DELIVER US FROM EVIL

by John L. Evans

  “They left to join the search party.”

  Farrell paused, then turned to face Juarez. “Detective, I need you to start on the top floor, the attic, whatever, and work your way down. I’ll check the basement.”

  “Right.”

  The two men separated and Farrell crossed to the door, Reiniger had indicated. He opened it, and as he had anticipated, saw another flight of stairs leading down into the basement. He flipped on a light switch and began to make his way down the narrow, curved stairway. There was a musty, acrid odor. As he reached the bottom of the stairs, he could make out a huge and hulking furnace in the dim, half-light. The heavy wrought-iron door was closed. A myriad of black pipes rose from the furnace and vanished into the cobwebbed ceiling. Cautiously, Farrell felt the furnace’s exterior. It was cold. The basement, crowded, untidy, was strewn with an assortment of steamer trunks, weather-beaten furniture, an ancient, tarnished ice-box. Hanging from the wooden rafters, were large, baroquely-framed, sepia-tinted photographs; many of them showing Breckinridge standing in front of a gigantic oil rig. Farrell began to make his way further into the shadowy reaches of the basement. In a darkened alcove he saw what appeared to be a small, separate room. As he walked toward it, he suddenly heard a strange, slithering sound. He looked down and saw a large, gray rat running across the concrete floor. The door to the cellar room was equipped with a flimsy, rust-stained lock. He picked up a screwdriver from a nearby table, littered with garden tools, and with one quick jolt, easily broke the lock. He opened the door and peered into the shrouded interior. The walls were lined with wooden shelves. Here and there were rows of Mason fruit jars; all of them empty. Thrown haphazardly on the floor, were open pasteboard boxes, containing children’s toys and faded Christmas ornaments. A curled-up, rotting garden hose hung from a peg on the far wall.

  It was about ten minutes later when Farrell had climbed the cellar steps and returned to the entry hall. He glanced up and saw Detective Juarez descending the wide, mahogany staircase. He was shaking his head. “I didn’t find anything at all, Steve. How about you?”

  Farrell’s look was grim. “Naw. Naw. Nothing. Zip. Maybe that’s a good sign, Gregg.”

  “Yeah. Maybe you’re right.

  * * *

  The cordon of two Sheriff’s Department black-and-whites, followed by four vehicles filled with volunteers had indeed arrived at the site about an hour earlier. Under the direction of Lt. Raymond Palmer, a big, burly man whose gut fell over his belt like a saddle-bag, the assembled men made a quick, cursory search of the immediate campsite. They had found no trace of Danny Novak. Nothing.

  The long, sloping hillside, Detective Farrell had spoken about, was dotted with scrub oak trees, a thick undergrowth of brush and nettle; tall, burned-out grass. The large team of uniformed officers and volunteers, had assembled at the foot of the hill. Soon, they were moving their way up. Working in stony silence, sometimes on their hands and knees they turned each leaf, examined each bush. Tiny clumps of grass were thoroughly combed. All eyes were alerted to find a particle of clothing, a tuft of hair; any clue that might indicate Danny Novak’s whereabouts. The searchers were also alerted that a cougar had recently been spotted in the area. The entire hillside was meticulously combed for any evidence of the missing boy. The searchers found nothing.

  A short time later, Jack Kramer, thirtyish, huskily-built and handsome, was making his way up the dining hall steps when he was met by Farrell. The detective gripped his hand. “I understand you work as the camp counselor and coach for the boys. Right, Mr. Kramer?”

  “Yeah. That’s right. That, and I’m kind of an assistant to Father Reiniger.”

  “How long have you been doing this, Mr. Kramer?”

  Kramer smiled. “Call me Jack. Two or three years, to answer your question. It’s a volunteer thing with me. I help out whenever I can. I have a steady day-job. Construction.”

  “I see.”

  “It’s a temporary situation. Hope to be going to St. John’s Seminary, first of the year.”

  “So, you’re planning to follow in Father Reiniger’s footsteps. The priesthood.”

  “Yeah. That’s the plan.”

  Farrell paused. “I take it you know Danny Novak very well, then?”

  “Yes. Danny’s a good kid. Both Danny and his brother, Mark, are what I’d call really good boys. Well-disciplined. Decent. Honest. Well brought-up. Carolyn Novak did a fine job raising those two kids.”

