“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.”
When Reiniger spoke again, his voice was just a cut above a whisper. “Strangled?”
“That’s right. Strangled with a heavy wooden object. And that, was after he’d been sexually assaulted and sodomized. The coroner found evidence of semen on the body. We are speculating that after the boy had been strangled, murdered, his body was taken out and dumped into the lake.”
The color seemed to drain from Reiniger’s face. “I can hardly believe you are telling me this, Detective.”
“And, strictly as a matter of procedure, Father Reiniger, we will need you to provide us with a sample for DNA purposes.”
Reiniger was shocked. “Good God! You don’t suspect that I had anything to do with this, do you, Detective?”
“As I said, it is strictly, standard operating procedure. We will need DNA samples from both Jack Kramer and Willie Groda, as well.”
Reiniger’s voice was hardly audible. “Of course, I realize you people have a job to do, and I want to help in any way possible. So be it.”
--4--
As noted, Jack Kramer, was an extremely handsome man. A firm, muscular body. Cool, superbly confident, he exuded a slight arrogance even in the way he walked. Farrell and Juarez had managed to track him down to a construction site. The Las Palmas Estates, located on the east side of Corona, about seven miles from San Bernardino. Las Palmas, an upscale, gated community was to be the center of fifty prime residences ranging in price from $2-million and up. Construction of the Mediterranean-style homes was essentially complete; workers were installing the red tiled roofs. The detectives rolled to a stop a short distance away from a mobile catering truck or the ‘roach-coach,’ as it was commonly referred to. Nearby, a big man who had a look of authority, was poring over a thick pile of blueprints, laid out on the tailgate of a pickup truck. He glanced warily at the two detectives as they approached. “Can I help you, gentlemen?” he said.
Farrell flashed his ID. “We’re from the SBPD. We’re looking for a man by the name of Jack Kramer. We were told we might find him here.”
The man, who incidentally was a site supervisor, glanced over at the catering truck, where a group of men had gathered. “Looks like you’re in luck, gentlemen. You see the tall, good-lookin’ dude at the head of the line? The guy with the silver hardhat? That will be, Jack Kramer!”
Kramer was sipping coffee from a Styrofoam cup as the detectives walked up to him and once again, Farrell introduced himself. “Nice seeing you again, Detective,” Kramer said.
“My partner, Detective Juarez.”
Kramer managed a small smile. “I’m kind of curious as to why you’d wanna see me, Detective.”
“I’d like to get right to the point,” Farrell said. “I want to talk about Danny Novak.”
Suddenly, Kramer turned serious. “Jeez, that was a bad thing that happened to young Novak.”
“Yes, it was.” Farrell paused. “We’ve already talked with Father Reiniger about what went on, that Sunday, September 5th. That you, Mr. Kramer, Father Reiniger and the three young boys went up to Camp Sierra to close it up, as it were, for the winter months. Are we on the same page here, Mr. Kramer?”
“Yeah. That’s right.”
“And, as I understand it, you were the boys’ camp counselor. You were the boys’ basketball coach, et cetera, et cetera?”
“That’s right.”
“I understand,” Juarez cut in, “that you are interested in following up the priesthood, yourself. Right, Mr. Kramer?”
“Yes. That’s correct.”
Farrell eyed him closely. “Refresh my memory. That afternoon, when we talked at Half Moon Lake, you indicated you were an assistant to Father Reiniger. Would I be correct in calling it a close association, Mr. Kramer?”
Kramer hesitated as he took a large gulp of the coffee. He looked directly at Farrell. “I’m gonna be right upfront. I’m gonna lay it right on the line for you, Detective. I’d always considered myself a close associate, even a friend of Reiniger’s. That was, until that last Sunday afternoon.”
“What are you saying, Mr. Kramer?”
“The boys had worked hard cleaning up the campsite. It was hot that day. They’d decided to go in for a swim.”
“And?”
“Father Reiniger and I were sitting on the porch of the main house, watching them. One of the boys was just learning to swim and we were a little concerned. But, as it turned out, Reiniger and I got into an argument.”
“An argument, about what?”
Kramer paused slightly. “Although I really didn’t have any proof, I had a gut feeling, Father was messing around with the boys.”
Farrell frowned. “Messing around with the boys?”
“A ten-year-old boy had come to me after Mass, that same morning, as a matter of fact, and told me Father had molested him. He said he’d molested him in the rectory. The boy didn’t use the word, molested, of course, but I believed he was telling me the truth. And, that afternoon, I called Father Reiniger on it.”
“What was Reiniger’s reaction to that?” Juarez said.
“Oh, he was pissed! And I really mean, pissed! He denied it of course. He said it never happened. He said the kid wanted to use the bathroom in the rectory, but he never touched him. We did get into a big argument about this.”
“Interesting,” Farrell said. “Now, let’s go back to the campfire that Sunday night. Supper was over, the two boys had left. The caretaker, this Willie Groda had left. Leaving Reiniger, you, and young Novak at the fire. Correct, Mr. Kramer?”
“Yeah. That’s correct.”
“We were told, Reiniger wanted to take Danny for a ride in the motorboat. Right?”
“That’s right.”
“Reiniger told us that you had elected not to go. That you were not interested in riding in the motorboat. Right, Mr. Kramer?”
Kramer’s face darkened. “That’s a goddamned lie! Reiniger was still pissed at me. He didn’t want me to go! And knowing what the boy had told me about what happened in the rect
ory that morning, I didn’t want Danny to go out on the ride. In fact, I told him, I’d take him and the other boys out on the boat, all the next day, if they wanted to go. This made Father Reiniger even angrier.”
