Absence of Faith

by Anthony S. Policastro

  "When did you become the cult expert?" Jerry asked.

  "After the Harmon murder. I found it so repulsive and so dangerous that I had to know more. What could drive a person to be so savage? It obsesses me."

  "Did you find out?"

  "Sort of. There are things to look for like an extraordinary devotion to the cult leader or the group, members isolated from family and friends and an attitude that all non-believers are evil and out to destroy them," Nick explained wiping beads of sweat off his forehead. "Look at the damn terrorists - you can call that one big cult."

  "The Harmon boy wasn't in a cult," Jerry said.

  "We don't know that for sure. Just because we couldn't track those bastards down doesn't mean he wasn't a member. I talked to his father months afterward and he told me that the boy did change somewhat...a drop in grades, mood swings, loss of interest in old friends, but he thought it was just the normal changes kids go through as teenagers," Nick explained. "I believe he was involved with a group of outlaw Satanists."

  "What do you mean?"

  "There are two basic groups. There are the traditional Satanists, who openly worship the Devil in their own churches, conduct Black Masses, and live their lives as they want. Then there's the outlaw Satanists, who form secret cults and use sex and drugs to lure teens into committing crimes. The Harmon boy was probably a member of an outlaw cult. Satanism and its powers especially intrigue teens because it’s the religion of defiance, the religion that challenges the status quo, its rules and regulations. They don’t live their lives fearful of the wrath of God for doing what they want. They live freely. Teens are attracted to this like a moth is to a candle. And you know the killer of this is that these groups are made up of doctors and lawyers, law enforcement, pastors, and ministers," Nick explained taking in a deep breath.

  "No. You’re pulling my chain!" Jerry said looking down at Nick from his six-foot frame.

  "Yeah, it's true. Satanism is infiltrating every aspect of American life," Nick said. "The typical Satanist is a person with a strong ego, a lot of confidence in himself...too much confidence. He's mad at God for all the bad things that has happen to good people. He thinks, 'if God is really good, why does He let all these bad things happen?' He has a higher sense of justice than most people do and he likes everything to be completely fair. Unfortunately, many things that happen in the world are unfair. The other element is power - power over yourself, over others, over your surroundings. He begins to believe that he can actually obtain this power through Satan and the rituals they perform."

  "Really?"

  "Do you remember that case in 2005 about that pastor in Louisiana, who confessed about abusing children and animals in his church and performing Satanic-like rituals?"

  "Vaguely," Jerry said.

  "I’m telling you – it happening all over and it’s getting worse."

  "If you say so. You’re the expert."

  Jerry shook his head and walked down to the end of the dock. A few minutes later Nick called him.

  "Here comes the coroner and the CSI folks. Let's go. Wait up."

  Two men dressed in black coroner's overalls lowered a stretcher with a black body bag onto the floating dock where the other police officers were standing. Two other men and woman followed wearing the dark blue uniforms of the Crime Scene Investigative unit. The coroner followed dressed in a gray suit and red tie.

  "Hey, Kraas. What's with the red tie...to hide the blood stains?" one detective asked.

  "No, asshole. It's to impress idiots like you."

  The coroner's men opened a black cylindrical-shaped athletic bag and took out white plastic overalls. They slipped them on, and then placed white painter's masks on their faces and rubber gloves on their hands. They laid out the black body bag on the dock near the body and zipped it open. The woman from the CSI team began snapping photographs of the body. When she finished, the coroner's men lifted the body out of the water and placed it on the body bag.

  "Wait a minute," the coroner said. "Open the shirt more." One of the men moved the bloodied shirt out of the way. There was a large hole in the center of the chest.

  "Looks like something else is missing," Kraas said.

  "What?" the other detective asked.

  The coroner leaned over the body and looked closer.

  "Looks like his heart."

  The Investigation - Chapter 36

  Nick returned home to his empty apartment and opened the refrigerator; the one bare bulb cast a pale yellow glow on a few items perched on the dirty glass shelves. He grabbed yesterday's tuna sub and a bottle of beer. He walked into the living room and placed the beer on a chipped mahogany end table of the Italian Renaissance period - a left over from his marriage. Just as he turned on the TV the phone rang. He picked up the black receiver.

  "Vancuso," he said forgetting that he was home and off duty.

  "Hello. Detective? This is Doctor Carson Hyll."

  "Oh yeah," Nick said in a groggy voice. "I was just about to call you."

  "I've found the dog killer," Carson said.

  "Who?"

  Nick dropped the TV remote device.

  "Henry Graber. The autopsy report indicated that he died of loss of blood due to a puncture of the common carotid artery. The artery was lacerated," Carson spoke rapidly.

  "Slow down, slow down. Now can you tell me in English," Nick replied.

