The Scientology Murders

by William Heffernan

  “You got it.”

  Harry started with a small desk in a corner of the living room. There was a stack of blank paper on the desktop, a pen, but no computer. Harry searched the desk drawers where he found two Scientology texts, one appearing to be a bible of sorts, the other dealing with unacceptable behaviors. He leafed through the latter and found several dog-eared pages dealing with homosexuality. According to the book, Scientologists considered homosexual contact of any sort the most aberrant of behaviors, one that called for intense and long-term auditing, a form of counseling that involved confessing one’s missteps. If auditing was successful, meaning that the church member banned homosexuality from his or her life, a return to normal church activities was permitted. If auditing failed, the member would be banned from the church for the remainder of his or her life.

  He picked up the bible-like book and opened the cover. Inside he found a manila envelope that held half a dozen eight-by-ten photos that appeared to have been taken without the subject’s knowledge. Harry flipped through them. They were all the same person: Mary Kate O’Connell.

  Harry left the photos on the desk and started on the rest of the room. There was little to search, a handful of books, all written by L. Ron Hubbard, including a heavily underlined copy of Dianetics, which detailed the principles and practices followed by Scientologists.

  Max gave Harry a thumbs-down gesture as he returned to the living room, indicating he had found nothing of value. Harry pointed to the pictures on the desk.

  “They were tucked away in a Scientology bible that was in the desk,” he said. “It ties our boy directly to the murder victim.”

  Max flipped through the photos and his face broke into a smile. “It sure as hell does. I’ll get a subpoena to seize them, along with anything else that looks even vaguely suspicious.”

  Harry left Max to handle the subpoena and returned to the hospital, where he found his father out of intensive care and relocated to a private room. M.J. Moore was seated in a corner and she raised her finger to her lips.

  “He just fell asleep,” she whispered. “Your mom left a few minutes ago.”

  “How is he?” Harry asked.

  “The way he’s terrorizing the nurses, I’d say he’s in peak form.”

  “I’m not terrorizing anybody,” Jocko said with a raspy croak. “And I’m not asleep. I was just faking it so Maria would go home.” He turned his head toward Harry. “So, did you find this back-shooting, white-haired creep yet?”

  “Max Abrams and I just finished tossing his apartment. We found some candid photos of Mary Kate tucked away in a Scientology bible. Max is going to name him as a person of interest and see if that shakes anything out of the Scientology tree.”

  “You confirmed that he’s a member.” Jocko spoke the word as fact, not a question.

  “Even better,” Harry said. “He works for the office of church discipline.”

  “What the hell is that and who do they discipline?”

  “Whatever and whomever they want to,” M.J. offered. “I’ve had to deal with them a half-dozen times. They’re a law unto themselves and no other law applies. At least that was my experience.”

  “So what leads do you have that’ll help you track down this son of a bitch?” Jocko asked, his voice painfully weak.

  “Only that he left to take care of a sick mother. So far nobody seems to know where the sick mother lives.”

  “If he’s a Scientologist they know where every member of his family lives, who they work for, and what they had for dinner last night,” M.J. said. “That’s an exaggeration, but only a slight one.”

  Harry put his hand on his father’s shoulder. “Here’s what I need you to do. When you feel up to it, I want you to close your eyes and try to picture this guy; concentrate as hard as you can on his physical appearance. You gave us good information the first time around, but we need anything else you can come up with—scars, tattoos, anything at all. I’m assuming he’s done something about his hair—dyed it, shaved it off—he’d have to be pretty stupid to leave it as it is. So think about him, try to visualize him, see if you can come up with something new.”

  “I’ll try. I’m just so damn tired.”

  Harry lightly squeezed his shoulder. “Just rest for now; you can try later when you feel stronger.”

  * * *

  It was five o’clock when Harry got back to the marina. As he walked down the dock he realized for the first time what a beautiful day it was. Clear cobalt skies stretched out into the Gulf of Mexico, which lay in a flat calm disturbed only by the wakes of passing boats.

