by Pat Mullan
“I am not afraid to die.”
“I know that. And it’s doubtful if anyone could find a jury to convict you.”
“What happens to me does not matter. It will be the Lord’s will.”
He got up from the table, raised his right hand and blessed Peter, and said, “I think I’ll rest now.” Then he walked across the hall and up the stairs to his room.
38
Ed Burke had kept his Dublin apartment in Ballsbridge Gardens when he was recuperating in Florida. He’d had a year’s lease on the place so he held on to it. Besides, for that first six months of recovery, he was too weak and debilitated to think about it. Maria had given up her apartment when she moved with him to Florida so now it made good sense to have a Dublin base.
Their Aer Lingus flight from New York arrived on time at 7:30 am at Dublin airport. An hour later, loaded down with baggage and a dozen bagels that Maria had picked up at the airport, Ed paid the taxi driver and hauled the bags into the lift. Maria turned the key in the door, they pulled the bags inside, and collapsed in the living room.
Ed looked at his watch. Nine am. He knew that his body was still on New York time and that it was only four in the morning. But he wouldn’t sleep. He never did.
“I’ll make coffee. Toast the bagels,” said Maria, as she rose and headed for the kitchen.
The phone startled them. Maria said, “I’ll get it.”
“It’s for you. Sean Coyne.”
He took the phone from Maria and said, “Sean, you must have a tracking device on us.”
“I’ve got to see you. Can I come over now?”
Ed realized that Sean wasn’t really asking permission. He was on his way.
He hung up the phone and said, “Better make coffee for three and put on another bagel.”
Thirty minutes later Sean Coyne sat facing Ed with a chunk of bagel in his jaw and announced, “He trussed the monsignor up like a turkey and dunked him in the Corrib. At that old abbey in Cong. Must have followed him when he went to Castle Cormack.”
“Do they have any suspects?”
“Well, it’s not John Carty. That’s for sure. They found his body. In the river. Looked like he’d been there for a while.”
“I never thought it was Carty.”
“I’ve asked Tom Buckley. He’s on the case. Tells me they have no idea who it is. Unless he’s keeping a lid on it and knows more than he’s saying. But I didn’t think so.”
“Well, I have to see him anyway. I’ll try and prise it out of him if he knows anything.”
“Good luck!”
“This maniac is grabbing the headlines. He’s diverting attention. This will suit some people just fine.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I don’t want the attention diverted from Father Roland Cormack. I want him to face justice for the killing of Terry. And I think he’s also guilty of unleashing this monster. Don’t you think that young Carty, President McCafferty and Monsignor Fallon would still be alive if he hadn’t killed Terry?”
“Maybe. But you don’t know that.”
“No, I don’t. But all the attention will focus on this killer. That’s not what I want.”
“What do you want? I don’t understand.”
“I’ll explain. Your cousin Joe helped me to think this through. It’s about more than Terry now. I want these people brought down.”
“Hey, that’s impossible. Just get justice for Terry and walk away. You can’t win. Besides, nobody outside the church can bring them down. It has to be an inside job.”
“That’s exactly what I said to Joe. Drive the people away. If the Vatican begins to lose its customers, its churches will close, it’ll begin to lose its business.”
“And how do you expect to do that?”
“Not me. We. We’re going to do that. Start a series of articles in your paper about it. Tie in with the other papers, nationally and internationally. Bring all the media on board.”
“But we can’t publish speculation. They’ll sue us. They’ll put us out of business.”
“You’re the best investigative reporter I know. And I can look under the rocks. The two of us can do this. And you’ve got the best starting point in the world. The deaths of Terry and young John Carty. Everybody wants to protect their kids.”
“Sam McDevitt might buy it. Just might, mind you. There’s no guarantees. He believes in the integrity of the press. But he’s not afraid to take on the establishment. He’s done it before. You know that. And, I thought of something. He’s a member of that separation of Church and State group.”
“That’s perfect. When can you set up a meeting with him?”
“I’ll ask him today and I’ll let you know. Listen, I should get out of here and let you guys get some rest.”
