DELIVER US FROM EVIL

by John L. Evans

  “You can’t blame yourself for what happened, Mark.” Farrell paused. “I take it, this job you’re doing is just temporary, am I right?”

  “Yeah. I graduated in June. Needed a temp job for the summer. Mr. Schwartz talked me into staying a few extra weeks. I’ll be quitting, first of October.”

  Farrell’s voice lowered. “How is Schwartz? Treat you okay?”

  “Yeah, he’s okay. Long as I do my job, he doesn’t hassle me.”

  “Good.” Farrell paused again. “I was talking with your mother up at the lake. Have you seen her lately?”

  “Only at Danny’s funeral.” Mark seemed reticent to talk. “My mother and I don’t get along very well.”

  “As I recall, she told me there was some sort of disagreement between you two. You and your mother had a difference of opinion about certain things. What was all that about, Mark?”

  Again, Mark was reticent. “Well, Mom and me don’t always see things, eye-to-eye.”

  “It must have been pretty serious,” Farrell interjected. “In fact, she asked you to move out. Isn’t that true, Mark?”

  “Yeah. I moved in with my aunt. She lives a few blocks away from Mom.”

  “Uh-huh.” Farrell paused. “I understand your mother and father are divorced?”

  “Yeah, that’s right.”

  “How long ago, Mark?”

  “Almost five years ago.”

  “How did you get along with your father?”

  “Most times it was a train-wreck. We didn’t get along at all.”

  “How so?”

  “Nothing I did was ever good enough for him. If I got straight ‘A-minuses’ in school, he’d ridicule me, humiliate me. He wanted me to get straight ‘A’s’. Whatever I did, was wrong. He’d call me an idiot, a moron. He always told me I was a pathetic loser. Once, he said, ‘You schmuck! You’ll never amount to anything!”

  “Did he ever hit you?”

  Mark smiled a little. “Once I came home with straight ‘D’s’ on my report card. He beat the crap out of me.”

  “Did this happen very often?”

  “Often enough. I was glad when Mom and him split, lemme tell ya.”

  “Do you ever see him?”

  “Naw. He never somes around.”

  “Uh-huh. I see.”

  “I saw him at the funeral, but he totally ignored me.”

  Farrell paused again. “Do you want to talk about this problem you had with your mother?”

  Mark hesitated. “It had to do with Father Reiniger.”

  “I’m sure you know. I’m sure you are aware that Father Reinger was arrested for sexually abusing your brother.”

  “Yeah. That’s what I heard.”

  “He was released on a $300,000 bond. His trial is set for next Tuesday, September 21st.”

  “What happens if he is convicted?”

  Farrell’s look was dour. “He could be facing up to twenty years in prison, on that charge alone.”

  “What about if he’s found guilty of murder?”

  “Life imprisonment without the possibility of parole. Or even the death penalty. He paused. “I’d like to ask you a yes-or-no question, Mark.”

  “Okay. What’s that?”

  “Did Father Reiniger ever touch you in an inappropriate manner? Did he ever molest you? Sexually abuse you?”

  “Yes. He did.”

  Farrell was unmoved. “How many times? More than once?”

  “Yeah. Many times. I was an altar boy. It happened over and over again, after Mass.”

  “And you finally told your mother?”

  “Yes. I did.”

  “She didn’t believe you?”

  “No. She said I was a liar! She became very angry with me.”

  “So, she kicked you out. You went to live with your aunt?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Tell me, Mark, did you ever tell anyone else about this? That Reiniger was molesting you?”

  “Yeah. Later on, I told a couple of the guys in school.”

  “And?”

  “A big mistake.”

  “Why is that?”

  “They spread the word around. They started calling me queer, a faggot!”

  “I wouldn’t worry too much about that, Mark.” There was a long pause. “Tell me, would you be willing to testify in court, before a judge and jury, that Father Reiniger did these things to you? That he continually molested you? That he sexually abused you? Would you be willing to testify these allegations are true, Mark?”

  “Yes. I would.”

  Farrell’s eyes narrowed. “Reiniger has to be put off the streets. He needs to serve time. He needs to be punished for what he did to your brother. You will testify on your brother’s behalf, Mark?”

  Mark’s voice was low, determined, when he spoke. “Yes. I will.”

