Читать книгу The Scientology Murders - William Heffernan - Страница 10

Chapter Three

Harry returned to the hospital and found that his father’s condition had improved. His mother was asleep on a waiting room sofa and someone had given her a blanket and pillow. Patrolwoman Moore was seated in a chair close by and she stood when Harry entered. “Jocko’s better,” she whispered, as she led Harry away from his sleeping mother. “He’s still listed as critical but the nurse assigned to him told me he’s been improving steadily. Your mom finally fell asleep after she heard that.”

“He’s a tough guy,” Harry said. He looked back at his mother. “So is she.”

“Did they come up with anything at the crime scene?” Moore asked.

“They found Mary Kate O’Connell’s body. She was in the water, not far from where Jocko went in. We’re guessing he was going after her when he was shot.”

“This shooter’s a piece of work,” Moore said. “He shoots a retired police sergeant and drowns a retired cop’s kid. That’s putting a big bull’s-eye on your back. Who’s notifying Joey O’Connell?”

“Max Abrams. He and his partner, a guy named Walker, caught the case.”

Moore nodded, indicating her approval.

“Thanks for staying with my mom,” Harry said. “I can take it from here.”

Moore took a business card from her pocket and wrote a number on the back. “That’s my personal number. Don’t hesitate to call if you need me.”

“Thanks.” Harry glanced at the card and saw that Moore used the initials M.J. as her first name. “What does M.J. stand for?”

Moore smiled. “Just M.J.”

“Good enough,” Harry said.

* * *

It was nine o’clock before Harry and his mother were allowed into the intensive care unit. Jocko Doyle lay in bed with tubes coming from every visible orifice. He was as pale as Harry had ever seen another human being, and had it not been for the heart and respiratory monitors he would have checked his father’s pulse to make sure he was alive.

Slowly, Jocko’s eyes opened and flitted between Harry and his wife. “I feel like crap,” he growled around the tube that was taped at the corner of his mouth.

While his mother moved in to stroke Jocko’s head, Harry smiled down at him. “That’s what happens when you let somebody pump two bullets into your back. What happened to the idea of ducking? That’s what you always told me to do.”

“He snuck up on me.” A faint smile toyed with Jocko’s lips. “I must be getting old.”

“I’m working the case with Clearwater PD thanks to Max Abrams. Can you tell me what the shooter looked like?”

Jocko nodded and Harry could tell the effort to talk was taking its toll. “He was a weird-looking guy, a very pale complexion; tall and wiry, but strong. He had snow-white hair, but he was no more than thirty, so the hair really stood out.”

Harry spent the next half hour with Jocko, then left him in Maria’s care and headed toward the marina where he kept his boat. Two months earlier he had sold his beach house to the builder who had been pestering him for years. The decision to sell had been forced by his birth mother’s release from prison and—despite a condition that forbade her from coming within one hundred feet of him—her regular appearances at the end of his street and on the beach that bordered his house.

Complaints to the parole board were met with inaction—The parolee in question has the right to use public streets, parks, beaches, and places of business, they wrote in response to his complaint. Harry’s solution was simple. He sold his small oceanfront house and bought a forty-eight-foot trawler—a boat large enough to serve as a comfortable home and one he could untie and move to a new marina whenever needed. It also left him with more than a million dollars in the bank and the security of knowing he could leave his job whenever he chose.

At present, the boat was docked at a small private marina just across from downtown Clearwater, only half a mile from his former home. The marina was fairly secure, due mostly to an extremely nosy dockmaster, who regularly paraded up and down the docks wearing a pith helmet and complaining about any minor infraction he found—a dripping water line, a gasoline container left on the dock, anything he could find from a long list of “violations” that the marina published and gave to each boat owner. Harry had heard other boat owners referring to him as “the dock Nazi.” But he provided Harry with one definite advantage: he also questioned anyone on the docks who he did not recognize. The dock Nazi would be a welcome barrier to Harry’s mentally disturbed mother when she eventually found him again.

