Absolution

by Henry Hack

  Mort Stern flew to Hamburg, and provided his moving, emotional, first-hand testimony on behalf of the former SS soldier who saved his life. And, as predicted, it had no effect on the outcome. Throughout the following years Mort maintained a written correspondence with Bruno and would occasionally send him a parcel of food, or cookies, or candy bars. The package always contained the same note, written by Mort in German – Vielen Dank, Bruno. Ich werde es nie vergessen. “Thank you, Bruno. I will never forget.”

  And Bruno would always respond, “May the God of Abraham always protect you, my friend.” It was in German and I badgered the old survivor to translate it for me although I could pick out a few words myself. Mort would smile and say, “Bruno is a mensch. I say no more,” forcing me to take a trip to the local library to get it translated. Diplomatically, I also said no more.

  SIXTEEN

  Michael was sworn into the New York City Police Department on a mild spring morning in April, 1979 taking the oath to uphold the constitutions of the State of New York and the United States and to serve and protect us all. Six months later we all attended his graduation ceremony at Madison Square Garden where newly-minted Police Officer Michael Simon came in fourth in his class of over a thousand recruits. We all cheered wildly as Michael stepped smartly across the stage and shook hands with the mayor and the police commissioner, and I believe our group, which included Michael’s entire family, Rabbi Berman, and Mort Stern, was the loudest bunch in the arena. The announcer said in a somber voice, “Police Officer Michael Simon, from the Police Academy to the Seven-Five Precinct in Brooklyn.” We didn’t cheer that assignment at all.

  I could see the looks of consternation on his six grandparent’s faces, and Betty grabbed her husband’s arm to steady herself. It would not have surprised me if Michael had lobbied for the assignment himself, to one of the most violent and crime-ridden precincts for the newly crowned blue knight. No tree-lined streets in Forest Hills, Queens or the North Bronx for our Mikey. If he suited up, he wanted to play the game.

  And play the game he did. Three years and hundreds of quality arrests later got him assigned to the plainclothes Anti-Crime Unit. And three years later, the coveted gold shield of a detective was bestowed upon him by the commissioner with an assignment to a busy upper Manhattan precinct detective squad.

  While Michael was making his bones on the NYPD, I was making my own in the church. After two more assignments as Pastor in larger parishes, I was promoted to the rank of Monsignor and assigned to the Bishop of Brooklyn’s staff. Whatever I had thought this assignment entailed was nowhere near what it was. The best word to describe the bulk of my duties was fixer. I was handed the problems of the Diocese and fixed them. I buried them, transferred them, disavowed them, plastered and painted over them, and lied about them, to our parishioners and to the press. And I did it all with a broad, toothy, Italian smile on my hypocritical face.

  The Bishop had assured me what I had been assigned to do was truly “God’s work” and necessary to protect Holy Mother Church from the heathens who were bent on destroying her. “We must take care of our problems internally, Francis. We cannot let outside forces intervene. We will root out the evil ones among us and cast them from the church ourselves.”

  We never did any such casting out, but merely moved our problems from one parish to another or from one Diocese to another. And the reason no action was taken against deviant priests was that they were protected by deviant bishops, and yes, even a deviant cardinal or two. I was sickened by what I had seen and been a part of, and was contemplating resigning from the priesthood, when the smiling Bishop called me into his office and in essence told me since I had been so good at my job in Brooklyn, the Cardinal of the New York Archdiocese had reached out for me to provide the same services to him in Manhattan.

  This promotion I likened to a transfer from the position of consigliere for the Brooklyn mob to the same position for the Manhattan mob, and I vowed to not accept it and leave the church. And on the way back to my quarters from the Bishop’s office, I had it – an epiphany – a first-class, bright vision accompanied with a booming voice in my brain. The words, spoken in a mocking, sneering tone said, Run again, you coward. Run like you ran away from those three dying people years ago. And the vision accompanying those words was of a squealing new-born baby desperately reaching his tiny hands out to me. Suddenly the baby stopped crying and said in a commanding voice, Save me, Joey. Save yourself. Save the church. Only you can do it. You must do it. I staggered over to an armchair and collapsed into it. I could now truly imagine what Saul experienced on the road to Damascus, his epiphany, his burst of light with instant conversion to become a follower of Christ. The message to me was clear – To atone for your actions and finally quiet that crying baby, you must expose the rottenness of the church. And I vowed to do exactly that.

  Before my transfer to the Archdiocese, I compiled a detailed list of all the transgressions and dispositions of the cases. It contained the priest’s name, victim’s name and address, parish, responding police officer’s name (if any), detective investigating (if any), monetary settlement (if any) and all case numbers. They numbered in the hundreds, and I filed them under the categories of, “Consensual Sex,” “Non-consensual sex,” “Pedophilia – male,” and “Pedophilia – female.”

  There were dozens of cases of consensual sex between priests and the laity – both hetero- and homosexual interactions, and the same with nuns and the laity. And several between priests and nuns. These cases came to our attention from one of the consenting partners deciding to “come clean” or from a tipoff by another priest, nun or parishioner who was aware of the behavior and wanted it stopped. And I was the one charged with stopping it.