  “Tell me, your gut feeling. Do you think Danny might have possibly run away? There were some problems with the family, school, or whatever, and he just decided to take off? What do you think, Mr. Kramer?”

  Kramer shook his head. “No. No way, Detective. Danny would never do that. I know the kid pretty well, and I’m positive he wouldn’t do that. Positive.”

  “Thanks, Mr. Kramer.”

  In the meantime, following a hunch, Lt. Palmer had contacted the San Pedro Police Department. He was aware that the department (located near the ocean) had several teams of underwater divers. And, courtesy of the LAPD and one of their assigned helicopters, a pair of divers had arrived at the campsite around 2:00 p.m., that same afternoon.

  Detective Farrell was slightly apprehensive; he was ill-at-ease, when Carolyn Novak walked up to him and said, “What’s going on, Detective? What is happening?” He knew he had to tell her the truth. “They’re gonna drag the bottom of the lake, Mrs. Novak. They think Danny might possibly have drowned out there.” Once again, Carolyn’s eyes filled with tears. Her face was streaked with anxiety.

  The copter had managed to land in a small clearing about a mile away from Camp Sierra, where it was met by a County Sheriff’s squad car. The divers, with their equipment, were hustled into the black-and-white, and ten minutes later, had arrived at the dockside area, where there was a motorboat and two small rowboats. The searchers, joined by a small group of lakeside residents, had gathered at the dock. Father Reiniger grimaced slightly when he saw two large, metal, three-pronged hooks, with a length of rope attached, being removed from the trunk of the police car.

  Two teams of Sheriff’s Deputies and the divers were dispatched to the nearby rowboats. The crowd watched anxiously as the men set out toward the middle of the lake. Once offshore, the divers, with their glistening black, rubber wet-suits and underwater gear, slipped quietly into the water. It was a scene that seemed slow and surrealistic, as the pair of rowboats quietly trolled the glass-like surface of the lake. It seemed almost ethereal as a ray of sunlight suddenly broke through the clouds. But, this sense of optimism was short-lived. All at once, one of the divers resurfaced. He gave the officers in the rowboat a sign the gathered onlookers couldn’t see. The diver yelled out: “I found him!”

  Danny Novak’s body had been discovered in a tangle of weeds at the bottom of the lake. Carolyn watched in horror as the boys’ nude body was hoisted out of the water and placed inside the rowboat. As the rowboat neared the dock, Carolyn Novak began to cry out in anguish. Through her tears she screamed: “Oh! No! No! This can’t be happening! This can’t be happening!” She buried her face in her hands. The agonizing words tumbled out. Sporadic. Almost incoherent. This followed by low, painful sobbing: “Danny? Danny? What happened? What happened? My baby, what happened to you? Oh my God! How can this be happening?”

  --3--

  BANNER HEADLINE: San Bernardino Observer

  BOY DROWNS IN MOUNTAIN LAKE

  EXTRACT: San Bernardino Sun-Times

  DROWNING TRAGEDY AT HALF MOON LAKE

  San Bernardino, Calif. Tuesday, September 7. Tragedy struck Half Moon Lake, high in the San Bernardino Mountains, during the Labor Day weekend, when young, twelve-year-old Danny Novak was discovered in a tangle of weeds at the lake’s bottom. Divers, dispatched from San Pedro, decided to drag the lake after an on-shore search had proven futile. Young Novak’s body was found at approximately 3:00 p.m., Labor Day afternoon. The tragedy took place at Camp Sierra, a Catholic Boys Summer Camp located on the eastern
shoreline of Half Moon Lake, about ten miles from the San Bernardino Sheriff’s Substation. Detective Steve Farrell, with the SBPD, is heading the investigation. Novak was a student at Alta Vista Elementary School. He is survived by his mother, Carolyn Novak and her recently divorced husband, Karl; also a brother, Mark, and an aunt Mrs. Linda Kasloff. Funeral arrangements are still pending.

  * * *

  San Bernardino. About 2:30 p.m., the following day. The sun was hot in the sky. Another scorcher. 92 degrees in the shade, easy. Detective Farrell pulled the unmarked up to the curb, just outside the County Coroner’s Office. As he stepped out of the air-conditioned comfort of the car, the heat hit him like a blast furnace. The coroner’s office was certainly not his favorite place to hang out, but he welcomed the coolness of the air-conditioned, marble-floored lobby.

