The Madman's Tale

by John Katzenbach

  “So, Peter,” the priest began, “ it is acceptable that I call you Peter? I would like to keep this session informal.”

  “Of course, Father,” Peter said. He nodded his head. That was clever, he thought. Everyone else had an adult’s authority and a status. He only had a first name. He had used the same approach with more than one arsonist that he’d questioned.

  “So, Peter,” the priest began again, “you are here in the hospital for a mental evaluation ordered by the court prior to continuing with the charges against you, is that not correct?”

  “Yes. Trying to figure out whether I’m crazy. Too crazy to stand trial.”

  “That is because many people who know you believe your actions to be, what? Shall we say ‘out of character’? Is that a fair representation?”

  “A fireman who sets a fire. A good Catholic boy who burns down a church. Sure. Out of character is fine with me.”

  “And, are you crazy, Peter?”

  “No. But that’s what most of the folks in here would say if they were asked the same question, so I’m not sure my opinion counts for all that much.”

  “What conclusions do you think the staff here have reached so far?”

  “I would suspect they are still in the process of accumulating impressions, Father, but that they more or less have reached the same conclusion as I have. They will put it a little more clinically, of course. Say that I’m filled with unresolved angers. Neurotic. Compulsive. Perhaps even antisocial. But that I knew what I was doing, and that I knew it was wrong, and that’s the legal standard, more or less, right Father? They must have taught you that at Boston College law, right?”

  Father Grozdik smiled and shifted himself slightly in his seat, and then replied humorlessly. “Yes. Good guess, Peter. Or did you spot the class ring?” He held up his hand and displayed a large, gold ring that caught some light coming through the window. Peter realized that the priest had positioned himself in such a way that the Cardinal could watch Peter’s reactions to questions without Peter being able to turn and see how the Cardinal was responding.

  “It’s a curious matter, isn’t it, Peter?” Father Grozdik asked, his voice remaining flat and cold.

  “Curious, Father?”

  “Perhaps curious is not the correct word, Peter. Intellectually intriguing might be a better way of thinking of the dilemma you are in. Existential, almost. Have you studied psychology much, Peter? Or philosophy, perhaps?”

  “No. I studied killing. When I was in the service. How to kill and how to save people from being killed. And after I came home, I studied fires. How to put them out. And how to set them. Surprisingly, I didn’t find these two courses of study to be all that different.”

  Father Grozdik smiled and nodded. “Yes. Peter the Fireman, or so I understand you are called. But surely you are aware that are some aspects to your situation that transcend simple interpretations.”

  “Yes,” Peter said. “I am aware.”

  The priest leaned forward. “Do you think much about evil, Peter?”

  “Evil, Father?”

  “Yes. The presence upon this earth of forces that can only best be explained by a sense of evil.”

  Peter hesitated, then nodded. “Yes. I have spent a good deal of time considering it. You can’t have traveled to the places I have without being aware that evil has a place in the world.”

  “Yes. War and destruction. Certainly these are arenas where evil has a free hand. It interests you? Intellectually, perhaps?”

  Peter shrugged, as if to display a certain nonchalance about the questions, but inwardly he was marshaling all his powers of concentration. He did not know in what direction the priest was going to turn the conversation, but he was wary. He kept his mouth shut.

  Father Grozdik hesitated, then asked, “Tell me, Peter, what you have done … do you consider it evil?”

  Peter paused, then said, “Are you asking for a confession, Father? And I mean the sort of confession that usually requires a Miranda warning. Not a confession booth statement, because I am relatively certain that there is no number of Our Fathers or Hail Marys, there’s no perfect act of contrition that would constitute an adequate penance for my behavior.”

  Father Grozdik did not smile, nor did he seem particularly unsettled by Peter’s response. He was a measured man, very cold and direct, Peter thought, which stood in contrast to the oblique nature of the questions he had. A dangerous man, and a difficult adversary, Peter believed. The problem was, he did not know for certain whether the priest was an adversary. Most likely. But that didn’t explain why he was there. “No, Peter,” the priest said flatly. “Not either sort of confession. Let me put you at ease on one score …” He said this in a manner that Peter recognized was designed to do the opposite. “ Nothing you say here today is going to be used against you in a court of law.”

  “Another court, then, perhaps?” Peter replied, with a slight mocking tone. The priest did not respond to the bait.

  “We’re all judged ultimately, are we not, Peter?”

  “That remains to be seen, doesn’t it?”

  “As do all the answers to all sorts of mysteries. But evil, Peter …”

  “All right, Father,” Peter said. “Then the answer to your first question is yes. I believe that much of what I have done is evil. When you examine it, from one perspective, which would be the Church’s perspective, it seems pretty clear. It is why I am here, and why I will go to prison in short order. Probably for the rest of my life. Or damn close to it.”

  Father Grozdik seemed to assess this statement, and then he asked, “But my suspicion, Peter, is that you are not telling me the truth. That no, deep within, you do not think that what you did was truly evil. Or that you think that when you set that fire, you intended to use one evil to erase another. Perhaps that is a bit closer to the truth.”

