Unholy Order

by William Heffernan

  Devlin laughed in spite of himself. “How about you sit down with the mayor and explain it all to him?”

  Ollie shook his head. “Uh-uh. It’s like I said. This is why inspectors get the big bucks.”

  “Not big enough. I’ll have to make sure the mayor’s got a cardiologist standing by when I tell him.”

  “Hey, the guy’s gotta have a sense of humor, right?”

  “I’ll tell him you said so. In the meantime, get what you can from the priest’s doctor and run a thorough—and I mean thorough—canvass of this neighborhood.”

  Rain suddenly began to fall in large heavy drops that bounced back off the sidewalk a good three inches, one of those late-summer/early-autumn storms that seem to come from nowhere. They stepped back under the arch of the church doors.

  “Why’s it always gotta rain when I gotta canvass a neighborhood?” Pitts groused.

  “Get help if you need it. Use Brooklyn detectives if you have to. Their commander gives you grief, refer him to me. Just make sure I know everything this priest did yesterday, anybody he saw, anybody who showed any interest in him, everything. And I want it by the end of the day. And find out if these two dead priests knew each other too. It’s only a short subway ride between Red Hook and the Village.”

  “You think maybe they were having it off with the same guy?”

  “It’s a long shot, but I don’t want to overlook any possibilities. Get those Greenwich Village dicks we’ve got working the Father Donovan homicide to check that angle.”

  “You got it, boss.” Pitts grinned at him again. “And let me know where to send all the reports … after you tell the mayor about all this shit.”

  Devlin took a subway to Hell’s Kitchen in time to make the tail end of Sharon’s meeting with the two young women from Opus Christi. The rain had stopped by the time he reached Brother Michael’s storefront counseling center, and he found everyone gathered in the cramped back office. The two young women were in their late teens or early twenties, each freshly scrubbed, each more demurely dressed and innocent-looking than 99 percent of the women walking the city’s streets. Sharon introduced them as Claudia and Joan, no last names, in keeping with Opus Christi practice. Brother Michael sat next to them like some two-hundred-and-forty-pound guardian angel.

  Both young women moved nervously in their chairs, clearly troubled by the appearance of yet another detective. They looked remarkably alike: both blond and blue-eyed, both dressed in skirts that hung well below their knees, and clean white blouses, a size too large, to hide any hint of a figure beneath. Devlin smiled to himself. When he was a kid in Catholic school the nuns referred to the style of dress as Mary-like.

  When Sharon had finished the introductions Devlin leaned forward, keeping his tone as gentle as possible. “I’m sure Sergeant Levy has explained that we’re investigating the death of Sister Manuela. I’m sorry if I’m making you repeat things you’ve already told her, but it will save me time if I hear it directly from each of you. First off, did either of you know her?”

  Both young women nodded, but it was Claudia who spoke. She had freckles on her nose and cheeks, and her complexion flushed slightly. Devlin wasn’t sure if it came from speaking to a man or the subject he had raised.

  “She lived on our floor before she took the veil,” Claudia said. “She was very devout and very … happy. Very one with our Lord.”

  “Did either of you consider becoming nuns?”

  Devlin threw out the question as part of his interrogation technique—to come at them from different angles to see what that might draw out. It didn’t seem to faze either woman. Claudia shook her head, but Joan picked up on the question. She seemed to squint a bit, as though she needed glasses and was struggling to get Devlin’s face in focus.

  “I considered it,” she said. “But I’m not good enough yet.”

  Devlin was surprised by the response. “What do you mean?”

  Joan seemed flustered this time and stammered a bit as she began to speak. “I-I get depressed sometimes. And I find myself wishing for things I shouldn’t.”

  “Like what?” Devlin asked, surprised again.

  Joan stared at her hands. “Going out … alone. Or with young men. Maybe going to a movie or out to dinner.”

  “Is that wrong?”

  Her head snapped up. “For us it is. We’ve been called to Christ … to do his work. Sister Manuela never thought those things. She believed. She did everything she was told to do. I just can’t. My faith is too weak.”

  “I want to leave the order.” It was Claudia again; the words just blurted out. “I think Joan does too, but she’s afraid to admit it, afraid it’s wrong to even think it.”

  “No,” Joan said. “No, I haven’t decided that. I think I just miss my family and my friends … from before.”

  “When was the last time you saw your family?” Devlin asked.

  Joan lowered her eyes again. ‘Two years ago. My mother and father came to see me.”

  “And they haven’t been back since?”

  “Yes, but I wouldn’t see them. I wrote to them, asking them not to come again, but they did. My spiritual guide said it was best if I didn’t encourage them. That it would distract me from the work of Christ.” Tears had come to her eyes.

  Devlin thought about his own daughter, Phillipa, and about what he would do if someone convinced her not to see him again. There would be something just short of murder, he decided. “Maybe your parents miss you too,” he said.

  The tears came now. Claudia slipped an arm around Joan’s shoulders.

  “I’ve been trying to explain to them that Christ taught the commandments,” Brother Michael said. “That he would never suggest not honoring one’s parents.”

  Joan answered through sobs. “But these … are holy people … people who’ve been … chosen by Christ. They … can’t … be … wrong.”

