* * *
EXTRACT: San Bernardino Sun-Times
REINIGER SUICIDE ATTEMPT
San Bernardino, Calif. Monday, September 20. Alta Vista’s Valencia Park was the scene of a near-fatal mishap, Sunday afternoon, when Father Frederick Reiniger was discovered in an attempt to commit suicide, by asphyxiation. He had taken a garden hose, attached it to the tail-pipe of his car, and had fallen into unconsciousness. Fortunately, two Alta Vista city employees, Roberto Diaz and Juan Escobar, who were working in the park area, realized what was happening, and managed to revive the St. Michael’s parish priest. Reiniger, who is accused of the sexual abuse and murder of twelve-year-old, Danny Novak, is free on $300,000 bond. His trial is scheduled to begin at 10:00 a.m., tomorrow, at the San Bernardino County Courthouse.
--9--
Detective Bureau. SBPD. Monday, September 20. 2:30 p.m. Captain McGraw had just fired-up his ever-present cigar. His office was filled with drifting blue smoke. Farrell, who sat at his desk, opposite, gazed at him with a half-smile. “Cigars ain’t good for you, Cap. Didn’t you know that?”
“Yeah, the old lady tells me that all the time, but do you think I listen?” McGraw took a drag on the cigar, then his eyes fell on the newspaper that lay on the desk in front of him. It was a copy of the San Bernardino Sun-Times. The bold, black headline was staring up at him: REINIGER SUICIDE ATTEMPT. Under the banner headline was a large photograph of Father Reiniger. “Shit,” McGraw said, “this really shocked the hell out of me! I never thought Reiniger would try to take his own life, for Chris’sake.” He paused. “Was there a suicide note, do you know?”
“As far as we know, no, there wasn’t.”
“Lucky for him, those two Mex gardeners were around, or Reiniger would be coolin’ his heels at the County morgue, right about now.”
Farrell nodded. “You’re right about that.”
“No doubt, Reiniger’s got a lot on his mind, these days. Including the upcoming trial.” He paused again. “Speakin’ of which, I’m expectin’ a visitor from the D.A.’s office, any minute now.”
“And, who would that be?”
“A.D.A. David Berkoff.”
Farrell smirked. “To what do we owe this honor?”
“I dunno, but he called this morning and said he’d be stopping by sometime between two o’clock and three.” McGraw flicked the ashes from his cigar into a metal ashtray, then glanced back at Farrell. “I know Berkoff’s good. I know he’s the fair-haired-boy around the friggin’ courthouse.”
Farrell grinned. “Why do I get the feeling there’s a ‘but’ coming up?”
“Berkoff’s one of our top prosecuting attorneys,” McGraw continued, “no question about that, but the guy is a pain in the ass. He’s a prick! He’s got a fuckin’ ego as big as this office! Anybody who knows anything, knows Berkoff’s got his eye on the D.A.’s job! Personally, I don’t like him, and I don’t like his style. I don’t like all the flash, the arrogance. All of that bullshit might be kick-ass in Beverly Hills, but” McGraw was suddenly interrupted when the intercom buzzed. He picked up. “McGraw, here!”
They could hear the sound of the receptionist’s voice. “Assistant District Attorney, Mr. Berkoff is here to see you.”
“Send him in, please.”
Moments later, the door opened and David Berkoff breezed in. As he effusively shook hands with McGraw, Farrell’s eyes slid over him: he was a tall, handsome man; he wore a dark gray, pin-striped, Armani, white buttoned-down collar and maroon necktie. From his fifty-five-dollar haircut, to his gold DB-initialed cuff links, to his freshly-manicured nails, to his $200 Florsheim, wing-tipped shoes, Berkoff looked like he’d just stepped off the cover of GQ. His demeanor was slightly pompous, imperious. He turned and gripped Farrell’s hand. “Nice seeing you again, Detective.”
“Likewise,” Farrell said, hoping the prosecutor wouldn’t catch on to his lack of enthusiasm.
Berkoff sat down opposite Captain McGraw. He extracted a gold cigarette case from inside his breast pocket, took out a cigarette, and lit it. He directed his gaze at McGraw. “I won’t be taking up too much of your time, Captain, but I just wanted to go over a few details, before we go to trial, tomorrow.” He then turned to face Farrell. “Now, Detective, you will be available to serve as a witness. Do you forsee any problems at all?”
