Nolan Connors nodded in emphatic agreement. The other graduate students sat motionless, ratcheting up the tension in the room.
“What happened Saturday evening,” Landers said evenly, “was a tragedy on many levels. As Joe knows, I’m sure, the Catholic Church teaches that all persons are entitled to their good name, to their reputation. So publicly decrying or challenging someone’s character is always a serious matter. Maybe in the days or weeks ahead we will know a little more that might help us understand—I don’t say excuse—what took place at the Mass.”
Constanza bristled but did not respond.
Ellen Stark sat in momentary silence. She wanted to ask, Well, did the archbishop abuse boys or not? but thought better of it. Landers knew the answer, but it was an answer he held in confidence. She took another tack. “If, and I say if…if the archbishop sexually abused minors, he wouldn’t be the first bishop to do so. Remember that Pope Julius III picked up a fifteen-year-old boy on the streets of Parma and made him a cardinal.”
“It’s been almost forty years since the clergy abuse scandals surfaced in the U.S. and in many other parts of the world,” Landers said. “But as historians, you know there is evidence of clergy abuse of boys and girls, of young men and women, dating back to the early second century. Pope Julius doesn’t stand alone. Can you think of any other examples?”
“Wasn’t it St. Basil,” John Pointer asked, “who had child-molesting monks flogged and held for six months in their cells, like in solitary confinement? And that was in the fourth century.”
Another student leaned forward, signaling he wanted to offer a follow-up. “In fact, there is a second century commentary on the gospels that says, ‘Thou shalt not seduce young boys.’”
“All right,” Landers said in approval. “We know the sexual abuse of children and minors is, sadly, nothing new—in the church and in society in general. And from the historical evidence we have, it seems that in every age the abuse was hushed-up and at the same time met with considerable denial.” Landers paused here.
“Professor Landers, what do you think caused the cover-up and denial?” Pointer asked.
“For a very long time,” Lander said deliberately, “we just didn’t want to believe that adults, especially the clergy, would do such a thing—abuse innocent children and young people in their teens. And there are still people today who think the clergy abuse horrors are exaggerated by anti-Catholic bias. But even in the secular sphere, there is mounting evidence that we simply don’t want to admit the extent of physical and sexual abuse in our homes and schools and churches.”
Joseph Constanza twitched in his chair, his anger mounting. Landers was turning what happened to the archbishop into a history lesson. Bristling, without glancing back at Landers, he got up and left the room.
38
Trying not to stare, Bryn Martin took the measure of the archbishop. In spite of his full, round face and fleshy neck, Charles Cullen’s jaw was set and his blue-gray eyes, though watery, were focused—like a general’s features, Martin thought, engaging in battle. The photocopied contents of Aidan Kempe’s private file drawer were spread out on the conference table.
Cullen looked up to find Martin studying him. Cullen scanned the papers on the table, his pink cheeks now bright red. Abruptly, he walked away from the table, then turned to Martin and said in the tone of a commanding officer, “Read Margaret’s note again.”
Martin opened a manila folder and took out a handwritten note on a white piece of stock copy paper.
Dear Bishop Martin,
Enclosed you will find photocopies of materials contained in Monsignor Aidan Kempe’s private file drawer.
I ask you to share this information with Archbishop Cullen in the hope that you might both come to understand why I did what I did at Archbishop Gunnison’s Jubilee Mass.
I regret deeply the archbishop’s tragic death. I now realize it may have been better to have sent this package to you and left the matter in your hands.
At the time, I did what I felt I had to do. I can only ask for your prayers.
Sincerely yours,
Margaret Comiskey
Both men sat still, trying to comprehend how things could have come to this.
Finally, Cullen said, “Honestly, Bryn, the last thing I wanted to do with Wilfred’s funeral arrangements still not settled was to read through these papers from Aidan’s file. But you were right. I had to see this stuff first hand. This isn’t just scandalous. It’s criminal!” Cullen continued in a tired but steely voice. “Kempe’s funneled thousands of dollars of the archdiocese’s funds into off-the-books accounts that he alone controlled.”
