The Scientology Murders Page 12

  Harry appreciated her comment; it was a sad truth about the sheriff’s office. In Florida, sheriffs were elected officials who were in charge of court officers, the jails, the farms that inmates raised their food on, all in addition to regular policing duties, serving as the law-enforcement arm of every town that didn’t have its own police department. In short, it was the greatest source of patronage in each county, where jobs and promotions were often tied to political support rendered during the last election. On the policing end, almost every job above the rank of lieutenant was directly linked to those who had worked to get the sheriff elected.

  “It would probably help if I knew how long it’s going to take to bring this son of a bitch to book,” Harry said. “But I can’t even offer a decent guess and it’s embarrassing. The way he’s got us running in circles while he slips by our guards and tries to kill an ex-cop for the second time is maddening—especially when that ex-cop happens to be my father.”

  “We wouldn’t be running in circles if the people in charge of that make-believe church weren’t helping him,” Vicky said. “There’s no question in my mind that they’re hiding him out until things quiet down and they can find a safe place to stash him.”

  “Yeah, I agree. But I can’t prove it.”

  Vicky drummed her fingers on the table. “I just wish I could understand what makes people join this half-assed church, or cult, or whatever the hell it is.”

  “I’ve been reading up on them,” Harry said, “and I’m starting to get a handle on what they’re all about.”

  “You mean you’re not spending all your free time with the sailboat lady? Tell me.”

  “Okay, Ms. Wiseass, let’s go back to what Lilly Mikinos told us—that most of the people who join up have a desperate need to belong to something that will exert a positive control over their lives. But from what I’ve read and seen there’s very little that’s positive about it. It’s all an illusion that the people who run the church keep reinforcing at every turn. When you sign up—and by the way, members of Sea Org sign a billion-year contract because Scientology believes in reincarnation and joining covers all your future lives as well, which is why they sign that contract—anyway, when you do, you’re told you’re going to change the world. But before you can do that you have to change all the bad things about yourself—things they call overts. To do this and to help other people do it, everybody is encouraged to write knowledge reports about each other, which basically means that everybody is supposed to rat each other out, everybody is supposed to become that little girl in elementary school who keeps running to the teacher telling on everybody else. Then you go into auditing, where you confess all your fears and failures. And your auditor, or minister, measures your progress using some gadget called an E-meter or Electropsychometer, which the church says can only be used by these specially trained church ministers to help locate areas of spiritual stress.

  “So, when you’re finally diagnosed you’re told you’re some piece of shit who needs all kinds of work to become clear, or a person whose mind isn’t reactive to any outside stimulus. And that’s where all the very expensive courses, the Bridge to Total Freedom, starts to come in. And when you finish those initial courses and become clear, you’re still not finished. Now you graduate to a whole new series of courses that are even more expensive and that will help you be spiritually free and become an Operating Thetan. And even that has levels—one, two, three, and so on. And by the time you finish you’ve invested some heavy cash—150 grand and up.”

  “So where do these people get the money?” Vicky asked. “Everybody isn’t a movie star who can afford 150K.”

  “They cash in or sell everything they own, take out loans that the church helps them secure. And before long, unless they’re wealthy, they’ve sold everything and they’re up to their ass in debt. So the money just keeps flowing into the church coffers, and the individual member’s life becomes more and more entwined with Scientology. By then they’ve also broken away from their family and friends who don’t belong to the church because they’ve been told that nonbelievers are suppressive persons, who will try to destroy a member’s beliefs, and before they know it the church owns them body and soul, and they sit there wondering where the hell their lives went. And if they try to get out they find themselves facing someone like Tony Rolf.”

  “You make it sound pretty grim, even scary,” Vicky said.

