not one quite as glamorous as we'd hoped to find.

We opened the door to discover a narrow stairway leading upward. After listening cautiously for a few moments to make sure we still were alone, Lorelei flicked her flashlight up and down the stairs, then turned to me and whispered, "This is exciting! Let me go up first, okay?"

"Sure. Go ahead. Let's see where it goes."

There weren't any windows along the stairway, so we switched on the florescent lantern and cautiously climbed the stairs. A quick inspection of the stair treads and risers indicated that they were solidly built. They didn't squeak as we climbed, and while it was unlikely that anything would have been hidden under them, we checked to be sure. Once again, as is my habit when climbing stairs, I counted the steps.

Eighteen steps later, we reached a small room that obviously had been used as a storage area. File cabinets and metal shelving units lined three of the room's four walls, and the fourth was occupied by a small desk and chair.

There weren't any windows in the room, so we turned the florescent lantern up to its highest intensity and began to explore our findings. The shelving units were empty save for a few scraps of paper, but I checked them carefully to make sure someone hadn't hidden anything on or around them. Likewise, the file cabinets proved to be empty except for a few scraps of paper, but Lorelei checked them to be sure nothing was hidden under or behind the drawers. We even leaned them away from the wall to make sure nothing was hidden behind them.

Much as I disliked ending our night's exploration while we were having a good time, a glance at my watch reminded me that it was time for us to be leaving the asylum so that we wouldn't be caught there at daybreak.

"We've got to be going, don't we," Lorelei whispered when she saw me looking at my watch.

"Yes. I'm afraid so."

"Have we got time to take a quick look in the big safe downstairs?"

"I think so. A quick look, anyway. If we don't do it tonight, we'll come back."

"We've just got to come back!" Lorelei whispered, her hand on my arm. She was absolutely right about that. This place deserved a great deal of time.

We cautiously descended the narrow stairs, and turned down our florescent lantern as we entered the room below where the safe was located. Moonlight was now lighting the room, and we crouched down to avoid the window where we might be seen from the outside as we approached the safe.

That safe was, indeed, a monster. Still, the heavy doors opened smoothly on their hinges with only a slight tug.

In addition to a large open space at the bottom of the safe's interior, there were six compartments with doors, all of which were slightly open. We opened the doors in turn and Lorelei closely inspected each compartment using her flashlight.

After we'd checked each compartment in the safe, Lorelei turned to me. "They really cleaned it out, didn't they?" she whispered.

"They sure did." Lorelei was right. There wasn't even a scrap of paper or bent paper clip left in the old safe. it was almost too clean.

We did our best to look under and around the monstrous safe, but found nothing of particular interest. Whoever had cleaned out this office had done a slap-dash job, having left scraps of paper and debris all over the floor, but they obviously took their time when they cleaned out the safe.

The old safe was, as I mentioned earlier, on wheels, but there was no way Lorelei and I could budge it. It was just that heavy. Such a safe would have certainly provided secure storage for the asylum's administrative staff.

Lorelei and I quietly retraced our steps through the administrative offices to the hidden underground passageway that led from the warden's office to his garage. As we went down that twenty-two step stairway, I once again examined each of the steps--but found nothing hidden under any of them.

I'd been so certain that we'd find something associated with the third of twenty-two steps. Then, as we began our transit through the underground passageway, another idea suddenly came to me--and I began to deliberately study the stone walls to either side of us.

Those walls had been constructed of rough and irregular stones, but stones of a similar size nonetheless--and there were row upon row of evenly spaced stones. Could it be that Benny Cole, if indeed he was the person who had drawn that diagram, referred to the stones rather than the steps, using the third step in a stairway of 22 steps for proportion only? It was well worth a check of the stones along the wall even though it might prove to be just another hair-brained idea.

"Lorelei!" I whispered.

"Yes, Phil?"

"We need to take a look at the stones to either side of the passageway as we pass through it."

"Okay. What are we looking for?"

I had to be honest. "I don't know. Maybe something unusual about the third stone from the top or bottom in each column, or maybe a stone at about the level of the third step from the top and bottom of the stairs."

"Something unusual? Like how?"

"Maybe one that sticks out a little more than the rest. Or, one that is inset more. Or, one that looks especially smooth--or rough. I really don't know, and it's just a hunch that one of those stones is significant."

"Let's do it, then. Want me to take the right side while you take the left?"

"That'll be fine. Use your flashlight to look for anything about the stones that looks unusual."

Lorelei was looking at her watch. "Let's go for it. Since it's late, I'll ask you what you're thinking later."

"Okay."

There really wasn't time to carefully examine every stone in the walls of the passageway. Maybe that would come later. Still, we could look at those about the height of the third step from the bottom and from the top.

Lorelei took the right side, what might be thought of as the interior wall because it would have been toward the outside of the asylum, and I took the left. As we walked slowly, now using more light than we ever had in the passageway below, I not only visually inspected the stones but also ran my hand along them, feeling for anything unusual.

"Here it is! Here's what we're looking for." Lorelei's excited whisper startled me. I turned. She was kneeling on the cobblestone floor of the passageway and holding a stone from the wall in her hands.

Lorelei held the stone out for my examination, then placed it on the floor of the passageway. "Look in there, Phil!" She motioned toward the opening where she'd removed the stone. "That stone felt loose when I ran my hand over it so I shook it, and it almost fell out and into my hands," she breathed.

We both beamed our flashlights into the opening. "Oooohhhhhh, I though so!" Lorelei breathed. "Look at that, Phil!"

Was I ever looking! In the opening exposed when the rock was removed, perhaps two feet above the floor, was a folding handle set in what appeared to be a metal plate. A light coating of rust coated the handle and metal, and one could only guess at how long it had been since anyone had manipulated the handle.

That handle would have been completely concealed by the stone when it was in place. From the looks of things, the removable stone had been held in place by a thin layer of plaster. Over the years, the plaster had somewhat deteriorated, allowing the stone to loosen. A layer of plaster-dust now covered the floor directly under the stone's former resting place.

We didn't have much time to check out this new development, but we just couldn't replace the stone and walk away. Instead, I cautiously reached into the opening, tugged at the rusty folding handle until it pivoted into a handhold, twisted the handle to release its latch--and then gently pulled outward until I felt something give slightly.

"It's a door!" Lorelei breathed.

Indeed, as I pulled on the handle, a section of the stonework approximately two feet square began to swing outward. After cautiously checking to be sure we hadn't pulled any kind of trip-wire that might have set off an alarm, I pulled the door open so that we could examine it and the area beyond.

The door consisted of stones that had been cut and securely fastened to a metal plate. When the door was closed, the stones fit closely against the ones in the wall, making the door almost invisible to the average passerby. Indeed, with a coating of plaster around the edge of the door, it would be virtually impossible to determine its existence, especially in the dim light of a flashlight in the dark passageway.

Lorelei beamed her light into the darkness beyond the door. It appeared that we were at the entrance of another narrow passageway, perhaps better described because of its size as an underground tunnel.

I swung the door open still further. Lorelei stuck her head inside and swung her flashlight around, then rocked back on her heels beside me. "It's a passageway, all right," she whispered, once she'd withdrawn her head, "and it looks as if it may go twenty feet or so straight back before it turns right. Looks to be well-constructed with stone walls, a supported ceiling, and a stone floor, too." She paused and looked at me with her smile and flashing eyes that said, "Phil, we just have to explore this tunnel!" She glanced at her watch. "I wish we had the time to explore it right now, but another day will have to do. We've got to go!"

"I know we're out of time, but let me look for a second, okay?"

"Okay." Lorelei held the door while I put my head inside the opening and beamed my flashlight around. She was right. The tunnel went perhaps twenty feet before it turned, and it was, indeed, well constructed. From our position, I couldn't determine if there were any passages exiting the main tunnel before the turn.

The passageway was similar to the one we were in, the walls and floor having been constructed of stone, although the stonework appeared more irregular and gave the appearance of being older. If my judgment about the placement of the passage way was correct, the tunnel would run directly under the warden's old office, yet at a sub-basement level. We'd have to explore it further, of course, to find out exactly where it went. Travis O'Call had been correct; there were indeed a number of secret passageways within the asylum.

Thinking back to the blueprints of the asylum that I'd seen, I was reminded that the foundation and walls on the earliest construction were as much as four feet thick. If that were the case here, that passageway could run right along the inside of the foundation and nobody would ever guess its presence there--unless one knew.

Something that caught my attention about this new passageway that we'd discovered was just how narrow it was. Lorelei is small enough that she could probably crawl through the tunnel on all fours, but with the low ceiling, I knew that I'd have to flatten out as well as go on all fours to navigate it. Maybe people were smaller when the passageway was designed, or maybe it was designed such that nobody could really hurry along its length. Well, we'd know more when we had a chance to thoroughly explore the tunnel.

Another thing that caught my eye was the rubble strewn along the floor. Either the mortar holding the stones in place hadn't been the best or something had shaken some of the stones loose from the walls of the passageway. The rubble would make it more difficult to navigate, given the small space, but we'd be certain to explore it one of these days. What a find it was for a couple of people who enjoyed exploring such things!

"We've got to get going, Phil," Lorelei whispered, her voice now urgent. She was looking at her watch. I knew that she was right.

Just as I turned to acknowledge her statement, though, I noticed something that made me turn back with a start. There in the floor of the newly discovered passageway was a recessed yet slightly protruding handle!

Lorelei saw the handle about the same time I did. "Look!" she exclaimed, with a start, then beamed her flashlight on it, and crowded into the little opening beside me to see exactly what it was.

By the flashlight's beam, we saw that the handle was attached to a trap door. We both were fully aware that it now was very late and that we absolutely had to be leaving the asylum, but this new development was just too tempting ot leave completely unexplored.

While Lorelei held her flashlight focused on the handle, I raised it and tugged at the door. Moments later, I had the trap door open far enough so that she could beam the flashlight down nto the darkness of the opening below.

It wasn't a stairway. Instead, this passageway appeared to be a vertical shaft about two feet square with a metal ladder set into the concrete along one side.

Then, as we contemplated the shaft and where it might lead, an unmistakable smell seemed to drift upward through the opening. "What's that awful smell?" Lorelei whispered.

"Death."

Lorelei and I looked at each other. We both knew what was down there somewhere--a body. Or bodies. It--or they--most likely had been there a long time, but the stench of death seems never to completely go away.

"We've got to go, Phil." Lorelei broke the silence.

She was right. I reluctantly closed the trap door, knowing full well that we'd have to come back and search those parts of the asylum that we could only reach by way of those hidden passages. Then we closed the door we'd discovered in the passageway between the warden's garage and his office, carefully replaced the stone that hid the handle, wedging it into place as best we could, and continued through the passage to the warden's garage.

We paused at the walk-in door of the warden's garage while Lorelei scanned the surrounding area with her night-vision monocular. When her searching didn't reveal any activity, we made our way back to and under the chain-link fence that surrounded the asylum, filled in our excavation, and after another scan of the area, made our way through the wooded area to the Dodge. As we did so, headlights came on over on the street a block away. Coral Lea flicked them twice in an "all's clear" message. Lorelei and I were on our way.

Coral Lea pulled her car onto the highway behind us, then flicked her headlights twice more--another pre-arranged signal that she wanted to talk with us right away. I pulled the Dodge into the empty parking lot of a closed convenience store and Coral Lea pulled up beside us--her window next to Lorelei's. Lorelei rolled down her window.

"I didn't want to interrupt you guys while you were exploring the asylum," Coral Lea got right to the heart of her message after a brief exchange of greetings, "but I thought you'd like to know that Viola Martin's apartment building was torched tonight."
Chapter 14

"Torched, you say! Is Viola--" Lorelei started to ask the question that was uppermost on both of our minds."

"Oh, yes. She's okay." Coral Lea interrupted Lorelei's question. "Her little dog, Cheerio, woke her up when her apartment started to get a little smoke under the door, and then led her right through the smoke and out the front door of the apartment building. The hallway was getting smoky but she got the door open and somebody helped them outside of the building from there."

"Wow! It's a good thing Viola had Cheerio, then."

"It sure is, because Cheerio may have saved her life. By the time she was out of bed and realized what was going on, she had to crawl through the smoke from the door to her apartment to the front door of her building, and there was enough smoke to be disorienting, especially to a sleepy person--but Cheerio knew the way."

"So she's really okay?"

"Yes. They took her to the hospital and checked her over, but she's okay. She breathed a little smoke, and she'll need some rest, but she's okay. A little shook up, but okay."

"And you say the apartment building was torched? Somebody set it afire."

"Let me tell you what I did, and then I'll answer your question."

"Okay."

"The moment I heard the location of the fire, I called Al Lapine and told him what was going on. I thought that if he could check things out over there, I could stay here and keep an eye on you guys. Anyway, Al said he'd go over there and see what he could learn about the fire and find out if Viola Martin was okay. Said he'd do his best to find out who was involved, and that he'd get back to me as soon as he had anything to report."

"Great! Nice going, Coral Lea."

"Thanks. Now, to get back to your question. There's no doubt about the fire having been deliberately set. There was gasoline splashed all over a basement hallway."

I had to ask. "Do you think somebody was out to get Viola?"

"Well, the gasoline was splashed around in the basement directly under Viola's apartment, so it looks to me like somebody was targeting her," Coral Lea replied, "and considering how Travis O'Call died shortly after he talked to you, well, it makes you wonder what's going on, doesn't it?"

"It sure does. Was anyone else hurt in the fire?"

"Not that I know of. Al said they took another person, a man who lives in the apartment next to Viola, to the hospital, but he thinks he's okay. Or, at least, he's going to be. Breathed a little smoke, Al thinks. There wasn't a whole lot of damage, though, because the fire department got there fast. Very fast."

"Who called in the alarm?"

"Somebody who lives across the street. I'm not sure of the person's name. Anyway, somebody coming home late from a party saw the flames before the fire had a chance to spread beyond the basement hallway, and called the fire department. If that fire had had a few more minutes to burn before anyone reported it, I think the whole building might have gone up--maybe with everybody in it."

"Wow! Sounds like a professional job. There'll be an investigation since it's arson--and from what you said, there's no doubt about it being arson."

"Right. There's absolutely no doubt about it being arson, and Phil, there's one other thing that's extremely interesting in view of the things that have been going on."

"What's that?"

"I was listening on the radio to the calls for the fire department and the cops, okay?" Coral Lea hesitated and her lips tensed.

"Right. What did you hear?" I knew she'd heard something of more than casual interest.

Coral Lea leaned her head out of her car window and almost into Lorelei's open window and dropped her voice: "One of the first calls that was made after the cops got to the scene was to Lieutenant Bret Carson--and from the brief conversation I overheard, I think that he got right over there--and fast."

"That is very interesting. Who called him?"

"Our ol' friend, Matt Runyon."

"There's a connection between Runyon and Carson, then. I'd bet on it. Did Al see Carson there at the scene?"

"Oh, yes. Carson was there, all right. He watched the whole show from across the street according to Al, and Runyon spent some time with him, likely filling him in on what was going on."

"Al didn't see anything of Alex Dymond at the fire, did he?"

Coral Lea smiled. "Well, as a matter of fact, he did."

"That's very interesting."

"Yes, it is, and you can guess who Dymond was huddled with."

"Carson and Runyon?"

"Right. And, speaking of Alex Dymond, Al's been up to something regarding that man that surely will interest you."

"Oh, what's that?"

"You remember that sketch he made from Viola's description of the guy she saw in what we'll call the getaway car from the night the nurse was run down, right?"

"Right."

"Well, Al got a photo of Alex Dymond from somebody he knew at the newspaper--a file photo. It's . . . the photo's . . . a little dated now, but it was good enough for Al's purpose." Coral Lea hesitated. Her lips were pursed in a tight little smile, and I knew she was delighting in teasing us.

Lorelei quickly broke the silence. "Come on, Coral Lea, tell us what Al's purpose was."

Coral Lea chuckled. "Al tried twisting the photo a little, trying to see what Alex Dymond would look like from the side, the way in which Viola saw that getaway car's driver. And then, Al tried twisting the sketch he'd made from Viola's description to see what that person would look like from the front. Are you with me?"

"I think so. Go ahead."

"Well, guess who that sketch resembles?" It wasn't a humorous response. Coral Lea's voice was grim.

"Alex Dymond?"

"Right on! Al says he couldn't take that evidence into court, but he'd bet on the sketch and the photo as being of one and the same person--that being Alex Dymond! And, having seen Dymond at the fire scene, Al's even more sure he's the one in the sketch."

Coral Lea, Lorelei, and I talked for a little while there in the parking lot, all the time watching the sky lighten in the east. Then Coral Lea tailed our Dodge while I drove Lorelei to her home.

A plan was forming in my mind to trap Alex Dymond, or at least to test him, and I shared preliminary sketches of it with Lorelei on the way to her house. She thought a moment, then exclaimed, "Why not? Let's give it a go!"

Coral Lea left her car at the parking garage and I drove us back to our rooms over Fred Overmiller's bar. The Chevrolet I'd been using until a few days ago was gone.

The missing Chevrolet wasn't anything to get alarmed about. There was a note from Fred in my room explaining that Jim Osborne had a buyer interested in the car and had picked it up. Along with the note was the warning that had been placed on the front seat of the car. "Didn't find a bomb," was Fred's comment block-printed on the bottom of the warning--along with a hurriedly sketched happy-face. I was sure that Fred and Jim had carefully checked over the car just to be sure.

Even though we'd both been up all night and were tired, I had to find out how Coral Lea's previous day had been. She'd had to have been through a lot, what with consulting with her attorney and facing the fact that her husband had cheated on her, even before she shadowed us all through that night.

Coral Lea and I climbed the steps to my room, checking as best we could to determine that everything was okay. I was pleased to find that my room had been repaired, just as Fred had promised it would be. The shattered window had been replaced, the wall behind my bed that had been cut up by the shotgun pellets had been plastered and painted, and my bedding had been changed. Whoever had done the work had even cleaned up the mess!

Fred must have suspected that Coral Lea and I would want to talk things over. He'd left a note for us saying that he'd leave the coffee pot on and that we should come down to the kitchen and help ourselves whenever we got home. "Make yourself some toast, or a sandwich, or whatever, too," he'd invited.

Over hot coffee and buttered toast, Coral Lea told me that she'd talked at length with her attorney. "Tomorrow . . . No, it's today already," Coral Lea grinned, then shook her head and continued. "Today, my attorney will file the papers and I'll start the process of getting free of that jerk, Mark Johnson."

"Does he know that you're kicking him out yet?"

"Nobody's told him officially, but if he hasn't got it figured out yet, well . . . ." Coral Lea shook her head.

"Is he staying at your house?"

"Yes. Tonight should have been his last night. My attorney said she'd give him a call and tell him to get his stuff out of the house. I don't remember all about the laws she cited, but he should be able to get his stuff out of there within a very few days."

"You're going to have to be there when he gets his stuff, aren't you, Coral Lea?"

"Oh, yes. I wouldn't trust Mark not to trash the place if he thinks I'm getting it, or to take whatever he wanted of mine. And I do plan to be there with either you or Fred, like we talked about."

"Okay. That's what I wanted to hear you say. Coral Lea, I don't want you to be anywhere with Mark by yourself."

I don't know exactly how it happened, but all of a sudden Coral Lea was in my arms and hugging me and thanking me for being concerned about her. We held each other for several minutes and then Coral Lea whisked off her glasses with one hand, held me close with her other, and kissed me full on my lips. "Hold me, Phil," she whispered, "hold me tight."

Coral Lea put her head on my shoulder and snuggled close, her arms tight around me. I help her close for a long moment, then eased myself into a comfortable chair and pulled her down on my lap.

She settled back against me, her arms around my neck, her cheek against mine. I encircled her with my arms, enjoying the fragrance of her perfume as we melted together. "I love it when you hold me, Phil," Coral Lea whispered.

"I love holding you, Coral Lea," I whispered back. I honestly couldn't resist saying so, and I meant it.

"Thank you." Coral Lea pursed her lips and tilted her head back for another kiss, this time a long, slow lover's kiss before we broke our embrace. I remembered what she'd said about going for me if she weren't married, and right now I didn't doubt for a moment that she'd meant what she'd said.

Time would tell about her intentions--and mine. Right now, we both were much too tired to be experiencing anything. With another "Thank you!" and a last, long hug, Coral Lea asked me to wake her when I woke up. We walked together to her room and then said "good night" as I left her there and went back into mine.
Chapter 15

My friend, Al Lapine, the tattoo artist, knows a lot of people. When I told him my plans for Alex Dymond and indicated that I needed a young couple, preferably with specific experiences and a certain amount of audacity, to do some work for me, he knew just the couple--Tim and Myra Halloway. "They've got perfect credentials and they've helped me before with such requests," he assured me.

I usually don't like to rely on anyone to do or arrange things for me, but in this case I didn't know anyone who might do, so I asked Al to give them a call.

Like Al, Myra's an ex-cop. Also, like Al, she doesn't have much use for the political-minded cops who most frequently run things these days. Her aversion to such cops is well deserved, too. It seems as if she was working as an undercover narcotics agent when a drug deal went bad and she had to shoot a man who was charging her with a hunting knife. Turns out the guy, all six-feet-six and 295 pounds of him, was the police chief's son, high on drugs and predisposed to kill anyone who crossed his path. Anyway, Myra was cleared of any wrongdoing, but the chief had enough clout that she wasn't going anywhere in the police department so she got out. When I explained that we'd be going after a retired cop who may have gotten away with murder for many years, she just smiled and, "Lay your plan on me, Phil."

Tim, Myra's husband, runs an art gallery for local painters, and he's been quite successful. Myra was an amateur artist, and with Tim's and Al's encouragement, turned professional artist after she left the force. Her works are, naturally, on exhibit at what is now their gallery--and she's doing quite well.

So, that very afternoon Tim and Myra went apartment hunting--at Alex Dymond's huge old house. By the time they'd toured the rental apartment and visited with Dymond, Myra had skillfully planted a tiny listening device that would pick up all conversations within the house.

While Tim and Myra were visiting Alex Dymond, another young couple of Al's acquaintance paid a visit to the owner of the house across the street who had advertised an apartment for rent. The owner didn't actually live there, so they met him out back in the parking lot behind his house, and after a tour of the upstairs apartment he had available, rented it for me for a month. Oh, he wasn't happy about their wanting it for only one month, but he accepted their story about needing a place to stay in the city for just that length of time. Besides, apartments like his aren't that easy to rent to judge from the number of them advertised.

Later that afternoon, when Tim and Myra gave me their impressions of Alex Dymond and his house, Myra gave me something else to ponder. "There's something odd about the renter of the other upstairs apartment Dymond has rented," she said.

"Something odd?"

"Yes. The apartment we looked at occupies most of the upstairs of Dymond's house, but there is another small upstairs apartment--so I asked about the renter." Myra grinned. "After all, a gal wants to know who her neighbor might be, right?"

