Creatures of Habit

by Pat Mullan

  “But that’s impossible.”

  “Why is it impossible? Why? All I’m seeking is Separation of Church and State. ”

  “It takes time. That’s what we inherited. The priests were the only ones left to educate us. Under English rule we were denied an education.”

  “But that’s ancient history! We’ve moved on. These are not religious schools I’m speaking about. These are state schools, primary and secondary. Schools where the teachers are often appointed or approved by the Church and their salaries paid by the taxpayer. And who is that taxpayer anymore?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Look at the last census. Of the four million people in this country, almost half a million are not native Irish. And close to fifteen percent of our population are not Catholic. We have Muslims, Hindus, Buddhists, Methodists, you name it. And you know that biggest chunk are people who say they have no religion whatsoever.”

  “If you want to fight that battle, go into politics. It’s not going to be fought here in Justice.”

  Ed’s passion suddenly subsided and he now sat with his head resting in his hands. He knew that he didn’t come here to engage in a diatribe about the state and the church. He had some vague notion that he could engage Brian Cosgrave’s support, or at least a benign hands-off for the rough times he thought lay ahead.

  “Brian, I’m sorry. I got carried away. I didn’t come here to start preaching like this.”

  “Hey, forget it. I’m worried about you. You’re taking on some powerful people. My advice – stay out of it! Leave it alone.”

  “How can I? That’s what I really came to see you about. I’m going to try and get Father Roland Cormack to talk about the night that young Terry died. He’s in Rome. I want him back in Ireland. I don’t know how to do that yet. But I want you in my corner when I try.”

  “You know I can only uphold the law. You bring me evidence and I’ll see that charges are presented to the DPP.”

  “They’ll try and stop you.”

  “You mean O’Hara and the Archbishop?”

  “And Lord Desmond Cormack as well.”

  “I promise you this. If Father Roland Cormack has broken any law and you can bring me credible evidence, I don’t care who he is or what powerful people are in his corner. I will bring him to justice.”

  The meeting ended on that note. The Minister of Justice had a busy day ahead. And Ed Burke had had a sympathetic ear from one of the most powerful men in the government. That’s all he could expect at this point.

  47

  George O’Hara sought the counsel of three of his closest allies, TP McGrady, Shane Braddock, and Jack Simpson; men who had bonded together to ensure government support for their enterprises and a playing field tilted in their favour. Their wealth and power depended on that assurance and they were quick to act when threatened.

  Tonight they sat together at dinner in TP McGrady’s house in the Churchfield estate in the grounds of the K Club in County Kildare.

  Dinner over and, with it, talk of golf, the market, the wine list, the good life, they had finally come to their real reason for being there. McGrady got up, retrieved the cognac, poured a healthy measure into their glasses, and said, “George, you’ve got our attention. Tell us why we’re here.”

  “Slainte!” and as they raised their glasses, George continued, “some of the things I’m going to tell you, you already know from the papers. It’s been the number one headline for days. But indulge me for a few minutes while I give you the real story behind all of it.”

  So George briefed them on the events at St. Curnan’s, his meeting with the Archbishop, his confrontation with Ed Burke, the threat to the church and, in a way, to the stability of the power base that they depended upon. Finally, he told them about the botched job his cousin had done on Father Michael Nugent. Then he reached across, refilled his cognac glass, and looked at them. He saw that they were trying to digest what they’d heard.

  Jack Simpson piped up with a quirk, “Hell, George, I couldn’t care less about your Church. Or any Church for that matter.”

  Everybody glanced around to see how Simpson’s poor attempt at humour was being received. Shane Braddock moved restlessly in his chair. When George O’Hara smiled and shook his head in amusement, they relaxed.

  TP McGrady said, “So, what you’re telling us is that these killings must end and that this stuff must disappear from page one. Isn’t that what you’re saying, George?”