  Doctor Sam Hirashima, San Francisco, born and bred, was a bald, squat little man about five-foot-five-inches tall, with a mouthful of gold teeth. The doc was twitchy, hyper, fast-talking. All nerves and noisy, finger-tapping impatience. Detective Farrell began to make his way through the autopsy room toward Hirashima’s office, which wasn’t much more than a ten-foot-square, glass-enclosed cubicle, tucked away in an alcove. A withered and wrinkled elderly woman’s body lay on a stainless-steel table. A medical examiner, clad in green, blood-stained scrubs, was busily performing an autopsy. Farrell wanted to gag from the rancid, foul-smelling odor that permeated the place; a combination of disinfectant and human flesh. He found Dr. Hirashima seated at his desk, which looked like it had just been hit by a hurricane; manila folders scattered everywhere; medical journals; typewritten reports; overflowing in-baskets.

  Hirashima turned to face the detective. In his hand he held a bagel, slathered with creamed cheese. He peered at Farrell for a moment through his steel-rimmed glasses. Finally: “Oh, Detective Farrell! Steve Farrell! I’ve been expecting you. Sit. Sit. Sit!”

  Farrell took a seat opposite, as the M.E. took a large bite from the bagel, quickly chewed and swallowed. Then, he reached for a black ceramic mug filled with coffee. He took a large gulp of the coffee, wiping his mouth off with the back of his hand. He tossed Farrell a small smile. “Well, Detective Farrell, I busted my ass to do it, but I finally got your autopsy report. Just like I promised.” He paused. “Care for a bagel? Coffee? The coffee’s fresh. Just made it!”

  Farrell had long since lost his appetite. “Uh, no thanks, Dr. Hirashima. Just had lunch a little while ago.”

  Hirashima began to rummage through the piles of paperwork. “Excuse the mess, Detective. I finished the autopsy myself, less than an hour ago. Now, all I gotta do, is find the fuckin’ paperwork!” He swung around in the leather swivel chair and picked up several folders from an adjacent credenza. “Yeah. Yeah. Here it is! I knew it was here someplace!” He opened one folder and his eyes quickly scanned the report. He began to read aloud: “Decedent’s full name is Daniel Jason Novak. Born: San Bernardino, California. April 22, 1987. Time of death: approximately 10:00 p.m. 9/5/99.” Dr. Hirashima suddenly glanced up from the report. His eyes were fixated on Farrell. “I have some information here that is very important, Detective. I, like everybody else, was under the assumption that young Novak drowned in the lake. That is not true. The medical examination shows that the boy was strangled with a hard, wooden object. There are contusions about the throat area. Cause of death: the boy died of asphyxiation.”

  Farrell stared at the M.E. His look was one of shock. Disbelief. “My God! The boy was strangled? Are you absolutely sure about this, Doctor?”

  Hirashima quickly nodded. “Yes. I’m absolutely sure. One-hundred-per-cent, sure, Detective. No question.” He hesitated for a long moment. “And there is something else, Farrell.”

  “What’s that?”

  “We found there were signs of sexual molestation. There were lacerations about the rectal area. There was evidence of semen. The boy was brutally raped and sodomized. We found evidence of sand on the body. I am speculating now, Detective, but I believe the boy was raped and murdered, and his body dumped into the lake.”

  All at once Farrell winced slightly. The high-pitched scream of a surgical saw, punctured the heavy, humid atmosphere. Hirashima took another large gulp of his coffee, then looked directly at the detective. “Looks to me like you got more than a drowning here, Farrell. I’d say, you got a murder on your hands.” He paused. “That’s it. That’s about all I can tell you.” He handed the report to Farrell. “It’s yours, Detective Farrell. Keep it! Keep it!”

  * * *

  Built in the tradition of the neo-classic Spanish architecture, Alta Vista’s St. Michael’s Church dazzled in the early-morning sunlight. Pressed against a clear blue sky, the parchment-colored building looked beautiful with its baroque porte-cochere, its rococo archways, stucco domes and minarets. Two, large jacaranda trees, framed the filigreed entrance-way. Detective Farrell wheeled the unmarked vehicle into the church’s paved courtyard and eased to a stop. He hesitated momentarily and glanced over at his partner, sitting beside him. “Shit, Gregg, I couldn’t believe my friggin’ ears when old Hirashima told me the boy hadn’t drowned, like everybody thought. That the kid was strangled, and on top of that, sexually assaulted. I still find it hard to believe.”

