by Pat Mullan
“I want this madman caught. Or killed. That’s what I told young Mr. Buckley and his Inspector Flood when they came to see me. Monsignor Fallon did not deserve to die like that. He committed no crime.”
“Revenge, that’s what I believe it is. If he found out that Monsignor Fallon got Father Roland out of the country, then he killed him to set some kind of example.”
“Father Roland is an innocent man.”
“Then why don’t you ask him to come back. If he’s innocent, he’ll have no punishment facing him. And no dishonour to the Cormacks.”
“And you believe the Cormacks will get justice. You believe we’ll be treated fairly. Go out there and ask Bishop Roland if he was guilty. Ask him if he was set-up. Ask him if witnesses lied, perjured themselves. Yes, it was the seventeenth century and this is the twenty-first but nothing has changed. Father Roland will not get justice either. There are those out there willing to perjure themselves to bring him down.”
With that he turned away, sat down and looked back at Ed, “You came here to warn me. At least I think that’s why you came. Well, you wasted your time. I’m sorry about your cousin’s boy but I can’t help you. And I will not throw Father Roland to these lions so that they can tear him apart in front of the people. Do you understand that? Now, I’d like you to leave Mr. Burke. I have nothing further to say to you.”
Ed did not respond. What was the use? He knew he’d hit an immovable object. So he turned around and left.
44
“We got lucky. Had a breakthrough in the Father Michael Nugent assault. Thought you’d like to know.” Even over the phone, Ed Burke could feel the undertone of excitement in Tom Buckley’s voice.
“That’s great.”
“Meet for a pint. The pub at the Clontarf hotel. In about half an hour. OK?”
“OK. I’ll be there.”
Ed was already sipping on his pint of Carlsberg when Tom came through the door into the pub. The place was practically empty so they had it almost to themselves. Tom brought a pint of Guinness from the bar, sat down opposite Ed and said, “I didn’t want to talk on the phone. You never know who might be listening these days.”
“Aw, for Christ’s sake, don’t keep me in suspense. What’s this breakthrough?”
“You know we never quit on the Father Nugent case. Finally, a couple of days ago, we found a witness willing to talk. Seems she saw two kids, well seventeen or eighteen year-olds, running away from that car before it went up in flames. She recognized one of them because he’s an altar boy at her local church. Can you believe it? An altar boy!”
“Nothing’s what it seems any more.”
“Anyway, we brought him in for questioning and he gave up the other lad who was with him. So we picked him up too. They were scared. Never been into any street crime or anything like this before. It didn’t take us long to get them to talk. Apparently they work part time in a body shop owned by the uncle of one of them. And this uncle pressured them into putting the fear of God into Father Nugent. They claimed that they hadn’t intended to hit him, only frighten him. But the kid who was driving said that he lost control of the car.”
“And do you believe that?”
“I don’t know. But it doesn’t matter. They did the deed and we’ve got them. The kid who’s the altar boy claims that he wanted to get some revenge on the priests, any priest. He dropped one of those glass things they carry, a cruet I think they call it, when he was leaving the sacristy to go on the altar a couple of months ago and it fell and broke at his feet. The priest went ballistic and battered him around the ears. He’s been carrying a grudge ever since.”
“So they’re patsies, that’s all. It’s the uncle you want.”
“Oh, we know that. But we can’t touch him. We brought him in for questioning and he denied it. Said the lads were lying. Trying to shift the blame so they could get off easy. Asked us what motive would he have for trying to kill the priest.”
“Motive! He’s acting for somebody who wants to protect Father Roland Cormack. Or somebody who wants to bury another scandal, especially one involving a Cormack.”
“That’s what we figured as well. But we have nothing on him. So we had to release him. I’d love to have been able to charge him and send it to the DPP.”
“I’m absolutely certain that Lord Desmond Cormack would never do this. It’s a tactic that’s beneath him. But there’re people out there who would sell their souls to protect the church. Who’s this uncle anyway? What’s his name?”