  I had called Mike and asked him to lunch and to accompany me back to my office for a chat. “I need your investigative expertise,” I had said.

  “You have a crime you want me to investigate?”

  “No, I’ll do the investigating. But I need tips on the interviewing process including signs of deception and statement taking – those sorts of things.”

  “When we meet it will be helpful to know exactly what type of …uh, bad behavior you will be targeting.”

  I hesitated a moment. “Sexual mis-behavior. Can we leave it at that for now?”

  He chuckled and said, “See you Tuesday.”

  . . .

  Thus began our weekly meetings which continued upon my transfer to Manhattan. One day as Mike was leaving he said, “Frank, can I ask a favor?”

  “If I can do anything for you, I will. What is it?”

  “I’ve been a detective for several years now and have applied for a transfer to homicide, but never seem to get it while others, who I believe are less qualified, do get it. I know you’re close with the Cardinal and I know he’s close with the police commissioner –”

  “Change your name to Kelly.”

  “What?”

  “What religion and ethnic background did you put on your police application?”

  “I don’t remember. Probably None for religion and Jewish for ethnicity. Why?”

  “The New York City Police Department is run by Irish Catholics and they take care of their own first. After them, the pecking order is tied between Irish Protestants and Italian Catholics, followed by other Catholics, other Protestants, and then the Jews.”

  “Meaning I’m at the bottom of the barrel?”

  “No. After the Jews come the blacks, Latinos, and Muslims, not necessarily in that order.”

  “That’s a lousy picture you’re painting, Frank. I guess I’m screwed.”

  “Maybe not. I have been waiting for an opportunity to test my influence. I have an important position, but more importantly I know where the bodies are buried, if you kno
w what I mean. I’ll get back to you soon.”

  “Thanks, Frank. Your intervention is most appreciated.”

  “You’re welcome. Oh, how are Vivian and the kids?”

  “Viv’s great, and Maddy and Andy are growing like weeds.”

  “Say hello from me. Oh, don’t forget our monthly Sunday get-together at Stern’s.

  “I’ll be there. I vudn’t vant to miss the old man breaking Marc’s and your balls.”

  I laughed and said, “Bah. Humbug.” As Mike got up to leave I said, “Mike, which homicide squad do you want if I can swing it?”

  “Queens, the borough of my birth, and their office is close to home.”

  Queens Homicide. Were those the only reasons he wanted that assignment?

  . . .

  I had remained close to Mike, Marc Berman, and Mort Stern over the years, and valued highly their friendship and spirited discussions. The four of us could say anything to one another, including insults and profanity, but only when we four were present. Occasionally a wife or two, and a child or two, would join our get-togethers and we would act like model citizens. One Sunday afternoon a few years ago, twenty-five year old Mikey Simon brought an attractive young woman into the store. He introduced her as Vivian Saunders, his fiancée. Mort immediately said, “Vat’s a good looking schicksa like you doing vit this ugly Jew?”

  There was no doubt in my mind Mike had forewarned Vivian what to expect from us. He would have been a fool if he hadn’t. Vivian, her hazel eyes flashing, feigned surprise. She put her hand up to her mouth, looked at Mike and said, “You’re a Jew?”

  “Yes, dear,” he said.

  “Funny, you don’t look Jewish.”

  As the laughter began she turned to Mort and said, “But you definitely look like a Jew, you old kvetcher.”

  Mort burst into laughter and said, “You got me, young lady. I’m likink you already.”

  . . .

  Vivian was a Lutheran, and in deference to his new wife, they were married in her church. By now Mike was as much a non-believer as Mort, although he used to say he was an agnostic – someone who couldn’t know if there was, or was not, a God somewhere.

  We all jumped on him for that, saying that was the perfect cop-out and we finally forced him into a decision, and he chose to side with Mort. He said, “I’ve had twelve years of brainwashing by the Catholics, including having to learn Latin. Then the Rabbi here tried to brainwash me into converting, getting mitzvahed, and learning Hebrew. No thanks, one institution is as bad as the other.”

  Mort jumped up and down with glee and said, “Mikey, I knew you vere the smartest guy here. About time you gave up the fairy tales.”

  Mike said, “By the way, Father Manzo and Rabbi Berman, I’d like you both to say a few words of blessing for Vivian and me at our wedding along with the minister.”

  “Vat?” Mort said.

  Mike smiled and said, “Calm down, old man. I’m going to quote you here. ‘It vudn’t hoit, vud it?’”

  “Bah.” Mort said, waving his hand in my face.

  . . .

  Life moved on as it always does and the joys were mixed with the sorrows, as they always were. Three of Mike’s grandparents had passed on. My dad, Vincenzo, had a heart attack and died in his early seventies. Fortunately, I had visited them in Florida twice a year and had seen him alive about a month before the attack. Momma Maria bore it well and looked as if she could live forever. Both of Mike’s sisters, Mary Beth and Betty Ann were married and had careers. Andy and Betty were anxiously awaiting a grandchild, but their daughters, so far, had not shown any interest in procreating. Maybe Mikey and his lively new wife would come through for them. I had spoken to the Cardinal about Mike Simon and he smiled and said, “Let me see what I can do, Frank.”

