The Scientology Murders Page 4

  * * *

  Harry had just left the hospital. Max Abrams had been there with a police artist, who had guided his father through a drawing of the man who had shot him. When they finished, Jocko, though still weak, was certain they had a picture that looked reasonably like his white-haired assailant. He and Max both took photocopies of the drawing and headed for the center of the Scientology compound in downtown Clearwater.

  Here, Scientologists of all ages bustled from building to building. Harry had seen them whenever he had business in the nearby courthouse, but he’d never paid much attention to them before; he had just smiled at them dressed in their “sailor suits,” each one looking sincere and dedicated and always in a hurry to get somewhere. They had reminded him of the White Rabbit in Alice in Wonderland, racing along and telling everyone within earshot that he was “late for a very important date.” The image always brought a smile to Harry’s lips as he finished the rabbit’s words in his mind: “No need to say hello, goodbye, I’m late, I’m late, I’m late.”

  Now he realized these people were much more. His recent reading had explained that Scientologists who wore the sailor attire were members of Sea Org and each of them, no matter what else they did in life, worked for the church, much like the nuns and brothers in the Catholic faith. Sea Org was as close to a religious order as Scientology had, and according to its leaders, once a member reached the level of Thetan III, he or she had a degree of spiritual understanding that exceeded both Jesus Christ and Buddha.

  Harry explained it to Max Abrams.

  “What about Moses?” Max asked.

  “Not even in the ballpark,” Harry said.

  There was a sneer in Max’s voice. “That’s what they say. Did any of them ever talk to a burning bush?”

  “I didn’t see anything about that,” Harry replied, fighting off a smile. “You’ll have to ask them.”

  * * *

  Max and Harry didn’t have a court order to enter Scientology property, so they decided, for the time being, to question passersby on public sidewalks. At Max’s suggestion Harry had attached his badge to his belt, so he could avoid verbally identifying himself as a detective working the case. Harry took up a position outside a Starbucks on Fort Harrison Avenue that was kitty-corner to Scientology’s lone church in the area. Fort Harrison was the main drag that went through the sprawling structures that made up Scientology’s primary buildings. Max located himself on the opposite side of the street.

  Armed with the artist’s sketch of the white-haired man, Harry approached anyone carrying a Scientology book, along with all those dressed in Sea Org attire. Most insisted they didn’t have time to answer questions, validating his “I’m late, I’m late” image. Some stopped and looked at the sketch and asked if he was a police officer, then, when he said he was, hurried off. Others refused to talk to him at all. Out of the few who did, several said the sketch resembled a white-haired man they had seen around Scientology’s main office building, but that they had no idea if he worked there or who he was. At last he hit on a young woman who said he might be a man she saw coming out of the office of church discipline; she said she remembered it because the office always seemed a bit “spooky” to her, and the white-haired man she saw coming out of it was “spooky-looking” as well.

  When Harry told Max, they decided to move ahead immediately and question everyone who worked in the office of church discipline.

  * * *

  The receptionist in the lobby of the main office building was an attractive middle-aged woman wearing a modest business suit that still managed to show off her trim figure. The nameplate on her desk identified her as Lorraine Beck; the look behind her cool green eyes said she’d be a difficult lady to get past.

  “I got this,” Max said as they moved up to the reception desk. He opened his coat to make sure the shield hanging from his neck was clearly visible. He glanced back at Harry and saw his badge was still on his belt.

  “I’m Detective Sergeant Max Abrams of the Clearwater Police Department and this is Detective Harry Doyle of the Pinellas County sheriff’s office. We’d like to see the person in charge of the office of church discipline.”

  Lorraine smiled up at him. “Do you have an appointment?”

  “No, we don’t, but this is police business involving a murder we’re investigating,” Max said.

  “Do you have some kind of court order?” Lorraine asked, still smiling. She had auburn hair that added to the effect of her green eyes and it made her look quite pretty for a woman of her age, Harry thought. She also looked like one tough broad. “I’m afraid the church is very insistent about things like court orders,” she added.

  Max 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.”

  “When was this?” Harry asked.

  “Just the other day,” Walsh said.

  Harry and Max exchanged glances.

  “Fits the time frame,” Max said to Harry. He turned his attention back to Walsh. “This Rolf guy, what’s his job here?”

  “He helps locate church members who we’re having trouble reaching.”

  “You mean he brings them in whether they want to come or not?” It was Harry this time.

  “No, nothing like that.” Walsh leaned forward, elbows on his desk; hands together, the index fingers forming a steeple. “He would be sent out to contact someone we had been unable to reach by phone, e-mail, or letter.”