Harry walked down the main dock to the Grand Banks trawler he had christened Nevermore, in a nod to his favorite author and an expression of his intent to escape the woman who had killed him and his younger brother Jimmy. The boat, now ten years old, had received tender care from the original and only previous owner. It had two staterooms and two heads, each with its own shower, a sizable galley with a three-quarter fridge, a full oven, sink, microwave, and even a hidden washer and dryer, located three steps down from a large salon furnished with a sofa, two reclining chairs, and a large-screen television set. It was every bit as roomy and comfortable as the small beach house he had sold. The sole difference, as far as Harry was concerned, was that instead of having a view of the ocean, he now floated on it.

After boarding, Harry went straight to the chart table and began writing down his notes on the case. As he was finishing, a voice floated in from the dock.

“Hey, boat guy, permission to come aboard?”

He turned and saw Vicky. “Permission granted. And it’s not boat guy, it’s captain.”

“Yeah, sure, Popeye, anything you say.” Vicky stepped on board and came through the open hatch. “How’s your dad?”

“He’s still listed as critical, but he’s going to make it. He’s a tough old bird.”

“And your mom?”

“She’s a wreck, but now that she has him to fuss over, she’ll be okay too.”

Vicky looked around. It was her first time aboard the new trawler. “Pretty nice boat you’ve got here, detective.” She walked aft, then back to the chart table. “I met this strange little guy on the dock. Said his name was Tully and that he ran the place. He was wearing a pith helmet and wanted to know where I was going. I flashed my shield, told him I was looking for Harry Doyle, and he pointed me in the right direction.”

“That was the dock Nazi,” Harry said. “At least that’s what people here call him. His official title is dockmaster and he likes to find things to complain about. Now, with you flashing your tin, he probably thinks I’m a felon.”

“He doesn’t know you’re a cop?”

“I never give out any more information than I have to.”

Typical Harry Doyle; it brought a smile to her lips. “Well, you look like a felon, so he probably thought so anyway.” Her smile widened. Vicky was wearing jeans that she filled out beautifully, a pale tan blouse under a lightweight green jacket, just long enough to conceal the Glock on her hip. “Anything new?” she asked.

“Jocko gave me a description of the shooter. Tall and skinny, about thirty with snow-white hair. Other than that, you know everything I know.”

“I may have come across something.”

“What’s that?”

“It might be a good idea to check out Mary Kate O’Connell’s sex life.”

“Why is that?”

“I was thinking about her last night, about how and why she got tied up with Scientology, and I remembered this girl from my old neighborhood in Tarpon who got mixed up with this guy who was a church member. To make a long story short, she ended up joining too and was a member for a couple of years, then finally told her family that she couldn’t see them anymore unless they joined her church. That did it for her family and they staged an intervention that included a Greek Orthodox priest—a big, burly, bearded one who accosted her on the street in downtown Clearwater, right in the middle of all the Scientology buildings . . . told her to get her little Greek tushie back home so her family could talk to her.”

“And she went?”

“I take it you’ve never been confronted by a Greek priest. You bet she went, and once her family and that priest got through with her, she was home for good. All this happened a couple of months ago.”

“Interesting story, but what’s the point?”

“The point is, I went to see her and told her about Mary Kate. Turns out she knew her, or knew of her. She told me there was some talk going around that Ms. O’Connell had been accused of being gay.”

“Accused, like in a crime?”

Vicky nodded. “In Scientology, at least according to this woman, gay people are labeled as 1.1. That means the church feels they’ve reached a dangerous level of spiritual corruption and need to be audited.”

“What’s that?” Harry asked.

“Well, according to what I’ve read online, it’s some kind of spiritual counseling involving weeks of isolation and talks with church auditors or ministers who use some special tool called an E-meter to try to find and correct problems. Sometimes, in the most serious cases, it’s supposedly done aboard one of the church’s ships by a member of Sea Org, which is someone who has reached that special level in the church. It’s like a religious order.”

