by Gavin Reese
“Andrew!”
He looked out into the bright sunlight casting in from the open doorway. Realizing The Mouse had called out his pseudonym, Michael stood and headed off to the door.
“Got an appointment,” the instructor explained as Michael reached the door. “Follow me.”
Michael felt he probably wasn’t supposed to know what the “appointment” entailed. If they wanted me to know, they would’ve said something earlier. The Mouse hurriedly led him to the main house and back to one of the front, upstairs bedrooms.
“In here.”
Michael opened the door, stepped in, and found the monsignor from that morning’s mass seated inside. The room and its furnishings had the appearance of a stereotypical psychiatrist’s office, at least how Michael had seen them presented on television. Only been in one shrink’s office when the P-D wanted to make sure I was crazy enough to go to the academy. The monsignor sat in a plain chair at one end of the room, with a loveseat and two different chairs oriented around him.
“Hello, Andrew,” he greeted Michael without standing. “Go ahead and sit wherever you’d like.”
And, now this mandatory fun. The head-shrink starts evaluating my every move, from the way I walk into the room, how I respond to him, and even which chair I choose. Let the games begin. Michael stepped directly to the elder priest, shook his hand, and sat in the chair closet to him. Not where I want to be, but this is where I want him to see me. I wonder how he’s gonna reverse my reverse-psychology.
“We’re just gonna have a short chat today, Andrew, about the training so far and your thoughts on some of the classes, in general. You can call me Father Harry.”
“Nice to finally have a name to go with the face. Beautiful mass this morning, thank you.”
“I do my best, son, and thank you for being here to participate in it.”
“If I may ask, Father Harry, what is your role here, and what is the nature of our relationship?”
“I’m here just as a spiritual advisor, mostly to offer guidance and counsel to you and your colleagues, and, if necessary, to hear confessionals.”
“So, what can I know about the confidentiality of our conversations?”
“Well, that depends, doesn’t it, Andrew? I’m a member of the clergy, same as you, and I’m a clinical psychiatrist, but I’m also employed and paid by the same people that employ you. So, everything you say in here is protected from everyone but your employer, because that’s who’s footing the bill, and anything you tell me in the course of my duties as a member of the clergy is, of course, protected just as anyone else would be.”
“Thank you for your candor and your clarification,” Michael offered. Now I know where I stand, and I know I’m not gonna tell you shit. Everything’s fine, the world is a beautiful place, and I’m just excited and honored to be here, no matter what the hell happens outside your doorway.
Michael spent the following fifty-five minutes parrying Father Harry’s questions and providing what he believed to be the most benign and mentally-healthy answers. All’s well, nothing to see here. When finally released from the evaluation, Michael hustled back over to the classroom. Much rather trade punches with someone than sit down and talk about why I feel what I feel. He passed Sergio and The Mouse on their way toward the main house, and Michael did his best to ignore both men. Must be his turn in the barrel.
Michael stepped back into the classroom and found everyone seated on the floor in a wide semicircle around John. “Grab some concrete, Andrew. Alright, last thing before you check out for the day. We’re gonna start a game called ‘Guess What,’ and it’s gonna run the whole time you’re out here. Rules are simple. Don’t let anyone know shit about you, not a goddamned thing. Every day, you’re all gonna get a three-by-five flashcard on the front porch before your run. You’re gonna fill it out and give it back to get your map for that day’s run. Write something, write nothing, I don’t care. But, the goal of this is to help your colleagues with their own operational security measures. If they divulge something personal to you, I wanna know about it so they can receive the remedial training necessary to avoid repeating that mistake.
“If you’re the one who fucks up, there’s gonna be penalties that start at a hundred burpees and go up from there. More penalties, more punishment. Repeated offenses, more punishment.
“If you’re the snitch, I’m sorry, if you’re the one that’s been kind enough to help better secure your brethren, and you give me something that’s correct about your colleague, you get half-off any burpees you’re assigned. My objective here is to make you all ‘intel-positive,’ which means that you learn more from your environment than you give away to anyone else inside it.”
