The Scientology Murders

by William Heffernan

  When they reached the staircase door the officer extended his arm, indicating that Rolf should stay back, and pushed open the door. He stepped into the stairwell, his hand now shifting to his weapon, as Rolf swung the sap he had taken from his pocket.

  The officer lay sprawled in the stairwell, his weapon clattering down the stairs. Rolf thought about retrieving it and immediately rejected the idea. He had his knife; a gun would just raise an alarm and make his escape more difficult. He returned to the hallway that led back to Jocko Doyle’s room.

  * * *

  Jocko’s bed was elevated to a sitting position and his head rested against a pillow. He was reading a magazine.

  “You should be sleeping,” Rolf said. “I thought I’d have to wake you.”

  “What do you want, doc?” Jocko asked.

  “I’ve been asked to evaluate your condition. It seems they want to get you out of here.”

  “I couldn’t agree more.”

  Jocko had just put down his magazine when he heard an all-too-familiar sound. He reached under the sheets and came up with a Smith & Wesson snub-nosed revolver—his old off-duty weapon. “Since when do doctors carry switchblades?” he asked as he pointed the gun at Rolf’s chest. “Nice to see you again, punk.”

  Rolf skidded to a halt.

  Before Jocko could react, Rolf spun around, ducked down a bit, and raced for the door. Jocko lowered his weapon and aimed at the man’s legs. He was able to get off one shot before Rolf reached the hallway and raced away.

  Jocko eased himself out of the bed and moved slowly into the hall—no Rolf, no blood on the floor. He had missed the son of a bitch. He saw that the uniformed cop who had been guarding him was gone as well.

  Nurses ran toward him from the nursing station.

  “The guy who shot me just came back to finish the job,” he said. “Call hospital security and Clearwater police. Tell them he’s dressed in hospital scrubs. And see if you can find the cop who’s been sitting outside my door. He may be hurt.”

  A nurse pointed at the gun. “Why do you have that? It’s not allowed in the hospital.”

  “Never mind that!” Jocko shouted. “Just do what I told you! If you don’t do it right now the son of a bitch will get away.”

  * * *

  Harry’s phone rang at ten thirty. He was lying next to Meg; they were both naked and drowsy with postcoital bliss.

  “Yeah?” he said hoarsely into the phone.

  Max’s voice came across the line: “You better get back down to the hospital. Our boy tried to off your father again. But don’t worry, Jocko’s okay.” Max filled Harry in on the details. When he got to the gun and the shot Jocko had fired, Harry cut in.

  “Where the hell did he get a gun?”

  Max began to chuckle. “Seems like he asked your mother to bring it to him and she did.” He paused a moment. “Good thing she did. It’s probably the only reason Jocko’s still alive. The hospital folks are a touch pissed off, to say the least. They say he shot up their hospital.”

  “Tough shit,” Harry said.

  “My sentiments exactly.”

  “What happened to the cop who was guarding him?” Harry asked.

  “They found him in a stairwell. He took a bad blow to the head. He’s in his own room now with a concussion. I’m just about to go in and interview him.”

  “Thanks, Max, I’ll be there as quick as I can.”

  * * *

  Harry arrived at the hospital twenty minutes later. He went straight to his father’s room, where he found him talking to an agitated hospital administrator.

  “Hi, Dad, are you okay?”

  Jocko brushed off his concern. “I’m fine, except I missed the asshole. I was trying to hit him in the legs. It was a piss-poor shot. I better get down to the range and put in some time.”

  Harry fought back a smile. The hospital administrator interrupted. He was a tall, angular man with a narrow face set off by a long nose. He reminded Harry of a rat.

  “We can’t have this,” he began.

  “What’s your name and what are you doing in my father’s room, talking to him in a raised voice?” Harry countered.

  “My name is Joel Morgan and I work for the hospital. We were discussing Mr. Doyle’s discharge of a firearm in this hospital.”

  “Well, I’m Harry Doyle, Detective Harry Doyle. I’m his son and an investigator on this case. And if my father had not discharged a firearm in this hospital, he’d probably be on a slab in your morgue right now.”