  “Exactly! We now know who the killer is. He’s a mad priest, name of Flaherty. Can you imagine if he’s caught and put on trial? It’ll last for months and dominate the headlines. Think of the people who might be called to testify. Everybody from the Cardinal to maybe even the President.”

  “And you’re saying we can’t afford to let this happen.”

  “Yes!”

  “Which means that you have to find this priest, Flaherty?”

  “And put him out of business!”

  “I don’t see any other way. That’s why you’re here. That’s why I need your advice.”

  “You don’t need our advice on this. You want to hear us tell you that we think you’re right, don’t you?”

  “In a way, yes.”

  “OK. Find this mad priest and take care of him. And, if Burke gets in the way, he wouldn’t be missed by any of us, would he?”

  “Burke is a pain in the ass. And he’s already threatened me in my own office.”

  “Threatened you?”

  “Yes, he accused us of trying to kill him last year. And then said that he was sure we wouldn’t try that one again. I can remember exactly what he said ‘. I am going to get to the bottom of my cousin Terry’s death. And if I find that your great Mother Church has been burying its sins under the rocks, I’m going to expose them. I was so damn angry. I threw him out of my office.”

  “Look, George, you know that the church has covered all this up, hid all these pedophiles, moved Cormack to Rome. Don’t you think that Burke will have the church in his gun sight? It’s the kind of target that man would love. He was a damn good criminal lawyer back in New York, you know.”

  “As usual, you’re right. That’s why I hang out with all of you.”

  They started to laugh, quietly at first, then growing loud and raucous, until it sounded like some mad symphony.

  48

  Hughie Rogan sat in the front seat of George O’Hara’s mercedes, parked on a quiet street not far from Hughie’s body shop. Hughie had been up early, been through a tough day, and now at eight o’clock, he was dead tired. But George’s money kept his business alive so, in a sense, George owned him.

  “The Father Michael Nugent thing was a total screw-up! You know that, don’t you?”

  “I know. Damnit, do you think I’m happy about that?”

  “No, but you were responsible. And I hope it’s taught you a lesson. You can’t screw this one up!”

  “I won’t.”

  George pulled a large manilla envelope from under his seat and handed it to Hughie, saying, “There’s a lot of info on Father Flaherty in there. Read it, memorize it, then destroy it.”

  “Where is Flaherty?”

  “We don’t know. The Gardai lost him. He might even be out of the country. But I don’t believe that.”

  “Maybe this Ed Burke knows where he is?”

  “I doubt it.”

  “Well, maybe if we follow Burke, he’ll lead us to him.”

  “You can follow him if you want to. But there’s no guarantee that he’ll lead you to Flaherty. Do your own investigation. You need to get to Flaherty before anyone else.”

  “But if the gardai can’t find him …”

  “You must be able to torture the information out of somebody! So, go find somebody who knows where Flaherty might be. And torture it out of them, if you have to.”

  “What about Burke?”

  “Yeah, we’d like to see the back of him. For good. He’s not our main target but, if he happens to get in
your way, you know what to do, don’t you?”

  Hughie picked up the envelope and, as he reached for the door handle, O’Hara said, “I’m expecting a professional job. No wet-behind-the-ears young punks this time!”

  49

  Father Roland Cormack sat in front of his laptop in the Irish College in Rome. He’d led a solitary life since arriving in Rome. Cardinal Volpe assured him that being out of sight would keep him out of mind until the difficulty in Ireland had blown over. He wasn’t so sure but he had little choice in the matter. He powered up his laptop, connected to the internet and started browsing for any related news. An Associated Press article popped up immediately and he read it with disbelief and increased anxiety:

  VATICAN CITY - The Vatican said it has suspended a monsignor from a senior post at the Holy See after an Italian TV programme using a hidden camera recorded him making advances to a young man and asserting that gay sex was not sinful. Monsignor Silvio Conte confirmed in a telephone interview with the Associated Press that he had been suspended from his post at the Vatican’s Congregation for Clergy, an office which aims to ensure proper conduct by priests. A Vatican spokesman said the monsignor was suspended while the case was under investigation. Milan daily Corriere della Sera had previously reported that a young man had contacted La7 and said he had been in contact with several priests on chat lines popular with gay men. Corriere said La7 then filmed encounters between the man and priests with a hidden camera.