  Peter did not want to reply to this. He let silence fill the room.

  The priest bent forward a little. “Would it not be fair to say that you believe that your actions were wrong, on one moral plane. But right upon another?”

  Peter could feel sweat under his arms and forming at the back of his neck.

  “I’m not sure I want to be talking about this,” he said.

  The priest looked down and examined some papers, flipping through them rapidly until he seemed to find what he was searching for, examine it, then lift his eyes back to Peter with another question. “Do you recall the first thing you told the police when they arrived at your mother’s house? And, I might add, discovered you sitting on a step with your can of gasoline and matches in hand.”

  “Actually, I used a lighter.”

  “Of course. I stand corrected. And you told them?”

  “You seem to have the police report in front of you.”

  “Do you recall saying, ‘This evens things up,’ before they arrested you?”

  “I do.”

  “Perhaps you could explain that to me.”

  “Father Grozdik,” Peter said bluntly. “I suspect you would not be here if you did not already know the answer to that question.”

  The priest seemed to glance sideways, toward the Cardinal, but Peter wasn’t able to see what the Cardinal did. He guessed some slight hand motion, or a nod of the head. It was only a small moment, but something turned right then.

  “I do, Peter. At least, I believe I do. Tell me this, then, the priest that died in the fire, did you know him?”

  “Father Connolly? No. I had never met him. In fact, I didn’t really know all that much about him. Except, of course, for one salient detail. I’m afraid that after I returned home from Vietnam, my churchgoing days were, shall we say, limited. You know, Father, you see a lot of cruelty and dying and senselessness, and you start to wonder where God is. Hard to not have a crisis of faith, or however you want to put it.”

  “So, you burned down a church and with it a priest …”

  “I didn’t know he was there,” Peter said. “And I didn’t realize
there were others inside, as well. I thought the church was empty. I called out, and knocked on some doors. Just bad luck, I guess. Like I said, I thought it was empty.”

  “It wasn’t. And, to be frank, Peter, I am not sure I believe you on this score. How hard were those knocks? How loud were your warnings? One man dies, three are injured. Scarred.”

  “Yes. And I shall go to prison, as soon as my little sojourn here in the hospital is completed.”

  “And you say you didn’t know the priest …”

  “But, Father, I knew of him.”

  “And what is it you are saying?”

  “How much do you need to know, Father? Perhaps it is not me that you should be speaking to. But my nephew. The altar boy. And maybe a few of his friends—”

  Father Grozdik held up his hand, stopping Peter in midsentence. “We have spoken with a number of parishioners. Much information has come our way, in the aftermath of the fire.”

  “Well, then, I suspect you already know that whatever tears were shed over Father Connolly’s unfortunate death, they are far fewer than those that have been shed, and still remain to be shed, by my nephew and some of his friends.”

  “So you took it upon yourself…”

  Peter finally felt a surge of rage, familiar, neglected, but rage not unlike what he’d felt when he’d heard his nephew’s quavering voice describe what had happened to him. He leaned forward and stared harshly at Father Grozdik and said, “No one would do anything. I knew that, Father, just as I know that spring follows the winter, and summer precedes the fall. With absolute certainty. So I did what I did because I knew no one else would do anything. Certainly not you and the Cardinal, there. And the police? No chance. You wonder about evil, Father. Well, there’s a little less evil in this world now, because I set that fire. And maybe when you add it all up, it was wrong. But maybe, it wasn’t either. So, to hell with you, Father, because I don’t care. I’m going to leave, now. And when these doctors figure out I’m not crazy, they can send me off to prison and throw away the key, and all will be back in balance, won’t it? A perfect equilibrium, Father. A man dies. The man who kills him goes off to prison. Drop the curtain. Every one else can get on with their lives.”

  Father Grozdik listened to Peter, and then very calmly said, “You might not have to go to prison, Peter.”

  I have often wondered what truly went through Peter’s head and heart when he heard those words. Hope? Elation? Or perhaps, fear? He wouldn’t tell me, though he did fill in all the details of the conversation with the three priests later that night. I think he left it for me to figure out for myself, because that was Peter’s style. Unless one reached a conclusion on their own, it wasn’t a conclusion worth reaching. So, when I asked him, he shook his head, and said, “C-Bird, what do you think?”

  Peter had come to the hospital to be evaluated, knowing that the only evaluation that meant anything was the one that he carried within him. Short Blond’s killing and the arrival of Lucy Jones had spurred within him a sense that he could balance things out even more. Peter was riding a seesaw of conflicts and emotions, over what he’d heard, and what he’d done, and his whole life had been set into rocklike understandings of how he could even it all out. Smooth over one evil with one good. It was the only way that he could fall asleep at night, and wake up the following day, consumed with the task of making everything right. He was driven forward, constantly trying to find equanimity, always having it elude him. But later, when I thought about it, I believed that neither his waking nor his sleep could ever be free from nightmares.

