The Scientology Murders

by William Heffernan

  “No, what’s up?”

  “We’ve got a murder, a young woman, seventeen or eighteen, MO fits our boy. You wanna have a look?”

  “Definitely,” Harry said.

  Max gave him the location of the body.

  “I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

  Harry put down the phone and called Vicky. When she answered he gave her the location. “I’m going to follow it all the way through the autopsy. I’m also going to ask them to compare the DNA samples taken off Lilly Mikinos and Mary Kate O’Connell.”

  “You think it’s him, don’t you?”

  “Let’s wait and see.” Harry paused. “Yeah, I do. It has to be him.”

  Harry reached the location twenty minutes later. Crime scene techs were searching the area leading from the sidewalk to the body.

  Max met Harry on the sidewalk and led him around the techs, giving them a wide berth, then on to the patch of ground that a living Cindy Lewis had claimed as her final place on this earth.

  Harry looked down at her eviscerated body. She was a young woman, still in her teens; her eyes stared blindly, the pupils already beginning to cloud, the skin pale. She was slightly overweight, but in a pleasant, attractive way, definitely a young woman who should be looking forward to a long, joyous life. His eyes dropped to the gaping wound in her abdomen, entrails out, already beginning to shrivel and dry in the morning sun. “Who kills people like this, gutting them like slaughtered animals?” he asked no one in particular. “It’s primitive, something from the dark ages, when monstrous crimes were commonplace.”

  Harry continued to stare at the body when a name flashed into his mind—Tony Rawlings. It came again and again. He turned to Max. “Does the name Tony Rawlings mean anything to you?”

  “No, why do you ask?”

  “It just keeps coming to me.” He lowered his voice. “Sometimes that happens to me at a crime scene.”

  “Like the victim is communicating with you? I’ve heard the stories about you. They’re true, huh?”

  Harry nodded. “I try to downplay it, but it happens.”

  “I’ll run the name through the computer,” Max said.

  “I’d also like to cross-check any DNA we pick up here with Lilly Mikinos and Mary Kate O’Connell.”

  “Good idea. When she goes in for the post I’ll make a request for a comparison.”

  Vicky arrived just as they were completing their plans. “Anything I can do to help?” she asked.

  “We’re going to canvass the area bars and restaurants. According to the driver’s license in her jeans, her name is Cindy Lewis, age nineteen, with an address farther up on Jones Street.” Max shook his head. “She almost made it home.”

  They left the body to the crime scene investigators and morgue attendants and headed back to the Clearwater police headquarters. Back in Max’s office they waited while he fed the name Tony Rawlings into the computer. Five minutes later they had a hit from the Los Angeles PD—a warrant issued over a decade ago for a teenager named Tony Rawlings, who was wanted for questioning in the murder of his stepfather, John Gandolini, on Christmas Day 2004, and the subsequent disappearance of his mother, Victoria Rawlings, forty-eight. Gandolini had died from stab wounds from a double-edged knife. He had been eviscerated. Rawlings was an albino.

  “The Church of Scientology has a big operation in LA. It’s where their celebrity center is,” Harry said.

  “So you think maybe Tony Rawlings joined up with the Scientologists in LA and was eventually brought to Clearwater to work in Walsh’s operation?”

  “With a little name change to Tony Rolf,” Vicky said.

  “You think Regis Walsh knew he had killed this Gandolini guy and maybe his mother too?” Max asked.

  “I think these Scientologists know everything there is to know about every member of their church,” Harry said.

  “So you believe Regis Walsh knowingly harbored a fugitive.”

  “I do,” Harry said. “Whether I can prove it or not, well, that’s still up for grabs.”

  “We’ll see what happens after we name Tony Rolf as a person of interest in this murder,” Max said.

  “Let’s pull out all the stops,” Vicky said. “Name him a person of interest in all three killings—Cindy Lewis, Lilly Mikinos, and Mary Kate O’Connell. Label the son of a bitch what he is: a serial killer.”

