Betrayal of Faith

by Mark M Bello

“But what, Mr. Love?”

  “Mrs. Pappas, your family is in danger,” he blurted.

  Shock and fear registered on her face, but she remained silent.

  “As I stated earlier, I am a private investigator. I was hired by the mother of two boys who were sexually abused by a clergyman in Farmington, Michigan. The clergyman is . . .”

  “Gerry Bartholomew,” she uttered, burying her head in her hands. “I’ve always known someone would come. I’m afraid you’ve come a long way for nothing. I can’t help you, Mr. Love. Even if I wanted to, my husband would never let me. We must protect our kids. Besides, we made an agreement. How did you find us?”

  “It wasn’t that difficult actually. We installed unblocking equipment on your in-law’s caller ID in Berea. We traced you through the phone number when your husband called his folks. They’re very worried about you, you know.”

  “I do know, but we had no choice. Leaving was the best thing we could do for our family. It had to be sudden, and we were sworn to secrecy. We weren’t even permitted to tell our parents where we were going.”

  “Yes, I know,” Micah revealed. “I know the whole story. But there are some things you don’t know, related to your deal with the church, and what happened after you left.”

  “Please, tell me everything,” she cried.

  Micah could see the woman’s experience in Berea was not easily forgotten. Micah sought to take advantage of her suffering to gain her assistance. It certainly made Jennifer tick. He hoped the same was true for the MacLean and O’Connell matrons.

  Micah told her the whole story. Gerry abused the Tracey boys, and the church tried to cover it up. He went to Berea. They murdered the janitor, silenced the town, and entered into a plea bargain in the Michigan case, déjà vu all over again. The Berea cops and court system were stonewalling, and the church was going to get away with this again.

  Mrs. Pappas/O’Connell listened, tearing up as he told the story. For the most part, however, she maintained her composure. “They promised us Gerry wouldn’t be placed with children. He did this to another family? And poor Gus . . . kept to himself, the kids could be cruel, but he was a nice old man. How could they, Mr. Love?”

  “Call me, Micah.”

  “Micah, then. Why would my family be in danger? We’ve done everything the church asked and more.”

  “I’m telling you, Mrs. O’Connell . . .”

  “O’Connell! Oh, Micah,” she sighed. “No one has called me by my real name in so long. It’s nice to hear it again. Go on, sorry. You were saying?”

  “I know how you feel. I know a lot of people who have been placed in witness protection. It’s tough. Anyway, as I was saying, we believe they murdered Gus. He’s the only other witness. Your family and the MacLean family are the only living witnesses to Bartholomew’s prior conduct. They killed Gus. Is it such a stretch to believe they’d kill you guys, too? They know who and where you are. Who’d connect some house fire or auto accident befalling the Pappas family in Florida, with the incidents in Ohio and Michigan? It’s a perfect set-up!” Micah warned.

  “Oh, my God! It’s impossible to comprehend! My church would actually have people killed?” She wailed.

  “I know, Mrs. O’Connell, but everything I’ve told you is absolutely true.”

  “I promise to talk with my husband as soon as he comes home. I’ll do my best to convince him to help you. There’s not much more I can do. By the way, what exactly do you want from us?”

  “Come to Michigan with your boys. Hopefully, you’ll bring the MacLean family with you. Testify to what happened in Berea, the whole sordid affair. The truth will set all of you free. What can happen to you once you’ve testified? You’d be helping the Tracey family and protecting future kids from harm.”

  “I’ll talk to my husband. I can’t tell you what he would do, and I have no idea what the MacLean family will do,” she warned.

  “Set up a meeting for me with your husband and Mr. MacLean. That’s all I ask.”

  “I’ll do my best. You’ve convinced one of us if that’s any consolation.”

  “It’s a great consolation,” he sighed. “Now listen to me. Whatever you decide, you must believe this: Your families are in serious danger. The bad guys may already be on their way. Go into hiding again, this time, from the church. The sooner you get to Michigan, where I can protect you, the better. Once you’ve testified, they no longer have the incentive to harm you.”

  “What about revenge?” She intimated.