  That’s where you should be, Harry told himself. You should take the boat out, run it into deep water, drop anchor, and watch the sunset; let it heal your mind. He drew a long breath. Yeah, play it smart. Don’t let everything that’s happened eat you up. You’re going to need a clear mind to solve this thing, a clear mind to stand up to the powerful people who are going to be working against you.

  As Harry approached his boat, Meg Adams came up on the deck of her sailboat. She watched him move down the dock and smiled. She was dressed in tan shorts and a blue denim shirt tied off at her midriff, revealing a narrow, well-tanned waist.

  “I’m about to cook dinner. You interested?”

  “I am if you can cook it on my boat.”

  She tilted her head to one side, questioning what he had just said.

  “I’m going to take the boat out; anchor a few miles off shore and watch the sunset. Are you up for that?”

  “Help me carry the food over,” she responded.

  * * *

  An hour later Harry dropped anchor two miles west of Anclote Key. While Harry made sure the anchor was set, Meg went below to the galley to get dinner started. Harry joined her once the boat was secured and was greeted with an approving nod.

  “Very impressive for a bachelor,” she said. “The galley is well equipped, orderly, and surprisingly clean.”

  “You expected some roach-infested hellhole?”

  “Let’s just say I’ve seen a few bachelor kitchens.”

  “You’ve obviously dated the wrong kind of bachelor.”

  “Obviously.”

  “Now what can I do to help with the cooking?”

  “You cook too?” she said mischievously.

  “You’re going to find out that I have a myriad of talents.”

  “And a good vocabulary too.” She started to laugh. “I don’t need any help at all. It’s going to be a simple meal, fettuccine Alfredo with sautéed shrimp.” She paused. “But you can open the wine. I noticed you have a lovely pinot grigio chilling in the fridge. That will do very nicely. And I wouldn’t mind a glass while I cook.”

  * * *

  They ate at the small dining table in the boat’s lounge and then took the remaining wine up on deck to await the sunset.

  “This is what life should be about—floating on the water on a comfortable boat, sipping a glass of wine, and waiting for the sun to set. Now there’s a pretty simplistic concept, one that challenges any approach to the real world.” She turned to look at Harry and added, “But who needs the real world?”

  “I’m afraid I do,” Harry said. “It’s what I’m paid to do.”

  “And did you earn your pay today?”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “How so?”

  “I found out where the killer of a young woman lives, where he works, and what he looks like. He’s hiding out now. But before long I’ll find him. That’s the real world of Harry Doyle.”

  “Well, I hope you succeed. Life is much more agreeable when the monsters that kill people are locked away.” She raised her arm and pointed toward the horizon. “There goes the sun.”

  They were quiet as they watched the sun seemingly slip into the gulf, leaving an orange-red glow in its wake.

  “My mother told me that I cried when I saw my first sunset. She said I thought it had fallen into the ocean and would never be back again.”

  “Where w
as that?” Harry asked.

  “Carmel, a little town in Northern California. It’s where I grew up.”

  “I’ve been there,” Harry said. “Not for any length of time; just passing through. It’s the town where Clint Eastwood was mayor for a short while, right?”

  “He was indeed, for one two-year term, from 1986 to 1988. I was three when he gave it up and went back to films,” Meg said.

  So you’re twenty-nine, Harry thought. About the same age as Vicky Stanopolis, who grew up on the water in Tarpon Springs, a small fishing village dominated by Greek sponge divers. It was a far cry from Carmel, which was one of the most affluent areas of Northern California.

  “Is your family wealthy?” he asked. “Everyone I met in Carmel seemed to be.”

  “Afraid so. My dad was in the computer industry when it took off. He owned a piece of the company, so he was set for life. Then he went into the security business and that took off as well. He passed away when I was in college at Stanford. His will made sure his wife and only child were well provided for.”

  “So you don’t have to work.”

