The Scientology Murders

by William Heffernan

  Chapter Seventeen

  Vicky Stanopolis pulled up to the security gate at the Ultimar condo complex at seven a.m., flashed her tin at the guard who sat inside a fully enclosed security booth.

  “I want to see Meg Avery,” she said.

  “Who shall I say is calling?” the guard asked.

  “Pinellas County Sheriff’s Detective Stanopolis.”

  The guard reached for a phone and punched in a number. As he did so, Vicky noted the patch on his right sleeve. It read: Avery Security.

  The guard spoke to someone and replaced the receiver. He keyed the microphone and told Vicky that “the maid said she’s out of town.”

  “Have you seen her?” Vicky asked.

  “No, I haven’t.”

  “And you’d know her if you did, right, because she’s your boss?” Vicky patted her upper arm to indicate his shoulder patch.

  The guard looked like a little kid who just got caught doing something wrong.

  “And you’d know her. Right?” Vicky repeated.

  “Yeah, that’s right,” the guard answered.

  Vicky slid her business card into a slot in the guard’s booth. “When you do see her, tell her I want to hear from her.”

  The guard nodded but the look in his eye told her she had just wasted a business card.

  * * *

  At eight a.m. Harry received a telephone call from Detective John Otis from the sherriff’s office of internal affairs.

  “I need you to come in and meet with me, forthwith,” Otis said.

  “I’m on leave,” Harry told him.

  “I’m aware of that but this can’t wait. The word came directly from the sheriff.”

  “What’s it about?” Harry asked.

  Otis hesitated. “Look, it’s got something to do with the court case against your mother. Her attorney is claiming you used your authority to set your mother up on some trumped-up charges. Sheriff says we have no choice but to investigate. When can I expect you here?”

  “Give me an hour,” Harry said. “But I can tell you right now, it’s all bullshit.”

  “See you at nine,” Otis said.

  Harry called Max and Vicky, informing each of them that he’d be tied up that morning.

  Max, being an old New York City cop, told him to bring a lawyer with him, while Vicky said she knew Otis from a civilian complaint filed against her when she had worked patrol. “He’s hard to read and sometimes he comes across as a hard-ass, but he’s fair,” she said.

  * * *

  Meg and Walsh arrived at the marina at the same time, and Meg quickly briefed him about the visit she had from a member of the sheriff’s office that morning, a Detective Stanopolis.

  “Do you know the officer?” Walsh asked.

  “She’s Doyle’s partner. He told me she’s taking time off to help him with his investigation. I gather they’re close.”

  “Close?” Walsh said with raised eyebrows.

  “I don’t know the degree of closeness, at least at the level I believe you’re referring to. But I got the impression Doyle trusts her completely.”

  “Then, of course, we cannot trust her at all.”

  They found Tony Rolf standing in the middle of the salon when they entered the yacht. He had been pacing, Meg figured.

  Walsh looked him up and down. “I still marvel at the difference in your appearance. Now let’s sit down and discuss some possibilities of places we can send you that will get the police off your tail.”

  “I still get a say about where, right? That’s what you told me.”

  “That’s what I said, and that’s the way it will be,” Walsh said. “It’s why I’m here—to discuss some ideas I have with you.”

  * * *

  Detective John Otis extended a hand toward an empty chair in front of his desk. “Take a load off,” he said. “There are some questions I have to ask you. Understand, this is informal, for now. If it goes beyond that we’ll be recording everything you say and you’ll probably want to have an attorney with you.”

  Otis was a large, soft-looking man, typical of a cop who paid too many visits to donut shops. Vicky had said he was considered one of the better investigators in internal affairs. He was African American, about forty, Harry guessed, with a fast-receding hairline and a waistline that overlapped his belt. His necktie was loosened, exposing a double chin. His square jaw was set firmly and his dark brown eyes offered no hint of what he was thinking. A good poker face, Harry thought.

