Until Judgment Day

by Christine McGuire

  District Attorney Mackay stood at the podium, determined not to show how badly her back ached. “Restate your name and occupation for the record,” she instructed.

  “Jeffrey James Davidson, Bishop of the Monterey Diocese of the American Catholic Church.”

  “I remind you that you are appearing before a duly constituted Grand Jury, convened to investigate the murders of Reverends Jacques Duvoir, James Benedetti, John Thompson, and now Jason Ryan. You must testify truthfully or subject yourself to a perjury prosecution.”

  “I understand.”

  “On December thirtieth of last year, you went to jail rather than answer my questions about Reverends Thompson and Benedetti, correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “What changed your mind?”

  “Another of my priests is now dead, and because of my stubbornness I’m probably to blame. I can’t risk further tragedy.”

  “Did you bring Thompson’s and Benedetti’s personnel records as required by the subpoena?”

  “I was brought here directly from your jail. The records, including those of Father Ryan, are in the custody of my attorney. I have instructed him to have them in your hands by noon today.”

  “That’s acceptable, thank you.”

  Mackay pushed her fists into her lower back and twisted slightly to relieve the pain, pretending to consult a yellow legal pad before continuing.

  “You previously testified that Reverend Duvoirwas under investigation by the Diocese for gambling on the Internet and covering his losses with Diocese credit cards to the extent of some fifty thousand dollars, is that right?”

  “Yes.”

  “The police investigation indicates that all four priests might have been murdered by the same person. If so, they might have been killed for the same reason as well. Did the Diocese suspect Reverends Thompson, Benedetti, and/or Ryan of gambling and embezzlement?”

  “Father Ryan was the finest man I ever knew. He never did anything wrong in his life.”

  “All right, then let’s concentrate on Thompson and Benedetti. Were either of them involved in gambling or embezzlement?”

  “It’s possible, but we don’t think so.”

  “Were they under investigation for any wrongdoing whatsoever?”

  Davidson looked at his lap, then back at Mackay and cleared his throat. “Not at the time when they were murdered.”

  “Explain that, please.”

  “I shall.” He cleared his throat again, sat ramrod straight in the chair, and looked into Mackay’s eyes.

  “John Thompson and James Benedetti were childhood friends,” Davidson began, falteringly at first. “They grew up and attended the University of San Diego together, where they remained best buddies, roommates, teammates on the basketball and football teams. Father Thompson was athletically gifted. Father Benedetti was only mediocre but he was much brighter. There was no jealousy between them, though. They earned simultaneous graduate degrees in theology, after which the Bishop of the San Diego Diocese ordained them into the priest-hood the same year.”

  “When was that?”

  “Nineteen-sixty-eight.”

  “What were their Church duties after ordination?”

  “Father Benedetti was a parish priest. Father Thompson taught at Saint Sebastian, a boys’ high school in San Diego. They were only blocks apart.”

  “Go on.”

  “John Thompson’s athletic prowess and love of sports led him into coaching. A few years after taking over the athletic department, Saint Sebastian became a sports powerhouse.” He hesitated. “It also became the site of the worst crisis in Diocese history. He was responsible for both.”

  “Please continue.”

  “A few years after he arrived at Saint Sebastian, a member of the football team told his parents that Father Thompson watched him in the shower with what he called ‘unusual interest.’ When pressed, the boy revealed that Coach Thompson had engaged him repeatedly in sexually explicit conversations and showered him with unwanted physical affection. He told his parents some of the other football players had the same experience. They thought Father Thompson was ‘funny.’”

  “Funny?”

  “‘Gay’ wasn’t part of the lexicon in those days, Ms. Mackay. The boy’s father was a lawyer. He told Monsignor Winfield something had better be done. The Bishop confronted Father Thompson. He denied all the allegations, of course. Then more boys and their parents came forward with similar stories.”

  “How many boys?”

  He shrugged. “A dozen, maybe more—the Diocese never counted.”