“Maybe hundreds of thousands of dollars.” Martin added.
“What’s worse,” Cullen went on, “is his handling on his own and in his own way reports of clergy abuse.” There was no rhythm to his speech, Martin noted. He had hammered out each word in a staccato stream heavy with his own rising heat. “He’s taken it on himself to personally shield Wilfred and half a dozen others. We’d be naïve to think none of them has abused again.”
Cullen paced from his conference table to his desk and back again.
“God Almighty, Bryn, what if the media gets hold of this?”
Martin was grateful that Cullen had thought first of the young people his priests had abused before raising the specter of a media frenzy and the storm that would follow.
Cullen sat back down at the conference table and stared towards the window. He sat suddenly erect. “God damn it, Bryn, they knew! They knew! Both Wilfred and Aidan knew what was behind those laser hits. Both of them were aware of Mark Anderlee. They were playing us all along.”
“Yes,” Martin said, “and hoping a hundred thousand dollars would make him go away. And keep him quiet.”
“And this Brotherhood of the Sacred Purple. What’s that all about? Self-appointed guardians of orthodoxy and bishop brokers! Not only that, they have a Vatican godfather, this mysterious M. And Wilfred was a member, for God’s sake! We have yet to bury the man, and now this on top of everything else.”
Martin knew this was not the time to brief Cullen on the Combier papers. That would have to wait.
Cullen got up from the conference table and walked back to his desk but remained standing. He was quiet for a minute, then turned to Martin, still seated at the table, and said, “He’s no longer chancellor, Bryn. Kempe’s finished.”
On the Wednesday morning after Archbishop Gunnison’s death, Bryn Martin was back in Cullen’s office. Aidan Kempe, he knew, had been informed by Cullen himself to be ready to come to the archbishop’s office when called.
“Do you want me to stay?” Bryn asked.
“Yes. I want a third party present.”
“You might also want one of our attorneys to sit in on the meeting.”
“I’ve thought of that,” Cullen said, “but it’s better if it’s just you and me.”
A mistake, Martin thought. But he didn’t say so.
“Before I call Aidan in, tell me,” Cullen said, “how did Margaret get copies of the contents of his private file?”
“I can’t figure it out either. Margaret, or someone else here at the Catholic Center, must have had an opportunity to duplicate or photograph all this stuff. But Aidan is scrupulous about his privacy. All I know, all we know, is that Margaret somehow got her hands on Aidan’s private papers.”
Cullen tried to let the mystery go for the moment. But it rankled both bishops. Charles and Bryn sat thinking…and feeling rather dumb.
Cullen came back to the task at hand. He had important pastoral matters to see to. “Right after the funeral, we begin reaching out to the victims listed in Aidan’s journal. We’re going to their homes, if they’ll have us.” Cullen’s mind raced on, “Make sure we report the accusations to the county authorities. And have every priest Aidan was protecting in my office the day after we bury Wilfred.”
Martin nodded.
“Wilfred’s funeral,” Cullen s
aid wearily, “is the least of my worries.” He glanced at his watch—it was just past eight—and reached for his phone. “Let’s get this over with.”
Both Cullen and Martin were mildly startled by the sharp double knock on the archbishop’s office door. Kempe was reporting as directed—but apparently not at all intimidated by his curt summons to the archbishop’s office.
Cullen, standing behind his desk, pointed to one of the two upholstered chairs facing him. “Sit down, Aidan.”
Kempe ignored Martin and stole a quick glance at Cullen’s conference table. It was covered with piles of paper. Cullen’s conference table was never cluttered with papers or anything else.
Martin pulled the matching chair to the left of the archbishop’s desk and sat down. Kempe continued to ignore him.
After what seemed an eternity to Martin, Cullen sank slowly into his chair and studied the legal pad in front of him. Kempe stared blankly, as if expecting the blow to come. Cullen spoke evenly and with precision. “I’ve discovered, Monsignor, that you have been aware of allegations of sexual abuse by a number of our priests—including Archbishop Gunnison.”
