Betrayal of Justice Page 20

  Jack laughed. “Scary, ain’t it? I’ll run the wire, and we’ll see where it leads. Where can I reach you?”

  “I’m over at the inn, or you can just contact Jessica. She knows how to find me.”

  “Oh, so that’s how it is?” Jack glanced at Jessica. “This guy? Seriously? How come you pretty young things never give us locals a chance?” he winked.

  “Why, Detective . . .” Jessica purred. “You’ve never shown an interest. Why you’re about the cutest detective lieutenant I’ve ever known.”

  “I’m the only detective lieutenant you’ve ever known.”

  “Technicality,” she murmured, rubbing up against him, ‘Jessica-style.’

  “Let’s break up this budding love affair before it begins,” Micah interrupted. “We’ve got to get to Pearl and Julius.”

  “Why don’t you run along without me,” Jessica teased.

  Jack was about to have a coronary. Micah dragged Jessica out of the booth. “Come along, Jessica. Pearl and Julius will be much more cooperative if you’re there.”

  “Yes, run along now,” Jack huffed. “At my age, I couldn’t handle the like of you. Besides, I might have a homicide to investigate.”

  “Trust me, Lieutenant,” Micah assured. “You’d be wise to limit your investigation to the homicide, and it is a homicide. I’d bet my license on it.” With that, he pulled Jessica to her feet. “Keep in touch. Let us know if you find anything.”

  “Will do. You do the same, hear?”

  “Will do.”

  Chapter Forty

  “Come to order,” commanded the Voice.

  He waited for the group to quiet, much like a grade-school teacher would wait for an unruly class to settle down. After a while, the members felt his scorn and silence reigned.

  “Very well,” he began. “We have solved one problem, but a new one has arisen. The custodian issue is resolved, but the MacLean and O’Connell families present a problem.”

  “How has the janitor been dealt with?” a member demanded.

  “Better you don’t know. Assume his silence has been guaranteed.”

  “What’s the problem with the two families?” Another member changed the subject. “They received everything they asked for and more. They have a new life in a beautiful new area, a new identity, absolute financial security—what more could they possibly need? How can there be a problem?” he wondered.

  “They haven’t complained. They don’t even know there is a problem.”

  “How can there be a problem they don’t even know about?” The members were stunned. The Voice pounded the table and demanded silence.

  “Trust me. There’s a problem,” he sneered. “I want the authority to deal with these families by any means necessary.”

  “Sounds ominous.”

  “Not to worry about my methods, just approve the exercise. The consequences will be mine and mine alone. Your consciences are clear,” he assuaged.

  “This is getting completely out of control. I voiced my concerns on the last vote, and I dissent again.” The sole dissenter from the last vote rose in protest. “Protecting and absolving these revolting pedophiles, ‘dealing’ with people, making others ‘disappear,’ I can no longer tolerate these activities!”

  “What do you propose?” the Voice queried.

  “Same as before—We admit Gerry’s past transgressions, continue the Tracey boys’ treatment with Dr. Rothenberg, and pay any compensation the family deems satisfactory to resolve this matter. Gerry pleads guilty in the criminal matter, places himself in a long-term care facility, and never engages in pastoral work again. Take this approach, my friends, and no one else will need to be dealt with or disappeared. Your solutions disgust me. I will not be a party to them.”

  The Voice dismissed him with a wave of his hand. Too late for that—anyone else want to voice an opinion?”

  Silence.

  “Let’s put it to a vote. All in favor of allowing me to handle the potential problem as I see fit say, ‘Aye.’”

  “Aye,” came the collective response.

  “All opposed?”

  “Nay,” two voices this time.

  “The ‘ayes’ have it,” declared the Voice.

  “May God forgive you.” The original dissenter growled as he hastily exited the room.

  “I am concerned about him,” warned the Voice.

  “He disagrees with your methods. That is his right. He’s loyal to the church. He won’t betray us.”

  “Perhaps we shouldn’t take the chance.”

  “What do you have in mind?”