"Right."

"Well, Dymond was very evasive. First, he didn't want to acknowledge that there even was a second apartment on the second floor. And then, he didn't want to tell us anything about the renter. Said something about that apartment being occupied by an 'older gentleman who isn't very well, a recluse who doesn't go out much' to quote Dymond."

"Okay. You didn't manage a glimpse of this 'older gentleman,' did you?"

"No. That second apartment seemed sealed up tight. The curtains were all drawn and the only reason we had any idea that someone was in there was that we could see what looked like the glow of a bright light bulb through one of the windows. And that light bulb went off when we came around making conversation."

"Odd."

"Maybe significant, maybe not," Al interjected.

"What do you mean, Al?" I asked.

"Just that there are a whole bunch of old people living in that area. I know two or three of 'em, and they're living in those run-down apartments because that's all they can afford. They stay out of sight for one reason or another, especially if they've had a little brush with the law or if they're staying hid from a creditor. Let's face it, Phil, Dymond likely knew all of the old guys who needed a place to live from his days as a cop, and from the looks of his house, he needs all the rental money he can get."

"Still, it might be significant that Dymond's trying to shield somebody." Somebody like Ivan Mako, I thought to myself, but didn't say anything. Travis had implied that he had an in with the cops, and that he was still alive.

"Right." Myra was smiling as she broke into the conversation. "I was a cop long enough to know when somebody's trying to pull the wool over my eyes--and I'd say that Dymond has something or someone to hide."

Knowing what I did about Alex Dymond, I believed her.

Later that night, after trading cars again with Jim Osborne, so that the Dodge I'd been driving wouldn't be so easy to identify while parked in Alex Dymond's neighborhood, Coral Lea and I carried my sound activated tape recorder and twin earphones into the apartment we'd rented via Al's friends across the street from Dymond's house. The tape-recorder was equipped to record any sounds picked up by the listening device that Myra had planted for us in Dymond's house.

My plan was simple. Alex Dymond was, in my thinking, anyway, on the edge. Volatile! To judge from the way he'd reacted to the discovery that I'd found a bloody club with his fingerprints on it, it wouldn't take very much to freak him out. Coral Lea and I were going to push him if we could.

We'd wait until Dymond was in bed and just drifting off to sleep. Then Coral Lea would call him. Once Dymond was on the phone, Coral Lea would introduce herself as Nurse Dolman. She'd use her best imitation of the nurse's voice which I'd captured on the tape of my interview with Travis O'Call. If Dymond thought the woman he'd tried to kill was still alive, or better yet, if he thought she were dead but somehow able to communicate with him from beyond the grave, well, we'd see where things went from there.

Of course, we'd have Dymond's response to the call on tape, because our listening device would pick up anything he said. As things worked out, however, we never got the chance to see how Dymond would respond to Nurse Dolman's voice.

The tape recorder we'd brought with us into our rented apartment had a device designed to alert us by vibrating if it picked up any activity. While we waited for Dymond to fall asleep, I got things arranged and placed this particular device under the pillow on the sofa-bed Coral Lea and I would alternately occupy.

It had been almost 24 hours since I'd had even a short nap, and Coral Lea had been up most of the night as well, so we determined to stand watches--she'd sleep for two hours while I listened for activity at Dymond's and then I'd sleep for two hours while she kept watch. Even though we planned to do the watches, we both knew how easy it is for a person to fall asleep--and that's why we had the vibrating alarms.

Things were quiet at Dymond's, and I thought we'd be able to get some rest throughout the first part of the night before Dymond went to bed--wrong! Near midnight, the alarms vibrated, indicating activity within the Dymond house. As both Coral Lea and I listened, we distinctly heard soft footsteps and then Dymond's muffled voice shouting, "No! No! No!"

There were the sounds of a brief scuffle, and then Dymond gasped, "Help me! somebody, help me!" and we heard the unmistakable sound of a body crashing against furniture and then to the floor. "Ooohh! Ooohhhh! Ooohhhhhhhh!" Someone, probably Dymond, moaned and gasped, and then there was silence.

A door slammed moments later, and we heard high-pitched, semi-hysterical laughter, a sort of "Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! He! He! He! He! Ha! Ha! Ha! He! He! He!" fading away.

Coral Lea and I had covered our window facing the Dymond house so that nobody could detect any of our late-night activity. Upon hearing the sounds, we quickly doused the lights and pushed the curtains slightly aside just in time to see a car, probably the brown Toyota Corolla that I'd spotted in the alley behind Dymond's house, race down the alley behind the house. And then we saw the faint flicker of flames to the side and behind Dymond's house!

"Something's wrong, and there's a fire. We'd better get over there right away, Phil!" Coral Lea whispered.

"Yes!"

As quietly yet as quickly as possible, Coral Lea and I grabbed the tape recorder and our other gear and ran down the stairs to where we'd parked the dark green Ford Crown Victoria, the car I'd picked up from Jim in exchange for the Dodge Caravan. Once the recorder was safely locked in the trunk, we drove around the corner and parked in front of Alex Dymond's house, then ran up the sidewalk and pounded on the front door.

By now the flames that we'd seen from the window were producing smoke from the back of Dymond's house. There was no time to lose. When there was no answer at the front door, I kicked it in, then called Alex's name. There was no answer.

We switched on a light and followed the sound of a muffled moan into Dymond's bedroom where we found him, unconscious. Alex was face-up on the floor beside his bed and there was blood all over his pajama shirt from a knife wound in his chest.

Quickly pulling off a pillow case from a pillow on Dymond's bed and folding it along with a towel that Coral Lea tossed to me, I formed a compress and pressed it against the knife wound to slow the bleeding in Alex's chest while Coral Lea dialed 911.

The smell of smoke was just beginning to enter the house. "We've got to get you out of here, Alex," I told him, not sure if he could hear me or not.

"Ooohhhh!" He moaned as I carried him outside and away from the house to the curb, where I reapplied pressure to the knife wound. Suddenly, his eyes flew open and he stared up at me. His eyes flashed, letting me know that he recognized me.

"Who did this to you Alex?" I asked.

The old man eyed me for a long time before he answered: "Cole. Benny Cole," he rasped.

"Benny Cole? The Benny Cole?"

"Yeah. You thought he was dead, didn't you?"

I didn't choose to answer that question just then. "Where did he go, Alex?"

The old man tried to sit up. There was a slight trickle of blood on his lower lip, and I couldn't be sure if he'd cut his lip or if there was internal bleeding.

"Take it easy, Alex. Help is on the way." I helped him lie back on the grass. "What's going on with Benny Cole, anyway? Where did he go?"

"He's . . . He's gonna torch . . . gonna torch the asylum, like . . . like he . . . he torched my . . . my house," Dymond gasped. "Says . . . Says it'll be . . . be his . . . his last . . . last job. Last and . . . Last and best! And he . . . he took my . . . my car." The old man sank back on the grass and closed his eyes.

I watched the smoke beginning to billow upward from the back of Dymond's house. Suddenly, there was a tremendous explosion and flames shot out of the windows on the second floor where the small apartment was located. I wanted to ask Alex if Benny Cole had actually lived in that apartment and now was destroying it, but there wasn't any way to do that now because Alex had completely lost consciousness. Maybe Cole had rigged his apartment to explode. Maybe we'd never know what went on in his mind.

Coral Lea knelt beside me. "An ambulance is on the way," she whispered. "So's the fire department." She opened her hand and showed me the listening device she'd picked up from inside Dymond's house while I was bringing him out, then shoved it deep into her jacket pocket. "I got it out of there. Nobody'll find it now," she whispered.

"Good girl. Thanks."

"Want me to stay with Alex?"

"Yes. If you'll stay with Alex, I'll go after Benny Cole. Alex says he's the one who knifed him, and that now he's on his way to torch the asylum." I told her the gist of the brief conversation I'd had with Dymond.

"Okay. I'll get Lorelei and Al on the phone, ane we'll get out there to back you up just as soon as we can." Coral Lea clutched my arm. "You be careful out there in that awful place," she whispered.

"I'll try."

"You be careful--for me!" Coral Lea added. She grabbed my free hand in hers and held it tight, her face turned upward and her eyes focused on mine. "Say you'll be careful."

I squeezed Coral Lea's hand for a moment. "Thanks. I'll try to be careful." It wasn't the greatest thing to say, but it was all I could think of at the moment.

A few people were now gathering on their lawns, watching the fire, but most of them were keeping their distance from us. There were sirens in the distance, growing louder and louder with each passing moment. I didn't know if the ambulance would get there in time to save Alex Dymond or not, because his breathing now was becoming quite labored and he didn't look good at all.

There wasn't anything I could do now for Alex Dymond but I might be able to keep Benny Cole from torching the asylum. With that objective in mind, I left Coral Lea with Alex, ran across the street to where we'd parked the Ford, drove out of my way around the block to keep out of the way of the emergency vehicles, and was on my way.

One thought kept running through my head as I tried to keep the Ford under the speed limit so I wouldn't be picked up for speeding and have to explain to some cop what I was doing: How can it be that Benny Cole is still alive?
Chapter 16

I drove the side streets around the asylum, scanning the complex for any signs of the Toyota or Benny Cole, wondering how he was going to get inside the sturdy steel fence that surrounded the buildings, until I reached the asylum's main gate--and then I knew. He'd crashed Alex Dymond's brown Toyota Corolla head on into the main gates. Dymond's Toyota would never be much good again, the front end having been badly crumpled by the collision. The heavy steel chains holding the gates closed had held fast, but the impact had managed to bend the gates inward enough so that there was room for a person to slip between them.

Benny wasn't in the Toyota, so I figured that he'd survived the crash in reasonably good shape. The trunk of the Toyota was ajar, whether from the crash or from having been opened afterward I couldn't be sure. When I raised the lid and looked inside the trunk, however, there was the unmistakable smell of gasoline and the mat on the floor was wet. My guess was that Benny had been transporting a can of gasoline in the car's trunk and that some of the gas had sloshed out when he'd crashed the car into the gates. There was no doubt in my mind that he'd taken the can with him into the asylum--the better to start a roaring fire.

Fortunately, I'd shifted my gear from the Dodge into the Ford's trunk, so I had Lorelei's night-vision monocular with me. After checking the Toyota, I scanned the asylum grounds with the monocular, but couldn't locate a trace of Benny.

It was possible, of course, that Benny was already inside the asylum and watching me from one of the windows. He might not be expecting me to follow him, but then again he'd proved to be very sly and resourceful in the past, and I fully expected him to watch his back.

If Benny was watching me, and if he had a gun, he might take a shot at me. Still, I couldn't wait him out. I had to go after him and prevent him from setting a fire in the asylum if I could. Knowing that Benny was familiar with the asylum and its hidden passages, my best guess was that he'd head for the garage once used by the warden so he could use the hidden passageway to gain a relatively easy entrance to the asylum building--and I was right. When I got to the garage, I found that the walk-in door had been kicked in, and the door that opened on the underground passageway was standing wide open. Benny Cole was inside.

I listened intently at the open doorway but didn't hear anything. Nor was there any light to be seen in the passageway. Just to make sure that Benny hadn't set a trap for me, I checked the storage closets to be sure that they were empty and the door to the house to see that it was still locked. All seemed to be in order, so Benny must have entered the underground passageway.

A quick scan of the stairway leading down to the passageway with Lorelei's night-vision monocular revealed that it was empty, so I eased my way onto the landing and started down the stairs into the near-absolute darkness.

Once at the foot of the stairs, I scanned the entire length of the passageway. The concealed door opening upon a tunnel and verticle passageway that Lorelei and I had discovered last night was standing ajar. The rest of the passageway was empty.

Had Benny taken that tunnel instead of going on up to the warden's office? Either that, or he'd left that door ajar to trick me into thinking he'd gone that way. Of course, I couldn't assume that Benny knew anyone would follow him, but then again he might.

I listened at the doorway to the tunnel. All was quiet. Eerie quiet.

Once again, using Lorelei's night-vision monocular, I eased my way into the entrance to the hidden passageway we'd discovered, carefully scanning the tunnel for any signs of activity. None of the rubble appeared to have been disturbed. It appeared unlikely that Benny had climbed into the tunnel.

The door to the laddered passageway leading down was closed tight. There was no way Benny could have climbed down those stairs--or was there? Ever so cautiously, I lifted the door and scanned the passage. There were no signs that anyone had been on those ladder-steps. Just the smell of death that we'd noted the night before lingered in the air. Therefore, Benny must have headed right on up to the warden's office. Who knew where he'd go from there if he intended to torch the place as Alex had said he did.

I closed the door to the tunnel and replaced the stone that concealed the handle. Then, being as quiet as possible on the cobblestone floor of the passageway, I moved cautiously but quickly to the stairway leading up to the warden's office. Then, as I began to climb those stairs, I smelled cigar smoke, heavy cigar smoke--and gasoline.

The smells grew stronger and stronger as I approached the warden's office. The door leading to that office was slightly ajar and I chanced a look through the opening.

Benny Cole was there, all right. He was seated on the warden's old desk. By the illumination provided by the moon and starlight that streamed in through the windows, I could make out the reddish glow of a cigar in Benny's mouth--and get a clear view of the revolver that rested on the desk under his right hand.

The slight yet wiry old man sitting hunched over there on the warden's desk looked aged and drawn in the yellowish moonlight, a shade of light that seemed to accentuate his every wrinkle, yet he appeared rather dapper in a fashionable sport shirt, slacks, and athletic shoes. But Benny mostly appeared careworn and he was breathing hard, his chest heaving as if the events of the night and the climb through the underground passageway had winded him--and I had to remind myself that Benny Cole had to be in his late 80s or early 90s.

A two gallon gasoline can of the kind people use to transport gas for their lawn mowers was on the floor in front of Benny. From the smell, I'd guess that he'd slopped some gasoline out of the can somewhere in the room either accidentally or deliberately.

As near as I could make out, the gun in Benny's hand was of a type used as service revolvers by police before about 1980. Maybe Benny had taken Alex Dymond's old service weapon. Maybe I could get him talking and keep him from torching the place until I could work out a plan. It was now or never. Keeping out of sight behind the door until I could determine his response to my being there, I called out, "Hello Benny!"

"That you, copper?" Benny Cole responded, his voice strong but raspy. He looked my way but made no move to raise the gun.

"It's me, Benny."

"Thought you'd be along soon, copper. Been a-watchin' you ever since you found the ol' Toyota at the front gate."

"I thought you were long dead, Benny."

"Long dead, huh? Ha! Ha! Ha! He! He! He! He!" Benny threw back his head and laughed the near-hysterical laugh Coral Lea and I had heard coming from Alex Dymond's house after Benny had stabbed the old cop. "Long dead? Not me, copper. Not me."

"I was told that a guy named Ivan Mako nailed you years ago?"

"Ha! Ha! Ha! He! He! He! He! That's what Travis O'Call told you, wasn't it?"

"Yes."

"Come on in here, copper. I ain't gonna shoot you, not if you behave yourself like I tell ya an' ya keep away from me, anyway. Besides, I kinda like you, even if you are a copper, what with the way you came lookin' for my killer after all these years, an' the way you was nice to my friend, Travis. Yeah, copper, come on in!"

I kept a wary eye on Benny Cole as I pushed the door open and came into the office. Even though he had the gun under his fingertips, I figured I could work my way close enough to him to knock it out of his hand or get back into the shelter of the passageway if he raised it in anger. To be honest, it was the sloshed gasoline and Benny's glowing cigar that concerned me even more than his having the gun.

"Yes, Benny, Travis O'Call told me he thought Mako nailed you. Said that he'd warned you against getting too close to Mako but that you wouldn't pay attention to him."

"Ha! Ha! Ha! He! He! He! He! Oh, my, yes! yes! yes! Did Travis ever warn me about Ivan Mako! Did he ever!" Once again Benny threw back his head and laughed, then suddenly was serious. "Travis was my friend to his dyin' day, copper," he continued, his voice a husky whisper, "and he didn't tell you the whole story. That's 'cause he was covering up for me. See, Travis was my friend, an' he was covering up for me. Coverin' up for his ol' pal, Benny Cole. Yeah . . .. Yeah . . . ." Benny was starting to ramble.

"And what is the whole story, Benny?" I interrupted Benny's ramblings.

Benny Cole looked at me for several moments, then took a long drag on his cigar and blew the smoke in rings toward the ceiling. "Okay, copper, I'll tell you how it was. Like I said, Travis was my friend. In fact, he was about the only real friend I had in the whole asylum. 'Buggy.' 'Buggy,' they called him." Benny leaned forward and lowered his voice. "You asked for the whole story, copper, and I'll tell you straight and simple and true: Travis slipped me a shiv the morning about fifteen minutes before I went to meet with Mako that last time."

"Slipped you a shiv?"

"Yep. It wasn't just any ol' shiv, either, it was Travis's own shiv--and it was a good one. He'd made it from a piece of metal he'd pried off the frame of his bed. He must have spent a million hours sharpening it on the concrete and stones, but he got it sharp as a razor. And, somewhere he got some tape and wrapped it around one end of the shiv to make a handle that gave a good grip on the shiv. You get the picture, copper?"

"Yes, I get the picture." I shifted on my feet just a little, wanting to inch closer to Benny but not so fast that I'd alarm him into using the gun in his hand.

Benny sat there, smoking his cigar, and from the look in his eyes, I wasn't sure but what he was back in the asylum with Travis and the others some sixty years ago. Finally, after several minutes, he again focused on me, and then hesitantly continued:

"Ivan Mako was a big, tough, sadistic rascal. Mean as they come. I guess Travis told you that. Mako thought he was gonna make mince-meat outa me. Gonna beat me up until I told him a few things he wanted to know, and then he was gonna kill me. See, I knew things that Mako didn't want anyone to know about. Travis knew that Mako had killing me on his mind, and I knew that, too. I wasn't so dumb as to not know what Mako was up to. Only Mako wasn't ready for that shiv in my hand." Benny's voice drifted off. "Neither was ol' Alex Dymond, the dirty copper," he murmured, his voice now near a whisper.

"You stabbed Alex Dymond tonight. Why'd you do that, Benny?"

"'Cause he killed my friend, Travis." Benny's voice was cold, matter-of-fact.

"He killed Travis O'Call?"

"Yep. Dymond got awful uptight when he learned that you'd been to visit Travis. See, Travis had secrets that ol' Alex didn't want shared with anybody--especially another cop. Yep. Ol' Travis had secrets . . . ."

I was beginning to put things together. "But Alex sheltered you all of these years, didn't he?"

"'Cause I knew what he'd done here in the asylum. I knew what he'd done, all right."

"What had he done, Benny?"

"Copper, you ain't dumb. You've got a pretty good ieda of what he did. Let me tell you, when you found that bloody club with his fingerprints on it, ol' Alex Dymond went plumb wild--near crazy as a loon, I'd say. Screamed so loud on the phone to his buddy, good ol' Lieutenant Bret Carson, that I heard him clear up in my apartment. Screamed at Carson an' that other cop, too."

"What other cop?"

"Some guy named O'Brian. I don't know his first name, but Dymond called him after he got done yelling at Carson. Told them both they'd better protect him, or they'd all be in serious trouble. Don't know what he meant, though. Maybe you do?"

"I don't know what he meant about them all being in trouble, but Dymond killed somebody, didn't he?" I inched closer to Benny--but this time he noticed.

"Step on back there, copper," Benny rasped. He waved the gun in his hand, and I stepped back, fearful that I'd broken our conversation. Moments later, though, the old man put down the gun and continued: "Yep. Alex Dymond killed a man, an inmate here at the asylum, with that club. Wasn't all that he did, but that was the worst I know of for sure. Some said he'd killed before, but I don't know about that."

"What was the man's name?"

"Don't know that, either. Did once upon a time, but I can't remember it now. Travis knew, though, and he coulda told you. That's why Dymond killed him."

"Did you actually see Dymond do it?"

"Yep. I saw him do it. Didn't have the best seat in the house, but I saw enough to know he did it. Oh, I know that back then people believed I was crazy and that my word wouldn't stand up against Dymond's in court, what with Dymond being a cop an' all--but I can tell you what they did with the guy's body. You can check this out, too. With all the new stuff like DNA testing, there shouldn't be any problems linking the guy's body with the blood on that club. Maybe you can identify him from his teeth, too. Travis always said they could identify him by his teeth. Me, I don't know."

"What did they do with the body, Benny?"

"Oh, yes. The body. You know where that little hidden door is, the one down in the passageway you just came through, right, copper?"

"Right."

"I thought you would, but I opened it so you'd be sure to see it when you came through. Wanted to make sure you'd discovered it. Anyhow, once you're through that door, there's another trap door that opens on a laddered passageway that goes straight down. It's kind of like a big hole in the ground with a ladder on one side."

Benny took another drag on his cigar, and suddenly it hit me just how much danger he was inviting in that position. "Get off that desk, Benny," I growled, "or at least get the cigar out of sight."

"What? Get off the desk? Get the cigar outa sight? What for? What you gettin' all worked up about, copper?"

"You're making yourself into a prime target for a sniper by sitting up like that where you can be seen from outside, and the cigar just gives any sniper a bull's eye to aim for."

"What? A sniper? Aimin' at me? Ha! Ha! Ha!" Benny obviously didn't comprehend the seriousness of the situation.

"Yes, Benny, a sniper. Now get down." While Benny was considering my demand, I edged a little closer to him.

"Who's gonna . . . ? Back up, copper." Once again, Benny waved the gun at me. "Who's . . . ?"

"Snap out of it, Benny," I interrupted. This time, I didn't back away from him. "By now, Dymond has alerted his buddy Carson, and Carson has gathered his friends if he needs them. They're going to be looking for you right here, and they'll shoot you down and claim it was because you were dangerous, especially after what you did to Alex. They'll claim you had a gun and they fired in self-defense, and nobody will be able to prove otherwise. It would be my word against theirs."

Benny cocked his head and looked at me through squinted eyes. He wasn't taking me seriously regarding the danger. He then turned to stare out the window as if he were looking to see if anyone were out there, though, and while he did, I inched just a little closer to him. I'd keep out of a sniper's line of sight myself if I could, but I would try to get Benny out of harms way when he gave me the chance.

"Come on, Benny. Get off the desk. We can talk with you sitting on the floor or standing over there or over there, and you'll be out of the direct line of fire." I pointed to the corners of the room.

"Oh, all right." Benny stood up, but didn't make any move toward the corners of the room. "Now, I was askin' if you knew about that passageway--the one that goes straight down like a hole in the ground."

"Yes. I know the passageway you mean. Now, come on, move."

Benny stayed where he was standing. "Okay, copper," he began, "then I'll tell you its significance." He paused, thinking for a moment, then continued. "That passageway leads down to a kind of underground burial vault. I'd guess there may be three or four guys interred there, at least that's what some of the older inmates told me. For sure, the one Dymond killed is there. I seen 'em take him down. Wrapped him up in a piece of carpet and carried him right through the place toward that vault."