  “And identify him as an employee of the Church of Scientology,” Harry said. “Light a little fire under Regis Walsh.”

  “See where that jerk runs off to,” Max added.

  “He won’t run anywhere,” Harry said. “But he’ll get rid of his boy Rolf as fast as he can.”

  * * *

  A canvass of area restaurants and bars came up with a description of the man with whom Cindy Lewis had spent the last hours of her life. He was described as twenty-five to thirty years of age, blond, blue eyes, approximately five feet ten inches, 175 pounds, clean shaven with a well-tanned complexion. The description fit about one hundred thousand men in the general vicinity of Tampa Bay. It could, with some cosmetic help, also fit Tony Rolf.

  Harry and Max attended the autopsy of Cindy Lewis—Vicky declined, saying she had met her quota of autopsies for the year. Max had requested George Rios, the same lab tech who had searched the body of Lilly Mikinos for DNA and Assistant Medical Examiner Dr. Angela Sugarman, who had performed the post.

  When they finished with the body they all gathered in Sugarman’s office to review the preliminary findings. Sugarman went first, saying the cause of death was straightforward—a massive wound to the abdomen by a double-edged blade, a stiletto, which caused a partial evisceration of the victim’s intestines, accompanied by massive blood loss. “The victim would have died within a few minutes,” Sugarman concluded. “But it would have been a painful, terrifying death.”

  Max turned to Rios. “Any luck with DNA?”

  “Nothing under the fingernails,” Rios said. “It appears the victim did not fight her killer. There was hair on her clothing that was not hers. It was dyed blond, white beneath the dye. We’re running the tests now, but I’d bet they’re going to match the hairs we found on Lilly Mikinos.”

  “With the same DNA?” Harry asked.

  “I’d be very surprised if it wasn’t a perfect match. I’ll let you know in twenty-four hours.”

  “I guess we’ll be checking in with you tomorrow,” Max said.

  “You will,” Harry said. “I’ll be in court to watch Jordan Wells try to spring my mother.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Harry arrived at court at nine a.m. and immediately huddled with Assistant State Attorney Jeremy Peters. He gave Peters a small briefcase that held all the letters his mother had sent him on the anniversary of his brother’s death, each one saying how she wanted her sons to be together again “in the heavenly kingdom of Jesus Christ.”

  “You’ll notice that they are all postmarked one day before the anniversary of Jimmy’s death. She was always very precise about mailing them so they would arrive exactly on that date.”

  “And every letter was a wish for your death?” Peters said.

  “I always took it that way.”

  “Okay, I’ll bring this up when you testify.”

  “Who have they got?” Harry asked.

  “Megan Avery, Tyler Tully, William Harvey, an employee of AT&T, and your mother, of course,” Peters said. “I’ll call you first, and since you’ll already have testified you can remain in the courtroom to listen to the other testimonies. I may need to call you again in rebuttal. We’ll just have to wait and see what his witnesses say.”

  “Who else are you going to call?” Harry asked.

  “You’re it. I didn’t want to bring in anyone from the prison, especially the shrinks who said she was well. I’m going to base our case on her violation of the parole order that she remain one hundred yards away from you at all times.”

  “How is Wells going to explain that away?”

  Peters shrugged. “H
e claims she was lured there. He’s got to prove that you did the luring. That’s going to be his biggest hurdle. We’ll just have to wait and see what rabbits he’s got in his hat.”

  Lucy Santos was gently guided into the courtroom by Jordan Wells, who again looked like an advertisement from GQ. Harry looked him over and decided that his gray silk suit, red silk tie, and Gucci loafers probably set him back more than Harry made in a month. He leaned over to Peters and whispered: “He sure is a fashion plate. How come he looks so much better than you?”

  “Just hope he’s not better when he opens his mouth.”

  But he will be, Harry thought. That’s why he can afford to look so good.

  Harry refused to acknowledge or even glance at his birth mother. To do so would only produce one of her pathetic looks and he did not want to encourage any of her acts; he had seen all of those he ever wanted to see.