  “What did those boys say?”

  “There were charges of improper touching and worse.”

  “How much worse?”

  “Forced mutual masturbation, oral copulation, and anal penetration.”

  Mackay sighed deeply. “What did the Church do?”

  For the first time, a crack split open Davidson’s facade of composure. He looked at Mackay, then the jurors, beseeching them with his eyes to understand.

  “Please keep in mind that this was many years ago, before the, uh, the unbelievable extent of sexual misconduct in the Catholic Church became fully apparent.”

  “Go ahead,” Mackay encouraged.

  “Bishop Krewzinski, God rest his soul,” Davidson crossed himself, “appointed a special liaison to conduct a quiet investigation and report back. It’s obvious in retrospect that the Bishop was more interested in avoiding a scandal and not destroying his reputation, or one of his priest’s, than he was in protecting the children in his Diocese.”

  “I’d say so,” Mackay agreed.

  “Bishop Krewzinski used horrible judgment but as I said, things were different thirty years ago.”

  “You’re saying that excused what he did?”

  “Don’t put words in my mouth, I can speak for myself,” Davidson retorted, his face flushing. “I’m simply establishing the context in which those events occurred. At that time, no one could have imagined the insidiousness of the cancer that had already invaded the body of our Church, or how pervasive it would eventually become. Given the power of hindsight, it’s fair to say the Church didn’t behave so responsibly in those days.”

  Mackay resisted the urge to say, That’s the understatement of the century! Instead she asked, “So, the Diocese covered up Thompson’s pedophilia and the boys’ molestations and shipped him out so he became someone else’s problem, just like they did in Boston?”

  “Yes, but that couldn’t happen today. Because of men like Bernard Cardinal Law and Bishop Krewzinski, who swept the disgrace under the rug, U.S. bishops adopted the Charter for the Protection of Children and Young People, in November 2002. Under the Charter, a priest who molests a child in the future will be defrocked and turned over to civil authorities and the Diocese will assist in any criminal prosecution. For past offenses, a priest is permanently removed from the ministry.”

  “Why wasn’t Thompson defrocked?”

  “His case fell through the bureaucratic cracks. The San Diego Diocese no longer had authority over him. The records had been destroyed, so no notification of his—uh—his transgressions was officially forwarded to the Monterey Diocese. We had no evidence to support any action against him, even under the new Charter.”

  “Sounds like a catch-twenty-two,” Mackay told him.

  “It was, unfortunately,” Davidson conceded. “From now on when a priest is transferred, his personnel record must be forwarded to the new diocese or parish and it must include any information that might reflect on his fitness for the ministry.”

  “That’s reassuring,” Mackay said, her sarcasm more obvious than intended.

  Davidson paused, thinking, then murmured, “If only these policies had been in place thirty years ago—”

  Davidson didn’t finish his thought and Mackay didn’t pursue it, but his meaning was clear.

  “Bishop Davidson, why did you refuse to answer questions before this Grand Jury on December thirtieth?” Mackay as
ked.

  “The Catholic Church’s intent is to protect victims of papal criminal behavior, not vice versa. In this case, it was the priests themselves—Reverends Thompson and Benedetti—who were the victims. After they were murdered, they were no longer able to hurt anyone. I saw no point to it.”

  “Now you see it differently?”

  “Yes. Jail gave me time to think and I came to realize that the relationship between the Church and society as a whole—indeed the credibility and the very viability of the Church—requires that we adopt a more open, responsible, and cooperative relationship with civil authorities. In other words, we’ve got to get our heads out of our—out of the sand—become a better neighbor and partner to the secular community as well as our nonsecular constituency.

  “I was wrong refusing to answer your questions and I apologize. To the extent my bad decision contributed to Father Ryan’s death, God will see I am punished.”

  No one in the room moved or made a sound.

  “You said the San Diego Bishop appointed a special liaison. Whom did he appoint?” Mackay asked.