“No. None at all.”
“Good.” There was a long pause as Berkoff took a drag on the cigarette, then exhaled. “The Reiniger suicide attempt intrigues me. My gut tells me the whole thing was a hoax, a scam to gain the potential jury’s sympathy. I believe Reiniger had no intention of killing himself. It was an obvious fraud! But, so be it.” He paused again. “I spoke with Danny Novak’s mother yesterday, and I promised her unconditionally, there will be justice served in this case. Call it what you like, an obsession, a fixation, a hang-up, but when it comes to heinous crimes committed against children, I take it very personally. That’s just me. Reiniger was the last person to see Danny Novak alive. He’s guilty of murder, and I’m gonna nail him!”
McGraw eyed the prosecutor closely. “David, I understand your position. I understand your position very well. But, there’s one thing that bothers me.”
“What’s that, Captain?” he said, with obvious irritation.
“Sure, the DNA proves Reiniger humped the kid, sexually assaulted him. But, we can’t place Reiniger at the murder scene. No physical evidence. No witnesses. No murder weapon!”
Berkoff’s eyes took on a metallic gleam. “I know. I know all that. But, I’m gonna put the squeeze on Reiniger. I’m gonna break him! He murdered the boy and he will pay for his crime. I can promise you that. Reiniger had not other choice. He had to kill the kid. He had to kill him, to silence him. I’m gonna go for Murder One.”
* * *
9/24/99. The San Bernardino County Courthouse. 10:00 a.m. The Frederick Reiniger criminal trial was already into its fourth day. The jury had been selected: four men and eight women, plus two alternates. As it was, the day of Father Reiniger’s arraignment, the second floor courtroom was filled to capacity. Because of the trial’s notoriety, newsmen from all over the U.S., as well as many foreign countries, had converged on San Bernardino. The rear parking lot, behind the courthouse was jammed with News vans, easily identifiable by the large satellite dishes attached to their exteriors. Rooms were sold out at the California Hotel. Once again, seats inside the courtroom were at a premium. After the Press and TV reporters had been seated, the few remaining seats were left to a numbers draw, conducted before the trial proceedings were to begin.
Presiding Superior Court, Judge Alonzo Bayler, a black man, sat behind the bench. In his late sixties, he was tall, corpulent; he was silver-haired, distinguished-looking. His voice was flinty, gravel-rough. His words were forceful, direct and delivered with exactitude. He also had a robust, cynical, sense of humor whenever the mood hit him. Above Judge Baylor, attached to the walnut-paneled wall, was the Great Seal of the State of California.
Reflecting the neo-classic, Spanish architecture of the courthouse exterior, the courtroom walls were cream-colored, uneven adobe in texture. The ceiling was supported by heavy, open, rough-hewn, wooden beams. Below the State Seal, was a large, hand-painted mural depicting the landing of Spanish explorer, Juan Rodriguez Cabrillo, on the shores of San Diego Bay in 1542. The mural was flanked on each side by a pair of elaborate, gold wall sconces. Two large fans, suspended from the ceiling slowly turned; barely moving the fetid, early-morning air.
To the left of Judge Baylor sat Assistant District Attorney, David Berkoff and a male assistant. Adjacent to Berkoff, sat Defense Counsel, Richard Ramsey. Seated to his left was the defendant, Father Reiniger. There was a low buzz throughout the courtroom. Judge Baylor lightly tapped his bench gavel and there was silence. “Mr. Berkoff?’ he announced, “Are you ready to give your opening statement?”