Kempe stirred in his chair without any sign of concern.
“Allegations,” Cullen went on, “that were never brought to my attention or to the attention of the police.”
“I have no idea what you are talking about, Archbishop,” Kempe said formally.
“A short time ago a package was delivered to the Catholic Center. Its contents appalled me.”
Kempe held Cullen’s gaze. Without turning his head, he sensed Martin’s eyes on him. He felt nothing but contempt for this liberal lackey named bishop in his stead. He still felt stung by that insult. Passed over by Bryn Martin, for God’s sake. It was the Brotherhood’s most personal, most painful defeat.
Then with only a hint of a crack in his composure, Kempe turned and looked at the conference table. Comiskey!
“You have taken it upon yourself,” Cullen said glancing at the pad in front of him, “to personally handle a number of clergy abuse allegations without bringing them to my attention or to the attention of the vicar for priests. The accused clergy, and here I include Wilfred Gunnison, continued in ministry.”
Kempe made no response.
Cullen picked up the pad and tilted his head to see through the reading lens of his glasses. “You have appropriated archdiocesan funds to buy promises from victims and their parents not to prosecute or sue.”
“That’s correct,” Kempe said smugly. “In these cases I determined they could be handled best by resolving them personally. I offered the alleged victims and their families counseling, some modest financial help, and the assurance that the priest in question would receive treatment and not be a danger to others.”
Cullen’s neck and face flushed red.
“I hope you realize,” Kempe said in a condescending tone, “that the money paid out comes nowhere close to the exorbitant amounts alleged victims are receiving today. And,” he threw Martin a glance, “I provided you and your auxiliary bishop with deniability if any of the victims should have sued or gone to the authorities.” His tone suggested Cullen should be grateful.
“May I…?” Martin asked, looking at Cullen.
The archbishop nodded.
“Did you ever apologize to any of these victims for the abuse they suffered?” Bryn asked.
“I didn’t think it was my place to apologize for claims of alleged abuse by a handful of our priests without real proof of the legitimacy of the accusations. The last thing we wanted was the police investigating priests—and the media circus that would follow.”
Cullen listened incredulously.
“No,” Kempe continued, more forcefully, “I determined that minimal financial settlements, even against unproven accusations, seemed the best way to proceed. I believe I spared the church scandal and that I protected the dignity and authority of priests and bishops. I believed then, and I still believe, that I acted prudently—in the best interests of the church.”
“And I suppose it was in the best interests of the church,” Cullen pressed, “that both as financial secretary and as chancellor, you appropriated archdiocesan funds to be used as you saw fit.”
Kempe leaned forward in his chair. “Both as financial secretary and as chancellor, I made numerous financial decisions that saved the archdiocese hundreds of thousands of dollars. And I did so with discretion and prudence.”
Kempe’s scornful expression matched the tone of his voice. Cullen gripped the arms of his chair.
“After Wilfred’s funeral,” Cullen said evenly, “I’m authorizing a thorough audit of your office and the financial department. And I mean thorough. If there is evidence of fraud, I won’t hesitate to report the findings to the prosecutor’s office.”
Kempe’s face tightened in contempt. Cullen wasn’t through.
“I have evidence that you received thousands of dollars a month from four of our pastors. It looks to me like this was parish money. What was that all about? And what’s this purple purse and the Brotherhood of the Sacred Purple?”
Kempe felt his face coloring. “I consider the matters you just raised personal and private. The pastors’ contributions you mentioned—they were not payments—were discretionary funds used to shore up the orthodox teachings of the Roman Catholic Church.”
Cullen wondered, but did not ask, And just how did you do that?
Kempe, stirred now by his own indignation, was unrelenting. “There are numerous priest support groups, priest fraternities, if you like, in the archdiocese. You yourself have encouraged your priests to join such groups. The Brotherhood of the Sacred Purple is a priest support group. You can hardly object to that. If we keep a very low profile, that is our right.”
