For I Have Sinned

by Kristen Houghton

  “Sorry, that they can’t do but there may be another way.”

  “How?” Someone honks his horn at me to see if he can get my parking space. I roll down the window and tell him I have car trouble and am waiting for AAA. He flips me the finger and drives away disgruntled.

  “If this monsignor did go through laicization I can still find out. There’s a national list of every priest who either retires from active service or leaves the church. It’s a bookkeeping system really. Even if he was asked to leave, his name would still be on that list. I have to get into the main system, but that's shouldn't be too hard to do.”

  “This is short notice but, is it too much to ask you to find that out today?”

  “How about a couple of hours? Let’s see, it’s almost ten now; I’m pretty sure I can get back to you with what you need by early afternoon. Will that work for you?”

  “That works really well. Thanks Richard.”

  That’s one of the best things about moral code sources. They’re willing to get you what you need as soon as possible. I tell Richard I’ll be back at my office by noon and I’ll wait for his call.

  While I'm in the parking lot I key in an address to my car’s GPS and open my bag to take out the computer-aged picture of Joshua. Then I start the Edge and follow the audio GPS directions.

  ****

  The building I’m looking for is just outside of the city; a faded red brick one that looks as if it was built in the nineteen twenties for immigrants who came from Ellis Island and needed a place to live. It has a defeated air about it as if it still holds the sadness and homesickness of its former inhabitants.

  I park my Edge across the street from the building, grab the large manila envelope on the passenger side seat, and walk over to take a look. A sign inside the foyer listing the office tenants shows me that the place I want is located on the second floor. I walk up the two flights rather than take the elevator that sounds like metal crunching on metal. Getting stuck in that old box could become a life and death situation if no one knows a person is in there.

  The second floor is less gloomy than the entry on the first floor and I find the office easily. A sign on the door reads, The Survivors Network of Those Abused by Priests. All are welcome.

  I open the door to find a neat little office inside with several desks. A man is talking on the phone and two women seem to be discussing what looks like a flyer that has just been printed out. One of the women notices me and asks if she can help me.

  “Yes, I’m looking for a man named Carl. I called early this morning. My name is Cate Harlow.”

  “Oh yes, Cate, I’m the one who took your call. I hope you don’t mind me calling you Cate. We use first names here so it feels less formal and restrictive.”

  She tells me Carl is in the back room and that she’ll take me to him. Her smile is gentle and I can see people feeling comfortable talking to her. “He’s putting together a flyer and email for our members. He’ll only be a minute.”

  The back room is a combination office-lunch area. Carl is sitting at a small desk with a laptop. A screened-off corner section reveals a refrigerator, a microwave, Keurig coffee maker, and a table with a couple of chairs.

  “Carl, this is Cate Harlow. She called you this morning.”

  Hunched over his computer in concentration, he offers a wave and a “Hi.” After he keys in a few more words he sits back and exhales like a man who has completed a much-needed task and is at last satisfied with his work.

  “Hello, Cate. Glad to meet you,” he says pushing his chair back and getting up. “Let me grab a chair for you and then see how we can help. You said on the phone that you were looking for someone?”

  “I’m looking for a young man about twenty-five years old who may have come here.”

  “Do you know if he was abused?” asks Carl, “Or is this someone from some religious group trying to infiltrate our organization and try to stop what we do.”

  “This young man was abused by a priest from the age of nine until he was fifteen. He left home at fifteen; murder was ruled out because a body was never found and unofficially it’s believed that he was a runaway. The police file on him has become a cold case. He would be twenty-five years old now and there’s good reason to believe that he’s in this area. If he’s been here within the last year or so at any of your meetings, then I’ll know for sure he’s still close by. I’m acting on behalf of his sister who has retained me to find out what has happened to him.”

  Carl looks at me levelly and says kindly. “Have you tried any of the many homeless shelters in the city? Have you checked with substance abuse clinics? Many of the adults who were sexually abused become alcoholics or drug users.A lot of abuse victims make it to the cities where no one knows them so they can hide what they consider erroneously to be their shame.”

  “Those places were thoroughly checked right after I took the case. I found nothing.”

  “I’m sorry Cate, I didn’t mean you hadn’t checked them as part of your job; I know you did. My God, sexual abuse and rape are terrible, unforgiveable crimes when they happen to adults. Imagine how much more traumatic it is when it happens to a child! The memories are rooted so deeply it’s hard if not impossible to be able to live a normal life. Even normal sexual relationships that most people take for granted can trigger the horror of what happened in childhood. Living in a drugged or alcoholic haze helps to dull some of the pain for a while.

  “We try hard to bring solace to the victims by demanding justice from the legal authorities. It’s only in the past decade that priests were prosecuted at all.” He sighs, “I am a survivor, Cate. I make it my business to make sure the courts don’t forget us.”

  “What about revenge? Are there any survivors coming here who want justice no matter how they have to get it? Take justice into their own hands so to speak? There has to be a tremendous rage at having been sexually abused and having been unable to stop it.”