  Stunned, Father Cormack knew he had to get to Cardinal Volpe immediately. They’re closing in, he thinks. Monsignor Conte has been a close ally in a critically important position.

  He phoned Cardinal Volpe’s office, and learned that the Cardinal was attending a board meeting at the Vatican Bank.

  The Vatican Bank, despite its notoriety, is completely unpretentious. Housed in a medieval tower that was once a dungeon, it has no branches and very few employees.

  The board meeting had commenced early that morning and was still in progress five hours later. Of all the difficult matters that had faced the bank over the years, today’s was causing great debate among the board members. A San Francisco attorney was attempting to have an audit performed. His case involved about three hundred plaintiffs who were seeking restitution of assets allegedly stolen during World War II bv the Ustasha dictatorship, Hitler’s Croatian puppet regime. The Ustashi had stolen millions from their victims and moved it to the Croat treasury. The plaintiffs claimed that the Vatican Bank laundered these stolen millions after the war to several destinations in South America. A US State Department report implicated the Vatican Bank in the laundering of Nazi money, stating that about $47 million was moved to Spain and Argentina.

  This raised the spectre of earlier scandals where the Vatican Bank had been involved in the collapse of both the financial empire headed by Michele Sindona and the Banco Ambrosiano, chaired by Roberto Calvi. Sindona later died in jail from a cyanide laced cup of coffee and Calvi was found hanging from a London bridge. Called a suicide at the time, since then his death has been classified a homicide by the Italian courts. In the midst of this, millions of dollars belonging to the Vatican Bank disappeared and was traced to Latin America. Banco Ambrosiano had also been making hundred million dollar loans to companies registered in Nicaragua, Panama, and Peru, companies owned by the Vatican, many of them having only an address. There was much speculation that these funds were used for a variety of purposes from paying political bribes to funding right-wing propaganda movements throughout the region.

  After considerable discussion the board decided unanimously to file a request with the US State Department to have the case dismissed on the grounds of sovereign immunity. The Vatican Bank – the Instituto Per Le Opera di Religione (IOR), or the Office of Religious Works - formally established in 1942 as the official bank of the Vatican state, was granted sovereign immunity under the terms of a pact signed between Pope Pius XII and Benito Mussolini in 1929.

  Despite these matters dominating the meeting, it ended to the satisfaction of Cardinal Volpe. Although he and two of his Lavender Mafia colleagues had strong influence on the board, they could never risk becoming complacent.

  They’d convinced the board to invest heavily in their seminaries and recruitment programs in the third world. They’d also ensured that sizeable contingent funds were reserved to fight mounting worldwide legal battles. Today had been a good day.

  But the day was about to turn bad. The Cardinal knew that when he saw Father Cormack waiting outside in his car. As he approached, Father Roland opened the door and got out.

  “I didn’t expect you to meet me. What’s the matter?”

  “I have some bad news and I wanted you to hear it from me first.”

  Father Cormack, words tripping over each other, described the Associated Press release about Monsignor Conte. Cardinal Volpe steeled himself.

  “Bad! Very bad! We do not need this now. Not when there are several law suits being brought against us for cover-up. And the world media are salivating over it all.”

  “That’s why I thought I should see you immediately. I know you’d have found out very soon but I need your advice.”

  “What’s bothering you?”

  “I think this will only keep the matter alive back home in Ireland. I don’t know if I should stay here much longer. I’m very worried.”

  “We will take care of this. Trust me. I will talk with Monsignor Conte and we will find a way out of it. If the Monsignor has to sacrifice himself for the common good, then so be it. You should not be concerned.”