  “I guess I do,” Harry answered. “And it’s even worse for the average Joe who joins up, someone who’s not a celebrity, or who doesn’t already have a successful profession or business. If you’re that average Joe and you want to advance in the church, you have to join Sea Org, which is like the church’s religious order. If a member of Sea Org breaks any of the rules, he or she must join the Rehabilitation Project Force, where you wear all-black clothing and part of your job is manual labor—like scrubbing out dumpsters and garbage cans and cleaning bathroom floors in the church’s motels and dormitories. And you get paid next to nothing; in my mind, that puts you just one step short of being a slave.” Harry took a long breath and shook his head. “If someone I loved fell under Scientology’s spell, I’d be scared shitless for them.”

  “From what I’ve heard, it’s even worse for women who join Sea Org,” Vicky said. “Forget the fact that you’re not allowed to have sex unless you’re married, if you are married and get pregnant you get pressured to have an abortion.”

  “I heard that but I don’t understand it. Most religions encourage children in order to build their ranks.”

  “Not Scientology. They pay their average Sea Org people a pittance—twenty-five or thirty bucks a week plus room and board for working seventy, eighty, ninety hours. They allow them to get married, but if they start letting them have kids they’ll lose that slave labor. Their people just won’t be able to work those hours, let alone for those wages. So they pressure them to have abortions. It’s either abortions or paying everybody a living wage and building day care facilities. Guess what they choose? Of course they deny it, but I bet Rolf and their other goons have taken scores of pregnant women to Planned Parenthood and made sure they had the procedure.”

  Their food arrived and Harry and Vicky dug in.

  After leaving Vicky, Harry touched base with Max and learned that Rolf’s fingerprints were all over the house they’d been watching the previous day. The question now was: where had the son of a bitch gone?

  Chapter Thirteen

  Meg Adams left her Clearwater Beach high-rise and entered the limo that was waiting for her. She gave the driver a Tampa address and settled back for a long ride. She was dressed in a Giorgio Armani ensemble with a black-and-champagne-striped blazer with a notched collar, over a champagne camisole and blue-gray slacks. Her black-leather high-heeled shoes were open at the toe. Altogether she had paid more than $3,500 for the clothing she wore and her closets were filled with a myriad of other designer fashions. There was no boyfriend living in the beachfront condo, he had been as fictitious as the name Adams.

  The limo pulled up in front of the original Columbia Restaurant in Ybor City. There was another Columbia in Clearwater Beach less than a mile from Meg’s condo, but she preferred the ambience of the original—which started as a pushcart in 1905, grew to a corner tavern selling Cuban sandwiches and a renowned salad, and finally to a full-scale restaurant during the heart of the Depression.

  “I’ll be at least an hour,” Meg told the driver. “You needn’t come back sooner unless I call.”

  Entering the Columbia was like stepping back in time. There were several beautiful dining rooms, each with its own distinct style. Meg chose the balcony overlooking the indoor patio garden, both for its privacy and its feel of being part of a grand old home in the heart of Havana.

  After being led to her table by a handsome maître d’, Meg slid into her chair and smiled at her guest.

  “You look elegant as always,” Regis Walsh said. He sent a genuine smile across the table, something that wa
s highly unusual for him. But he truly liked the young woman; admired her talent and her business acumen. He only wished he had more people as dependable as her.

  “How is this so-called dead detective? Does he still hold out hope of capturing our Mr. Rolf?”

  Meg tapped the side of her nose. “He keeps his own counsel on that one. But I have noticed a bit of frustration.”

  Meg owned her own security agency and Walsh had employed her services numerous times. When she handled a case herself, rather than assign it to a member of her staff, the cost was tripled. On sensitive cases like this, Walsh felt it was worth every penny.

  “Have you found anything we can use against him?” Walsh asked.

  “His mother,” Meg said. “She’s mad as a hatter, but the state prison system has seen fit to release her, although presently she’s being held for violating a court order to stay away from her son.”

  Walsh leaned forward and lowered his voice almost to a whisper. “Is she a real danger to him?”

  “I believe she is. I believe she intends to kill him.”

  “Kill her only child? My lord, I never dreamed of anything . . .” Walsh paused. “Of course she did kill him once already, if all that dead detective nonsense is to be believed.”

