by Pat Mullan
“He was our only son. All that we had,” and she slumped into her chair, seeming to shrink before his eyes. Ed waited.
“Did he ever talk about the school? About the priests? About anything that was troubling him?”
“John was a good boy. A good student. He wrote a letter home often. He was doing so well. We were so proud of him.”
“But, Mrs. Carty, what made him end his life? What drove him to it?”
“We don’t know. His father …. “ She immediately stopped talking.
Ed waited but she seemed lost, gone somewhere else.
“Mrs. Carty, you were about to say something about John’s father.”
She pulled herself out of it and said, “His father lived for John. He admired him so much. John was going to be – going to do – the things he never could. John’s death killed him inside.”
“I’d like to see him.”
She seemed unprepared for his request. Her resolve suddenly collapsed and she dropped her head into her hands. Tears trickled down her cheeks. Ed’s first impulse was to reach across to her, touch her hands, comfort her. But he knew that that would have been a bad move. Accustomed to the stoicism of farmers who depended on no-one but themselves, she had to find her own inner emotional strength.
She gained control again, looked Ed directly in the eyes, and said, “I haven’t seen Joe since the day after John’s funeral. I don’t know where he is.”
“Did he not say anything?”
“No.”
“Have you called anyone?”
“Only his brother up in Mayo. But he hasn’t seen or heard from him.”
“Did he take anything? A suitcase? Anything?”
“Only the clothes he was wearing. Nothing else.”
“Did you tell the gardai?”
“Sure, why would I do that? He’s away somewhere. Somewhere to be alone. To get away. Even from me. You see, he couldn’t handle John’s death. And this house reminds him of John. Every minute. It gives me comfort. But not Joe.”
“But aren’t you worried?”
“I am. I am. But what can I do. Only hope that he’ll come back soon. There’s things to be done around here. And only he can do them.”
She got up and began to tidy away the dishes. On her way back to the table she reached under the sideboard, pulled out a shoebox and handed it to Ed, “I lived for his letters.”
Ed felt awkward. He didn’t want to read her son’s letters. Didn’t believe he’d learn anything from them. But he felt he should make some gesture. So he lifted the lid and thumbed through the letters. They were all neatly inserted in their envelopes, except the two top ones, the most recent ones. Looked like they’d been read again and again. He scanned the top letter. Just as he suspected: a simple, uncomplicated story of his last week’s activity at St. Curnan’s, ending with his love and how much he looked forward to coming home for the holidays. Not the last letter of a boy who was about to commit suicide.
After a time, Ed felt that he should leave. He couldn’t do anything to lessen Mrs. Carty’s sorrow and he hadn’t learned anything about her son’s problems. He only learned that his father was missing.
28
Ed Burke decided that he had availed enough of his cousin’s hospitality. He knew that Claire would encourage him to stay but he needed his own place, a base to operate out of, a place to retreat to when needed: his cottage at Claddaghduff on Connemara’s west coast.
He hadn’t been to the family cottage since he fled to Florida, at least eighteen months ago. The cottage, overlooking the beach in Claddaghduff, hadn't changed in twenty years. Oh, there was a new kitchen, microwave, oil fired central heating. But the rest remained the same. Even the thatched roof. Few of those left in Ireland. The cottage had been in his mother's family for ages. When he was a little boy, he remembered coming here in the summer time with his mother and father. A cheap holiday that let his mother escape her hated Dublin. How she loved it here. Totally at home. She became a changed woman after a week. A spring to her step, a glow in her cheeks, a sparkle in her eyes. His father hated it here. Hated the isolation, the barren Connemara landscape, the people. Couldn't wait to get back to his Dublin. But Ed always had a good time. Running on the beach, taking riding lessons on the Connemara ponies, learning to swim. It had been a playground for him. A vast playground with no people. He imagined that he was a great Irish king and ruled as far as he could see …
These memories always came back to him as he neared Claddaghduff, the place which connected him with his past.
