The Underground Asylum

By Dan Belton

MARK CONLAN, and his son, JESSE, move to California after Mark's messy divorce. Mark buys extensive acreage adjoining a twenty-two thousand acre wilderness area, near San Francisco.

Decapitated murder victims are discovered on and around Mark's property. Mark falls in love with a widowed neighbor, JUANITA VARGAS. Jesse explores the hills and mountains on their property. ROOSTER MADSON and WHEELS WHEELER, two homicide detectives are unable to solve the series of murders.

Jesse stumbles upon a vast underground cave complex on their property. He and Mark attempt to explore the cave but are driven out due to their inexperience. Mark hires a private detective, ACE BALLARD, who just happens to be a spelunker, to investigate two hostile neighbors. Soon Jesse is kidnapped. Mark and Ace explore the cave and are attacked by the killer. They find five mummified heads in the cave--their identities unknown.

Mark and Ace are trapped in the cave and a horrifying game of cat-and-mouse ensues with the elusive killer. Rooster enters the cave and disappears. The murderer,cornered in his underground lair, is killed--the case apparently solved. Then the surprising mastermind emerges, re-igniting the chase. The riddle of Jesse's fate is finally determined in the story's exciting climax.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Feb 4, 2004
• ISBN: 9781465320261

Dan Belton

Dan Belton is a graduate of the University of Idaho and a U. S. Marine Corps veteran. After graduation from college, he worked in sales and marketing for a major pharmaceutical company. A few years later he left the pharmaceutical industry and successfully owned and operated several businesses of his own. After he sold his businesses he entered the financial services industry as a stock broker and financial planner. He worked for Merrill Lynch, Dean Witter, and Paine Webber. He left the financial services industry in 1999 to devote full time to writing. Dan Belton is married with three children. He currently resides in the San Francisco bay area.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

The body lay sprawled on the ground, the upper torso soaked in blood. The head was missing. Detective Bill Wheels Wheeler stood looking down at the corpse as his partner, Detective Ted Rooster Madson, squatted down on his haunches next to the body. Rooster winced and let out a groan as he leaned over the body. He was wearing a walking cast on his left leg, the result of a broken tibia. The leaves and earth around the body were soaked with blood. Rooster waved his arm over the exposed neck of the corpse. A tenacious squadron of flies became airborne. Under the victim’s neck was an oak branch with what appeared to be a chop mark cut into the bark. Blood and compressed tissue were visible in the sliced depression.

It looks as though the killer used that oak branch as a chopping block, Rooster Madson said to his partner. He used something other than an axe. The cut is about a foot long.

Where the hell is the head? Detective Wheeler asked.

I don’t know, but the criminalists are looking around for it now. It’s got to be around here somewhere.

Rooster Madson rose and limped toward the house. Rooster Madson, the lead homicide detective for the Oakmont County Sheriff’s Department, wore a pair of khaki Bermuda shorts. He had been granted official permission from his Captain to wear them until the cast on his leg was removed. A tattoo of a fighting cock was plainly visible on the side of his right calf. His nickname, Rooster, came years ago, when his fellow detectives first discovered his tattoo. And he didn’t mind showing it off. The diminutive detective was only five feet seven inches tall, but was feisty and cocksure, like a bantam rooster. All law enforcement in and around Oakmont knew the bachelor homicide detective and referred to him as The Rooster.

Hey, Gary, Rooster called out. Did you find the head?

No sign of it anywhere, Gary Lang, the chief criminalist answered. Do you think the killer took it with him?

Anything’s possible, but why would anyone want the head? Rooster asked.

I don’t know, but we’re going to take the body to the morgue now. If you’re done with it here, Gary Lang said.

The sheriff’s photographer finished taking shots of the body and the surrounding area. There was a thick canopy of oak trees overhead. Leaves were everywhere. The body lay near a fenced vegetable garden, about fifty feet from the small one-bedroom house. The decapitated victim lay on a blood-soaked bed of oak leaves. It looked to Rooster as though the leaves had been raked evenly with a branch or stick to hide any evidence. Even with the leaves pulled away, no footprints were visible. The ground around the body was very dry.