  “Yeah,” Juarez answered, “You got that right.”

  “But,” Farrell continued, “Sam Hirashima is a goddamn expert at what he does. He never makes a mistake. He found evidence of semen on the body. That tells me we’ve got to check out the three men who were at the campsite, that weekend.”

  “The three men, being?”

  “Father Reiniger, of course, plus a camp counselor named Jack Kramer, and an older dude named Willie Groda. I met the guy. A little creepy. He’s the caretaker. Lives at the lake, all-year-round.”

  Juarez was apprehensive. “Do you really think Father Reiniger could have anything to do with this?”

  Farrell shook his head, as he began to open the door. “I don’t know. I really don’t know. But, I think it’s time we had a little chat with Father Reiniger.”

  The rectory was like an appendage attached to the rear of the church, itself. The detectives climbed a long stairway to the porch. Juarez rang the doorbell. Moments later, the door opened and a handsome Hispanic woman stood in the dusky light. Juarez immediately flashed his ID. “Excuse me, Senora. Detective Juarez with the San Bernardino Police. We are here to see Father Reiniger. Is he here, do you know?”

  She smiled shyly. “Uno momento, Senor. I will be right back.” They could hear a brief, hushed conversation inside the rectory, then, all at once Reiniger appeared in the doorway. He was a tall man, about forty-five, well-built, impressive. He spoke with a slight German accent. “Good morning, gentlemen.” He glanced at Farrell. “Nice seeing you again, Detective Farrell. I am sorry we had to meet under such unfortunate circumstances.”

  “This is my partner, Detective Juarez, Father.”

  The two men shook hands. “Glad to meet you, Father.”

  “Likewise, I’m sure.” He paused. “Now, how can I help you, gentlemen?”

  “We’re investigating Danny Novak’s death,” Farrell cut in, “and there are a few questions we need to ask you.”

  “Yes, of course. Of course. Do come inside. Please.”

  Father Reiniger’s office was dark, opulent; mahogany paneling, arched windows with louvered shutters, a massive carved desk; the high-back chairs were upholstered with red velvet. There was a gold, baroquely-framed portrait of Pope John-Paul, above the fireplace. A puzzled frown gathered around Father Reiniger’s eyes, as he moved behind his desk and the detectives sat opposite. “I am rather curious, gentlemen, as to why you are here. My impression is that Danny Novak was the victim of a drowning accident. Is there a problem?”

  Farrell’s eyes narrowed. “We’ve discovered there is much more to it than that, Father.”

  Reiniger’s brow furrowed. “I don’t understand. What else could there possibly be? I must say, I am a little confused
.”

  “I’d like to talk about that Sunday. September 5th, the day before Labor Day,” Farrell said.

  “Yes?”

  “As I understand it, a group of people, including you, Father, met at the rectory, somewhere around noon. Who were these people?”

  “There was Danny Novak, of course, myself, the boys’ Camp Counselor, named Jack Kramer and two other boys. All three were altar boys.”

  “I see. And?”

  “Jack Kramer and I had decided to close up Camp Sierra for the winter and I had recruited a few of the boys, including Danny. We left the rectory about 12:30 in two separate cars. Kramer drove his own SUV. We arrived at the summer camp around two-thirty that afternoon. We worked diligently to clean up the camp. I was especially proud of the boys. They outdid themselves. It had been a hot day. After the work-detail, the boys went into the lake for a swim, and to cool off. Later, our caretaker and camp cook had prepared supper, which we ate around a campfire we had built, on the beach.”

  “What’s the caretaker’s name, Father?” Juarez asked.

  “Willie Groda. The man’s name is Willie Groda.”

  “How long had Groda been working for you?”

  Reiniger paused. “Oh, let me see. Almost three years, I would say.”

  “It’s my understanding Groda lives at the campsite, all-year-round. True, Father Reiniger?”

  “Yes. That is correct.”

  “So, you had your supper around the campfire,” Farrell broke in. “What happened after that?”

  “Two of the boys were very tired. They had decided to go to bed, turn-in early. They left.”

  “And?”

  “Willie Groda picked up the dishes, the supper gear and returned to the dining hall.”

  “That left you, Danny and Jack Kramer at the fire. What happened next?”