Cal Rogan Mysteries, Books 1, 2 & 3 (Box Set)

by Robert P. French

  I throw a quick glance in Superintendent Cathcart’s direction. He is standing very still, with no expression on his face. He is dressed immaculately but revealed in the light from the window beside him, I can see a long white hair growing out of his right ear.

  Steve nods and thinks for a moment. “This religious angle is tricky. We can’t just go barging into a church with guns blazing but we do have to investigate the minister and that guy with the dog… him especially. Also we need to get a list of their members and see if there’s anyone of interest on the list.” He thinks some more. “Anyone got experience with odd religions, Satan worshipers, stuff like that?” he asks.

  Suddenly an image from the past leaps into my mind. “Not personally,” I say, “but I do know one guy who was really into all that stuff. He’s a bit weird but very knowledgeable.”

  “Can you trust the guy?” Steve asks. I nod. Yes, I can certainly trust Damien Crotty. “OK. Check him out for any criminal record and if he’s clean, tell him about the murder and your visit to the church and see if he has any ideas.”

  Steve turns back to Stammo. “Anything else, Nick?”

  “Yeah. I told you how Mrs. Varga was on her way to a church on Oak Street when she was hit by the truck. Well, when we were at the church investigating Terry Wright’s death, Rogan asks out of the blue if Marguerite Varga was a member and the minister kinda froze for a second and then gave us the ‘membership lists are confidential’ line. Both Rogan and I thought that she was holding back. It might be nothing, or it might be a big coincidence or there may be a connection. I dunno, but I think it’s worth spending some time on.” He stops speaking and thinks for a moment. “This is a bit off the wall, but what if the church is a front for a professional group of hit-men.”

  This comment gets a few chuckles and someone jokes, “Our Lady of the Blessed Assassination.” I have difficulty suppressing a grin and I notice Superintendent Cathcart trying to hide a smile.

  “Yeah, well you can joke,” says a ruffled Stammo, “but stranger things have happened.” He glances at Cathcart to gauge his reaction; he does not like to have fun made of him in the presence of a senior officer.

  Steve brings the meeting to order. “OK, OK. Is there anything else?” The hubbub dies down and no-one offers anything else. “Right. Eric, I want you to widen your search for similar murder cases to cover all of the US but first I want you to do some research into this ‘Church of the Transcended Masters’ and if there are other branches or affiliates, I want you to focus on similar murders in their areas.

  “I’m gonna talk to the Crown Prosecutor’s office and see what are the chances of getting a court order for their membership list. I’ve got a feeling that we may run into a problem with our beloved Canadian Charter of Rights but I’ll give it a go anyway. OK, anything else on this or the Varga case before we go on to the next one?”

  Something that bothered me all last night starts to resolve itself.

  “On the Varga case,” I say. “I did some checking on him and the feedback I got was that he’s a really nice, pleasant guy. It didn’t fit with how he was during our interview. But when I think back, he only got snotty with us twice. Once when I asked about his wife’s church and then when I asked whether she had any enemies…” I realize I have been thinking out loud and I don’t have a coherent conclusion or point to make. I should have thought this through before opening my mouth.

  “Who did you check him out with?” asks Steve.

  I really should have kept my mouth shut.

  “Sam, my wife. She took some photographs of the Varga’s.”

  I hear another snigger.

  “Due respect to your ex,” Stammo chimes in, “but sitting for your portrait, of course you’re gonna be all smiles.”

  I shake off my annoyance at Stammo for reminding me that Sam is in fact my ex-wife and has been for four long years.

  “But there is one thing,” Stammo says with a grin on his face. “Rogan, you remember the guy with the dog? Did he look familiar to you?”

  “Yes, he did. I’m sure I’ve seen him before, somewhere. D’you know who he is?”

  “No, but I bet you saw him when you were shaving this morning. Take a look in the mirror. He looks just like you; he could be your brother. You don’t have a brother do you?”

  He’s right! That’s why he was so familiar. But what bothers me comes from Stammo’s question: the thought of having a brother.

  Superintendent Cathcart interrupts my thoughts. “I just came down here to say something about Harold Varga. I know the man socially.” Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Stammo nodding. “I very much doubt that he has done anything wrong but I want you all to know that you don’t need to worry that I might put any pressure on you because I know him. Your ex is right Rogan. He is a nice enough guy but if he uses my name, you can ignore it.”

  I can see why Cathcart rose to such a senior position. Not only was he a great cop but he is very smooth with a cultured voice, ideal for wowing the brass and the politicians.

  “Thank you sir. We appreciate it,” Steve says.

  Cathcart nods and leaves.

  So much for Harold Varga’s big claim of being buddies with the top dog. I turn to Stammo with a smile on my face but he is not smiling. He looks like he is bottling up some sort of rage.

  13

  Cal

  “That’s a Chaos Star,” I said. “Cool.”

  His surprise overcame his hallmark demeanor and he did the totally unexpected. He smiled.

  “How d’you know that?” he asked, reaching up to touch, or rather caress, the earring that had caught my eye.

  “I just finished reading The Eternal Champion,” I said.

  “All three books?” I nodded. His look was long and appraising. “What’s your name?”

