The Death of an Irish Sinner

by Bartholomew Gill

  McGarr canted his head, wishing to hear more.

  “In the thirteenth century, Aquinas had formed Church doctrine in regard to the passage. He held that work—physical labor and toil of every sort—had become a part of man’s life only after Adam and Eve’s fall from grace and banishment from the Garden. Therefore, work, like death, was part of the price man had to pay for having sinned and been cast out of Eden.

  “That interpretation was the official Church interpretation of Genesis from the Council of Trent in the sixteenth century right up to 1879, when Leo the Thirteenth restated Aquinas’s position.

  “Escrivá, on the other hand, reexamined the passage and held that work had been an essential activity in the Garden before man’s fall from grace. Therefore, work was part of God’s plan for man, work was a necessary part of the human condition, and—essentially—man could not be complete as God originally intended him without work’s being an integral part of his life.

  “Taking the interpretation a step further, Escrivá reasoned that one way a person could honor and worship God was to work as well as he or she was able, not merely as a cleric but in all the occupations, whatever a person’s abilities, be it street sweeper or brain surgeon. Hence, the name—Opus Dei, ‘God’s Work.’”

  McGarr noted how animated Parmalee had become; two bright patches had appeared on his cheeks.

  “Unlike Aquinas’s medieval take on Genesis, which contended that work was punishment, Escrivá’s interpretation was perfectly attuned to modern industrial and commercial society. Not everybody—in fact, few—can become a priest or a nun, given the present strictures of holy vows. With families, bills, debts, and so forth, most people must work and work hard.

  “But didn’t the Bible say that work had been an integral part of the state of grace that obtained in the Garden before man’s fall? Escrivá reasoned. Therefore, humankind could honor and worship God through their labor by working as diligently as possible, preferably within the context of a new holy order that welcomed and respected lay vocations. Opus Dei members do not need to become priests or nuns. In fact, at present only two percent are.”

  “Out of how many?”

  “Worldwide? Around eighty thousand.”

  McGarr’s head went back; it was a large number. One of his brothers was a Jesuit, and he knew that order totaled only thirty thousand or so.

  “Since the mid-seventies, at least, Opus Dei has controlled the Vatican bank and the Curia.”

  Which elected Popes. That much McGarr knew. “And how many Opus Dei members are there here in Ireland?”

  “It’s hard to tell, since Opus Dei would never divulge the actual number, but easily two to three thousand, all working for God among us. Not wearing clerical collars or habits. You’d never know who they were.” Parmalee’s slight smile had returned. “Shall I continue?”

  “Please.” If, in fact, Mary-Jo Stanton’s Barbastro was an Opus Dei facility and not merely her residence, McGarr should know something about the order.

  “Beginning immediately after his 1928 revelation, Escrivá proved to be not only an insightful thinker but also a consummate organizer and Machiavellian strategist. He may have written that all work was equal in the eyes of God, but he well understood that some types of work garnered more money and power than others, especially the work produced by graduates of universities, which is where he focused his recruitment efforts.

  “Such that when the Fascist Francisco Franco rose to power in 1936, Escrivá’s Opus Dei was perfectly positioned to assist Franco in rooting out suspected socialists from the universities and installing academics with fascist leanings.

  “Opus Dei’s tireless lay workers were so successful in eradicating the remnants of socialism in Spanish universities that, in 1947, Escrivá approached Pope Pius the Twelfth, who himself had fascist leanings. Escrivá was able to convince him to legitimize Opus Dei as an ‘apostolate of penetration,’ as he called it, to fight the spread of Marxist Communism.”

  Far from mere fascist leanings, Pope Pius XII had been the Pope who acquiesced to the Holocaust. “Apostolate?” It was yet another word McGarr was unsure of.

  “Officially, I guess it’s a group of lay brethren organized to promote some mission of the Church.”

  “Which is what Escrivá had established in Spain.”