  “The one person Father Thompson trusted implicitly.”

  “Father James Benedetti,” she surmised.

  “Correct. He went into the investigation with a distinct bias, but after interviewing the athletes and their parents he became convinced beyond any doubt that the complaints were justified. Father Thompson continued to deny culpability, even to his closest friend.”

  “What was the ultimate outcome of the Diocese inquiry?”

  “Father Benedetti was pressured to wrap it up quietly and quickly by whatever means necessary.”

  “What means were necessary?”

  “Monetary settlements, record destruction, and Father Thompson’s immediate transfer to the Monterey Diocese.”

  “Was Father Benedetti transferred to Monterey as part of the deal?”

  “Not at the time. A few years later a new Bishop took over and transferred Father Benedetti out of his Diocese, ostensibly for engineering the cover-up—I think it was because the new Bishop feared it would eventually become public. Father Benedetti was just following orders.”

  “He was the fall guy for the Diocese.”

  “An ugly characterization, but accurate. It’s not unheard of even today, as everyone now knows.”

  “Was Father Benedetti ever accused of sexual improprieties?”

  “Absolutely not. His sin was a noble excess of love and loyalty for his friend that manifested itself in unfortunate ways.”

  “Were there any complaints about Father Thompson after he transferred to Monterey?”

  “No, as I told you in the hall after my first Grand Jury appearance, the Monterey Diocese never received any complaints.”

  “A half-truth at best,” Mackay reprimanded.

  “I answered your question exactly as you asked it, and I answered truthfully. If you had phrased your question differently—”

  “It no longer matters,” Mackay interrupted.

  “No, I suppose not. The reason might, however. Among the conditions of Thompson’s transfer from San Diego to Monterey was that he not teach or coach boys’ athletics.”

  “How about Benedetti?”

  “There were no restrictions on Father Benedetti. In an ironic turn of fate, he became coach of the Holy Cross High School basketball team—universally loved by his players, none of whom ever say a bad word about him.”

  “Bishop Davidson, do you know of your own knowledge that Reverend Thompson was a pedophile?”

  Davidson hesitated. “Since he’s now deceased, I suppose I wouldn’t be violating my sacred vow by admitting that many years later, I heard Father Thompson’s confession. He confessed to molesting many boys and begged absolution. Father Benedetti sought absolution for his role in the cover-up, as well.”

  “Did you grant them absolution?”

  “Of course, they repented and atoned with a lifetime of exemplary work. I granted them both absolution. That’s what I meant by there being nothing to gain, especially after they were dead.”

  He paused again. “Now, I’m afraid the scabs have been—albeit rightfully and necessarily—scraped off those old sores. Let’s hope, Ms. Mackay, that when they finally heal and the cancer is gone, our tiny part of the Body of the Catholic Church is healthier and wiser for the additional pain and injury you and I have inflicted upon it today.”

  Chapter 41

  IMMEDIATELY AFTER ADJOURNING the Grand Jury, Mackay set up an emergency briefing in her office with Granz, Miller, and Escalante and spent fifteen minutes filling them in on Davidson’s testimony.

  She summed up by saying, “We’re wasting our time and resources hunting for a hired gun. I don’t think these murders have anything to do with Internet gambling or embezzlement.”

  “You’re certain?” Miller asked.

  “The only things I know that are certain are death and taxes.”

  “Trite but true,” Miller said, pushing his lower lip up over his upper as he thought. “But I’m not sure you’re right about the gambling connection.”

  “What’s your thinking?” Mackay asked him.

  “Right after Duvoir stiffs a casino Davidson gets several telephone threats and tells the caller to get lost. Immediately after, Duvoir gets snuffed. Casino owners aren’t choirboys and they don’t take kindly to being ripped off. And Davidson didn’t deny they might’ve been involved in the gambling mess.”

  Escalante picked absently at a thumb nail as she thought. “I agree with Ms. Mackay,” she argued. “The notion that a professional contractor did the dirty work bothered me from the start, even though we didn’t have any other leads at the time.”