"Carried him through the asylum? Right past the inmates?"

"Yep. Oh, the inmates were all officially locked in their cells so they wouldn't see anything, but some of us didn't stay in our cells. Know what I mean? Not at night, anyway, and several guys saw this carpet being carried from the dungeon to the warden's office--and we knew what was inside that carpet and where they were taking him. See, they couldn't bury anybody outside on the grounds, not after the inmates found that guy out there in the garden, back in the 1930s. You know what I mean?"

"Yes. I know."

"Sure, copper. You'll see what I mean when you take a look. You like goin' underground, so go down there in that tomb sometime and take a good look around. You'll be surprised at what you'll find there. Maybe you'll even find Mako's carcass there. I sure don't know what they did with his remains. Lot's of crazy things happened at the asylum back then. They got away with 'em 'cause the warden and the guards and the cops were all in cahoots. Even the governor was involved in covering things up for 'em. Do anything they wanted, the cops could and did, an' nobody'd say a word. Kill 'em if they did. They didn't care. Crazy guys like me and Travis didn't count to 'em. They didn't think we even was human. Didn't think we . . . ." Benny was starting to ramble again, but he was saying things about what happened in the asylum that I'd heard before--and I believed him.

"Where does the tunnel lead, Benny? The one you can enter when you open that door, the one you left open for me?"

Benny stood there a few moments, looking out the window, thinking, all the time drawing in and exhaling the cigar smoke. "Don't rightly know where that tunnel leads. You can see it curve to the right aways back, though, and that takes it back under the asylum. Wish I'd had the chance to explore it, but I never got to. Now, if I had to guess, I'd guess it might connect with the furnace room. I never got the chance to explore it, but I'll bet you're going to. Am I right?"

"I will if I get the chance. Now, Benny, you said that you saw Dymond kill this man in the dungeon. Where were you when you saw him do it?"

"Ha! Ha! Ha! He! He! He! He! You want to know all of ol' Benny's secrets, don't ya, copper?"

"Yes, indeed. Evey single one."

"All right, I'll tell you where I was that afternoon. Tellin' you 'cause I like you. 'Cause I like you. See, copper, you could get to the dungeon two ways. The one is the way I'm guessin' you came into it--through the old storm sewer. That's the way I went out of the asylum after Mako got his with the shiv. See, I knew they'd make up a good story to cover up Mako's unexpected departure, so I went straight to see ol' Dymond. Told him that he'd better put me up and take good care of me, 'cause if he didn't it'd be all over for him, an' maybe some others. He knew it would be, too. The other way into the dungeon was the regular door. It was made of steel."

"Come on, Benny. Move it. Get out of the line of sight through the windows and sit in the corner where you'll be safer." I motioned again at the corners of the room where I wished he'd go. When he didn't budge, though, I continued with his line of thought. "You're right about how I got into the dungeon. And, maybe you already know, but they've sealed the regular door leading to the dungeon, Benny, welded it tight so you can't get there that way anymore. Sealed the little window shut, too."

"Figured something like that. Otherwise, you'da gone in the regular door. Anyway, back while Dymond was in there beating up on this poor guy, I was just outside that door watchin' through the little window. Wasn't supposed to be anybody like me around 'cause we was in what they called 'lock down'--but I was around. Some of them locks they had weren't all that much trouble to open. Oh, yeah, copper, there's two ways to get to that dungeon door, too, the door you say they've welded shut."

"Two ways?"

"Yep. You can lift a heavy trap door in the basement and go down the stairs. That's the way you're supposed to go. But there's a hidden passageway under those stairs that not many people knew about. It goes underground like a tunnel for a ways, and then you climb some steps and you're up into a storage area in the furnace room. Even if they blocked those stairs leading to the dungeon, like they did while Dymond or Mako or one of the other tough guys was in there beatin' up on a poor slob, you could still get down to that door--and that's how I got there to watch Dymond do his thing."

Even though Benny's story was interesting, there was something else I just had to know. "Do you still have the diamonds you stole, Benny?"

"Ha! Ha! Ha! He! He! He! He! Copper, you do want to know everything. Truth is, Mako and the warden got most of those diamonds away from me--said they'd lock 'em up tight in a safe and keep 'em for me 'till I got out. Of course, they lied."

"They got most of them away from you?"

"Most of 'em, but not all of 'em. I gave a few of 'em to Travis. Don't know if he got out of the asylum with 'em or not. 'Course he couldn't hardly sell 'em, at least not right away, 'cause the cops would know they was stolen."

"What's this about Mako and the warden saying they'd keep the diamonds for you?"

That's what they said. They even gave me a key they said fit the safe they wre gonna put 'em in. Said I could get 'em when I got out. 'Course I couldn't, not after I killed Mako. It was a mistake on my part to trust 'em with my share of the diamonds, but I was confused some of the time back then, and I didn't know quite what was goin' on."

"Was the safe they were going to use here in the asylum?"

"I don't know where the safe was--or maybe still is. That whole business was just another lie they told me so I'd cooperate with 'em and pull another heist. I think they just ripped off my share and figured I'd be dead anyway, once Mako got through with me." Benny had been gazing out the window, but he suddenly stiffened and turned to me, his eyes now blazing in the semi-darkness. "Looks like you was right about 'em comin' for me. There's a big black car cruisin' by out there, and I've seen it before. Yep, we're gonna have some company, copper."

I started toward the window to have a look, when Benny picked up the gun by his side and waved me back. "Just stay over there, copper. It's been fine talkin' to ya, but I've got a job to do here tonight, somethin' me and ol' Travis talked about more 'n' once. And, I'm hoping the whole city will see the blaze!"

"I can't let you torch this place, Benny. you know that." I edged ever closer to the old man, and got ready to spring at him.

"Get back, copp . . .!"

CRACK! Glass shattered and shards flew across the room as a high-powered rifle bullet blasted through the window. I'd seen movement outside, and I dove at Benny, got my arm around him in order to pin his gun arm to his side, and we lurched out of the line of fire together before the shooter could get off another round.

We'd hit the floor hard and Benny was moaning as I dragged him to a corner of the room. There was blood all over his shirt from where he'd skinned his arm, but he didn't appear to be hurt too badly. The gun he'd been carrying had skittered across the floor. I retrieved the gun and tucked it into my waist band, and thanked my lucky stars that the gasoline hadn't spilled--not with that glowing cigar flying around. Moments later, I had that cigar ground out against the floor and the gasoline can safe from Benny in an opposite corner of the room.

Benny had said that company was coming and I assumed that he'd seen somebody at the gate. When I cautiously looked that way, though, I didn't see anyone or any vehicles there except the Toyota and the Ford I'd driven. Still, somebody was out there and shooting at us and they'd probably come after us to make sure they'd finished the job. And, of course, they'd find it necessary to eliminate both of us.

I checked on Benny. He'd skinned his arm, tearing the flesh when we hit the floor. It would be painful, but the wound wouldn't kill him. I didn't have much to use for a bandage except my shirt, though, so I stripped it off, tore a piece from the bottom, folded it, and wrapped and tied it around his arm. "We've got to get ready before they come looking for us, Benny," I told him. He moaned his agreement.

"Does Alex Dymond know about the passageway between the garage and this office?" I asked, almost certain of the answer but wanting to make sure.

"Yep. He knows. Oh, copper?"

"What is it, Benny?"

"Sorry I didn't listen to you. Sometimes I don't think so good."

"It's okay. I'm just glad they didn't hit either of us."

"Me, too. Bullet had my name on it, didn't it?"

"It sure did. Now, listen, Benny."

"What is it?"

"I've got some people coming to back me up. They're good people and they won't hurt you, but they may not get here before Carson or whoever these people are who are looking for you. We've got to be ready when they get here."

"I . . . I . . . I don't . . . I don't know . . . don't know what . . . what to do. What . . . What . . . can . . . I . . . do?" Benny whimpered.

I felt sorry for the old man. He was scared, rightly so, and he was hurting, huddled in the corner where I'd pushed him. He seemed frozen there, but I was going to have to move him to a more protected place. "Take it easy, Benny." I tried to be reassuring, as I looked around the room, devising a plan.

"We gotta get outa here, don't we?" Benny whimpered.

"No. They'll be waiting for us." I'd been keeping a stealthy watch out the windows, and I'd seen human activity near the warden's house. I couldn't see the walk-in door to the garage through which both Benny and I had entered, but the activity was such that I had no doubt but what someone already was in the garage.

"Let's get you over here," I whispered. Benny was shaking as I helped him scoot across the floor to the other side of the room where he'd be hidden behind the metal file cabinet when somebody came through the warden's office door.

"You scared, copper?" Benny's voice was quivering.

"A little, but I've learned to use it." I'd come to understand the truth my old Army instructor had taught: If you make fear your friend, you'll come to welcome him because he'll bring you clarity of thought, extra strength, and heightened senses. I hoped I could rely on my fear tonight.

"Sorry I got you into this mess, copper," Benny whimpered.

"It's okay. No talking from now on," I cautioned. Benny nodded his head in agreement.

I got the gasoline can out of sight and positioned myself behind the desk in a way that I could keep a close eye on the doorway while exposing as little of myself as possible. Then I settled back with my Beretta in my hand--waiting. Whoever was out there, Carson most likely, or his hired guns, couldn't be sure if they'd hit Benny with that rifle shot, and they knew I was in here, so they'd have to track both of us down. We'd let them come to us.

I'd left the door wide open when I'd entered the office and I left it that way, the better to see any light from the flashlight whoever was coming through that passageway might be using. They'd almost certainly be using a flashlight, too, because none of them had been in that passageway, at least for a long time.

I had a feeling that we wouldn't have long to wait--and we didn't. Moments later, I detected a flicker of light through the open doorway.

A flashlight swept over the wall back of the doorway. It was time for action. "Hold it right there and identify yourself," I called, using my best command-voice.

"Who is it?" I could tell from the words that it was Carson.

"One more time! Hold it right there and identify yourself if you don't want shot."

"Carson. Lieutenant Carson. Police! Get your hands in the air." I saw the barrel of a rifle swing through the doorway.

"Forget it, Carson. Put the gun down. I've had you in my sights ever since you approached that doorway."

"That you, Sawyer?"

"It's me, the guy you've been shooting at."

"Not at you, Sawyer. I had the old man in my sights. Where is the old man, anyway?" Carson was keeping himself behind the doorway, and from the way he kept waving the rifle around, I could tell he'd spent way too much time behind a desk. Like many career desk-cops, he'd forgotten how to handle a gun, especially in an emergency situation--if he ever knew.

I'd stall him a little for time to give Lorelei and Coral Lea a chance to get here. "What old man, Carson? Who are you talking about?"

"Benny Cole. Alex said I'd find him here. Said I'd probably find you here, too."

"I'll bet he did. Put the gun down, Carson, and step inside the room. If there's anybody with you, tell them to put up their weapons. You better believe I won't hesitate to shoot, not after being shot at only a few moments ago."

Carson stepped through the doorway, keeping the rifle barrel angled down at the floor and away from me. He was wearing slacks and a polo shirt, dressed as if he'd just come from the golf course. "If you're protecting the old man, Sawyer, you're an accessory to murder. Obstruction of justice. Whatever. I can think up a bunch of charges--and I've got a mind to arrest you, too."

"Forget it. It's all over, Carson. Alex Dymond's been found out, so you might as well--"

"Nobody'll ever know or be able to prove what Alex did," Carson interrupted, "Not after I take care of the two of you. But I'll tell you, Sawyer, it'll go a whole lot easier on you if you give the old man up to me. And I'm going to give you just thirty seconds to think about it."

"Nobody'll ever know? Nonsense, Carson! Plenty of people already know what went on out here. Dymond's the one you'd better be concerned about now. It's no secret that he killed a man right here in this asylum. And it's no secret that he killed Travis O'Call, the old man in the nursing home, and the nurse that spied for him. You know all that and you still protect him? It's not a good spot that you're in."

"Nobody's going to know the facts, not with you and the crazy old man out of the way. Now, Sawyer, you've got twenty seconds, and that old desk you're behind won't stop a bullet. If I have to, I'll go find the old man myself."

I watched Carson silently, knowing full well that I could cut him down with the Beretta before he could swing that rifle around to fire at me if I had to, yet hoping that I wouldn't have to--and then I saw a shadowy figure move behind him.

Benny Cole was on his feet and moving silently behind Carson. As I watched and Carson fidgeted, swinging the rifle toward and away from where he thought I was hidden behind the desk, I saw Benny's bony left arm quietly yet methodically encircle Carson's neck.

"You've got just ten . . . Yii!" Carson yelped in alarm and started to bring the rifle around as the old man tightened his choke-hold on the cop's throat, and then I saw Benny's right hand clutching the shiv--driving it forcefully toward the cop's chest.

There wasn't any way I could have reached Benny in time to prevent the attack. Blood spurted from Carson's chest as Benny drove he shiv home horribly deep, once, twice. Then the rifle clattered to the floor as Carson clutched grotesquely at his chest, and the cop crumpled fast as the old man released his grip on his throat. Blood was spurting everywhere.

Benny tottered there a few moments, unsteady on his feet, looking down at Carson with the glimmer of a smile on his lips, then clutched the desk for support. "Got him, too, copper! Ain't nobody gonna take a shot at me an' then threaten a friend of mine and get away with it," he whispered, still swaying but trying to steady himself against the desk.

"Sit down, Benny."

The old man backed haltingly away from Carson's body and sat down on the desk. He was shaking.

"Ya know he was Dymond's buddy, don't ya, copper?" Before I could respond, Benny continued, "This guy tried to fix things for Dymond, tried to cover his tracks for him. From what I heard 'em talking about, though, this Carson had stuff he was coverin' up, too. Lotta crooked stuff goin' on. Put a warden like we had . . . ." Benny was rambling again.

"Yes, I knew that Carson was Dymond's buddy," I broke in.

"When I see a guy like Dymond gettin' away with murderin' my ol' pal, my head gets a spinnin', an' it's spinnin' right now, copper. But, I reckon there's been enough killin'. Guess I oughta just give this to you, huh, copper, 'for I use it again?" Benny held out the shiv. I nodded, and the old man laid it down on the desk, then pushed it across the top in my direction. His hands were shaking as he drew back away from the shiv, as if he were glad to be rid of it.

I knelt down and took a close look at Lieutenant Carson, and then checked his pulse. I thought he was dead, but I had to be sure. That done, I took a handkerchief, wrapped it around "Benny's shiv, and placed the weapon well out of his reach.

"Hey, copper. Look. There's a car out front, out by the gate!" Benny whispered excitedly.

I looked. "It's okay, Benny," I reassured the old man. "That car belongs to a friend of mine."

"Another copper?"

"Yes."

"There's three of 'em gettin' out of the car, copper, there's a guy and two women, and they're all a-packin' heat. The guy's got a . . . a shotgun . . . a big shotgun. Looks like the one woman is leading them toward the garage. They're comin' here, ain't they?"

"Yes, they're coming here, but it's okay, Benny. Just sit tight." I switched on my flashlight and beamed the light out the shattered window so Lorelei, Coral Lea, and Al would know where we were.

We could have communicated using our cell phones. Still, both Coral Lea and Lorelei knew that I didn't like using them, didn't like the possibility that we'd be broadcasting to anyone who might have a device with the capacity to listen to us.

Therefore, Lorelei and I had worked up a simple code that we could use to communicate the basics with our flashlights, and I used that code now, moving the flashlight in a kind of box pattern to let her know that we'd had serious difficulties, that they should hurry, and that she should be alert for trouble.

Moments later, after the two women huddled, Coral Lea beamed her flashlight up at our window to let me know they'd seen us, waving it in a triangle code to let me know Lorelei had interpreted my signal and that one of them would watch the entrance while the others would join us as soon as possible.
Chapter 17

The sky in the east was just showing light as Lorelei showed Coral Lea the way through the underground passageway and into the warden's office. When I saw that Coral Lea had her gun in her hand and was ready for anything, I called out to her that everything was okay. I couldn't blame Coral Lea for being nervous about stepping into a crime scene, of course, but Benny had calmed down and wasn't likely to come after her.

None of us had any sleep that night and it didn't look as if any of us were going to get any substantial rest anytime soon. We had a real mess on our hands, what with a newly-dead cop, Lieutenant Carson, on the floor, retired cop, Alex Dymond, injured and maybe dying in a hospital somewhere, and their killer, a man adjudged to be criminally insale over 65 years ago, recounting stories about age-old murders and bodies interred beneath the asylum. And that wasn't even to mention the murderous deaths of Travis O'Call and his nurse, and the arson fire at a witness's apartment!

There was only one thing to do as far as I was concerned, and that was to call Internal Affairs. Coral Lea and Lorelei both agreed with me and moments later Coral Lea had Richard Junco on the phone, explaining our situation and where he could find us. "Bring Annie Kattley with you," Coral Lea requested, and Richard said he'd do just that.

Richard Junco's been an Internal Affairs cop for almost thirty years. He's a big guy, maybe six-four and two-hundred-plus pounds, with close-cropped blonde-turning-grey hair of a style that saw him through the Korean war, an honest cop if there ever was one--and he's seen it all. Annie Kattley's a young gal who's been with Internal Affairs maybe two or three years, a wiry blonde who, like Richard, can only be described as a squeaky-clean, honest cop. They were the best ones we could hope for to work with us on this mess. At least, I didn't think that either of them had connections to Bret Carson or Alex Dymond.

"These ladies both coppers?" Benny Cole's raspy voice blurted out at me, once he saw that Coral Lea was off the telephone.

"No." I introduced Lorelei as an attorney and Coral Lea as a detective.

"Attorney, huh? Way things have been goin', I reckon I'm gonna need one of them!" Benny exclaimed. He climbed shakily to his feet and extended his hand toward Lorelei.

"This lady is okay, too, Benny," I told him, referring to Coral Lea as I did so. She, too, took the old man's hand, but I noticed that she didn't take her eyes off Benny's hands as she did so. Smart girl, what with shaking hands with a man who'd just killed a couple of people, I'd have kept an eye on his hands, too. And, I wondered just how much control Benny actually had over his actions now, and whether he had another weapon on him. He'd certainly warrant keeping an eye on.

"Lot of terrible stuff went on in this ol' building," Benny said, turning his attention to Lorelei.

"Tell me about it," Lorelei invited, sitting on the old warden's desk and taking out her notebook.

The old man hesitated, sat down almost at Lorelei's feet, leaned back against the wall, and scratched his head. "Don't rightly know where to begin, young lady." He sounded puzzled, confused.

"You can start anywhere you'd like to, Benny," Lorelei responded, her soothing voice calculated to put the old man at ease. Lorelei was masterful at putting people at ease, and I could see that Benny was beginning to relax. "How about telling me about what went on in the asylum when you were here.

Benny turned to me. "Is it . . . Is it okay to tell her . . . tell her some of the things I told you about, copper?" he asked.

"Sure, Benny," I reassured him.

"The old man's eyes were wide, almost fearful. "She won't think I'm just a . . . just a . . . a . . . crazy old man?"

"No. She'll listen to you. And, she'll ask questions if she doesn't understand something."

"Okay. I'll tell you how it was," Benny began, turning his attention to Lorelei.

If there was one thing Benny apparently enjoyed, it was talking. Of course, he'd never had an audience before. Certainly not one like the one he had now. Sure, he rambled some, and sometimes it was hard to tell his truth from what might be fantasy, but Lorelei is skilled at asking questions that would help her verify the things Benny had to say.

Once Benny started talking, he kept going. In fact, he was still talking about his experiences as an inmate in the asylum when Richard Junco and Annie Kattley arrived on the scene about thirty minutes later.

I left the asylum after giving my statement to the two Internal Affairs cops and assuring everyone that I'd be close by if I could help. Frankly, I was hungry and completely exhausted from yesterday's and the night's activities. I'd get the rest of Benny's stories from Lorelei.

Al was still seated at the entrance to the warden's garage where he'd parked himself with his shotgun when he arrived with Lorelei and Coral Lea. From his vantage point, he could see the gates at the front of the asylum as well as keep an eye on the entrance to the passageway leading to the warden's office.

I chatted with Al for a few minutes, filling him in on what had taken place that night.

Al chuckled. "So it all began because you and Lorelei have this crazy hobby of crawling through sewers and tunnels and places like that?"

"Yes, I guess so. Of course, we were out here partially because I was interested in whatever actually happened to Benny Cole."

Al grinned. "What a case! What do you figure's going to happen to Benny now?"

I'd been thinking about that, too, but I didn't have an answer for him. "Put him back in an asylum, a mental institution of some sort, I suppose. Right now, Al, I'm too tired to even think about it."

Al waved his hand. "Go on home, Phil. Get some rest."

"Can I give you a ride somewhere?" I asked, knowing that he'd come with Coral Lea and Lorelei but not certain if they'd made plans for later.

"No, thanks." Al motioned toward the cell phone on his belt. "I just talked with Coral Lea on the phone, and she said she and Lorelei were taking me to lunch before long, as soon as they reach a breathing space."

"Okay. Talk to you later," I assured him, as I started to walk toward the front gate and the Ford I'd driven here earlier.

I'd only gone two or three steps when I became aware that Al was walking beside me. "Phil? Can we talk for a second?"

"Sure." I slowed my pace and turned toward Al.

"Something between you and me, okay? Personal stuff?"

"Sure."

"Both Lorelei and Coral Lea really think a lot of you, Phil. I guess you know that."

"I guess I do."

"Phil?"

I looked at him, almost certain of what he was going to ask. "Yes."

"Have you got your eye on either one of them? I mean, like marriage or dating?"

I now knew for sure where this conversation was going. "No."

"Not even with the way they talk about you? I mean, like they've both said a number of things--"

"Al, I'll be honest," I interrupted "I'm very fond of Lorelei and I really like Coral Lea, but they're both too young for me. Way too young. Now, if I was your age--"

"Too young for you? I can't--"

"Yes, I mean it, Al. Lorelei is only 38 years old. She's got most of her life left. Coral Lea is 47. Me, I'm 62. There's too much of an age gap for me to let myself get serious about either of them." It wasn't that I was all that certain that our ages made any difference, but it made a good cover for my not having to tell Al that I didn't feel up to putting another woman directly in harms way like I had Joanna.

"Phil, I don't think that's the way it works these days."

"Mabe not, but you're in a better position to pursue either Lorelei or Coral Lea--and they're both winners in my book."

"No hard feelings if I ask one of 'em out, then?"

"No hard feelings. In fact, I'll wish you success right now."

We'd reached the gate. I shook Al's hand and wished him well, then climbed through the opening and continued on to the Crown Victoria. Another official-looking car drove up and parked just as i drove away from the asylum. Before long, a full-scale investigation would be under way.

