The Scientology Murders. William Heffernan
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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.
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