  “Exactly. But by legitimizing Opus Dei, that Pope created the Church’s first ‘secular institute’ and allowed Opus Dei to function on a world stage. Some lay members are required to take the sacred priestly vows of poverty, chastity, and obedience.

  “Essentially, they’re priests without collars and practice their chosen occupations or professions while living in Opus Dei residences, like Barbastro. Nearly all of what they earn goes into Opus Dei coffers.

  “Other members, not as fully committed, live with their families, wives, and husbands, while focusing their life on God’s work through Opus Dei.

  “And still others simply worship with and help the order succeed in the world, knowing that every little boost they give Opus Dei is a way of promoting godliness in the world. Or at least their interpretation of godliness, which is the bottom line.

  “Because”—Parmalee moved up in the chair, plainly exercised now—“because, like other zealots and true believers, they’re convinced that God is with them every moment no matter what they do, which allows them to do just about anything. No, anything—topple governments, murder Popes or, as here, anybody else who poses a threat to ‘God’s Work.’

  “Beginning in 1949 with Pope Pius the Twelfth’s imprimatur of legitimacy, Escrivá succeeded in creating the most heinous religious army since…well, since Cromwell, to put things in an Irish context.

  “But as I said, a covert religious army, open warfare being passé and not their style. Rule 191 states, ‘Numerary and supernumerary members must always observe a prudent silence regarding the names of other members, and never reveal to anyone the fact that they belong to Opus Dei…unless expressly authorized to do so by their local director.’”

  “Numerary, supernumerary?” McGarr questioned.

  “The two highest levels of lay commitment. Also there are cooperators—people who contribute to God’s cause either materially or through their offices. People like Eamon de Valera and Charlie Haughey here in this country, François Mitterrand in France, the Kennedys and William Casey, the onetime CIA chief, in the States.”

  McGarr glanced at his watch. Without proof, Parmalee’s charges—if that’s what they were—were scurrilous in the extreme and journalism at its worst.

  “I know, I know.” Parmalee raised his palms. “It’s getting late, and all this is rather much to take in at first blush. But I think you’ll find you’ll need to know more, as your investigation proceeds. And I’ll be at your service, of course.”

  Really, now. That Parmalee believed he knew how the investigation would proceed rather interested McGarr. “What was Mary-Jo Stanton’s status within Opus Dei?”

  “As I mentioned earlier, she was a numerary, the highest category for a woman. But”—Parmalee raised a finger, his brows arching, his eyes still bright—“she was in many ways a disobedient and self-willed numerary who wrote the truth as she, not they, saw it. And it was in this last project—writing the biography of Escrivá, her father—that she transgressed the boundaries of Opus Dei. They could not allow that.”

  “They?” McGarr asked.

  “The priests who control Opus Dei. They’re only two percent of the membership, but they control and direct all.”

  “Father Fred being one of them.”

  Parmalee nodded. “On permanent—how shall I phrase this?—guard duty at Barbastro. His assignment was to keep Mary-Jo happy, since she was so important to Opus Dei in two ways.” Parmalee raised two fingers. “First, as a steady source of significant money. Everything, trust me––the house, the money, the collections and archives—will be left to the order, if the lot doesn’t already belong to them.

  “And second
—to make sure she didn’t go public in any way about her family history, given her direct fleshly connection to Escrivá.”

  “Who has been beatified?”

  Parmalee’s eye darted to the side; he nodded his head. “The first step to sainthood.”

  It was a major charge—that a man who had been vetted for sainthood could possibly have fathered a child. “You have proof of this?”

  Parmalee shook his head. “As I said—in the house, perhaps. Unless, of course, they got to it before you and your staff arrived.”

  “They?”

  “Again—everybody else in residence there. All are Opusians of one form or another.”

  Reaching into his jacket pocket, McGarr drew out the list that Father Fred had given him. “What about Geraldine Breen?” She was the woman who had attacked McGarr on the third floor of Barbastro.

  “She’s an assistant numerary.”

  McGarr glanced up.

