Silent Witnesses.

Silent Witnesses.
By L. Roger Quilter
I walked up several concrete steps to the huge, lonely building, nestled in the mountains, and saw two massive doors facing me. I tugged at the bell-pull, wondering what evidence I would be able to glean from the people inside this place.
I was investigating the movements of Ben Wright, a reporter who had been found within feet of where I was standing. The man was a recovering alcoholic and had been spotted by a police patrol flat on his back on the grass outside this imposing edifice late the previous evening. The two patrolmen had failed to rouse him from his stupor and had called for an ambulance. Two paramedics set to work immediately when they had reached the scene.
No blood samples had been collected as there was no vehicle involved in the incident. Wright's car was found parked a few hundred yards away. Because of his critical condition, the two paramedics rushed him to hospital, where he lay comatose.
Because of his reputation as a crackerjack reporter and the fact he had not shown up at work, his editor had filed a missing persons report. His editor, Ken Smithson, was quite concerned; he knew his man had been dry for several weeks now. As a member of Alcoholics Anonymous himself, the editor was aware of the pitfalls facing recovering drunks during their first year of rehab. He phoned the station around nine this morning, and was relieved to hear his reporter had been found, but was very agitated about the reporter's inebriated condition.
"If he's started drinking again, he'll be completely wiped out."
The desk sergeant had made a note in his log book and called his supervisor to report the call.

"Sergeant Adams!" Inspector Wayne Andrews had walked into my office and handed me a case file. "Check this out, pronto. Seems like Ben Wright has fallen off the wagon, big time." Wayne's gray eyes stared at me, his creased face grim and dour. I had been working on a house break-in and had just finished a report on my arrests, so I was surprised to get another case so soon. Ben Wright was familiar to both of us because he was a crime reporter. I knew he had started sobering up after years of heavy drinking, and I hadn't seen him under the influence for weeks. He had seemed determined to straighten out his life.
"O.K. Boss." I said.
I had been promoted to sergeant a month before, having served on the Denver, Colorado police force for almost twenty-two years. I had spent years as a beat cop and had qualified as a detective a little over four years ago. I now had a small cubbyhole at the rear of the police station to go with my exalted status. I looked at my superior from the window where I had been staring at the view of the tall building opposite, deep in thought.
I took the folder to my desk, sat down and kicked off my shoes. I swallowed the dregs of my tepid coffee from my battered and stained mug and emptied the file's contents onto my desk. There were a number of photos, taken by one of the attending constables. Dave Freeman, is a keen amateur photographer in his spare time. He's always taking pictures at crime scenes for his own use.
Many times his work has helped solve several cases, even though the prints were never used. The official police photographer's work was the only kind we can use in evidence. There was also a fact sheet from the patrolmen's notes and a medical report.
I read the two reports and studied the photos and found nothing of use. Three of Freeman's shots showed the reporter in the position he had been found and two others were wide angle views that showed the immediate surroundings. The police report gave me the time and location and little else. No bottles, full or empty, were found in Wright's possession or in his vehicle.
I decided to visit the locale and see if I could dig something up. Waste of time, I told myself, the guy got drunk and will recover. That was the doctor's prognosis, anyway. As I am not a medical professional, I had quickly scanned the medical report and then I placed everything back in the folder and put it in my desk drawer.
I knew that Captain Andrews wanted to make sure we made an effort to solve this case. Newspaper editors had a way of writing opinions on police procedures. If we failed in our task, the editorials could be detrimental, and nobody wanted that, especially Inspector Andrews.
I stepped back into my shoes, grabbed my jacket and left in an unmarked vehicle from the police compound. The drive through the main streets of Denver and mountain road took just over twenty minutes.
I arrived at my destination shortly after ten. Midsummer in the mountains tends to be hot during the day and cool at night. Today was the second day in a blistering mini heat wave and it looked like it would get even hotter. The mountain air was still and the surrounding peaks shimmered in the hazy atmosphere.
I had to find out what the victim had been doing outside this building so late at night. Was he investigating or researching an article? Following a lead? Did he have an appointment with those inside? I got out of my vehicle and walked up to the doors. I took a pen and notebook from my jacket pocket and pulled the bell cord.
From somewhere deep inside I heard a bell pealing. A few seconds later, one door opened with a loud creak. It looked very dim inside, in contrast to the bright sunshine I stood in. The man who answered the door was short in stature and dressed in a long brown robe with a rope sash around his waist. He wore sandals and I noticed his head had a large, shaved bald spot. I was not surprised. After all, this was a monastery.
