by Blake Pierce
He retired in 2014 at the age of sixty, as he had been one of the very vocal members of the Catholic Church who spoke vehemently against all of the child abuse scandals. He spent most of his time in South Africa, where he purchased a home in 2008, and a private residence on Kepper’s Cay.
He was also famously secretive, staying out of the spotlight when it came to all things of a religious nature. The last time his name had been in the headlines was when he had contributed a sizeable chunk of money to hurricane relief when a massive storm had slammed into the Miami area a few years back.
That’s why she was so surprised to see him standing at the end of the pier, waiting for her. He was dressed in a basic polo shirt and khaki shorts. His feet were bare and he had a skin tone that indicated he spent quite a bit of time in the sun. His hair was long, hanging into his eyes, which he brushed back as she approached him.
“Father Mitchell,” she said. “Thank you so much for meeting with me.”
Mitchell shrugged and led her off of the pier. “Well, it seems to me that this was just meant to be. I arrived here two days ago and am leaving in three days. For you to call and inquire about this place within that window…seems like more than coincidence.”
“Regardless, I know how busy you can be…”
Mitchell waved this away. “I’m not the hotly sought after commodity that people think I am,” he said. “Now, how can I help you? Maybe a tour of the place first? It’s such a beautiful day; it would be a shame to not enjoy some of the beach while you’re here, don’t you agree?”
What the hell, she thought. No one has to know.
With that, she kicked off her shoes. She was wearing a white button-down shirt and a pair of black pants—not necessarily beach-ready attire but still not unbearably uncomfortable. With her shoes off and her toes in the soft, warm sand she followed Mitchell away from the pier and directly to the right where they joined the beach. They walked along the edge of the water as she scanned the area ahead.
The beach was pristine, the sand golden and unmarred by litter. The bungalows and buildings were located off of the beach, though some of the bungalows were within fifty yards or so of the water. They were all situated among gorgeous landscaping that was decorated to resemble some dreamlike exotic locale. The place really was gorgeous, making her reason for being there seem almost abstract in a way.
“I assume,” Mitchell said, “that your visit here has something to do with Father Costas. I heard about his death three days ago. I understand there’s been another death very recently as well. Pastor Woodall, also from Washington, DC. Is that correct?”
“That’s right,” she said. “There’s also been a third one—the reverend of a Presbyterian church. So naturally, this is now being viewed as a serial case. And as of now, we have no clues, no evidence, and no real leads. I was drawn to Kepper’s Cay because all three of the victims have visited here in the last year or so.”
“Yes, that’s what I was told by Michael, the man you spoke with on the phone. I’ve got all of the paperwork on the three victims back at the main office, waiting for you.”
“Father Mitchell, how many people typically stay here within the course of a year?”
“It varies. But the last three years, we’ve averaged around three hundred people. That’s not including another two hundred or so that come just to attend a conference or group retreat. Of course, we have records and names for everyone who has ever rented a bungalow here, but most reservations are paid for by either a church treasury office or a leader of the church.”
“So in other words, there would be no way to easily weed out who might be the next victim simply based off of a list.”
“I suppose that depends on how many agents you have to check a list and then contact all of the names on there,” Mitchell said.
He continued to show her around the island, explaining the purpose of the place. As he pointed out their small conference center and the little chapel behind the bungalows, he explained that he reserved the island only for religious leaders and their efforts toward growing the church because he was becoming very aware of increasing oppression against the church in just about every corner of the world.
“It’s one of the reasons I retired so early,” he said. “People far away from God, ironically, want to blame His people when things go bad. And when all of the sexual abuse allegations tore through the Catholic Church in the late nineties, I saw the beginning of the end. Because of all of the media attention, I knew I could not properly serve God from a position of priesthood any longer. So I opened this island up to those men of God who might be feeling the same discouragement.
“Over time, word got out and I also allowed a few conferences to be held here. During peak times, there’s a two-month waiting list. But still, this has become a place of rest and restoration for men of God and those close to them.”
“Is there a set rate or does it change according to who is coming?” Mackenzie asked. “I ask only because Father Costas and Pastor Woodall were leaders of large churches that could certainly afford it. But Reverend Tuttle belonged to a smaller church. I’d imagine he would struggle to find the funds to book a place like this unless there was some sketchy business with offerings from the church.”
“I obviously can’t speak to that,” Father Mitchell said. “But I can tell you that Tuttle did rent out one of our less expensive bungalows. And we did offer him a discounted rate. We knew he was from a smaller church, but we don’t discriminate here. You don’t have to be part of a mega church to enjoy the solitude we have to offer.”
