True Believers: A Rich Vitelli Mystery

By Gene Masters

When Melody Warren is kidnapped on her way to work, Metro police take it for an isolated incident.  Her kidnapping was, however, preceded by the disappearance of three other individuals, all in their mid-twenties, all physically fit, and all honors college graduates.  Metro Detective Rich Vitelli senses that there must be a connection of some kind, so when a fifth, eerily similar disappearance follows, it only confirms Vitelli's suspicions.  Meanwhile, Melody, awakened from a drug-induced sleep, is introduced to a kindly appearing old gentleman named Sheldon Hertz, who tells her of a wonderful opportunity to live and flourish in an idyllic environment, with the only requirement being that she engage with others of a similar demographic, and eventually procreate. For this privilege, she'll be paid the sum of ten thousand dollars a month. What could possibly be wrong with such a proposal? The answer is: plenty!

Learn the dark secret behind this seemingly ideal communal living arrangement as True Believers unveils its horrifying secret, and races ahead to its frightening conclusion.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gene Masters
• Release date: May 20, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201723132

Book preview

Chapter  1

Melody Warren kissed her boyfriend, Jerry, goodbye that morning and headed off to the bus stop, which was only a block away from their apartment.  There she would catch the I-16 bus that would take her to work. It was a beautiful morning: the newly-risen sun cast its shimmering glow, just a few wispy clouds; and the early Autumn air was cool and crisp.  She was feeling good.  She had run a 5K over the weekend, and finished in the top ten.  She didn’t feel the least bit guilty about forgoing her run the evening before and, instead, doing some horizontal exercise with Jerry.  And Jerry had been in top form!  Maybe she wouldn’t dump him quite yet, she thought.   She was feeling really good!

Then, out of nowhere, a black van pulled up alongside, the rear doors opened up, and two guys grabbed her and hustled her into the van.  It all happened so fast she had no chance to react and defend herself, or even to scream in protest.  By the time she did try and scream, there was already a strip of duct tape across her mouth, and she felt a pinch in her neck.  Whatever they gave her knocked her right out.

She had no idea how long she was out.  When she awoke, she was logy, almost as if she were hung over.  It took an effort, but she opened her eyes and saw nothing; wherever she was, it was still dark.  She didn’t know where she was, but she knew she wasn’t still in the van.   Or, if she was, it was sitting still, because there was no sensation of movement.  She knew she was lying on a cushion, or maybe a mattress, and she was under a blanket.  She was mentally confused and uncomfortable, perhaps, but at least her body was warm and comfy.

Apparently, her abductors hadn’t hurt her in any way, either—at least they hadn’t as yet.  Nothing felt bruised or broken, and she didn’t feel any particular pain. What she was, more than anything else, was frustrated and angry.  She had trained to fight off and defeat the very thing that had happened to her, and yet, when it had actually happened, she hadn’t done a damn thing about it.  Now she was the defeated one.  And she was so bone-tired and disoriented she couldn’t do anything—even if she wanted to.

She didn’t know how long she had lain there (wherever there was).   She suspected she had drifted off a time or two.  Whatever they had used to put her down was obviously still in her system.

A light came on.   Someone gently sat her up, and a soothing female voice said: I’m Charlene.  Easy now, Melody.  She opened her eyes with some difficulty; it felt like her eyelids had been glued together with something tacky.  Her vision was a bit fuzzy, but she could make out the blurry image of a smiling, white-haired woman, short, with an elfin face and a broad smile.   Lots of teeth.

Where am I? she asked.  Who are you, Charlene, and why are you doing this to me?

"You’re somewhere safe, Melody, and, rest assured, no one here will ever hurt you."

She fought hard to keep her wits about her.  Oh, my God, oh my god, she thought.  I’ve been abducted by human traffickers!

Charlene continued to speak softly to her, using a calm and soothing manner and gentle voice, doing her best to put her at ease.  Whatever your misgivings, Melody, she said, I can assure you that no harm whatever will come to you.  Here, have a drink of water.   It will help clear out the cobwebs.

Melody took the proffered bottle of water and drank greedily.  When she had drunk her fill, Charlene said to her, Oh, your life will be different from now on, but in a good way, in an exciting way.   You’re about to embark on the adventure of your lifetime!

And that only made it worse.  What Melody wanted was her life back, and exactly the way it was.  She wanted her uncomplicated, go-nowhere, good-for-the-time-being, while-I-sort-out-my-life, job, and her beautiful, painfully obtuse boyfriend, and the regular, if mindless, sex.