  “I can’t fathom they’ve sunk to that level. Don’t ask me why, but I’m almost positive your testimony will set you free.”

  The front door opened, and a large man walked in. He observed a stranger in his living room and went into immediate combat mode.

  “Who the hell is this?” he demanded

  Micah stood. “Mr. O’Connell?” He stated. “My name is Micah Love. I am a private investigator from Detroit—”

  “Name’s Pappas. You’re not welcome here,” the man huffed.

  “Pat . . .” Pam pleaded.

  “Quiet, Pam.” Pat interrupted. He faced Micah.

  “Love, if that’s your real name, I don’t know what your game is, but you’re trespassing. I want you to leave, right now. Don’t make me call the police.” He nodded toward the door.

  “But, Pat . . .” Pam urged.

  “I told you to shut up, Pam, and I meant it,” he commanded. He turned back to Micah. “Mister, I’d like you to leave now!”

  Micah started for the door. “Okay, okay,” he capitulated, hands in the air as if a gun were being pointed at him. “I’m going. Don’t do anything rash. Talk to your wife. Discuss my visit. I’m on your side, here to help. At the same time, there’s a family in Michigan that needs you. You can help them and your family at the same time.” He handed the man his card.

  “Here’s my card. The phone number’s my cell. I’ll be at the Holiday Inn on University in Plantation. Room 207. Talk to your wife, and then call me. We can handle this situation together, and you won’t have to hide anymore.”

  The man started toward Micah and Micah hurried to the door. “Okay, I’m out of here, but please talk. Call me.”

  “No promises, Love,” the man grumbled. “I don’t like strangers coming into my house when I am not home and filling my wife with empty promises. Get the hell out of here.”

  Micah opened, exited, and closed the door in one quick motion.

  ***

  Later that evening, Micah’s cell phone rang.

  “Love Investigations, this is Micah.”

  “Mr. Love? This is Pat O’Connell. You’ve got your meeting. I’m here in the lobby, with the MacLean family, my wife, and my kids. We’re willing to listen. That’s all I can promise. We will listen.”

  “That’s all I ask,” Micah gasped. “I’ll be right down. There’s a small conference room we can use, or we can use the coffee shop. Do you know if you were followed?”

  “Don’t think so. We’re not experts, but we’ve been looking over our shoulders since we left Ohio.”

  “Understood. I’ll be right out.”

  Micah literally ran out of the room, skipped the elevator and ran down the stairs, two at a time. He met the two families. Mrs. O’Connell made the proper introductions. The hotel clerk escorted them to a small conference room, asked if they needed anything, and then closed the door, leaving them alone. Micah told the families the entire story. As promised, they all listened. When Micah finished his narrative, he took a deep breath, sipped from a glass of water, and waited.

  Mr. O’Connell broke the silence.

  “Mr. Love, we’d like to talk privately. Please wait outside. We’ll talk and then bring you back.”

  “Sure,” Micah agreed, rising. “I’ll be right outside the door.”

  He left the room and closed the door. As he waited, he heard voices but could make out no words. Voices were raised and agitated on a couple of occasions. Finally, the door opened, and Micah was w
aved in.

  “We’ve decided to place ourselves in your hands, Mr. Love.” Pat O’Connell was palpably relieved. “We’ve seen what these people are capable of doing. They ruined our lives. It does not surprise me someone was killed by these scumbags. It wouldn’t surprise any of us if they came after us. Truth be told, we’ve been fearful of this ever since we left Ohio. They assume we’re cowards. We sold out our families and our community for money. They won’t expect this from us. We won’t wait at home for them, like sitting ducks. The best defense is a good offense. If you promise to keep us safe, we’ll come back with you.”

  “Once you testify, they will no longer be in a position to harm you,” assured Micah.

  “I hope you’re right. What do you want us to do?”

  “I want you to stay with me. Do not go home . . .”

  “But our belongings, our houses, our money . . .” cried Mrs. MacLean.

  “I’ll take care of all that. Don’t worry about a thing. It’s too dangerous for you to go home. Trust me, please?” Micah implored.

  “We trust you, Mr. Love. We are in your hands,” Mr. O’Connell conceded.

