The Death of an Irish Sinner

by Bartholomew Gill

  Suddenly McGarr found himself hunched over the woman, their faces inches apart. “I don’t know how you worked that, but there are two ways I can work you. One is the usual way, the legal way. But that’s far too easy and good for the likes of you.

  “What you need is pain. Not the pain of losing a husband who was a blackmailer and thief. No. And not the pain of having been misled even for a decade by a group of conniving clerics. Not that either.

  “What this situation demands—and I will serve you up—is pain of the sort that my father-in-law, whom you also murdered, felt. And my wife is presently feeling.

  “I could and should”—from inside his jacket McGarr pulled his derringer with the four barrels and slammed it into the space between her eyes, knocking her head back into the cushion of the chair—“pop you right here and now. You vicious, heinous, frightful piece of work.”

  Loading his weight into the stubby pistol as he pushed himself to a stand, McGarr stepped away from her. “But that would be far too easy. I know somebody better suited to the job, somebody who will make your pain linger.”

  “Who?”

  “Why, your bosom buddy. Your pal, your friend—Gerry Breen.”

  “She’ll never believe you. Because you know, as I do, it’s not the truth. You have no proof.”

  “We’ll see.” McGarr slipped the derringer back into his jacket and moved to the door.

  He found Father Fred Duggan in the hallway not far away. “Ear to the door, could it be, Father?”

  “Me?” the cleric said archly in a way that confirmed his guilt.

  Taking the larger man’s arm, McGarr reached for the handle of another door off the hall and opened it. Shoving the priest inside, he said, “Either sit down or I’ll sit you down.”

  Like the other bedrooms that McGarr had been in at Barbastro, this too was supplied with plain, if expensive, furnishings designed for the contemplative life.

  Attempting to compose himself, knowing that somehow he really should try to dismiss his anger at what had happened to the person he loved most and her father, McGarr suddenly realized he had already passed beyond that. He had already decided that he would seek his own revenge. And in that way he would cross a line that he had promised himself he’d never cross.

  Glancing at himself in the mirror of the armoire as he turned to Duggan, he saw a short, squat, aging man whose face was drawn and whose eyes were cold with fury. And it occurred to McGarr that he should have long since abandoned the occupation that had now proved so disastrous. But out of selfishness or self-will he had continued to work, when all indications—his countenance alone!—dictated that he should have quit.

  And would now, after having crossed the line.

  Turning to Duggan, he regarded the fit, dark, and handsome priest who had not only enriched his order enormously but had been enriched himself beyond the wildest dreams of any ordinary person. Or priest.

  But then again—McGarr reminded himself ruefully—priests were no ordinary persons. They were ordained.

  Could Parmalee have been right?

  Noreen. McGarr wondered how Noreen was at the moment and if, in pursuing the cause of her distress, he was trying to ignore and deny her injuries. And Maddie and Nuala—what were they feeling?

  Did they need him? Of course they did. But.

  “Father—can you appreciate that I’m a bit exercised here, personally? And because of my…extremity, I will put to you candidly a few questions that I want you to answer candidly. Am I understood?”

  Wearing clerical garb, with his hands now clasped in front of his chest, the priest nodded, his brow furrowed in—could it be?—feigned concern. “Of course, Peter.”

  “Before you pointed out to me on the videotape the water bottle that Frank Mudd removed from the murder scene, did Delia Manahan come to you saying that Mudd was not her actual brother and that she was worried about what part he might have played in Mary-Jo’s death?”

  Duggan’s eyes canted off toward the door. “I’m not sure what you know about Opus Dei, but we have a policy of keeping things like that intramural.”

  “Tell me!” McGarr roared.

  Startled and with widened eyes, Duggan nodded.

  “She came to me.”

  “Did she tell you Mudd was not her brother?”

  Duggan nodded again.

  “And that you should review the security videotapes.”

  Yet again, Duggan nodded.

  “You did that and came to me.”

  “Yes, she made a…clean breast of the matter, confessed the error of her ways, and I forgave her. Of course, she also made a complete formal confession followed by communion.”