Please don’t tell me you want to go back your shitty job, or your idiot boyfriend, Melody, said Charlene.  "Remember how you really felt about them, how you described them to your friends?  With us, here, you’ll never have to sit in front of a telephone again and try to convince people to buy things you know they’ll never need.  You’ll never again have to ward off the advances of your pathetic supervisor, either.  As to your boyfriend, besides sex, what else was he good for?  Certainly not for making intelligent conversation.  You were about to dump him, anyway, weren’t you?"

This woman was starting to piss Melody off.  She knew too damn much about her.  What?  How do you know about that?  Have you been spying on me? she asked.

Not spying, Melody.  Observing.  Listening to the things you say and reading your posts on social media.

Observing?  Listening? said Melody.  Those are just other words for spying.  Those things I said to my friends were private, and those posts were just for my friends—not  the general public.

Charlene smiled, and Melody knew why.  What she had just said was a pretty pathetic excuse for whining in public.  Melody’s eyes were no longer bleary, and her vision was sharpening.  She could now see clearly that Charlene was probably well past middle age.  She was neatly, if plainly, dressed, her diminutive frame covered with a pale blue, knitted pants suit, her shoes unadorned, matte brown flats.

Oh Melody, you were way too public about your feelings and opinions.  Take your boyfriend, Jerry, Charlene continued, he’s physically attractive, and, in your own words, ‘an absolutely astounding lover,’ but he’s never going to amount to anything and you know it.  You’ll certainly never marry him.  You told your girlfriends that, too.  His days, so you said, were numbered, weren’t they?

"How in the hell do you know that?  All that is very private."

As I said, Melody, observing and listening.  Anyone who observed you and listened to you knows all of that.   But that’s enough for now.  In a minute, someone will be coming by to escort you to dinner.

Melody suddenly realized how hungry she was.  Dinner?  What time is it?

It’s dinnertime, Melody.  And it’s Tuesday.  You’ve been asleep for quite a while, more than a whole day.

Tuesday!  What the hell happened to the rest of Monday? thought Melody.  And where in the world am I?

Back to TOC

Chapter 2

I ’m telling you, Captain , the three cases are connected. They were in the bullpen of the Missing Persons Division, where Vitelli had a prestigious inside-corner desk, on the third floor of Metro Police HQ building, downtown on Seventh and Third.  Some natural light actually made it through the windows that hadn’t been washed in what? at least fifty years, Vitelli thought.  Outside, the city was sunny and bright; inside, it was still a murky dawn, lit only by an inadequate fluorescent light.

Detective Lieutenant Richard Vitelli was attempting to convince his boss, Captain Parker, head of Metro Police, Missing Persons Division, that three MP (Missing Persons) incidents reported over the past three weeks were interrelated.  Parker was short, maybe five-five at most, overweight, and very bald.  He was also legendary for his dyspeptic disposition, but one he only infrequently directed toward Vitelli, whom he genuinely liked and respected.

Vitelli, after eleven years with the Metro Police, and following a rapid rise to Detective Sergeant in the department’s robbery division, had, for the last six, been with Missing Persons.  The switch was prompted by the untimely loss of his wife, Margie, to cancer.

With Margie’s initial diagnosis, Vitelli had gone into denial, and thrown himself into his work.  He was working extra hours on a case when Margie, sick in the hospital for the umpteenth time, went into a coma. Word had gotten to him too late, and he was on his way to her when she died—alone.

From the robbery department’s ace, Vitelli quickly turned into the department’s dud.  His boss, then, was happy, therefore, to approve the transfer to Missing Persons when he requested it.  In contrast to his previous boss, his new boss, Parker, who ran Missing Persons, was happy to get him.

Eventually, over the next year or so, Vitelli shook off his funk and again began to pay attention to business.  Missing Persons operated at nowhere near the frenetic pace of Robbery or Homicide, and, although its case closure rate was no better, there were, at least, far less blood and guts involved.  It was in Missing Persons where Vitelli made lieutenant, and, over the past year or two, became Captain Parker’s go to guy.  And so, when Vitelli brought any concern of his to Parker’s attention, his boss at least gave it his full attention.

I just don’t see it, Vitelli, Parker finally said.  One man and two women, two white, one black, all last seen in different sections of the city.  How are the three cases connected?

Okay, Captain.  We have Marius Antonelli, Elaine Sennett, and Marjorie Blunt.  Each individual was in their early to mid-twenties, all athletic types and in top physical condition, all college graduates with honors.  And each one disappears without a trace, on a weekday, either going to, or coming from, work.  Each one was living a normal life, each was employed, no reported life problems, and they suddenly go missing?  And there are no ransom demands for any one of them!  Those things aren’t similar?