“Hughie Rogan. That name won’t ring a bell with you but George O’Hara will!”
“George O’Hara!”
“Rogan’s his cousin, second cousin. He owes much of his living to cousin George, his legal living at any rate. Hughie’s been known to cut a few corners making a buck. Not the most scrupulous fella. Cousin George gave him the money to start his body shop operation.”
“That’s your answer. O’Hara’s behind it. Rogan was carrying out his dirty work.”
“And why would O’Hara do this?”
“You know the answer. To protect the church. Who comes to their aid on every damn thing. Who’s their major benefactor? Who does Archbishop McCready’s dirty work?”
“You can’t be serious. Now you’re accusing the Archbishop of ordering a hit on one of his own priests. That has to be ridiculous!”
“And that’s why it stands a good chance of being true. I don’t mean that McCready ordered the hit. Maybe he only asked O’Hara if he could make sure that the lid stayed on the events at St. Curnan’s. O’Hara is the Archbishop’s fixer. And maybe the kids are telling the truth. Maybe Rogan only asked them to scare Father Michael and it went out of control.”
“You’ve been reading too many conspiracy theories. I’ll bet you believe that MI5 killed Princess Diana and that the CIA killed Kennedy!”
“I’m not some crazy conspiracy theorist. And you know that O’Hara was up to no good last year. I couldn’t prove anything then but you know that he was one of the cabal behind that corrupt bastard, David Manning.”
“Yeah, I’m sorry. But damn it, if I thought for a minute that you were right.”
“You’d do what? Nothing! You can’t prove a thing and you can’t do a thing. All you can do is charge these kids with stealing a car and dangerous driving causing serious bodily harm.”
“And that’s not fucking good enough!”
They looked around. The bar was beginning to fill up and they knew it was time to move on.
As they parted, Ed said, “I’m going to see O’Hara.”
“Be careful. Remember, they tried to kill you a year ago!”
45
George O’Hara’s secretary returned Ed’s call, “Mr. O’Hara will see you at three today. Is that convenient?” Ed replied that that would be fine. O’Hara’s office sat in the heart of Dublin 4, a most prestigious address, not far from the U.S. Embassy and about a ten minute walk from his own apartment in Ballsbridge Gardens.
All glass, mahogany, with the O’Hara coat of arms in gold on the door, and carpets thick and luscious with a Celtic design all exuded wealth, power, and the image of a fat, well-fed Celtic tiger. Ed didn’t know whether to feel soothed or ruffled by it all. Before he had time to contemplate that, O’Hara materialized in front of him. A large man with a handsome Irish face, friendly and smiling, he almost gushed as he shook Ed’s hand.
“Mr. Burke, so glad to meet you. A pleasant surprise. Come in, come in.”
And with that, he turned and walked past the reception and the secretaries as Ed followed. He ushered Ed into his office where Ed was once again surprised. Expecting to be faced with the ostentation that greeted him at the front door, instead he found himself in a working office replete with drawings, models of new developments, plan and elevation of houses, renderings everywhere. O’Hara’s desk doubled as a conference table. In effect, it was a conference table that abutted a wall credenza supporting his phone and computer. He guided Ed through the clutter, se
ated him at the table and then joined him.
“I know. You expected the opulence that met you at the front door. Well, that’s image. This is where the rubber meets the road. We build homes and that’s what I love. That house you see there, the plans and elevation – that’s the most Eco friendly house that’s ever been designed. It’s green! That’s our real image. But you didn’t come to see me about this, did you?”
“You know I didn’t.”
“Mr. Burke – may I call you Edmond …?”
“No, call me Ed.”
“Well, Ed, I was curious about you. That’s why I agreed to see you. I wanted to see the man who was responsible for the death of David Manning, our Tanaiste. Yes, I wanted to meet the man who robbed us of our best and brightest.”
“You mean that I helped to get rid of the most corrupt and dangerous politician this country has seen in a long time. And you’re being disingenuous. You and your friends eliminated him, like you would cut out a tumour to save your own life. But I didn’t come here to talk about the past.”