  “He’s safe from her for now, and if things go well for him in court he may be rid of her indefinitely,” Meg explained.

  “What are chances that the court will rule in her favor?”

  “Next to nothing,” Meg said. “She doesn’t have a lawyer or the resources to hire one. That means the court will appoint someone who will just go through the motions. If she had a sharp criminal lawyer she could probably beat the charges against her, or at least have them delayed. After all, she was arrested by the person she was ordered to stay away from. A good criminal lawyer could raise the possibility that she was set up by her son. He did fight her release from prison quite vehemently.”

  Walsh drummed his fingers on the table, but said nothing.

  The waiter arrived to take their orders. Meg started with an extra-dry Grey Goose martini to Walsh’s single malt and soda. When the waiter returned with their drinks, Meg ordered the signature “1905” salad and the croquetas de langosta from the tapas menu, while Walsh, who described himself as “famished,” ordered the scallops Casimiro and the grilled grouper.

  Walsh smiled across the table as Meg sipped her drink. “Again you have proven invaluable,” he said.

  “It’s always a pleasure to work with you, Regis. Do you want me to continue to remain close to Detective Doyle?”

  “For the time being, I want you to remain very close to our policeman. I need to know if and when he plans to take any action against us so we can stay one step ahead of him. In the meantime, perhaps we’ll also find a way to help his mother with her legal difficulties. I’ll need your help with that as well. I know you’ve helped significantly already, but there’s a bit more I’ll need from you with regard to Lucy Santos.”

  “Of course,” Meg said.

  Walsh’s smile was so cold it sent a chill down Meg Adams’s spine.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Tony Rolf paced the salon like a caged animal. He needed to get out, to move around; to have contact with people. He looked about and couldn’t deny he was surrounded by luxury he had seldom known in his life. But no matter how luxurious his surroundings, he still felt like a prisoner. It reminded him of how he had once locked himself in his room to keep himself safe from his mother’s lover. He had known all those years ago that the son of a bitch would be coming for him. He had beaten the fat bastard so badly that he had gone straight to the emergency room. After that Rolf had begun locking his bedroom door, knowing it was only a matter of time before his adversary would seek revenge. He had begun keeping his knife close so he would be ready for him. If he’d had the wherewithal to obtain a pistol he would have gotten one, but he lacked both the money to buy one and the skill to use it effectively. Walsh had remedied that when he’d made him part of his staff. Now he had both weapons and was equally skilled with each. And he was still trapped behind locked doors. How ironic was that? And he had not heard another word from Regis Walsh, his benefactor and protector. If the man were here right now he would spit in his face.

  He allowed that thought to percolate. He knew instinctively that such an act would cost him far too much. Walsh was his only way to escape the police, just as he had been all those years ago.

  He took out his cell phone and called Walsh. The call was automatically transferred to Kenneth Oppenheimer.

  “I need to speak to him,” Rolf said as soon as he recognized Oppenheimer’s voice.

  “I’m afraid he’s at a meeting out of the office,” Oppenheimer replied. “I’ll leave him a message and I’m sure he’ll get back to you as soon as he can.”

  Rolf picked up on the hint of distain in Oppenheimer’s voice. The feeling was mutual and Rolf realized how much he would enjoy doing something that would terrify the fat, sloppy, self-serving son of a bitch.

  “You know, Kenneth, there’s something about you that truly annoys me, and that is not a wise thing to do.”

  “What’s not a wise thing, Tony?”

  “Annoying me, Kenneth, that’s what. In fact, it might be considered downright dangerous.”

  “That sounds like a threat, Tony. I hope it’s not.”

  “Why don’t you come over to the boat and we’ll discuss it.”

  Oppenheimer remained silent for almost a minute. “I’m afraid I’m busy right now,” he finally said.

  Rolf’s laughter came over the line as Oppenheimer ended the call.

  * * *

  “The man is simply out of control,” Oppenheimer said. “He seems to believe he has the right to terrorize people at will.”