It was time for me to spend a few days at the residential hotel where I have a room, pick up whatever mail might have accumulated for me there, and see if I had any messages. Instead of returning to my room over the Mill Street Bar, therefore, I headed uptown toward the hotel.

I parked the Ford in the hotel's secured underground parking garage, then went up to my room, picked up two letters that had been left there, and checked my voice-mail. One of the letters was an advertisement for credit cards and I threw it away. The other letter, however, appeared to be a personal note of some sort in a handwriting I didn't recognize so I shoved it in my pocket to read later. There wasn't a return address, and that always makes me a little suspicious. A share of my fan mail is from somebody I helped send away to prison years ago and who now wants to get even with me. Maybe this was one of those.

Two messages were waiting for me on voice-mail. Both were from an ex-con who went by the name of "Ace." I'd relied extensively on him as an informant when I was a cop, and both of his messages urged me to call him as soon as possible because he had something important for me. Maybe so. At the very least, he'd earn some cash for whatever tip he had for me. Whatever, it would wait until I had eaten.

Over a roast beef sandwich at the restaurant next door to the hotel, I opened the letter. To my surprise, it was from Ace. I'd never seen his handwriting before because we'd always talked in person or on the telephone, so there was no reason that I should have recognized the handwriting.

Ace's note was short and to the point: "You're in deep trouble, Sawyer. Call me."

I'd have called Ace then and there if I hadn't been so bone-tired. Instead, I went back to my room in the hotel and crashed. Besides, Ace usually sleeps all day, so I'd probably have to wait until that evening to find him anyway--most likely at the Unruly Tiger, the "unruly" part describing the usual activities of the patrons, some two miles from my hotel.

When I woke up, I glanced at my clock. It was two o'clock in the following afternoon. I'd slept for almost 24 hours. I'd taken my telephone off the hook, so I checked for voice-mail messages. There was Ace again: "I know you're home, Sawyer. Meet me at the usual place tonight if you can, and watch your back." He'd called about an hour ago.

Ace's message aroused my paranoia. Just how did he know I was home? A shrewd guess on his part. Likely not. I'd better watch my back.

Having checked for additional messages and finding none, I got dressed and went out for a hamburger and fries. I'd meet Ace tonight to see what he wanted, but there was still some time for a much needed nap that afternoon. Leaving the telephone off the hook, I went right back to sleep.

It seemed as if I was just drifting off to sleep when my alarm clock jangled. It was nine o'clock in the evening and time to get ready to go see Ace.

I drove past the Unruly Tiger and circled the block, checking for known vehicles parked nearby. There weren't any that I recognized immediately, so I parked the Ford under a security light and looked things over. The Tiger was just beginning to rock and there were guys and gals around the area, but nobody looked especially suspicious.

It seemed odd to me that Ace's old Chevrolet truck wasn't anywhere in sight. It could be, of course, that he wasn't there yet, or maybe he had a new vehicle, but the truck's absence made me uneasy.

I walked to the door of the Tiger, went in, and looked around. Ace wasn't at his usual table. The bouncer, an off-duty cop I've known for as long as Ace and I have been meeting at the Tiger came over. "Lookin' for Ace?' he asked.

"Yes."

The bouncer shook his head. "He's usually here by now, but I haven't seen him. Do you want me to have him call you when he comes in?"

"No. I'll come back later tonight. Oh! By the way, does Ace still have his same truck? The old Chevrolet?"

"That's what he was drivin' last night."

I thanked the bouncer for his information, went back outside, got in the Crown Victoria, and thought about where Ace might be. He probably was just a little later than usual, but I'd drive around a bit and see if I could spot his truck.

The parking lot was filling up, but I didn't see Ace's truck anywhere there, so I cruised the streets arround the Tiger. No luck. Then I noticed some vehicles parked in the alley in the next block. One of them looked like Ace's truck, so I drove down to take a look.

I'd found Ace, all right. He was slumped over the steering wheel in this truck--dead! From what I could see, my guess was that he'd taken a small-caliber handgun bullet in his head. Up close. Maybe he knew and trusted the person who shot him, but it wasn't to be my investigation. Other cops would have to figure out what happened.

There was a pay telephone just around the corner, so I made a quick 911 call and then called Coral Lea. She said she'd alert Lorelei as to what was going on, so I went back around the corner and into the alley to keep an eye on the scene and wait for the cops.

Ace had tried to alert me to something. He'd said that I was in trouble.

After I gave what information that I had on Ace to the cops who responded by my 911 call, I drove back to the Tiger and told the bouncer what I'd found. He said that Ace hadn't seemed upset or worried when he'd seen him last night. Nor had Ace confided anything to him that might help locate his killer. We both knew that Ace had given me information on a number of unsavory types, any one of whom might have killed him.

It was late, maybe midnight or later, when I drove back to my hotel and parked the Ford in what seemed to be the last vacant space in the secured underground parking garage. Then, just as I climbed out of the car, I sensed movement behind me. Before I could turn, a gun barrel was shoved into my ribs. "Get back in the car, slow and easy, Sawyer," a man's voice hissed.

It was a bad situation, but these kind of situations usually don't get better if you simply comply with the demands. Might as well fight back. Without hesitation, I kicked sharply back and down against my assailant's shin bone, intending to stomp down on his foot with all the force I could muster, while at the same time I twisted away from the gun. My assailant screamed right in my ear as my boot crushed into his leg and down on his foot. He hadn't been wearing overly sturdy shoes and I'd broken bones in his foot. I'd bet on it.

My self-defense instructors would have been proud of the way I managed to get a hand on the wrist of my assailant's gun hand and push it away from me just as he jerked the trigger. CRACK! My ears rang as the bullet smacked almost point blank into a nearby concrete pillar, showering us with pellets of concrete.

Quickly twisting even further toward my assailant, I pushed the gun completely away from me and then kicked his feet out from under him. The man fell hard as his knees buckled, landing him on his back with a thud. Moving as fast as I could, I knocked the gun out of his reach as he released his grip on it in order to use his hand in an attempt to break his fall.

"Stop right there! You hear me! Stop right there!" The security guard was shouting as he came up. He'd come running, a canister of pepper spray in his hand, as soon as he heard the shot. Then he saw me. "What's up, Phil?" he asked. He still had the pepper spray aimed at the figure on the ground, but it wouldn't be needed.

I told him what had happened. He kicked the gun even further out of the way, grabbed his cell phone and speed-dialed 911, all the while keeping an eye on--Mark Johnson.

"What did you come after me for, Johnson?" I asked.

Johnson's eyes raged up at me with fierce anger and hatred. "You . . . You took those pictures that Coral Lea used against me," he hissed up at me, then doubled up his right fist and started to get up.

"Stay right there on the concrete 'till the cops get here," the security guard growled at him, "and they're on the way." He waved the pepper spray canister at Johnson, then walked over and stood over the gun that had been stuck in my ribs, making sure it stayed out of Johnson's reach.

Johnson dropped back to the floor, his burning eyes still focused on me. There was no point in my responding to his comment about the pictures. He wouldn't have believed anything that I said, let alone acknowledge that he was at fault for Coral Lea's leaving him, anyway.

I looked over at the gun he'd dropped. It was a .22 caliber revolver, the caliber of gun that likely had been used to kill Ace. Maybe Ace had been on to Johnson's going to come after me? That would be an angle for the cops to check into--and I now heard the sirens in the distance. They'd be here soon.

The security guard was on his cell phone again, directing the cops on how to locate us.
Chapter 18

I gave my statement to the cops, saw Mark Johnson get handcuffed and taken away in a police car, and then slowly climbed the stairs back up to my room. It had been a long time since I had any sleep, and I was feeling every minute of it.

Even though it was an awful hour to call someone, I thought I'd better let Coral Lea know what had happened so I called her before I went back to bed for what was left of the night. She wasn't surprised to learn about her soon-to-be-ex-husband's murderous intent.

It was broad daylight outside when I awoke. I knew that even before I looked at my clock because the sun was brightly illuminating my window shade. It was terribly tempting to simply roll over and go back to sleep, but moments later, before I could do just that, my telephone rang. The caller ID identified the caller as Lorelei, so I picked up.

Lorelei's always perky: "How about some lunch with me?" she asked.

I wasn't going back to sleep. "Sure thing. Where and when?"

"I'll pick you up in front of your hotel in twenty minutes. Can you make it that soon?"

For Lorelei, I'd do it. "I'm just waking up, but I'll try."

"Great! I've got some new and exciting stuff to talk over with you, okay?"

"Okay!"

"Bye!"

Here we go again! I had to chuckle, because whenever Lorelei says she's got some "new and exciting stuff" to talk about it usually means she's got an interesting place she'd like us to explore, likely underground and with at least a hint of danger associated with it. I could only guess that she'd learned something new from Benny about the asylum, or maybe she'd had the chance to check some things out about the place on her own. I'd find out soon enough, and right now I needed that twenty minutes to get ready.

"What do you say we go to a drive-in restaurant? We can talk while we eat in the car." Lorelei asked as we drove away from the hotel.

"Sure." That probably meant that she had some things she wanted to talk about that we couldn't talk openly about in a crowded restaurant. To be honest, Lorelei's enthusiasm is highly contagious and I was beginning to feel the excitement building in my own mind and body for whatever new and exciting project that she had in mind.

Lorelei didn't want to talk about Benny Cole or any of the stuff that had happened recently except to say that Internal Affairs had seen to it that Benny was in a secure mental facility instead of a jail cell. Instead, as soon as our burgers and fries were delivered, she unfolded some maps she'd sketched of the asylum's underground passages. "We've got to stay out of the crypt, the place where Benny says they dumped the bodies, at least for awhile, because that's now officially a crime scene, but I've sketched out another underground area that may prove, well, interesting! Maybe even more interesting!"

"Okay. Let's see your maps. What do you have here?"

Lorelei grinned. She didn't directly answer my question, but I could tell she was leading into an answer. "Benny likes to talk, right?"

"That's true! I think he's got a bunch of interesting stories just waiting to be told."

"Well, Benny told me an especially interesting story. Of course, it may be nothing but a figment of a crazy old man's imagination, but it just might have some truth to it. That's what we're going to find out." Lorelei paused, teasing me, her brown eyes sparkling.

"Go on."

"It seems as if this is a story that was passed down from one generation of inmates to the next. Know what I mean?"

"Sure."

"Remember the blueprints we looked at, the ones that showed where the asylum's original heating plant was located in a separate building but later was incorporated into the main building?"

"I sure do. There was a tunnel connecting the old heating plant with the main building, a tunnel you thought was still accessible with a little work. Filled in with rubble at the one end, maybe, but mostly accessible. Right?"

"Right on! Now, to finally get to Benny's story. It seems as if many years ago the inmates were pressed into duty during the winter months to shovel coal into the furnace in that early heating plant. At least, that's the story, and it has a ring of truth to it.

"Anyway, one night while one of the inmates was on coal-shoveling duty, in the company of an armed guard, of course, there was quite a commotion on the stairs leading down to the furnace room. Three men came into the room accompanied, interestingly, as you'll see later, by the warden. They didn't just 'come' into the room, either. Instead, to quote Benny, they 'burst into the room.'

"The guard tried to hustle the inmate into an adjoining storage room, but he wasn't fast enough to keep the inmate from seeing the men--and the inmate recognized one of them as a mobster--or gangster. Benny uses both words to describe the one man. Said that's the term 'criminals of their ink' were known as back then, and that this reputed mobster had been pictured in the local papers enough to be well known. Of course, the inmate also recognized the warden.

"The two men with this mobster kingpin were carrying what appeared to be a very heavy wooden box between them. As the story goes, these men were big guys, probably bodyguards, and they were having a little trouble navigating the stairs with their heavy box.

"Anyway, the warden directed these three guys to a doorway in the back of the furnace room. As the inmates told the story, this door was always locked with a huge padlock, but the warden unlocked it with a key from his belt-ring. Even though the inmate now was shut in a storeroom, he was able to see what was going on through a crack where the door didn't fit perfectly.

"The inmate next heard sounds of what sounded to him like people digging in the earth with a pick and shovels. A little later, the inmate heard the mobster direct his two men to place the wooden box in the room behind that door, probably in a hole they'd just dug. There were sounds like dirt being shoveled, and the inmate thought they must be covering up the box.

"One of the men gave the guard what appeared to be a handful of cash, the warden relocked the door, and the entire party quickly left the room. The guard later threatened the inmate with instant torture and death if he ever told anyone what he'd witnessed." Lorelei paused.

"So, Lorelei, what do you make of all this?"

"Wait. Before I answer that question, there's even more to this story. Here's the kicker. About two days later, this mobster and several of his bodyguards were shot dead in an ambush by a rival gang. Nobody ever saw that box leave that room, even though inmates continued to be used to shovel coal around the clock during that winter. Oh, and there's one other thing. The asylum guard who saw the whole thing died in an accident just a few days after the mobster was shot."

"And I'll bet that you've sketched out the location of that original furnace room and the tunnel--"

"Oh, yes, but there's even more I've just got to share with you before we get to that!" Lorelei exclaimed, interrupting me in her enthusiasm. "Benny told me about other tunnels, tunnels that the inmates constructed, well partial tunnels, anyway."

"Connected to the original furnace room, or . . . ?"

"Well, I got a whole bunch of information about tunnels from Benny, some of them related to the story about the mobster's box of gold or whatever that I've been telling you, and some related to other things. Like I said, Benny's full of stories."

"I'm all ears."

"It seems as if there were several escape attempts back in the early years. The inmates found the time and place and where-with-all to dig tunnels with the hope of escaping the asylum, and some of those tunnels were never found by the authorities--although Benny didn't know if any of the escape attempts were successful.

"But before I get us completely off track, here's where I'm going with my original story: The inmates through that the box hidden in a closet just off the furnace room contained the mobster's cache of gold, and there were several attempts to tunnel into that room where that box was believed to be hidden. Benny tried to tell me where he'd heard those tunnels began and ended, and I sketched them as he told me what he remembered. They may not actually exist and my drawings may not be accurate, of course, but maybe we'll have the chance to find out. I mean, Phil, we've got lots and lots of exploring to do!"

"Oh, boy!" Have you had a chance to verify any of Benny's story about the mobster's cache?"

"Just a little. The part about a reputed mobster and several of his bodyguards being gunned down by rival gangsters may be true. I found a newspaper account of such a happening at a time that would correspond with the asylum using the old heating plant."

"That's interesting. Any record of missing gold?"

"Maybe. I found a biographical sketch some newspaper reporter wrote about the reputed mobster several years after he was killed, and the account indicated that a large amount of 'cash' purported to belong to the guy was never found. Oh, Phil. This is changing the subject, but before I forget, there's one other thing I've got to show you." Lorelei was more excited than I'd seen her for some time.

"Okay."

Lorelei reached into her purse, took out something, and placed it into my hand. It was a key, probably the key to a large padlock.

Of course, I had to ask: "What does this open?"

"I'm glad you asked." Lorelei grinned over at me, her brown eyes continuing to dance with delight. "The cops replaced the padlock and chain around the asylum's front gates. Don't ask me how, but I just happened to end up with a key to that lock. Oh, yes, yes, yes! And while I was looking around the asylum grounds, I found two other ways to get inside the main building. They're locked, but I don't think you'll have any trouble with the locks."

"Good girl, Lorelei. So when do you propose that we got take a look for the gold?"

Lorelei grinned over at me. "You're on my wave length, Phil. How about tonight?"

"Sounds good. Let's do it. What time shall I pick you up?"
Chapter 19

Lorelei was smiling as she greeted me at her door that night, dressed as usual for our exploration of the underground in grey jeans, denim shirt, and sturdy trail shoes. In addition, she was carrying her boonie hat and her small military-surplus ditty bag. Besides the infectious smile, it was her dancing brown eyes that most accurately expressed her anticipatory excitement, and I couldn't miss the unmistakable pleasure of her perfume.

"Ready, partner?" Lorelei asked, raising her hand in a "high-five" position.

"You bet I'm ready, partner." I high-fived her hand. It was our standard greeting when we were about to embark on a new adventure.

"Good! Let's go, then!" Lorelei placed her ditty bag in the back seat and climbed into the Ford beside me. We circled the asylum twice, checking as best we could with Lorelei's night-vision monocular to be sure that no one was lurking around and, at the same time, looking for an appropriate place to park where the Crown Victoria wouldn't draw undue attention to itself. Finally, we settled for parking in the wooded area near where we'd parked on our last night-visit to the asylum. Once we'd selected our parking spot, Lorelei called Coral Lea to let her know where we'd be, using a code so that we wouldn't have to broadcast our location if anyone were able to listen in on the cell phone conversation. Coral Lea confirmed our chosen parking spot and said that she'd keep an eye on the Ford--and us.

There was a gate at the back of the asylum grounds, a potential entry-way that Lorelei and I had considered before but never used because it was a relatively long way from the garage where we planned to enter the asylum, Tonight, however, that gate was especially inviting because it was almost directly opposite a doorway that, should we be able to unlock and enter through it, would place us close to where the early heating plant was located. Not that it wouldn't take some doing to locate the site of the early heating plant once we were inside the asylum, but we'd be relatively close, and that should make our work easier--we hoped.

Hiking through the wooded area in the direction of the gate proved to be rough going, moreso than we'd thought, and it took Lorelei and me the better part of an hour to reach the gate. The padlock on the gate was old and starting to rust, but I got out my locksmith tools and was just settling down to work on it when Lorelei's cell phone vibrated. (She has it set to vibrate rather than ring whenever we're exploring, just so that it doesn't ring unexpectedly and alert anyone who might be nearby.)

A glance at the Caller ID feature indicated that the call was being placed from a public telephone. That might mean that Coral Lea was calling with something important for us. Loreeli answered with a quick, "Yes."

"You don't have to talk, Lorelei. Just listen." It was Coral Lea's voice. She knows that we don't want to talk on Lorelei's cell phone if at all possible while we're exploring because we just might broadcast our location if not our entire conversation to an enemy.

Lorelei listened. I hunkered down and went to work on the rusty padlock.

"When I circled the asylum about an hour ago," Coral Lea began, as Lorelei reported moments later, "I spotted a dark blue Camero cruising the area. It seemed to be prowling around, backtracking every now and then, so I parked and let it pass me in order to get the tag number. Then, I called a friend and got the number run through the Motor Vehicle Department. I just got the ID back--and thought you should know what I found out.

"It might not be the Camero we're particularly interested in, of course, but this Camero is registered to Tom O'Brian's sister--who lives or used to live upstate about 200 miles. Thing is, I'm almost certain that the sister is dead. I haven't confirmed that yet, but I'd bet that O'Brian has kept the registration in her name for whatever reason. Anyway, I just wanted you to know that a blue Camero registered to O'Brian's sister is out there prowling, and that I'll be keeping an eye on things as best I can for you. Now, you guys be careful out there, and I'll talk to you later. Over and out."

Somehow it didn't surprise me that Tom O'Brian would be associated with a dark blue Chevrolet Camero. Not that it necessarily was the same Camero I'd seen in the alley behind my room over the bar on the morning when someone took a shot at me, but Coral Lea's discovery was an exceedingly interesting development to say the least. Now, if we could establish a link between O'Brian and Carson or Dymond or the asylum. Maybe I could do that tomorrow. At least, I'd give it a try. For now, though, the challenges of exploring the asylum demanded that I put O'Brian and the blue Camero out of my mind.

It didn't take all that long to open the padlock on the back gate. Lorelei and I slipped inside the open gate and I arranged the lock to appear as if it were locked tight even though we could pop it open if we had to vacate the premises in a hurry. That done, I secreted one of the motion-detectors I carry on a post near the gate to alert us if someone came near the gate through which we'd entered the asylum grounds.

The gate through which we entered had at one time been a service entrance to the asylum. Once the gate was opened, a paved drive allowed trucks to bring supplies to the back of the main building. Lorelei and I followed that drive, keeping in the shadows as much as possible, until we came to a door. it was one of the entrances Lorelei had scouted out while she was at the asylum two mornings ago.

Of course, the door was locked, but it didn't prove to be much of a challenge to open it. Moments later, I had it open. While I inspected the door for any possible alarms or trip wires, Lorelei carefully scanned the entire area with her night-vision monocular for any signs of human activity. Nothing seemed to be out of the ordinary.

I placed another motion-detector near the door, then cautiously opened it a few inches. Both Lorelei and I quieted ourselves and stood there for a long moment, listening intently for any sounds that might indicate human activity inside the asylum. No sounds were to be heard.

"Ready, partner?" I whispered.

"Yes. I'm ready."

Lorelei and I slipped quietly inside the door and I closed it behind us, letting it lock itself as we did so. It would open from the inside without my having to pick the lock. As our eyes adjusted to the blackness within the asylum, we could tell that we were standing within a small empty entry-room.

Two large doors opened off that entry-room, one directly in front of us and one to our left. From the blueprints we'd studied, the stairs leading down to the furnace room would be through the door to our left. The other door should lead to the kitchen area.

Moving as silently as possible, Lorelei and I moved to the door that led to the kitchen area. It wasn't locked, and Lorelei opened it slightly so that we could listen for any sounds. Hearing nothing, we turned our attention to the sturdy door to our left.

The door we believed to open on the stairs leading down to the furnace room was locked. Once again, I settled down to work on it while Lorelei continued to inspect the room and, using only her tiny penlight for illumination, make some sketches and notes in her notebook.

This lock was not as easy to open as the padlock on the gate or the one on the door to the asylum because someone had at one time or another attempted to jimmy the lock and had botched the job, leaving the mechanism rough and difficult to manipulate. Even so, after a great deal of experimentation and minor frustration, I finally managed to get it unlocked.

With the lock unlocked, the door should have opened smoothly on its hinges. It didn't. Something was holding it shut.

I didn't like using my flashlight because any such light would be visible to anyone looking through the window in the outside door. Therefore, I ran my fingers carefully around the edge of the door and its frame, searching for anything that might be hindering the door's opening. When I couldn't feel anything blocking the door, though, I called to Lorelei and had her stand so that she would shield the direct light from my flashlight from the window. There might be a very little light visible, but not the direct glow.

Moments later, under the beam from my flashlight, I found the reason the door wouldn't open. Someone had wedged a piece of metal between the top of the door and its frame. To judge from the battered end of the wedge, they'd apparently hammered it into place, because it was solidly placed.

Now that we knew what was holding the door in place and where it was located, we didn't need much light. I switched off my powerful flashlight and motioned for Lorelei to come see the wedge by the glow of her miniature penlight.

"Can you get that thing out of there?" Lorelei whispered her question after she'd examined the obstacle.

"I'll try."

Fortunately for us, the door, although originally constructed of sturdy wood, was somewhat weakened by age and neglect. Using the thin titanium pry-bar I always carry in my tool kit, I managed to pry the door downward enough to slightly loosen the wedge. While I held the door separated slightly from its frame with the pry-bar, Lorelei worked a thin magnetic probe against the wedged metal and managed to pull it out.

