The Scientology Murders

by William Heffernan

  “Can I have your name, sergeant? I’ll tell her you called.”

  “Tell her that her old friend Max Abrams was here and that I’ll be seeing her soon.”

  When he returned to the car he looked at Harry and shook his head. “She did it again,” he said. “She’s gone but not forgotten.”

  “She must have had another car waiting for her here.”

  “You know, Harry, I’m starting to not like that woman.”

  “Maybe we should form a club.”

  “Who’s in it so far?”

  “You, Vicky, and me, but it’s growing fast,” Harry said.

  Chapter Eighteen

  “So you really are going to cook,” Tony said. Meg had picked up two steaks and some premade mashed potatoes, along with tomatoes, cucumbers, and balsamic dressing for a salad. She also had two bottles of a good Malbec from Argentina.

  “It’s a simple meal, I think I can manage it,” Meg said. “Besides, Mr. Walsh said I was to take good care of you.”

  “He really said that?”

  There it was again, she thought. Disbelief that anyone was looking out for him, that anyone cared if he was happy or sad, whether he continued to exist or simply stopped walking this earth. She had never seen such self-loathing, had never met someone who thought others questioned if he was worthy of life itself.

  “I thought you were just being nice,” Tony said.

  “Well, I am. But Mr. Walsh is also concerned about you. He considers you a valued member of the church and he’s asked me to look out for you.”

  Tony seemed to mull that over, then walked to the salon window and watched a sailboat head out into the gulf. His hands were at his side and his fingers twitched nervously. She knew his childhood had been one incident of brutality after another, mostly due to his mother’s penchant for falling in love with brutal men. She also knew he had killed his so-called stepfather. And his mother had also disappeared by the time Walsh found him. She wondered if he had killed her as well. He was certainly capable of it, she told herself. And it would explain the self-loathing that seemed to permeate every facet of his being. All that and being born an albino, an oddity of nature, something he could see every time he looked in a mirror, every time he saw someone glance at him and make a distasteful expression. So many things to turn him into the hate-filled monster he had become.

  “You want your steak rare, right?” she asked.

  “Yes. I want to hear it moo when I cut into it.” He grinned at his own joke and watched to see if she would do the same.

  Meg instinctively sensed what he wanted and gave it to him. “Moo,” she said, offering up her best foolish grin. She turned back to the stove and lit the broiler. “I’d rather cook this on the grill that’s out on deck but I don’t want to attract the attention of other boat owners. The less curiosity we attract, the better our chances of remaining unnoticed until you’re ready to leave.”

  “Yeah, I guess that’s the way it has to be.” He paused. “Don’t you think my disguise is good enough that I could move about a bit?”

  “Move about how?”

  “Just take a walk; maybe stop at a bar for a beer, anything, just to have some contact with people. I mean contact with you and Mr. Walsh, even that idiot Oppenheimer, is good. But especially with you—I mean, that’s really good. When nobody’s here I start to get a little stir crazy. I just want to get out, see people, you know? Sometimes I open one of the curtains on the salon windows and sit far back with binoculars and just stare out.”

  Lonely, Meg thought. At those times he becomes the lonely little boy he has always been. It could be a recipe for disaster if they let it go too far.

  “I’ll talk to Mr. Walsh. We’re so close to getting out of here, I just don’t want to blow it all by becoming too cavalier about what we can safely do and what we can’t. Do you understand?”

  “I . . . I . . . think so.”

  “I just don’t want to do too much and blow it all.”

  “Yeah, okay, I get it.”

  Meg went back to the steaks, and started preparing the salad. “After dinner maybe we can take a drive, even stop for a nightcap somewhere. Would you like that?”

  Tony grinned at her. “Oh yeah, that’d be great.”

  * * *

  They drove south on Alternate 19 in Meg’s latest rental, a black Cadillac ATS with heavily tinted windows. It was comparable to being sealed in a vault that no one could see into, thus providing all the anonymity anyone would want.

  “The only danger is being pulled over, and that won’t happen unless I break some law. The most common is driving with a taillight or headlight out. Otherwise cops are reluctant to pull over high-priced cars—unless there’s an African American or Latino driving. If the driver is white, the pricier the car the greater the likelihood a complaint will be filed if the driver feels harassed.”

  “Really? Is that a statistic or something?” Tony asked.

  “Cops will tell you that themselves. I have several retired cops working for me who swear it’s true. The one factor that will change it is out-of-state license plates. In some places, especially small towns in the South, that almost guarantees a traffic stop.”

  Meg turned onto Main Street and parked in front of Casa Tina, a Mexican restaurant with excellent food and an even better bar. “I feel like a mojito,” she said. “And they serve Modelo Especial on draft.”

  “Sounds great to me,” Tony said.

  They entered the restaurant and Tony was immediately taken with the décor. Mexican artifacts lined the walls, many relating to Day of the Dead festivities.

  There was a square bar with almost every seat taken. A smile from Meg got two young men to move down a seat, opening up two spots for them. She sat facing Tony to avoid any conflicts and they ordered her a mojito and a beer for Tony.

  “You know some really cool places,” Tony said.

