“We didn’t know that. We only suspected it. We wanted her audited, not dead,” Walsh replied. “And we certainly didn’t want a retired Clearwater police sergeant shot. Why were you even carrying a gun?”
Rolf stared at him with a mixture of confusion and anger. His lank, wiry body had stiffened again. “I always carry a gun. Have you forgotten? Oppenheimer arranged for a permit that allows me to carry a concealed weapon. He said you wanted me to be armed.”
Walsh’s face reddened. “I wanted you to be able to carry one . . . when necessary.”
“And wasn’t it necessary this time?” Rolf demanded. “Think of what we’d be dealing with if that retired cop had rescued the girl and then had his buddies at headquarters arrest Tyrell and me. That disgusting lesbian would be down at police headquarters right now, telling them how Tyrell and I work for the church and how we were trying to kidnap her and take her out of the country. Think about that scenario.”
Walsh glared at him, but kept his voice soft and low. “No, you think about this, just as you should have thought about it last night.” He jabbed a finger at his desk. “Consider that she ran away and you let her go. Did you think we’d never find her again? She had no place to go except her father’s house. Without us she had no job, no income, no anything. She had forsaken it all at our direction, and to prepare herself for a chance to join Sea Org. Her life was what we had made it. So . . . we could have found her whenever we wished, and knowing she was frightened, we could have done it in a much less intimidating way. Do you understand all of that?”
Rolf shuffled his feet, less certain of his position now. “But that retired cop would have had her . . .”
“And what would he have had? What would he have had except a hysterical young woman?”
“I don’t know,” Rolf conceded.
Walsh let out a weary breath. “All right, let’s try again. The girl is dead. Now we have a new problem—namely, the retired cop’s son. He’s taken a leave of absence from his job at the sheriff’s office to investigate his father’s shooting and the girl’s death. He is living in a marina only a quarter of a mile from where we sit. I have all the particulars about him, his boat, his finances, and his record as a cop. They call him ‘the dead detective,’ by the way, because he once died when he was a child. The details about that, along with everything else, are in this dossier.” He handed a thick manila envelope across the desk. “Read it, learn it, and keep watch on this man. We will have others watching him as well.”
Rolf took the dossier and turned to leave.
“One more thing: lose the gun. It can be used as evidence against you if the police get hold of it. And see Ken Oppenheimer before you leave. He has something for you that will make your task easier. And I hope you’re not superstitious. Some of this dead detective’s fellow cops claim he can communicate with the dead.” He began to laugh, a rarity for him. His laughter followed Rolf out of the office.
* * *
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