  “Nothing, nothing much. Keep an eye on him. Set up surveillance.”

  “Spy? On one of our own?” The member gasped.

  “Just to confirm he’s still one of our own,” the Voice reasoned.

  The member capitulated. “I can’t see what harm it can do, err on the side of caution.”

  “I agree.”

  “Surveillance it is then. I’ll arrange it with Parks, at once.”

  “Very well, then. Anything else?”

  Silence.

  “Then I move to adjourn. All in favor?”

  “Aye,” the members chimed.

  “All opposed?”

  Silence.

  “We’re adjourned.”

  Chapter Forty-One

  Zachary Blake was in his office late, burning the midnight oil. The Tracey v. Bartholomew, et al. civil trial was two weeks away. He hadn’t heard from Love. If Micah didn’t find prior victims or witnesses to the prior bad acts of this lowlife disguised as a man of God, Zack would be unable to prove the church was responsible for his conduct. If that happened, the church would have no financial obligation to pay the jury verdict. A huge verdict against Bartholomew was worthless due to his vow of poverty. The phone rang, startling him.

  “Zachary Blake.”

  “Hi, Zack, Micah here.”

  “Micah!” Zack exclaimed. “Where have you been? What’s going on? I’ve been calling you all weekend. Do you ever check your messages? Talk to me, man. Give me some good news!”

  “Well, I’ve got good news and bad news,” Micah explained. “Which do you want first?”

  “Give me all of it! I don’t care about the order. What’s going on? I’ve got a trial in two weeks!” Zack urged.

  “Two weeks, huh? That’s a new development.”

  “Yeah, and here’s another one. Bartholomew copped a plea.”

  “You’re shitting me. What’d he cop to?”

  “Criminal sexual conduct, fourth degree.”

  “Only fourth? That sucks!” Micah groaned.

  “That’s not the worst of it. He gets to enter the plea off the record, at night, in a judge’s chambers—no jail time, three years probation. Jennifer is through the roof. She’s allowed to speak at the hearing under the Victims’ Rights Statute, but it’s a formality. According to my sources at the courthouse, it’s a done deal.” Zack groused.

  “The identical thing happened in Berea,” Micah grumbled. “He got the same Goddamned deal. The in-charge detective thinks the judge and the prosecutor are in bed with the church.”

  “It would seem the same scenario exists in Oakland County.”

  “There’s more,” Micah continued. “Bartholomew molested the children of two families here. He was caught. The result was the plea I told you about. But, get this! Nobody in town knows about the incident. The kids’ grandparents don’t even know. All they know is their children and grandchildren have disappeared.”

  “Disappeared?” Zack sputtered.

  “Yep. Shortly after Bartholomew pleads guilty and gets transferred to Michigan, the two families take off in the middle of the night, ‘For Sale’ signs in front of both houses. The cops believe they’ve been bought off and moved by the church. They have new identities. Their parents don’t know where they are. They quit good jobs. It’s all very convenient for the church. Only two people in town seemed to know about the incident and why the priest and the
two families left town.”

  “Good. Then we have witnesses. Who are they?” Zack wondered.

  “I hate to burst your bubble, Zack, but we have a problem.”

  “What’s that?” Zack fretted.

  “One’s dead—janitor at the church where Gerry did his dirty work before Michigan. Died yesterday. We think he was killed, but autopsy results are inconclusive. They’ve ruled out homicide, and the official cause of death is ‘cardiac arrest.’”

  “The church strikes again? People are being murdered?” Zack seethed.

  “I don’t know. It sure looks that way.”

  “Who’s the other witness?”

  “The investigating cop, Phillip Jack.”

  “So, he can testify, right?” Zack presumed.

  “Wrong. He claims his captain, the prosecutor, and the judge have ordered any violation of the plea agreement of silence will result in termination and loss of pension. He’s got over thirty years on the force. He’s not talking,” Micah retorted.

  “You mentioned there was good news? Hopefully, you haven’t given it to me yet.”

  Micah was upbeat. “No, I haven’t. I have located one of the families, the name is O’Connell, although they’ve changed it.”