The house was located on Grizzly Hill Road, a private, deadend road above the city of Oakmont, California. Only four other houses were on the private road, all below the murdered man’s house. Rooster and Detective Wheeler examined the old, eleven hundred square foot ranch house for clues. Dirty dishes stood piled in the sink and on the counter. Eighteen quarts of freshly canned cherries sat on the hand-made kitchen table. The bed was unmade, the sheets in need of a wash. On the screened-in porch, sat an old Maytag washing machine with dirty, long underwear and bib-overalls piled on top. There was nothing unusual about the interior of the old man’s home, other than being in need of maid service.

Frank Sturgeon, a next-door neighbor from down below, had followed the sound of sirens up the hill. He soon found the two detectives and informed them that the house belonged to Stanley Moleski, a widower in his late seventies. Frank Sturgeon positively identified the headless body as that of his neighbor, Stanley Moleski.

He always wore that plaid shirt and those old boots, Frank Sturgeon told the detectives. And look, his left index finger is missing. He lost that finger in a chain-saw accident years ago.

Do you know anyone who would want to kill him? Rooster asked.

God, no. He was a harmless old man, Frank said. He was just about to sell out to a developer and go to Iowa to live with his sister.

Well, he isn’t going to make it to Iowa now, Rooster said. How many acres does he own here?

I think it’s about eighteen hundred acres. Most of his property butts up against the Lost Canyon Wilderness Area over there, Frank said, pointing his arm in a sweeping motion to the west.

Hell, that wilderness area encompasses about twenty-two thousand acres, Detective Wheeler said. No wonder a developer was interested. I wish I could afford a home site next to a wilderness area.

Does he have any relatives that live closer than his sister in Iowa? Rooster asked.

I wasn’t real close to Moleski, Frank said. He kept to himself, kinda independent like.

Detective Madson looked around in the house and found the address and phone number of Mr. Moleski’s sister. He called her from Stanley Moleski’s old dial-phone and broke the news to her. He needed to inform her of the autopsy and find out what she wanted to do with the body after that.

After she got over the initial shock, she gave instructions to cremate the body right after the autopsy. There would be no funeral. She told the detective that she had no intention of coming out to California and said she would arrange to have the ashes sent to her in Iowa. She asked him about real estate agents in the area, with the idea of selling as soon as possible.

Rooster Madson and Detective Wheeler continued to question Frank Sturgeon about the neighborhood.

Was this road used exclusively by the five families who lived on the road? Rooster asked as he hiked up his leather holster belt.

I wish, Frank said. Trespassers in cars often come up the road and drive right past the no-trespassing sign and the private-road signs. We never have any idea whether they are friends of our neighbors or just people out for a Sunday drive. Sometimes, kids will drive up the road, park and do whatever they do. It’s a real problem at times.

There is no turn-around here. The road just dead-ends in Mr. Moleski’s driveway, Wheels said.

That’s what pissed old man Moleski off so much. They were always turning around in his driveway, Frank said. He got into verbal confrontations with many of them, but they just kept coming.

So anyone could have come up here, argued with Moleski, and then killed him, Rooster said.

Sure could have, Frank said. But he also told me he got several threatening phone calls warning him about selling out to a subdivision developer. Maybe some of those anti-growth nuts killed him to stop the sale.

Both detectives were well aware of the animosity and conflict between the local land owners and no-growth advocates. Oakmont and Riverdale were two small towns near the San Francisco Bay area. They were fast becoming bedroom communities for the urban commuter. Housing tracts were sprouting up like mushrooms on the hillsides. Many local folks resented the incursion on their lifestyle, along with the resultant smog and traffic congestion.

The lead detective limped away from Frank Sturgeon and Detective Wheeler and headed around to the side of the house. Thick oak leaves covered the earth around the house. As he walked, he could hear and feel the crunch of acorns hidden under the leaves. There was little, if any, landscaping around the single story house, just tufts of grass and weeds. It was early June. Already the weather was unusually hot, the temperature about 85 degrees. He reached the side of the house, stopped, and looked up.

The small ranch house sat on the top of a hill. The terrain around the house dipped down only slightly before continuing

upward for what seemed like miles. The peak elevation of the Lost Canyon Wilderness area was almost forty-five hundred feet. The topography undulated with rolling, grassy hills, each higher than the next until they reached the top of Grizzly Peak Mountain. The grass covered hills and ridges were bordered by mixed stands of oak, laurel and maple trees. On a few of the more rocky hillsides, dense stands of manzanita and chaparral covered the slopes. In some of the canyons beyond his vision, he had heard there were redwood groves and rushing streams. What a bucolic setting for such a grisly murder, he thought.