  The court was called to order as Judge Walter McCoy entered the courtroom and ascended the bench. He dispensed with all formalities and immediately asked both lawyers if they were ready to proceed. Each acknowledged that he was.

  “Well in that case, gentlemen, let’s skip the opening statements—I’ve read your briefs and fully understand the arguments you plan to make. If you agree, let’s go directly to witnesses.”

  Peters rose and told the court he had only one witness, Detective Harry Santos Doyle, but he reserved the right to call rebuttal witnesses if that proved necessary.

  McCoy nodded and told him to proceed.

  Harry moved to the witness chair, placed his hand on a Bible held by the court clerk, and swore to tell the truth.

  “Please state your name, rank, and badge number,” Peters began.

  Harry did so.

  “What is your relationship to Lucy Santos?” Peters asked.

  “She is my birth mother.”

  “Why do you describe her as such?”

  “Because after Lucy Santos was sent to prison for the murder of my brother James, and the attempted murder of myself, I was adopted by John and Maria Doyle of Clearwater, who raised me from the age of ten. They provided me with all the love and nurturing I ever received and I consider them to be my parents.”

  Lucy gasped and Wells promptly handed her a box of tissues and placed a comforting arm around her shoulders.

  McCoy looked down from the bench and spoke directly to Wells: “Counselor, I’ll expect you to keep all histrionics to a minimum. Please advise your client that such activities will not be looked upon with favor by this court.”

  “Yes, Your Honor,” Wells said. “But please understand this is a trying time for Ms. Santos.”

  “It is a trying time for all of us, Mr. Wells,” McCoy said.

  Well, that’s one for us, Harry thought. McCoy had just overruled any histrionic bullshit.

  “Detective Doyle, did you oppose your mother’s release from prison?”

  “I did.”

  “Why did you do so?”

  “I considered her a danger to me.”

  “What made you reach that conclusion?”

  “Each year, on the anniversary of my brother Jimmy’s murder and my attempted murder, my birth mother, Lucy Santos, would send me a letter telling me that she wanted me to join Jimmy in heaven so we could be there when she arrived and we could all be with Jesus.”

  Wells jumped to his feet. “Objection!” he shouted. “There is no supporting evidence for this horrible allegation, at least none that I have been shown, Your Honor. Unless counsel is prepared to offer corroborating physical evidence, I ask that this line of questioning be overruled.”

  Peters opened the briefcase Harry had given him and asked to approach the bench. “Here, Your Honor, are the letters Detective Doyle referred to, each and every one of them. The court will see that all but the last letter are postmarked from the women’s prison where Ms. Santos was incarcerated. In each letter Ms. Santos makes reference to Detective Doyle joining his dead brother James in heaven. Each one is clearly a threat.”

  “Since when, Your Honor, is a mother’s wish that her child goes to heaven a threat?” Wells bellowed. “My mother prays regularly that heaven will be in my future and I wouldn’t be surprised if Judge McCoy’s mother wishes the same for him.”

  “Let’s leave my mother out of this discussion,” McCoy snapped. “Objection overruled. The court will place the letters into evidence.”

  “May I be provided with copies, Your Honor?” Wells asked.

  McCoy ordered the assistant clerk to make copies for both attorneys.

  “Proceed, Mr. Peters.”

  “Detective Doyle, do you live aboard your boat at the Clearwater marina?”

  “I do.”

  “Why did you choose to live there?”

  “I owned a house off Mandalay Avenue. After her release from prison, my birth mother kept appearing in the neighborhood. I thought living in a secure marina would make this less possible. Living aboard a boat would also offer the opportunity to move quickly to another location if and when she did find out where I was living. So I sold my house and purchased the boat.”

  “It’s a large boat?”

  “Yes, it’s fairly large; forty-eight feet, to be exact, with three staterooms, three heads, and a large salon and galley.”

  Wells rose to his feet. “Your Honor, we are all pleased that Detective Doyle lives in such comfort and splendor, but can we return to the issue at hand?”