“Rest! We’re up for the day,” laughed Maria, “Ed is anyway. Just hope I can keep up with him.”
Ed said nothing, just flexed his muscles, grinned and reached for Maria. They stood in a hug as Sean left the apartment.
39
Tom Buckley agreed to meet Ed at seven that evening. Even though he felt that the jet lag might get the better of him by then, he knew that he couldn’t waste any time. He intended to meet the Minister of Justice and needed to know how the investigation was going before that.
They met at a nearby café. Tom hadn’t seen Ed since that brief meeting a couple of days before Terry’s funeral. Tom looked tired.
“Thanks for seeing me. And, if I don’t look too alert, I hope you understand.”
“Hey, look at the rings under my own eyes.”
“Yeah, you look a little beat.”
“Since this thing started, well since the suicide of young Carty, I’ve been running on about four hours sleep a night. And you bloody well know that I need eight, at least seven, just to function.”
“Well, are you making any progress?”
“On Terry’s death?”
“Yes, start with that.”
“Look, there’s no evidence of foul play. As you suggested, we interviewed Father Michael Nugent. An angry man, and a frightened one. He told us the whole story. Insisted that somebody had tried to kill him to cover it up. Said you believed that as well. It was definitely a hit and run. But we have no leads. The car was stolen from a used car lot in Galway. Forensics turned up nothing. Nobody saw a thing. Or, if they did, they’re not talking.”
“He told you about Father Roland Cormack.”
“Yes. A sorry mess. But there was no evidence of assault on Terry’s body. And we only have Father Nugent’s story that Father Roland climbed that tower and either pushed or scared young Terry causing him to fall. Father Roland could easily deny that and claim it was an accident. That’s not enough for us to issue an arrest warrant. But I’d sure like to pull him in on a charge of molesting. But I can’t get a soul to talk. Everybody at that school has clammed up. And the murder of McCafferty has sealed their lips forever. We’re sunk, I’m afraid.”
Ed decided to tell Tom about his visit with Joe Brosnan in Boston and the story of the Lavender Mafia.
“That’s why I want Father Roland back.”
“Despite what you say, he’s committed no crime that we know of. And even if you can get somebody to testify, the church is never going to give him up. And, of course he’s a Cormack. There’s isn’t a judge in the land that would sit on this case.”
As Ed contemplated the impossibility of it all, Tom said, “You want to hear the good news?”
“You’ve got good news?”
“We have a lead, a suspect. In the killings of President McCafferty and Monsignor Fallon. You know we found John Carty’s father. Drowned. Couldn’t have done it. He was dead the night that President McCafferty died. But we got lucky. The monsignor died in Cong abbey. Gruesome. He was left tied to the old fish house with his body up to the waist in water. Hypothermia, shock, heart gave out. You can say all those things. I say he died of torture. Tortured to death by that mad bastard. We went
over every inch of that old abbey. Scoured it for even a matchstick. It was late at night, dark when it happened. So he had to have had a good flashlight to see his way though there. But that’s not as good as daylight. And that’s where we made the discovery.”
Tom had stopped, relishing the story, and Ed said, anxiously, “Go on, what did you find?”
“Some money, fifty euros, two twenties and a ten. In a money clip. That’s an American thing, isn’t it? I don’t believe anybody used them in Ireland. I’ll bet they don’t use them much in the States these days either, do they? Anyway, it looked like some kind of a souvenir he got when he was in the Marists. Apparently he spent some years in that order after he was ordained. At first we thought it belonged to the monsignor. Until we examined it more closely. It was well used, well worn, but we could still make out the name that was engraved on the back. Father Bernard Flaherty!”
“Isn’t he the priest who discovered young Carty hanging from that tree?”
“The very same man.”
“My God! You don’t think he’s the killer, do you?”
“He’s our number one suspect. We looked into his background. A brilliant man. Top in his field in math. That’s what he teaches. But mentally unstable. Been in and out of mental institutions at least three times that we can find a record for. Who knows, maybe more. You know how the church hides these things. It’s a secret organization. But you know that. I’m preaching to the converted here.”