He smiled and nodded his head in salutation and stood to one side to allow me in. Inside it felt quite cool after the heat of the day and I shivered as I glanced around. Everything seemed to be made of granite, including the floor. There was the obligatory cross on a wall, but the rest was bare and austere. In the gloom I could make out a drab, vaulted ceiling about thirty feet above me. Blackened beams merged into the darkness and it appeared like I was walking into a huge cave.
"I'm investigating an incident that happened outside your doors last night," I began. "A reporter passed out on the grass." I produced my ID and hoped he didn't have to strain his eyes to read it. He smiled and nodded and indicated I should follow him. Guess his eyes were more adjusted to the gloom than mine.
I realized that he was under a vow of silence and cursed as all my questions would have to be answered by written notes. Time consuming, and I'd probably have to space the questions out, because the monks would be at prayer often during the day. I knew little, then, about how much time I would be forced to spend before my questioning was complete.
I was shown into a small room which contained a desk and three chairs. A bureau took up one wall and held a few unlit candles in ornate candlesticks sitting on what I think was a damask cloth. It was an austere compartment, but a small window allowed in some light.
"Good morning, Brother, what can I do for you?" A large man, whose garb was of finer material than the monk who had led me in, probably the abbot, rose from a small desk and welcomed me. "Sit down, please." His low, cultured voice had a foreign accent that I couldn't nail down. European? Russian? I let it pass.
I gazed into a pair of green, twinkling eyes and a heavily creased face. He had bushy, gray eyebrows and a completely bald dome. He had a kind, expressive appearance and exuded confidence. I explained my assignment, informing him that the reporter was still not conscious. "Did you, or any of your monks see this man at all?" I passed over a photo of Wright.
"Oh, you must mean Mister Wright of the Herald. Yes, he was here yesterday to write about our order." Abbot Rudolfus, smiled and put his hands together as if in prayer. "He is a charming gentleman who knew a lot about our purpose and our ideals. He was after some inside input from us, so he sought permission to research his work. Of course, I welcomed him."
"How long did he stay?" I inquired.
"All day, I believe. I sent him to see Brothers Herman and Geoffrey and they accompanied him on a tour and he left quite late in the evening," Rudolfus's voice seemed to die away. He was unsure of his facts, I deduced.
"May I speak to these two brothers?" I asked.
"Of course. But they are at prayer at the moment and I must join them. Sit down Sergeant and I'll see if we can ask the cook to include you for lunch. Simple fare, but nourishing." He left, and I was alone with my thoughts.
Half an hour later he returned, accompanied by two cowled monks I guessed to be the same ones who had accompanied Wright on his tour. I must be a capable detective, I thought, as the abbot proved my theory right.
"Detective Sergeant Adams, Brother Herman and Brother Geoffrey."
The two men nodded their heads and led me out of the Abbot's office, along a passageway and into a tiny cell which held a cot and a small table and a chair. Again, a window allowed in sufficient light to be able to see clearly.
The two monks sat on the bed after I took the chair. When I was comfortable I started asking my questions.
I couldn't believe the amount of time it took to get an answer from this pair. First, one got up and left the room. He returned several minutes later carrying a large exercise book, pencil and a thick, old fashioned manuscript for use as a firm base to write on.
I found that I had to repeat the first question again, before I got an answer.
Both monks answered each question in their own way, with laborious scrawls, supposedly a type of calligraphy I had not seen before. There were so many flourishes it took ages for them to complete an answer and I had to transfer their replies into my notebook. I had considerable trouble deciphering their hieroglyphics, believe me.
Frustrated as I was with this process, we gradually built up a chronological picture of the events that had transpired yesterday. It was a case of the two brothers greeting Wright, entertaining him with a tour then returning to this very cell, where Wright asked his questions with, no doubt, the same time consuming process I was experiencing. Wright had stayed for lunch and supper and then left.
As I asked my questions I kept a close eye on the robed pair to see if there were any reactions. Nothing seemed to enervate either one, and I convinced myself that there was no criminal intent on their part. I had, over the years, perfected this technique. Anything from a tick near the mouth to a raised eyebrow or a flash of the eyes would have registered on my conscious being. I had developed this technique to a fine art.
I saw nada, zilch, nothing in their demeanor to suggest agitation of any description. What was I looking for? I don't really know. Obviously there was no evil intent in this room.
I had managed to get answers to several questions when a bell started to toll. It was time for prayer and my two companions got up and left me alone in that cell. After a moment I picked up the heavy volume that the brothers had used for support and opened it, then closed it as soon as I looked at the first page. Naturally it was written in Latin! Could have been Greek to me! I busied myself by jotting down several more questions to ask after studying the pair's answers. This shouldn't take more than a year, I thought to myself.
