Читать книгу The Scientology Murders - William Heffernan - Страница 8

Chapter One

Palm Harbor, Florida

Harry Santos Doyle stared into the dead man’s face. He had already removed the man’s wallet; knew his name was Charlie Moon, knew he was twenty-eight years old, and that he lived in the house where his body was found. He also knew that the large butcher knife protruding from the center of his chest had probably cleaved his heart in two.

Doyle’s partner, Vicky Stanopolis, squatted beside him. She, too, stared at the man. He was pale and flabby with a plump, round face and his blindly staring eyes still held a look of horrified surprise. His mouth was opened wide as though he wanted to scream out a final objection to his death. She glanced at Harry.

“Are you getting anything?” She waited, knowing he would answer when he was ready.

Seconds passed before Harry finally nodded. “I’m getting three words.” He stared into the man’s face. “You old bitch.” Harry shook his head. “When he said those words he was in great pain. I think they were the last words he ever spoke.”

Vicky avoided Harry’s eyes. She knew his history. She glanced through a doorway to an adjoining room. She could just see the crossed ankles of the elderly woman who had let them into the apartment. Vicky guessed the woman to be somewhere in her eighties. She was small and frail and Vicky had helped her to a chair before they went to examine the body. It was hard to imagine her plunging a heavy eight-inch butcher knife into a man’s chest.

She turned to Harry. “Are you thinking Grandma?”

He nodded. “We better talk to her.”

Harry Doyle was six one with enough lean, hard muscle to fill out a fairly large frame. He had wavy brown hair and penetrating green eyes but he was far from a pretty boy. There was a ruggedly handsome look about him, but one that also warned of someone who should not be pushed too far. Yet those features quickly softened when a sense of playfulness came to his eyes and a small, infrequent smile appeared at the corners of his mouth. Vicky knew that Harry’s “gentler side,” as she liked to call it, had a strong effect on her and it surprised her that he seldom used it while working.

Vicky by contrast was tall and slender with light brown hair that fell halfway to her shoulders, pale brown eyes that looked as though they could swallow you whole, a straight nose, and a mouth that seemed just a bit large, a bit sensual. Overall it gave off a soft look. In the six months they had worked together, Harry had learned that it was pure deception. The woman who had become his homicide partner—after spending four years with a sex crime unit—was as hard as nails when she had to be.

“Maybe you should let me talk to her,” Vicky said.

“Are you implying that I’ll scare her and you won’t?”

Vicky grinned at him. “I could be.”

Harry snorted at the idea. “That’s only because she doesn’t know you.”

When they entered the adjoining room they found the elderly woman busily working a pair of crocheting needles, her fingers moving methodically, almost without thought. She had thin white hair and a heavily powdered face, a wasted attempt to hide the nest of wrinkles that covered her cheeks and forehead and neck. She had bright, clear blue eyes set deep in her head and Harry thought he detected a note of resigned fear resting there.

Vicky knelt in front of the woman, whose name was Delilah Moon. “I’m afraid you were right,” she said. “Your grandson is dead.”

The woman slowly nodded. “Good,” she said.

The word startled Vicky, but she quickly caught herself. “Did he hurt you?” she asked.

Delilah Moon lifted her blouse displaying deep bruises on her stomach and ribs. “He hurt me whenever he was drunk and I wouldn’t give him the money he always wanted. He was drunk most of the time, and I refused to give him money most of the time.”

Harry knelt down beside Vicky. “Did you stab him, Mrs. Moon?” He spoke the words softly.

“I did.” The old woman’s jaw was set and Harry could tell it was something she felt no regret over, something she would have done again.

“How did you happen to have the knife?” he asked.

The woman began to rock in her chair and Vicky reached out and laid a hand on top of hers.

“After the last time he beat me I started carrying it around. If he got out of control an’ I thought he was gonna hurt me, I’d wave it at him and he’d usually back off.”

“And this time he didn’t?” Vicky asked.

“That’s right.”

“Did he say anything to you when you stabbed him?”

The woman’s mouth tightened and her lips pursed. “He called me a nasty name,” she said.

“What did he call you?”

“He called me an old bitch.” Her jaw tightened. “But he won’t be doin’ that no more. An’ he won’t be beatin’ on me neither.”

Harry called social services for a caseworker and left Mrs. Moon in the care of two female deputies and the corpse in the hands of the medical examiner. Then they went to the state attorney’s office and laid out their case along with the lengthy rap sheet the victim, Charlie Moon, had assembled in his twenty-eight years on earth. The assistant state attorney, a short, fat man named Julius North, said his office would interview Mrs. Moon, but that he could see no reason why the elderly woman would be charged. “The newspapers would crucify me,” he said. “Besides, it sounds like she did the county a favor by bumping the bastard off.”