  A new voice came from the doorway: “And if he was on a slab in your morgue, this hospital and its lax security would be largely responsible. So don’t let me hear any more shit about him protecting himself with a legal, licensed weapon.”

  “I beg your pardon, Mr. . . . ?”

  “Detective Sergeant Max Abrams. I just got through interviewing our injured patrolman. He told me that he was lured away by a man who identified himself as a doctor, who had the credentials saying he was a doctor, and who was dressed in hospital-issued scrubs. But it turns out he wasn’t a doctor. He was a murder suspect who apparently was able to get scrubs and a hospital ID and access to this floor. Where he was then able to assault the police officer guarding Sergeant Doyle and then make another attempt on Sergeant Doyle’s life. So what I want from you is an explanation of how all that was possible before you say one more fucking word about Sergeant Doyle saving his own life and possibly other lives in this hospital by discharging a licensed, legal firearm as a murderer armed with a knife was attacking him.”

  Morgan attempted to formulate a reply. “I . . . I . . . I . . . can’t explain it . . . other than to say it must have been someone who . . . who had intimate knowledge of how the hospital . . . functions. Maybe he was someone who once worked here.”

  “I’ll give you the man’s name and you can get on a computer and tell me if he ever worked here.”

  “I’ll get on it immediately,” Morgan said, clearly eager to leave the room.

  Harry watched him go and then glanced back at his father. Jocko was a tough old bird, he thought, and he wished he had seen him work during his prime. “You think you’ve caused enough trouble?” he asked in a playful voice.

  Jocko waved a hand at him, dismissing his words. It made Harry smile; he was just so damned happy his father was still alive.

  A middle-aged nurse entered the room. She was slender and attractive and her blond hair was tucked under her cap. “I’m here to check out Wyatt Earp.” She kept a straight face and continued her routine: “I’ve got to run a few basic tests to see what damage he did to himself when he turned this place into the O.K. Corral.”

  “I’m fine,” Jocko snapped.

  The nurse stared at him. “Look, I’m really tired, Wyatt, and I’ll be happy to pass you by. All you have to do is show me your medical degree.”

  Jocko shook his head. “Don’t pick on me. I’ve been shot. And somebody just tried to knife me.”

  “Poor baby. There’s a guy down the hall with a failing heart and he just grabbed my butt.”

  This forced Jocko to smile. “Go ahead, do your worst.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Tony Rolf slipped in a side door of the main Scientology office building. Oppenheimer’s office was on the seventh floor, but Rolf avoided the elevators by taking the stairs instead. He was still shaken by his encounter with the cop. The lousy old bastard had been waiting for him. And he had been armed. He could still feel the rush of hot air as the bullet had gone between his legs. A few inches higher and the cop would have blown his balls off.

  He made it to the seventh floor without encountering anyone and used the key they had given him to open the outer office. He didn’t have a key to Oppenheimer’s inner office, but he didn’t need one. The set of picklocks in his back pocket would do the job.

  He had fled the scene at the hospital in a panic before realizing that no one was pursuing him. He had gone directly to the doctors’ lounge and retrieved the street clothes
he had left there, changed, returned the doctor’s ID to the locker he had taken it from, and used his cell phone to call a cab. He was at Scientology headquarters a half hour later.

  Inside Oppenheimer’s office he fell into the soft leather couch and closed his eyes. Oppenheimer, he knew, would not arrive until six, his usual hour. That would give them time for a little chat, perhaps one with Regis Walsh as well.

  * * *

  By one a.m. the Clearwater PD had a new officer assigned to guard duty outside Jocko’s room and a two-man squad car was keeping a tight surveillance of the exterior of the hospital complex. Jocko had insisted on keeping his weapon. The hospital capitulated, but only after he assured them the weapon would only be used under the direst of circumstances.

  “What do they think I’m going to do, shoot into the goddamn ceiling every time the Rays win a ball game?” he groused to Harry.