  * * *

  Immediately following Danny’s funeral, on Friday, September 10th, Carolyn Novak had invited a few friends and relatives over to her home. Father Reiniger was conspicuously missing; her ex-husband, Karl was a no-show; her neighbor, Tom Pierce, was ‘like a rock.’ To the casual observer, Carolyn seemed to be holding up pretty well; she was joking and laughing with the guests; she was in control. In truth, she was putting on a brave front; beneath the veneer, she was heartbroken. She tried not to think about Danny, and when she did, she felt a burning, searing sensation, deep inside her stomach.

  Almost a week had passed now since the funeral. The boy’s bedroom had been closed off; she refused to venture inside. Finally, with steely determination, she did decide to enter the room. Nothing had been touched or changed since that fateful Sunday morning when the two of them had left for Mass. The bed was neatly made-up. Her glance was caught by something lying on the bed. It was a black, leather jacket. There had been a slight ‘tiff’ that Sunday morning. Carolyn wanted the boy to take the jacket with him to Camp Sierra. “It might be cold at night,” she warned. Danny, who treasured the jacket, tried to explain to her: “But, Mom, I don’t wanna take the jacket with me, I might ruin it!” Carolyn crossed to the bed and picked up the leather jacket. As she hugged it close to her body, tears began streaming down her cheeks. “Oh, Danny, Danny, my baby. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.” She shook her head slowly. “God, I am so sorry!” She was demolished.

  Later, almost as if to further punish herself, she moved across the room to a small desk, where there was a photo album. She opened the album and began to turn the pages. There was a photograph of Danny, ten-years-old, sitting proudly on his new bicycle; a shot of the boy riding a huge, white stallion, on a merry-go-round; a photo of Danny and Mark sitting in the rear of a rowboat; the blue, pristine water of Half Moon Lake in the background. Carolyn took a small, white handkerchief and dried her tears. It was at this moment that she was stung by the sudden sound of the doorbell ringing. She wasn’t expecting anyone. Moments later, when she opened the front door, she stood facing Detectives Farrell and Juarez. “Oh!” she said, “Detective Farrell. Nice to see you again.”

  “Mrs. Novak, this is Detective Juarez. We’d like to ask you a few questions, if you don’t mind.”

  “Of course. Of course. Please. Come in!”

  Carolyn and the two detectives walked into the living room; it was small, comfortably furnished. “Can I offer you gentlemen, coffee, tea, a soda? I know you can’t drink while you’re on duty.”

  “Uh, no thanks, Mrs. Novak. We’re fine,” Farrell said as he eased onto the sofa. There was a slight pause and he continued. “How are you doing, Mrs. Novak? How are you feeling?”

  “Oh, I have good days and bad days. That’s to be expected, I suppose.”

  “My condolences, Mrs. Novak,” Juarez said.

  “Thank you.” She turned her gaze toward Farrell. “You know, Detective, I’ve been watching the news on TV, reading the papers, and I’m shocked about what I hear about Father Reiniger. That he had something to do with my son’s death.” She shook her head. “There is just no way, no possible
way, that Father could have had anything to do with Danny’s death. It’s all media hype. They’ll do anything to sell their rag-scandal sheets.”

  Farrell had decided not to elaborate on the details of the crime. “I had a little chat with your son, Mark, earlier this afternoon.”

  Carolyn’s gaze hardened. “Well, I don’t know what he told you about Father Reiniger, but whatever it was, was a lie. Whatever my son told you, he’s lying. He came up with some outlandish accusations about Father; accusations that Father had molested him after Mass in the sacristy. I couldn’t believe my ears! Father Reiniger would never do such a thing! Never!” She paused. “Mark insisted the molestations were true. He swore by it. But, I didn’t believe a word he said. And, I never will believe it!”

  --8--

  9/19/99. Sunday. After the twelve o’clock Mass was over, Father Reiniger had had the habit of leaving the rectory and driving down to a small, family-owned restaurant, called Mary’s Café, for a late breakfast. The place was small, friendly, a hole-in-the-wall, tucked between a Laundromat on one side, a women’s dress shop on the other. Mary Crumley was laid-back, gregarious. She had the gift of gab, but more importantly, she was an excellent cook. Breakfasts were her specialty. Her coffee was the best in town. Many of St. Michael’s parishioners would flock to Mary’s Café, and a wave of excitement would sweep over the place, the minute Father Reiniger walked in. Many of the men would vie to share Father Reiniger’s booth. As Mary Crumley would often say: “The camaraderie around here between Father and the church-goers, was wonderful.”