* * *

Back at the office, Harry and Vicky spent an hour writing up their reports, and it was just past ten p.m. when Harry’s personal cell phone rang with a call from his adoptive mother, Maria Doyle.

“Hey, Mom, what’s up?”

“Harry, oh, Harry.” The fearful timbre in her voice immediately set his hair on end. “Harry, somebody shot Jocko. He’s in Morton Plant Hospital in downtown Clearwater. They’re just taking him into surgery.”

Harry felt his legs go weak. Jocko was the only father he had ever known. “How bad is it?”

“Is very bad. They say he lost much blood.”

“Do the Clearwater cops have somebody with you?”

“Yes, a nice young girl.”

“I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

Harry told Vicky what had happened and headed for the stairs.

“I’ll go with you,” she called after him.

* * *

With siren and lights they made the hospital in eighteen minutes.

“You go,” Vicky said. “I’ll secure the car and catch up.”

Harry found Maria in the surgery waiting room, her face haggard; her hands in her lap nervously twisting a handkerchief. He sat beside her and placed an arm around her shoulders.

“Have you seen a doctor since they took him into surgery?”

“No, no one,” she said.

“Where was he shot?”

“In the back. Two times. Then whoever does this pushes him in the water.”

“The water? Where was he?”

“When they found him, he was hanging onto a ladder in a little marina downtown.”

“Why was he at a marina?”

“You remember Joey O’Connell?”

Harry nodded. Like his adoptive father, O’Connell was a retired Clearwater cop, who left the job on a disability. O’Connell had been shot in the spine while trying to stop an armed robbery. Harry knew that Jocko visited him every week.

“What about Joey?” Harry asked. “What does he have to do with this?”

“Not him, his daughter.”

Maria was a short, stocky woman with graying black hair, warm brown eyes, and a round face filled with lines from her perpetual smile. She also ran his and Jocko’s lives like a marine drill instructor, or at least tried to. But it was an effort always filled with an irresistible love. Harry hated seeing her so frightened and in so much pain.

Vicky came in and sat on the other side of Maria, taking hold of her hand. “Any news?” she asked.

Maria shook her head. “Thank you for coming. You take good care of my boy.”

“I try, but it isn’t easy.”

Maria gave her son a reproachful look. “Tell me about it,” she said. “I try for almost twenty years. Does he listen?”

Harry ignored the comment. “Tell me about O’Connell’s daughter.”

“A nice girl,” Maria said. “She’s maybe twenty-two, twenty-three years old. Her name is Mary Kate.” She shook her head sadly. “Some time last year she joins up with these Scientology people and a little while later she tells her father and mother that she can’t talk to them anymore, because they don’t belong to her church.” She shook her head again and drew a long breath as if that summed everything up. “Then last week Joey calls Jocko and asks him to find her, tell her she should come home. He thinks maybe these church people are keeping her a prisoner.”

“Why didn’t Joey go to the police? He knew Jocko was retired and didn’t have the authority to do anything, or even pressure anybody.”

“He told Jocko that he didn’t think the regular cops could do anything. But Jocko said he thought it was because Joey was ashamed. He didn’t want his friends in the department to know what happened to his daughter.”

Like everyone else in the Tampa Bay area, Harry was familiar with the Church of Scientology. It was a massive, highly secretive organization—to many, more cult than church—that had made Clearwater, Florida its spiritual headquarters. Over the years, church leaders had bought up more than half the buildings in the downtown area and turned it into a private enclave that discouraged anyone who tried to breach their guarded domain. Some claimed that resistance at times turned violent, although church officials vehemently denied it. Yet to many the separation was clearly visible and unmistakably aggressive. It was as though an impregnable wall had been built around the majority of downtown Clearwater.

Harry turned to the patrol officer who had been assigned to watch over Maria. She was in her early forties, tall and slender, with a plain, unremarkable face and the look of a cop who had seen more than she cared to remember. Her name tag identified her only as Moore.

“Patrolwoman Moore, where did they find Jocko?” Harry asked.

“Like your mother said, he was in the water in this small marina just west of that old elementary school on Osceola Avenue. The school was shut down a couple of years ago and the Scientology people are supposed to be buying it. Rumor is that the marina’s part of the deal. Anyway, it was a guy who keeps his boat there who heard the shots and found your dad. The detectives and forensics are still at the scene and will probably be there for quite a while. They could give you more info.”

The doctor, still in surgical scrubs, came out half an hour later and sat with them. His name was Josephs and he spoke directly to Maria.

