DELIVER US FROM EVIL

by John L. Evans

  Farrell narrowed his eyes. “My gut tells me, Reiniger was lying. The boy didn’t go up to the main house like he said he did.”

  “Somewhere during that time period,” McGraw said, “the boy was raped. And my guess is, to keep the boy’s mouth shut, Reiniger killed him, then dumped his body into the lake.”

  “I completely agree with you, Frank.”

  “But,” McGraw interjected, “we do have a problem. We have no evidence, not a shred of physical evidence. We don’t have a single eyewitness, and we don’t have a murder weapon. DNA tells us we can get Reiniger for sexual assault with a minor, but there’s no way in hell we can nail him for the boy’s murder.” He paused, then looked directly at Farrell. “You gotta keep diggin’, Steve. You gotta come up with some hard evidence. And there’s something else that’s been botherin’ me. This guy, Willie Groda. The man’s got a wrap-sheet. He’s already served time for child sexual abuse. I need you to have another chat with this guy. Okay, Steve?”

  “Right, Cap. We’ll get on it.”

  * * *

  Half Moon Lake was shrouded in a pale, gray mist. Rain had been threatening all day. The afternoon was calm, with the hint of a slight breeze; the surface of the lake was dark and still. Farrell had telephoned Willie Groda and set up an appointment for 2:00 p.m. It was now almost two-thirty and Groda was nowhere to be found. Farrell had the uneasy feeling that the old man had skipped. The detectives’ unmarked sedan was parked overlooking the lake. Farrell turned toward Juarez, who was seated inside the car, next to him. “Damn,” he said, “Looks like we made this trip up here for nothing! Don’t see the old guy anywhere around here. He may be a no-show!”

  Juarez grimaced slightly. “Let’s hope not!”

  Farrell’s hunch was suddenly proven wrong. From behind a stand of copper-colored birch trees, he saw Groda guiding the large motorboat toward the shoreline. “There he is, now!” Farrell said. The two men exited the unmarked and began to walk down toward the floating dock. Groda eased the boat toward the wooden, planked landing which was equipped with old rubber tires that were used as buffers. He climbed out of the boat and skillfully tied it to the mooring. He then turned to face Farrell and grabbed his hand. “Nice to see you again, Detective. Sorry, I got held up. Been havin’ a problem with the motor. Timing was off, or something like that. I think I finally got her fixed.”

  “No problem, Groda. This is my partner, Detective Juarez.”

  “Nice meetin’ ya, Detective,” Groda said.

  Juarez tried to cover his look of astonishment as he stared at the old man’s craggy, grizzled face. “Same here, Mr. Groda.”

  Groda pulled a pack of Marlboro’s from inside his shirt pocket and flipped a cigarette to his narrow lips. He lit up the cigarette and his pallid, acne-scarred face was picked out by the harsh, yellow flame. He turned to face Farrell. “You-all sounded pretty antsy when you called me on the phone this morning, Detective. What’s goin’ on?”

  “We are still investigating Danny Novak’s murder, and we need to ask you a few more questions.”

  Groda paused. “I still can’t believe the kid was murdered, Detective. But, go ahead, shoot!”

  “I’d like to talk more about what happened that Sunday night.”

  “Yeah, and?”

  “The Medical Examiner has established the time of death to be approximately 10:00 p.m., give or take a half-hour, but before we get to that, you were telling me there was an augument that afternoon between Father Reiniger and the camp counselor, Jack Kramer. Isn’t that what you said, Mr. Groda?”

  “That’s right.”

  “We’ve talked to Reiniger about this, and he completely denies that statement. He told us the argument never happened.”

  “Well, Reiniger is a liar! Priest or no priest, the man’s a damned liar! Kramer was accusing him of playing games, messin’ with the boys. And Reiniger got mad! The man was really pissed! I ain’t lyin’ about this, Detective!”

  “I’ll take your word for it.” There was a long pause, and finally Farrell spoke. “Mr. Groda, for your information, the DNA test results have been made. As I told you before, the boy was sexually assaulted, raped. He was strangled with a heavy wooden object. The M.E. found traces of sand as well as semen on the body. The DNA shows the semen is a match for Father Reiniger’s blood type. Reiniger was arrested and is now out on bail. Bail, incidentally, put up by the archdiocese.”

