Deliver Us From Evil (3 page)

San Bernardino. About 2:30 p.m., the following day. The sun was hot in the sky. Another scorcher. 92 degrees in the shade, easy. Detective Farrell pulled the unmarked up to the curb, just outside the County Coroner’s Office. As he stepped out of the air-conditioned comfort of the car, the heat hit him like a blast furnace. The coroner’s office was certainly not his favorite place to hang out, but he welcomed the coolness of the air-conditioned, marble-floored lobby.

Doctor Sam Hirashima, San Francisco, born and bred, was a bald, squat little man about five-foot-five-inches tall, with a mouthful of gold teeth. The doc was twitchy, hyper, fast-talking. All nerves and noisy, finger-tapping impatience. Detective Farrell began to make his way through the autopsy room toward Hirashima’s office, which wasn’t much more than a ten-foot-square, glass-enclosed cubicle, tucked away in an alcove. A withered and wrinkled elderly woman’s body lay on a stainless-steel table. A medical examiner, clad in green, blood-stained scrubs, was busily performing an autopsy. Farrell wanted to gag from the rancid, foul-smelling odor that permeated the place; a combination of disinfectant and human flesh. He found Dr. Hirashima seated at his desk, which looked like it had just been hit by a hurricane; manila folders scattered everywhere; medical journals; typewritten reports; overflowing in-baskets.

Hirashima turned to face the detective. In his hand he held a bagel, slathered with creamed cheese. He peered at Farrell for a moment through his steel-rimmed glasses. Finally: “Oh, Detective Farrell! Steve Farrell! I’ve been expecting you. Sit. Sit. Sit!”

Farrell took a seat opposite, as the M.E. took a large bite from the bagel, quickly chewed and swallowed. Then, he reached for a black ceramic mug filled with coffee. He took a large gulp of the coffee, wiping his mouth off with the back of his hand. He tossed Farrell a small smile. “Well, Detective Farrell, I busted my ass to do it, but I finally got your autopsy report. Just like I promised.” He paused. “Care for a bagel? Coffee? The coffee’s fresh. Just made it!”

Farrell had long since lost his appetite. “Uh, no thanks, Dr. Hirashima. Just had lunch a little while ago.”

Hirashima began to rummage through the piles of paperwork. “Excuse the mess, Detective. I finished the autopsy myself, less than an hour ago. Now, all I gotta do, is
find
the fuckin’ paperwork!” He swung around in the leather swivel chair and picked up several folders from an adjacent credenza. “Yeah. Yeah. Here it is! I knew it was here someplace!” He opened one folder and his eyes quickly scanned the report. He began to read aloud: “Decedent’s full name is Daniel Jason Novak. Born: San Bernardino, California. April 22, 1987. Time of death: approximately 10:00 p.m. 9/5/99.” Dr. Hirashima suddenly glanced up from the report. His eyes were fixated on Farrell. “I have some information here that is
very
important, Detective. I, like everybody else, was under the assumption that young Novak
drowned
in the lake. That is not true. The medical examination shows that the boy was strangled with a hard, wooden object. There are contusions about the throat area. Cause of death: the boy died of asphyxiation.”

Farrell stared at the M.E. His look was one of shock. Disbelief. “My
God!
The boy was strangled? Are you absolutely
sure
about this, Doctor?”

Hirashima quickly nodded. “Yes. I’m absolutely sure. One-hundred-per-cent, sure, Detective. No question.” He hesitated for a long moment. “And there is something
else,
Farrell.”

“What’s that?”

“We found there were signs of sexual molestation. There were lacerations about the rectal area. There was evidence of semen. The boy was brutally raped and sodomized. We found evidence of sand on the body. I am speculating now, Detective, but I believe the boy was raped and murdered, and his body dumped into the lake.”

All at once Farrell winced slightly. The high-pitched scream of a surgical saw, punctured the heavy, humid atmosphere. Hirashima took another large gulp of his coffee, then looked directly at the detective. “Looks to me like you got more than a drowning here, Farrell. I’d say, you got a murder on your hands.” He paused. “That’s it. That’s about all I can tell you.” He handed the report to Farrell. “It’s yours, Detective Farrell. Keep it! Keep it!”

Built in the tradition of the neo-classic Spanish architecture, Alta Vista’s St. Michael’s Church dazzled in the early-morning sunlight. Pressed against a clear blue sky, the parchment-colored building looked beautiful with its baroque porte-cochere, its rococo archways, stucco domes and minarets. Two, large jacaranda trees, framed the filigreed entrance-way. Detective Farrell wheeled the unmarked vehicle into the church’s paved courtyard and eased to a stop. He hesitated momentarily and glanced over at his partner, sitting beside him. “Shit, Gregg, I couldn’t believe my friggin’ ears when old Hirashima told me the boy hadn’t
drowned,
like everybody thought. That the kid was strangled, and on top of that, sexually assaulted. I
still
find it hard to believe.”

“Yeah,” Juarez answered, “You got
that
right.”

“But,” Farrell continued, “Sam Hirashima is a goddamn
expert
at what he does. He never makes a mistake. He found evidence of semen on the body. That tells me we’ve got to check out the three men who were at the campsite, that weekend.”

“The three men, being?”

“Father Reiniger, of course, plus a camp counselor named Jack Kramer, and an older dude named Willie Groda. I met the guy. A little creepy. He’s the caretaker. Lives at the lake, all-year-round.”

