by Pat Mullan
St. Curnan’s was near Ballinasloe, the town on the extreme eastern edge of the county, a town famous for its annual horse show. A show so ancient that rumour had it that the Emperor Charlemagne had sent emissaries to Ballinasloe to buy Irish horses.
He stopped in Ballinasloe, bought The Irish Times and had lunch in a small café that appealed to him: smoked salmon on brown soda bread, followed by a large mug of Bewley’s dark coffee, his favourite. Best lunch in the world, he thought, as he scanned the news. Usual stuff: Bush sneaked into Iraq to pretend that his surge was working while the Brits pulled out of Basra, leaving it all to the Shiite militia. Kilkenny beat Limerick in the hurling final. Flipping through the pages, he was captured by a headline: Vatican investigates ‘suicide’ of elite officer. A member of the Vatican Gendarmes had been found dead with a gunshot wound to the head. The Vatican offered no explanation as to why a young elite member of the Gendarmes would have committed suicide. The article went on to talk about a recent case involving the Swiss Guards where one of the Guards had killed the guard commandant and his wife before shooting himself. In this case the Vatican had attributed it to ‘ratus di follia’, a moment of total madness. But the guard’s mother had insisted that her son had been the victim of a plot. Mystery and intrigue! Makes the Vatican a perfect refuge for Father Roland Cormack, thought Burke.
At a quarter to three, Burke drove through the imposing front gate pillars of St. Curnan’s and drove leisurely up the driveway that circled the sweeping expanse of front lawn and led to the gravelled parking area directly across from the front entrance. Only a few cars were parked so he had plenty of spaces to choose from. The morning mackerel clouds had disappeared and the skies were a bright optimistic blue as he left his car and walked the few yards to the front entrance.
Terrazzo tiled floor, patterned in the shield of St. Curnan’s, greeted his entry. He turned the corner into the main hallway, almost bumping into a young priest who directed him to the President’s office on the second floor.
At exactly three, Ed Burke knocked on the large oak door of President McCafferty’s office and was greeted with a very loud “Come on in!”.
“Mr. Burke? You’re a punctual man.” President McCafferty’s voice came from behind his large desk and an even larger stack of documents that almost dwarfed him.
“Thank you for taking the time to see me.”
“Not at all. As I told you on the phone, I am always available to family. And, in this tragic case, my time is yours. I’ve already met with Terry’s mother and father and I’ll do my best to answer any questions you may have. Please, please, take a seat.”
Ed Burke sat down on the large black leather sofa and President McCafferty left his desk and came around to sit beside him. A large man with a broad ruddy friendly face topped by a shining bald head and tufts of white hair at his temples, he seemed totally approachable.
“Now, Mr. Burke, how can I help?”
“Terry’s death was no accident!”
At this President McCafferty sucked his breath in and seemed to gird himself for what was to come, “But surely the boy was out there climbing that old tower on a very stormy night and lost his balance. Tragic, but boys are always into risks like that.”
“Terry wasn’t that kind of boy. I’m sure you know that and I’m also sure you must have been troubled by the way he died.”
When the President said nothing, Ed decided to jump right in, “Two of your priests were with him when he died. Did you not know that?”
President McCafferty, now tight-lipped and grim faced, protested, “What’s your proof of that, Mr. Burke? Who told you that? There are many people who spread false rumours.”
“No false rumour. Comes directly from one of the priests who were there that night. Father Michael Nugent.”
“But Father Nugent’s in hospital after that terrible accident.”
“Again, no accident. The gardai believe that somebody tried to kill him. I believe that too. And now Father Michael does as well. That’s why he talked to me. He’s afraid but he’s not going to keep silent any more.”
“Oh, Lord!”
“Father Michael said that the other priest with him that night was Father Roland Cormack. Father Cormack was trying to get a mobile phone from Terry that night. A phone that contained incriminating photos. Terry was fleeing in terror that night. Father Michael blames Father Cormack for Terry’s death. Do you know what is going on at your school?”
President McCafferty’s grim face now looked slack and he seemed to have aged instantly. His lip trembled as he spoke, “Father Michael did come to see me?”
“But he didn’t come to you soon enough, did he? He was afraid. Afraid of the church, I think. He seemed to feel he was bound by some ridiculous pontifical secrecy edict of the Pope. And I understand that Father Roland is no longer here. In Rome, I believe. Isn’t that convenient?”
“But, Mr. Burke, he was only here on temporary assignment after he returned from Boston. Rome was always his next appointment.”
“The fast track to the Vatican! Greased by the Cormacks, with collusion from Rome!”
“Now look here, Mr. Burke, you can’t come in here and attack the church. The Cormacks have always been true to the faith. They have died for it. Our church owes its very survival to them. Father Michael must be mistaken. Perhaps the car injury has affected his mind.”
“Oh, come on! You know very well that Father Michael is the least devious person you know. And there is nothing wrong with his mind. He’s telling the truth. You know that and you can’t accept it. Because, if you do, it will rock your faith to its very core! And I don’t think you could survive that. Surely you must have been aware of things that went on within these walls, evil things that the church wanted to keep in the closet with their pontifical secrets! ”
Burke realized that he’d had to let off steam and he stopped. He almost felt sorry for the President who had sunk deep into the black leather, head in hands. They sat, side by side, saying nothing, for a while.