  Groda gazed at the detective with a long, narrow look. “Detective,” he said, “how come I am not surprised?”

  As the conversation continued, the three men began to walk along the stretch of sandy beach which lay between the boat-dock and Willie Groda’s cabin. “Getting back to the events that occurred that Sunday night,” Farrell said, “you told me the last time you saw Danny Novak alive, was when he and Reiniger were heading out to the middle of the lake.”

  Groda nodded. “Yeah. That’s right.”

  “You were watching from the open deck of the dining hall?”

  “That’s right.”

  “What happened after that?”

  “I went back to the campfire. Jack Kramer was still there. Me and him polished off a pot of coffee.”

  “Reiniger and the Novak boy were still out on the lake?”

  “Yeah. They were.”

  “What happened next?”

  “Kramer told me he was gonna turn-in. He left for the main house.”

  “And?”

  “I doused the campfire, then headed back to my quarters, the cabin.”

  “So, Reiniger and Danny still hadn’t returned from the boat-ride?”

  “No.”

  “About what time was that? Do you remember?”

  “Hadda be, lemme see, goin’ on toward nine o’clock, somewhere around there. I knowed it was dark as hell, I’m sure about that!”

  “You got back to the cabin. What happened after that?”

  “Got back to the cabin just in time to watch the nine o’clock news on TV.” Groda directed his glance toward the nearby cabin. “As you can see, I got me a satellite dish.”

  “So, you were watching the news on television,” Juarez said. “Anything else?”

  All at once, Groda seemed to be gazing into space. He was distracted. He said nothing.

  “Is something bothering you, Mr. Groda?”

  “Yeah. There was something else I kinda forgot to mention.”

  “What was that?”

  “I remember while I was watchin’ TV, all of a sudden, I heard some voices.”

  “Voices?” Farrell asked. “What voices? Coming from where?”

  “They was comin’ from right here. The beach area.”

  “How many voices, Mr. Groda?”

  “Two. One of them was Danny Novak.”

  “Are you sure about that?”

  “Yeah. Positive. I recognized the kid’s voice.”

  “What about the other voice?”

  “I gotta admit, the voices were very low. Between that and my TV bein’ on, I really couldn’t tell ya who the other person was.”

  “Do you think the other voice could have been Father Reiniger?”

  Groda shook his head. “Could have been Reiniger, but honest to God, Detective, I really couldn’t swear to it!”

  “What happened after that?”

  “Tell you the truth, I was so bushed, I fell asleep in the chair. The TV woke me up about two o’clock in the morning.”

  During the last part of the conversation, Detective Juarez had quietly wandered off. He’d picked up a heavy piece of driftwood and was poking it haphazardly into the sand. All at once, he called over to Farrell: “Hey, Steve, come over here a minute! Check this out!”

  While Groda followed closely behind, Farrell walked over to where Detective Juarez was standing. He had unearthed a tuft of clothing in the sand. He extracted a pair of white latex gloves from his inside his pocket, and pulled them on. Next, he crouched down and began to pull the article of clothing from inside its hid
ing place. It was a pair of light blue, corduroy pants. A rear pocket revealed a worn leather wallet. An ID card inside, read: Daniel Jason Novak. There was a colored photograph of Danny, his mother, and presumeably his brother, Mark, mugging it up in front of a brightly-lit Christmas tree. There were five, one-dollar-bills. Inside another pocket, was a rabbit’s foot and some assorted small change. There was a blue and white Dodger’s baseball cap, and beneath it, a pair of white athletic shoes. Juarez stood up and began to make his way toward the police vehicle. “I’ll grab an evidence bag, Steve, and we’ll take this stuff in, for a DNA test.”

  “Right,” Farrell said, and he paused slightly as he gazed at Groda. “Why didn’t you tell me about these voices, you heard, the last time I talked with you, Groda?”

  Groda took a deep drag on his cigarette and blew out a stream of blue smoke, which Farrell tried to avoid. “Didn’t think it was that important, I don’t guess,” Groda said with a grin. “Plus, I really didn’t wanna get involved.”

