by Gavin Reese
Pedro maintained a dispassionate poker face and deeply inhaled when Michael paused and waited for the next question. “What about your education?”
“I graduated high school in 1998, went to U-N-M to study theology. The ultra-liberal environment there felt oppressive, really, antagonistic, to my beliefs and my faith. I transferred to Western New Mexico State and finished degrees in Spanish and Theology in 2002.”
“Was it really antagonistic, as you say, or just unfriendly to our faith and dogma?” Pedro seemed put-off by Michael’s wording.
“I think ‘antagonistic’ is a fair assessment,” Michael responded. “Just a few weeks into the fall semester, I walked to the SUB, sorry, the Student Union Building, to meet friends for lunch. A woman walking past me saw my shirt, which was from a youth church retreat I’d worked the previous summer, and spit phlegm on me without even asking what I thought or believed. So, yes, I think antagonistic is accurate.”
“So, Daniel was cast into a pit of lions for his faith, but you had to endure being spit on by an angry woman?” Pedro’s disapproving gaze assured Michael he had no support from this anonymous Church elder. “That must have been very difficult for you.”
“Is that when you entered the seminary? After college?” Number Three’s immediate questions deterred Michael from responding to Father Pedro.
“No, sir, I worked as a student intern with the Silver City Police Department for three years and I grew pretty enamored with law enforcement. I thought it would be a great way for me to serve both God and His people.”
“Was it?”
“Yes, sir, it was, for a time. I started the police academy right after graduation and worked there for five more years. I lost patience with the limited role that police officers and the criminal justice system play in helping the needy.”
“You lost faith,” Number Two cautiously asked, “in the police force?”
“No, not in the Silver City Police Department, or even in cops as a whole,” Michael explained. “When I became a cop, I imagined taking the fight directly to the evil that victimizes the weak, the defenseless, and the vulnerable. I thought I would really make a difference, really have something to show at the end of each day for what I’d done to improve the quality of life around me.”
“And that wasn’t what happened?” Pedro had softened his tone, but his skepticism remained apparent.
“No, it wasn’t.” Memories of similar conversations with his SCPD peers, bosses, and mentors quickly flashed across his mind. “In my role as a patrol officer, I was only ever gonna be a cog. Actually, a very small cog, in a much larger and complicated criminal justice machine that seemed unable and, maybe, unwilling, to actually do what’s necessary to address the difficulties encountered by the least among us. It was more of a meat grinder, I suppose, and it didn’t care who went in or how they fared going through to the other side.”
“You didn’t like the work of a sausage maker,” Far Left smirked and asked.
“No, I suppose I didn’t,” Michael smirked at the man’s dark, familiar humor. Funny, that’s something a cop’d say. “The tougher realization was that the system itself prevented me from caring about what happened to anyone I sent in. Once I made and processed the arrest, I was powerless to further affect any outcome, but I didn’t understand that yet. I tried to stay involved with the victims and witnesses, even the suspects, sometimes. I wanted to serve everyone involved and help make all their lives betters. It took me about three years to become overwhelmed and realize I was trying to do a different job. I entered the seminary about two years after that. The last six years have been clerical assignments in South America.”
“Sounds to me like you tried to balance the work of a priest and a cop. Maybe, more accurately, you were a priest masquerading as a cop,” Far Left offered, along with a sympathetic smile. “I’ve always found the two positions incongruous.”
“Tell us about Columbia,” Pedro interrupted and politely demanded, “about Bogotá, specifically.”
Michael paused and took a deep breath. They already know the answers I’m gonna give, just like any decent investigators would. Never sat on this side of an interrogation before. He calmly exhaled. “By the time I started work in Columbia, I had already descended into a pretty low, pretty dark place. I didn’t have effective systems with dealing with all the burdens of my role there. I heard dozens of confessions every day, and, the people there are suffering, so badly, that many of them had endured or committed terrible acts just to survive.”
“You became angry, disillusioned, maybe,” Number Three offered, “unable to help?”
“Yes, that’s a fair summation,” Michael conceded. “I couldn’t involve myself, couldn’t break the Seal of the Confessional and tell the authorities what was happening. All I could do was—”
“Motivate, counsel, and pray,” Far Left finished his thought.
“Yes.”
“I was asking about a more specific event,” Pedro explained, “about that night, and how you feel about it now.”
Michael shifted in his chair and wondered how much Hernandez had already passed along. I think my actions deserve some context. “As I mentioned, I struggled with hearing so much suffering and predatory behavior in confession. I didn’t have a close, trusted mentor there to offer spiritual direction. I dealt with the burden of my work through physical exertion, through martial arts. I took whatever classes I could and frequently taught others. I became a black belt in Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu, and an advanced instructor in Krav Maga and Muay Thai kickboxing. Some Silat Melayu, but it’s hard to find advanced classes in Malaysian knife fighting in the South American jungles.” Michael saw three of the four men chuckled with him.
“And, back to the night in Bogotá,” Pedro directed.