"Why? Why did somebody do this?" Lorelei whispered her question as she held up the metal wedge for my inspection.

It was a good question. I examined the chunk of metal, but couldn't tell just what it had been before someone had cut and formed it into a wedge. "I don't know."

"Just a hinderance--or a trap?"

I shook my head. "I don't know."

"Do you suppose it was originally meant to keep somebody from getting into the basement, or to keep somebody on the other side from getting out?"

Again, I had to admit that I didn't know. Maybe we'd find out someday, or maybe we never would. There are a lot of questions in life that are never answered, and this just might be one of them.

There didn't appear to have been anything tied to the wedge such that we'd have pulled a wire or string by removing the piece of metal so, after inspecting the rest of the door and its frame to make sure there wasn't something else wedged there, I cautiously pulled it open.

Lorelei beamed her most powerful flashlight into the darkness beyond the door to reveal the stair landing that we thought was there. By the glow of her flashlight, we could see the wide, sturdy steel steps and handrails descending. Still cautious and aware that any light we used could be seen from the window until we closed that sturdy door, we stepped onto the landing and carefully closed the heavy door behind us.

We stood there at the top of those stairs in near-total darkness, listening carefully for any sounds below or around us. Not hearing anything, Lorelei switched on our florescent lantern and we got our first look inside the asylum's furnace room.

"This place is spooky," Lorelei whispered, accentuating the word 'spooky.' She clutched my arm. "I'm glad you're with me, Phil," she added.

Lorelei was absolutely right. That basement furnace room was, indeed, for lack of a better word, spooky. And perhaps the discovery of the metal wedge designed to thwart anyone attempting to enter--or escape--the room lent an eerie touch to our sentiments of the moment. Someone had wanted to keep that door closed!

Enough of that. From our vantage point, we could make out the two huge boilers that once heated the monstrous asylum. Whereas the old heating plant relied on coal for fuel, these more modern furnaces appeared to have been gas fired. Large pipes of various diameters near the ceiling of the room cast a multitude of eerie shadows, and we could make out several doors around the perimeter of the room.

Lorelei had her notebook out and was studying the sketches she'd made of the locations of the tunnels Benny Cole had told her about as well as the location of the entrance to the tunnel that still--we thought--connected this room with the now filled in old heating plant. Of course, we'd have to clear the old tunnel of rubble, but that shouldn't be hard once we'd located it. After all, the mobster's gold cache just might prove to be our reward for the work of clearing that tunnel.

"Are you ready to go on down into the basement?" I whispered.

Lorelei was still studying her notebook. "No. Not quite yet."

"Okay." I waited as Lorelei raised her night-vision monocular and carefully studied the entire furnace room, pausing every now and then to study the sketches in her notebook. After she finished, I touched her arm. "Show me what we've got."

Lorelei rested her notebook on the stair railing and held her penlight so that I could study it over her shoulder. She pointed out where she thought the tunnels should be located while I viewed the locations through her monocular.

"Okay, thanks, Lorelei. Ready to go downstairs now?"

"When you're ready, I'm ready."

I studied her notebook sketches a few moments, then whispered, "I'm ready. Let's go on down and look around."

We climbed down the sturdy steel stairs, pausing every so often to look around and study the windowless room from different perspectives. Once we were at the floor level, Lorelei set up the florescent lantern on the stairs and turned it up to its highest intensity. Then, with flashlights in hand, we proceeded to carefully inspect the asylum's furnace room.

The stairs on which we descended were against the north wall of the cavernous furnace room. From our vantage point high on the stairs, we could make out two doors, one near the northwest corner of the west wall and another, partially hidden behind the boilers, about midway along the south wall. The east wall would be the asylum's foundation wall.

Lorelei and I walked completely around the boilers, carefully studying the room, Lorelei making occasional sketches and notes in her notebook. We could have taken some photographs but Lorelei's sketches have proven themselves to be better at providing the details we want.

As near as we could determine, the furnace room in which we now stood was located one level above and perhaps twenty or thirty feel over from the dungeon where we'd begun our exploration of the asylum. Benny Cole had told us how a tunnel of some sort originated in the furnace room and exited under the stairs leading down to the dungeon. At least, that was how I'd interpreted his report of how he'd managed to get to the door of the dungeon and watch Alex Dymond beat up on one of the inmates. Furthermore, we assumed that the tunnel from the original heating plant connected with this room, and maybe other tunnels as well.

In order to pursue the cache of mobster gold, we'd have to locate that tunnel leading to the original heating plant, clearing whatever might block our passage, then navigate through the rubble to where the old heating plant had been located. Finally, we'd have to locate the site of the storage room where the gold was thought to have been deposited. That might not be possible, of course, and certainly wouldn't be an easy task, but the thrill of the chase was what had always been most important to us, perhaps more than he actual discovery of treasure--although in this case, the treasure might prove extremely valuable.

In addition to our treasure hunt, of course, we'd thoroughly explore any other tunnels we might discover, keeping in mind the several little mysteries we'd encountered when we'd visited with Benny Cole. All in all, it appeared to me that the old asylum was filled with mysteries--and perhaps the answers to a few of them! We'd see.

Once Lorelei had finished mapping the room in her notebook, we turned our attention to the first of the doors, the oversized one in the west wall near the foot of the stairs. It was a sturdy wooden door without any visible locks, so I assumed it opened on a storage or work area.

As is our custom, we listened carefully at the door and I checked it for any signs of a trip wire before we opened it, moving it effortlessly on its once well-oiled hinges. The relatively large room beyond had indeed been a storage and work-room, and even now a variety of tools hung on the walls. A sturdy, oil-stained, work bench stood against the north wall.

"Can you see anything that looks like the entrance to a tunnel?" Lorelei asked, her voice a hushed whisper, as she beamed her powerful flashlight around the room

My eyes followed her light, but I didn't see any such tunnel entrance. "No, but let's take a closer look. Remember how we found the hidden door in the underground passageway that runs between the warden's garage and his office. Whoever constructed that tunnel certainly was good at concealing the entrance. Whoever constructed this tunnel may have been equally as good."

"Let's find out," Lorelei whispered, her voice filled with enthusiasm.

We started by slowly walking around the mostly empty room, checking every inch of the concrete walls and floor, and even the ceiling. Nothing that even resembled the entrance to a tunnel was visible.

The only piece of equipment in the room was the work bench. If a tunnel entrance were in that room, a most logical place would be behind the work bench. With Lorelei's help, I pushed the work bench away from the wall, but there was no tunnel opening hidden behind it that we could see.

"It's not here." Lorelei's voice was flat. Disappointed.

"Maybe not, but let's take another look at your sketches."

Lorelei consulted the sketches she'd made in her notebook. "According to what Benny Cole told me, the tunnel leading down and over to the dungeon's entrance should begin in this area." She moved her hand in an arc to emphasize the north west corner of the storage room we were in.

"Could be that somebody sealed it." I looked over the tools and selected a fairly heavy sledge hammer, then began to tap it lightly against the wall just a little above floor level. Before long, as I hammered the wall behind where the work bench sat, we were rewarded with a crackling CRUNCH! as the hammer broke through concrete.

"You did it!" Lorelei whispered excitedly. She dropped to her knees and played her flashlight beam into the hole I'd broken into the wall. "There's rubble behind the concrete, but I'll bet that's it. That's the tunnel!"

I continued to tap the thin wall of concrete until I'd opened up the entrance to a small tunnel leading down at perhaps a 30 degree angle in the direction of where we knew the dungeon room was located on the sub-basement level. We'd found the tunnel.

"Benny knew what he was talking about, didn't he?" Lorelei was elated at our find.

"He sure did."

The tunnel we'd exposed appeared to be well-constructed of stone with the ceiling shored up with sturdy timbers. Still, it was small in size, measuring perhaps 18 inches square. The stones on the tunnel floor were arranged in some semblance of steps, not regular steps but in an irregular pattern such that a person could use them as steps. Lorelei would have no trouble climbing through that small tunnel, nor would Benny Cole have had trouble climbing through it, but the tunnel reminded me of some of those tiny tunnels I'd wriggled through in Vietnam--and brought back memories I'd just as soon forget. Not that I couldn't make it through that tunnel or didn't want to, but it would be tight.

We debated just a little as to whether we should go ahead and explore the tunnel we'd just discovered or if we should turn our attention to locating the other, larger tunnel that we thought would connect us with the old heating plant--and maybe the buried gold. In the end, however, there was no way we could delay exploring the tunnel at hand.

Lorelei brought the florescent lantern into the storage room and we closed the door behind us. I wedged it shut with some scrap lumber that was lying on the work bench and propped a shovel handle under the door knob. There was no way we wanted to be discovered and interrupted while we were in that tunnel.

Someone had stacked up stones in the tunnel entrance and then filled the opening with the concrete we'd broken through. Before actually entering the tunnel, we had to clear the rubble that now blocked the entrance. It took a little work, but fifteen minutes later we had the entrance cleared. Now we'd see where the tunnel actually went.

Leaving the florescent lantern as close to the tunnel entrance as possible to provide what light it could, Lorelei scanned the tunnel with her nigh-vision monocular and then, having discovered nothing lurking within her vision, climbed into the tunnel--head first. As soon as she was several feet into the tunnel, I followed, moving on my stomach down the stone-lined slope.

Lorelei and I have a simple and silent signal-system we follow whenever we're moving through a narrow tunnel such as this one. I touch her ankle at regular intervals to let her know where I am, and in turn, she positions her feet in such a way to let me know that things are progressing smoothly or that she's encountering difficulties.

Our trip through the tunnel proved uneventful that night. Twenty minutes later, we both were out of the tunnel at the opposite end. Just as Benny Cole had indicated, the tunnel opened via a narrowed exit to the side but directly under the stairway leading down from the asylum's basement to the sub-basement dungeon.

To our relief, the stairway hadn't been filled in when they'd sealed off the dungeon door. We were able to wriggle under the lowest stair step and, that accomplished, find ourselves standing at the door to the dungeon we'd explored several nights ago when we first visited the old asylum.

Somehow Benny Cole had managed to reach the furnace room and then crawl through that very tunnel on that long-ago night when he'd stood at the window in the door to the dungeon and watched Alex Dymond murder a man in that room. How Benny came to be in that furnace room might never be known, but from some of the things he and Travis O'Call had hinted at, it would appear that security at the asylum often was relatively lax and keys were not that difficult to duplicate or steal.

Lorelei and I examined the door that once opened into the dungeon. As we had observed from the inside on that first night when we'd explored the dungeon, it had been welded shut and a piece of sheet-steel welded over the window.

The welding had been skillfully done. There were no "skips" around the door and even the key hole had been welded shut.

Lorelei and I stood outside that door for several minutes. Somehow the atmosphere in that confined space leading to the dungeon seemed singularly oppressive, perhaps even chilling. One could almost feel the long-ago screams of the inmates who were being abused behind that door.

Turning away from that doorway, Lorelei and I examined the stairs leading up to the basement level. There indeed was a trap door at the head of the stairs, a trap door that now was closed but apparently not locked because we could raise it. In fact, we debated about going up into the asylum through that trap door, but decided against it for that night. After all, we'd come to begin our search for the mobster's gold--and we'd pursue that search. Exploring the rest of the asylum would have to wait.

After we'd studied the stairway and the part of the basement we could see when we raised the trap door at the head of the stairs, Lorelei and I began our return trip through the tunnel and back up into the furnace room. It was slower, uphill going this way, but the rough stones provided reasonably good traction for our trail shoes and we managed to climb almost silently through the tunnel.

Once in the furnace room, Lorelei and I pushed the work bench back against the tunnel opening and piled the broken concrete and rubble in an out-of-the-way corner of the room. A careful observer would, no doubt, determine that someone had been in that room, but a causal observer might not. At least, that was our hope as we turned off our lights, opened the door, and cautiously stepped out into the darkness of the furnace room, listening intently as we did so for any signs of nefarious human activity.

Hearing no sounds of human activity in the cavernous furnace room, Lorelei again switched on the florescent lantern. Then, just as she was about to position it on a table, the alarm on my motion detector monitor vibrated.

"Lorelei! Somebody's moving around near the gate!" I whispered the alarm.
Chapter 20

Lorelei quickly switched off the florescent lantern and we both froze for an instant while I checked the motion detector monitor to be absolutely sure it was activity at the gate and not someone at the door directly above us at the head of the stairs. I'd read the monitor correctly, however, and it indeed was the detector I'd placed on the fence near the gate sending the silent alarm. Someone was at the gate!

As quickly and quietly as possible, Lorelei and I gathered up our gear and cautiously hurried up the stairs to the door of the asylum through which we'd gained entrance earlier that evening. Lorelei immediately scanned the area outside the door and along the fence using her night-vision monocular which she focused through the outside door's narrow window.

"There's a figure out by the gate, all right! He's in the shadows," she whispered. Lorelei paused, scanning, then continued. "Now, I can see him more clearly. It's a man, all right, and he seems to be examining the lock." Moments later, she added. "He's got a gun, a rifle, I think."

I looked around at the entryway where we stood, quickly assessing the various places where we might hide or ambush any intruder who might make it through the back door, and was just turning back to confer with Lorelei when she exclaimed, "Wow! Someone just caught him full on the face with a powerful flashlight. He's running away like crazy, heading off to the left through the brush, away from the light." She chuckled. "That light sure spooked him!"

"Good. It's likely Coral Lea who spotted him--and spooked him with her tactical flashlight." At least, I hoped it was Coral Lea who had him under surveillance.

"I . . . I hope so, too," Lorelei whispered. "Phil, he . . . he was carrying a rifle, maybe with a scope, but I can't be sure about the scope. I . . . I could see the rifle more clearly when he ran." From the way her voice quivered, Lorelei was a little shaken. In the distance we heard a car start up, but we couldn't be sure if it was the intruder's.

"Do you think we'd better call it a night?" I really didn't want to, but it was getting late and our visitor had made us cautious--or jittery. We'd have another chance to go after the gold before long, and we certainly would. But for now, . . . .

Before she could reply to my question, Lorelei's cell phone vibrated. "Yes."

"I think you gluys better get out of there for the night. I'll do my best to cover you and meet you as we planned." It was Coral Lea's voice.

"Okay."

That settled it. We'd clear out for tonight and compare notes with Coral Lea.

Lorelei scanned the area again, making as sure as she could that the intruder had really departed and wasn't returning. Then, after carefully locking the doors we'd unlocked earlier and retrieving the motion-sensing device I'd placed on the asylum's door, we both made our way to the gate, keeping low and to the shadows just in case the intruder had a night-vision scope on that rifle and was out there somewhere gunning for us. At the gate we retrieved the motion-sensing device that had alerted us to an intruder.

We quickly made our way through the brush, making more noise than we wanted to but wanting to hurry, and cautiously approached the Ford. While Lorelei scanned the area from a distance for any signs of an intruder and kept the Beretta at the ready, I made my way to and carefully inspected the car. Even though Coral Lea had been keeping an eye on it, I had to assure myself that no one had planted a bomb or slashed the tires. Finding nothing amiss, I started the engine and motioned for Lorelei to join me. Moments later, we were on our way down the highway with Coral Lea's headlights in our rear-view mirror.

After a short drive, Lorelei and I parked in the busy parking lot of a nearby restaurant and waited for Coral Lea to join us. A few minutes later, she pulled up beside us, then joined us in the back seat of the Crown Victoria.

"It's been quite a night!" Coral Lea exclaimed, after we exchanged greetings. She was slowly shaking her head as if she couldn't quite believe what had been going on, but she was smiling.

"What's been going on?" Lorelei asked.

"Phil's probably ready for this, but I wasn't."

"Okay."

"I told you earlier about spotting the dark blue Camero and learning that it was owned by Tom O'Brian's sister.

"Right."

"Well, after seeing the Camero prowling around the asylum again later, I parked where I could keep an eye on your car and also on the gate and back door where you told me you'd likely enter the building. Things seemed to be quiet. Oh, the Camero cruised by several times, but that was all. Just cruised by. Then, about an hour and a half ago, the Camero's driver drove through that wooded area where you parked, and apparently discovered your car. He cruised past it twice, slowly, and then I saw the Camero stop and park about a quarter of a mile or so on past where you'd parked.

"I figured that the driver might be hiking back to take a close look at your car, so I kept a lookout for him using my night-vision binoculars. Sure enough, guys, he showed up. I couldn't be sure that it was Tom O'Brian because of the distance and the brush around your car, and I didn't want to spook him unless it looked as if he was going to wire a bomb on your car or something like that--which he didn't do. At least, I didn't think he was messing with your car. He just looked over your car, keeping a little distance from it, but walking around and around. And, let me tell you, he kept looking over his shoulder like he didn't want to be caught there."

"I'll bet he didn't want to be caught there. How long did he stay looking things over?"

"Not very long. Ten minutes at the most. After the guy looked over your car, he hiked back to the Camero. I saw it drive away."

"He probably ran the license plate and figured out that I was driving the car," I suggested.

"I'd guess so. Anyway, he was gone for awhile, maybe close to half an hour or more, and I was beginning to think he wasn't coming back, when the Camero showed up again. This time, he went right on past your car and parked down where he had before, maybe a quarter of a mile past your car.

"I kept scanning the area around your car for him, thinking he'd be back to plant a bomb or at least a locator device on your car, something like that, but then I saw a figure up by the gate where you went into the asylum grounds. Same figure as before, only this time he was carrying a rifle.

"Maybe you'll tell me that I did the wrong thing. Anyway, I wanted to identify him and also I wanted to scare him off before he got a chance to take a shot at you guys, and I can only assume that's what he had on his mind. Therefore, I got out the most powerful flashlight I carry and beamed it right at his face. Zap! I'm good at aiming that light!"

"I'd guess so. You got him full in the face with your light the moment you turned it on!" Lorelei exclaimed.

"It was Tom O'Brian, all right," Coral Lea continued. "I recognized him the minute I got the light on his face. And, did I scare him off! He took off running hard, heading right back for the Camero, and when he got to it, he took off like a shot. It was after I saw him take off that I called you. Whew! End of story."

"Thanks, Coral Lea." Both Lorelei and I said the words at the same time.

"What do you make of all this chasing around, Phil?" Coral Lea asked.

I had to be honest; I didn't know what was going on with O'Brian. "I don't know what Tom O'Brian's up to, whether he's acting on his own or on somebody's orders, but I'll try to do a little research tomorrow and find out what I can about him and his connections. Have you got any ideas?"

"Not really, I don't know that much about him," Coral Lea replied. "What about you, Lorelei. Any ideas?"

"No, not off the top of my head. Like Phil, I'll try to do some research into his background." Lorelei turned to me. "The one thing I do know is that it's time for you to trade cars again, Phil."

"Right you are, Lorelei. I'll call Jim first thing in the morning." A glance at my watch told me that wouldn't be that far off.

I drove Lorelei home and Coral Lea followed. That night Lorelei and I did a thorough search of her house and garage while Coral Lea kept watch outside. Everything appeared normal. Before I left, Lorelei and I made plans to continue our exploration of the asylum and our search for the gold cache that night, assuming we didn't turn up a good reason not to--a not unlikely possibility to judge from the night's events.

Coral Lea followed me to the parking lot under the hotel where I was staying. She'd been up a long time and was ready for some serious shut-eye, just as I was, but we both wanted breakfast first. My clothes were dirty from burrowing through that tunnel under the asylum, though, so we went up to my room so that I could clean up and change clothes before we went to eat.

The Caller ID on my telephone was blinking, alerting me to the fact that I'd had at least one call. In fact, I'd had three over the course of last evening. They were all from public telephones, and none of them was followed by a message on my answering machine. i wrote down the numbers from which I'd been called, with the thought that I'd check their location later, not that that would likely tell me much, but then you never know.

Once Coral Lea and I had breakfast, I left her asleep in my room while I set off in a taxi for the public library to see what I could find out about Tom O'Brian. Most people don't think of newspapers as first-line sources of information, but I've been amazed at what you can find in the microfilmed copies of yesterday, especially about prominent people like the O'Brians who have been in the area for generations and own quite a bit of valuable property, and their families--and I struck potential paydirt right away: From the birth announcements of December of 1947, I discovered that Tom O'Brian's mother's maiden name was Mako. Bingo! That was a revelation. A little more sleuthing in the library's genealogy section revealed that she was Ivan Mako's sister. Double bingo!

Coral Lea mentioned that she thought the sister in whose name the blue Camero was registered was dead. I located the files of newspapers from the city in which she lived and, a little later, confirmed Coral Lea's recollection. Tom O'Brian's sister had passed away almost three months ago.

The knowledge that Tom O'Brian's mother was Ivan Mako's sister was, of course, of special interest to me. Like the O'Brians, the Makos had been prominent citizens in the area for many years, and I had no difficulty in locating information on that family.

According to accounts I'd read in the newspapers, Benny Cole died late in December of 1939. Of course, we now knew that he hadn't died at Ivan Mako's hands, as Travis O'Call had said. Instead, Ivan "the terrible" Mako died at Benny Cole's hands, and Benny was alive yet today. Time would tell if the police or the medical examiner would identify one of the bodies interred below the asylum as that of Ivan Mako. At any rate, I'd trust Benny's account of what happened to Ivan Mako until I could prove differently, but I'd also keep an open mind on the possibility that Benny hadn't told the whole truth.

In Travis's cover-up story, he'd said that Ivan Mako had simply disappeared after the supposed encounter with Benny Cole, that he'd perhaps taken a long trip abroad, perhaps with the cash he'd taken from Benny or other inmates. That explanation just might be true. After all, the Mako's had money, and might have wanted him out of the country.

The Mako clan had held a number of family reunions over the years, dating back to the 1930s, to judge from newspaper accounts. Ivan Mako was indeed mentioned as having attended those early reunions, including those held in 1933 and 1938. He was not listed as having attended the one held in 1948 or any since then--not surprising if he had been killed or sent out of the country in 1939.

There were a number of newspaper articles noted in the index as containing mention of the Mako family, and I began to sift through some of those dating in the 1930s just to get a feel of what was happening with the family. They were obviously well connected, having supported and kept close relationships with a number of prominent political figures of that era, including the governors and lieutenant governors of the state and several prominent judges.

But there were troubles within the Mako family as well. Serious troubles. Ivan's brother, "Junior" as he was called, had been arrested as part of a so-called crime-family and charged with numerous counts of racketeering and extortion. His case never came to trial, however, because the head of that "family" and his bodyguard, both of whom had turned state's evidence and were about to testify against Ivan Mako's brother, had been shot dead in what the newspapers referred to as a "gangland-style" slaying.

Interestingly, although I searched through a number of newspapers and throughout the index, there was no mention of that crime ever having been solved. Perhaps I shouldn't have been surprised.