“Why would he start killing?”
“We don’t know that. We tried to pick him up for questioning. But he’s gone. Nobody seems to know where he is. I’m going out to St. Curnan’s tomorrow to take a look at his room and his office. Maybe I can learn something. Do you want to come with me?”
“Yes, yes, absolutely.”
By now, both exhausted, they called it a day and agreed to meet at ten am. Tom would drive and it’d take them over two hours to reach St. Curnan’s. He wanted to be there by early afternoon.
40
Ed Burke slouched in the passenger seat of Tom Buckley’s car as they neared St. Curnan’s. His internal clock was still running on American time so he dozed off and on during the trip.
Tugging at the neck of his shirt to loosen it, Tom looked at Ed and said, ”I’m sure you think I’m breaking all the rules by taking you with me.”
“You are! And I’m glad you are.”
“When they gave me the keys and the authority to examine Father Flaherty’s room, they fully expect me to turn over anything and everything I find.”
“But you’re not sure you should do that, are you?”
“No, I’m not. I’m afraid that anything I find will wind up in some black hole.”
“You mean you’re afraid of a cover-up?”
“Exactly! This whole business sucks!”
“Dead on! This is not about perverts. It’s all about power. I’m afraid this pursuit of Flaherty is a distraction.”
“A distraction?”
“Oh, we must stop him. End the killings. I know that. But that’s diverting us from a great opportunity.”
“How do you mean?”
“Look, it’s about time two things happened in this state. Separation of Church and State. And a demand that the Church clean up its act. Turn over every paedophile to the police. Don’t hide them away, make excuses for them, move them around so that they can continue to molest kids. Close all the seminaries under the control of their Lavender Mafia. Eliminate the Lavender Mafia for ever. Apologize to the faithful.”
“But why do you care? You don’t believe?”
“You’re right. I don’t believe. And I shouldn’t care. In fact, I should welcome their demise. But that’s not happening. The unholy alliance between God and Caesar in this land is a major obstacle.”
“Obstacle to …”
“Obstacle to the future. The church still controls all the schools. The local Bishop is the patron of the schools in his diocese. They own the schools, own the land, dictate the ethos of the school, control the school boards. The Minister of Education should have full jurisdiction over our schools. But she doesn’t!”
“You’re on a roll this morning!”
“This is something that I’m very passionate about. And this whole business seems to offer an opportunity. But, if we get sidetracked chasing Flaherty it’ll be so easy to bury what happened to Terry and those boys. People will cheer Flaherty for carrying out vigilante justice that they know will never come from the courts. And nothing else will change.”
The time flew, the traffic was light, and soon they reached St. Curnan’s and left the car in the staff parking area.
“Do you have to see someone?”
“Since they’re without a President at the moment, just the school secretary. It’s only a formality.”
“OK. I’ll hang out. You can pick me up after you sign in.”
Ed walked out and stood in front of the school looking down over the sweeping lawn to the big oak trees. A serene picture. Prayer and contemplation came to his mind. And instantly departed when he failed to reconcile that vision with recent events in the College. His reverie was interrupted by Tom: “All set. Let’s go.”
They climbed the stairs to the second floor and Tom led the way to Father Bernard Flaherty’s room. He took a large key from his pocket and inserted it in the lock. He turned it and the lock opened smoothly. The large door opened noiselessly and they entered. Tom closed the door behind them. The midday light forced its way through the closed curtains, giving the room the mood that great cinematographers achieve. For a moment they both stood solemnly, feeling like intruders who’d broken into a private sanctuary. Tom walked across and pulled the curtains open. Sunlight bathed the room, exposing a substantial, but spartan place. Ed let Tom take the lead. Dark wood side-tables sat at either side of the long single bed. A reading lamp protruded from the wall behind the bed and arched over the right side. A Sunday missal lay open on the table beside a half-empty glass of water.
