The Scientology Murders. William Heffernan
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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.
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