“The surgery went well and your husband is in intensive care. He’s in critical condition mostly because of the extensive loss of blood he suffered. In addition to the bullet wounds he also had a collapsed left lung and some broken ribs, but I have every confidence he’s going to survive. The next twenty-four hours will be critical.”

“Can I see him?” Maria asked.

“Yes, but I can only allow one visitor.” He turned to Harry. “Are you his son?”

“Yes.”

“I’m afraid you’ll have to wait until tomorrow.” Dr. Josephs turned back to Maria. “You should go home after you see him. Get some rest and we’ll call you if there’s any change.”

“No. I stay,” Maria said.

Harry saw that her jaw was set and knew the doctor was wasting his breath. He had seen that determined look too many times, all the way back to his childhood. He turned to the doctor. “It’s no use arguing with her. Trust me.”

Dr. Josephs studied the floor and nodded slowly. It was a situation he had faced before. “I’ll want someone to stay with her . . . just in case he takes a turn for the worse.”

“I’ll stay with her.” It was Patrolwoman Moore. She held Harry’s eyes. “Jocko was a mentor to me, and a friend. I know you want to get to the scene. Let me do this for you.”

* * *

Clearwater detectives were still canvassing the surrounding area when Harry and Vicky arrived at the marina. The lead detective was a sergeant named Max Abrams. He was a contemporary of Jocko’s and knew Harry well. He was also a transplant from the New York City Police Department who had left that job after ten years of service and opted for warmer climes. He still carried the Brooklyn accent of his birth.

“Hey, kid, how’s the old man doin’?” Abrams was a short, stocky man with receding salt-and-pepper hair, a wide nose, and large lips. He looked totally ineffectual until you noticed the steel in his hard gray eyes.

“He’s out of surgery, still critical, but the doc thinks he’ll make it,” Harry said. He inclined his head toward Vicky. “This is my partner, Vicky Stanopolis.”

Abrams nodded to her, then turned back to Harry. “It’ll take more than two slugs in the back to take Jocko out. You have any idea what he was doin’ down here?” He waved his hand, taking in the largely unoccupied marina.

“He was doing a favor for Joey O’Connell.”

“What kind of favor?” Abrams asked.

“He was trying to locate Joey’s daughter. Seems she joined up with the Scientologists, and Joey was worried they had some kind of hold on her. Supposedly she had told her parents she couldn’t have any contact with them because they didn’t belong to the church. Joey asked Jocko to find her, see what was going on, and try to get her to come home.”

“You have any idea what brought him here specifically . . . to this marina?”

“Just one thing and I can’t verify it.” Harry glanced around the sparsely occupied marina. “The cop staying with my mom said the Scientologists were trying to buy this place, along with the abandoned school up on Osceola Avenue. That’s the only connection I know of.”

“You ever meet the daughter?”

“Once, but it was quite awhile ago. She was just a teenage kid. I met her at Joey’s house but didn’t pay much attention to her. She just sort of breezed through while I was there with Jocko. Her name is Mary Kate.”

“I’m sure Joey could give us a picture of the kid,” Abrams said. “I don’t expect much cooperation from the Scientologists if she did hook up with them. They never cooperate with the cops unless it’s in their interest. They just shut you down whenever you ask any questions about their church or anybody who belongs to it. You ask me, they’re an overall pain in the ass.” Abrams hesitated, and then looked Harry in the eye. “You plan on looking into this yourself . . . on your own time . . . kind of unofficial like?”

“I’m thinking about it. Will that be a problem for you, Max?”

“The department won’t like it, but it won’t bother me. Just do it quiet like and don’t get me in trouble with my bosses. If you can do that I’ll share what I get with you, and you do the same. Where do you want to start?”

“I’d like to talk to the boat owner who found Jocko.”

Abrams inclined his chin toward two men farther down the dock. “He’s talkin’ to Jimmy Walker, my bright young partner.” He grinned, turning the sarcasm into a joke. “Come with me and I’ll introduce you.”

Abrams led Harry and Vicky down the dock. When they were twenty feet away he called Walker over and introduced him. “Harry is Jocko Doyle’s son,” he explained. “He’s also a homicide dick with the sheriff’s office. He wants to look around a little bit, just to put his mind at rest, and I told him it would be okay.”

Walker was tall and thin with a hooked nose and protruding Adam’s apple. His brown hair was cut in a high and tight military buzz and Harry guessed it hadn’t been long since he’d started on patrol.

“Fine with me,” Walker said. His brown eyes narrowed. “But the captain ain’t gonna like it, he finds out.”

“You’re right,” Abrams said. “So we won’t bother him about it. Understood?” He waited for Walker to nod agreement. “Any problem comes up, I’ll take the heat.” Abrams gestured toward the man Walker had been interviewing. “Whatshisname, he give you anything new?”