  “What kind of places did you usually go to?”

  “Places downtown, around the church offices. Sometimes I’d go to O’Keefe’s down near the hospital. A lot of nurses hang out there and occasionally I’d see someone I recognized from the church. When I did I’d make sure to get their names and turn them in to Oppenheimer.”

  “Why?” Meg asked.

  “The church doesn’t want its members spending money in bars. It wants them to spend money on courses. When I spotted them and turned their names in to Oppenheimer, they’d get a letter questioning their life choices. Then, if I saw them in a bar again, I’d go right up to them and ask why they were ignoring the message they had gotten.”

  “Did they ever argue with you?”

  “A few tried, but when I explained that this was a friendly warning, that my next visit would be to their homes, they usually packed it in and left.” There was an especially nasty smile on Tony Rolf’s face as he explained this.

  “You enjoyed scaring them, didn’t you?” Meg suggested, regretting the words as she saw how they registered with Tony.

  He seemed surprised at first; then his features settled into a glaring anger.

  “I didn’t mean that as a criticism,” she said, laying a hand on his arm.

  He looked down at her hand, then allowed his eyes to rise slowly to her face. “What else could it be taken as? You people who aren’t part of it have no idea how hard it is to keep some of these members in line. You stay off them for a minute and they’re doing stuff they know is wrong. Drinking, meeting up with non–church members, little homosexual or heterosexual trysts—there was no end to it. We have to stay on them all the time.”

  Tony’s jaw was set like the true believer he was. There were no excuses for violating the code of conduct the church set. He would make sure the rules were followed, and God help anyone who did not conform. No wonder Walsh valued him—he was the perfect enforcer. And if Tony lost control every so often . . . well, that was a risk one had to take. Meg shook her head and let the thought die. She wondered if Walsh ever felt concern about what he had create
d in Tony Rolf. It certainly didn’t seem so, though she was sure that sooner or later he and his church would pay a heavy price for it. In the meantime, well, others would pay that price. And the church, in choosing to look the other way, seemed very much to condone the abuse inflicted on its members.

  And what’s your part in it? she wondered. She knew that she fully intended to complete her current contract with the church. She was a good businesswoman and she always fulfilled her end of a deal. Would she accept a new contract? That was another question.

  Tony was still brooding and Meg decided to ignore it and let him stew if he wanted to. She felt certain she could handle any violent outburst directed her way. She held a black belt in tae kwon do and if it came down to weapons, there was a .380-caliber Walther she was licensed to carry always close at hand.

  “Well let’s get going, I have a busy day tomorrow,” she said.

  “I want another beer.”

  “What you want to do is sit and brood because you don’t think you’re appreciated. I don’t have time for that, Tony. You’re going to have to do that brooding all by yourself. So if you insist on having another beer, you’ll have to get a cab back to the marina.” Look in my eyes, she thought to herself. Know that you don’t intimidate me.

  “You like to live dangerously, don’t you?” he hissed.

  “If that’s some kind of half-assed threat, you know what you can do with it.” Meg spoke the words with a smile on her lips, but her eyes were cold and hard and she could tell he was uncertain, perhaps even shaken by her defiance. You’re not used to it, are you, Mr. Rolf? You’re used to frightening people, especially women.

  Tony picked up his beer and downed what was left of it in one swallow. If it had been served in a can rather than a glass, he undoubtedly would have crushed it in his hand. You’re such a predictable jerk, she thought.

  “Let’s go,” he said.

  Without a word Meg took a twenty from her purse and laid it on the bar. Then she swung herself off the stool and started for the door. Tony followed, his face black with rage.

  They drove back to the marina in silence. When they arrived Meg turned to face him. “We’ll try to go out for a nightcap some other time, Tony. Whether it works or not depends on you. If you continue trying to intimidate me, I’ll simply stop helping you. I don’t find it pleasant to be threatened.” She stopped and offered him another cold smile. I hope you’re getting the message.

  “You come because Mr. Walsh tells you to.”

  “You’re right; it’s part of the contract my agency signed. But I am not a member of the church, and if I or my agency decides we can no longer fulfill our part of the contract, all it means is that the church stops paying us.”

  “I’ll see you tomorrow?”

  “You will.”

  * * *

  Tony watched her go, his anger brewing into a smoldering storm. So she had no fear of him. We’ll see about that, see just how brave you are. But not now, not while I still need you. But you will pay. Yes indeed, you will. He turned away from the boat and headed for a downtown bar where he knew he could find a woman to talk to. Maybe he would even find someone from the church breaking the rules. That would be sweet. He could hand out some punishment. It had been too long since he’d been able to do that. He only wished it could be Meg on the receiving end. In time, he told himself, all in good time. Then she’ll wish she never tested me.

  The bar he chose was on Cleveland Avenue in downtown Clearwater, only a short walk from the marina. Members of Sea Org were still there in nearby church buildings, scurrying about as they always did, making a show of how busy they were; how hard they were working. Always move quickly, always look busy and overworked, members were warned. Church officials wanted everyone busy and seemingly productive, even when they weren’t. He had been taught that early on: question the guy, challenge whether he’s working as hard as he can. Everyone can work harder. Don’t accept their excuses; make them feel guilty for even making an excuse.