After making some notes about my findings, I turned my attention to newspaper items mentioning Tom O'Brian. Twelve items about him were listed in the index. There was an account of his graduation from the police academy and other articles telling of his promotions within the police department. Other accounts detailed a daughter's wedding and a son's graduation from college. Nothing I read linked him to the Mako family other than the fact of his mother being a Mako--and that fact just might link him to a variety of nefarious activities.

As I was reflecting on what I'd discovered so far about O'Brian and the Makos, a couple of things didn't quite add up. Someone, it seemed to me, must have pulled some strings. What, I wondered, might Benny Cole have heard about the unsolved murder of Junior Mako's boss-turned-stoolie? And what might Benny know about Tom O'Brian? I'd find out.

Coral Lea and Lorelei were right about one thing: I surely needed another car. Back at my hotel, I discovered that Coral Lea had left for the day, having left me a "thank you" note with the request that I should call her when I returned. I'd do that, but first I called Jim Osborne and told him that I'd like another car. After listening to my story, he recommended a blue Chevy Cavalier that he'd been repairing. "It's not the kind of car that attracts attention 'cause there's a lot of 'em out there," he confided. Then, moments later, he added, "This Cavalier looks kinda cool, though, with neat pin stripes and fancy chrome wheels, not ratty like your last car did, and it's very reliable, too. You won't have to worry about a thing with it." That was good enough for me.

I was just about to hang up the phone when Jim exclaimed, "Oh, Phil!" as if he'd just thought of something.

"Yes?"

"Is this a secure line?" His voice was hushed.

"I think so. Let me check my tap detector." I looked. The little green light was glowing on my tap detector. Unless the cops had me tapped with some of their ultra-modern equipment, we were okay. I told Jim that I thought the line was secure.

"I guess it really doesn't make much difference whether it's secure or not. What I've got to tell you shouldn't come as a surprise to whoever's listening in." He hesitated, waiting for my response.

"You're probably right. What's up, Jim?"

"Remember when we picked up the Chevy Lumina you were driving, the one with the handwritten bomb threat in it? The car you exchanged for the Dodge Caravan?"

"Yes. I remember."

"We picked the Chevy up from behind the bar where you sometimes stay, right?"

"Right."

"Well, we looked it over pretty carefully after we saw that bomb threat, and we didn't find a bomb. But earlier today when we had it up on the lift, we spotted something unusual on the inside of the frame--a locator device."

"A locator device?"

"Yes. It's an older type, much larger than the new button-type locators they use today, or I'd never have found it. I'll keep it for you to take a look at sometime. I'd guess it was put there to keep track of you. I deactivated it, thinking we didn't want anybody checking out things around here if they haven't already, but then I got to thinking that maybe you'd like to put it on a car someplace sometime just to give whoever's trailing you something to chase around."

"Thanks for the information, Jim. And, that's an excellent idea. One of these days, we may want to put that locator on a car at random just to use as a decoy!"

Jim was probably right about the purpose of the locator. Somebody was keeping track of me, and I'd have to look over the cars I would be driving in the future to see if another locator had been placed on them. The trouble is that, just like Jim said, the new ones are tiny little button-type devices not much bigger than a quarter--and they're extremely hard to locate under a car. They're the color of dirt, and they blend right in with the rust and dirt that accumulates under a car.

I didn't know just how much Tom O'Brian or anyone else might know about my arrangements with Jim, so I made it a point to have Jim leave the Cavalier in a parking lot several miles away from his salvage yard. Then I called Coral Lea and asked her to pick me up in a parking lot where I planned to leave the Ford I've been driving for Jim to pick up. Even if O'Brian was on to us, he'd have to do a bunch of chasing around, and we might just spot him in the process. Then again, he knows he was spotted last night, so he might lay low for awhile.

Those arrangements with Jim made, I went down to the parking lot under the hotel where I live and cautiously approached the Ford I'd been driving, making sure no one was lurking around in the shadows. After gathering my gear together in the trunk so it would be easy to transfer to Coral Lea's car and carefully checking everywhere on the car I could think of for a locator, I drove the Crown Victoria out to where I'd arranged to leave it for Jim to pick up.

Coral Lea came by a few minutes later. She circled the parking lot, checking as best she could to be sure we weren't being observed, then parked her car beside the Ford. Moments later, I had my gear transferred and we were off to pick up the Chevy Cavalier.

I told Coral Lea what I'd learned that morning about Tom O'Brian's mother being a sister to Ivan and Junior Mako, and told her that I was going out to see Benny Cole. "Some things just aren't adding up in my head," I told her, "and I want to see if Benny can shed any light on the Mako's family."

Coral Lea didn't respond for a moment. When I looked over at her, she was frowning. "I'm uneasy about your going out there to see Cole." Her voice was harsh.

"Why so?"

"Just a hunch. That's all. No solid evidence, but . . . ."

"What's your hunch say?"

"Okay, I know this isn't going to make sense, but, Phil, ever since you've been digging up stuff about what went on in and around that old asylum, you've been brewing up serious trouble for people. Travis O'Call is dead. His nurse is dead. Alex Dymond is dead. Lieutenant Carson is dead. Somebody tried to set fire to Viola Martin's apartment. Somebody took a shot at you. You've had a bomb threat, and somebody placed a locator on your car. Now, Tom O'Brian seems to be gunning for you. My hunch is that something went on, or maybe it's still going on, that's a whole lot deeper than just a sadistic cop named Dymond killing a guy maybe sixty years ago."

"I know what you're thinking. That's the way I feel about it, too, and I want to see if Benny can shed any light on what's been covered up, or whatever's going on."

"Okay, Phil. Once you're on to something, I know you won't turn back--so I know you're going out there to see Cole. How about if I go along to back you up? Watch your back? Maybe get an impression from what I hear?"

"Good idea. Thanks. Let's go."

I'd leave my gear in Coral Lea's car and transfer it into the Cavalier later. Right now, I wanted to get out and visit Benny Cole while thoughts were fresh in my mind. With Coral Lea following at a distance I drove out to the Dodd Correctional Facility where they'd transferred Benny.

When we arrived at the correctional facility, we found that the area reserved for visitor parking was partially closed because the lot was being resurfaced. Lines on the parking lot were being repainted as well, and new non-parking zones were being identified.

With all of the construction underway, the small amount of space left for visitor parking was totally filled with cars. After driving around the side streets for a few minutes, however, Coral Lea found a space and parked her car across the street about two blocks away. I picked her up and we circled the correctional facility's visitor parking lot five times in the Chevy before we finally found somebody leaving, and immediately claimed their parking space.

Despite the "correctional" name, the facility was a place where they housed older and infirm or mentally ill prisoners who weren't deemed to be especially dangerous or escape risks. I wasn't so sure about Benny fitting into either one of those categories, but that's where the judge had placed him--and who am I to argue with a judge.

Since Coral Lea's a cop, it was relatively easy for us to get to see Benny. We had to leave our guns at the door, so to speak, and walk through a metal detector screening device, but that was about it for security. Fifteen minutes after we arrived, we were seated in a room reserved for visitors. Benny was ushered in a few minutes later, and the guard who brought him moved to a distance where he could keep an eye on us yet not easily overhear our conversation. Not that I thought for one moment that our conversation wasn't being recorded, probably by some sort of directional microphone, but the guard's location gave a semblance of privacy.

Benny was dressed in the usual drab clothes provided by the facility instead of the sporty attire he'd been wearing the last time I saw him, but the old man appeared dapper nonetheless. To watch him walk, one would never guess that he was nearing 90 years of age. Or maybe he was over 90? For some reason, I'd never discovered his exact year of birth.

"Well! Well! Well!" Benny exclaimed, his eyes lighting up when he saw us. "If it ain't the two coppers!"

"Yes, indeed! Hello, Benny," I responded.

"How are my ol' pals?" Benny started to extend his hand and would have shaken hands with us but the guard shouted, "Keep back! No touching!" and motioned for him to keep his distance from us, and the old man reluctantly sat down.

Once we'd exchanged small talk for a few moments, Benny eyed me and chuckled. "Bet you've got some more questions for me, eh, copper?"

I grinned back at him. "You're right there, Benny."

"I thought so." Benny chuckled again. "So, which of my many secrets do you wantta know this time?"

I got right to the point. "What can you tell us about a guy named Junior Mako?"

Benny physically recoiled just a bit, then slumped forward slightly and closed his eyes. I wasn't sure if he was thinking, or if he were just wishing like everything that I hadn't asked that question.

The three of us sat there in a kind of hushed awkward silence for several minutes. Finally, Benny opened his eyes and stared hard at me. "You're askin' for terrible trouble if you go pokin' around in that mess, copper," he whispered, all the time shaking his head.

"Probably so. I've been in trouble before, though, so that's nothing new."

"Ya ain't never been in trouble lke you're askin' for now," Benny whispered.

"Matter of fact, I like being in trouble."

Benny shook his head from side to side. "You ain't scared of nothin', are ya, copper?"

"Sure I am, but I can't let it tell me what to do or get involved with. So, tell us what you know about Junior."

"Copper, I'm tellin' you, you're signin' our death warrants," Benny responded. "If I tell you what I've heard about that mess, we'll all be dead within a week. You and the lady here and me. The three of us, we'll all be dead."

"Maybe so. So, tell us what you've heard."

Benny sank back in his chair, bowed his head, and closed his eyes. Coral Lea and I waited. I noticed that she'd turned her chair so that she could keep an eye on the guard who was watching us, and I wondered if he'd been paid off to keep an eye on Benny Cole's guests like we assumed someone had to keep an eye on Travis O'Call's visitors. Maybe that guard was taping our conversation. We had to assume that somebody was.

"Well, okay, if ya gotta know. I was hopin' you wouldn't get into that mess, but I shoulda known better." Benny shook his head and stared at me as he spoke. Then, shifting awkwardly in his chair, he continued. "Ya gotta realize that all I know about Junior Mako and the mess he got involved with is just hearsay, and it's hearsay from a bunch of crazy guys who were locked up same as me in that asylum."

"We understand that, but we still want to know what you know."

"Yep. We were all crazy." Benny paused, looked around the room, then continued. "Us crazy guys knew a lot of stuff, though, an' maybe some of us wasn't as crazy as people thought we was. That is, we mighta been crazy but we still were plenty smart. And we had time to talk, and talk we did. If there was one thing we did know about, it was the dark side of the law. Like I said, some of us weren't as crazy as people thought. Mixed up, sure, but not really crazy."

"I believe that."

"Yeah. You've treated me right, copper, an' that's the only reason I'm talkin' to you now." Benny paused, shaking his head and likely wishing that I hadn't asked my question, then continued, "Well, first off, you probably know that Junior Mako was in the rackets."

"Yes. I've read about him and his arrest."

"Yeah. He got himself arrested, all right. There must have been a few honest cops back then. That Junior, he was what we called an enforcer in those days."

I nodded my understanding.

"The guys he was mixed up with were into extortion and racketeering. They shook down business owners, loaned money to the gamblers, all that stuff--and Junior Mako made sure the poor slobs paid up--one way or another. Beat 'em up, beat up their friends, whatever it took to collect the cash they owed. Being a copper, you guys know how that all works, right?"

"We know."

"Yeah. I bet you do know. Well, some of the inmates at the asylum knew Junior. From what they said, he was like Ivan in that he liked to beat up on people. That made him an ideal enforcer. In fact, there were times I wondered if Junior and Ivan were just different names for the same guy."

"You think they were one and the same?"

"Can't be sure, you know. All I'm tellin' you is hearsay. I never knew Junior, and I never wanted to, either. Knowin' Ivan was bad enough." Benny paused, looking around the room and over his shoulder, just as I remembered Travis O'Call having looked around as if he wanted to make sure no one was listening.

"The Makos were a powerful family back in the 1930s. Did you know that?"

"I've heard that."

"Whatever you've heard was probably true. The Mako's had big money, and they were on a first name basis with cops and judges and politicians, both on the state and the local level. When the Makos wanted something, they usually got it, or as some of the guys said, they bought it."

"I understand what you're saying."

"If you've read about Junior's arrest, you also know what happened after that?"

"You mean about his boss getting killed before he could testify?"

"That's right. His boss and a bodyguard were gonna turn state's evidence and testify against Junior. See, and I'll bet this wasn't mentioned in the papers, Junior killed a guy who owed a bunch of money. He'd a said his boss told him to kill the guy. Well, his boss wasn't about to take the heat for killin' somebody, or some of the other stuff Junior was said to have done either, so he was gonna testify against Junior. He cut a deal with the prosecutor, only he didn't live to fulfill his part of the bargain, and without his testimony, there wasn't enough of a case, so Junior went free."

"So, who actually killed Junior's boss and the bodyguard, Benny? Or, should I ask who ordered it done?"

Benny recoiled as if somebody had hit him. "I . . . I was . . . I was afraid you were gonna get around to that." The old man stammered before he got it said.

"You know, don't you, Benny?"

"All I know is what some of the guys in the asylum said. Maybe it wasn't the truth."

"What did they say, Benny?"

"Copper, you're signin' our death warrants if I tell you that."

"So, tell us. Who killed Junior's boss?"

"Cops."

"The cops killed Junior's boss?"

"That's the story I got. See, there were a couple of politicians and a judge involved in a payoff scheme, along with a few cops who got kickbacks for looking the other way when Junior's gang was doin' its thing. When things got hot and it looked like Junior might go to trial and the truth might come out about who was involved, well, the cops just couldn't let that happen."

"Do you know any names?"

Benny chuckled. 'Do I know any names? Oh, boy!"

"Well?"

"Okay. Okay. I'll tell you what I heard. The Makos weren't cops, but they had close family ties with some. Some of those cops were well connected, too. With lots of money and political savvy, those cops had power way beyond their badges. Judges, too. The Makos were said to 'own' a judge."

"O'Brian?"

"Sure, that was one family that had power. Real power. See, Tom O'Brian's mother was a Mako. I think she was Ivan Mako's sister, maybe a cousin. You can check that out."

I didn't tell him that I already had. "Who else?"

"There was a judge overseeing the whole operation."

"A judge? What was his name?"

"A judge was involved, all right. That's the story I got, anyway. The story was that the judge got filthy rich off kickbacks, and he protected the guys who were involved in the rackets."

"What was his name?"

"Copper, that's one I can't answer. I just don't remember the name they used."

"Did the judge order the killing?"

Benny looked around the room, then back at me. He had a sad expression on his face as if he didn't really want to tell me. "That's what people said."

"Do you remember the names of any other people who were involved with Junior Mako or the operation?"

Benny thought for a moment before he replied. "Carson had a connection. I don't remember exactly how he was connected, but he was mentioned as being on a first name basis with several judges and politicians. Dymond, he was probably one of 'em, too. The others are mostly dead now, but they had friends in all the right places who'll kill to protect their names--and we'll all be dead That's what they don't want brought to light. The evidence."

"Evidence?"

"Yeah. These stories I'm tellin' you ain't just the ramblings of crazy guys shut up in an asylum. There's hard evidence regarding that killing we've been talkin' about. 'Course, somebody's gotta find it 'fore it's any use to anyone, an' I'll bet there's a bunch of people bent on keepin' that evidence buried."

"Where is the evidence?"

Benny shrugged. "Can't say for certain anymore, but here's the story I got from one of the inmates who knew about it." Benny looked over his shoulder and around the room, sighed, and then continued: "Best as I remember it, one of the guys locked up in that asylum helped the warden once in a while. Big, strong guy. Say, the warden wanted some furniture moved, he'd ask this guy to help. Well, he didn't just ask, he'd send for him and the guy had to go work for him. You know what I mean?"

"Yes."

"Well, one night the warden sent for this guy. I mean, it was way late, middle of the night. This was unusual in that the warden didn't usually send for anybody in the middle of the night. Of course, bein' in the night, there wasn't anyone else around to see what was goin' on." Benny stared at me for a moment, his eyes wide. "You understand that what I'm tellin' you is what I was told? I wasn't there."

"Yes, I understand that. Tell me what you were told about what went on that night."

"Okay. Here's what they told me: The warden took this inmate over to his house. They got this little safe out of the warden's bedroom and moved it into the basement of the asylum. That is, the big guy carried it for the warden. Now, I'm not talkin' 'bout a big, heavy safe like you're thinkin' was in that office off the warden's office. I'm talkin' 'bout a little safe, maybe measured a foot on each side and a foot or less tall. Fireproof, too. People used 'em to keep important papers in back then. Maybe they still do. Opened with a key, not a combination lock. Anyway, the safe was heavy, especially for it's size, but not so heavy this inmate couldn't carry it easily. Like I said, he was a big, strong guy.

"Well, the warden had him carry this safe down into the basement of the asylum. When they got to the door of a room in the basement, the warden told this guy to wait right there with the safe. I think the warden had forgotten the key to that room or something, because he left the inmate there with the safe while he went off somewhere. You can guess what the inmate did."

"Took a look in the safe?"

"Yep. This here inmate got that safe open. I don't know how he did it, but the guy had cracked safes before. Maybe the warden didn't know that. Maybe he didn't care. Or, maybe that safe wasn't even locked. I don't know. Anyway, so the story goes, the inmate got that safe open and took a look inside." Benny paused and glanced around the room, then continued. "There was an envelope in that safe with the warden's name on it. It wasn't even sealed. The guy opened it and, well, okay, he couldn't read very well, but he said it looked to be a letter naming some cops that had killed Junior Mako's boss and his bodyguard, and it was signed by some cop. Oh, yeah. Some other people were named, too.

"There was other stuff in the safe. According to the inmate who took a look in it, one of the envelopes had what he thought were rifle cartridges. He didn't get a look at them, but that's what they felt like to him."

Benny was wiggling his little finger at me as he spoke. I thought I knew wht he was trying to communicate.

"Before this inmate could make out much else 'bout the letter or other stuff in the safe," Benny went on, "he heard the warden coming, and he had to close the safe back up quick. But here's something else to think about. The cop who signed that letter in the safe was killed a few weeks later. Shot dead. Dead! Just like you an' me an' the lady here are gonna be."

I ignored his warning. "What did they do with the safe?"

The warden opened the door to that basement room. Don't know which room it was, but I think it was toward the north end of the asylum. Once the warden had the door unlocked and open, he had the inmate bring the safe on into that room. Interesting thing was, according to the inmate, there was a big hole already made in the floor. It was a stone floor, like most of the basement floor, and some of the stones had been taken out and earth dug out below them to make a regular hiding place for that safe.

"The warden helped the inmate position that safe into that hole in the floor so it fit just right. Then they replaced the stones on top of it, and they plastered things up with plaster the warden brought in a bucket. When they got done, nobody could even tell they'd been there--and that safe was well hidden. I always figured that the contents of that safe were an insurance policy for the warden--and I'll bet that people alive yet today will kill to keep that safe buried where it's at."

"You think that safe is still there?"

"I don't know, but I never heard of it being moved, and I doubt anybody coulda moved it without some of the inmates being aware of it. I doubt that anybody knew it was there after the warden retired. Oh, an' there's another thing. Maybe important, maybe not."

"What's that?"

"The warden was carryin' a sawed-off shotgun while they worked on concealin' that safe. That was highly unusual because nobody carried guns around inside the asylum, for sure not the warden. But he had one that night. Had another gun, too, a pistol tucked inside his pants, I think. The inmate said the warden was walkin' and talkin' a little scared, too, looked like to him. Said the warden looked like he knew how to use that shotgun and was ready to use it, but nobody bothered them while they hid that safe."

I knew what I made of the warden having the shotgun along with a handgun, all right, but from the way Benny was wagging his little finger, I had to chance the subject back to him: "Have any cops been here to talk with you?"

Benny studied me for a long moment before he answered, "You know they have."

"I mean any of those who might have reason to harm you."

"Yeah, they've been here, all right. A whole bunch of 'em. They've all been here."

"A whole bunch of them?" How many?"

"Three. Well, two cops an' another guy."

"Was O'Brian one of them?"

Benny nodded. "O'Brian, an' he had a couple of guys with him."

"Who were they?"

"I . . . I . . . don't . . . ." Benny stammered.

"Runyon? Matt Runyon?"

"I think that's who it was. Yes, that's who it was. Matt Runyon. It was him, all right."

"You said there was a third man. Who else was with them?"

"I . . . I . . . I don't . . . I don't know the . . . the third one's name." Benny was stuttering nervously. I suspected that he did know who it was, even if he couldn't recall his name."

"Can you describe him?"

"Well, yeah. Might as well confess. He scared me. I couldn't think straight when I saw he was with them cops."

"I can see that he scared you. What did he look like?"

"He's an old guy. Maybe as old as I am, maybe older. White hair. Was a big guy once. Still is, but he's stooped, like all us old guys get." Benny paused, his chin dropped. Moments later, he raised his head and continued. "It was his eyes that got to me. Hard eyes. i still remember his eyes. If looks could kill, I'd be dead now." Benny rushed the words.

"No idea of who he was?"

"Maybe." Benny's voice was timid, almost panicky.

"Maybe, you say? Who do you think it was?"

Benny sighed. "He reminded me of the judge who sent me and a lot of other guys to the asylum. That was a long time ago, though, and I don't see as good as I used to. But this guy had the same mean eyes that judge had. It was his eyes that got to me. They went right into my head. Don't know his name, but I'll remember those eyes forever. Horrible eyes. Just horrible. And . . . And . . . ." Benny's voice trailed off, fearful.

"And what, Benny?"

"He . . . He . . . Well, there were rumors . . . stories . . . ."

"About the judge?"

"Yeah, about . . . about how . . . about how the judge owned the cops and . . . and how . . . how . . . how they'd do whatever . . . whatever he said."

"What did O'Brian and Runyon and the old guy want from you?"

Benny ignored my question, intent on the visitors he'd had. "Ya know what else it was about those eyes that got to me?"

"What was that?"

"They was crazy eyes."

"Crazy eyes?"

Benny raised his head and stared me straight in the eye. "I saw a lot of crazy guys when I was in that asylum. You could tell they was crazy by their eyes. They didn't care what they did or what happened. They were just pure crazy, and this big old guy's eyes were just like those crazy guys I saw years ago."

"What did the three of them want, Benny?" I repeated my question.

"You know what they wanted, copper." Benny was breathing hard, his eyes the wildest I'd ever seen them.

"No. I'm not entirely sure what they wanted. Tell me what they said."

"Oh, man! O'Brian did all the talking. The others just looked at me. I can still feel their eyes. It was horrible, the way they looked at me with their crazy eyes."

"What did O'Brian say?"

"Talked awful mean. He said they'd be back to get me good if I talked to you guys. Said they'd get the rest of you, too." The old man slumped. His shoulders sagged and he suddenly seemed to be very tired. That was understandable, given what he'd been through.

"Benny?"

"Yeah, copper? What now? What next?"

"Just one more thing."

"One more thing? Enough's enough for now, copper. Let me rest. I haven't had much rest since O'Brian and those other guys were here. Seein' that ol' judge really shook me. His eyes went right through me. Next time I see 'em, they'll kill me. I know they will. They'll kill you guys, too. They'll be gunnin' for you. I know they will.