Harry let out a long breath. “I’ve got to read up on this church, find out what the hell I’m dealing with.”

“Lucky you, they’ve got a bookstore downtown.”

* * *

That evening Harry was well into the second of three Scientology books he had purchased when Vicky returned to the boat.

“You’re going to love some of the tenets of this religion,” he said as she stepped onto the boat.

“Tell me.”

“Okay. First, did you know that mankind’s problems began seventy-five million years ago when dinosaurs were still roaming the planet and Earth was known as the planet Teegeeack?”

“No, I guess I missed that in my high school history class.”

“Well, according to our Scientology friends, man existed at that time and Earth, or Teegeeack, was part of a seventy-six-planet confederation ruled by a tyrant named Xenu. Much like today, the confederation faced a serious overpopulation problem with a lot of nonproductive people sucking up its resources.” A small smile appeared. “Seems like Xenu solved the problem by trapping the excess people in a frozen compound made up of glycol and alcohol. The people were then transported to Earth, where they were placed at the base of some volcanoes.” The smile widened. “Old Xenu must have been a Republican, because he had H-bombs, more powerful than any we have today, dropped into the volcanoes, killing these excess people and releasing their spirits, which they called thetans. Then they attached themselves to other humans. Later, when those humans died, they moved on to new human hosts and kept perpetuating themselves. Ergo life everlasting or something like that.”

“And they get people to believe that?” Vicky asked.

“Not much stranger than the parting of the Red Sea, or a virgin birth, or angels versus devils, or Christ’s ascension into heaven. I grew up believing all of that.”

“Do you still?”

Harry grinned at her. “At least I question things now. Apparently, the true believers in Scientology accept their tenets, or at least give serious lip service to them.”

“Who dreamed up all that stuff?”

“A science fiction writer named L. Ron Hubbard, the guy who founded the church. He was later rumored to have said that the easiest way to become rich was to found your own religion.”

“I love it.”

“Yeah, well, love this too. According to what I’ve read, today they’re one of the richest and most powerful religions on earth . . . and the most secretive. And, if you cross them, you better watch your ass.”

“I guess little Mary Kate missed that last part.”

“She sure did,” Harry said. “And so did my dad.”

* * *

The next morning, Harry poured a cup of coffee and went up on deck to plan out his day. Across the floating dock a thirty-four-foot Morgan sailboat was maneuvering into the slip just opposite. The young woman at the helm clearly knew what she was doing as she guided the sailboat bow first into the slip.

Harry stepped off his boat, crossed the dock, and called for a line. The woman threw him one and he quickly secured it to a starboard-side cleat; then called for another. Again she threw one and he secured the port side.

“Thanks,” she called over her shoulder, as she tied the stern lines.

“Happy to do it,” Harry called back. Actually, it was a common courtesy expected among boaters who shared docking space at a marina.

He lingered, watching the woman as she expertly secured her vessel. She was perhaps five foot six, he noted, dressed in tan shorts and a pale blue T-shirt, both of which displayed a curvy yet trim figure. She had red hair and green eyes and her first words took him by surprise.

“You must be the cop.” She smiled at the look on his face, which Harry thought probably made him look like a dumbstruck hick. “The dockmaster told me I’d be across from one. He seemed to consider it a selling point.”

“Folks around here call him the dock Nazi.”

She laughed at that. “Yeah, I can see why they might. He’s a curious little guy. Asked me question after question.” She smiled again, revealing very white teeth. “I’m Meg Adams.”

“And I’m Harry. Harry Doyle.”

“And you’re a cop, like the dock Nazi said.”

“Detective, sheriff’s department,” Harry replied.

“And you live aboard?”

“Yes.”

“Me too.”

Harry shook his head slightly and peered down the dock toward the dockmaster’s office. “Did our beloved dock Nazi happen to give you any other information, like maybe my shirt size?”

She laughed lightly. “He probably would have if I’d asked for it.”

“I wonder if it’s you or if he’s just a . . .”