He led her further down the beach, to a wooden walkway that was bordered along the edges by all kinds of plants and flowers. The walkway became a bridge that rose up over a small stream that led off to the left, heading back out to the beach.
Ahead of them, the only building that looked the tiniest bit out of place waited for them. It was clear that this was the central office. While it did boast some island décor on the outside, there was something quite formal about the structure of the building, as well as its placement away from all of the other buildings.
Mitchell led her inside to an empty room. The hum of an air conditioner filled the place but there was nothing else going on. He took her down a small hallway that dead-ended at a conference room. There, he pulled a seat out for her and gestured to a few stacks of paper sitting in the center.
“That’s everything I have as far as records go for Costas, Tuttle, and Woodall,” Mitchell said. “I’m afraid it’s not much, but perhaps you can find some other links.”
“This is great,” Mackenzie said, legitimately meaning it. She couldn’t have asked for more material or cooperation.
“I’ll leave you to it, then,” Mitchell said. “In the meantime, is there anything I can get you?”
“Maybe just a water?” she asked.
“Coming right up.”
He left her alone and she instantly pulled the stacks of paper to her. There wasn’t much—perhaps twenty-five sheets of paper in all. Most of it was financial sheets, showing where they had all paid, as well as the dates of their stays. From the information on the sheets, she saw that Father Costas had been coming to Kepper’s Cay the longest; his first stay had been in 2010 and he had made eight visits since, including one for a conference on spiritual warfare.
Tuttle had only been once, visiting the island seven months ago. He’d stayed for three days and then left. She hated to seem so stereotypical, but she kept getting tripped up by the fact that the reverend of a smaller church had been able to afford to come to a place like this. It made her wonder what kind of issues had made Tuttle even need a retreat in the first place.
Hanging on that thought, she pulled out her phone and sent a text to Harrison. Can you do some digging to see what sort of problems/issues Tuttle might have either been enduring or coming out of about 8-9 months ago?
As she sent the text, Mitchell came back into the room. He was carrying a tall glass of water for he
r. A single wedge of lime bounced along the top. He offered it to her with a smile.
“Thanks,” she said. “Hey, so I have a question for you. An awkward one, maybe. But I was wondering if there was some kind of a running theme in the issues that bring people here. What sort of things are they seeking rest and solitude from?”
“Are you a believer?” Mitchell asked.
The question took her aback. It seemed to be a question that she was being faced with a lot lately. She sighed and said, “I suppose you could say I’m in the undecided category. Why do you ask?”
“I think to understand the stress these men face on a daily basis, you need to understand the responsibilities they shoulder. Leading people closer to a God that they very badly want to be in sync with. Serving as a sounding board for people’s sins and darkest thoughts. And knowing all the while that they are held to a very high standard. It can be exhausting—physically, mentally, and spiritually.”
“Would you ever offer the island to a leader you know for a fact has been involved in something wrong? Something criminal?”
“No. But then again, I would have to know it for certain. Very rarely do I take the word of news programs or tabloids.”
She could tell that he knew where she was going. Being a former priest, surely he was more than familiar with the cases of child molestation and sexual abuse. So she left it at that, not wanting to anger him. They were on the same page and did not need to go any deeper.
“Anything else?” he asked.
“No, thank you.”
Mitchell did not leave, though. He thought about something for a while and then took a seat at the table.
“Is it a link between them?” he asked. “Abuse?”
“Only for two of them,” she said.
“I knew that Father Costas had been accused of it but there was never any evidence…not enough to sway my opinion of him, anyway. He was a good man.”
“I’m not sure about the allegations myself,” she said.
“If you truly think it’s a link that can help you find the killer, I think I might know of a place you can start looking.”
Mitchell looked saddened that he was even considering this avenue. But at the same time, Mackenzie could tell that he was troubled by something—perhaps something that dragged down his spirits more than he cared to admit.
“Father Mitchell?”
“I’m fine,” he said. “It’s just that I know for a fact that sexual abuse and molestation does happen within the church. Although the vast majority of allegations and accusations are false and made up just to seek attention or money, I know that it does happen. And as proof of that, all you need to see is one of the recovery groups.”
“Recovery groups?” Mackenzie asked.
“For victims of abuse at the hands of the church. As you can imagine, it’s a group filled with unbearable shame, so the meetings don’t get much advertising or publicity. Sort of like self-help groups, but hidden away in the corner.”
“And why are you telling me about this?” she asked.
“Because there’s one meeting in your neck of the woods on Thursday in Alexandria, Virginia. It’s a group that meets three times a year. There are more than thirty groups in the country. I always get invitations to them because I was so outspoken against the
Church when the abuse scandals were rocking the headlines a while back.”