  Yes! Zack was pleased to finally hear positive news. “That’s great news! Have you talked to them? What did they say? Will they testify?”

  “Hold on, Counselor; hold on. I indicated that I’ve located them, not that I’ve talked to them.”

  “You’ve set up a meeting, right? When is it? Should I be there, too? Of course, I should. I’ll get in the car and meet you out there. Where am I going?” Zack rambled—processing what seemed like a million thoughts at once.

  “Hold your horses, Counselor,” Micah reasoned. “The family lives in Coral Springs, Florida. They’ve been given a new life, a new identity, new careers, and, probably, a shitload of money. I’m flying down there first thing in the morning. They’re unaware anyone, other than the church, knows their whereabouts. They don’t know me. They certainly don’t know I’m coming. I doubt it will be easy to get them to talk, but that’s not my main concern at the moment.”

  “What do you mean? What else trumps getting them to talk? Without someone to testify to prior incidents and church knowledge, I’m going to be up shit’s creek without a paddle,” Zack cried.

  “How about their safety, Zack? The janitor’s death was no accident. These two families are the only ones who can link Gerry and the church to Berea. They’re in danger. I can feel it. If I’m right, I’ve got to get to Florida, quickly.”

  “Of course, you’re right. No flights tonight, huh?”

  “No such luck. Delta has a 6:00 a.m. nonstop out of Metro to Ft. Lauderdale.”

  “How far is Ft. Lauderdale from Coral Springs?”

  “Fifteen, twenty minutes. With no delays, car rental, and everything, I should be at their front door by 10:00 a.m.”

  “Okay then, you’ll call me tomorrow, the minute you talk to them?”

  “As soon as I can, Zack. Sorry I haven’t called. I’ve been up to my eyeballs in shit down here. I can’t believe this thing,” Micah wailed.

  “Yeah, I know what you mean. It’s fucking incredible,” Zack agreed.

  “How’s the lady holding up?” Micah inquired.

  “Marvelous, as always. Really pissed off about the plea bargain and lack of jail time. She’ll be okay when we get justice in the civil case. Besides, I’m getting a germ of an idea on how to handle the criminal situation, as we speak.”

  “Care to elaborate?” Micah queried.

  Zachary shared his idea.

  “I like it!” Micah exclaimed. “It could work! In fact, I don’t see any reason why it wouldn’t. I’ll talk to the man when I return from Florida.”

  “Micah?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Kick ass down there,” Zack encouraged.

  “I’ll do my best, Counselor.”

  “I have faith in you, man. Micah?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I appreciate everything you’ve done,” Zack cooed.

  “Yeah, I know you do, but fuck that shit. Win the case and show me the money,” Micah whooped.

  “I’ll do my best, Micah. I’ll do my best.”

  “I know you will, Zack.”

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Gerry Bartholomew sat in a coffee shop reading news accounts of the upcoming civil trial. This guy, Blake, turned out to be a better attorney than anyone expected. The church was on the run. Recovering from this episode would be far more difficult than the others. What’s wrong with me? Why can’t I control myself?

  At the same time, he was proud of who he was, proud of his accomplishments, and hated that news reports called him a ‘sexual predator.’ Fourth-degree criminal sexual conduct, probation, no jail time. A pretty good deal, considering the real circumstances, isn’t it? He knew fourth degree meant simple “touching.” What was wrong with simple touching? Why would anyone be sent to prison for that? Ridiculous!

  Bartholomew was relieved, of course, but should not have faced a prison sentence in the first place. He was a priest. He needed to minister to his parishioners. Those boys . . . those beautiful boys! He loved interacting with them, teaching them, helping them off with their clothing, gazing at their virginal bodies for the first time, caressing them, demonstrating the pure pleasure of intimate physical contact and connection.

  Things were coming to a head. Did he want to be a priest or be with children? Must he choose? That old bastard who quarterbacked damage control for the church demanded change. He claimed things could not continue this way. Could he manage an assignment ministering to the elderly or to the infirm? Overseas? Transfer to an office position? The priesthood is my life. They can’t kick me out, can they? I need to minister to the faithful. I was born to minister to the faithful.