Then President McCafferty composed himself, “You’re right, Mr. Burke. Perhaps I’ve been naïve. I will see Father Michael again and I will ask the Gardai to commence an investigation immediately. I don’t believe this matter can be contained within these walls.”
“There’s something you can do for me. There was a second boy who fled the night that Terry was killed and there’s a possibility that it may have been his roommate, Patrick Clarke. I’d like to speak to him.”
“We really should leave all of this to the Gardai now. But maybe you’ve earned the right to ask some questions, Mr. Burke. I will make arrangements to have you meet the boy.”
With that, he shook Burke’s hand, got up and headed back to his desk without even a good-bye. Ed attributed the lack of grace to some kind of post-traumatic shock that President McCafferty might be suffering. So he also left without saying goodbye.
22
Ed Burke picked up the last crumbs of black pudding from his breakfast plate and licked them off the end of his fork. Refilling his coffee mug, he browsed the last issue of the Galway Independent, open on the table beside him.
Absorbed in the paper and glowing inwardly from his hearty breakfast, he was barely aware of the persistent ringing of the phone, somewhere in the background. Until Claire’s voice cut through, ”It’s for you. I think he said ‘Sean Coyne’.”
“Sean, how’d you know I was here?”
“Are you kidding, Ed? The whole country probably knows! This is not the US of A. Here everybody knows what everybody else is doing!”
“God, it’s great to hear your voice! Where are you?”
“I’m here. In Galway. And I need to see you.”
“OK. How about Jury’s? Meet you there. Noontime.”
By noon traffic-free Shop Street teemed with people, locals and tourists. Crowded tables on both sides forced people to squeeze through the middle. Ed Burke, head down against the bright sunshine, edged his way towards Jury�
��s Inn. Sitting at the bottom of Shop Street, it faced the Spanish Arch and bordered the River Corrib. He’d picked Jury’s because the bar was always quiet and empty, in complete contrast to the madding crowd on Quay Street.
Sean Coyne stood on the front steps of Jury’s as Ed approached. Breaking into a huge grin, he launched himself off the steps and caught Ed in a massive hug. Ed, momentarily taken aback, hugged him in return. People looked at them with amusement and curiosity.
Breaking apart, Sean said, “Jaysus, Ed, you look great! The Florida good life, hah! We’d never know you’d died a year ago!”
“Living well is the best revenge, my friend!”
As they walked into the lobby and turned right into the bar, Sean looked at Ed and said, “It’s obvious you’ve been living well. But revenge! What happened to that?”
“I walked away from it, Sean. The Tanaiste’s dead, Tucker’s dead, the Beetle’s behind bars for the rest of his life. I think that’s enough revenge for Pia.”
“But McGrady, O’Hara, Braddock … the bastards behind it all …”
“Yeah, I know. They still have their millions. And their freedom. But they’re like eunuchs in a harem now. And that’s the worst life sentence for people like them.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure of that.”
At the bar Ed ordered a cappuccino and Sean a Ballygowan. They decided to save the adult beverages for another time. It was a big open place, not a soul at the bar and only an elderly couple at a distant corner table. Which suited them fine.
They carried their drinks to a table and, as they sat down, Sean said, “But I didn’t come here to talk about all of that.”
“And I thought it was because you missed me!” Ed laughed.
Sean smiled at that and then got serious, “McDevitt’s holding the front page on the weekend edition for me.”
“And …”
“Oh, come on! You know why I’m here. Those two dead boys at St. Curnan’s. And one of them’s your cousin’s boy. That’s why you came back, isn’t it? And you didn’t come back for a wake, did you?”
Ed said nothing. Just stared at him.
“So don’t say anything then! Your cousin’s son falls out of an old tower at midnight in the middle of a gale. And another boy hangs himself. Don’t tell me that fall was an accident! And what about the boy who hanged himself? Is there some connection?”
“Listen to me. I don’t want Terry’s name, and mine, splashed all over your front page! It might act like Viagra on those eunuchs we talked about.”
“But there’s something going on at St. Curnan’s. Something stinks!”
“Maybe. But I don’t know …”
“And what about the priest? The one that got run over and almost killed. Hardly your run-of-the-mill hit and run! Not with a burned out car. You know I’m going to run with that, don’t you? It’s my job. And I smell a damn good story here. And there’s probably no way you can keep your cousin’s name out of it. So why don’t we team up like we did the last time?”
Ed Burke had been considering all of this as Sean pleaded his case. They’d been a good team a year ago. Sean’s investigative journalism and his use of the media had been crucial in exposing the corruption and abuse of power in the highest ranks of government. But this was different. Or was it? Maybe this was also a case of the corruption and abuse of power.
“OK. But what I’m going to tell you is strictly off the record. No front page. Not even in small print on your back page. You agree?”
Sean sat for a moment sipping the dregs of his cappuccino, thinking that he’d have to agree. So he said, “I’m on board. You know that. But I want the scoop on all of this.”
