Deliver Us From Evil (2 page)

“Yes. Most brothers are at each other’s throats most of the time, but Mark and Danny got along beautifully. No trouble at all. Mark was very
protective
of little Danny.

“How old is Mark?”

“He just turned seventeen.”

“Getting back to Danny, has he ever been known to run away?”

“No, Detective. He’d never do that. As I said, Danny is pretty well-disciplined. He generally does what I tell him. He’d never run away.”

Farrell took a gulp of his coffee and then his eyes scanned a large, rather crudely-drawn map, lying on the table in front of them. “Mrs. Novak, Father Reiniger, who has been very supportive, by the way, has drawn a map of the immediate area. It shows the dining hall of course, the main house, where the three boys were to be sleeping, the five cabins built after the archdiocese bought the property, the dock area, and the year-round caretaker’s house, built on the shore of the lake. The map shows a small, narrow inlet just south of the caretaker’s unit,” he said, pointing, “but more importantly, it shows a long sloping hillside that rises behind the main house. Lt. Palmer and his men are searching the hillside as we speak.” Farrell broke into a half-smile. “We’ll
find
your son, Mrs. Novak, no question about it. We’ll find your son.”

--2--

Minutes later, Farrell returned to the gray, unmarked sedan, where he’d joined his partner, Detective Gregg Juarez. Juarez, in his early thirties, was sensual, dark, handsome, with hair the color of a blackbird. He’d been raised in a two-bedroom house on Coronado Street, in the barrio section of South San Bernardino. Gregg Juarez had always wanted to be a cop. The detective was seated behind the wheel of the car and was speaking into the microphone attached to the vehicle’s radio unit. “That’s right, Captain,” he said, “we’ve been here a couple of hours now and still no sign of the boy. Lt. Palmer and three of his men from County, plus some local volunteers have been checking out the area. So far, zilch.” He paused. “Okay, Captain, we’ll get back to you the minute we have something. Yeah, we’ll do that. Ten-four!” And he hung up the portable mike. He glanced at Farrell who was standing close by. “What’s our next move, Steve?”

Farrell spun a quick look over his shoulder at the sprawling, former-Breckinridge mansion. “Reiniger said he was gonna search the house. I want you and me, Juarez, to go over the place with a fine-toothed comb. Okay?”

“You got it, Steve.”

The huge entry hall was heavily-beamed; with a dark, mahogany wainscoting. An antique, brass chandelier washed the room in a pale, amber glow. The focal point was a massive, stained-glass window over the stairway. It was a desert scene, complete with sagebrush, chaparral, a stand of smoke trees; in the distance, purple mountains, set against a vivid blue sky. The remnants of the past were clear and undisturbed. To the left of the entry hall was the living room. The window curtains were drawn and the room was shrouded in dark shadows. Farrell didn’t notice at first, but all at once he saw a circle of cigarette smoke, rising from a high-backed chair in front of the fireplace. He walked over and saw Father Reiniger slumped down in the chair. He had a glass of bourbon in his hand. He appeared morose, dejected. Farrell tried to conceal his look of surprise. “Are you all right, Father?” he said. “Are you okay?”

Reiniger glanced up at the detectives. “Yes. Yes. I am all right. I just can’t believe what has happened. This is all too much for me, I suppose.”

“Father, Detective Juarez and I are going to make a thorough search of the house.”

Reiniger took a sip of his drink. “I have already done that, Detective.”

“Well, we’re gonna do it again, to make doubly sure. Where is the stairway leading to the basement?”

He slowly turned to face the entry hall. “Right over there, beneath the main stairway. If you don’t mind me saying so, Detective, I think you will be wasting your time.”

Farrell ignored what the priest had said. “Where are the other two boys, Father? We’re gonna need to talk to them.”

“They left to join the search party.”

Farrell paused, then turned to face Juarez. “Detective, I need you to start on the top floor, the attic, whatever, and work your way down. I’ll check the basement.”

“Right.”