  Harry had a typical cop’s view of internal affairs and the people who worked there. It was known to be a fast route to a detective’s shield, and was thought to harbor cops who were willing to sell out their own to make a case. In the sheriff’s office they were considered highly political animals, and while Harry acknowledged that they were a necessary evil to keep corruption at a minimum, like most cops he didn’t trust the men and women who worked there—their motives or their tactics.

  Otis leaned forward. “Tell me about your mother,” he said.

  “What do you want to know? I haven’t had much contact with her for the past seventeen or so years. She’s been in prison for murdering my brother and me.”

  “She murdered you?”

  “She drugged my six-year-old brother and me. I was ten at the time. Then she dragged us into the attached garage at our home in Tampa and started the car before heading off to her church. My heart had stopped and I was clinically dead when two Tampa cops responded to a call from a neighbor. They broke into the garage, hauled us out, and started CPR. They brought me back. But Jimmy, my kid brother, was smaller and they couldn’t save him.

  “My mother was convicted and sent to prison, where she was supposedly treated by prison psychiatrists, and ultimately declared sane. They paroled her over my objections, with one provision: that she stay at least a hundred yards away from me and my home.”

  “Did you feel bitter toward her?” Otis asked.

  “Of course I did. I loved my little brother and I wanted her locked up for the rest of her life. Each year, she sent me a letter. She made sure I received it on the anniversary of Jimmy’s death. The letter always said the same thing: how she wanted me to be with my brother and with Jesus. Each year she reminded me she was sorry I had lived and was still crazy as all hell, no matter what those prison shrinks said.”

  Otis nodded as he mulled this over. “Her lawyer, Jordan Wells, is making noises that you set her up, that you invited her to the marina to discuss your problems with her, and that you planted a carving knife on her and had her arrested.”

  “That’s bullshit. None of it ever happened.”

  “He’s also claiming that he has a witness who saw the altercation between you and your mother who will testify that your mother did not have any weapon in her possession when you confronted her.”

  “Jordan is being paid by either the Church of Scientology or one of its executives. And the woman was a Scientology plant at the marina. They’re coming after me because I’m involved in the investigation the Clearwater cops have going into a church employee who is believed to be the man who twice tried to kill my father, a retired Clearwater cop, and who did murder two women, one in Clearwater and one in Tarpon Springs.”

  Otis took a long, deep breath. “Can you prove all of that?” he asked at length.

  “Most of it; with a little effort, probably all of it.”

  “I hope so,” Otis said. “Because if you can’t, and Jordan Wells keeps pushing, your tit’s gonna be in the proverbial wringer. I’ll report back to the sheriff. If he wants me to go further I’ll be in touch. My guess is he’ll tell me to wait until we see what happens in court.”

  “And if the media start asking questions, he can say an investigation is already ongoing.”

  “That’s about the size of it,” Otis said.

  * * *

  Tony sat in a plush swivel chair and glared at both of them. Meg had just told Walsh her recommendation would be that Tony be sent as far away as possi
ble for at least six months. “We need to let things settle down. Out of sight, out of mind—that’s the first order of business. Step two: no more attacks on Jocko Doyle, no more bodies turning up.”

  “That old cop can identify me,” Tony snapped.

  “You think he could pick you out of a lineup now?” Regis Walsh asked. “After all the changes Meg has made in your appearance? I doubt even your own mother could do that.”

  “Then why send me anyplace at all?”

  “We have to let this all die down,” Meg said. “There are people here who know your voice, your demeanor, people who might see through the changes we’ve made in your appearance. But over time . . .” She let the sentence die with a rise of her eyebrows.

  “Where specifically do you have in mind?” he asked.

  Walsh made a face and rubbed his forehead. “Right now, and this is just a thought, right now one of the places I’m thinking about is Alaska.”

  “Alaska,” Tony said. “I’ll freeze my fucking nuts off.”

  Walsh raised a cautioning hand. “Please, Tony, there’s a lady present. And actually, Alaska is not as cold as you would think. This would be southern Alaska and the temperatures are more like you’d find in Ohio or New Jersey. We’re not talking the North Pole.”