  Meg shook her head. “Sometimes I feel guilty about it. But the feeling passes quickly.”

  Harry laughed, amused not so much about what she said, but how she said it. He found himself attracted to Meg. He was also very attracted to Vicky, but that was something he would never really admit to himself, and certainly not to her. She was his partner and off-limits.

  The glow in the sky had begun to fade and Harry decided it was time to return. “Let’s head in,” he said.

  “Let’s clean up the galley first.”

  Harry agreed and they got to work in the galley. It was an easy cleanup—Meg washed and Harry dried.

  When they finished Meg turned to him. “God, it feels like we’re an old married couple.”

  The galley was small, close quarters for two people. Meg raised herself up on her toes and slipped her arms around his neck. “Are you ever going to make a pass at me?” Her voice had a huskiness to it that immediately aroused him. He had been living like a monk for several months, ever since the woman he’d been seeing moved back north, back to her abusive former boyfriend. You’re never here, she had said. And even when you are, you’re not.

  Harry looked down into Meg’s face. “I guess I am going to make a pass. But I’m warning you right now, cops make bad boyfriends.”

  “If you are, then I’ll just throw you out.” She raised her lips to his and within seconds they were going at each other with an unbridled passion that surprised both of them, pulling off clothing as they moved down a passageway toward the main stateroom.

  They were naked when they reached Harry’s bed and he laid her on it and began moving his lips slowly along her body.

  She reached down and cupped his face between her hands. “Do that the next time. Right now I need you inside me . . . Please, please, please,” she whispered.

  * * *

  An hour later they lay next to each other, exhausted but finally satiated. They had made love a second time more slowly, then a third. Meg had been as eager and hungry a lover as Harry had been himself. Too long between drinks for both of us, Harry told himself.

  “I don’t know if I have the energy to take the boat in,” he said.

  “Good.” She pressed up against him. “Let the sun wake us and we’ll go in then.”

  “Sounds like a plan.”

  Chapter Five

  Regis Walsh looked across his desk at his assistant, Ken Oppenheimer. It was seven a.m., the time of their regular morning meeting. “So where are we with our dead detective?” he asked.

  Oppenheimer smiled. Like Walsh he was a tall man, but he was far from the lean, fit man he had been when Walsh had hired him ten years ago. He ran a hand through his thinning sandy-brown hair. “Rolf is working at the marina where our friend keeps his boat. He’s well disguised now, so I doubt our once-dead detective will be able to pick him out. And as you know, we have others watching him as well.”

  “How did you arrange the job at the marina?” Walsh asked.

  Oppenheimer’s smile widened. He knew Walsh would appreciate what he was about to tell him. “The dockmaster proved easily bribable. I told him I worked for an organization that was negotiating to buy the marina and we had decided we would like him to stay on. I suggested that he hire Rolf as an assistant, but there was no need to pay him, since he worked for us. I’m sure once Rolf is on the payroll his salary will find its way into the dockmaster’s pocket each week. Do you know what the people who keep their boats at the marina call him?”

  Walsh shook his head.

  “They call him the dock Nazi. He’s little more than a joke to everyone who rents slips there. Mostly he parades around in a pith helmet and flip-flops looking for things to complain about. He’s so easy to corrupt it’s almost laughable.”

  “And perfect for our needs,” Walsh said. “I think our detective friend would be quite mortified if he knew how easily we’ve put the man he’s searching for right next to him.”

  “I’m glad you’re pleased,” Oppenheimer said.

  “Can you reach Rolf easily?”

  “Yes, he has one of the cell phones I keep in my name. I told him to throw his away and only use the one I gave him. I also told him that he was not permitted to give the number to anyone.”

  “Give me the number. I want him to meet with me late tonight. I’ll call him myself.”

  Oppenheimer wrote the number on the back of a business card and handed it to Walsh.