  If McGarr had not been completely satisfied that Delia Manahan had murdered Mary-Jo Stanton, Frank Mudd, Fitzhugh Frenche, and possibly Noreen McGarr, he was now.

  “But not a complete confession.” Plunging his hands into his trouser pockets, McGarr turned his back on the priest and moved toward the little shrine that had been placed against an otherwise bare wall. It pictured a Sienese Jesus with a long, slightly bearded, sallow face, touching his exposed sacred heart with one hand while raising the other in a graceful gesture of beneficence.

  McGarr had once heard a nun explain that the picture, which was a common feature of churches and homes countrywide, symbolized God’s love. He loved mankind so much that he sent His perfect son to earth to teach imperfect man that in goodness and purity of heart, there is life after death.

  At the time, McGarr had wanted to believe that. But he did not then, and he did not now.

  “How do I get in touch with Geraldine Breen? I know you know, and I want you to tell me.” He turned to Duggan.

  “I’m sorry, but I don’t. The last I heard or knew about Gerry was the night of Mary-Jo’s death. Up in her quarters when she attacked you and your men took her away.”

  “You’re lying to me.”

  “What?” Duggan unclasped his hands and sat up in his chair. “I’m a man of the cloth, and—”

  “Perhaps. But you’re a liar, and you’re lying in front of this.” McGarr waved a hand at the shrine. “And in that.” He pointed at Duggan’s clerical collar.

  “Let me tell you a few things, Father. Maybe it will improve your memory.

  “Ten years ago, Gerry Breen murdered Francis X. Foley, the solicitor, in his office in Fitzwilliam Square. She murdered him because—among dozens of others—Foley was blackmailing you and Opus Dei, using Mary-Jo Stanton’s probable paternity as the basis. He claimed he had proof that she was the daughter of your José Maria Escrivá.”

  “Escrivá de Balaguer,” Duggan corrected.

  “You paid him, and you paid him for many years. Why?”

  “Who says we paid him? I don’t. This is the first time I’ve heard any of this.”

  Now glaring at the man, McGarr had to struggle to contain himself. “Breen, who functioned around here as security and is obviously well trained, discovered who Foley was and, after slaying him, made off with his files. I found them tonight in Chazz Sweeney’s office in town, where, I’m sure, he put the information to use over the years.”

  Duggan hunched his shoulders and again twined his hands across his chest, confident that the files did not contain any information about Mary-Jo Stanton’s paternity.

  Or so McGarr read the gesture.

  “I’ll admit that Mr. Sweeney is friendly to us, but I don’t see how his possessing those files in any way incriminates him. I know for a fact that he’s a collector. That building of his is chock-full of things he purchased at estate sales, auctions, and the like.”

  Again McGarr had to return his hands to his pockets and turn away. “Worse than the murder itself, you compounded the crime by having Breen work at befriending Delia Manahan, Foley’s widow. Breen helped her with the wake, the funeral, the children, the house, and eventually duplicitously brought the woman into Opus Dei.

  “Why? To keep her close, just in case her husband might have made copies of his
files and put them aside in one of the offshore banks he had used to conceal his identity. Think of it—for over ten years now, you and she and Opus Dei lied to the woman, allowing her to follow your rules, do your bidding, work for you, and—I’m sure—contribute to your coffers when, all along, you had murdered her husband, the father of her children, and disrupted the course of her life.”

  “It couldn’t have been much of a course, living with a blackmailer, as you say. But”—Duggan’s hands came up—“in no way do I admit or even acknowledge any of what—”

  “Until, until”—McGarr spoke over the priest—

  “Dery Parmalee overheard you and Breen discussing Manahan, laying out all the sordid—”

  “You don’t know that.”

  McGarr spun around on Duggan. “Oh, yes, I do. I also know that you and Sweeney conspired in all of this, and that bothered you, Father, because you knew—you know—it’s more than simply wrong. It’s evil.

  “See this?” From a pocket, McGarr pulled out a small square piece of plastic.

  “What is it?”