Okay, so they’re somewhat interrelated when you look at them like that.  Parker was still not convinced that Vitelli was onto something, but the best man in his division had been too right about too many things in the past to dismiss his concerns out of hand.  I tell you what, though, and just because it’s you, you can take Sergeant Fowler and a couple of days.  Go ahead and dig into these three cases all you want.  But just a couple of days.  Ya got me?

Right, Captain, and thank you.  I’ll let you know when we come up with something.

You do that, Lieutenant.  Now get the hell out of my office and quit bothering me with your cockamamie hunches.  As he said that, Parker knew, more often than not, Vitelli’s hunches paid off.

Vitelli left Parker’s office, closing the rickety, glass-panel door behind him.  He paid no attention whatever to the captain’s gruff dismissal.  His portly boss’s peculiar disposition frequently gave birth to such unmerited admonitions.  Parker’s customary demeanor was legend throughout the Metro Police Department anyway, but Vitelli was the only one who paid any attention to it.  What the others did pay attention to, however, was Parker’s reputation for the efficient way he ran his division, his absolute concern and loyalty to the men and women in his department, and his complete honesty.  All were qualities rare in the Metro Police Department, where more than just a few of its members were on the take.

And then, Melody Warren’s live-in boyfriend reported her missing.

Back to TOC

Chapter 3

D o you like your room ? Charlene asked.  Are you quite comfortable here?

What’s not to like, Melody answered.  "It’s at least twice the size of the room I had growing up, and I never, ever, had my very own bathroom before."  And she wasn’t lying.  It was bigger than the entire space she and Jerry were renting, and a lot better furnished.

But what about my things? she asked.  I had my phone with me when your people grabbed me.  So what happened to my phone?

Your things, including your phone and the clothes you were wearing, are in this room, in that gray tote bag in the closet.  Everything else in the closet, what amounts to a whole new wardrobe, is also yours to keep.

Melody got up, still a bit shaky, and went to the closet.  There were, as promised, some really nice clothes that looked to be the right size hung up in there.  She found the tote bag, and, in it, her phone.  She turned it on.  There was only twenty percent battery life remaining.  And there were no bars.  No service.

There are no cell towers anywhere near here, Charlene said, anticipating her next question, so you won’t be able make or receive any calls.  You can connect up to our Wi-Fi and the Internet, but even then, you won’t be able to call out.  And, oh yes, if you dig a little deeper in that bag, you’ll find a charger that will work for your phone.  Any other questions?

Not for now, Melody said, still sullen.

Good.  Now there’s someone I want you to meet.

As if on cue, there was a double-tap knock on the door.  Come in, Charlene said, and a young man opened the door and came into the room.  Melody had to admit he was a bit of a knockout.  Handsome didn’t begin to cover it.  He was gorgeous: tall, she would guess, about six-foot-four or so, and very well built.  Sandy blond hair worn short, clean shaven, even-featured with high cheek bones and a dimpled chin—and ice-blue eyes.  Preppy sports clothes: green golf shirt and tan slacks.

Charlene, he said, with a respectful nod to her. And you must be Melody.  He extended his hand. I’m Brad.

Of course you are! Melody thought, and took his hand.  Firm grip, dry palms.  I am . . . Melody, that is, was all she could think to say.  If she was checking him out, she could see that Brad was doing some checking out of his own.  If she did think so herself, Melody was not at all hard to look at: a natural blonde, green eyes, even if her features were unremarkable.  She was not overly tall, or particularly busty, but her boyfriend, Jerry, continually expressed his opinion that she had a knock-out body.  And Melody worked hard at keeping it that way.

And I am nowhere near as stupid as these people seem to think I am.

Judging from the way Brad was now licking her up and down with his eyes, Melody figured she must have earned a passing grade.  Come on, he said, finally, I’ll escort you to the dining hall.  Should be pretty good; pot roast is the main entree, I think.

Melody and Brad left a smiling Charlene behind and walked out into what looked like a hotel hallway.  Brad led her down the hall to an elevator, which took them down to a level L.  Melody kicked herself for not noting whatever level it was they came from.  The elevator opened up into a dining room of sorts.  It was a very large space, with walls of windows facing a rolling, green-on-brown countryside.  It was still light enough that Melody could make out other buildings and open fields, and, off in the distance, pinewood hills.

There were round tables covered in white plastic laminate scattered about the room, with people seated at them, mostly in groups of four or six, but only a few with just couples.  Nobody in the room appeared to be over thirty; all were casually well-dressed and the picture of health.  The one word that came to Melody’s mind describing this crowd was wholesome.  Each one—man or woman—would be considered attractive in any culture, and quite a few, she figured, were even drop-dead gorgeous.