The two men separated and Farrell crossed to the door, Reiniger had indicated. He opened it, and as he had anticipated, saw another flight of stairs leading down into the basement. He flipped on a light switch and began to make his way down the narrow, curved stairway. There was a musty, acrid odor. As he reached the bottom of the stairs, he could make out a huge and hulking furnace in the dim, half-light. The heavy wrought-iron door was closed. A myriad of black pipes rose from the furnace and vanished into the cobwebbed ceiling. Cautiously, Farrell felt the furnace’s exterior. It was cold. The basement, crowded, untidy, was strewn with an assortment of steamer trunks, weather-beaten furniture, an ancient, tarnished ice-box. Hanging from the wooden rafters, were large, baroquely-framed, sepia-tinted photographs; many of them showing Breckinridge standing in front of a gigantic oil rig. Farrell began to make his way further into the shadowy reaches of the basement. In a darkened alcove he saw what appeared to be a small, separate room. As he walked toward it, he suddenly heard a strange, slithering sound. He looked down and saw a large, gray rat running across the concrete floor. The door to the cellar room was equipped with a flimsy, rust-stained lock. He picked up a screwdriver from a nearby table, littered with garden tools, and with one quick jolt, easily broke the lock. He opened the door and peered into the shrouded interior. The walls were lined with wooden shelves. Here and there were rows of Mason fruit jars; all of them empty. Thrown haphazardly on the floor, were open pasteboard boxes, containing children’s toys and faded Christmas ornaments. A curled-up, rotting garden hose hung from a peg on the far wall.

It was about ten minutes later when Farrell had climbed the cellar steps and returned to the entry hall. He glanced up and saw Detective Juarez descending the wide, mahogany staircase. He was shaking his head. “I didn’t find anything at all, Steve. How about you?”

Farrell’s look was grim. “Naw. Naw. Nothing. Zip. Maybe that’s a good sign, Gregg.”

“Yeah. Maybe you’re right.

The cordon of two Sheriff’s Department black-and-whites, followed by four vehicles filled with volunteers had indeed arrived at the site about an hour earlier. Under the direction of Lt. Raymond Palmer, a big, burly man whose gut fell over his belt like a saddle-bag, the assembled men made a quick, cursory search of the immediate campsite. They had found no trace of Danny Novak. Nothing.

The long, sloping hillside, Detective Farrell had spoken about, was dotted with scrub oak trees, a thick undergrowth of brush and nettle; tall, burned-out grass. The large team of uniformed officers and volunteers, had assembled at the foot of the hill. Soon, they were moving their way up. Working in stony silence, sometimes on their hands and knees they turned each leaf, examined each bush. Tiny clumps of grass were thoroughly combed. All eyes were alerted to find a particle of clothing, a tuft of hair; any clue that might indicate Danny Novak’s whereabouts. The searchers were also alerted that a cougar had recently been spotted in the area. The entire hillside was meticulously combed for any evidence of the missing boy. The searchers found nothing.

A short time later, Jack Kramer, thirtyish, huskily-built and handsome, was making his way up the dining hall steps when he was met by Farrell. The detective gripped his hand. “I understand you work as the camp counselor and coach for the boys. Right, Mr. Kramer?”

“Yeah. That’s right. That, and I’m kind of an assistant to Father Reiniger.”

“How long have you been doing this, Mr. Kramer?”

Kramer smiled. “Call me Jack. Two or three years, to answer your question. It’s a volunteer thing with me. I help out whenever I can. I have a steady day-job. Construction.”

“I see.”

“It’s a temporary situation. Hope to be going to St. John’s Seminary, first of the year.”

“So, you’re planning to follow in Father Reiniger’s footsteps. The priesthood.”

“Yeah. That’s the plan.”

Farrell paused. “I take it you know Danny Novak very well, then?”

“Yes. Danny’s a good kid. Both Danny and his brother, Mark, are what I’d call really good boys. Well-disciplined. Decent. Honest. Well brought-up. Carolyn Novak did a fine job raising those two kids.”