  For me, it was so much simpler. I just wanted to go home. The problem I faced was less defined by the voices I heard, than it was by what I could see. The Angel was no hallucination, the way they were. He was flesh and blood and rage, and I was beginning to see all that. It was a little like a shoreline emerging from the fog, and I was sailing directly toward him. I tried to tell Peter that, but I could not. I don’t know why. It seemed as if it would say something about myself that I did not want to say, and so I kept it to myself. At least for the time being.

  “I’m not sure I follow, Father,” Peter said, reining in a surge of emotions. “The Archdiocese has many concerns about this incident, Peter.” Peter did not immediately reply, although sarcastic words leapt to the tip of his tongue. Father Grozdik peered over at Peter, trying to read his response in the way he balanced on the chair, the tilt of his body, the look in his eyes. Peter thought he was suddenly engaged in the harshest poker game he’d ever experienced.

  “Concerns, Father?”

  “Yes, precisely. We want to do what is right in this situation, Peter.”

  The priest continued to measure Peter’s reactions.

  “What is right …,” Peter said slowly.

  “It is a complicated situation, with many conflicting aspects.”

  “I’m not sure that I completely agree, Father. A man was committing acts of, well, a certain depravity. He was, in all likelihood, immune from being called to task for what he had done. And so I, hotheaded, and filled with righteous fervor and anger, took it upon myself to do something about it. All by my lonesome. A vigilante mob of one, you might say, Father. Crimes were committed, Father. Prices were paid. And now, I’m willing to take my punishment.”

  “I think it is far more subtle than that, Peter.”

  “You can think what you want.”

  “Let me ask you this: Did anyone ask you to do what you did?”

  “No. On my own. Not even my nephew suggested it, and he was the one who will carry the scars.”

  “Do you think he will somehow be made whole again by what you’ve done?”

  Peter shook his head. “No. Which saddens me.”

  “Of course,” Father Grozdik said, speaking rapidly. “Now, did you tell anyone, afterward, why you had done what you did?”

  “Like the police that arrested me?”

  “Exactly.”

  “No.”

  “And here, in this hospital, have you told anyone the reasons behind your actions?”

  Peter thought hard for a moment, then said, “No. But it would seem that more than a few people know the connective why. Maybe not completely why, but know, nonetheless. Crazy people sometimes see things with accuracy, Father. An accuracy that eludes us on the street.”

  Father Grozdik bent forward slightly in his seat. Peter had the sense that he was watching a predatory bird circling above a bit of roadkill.

  “You saw much combat overseas, did you not?”

  “I saw some.”

  “Your military records indicate that you spent almost your entire tour of duty in combat areas. And that on more than one occasion you were decorated for your actions. And a Purple Heart, as well, for wounds received.”

  “That’s true.”

  “And you saw people die?”

  “I was a medic. Of course.”

  “And they died, how? In your arms more than once, I would wager.”

  “You would win that bet, Father.”

  “And so, you returned and you think this had no impact upon you. Emotionally?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “Are you aware of a disease called post-traumatic stress disorder, Peter?”

  “No.”

  “Doctor Gulptilil could explain it. Once it was simply called battle fatigue, but now it has been given a far more clinical sounding name.”

  “You’re making a point?”

  “It can cause people to act, shall we say as we did at the start, out of character. Especially when they come under sudden and significant stress.”

  “I did what I did. End of story.”

  “No, Peter,” Father Grozdik said, shaking his head. “Start of story.”

  Both men remained silent for a moment. Peter thought that the priest was probably hoping that he would say something, pitch the conversation forward, but Peter wasn’t willing to do that.

  “Peter, has anyone informed you of what has happened s
ince your arrest?”

  “In what regard, Father?”

  “The church you burnt has been razed. The site cleared and prepped. Money has been donated. A great deal of money. Extraordinary generosity. A real coming together of the community. Plans have been drawn up. A bigger, far more beautiful church is planned for the same site, one that will truly express glory and righteousness, Peter. A scholarship fund has been established in Father Connolly’s name. There is even talk about a youth center being added to the designs, in his memory, of course.”

  Peter opened his mouth slightly. He was speechless.

  “The outpouring of love and affection has been truly memorable.”

  “I don’t know what to say.”

  “God works in mysterious ways, does He not, Peter?”

  “I’m not altogether sure that God has much to do with this, Father. I’d be a little more comfortable if He wasn’t brought into this equation. So, what are you saying?”

  “I’m saying, Peter, that a great good is on the verge of being done. Out of the ashes, so to speak. The ashes that you created.”

  And there it is, Peter realized. That was why the Cardinal was seated over on the couch watching every motion Peter made. The truth about Father Connolly and his predilection for altar boys was a far smaller truth than the response flowing into the Church. Peter twisted in his seat, and looked directly at the Cardinal.

  He nodded his head at Peter, and spoke for the first time. “A great good, Peter,” he said. “But one that might be in jeopardy.”