  His mind wandered, and he forgot where he was. He didn’t realize he was muttering aloud. He scanned the small shop, gazing from one customer to another. Were these people staring at him? One glared at him over his laptop, another, over a pair of sunglasses. A couple of women were staring, alternatively, with hands over their mouths. Someone glanced over a newspaper. Were they reading an account of this whole overblown, over reported fiasco? Were they talking about him? Did they recognize him from the news reports? He tried to hide his face when he walked in and out of court. Did everyone know him? He loved teenage boys—so what? Perhaps he’d be shipped out of town, like before, where nobody knew who or what he was.

  Should I change my appearance? Grow a beard, a mustache, or change my hairstyle? Fucking parents! The kids love me! They love exploring their bodies, learning about physical pleasure, and the deep passion partners have for one another. But the damn parents keep getting in the way of these important relationships! And that damn Jew lawyer! They thought he was a lightweight. They thought they could buy him off. All they did was piss him off, and he’s better than they thought he’d be. The church will take care of it. It’s only money. They’ve got plenty of that. The case will settle, quietly, like the others. I’ll be okay. But damn those damn fucking lawyers and parents! Damn them! This is their fault . . .

  Gerry Bartholomew rose, tilted his head upward, nose in the air, and sauntered out of the coffee shop.

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Micah was shocked—an on-time arrival at Ft. Lauderdale airport. He’d have to fly the first thing in the morning from now on. Aside from the usual ten-mile trip—an exaggeration, nonetheless a long walk—in the Delta terminal at Metro Airport, the trip went off without a hitch.

  Metro was a Delta hub. The terminal was large and confusing. The Ft. Lauderdale terminal, also a Delta hub, was much smaller and far less complicated. Micah deplaned, rented a car, and headed west on I-595 toward Coral Springs within twenty minutes of landing. Try to accomplish that in Detroit.

  He had an address on NW 111 Way in Coral Springs. He toyed with the rental’s navigation and quickly obtai
ned coordinates and directions. He exited the freeway at University and drove approximately six miles into Coral Springs. Everything seemed fresh and new, palm trees everywhere. He understood why many northerners moved south.

  After a series of lefts and rights on primary and residential streets, he found NW 111 Way. He had to double back a few times. The roads had similar names and numbers. The street system was quite confusing. Finally, he found the address. The house was a one-story stucco ranch with a screened-in pool. He looked up and down the block. Every house seemed identical except for the respective paint job. Every home had a screened-in pool. Ah, Florida.

  What was lifelike with summer all year long? He wiped sweat from his forehead and put his nose to his armpits, immediately deciding that fall, winter or spring weren’t so bad. He checked the address on the mailbox. The Pappas family lived here. Micah went to the front door and rang the bell. A tall woman in her late thirties or early forties answered the door. Micah recognized her immediately from a picture provided by a relative. This was Mrs. O’Connell.

  “Hi, may I help you?” she chirped.

  “Good morning, ma’am,” Micah charmed. “My name is Micah Love, and I’m a private investigator from Detroit, Michigan. Are you Mrs. Pappas?”

  The woman’s demeanor immediately turned cold.

  “Yes, I’m Mrs. Pappas, and whatever you’re interested in does not interest my family or me. Have a nice day.” She started to close the door in his face.

  “Mrs. Pappas,” Micah pleaded. “Please? I’ve come a long way to talk to you. I’m begging you for five minutes of your time. If you’re not interested in what I have to say, I’ll leave. I promise.”

  Mrs. Pappas pondered his request. She seemed stressed and agitated, but what harm would a short chat do?

  “Well, okay, five minutes. But that’s it.”

  She’d be relieved to spill her guts to someone, but she’s obviously been told to keep her mouth shut. Micah knew to tread carefully, but how could he carefully tell someone her family was in danger? He decided to be blunt and quick.