Juarez was apprehensive. “Do you really think
Father Reiniger
could have anything to do with this?”

Farrell shook his head, as he began to open the door. “I don’t know. I really don’t know. But, I think it’s time we had a little
chat
with Father Reiniger.”

The rectory was like an appendage attached to the rear of the church, itself. The detectives climbed a long stairway to the porch. Juarez rang the doorbell. Moments later, the door opened and a handsome Hispanic woman stood in the dusky light. Juarez immediately flashed his ID. “Excuse me, Senora. Detective Juarez with the San Bernardino Police. We are here to see Father Reiniger. Is he here, do you know?”

She smiled shyly. “Uno momento, Senor. I will be right back.” They could hear a brief, hushed conversation inside the rectory, then, all at once Reiniger appeared in the doorway. He was a tall man, about forty-five, well-built, impressive. He spoke with a slight German accent. “Good morning, gentlemen.” He glanced at Farrell. “Nice seeing you again, Detective Farrell. I am sorry we had to meet under such unfortunate circumstances.”

“This is my partner, Detective Juarez, Father.”

The two men shook hands. “Glad to meet you, Father.”

“Likewise, I’m sure.” He paused. “Now, how can I help you, gentlemen?”

“We’re investigating Danny Novak’s death,” Farrell cut in, “and there are a few questions we need to ask you.”

“Yes, of course. Of course. Do come inside. Please.”

Father Reiniger’s office was dark, opulent; mahogany paneling, arched windows with louvered shutters, a massive carved desk; the high-back chairs were upholstered with red velvet. There was a gold, baroquely-framed portrait of Pope John-Paul, above the fireplace. A puzzled frown gathered around Father Reiniger’s eyes, as he moved behind his desk and the detectives sat opposite. “I am rather curious, gentlemen, as to why you are here. My impression is that Danny Novak was the victim of a drowning accident. Is there a problem?”

Farrell’s eyes narrowed. “We’ve discovered there is much more to it than that, Father.”

Reiniger’s brow furrowed. “I don’t understand. What else could there possibly be? I must say, I am a little confused.”

“I’d like to talk about that Sunday. September 5
^th
, the day before Labor Day,” Farrell said.

“Yes?”

“As I understand it, a group of people, including you, Father, met at the rectory, somewhere around noon. Who
were
these people?”

“There was Danny Novak, of course, myself, the boys’ Camp Counselor, named Jack Kramer and two other boys. All three were altar boys.”

“I see. And?”

“Jack Kramer and I had decided to close up Camp Sierra for the winter and I had recruited a few of the boys, including Danny. We left the rectory about 12:30 in two separate cars. Kramer drove his own SUV. We arrived at the summer camp around two-thirty that afternoon. We worked diligently to clean up the camp. I was especially proud of the boys. They outdid themselves. It had been a hot day. After the work-detail, the boys went into the lake for a swim, and to cool off. Later, our caretaker and camp cook had prepared supper, which we ate around a campfire we had built, on the beach.”

“What’s the caretaker’s name, Father?” Juarez asked.

“Willie Groda. The man’s name is Willie Groda.”

“How long had Groda been working for you?”

Reiniger paused. “Oh, let me see. Almost three years, I would say.”

“It’s my understanding Groda lives at the campsite, all-year-round. True, Father Reiniger?”

“Yes. That is correct.”

“So, you had your supper around the campfire,” Farrell broke in. “What happened after that?”

“Two of the boys were very tired. They had decided to go to bed, turn-in early. They left.”

“And?”

“Willie Groda picked up the dishes, the supper gear and returned to the dining hall.”

“That left you, Danny and Jack Kramer at the fire. What happened next?”

“I asked Danny if he’d like to take a ride in the motorboat. The boys were always thrilled to take a motorboat ride.”

“And, his answer?”

“He said, ‘Yes,’ of course. He became very excited.”

“So, you in fact
took
the boy out on the boat-ride?”

“Yes. I did.”

“Did Jack Kramer accompany you, on this boat-ride?”

“No. He didn’t.”

“Why
is
that, Father?”

Reiniger shrugged. “I didn’t think to ask him, and he wasn’t that interested, I suppose.”

“About what time did you and the boy leave for the motorboat ride?”

“It was dusk. Around seven-thirty. Somewhere around there.”

“You were out on the lake for how long?”

“Almost an hour. It was dark when we arrived back at the campsite.”

“What happened next?”

“Danny said he was tired, worn out. He wanted to go to bed.”

“And?”

“I watched him as he began to make his way up to the main house.”

“That was the last time you
saw
Danny Novak?”

“That was the last time I saw Danny Novak,
alive,
Detective.”

During the last few questions and answers, Farrell noticed that the priest had become slightly nervous, fidgety. He’d picked up a heavy, brass letter-opener from the desk and was fondling it, rubbing it. There was a long pause and finally, Reiniger spoke: “You know, Detective Farrell, when we first started this conversation, I said, I believed Danny Novak was the victim of a drowning accident. And, quoting you, as accurately as I can, you said, ‘We have discovered there is much more to it than that.’ What exactly did you mean by that, Detective?”

Farrell paused momentarily. “Of course, the boy’s body was taken to the County Coroner’s office, in San Bernardino. They did a complete autopsy. They discovered, Father, that the boy did
not
drown in the lake. He was strangled.”