  * * *

  Harry brought the boat into its slip at seven a.m. He had awakened just before dawn, thrown on a pair of shorts and a T-shirt, raised the anchor, and headed in, leaving Meg asleep in his bed. Traffic had just started to form its regular morning madness on the Clearwater Memorial Causeway as he tied the boat up and went down into the galley. The clothing they had left scattered on the floor had been picked up, telling him that Meg was probably showering in one of the two heads. He checked which one she was in, then went to the other to shave and shower.

  When he came out, wrapped in a towel, he found her in the galley cooking bacon. She raised her chin toward the Keurig coffee maker. “I just put on a cup of French Market for you so grab whatever you put in it.”

  Harry squeezed by her, kissing her on the back of the neck. “Thanks for making breakfast.”

  “I figured I owed it to you. Just consider it a display of gratitude for the way you rocked my socks last night.”

  “You rocked a few socks yourself.”

  “I sure hope so.” Meg turned, rose up on her toes, and kissed him softly on the lips. “I want you to come back for more.” He reached around her and started to pull her toward him but she spun quickly away. “But not now or I’ll burn the bacon.”

  “God forbid,” Harry said. “I hate overly crisp bacon.”

  * * *

  Tony Rolf squatted next to an electrical box on an empty slip. The slip was located on a pier with a clear view of Harry’s boat. Rolf watched as Harry and a woman came out of the main cabin, climbed down, and stood talking on the dock. He had watched Harry bring the boat in early that morning. He and the woman had clearly spent the night out on the water. He studied the woman closely, studied the way she dressed. Her clothing was clearly provocative—short shorts that barely covered her, a shirt tied at the midriff obviously intended to show off her bust. Of course the detective had probably seen her naked. The slut wouldn’t have missed the opportunity for that.

  The woman boarded her sailboat and climbed into its main hatch, as the detective headed down the dock toward the parking lot. He decided to follow the detective, see where his investigation was taking him. He cautioned himself to do it slowly, carefully, to make sure he wasn’t seen. It would be better to lose him than have his eagerness give himself away. He knew Regis Walsh would never forgive him if he blew his cover and lost the chance to continue spying on the detective. No, he had learned long ago that Regis Walsh was
not the forgiving type.

  * * *

  When Harry reached the parking lot he found his partner Vicky Stanopolis leaning against his car.

  “Hi, sailor,” she said.

  “Why didn’t you come down to the boat?” he asked.

  “I did. But I heard voices and since one of them was obviously a woman I decided not to interrupt . . . Harry Doyle, you’re blushing.”

  “I am not,” he snapped. “I got a lot of sun yesterday.”

  She started to laugh, partly because of how guilty he looked, partly to hide the jealousy she could feel growing inside her. She pushed it away. “You said we had a busy day today.”

  “We do. To start with, the Clearwater PD’s sending another police artist to work with my dad. I want to check in on that.”

  “I thought they already did that.”

  “They did, but he was still so groggy they want him to take another shot at the guy’s facial features. Then, as long as I’ve got you here, I’d like to meet this woman you know, the one who told you that some Scientologists had accused Mary Kate of being gay.”

  “Her name is Lilly Mikinos and finding her shouldn’t be a problem,” Vicky said. “She works in her parents’ shop on the Sponge Docks.”

  “Are you sure she’ll be there?”

  “You really don’t understand Greeks. Unless there’s been a death in the family, they’ll all be there trying to squeeze a few more bucks out of their business.”

  * * *

  The police artist seated next to Jocko’s bed was halfway through his sketch when Harry and Vicky arrived. Jocko, appearing more animated than at any time since he’d been shot, had regained most of his color and was eagerly responding to the artist’s questions. It told Harry he would soon be demanding to be sent home.

  “Hey, Pops, you look good,” Harry said.

  “You do,” Vicky echoed. She bent down and kissed his forehead.

  “Yeah, for a dumb ex-cop who forgot how to duck,” Jocko rasped.

  “Now I know you’re truly on the mend,” Harry said.

  “How’s that?” Jocko asked.