Читать книгу The Scientology Murders - William Heffernan - Страница 9

Chapter Two

The room was lit by a solitary desk lamp which allowed the man seated behind the desk to lean back in his heavy executive chair and keep his face in shadow. It pleased him to do this, because he knew that those he spoke to from this vantage point were immediately disoriented and unable to gain control of the conversation. It was a carefully orchestrated setting. It was ten o’clock in the morning, but heavy curtains had been drawn across the windows, keeping a sun-filled Florida morning at bay.

The man leaned forward, bringing his sharp features into the light. “It seems you were unable to carry out a very simple, very straightforward task.” His voice was low and steady, and his eyes made no attempt to hide his displeasure. “Would you say that assessment is . . . accurate, Edward?” he asked with contempt as he again receded into the shadows.

“There were unanticipated problems,” Edward Tyrell said. “And the man you sent didn’t react well to—”

“The man I sent? So this regrettable situation is my fault. Is that what you’re telling me?”

“No, of course not. It’s just—”

“It’s just what? Just like the excuses you make when the investments we allow you to choose for us fail to earn the income you project.” Tyrell started to speak but the man raised a hand that demanded silence. “This is more than a small financial failing, Edward. This could easily prove to be a disaster.” He waved his hand, dismissing everything that had been said, and then leaned forward again, bringing himself into the small cone of light. “Tell me, Edward, what did you believe your task to be? What was it you were supposed to do for us?”

“The girl was supposed to be brought to my yacht and then taken out past the twelve-mile limit, where we were to rendezvous with the church’s cruise ship, Freewinds.”

“And what did you think would happen to her once she was aboard Freewinds?”

Tyrell twisted nervously. “I had no idea. It wasn’t something I was told.”

“Well, let me tell you then.” The man inhaled and continued: “It had been determined that the girl was 1.1. We had ordered a disconnection, but her family was still reaching out for her. They had even gotten a retired police sergeant to search for her. Their intent was obvious, so we decided auditing was the best solution for the young woman and we wanted that auditing to be done somewhere where she could not be located until it was finished—ergo, Freewinds.” He stared into Tyrell’s face. “Auditing, Edward; not elimination. And we certainly never envisioned the elimination of the retired police sergeant who was trying to find her.”

Edward quickly translated what he had been told. The girl was 1.1, a very dangerous and wicked level of spirituality for Scientology members: someone who perhaps engaged in casual sex, or even homosexual activity, or who had openly expressed opposition to church teachings. In this case the young woman had been ordered to separate from her family, i.e. disconnection, and was going to undergo auditing, or extensive spiritual counseling, aboard Freewinds, which was one of several seagoing vessels owned by the church.

“I didn’t know any of that,” Tyrell said. “Your man had just gotten her on board. She noticed the engines were running and asked why. When I told her we were going out on a short cruise she got nervous. Your man tried to calm her by explaining that we were going to rendezvous with a church-owned ship, but it had the opposite effect. She panicked and jumped back onto the dock. Your man was on her before she got very far, and the next thing I knew he was throwing her body into the water.

“Then he heard something and ran around the side of the vessel in the next slip and I saw what the problem was. A man was jogging down the dock, and even worse, he had a pistol in his hand. He ran to the place where the girl had gone into the water and knelt down to see if he could find her. That’s when your man came out from the vessel he had hidden behind and shot him twice. Before I knew what had happened, two people appeared to be dead and the man you had sent was heading down the dock.”

“And that’s when you discovered the retired police officer was still alive and pulled him out of the water?”

“I had to. When I went to the slip where both bodies had been thrown in, he was there hanging onto a ladder. He stared at me, saw me. What else could I do?”

“And then you called 911.”

“Yes. I had no choice. There were two other boat owners in the marina and I wasn’t sure what they’d seen.”

The man was silent for several moments. “Let us hope this retired police officer moves on to a new and better existence. Otherwise I fear we will have further problems.”

“I’m afraid we already have those problems.”

“Why is that?”

“The injured cop’s son is a sheriff’s department detective and he’s investigating what happened to his father.” Tyrell shifted his weight nervously. “I did a computer search on the son. He’s a dangerous man.”

“That’s unfortunate. It’s unfortunate for us and it’s unfortunate for this dangerous detective. Give me all the information you have on him.”

* * *

When the church offices opened for business the next morning, the man was still seated behind his desk, the room still darkened by the heavy curtains, the only light coming from the solitary desk lamp. The man’s name was Regis Walsh and he was in charge of discipline for the Clearwater church and reported only to the church’s national leader, who was based in California. Walsh, however, regarded himself as sole arbiter when it came to discipline and had not reported to the church’s national leader, or to anyone else, in more than six months.

The door to the office opened and Kenneth Oppenheimer, Walsh’s first assistant, slipped into the room. “So, we need someone close to this detective,” Oppenheimer said.

“Like a second skin. I want to know his plans before he’s even certain of them himself.” Walsh handed Oppenheimer a thin file that summarized everything he knew about Harry Doyle.

Oppenheimer weighed it in his hand and frowned. “I better get busy. Fortunately we have some members who work in the sheriff’s office.”

Walsh raised his eyebrows and stood up behind his desk. He was tall, almost regally so, and slender. His brown hair formed a widow’s peak and his blue eyes were piercing­—together with his sharp nose this gave his face the look of a raptor. He had not known the sheriff’s office had been infiltrated and this fact pleased him. But it was not surprising. A number of years back, when the Internal Revenue Service was giving the church fits, IRS files had suddenly disappeared, allegedly destroyed by church members who had been embedded in the IRS. The agency had eventually granted the church’s request for tax-free status.

Walsh smiled at Oppenheimer. It made him look even more raptor-like and had an even more chilling effect. “Work your magic, Kenneth,” he said.