  "His jugular was torn and it looks like an animal did it. There are small punctures around the wound that look like teeth marks from an animal, and the skin was torn. He died before he hit the tree," Carson explained. "Doctor Stokes also found dog hairs in the trunk of his car, and it was the same black Chevy I saw weeks ago by the disposal bin."

  "What are you guys playing Sherlock Holmes?" Nick asked. "What disposal bin?"

  "I saw a man dump two dead dogs into the bin when I was getting off my shift one morning. When I looked at the dogs both had their throats cut. The car was an old black Chevy...Graber drove a black Chevy," Carson explained. "We couldn't believe it; then all the pieces fell into place."

  "Graber. He's one of yours, right?" Nick asked.

  "Yeah."

  Well, thanks. I'll stop by tomorrow and take your statement."

  "Do you have any new information?" Carson asked.

  "No, but this is a good start. I'll call you when I have something."

  "Thanks."

  Nick placed the receiver back in its cradle and thought about returning to the office, but the day-old sub and the cold bottle of beer was very tempting right now. He started to pick up the bottle when the phone rang again.

  "Vancuso," he said.

  "Nick, this is Kraas. The ME identified the headless body as a visiting minister from Louisville. He was visiting the Riverside Presbyterian Church on River Road and left two days ago. They must have gotten him when he was leaving that's why no one reported him missing. He was from the Presbyterian Church in America."

  "Shit," Nick said. "I’ll step up the patrols around all the churches in the area, and maybe we'll get lucky."

  "Good idea," Kraas said and hung up.

  Nick wondered if Kraas was being sarcastic or if he really meant what he said. He picked up the bottle of beer and was about the twist off the cap, but stopped. He thought about the case and was undecided.

  "Pssssssst," and the beer opened. Nick smelled the cool aroma of the hops rise out of the bottle. He placed the bottle up to his mouth and swallowed. Then he pushed back in his brown leather lounge chair and picked up the sub. I'll start early tomorrow, he thought.

  * * *

  The next day Nick arrived at his office just as the sun was casting its first light on the modern municipal complex. He drove up the long circular driveway that was surrounded by a well-manicured lawn and then made a left to the back of the complex and parked in a space labeled, "Police." He walked to the rear entrance and opened a white metal box next to the door. He pulled a white plastic card out of his wallet and thrust it into the slot. Th
e doorjamb clicked and he pulled the door open. He walked through a narrow hallway, up one flight of stairs, and past the maze of partitions that made up each uniformed officers workstation. He didn't even get a cup of coffee from the kitchen, where he would chat with fellow detectives and exchange leads. Instead, he plopped down in his squeaky desk chair and opened the area telephone book. He turned to animal shelters and marked the page with a sticky note. Then he turned on his computer and searched the Internet for animal shelters in the area. The search page brought up 15 shelters in the county. He launched the automatic dialer, a custom software program that dialed each number on the search page and forwarded the call his desk phone. If no one picked up after one minute, the dialer moved to the next item on the list. After the dialer had gone through four listings with no answers, he decided to get a cup of coffee. He stopped the program and headed towards the kitchen. He poured himself a cup and went back to his desk. After running through several more listings on the site, the dialer connected to Casey's Animal Shelter & Pet Store in Long Branch.

  "Hello, Casey's," a youthful voice said.

  "Hello. I'm Detective Nick Vancuso of the Middletown Police Department."

  "Yeah." the youth said.

  "Listen. I just have a few questions," Nick said.

  "Okay."

  "Are you the owner?"

  "No, that's Mr. Thompson. He's not here now," the young man said.

  "Well, ask him to call me. My number is 555-1067. You got it?" Nick said not sure that the voice on the other end was attached to a thinking person.

  "Yeah."

  "By the way, have you sold or given away any Doberman Pincers say within the last week?" Nick asked.

  "No. Well, yeah. I sold two Dobermans to a Mr. Jones. He's a breeder and didn't want me to tell other breeders."

  "When did you sell them to him?"

  "Last week, I think. It's the second pair he bought. He bought two others, oh, about three months ago," the youth said.

  "Do you have a phone number or an address for Mr. Jones?"

  "No. He would just call in the order, and then show up every few weeks to pick up the dogs. He usually paid in cash."

  "What did he look like?"

  "I don't know. He was just an old guy."

  "If I showed you a picture, would you recognize him?"

  "Oh, yeah, sure."

  "I'll be right there. Don't go anywhere. What's your name?"

  "Glenn Harris."

  "Thanks, Glenn. You've been very helpful."

  Nick fired up his red Crossfire and accelerated rapidly out of the police parking lot. He did that a lot when he was excited about a case. As he sped out into the main road, he noticed a run down white pickup truck appear to dart from lane to lane seemingly trying to catch up with him. After a few lights the truck merged with the normal flow of traffic and he paid it no attention.