  Carl stands and asks me if I want anything to drink. He has iced tea in the fridge he says. When I say yes, he stands up, walks over to the refrigerator, and gets two bottles. He comes back to sit opposite me again, taking a long sip before continuing.

  “Revenge? Sure. There have been people who come to meetings who we discover want nothing more than to get back at the person who damaged them and they want to do them physical harm. They’re angry and filled with pain. They don’t stay long because they soon find out that that is not what SNAP is all about. We do what we do legally. You can’t allow visions of vengeance to cloud your mind. The lawyers who work with us are incredibly good at getting the judges to understand what this terrible crime has done to countless lives. Each successful prosecution is a victory for the survivors.”

  “Have you ever seen this young man here? His name is Joshua McElroy,” I ask taking the new computer-aged picture of Joshua out of the envelope.

  He takes it out of my hands and looks hard at it for a few minutes shaking his head.

  “Yes, yes I’ve seen him. He used to come here with another young man, a, wait I remember the other man had a lot of anger at what had happened to him. He felt our organization wasn’t doing enough. What was his name, what was…? I’m sorry I can’t remember the other man’s name; I only remember him because he had a deep scar high on his forehead. They came here about two years ago. The one man with the scar was very open in his anger; he made some of us feel uncomfortable with his rage. But this man…Joshua you said? He was very withdrawn and quiet. He just sat here and sometimes drew pictures on a pad.” He snaps his fingers. “You know what? I have a picture he left here one night. I intended to show it to one of our health volunteers who’s a clinical psychiatrist, but I get so busy that I completely forgot I had it. The artwork is worthy of a Stephen King novel.”

  He goes to his desk and rummages around in a drawer. “Here it is. You tell me what you think of this.”

  The picture has the same theme as all of Joshua’s drawings; a baby animal whose parents are
unaware that he is being stalked by a yellow-eyed, sharp-fanged hyena.

  I look at it and hand it back. “When did Joshua and his friend stop coming?”

  “Oh, I think the two of them came sporadically for about six months and then they just stopped showing up. It happens; some people want and need to talk about the sexual abuse, others simply can’t. It’s too raw, too upsetting to recall. We lose too many members that way. They can’t see themselves as survivors, only as victims. And of course the vengeance driven ones see our organization as weak.”

  I give him my card and ask him to call me if he does see Joshua again.

  “You can call either of the numbers on the card but if you’re calling after five, call my cell phone. It doesn’t matter what time you call me. This is information that I need to know.”

  “I will call if I do see him here. Good luck with your search. I hope you find him,” he says without much conviction.

  As I drive away I get a feeling that someone is watching me.

  ****

  “It's dark, Joey. Where are we? Please put on a light. Where are you? Joey? Do you hear me.’’

  The only answer is a door quietly closing, then complete darkness.

  Chapter 24

  Father Richard Boyd gets back to me at one-thirty in the afternoon at my office with the information I need. Monsignor Bernard Moore was indeed going through the process of laicization at the request of the archbishop himself.

  “He fought it Cate,” says Richard Boyd over the phone. “From what I can gather, there was a formal paper filed by Monsignor Moore requesting to be transferred to Italy for six months. He wanted to be placed in a specific monastery there for what he said were health reasons. That would delay the process of laicization for awhile. His request was denied.”

  “You say specific monastery as if this is a place that’s known to priests who want to have a place to hide.”

  “There are places where any clergy who are ill, physically or mentally, can go to recover. These places have existed for centuries. Usually these monasteries, and there are a few scattered around the world, are for those whose spirits are sick; those men who need to live quietly and contemplatively for a period of months. The therapeutic approach is intense prayer and penance. It used to be for young priests who had fallen in love and wanted to leave holy orders to get married. It was a mandated time-out for them if you will. I don’t know if that’s true anymore though. Now, well, I have heard rumors that some men accused of sexual abuse have been sent to these places over the years.”

  “But basically it’s a place where a pedophile could go to hide with the consent of the hierarchy,” I say. “It keeps them from being prosecuted by the law.”

  “It sure seems that way, but many in the Church are cooperating with the legal system now, so I can’t be sure. However, and this you didn’t hear from me, I know that there are archbishops who have moved priests accused of sexual misconduct from parish to parish. It’s spoken about by the older priests here sometimes. Moore may have been one of them.”

  “Where is this Monsignor Moore now then?”

  “That’s the thing; no one knows where he is. He seems to have disappeared. I did some snooping around and found out that he was supposed to attend a very important meeting with the archbishop in the late afternoon about two weeks ago. That day he went for his usual mid-day walk and never returned to the residence. When he didn’t show up for the meeting, his room was checked, but he wasn't there and nothing was taken. All his clothes and even the special silver chalice he was given when he became a monsignor were still there.”

  “Are you sure the church isn’t hiding him, Richard? Maybe sent him to another diocese? That’s been documented in the past.” I know I sound cynical but pedophile priests have been hidden before.

  “That’s always a possibility, but I don’t think that’s the case here. There’s nothing to indicate that and there would be what I like to refer to as cryptic monetary footnotes; a sentence about a possible change of residence or a domicile review. I don’t see that here. I think he’s really missing.”