  “Cal Rogan.”

  He extended a hand from his voluminous black velvet sleeve, palm down, dark purple nails extended. “Damien Crotty.”

  We shook hands and built that rarest of structures, a bridge between two universes in the high school multiverse: the nerds and the goths.

  During our years at Magee High School on two different occasions we each went way beyond the normal bonds of friendship to extricate the other from a bad situation.

  As I listen to his phone ringing, I can see him as he was then: my height but rake thin; jet black hair with a long red streak; black, five buckle boots; all the requisite chains and leather and that eight-pointed Chaos Star stud.

  “Damien Crotty.” Despite the passage of time I recognize the voice, mellowed perhaps, but still with his hallmark intensity.

  “Hi Damien, it’s Cal from Magee High School.”

  “Cal? Cal Rogan, right?”

  “Yeah. How’re you doing?”

  “Great. But I’m at the airport. I’m just stepping on a plane to New York, then on to Frankfurt.”

  “That’s a bummer. I wanted to meet with you and talk to you about something.”

  “No prob, it’s just a business trip. I’ll be back in a few days.”

  A goth on a business trip seems like a contradiction, but who knows what he might be into now. “OK, good. Let me just ask you something now.”

  “Sure but you’d better be quick, they’re gonna make me switch off the phone any moment.”

  “Right. I don’t know if you knew, I’m in the Vancouver Police Department now.”

  “Oh, right… No, I didn’t know. But go on.”

  There is a change in his voice. It’s not altogether surprising given our history but I’m hoping that the reason for the call will allay his former antipathy toward the forces of the law. “I’m investigating a murder, the murder of a ten year old kid. There were some symbols carved on his body and I’d like to get your take on it.”

  “Oh. I thought you were going to ask me… uh, something else entirely.” He laughs. “Sure. Why not? But I’m not exactly a symbologist like that Robert Langdon guy in the Da Vinci Code.” He chuckles but the sound
is cut off by an announcement in the background. I get the feeling that I am not going to be able to ask him everything I need to know. When the announcement finishes, he continues. “I can still remember a few things, though. I should charge you a consulting fee. Fire away.”

  I hope he is joking about the fee; the Department gets really uptight about its detectives incurring unauthorized expenses. I ignore the rumbling in my gut and I tell him about the mutilations to Terry’s body and about the visit to the Church of the Transcended Masters.

  “Jeez, what type of freak would do that to a kid?” he asks.

  “I was hoping you might have some ideas about that,” I say and then immediately want to retract the words. I remember that his little group of goths was referred to as freaks by most of the rest of the school.

  Except for some background noise, there is silence on the line. Shit! My clumsy wording has pissed him off.

  “Damien, are you there?”

  More background noise. At least he hasn’t hung up on me.

  Yet.

  Then, “Hi, Cal. Sorry about that. Just had to stow my carry on. Listen, they’re gonna make me switch the phone off in a minute. Can you email me photos of the mutilations and I’ll get back to you?”

  I guess it is the best I’m going to get. “Sure. What’s your address?” I scribble it down. “Just one last thing…”

  “You’d better be quick.”

  “Does O – B – O – E mean anything to you? Could it be significant.”

  “O – B – O – E, like oboe, the instrument?”

  “Yeah.”

  I hear a female voice, then Damien. “Sure. OK Miss, no prob,” then, “Cal, I gotta turn this thing off. I’ll think about it and email you.” He chuckles. “The only thing I can think of right now is that oboe is a hex word. Send me the photos. See ya.” Then he’s gone.

  A chill slithers down my spine.

  Hex. It rings in my head, taking me back to every fantasy novel I ever read. It means a curse or an evil spell; it can also mean a witch or witchcraft. It is a word that Shakespeare would have loved, had his birth not predated it by about three centuries. Heart pounding, I call Michael Chan’s mother and make an appointment to meet with her and Michael after school today. I just have to work out how to give Stammo the slip so that I can do it alone.

  14

  Debbie

  Not even Mrs. Crabbe can spoil my day. She sits at my desk going through her purse and mumbling angry words under her breath. Boy, her name like totally fits her personality. I snatch a quick look out the window at the blue sky and can’t wait for my lunch break. Only fifteen minutes. And tonight my lovely Tony is taking me to the third Canucks game against LA. Woo-hoo! Best boyfriend ever.

  “Here it is,” she says, all happy with herself… well at least as happy as she can ever get.

  I put on my sweet smile that I use on all the old bats. “What seems to be the problem Mrs. Crabbe?”

  “Young lady,” she says, “there doesn’t seem to be a problem, there is a problem. Look at this statement.” She smooths out the crumpled paper on my desk. She smells of that old lady smell. “See right there.” A polished red nail darts out and points to the first entry in the withdrawal column. “Right there, you see, nine thousand eight hundred and seventeen dollars were withdrawn from my account and I want to know why.” I look at the balance of the account; it’s over seven times what the bank pays me in a year.

  “Let me just look in the computer,” I say.

  “You can look in the computer all you like, my dear. But before I leave here I want my money back, with interest.” She is one snotty old bitch.