  “I won’t let you down,” assured Micah. “Now we have to arrange aliases and get you on a plane. I’ll work out the details. We’ll leave in the morning. I have to check out of here. We’ll go to another hotel.”

  “Why?” Mr. MacLean wondered.

  “Because I checked in under my real name. We have to be super-careful. We’ll find a hotel on the beach somewhere, pretend to be tourists.”

  “Okay, whatever you say.”

  “Let’s get going.” Micah went to the front desk and checked out. Shortly thereafter, the two families and Micah drove southeast toward Ft. Lauderdale Beach. Micah found vacancies at a slightly rundown beachfront efficiency complex where rooms were rented by the week. Micah rented three rooms under an alias and paid cash in advance. Soon, everyone was safely tucked away in separate rooms. Micah sank into a recliner—satisfied he’d taken appropriate precautions.

  ***

  He awoke to his portable alarm clock. He telephoned the families’ rooms and informed them it was time to go. Then he called the rental car company to advise them where to retrieve their car. He promised to leave the keys with the hotel desk clerk. The rental car rep was not pleased. Micah appeased him by approving additional charges to his credit card statement. He didn’t give a shit about the cost. He was more concerned about getting the hell out of Fort Lauderdale.

  If the Voice and his troops were coming for the families, the odds were good they were already in Florida, staking out houses and running checks on credit card purchases. They’d check under the family names first. They didn’t know Micah was in Florida so it wouldn’t occur to them to check his credit purchases. At least, he hoped that was true. For the time being, he had the jump on them. He planned to keep it that way. Their very lives would depend on decisions he made from that moment forward. He called the Coral Springs Police.

  A half-hour later, Micah met the families outside. He had a green marker in his hand. He went over to their minivans and used the marker to change their license plate numbers—threes became eights and ones became sevens. He was taking no chances. They left the hotel. Micah rode with the MacLean family. They drove west on I-595 toward the Florida Turnpike.

  “I thought we were going to the airport?” John MacLean inquired, confused.

  “We are, but not the airport or time they’d expect,” Micah sneered.

  The two vans hit the Florida Turnpike and went north, stopping only to pay tolls, buy gas for cash, or use restrooms and grab snacks for the kids. The kids were enjoying the great adventure. Micah studied them at a rest stop. They were running, laughing, chasing each other. What resiliency! Jennifer should meet these boys. There was life after heartbreak and turmoil, after this cruel betrayal of faith.

  They drove several hours to the Kissimmee exit and Walt Disney World. They drove into the grounds and up to the Lake Buena Vista Resort.

  “We’re going to Disney World?” Mr. MacLean wondered aloud.

  “Can you think of a better place to hide two families?” Micah beamed. “My office staff has purchased two three-day family vacations, including round-trip travel from Flint to Orlando and back to Flint. The MacLean’s are the Hayes family, and the O’Connell’s are the Johnson’s, from Flint.”

  “What are we going to do here for three days?” Mrs. O’Connell inquired, aghast.

  “Show the boys a good time. They’re in for an ordeal in court. Why not enjoy themselves for a few days?”

  “You’re a good man, Mr. Love,” Mrs. O’Connell marveled.

  “Call me Micah,” he grinned. “Let’s go check in.”

  ***

  On NW 111 Way and SE 125th Street in Coral Springs, police cars pulled up next to surveillance vehicles sent by the Voice to watch the respective houses. The officers ordered the men to exit the vehicles and stand with their feet spread apart, palms on the hoods of their cars. Officers approached the houses and noticed both had been broken into. Nothing seemed to be missing, except, of course, the families. The officers interrogated the men, who claimed they were from out of town and got lost. Their license plates came back as rental car plates. They loaded the men into police cars and took them to headquarters for questioning.

  Chapter Forty-Four

  “Settle down, settle down,” ordered the Voice. “This is an emergency meeting to update all of you on recent developments in the Tracey case. The MacLean and O’Connell families have disappeared.”

  “Good news, right?” crowed a member.

  “No, bad news, I’m afraid. Someone else got to Florida before us. The families disappeared before our teams arrived. Local police were dispatched to the scene and discovered the houses were burglarized. Our surveillance teams were caught . . . well . . . surveilling.