“His name’s Edward Tyrell,” Walker said. “He’s a stockbroker and his story’s pretty much what he told you. He had just brought his boat back in and was washing it down when he heard what sounded like two shots. So he goes to see what’s up and he spots Jocko in the water hanging onto a ladder. He hauls him out and calls 911. End of story.”

“Okay, you go back to the car and write up your report. Harry wants to thank this guy for saving his dad. I’ll introduce him.”

Harry grinned as he watched Walker head off. “Nice maneuver.”

“Hey, what can I tell you? I only inherited the kid a week ago. Everything’s a learning experience for him. Today he learned when to mind his own fucking business.”

* * *

Edward Tyrell was a tall, trim, well-built man who clearly put in plenty of time at the gym. He had sandy brown hair, a straight nose, blue eyes that could only be described as vibrant, and very white, capped teeth. Vicky immediately dubbed him “the movie star” in her mind. Harry thought he looked too slick by half.

“Mr. Tyrell, we met earlier,” Abrams began. “This is Detective Harry Doyle and his partner, Detective Vicky Stanopolis. The man you pulled out of the water, retired Sergeant Jocko Doyle, is Harry’s father.” He gave Tyrell a smile that lacked any warmth and Harry figured that Max didn’t cotton to the man either. “Harry’s got a couple of questions.”

“Sure,” Tyrell said, flashing a broad, very white smile. “Anything I can do to help.”

“First, I want to thank you for pulling him out. I don’t think he would have made it if you hadn’t.” Harry extended his hand.

“Happy to help.” Tyrell took Harry’s hand, squeezing it harder than necessary.

“So tell us how you happened on him.”

Tyrell placed his hands on his hips and nodded down the dock. “I had just brought my boat in and was washing her down. She’s the fifty-three-foot Hatteras yacht three slips down. Well, I was on the other side of the boat so I didn’t see anything, but I did hear what sounded like two small explosions, sort of loud popping sounds. So I went to look. I thought some kids might be setting off fireworks and that’s not too cool to do around boats, what with all the fuel on board. But there’s no one there and as I’m walking back I hear this moaning and I look down and there’s this guy hanging off a ladder. So I hauled him up.”

“Did he say anything to you?” Vicky asked.

“He was out cold as soon as he hit the dock. That’s when I saw he was bleeding and called it in to 911.”

“Could you show me exactly where he was?” Harry asked.

Tyrell walked them to an empty slip where a finger dock jutted out into the water. A ladder ran down the side of the dock and now, at close to low tide, stopped just a foot above the water. At high tide the ladder would extend well into the water.

“How deep is it here?” Harry asked.

“At high tide it’s about eighteen feet,” Tyrell said. “At dead low you’re talking about twelve to fourteen—still plenty, even for a large-keeled sailboat. It’s a good marina for large boats.”

“Have you heard anything about the Scientologists buying it?” Harry asked.

A veil seemed to fall over Tyrell’s eyes, but he quickly pushed it away. “Not a word. If they do, I hope they let me keep my boat here.” He forced another broad smile. “Like I said, it’s a helluva marina for a big boat and great access to the gulf.”

Harry walked to the edge of the slip Jocko had been pulled from and knelt, staring into the water. Almost a minute passed before he stood and turned back to Max Abrams.

“You need to get some divers out here, Max.”

“Divers?”

“Yeah, and you need to do it now.”

* * *

An hour later the divers brought up the body of Mary Kate O’Connell. They placed her on the dock, her pale, colorless face and faded blue eyes staring blindly at the men who stood in a semicircle above her. Harry knelt down next to her and listened but the words that came to him were garbled. He thought she looked grateful to finally be out of the water.

* * *

Harry Santos had died when he was ten years old, murdered by his mentally disturbed mother. He and his six-year-old brother, Jimmy, were drugged; then dragged into the garage of their home and left there with the engine running in the family car while their mother went off to her church. An alert neighbor heard the car and called the police. Two Tampa patrol cops broke into the garage and dragged the boys outside. Neither had a heartbeat and neither was breathing. CPR eventually brought Harry back, but it was too late for Jimmy, who was younger and smaller. When Harry’s mother was sent to prison, he was placed in foster care with Jocko Doyle, a Clearwater police sergeant, and his Cuban-born wife, Maria. The couple adopted him a year later.

After graduating from the University of South Florida, Harry Santos Doyle joined the Pinellas County sheriff’s office. Five years later, when he was promoted to homicide detective, the story of his boyhood death came out. Cops being cops, they quickly dubbed him “the dead detective,” a moniker that took on an eerie connotation when they later learned that the dead seemed to speak to him.