Deliver Us From Evil (5 page)

“Yeah. That’s right.”

“Can you tell me, to the best of your recollection, what went
on
that night?”

“There ain’t that much to tell, Detective. Supper was over. I picked up the dirty dishes, left-over food, and headed for the dining hall. I got busy cleanin’ up the place. A little while later, I heard the motorboat a-startin’ up.”

“What time was that, do you remember?”

“Right around dusk. Seven-thirty. Somewhere around there.” Groda paused. “Anyways, I heard the motorboat startin’ up and I walked out to the deck that looks over the lake.”

“Yeah? And?”

“I saw Father Reiniger and Danny easin’ the boat away from the dock. The boat then headed out to the middle of the lake. That was the last time I ever seen Danny. That is, until they dragged the lake the next day, and found his body in that tangle of weeds.”

“What happened next, Mr. Groda?”

“What happened next? I went back to the campfire and me and Jack Kramer finished off a pot of coffee.”

“Father Reiniger and the boy were still out on the lake?”

“Yeah. They were.”

There was a long pause as Groda took a slow pull from the bourbon. Then he smiled a little. It was almost a snigger. “Ya know, Detective, far be it for me to be telling tales outta school, but there was something going on, between Reiniger and Jack Kramer that night. I don’t know what it was. What I
do
know, is that Father Reiniger was pissed-off about something. He didn’t
want
Kramer out on the boat with them. That was pretty obvious.” Groda paused again. “Lookin’ back on it, lookin’ back to that afternoon, I remember Reiniger and Kramer got into some kind of an argument.”

“Where did this argument take place?”

“They was on the porch of the big house, the ‘main house,’ as we like to call it.”

“And where were
you?”

“I was down in the dining hall, a-fixin’ supper.”

“Uh-huh. And what were they arguing about?”

“Well, I couldn’t really tell what they was arguing about, but I caught the drift, if you know what I mean.” Groda threw the detective a small, lascivious smile. “Sounded to me, like Jack Kramer was accusing Reiniger of playin’ around, you know, ‘messin’ around’ with the boys.” He grinned. “If ya-all get my meanin’, Detective.”

“You mean,
sexually molesting
the boys?”

“Yeah, Detective Farrell, that’s
exactly
what I mean.”

“I understand.” Farrell paused. “I’m
still
gonna need that DNA from you, Mr. Groda.”

--5--

San Bernardino Police Department. Detective Bureau. 10:45 a.m., the next day. Captain Frank McGraw’s office in SBPD’s Detective Bureau wasn’t much more than a fifteen-foot-square, glass-enclosed cubicle. There was a large, sprawling map of San Bernardino County on one wall. For quick reference purposes, stickpins with tiny red flags indicated the locations of Big Bear Lake, the Big Bear Lake Sheriff’s Substation, Lake Arrowhead, Running Springs and Half Moon Lake. A collection of awards, citations and framed personal photographs climbed another wall. There was the usual bureaucracy-gray desk and several chairs, plus a credenza; three metal filing cabinets. A water-cooler in one corner.

McGraw, five-years-short of drawing his Social Security, was overweight, with a ruddy complexion, and bald except for a thinning fringe of steel-gray hair. Tough-talking. Opinionated. Curious. Unapologetic. Suspicious. All the qualifications of a cop. And McGraw had them all. He was one of our paid paranoids, a cop who saw a conspiracy on a cloudy day. He was aggressive, dedicated and fiercely loyal to the police department. He leaned back in his leather chair and took a cigar from inside his breast pocket. He lit it, and suddenly was surrounded by a cloud of thick, blue smoke. His eyes narrowed as he gazed at Farrell, who sat opposite. “So, you’re telling me you had a little chit-chat with this old codger, Willie Groda? What’s
his
story?”

“Checked the Data Base. Groda’s already in the system.”

“Oh, yeah? What were the charges?”

“In July of 1995, Groda was arrested and charged with the first degree sexual abuse of a nine-year-old girl. He’d apparently picked her up in a shopping mall.”

“Holy Shit!
You’re kiddin’ me!”

“He served eighteen months in the Crittenden County Jail, in Arkansas.”

“So, the old son of a bitch has a wrap sheet. I’ll be goddamned.” He paused. “What’s your take on this old guy, Farrell? What’s he like?”

“I gotta admit, Groda looks a little weird, a little scary.”

“You were sayin’ he’s the custodian and caretaker at this boys’ summer camp?’

“Yeah. That’s right.”

McGraw snickered. “Nothin’ like puttin’ the fox in the hen-house. I wonder if the archdiocese even bothered to check this guy out?”

“Apparently, not.”

McGraw took a deep drag on his cigar. “But then, you’re telling me Groda was puttin’ the finger on Father Reiniger, claiming
he
was messin’ around with the boys. Right?”

“That’s what Groda implied.”

“You think the old man has any
proof,
of this?”

“Claims he overheard an argument between Reiniger and the camp counselor.”

“And, what’s
his
name?”

“Jack Kramer. A nice guy.”

McGraw rolled the cigar around in his mouth. He glanced at Farrell contemplatively. “This guy, Groda, could be covering his ass, intentionally steering us in another direction.”

Farrell nodded. “Yeah. Could be.”

It was at this precise moment, there was a light tapping on the door and Detective Juarez entered. McGraw turned to face him. “What’s up, Gregg?”