  “But it’s not that. I can’t stay here. It’s the deaths in Ireland. Especially Monsignor Fallon. He was like a father to me. I feel responsible.”

  “Listen to me, you are not responsible for the actions of a madman.”

  “But I know Father Bernard Flaherty. I taught beside him at St. Curnan’s. If that boy hadn’t died, and the other boy had not killed himself, then Father Flaherty might still only be the eccentric maths professor. Instead of the murderer he’s become. I feel responsible. I started it. I have to end it.”

  “Father Roland, you’re not thinking straight. You’re under too much stress. I’m afraid this Monsignor Conte matter has caused you to lose your common sense.”

  “No, it’s brought me to my senses. I am not a killer. My uncle, Lord Desmond, called. He told me that the Gardai have dropped the investigation. They could find no evidence against me. That boy’s death was an accident. “

  “So you can stay here. You don’t need to hide any more. I need you here. And you need to be here. For your future.”

  “But what is my future now?”

  “It’s still the same. The church needs you. We need you. I believe your Uncle Desmond wants to see you become a prince of this church one day, maybe even greater.”

  “I know all about the Cormack ambition for me. But I don’t share that ambition.”

  “Have you told that to your uncle?”

  “No. It would break his heart.”

  “Well, I don’t believe you either. You need to take time to get over all of this. And going back to Ireland at this time would be a terrible mistake.”

  “But I know Father Bernard Flaherty. Maybe I can find him, talk to him, get him to stop.”

  “Leave it to the police.”

  “But they can’t find him. I don’t think they will either. Father Bernard might be crazy but he is very resourceful. If he knows I’m back in Ireland, maybe I can find him.”

  “But why wouldn’t he want to kill you too?”

  “Maybe he does. Yes, maybe he does. But I have to confront him. I have to talk with him. I have to try and stop him before he kills again. Don’t you understand? I started all of this. I have to finish it.”

  Cardinal Volpe’s car slowed down in front of his residence before coming to a stop. The Cardinal reached out and held Father Roland Cormack firmly by the arm, “Archbishop McCready will be here next week to get his red hat. The newest Irish Cardi
nal. It’s important that you are seen in attendance. Promise me that you will stay for that. And afterwards we’ll talk. I am hopeful that you will see things differently by then. Promise me?” And, Father Roland knew that the ‘promise me’ was an order, not a request, so he nodded his head in assent.

  50

  Father Bernard Flaherty prayed, for over two hours, on his bare knees on the cold wooden floor in Peter McDaid’s house in Rathgar. Then he rose, put on his jeans, a fleece top, his best walking socks, a pair of hiking boots, and finally a soft woolen cap that he pulled down over his ears. He slung his backpack over his shoulder and left the house.

  He took a bus to O’Connell Street and walked east for about ten minutes until he reached Amiens Street, which connected him to Store Street and Bus Aras at Connolly Street Station. He expected that the Gardai had broadcast information about him so he couldn’t afford to use his driving licence to rent a car. He bought a bus ticket to Letterkenny, seeing that it would connect him to the 5:30 Lough Swilly bus which would get him into Fanad about 7 that evening. The right time, he thought.

  Father Aloysius Smith thought that he might as well be a hermit. Stripped of his right to say mass or perform any of his priestly duties, he had been sent to this bare-walled, cold and unwelcoming old cottage in the wilds of Donegal. After he’d been expelled from the USA, the church in Ireland wanted to exorcise him from their midst, hoping that the multi-million dollar lawsuits that might follow would never materialize. So they stripped him of everything, short of laicizing him, and banished him to this forlorn place. Oh yes, they provided him with a meager monthly stipend, just enough to maintain himself. And they did leave the phone connected, probably an oversight on their part. Not that he had anyone to call, or that anyone wanted to call him. The phone sat there, dead. It might as well have been disconnected.