He limped out from under the shade of the oak trees and stood in the bright sunlight on the side of the house. It was hotter than usual for June, he thought. Then, Rooster heard the sound of running water. He looked down the hill through the oaks and laurel and caught a glimpse of a small creek. Rooster let his curiosity win over his leg pain. He limped down the leaf-covered path toward the sound of running water, and stopped by the edge of the stream.

He felt a noticeable drop in temperature and increased humidity. It was at least ten degrees cooler near the water. Fragrant bay laurel, buckeye and black alders shaded the creek. He inhaled deeply, enjoying the delicious fragrance. Small rocks and pebbles washed smooth by many years of rushing water covered the stream bed. Big moss-covered boulders were interspersed among the smaller rocks, giving testimony to the force and power of winter storms. This eighteen hundred acre ranch was truly a gem. The detective wondered what would become of it now that its owner was dead.

Rooster rejoined his partner on the front driveway. Detective Wheeler was still talking with Frank Sturgeon.

You said that Mr. Moleski was about to sell out to a developer, Wheels said. How do you know that? Was it well publicized? I never heard anything about it.

Well, the neighbors on this road often meet at our mailboxes at the bottom of the hill at 4 o’clock, Frank said. That’s the time the mail is delivered. We often come down at nearly the same time and visit with each other then. Stanley mentioned it to me one day.

How did the neighbors feel about a developer getting hold of that beautiful piece of property? Rooster asked.

We weren’t happy about it. None of us. But he had a right to do whatever he wanted to do. It was his property, Frank said. I don’t know what his sister will do with it now. I hope to God that she doesn’t sell to that greedy developer.

Rooster knew that old man Moleski’s upcoming sale could be a motive for some anti-growth zealot to go ballistic, but murder? No, he thought. Too drastic. Frank Sturgeon had told them that the elderly Mr. Moleski just tended his garden, canned fruit from his fruit trees and leased his land for grazing. Hardly a lifestyle that would provoke violent reactions.

After awhile Frank excused himself and walked down the road toward his home. Rooster and Wheels continued looking around. There were few clues. The asphalt driveway at the front of the house yielded no tire tracks. The dry earth covered with leaves revealed no footprints, no blood drops. The victim’s body had been removed, crime scene tape was all around the house, and the criminalists were gone. The sun had disappeared behind the hills. Darkness was fast approaching. The two detectives drove down the hill to interview the three other neighbors.

One of the down hill neighbors, a middle-aged widow, Juanita Vargas, welcomed the detectives into her kitchen. She was busy washing heads of iceberg lettuce.

I feed these old lettuce heads to the deer who come into my yard at sunset. They’re my pets, really. Please sit down," she said as she motioned toward the kitchen chairs.

She substantiated what Frank Sturgeon had told them. Stanley Moleski was indeed planning to sell out to a developer only because the developer offered an obscenely high price for his property.

I know Frank Sturgeon wanted that property too, but he doesn’t have that kind of money, Juanita said.

How did you feel about Mr. Moleski selling out to a developer? Rooster asked. Did you fear what the developer would do to that pristine piece of property?

Oh, sure. We were all sick about it, especially Stanley’s sister.

You mean Mr. Moleski’s sister in Iowa?

Yeah, she was out her about ten years ago and loved the open space, Juanita said. She’ll be in charge of it now, so maybe the developer is going to lose out. I sure hope so. She was Stanley’s only kin, you know.

The next afternoon the Coroner’s office released the results of the autopsy on Stanley Moleski. The body had been positively identified through fingerprints as that of Stanley Moleski. Even though the head had been chopped off, there were bruises on the neck stub, indicating strangulation may have occurred first. But, without the head, the cause of death couldn’t be conclusively determined.

Rooster thought it strange that the victim was strangled, then decapitated. Wouldn’t the strangulation be redundant? Or wouldn’t the decapitation be redundant? Very strange, he thought.

Rooster once again called Olga Moleski in Iowa. He informed her of the autopsy findings. Olga told him that Stanley had lost his wife nine years ago and had remained in the home by himself. She helped him confirm everything that the neighbors on Grizzly Hill Road had told them about her brother, Stanley Moleski.

That ranch will never be subdivided, she told him. Not as long as I have a say in it.

Olga Moleski was not interested in selling the property to any developer, no matter what she was offered. She claimed she had enough money to live comfortably for the rest of her life. She didn’t want the property subdivided and had already contacted a real estate agent about listing the property.