Tom had already pulled out all the drawers on a long sideboard and was now rummaging through the bottom drawer which seemed to be stuffed with newspapers. He pulled them out and spread them on the floor, and said, “My God, would you look at all this!”
Ed had already crossed the room and now stood looking over Tom’s shoulder. He saw a collection of page one headlines and stories from Ireland and around the world. It seemed that Father Flaherty had been saving every story on the scandals involving the church. Many of them were the same headlines that lay on the ground beside Joe Brosnan’s desk in Boston.
“Seemed to have a fixation on the subject.”
“An unhealthy fixation.”
“A sick man, our Father Bernard.”
As Tom continued to peruse the papers, Ed moved to a large desk that sat beside the window. An open Dell laptop computer, with a separate keyboard and mouse, perched on top of a metal stand, doubling as a desktop. In contrast to the tidiness of the rest of the room, the desk and surrounding area was a mess. Papers, books, correspondence, and other flotsam, all fought for space in the great jumble that surrounded the desk. A small two drawer metal cabinet nestled against the right side of the desk, proving a stand for a printer. The last printed pages protruded from the printer. Ed retrieved them and saw that they seemed to be pages of a manuscript. The footer clearly read © Creatures of Habit by Bernard Flaherty. Intriguing title, he thought. In the jumble on the desk he found another hundred or more pages. They were out of sequence so he didn’t know the actual number. He turned on the laptop, brought up windows and discovered only one user, called Avenger. He felt the hair rise on the back of his neck when he saw that. Avenger! So that’s how Father Flaherty regards himself!
“Get over here. Take a look.”
Tom Buckley pushed up from the floor where he was hunkered down with the newspaper clippings, walked over and looked at the screen.
“Avenger! That’s exactly what he is.”
“And look at th
is. He’s writing a book. I don’t know if it’s fiction or non-fiction. Maybe the real world and the imagined world have merged in Flaherty’s mind. Maybe he doesn’t know himself. There’re about a hundred pages there but I want to see if there’s more on his computer.”
With that he clicked on Avenger and brought up the desktop. Sure enough, right in the middle of the screen, the folder labelled ‘Creatures of Habit’. He opened the folder to reveal at least a dozen word documents. He pulled a diskette from a box on the desk, inserted it in the computer, and copied the most recent files.
“I’m taking this. I want to read whatever he’s written. Maybe it’ll explain what’s been happening. And, if we’re lucky, maybe we’ll find out things we don’t know. Things that will help us.”
“Things that’ll help you, you mean. In your crusade.”
“Crusade! I’m not on any crusade.”
“You been all fired up lately. Preaching about separation of church and state and church control of the schools. This whole mess has you unhinged.”
“But what better time to confront all of this?”
“Listen, I only want to do my job. I want to stop Flaherty. But I also want to get Father Roland and all his dirty friends in front of a judge, stop the cover-up, expose the lot of them.”
“And you’re talking to me about a crusade. Will you listen to yourself, for Christ’s sake!”
“OK, OK, let’s get out of here. We’ve seen enough.”
Ed looked around for a large envelope or something to hold the manuscript pages but saw nothing in sight. He tested the drawers of the filing cabinet and found them unlocked. The top drawer only held some copy paper and little else. But the bottom drawer had books piled on top of each other. He picked up the top book and read the cover, Sex, Priests and Secret Codes, The Catholic Church’s 2,000-Year Paper Trail of Sexual Abuse by Thomas P. Doyle, A.W.R. Sipe and Patrick J. Wall. The blurb on the back cover said that ‘this collection of documents from official and unofficial sources begins its survey in 60 CE and concludes with the contemporary scandal.’ And most of us believe that this is a plague of modern times, of our liberal attitudes, and our breakdown of morals, Ed considered. Not so, not so! He saw that Thomas P. Doyle was a priest, apparently still in good standing, one who has become an expert on the subject and has worked with both victims and those accused of the abuse. The next book, Goodbye, Good Men by Michael S. Rose seemed to pursue the same subject. Thinking it to be time that he got an education on the subject, he decided to take both books with him as well.