“Yes, Your Honor, I am.” Berkoff rose from the prosecutor’s table and slowy crossed toward the jury. The me
mbers of the jury eyed him warily, as he gripped the mahogany hand-railing, and spoke directly to them. His voice was steely, articulate. “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, the evidence in this case will show beyond a reasonable doubt, that on the night of Sunday, September 5th, 1999, a young twelve-year-old boy, Danny Novak, met his death.” He paused, glancing at Father Reiniger. “At the hands of Father Frederick Reiniger, pastor of St. Michael’s church in Alta Vista.” Berkoff paused again. “The Catholic church has always been looked upon as a haven of trust and compassion; the parish priest has always been looked upon as a symbol of that trust and compassion. Like countless other boys, Danny Novak looked upon Father Reiniger as a surrogate father, if you will. Danny trusted him completely, he believe him, he believed in him.” Berkoff turned back to the jury. “We are going to prove to you in this courtroom today, that Father Reiniger took advantage of that trust. Father Reiniger invited Danny Novak and two other boys to spend the weekend, the Labor Day weekend, as a matter of fact, at a summer camp, Camp Sierra, on Half Moon Lake, high in the San Bernardino Mountains. Danny Novak never returned from that weekend camping trip. His body was discovered at 3:00 p.m., Labor Day afternoon, at the bottom of the lake. Here was a bright, robust, cheerful, intelligent youngster whose short life was suddenly snuffed out. Medical examination has revealed that this boy was sexually assaulted, strangled, and his body dumped into the lake. Ladies and gentlemen, the evidence you will hear, speaks for itself. The State asks only that you listen to that evidence, and give us your verdict in accordance with the law. I thank you.”
Judge Baylor watched as Berkoff returned to his seat. Then he glanced at the defense attorney. “Mr. Ramsey?”
Ramsey, a tall, attractive-looking man in his late forties, paused for a microsecond, then he too, rose and crossed to the jury box. All eyes were fastened on him as he gripped the railing with both hands. When he spoke, his voice was hard, a little edgy. “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, my client, Reverend Father Frederick Reiniger did not sexually molest and murder Danny Novak. True, as the prosecutor has stated, Father Reiniger did invite Danny Novak and two other boys to spend the weekend at Camp Sierra, but my client had nothing whatsoever to do with Danny’s death. After you have heard all the evidence in this case, I am sure you will unanimously agree with that statement. Ladies and gentlemen, I thank you very much.”
As Ramsey returned to his seat beside Father Reiniger, Judge Baylor once again, lightly tapped his bench gavel. “Mr. Berkoff? Are you ready to call your first witness?”
“I am, Your Honor. We call Mark Novak.”
Mark Novak rose from his seat in the gallery and moved toward the witness stand. He appeared slightly apprehensive as he approached the court clerk, a heavy-set woman in her thirties. “Please raise your right hand,” she said. “Do you solemnly swear to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, so help you, God?”
“I do.”
“State your name for the record.”
“Mark Christopher Novak.”
“Be seated, please.”
Berkoff eyed Mark speculatively for a long moment, then rose from his chair. Slowly, he crossed toward him. “First of all, Mr. Novak, Mark, I would like to extend my sincere condolences, in the untimely death of your brother.”
“Thank you.”
“How old are you, Mark?”
“I’m seventeen.”
“You had just the one brother, Danny? No other brothers or sisters?”
“Yes. That’s right.”
“From what I’ve been told, you and Danny were very close.”
“That’s right, we were.”
“You were always looking out for your brother. You wanted to protect him.”
“Yes, sir. That is true.”
Berkoff paused as his eyes scanned the jury, momentarily. “My understanding is that your father and mother are divorced?”
Mark nodded. “Yes, sir. They are.”
“And when did this happen, Mark? How long ago?”
“Their divorce was final, almost five years ago.”
“And you were twelve-years-old then. Coincidentally the same age as Danny was, when he died.”
“Yes, that’s right.”
Berkoff paused again. “Now, Mark, I’d like you to describe for the court, just what type of person, Father Reiniger is. I’m interested in your own personal opinion.”
“I liked Father, from the very first day I ever met him. He was different from the priest we had before.”
“And what was his name?”
“Father Malone.”
“How was he different from Father Malone, Mark?”
“Father Malone was very strict, uptight. He was very demanding, impatient. He wasn’t very popular with the guys.”
“And Father Reiniger was?”
“Yes.”
“How so, Mark? In what way?”
Mark shrugged. “Oh, Father Reiniger was down-to-earth, he was cool. He was very sports-minded. He loved basketball, baseball. When Mr. Kramer wasn’t available, Father would often coach the team. Father was just like one of the guys. Like I said, he was cool.”
“Uh-huh. And who is Mr. Kramer?”