  Brother Michael let out a long breath. Devlin could tell he’d been here before with these women.

  “Don’t you think it’s possible to be devout and also to be wrong?” Brother Michael asked. “Think of the Inquisition, the Crusades, the Salem witch trials in Massachusetts, the slaughter of people in modern-day Islam—all of it done by deeply religious men and women. I’m not saying the men and women who are telling you to reject your family aren’t devout. I’m telling you that they’re wrong, that what they’re saying goes against the teaching of Christ when he told us to obey the commandments God gave to Moses.”

  They were moving away from Sister Manuela, where Devlin needed to be. “Do you know if Sister Manuela ever questioned her superiors about things she was asked to do?”

  Claudia looked at him, surprised by the question. “Not that I know of. I can’t imagine she ever would. I always thought she was very, very devout.”

  Devlin realized he was running into the same wall as Brother Michael. He tried another approach. “Did she ever seem upset?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Did she seem nervous or concerned about anything in the last days you saw her?”

  “Yes.” It was Joan this time, the question seeming to bring her back from her own miseries. “One of my jobs is cleaning the chapel every day. I do it very early in the morning so it’s clean when everyone comes down for morning prayers. That last week Sister Manuela was always there, always well before the regular time.”

  “Did you ever ask her why?” It was Sharon now, easing into the questioning.

  Joan nodded. “One day, while I was cleaning, I noticed there were tears in her eyes, and I went over to make sure she wasn’t sick or something. I asked if she was all right, and she told me she was just upset about something and was praying for guidance. It was the day before she left for Colombia. I knew her parents had moved back and thought she must have been told not to see them while she was there.”

  Sharon leaned forward. “We were told she was visiting her parents.”

  Joan seemed confused. “I don’t think so. I don’t
think anyone is allowed to do that.”

  Sharon made a mental note to check again. “Would the order know whether she did or not?” she asked.

  “Oh, yes,” Joan said. “They always know where we are. We never go anywhere alone.”

  “Where do they think each of you are now?” Devlin asked.

  “We have part-time jobs at a pro-life center,” Claudia said. “But it’s not run by the order, and the people who run it don’t keep very good track of when we get there and when we leave, since they don’t pay us.”

  “So how does the order keep track of you during that time?” Devlin asked.

  “We’re each questioned about it—separately. But we’re just asked where we went and if we were together the whole time.” Claudia looked down at her hands, which were demurely folded in her lap. “We don’t tell them about any side trips we might have made, and we always make sure they’re not very long ones.”

  A lie of omission, Devlin thought. Something the nuns in school had repeatedly warned against. He smiled at the memory. Like all forms of totalitarian authority, holes always seemed to appear in its self-protective armor. He was glad to see Opus Christi wasn’t an exception.

  “Who would have been with Sister Manuela during her workday?” Devlin asked.

  “Sister Margaret,” Claudia said. “They were always together.”

  “And it would be Sister Margaret’s job to report on what Sister Manuela did or didn’t do?”

  “Yes,” Claudia said. “It’s the way it’s done.” She hesitated over the next words, as if searching out a way to make Devlin understand. “It’s for our spiritual protection,” she finally added.

  Devlin studied the floor for a moment before looking up at the two women. “I hope you’ll keep our meeting confidential,” he said. “It would be best for the investigation and probably best for you.”

  Claudia stared at him, almost defiantly, he thought. It was as if she were trying to recapture something she had lost in their conversation. “If our spiritual guide asks us specifically if we talked to you, we’ll have to tell him we did. But if he doesn’t ask—”

  When the two women had gone, Devlin turned to Brother Michael and shook his head. “You’ve got your hands full trying to help those two. I’ve heard about these spiritual guides from Father Martin. What’s your take on it?”

  Anger flashed in the brother’s eyes. “It’s the ultimate hold they have on these kids,” he said. He leaned forward, his massive forearms resting on his equally massive thighs. “Each member has a spiritual guide, someone who has been assigned to direct their lives on the path of Christ. It’s always a numerarier, someone who’s been tested and has proven loyal. According to their teachings, lying to a spiritual guide is one of several unforgivable sins that will damn you to hell for all eternity.” He shook his head. “There are quite a few of those unforgivable sins. Masturbation is another one, or any form of sexual activity, although they don’t worry very much about sex between two consenting parties, since they make sure that opportunity never exists.”

  “What are some of the other unforgivable sins?” Sharon asked.

  “Basically, anything that goes against their agenda. Birth control is considered an intrinsic evil, as is any nontraditional, nonmatrimonial relationship. Abortion, for any reason, is viewed as murder. In vitro fertilization is an unnatural act against God’s will. Homosexuality is a curable disease, something willfully performed in denial of God’s instruction to man, an act that results in divine punishment through AIDS.”

  “How the hell do they get kids—especially kids—to believe all this stuff?”