  I tap in her account number and look at the account activity. It all looks pretty normal. The withdrawal is a transfer to another account done by internet banking. “Do you have another account with us?” I ask.

  “I don’t see how that is any of your business,” she says.

  Gotta keep my smile in place. I gotta keep my smile in place. “It’s just that the transfer was made to—”

  She raises her eyes and sighs, then catches sight of the boss. “Oh, Mr. Varga,” she calls. “Might I trouble you for a moment?” Just what he needs, poor man, what with his wife just dying. But he just comes over anyway and shakes her hand like she was the Queen or somebody totally important. He’s so nice.

  “Perhaps you could sort this out for me,” says the old Crabbe, all sweet now.

  I explain the situation to him and he looks at my computer, taps a few keys and takes the statement that comes out of my printer. I look up at him. He looks pale and there is a thin layer of sweat on his forehead. I hope he’s not getting sick.

  “I really must apologize Mrs. Crabbe. It was a bank error. This is a copy of your previous month’s statement.” He places it in front of her. “See here, on the last day of the month, there is a deposit for the same amount made at this bank. Did you deposit that amount?”

  “No, of course not. I was in New Zealand visiting my daughter, although why she wants to live so far away, I’ll never understand.” I just manage to stop myself from saying ‘I know why’.

  “You see it was our mistake,” Mr. Varga says smoothly. “We deposited the money in error last month and then transferred it out this month. We sent you an advice of the error by email and internet banking.”

  “Oh, I don’t do email,” she says, all snooty.

  “Anyway, you were paid interest on the amount for the time that it was in your account, so perhaps you would accept that with our most sincere apologies for the error.”

  She’s like all smiles now. “Thank you for sorting it out so quickly, Mr. Varga.”

  “It’s my pleasure Mrs. Crabbe.” He turns to me and checks his watch. “Debbie, why don’t you walk Mrs. Crabbe to the elevator and you might as well take an early lunch too.”

  “Thank you Mr. Varga.”

  When I get back, I must ask him about that transaction because what he told the old bat didn’t make much sense to me. Still he’s the VP so I guess he knows what he’s doing.

  15

  Cal

  It’s time for my weekly humiliation. I never know when it’s going to come but come it always does and it falls to Steve, as my boss, to do the job.

  “It’s that time, Rocky.” Always the same words.

  I put down the coffee, my new addiction, get up from my desk and follow him out into the corridor.

  “Do you think it was Varga put the hit on his wife?” he asks, probably as much to fill the awkward silence as anything.

  “He’s the logical suspect but my gut says he didn’t do it. But I am sure he knows more than he’s telling us. Trouble is, guys like that, you put a bit of pressure on them and it’s lawyer time.”

  “Don’t worry. You and Nick’ll work it out.”

  We’re there. He pushes the door open and walks in. I follow. There’s no-one else in here, thank God. It always increases the humiliation by orders of magnitude when there are other cops present.

  He hands me the plastic cup and I unscrew the orange lid. He has to witness me giving the sample but at least he allows me to turn and face the urinal. I fill the cup and replace the lid tightly.

  Steve holds open the brown evidence bag and I drop the specimen inside. He seals it, signs it and takes off without another word, leaving me to wash up. Condition four of my reentry into the department is completed for this week.

  Stammo walks in and marches over to the urinal I just used. “So what do we do next on the Varga murder?” he asks.

  “Nothing on the truck?”

  “No, we’re never gonna see that sucker.” As if to emphasize the point, he farts.

  “I’d like to find out if she really was a member of the Reverend Harris’ flock. If she was, it’s just too much of a coincidence that she’s killed the day after the son of another church member is found dead.”

  “Steve tried but we’re not gonna get a warrant for the church’s membership without a lot more evidence
.” Stammo makes a big operation of shaking.

  I take a breath and mentally cross my fingers.

  “Why don’t I go and talk to her, one-on-one, see if I can wheedle it out of her?” I suggest.

  He shakes his head, using his supervisory prerogative to turn me down. He zips up and heads for the door but stops.

  Long look.

  I don’t think I’m going to like what’s coming.

  Wrong again.

  “Sure. Why not? Give it a try. I wanna spend some time digging into Varga’s background, maybe talk to the financial crimes guys, see if he’s on their radar.” He leaves while I’m still drying my hands.

  As I walk back down the corridor, I pull out my cell phone; it looks like from here on, I’m going to have a Stammo-free day.

  16

  Cal

  The unexpected brilliance of the February day does nothing to improve the aura of the Church of the Transcended Masters. With tall trees on three sides, not a scintilla of sunlight falls upon the building and it projects the same dismal aspect that it did last night.

  Except for one thing.

  Standing in the open doorway, framed in the light from inside, she is wearing the same hooded white robe from last night or one that is identical. It gives her an ethereal look which I suspect she cultivates. As I approach, she extends her hand for me to shake. It is slender, dry and the grip is firm beyond my expectation.

  “Thank you for seeing me at such short notice, Reverend Harris,” I say.

  She draws me inside and closes the doors. Again the room is illuminated by candle light: a psychological ploy of some sort, perhaps. Or am I just being too suspicious?