  Nick found the pet store easily enough since it is one of the larger buildings in Long Branch - a cement one story warehouse that once served as a distribution center for a large supermarket chain that went out of business. The center had a duel function - it served as the city's animal shelter and a commercial pet store. Nick parked near the wall-size glass windows and walked in. The store smelled of dry dog food and one could hear the faint barks of dogs from the shelter section in the back. A short girl with long black hair and a dark complexion approached Nick.

  "Can I help you," she said smiling.

  "I'm looking for Glenn Harris."

  She turned and yelled, "Glenn!"

  A tall, lanky, young man with his head shaved walked over.

  "This guy is here to see you," the girl said.

  "You're Glenn Harris? I'm Detective Nick Vancuso. I spoke with you on the phone a few minutes ago."

  "Yeah."

  Nick said placed one 4x6 color photo on the glass counter. "Is that Mr. Jones?"

  The young man looked at the photo for several seconds.

  "Nope."

  Nick took out another.

  "Nope."

  Nick finally brought out a photocopy of a Henry Graber's driver's license with the name and address blackened out with a permanent marker. The young man picked up the paper and stared at it for several seconds.

  "This is Mr. Jones. He looks a lot different than this photo - fatter and balder."

  "You're sure that's him?"

  "Yep, that's him. He always gave me a big tip. You don’t forget people like that."

  * * *

  Nick returned to his office and started searching through the piles of papers that covered his desk. He pulled a yellowed newspaper clipping out of one of the piles and placed it in a 3-ring binder with a black vinyl cover. He grabbed the mouse to his computer and clicked on the icon for the FBI's National Criminal Information Center. In the search field, he typed in "Satanic cults, Monmouth County, NJ" and put in a date range going back seven years. The search engine found 184 entries and Nick clicked on the first one. The screen displayed

  1. 7/9/06 suspicious fire - Asbury Park

  "An abandoned warehouse off Dugan Street was mysteriously set ablaze at approximately 2 a.m. Mrs. Pam Jacobs of 1497 Dugan Street reported the incident at 2:19 a.m. Several animal bodies were found in the debris. Satanists are a probable cause, but no leads found; Fire is labeled suspicious. Detective Raymond Pierce investigating officer."

  Nick clicked on the print icon and then walked over to Pierce's office. He was an older man with facial skin that hung off his face like a St. Bernard's. He smoked cigars and had a raspy voice. He was the only one in the office who smoked. He was normally given the "easy" assignments since he often complained about everything when given a complex case.

  "Hi Ray," Nick said as he walked into the office slowly so as not to disturb any of the paper stacks. Pierce had his head down intensely reading a report. He looked up through emerald green eyes.

  "Nick! Got something for me?"

  "Yes and no. I saw your report on that warehouse fire back in July, and I was wondering why you suspect Satanists were involved?"

  "We found a lot of bones from dead animals there - all in one spot. Cats, dogs, squirrels...I mean a lot. Too many to rule out anything but Satanists or a cult of some sort. I believe they were using it as a meeting place, and sacrificing small animals there. Somebody found out so they burned the place down."

  "Any leads?"

  "Nothing substantial. I did get an anonymous call from a woman who identified the leader of the cult. What was his name now?" Pierce hesitated and looked around the room. "Wait I have it written down in one of my pads."

  He opened a drawer in his desk, rummaged through, and then pulled out a small pocket-sized notebook. He leafed through it.

  "Here it is," he said squinting at his own handwriting. "Henry Graber. He's a doctor over in Ocean Village."

  "Did you ever talk to Graber?" Nick asked deliberately concealing his excitement.

  "Nope, I could never get a hold of him. Called for weeks and even went to the hospital, but he could never see me. Personally, I don't believe he was the leader of a cult. He's been a doctor there for years," Pierce explained.

  "Anything else?" Nick said.

  "Yeah, now that I'm thinking of it the caller said a nurse...her name was?"

  Pierce began looking through the small notebook again.

  "Here it is, Janice Doherty. She was supposed to be second in command, his high priestess, but like I said I felt it was a crank trying to get even with Graber."

  "Did you ever talk to the nurse?"

  "Oh yeah. She was the sweetest young thing. She was horrified by the whole thing and couldn't believe there could be such a cult associated with doctors and nurses at the hospital."

  "Thanks."

  "Sure, anytime."

  Nick walked over to the laser printer and took the pages of Pierce's report from the holding bin. Then he went back to his office, picked up the black vinyl binder and told the dispatcher he was going to Ocean Village Hospital. He
arrived at the hospital just before one and went to the information desk in the lobby.

  "Hi. I'm looking for nurse, Janice Doherty. Can you help me?" he said flashing his badge in front of the white haired woman behind the reception desk.

  The woman looked through a directory and then said, "She works on the second floor. You'll have to contact the nursing supervisor to see her. Ask for Nurse Silberg."