  Needless to say, after the tragedy at Half Moon Lake, things had changed drastically. It was the Sunday after Reiniger had been arrested, arraigned and released on bond. With much reluctance, he’d decided to venture, once again, to Mary’s Café. The first thing he’d noticed, was that the restaurant was only half-filled; most times, there was a line waiting, out the door. Reiniger sensed an obvious chill; the parishioners were polite; they smiled, but then looked askance. For the first time since he could remember, Reiniger ate his breakfast alone. Even while paying his check, he’d noticed the usual, ultra-friendly Mary Crumley was somewhat cool. She was slightly aloof and had little to say. All she did say, was, “Thank you, Father. Have a nice day.”

  Valencia Park looked peaceful, almost idyllic, pressed against the sun’s dusky, golden light. The Royal palms shimmered in the reflection of the lake. A long wisp of magenta cloud drifted across the sky. Father Reiniger pulled his small sedan to a stop overlooking the lake and cut the motor. Driving to Valencia Park, on the south side of town, was something he liked to do. But today, as he looked out over the green manicured lawns, and the ripples emanating from the lake’s central fountain, he was disturbed. He was disturbed by the cool reception, he’s received at the café. The parishioner’s bland, empty faces kept flashing in his mind. The warm camaraderie was gone. And, in a matter of two days, forty-eight hours, to be exact, his trial at the County Courthouse was scheduled to begin. Rumors were that Assistant District Attorney, David Berkoff was handling the case for the State. Berkoff, about fifty, had built himself a formidable reputation: he was bold, brash, sophisticated, urbane; reputedly of the Beverly Hills-Palm Springs circuit. Flashy Mercedes convertibles. Mediterranean-styled townhouses. He was the D.A.’s “golden boy.” Direct. Impatient. Caustic. Ruthless. David Berkoff had never lost a case.

  All at once, Father Reiniger’s gaze at the idyllic lake shifted and his eyes traveled to a nearby slope of grass, where he saw a young Latino boy, about ten-years-old, trying vainly to hit a baseball, with an aluminum bat. Reiniger’s look became fastened on the boy, who was alone. Suddenly, the priest had a raw hunger in his eyes. He smiled to himself as the kid kept continually missing the ball; but suddenly he connected, and the ball sped through the air and landed not more than twelve feet away from the car, where Reiniger was sitting. As the boy approached to retrieve the ball, Reiniger opened the door. The boy was dark, with a handsome, cherubic face, a shock of black, curly hair. He picked up the ball and suddenly glanced up at Reiniger. “Are you a priest?” he said.

  “Yes, I am. And what’s your name?”

  “Ramon. Ramon Rodriguez.”

  “Do you live around here?”

  “Yeah.. Over on Cyprus Street. It’s not far from here.”

  “Are you going to be a baseball player, when you grow up?”

  “Yeah I hope so.” The boy paused. “My Momma told me not to talk to people I don’t know.”

  “Your Momma is right, Ramon. You should never talk to people you don’t know, strangers, but I am a priest, a Catholic priest.”

  “I have never seen you in my church.”

  “That’s because I’m in a different parish. St. Michael’s parish. Do you always go to church, Ramon?”

  The boy was hesitant. “Sometimes, I do.”

  “How old are you, Ramon?”

  “I’m ten.”

  “What grade are you in, in school?”

  “I’m in Grade four.”

  “What school do you go to, Ramon?”

  “JFK Elementary.”

  “Do you know what JFK means?”

  “Yeah. He was a president.”

  “That’s right.”

  Suddenly, they heard the melodic sound of an ice cream vendor truck, that was circling the lake. Reiniger eyed the boy closely. “Do you like ice cream, Ramon?”

  Ramon smiled. “Yeah, I love ice cream!”

  Reiniger reached into his pocket and took out a couple of one-dollar-bills. He handed the money to Ramon. “Why don’t you run over to the ice cream man and get us a couple of cones!”