“I don’t know what the scoop is! It may lead to nowhere. Then again, if you lived in the States, you might have a Pulitzer Prize winning story here.”
“That’s good enough for me!”
“Tell me about the Cormacks …”
“The Cormacks?”
“The Cormacks of Castle Cormack.”
“You mean the Medicis of Ireland!”
“That’s exactly what Father Nugent called them.”
“The priest that was run over?”
“Yes. I managed to convince him that his life was in danger. That somebody intended to kill him. So he talked.”
“Why would somebody want to kill him?”
Ed realized that he’d dropped Sean into the middle of the story and knew that he’d have to start at the beginning. And that’s what he did. When he finished, he held Sean’s arm in a tight grip and said, “All of this is off the record!”
“My God! What a story! McDevitt would salivate to get his hands on this. This Father Cormack killed young Terry, didn’t he?”
“Yes. The same as if he’d put his hands around his neck and strangled him!”
“But you have no proof.”
“That’s right. I can’t prove any of it. The only witness is Father Nugent. At first he wouldn’t talk. Told me he was under strict orders from the Church. The pontifical secret.”
“Pontifical secret …”
“An edict from Cardinal Ratzinger. Stops him talking to anybody, even law enforcement before the Church conducts its own investigation. Perfect cover for a cover-up, don’t you think!”
“Ratzinger? You mean the Pope!”
A rhetorical question that Ed felt little need to answer. Instead he said, “It’s the Cormacks we’re up against.”
“Aw, Christ! Forget it!”
“You mean I can’t take on a Cormack.”
“That’s exactly what I mean!”
“Roland Cormack killed Terry and I’m going to get him if it’s the last thing I do! That’s why I want to know everything about the Cormacks. Every damn thing!”
“Where’s Roland Cormack now?”
“Don’t know. He’s gone. Father Nugent thinks he’s in Rome.”
“In Rome! Surely not at the Vatican!”
“Exactly at the Vatican!”
“So the family wielded their power.”
“Have you heard of a Monsignor Fallon?”
“Fallon? Fallon? Yes, yes, of course. Isn’t he a member of the Cormack clan too? There was a scandal. Long time ago. The Cormacks covered it up and the monsignor disappeared.”
“Well, he didn’t disappear. He’s at St. Curnan’s.”
“He can’t be. That’s impossible!”
“He’s there alright. And Father Nugent is sure that the monsignor arranged the Vatican assignment for Father Cormack.”
“Just like that!”
“Yeah, just like that!”
Exhausted from the intensity of their exchange, they both sat back in their chairs to take a deep breath and try and gain some perspective.
Finally Sean said, “The Cormacks may have gotten Father Roland out of the country. But I don’t think they’d have tried to kill Father Nugent.”
“You don’t?”
“I don’t. That’s beneath them. No, they’d have silenced him in some other way. Religion is a powerful weapon. And, when you’re a believer, you can be convinced of anything. That’s the weapon they’d have used to control Father Nugent. Religion!”
“I agree. So who would have wanted to silence Father Nugent?”
“Somebody who wanted to nip this in the bud. Prevent another scandal.”
“And another scandal would mean more lawsuits, more millions in payouts. They have a sweetheart deal on that from the government. That could be it. And maybe somebody became too zealous, decided to exceed their mission and take out Father Nugent.”
“And, maybe St. Curnan’s is only the tip of the iceberg!”
23
Ed Burke met Patrick Clarke, on neutral ground, beside the old walls that served as a handball court; a place as far away from spying eyes and the main school buildings as one could get.
At eleven am the morning mist was beginning to lift and the sun peeked out, promising a good day. Ed arrived first, found a good spot to sit
and waited. At exactly eleven, Patrick Clarke emerged from the mist, walking slowly.
Ed waved to him and, as he approached, stood up and stretched out his hand in greeting, “Patrick, I’m Ed Burke, Terry Joyce’s cousin. Thank you for coming. Sit here.”
Patrick Clarke, neat dark hair, deep blue eyes, wore a school blazer, grey slacks, and well-shined shoes, a tribute to the order and discipline expected of a boarder at St. Curnan’s.
“It’s not my idea to meet with you, Mr. Burke. The President insisted.”
“Well, I’m glad you’re here. I want to talk about Terry. You were his roommate and I believe you were good friends.”
“Yes.”
“Did President McCafferty tell you anything?”
“No, he said that he wanted me to meet you first. Then he wanted me to see him after we’d met”
“I know that Terry was chased by two priests that night. And I know that his death was no accident!”
Patrick Clarke’s face turned red, his eyes bleary, and he struggled to breathe. Ed gave him time to compose himself.
“One of those priests confessed. That’s how I know. I’ve told President McCafferty and there will be a criminal investigation. The Gardai will be all over this school. Do you understand?”
Patrick nodded but said nothing,
“I also know that Terry was not alone that night. Another boy who was with him fled.”
Patrick continued to sit, immobile.
“Patrick, I think you were that other boy. The Gardai will find out, that’s for sure. And their methods won’t be pleasant. It’s best that you tell me what I need to know. Were you there that night?”