  Tony entered the bar and was immediately overcome by the fierce sound being offered up by a local four-piece band. There was a woman seated at the bar who was bouncing and shaking her upper body to the beat. He slid in next to her and ordered a Tampa-Style Lager, a product of the Cigar City Brewery.

  When the music came to a stop the woman took the time to give him a once-over, then drained her glass and smiled at him. “Wanna buy me another?” she asked, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

  “Sure,” Tony said. “What are you drinking?”

  “Jai Alai,” she said. “My name is Cindy Lewis, what’s yours?”

  He could tell she was slightly drunk. “Tony Rawlings,” he answered, choosing his name from back in his LA days.

  “You from here?” she asked. She was slightly overweight, no more than eighteen or nineteen. She had blond hair that looked as though it had just been washed, blue eyes, and a small mouth that seemed to form a pucker when she spoke. Not at all bad, he told himself.

  “I said, are you from here?” she repeated.

  “California. Actually, I’m from Los Angeles.”

  “What brought you here?”

  He gestured with a movement of his head that indicated life going on over his shoulder. “I work for the Church of Scientology. I came here to take a special course.”

  “Oooh,” she said, making her voice sound spooky. “Are you clear?” It was a taunt sometimes used to try to rattle church members.

  “As a matter of fact, I am.” There was an edge to his voice that Cindy picked up on.

  “Oh, I’m only teasing you,” she said. “We get a big kick out of some of the Sea Org people who come in here, or sit outside at the sandwich shop next door all dressed up in their sailor suits, all the time talking about going clear.”

  She continued to prattle on. Tony turned her off, not listening anymore. Her voice became white noise to him, just a dull humming sound. He smiled, letting her think he was enjoying her nonsensical jabbering. “Do you live nearby?” he asked.

  “I’ve got an apartment just a few blocks north of here. How about you? Where are you staying?”

  “I’m staying on a friend’s boat. It’s in a marina not far from here. I like waking up to the gentle rolling waves that other boats create when they move in and out of their slips.”

  “Sounds romantic.” She was playing with a strand of hair, twirling it around her fingers.

  “You go to school or work somewhere nearby?” Tony asked, although he couldn’t care less.

  “I was in St. Pete’s for a semester, but I didn’t like it. Right now I’m waitressing at the Island Way, just off the causeway. It’s an upscale place so it’s good money. But if you work dinners—that’s where the good tips are—it really cuts into your social life.”

  Yak, yak, yak, Tony thought. Does this stupid woman think any of it matters? More white noise, filling his ears until he wanted to reach out and clamp a hand over her mouth, or grab her by the hair she kept playing with and smash her face into the top of the bar.

  He bought her another Jai Alai and got another lager for himself. The beer seemed to make her even more talkative but he kept buying them until it was past midnight.

  “I have to get up early,” he said. “Would you like me to walk you home?” Either way, he knew he would wait for her outside.

  “Sure, that would be cool. A girl can’t be too safe these days. I hate walking home alone. The streets around here are so creepy when they’re dark.”

  They left the bar and headed east on Cleveland, then north on Fort Harrison Boulevard, and turned onto Jones Street. It was his old neighborhood and Tony could walk it blindfolded. Just past North Garden Avenue there was an empty lot where they would “stop and talk.” She was still prattling on when they reached it, something about getting herself a dog, and Tony took her arm and guided her into the lot.

  “It’s a shortcut,” he said.

  “A shortcut to where? I live straight ahead
.”

  There was the first hint of fear in her voice now and Tony reached into his pocket, came out with his switchblade, and snapped it open. He raised the blade to her throat. “Shut up and go where I tell you,” he hissed. He had his left hand on her shoulder, the blade of the knife pressed against her throat with his right. “Give me any trouble and you’re going to bleed like the pig you are.”

  She started to blubber and the sound sickened him. “Don’t hurt me. I’ll do anything you want. Just tell me what to do and I’ll do it.”

  He pressed the blade harder against her throat. “Just . . . shut . . . up,” he growled as he pushed her deeper into the empty lot.

  She stumbled and fell forward and the blade nicked her throat. Her hand flew up to the wound and when she pulled it away there was a smear of blood. “Oh God, oh God,” she sobbed.

  “Shut up. It’s just a scratch and you did it to yourself.”

  The sight of blood panicked her and she tried to pull away. Tony grabbed her hair and jerked her back. But Cindy was terrified now and she continued to struggle. He pulled her back again, up against him. He could smell her sweat and almost taste her fear as he thrust the knife into her abdomen and pulled up. He stepped back when blood began to rush from her body, and for a moment she just stood there staring at the gaping wound in her belly. When her intestines started to ooze out of her body she looked up at Tony, eyes wide. She gasped, “Why did you do that to me?” Then her eyes rolled up and she fell forward.

  Tony stared at her for almost a minute. Then he reached down and placed two fingers against her carotid artery. There was nothing, not even a weak flutter.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Harry’s cell phone awakened him at six.

  “You dressed?” Max Abrams asked.