  “It’s a subcategory that reveals the essential misogyny of Opus Dei. You must keep in mind that the order is a product of Franco’s Spain, and among women numeraries are assistant numeraries, who ‘dedicate themselves to the material administration’—I believe the phrase is—of Opusian residences and centers. That means they’re scullions who clean, cook, and cater to Opus Dei priests and the fully fledged numeraries. No such category exists for men.”

  Which corroborated what Father Fred had said about Geraldine Breen—that she was the housekeeper. “What about Delia Manahan?”

  “She’s an associate member. Generally, associates live outside Opus Dei residences. The Manahan woman arrived at Barbastro last night, as she often does on weekends, rather like a retreat, I should imagine.”

  McGarr wondered just how long Parmalee had been engaged in his research of Opus Dei and if the residents of Barbastro had been aware of his surveillance.

  “Father Juan Carlos Sclavi?”

  “Like Fred Duggan, another Opus Dei priest. He’s been there for about a fortnight, got there the day after Mary-Jo announced that she had finally finished her biography of Escrivá and was about to send it to her publisher.”

  “Announced to whom?”

  Parmalee hunched his shoulders. “Her friends, I guess.”

  “You among them.”

  “She rang me up and told me.”

  “Why would she do that?”

  “Because we’re friends. Were friends.”

  Curiously, from his first words to McGarr, Parmalee’s mood had seemed anything but funereal. In fact, he appeared even now nearly—was it?—gleeful that he knew what had occurred at Barbastro. But, of course, Parmalee billed himself as a reporter. “Did she know you were researching Opus Dei, and you planned to write about the order?”

  Parmalee smiled. “She encouraged me.”

  “Why would she do that?” If one of Opus Dei’s tenets was utter secrecy, even within the confessional.

  “Because she was afraid for her life.”

  “She told you that?”

  “I have it on tape, if you care to hear.”

  McGarr nodded. “Oh, I do. I do.” He pushed himself out of the chair. It was late. “What are you going to do with your information?”

  “About the murder? It depends.”

  “On what?”

  Parmalee’s slight smile had returned. “I can imagine a scenario in which, after you cracked the case and were about to make an arrest, I’d get an exclusive.”

  McGarr waited for the other shoe to drop.

  “My running what I know in Monday’s paper will only make things more difficult for you, I should imagine, especially with what I could fold in about Opus Dei. And would. Will.

  “You’d have the international press crawling all over this town and Dublin. And you’d have whatever pressure Opus Dei will bring to bear on your investigation cranked up to the max. They might even”—the eye twitched to the side and back again—“take a shot at you. Literally. I think you should be aware of that. You’d be foolish to view Opus Dei as a benign religious order. They’re ruthless. Utterly.

  “Add to that, in the former scenario, you’d have me as a resource, a guide, somebody to answer questions about Opus Dei, the Church, and your list of likely suspects.” His hand flicked out at the piece of paper that McGarr was folding into his shirt pocket.

  “Can we discuss it tomorrow?” McGarr asked.

  “Of course. But I have a four o’clock deadline for the Monday paper. When will you release the notice of her death?”

  McGarr hunched his shoulders; the more time his staff and he had without intrusions from the press and public, the better.

  “You’ll have to at some point, won’t you? Late Monday, after you’ve had a chance to go over the crime scene and house more thoroughly?”

  McGarr canted his head. It was possible, no, probable. Parmalee was no fool; he understood how things worked.

  “You know—I could rush what I have now into the press, scoop the dailies, and make a big splash for Ath Cliath. But I’d prefer to wait for the full story. And the exclusive.”

  Why? thought McGarr. Journalists that he knew ran scoops as soon as they could, understanding that the shelf life of any story was unknowable. Sooner or later, all stories became public. He held out his hand. “Tomorrow.”

  Parmalee took it. “By noon?”

  “Since you have the back story already written,” McGarr probed.

  The man’s smile became more complete. He released McGarr’s hand and tapped his forehead. “In here.”