  Brother Michael sat back and smiled at her. “You don’t spend a lot of time working with kids, do you?” He waited while Sharon shook her head. “Young people today, especially those in their teens and early twenties, are desperately searching for something to believe in. You might think that kids who end up in religious cults grow up in homes where religion is a big part of daily life, but that’s not the case. Most of them have grown up in homes where their parents didn’t believe in anything other than making money and acquiring things. Oh, religion may have been a part of their lives, but if it was, it was a small part. Maybe something their parents thought they should do for any number of reasons and did halfheartedly, if at all.

  “In some ways these kids are similar to ones who grow up poor. Poor kids want something. Usually something material, the stuff they’ve grown up without. But these other kids have grown up with enough money so it isn’t something they think about a great deal. And they’ve had plenty of things all their lives, so that’s not a driving force.” He gave a broad shrug. “It’s why some middle-class kids end up piercing and tattooing themselves, or living on the streets, or getting into drugs, or becoming groupies to rock bands. They’re looking for something they can put into their lives that they think will give them meaning. Religion can become one of those things. Some are born again and find some degree of fulfillment, at least for a time. But, unfortunately, when the need is great the cults beckon and the sheer vulnerability of these kids make them easy meat: ripe and ready to be manipulated.” He raised his hands in a helpless gesture. “Now, some grow out of it and see these cults for what they are, as I’m hoping will be the case with these two young women. But others never do. Their lives become irreversibly tied to these ‘truths’ they’ve been taught to believe in. And some of them never escape those beliefs. Some end up in places like Waco and Jonestown.”

  “But don’t you, as a Catholic brother, believe in some of the same things that Opus Christi teaches?” Sharon softened the words with a smile.

  Brother Michael returned it. “I came to my vocation out of a love of God and a very strong need to serve him. It was a hard choice, something I desperately tried to avoid for a long time.” He smiled again, at the memory of that decision. “You see, the things one gives up are very substantial, especially for a healthy young adult.” He waved his hand as though dismissing his own sacrifice. “The Franciscan order also made it difficult to join. They wanted to be sure my vocation was a true calling, that I was coming to them for the right reason. And the correct reason is not to put meaning into one’s life. The correct reason is to give meaning to one’s life through service to God.” He glanced from Sharon to Devlin to see if they understood. “It’s a subtle difference but a very important one. Now, the answer to your question is Yes, I believe in many of the same things Opus Christi espouses. Not all, but many. But I also believe in redemption, and there’s a subtle difference there as well. I believe that all sin, all wrongdoing, is forgivable. The people who ran Opus Christi don’t offer that belief. They can’t, you see. If they did they would lose control.”

  Devlin studied the man for several seconds and nodded. “I hope we can help you with these young women,” he said. “Seeing them here, and listening to them spout what they’ve been force-fed, makes me twitchy about my own daughter.”

  “Just stay close to her,” Brother Michael said. “The one common factor I find with all troubled kids is an absence of closeness to their parents.”

  Devlin nodded again, privately hoping he was already doing that. “I’ve got to ask you for one more favor,” he said.

  A large smile filled Brother Michael’s chocolate-colored face. “As our Lord said, ‘Ask and you shall receive.’” The smile had suddenly turned a bit impish. Devlin realized he had truly come to like the man.

  “I want to arrange another meeting with this numerarier, Peter—but this time with the police officer I’d like him to recruit for Opus Christi.”

  Brother Michael scratched his chin. “This young officer you’re proposing, he’ll have to appear quite religious, you know … and quite needy. Do you think he’ll be able to pull that off?”

  “I hope so,” Devlin said. “It looks like our only hope of getting inside.” He thought about Boom Boom Rivera. He certainly had the chutzpah to pull it off. And he was definitely an actor. Now, all Devlin had to do was
convince him that he’d just experienced a religious epiphany.

  On the way back to the office, he filled Sharon in on the murder of Father Peter Falco.

  “You think somebody’s killing priests because they’re gay?”

  “It’s a possibility. We should know more by the end of the day.”

  “You have to put me on that case.” Sharon was driving but had turned to face Devlin as the car raced down Broadway.

  “Watch the damned road,” Devlin snapped.

  Sharon turned back to the traffic, but her voice became even more determined. “Paul, this should be my case. It makes sense. I understand these people. I know how to talk to them. Christ, they’ll take one look at Ollie and think some tyrannosaur just came stumbling out of the bushes.”

  The small scar on Devlin’s cheek whitened, indicating he was fast reaching his limit. The last thing he needed was more grief. “You’re Ollie’s sergeant,” he snapped. “You’ll be supervising him. But that’s all you’ll be doing on that case. I need you where you are. I need you following up with this other nun who partnered with Sister Manuela. You saw those two women at Brother Michael’s center. I haven’t got anyone else who has a chance in hell of reaching them. And if this other nun is cut from the same mold, you’ll have a better chance with her than anyone else. Besides, I’ll need you to run Boom Boom once we convince him to go in there undercover.”

  Sharon glanced at him, noted the now-white scar, and decided to back off. She let out a breath to let him understand her reluctance. “Okay. You’re the boss. But I think you’re wrong.” She forced a smile, then found it growing naturally. “God, Boom Boom Rivera in a religious cult! I can just hear him telling all those celibate kids how Hispanics have dicks that never get soft.” She snorted. “Before he goes in there we better start filling his tacos with saltpeter.”