  “Tell me what’s there,” Tony said. His voice sounded pouty, put-upon.

  “The church has a friend there who owns a successful commercial fishing operation. It’s in a small town called Homer at the bottom of the Kenai Peninsula, which is about 220 miles south of Anchorage, where the church has a very active mission.”

  “I don’t know,” Tony said.

  “Don’t make any snap judgments,” Walsh urged. “I’ll have some books delivered to you and you can learn a little about Alaska, and in the meantime there are a few other places we need to take a hard look at. We have a very active church in Australia and another in North Yorkshire in the UK; we have people in South America and Europe, even Northern Africa. But I’m trying to find a location where you would more easily blend in—not stand out, so to speak. I want to avoid places where language would be a problem. Remember, we are not talking about a permanent relocation. I want you back in the United States working for the church in six months to a year, tops.”

  “Here?” Tony asked.

  “That’s quite possible. I certainly want you to continue the very effective work you did for us, but at first it will more likely be LA or Phoenix.” He shrugged his shoulders. “There are dozens of possibilities once we shake this current problem. But first things first. Think of it as going clear of the authorities. Once we’re past that, many doors will open for us.”

  * * *

  Harry called Vicky and asked her to meet him at his boat. When he got there he found her already aboard, sitting on the upper deck, taking in the sun.

  “You look relaxed and comfortable,” he said.

  “I’m on vacation,” she joked. “How did everything go with Otis?”

  “Good, I suppose. At least as good as I could have expected. He was up front with me, said everything would depend on what Jordan Wells did next. In the meantime, the sheriff is going to cover his ass. Without saying so directly, Otis let me know that if he can prove any of the crap he alleged in court, I better get myself a lawyer.”

  “So Wells will be pulling the strings,” Vicky said.

  “That’s right, and Regis Walsh is most likely the only one who can tell Wells to back off.”

  “I love the way these Scientology big shots always have somebody else doing the dirty work.”

  “They have a knack for sensing where you’re vulnerable and going straight at it,” Harry said. “In my case it’s my mother. If they can keep me bogged down with her crazy shit, the less time I’ll have running down Tony Rolf. And if they’re threatening my job, maybe I’ll give up altogether.”

  “They don’t know you very well, do they? Stubborn, to a fault . . . occasionally pigheaded . . . known to leap tall buildings in a single bound.”

  “That’s me, a pigheaded superman.”

  Vicky got up and went to the starboard rail. It held a clear view of Meg’s former slip. “I found your lady friend’s apartment.”

  “Former lady friend,” Harry corrected.

  “Anyway, it’s in the Ultimar condo complex on Sand Key. Guess who runs security there.” She turned back to look at him. “Avery Security, her own little company. They decide who goes in or out. When I asked to see her, the security officer on duty made a show of calling up to her apartment. Told me the maid said she was out; had no idea when she’d be back.”

  “I don’t want to go there. But it would be good if we could sit on the apartment, try and spot her going out and follow her. Who knows, she might lead us straight to Tony Rolf.”

  “I’m already on it,” Vicky said. “I’m running DMV checks for cars registered to Meg Avery, Meg Adams, or Avery Security, in Pinellas and Hillsborough counties. I should have a list by late this afternoon. I’m scheduled to work four to midnight for the next week so I can sit on her condo a few mornings. If I’m lucky, one of the cars will show up with her behind the wheel.”

  “Fax Max a copy of the list so his guys can keep an eye out for her too,” Harry said. “Once we pin down the car she’s using, it’ll be easier to run a regular tail.”

  “And you think she’ll lead us to Rolf?”

  “I’m betting on it,” Harry said.

  “Then we better be sure we have good people following her. She spots the tail, she’ll never go near him.”

  “I’m thinking we limit it to you, Max, and me for now. If Max has some guys he wants to use, that’ll work for me. It’s his case after all.”