  “Yes, let us proceed, Mr. Peters,” the judge said.

  “Yes, Your Honor. Detective Doyle, on the day in question, when your birth mother appeared at the marina where you live, how did you become aware of her presence?”

  “I overheard her arguing with another boat owner, a woman I knew as Meg Adams, and when I went outside I saw that my birth mother was holding a six-inch carving knife in her hand, and that Ms. Adams was backing away, clearly alarmed.”

  “What did you do then?”

  “I jumped onto the dock and confronted Ms. Santos and disarmed her. Then I asked Ms. Adams to call the Clearwater Police Department with an ‘officer needs assistance’ call. She did so and two Clearwater police officers arrived and arrested Ms. Santos.”

  Peters looked up at the bench. “No further questions at this time, Your Honor.”

  “Does the defense have any questions for this witness, Mr. Wells?” the judge asked.

  Wells rose slowly. “Indeed we do, Your Honor.” He walked in front of the defense table, then slowly returned to his place behind it. “Do you love your mother, Detective Doyle?”

  Peters jumped to his feet. “Objection. Whether Detective Doyle loves his mother has no bearing on this case.”

  “Your Honor, it does indeed,” Wells said. “The defense intends to show that Detective Doyle’s feelings toward his mother”—his voice rose to a roar—“in fact, his hatred for his mother led to this entire incident!”

  “I’ll allow this line of questioning to continue for now,” the judge said.

  “Again, Detective Doyle, do you love your mother, Lucy Santos?”

  “I do not,” Harry answered.

  Wells studied his well-polished Gucci loafers. “In your experience that is unusual, is it not? I mean, is it not unusual for a man not to love the woman who brought him into this world?”

  Harry looked him coldly in the eyes. “I stopped loving her when she tried to take me out of this world.”

  “Do you hate her?” Wells asked.

  “I don’t know,” Harry said. “I hope not. I wish I could pity her for her illness. But I’m not sure I can.”

  “And why is that?”

  “She killed my little brother. He was only six and he did love her. He loved her with all his heart.”

  “He told you that?”

  “He did.”

  “Did he love his father?” Wells asked.

  “We didn’t know our father. He left right after Jimmy was born.”

  “And you were what, four?”

  “Yes. I o
nly vaguely remember him. Jocko Doyle, my adoptive father, is the only father I ever knew.”

  “Jocko Doyle was a sergeant with the Clearwater Police Department, is that so?”

  “Yes, he’s retired now.”

  “And you’ve been investigating a recent crime in which he was shot, have you not?”

  “I have.”

  “And all this was going on when you had this confrontation with Ms. Santos, is that also true?”

  “It is.”

  “So you had a great many emotional things going on, did you not? I mean, your adoptive father being shot, the normal stress of your very stressful job, the crimes you were investigating, and on top of it all, your birth mother being recently released from prison and wanting to meet with you? That is a great deal of stress, is it not?”

  “If you say so.”

  “Oh, come now, detective, with all you had going on in your life, isn’t it fair to say that the last thing you needed was further conflict with the birth mother who, when mentally ill in the past, tried to take your life?”

  “I was doing my best to avoid her.”

  “You were? Let’s look into that statement just a bit.” Wells made a show of picking up a sheet of paper. He raised his eyes to Harry. “Does the marina where you live have a public phone?”

  “Yes.”

  “How many times have you used that phone?”

  “I’ve never had occasion to use it,” Harry replied.

  “Are you sure, detective?”

  “I’m sure.”

  “Do you have a land line on your boat?” Wells was slowly pacing behind the defense table.

  “No, I do not.”

  “No land line.”

  “That’s correct.”

  “Do you have a cell phone?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you use that phone for police business and personal use?”

  “I have two cell phones: one issued by the sheriff’s office for business use and a second one that I pay for myself for personal use.”

  “Are they both issued by Verizon?” Wells asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Would either of them show any calls to your birth mother, Lucy Santos?”

  Harry sat and thought. “I cannot recall ever making a call to her on either phone,” he finally said.