“Jack Kramer was our real coach.”
“How old is Jack Kramer?”
“Oh, about twenty-five, twenty-six.”
“What was your impression of him?”
Mark smiled. “Jack Kramer was nice, friendly. All the guys really liked him, too.”
“I see.” Berkoff hesitated. “Tell me, Mark, was Father Reiniger ever in your house? Was he ever invited into your home?”
“Oh, yeah, many times. Mom used to like to have him over for dinner on Sundays.”
“Uh-huh. So, I take it your mother was particularly fond of Father Reiniger? She liked him?”
“Yes. She did.”
Berkoff moved toward the wooden podium. “Now, Mark, I’d like to talk about Camp Sierra for a few minutes. You’ve been there, of course?”
“Yeah. Two or three times, at least. I used to go there for summer camp.”
And what precisely went on at these summer camps? About how many boys were involved?”
“Twenty-five, thirty. We’d have guys from Corona, Chino, El Cajon. Some as far away as San Diego.” He paused. “You asked what went on? Of course, we’d all go swimming in the lake. They had a motorboat there. We loved to go out on rides in the motorboat.”
“Who would drive the motorboat?”
“Sometimes, Father, sometimes Jack Kramer, sometimes, Willie Groda.”
“Willie Groda? And who is Willie Groda?”
“Oh, he was the caretaker. He took care of the camp. He lives there all-year-round.”
“How old is this, Willie Groda?”
“He’s an older dude. I’m not very good at judging people’s ages, especially older people. I’d guess he was close to seventy, somewhere around there.”
“Did you like him?”
Mark grinned. “Yeah. He was a little weird, off-the-wall, a little eccentric, but old Willie was always good for a laugh.”
“Uh-huh. What else did you boys do, besides swim in the lake? Ride in the motorboat?”
“They also had a couple of small rowboats. A lot of the guys liked to go out fishing.”
“Uh-huh. What else?”
“Well, the lake was right up there in the mountains. A lot of us would take off and go on hikes.”
“What else?”
“Every night we’d have a big bonfire on the beach. Roast hot-dogs, marshmallows, listen to ghost stories. Jack Kramer really knew how to tell ghost stories. He’d scare us half to death!”
“I see.” The prosecutor paused, as once again, he approached the jury. “Now, Mark, I’d like to talk about the Labor Day weekend. As I understand it, this was the weekend that was chosen to, what shall I say? Close up the camp for the winter? Isn’t that right, Mark?”
“Yes. That’s right. Father had asked for a few volunteers. He an
d Mr. Kramer wanted a few of the guys to help, as you just said, to close up the camp for the winter months. My brother, Danny, was one of the volunteers. Danny was always eager to help out in any way he could.”
Berkoff turned back to Mark. “Danny was an altar boy?”
“Yes. He was.”
“As were the other two boys?”
“Yes. That’s right.”
“Were you invited to go on this weekend trip, Mark?”
“Yes, I was. But I couldn’t go. I’d taken a job, working in a downtown drugstore. Father Reiniger wanted me to go, but I told him, I couldn’t.”
“So, he specifically asked you to go with them, on the trip?”
“Yes. He did.”
Berkoff studied Mark for a brief moment, then moved in very close. “How long has Father Reiniger been with St. Michael’s parish, do you know?”
“About two years, as I recall.”
“Where was he, before St. Michael’s parish? Do you know that?”
“I understand he was a church pastor in Palos Verdes.”
“Exactly. And two years before that?”
“He was assigned to Queen of Angels church, in East L.A.”
Berkoff paused. “Three different church parishes in six years. Did you, your mother, or any of your friends ever question this?”
“No, sir. We didn’t.”
“You will agree, three parish assignments in just six years, is somewhat unusual. Wouldn’t you say so, Mark?”
He shrugged. “I guess, we really didn’t give it that much thought.”
There was a long pause. “Mark, you testified earlier, that Father Reiniger was often invited to your home for dinner. That your mother was particularly fond of him. Would you agree with that statement?”
“Yes, sir. I would.”
“But, as I understand it, you and your mother had a falling-out. There were many fights and violent arguments between you and your mother. Is that a fair and accurate statement, Mark?”
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