  “A flash card. A recording disk. It can store photographs, words, even voices. Small, eminently portable, cheap. For over a year, and with the help of Frank Mudd, Dery Parmalee used these to record every conversation that you had here in Barbastro.”

  Duggan’s head went back slightly, as though he now understood the source of Parmalee’s information.

  “He had Mudd place listening devices in every room he could, until you—correctly suspecting that Mudd’s presence in the house was unusual—banned him from the place.

  “Granted, Parmalee had his own life to live, so he couldn’t monitor all that was said. Instead, he let a computer do it, screening key words, such as Foley, Manahan, Fitzwilliam Square, Escrivá—get the picture?”

  Duggan only stared at him.

  “I myself am computer-illiterate, so I had to listen from Parmalee’s flat over the chemist shop down in the village. Granted, I didn’t hear you discussing how and why you murdered Foley, but I did overhear this conversation.

  “Shall I play it for you?”

  Duggan still said nothing, but his eyes were hooded.

  Holding the device in his hand, McGarr turned up the volume and carried it only a step in Duggan’s direction, not trusting himself to get any closer to the priest.

  They heard:

  “Hello.” Some silence went by, and then, “I know, Chazz. I know. There was nothing we could do, no way to stop him.” It was Duggan’s voice, recorded early that afternoon at Parmalee’s flat in the village.

  Another pause. “You have to understand, Parmalee has been chewing on this since we convinced Mary-Jo to banish him. Given how…erratic and vindictive he is, it was inevitable that one day it would come to this. Didn’t we discuss this before Mary-Jo’s death?”

  Another long silence. “Well—I don’t want to know how that could happen. Also, I think this conversation should come to an end. I’m a man of the cloth….”

  Another lengthy pause. “I should remind you whom you’re talking to…. I’m going to hang up now. I’m hanging up. I think we should speak at some other time, when you’re more yourself.”

  “This is the part I like most,” McGarr said to Duggan, pointing to the recording machine in the palm of his hand.

  With force, the receiver hit its yoke and Duggan roared his displeasure, following which he began to cry.

  McGarr turned up the volume yet higher, as the man could be heard bawling uncontrollably.

  Then: “How did we get into this? And why? Why couldn’t Mary-Jo have lived out her life as God intended? Mary Jo—dear heart in heaven—can you forgive us?”

  Then a knock, and Sclavi asking “¿Cómo puedo ayudarte?”

  And Duggan’s “You can’t! I’m inconsolable. How could we have strayed so far, so quickly.”

  McGarr switched off the recorder. “Can I tell you this? I don’t completely understand what that was about, since I know you and your order played no part in Mary-Jo Stanton’s or Frank Mudd’s deaths.

  “But shortly after this call, Dery Parmalee was shot and killed execution-style in his digs in the Liberties tonight, where sometime later, Sweeney shot and killed Detective Inspector Enda Flatly before two witnesses.”

  Duggan’s eyes widened; plainly the last bit was news to him.

  “And this”—McGarr pointed to the recorder—“makes you, a holy priest, a party at least to Parmalee’s death.”

  Duggan opened his mouth, as though to object.

  “You! Knew! Before Sweeney had Breen cuff Parmalee’s wrist and ankle together in her signature fashion and then empty a magazine into the back of his brain. You could have saved the life of another human being, regardless of his flaws and failings. And yet you did nothing but indulge yourself in an emotional display.”

  Duggan wrenched his eyes away.

  “I wonder if you felt that deeply when you had Breen or Sweeney spike my wife’s shotgun, killing Fitz and maybe Noreen too.”

  The eyes, which were now brimming with tears, returned to him. “Now that, I swear…No, not us.”

  McGarr slipped the recorder into his jacket and pulled out his mobile phone. “What I want from you now is simple and easy for you to accomplish without violating any of your…scruples.”

  He handed Duggan the phone. “Ring up Geraldine Breen—I know you know where she is—and tell her I wish to speak with her. And speak only. I don’t want to know where she is. The call is not being traced. I just want to chat.”