He paid a local man to keep an eye on the cottage, to open the windows and air the place. So it smelled fresh when he entered. Turf and wood stood piled up in the fireplace. He struck a match and lit the kindling. Soon the leaping flames brought warmth and life.
But Ed couldn’t relax and get cosy. President McCafferty’s funeral was scheduled the day after tomorrow at Galway Cathedral. He would attend.
Two days later Ed drove into an already crowded parking lot at the rear of Galway Cathedral. He got lucky and squeezed into one of the last places available. It was windy and blustery but not rainy. Sean Coyne would be here and they planned to meet after the funeral mass. Ed closed his car door and, head down against the wind, strode towards the Cathedral.
Sean Coyne waited inside the main entrance. Ed joined him and they found seats near the centre aisle, mid-way to the altar, as the funeral mass commenced.
President McCafferty’s coffin already lay on a catafalque at the head of the centre aisle, directly in front of the altar. Organ music reverberated around the perfectly acoustic space and Ed looked over his shoulder as the first of many priests walked, two by two, up the centre aisle towards the altar. He counted at least forty of them as they passed. Once they reached the altar, they sat in pre-arranged semi-circles. Ed had already counted those on the altar: ten priests and three bishops would con-celebrate the requiem mass.
The requiem mass lasted about an hour with a fine homily/eulogy from one of the bishops. A most impressive service, thought Ed, fit for a head of state. It was obvious that President McCafferty had been held in high esteem.
Ed Burke and Sean Coyne did not follow the cortege to the cemetery. Sean had seen enough. Besides he wasn’t covering the event for the press. He was here to brief Ed on the Cormacks. They left their cars in the church parking lot and walked across the bridge into town and found a quiet corner table for lunch upstairs in Ard Bia on Quay Street. They both settled for sparkling Ballygowan; a sober lunch, as befitting the day and the topic they met to discuss.
“Ed, tell me what you think. Who did it?”
“You mean, who killed President McCafferty?”
Sean made a face to show what else could he possibly mean and answered with a “Yeah!”.
“You’re the investigative reporter. I’d expect you to know before me.”
“Hey, that’s not fair!”
Sean’s voice had risen and the waitress looked at them disapprovingly, letting them know that tranquillity was the expected ambience at Ard Bia.
“Easy. I was only kidding. The gardai think that John Carty’s father did it.”
“The boy who killed himself?”
“Yip. But I’m not so sure.”
“Why?”
“I went to see Mrs. Carty and I didn’t get the feeling that her husband was a killer.”
“Did you talk with him?”
“No. That’s the problem. He was missing. Been gone since the day after his son’s funeral. The boy was his life. He couldn’t handle it.”
“So there’s the motive.”
“I know that. That’s why the gardai think he did it.”
“And you don’t.”
“I liked Mrs. Carty. Strong woman. She hadn’t reported her missing husband to the gardai. Not the thing to do. Still thought that he’d be back. After he’d cried out his days and nights.”
“But he’s still missing?”
“Yes.”
“So, he could be the killer.”
“He could. He has the motive. But I have an uncomfortable feeling about it.”
“This has been in all the headlines for the past few days. And this funeral will keep it alive. I’ll have to write about it. And I’ll have to talk about the gardai’s suspicions. If Carty is reading all of this and, if he’s an innocent man, this should flush him out.”
“Maybe.”
“On the other hand, if he’s guilty …”
“Or dead!”
“You really think he might be?”
“No, I don’t know. Nobody knows. Maybe Mrs. Carty is right and he’ll turn up at her front door at any minute. But I wouldn’t bet on it!”
“Alright, I’ll go along with you. Let’s say you’re right and Carty didn’t kill the President. Who did it? Who do you think did it?”
“I don’t know. But we can’t assume anything. Maybe his killing had nothing to do with Carty’s death. Or young Terry’s death either. Maybe it has to do with somebody else entirely. Maybe it’s been simmering for a long time.”