“Why are you here?”
“Don’t be coy! You know why I’m here. You must know that the young boy, Terry Joyce, who died at St. Curnan’s, was my cousin Emmet’s son. I’m sure you and your friends knew that I was back in Ireland from the very moment I stepped off the plane at Shannon.”
“Of course I read the papers. I heard about that tragic accident at the school. Terrible loss of a young life.”
“Don’t bullshit me. You know damn well that it was no accident. You know that the son of your most important Catholic family, Father Cormack, was responsible for his death. And if that ever saw the light of day, it would open a pandora’s box of abuse and scandal that would rock the very foundation of your church. And you couldn’t be sure that the only witness, Father Michael Nugent, would keep his mouth shut, could you? You look surprised. You didn’t think that Father Michael would confide in anyone about your approach to him. An approach, I might add, that he found insulting.”
“Alright, I knew about it. The church has suffered enough. And we’ve paid millions in compensation.”
“Yes, under the most favorable terms. A settlement that you negotiated for them. The Archbishop must love you.”
“I serve my church honourably. It does not deserve to be ruined by a few bad apples.”
“So you would do anything to protect Mother Church, wouldn’t you? That’s why you asked you cousin to deal with Father Michael, scare the wits out of him or something like that. But Rogan’s not too swift, is he? His thugs almost killed Father Michael. I know we can’t prove this. If we could we’d have you both locked up for life.”
“You’re mad! Those kids were joyriders. Boy racers, that’s what they call them. Out for a thrill, lost control of the car. An accident, pure and simple.”
With that, he got up, face red and angry, “I am going to ask you to leave, Mr. Burke. You’ve exhausted my patience. I was curious to meet you and that was a mistake. I’d advise you to end these wild speculations and accusations.”
Ed stood up, “Or what? Have me killed again? You tried that once. I don’t think you can try that one again. I make you this promise. I am going to get to the bottom of my cousin Terry’s death. And if I find that your Church has been burying its sins under the rocks, I’m going to expose them. And you can tell that to Archbishop McCready!”
Ed stormed out of the office, tipping over a table that held a scale model of a new O’Hara Homes development. Bit and pieces scattered everywhere.
46
Minister of Justice Brian Cosgrave knew that Ed Burke was back in Ireland. After Ed’s near-death experience at Shannon a year ago, he never expected him to return. But, then again, on second thoughts, he hadn’t made allowances for Ed’s tenacious spirit. That spirit he remembered well from law school. He laughed to himself as some of those memories returned. He’d taken the phone call from Ed as soon as he got into his office this morning. Luckily he had no appointments and he told Ed to come see him.
The intercom buzzed on his phone, interrupting his reverie “Yes, send him in, Eileen.”
Seconds later, the door opened and a tall, bronzed Ed Burke stood facing him. He walked over and reached out. They shook hands, hard. Brian Cosgrave looked appraisingly at Ed, “Damn, you look good. You know you look better now than you did before you were shot!”
Ed laughed deeply, “Thanks, Brian,” and nudging Brian gently in the midriff, said, “I see the good life is treating you well too.”
“Too much time behind a desk. My wife says I’ve got to get more exercise,” and threw his hands up in the air in a gesture of frustration, “sit down, sit down.”
They sat facing each other across the small conference table in the corner of the office. Eileen arrived with coffee.
“I took the liberty,” said Brian.
“Thanks, I need my morning fix. All those years in the States, you know. I’m an addict.”
“Well, it’s the same here now.”
Small talk over, Brian looked at Ed, “I never expected to see you back in Ireland again.”
“Believe me, I had no such plan. Life was good in Miami. But my cousin Emmet needed me. You’re aware of his son Terry’s death at St. Curnan’s.”
“I am indeed. Such a tragedy. I’m sorry.”
“Thanks, Brian. Now there’s a second boy dead and a killer on the loose. I know the gardai are doing their best but this whole matter stinks!”