  * * *

  Tony Rolf was slightly shell-shocked. The idea that he might be sent as far away as Alaska had never occurred to him. It was like being sent into exile; like that French general . . . Napoleon, yeah, just like Napoleon. He remembered reading about it in high school. Napoleon was sent into exile by the British, sent to some island. He never got off that island, like he died there. Tony gave that some thought. Did this mean that Walsh was abandoning him? No, there was too much Tony could tell the cops, too many things that would implicate Walsh and through him the church. If the man wanted to get rid of him, he could send some goon to take him out to the Freewinds and have him dumped somewhere. He had seen a documentary about L. Ron Hubbard, the church’s founder. How he used to have crew members thrown overboard when they displeased him. The documentary said he’d eventually haul them up half-drowned. No, no, you’re letting your imagination run wild.

  Tony looked at the cell phone sitting on the table next to his plush swivel chair. Meg had brought it to him, told him to use it to call her . . . but only in an emergency. He picked it up and punched in her number. He needed some reassurances. Meg liked him, he could tell, so he’d ask her straight out if she thought Walsh was on the up and up on this. He hesitated, then disconnected the call. He wasn’t going to make a fool of himself.

  Five minutes later Meg called back. “Did you call me, Tony?”

  “Yeah, I guess I was having a panic attack. All this talk about Alaska, it just got to me. Who the fuck does he think I am, some fucking Eskimo?”

  “I was in the shower when you called. There’s nothing to get worked up about. I’ll bring you some literature about Alaska tomorrow and we’ll go over it together. Okay?”

  “Yeah, that’ll be great.”

  “I’ll see you around ten. I want to sleep in a little.”

  “Okay, ten it is.”

  * * *

  They better get him out of here fast, Meg told herself. Otherwise he’s going to freak out and do something crazy. Then they’ll all be screwed.

  She picked up the phone and called Regis Walsh’s private line. There was no answer at his office. So Walsh did have a home to go to. All he had ever given her was his office number and whenever she had called he was always there. Tonight he wasn’t. Would wonders never cease?


  Meg took a cab to the marina at ten. Her car had been picked up by the Mercedes dealership at nine and taken in for service. It would be delivered to her at the marina by noon.

  Tony was up when Meg arrived at the boat shortly after ten. He looked as though he had been up for hours and had already worked himself into a lather. She placed the books she had brought on a cocktail table, took a seat on the sofa, and patted the place next to her indicating that Tony should join her.

  She picked up the first book and opened it.

  “You’re late,” he said.

  “Yes, I’m twenty minutes late. I’m sorry.”

  “Are you saying that I’m being picky?”

  Meg could tell he was spoiling for a fight. She intended to scotch any opportunity to have one. “No, I said I was sorry for being late. It couldn’t be helped, but I’m still sorry.”

  He seemed to grudgingly accept this.

  “Okay, let’s look at the area Mr. Walsh was talking about. It’s near the end of the Kenai Peninsula, a town called Homer. The town was founded by a gold miner named Homer Pennock in 1896. It now has 5,400 residents. It’s located on Kachenak Bay and surrounded by the Kenai Mountains and has both active volcanoes and several glaciers. There are a number of fjords that run off the bay. In summer it’s a sports-fishing center, mostly for haddock and king salmon. There are nineteen hours of sunlight in summer and in winter the Aurora Borealis dominates the skies.” Meg stopped reading. “It sounds beautiful, although I think nineteen hours of daylight would be hard to get used to.”

  “I think the whole place sounds scarier than shit,” Tony groused. “And you haven’t even gotten to the 2,000-pound brown bears prowling through the area, or the 1,500-pound moose. Big enough to kill my sorry ass if I got too close.”

  Meg smiled. He was exaggerating the weights but not by much. She decided to defuse the issue, not challenge it. “It’s like the old Groucho Marks joke. The patient says: Doctor, it hurts when I do that. The doctor replies: Don’t do that.”

  “So what the hell does that mean?”

  “It means, as far as big brown bears are concerned, don’t get too close.”