Michael didn’t want to answer the question yet, not before he’d explained the background, the justification, for what had happened. I deserve for them to understand that I didn’t just murder a man and take off before the cops showed up. “Right. Not long after I arrived in Bogotá, the workouts no longer helped. I started imaging I was sparring with the predators that victimized my parishioners. Then, when that no longer helped, I started upping the ante.” Michael took a deep, calming breath, well aware of what he had to tell these four nameless strangers. “I started seeking out danger. Not for retaliation or retribution, but, I started putting myself in bad situations. I think I was offering myself up as a victim, hoping that one of the predators might try to attack me. Unlike the victims they usually encountered, I thought I might be able to do something about it.
“I took the long way home at night. Routed myself through dark alleys, down streets no one should ever walk alone in daylight, much less after nightfall. I wanted bad men to come out of dark places in search of low hanging fruit and find nothing but remorse and immediate consequence for their troubles.”
“You wanted swift justice,” Far Left summarized. “Wanted to protect your flock from the dangers of their surroundings. Sounds to me like you reversed roles and had become a cop masquerading as a priest.”
“Let Father Michael tell us,” Pedro impatiently commanded with both his hands raised just off the table, “in his own words.”
All four inquisitors turned their attention back to Michael. Another deep breath. “Yes, I believe that’s generally accurate,” he replied. “I wanted the monsters and predators to find me, to have to deal with me, instead of the weak and vulnerable. I wanted to give them what they deserved, to be the righteous consequence their conduct demanded. I hoped to motivate a few to turn from their evil ways, but, especially after my work as a cop, I knew the majority wouldn’t change, at least not from what little, uh, encouragement, I could provide.
“So, that last night in Bogotá, I had done exactly that,” Michael explained and paused briefly. “I again took the long way home, stayed out almost four hours after I should have been indoors, and found myself in a dark, narrow dirt alley with a desperate man. He demanded
everything I had. I offered to help him, but, instead, he produced a knife and stepped in close, whether to stab or convince me, I don’t know.
“He didn’t bother trying to hide the knife at all,” Michael continued. “He wanted to terrify me, to exert malicious control and force his will on me. When I saw the glint off his blade, I reacted on instinct, on my training. By the time I remember consciously recognizing that he’d pulled a knife on me, the handle was already sticking out of his side, in the exact place I’ve trained to insert it.” Michael looked among the four silent men and tried to assess their response.
“And, what happened, after that,” Pedro slowly asked.
“I knew what his injury meant and that no emergency services could save him, even if they’d been on-scene when it happened. He slowly collapsed to his knees, and then, quickly, onto his back. The knife protruded from his wound and trembled with his breathing, but I stopped him from removing it. He’d have just died sooner. I think it caught him so off-guard that he didn’t ever have a chance to process what I’d done to him.
“I knew I couldn’t save his life, but I hoped I might have a chance to save his soul. I identified myself as a priest and asked permission to pray over him, and to ask God for forgiveness for his sins. He nodded his head, and I knew he wouldn’t live long enough to me to hear his confession and contrition, much less to anoint him and absolve his soul. I only had time to pray over him and make sure he wasn’t alone when he died.”
“And what about the police?”
“There was no one else around, in the alley where it happened. I called out, but no one responded. I walked to the police station, reported the man’s death, and told them what happened. I took them to the body and walked their supervisor through the scene.”
“So, after this man threatened you, tried to rob you, and then attacked you with a deadly weapon,” Far Left summarized, “you, of your own volition, fulfilled your avowed, moral obligation to offer this man some portion of his Last Rites? Did the police only identify your involvement because of your own voluntary admission to them?”
Michael momentarily pondered the complicated question to ensure he answered accurately. “Yes, I think, to both. I don’t know if they ever found any objective evidence of my involvement, but I don’t believe so.”
“Did the police arrest or interrogate you?” Number Three appeared bored with the protracted story.
“No, they did not. They took my word, as a man of God. I’m not sure they even interviewed the neighbors to confirm what I’d told them.”
“Did you know the man who assaulted you,” Far Left asked.
“No, I’d never seen him, I don’t think. I certainly didn’t recognize him.”
“According to local police records,” Number Two explained, “he was addicted to illegal street drugs, mostly methamphetamine and its derivatives, and had been victimizing that neighborhood for years before his death. The police didn’t investigate because they didn’t care who had killed him, or how, they only cared that he was dead and wouldn’t prey upon anyone else. They never told you that?”
“No, sir, they neglected to pass along that bit of news.”
“How did you feel,” Pedro inquired, his eyebrows raised, “after the Bogotá incident?”
That’s a complicated answer, Michael thought. Where to start? “In the moments, hours, and days after taking that man’s life, I’ve felt every possible human emotion. Rage, guilt, sadness, regret, everything. Mostly, though, guilt.”
“Over his death,” Number Two quizzically inquired.