  “Contract killers are creatures of habit,” Mackay added. “A professional develops a style and sticks with it because it works. The less deviation, the less chance of getting caught. These MOs aren’t remotely similar.”

  “Four firearms, four murder victims, four priests, four clean getaways,” Miller said. “They sound pretty damn similar to me.”

  Escalante turned to face Miller. “That’s where the similarity ends.”

  “Convince me.”

  “Three carried handguns: one small-caliber; one a cannon; and one who-knows-what. One perp hauls the gun away and leaves the slug behind; one leaves both the gun and the slug behind alongside the victim’s body; one doesn’t just haul the gun away, he digs the slug out of the concrete floor and takes it too. One of the perps shoots his victim three times with a sniper rifle.”

  “Just playin’ devil’s advocate,” Miller answered slowly. “Like you said, a pro does the job and gets out, he doesn’t torture or get in the victim’s face. Murder’s a business, and whackin’ someone by surprise or from a distance is the safest, most businesslike technique.”

  Escalante sat back in her chair. “If the shooter’s not a pro, who is he?”

  “What makes you think it’s a ‘he’?” Mackay wanted to know.

  “Because you can count the known female serial killers and professional shooters on both hands and have fingers left over,” Miller told her.

  “According to Bishop Davidson, Thompson was a pedophile priest,” Granz interjected, his gaze shifting around at the other three. “My gut tells me the killer’s a molest victim.”

  Miller stroked his neatly trimmed red beard. “Davidson said Thompson walked the straight and narrow for the past thirty years. Besides, the other priests weren’t pedophiles.”

  “All we know is Davidson says they didn’t get any complaints about them. The Catholic Church is full of perverts.”

  Miller nodded. “You got a point.”

  “So we can’t dismiss the possibility,” Granz insisted.

  “If it was one of Thompson’s victims, why’d he wait almost thirty years to get torqued enough to snuff Thompson’s candle?”

  Granz crossed one leg over the other. “Because a pedophile’s victim is usually grown before he realizes how ugly and permanent the scars are. Whe
n he does, and finally comes to grips with who trashed his life, it doesn’t matter how many years went by. He’s pissed off and looking for revenge.”

  “No question,” Mackay agreed. “I see it all the time in women who were raped as children or teens.”

  “Well, if you’re right, trackin’ him down’s gonna be a big job,” Miller observed. “Trails get cold after a couple of months. This one’s cold enough to turn the snot on a bloodhound’s nose into slimy icicles.”

  “We’ve got to start someplace,” Granz replied, ignoring the sarcasm. “My instincts tell me that we ought to go on the assumption Thompson was taken out by one of his victims.”

  “I doubt the Church kept a neat little list of molest victims, in case the cops decided they wanted it later.” Miller said, then asked, “How do we find Thompson’s victims after all these years?”

  Granz tugged his earlobe. “Ideas?”

  Escalante sat up in her chair and crossed her ankles. “Thompson’s victims had to attend Saint Sebastian High School while he taught there, from sixty-eight to seventy-four. We get the school’s enrollment records for those years.”

  “You think they still exist?” Miller said.

  “They might.”

  “I’ll issue a subpoena duces tecum for school documents including historical enrollment records,” Mackay said.

  Miller looked at Granz. “You grew up in San Diego, what high school did you go to?”

  Granz uncrossed his legs and stretched them stiffly out in front of him as if he had just awakened from a deep sleep, but his eyelids fluttered rapidly and he stared out the window without answering.

  “I can see the light’s on in the house but doesn’t look like anybody’s home,” Miller said. “You listenin’, boss?”

  “I—I—yeah, I was thinking. What’d you say?”

  “What high school did you go to?”

  “I graduated from Mira Mesa High School, class of seventy-three.”

  “How big was Saint Sebastian in those days?”

  “Big—maybe four thousand students, why?”