I lowered my voice and brought my finger up to my lips, hoping I could get Benny's attention without attracting the attention of the guard. "Benny, listen to me. I want to help you--and I will." I mouthed the words slowly, making certain the guard couldn't see my face as I did so.

"What's that? How's that?" Benny's eyes were wide. He knew I wanted to communicate something extremely important. I hoped he wouldn't give me away.

Maybe we could create a diversion to cover what I wanted to do and actually gain some important information in the process. With those motives in mind, I withdrew a new notebook from my pocket. "Benny," I told him, "I want you to draw me a diagram of where you think that safe might be located. You said it's in the north end of the basement of the asylum, and maybe you can pinpoint the location?"

Benny perked right up. "Okay. I can do that for you. If . . . If he'll let me." He pointed in the direction of the guard. "Understand?"

"Yes." I got the guard's attention, and he came over to where the three of us were seated. "Could you give Mr. Cole my notebook so that he could draw me a sketch of something?" I held out my opened notebook to the guard. "You can inspect it first, make sure there isn't something in it that Mr. Cole might not be allowed to have."

The guard cautiously inspected the notebook as if he thought it might explode. It was an unused notebook I'd brought along, not the one I'd been taking notes in, so there wasn't anything for the guard to see except the blank pages. "I guess it's all right. Just don't try anything funny," he finally said. He flipped through the pages of the notebook once agian, then placed it in front of Benny on a small table.

"A pen?" I handed my pen to the guard.

"Okay. Okay." The guard turned the pen over and over in his hand, then handed it to Benny.

Benny picked up the notebook and opened it, but before he could begin to sketch we were interrupted by someone at the door calling, "Mr. Sawyer?"

I turned. A young man with long blonde hair, perhaps 20 years of age and dressed in the uniform of people who work at the Dodd Correctional Facility, was standing there. "Yes?"

"We need to move your car so the people painting lines in the parking lot can paint on the side where you parked. I can move it for you if you'll let me have your keys." He held out his hand.

"Okay. That'll be fine with me." It was the perfect diversion opportunity for me to get something important to Benny. I reached into my pocket for my keys and palmed a small package, but fumbled the keys. As I picked them up from the floor, I slid the small package under the table in Benny's direction. "Here you go." I retrieved the keys and tossed them to the young man at the door.

He snatched the keys out of the air and palmed them. "Thanks. I'll lock your car and bring the keys back to you right away. Just be a minute."

"Okay. Thanks."

Benny steadied the notebook on his knees and began to draw a diagram of how he remembered the basement layout and where that safe had been hidden. It wasn't that Lorelei and I didn't have blueprints of the basement, but I thought we'd get something from Benny while we had the chance. He'd been extremely accurate in what he remembered before. We wouldn't have to search every room in the basement of that asylum looking for that safe. Or we might not have to search any of the rooms in the basement at all. We'd have to see what Benny's sketch revealed.

It wasn't more than five minutes later when we heard a loud KA-BOOM! from the direction of the parking lot. Windows rattled. In fact, the whole building seemed to shake.

Coral Lea sprang to her feet and walked quickly from the room to see what had happened. I had a pretty good idea of what that explosion meant, and I felt sorry for the young, blonde haired man who'd taken my keys. Crimes that had been covered up years ago had brought about the death of yet another innocent victim.

Coral Lea returned a few minutes later, her cell phone in hand. "It was the Cavalier, all right. Fortunately, they'd already moved the rest of the cars that had been parked near it. I've called Richard Junco in Internal Affairs," she told me. Her face was grim.
Chapter 21

"O'Brian and Runyon have to know about that safe." Lorelei had listened carefully to the information Coral Lea and I had obtained from Benny and now was reacting to what we'd told her. "That's probably the only evidence there is that connects the cops and the judge they're shielding and those old murders, and they know about it," Lorelei continued. "They may not know exactly where it's buried, but by now they must know it's somewhere in the basement of the asylum."

The three of us, Coral Lea, Lorelei, and myself were seated around the table in Lorelei's "secret" hideaway hotel room near the courthouse, talking over the startling events of the afternoon. Lorelei had met us at the Dodd Correctional Facility and we'd given Richard Junco and Annie Kattley the information Coral Lea and I had learned from Benny Cole earlier in the day. The Cavalier was, unhappily, a totally burned out wreck, and the kid who'd volunteered to move it for me had, unfortunately, been killed in the bomb blast that destroyed the car--the blast that was obviously intended for Coral Lea and me.

"Internal Affairs will be out there in the asylum even now looking for that safe," Coral Lea responded to Lorelei.

I had to grin. "Sure. They've already designated the place as a crime scene and got the cops who know how to use metal detectors at work. But they aren't going to find that safe where Benny said it was.

"They aren't?" Coral Lea asked, puzzled. She arched her eyebrows as she looked from Lorelei to me.

I handed her the notebook opened to the page where Benny had sketched out the location of the safe. "No. They won't find it where Benny said it was. Here. Take a look."

Lorelei got to her feet, walked around the table, and stood behind Coral Lea, looking over her shoulder as both women studied the drawing. Coral Lea pursed her lips, hiding the smile as she understood what I was saying.

"This shows the safe buried in the basement of the house, but Benny distinctly said 'the north end of the basement in the asylum.' I heard him myself. What gives?" Coral Lea asked.

"I think you already know, but let me explain why I gave Benny the notebook."

"Okay."

"Benny was talking to confuse any listeners right about then. Maybe he thought the guard was listening in, or maybe he thought somebody at a distance was recording our conversation using a directional mike. Anyway, he gave me a shake of his little finger and I interpreted it to mean that he was speaking garbage to throw any listeners off the track. That's why I asked him to draw us a diagram of where he thought the safe was buried."

"You didn't tell Internal Affairs about this, did you?" Coral Lea asked.

"No."

"Good move," Lorelei whispered.

Coral Lea laughed. "You guys want to find that safe yourselves, don't you?"

I grinned back at her. "You bet we do! That's better than letting it fall into the wrong hands, don't you think?"

Coral Lea raised her hands in mock dismay. "The wrong hands? You don't trust Internal Affairs? I'm shocked!"

Lorelei laughed. "Phil doesn't trust anybody. I guess I don't much, either."

I turned to Coral Lea. "It's not that I don't trust Richard Junco or Annie Kattley. I do, as much as I trust anybody. But there is a bunch of people who'll be involved in searching for that safe--and some of them just might have some good reason for destroying it or whatever evidence it contains before Junco or Kattley ever see it."

"Phil's right," Lorelei broke in. "Let them search the basement of the asylum. If they don't find that safe, they'll assume either that crazy ol' Benny Cole doesn't know what he's talking about or that the safe isn't there any more. Either way, we may have saved Benny's life, or at least taken some of the heat off of him for awhile--as well as off of us."

"You don't think they'll think about searching the whole asylum and the warden's house for that safe?" Coral Lea asked, turning to me.

"I doubt it. Like everybody else on the police force, they're overworked and understaffed. Once they find that the safe isn't anywhere near where they thought it was in the north part of the basement of the asylum they'll probably give up on it, and Benny isn't likely to tell them the truth about where it's buried, not for awhile, anyway."

"So, you guys are going to lay low for awhile and wait for the cops to finish working at the old asylum?" Coral Lea shook her head, knowing the answer.

Lorelei grinned. "No way are we going to lay low. We're going to get after that safe right away--this very night if we can. Besides, going for the safe gives us a good excuse to explore the old house, and that's something I've been wanting to do ever since we started going out there. Oh, we'll not forget about that mobster's gold cache, but I think it's more important to find that safe Benny was talking about. If we can find it before O'Brian and Runyon do, we may have the opportunity to put those guys and that judge away where they won't be bothering us or Benny, right Phil?"

"Right! The cops still have the area where they were taking out the corpses sealed off as a crime scene. Right now, they probably have the area where they think the safe is located cordoned off as well. That leaves the area where we're going to look for the safe free for us to explore."

"And, what about the sawed-off shotgun the warden was reported to be carrying while he hid that safe? What do you make of that, Phil?" Coral Lea asked.

"My guess is that Benny was telling us that the warden probably booby trapped the room where he hid the safe. That would explain why he had the shotgun as well as a pistol when they carried the safe to the basement."

"A booby trap? Maybe with the shotgun positioned and wired so that when you pushed open a door it would go off or something like that?" Coral Lea questioned.

"Right. That used to be a common way of rigging up a booby trap. Effective, too. If some guy comes in and breaks down the door, he'll probably trigger the shotgun and catch a full load of buckshot. See here?" I held out the notebook sketch that Benny had made of the safe's hiding place and showed Coral Lea how he'd drawn a circle around the area, a circle with little barbs at regular intervals--rather like barbed wire. Maybe I was wrong, but I thought he was trying to indicate with the barbed wire that the area was booby trapped, and I'd certainly treat it like a booby trapped area when we got there.

Something else about Benny's drawing intrigued me and I pointed it out to both Lorelei and Coral Lea. He'd "signed" the drawing with the same kind of "signature" I'd noted on one of the papers I'd found in Travis's mementoes, a stylized "B" inside an encircling "C"--representing Benny's initials, "BC."

Lorelei examined Benny's signature. "Cool!"

"Here's another reason for you guys to be careful when you go exploring that old asylum," Coral Lea responded, not paying much attention to Benny's signature while something more important was on her mind. "If that warden could rig up a booby trap like you're suggesting with a shotgun, somebody else could, too."

"You're absolutely right." I turned to Coral Lea. "You've been wanting to go with us on some of our underground explorations. Why don't you come with us when we look for that safe--say tonight? We'll have something interesting to search for, and--"

Coral Lea shook her head. "I can't believe it, Phil," she interrupted. "You and me just about get blown to pieces by that car bomb, and you're ready to risk going into that asylum again. You guys are going to need somebody on the outside to keep an eye on things, and to be honest, I'm not sure but what you'll need more than me. Or, doesn't that car bombing scare you the way it does me?" She looked from me to Lorelei for a reply.

"I think we'll be okay," Lorelei interjected. "The bomb squad is looking over what's left of the car and whoever left the bomb is probably worried that they'll find something that will link up with the one who wired it. After all, the bomb squad is very good at what they do, and--"

"Unless!" Coral Lea interrupted. "Unless, they've got something to gain from not identifying the person who placed the bomb. . . . See, now I'm getting as paranoid as Phil."

Lorelei grinned. "Right. And with good reason. As Phil often says, a little paranoia will keep you alive."

Coral Lea sat quietly for a moment. "Okay, guys. I know when I'm losing. What are your plans for tonight, and where do I fit in as a lookout? Oh, and by the way, do you have any objections to my asking somebody--like Al Lapine or Fred Overmiller--to ride shotgun with me while I try to keep an eye on you guys and the asylum grounds?"

Lorelei and I assured Coral Lea that she had a good idea in asking someone to ride with her. I recommended she talk to Fred. Moments later, she was on Lorelei's telephone to Fred, asking him to shadow us in his car as she drove us from Lorelei's hideaway to our rooms over the bar as well as to accompany her that night.

Once Fred's presence for the night's surveillance was assured, Lorelei outlined her thinking about our night's activities. With Fred involved, we wouldn't have to leave a car parked anywhere near the asylum for someone like O'Brian to find. Fred could drop us off while Coral Lea kept an eye on us, then ride with her the rest of the night. I'd already decided that I wouldn't pick up another car from Jim Osborne to replace the wrecked Cavalier, not for awhile anyway.

Plans for the night agreed upon, Coral Lea and I left Lorelei in her room where she was preparing for a court appointment later in the week. After carefully inspecting Coral Lea's car to be sure we weren't about to unleash another bomb or transport another locator device with us, she drove us back to our rooms over the Mill Street Bar, tailed all the way by Fred Overmiller.
Chapter 22

Eleven o'clock. Shadowy moonlight and hazy stars provided the only illumination of the monstrous asylum and its overgrown grounds. Coral Lea drove slowly around the massive stone building and house while Lorelei and Fred scanned the area with night-vision equipment.

There weren't any vehicles parked near the asylum and neither Lorelei nor Fred could spot any signs of human activity in the vicinity. No one was visible through any of the windows, and the locks on the gates appeared to be secured. It seemed to be an ideal situation for Lorelei and me to pay a visit to the warden's house basement in search of that storied safe.

Just as Coral Lea was about to park in a secluded area so that Lorelei and I could vacate the car and approach the asylum grounds and then the warden's old house on foot, however, I sensed Fred stiffen. "What is it?" I whispered.

"Maybe nothing, but I thought I caught a flicker of light through one of the windows." His eyes searched the semi-darkness with his night-vision binoculars as he whispered his response to my question.

"Where?"

"At the back of the house. Lower level windows. The one to our left."

"Let's be as sure as we can be. Go ahead and circle the area so we can check the windows again," I whispered to Coral lea. That window where Fred indicated he'd seen something, according to the blueprints Lorelei had, would have been near the stairs leading down to the basement of the house.

As Coral Lea began to bring her car back from the wooded area onto the pavement, we saw the headlights of another car slowly approaching us from the rear. Coral Lea pulled over into a parking space, and the car eased on by us. "Cops," she hissed.

"Cops?"

"No question in my mind about that," Coral Lea whispered her reply. "It's an unmarked car, but it was a cop's car. I'm certain."

"Maybe the cops have somebody keeping an eye on the asylum, what with it being partially cordoned off as a crime scene?" Lorelei questioned.

"Maybe, but I doubt it," Coral Lea replied. "The cops who patrol don't usually use those kind of cars. That's somebody who has influence."

"Go ahead and circle around the asylum where we can keep the house in sight. Let's also keep an eye on that car and see if it stays in the area."

As we followed at a distance, the car that had passed us continued on down the highway. We watched until it was out of sight, then Coral Lea circled the asylum again.

"I didn't see any signs of a light this time," Fred reported, "but I'd swear I saw it before."

I didn't doubt but what Fred had actually seen light at that window. Still, I figured I'd have a look in that basement, regardless of who might already be there, but I'd rather Lorelei stayed with the others--something I knew she wouldn't do.

"Wouldn't you rather stay here with the others while I go have a look in that basement, Lorelei?" If it's all clear, I could call you?" I asked, knowing what her answer would be even before I asked.

"Ha! Stay here, and miss the fun?" Lorelei retorted.

"We don't know who's there, and it could get dangerous," Fred interjected.

"I know, but I'm going with you, Phil." Lorelei was determined.

"Okay, then. Let's you and me go see what's going on."

Coral Lea returned to and parked in the secluded area from where Lorelei and I would go on foot to the warden's house. Moments later, we had our gear in hand and were on our way, heading for the gate in the fence closest to the back door of the warden's house.

It was slow going through the brush and rough terrain, but we preferred the cover to an easier path out in the open. Twenty minutes later, we reached the gate. I looked over the fence posts and the gate itself to see if anyone had already placed a motion detector there, but didn't find anything. The lock, however, appeared to have been opened recently, probably by someone with a key. Whoever had opened the gate had locked it again, however, so I got out my locksmith tools and began to work on the lock, keeping as low a profile as was possible, just in case someone was attempting to monitor our activities.

Lorelei and I took a circular path from the gate to the back door of the house, sticking to the highest cover we could find and crawling most of the way on all fours to avoid being seen. At any rate, nobody took a shot at us before we made it to the back door. A careful inspection of the rusty door lock revealed a few scuff marks near the keyhole, indicating that somebody with a key had bumped the lock near the keyhole while inserting the key. Someone had been recently or was now inside. Fred had probably seen their light.

The area around the doorstep was overgrown with weeds and it wasn't difficult to tell that someone had tramped through them recently while making their way toward the door. From the way the weeds appeared to have been trampled, I'd guess there were at least two people inside the house right now, maybe three, or they had been there recently--perhaps earlier that evening. We'd soon know.

I carefully inspected the door and its frame, wondering if whoever was or had been inside had booby-trapped the entryway or left a motion detector, but there wasn't any alternative way into the house that would take us directly to the basement--so that was the way we'd go in, regardless. Then, just as I began to work on opening the lock, Loerlei grabbed my arm in our pre-arranged signal that let me know her cell phone was vibrating. I acknowledged her signal, and she crept back away from the door and flattened out behind a clump of weeds. By the time she finished listening to the voice on her phone, I had the lock open.

I backed away from the door and took cover with Lorelei behind some shrubs against the house wall. "What's going on?" I whispered.

"Major news, Phil," Lorelei replied. "Coral Lea just had a call from Annie Kattley. She, that's Annie, went out to the Dodd Correctional Facility about half an hour or so ago to talk to Benny--and he wasn't there. Seems as if a couple of cops picked him up earlier this evening. They had papers signed by some judge. Annie thought we ought to know, and she also wanted to know exactly what we knew that we hadn't told her."

"Two cops picked up Benny. That would have to be O'Brian and Runyon."

"Yes. Nobody seemed to know anything about where they were taking Benny, but the story Annie got was that Benny was handcuffed to O'Brian when they left Dodd so he couldn't escape."

"What did Coral Lea tell Annie?"

"Coral Lea said she told Annie the truth about where we were and why. She had to. You know that."

"Yes. What's happening now?"

"Annie is going to meet up with Coral Lea and Fred. She's willing to let you and me go into that basement first and without her, but she wants first crack at the contents of that safe."

"Okay. Fair enough."

"Oh, and one other thing. That car Coral Lea thinks is a police car."

"Yes?"

"It's been by again. Seems to be prowling around the area."

I nodded my understanding.

"So, Phil," Lorelei continued, her voice a hushed whisper, "Do you think O'Brian, Runyon, and Benny are actually in that basement right now?"

"Probably. Fred saw a light, you know."

"Did they go through this door?" Lorelei indicated the one I'd just unlocked.

"Probably, and they most likely have a key."

"You don't think either of them could open it otherwise?"

"No."

"What do you want to do, Phil?"

"Let's you and me go right on in and see what's going on. We've studied the blueprints and should be able to find our way around inside the house and into the basement without much in the way of lights. I'd say we find them and see what they're up to--as if we didn't know. We'll keep that safe out of their hands if we can."

"Do you think they'll kill Benny?"

"Not until they've found the safe. Besides, Benny's been able to take care of himself in the past."

"Okay. I'm game. Let's go on in."

One more time, I'd try again: "Lorelei?"

Lorelei read my mind. "It's no use, Phil. I'm going with you." Her whispered response was an insistent growl that said her mind was made up on that issue.

"Come on."

We made our way back to the door and I went to work on the lock while Lorelei scanned the area for signs of human activity. Once I had the lock opened, I pushed the door ajar just enough to run my hands around it and the frame, still looking for a trip-wire or motion detector. Not finding anything unusual, I eased the door open enough that we could listen for sound.

Someone was inside, all right. Lorelei and I could just make out the sounds of muffled voices from the direction of the basement.

I pushed the door open even further and felt carefully around the landing for trip-wires or motion detectors. When I didn't find anything, I motioned for Lorelei to follow me. We slipped inside the door and I closed it behind us.

From our study of the blueprints of the house, we knew we were on the stairs landing. The stairs descended to our left and made one turn to the right before reaching the basement floor. Directly ahead of us was a door that led into the house and to our right was another door that opened into a storage room.

We had heard voices in the basement. There wasn't any light showing, however, suggesting that the men in the basement either were working in the darkness, an unlikely prospect, or that they were in a room in the basement behind a closed door. We'd find out soon enough.

I checked the door to the storage room. It was unlocked. If necessary, Lorelei and I could take refuge in that room, although we didn't want to risk opening the door now or moving around unnecessarily lest we accidentally alert the people in the basement to our presence.

The door that led to the main part of the house was locked. I examined the lock as best I could without a light and determined how I'd go about picking it if I had to. It wouldn't be much of a problem, but it would take a few minutes time.

Lorelei put her hand on my ankle in our pre-arranged manner of keeping contact and communicating in the dark and followed along behind me as we made our way on all fours across the stair landing. Before we started down the stairs, she surveyed the basement with her night-vision monocular.

The basement, as we knew it from the blueprints, consisted of a large, open space with several rooms on the west side and a storage room on the south. (It appeared that, at one time, there might have been an apartment or sleeping rooms in the basement, but these apparently had not been used since the 1920s.) The heating unit for the house was located in the open area, as were water and gas pipes, a hot water heater, and other utilities. All in all, the basement was remarkably free of the junk that is often left there. Someone had cleaned it out, probably when the asylum closed many years ago.

After Lorelei had carefully surveyed the basement, she handed me her monocular and I studied the area below us. At first, I didn't see any light at all in the basement. Then, as I focused on the doors of the rooms to the west, I saw the faintest glimmer of light under one of them--the middle room. We now knew where O'Brian, Runyon, and Benny were looking for that safe.

Even though I hadn't seen anything on the stairs through the monocular, I cautiously felt across the first step to make sure there wasn't a trip wire, and we started down the stairs on all fours, toting our gear with us and trying not to make any noise as we did so. Fortunatly, the old stairs were constructed of heavy steel and didn't squeak or shift and rattle as we clamored slowly down them.

As we reached the basement floor, the voices within the room ahead of us suddenly became louder and harsher. Someone was angry, probably because they hadn't yet found the safe. They'd be coming out of that room before long.

Lorelei and I made our way as quickly as we dared to our left and ducked behind the old furnace. As we crouched there in the darkness, trying not to so much as breathe and give away our presence, the door where we'd seen the light flew open.

Using only a tiny flashlight for illumination, the three men who'd been inside that room made there way to the next room on the west side--the one to the far left. Although we couldn't see them clearly in the darkness, they had to be the ones we already knew were there: Tom O'Brian, Matt Runyon, and Benny Cole.

One of the men rattled the doorknob. "It's locked," he growled. It was probably Runyon speaking.

"Have you got a key for this one?" It had to be O'Brian who responded.

"I don't think so."

"Check your keys--and hurry it up! We've got to get out of here. This is taking too much time!" There was anger and impatience in the speaker's voice.

"Aw-right! Aw-right! Keep your shirt on, Tom. I'm doin' the best I can."

That settled it. Tom O'Brian was giving the orders. Matt Runyon was working with the keys.

Although we couldn't actually see what was going on, it sounded as if Runyon was searching through a series of keys, perhaps on a key-ring, while O'Brian held a tiny flashlight to aid his search. There were the sounds of several keys being tried in the lock--without success. Each failure elicited a growl from Runyon. "None of 'em fit, Tom," he finally said, apparently having tried all the keys.

"Kick it in!" Exasperation was in O'Brian's voice.

"That ain't gonna work very well. It's a heavy door. Kickin' it in'll make a lot of noise."

"I said, kick it in! Get with it!" O'Brian hissed.

"Aw-right! Aw-right!" Runyon growled back.