  “I don’t know. I—”

  “Do it!” McGarr roared. “Or so help me, I’ll splash you and your order across the front page of every paper in the country.”

  Now very much looking his age and having to wipe the tears from his eyes, Duggan fumbled with the phone. “I—I can’t see. My spectacles.” But he punched in a number, then: “Gerry? I want you to listen to me and do as I say. I have somebody here who wants to speak with you. You know who he is—”

  “And hear him out, don’t ring off no matter what he says,” McGarr prompted.

  Duggan repeated his words before handing McGarr the phone.

  “Miss Breen—it’s Peter McGarr. Miss Breen?”

  Finally, he heard a voice.

  “I’d like you to hang on for a moment. I’ve something to tell you, but I need some privacy.” And to Duggan: “You stay here. Don’t move from that chair.”

  Out in the hall, McGarr shut the door and stuck a nearby chair under the knob. At the door to Delia Manahan’s room, he knocked and waited until he heard her approach the door and ask, “Who is it?” before he began speaking into the mobile phone.

  “Geraldine Breen, are you there?”

  He heard another acknowledgment.

  “Geraldine Breen—I’m phoning you because I want you to know several things. First and foremost, I know who killed Mary-Jo Stanton and Frank Mudd, and it was not Dery Parmalee.”

  McGarr then heard what amounted to a shriek behind the door, and the key rolled over in its lock. “You can’t!” Manahan yelled.

  “Why not?” McGarr asked.

  “Because it’s…it’s tantamount to signing my death warrant.”

  McGarr managed a thin smile. “As you said, I have no real evidence, evidence that would stand up in a court of law. But you and I know you killed Mary-Jo Stanton, after Parmalee learned who killed your husband and wrote you an anonymous letter. You murdered Mary-Jo to get back—”

  With her eyes widened and her wan face suddenly flushed with fear, Manahan reached for the phone, but McGarr batted her hands away.

  “Gerry, it’s Delia!” she shouted. “Don’t believe him! He lies. He thinks I tampered with his wife’s shotgun and—Give me that fucking phone!” Manahan lunged again, but the second swipe of McGarr’s left arm caught her on the side of the neck with such force that her shoes flew off her feet as she fell hard onto the hall carpet.

  Bending down so he was only inches from her face, McG
arr proceeded to tell Breen how the two murders were accomplished: the G. Bass, Outfitters water bottle, the come-along secured by the fancy knot, the theft of the manuscript that was mailed to Parmalee so he could run it in Ath Cliath, the duplicity that matched Breen’s own in every way but duration.

  As McGarr spoke, he watched Manahan’s light gray eyes work, darting here and there but never—not once—meeting his own.

  “Are you there?” he had to ask when he had finished what he had to say. But Breen had rung off.

  McGarr straightened up, closed the phone, and slipped it into his pocket. Turning, he made for the staircase.

  “Where are you going? You can’t leave. Not now.”

  Nearly stopping to go back and do what his hands were telling him he should, McGarr instead forced himself down the wide staircase, passing under the crystal chandelier toward the formal entrance of Barbastro.

  “Arrest me! You have to arrest me!” Her voice echoed in the foyer.

  Turning back to her, McGarr made sure their eyes met. “No sin goes unpunished. Ultimately.” With all the force he could muster, McGarr slammed the door shut.

  Ward was waiting, parked in a rental car behind McGarr’s Rover.

  Explaining the situation, McGarr added, “Don’t let her leave the country, here or in the North. But do nothing. Just follow her. After the fact…well”—his eyes met Ward’s—“Breen should be stopped.”

  Ward nodded. “And you?”

  “Hospital.”

  CHAPTER 20

  FOR TWO DAYS, Ward, Bresnahan, and McKeon followed Manahan, who first tried to fly out of Dublin Airport.

  Denied that privilege because of the phone call Ward had earlier placed to Customs and Immigration, she then attempted to board the ferry to Wales from Dun Laoghaire. Failing that as well—and nearly getting arrested for trying to bribe a port officer—she abandoned her Mercedes at a car rental agency and in a new Audi drove north to Aldershot Airport outside Belfast.