Charles Cullen pushed the legal pad to one side and leaned back in his chair. He stared at Kempe briefly before going on. “I’ve discovered you have a list of priests who are being considered for the episcopacy. And another list of bishops your Brotherhood was promoting for advancement to more important—”
“That too,” Kempe said quickly, “is personal and private. This may sound rather immodest, but from time to time I’m consulted by members of the Congregation for Bishops on the suitability of priests for the office of bishop.”
Before Kempe arrived in his office, Cullen had decided not to ask him about M. That piece of information needed to be pursued most carefully and through discreet channels. The archbishop looked from Kempe to Martin. Bryn, like the master of ceremonies he once was, sat alert and ready to intervene if necessary in the church drama unfolding in front of him.
Kempe broke the brief silence, “This audit you mentioned. It cannot, of course, include my private files. They’re not subject to any scrutiny—not even by you, Archbishop. I’m sure you understand that your ‘evidence,’ as you call it, had to be obtained illegally.”
Martin thought this was Kempe’s best shot so far. He should have anticipated it and warned Cullen to be ready for it.
“So,” Kempe bored ahead, “I’m asking you, and I have a right to an answer, how were these papers obtained?”
“I don’t know,” the archbishop said and then turned to Martin, “nor does Bryn. Tell me, is anything missing from your file? Papers or money? Any sign of forcible entry?”
“No,” Kempe replied, “nothing seems to be missing or disturbed.”
“Well,” Cullen said, “you can hardly report this to the police.”
“Of course I wouldn’t report it to the police,” Kempe said testily. “But I want to know how copies of my private files, files that are my personal business, were invaded. And I plan to find out.”
“Perhaps some of the papers, your journal entries, and the nature of your Brotherhood, as you’ve insisted, are none of my business. The money that went into your purple purse, however, money that came from our parishioners, might well be my business. And it’s certainly my business that you failed to bring to my immediate attention the names of yo
ung people abused by our priests. And you failed to inform me of the priests who were accused. That’s my business, Monsignor, that’s my business!
“And,” Cullen paused for emphasis, “I neither need nor want any ‘deniability’…from you or from anyone else! Is that clear?”
Kempe didn’t respond. As before, he held Cullen’s gaze. The three churchmen sat, staring without speaking. Kempe finally lowered his eyes.
Archbishop Charles Cullen rose from his chair. Kempe and Martin also stood.
“Monsignor Kempe,” Cullen said formally, “You have done serious harm to the archdiocese. I’m relieving you of your responsibilities as chancellor—as of this moment. You may keep your residence at the cathedral rectory for the time being. Officially, you’re awaiting assignment.”
The archbishop tried to read Kempe’s eyes. The cold look he saw said, Don’t mess with me, Cullen. Don’t mess with me.
“As you say, Archbishop. As you say.” Monsignor Aidan Kempe turned and walked deliberately to the door. He closed it quietly behind him.
“Aidan is probably right, Bryn,” Cullen said, turning towards the documents scattered on the table. This stuff can’t be used in any formal proceedings, civil or even canonical. But wherever this goes, we’re put in a very precarious position.”
They were quiet for a bit, assessing the ramifications of Kempe’s duplicity.
“By the way, Bryn, make sure our former chancellor has a prominent role in Wilfred’s funeral. He should be one of the major concelebrants.”
Bryn nodded.
“I’m still wondering,” Cullen went on, “how in the world Margaret got her hands on these documents.”
“I will do my best to find out.”
Martin didn’t tell his archbishop that he had a hunch.
39
Monsignor Aidan Kempe, feeling the full weight of gross misunderstanding and false accusations, walked back to his office trying to control a mounting rage. So this is how they persecute their prophets, their faithful stewards. Cullen was mistaken if he thought this was the end of his career. Although he had to be wary of M, he had friends in high places, he had money, and he had priests who owed him big time for saving their skins. Aidan Kempe knew how to play the game as well as any of them.
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