“Look, Ed. I’m supposed to be a damn good investigative reporter and I’m confused. There’s more than one party playing in this killing field. Whoever tried to kill your Father Michael was not the same person who killed President McCafferty. Different agenda. Different motives. One’s a cover up. And the other’s an act of revenge. Retribution!”
They’d ordered already and the waitress arrived with their lunch. Their table was tiny so she busied herself rearranging everything to make it all fit. Finally, with a well practised ‘enjoy your meal’, she left.
They ate in silence for a while until Ed asked, “Did you find out anything about Father Roland Cormack?”
“I did, I did. And it wasn’t too difficult. He’s being groomed alright. Fast track to the Vatican.”
“Sean, I know that.”
“Wait, wait. There’s a lot more!”
“Yeah, sorry, go on …”
“Father Roland went straight to the States after ordination. Plum assignment in Boston. Assistant to the Private Secretary to Archbishop Volpe, a powerful man in his own right within the church.”
“Being groomed, hmph …”
“In more ways than one.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’ve been doing some research. I need to know what we’re dealing with. I mean, I never liked getting all that church liturgy beaten into me in school. Turned me off. If I’m going to write about what’s happening here, what happened to Terry Joyce, and why, I need to go back to basics. So I did some digging. I’ve got a cousin in Boston, ex-priest, couldn’t take the whole routine, left after ten years, so I figured he’d be a good place to start.”
Sean took a deep breath before continuing, “You’ve heard of Father Andrew Greeley?”
“You mean the American priest who writes all those novels?”
“Yes, he coined the phrase The Lavender Mafia. The man knows what he’s talking about. According to my cousin Joe in Boston, Joe Brosnan by the way, there’s a subculture in the priesthood that promotes a gay agenda. They have ensured that their sexual orientation and ethos has dominated seminary life for years. You can imagine the power they control as they climbed through the hierarchy. They are The Lavender Mafia! ”
“And you think that Father Roland was involved in this subculture when he was in the States?”
“Absolutely! My cousin Joe will swear to it. He says that Archbishop Volpe was the head man in this network in the States. And Joe should know. He worked in the chancery when Father Roland was Assistant to Volpe’s Secretary.”
“I need to talk with your cousin. Will he see me?”
“I’m sure he will. He knows why I called. He knows about the boys who died at St. Curnan’s. I told him about you.”
“I have to go to New York anyway. See Maria. And Kevin. Maria’s coming back with me. I’ll make a detour up to Boston.”
They finished lunch and left. Sean had a deadline to meet and, as they parted on the street outside, Sean said, “Volpe’s now a Cardinal. He’s at the Vatican. Isn’t that where Father Cormack went?”
29
An angry Monsignor Thomas Fallon bounded down the stairs of St. Curnan’s, rushed out the front door, and headed for his car. He’d been summoned to Castle Cormack. Summoned! That’s the only word that came to mind. Lord Desmond had been furious after the visit from that man, Burke. Insisted on seeing him immediately. He knew it’d be a good two hour drive and two hours back again. Desmond would invite him to stay the night but he’d deny him that pleasure.
In twenty minutes he was on the main road heading west. Checked the clock on the dashboard: almost four thirty. He turned on the radio. Music wasn’t his thing, certainly not the pop tunes that filled the airwaves from Radio2. Then he realized that The Last Word talk-show was due to commence on TodayFM. That’ll do nicely, he thought. Let me listen to the latest discourse and help to kill the next hour or so. Leaning over to turn on the radio, the car behind annoyed him. Even though it wasn’t dark, its headlights were on full. Maybe he’ll turn off and I’ll lose him soon. Cautioning himself to relax, he turned up the volume and drove at a steady sixty miles an hour.
The Avenger had been waiting for this opportunity for days. The monsignor was evil. He knew that. And no-one had done anything about it. Now the monsignor had covered up a crime and moved the guilty one out of the country. Moved him to Rome where he’d get protection. The Church had failed. Failed to purge itself of this evil. The Church had lost its way. These evil people were no better than the Templars who used to reject Christ and spit on the cross. But God found a way to make them pay. We burned them at the stake. Well, I am doing God’s work. I will make these evil ones pay. I will teach this church to change its ways.