“Nosy little twit,” she said. Her smile widened. “It’s probably a little of both. At least I hope so. I’d hate to think my feminine charms had nothing to do with it.”

A boyish grin was Harry’s only response. “Look, when you finish what you have to do, if a cup of coffee appeals, you know where to find me.”

“Keep the coffee warm, I’ll be finished up here in fifteen or twenty minutes.”

Harry returned to his boat. It was ten o’clock, late enough to call his mother at the hospital. He checked the coffee to make sure it was still warm, then called the intensive care unit. After explaining he was Detective Doyle, Jocko’s son, the nurse said she would get his mother. A minute later, Officer Moore came on the line.

“This is M.J. Your mom’s asleep and I didn’t want to wake her. I got the okay to come back and sit with Jocko and help your mom where I can.”

“That’s terrific. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate that. How’s Jocko?”

“They say he’s holding his own; not out of danger yet, but heading in that direction. He looks a helluva lot better than he did yesterday.”

“Jesus, that’s good to hear. Please pass the word to your bosses about how much I appreciate you being there. It’s a big help to my mom and it will give me more time to look for the son of a bitch who shot Jocko.” Harry paused. “No, on second thought, maybe you better forget the last part. I don’t want to put Max Abrams on the hot seat with the brass.”

“Don’t worry,” M.J. said, “I learned a long time ago when to keep my mouth shut.”

“Thanks. When my mom wakes up, tell her I’ll be there later, and I promise I’ll keep in touch with you and let you know how things are going on my end.”

“If you need my help finding this creep, let me know.”

“I will.”

* * *

“Permission to come aboard,” Meg Adams called out.

“Permission granted. The coffee’s still hot.”

Meg came through the starboard hatch, her red hair giving off a fiery flash as she moved from sunlight to interior shadow. She was still dressed in the clothes she had worn on arrival, the pale blue T-shirt and tan shorts that seemed to accent her every curve.

“How do you take your coffee?” Harry asked, as he placed a heavy mug next to the coffee pot.

“Black. I’m easy.”

Harry poured a cup and took it to the chart table where his own cup waited. He motioned for her to take a seat and raised his cup. “Welcome, easy lady.”

“Easy . . .” She drew the word out, playing with it, then added: “At least as far as coffee goes.”

“It’s a start,” Harry said, trying to keep the banter alive, but Meg let him know the subject had run its course.

“Have you been here long?” she asked.

“Not long. Until you showed up I was the new guy on the dock.”

“What brought you here?”

“I had a house about a quarter of a mile north off Mandalay Avenue. I thought I’d like to try living on a boat, so I sold the house, bought this”—he tapped his hand against the chart table—“and here I am.”

“And you’re pleased with your decision?”

“So far I am. And you, what made you decide to live aboard a boat?”

Meg hesitated, deciding, Harry thought, what she wanted to reveal and what she did not. She offered him a not-quite-regretful shrug. “A relationship that didn’t work out,” she said. “He kept the apartment and the furniture. I took the boat.”

“A thirty-five-foot Morgan in exchange for some furniture. Sounds like a shrewd trade to me.”

“He never liked the boat. We bought it because I wanted it. Poor guy, he got sea sick every time he came aboard. Even if we were tied up at the dock he’d get sick.” She looked out the window at her boat. “But I loved it. And . . . the apartment was about to go condo and he wanted to buy in. It’s a high-rise on Sand Key with a great view of the gulf, but you have to deal with an elevator every time you want to go down to the pool or the beach, which means you have to deal with other people whether you want to or not.” She glanced at him to see if he understood what she was saying. “I just started to loathe that elevator and knew I didn’t want to live that way.” She smiled now. “Picky, huh?” She brushed back a lock of hair that had fallen across her forehead. “It also didn’t help that my relationship with my guy friend had gone very, very flat. So I opted for the isolation and a boat. A boat gives you all the privacy you want. You see who you choose to see. People can’t just wander around a marina’s docks without eventually being challenged.”

Harry nodded. All true, he thought, unless you’re being stalked by a crazy woman.