“You’re not gonna believe this. Forensics has come up with the final DNA results, on the Novak case.”

McGraw grinned. “Try me!”

“They tested the DNA twice, to be doubly sure. They got a positive match. Father Reiniger.”

Instinctively, McGraw flinched. “You gotta be shittin’ me, Gregg!
Father Reiniger?
The priest?”

“That’s right, Captain. Like I said, a positive match.”

McGraw paused for a long moment. He seemed to be studying the tip of his cigar. “Well,” he said, “let’s not get our hopes up too high, here. Reiniger might have sexually molested the boy, but that doesn’t mean to say he
murdered
him. So far, we have no physical evidence linking him to the crime.” He paused again. “I sure as hell buy the whole scenario. Reiniger certainly may have had the motivation. But, I gotta have hard evidence. Facts. Something solid. I can’t go to the D.A. unless I smell a conviction. You know what I mean?”

“Yeah,” Farrell said, “I know what you mean.”

McGraw flicked the ashes of his cigar into an already overflowing ashtray. “In the meantime, let’s pick Reiniger up!”

The Catholic section of Alta Vista’s Westlawn Cemetery, was easily identifiable because of its accumulation of carved, marble headstones: angels, open prayer books with rosaries, even a glistening statue of Our Lady of Guadalupe. Danny Novak’s funeral. It was close to 12:00 noon, and the sun was hot in the sky. The heavy bronze casket sat rested and poised above the open grave. A cross of cardinal-red roses covered the lid. Banks of wreathes and flowers at each side of the coffin. The small gathering of mourners discreetly tried to cool themselves in the hot, midday sun. Father Reiniger, dressed in a dazzling white surplice stood at the head of the casket, reciting the final prayers and blessing the deceased with holy water. Nearby, stood Carolyn Novak, heavily-veiled, dressed entirely in black, and her elder son, Mark. Behind them was Mark’s aunt, Linda Kasloff. At a discreet distance away from the chief mourners, and hardly noticeable, stood Danny’s father, Karl Novak. He was wearing dark shades. On a slight rise, overlooking the burial site, was a gray, marble mausoleum. Inconspicuous, and also wearing dark sunglasses, was Detective Farrell.

A short time later, now that the gravesite service was over, the mourners began to return to their cars. Carolyn Novak was putting on a brave front, but inside, she was demolished. She was speaking to Father Reiniger, thanking him specifically, for his part in the funeral. He was trying to console her. In the background, was the repetitive slamming of car doors, as the mourners returned to their automobiles. As Father Reiniger was walking toward his waiting, black limousine, he was suddenly approached by Farrell. The priest was a little taken aback. “Oh, Detective Farrell! I didn’t see you at the service. Good to see you again!” He gripped Farrell’s hand. Farrell’s voice was very low. “Good seeing you.” He paused for a microsecond. “Listen, Father, under the circumstances, I don’t want to make a big deal out of this, but there have been some new developments regarding Danny Novak’s death.”

“New developments,
Detective?”

“Yes. And we will need you to come down to police headquarters. We need to ask you a few questions.”

Reinger was stunned. “A few questions, Detective? If you don’t mind my saying so, this sounds a bit preposterous!”

Farrell ignored what the priest had said. “This is the plan, Father Reiniger. I will follow your limousine back to the rectory. I know you will want to change. We’ll drive to police headquarters from there.” Farrell’s tone was somewhat harsh, authoritative.

Reiniger nodded. “Fair enough, Detective.”

Minutes later, Farrell returned to his unmarked sedan, which was parked in the shade of a huge Royal palm. Detective Juarez was seated inside; the passenger door open. As Farrell slid into the car, he threw his partner a quick, fleeting glance. “Thought I might get some flack from Reiniger, but so far, he seems willing to cooperate.”

Farrell moved up to a position, directly behind the priest’s limo, and soon the long cortege of funeral cars was making its way along the tree-lined road toward the exit gates of the cemetery. Suddenly, a large white thundercloud rolled across the sun. The vast cemetery was plunged into a purplish-gray light. The leaves on the trees began to quietly rustle; a slight breeze had come up. Danny Novak’s funeral was over.

Interrogation Room 2-A. SBPD. 3:30 p.m. That same day. Located on the 2
^nd
floor of the building, the interrogation room was a ten-foot-square cublicle, mirror-fronted, speaker-connected. It was painted a sickly, pea-green color. One large window was covered with a heavy, wire-mesh screen. There was a scarred, wooden conference table, around which were three or four ancient, walnut chairs, bolted to the floor. Above this, an exposed, yellowish fluorescent light fixture. The room was austere. Claustrophobic. Father Reiniger entered the interrogation room, followed closely behind by Detectives Farrell and Juarez. Reiniger crossed to the large table where he sat down. Farrell took the chair opposite, while Juarez stood behind the priest, leaning against the door. There was a long silence and finally, Reiniger spoke: “What is this all about, Detective?”

“As I mentioned to you at the cemetery, Father,” Farrell said, “there have been some new developments regarding the Novak boy’s death.” He paused. “I’d like to talk about Sunday night, September the 5
^th
.”

“We have already been over that, Detective.”

“Yes, I know we have. But I’d like to go over it again.”

“Starting with?”

“You, Jack Kramer and the Novak boy were left at the campfire. This, Willie Groda had returned to the dining hall. Right, Father?”