  “But on paper as soon as you get back to town.”

  “Speaking of which—how do I get there, since I’m sure you’ve impounded my car?”

  Again McGarr was surprised at Parmalee’s prescience. “You have a choice. I can ring for a car now, which will take an hour to get here. Or”—McGarr checked his watch; it was nearly one-thirty—“I can give you a bed and have somebody take you in on the morrow.”

  Parmalee chose the latter, and McGarr showed him to a guest room at the back of the house.

  As McGarr slipped into bed, he woke Noreen.

  “What happened?” she asked in the darkness.

  The bed was blessedly soft and warm from her body.

  “Mary-Jo.”

  “Dead?”

  “Yah.”

  “And Fred called you?”

  Exhausted and still sore, McGarr wanted most simply to sleep, but he knew she would not rest until he told her. “It looks like she was murdered.”

  “Mary-Jo? You’re coddin’ me.”

  “Can I tell you in the morning?”

  “Sure. Of course. You must be knackered. But”—there was a long pause during which McGarr nearly fell asleep—“who were you just speaking with in the den? I could hear the rumble of your voices.”

  “Dery Parmalee. He’s staying over.”

  “The journalist from Ath Cliath?”

  McGarr made a low noise in the back of his throat.

  “Down here to cover the story?”

  McGarr again assented.

  “Quick, isn’t he?”

  Which was the question that McGarr fell asleep on and woke up wondering about.

  PART III

  WHO RULES

  CHAPTER 9

  BUT PARMALEE was gone by ten the next morning when McGarr got down to the kitchen.

  Seated at the long table were Bernie McKeon, Hugh Ward, and Ruth Bresnahan, Murder Squad staffers, who were being served a killer Irish breakfast, McGarr could see as he walked in: crisped rashers, sausages of several kinds, a mound of eggs scrambled with cream and cheese, grilled tomatoes, chips, and buttered toast.

  None of which McGarr could have. His cholesterol was sky-high, a Garda physician and friend had told him, after a mandatory testing of everybody in the unit. Well into the two hundreds. “Add to that, Chief Superintendent, you don’t seem to be able to do anything about your smoking, so something has to go.

  “May I suggest fatty foods? I could put you on
a strict diet. You’d lose weight, feel better, be more active. How much younger is Noreen than you? A fair few years, I’d say. I’d hazard she’d like you around as long as possible.” Worse news was—a copy of the physician’s report had been sent to the house.

  Some friend.

  The diet proved to be simple in the extreme; anything and everything that tasted at all good was verboten. “Not to worry,” the cruel doctor had assured McGarr confidently. “You’ll get used to the regimen. Once you start losing a few pounds and feeling better, you’ll turn up your nose at all those bloating things that you formerly hungered for.”

  It was now day eleven, and McGarr’s nose was pointing at the platter of eggs. Add to that, he had never actually felt unhealthy, he decided, raising a hand in greeting to the others, as he advanced on the table. It had been the physician who had predicted he would possibly feel bad sometime in the future.

  “We’re talking about the big one here, Peter,” the man had carried on. “Myocardial infarction. A heart attack. Bang, and you’re dead. Or some major surgery followed by an equally major change in how you conduct your life. Perhaps you might have to change your occupation. Could you handle that?”

  At the moment, McGarr believed he could handle a smallish dab of everything on the table.

  But before he could even sit down, a bowl of stirabout was placed before his chair, along with a cup of black coffee, a glass of orange juice, and a small heap of pills—vitamins mostly, but also one to lower his blood pressure and another to combat the cholesterol.

  “You should keep in mind,” the preachy doctor had continued, “that growing old successfully requires abandoning unhealthful practices one by one.”

  Until oatmeal mush was all that was left, McGarr decided, looking down into the gluey mass.

  “In addition to tobacco and rich foods, I also mean alcohol,” the man had ranted on, scanning the questionnaire that McGarr had foolishly filled out truthfully. “Do you really drink this much every day? What hour do you begin?”