  “Was he sent out to locate Mary Kate O’Connell?” Max asked.

  “Not to my knowledge. But feel free to ask others in the department. They might know something I don’t. I suggest you start with Ken Oppenheimer. He’s my assistant and he basically runs day-to-day operations. His office is just down the hall.”

  Harry doubted that Oppenheimer would provide anything new. Despite Walsh’s claims, he was certain nothing happened in this department that escaped his notice. “Do you have an address for Mr. Rolf’s mother?” Harry asked.

  Walsh offered a regretful shrug. “I do not. But again, feel free to ask others.”

  “Do you have Rolf’s address?” Max asked.

  “That I’m sure we can give you. I’ll have my secretary look it up now.” He picked up his phone and asked for the information. “We’ll have it in just a moment,” he said. Then Walsh peered at Harry. “You’re the officer they call the dead detective, are you not?”

  Harry gave him a hard, unwavering look. “You’re well informed.”

  “It’s something I always strive for. Is it true . . . that you can speak to the dead?”

  The secretary entered the room, interrupting them, and handed Walsh a piece of paper. He rose from his chair and passed it to Max. “This is the address we have on file for Mr. Rolf. He may have moved and not informed us. That does happen from time to time.”

  Max and Harry started for the door. Halfway through it Harry turned back to Walsh. “Sometimes they speak to me,” he said.

  “What?” Walsh said.

  “The answer to your last question,” Harry said. “There are times when the dead speak to me.”

  When the elevator doors closed, Max turned to Harry. “Why’d you tell him that . . . about dead people talking to you?”

  “He was trying to spook me out by letting me know how much he knew about me,” Harry said. “I thought I’d return the favor.”

  * * *

  They decided to put off questioning others in the church office and go directly to the address they had for their white-haired suspect, Tony Rolf. The address, which was only a few blocks away from the church compound, turned out to be a two-story house that was within walking distance of the marina where Mary Kate O’Connell had been murdered.

  The landlady, who occupied the first floor, was a heavyset woman in her late fifties with a world-weary look in her eyes. She identified herself as Ruby Lee Dixon, and told them she owned the building. Max showed her his shield and asked if Tony Rolf lived there.

  “Upstairs. But he ain’t here now.”

  “Do you know where he is?”

  “Don’t have a clue,” Ruby Lee said. “Came by early this morning and told me he’d be away for a while. Said he’d mail me next month’s rent.” She shifted her weight and put a hand on her hip. “Long as I get the rent, I don’t care where he goes or for how long. It’s his apartment until the rent stops comin’ in.” She paused. “He in trouble with the cops?”


  “Not that we know of,” Max said. “We think he might have witnessed a crime. It’s kind of important that we talk to him.”

  “Can we take a look at his apartment?” Harry asked. “There might be something there that’ll tell us where he is.”

  Two cats eyed him suspiciously from two corners of the room.

  Ruby Lee also seemed uncertain. “Well, I don’t know,” she said. “It’s his place, after all—when the rent’s paid, that is.” She paused again as if arguing with herself.

  One of the cats approached Harry purring loudly. Ruby Lee watched it as if it were some type of omen. Harry bent down and scratched the cat’s neck. The second cat came to him to get some of the same.

  Harry looked up at Ruby Lee. “You can come up with us, make sure we don’t take anything.”

  Ruby Lee continued her internal argument. Finally she said: “Well, I suppose it’ll be alright. My cats seem to trust you. Shoot, if you can’t trust your local police, who can you trust? The entrance is around back. Let me show you.”

  She led them through the first floor and into the kitchen, where she took a key from a drawer and then continued out to a rear porch, where wooden stairs led up to the second floor. She handed Harry the key. “Them stairs is too much for me. You go ahead.”

  When they entered the three-room apartment both men stopped and took in the small living room, then moved on to the single bedroom, the eat-in kitchen, and the bathroom. Each room was more immaculate than the one before it.

  “I’ve never seen a bachelor pad this fucking clean,” Max said. “I bet you couldn’t pull a single print off anything in this place.”

  Harry looked carefully at each room as they worked their way back to the living room and wondered if that was the reason for such cleanliness, or if Tony Rolf was simply a neat freak who chose to live this way. He thought of his boat and the house he had lived in over the previous five years. Clean, yes; immaculate, far from it.

  “Let’s toss the place, just in case,” Max said. “I’ll start at the back with the bedroom and bath. You start here in the living room and we’ll meet up in the kitchen. Be thorough, but let’s not make it obvious the place was searched.”