  “That’s his brief,” Walsh said. “He puts the fear of God in anyone who strays outside the rules of the church.”

  “And he did an excellent job. But he doesn’t stop there, Regis. Now he terrorizes anyone who crosses his path. He seems to take pleasure in it, and I don’t feel I can exert any control over his actions. I don’t even learn about the actions he takes until they’re over and done with and we’re faced with the consequences.”

  Walsh noticed beads of perspiration on his assistant’s upper lip and forehead. The air-conditioning in the office was set at a comfortable seventy-two degrees. Could he really be that frightened of the man?

  “Kenneth, what is going on? I’ve never seen you so rattled.” Walsh stood and moved to the other side of his desk so he was directly above the seated Oppenheimer.

  Oppenheimer stood as well, and turned to face his boss. He was taller and heavier than Walsh so without intending to do so he had reversed the position of dominance.

  Walsh put his hand on Oppenheimer’s shoulder. “Sit down and relax, Kenneth. I’m going to make arrangements to have someone help you with Tony Rolf.”

  “Who would that be?” Oppenheimer asked as he slumped back down in his chair.

  “Someone you will enjoy working with; someone who is capable of soothing the savage beast.”

  * * *

  Meg Avery ended the call and placed her cell phone on the glass-topped side table. Before her lay a panoramic view of the Gulf of Mexico, the very view that had convinced her to invest $1.2 million in the eighth-floor condo she had called home for the past two years. As the head of Avery Security, which had been founded by her late father twenty years earlier, it was an expense she could easily afford; a far cry from the thirty-six-foot Morgan sailboat that she lived aboard as Meg Adams.

  She would miss Harry Doyle. He had been a delightful lover and a challenging adversary. But her long-term loyalty always went to the client she was working for—in this case the Church of Scientology. Now Regis Walsh had made an abrupt change in her assignment—from keeping close watch on Harry Doyle to providing security for Tony Rolf until the church could relocate him to a safer place. Walsh had also let it slip that the church would be helping Har
ry’s mother beat the charges that her son had filed against her. To do this they would be hiring Jordan Wells, a well-known Tampa criminal defense lawyer who had worked for them in the past. Wells, as always, would keep the name of Lucy Santos’s benefactor strictly confidential, citing attorney-client privilege if necessary.

  Meg had actually spoken out against the plan, arguing that Lucy Santos was clearly “mad as a hatter” and a “true physical threat to her son.” But that warning had only produced a small self-satisfied smile from Walsh.

  “The man is a trained police officer, well qualified to handle a frail middle-aged woman no matter how mad she is, wouldn’t you agree?” he had asked. There was no way Meg could fail to agree. “And dealing with her will hopefully keep him occupied and give us the time to take care of our problem.”

  “You could just feed your problem to the police,” she had suggested as a final argument, only to be told that such a move might prove too risky. Meg could only assume he was alluding to the potential dangers that would arise if Tony Rolf decided to talk about the church. But that wasn’t her concern. Her firm had been hired to do a job; she would leave it at that.

  * * *

  When Harry Doyle returned to the marina he saw that Meg’s boat was not in its slip. He assumed she had gone for a sail. It was a beautiful evening and he wished he had the energy to do the same. Instead he boarded his own boat and, after a light dinner of leftovers and a stiff bourbon, fell into an exhausted and deep sleep.

  The next morning Meg’s boat was still not back and he walked up to the marina office and asked the dock Nazi if he knew where she had gone. A smirk formed on the man’s mouth and with more pleasure than was called for, he informed Harry that a young blond man had come to the marina the previous afternoon and presented him with a note from Meg stating that she had asked the bearer of the note to remove the boat and that she was taking it to the Bahamas for an indefinite period. “I called the phone number she left and she confirmed the note was legit,” he said. “She paid for the slip for six months in advance and she doesn’t get that money back. I told her that.” He shrugged. “That’s about two grand. Hey, easy come, easy go for her, I guess.”