  “Okay Richard, I’ll have to take your word for it.” I pause. “This must really be bothering you; I mean you are a priest after all.”

  “Yes, but I’m one of the good ones, remember? I do have to tell you though that this is certainly testing my faith, but I can handle it. I pray a lot and then go for a run.”

  “Alright then I guess I can ask you for one more favor. I need you to look up the name of a murdered priest from upstate New York. I was the investigator who found his body last year, same method of murder and mutilation as the others, but no one ever knew much about him.” I give him the name of the first murder victim. “Can you find out if he went through that process of laicization?”

  “I’ll try to get back to you either late today or tomorrow. I don’t want anyone here knowing what I’m doing and I’ve got other duties waiting for me.”

  I tell him there’s no rush, just a personal need to know. I hang up thinking about how this one particular priest is one of the good guys and how hard it must be for him to do what he’s doing. God bless him.

  I need to talk to someone in charge at the archdiocese office. Remembering what Will had told me about his meeting with the archbishop in New York City, I pretty much know what to expect. Outrage, denial, hidden threats, and anger. I’m prepared for all of them. Before I leave for the archdiocese, I think about just how I’m going to gain access to a top-ranking cleric there and get him to talk to me. I make a decision; I’m going in as the private detective. No lies about why I want info, no illusions. I need to go home and change into my jeans and sneakers. No frills, no lady-like image. I need to look tough.

  “Myrtle, put my cannoli in the fridge; I won’t be back until late.”

  She just nods and says she’ll see me later or tomorrow.

  ****

  The archbishop totally loses whatever cool he had when I was first ushered in. The fact that he had received me as calmly as he did is to his credit. I had shown my ID and pretty much intimidated the receptionist by making my voice loud enough so that people waiting in the outer office looked at us. Lucky for me there were several important-looking people there.

  The priest who was called by the receptionist didn’t want to make a scene, which I assured him I was perfectly capable of doing if I didn’t get to see the archbishop.

  Admonishing me to please lower your voice he brought me directly to a waiting area outside the archbishop’s office. I sat exactly thirty-eight minutes before the door opened and a voice told me to enter.

  The archbishop’s haughtiness and look of disdain doesn’t intimidate me one bit He looks at my private investigator’s license, tosses it on his desk towards me and says, “You have fifteen minutes Cate Harlow. Make the most of them.”

  I explain why I am here and what information I want from him.

  “There is ample evidence to suggest that a Monsignor Bernard Moore who resides here is a pedophile. That’s a crime for the police, not for me, but his past actions directly relate to a cold case I am investigating. I need to speak with him on this matter, but my sources tell me he has somehow vanished. And that has happened only after he was asked to undergo the process of laicization.”

  The bishop quickly hides his look of surprise at my bluntness. Looking sternly at me he says, “I have no idea what you are talking about and I have no more time for this nonsense.” He waves a hand at me in dismissal. I’m not deterred.

  “If the monsignor is being hidden somewhere at your orders you are harboring a pedophile, and, as such, are an accessory to a crime.”

  His Excellency looks up and narrows his eyes at me.

  “You people come here to my archdiocese, in the very place where I live, my sacred home, and not only demand, but expect, that I will give you information about one of my monsignors? You treat a man of God like a common criminal? You track him down as if you are a hunter. It is unjust that you act
in this manner, Ms. Harlow. I am outraged and so, I am sure, is God. This is sinful.”

  I am pretty ticked off by what the archbishop is saying and am having a hard time keeping my own anger under control. I manage to take a breath before I speak.

  “Playing the God card won’t work with me, sir. With all due respect your Excellency, the monsignor is a criminal; he's a pedophile.”

  “Stop using that word, Ms. Harlow!”

  “Why would I do that? That’s what we call a man who has sex with a child, a pedophile. There is solid written evidence that he raped a boy as young as ten. I’m quite sure that child wasn’t the only one. And to be blunt, sir, no one would have to track him down if the Church had dealt severely with him and other pedophile priests and made sure they were voluntarily brought to justice instead of hiding their heinous crimes. All you did was move these criminals, these predators, from one hunting ground to another every time you sent them to another parish. Do you even realize what you’ve condoned by your inactions? Don't speak to me of injustice, sir; the horrible injustice is what you and others in the church’s hierarchy have willingly allowed to be done to millions of innocent children. The real sin here is that you knew what was happening and you did nothing about it, nothing.”

  “How do you dare have the audacity to speak to me in this manner?”

  I refuse to defend what he terms my audacity and continue.

  “You know about laicization, Your Excellency, and so do I. Some pedophile priests are actually paid money to leave the clergy, which means that they’re protected and helped to transit out of the priesthood. Instead of bringing this hideous crime to the authorities, you choose to give them the means to start a new life. What about the lives of their victims? Are you aware that the sexually abused child grows into adulthood damaged and filled with horrible memories? Alcoholism, drug addiction, even suicides are rampant for those victims.”

  The archbishop leans back in his chair still fixing me with a cold stare.