Dinner was apparently smorgasbord-style, with different food selections set out in a long line, including the promised pot roast set out on a steam table along with other items to be kept hot.  Brad showed her where to get a tray, a plate, and some silverware, and they went down the line picking out food.  Take what you want, Brad said, but eat what you take.  It all looked delectable, and Melody was starving, so, she overdid it a bit, choosing small portions of everything.

Brad led her to a table for two, and they ate and talked.

What is this place?  Where are we, and why the hell are we here? she asked, almost as soon as they sat down.

It’s called ‘Hertz Farm,’ to answer your first question, or, more formally, the Hertz Postgraduate School of Ecology.  And we’re in the middle of Wyoming.  As to why we’re here, I’ll leave that to Mr. Hertz to explain to you himself.  No doubt you’ll be meeting him soon, probably first thing in the morning.  All I can say is, whatever you might think, it’s not that at all.  But you’ll see all that for yourself tomorrow.

Tomorrow?  Look, I was snatched off the street; I’m pretty sure drugged, and flown hundreds of miles away from my home.  Tell me the truth.  I’m never going home again, am I?

Oh, you can go home, Melody, if you’re silly enough to want to, even after you hear about the opportunity you’ve been given.

What opportunity?  And why so mysterious? she asked.  Can’t you even give me a hint?

He just grinned.  I don’t want to spoil the surprise, he said, and no matter how Melody cajoled and pleaded the rest of the meal, he wouldn’t say anything more.  But one thing did become very clear to her: If it all seems too good to be true, then it isn’t.  And I’m probably never going to leave this place alive.

Well, she said finally, Charlene said there was Wi-Fi.  At least tell me how to hook my phone up to the Wi-Fi.

Easy, said Brad.  The system name is ‘Hertz School.’  That’s with a ‘z,’ and ‘ecology’ is the password—all lower case.

Got it.  ‘Hertz School’ and ‘ecology.’

They finished eating, and Melody was stuffed.  Not too stuffed though, to not finish the meal off with a lovely dry merlot.  Then Brad escorted her back to what was apparently now her room.  This time, she noted that they got off at the third floor.  They turned right, and he led her down the hall, passing other rooms, all with no numbers on the doors, only nameplates.  Most of the nameplates were blank, but the one on the door to her room read Melody Warren.

When they got to her room, Brad gave her a certain look, and Melody got the distinct feeling that if she asked Brad to come in and spend the night, he would.   And that he actually expects me to ask, she thought.  Truth be told, for a second or two, she did seriously consider inviting him in.  Then she thought better of it, gave him a peck on the cheek, went in, and closed the door behind her.  When she did, she heard the distinct click of the bolt in the lock sliding shut.  When she tried the door, it was definitely locked.  Now she could only hope someone would be along to let her out in the morning.

Melody followed Brad’s instructions and hooked her phone up to the Wi-Fi.  She could get on the Internet okay, but just like Charlene had said, she couldn’t phone out.

What use is a telephone if you can’t make phone calls

Back to TOC?

Chapter 4

When Melody awoke, Charlene was standing next to her bed.   Creepy.

Did you sleep well? Charlene asked.  Melody answered that she had, but she really had not.  She had slept fitfully.  The fact that she had been locked in her room, and that she couldn’t make a phone call, did not make her comfortable in the least.

And she was dead sure that she had somehow stepped into some deep shit.

Melody had already determined that the room itself was comfortable enough.  It even had a complete en suite bath, and a large window that looked out over a rolling green-on-brown countryside and several buildings.  But the window couldn’t be opened (she knew because she tried).  The oversized bed was really comfortable, and there was even a sitting area with a TV—a TV that only ran 50s- and 60s-era, mostly black-and-white, lame comedy and variety shows.

Good.  There’s nothing like a good night’s sleep to clear the mind and improve one’s outlook on life, Charlene finally said.

Never mind that, Melody said, annoyed at Charlene’s cheerfulness.  I’ve been kidnapped and I’m being held for ransom, aren’t I?

Not hardly, Charlene laughed.  If she was amused, Melody certainly was not.  Think, Melody!  Who would pay ransom for you?

My parents, for one. They love me and would do anything for me.

You’re certainly right about that.  They would if they could.  But they’re not exactly rich, now, are they.  (A statement, not a question.)

No, they’re not.

"And your boyfriend, Jerry, might die for you, but he doesn’t have two