“Oh, no, not at all,” Michael hastily retorted. If they’re gonna make me go into this kinda detail before seeing me out, they’re gonna get the full Monty. “I feel guilty for not feeling guilty. I was sad that I could take a life without remorse, even if that life had preyed upon those around it. I felt anger that I could so easily protect myself by destroying one of God’s most precious creations. I felt deep, devastating regret that everything I thought I knew about myself was probably a lie. I couldn’t reconcile that I’d sworn my life to serve God and His children, but then had no intrinsic upheaval after taking the life of one of them, regardless of his actions that precipitated the event. Killing him was easy, and leaving his body there, in that trash-strewn alley, was even easier. None of that should’ve been true, but it was. I suspect it still would be today.”
“How are you dealing with all that,” Far Left asked, “all these caustic emotions waging war on your psyche and spirit?”
“I normally don’t spend much time thinking about it, sir,” Michael lied. I still dream about it. “And, as the archdiocese there accommodated my monsignor’s request for a swift transfer home, almost no one knows about it. Except for my family and Monsignor Hernandez, this is the first time anyone has asked me about it, actually.”
“So, if you had to sum up your feelings, your emotions about Bogotá, in just one sentence,” Pedro proposed, “how would you do that?”
“Even though I keep praying that God has forgiven him, he got what he deserved, I don’t regret it, and I’d do the same thing all over again if I had to.” Michael had quickly blurted out the statement without first thinking about it. All four men initially bristled and looked at each other. They promptly nodded as though they’d all reached some sort of tacit, collective conclusion. Here it comes, the loss of my clerical status. Termination from the cloth. All for being human. At least they can’t excommunicate me for this. Well, the Church hasn’t traditionally done so, anyway.
“We appreciate your honesty, Father Michael,” Far Left offered. “Candor and self-awareness are essential in our daily lives, and in our service to God and the Church, but are even more significant in matters such as these. As you might expect, you’re not the first among us to grapple with these circumstances, or with the emotional aftermath. With your particular background, training, and, um, rather unusual paradigm for a fellow man of the cloth,” he stopped as though searching for his words. “We couldn’t agree more with your sentiments, and thought you might be interested in an, alternative, assignment.”
Michael blinked hard at the unexpected statement. “Away from San Miguel?”
“Yes, it’s a fair assumption that you might never be assigned to the Chapel again,” Far Right responded. “Or, really, to any chapel, again.”
“I don’t, know, what do you mean? Where will you send me?” Michael paused a moment and tried to understand the possible reality emerging before him. “What, exactly, do you mean by ‘alternative?’”
“Ever been to rural Wyoming, Father Michael?” Far Left leaned back in his chair after asking the question, a knowing, mischievous smirk spreading across his face. “I think you’ll like it up there. They’ve got just the sorts of programs and, um, activities, that should interest a priest like you.”
ELEVEN
Monday, 1:47 PM.
New York City.
When the private phone line expectedly rang atop his opulent Italian mahogany desk, the aging bureaucrat urgently rose and closed the door to his reception area. His personal assistant had grown accustomed to his frequent need for privacy and took no offense. Not that he would’ve cared, anyway.
Hurriedly returning to his desk and the still-ringing phone, he picked up the receiver and answered it without sitting down. He’d been waiting for this call for several hours now and anticipated only good news from his subordinate. “Yes?”
“The Disciples are all in place.”
“Even Andrew?”
“Yes, we’ve just had a last-minute addition from an archdiocese out West. He came very highly recommended. A former police officer, they said. It turns out that he’s recently taken such matters into his own hands, as it were.”
He briefly pondered what Harold meant by that, but he’d have to wait until they met in-person to hear the details. Beyond the typical duties of his office and position in New York, he held a supplemental assignment as an Assistant Deputy Ambassador for the Holy See’s
diplomatic mission to the United States. This, of course, was merely a facade to more easily facilitate his actual appointment in the small nation’s clandestine intelligence service. Along with his public roles as a Cardinal and ADA, Paul Dylan worked to serve the covert intelligence collection and counter-espionage needs of the tiny nation-state and its theocratic Vatican City hierarchy. “I know he hasn’t yet met them, but does he at least have their files and approve of the chosen candidates?”
“Yes. Very paranoid, that one. Insisted on destroying everything as soon as he finished reading them. I really didn’t care for how he chose to express his, uh, displeasure, for having sent him written documents. Some paperwork is just naturally unavoidable.”
“One man’s paranoia is another’s reasonable caution, Harold. Just because someone’s paranoid doesn’t make them wrong.”
“I know he means well, Your Eminence, and he’s a very knowledgeable and useful ally in this project. I find it best to cut a wide swath around him, and to expect to forgive several transgressions every time I must interact with him.”
“You’re confident he’s up to the task, and to keeping the confidentiality of it all?”
“You have nothing to fear. Not from John, anyway, we can trust him completely. I’m certain, in fact, that he wakes each morning hoping that someone tries to force secrets from him that day. The Disciples have no idea what they’re in for, and he asserts that’s part of his value to us. He can help determine their individual effectiveness and ‘operational capacity,’ as he called it, before we ever have to entrust them with the knowledge of their actual tasking.”