“Stay out of it! Leave it to the gardai! Young Terry’s death seems to have been a tragic accident. That other boy’s suicide and these murders have nothing to do with your cousin’s death.”
“I don’t believe that and Emmet doesn’t believe that his son’s death was an accident. And he didn’t trust the school or the church authorities – same thing – to tell him the truth. And he didn’t trust the State either. He trusted me to find the truth. That’s why I’m here.”
“The gardai have investigated it. They found nothing to suggest that it wasn’t an accident.”
“And you didn’t press the matter very hard, did you? After all, it was the church you were investigating.”
“That’s not fair. We did a thorough investigation, like we would anywhere. If people choose not to tell us something, we can’t force them.”
“But somebody knew something. My friend, Father Michael Nugent, knew something. You see, he was there the night Terry died. But you know all that now, don’t you? Father Nugent talked. Yeah, after they tried to kill him!”
“And we’ve arrested the two young men who ran him over in that stolen car. Joyriders!”
“You don’t believe that for a minute, do you? Their uncle told them to do it. It was a contract hit. And you know that!”
“No, I don’t know that. Their uncle denies it. Claims that those lads would lie through their teeth to cut a deal.”
“And you believe him!”
“It’s not a matter of belief. It’s a matter of proof. We have no proof. We have no evidence against Hugh Rogan. We can not indict him on the say-so of a couple of delinquent kids.”
“And, you know, of course that Rogan is a flunky. He owes his life, his business, whatever to his cousin George. George O’Hara, the Archbishop’s front man.”
“What are you trying to say?”
“I’ll spell it out for you. Archbishop McCready uses O’Hara as a fixer, a go between who cuts sweet deals for the church. O’Hara is the supreme lobbyist. I could swear on a stack of bibles that O’Hara’s dirty fingers are in this. I believe that the Archbishop is afraid, deadly afraid that the deaths at St. Curnan’s will undermine their authority, their freedom to operate without state intervention. So I believe he asked O’Hara to keep a lid on the matter.”
“That’s wild speculation!”
“Not at all! Did you know that O’Hara approached Father Nugent at the St. Curnan’s alumni dinner? Tried to encourage him to keep his mouth shut. Did you know that?”
“
No. But that seems to be in character for O’Hara.”
“But Father Michael was angry. Gave O’Hara the brush-off. And then O’Hara’s cousin hired these two thugs to attack Father Michael. Not too much between their ears, so they overdid it. I suspect that Rogan didn’t ask them to kill Father Michael.”
“But you have no proof of any of this.”
“That’s exactly what George O’Hara said to me.”
“You went to see him! You accused him of this!”
“I confronted him. I got him to admit that he knew that Father Roland Cormack had something to do with Terry’s death. And he readily admitted that a scandal involving the most prestigious Catholic family in the land would bring the people’s wrath down on their head. I could see the wheels move in his head: Bad PR! Bad PR! I put it to him that he had his cousin Rogan take care of Father Michael!”
“Are you crazy?”
“I’ve never been saner in my life. Of course I knew it would rattle O’Hara. I wanted to shake him up. I want the Archbishop to feel the rock of his church tremble beneath him.”
“This is a dangerous game you’re playing!”
“You mean they might try to kill me again. Like last time.”
“Don’t joke about it. That’s exactly what I mean!”
“So you think they’re guilty too?”
“Don’t try you child psychology on me. It won’t work!”
“I’m sorry. I was out of line with that one. But, damnit, if the Taoiseach can be hauled in front of a tribunal because his friends slipped some pound notes in his pocket when he was hard up years ago, why can’t we bring the Archbishop and his cohorts in front of a tribunal for far worse crimes? Why can’t we?”
“Hold it! Seems like you’re off on some kind of crusade. This has nothing to do with finding the truth about your cousin’s death anymore, does it?”
“Yes it does. And it doesn’t. I already know the truth about Terry’s death. And I want Father Roland Cormack to face justice for that. And I want the Irish people to ensure that no organization is permitted to exist outside of the law and governance of the people. That’s my mission.”