The Scientology Murders. William Heffernan
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tapped his badge. “This is an active murder investigation and our prime suspect was seen leaving that office. So this is all the court order I need. Now, you will tell me who is in charge of that office and tell me how to get there or I will place you under arrest for impeding a police investigation. Then I will handcuff you and call for a patrol car to take you to police headquarters where you will be booked, strip-searched, and placed in a holding cell. So which will it be, Lorraine, me and my partner on the elevator or you in the pokey?”
Lorraine’s jaw dropped and she fumbled with the glasses that were lying unused on her desk. She put them on and took a sheet of paper from her desk that appeared to have a list of extension numbers on it, found the one she wanted, and dialed it. After a brief, hushed conversation she turned back to Max. “Someone will be right down to see you,” she said, struggling to retain her composure.
Two minutes later the elevator doors opened and a slender man in his early thirties exited and walked over to Lorraine’s desk. He was dressed in a tailored shirt and silk necktie and his short blond hair and suntan spoke of weekends on a sailboat, the perfect image of a yuppie, Harry thought, right down to the cell phone attached to his belt. He looked at Harry and Max, taking in their badges, then smiled at each of them in turn. “I understand we have a problem,” he said. “My name is Jim Gleason and I’m in charge of problems.” The man smiled at his little joke.
“You work in the office of church discipline?” Max asked.
“Public relations.”
Max looked back at Lorraine. “That doesn’t cut it, Lorraine. You better start getting your personal stuff together.”
“Just a minute, officer . . .” Gleason started to say more but Max’s raised hand cut him off.
“It’s sergeant,” Max snapped, “and Lorraine has received a lawful police directive and has refused to comply.”
Gleason feigned outrage. “You can’t be telling me that you’re going to arrest a woman who’s a mother and a grandmother, just because she’s following church directives for her job.” He raised his chin toward a nest of framed family photos on Lorraine’s desk.
“I’ll arrest Lorraine and anyone else who tries to impede a murder investigation,” Max said. “That means you too, Mr. Gleason. Now let me put this simply: We have evidence that a man who matches the description of the murder suspect we are trying to apprehend was seen leaving the office of church discipline. We intend to speak to everyone in that office and anyone who tries to impede that effort is committing a crime and will be arrested forthwith. You got that Mr. Gleason?”
“Just a moment.” Gleason turned his back, took out his cell phone, and took several steps away from the desk. He spoke briefly into the phone, then listened. When he finished the call he returned to the desk. “I just spoke to our legal office and was told to cooperate.”
“And . . . ?” Max said.
“I will take you to the office immediately.”
As they moved toward the elevator Max leaned in to Harry and whispered: “How’d you like that?”
“I especially liked the forthwith,” Harry whispered back.
As the elevator doors closed Harry saw Lorraine reaching for her phone. He nudged Max with his elbow. “The warning call is going out.”
“Of course it is,” Max said.
Gleason remained quiet. Smart man, Harry thought.
The elevator doors opened on the seventh floor and as they exited Gleason directed them to a set of double doors across the hall. “The office of church discipline occupies most of the floor,” he said. “This is the executive wing. I think we should start here.”
As they entered the office an attractive young secretary greeted them. “Mr. Walsh is expecting you,” she said. “Please follow me.” She led them to another set of double doors that were made of cherry and polished to a high gloss. She opened the door and stood aside.
The interior of the office was lit by a single lamp on an oversized desk, leaving most of the room dark. Max located a switch just inside the door and turned it on, flooding the room with light.
“I prefer to keep the room darker.” The words came from the man behind the desk.
“I prefer to see who I’m talking to,” Max said. “And who might be standing in the shadows.”
“So be it. My name is Regis Walsh and, as you can see, there is no one standing in the shadows.” He smiled. “And you gentlemen, I take it, are Detective Sergeant Max Abrams and Detective Harry Doyle.” Walsh now stood behind the desk. “Welcome. How may I help you?”
Harry studied Walsh and found a tall, slender, imposing man with dark hair swept straight back from his forehead. He had piercing blue eyes and sharp features. He made Harry think of a bird of prey dressed in an expensively tailored gray suit. Standing behind his oversized cherry desk, he cut a figure of power and his eyes had not left Harry since they entered.
Now he turned them on Gleason. “Thank you, Jim. You can get back to your other duties. I’ll take good care of these gentlemen.” He turned his attention back to Harry and Max. “Please take a seat, gentlemen, and tell me how I can help you.”
It was a far cry from the way they had been treated in the lobby and the change in attitude was so abrupt that Harry found himself momentarily confused. He glanced at Max. He, too, seemed somewhat nonplussed.
Max began by telling Walsh about Mary Kate O’Connell’s death, allegedly at the hands of a young white-haired man. “We’ve been told the young woman was a member of your church,” he concluded.
“Yes she was,” Walsh said. “She was a struggling member.”
“What do you mean by struggling?” Harry asked.
Walsh leaned back in his chair. “As I recall, she was having difficulty with her family. They were urging her to leave the church and return home.” He raised both hands and let them fall back to his desk in a gesture of helplessness. “Unfortunately, this is not uncommon. Frankly, I think we do a poor job in helping family members, who do not belong to the church themselves, understand the principles of our faith. There is simply too little outreach. In Ms. O’Connell’s case I believe the difficulty was with her father.”
“He’s a retired Clearwater cop,” Max said. “He went out on a disability riding a wheelchair.”
“Yes, I know,” Walsh said. “But I believe he was being helped by another retired Clearwater officer, who was trying to bring Ms. O’Connell, who was well past the age of consent, back to her childhood home.”
“That would have been my father,” Harry interjected. “He was shot twice in the back by this white-haired man as he was trying to rescue Ms. O’Connell. She had been knocked unconscious and thrown into the water by this man. My father witnessed the attack; saw her thrown into the water when she was unconscious. When he tried to rescue her he was shot from behind and left for dead.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Walsh said. “I take it he’s still alive. What’s his prognosis?”
“He’s still critical, but he’s going to make it.” Harry paused and stared at Walsh. “He’s under police guard at the hospital. We like to take care of our own.”
“I’m pleased to hear he’s improving.”
“Let’s get back to the white-haired man,” Max said. “He’d be in his late twenties, early thirties, tall, wiry build. Another church member told us that a man matching that description was seen coming out of this office. Do you have a man working here who matches that description?”
“We do,” Walsh said. “His name is Tony Rolf, but I’m afraid he’s not here now. There was some trouble with his family—a mother who has become quite ill. He took a leave of absence to care for her.”