  “The police are holding our teams. They’re being questioned as I speak. We had others staking out local airports but found no sign of the two families. They’re gone. Blake and Love are behind this, I’m certain of it. This is a serious problem.”

  “What are we going to do?” a member quivered.

  “We’re going to find those two families and ensure their continued silence,” assured the Voice.

  “How are we going to do that? If they’re with Blake or Love, they’ve decided to talk,” a member reasoned.

  “Deciding to talk and talking are two different things. I’ll find them—and when I do, I’ll make sure they remember our deal and all the money they were paid,” the Voice promised.

  “This is beyond crazy!” The original dissenting member fumed. “I’ve tried, time and again, to persuade this Coalition to finally do what’s right. Who are we? Do we stand for the teachings of Christ, for compassion, goodwill, and charity? Do we feed the hungry and clothe the poor? Do we have missions, food kitchens, and health and educational organizations? Do we stand for the moral teachings of the Bible? Why do we use this office and this Coalition to shield criminal, degenerate clergymen from prosecution and cheat families of the children whose lives they ruin along the way? Where does this stop? It must stop!

  “We should engage in the business of spiritual teachings and religion, not in cover-ups and child predator protection. I cannot believe or support what this Coalition has become! We were formed to protect the church from its enemies. I’m not naïve enough to believe we have none. However, we have now made our parishioners our enemies.”

  “Who among you agrees with the good father?” the Voice polled.

  “I do,” cried the brave cleric who voted with the dissenter the last time.

  “Anyone else?” The Voice huffed. Silence overtook the room. “Very well, then. I move we locate the two families and ensure their silence. All in favor?”

  “Aye.”

  “Opposed?” Silence. The two dissenters had left the room.

  Chapter Forty-Five

  While Micah was sleeping on a plane from Orlando t
o Detroit, Zachary was in Oakland County Circuit Court in Pontiac. Father Gerry Bartholomew was about to plead guilty to fourth-degree criminal sexual conduct. Saunders, the prosecutor, was present. Several men dressed in suits and cleric garb attended.

  Jennifer was seated next to Zachary on the hard wooden bench. Zack spotted Walsh, sitting with the old cleric who attended the first settlement meeting he had with Walsh at Renaissance Center. It seemed ages ago.

  Blake spoke to Costigan earlier in the week. The pastor told Blake the ‘The Voice’ called to advise he’d be appearing at the hearing on behalf of the church. So, Blake called Saunders. He asked who, aside from its lawyer, would be appearing for the church at the upcoming hearing. According to Saunders, Walsh provided the name of a particular cleric who would appear on behalf of the church. Saunders took note of the name and was pleased to pass it along to Blake.

  So, this is the scumbag who has been orchestrating this elaborate cover-up for the church? The mysterious Voice was now exposed. Blake knew his identity. It was time to implement part two of his plan. He rose and walked over to the clerk’s desk. The clerk pointed to a side door in the middle of the courtroom. Blake walked to the door, opened it, and left the room. On the other side of the door, a long hallway extended through several courtrooms. Clerks’ offices, secretarial offices, and judicial chambers lined the corridor. Blake found Judge Shipper’s research clerk and asked for a favor. Would the clerk follow Blake into the courtroom, talk to a potential witness, ask his name, and prepare a subpoena for that person to appear for trial? The clerk gave Blake the ‘I’m-not-your-secretary’ look. Blake became animated and agitated, and, in the end, for the sake of proper courtroom decorum, the clerk was helpless to disagree. Upon the clerk’s capitulation, Blake thanked him, and the two walked into the courtroom. Blake pointed out the old man and returned to his seat.

  Jennifer was about to inquire where he had been, but Blake put his finger to his lips. A short time later, the research clerk returned, holding an official-looking document. He approached the old man. A brief, heated conversation ensued. The clerk scribbled on the document and handed it to the old man. Walsh rose in protest. The back door opened. The bailiff rose and shouted, “All rise,” as Judge Shipper entered the courtroom. After the judge was seated, the bailiff shouted, “Be seated! Court is in session. The Honorable Erroll Shipper presiding.”