  “Okay, Wyatt, just don’t shoot any nurses, especially the cute ones,” Harry said.

  “Any more of that Wyatt Earp crap and you better be prepared to dance,” Jocko replied.

  * * *

  Meg was still on his boat and wide awake when Harry got back. “I wanted to know how your father was,” she explained.

  Harry told her about the albino’s attempt on his father’s life, how the guy had taken out the police officer guarding him only to discover that his father was armed and waiting for him.

  “This is the second time he’s tried to kill a cop, plus the two women we know he killed. Every cop in the state is looking for him. He shows his albino ass anywhere, he’ll either be lying on a slab in the morgue or sitting in jail.”

  “Doesn’t sound like he has much of a chance,” Meg said.

  “Not if I find him first, which is what I intend to do.”

  “Why is it so important that you find him?”

  He looked at her with astonishment. “Twice now that bastard has tried to kill the only man who ever tried to be a father to me. I intend to make sure he doesn’t get a third chance.”

  Meg returned to her sailboat and Harry used the opportunity to grab a few hours of sleep.

  When he awoke he found Vicky in his galley brewing coffee. “I heard about Jocko,” she said. “So I took some vacation time so I could help you.” She raised her nose and sniffed the air. “Smells like a woman’s been here.” She inclined her head toward the dock. “The sailboat lady?”

  “Would you really respect me if I was the kind of guy who kissed and told?”

  “Depends on who you’re kissing.”

  Harry let that one lie. He noticed that Vicky was blushing.

  * * *

  “What are you doing here?”

  Tony Rolf awoke to the sound of Kenneth Oppenheimer’s voice. The words took a moment to register, as he stared up at the hulking body that was looming above him.

  “You’re supposed to be at the house in Safety Harbor. Did something happen?”

  He could hear the fear in Oppenheimer’s voice and the sound of it sickened him. In the past few hours he’d subdued one police guard and faced down another cop who had sent a bullet whizzing between his legs. And here was his supposed protector wetting his pants because he’d found him sleeping on his office sofa.

  “I went after the old cop—the one who could put me away for dealing with that 1.1 O’Connell woman.” He gave Oppenheimer a detailed account of what had happened. “I escaped without any problems but I couldn’t push it any further and take a chance they could trace me to the safe house.”

  “I’ll get you back there before the rest of the staff gets in.”

  “What about Walsh? Maybe I should talk to him.”

  “I’ll tell him you’re interested in talking to him. If he agrees, he can come to the house in Safety Harbor or reach you by phone.”

  “Tell him it’s important to me. Tell him he can either grant me that courtesy or he just might find me waiting in his office some morning.”

  Oppenheimer stared at him, wondering if he should say anything. He knew that Rolf was armed with a knife, perhaps even the same weapon he had used to kill the woman in Tarpon Springs. There was no need to push him, no need to put his own life in danger, he decided. He’d get the man out of here and let Walsh handle it.

  * * *

  “If he’s hiding in Safety Harbor it has to be in some church-owned property, or a house or apartment that belongs to a church member.” Vicky tapped the side of her nose. “We need to talk to somebody in the city clerk’s office.”

  While Vicky headed to city hall, Harry and Max expanded the search zone they had started the day before. It was Friday morning and the neighborhoods were quiet. A few mothers pushed strollers and carriages to nearby parks, and numerous retirees were out doing yard work or headed to local hardware stores and garden centers or to one of the local restaurants for breakfast. All in all, it made for easier interviews than normal. Harry and Max each had copies of the police artist sketches of Rolf.

  On his twelfth interview Harry got his first solid lead of the day. Jimmy Drake was a seventy-five-year-old retired chief warrant officer. The US Army had been his home for thirty years, until he realized that those who ran it were going to keep sending him to Vietnam until he finally came home in a box. After a third tour he retired and took a job with a major pharmaceutical company where he spent another fifteen years, retiring at sixty-five with two pensions topped off by a monthly Social Security check. Now his garden occupied most of his time, and his pensions provided the means for his second great passion: frequent visits to the areas many upscale restaurants.