“Tell me, your gut feeling. Do you think Danny might have possibly run away? There were some problems with the family, school, or whatever, and he just decided to take off? What do you think, Mr. Kramer?”

Kramer shook his head. “No. No way, Detective. Danny would never do that. I know the kid pretty well, and I’m positive he wouldn’t do that. Positive.”

“Thanks, Mr. Kramer.”

In the meantime, following a hunch, Lt. Palmer had contacted the San Pedro Police Department. He was aware that the department (located near the ocean) had several teams of underwater divers. And, courtesy of the LAPD and one of their assigned helicopters, a pair of divers had arrived at the campsite around 2:00 p.m., that same afternoon.

Detective Farrell was slightly apprehensive; he was ill-at-ease, when Carolyn Novak walked up to him and said, “What’s going on, Detective? What is happening?” He knew he had to tell her the truth. “They’re gonna drag the bottom of the lake, Mrs. Novak. They think Danny might possibly have drowned out there.” Once again, Carolyn’s eyes filled with tears. Her face was streaked with anxiety.

The copter had managed to land in a small clearing about a mile away from Camp Sierra, where it was met by a County Sheriff’s squad car. The divers, with their equipment, were hustled into the black-and-white, and ten minutes later, had arrived at the dockside area, where there was a motorboat and two small rowboats. The searchers, joined by a small group of lakeside residents, had gathered at the dock. Father Reiniger grimaced slightly when he saw two large, metal, three-pronged hooks, with a length of rope attached, being removed from the trunk of the police car.

Two teams of Sheriff’s Deputies and the divers were dispatched to the nearby rowboats. The crowd watched anxiously as the men set out toward the middle of the lake. Once offshore, the divers, with their glistening black, rubber wet-suits and underwater gear, slipped quietly into the water. It was a scene that seemed slow and surrealistic, as the pair of rowboats quietly trolled the glass-like surface of the lake. It seemed almost ethereal as a ray of sunlight suddenly broke through the clouds. But, this sense of optimism was short-lived. All at once, one of the divers resurfaced. He gave the officers in the rowboat a sign the gathered onlookers couldn’t see. The diver yelled out: “I found him!”

Danny Novak’s body had been discovered in a tangle of weeds at the bottom of the lake. Carolyn watched in horror as the boys’ nude body was hoisted out of the water and placed inside the rowboat. As the rowboat neared the dock, Carolyn Novak began to cry out in anguish. Through her tears she screamed: “Oh! No! No! This can’t be happening! This can’t be happening!” She buried her face in her hands. The agonizing words tumbled out. Sporadic. Almost incoherent. This followed by low, painful sobbing: “Danny? Danny? What happened? What happened? My baby, what happened to you? Oh my
God!
How can this be happening?”

--3--

BANNER HEADLINE:
San Bernardino Observer

BOY DROWNS IN MOUNTAIN LAKE

EXTRACT:
San Bernardino Sun-Times

DROWNING TRAGEDY AT HALF MOON LAKE

San Bernardino, Calif. Tuesday, September 7. Tragedy struck Half Moon Lake, high in the San Bernardino Mountains, during the Labor Day weekend, when young, twelve-year-old Danny Novak was discovered in a tangle of weeds at the lake’s bottom. Divers, dispatched from San Pedro, decided to drag the lake after an on-shore search had proven futile. Young Novak’s body was found at approximately 3:00 p.m., Labor Day afternoon. The tragedy took place at Camp Sierra, a Catholic Boys Summer Camp located on the eastern shoreline of Half Moon Lake, about ten miles from the San Bernardino Sheriff’s Substation. Detective Steve Farrell, with the SBPD, is heading the investigation. Novak was a student at Alta Vista Elementary School. He is survived by his mother, Carolyn Novak and her recently divorced husband, Karl; also a brother, Mark, and an aunt Mrs. Linda Kasloff. Funeral arrangements are still pending.