Since Annie reported that Tom O'Brian had been handcuffed to Benny, it had to be Matt Runyon who was going to be doing the kicking to break down that door. Runyon isn't a big guy, but he probably did have the strength to kick in the door, and I could almost sense him rearing back and raising his boot. I glanced at Lorelei to see if she were thinking what I was thinking, but I couldn't even see her eyes in the darkness.

Lorelei put her hand on my arm and squeezed lightly. Maybe she was thinking what I was thinking. No way did we want to give ourselves away, though, and it was a good thing that she wasn't wearing my favorite perfume that night lest that fragrance give us away.

A loud, crackling CRASH! and the sound of splintering wood let us know that Runyon had kicked hard at the door, smashing wood as he did so. A second CRASH! followed, and then a third. The door or its frame had certainly splintered under his boot, but it hadn't yet been forced completely open. I held my breath waiting for the next kick.

CRASH! BAM! BAM! The awful splintering of the door and its frame under Runyon's tremendous kick was almost instantaneously followed by the roar of a double-barreled shotgun blasting away with booth barrels, and then a high-pitched death-scream as Runyon took the load of buckshot from the booby-trap gun.

Then, even as Runyon crumpled to the floor, screaming in agony, O'Brian yelped, "No! No! No!" and then shrieked in terrible agony, collapsing to the floor himself, thrashing, kicking and dragging Benny Cole down with him. Even before I actually saw the carnage, I knew that it was all over for both Matt Runyon and Tom O'Brian.

I had the Beretta out and ready when Lorelei switched on our most powerful flashlight and beamed it at the three men on the floor across the basement from us. She had her cell phone in hand, speed-dialing Coral Lea's number. "Call an ambulance, Coral Lea--and then you and Annie come on in here, ASAP!" she said.

Runyon lay in a horrendous pool of blood. He'd taken the buckshot right in his midsection at point-blank range, and the blast had thrown him backwards several feet from the door he'd kicked in. Even though he appeared to still be breathing, he'd been torn up so badly that there was no way he was going to make it to a hospital alive. Nor was it likely O'Brian would make it to the hospital alive either, because he was bleeding dreadfully from the three deep stab wounds in his chest inflicted by the non-metallic polymer shiv I'd slipped to Benny while he was sketching in my notebook and I was fumbling for my car keys.

Benny, himself, appeared to be okay. Runyon and O'Brian had roughed him up a litle earlier that night, but he'd be all right as soon as the bruises healed. I managed to find O'Brian's keys and unlock the handcuffs that held Benny's right wrist secured to O'Brian's left, then helped the old man to his feet and away from the carnage.

Once Benny was seated on the stairs and had caught his breath, he looked up at me and smiled a wide grin. "Good to see ya, copper!" he exclaimed. "I was hopin' you'd show up 'fore they found that safe." He chuckled, almost breaking into that insane "Ha! Ha! Ha! He! He! He! He!" laugh I remembered from the night he killed Carson. "The ol' guy who rigged up that shotgun sure knew what he was doin'," Benny continued, "cause that ol' shotgun sure did quite a number on ol' Runyon, didn't it, copper?"

Benny appeared to show absolutely no emotion as he spoke. It seemed as if he felt completely justified in taking out anybody who threatened him, and I wondered if that characteristic was evident in his youth, perhaps helping an attorney to get him labeled criminally insane.

Anyway, I had to agree with Benny about the shotgun doing "quite a number" on Matt Runyon. What I didn't say was that it looked as if Benny and his shiv had done quite a number on O'Brian. But then, Benny already knew that.

One thing that I had to admit was that Benny really knew how to use a shiv with either hand. The first time I saw him use one, he'd killed Carson with the shiv in his right hand. Tonight, he'd been handcuffed to O'Brian, his right hand to O'Brian's left, so he'd held the shiv with his left. My old self-defense instructor would have been proud, and I wondered if Benny had any military training in self defense. Then again, maybe guys like Travis O'Call had taught Benny all he needed to know.

Lorelei switched on our florescent lantern and adjusted it to its maximum intensity to provide light in the basement and, moments later, Coral Lea and Annie came bursting through the door and down the stairs. Fred had remained behind to keep an eye out for any potential intruders and direct the ambulance personnel when they arrived. Not that an ambulance crew was going to do either Runyon or O'Brian any good, but Annie could get someone from the medical examiner's office after they'd been pronounced dead. Maybe she'd already summoned the medical examiner.

Annie called Richard Junco while she quickly surveyed the carnage and then checked both Runyon and O'Brian for signs of life. Just as I thought, there weren't any. Once she'd done that and assured us that Richard Junco was on the way, she turned to Lorelei and me: "Can you guys help me find that safe?" she asked.

"Maybe. We'll give it a try."

"I want that safe out of there before anyone other than Richard gets here if we can," Annie was insistent.

I knew what she was thinking, and I agreed. "Right. I understand."

"Will you need a metal detector?" Annie asked, pointing at the one Runyon had been using. He'd placed it against the basement wall before he started to kick in the door. "Maybe we can use theirs if you know how to use them?" she added.

"I don't think we'll need one," I told her. "I know how to use a metal detector, but let's see if we can locate the safe without one, okay?"

"Whatever you have to do, just do it!" Annie exclaimed.

Before going to look for that safe, I consulted with Benny. "Do you think that safe you told us about is in that room?" I asked, pointing to the one where Runyon had kicked down the door and triggered the shotgun.

"Can't say for sure, but I'd guess so," he replied. "At least, that location checks out with the story I got, but like I said, crazy guys told me that story. Besides, if that safe ain't there, somethin's for sure there that warranted that shotgun to guard it."

"Thanks, Benny. We'll have a look for the safe. Any more booby traps?"

"Not that I know of. Be careful, though, copper, 'cause there just might be," he cautioned, "an' that shotgun sure did a number on ol' Runyon!" Benny chuckled again, then got serious. "Don't want a shotgun to get you or the lady here," he added, pointing a finger at Lorelei.

"Right. We'll be careful."

Annie had her camera out and was photographing everything in sight. She took pictures around the basement and closeups of the bodies and the doorway to the room where we were going to search for the safe. Once she was finished taking pictures, Lorelei and I cautiously approached the broken door. Even though I'd have preferred that she keep some distance back, Annie was right behind us. I knew that it wouldn't be of any use to ask her to keep back, but I'd try if anything looked suspicious.

Lorelei beamed our most powerful flashlight into the room. We could see the shotgun and how it had been fastened to a sturdy wooden table in the middle of the small room. Wooden blocks under the barrel kept it aimed properly. A fishline from both triggers was strung through eye-hooks around the room and fastened to the door in such a way that anyone who pushed or kicked open the door would trigger the gun and be directly in the line of fire--just as Matt Runyon had been.

"No use in all three of us getting killed. Let me take a look around for booby traps," I told Lorelei and Annie. To my relief, they both stepped back from the doorway, hopefully out of harms way.

Lorelei handed me the powerful flashlight and I examined the shattered door and its frame as well as the shotgun. While I was doing this, she sketched a diagram in her notebook showing how the shotgun had been rigged and wired. There didn't appear to be any other trip wires attached, so I disconnected the one that had triggered the shotgun and let it drop to the floor.

Once I was satisfied that there weren't any additional trip wires attached to the door, I pushed it on open and took a look around the room, keeping away from the shotgun's muzzle--just in case. It was a relatively small room, measuring perhaps six feet by eight feet in size. The table holding the shotgun sat in the middle of the room, but that was all the furniture to be found there.

From the sound of the shotgun's blast, I was sure that both barrels had fired, but I checked to be absolutely sure. Whoever had rigged that gun knew what he was doing when he strung that fishline.

I marked where the table was sitting by drawing lines around each of its legs and an outline on the floor just in case where the table was located proved to be important later, then asked Annie to photograph the room so we'd have a record of how it was when we found it. Once she'd done that, Lorelei and I carried the table with the attached shotgun out into the open part of the basement.

Stones imbedded in concrete formed the floor of the room, just as Benny had described it. While Lorelei held the flashlight and Annie kept an eye on us, I began to chip at the concrete around the stones using a small pick-hammer from the tool kit that I always carry. Over my shoulder, I saw that Coral Lea had seated herself beside Benny and was talking with him. She apparently talked him out of his shiv, because when I looked at them, he was handing it to her. Good for her. My hope was that Benny wouldn't need it again.

If Benny had been right about the warden plastering around the stone or stones they'd removed and replaced that night long ago when they'd hidden the safe, I should be able to tell the difference between that "new" plaster and the original concrete by chipping at it. That idea proved correct. It wasn't long before I found the telltale plaster and followed it around one of the larger stones, chipping at it with the pick-hammer.

I went completely around the stone, chipping away the plaster, then checked and found that another, smaller, stone had plaster surrounding it as well. Before long, I had that smaller stone free. That done, I began to gently pry around each of the stones using the pry-bar from my tool kit.

Once the smaller stone was loosened, I waved Lorelei and Anne back. "I'm going to lift this one out," I explained, pointing to the stone, "and I want both of you out of the way just to be safe." After all, the warden had rigged one very effective booby trap using a shotgun, and it was entirely possible, in my mind, at least, to think that he'd devised another one of some type designed to go off if someone lifted out one of the stones concealing the safe.

Once both Lorelei and Annie were safely away from the immediate work area, I pried up the smaller stone. Nothing exploded, and I was able to lift the stone out of the floor.

With that smaller stone out of the way, I could actually see the corner of a safe hidden there, hopefully the one that we were looking for. Furthermore, I could more easily pry up the larger stone that rested directly on top of the safe.

I tested the larger stone by raising it slightly on both sides with my pry bar. When there didn't seem to be any danger, I waved for Lorelei and Annie to come nearer. "Looks like a safe's hidden under here, all right," I told them. Moments later, I lifted the larger, heavier stone clear and manhandled it up and onto the floor.

Annie started to reach for the safe but once again I waved her back. "Let's make real sure it's not wired to something," I cautioned. She backed away, not really wanting to, but being prudent.

The safe we'd exposed wasn't really what I would call a "safe." Nowadays, it would be more properly called a 'fire-proof security chest." It would measure slightly smaller than Benny had described it, being perhaps 12 inches in width and length but only eight to nine inches deep--certainly large enough to hold sensitive papers. Then again, maybe it wasn't the safe that Benny knew about. We'd see.

I used the curved end of my pry bar to shift the security chest from side to side, wanting to make sure it wasn't wired to anything that might explode in our faces. It didn't appear to be, so I lifted it out of the hole where it had been hidden under the floor stones and sat it upright on the floor for Annie to examine.

That security chest was heavy, heavier than it would appear to be. I wondered exactly what it might contain to weigh that much, and I also wondered if the key Lorelei had found hidden behind the warden's old desk drawer on the night when we first explored his old office might fit the lock. Lorelei was apparently thinking along those lines, too, because I saw her searching in the small ditty bag she carries, and then handing the key to Annie for her to try in the lock.

Annie handed the key over to me. "You're the expert locksmith, Phil," she said. "Go ahead and open it if you can. We'll take a look inside it now, and then I'll take the chest and its contents back to my office for a closer look."

"Okay. I'll give it a try." Then I thought of something else. "By the way," I asked Annie, "have you learned anything about the old man who was with Runyon and O'Brian when they went to threaten Benny at Dodd's? The big guy Benny was telling us about? Might have been a judge."

"Ive learned a little about him." Annie hesitated. I wasn't sure she was going to tell me what she knew, and I really couldn't blame her. After all, I hadn't been totally honest with her about what I had learned from Benny about the location of the safe. "He was a judge all right, a long, long time ago," she finally said, "a judge and more."

"A judge and more?" I questioned.

"That's right. The guy's name is Cornelius Anthony Strong. Cornelius Anthony Strong." Annie repeated the name as if it should have meaning for me. "He sat on the bench for about ten years, maybe more, back in the 1930s, and he sentenced many of the guys who served time in the asylum."

That name did sound familiar, but I couldn't quite place it. "Is he the one who sentenced Benny to the asylum?"

"Yes, he sentenced Benny." Annie hesitated again, but I could tell that she had more to tell me, so I waited. "Does that name, Cornelius Anthony Strong, mean anything to you, Phil?"

Suddenly it hit me. "Is he the one they call 'C. A. Strong,' the reputed mobster?"

"The same. Only he isn't just reputed in my book."

Every cop knew the name, C. A. Strong. Rumor was that he was the man in charge of a massive crime family during the 1940s, 1950s, and 1960s. Some said that his influence persisted to the present because of some alliances he'd made years ago. He'd boasted back in the 1940s that nobody was going to bring him down because he had more cops on his payroll than the city. Some people thought that he still did.

"I'd just love to bring that guy down," Annie hissed, "and ever since I learned that we may be able to find some hard evidence against him, well . . . ." Her voice trailed off.

"You say he sat on the bench back in the 1930s. What happened?"

"He was a crooked judge--and he finally got caught doing some things that got him removed from the bench."

"A crooked judge? What do you know about him?"

"He was crooked, all right, and a disgrace to the legal profession. Attorneys tried to get him disbarred for several years before they finally succeeded, and then they didn't get him nailed for all the things he probably was guilty of."

"What did they get him on?"

"He was finally disbarred because it was proven that he took bribes, but that was probably one of his minor offenses."

:What else did he do?"

"Nobody actually proved the other allegations, but there were quite a few of them: Extortion. Blackmail. Murder."

"Murder?"

"Oh, he didn't actually pull the trigger, but it was alleged that he hired people, including cops, to kill for him. And, one of the jobs he may have had a hand in--I'll say probably had a hand in--was protecting Junior Mako from prosecution. You see, I found that he had close ties to the Mako family, and maybe the O'Brian family as well. I haven't been able to get much more on him yet--but I intend to." From the tone of Annie's voice, I was certain that she would, and any evidence to be found in that security chest we'd uncovered would help her do just that.

"Benny seems to think this security chest has hard evidence related to the Junior Mako case. No wonder the judge doesn't want it found."

"No, and my guess is that he's quite capable of killing yet today to keep its contents secret. Unless I miss my guess, its contents will link him to the murder of Junior Mako's boss and his bodyguard. Actually, I hope there's evidence that will link him to other crimes as well. Now, let's open that safe."

I tried the key, found that it fit perfectly, then cautiously turned it in the lock. Moments later, I gingerly opened the security chest. There were two or three ways I could think of to booby trap a security chest such as this one, and I didn't want to take any chances, but it didn't appear to have been booby trapped at all. Even thought I certainly was interested in what the chest might contain, once I'd opened it, I stepped back to allow Annie to inspect the contents.

As Annie knelt to check the contents of the security chest, the door at the head of the stairs above us swung open. Richard Junco stood on the landing, as did the medical examiner and two ambulance attendants. Coral Lea motioned for them to come on down into the basement. She and Benny moved from their seats on the stairs to allow the four men to pass.

Lorelei and I stepped back to let the medical examiner and the ambulance attendants examine the remains of Tom O'Brian and Matt Runyon. Richard Junco and Annie Kattley huddled over the security safe, examining its contents by the light of flashlights. It wouldn't be long before other cops would be examining the scene, but Richard and Annie should have things well in hand by the time anyone else got here.

Finally, Annie came over to where Lorelei and I had taken seats on the stairs by Coral Lea and Benny. "It's okay if you guys want to go," she told us. Then, as we stood to leave, she thanked Lorelei and me for helping her locate that security chest and told us that she'd send us copies of whatever it contained. It was time for the four of us to leave.

Fred Overmiller had remained outside in Coral Lea's car, keeping an eye on things out there in the night. As it turned out, it was fortunate that he had.

As Lorelei, Coral Lea, Benny, and I approached Coral Lea's car, I saw slow-moving headlights coming toward us. Before we reached Coral Lea's car, that car pulled along side. There was no doubt in my mind but that it was the black car we'd seen earlier, the one Coral Lea had identified as a police car.

Fred stepped out of Coral Lea's car and held the door open for her to enter. Then, just as Benny was about to climb into the back seat, the driver's door on the black car flew open. An old man sprang out and faced us, glowering at us as he did so.

Benny took one look at the old man who'd joined us and yelped, "Look out, everybody! That's him! That's him!"

The old man ignored Benny. "Where's Tom and Matt?" he snarled at Lorelei, who just happened to be closest to him.

Lorelei is not one to be intimidated. She completely ignored the question and responded with one of her own. "Cornelius Anthony Strong, I believe?" she asked, her voice strong and clear in the night, her eyes on the old man's face.

"Judge Cornelius Anthony Strong." The old man emphasized the title as he acknowledged his name. "I repeat my question: Where's Tom and Matt?"

In the basement, Mr. Strong, but they're both dead." Lorelei replied, her voice surprisingly deadpan.

"Dead? Tom's dead? Matt's dead?" The old man's voice sounded disbelieving. "That can't be so. Where are they?" He raised his voice and glared at Lorelei.

"Calm down. What the lady says is true. Both Tom O'Brian and Matt Runyon are dead," I looked him right in the eyes as I told him the truth about the two crooked cops.

Benny had been right about the old man's eyes. Even in the semi-darkness, I could see the craziness in them. No wonder he'd been able to intimidate those who stood before him at the bench.

The old man swung around to face Benny. "It's because of you, Cole. All because of you. I told Mako to kill you years ago," he snarled. Benny backed against the car, but didn't say a word in response. "I told Carson and those other cops that you knew too much," Strong continued, "told 'em that it was dangerous for all of us to let you live. Dymond said he could keep you in line but he couldn't, the stupid ol' fool." The old man swung back to facc me. "I suppose you've got that safe, Sawyer?" he snarled.

I told him what he didn't want to hear: "We've got it, all right. It's all over, Strong. All over."

"I shoulda killed you years ago, Cole," the old man growled, "an' I'll do it now!" With surprising speed for an old man, he spun around, reached into the car, came out with a shotgun, and swung it toward Benny. Before he could bring the gun to bear, though, Fred sprang at him and shoved the gun barrel skyward just before the old man squeezed the trigger.

Before Strong could regain any control over the shotgun, Fred wrestled the gun from his grip and I tackled him, knocking him to the ground. Even though he was an old man, perhaps Benny's age or even older, he was strong and he put up a tremendous fight, punching, clawing, anjd kicking at both of us before Fred and I got him subdued. Once we had him under control, Lorelei handcuffed him with Coral Lea's handcuffs while Coral Lea covered him with her handgun, then got on her cell phone and dialed Annie's number. "The judge is out here," Lorelei said, "Come get him."

The old man shifted into a sitting position and looked up at us with hate in his eyes. "Shoulda killed ya all," he repeated, venom in his voice, his crazy eyes focusing on each of us in turn as he spoke, "Shoulda killed ya all years ago."

Annie came out a few minutes later. She had her briefcase, now bulging with the contents she'd taken from the security chest we'd retrieved from its basement hiding place, secured to her left wrist with locked handcuffs. "Shoulda killed you, too, before you had a chance to dig that up." The old man eyed Annie and the briefcase and spat the words directly at her as she placed hm under arrest and read him his rights.
Chapter 23

Annie called for someone to come and transport Cornelius Anthony Strong to jail. She then arranged for us to return Benny to the Dodd Correctional Facility.

We stayed with Annie until the cops came to take Strong to jail, then Coral Lea drove Benny home to Dodd's. "Are you going to be okay here?" I asked him confidentially as we walked with him toward the entrance.

"I'll be okay now that Strong's outa the way," he replied. "Hope I don't need a shiv any more, but I'm mighty glad I had one tonight," he added, almost wistfully, it seemed. I promised to talk with Annie about getting him into a different facility, one where he'd be more protected against anyone who might wish to harm him.

Benny stuck out his hand. "I hope you'll come see me wherever I'm at, copper. You an' the ladies, too," he said.

"Have you got any more secrets to share with me?" I asked, only halfway joking, as I shook his hand, knowing full well that he did have more secrets--and that all of us would find them interesting--when the time was right.

Benny chuckled. "You bet I have. Let you in on some of 'em, too."

I reassured Benny that we'd be back to visit him, then waved to the old man as a security guard escorted him through what I'd call a cell-block door. (They don't call them cells at this kind of a facility, but that's what they are.)

It was almost daybreak when Coral Lea and I drove Fred Overmiller back to his bar and then took Lorelei to her house. I walked completely through her house with her, checking to be sure she was safe from intruders. "Let's get back on the trail of that gold cache tonight!" she exclaimed as we said "Goodnight!" at her door. Even after our tiring adventures of the night, she was positively beaming, ready to go explore some more. Then, as I was about to turn away, she added, "and let's ask Coral Lea if she isn't eager and ready to go exploring the asylum's underground with us, perhaps even this very night. Okay?" I said I'd ask her.

Coral Lea and I drove the side streets around Lorelei's house, making sure that some one who shouldn't be there wasn't lurking around her neighborhood. I sincerly hoped that we'd seen the last of the crooked cops--and judges--for awhile. Still, Benny had said that he had more secrets to share, and . . . we'd just have to see what he knew about other unsolved mysteries. After all, it was the search to discover what happened to him that had brought Lorelei and me to the ancient Rothchild Asylum for the Criminally Insane in the first place. And there remained much of that facility for us to explore, both above and underground.

"Where to, Phil?" Coral Lea's question broke through my thoughts about the asylum and what "secrets" Benny Cole just might reveal to us in the future.

"You hungry, Coral Lea?" I asked.

"Yep." That settled it. We'd have breakfast before we did anything else.

Over breakfast, I asked Coral Lea if she'd like to go with Lorelei and me that night. "I'd love to go with you," she replied, then hesitated, "but I'm going to have to take a rain check. You know, I've been taking quite a bit of time off from being an employed cop lately, so I think I'd better go back to work today--and that means I'd better plan to sleep tonight instead of going with you.

I told Coral Lea how much Lorelei and I appreciated her time and help in watching our backs while we were exploring the asylum. She was right, of course, about her needing to get back to work. With the promise that she'd go exploring with us "before long," she asked if it would be all right if she cleaned up and changed clothes in my hotel room before going to work. I assured her that would be fine, and she drove us there when we finished eating. Me? I was going to catch up on some overdue sleep before Lorelei and I went out that night on our treasure hunt.

Knowing that Coral Lea soon would be getting her life back together after her divorce was finalized and that she'd be either returning to her house or searching for another one, got me thinking as to how much I was going to miss her company. After all, we'd spent quite a bit of time together lately, and I had to admit I'd grown extremely fond of her.

I was almost asleep by the time Coral Lea was ready to leave for work. That's when she came by and whispered, "Are you awake, Phil?"

"Yes?"

"I hope you haven't forgotten my promise to you?"

"No, I haven't forgotten," I assured her. She didn't have to tell me which promise.

Coral Lea put her lips close to my ear. "I'm going to use every trick in my book to make you all m-i-n-e."

"Promise?" I whispered. It was all that I could think of to say.

Her lips brushed mine. "I promise!" With those words, she was out the door on her way to work.

The End

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