  Two weeks later a Detective Division order came out transferring Mike to Queens Homicide. I knew it before he did and showed surprise when he bounded into the candy store that afternoon with his good news. After we all congratulated him he said, “You know, when I get there I’m going to read the case investigation on my parents murders.”

  “Why would you want to open old wounds?” Rabbi Berman asked.

  “Curiosity, I guess, but maybe they overlooked something back then.”

  “Like vat?” Mort said. “Dey got the guy, right?”

  “Yeah, they did, but I want to read it anyway.”

  I said nothing as a cold lump began to form in the middle of my stomach.

  . . .

  At our next monthly meeting a quiet Mike Simon sipped his egg cream and said, “I have some surprising news –”

  “She’s pregnant already?” Marc said.

  “No, not yet, but we’re trying. My news is about my parents’ murder. It seems there was a second perpetrator involved.”

  “How can dat be?” Mort asked as the cold lump again made its presence known in my belly.

  Mike took out some papers and said, “Evidently they didn’t tell my step-dad everything at the time. I pieced this together from the hundreds of pages of reports in the file. They found an unknown blood type in the bedroom. It was A-negative and did not come from my parents or Selewski, the killer. They also found a partial unknown fingerprint on the bedroom wall. The CO of Queens Homicide and the lead investigator would have liked to wrap the case up fast in a tight package, but had to face the obvious fact that a second person was at the murder scene. But who was he and what was his degree of involvement?

  “The forensic investigation had gone as far as it could go. The Automated Fingerprint Identification System was a dream of the future. DNA profiling was something out of a science fiction novel. Selewski’s white convertible had been found parked around the corner on 119 Avenue. No fingerprints other than his were found in, or on, the vehicle. And no other items of evidence pointing to another person’s presence in the vehicle were discovered.

  “The deaths of my parents were investigated as thoroughly as humanly possible. The neighborhood was canvassed numerous times to the point that some of their neighbors exclaimed. ‘You guys, again! I told you already what I know – nothing!’ All of my dad’s prior arrestees were investigated for a possible revenge motive resulting in another dead end. Selewski’s friends, associates, relatives, and neighbors were interviewed – interrogated would be more appropriate – yielding nothing. All had alibis. Alibis were confirmed. The case was never closed, but gradually, as the years went by, it slipped into the back files of the bottom drawer in the office of Queens Homicide. Homicide Case Number Q-232-57 gradually became a cold case. And as the years passed by, it turned into an ice-cold case.”

  “And they never yet found any leads on this guy?” I asked, dreading the answer.

  “No Frank, and based solely on that physical evidence we couldn’t find him today either.”

  “Did they fingerprint Selewski’s friends and associates?” Marc asked.

  “They were going to, but the father of one of his friends was a criminal defense lawyer and advised them not to voluntarily get their fingerprints on record. He told the investigating detective he was fishing, and told Pete’s buddies the cops would always have their prints on file and use them to frame them for a crime they did not commit.”

  “Vat a bastard,” Mort said. “Lawyers. Bah!”

  “What happens now?” I asked.

  “The boss gave me permission to work on the case when I’m not busy on a current investigation.”

  “How can you possibly locate this guy now?” Marc asked.

  “I don’t know, but I’m going to try my damndest to find him and arrest his cowardly ass.”

  “For what, Mike
? Wasn’t Selewski the only shooter?”

  “Yes, but that other guy is as guilty as Selewski just by being at the scene. It’s called Felony Murder, and the charge will stick.”

  Not if he acted under duress, I almost blurted out.

  “Exactly how will you proceed?” Marc asked.

  “Re-interview all the witnesses who are still alive. Track down Selewski’s associates and get their fingerprints and blood types –”

  “How vill you get dat from them?”

  “Ask politely, and do a record check on all Pete’s known associates at the time. I bet a good percentage of them have been printed by now, and I bet a lot of blood types are also on the record.”

  “What if you ask politely and someone politely refuses to be fingerprinted and provide his blood type?” I asked.

  “Zero in on him as the possible perp, but while I’m doing that I’ll wait patiently for the science to catch up and help me out.”

  “What science, Mike?” Marc asked.

  “AFIS. The development of a fully-automated fingerprint identification system is a few months away. And a new blood identification technique called DNA profiling. It’s supposed to identify a suspect by this stuff called DNA. I think that means deoxynucleic acid or something like that, and it’s present in every bodily cell. It’s supposed to be as positive as a fingerprint in identifying a perp.”

  The stone in my gut grew noticeably bigger and colder and I envisioned Detective Mike Simon coming into the store one Sunday afternoon and saying, “I got him identified. His name is Giuseppe Mastronunzio, if you can believe that. Now all I have to do is find him.”

  And will I say? “Finding him will be easy, Mike. He’s sitting right in front of you.”