“Nevertheless,” Farrell said, “Reiniger did end up taking young Novak out on the motorboat. Correct, Mr. Kramer?”
“That’s correct. I watched as they cast off from the dock, Reiniger started the motor, and the boat headed out toward the middle of the lake.” He paused. “That was the last time I ever saw, Danny Novak.” He suddenly paused again. “Hey! I’m getting some weird looks from the boss, over there! If you don’t mind, I gotta go. Gotta get back to work!”
“Thanks for your time, Mr. Kramer,” Juarez said.
Nonchalantly, Kramer threw the empty coffee cup into an open trash barrel, and moved off toward the building site. Moments later, Juarez picked up the used cup and placed it inside a plastic evidence bag. “This should provide the DNA evidence, we need. Don’t you think so, Farrell?”
“Yeah. Perfect. Now, let’s get the hell outta here!”
* * *
9/9/99. It was slouching toward twilight and the heat was beginning to break. The sun was riding a couple of hours above the horizon. The barren, snow-dusted, majestic peaks of the towering mountains were reflected, mirror-like, in Half Moon Lake. A sweep of aspen and birch trees, their leaves in brilliant shades of yellow and orange, covered the foothills in autumnal glory. The sunlight sparkled on the placid surface of the lake. Camp Sierra looked deserted, almost forlorn, as Detective Farrell pulled his unmarked sedan to a stop just below the ‘main house.’ He had come to the campsite to have a talk with the somewhat illusive caretaker, Willie Groda. He’d knocked on the front door of the huge Breckinridge, summer mansion, and was not surprised when there was no response.
As Farrell made his way down toward the water’s edge, he noticed the ashes and remnants of the campfire. Below this, the two rowboats and the motorboat, which was now covered with a heavy, canvas tarp. To the left of the floating dock, was a narrow stretch of sand, and beyond that, a cabin constructed of logs. Farrell crossed the sandy beach and was soon walking along a narrow path, bordered with rocks. He climbed a short flight of steps to a veranda which overlooked the lake. He knocked on the door, made up of heavy, wooden slabs. He knocked a second time and all at once heard a low, croaking voice: “Yeah! Who is it?”
“Detective Farrell with the San Bernardino Police. I need to talk to you, Mr. Groda!”
“Hold on. I’ll be right there!”
Farrell was slightly apprehensive as he heard the bolt slide back, and the door slowly opened. Willie Groda was a tall, thin, gaunt-looking man, in his early seventies. His face was craggy, hollow-eyed; his eyes shrewd, piercing. A cigarette hung from his narrow lips. He was a chain-smoker. His eyeballs were yellowish and matched the nicotine-stains on his fingers. When he spoke, his voice was like quick-silver: “You’re from the San Bernardino Police, and you wanna talk to me? I don’t get it!”
“We are investigating the death of Danny Novak, and I need to ask you a few questions.”
“Well, come on inside, Detective,” Groda said as he opened the door wider. There was a hint of a Southern accent. “I dunno what the hell I can tell you about young Novak, exceptin’ I’m sorry it happened. The boy drownin’ and all.”
The living room had an open-beamed ceiling, paneled with rough-sided cedar; the dominant feature of the room was a massive, stone fireplace. Above the mantle, was a mounted deer’s head. The floor was made of polished pine, scattered here and there with Navajo-styled rugs. A large picture-window overlooked the lake. Farrell sat down on a heavy, mohair sofa and watched the old man as he crossed to a built-in bar. He grabbed a couple of glass tumblers from a shelf. “Care for a drink, Detective? Bourbon’s all I got.”
“Uh, no thanks. Think I’ll pass.”
Groda reached for a fifth of ‘Wild Turkey,’ and poured two-fingers of the bourbon into a glass. He turned to face the detective. “Yeah, that Novak boy drownin’ was a real shocker, a real tragedy, lemme tell ya.”
Farrell paused as he studied the man carefully. “I’m gonna be totally up-front with you, Mr. Groda. Danny Novak didn’t drown in the lake.”
“Aw, come on, Detective! You and me was both standin’ right there, when they pulled the kid’s body out of the water! And you’re telling me, he didn’t drown?”
“No. He didn’t drown, Groda. He was killed. Murdered.”
Groda shook his head in disbelief. “Murdered? You gotta be shittin’ me, Detective!”
“A complete autopsy was made on the body, Groda. Young Novak was sexually assaulted, raped. He was sodomized. He was then strangled with a heavy wooden object. The M.E. found traces of sand on the body, as well as semen.” He paused slightly. “We’re gonna need a sample from you, Groda, for DNA purposes.”
Groda’s face turned grim. “You’re a way off-base here, Detective. You’re sure as hell not lookin’ at me for that boy’s murder, are you?”
“The sooner we can rule you out, the better, Mr. Groda. It’s what we call the process of elimination.”
Groda’s voice lowered. “Sure, I know how it goes. I’m here to cooperate, Detective.”
“I’ll need that DNA before I leave.” Darrell paused again. “In the meantime, I’d like to talk about last Sunday night. The autopsy report states that the Novak boy died around 10:00 p.m., or thereabouts. My information is that you, Father Reiniger, Jack Kramer and young Novak were left at the campfire after having finished supper. Right, Mr. Groda?”
“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?”
DELIVER US FROM EVIL Page 3
