Re: Cult
File Ref: HF04-193
Per my e-mail yesterday, attached please find Forms 17A and B outlining evidence of what is believed to be a religious cult known as the Elect of God operating in the Hamilton Falls area. We believe there is child abuse among members of this group, but are unable to investigate with uniform members due to its closed social structure.
We understand Investigator Ross Malcolm specializes in cults as part of his duties in the OCTF. We request his assistance for a period not to exceed three weeks, overtime and expenses to be charged to the Town of Hamilton Falls.
Please advise Investigator Malcolm’s availability ASAP.
Chapter One
Who shall lay any thing to the charge of God’s elect? It is God that justifieth.
—Romans 8:33
The pager beeped as Ross pulled off the freeway for gas. He glanced at the number and frowned. What was the matter with those guys? Couldn’t they survive for two days without yanking on his electronic leash for help?
He tilted the motorcycle onto its side stand at the deserted pump and pulled the pager off his belt. He frowned at the number on the display and stalked over to the pay phone next to the ice machine.
His partner picked up on the first ring. “Organized Crime Task Force. Harper.”
“This had better be good, pal.” Ross leaned on the dented metal of the bracket protecting the phone from the weather.
“Oh, it is. How’s the vacation?”
“Two days isn’t a vacation. It’s a weekend. I’m scheduled for five days leave, Ray. Five. You page me, you better be telling me my apartment building’s burning down.”
“Nope. Worse than that. They got a live one.”
“Who?”
“Hamilton Falls. We just got a memo asking for your services. The lieutenant out there says their fink just blew the whistle. A near-miss this time—which adds up to two and a half kids total over the last couple of months. That’s ‘reasonable and probable grounds to believe,’ in my book.”
Ross stood silently, watching a flock of children spill out of the fast-food place next door. Shrieking, their giggles high-pitched, they tumbled into the play area.
One small town. Two deaths and a near-miss in four months.
“Ross?”
“I’m thinking.”
“Think fast. Harmon knows I’m talking to you.”
So much for his hard-earned five days. “Tell him I’ll call him from Hamilton Falls.”
“What about your vacation?”
“I guess scenic Interstate 90 was it. Look on the bright side. The woman of my dreams could be anywhere, even in Hamilton Falls.”
Ray Harper snorted. “Just make sure she doesn’t have kids.”
Ross sipped a cup of coffee and considered the manila file folders on the blotter. The lieutenant who usually occupied this office was out at an accident scene. At the front counter, a uniformed patrolman just out of the academy took a complaint, while a telephone rang insistently at an empty desk in the bullpen. Outside the door of his borrowed office, a laser printer began to wheeze.
He had never been to Hamilton Falls before, but the familiar government-issue furniture, the beige linoleum, the numbering system on the files, and even the bad coffee combined to make him feel at home. He could have been in any law-enforcement office in the state.
Ross stretched as the caffeine hit his bloodstream. He ran his fingers through his thick brown mane. Hair. One of the perks of working on the Task Force.
He stacked the files and spread the contents of the first one on the blotter. He hated reading this stuff.
The autopsy report on the so-called SIDS baby, Andreas Wyslicki, lay on top of a transcript of a police interview with the pediatrician, Michael Archer. Ross started with the interview, reading slowly. His approach to such a witness was to absorb details not of medical procedure, but of per sonality, of speech patterns, of hints to the habits and pre occupations of the speaker. And Archer was definitely preoccupied.
Archer advises the baby arrived by ambulance approx. 18:40 March 12th. Parents reported that the baby alarm had gone off because he had stopped breathing. They had done CPR to no effect. Paramedics could not revive him, and he was pronounced DOA at the hospital.
Ross took another sip of tepid coffee.
Archer cannot account for victim’s death. Has been victim’s pediatrician since he was born two months ago. Archer requests he be allowed to view autopsy report when completed.
No doubt.
The station clerk’s voice penetrated his concentration. “He’s in Lieutenant Bellville’s office, Harry.”
A uniform leaned in the door. “Investigator Malcolm?”
Ross put his hands on both arms of the chair and levered himself to his feet. “Yes. You’re Harry Everett?”
“The same. Glad you could join us.”
“I’m not. I was two days into a five-day leave.” The other man looked intimidated until Ross smiled. Then Everett smiled back.
“Sorry about that. But these kids…well, we needed the help.”
“Yeah. I’ve been reading the reports. I’d like to get some background on your informant.”
“No problem.” He leaned out the door. “Jenny, would you bring me the fink file on Rita Ulstad?” Ross watched as the station clerk, a pretty blonde with a Meg Ryan haircut, sashayed out to the records room and returned carrying another manila folder. That short skirt did less for her than she probably imagined. “Thanks.” Everett smiled absently and opened the file she handed him.
“Anything for you,” Jenny crooned to Everett as she moved away, but her glance remained on Ross, sparkling with interest. Ross had no doubt about the message. He considered it briefly and rejected it. If there was a woman in his future, he hadn’t met her yet. That was one thing he was happy to leave up to the Lord.
“So.” Ross tilted back in the chair and laced his fingers behind his head. “What do you have in mind for strategy?”
Harry Everett handed him the file to give himself a moment. “I’ve heard about you,” he said finally. “That you got broken in at Waco.”
Ross frowned and moved restlessly. “You heard wrong,” he said shortly. “That was long before my time.”
“But you’re a cult specialist, right? The only one the Task Force has. You did that bunch of Aryan wanna-bes in the hostage situation in Spokane, right?”
Ross