  Farrell threw the old man a thin, withering glance. “Shit! You really didn’t want to get involved,” he said, a cut above a whisper.

  --7--

  9/16/99. Dusk. 557 Tamarack Lane. Alta Vista. An unpretentious, pseudo-Spanish bungalow-type job. Arched windows, an enclosed patio, a burnished oak front door. All pink, with a terra-cotta tiled roof. A few scraggly palm trees, and a pink flamingo, out front. The sun was low in the sky. The evening sunlight washed the house in a soft, amber glow. Farrell and Juarez exited the unmarked, and followed a curved, flagstone walk to the front door. Farrell rang the doorbell. No answer. He rang the bell again. Suddenly, a small door, about eye-level, encased with a wrought iron grille, opened. He could make out a woman’s face in the dim, shadowy light. “Yeah! What do you want? Whatever you’re sellin’, I’m not buyin’!” the woman yelled. Her voice was gruff, insolent.

  “We’re looking for a Mrs. Virginia Lombardi,” Farrell called back.

  “So, who’s askin’?”

  Farrell showed his ID. “Detective Farrell, San Bernardino Police.”

  The woman paused. “I’ll ask you again. What do you want?”

  Farrell was getting slightly pissed. “We need you to open the door, ma’am. We’d like to ask you a few questions.”

  The detectives could hear the rattling of a chained safety-lock and the door slowly opened. The woman staring back at them was in her late forties, pushing fifty; she had a large, hawk-like face, black, rhinestoned-studded glasses; her henna-colored hair was dyed to match what Farrell surmised was a wig; it looked a little off-kilter. She was heavily made-up; black, arched eyebrows, luminous green eye-shadow; her mouth a slash of crimson. She was wearing a long, flowered housecoat. When she spoke again, her voice was cold, challenging. “You’d like to ask me a few questions. About what?”

  “Ma’am, this is my partner, Detective Juarez.”

  “A pleasure,” she said, her eyes flicking over him, quick and disinterested. “What did you want to talk to me about, Detective?”

  “We need to ask you a few questions regarding the Danny Novak case,” Farrell said. “May we come inside, please?”

  The woman’s attitude began to soften somewhat. “Yes, I guess so. Of course.”

  The living room had an open-beamed ceiling; the walls were rough-textured, sand-colored. Here and there were several, gold-plated, Spanish wall sconces. There was a wide, open fireplace fronted with blue and green Mexican tile. The furnishings were faded, but modest, comfortable. The two detectives sat on a curved sofa; Mrs. Lombardi sat facing them in a large, red-velvet, upholstered wing-chair. She eyed Farrell closely. When she spoke again, her voice was suddenly calm, almost intimate. “I think it was a horrible thing, a terrible thing that happened to Danny Novak. He was such a sweet kid. I just loved him. I loved both those boys. Something like this should never have happened.” She paused. “My heart goes out to Carolyn Novak. She must have been devastated, to lose her son like that.”

  “Have you talked with Mrs. Novak recently?” Farrell asked.

  “I spoke to her for a few minutes at the funeral.”

  “My understanding is that you worked for Father Reiniger. Isn’t that true, ma’am?”

  It was if he’d touched a sensitive nerve. “Yes. That’s right.”

  “In what capacity?”

  “I was Father’s housekeeper.”

  “How long did you work for him, ma’am?”

  “I worked for him for almost a year.” Her eyes suddenly went narrow. “I suppose you heard I was terminated. Fired.”

  “There was some talk of that. Yes,” Farrell said.

  Her face turned grim. “And he had the audacity, the nerve to tell everybody I was sloughing-off on my job. That I was lazy, never did anything!” She paused momentarily. “That was nonsense, Detective. Pure crap! And he knows it!”

  “What do you mean, Mrs. Lombardi?”

  The woman’s voice took on an ominous tone. “There were things going on in that rectory that few people knew about, Detective. And I mean, bad things.”

  “Would you care to elaborate on that, ma’am?” Juarez said.

  “No. I really would rather not. In fact I was told not to discuss the case.”

  Farrell was puzzled. “You were told not to discuss the case? By whom, Mrs. Lombardi?”