Stanley Moleski’s sister was shocked at the gruesome way her brother had died. She told Detective Madson that she would pray for him to catch the killer soon. She didn’t want the murderer to repeat his crime against anyone else.

Promise me you will keep me informed about your investigation as it progresses, Olga said.

Will do, Olga, Rooster promised.

The next day Rooster went to the California State Crime Lab and talked with Gary Lang, the chief criminalist. Many rural and semi-rural communities cannot afford their own crime lab. Many are run by the State of California. The veteran detective and the bright young criminalist discussed the autopsy report and the search of the Moleski property.

Did you find anything near or around the body that can help us? Rooster asked.

We didn’t find anything that ties into the murder, Gary Lang said. It did appear that the murderer swept leaves around the site of the killing to cover any tracks. But the soil is so dry he wouldn’t have left a footprint anyway. We took some bloody leaves but could determine only that the victim had type O blood.

Did the killer drive up to the house or come up the creek or what? How did he get in and out of there? Rooster asked.

We couldn’t find any tracks, but he could have come in by foot, Gary said. You know there are rumors of a crazy hermit living up there in the Lost Canyon Wilderness somewhere. Maybe he did it. Or the killer could have driven up Grizzly Hill Road, we just don’t know.

Any idea what type of weapon was used to decapitate him?

It had a long blade, like a sword, machete, or butcher’s knife. It had a straight edge, no serration on the blade. That’s all we know about it, Gary said. The person who chopped his head off did it with one blow. A pretty powerful man that’s for sure.

We can’t find anybody who had it in for that old-timer. Maybe it had to do with the proposed sale of the property, Rooster said. Or else it was just a random act of violence.

You may be right, Rooster, Gary said. Not many people I know want to see that property sub-divided.

Rooster left the crime lab feeling a little bitter. He always had to do the tough work, while his partner, Wheels Wheeler, just seemed to go along for the ride. It was nothing he couldn’t handle though, he knew his business. He was, after all, the lead homicide detective, and a damn good one at that. It would just take a little longer to solve, that’s all.

CHAPTER TWO

Mark Conlan was having a streak of phenomenal luck. The self-employed architect had hit the fourteen million dollar Pennsylvania lottery just two months ago. He had recently divorced and had been granted custody of his sixteen year old son, Jesse. After his divorce, Mark decided to make a fresh start in California.

A college fraternity brother who lived in San Francisco told him about an eighteen hundred acre property that had just come on the market. It was expensive, but it was only about forty miles from San Francisco, in the hills above Oakmont, California. Mark flew out immediately and toured the ranch. The six million dollar price tag wasn’t a problem. It was perfect.

The local people were reluctant to bid on the land, partially because of what had happened to the last owner. Olga Moleski had insisted on a buyer who would keep the land in its current condition. She made that a requirement in the sales contract. She would allow the new owner to lease some of the land for cattle grazing, but prohibited sub-dividing during her lifetime. Mark Conlan had no problem with that clause and made an all-cash purchase.

Mark and Jesse arrived at their new Oakmont home on July fifteenth and quickly settled in. The house was more like a tiny cabin than a house, and Mark rented a self-storage locker in town to store their excess furniture and belongings. He planned to design a new house for the property soon. He would raze the old house when the new one was finished. A demolition permit would be required for the old house. Mark set up his drawing board in the corner of the kitchen and began working on designing his new house. He didn’t anticipate any problem getting the local planning department to approve his plans.

One morning, shortly after they got settled in their new home, Mark drove down the hill, got the morning paper, and returned to the small house. Still dressed in his robe and slippers, he poured himself a cup of coffee from his old Braun automatic drip coffee maker. Jesse, grabbed the sports page and disappeared into the bedroom. Mark pulled out one of the gray metal folding chairs that temporarily served as kitchen chairs and sat down. He unfolded the morning edition of the Oakmont Gazette, leaned over the table and read the headline: ANOTHER HEADLESS BODY FOUND IN RIVERDALE.

His nerves tingled up his spine and down his arms like he had hit a crazy-bone at the base of his spine. Pretty close to home, he thought.

Riverdale was another valley town about ten miles northwest of Oakmont. The victim was a homeowner who lived in the hills above Riverdale. His property also bordered the Lost Canyon Wilderness. The murdered man and his family were planning to go to their daughter’s swim meet at the local natatorium.