An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth. He pressed down on the accelerator and closed the gap between his own car and the monsignor’s. Let him experience fear. Yes, that’s what I intend for the monsignor. Fear!
Nearing Galway, the traffic had increased and Monsignor Fallon no longer felt intimidated by the car that seemed to ride directly behind him. Other cars moved in and out and passed him as he stayed at his consistent sixty miles an hour. He negotiated the roundabouts and turned right on the Headford road. Fifteen minutes later, the traffic had lessened and now another car rode close behind. Could it be the same one, he thought, and immediately dismissed that thought and accused himself of getting paranoid. Putting it out of his mind, he concentrated on the radio where Matt Cooper of The Last Word was attempting to moderate a heated debate about the US Presidential election between a liberal democrat and a conservative Republican. A struggle for power, he contemplated. Well, being a member of the Cormack clan, I know all about a power struggle.
With his mind engaged by the debate, the car seemed to run on automatic and he had to bring himself back when he reached the gates of Castle Cormack. All the staff had left for the day; only the caretaker, a maid, and his Lordship’s personal chef remained. A side entrance had been left unlocked for him and he made his way through a maze of hallways until he reached Lord Desmond’s office. But it was empty. He called out but got no answer. But he had a sense about where he might find him. He retraced his steps, went down a short staircase, turned the corner and turned the handle on a large door that opened into the snooker room. The light was dim, barely enough to illuminate the balls on the table. And sure enough, Lord Desmond stood there, leaning on a cue stick, contemplating his next move.
“Ah, Thomas, there you are. Take a cue stick and join me.”
“I’m afraid not. You know I’ve never played this game.”
“No misspent youth in the pool-halls of Dublin for you. You marched to the beat of a different drum, didn’t you?”
“Did you bring me all the way here, just to harass me?”
“Don’t be so damned sensitive, Thomas!”
“I don’t appreciate being summoned here at a moment’s notice, Yo
ur Lordship.”
“Your Lordship! I remember when you used to call me Desmond.”
“And you’re probably going to lecture me that blood is thicker than water, aren’t you?”
“In our family, it is! That means that, as head of the family, I need to be informed immediately when there’s a crisis. It shouldn’t be left to an arrogant stranger like this Edmund Burke to tell me what I need to know.”
“Who is this Burke? I don’t know him.”
“No, you don’t. But he’s the cousin of that young boy, Terry Joyce, who died in your college. He seems to think that Father Roland had something to do with this. Father Nugent, do you know him, told all this to Burke. Is that true?”
“The boy’s death was an accident.”
“Then why would Burke come here and blame Father Roland?”
“Father Roland was there when the boy fell out of that tower.”
“So you confirm what Burke told me.”
“No, I do not. I don’t know what Father Nugent told him. If he said that Father Roland killed that boy, then he’s lying. Probably trying to protect himself. Roland followed the boy because the boy had done something wrong and he needed to stop him from making things worse.”
“You’re talking in riddles. Don’t give me that cleric-speak. You’re not in the pulpit now.”
“The boy had taken some photos. Photos of Father Roland, photos that could have been misunderstood. Father Roland needed to get them. Now you know.”
Lord Desmond sagged at this. He moved away from the pool table, set the cue against the wall, and sank into a tall wing-backed chair in the corner. He propped his elbows on the arms of the chair, clasped his hands together and used that to support his chin. He said nothing.
Monsignor Fallon continued, “Father Roland came to me. I decided that he needed to be as far away as possible until this whole thing blew over. The boy’s death was an accident. That’s what the autopsy has shown. He was due to be in Rome in three months time anyway. I called Cardinal Volpe and he was happy to take him sooner. Cardinal Volpe has great respect for Father Roland. He impressed him greatly when he worked with him in Boston.”