  She reflected briefly on what he had said. “A man came by yesterday. He said he was from the District Attorney’s office. In fact, he handed me this!” She reached over to the small end table nearby and picked up a legal-sized, business envelope. She handed it to Farrell. “It’s what they call a subpoena, isn’t it?”

  Farrell quickly opened the envelope and extracted the folded document inside. “That’s correct, ma’am,” he said, his eyes scanning the white sheet of paper.

  “They want me as a witness in court? Why, I’ve never even been in a courtroom before! Not in my entire life! What does all this mean, Detective?”

  Farrell smiled reassuringly. “It means you will show up in court to testify for the prosecution.”

  “What would happen if I just ignored the subpoena? Threw it away? Burned it?”

  “I wouldn’t advise that, ma’am. You will be held in contempt of court. It could be very serious. You could even be facing jail-time.”

  There was a long, uneasy silence. She changed her position; recrossed her legs. “Will I have to be facing Father Reiniger?”

  “Yes. But that’s not going to be a problem, Mrs. Lombardi. All you have to do is tell the truth as you know it.”

  “The truth.” Her face broke into a slightly-contemptuous, diamond-hard smile. “As far as I am concerned, Reiniger is pure trash, he’s scum, the lowest of the low. I saw what was going on in that rectory with those boys. I know what was going on up at Half Moon Lake. And Reiniger is going to pay for it. On my mother’s grave, Detective, Father Reiniger is going to pay for it!”

  * * *

  Schwartz Drugs was by far the oldest drug store in Alta Vista; in fact, by many, it was already being considered a landmark. Sheldon Schwartz opened the store in 1930, the same year his only son, Leon, had been born. In an almost-Jewish tradition, Leon took over the family business. The store itself hadn’t changed much in fifty years; perhaps that was part of its charm. There was a horseshoe counter and a dozen or so leatherette-covered stools. Facing this, and adjacent to the windows overlooking Alta Vista Boulevard, was a string of three or four Naugahyde-upholstered booths. Leon Schwartz was a big man. Seventyish, gray-haired, with a ruddy complexion, and definitely over-weight, he sported a thick, bushy mustache. Curiously enough, he took on the look of a large, beached walrus. It was about 3:00 o’clock in the afternoon. Business was slow at the moment. Schwartz was standing behind the open cash register going over the day’s receipts. All at once he sensed someone was watching him. He glanced up. It was Detective Farrell. “Oh! Can I help you, sir?” he said.

  Farrell immediately flashed his ID. “Detective Farrell, San Bernardino Police.
I was told I might find Mark Novak here, sir. Can you help me on that?”

  Schwartz was taken by surprise. “Uh, uh, yeah! Mark’s here. He’s out back. Why don’t you just take a seat, Detective, and I’ll go get him.”

  “Thank you,” Farrell said, and sat down in the nearby booth.

  Schwartz closed the cash register, and with a pronounced waddle, began to make his way toward the kitchen in the rear. The kitchen was filled with steam from an automatic dishwasher. He found young Novak bending over a large, stainless-steel sink, scrubbing a grease-caked roasting pan. Schwartz came up behind him and grabbed him by the shoulder. “Hey, Mark! There’s some cop out here, wants to talk to you. A detective with the San Berdoo Police!”

  Novak dried his hands on a towel hanging near the sink and began to remove the apron he was wearing. “Okay, Mr. Schwartz, I’ll be right there!” Mark, having just turned seventeen, was lean, muscular and like Danny, was possessed with his mother’s good-looks. He exited the kitchen and walked over to where Farrell was seated. He grabbed the detective’s hand. “I’m Mark Novak,” he said. “Glad to meet you, Detective.” The boy sat down, opposite.

  Leon Schwartz was quite sure he knew what Farrell wanted to talk to the kid about; the Danny Novak case was on everybody’s mind. Schwartz went back to the register and pretended to be counting the cash. The fact that he was eavesdropping was not lost on Farrell. For this reason, the conversation with Mark was kept low, confidential.

  “I won’t be taking up too much of your time, Mark,” Farrell said, “but I need to ask you a few questions. By the way, my condolences on what happened to your brother. I’m very sorry about that, Mark.”

  “Thank you.” He hesitated. “I should have been there to take care of him, protect him.”