I always associated monasteries with lots of chanting, but all I heard in that cell was a distant, lone voice, probably the abbot's, very faint as the chapel was a long way off. Several birds were chirping outside and I guessed they had to be nesting in the shade as the day was so hot.
Eventually, the two monks returned, silently, and took up their previous positions and the session was resumed. I suppose four more questions had been answered and I was fairly certain that Wright had not in any way been a victim of foul play, according to the testimony. At this juncture it was time for lunch.
I was led into another cavernous room that held several bare, wooden tables with chairs all around. There were no cloths of any kind covering the tables, but they had been scrubbed scrupulously clean and utensils had been laid out. A large metal bowl, a mug, a spoon and a small wine glass sat in each place; no knives or forks. A small wooden board sat on the left of each bowl and several monks went around placing slices of fresh, homemade bread on these boards. There was no butter or margarine that I could see. In the center of each table were several pitchers that, at first glance, held what might be some type of lemonade. Bottles of home made wine were evident, too. I refused when a monk tried to fill my glass.
"I'm on duty-" I began, then closed my mouth as the clatter of utensils ceased and all eyes were turned upon me. I had broken the silence. After a moment the serving of lunch became of prime importance and my gaffe was cast aside. Humorless lot these religious people, I mused.
There must have been forty or fifty silent monks who had filed in through several doors and quietly seated themselves at those tables and mine had been the lone voice to break that silence. I felt chastened by their stares.
Lunch itself, consisted of some kind of stew that I think had every spice available thrown in. Not only was it hot and spicy, but there must have been a pound or two of salt and pepper added. Three monks carrying a caldron of this mixture served everyone with heavy, wooden handled ladles. The meal was allowed to cool down while a lengthy prayer was chanted by the abbot, but after one taste I thought my mouth had caught fire.
What the ingredients in that stew were, I never found out, I was too scared to even ask. I wanted to sop this stew up with my bread, but a glance at the monks sitting at my table convinced me that it would be bad form.
I managed to down a bowl of the pungent mixture and turned to the lemonade pitcher. The monk on my right, smiled and lifted that huge pitcher with one hand and poured me a large measure which I gulped down. It did nothing to relieve my fiery throat.
As this was going on, the monk on my left had filled my bowl again. I felt sick at the thought of downing more of that fiery stew, but their meager living conditions convinced me that I should not waste their food, I managed to finish it. I carefully pushed the bowl away from me, holding my hand over the empty bowl to signify that I had eaten enough, then swallowed another glass of that tasty lemonade.
After lunch we returned to that same cell. I felt awful, drugged, almost. Food poisoning, maybe? I seemed to float along that corridor and I was grateful to be able to sit down again. My breath felt like a dragon's.
"What can you tell me about Mr. Wright's movements after lunch?" My words were slurred and I heard them as if from far away. Something was amiss and I couldn't put my finger on what was happening.
My questions went on, even though my condition appeared to worsen as the day went on. All the answers took some time and I closed my eyes and tilted my head back to relieve my giddiness after I had asked each question.
A few hours passed and I was invited to partake of supper. To my horror the same concoction was served and I went through the same nauseating process as at lunch, but I managed to convince them that a single bowlful was sufficient. I didn't want to offend anyone and I drew a few solicitous glances of sympathy as my face told them how ill I felt. I managed to quench some of the heat with several glasses of lemonade.
I was helped back to the cell where I gathered my notes and departed from the monastery, thanking everyone for their cooperation.
I staggered, feeling absolutely nauseated, through the same doors and was hit by the late evening sun. Its searing rays pounded at me and I started to break into a sweat. Everything started to swim and it wasn't from heat haze. I felt myself falling and I passed out.


My subconscious mind told me a big band was playing a familiar tune. It was a piece I recognized as the Benny Goodman epic from the 1938 Carnegie Hall concert, 'Sing, Sing, Sing.' Gene Krupa was pounding away on the drums, but the beat seemed slow. He should pick up the pace, I thought, then I realized my skull was doing the pounding. When I finally awoke my head hurt and my mouth tasted like I had licked out a bird cage. I opened my eyes, carefully, and glanced around. I found myself in a strange bed and noticed Ben Wright sitting up in the next bed, smiling at me. I was in the same ward he had been taken to. Captain Andrews sat on my bed staring at me with an enigmatic grin. He passed me an ice pack.
"Got a heck of a kick, that lemonade," Wright informed me, "smooth as silk and fermented to an over proof liqueur with home made strong, apple cider added as a mixer and you can't tell that it has a kick because of that hot, spicy food. Those two monks indicated by sign language that they had a secret recipe. By that time it was too late" He grinned, ruefully.
And I had wondered if those monks had a sense of humor!


The end.
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