“Will you be attending the one in Alexandria?”
“No. I haven’t attended anything like that in about three years now. God forgive me, it wrecks me too much. It just about makes me lose my faith. But if your killer hasn’t been caught before that meeting comes around, I’d highly suggest you check it out. It’s Thursday afternoon at five o’clock. I’m not sure where yet, but if you’ll leave your contact information with me, I’ll let you know.”
“Thank you,” she said.
With that, Mitchell left the room once again. Mackenzie went back to the documents, finding very little to connect the three men. There was evidence that both Costas and Woodall had come on several occasions and that they had attended at least one conference each. But from what she could tell, they had not attended the same conference. Also, none of the three men had ever been on Kepper’s Cay at the same time.
By the time she reached the final page, Mackenzie knew that there was nothing to link the men in the stacks of paper. Still, she felt that she had made some progress.
If nothing else, this proves that the men likely aren’t linked other than their professions. Also, the information about the meeting for the survivors of abuse seems like it could be a potentially great resource. Plus…I got to visit the beach for a few hours.
She took a few photographs with her phone of the documents that showed the dates when all three men had been on the island. If nothing else, it provided something of a timeline and might come in handy when Harrison got back to her with that information on Tuttle.
As she was about to head out of the office to locate Father Mitchell, her phone rang. When she saw Ellington’s name and face, she grinned. Maybe she’d get to rub his face in her little beach excursion after all.
“You home yet?” she asked.
“No,” he said. She could tell right away from the tone of his voice that he wasn’t in the best of moods. “Where are you right now?”
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”
“Well, wherever you are, you need to book the soonest flight you can to Nebraska.”
“What? Ellington…what’s going on?”
“We’re closing in on a lead. I’ve already talked to McGrath. I want you here, Mac. I think you need to be on this at this point.”
“Yeah, okay,” she said. Her brain desperately tried to switch gears but there was a hiccup in there somewhere.
Dead priests and pastors…sunny Florida beaches…now out to Nebraska…
She suddenly felt like she was being sucked up into a whirlwind.
“Mac?”
“I’m here. Just…taken off guard. Give me a few minutes. I’ll book a flight and let you know when I’ll be there. Ellington, is everything okay?”
“Yes, everything is good. We had a break, though. And this might…well, it might provide all the answers you’ve been looking for.”
She looked dumbly down at the documents on Mitchell’s conference room table. They seemed like artifacts from a different world. The entire case seemed insignificant now—a dangerous thought for an FBI agent for sure.
But suddenly, all she could think about was her father.
And she could not get away from this idyllic island fast enough.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
He loved God, he loved his church and he loved the people of his church. But man, oh man, did he hate sitting in the confessional booth.
Wade Coyle arched his back and checked his watch. It was 7:05. Technically, he could have left for home five minutes ago. But he knew that some people liked to straggle in a little late, in a rush to confess their sins either directly before or after dinner with their families.
Of all of his duties as a priest, taking confession was the only part he truly did not like. He’d heard some deplorable things behind his screen and the worst part of it was that he could recognize voices some of the time. He could place a face with the voice and, as a result, knew which of the men in the pews during service had confessed to downloading pre-teen pornography or which of the older women had allowed their daughter’s boyfriend to touch her inappropriately.
Still, he understood the importance of the act—not just for his church but for each and every one of the people who came to him, sitting on the other side of that screen to unburden their hearts.
Still…if no one else showed up in the next ten minutes, he was leaving. Another priest was due to come occupy the booth at eight o’clock anyway.
No sooner had he made this promise to himself than he heard the little door on the outside of the confessional open up. He then heard the four footsteps
that led to the chair in front of the screen and the slight creaking of the chair as someone’s weight was applied to it. And then came the seven words that, to Father Coyle, had become almost cliché.
“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.”
“And what sin would you like to confess today?” Coyle asked.
“I’m…well, I’m not sure, exactly. I think maybe it’s idolatry. But it involves violence, too.”
“Tell me about each one,” Coyle said. Honestly, he was just phoning it in at this point. He found himself seeing if he could identify a face that went with the voice but was coming up with a blank.
Thank goodness for that, he thought.
“Well, I find myself adoring people of the world over God,” the man said. “I know that I should seek my peace and solace from God, but…I suppose it’s easier to trust and worship things I can see. People. Flesh. I look up to them and I glorify people rather than God. Is that bad?”
“Not if you’re realizing it first,” Coyle said. “Tell me…are these people you are idolizing celebrities or people you see every day?”
“I’m afraid it’s not quite as easy as that. They aren’t celebrities, that’s for sure. But at the same time, they tend to be people with a bit of power and reverence to them.”