  It was at this moment, seemingly out of nowhere, that a heavy-set, Hispanic woman appeared. Her voice was harsh, angry. “Ramon! What are you doing? Que estas aciendo! What’s going on, here?”

  “Nothing, Momma.”

  The boy’s mother snatched the money from out of his hand and shoved it at Reiniger. “Here!” she cried, “We don’t need your money!” Quickly, she grabbed Ramon’s hand and began to pull him away. “What have I told you about talking to strangers!”

  A short time later, Father Reiniger had left his parking spot overlooking the lake and had driven to a remote, out-of-the-way section of the park that people seldom visited. In an odd, ironic way, he was almost grateful the boy’s mother had shown up when she did. He knew, he was acutely aware that children could easily be lured by offering them ice cream, candy, money. He knew that many an unsuspecting child had been lured by a perpetrator, when asked if the child would help him in searching for a lost animal, a cat, a puppy. As Reiniger had talked with the young boy, the feelings of yearning, desire, had churned up inside his belly. Now, just as quickly, the feelings had vanished; they were just a lingering memory.

  Reiniger cut the motor and remained seated inside the car. Once again, his thoughts returned to the upcoming trial. He had never met Assistant District Attorney, David Berkoff, but he’d seen him numerous times on television, usually at the conclusion of a trial, when Berkoff was being interviewed by the media. The verdict was always in his favor, and Berkoff was never one to shy away from the publicity, the limelight. The cameras never failed to capture the aura of arrogance and self-assurance that pervaded the Berkoff image. Reiniger was well aware of the boldness, the brashness of this man and he knew he’d be the victim of humiliation and degradation, once he was seated on the witness stand.

  As for the DNA findings, there could have very easily been an error. For months now, the San Bernardino Police Department’s crime lab had been submerged in a quagmire of total incompetence and mismanagement. There had been allegations of a cover-up; contamination of evidence taken at a crime scene; bungled DNA tests, et cetera. The department had earned itself a dubious and questionable reputation: in essence, it was a cesspool of sloppy police work. There were even rumors around town that Police Chief Walker was facing possible impeachment.

  Father Reiniger had occasionally served Mass at Soleda
d Prison. Although he’d never been inside the bowels of the prison itself, he knew about the racial strife: the ongoing rivalry, principally between the blacks and the Latinos. He was aware of the verbal and physical abuse heaped on inmates; the mistreatment by guards; the corruption, the intimidation, the perjury. He was also aware of the treatment given to pedophiles; perpetrators of child sexual abuse. In Soledad Prison, pedophiles were anathema, an abomination. Every day, their very existence was perilous, untenable. They had come to accept the fact that every day could very well be, their last.

  For a long moment Father Reiniger sat gazing out of the car’s windshield. His mind was crowded with many thoughts; his look was morose, dejected, melancholy. He reached for the car keys and took them out of the ignition. Slowly, he opened the door, exited the car, and moved toward the rear, where he unlatched the vehicle’s trunk. For a few brief seconds, he gazed around the immediate surroundings, and seeing no one, picked up a length of rubber hose and a roll of duct tape from the trunk’s interior. Quickly and deftly, he attached one end of the hose to the vehicle’s exhaust pipe, securing it with a strip of the duct tape. He lowered a rear window slightly and secured the other end of the rubber hose, inside the car. Once again, he briefly scanned the area. He re-entered the car and inserted the key, back into the ignition. He hesitated slightly, then turned on the motor. Within a few minutes the vehicle’s interior was beginning to fill with the toxic and deadly smell of carbon monoxide. Reiniger leaned back in his seat and was soon lapsing into unconsciousness.

  Coincidentally, it was a few minutes later, that a pair of Mexican landscape gardeners, driving an ancient, flatbed truck, arrived at the scene and knew immediately what was happening. They pulled up beside Reiniger’s car, and quickly exited. The driver was yelling, “Quickly! Quickly! Pronto!” As one of the men quickly yanked the hose from inside the window, the other man tried to open the car door. It was locked. Instinctively, he grabbed up a rake from the truck-bed, and with a heavy, solid blow, smashed the window, Quickly, he reached inside, unlocked the door and threw it open. He turned off the ignition, and began to slap Reiniger’s face, attempting to revive him. Slowly, and in a drowsy, lethargic manner, the priest began to regain consciousness.