  Harry learned all of this in his first fifteen minutes of conversation. Jimmy Drake lived alone and he was obviously starved for conversation. He was also a thoroughly nosy neighbor, the kind all cops dream of finding.

  “These Scientologists, they’re everywhere. They’re not just in downtown Clearwater, you know,” Jimmy said. “They’re here too. See that house across the street? It’s owned by a guy named Drummer. He’s one of them.” Harry turned to look at the house. Jimmy reached out and took his arm as if preparing to restrain him. “Oh, he’s not there now. Those kooky bastards he works for just sent him and his wife out west for a couple of months—some special training or something. Probably gonna meet up with some spaceship or something. I see lights on over there at night, but it could be set up on a timer. I have one of those for my place if I go out of town.”

  “Do you know any other Scientologists who live here in town?” Harry asked.

  “No, but I know they’re here,” Jimmy insisted. “I see them coming to Drummer’s house, socializing, you know? Parties, barbeques, and stuff like that. Then I see them around town later. And according to all those articles I read in the Tampa Bay Times, even though it’s not Scientology’s official policy, these guys are only supposed to socialize with other members of their church.”

  “So you never saw any of your other neighbors going over there?”

  “Not a one, never. And he sure as hell never invited me.” Jimmy let out a derisive snort. “And if he had, I sure as hell wouldn’t have gone. Bunch of fuckin’ kooks, that’s what they are.”

  * * *

  Harry caught up with Max just as he was finishing a call on his cell. He quickly filled Max in on what Jimmy had told him.

  “We’ll check out the house, see if anyone’s there.” Max held up his cell phone.

  “Now I got one for you.” He took the sketch of Rolf out of his suit coat pocket and held it up. “You remember our police artist buddy, Jeremy Jeffords. Well, I just got a call from my regular partner, Jimmy Walker. I asked him to do a little digging. It always bugged me that Jocko said the sketch Jeffords did was bullshit. Guess what Walker found out?”

  Harry’s face lit up. “You’re kidding me.”

  “No, I’m not,” Max said. “Jeffords is a member of the church, a dyed-in-the-wool fucking Scientologist.”

  Harry’s cell rang; it was Vicky wanting to know their location. Harry told her
and a few minutes later she pulled up in her car.

  “Been waiting to hear from you guys,” she said. “Have you come up with anything?”

  Harry updated her on Max’s new information.

  “Son of a bitch,” she said.

  Harry nodded toward the house behind them. “That joint is owned by a Scientologist, according to a neighbor I interviewed. He and his wife are supposed to be out of town for a few months on church business.”

  “A perfect place for our boy to be stashed,” Vicky said.

  “Let’s go shake the doors and look in the windows,” Max said. “See if we can flush this bird.”

  * * *

  Tony Rolf stayed far back in the shadows as he listened to them knock on the front door and ring the doorbell. One of them even tried the door to see if it was open. Then someone went to the back door and did the same. He had been watching the cops as they gathered outside his little hideaway. He knew all three by sight, given the time he had spent watching Harry Doyle. Now it seemed that this dead detective and his friends might have him cornered. He slipped into the master bedroom and then the adjoining bath. He placed a call to Oppenheimer and waited for him to answer. The cell rang five times and went automatically to voice mail. He left a detailed message, then put his phone on vibrate so any return call wouldn’t give away his presence in the house.

  He listened intently as one of the cops moved around the perimeter, covering all the windows, making as much noise as he could. He was certain the other two were watching the front and rear doors. They didn’t know he was there, he thought, or they would have forced their way inside. Instead they were trying to panic him, flush him out one of the two doors.

  He tried to remember if he had left any clothing on a chair or the bed. No, he was certain there was nothing they could see that would give them a reason to force their way inside.

  * * *

  Oppenheimer called back two hours later, explaining that he had been in a meeting that had just ended. When Rolf told him what had happened, there was an eerie silence on the line. Rolf knew that Oppenheimer was calculating the threat, especially the threat to himself. “You’ll have to be moved,” he said.