The victim’s wife and three children had departed earlier in their van. He stayed to finish mowing the lawn before joining them at the pool. He never arrived. His headless body was found in the garden-equipment storage shed. The neck was lodged against a fireplace log taken from the woodpile. A long chop mark was clearly visible on the bloody log.

Come here a minute, Jess, Mark called. I want you to read this.

Jesse came in from the bedroom, hair disheveled and dressed only in shorts and tee shirt. Mark handed him the paper. Jesse stood by the kitchen table, feet wide apart, and read the gory details on the front page.

Wow, that’s really weird, Jess said.

Sit down a minute, Jess. I want to talk with you about this.

Jess pulled out another folding chair and slumped his six-foot frame down on it. He looked at his forty-eight year old father with his thinning gray hair and slight paunch and waited for a lecture.

Jess, this is the same thing that happened here before we bought this place. The owner of this house was decapitated out there in the back of the house. I want you to be extra careful until they catch this guy.

Yeah, okay, Dad. But we have Sassy here to protect us. Nobody will mess with Sassy, Jesse said.

Hearing her name, Sassy, their spayed-female Doberman and German Shepherd mix came over from under the architectural drawing table, wagging her tail. Jesse reached out and put his hand on the head of his big dog and patted her several times.

I’m serious, Jess, Mark said. When you and Sassy go on your exploring hikes, you be alert. There’s a rumor of a crazy homeless man who is supposed to live up there in the hills somewhere. And you’d better take a knife or something, just in case.

Don’t worry. Sassy and I can handle fifteen guys without any weapons at all, Jess said with the usual adolescent bravado.

Mark had given Jess permission to hike their property bordering the Lost Canyon Wilderness area. Jess and Sassy were often gone for most of the day, exploring. Jess would get up early and pack himself a lunch, throw in some kibble for Sassy, strap on his backpack and binoculars and away they would go. This gave Mark some quiet time to work on the design of their new house.

When I get the new house plans done, I want to go hiking with you, Mark said. I’m dying to see the property from the ground up. Until then, I think you ought to take a cell phone with you in case you have an accident or something.

Jesse got up, put his hands on his hips and looked down at his father.

You are just like Mom, always worrying. I don’t need a cell phone. It’s just one more thing to carry. Besides, I love to be up there with nature and not hear a phone going off. I just like to listen to the birds and wildlife. I sit up there and watch coyotes, deer, bobcats and even feral pigs sometimes. What if you decided to call me and check up on me? Then I’d have a ringing phone going off just when I’m stalking some wildlife.

Mark rose, threw his arms around his son, and held him tightly for a few seconds. He then held Jesse at arms length and looked into his eyes.

You are all I have left now, Jess, what with your mother being re-married and all. I just don’t want anything to happen to you, that’s all.

Yeah, sure, Dad.

Jess pulled away and headed for the bedroom and his unfinished sports page. Mark poured another cup of coffee and strolled outside. He looked up toward the hills above and watched several black turkey vultures circling above a large grove of oaks. He wondered what kind of carrion they were interested in. He had heard that a few mountain lions were up there, and deer carcasses helped feed the vultures. He inhaled deeply, savoring the early morning fragrances, then walked back inside to finish reading the paper.

The following morning, Mark arose early and went into the kitchen to put on the coffee. A note from Jesse said he and Sassy were hiking and that he would be home around 6 p.m. Mark plugged in the coffee pot. As he turned around, he saw two mice scurrying across the floor and into a crack under his design table. We must get a cat, he thought.

About 11 a.m. the phone rang. It was Juanita Vargas, one of his neighbors down the road. She hadn’t met Mark or Jesse and wanted to invite them to dinner the following evening. She told him that she had a daughter about Jesse’s age who could keep him company while the adults got acquainted. Mark eagerly accepted, even though he hadn’t run it by Jesse. He had become an adequate cook since his divorce but, as his son often reminded him, he would never become another Julia Childs.

That evening at 6:15 p.m. Jesse and Sassy arrived home covered with mud and looking very tired.

Boy, you look like you’ve been in a mud wrestling contest. What happened? Mark asked.

I’ll tell you in a minute, Dad, Jesse said. I’ve got to get in the shower.

Mark soon heard the water running in the bathroom. He squatted down to pet Sassy who had collapsed in her usual spot under the design table. He noticed a tick imbedded in her cheek and got a pair