Zeb half-raised his hand and spoke. “Real quick, John, how’s that gonna work when the other guys find out who’s been dropping paper on ‘em?”
“Oh, I assure your anonymity, Zeb. The danger here, especially for those of you that go on to some kind of field work, is that giving away intel might get you hurt or killed, or someone else hurt or killed. And, you’ll probably never know who did it, or why, or how you messed up. So, I don’t tell anyone what they said or did, they just get punished for it. And, real quick, before someone in here quietly proposes tonight that y’all band together to not dime each other out, there will be an additional and substantial reward for the two most intel-positive in your group. At the end of the day, you’re doing your classmates a favor by telling me about their mistakes. They get a little bit of inconvenient misery here for what, out there, will get ‘em killed, or get you killed, or, God forbid, get the pope killed. So, for the safety and welfare of you, your partners, and all-things-holy, let the snitching begin.”
TWENTY
Training Day 4, 0545 hours.
Rural Compound. Niobrara County, Wyoming.
Dressed in warm running attire, Michael joined the other students on the front porch. Sunrise won’t be for another half hour, and it’s just barely starting to break twilight. Glad when it finally starts warming up in the mornings, maybe in another month or so.
“Good morning, shitheads,” John offered as he stepped through the front doorway, his large ceramic coffee mug already in hand. “Plan for this morning is simple. Head down Mother Mary for a warm-up, but don’t jog past the abandoned barn y’all must-a seen by now. Turn around, come back. That’s about a three-mile warm-up to start with. When you get back, the sun’ll be up and you can get in some uphill sprint work. I’ll have more for you when I see y’all back here. It pays to be a winner!”
Michael started off toward the trail entrance with the others, most of whom still didn’t pace themselves well. They’ll learn soon enough that most of this is marathon work and they’ll eventually quit treating everything like a sprint. He glanced around only enough to ensure that he and Sergio weren’t near one another and worked on maintaining his own three-mile pace. Even though he wasn’t very far from any of the other runners, none of them spoke out on the trail. Hard to decide what we are. Students? Teammates? Coworkers? Rivals? Competitors? Roommates? John’s prohibition on sharing all personal information does do one thing, it’ll for damned sure prevent us from being ‘friends.’ Gotta be a reason for that. After mulling over his own thoughts for almost a half-hour, Michael landed back on the front porch.
“Speed work, Andrew,” John directed from his chair as steam rose from his full cup of fresh coffee. “Head over to the driveway with the others. Run, as far as you can sprint up toward the road, rest while you walk back to the start, and repeat that for time. We’ll be out there until someone pukes or I say otherwise.”
Michael complied and soon found himself with winded lungs and burning legs. By 7am, he stumbled back down the driveway toward the house and struggled for air. With his hands on his head to open the bottom of his lungs, Michael wished someone would vomit so they could stop this phase of their suffering. I’d try taking one for the team, if I thought that would actually work.
“Alright,” John shouted from th
e porch, “form up around the flagpole and await further instruction.” He sipped from his coffee mug and made no effort to meet them yet.
Thank God, Michael thought, at least I think so. The devil I know is usually better than the one I don’t. As he reached the flagpoles, he bent forward with his hands on his hips and worked to slow his breathing. A glance up the hill showed the last few stragglers were coming back in. John finally stood and strolled over to meet them just as the last student arrived.
“So, here’s how this is gonna work from here on out,” John announced. “After the morning workout, you’ll meet me here for accolades and punishments. We talked about the ‘Guess What’ game yesterday, so here’s that news.
“Alpha,” he continued, “you, Z, and The Baptist all owe me a hundred burpees for minor infractions. If you’ll recall, you never get to know what you did. Just get your shit squared and stop being wrong.”
“In other bad news,” John said to change topics, “Zeb’s on the floor tonight and Bart’s on the cot. It pays to be a winner here, and you two can’t pass a goddamned corpse on the trails. Get your shit moved off the bunks and over next to the shitter.
“Everyone but the three that owes me burpees can hit the showers and be back in the classroom at 0-7-30. Get buckled in tight for a couple straight days of classroom. No field trips for a while, so you ain’t gotta worry about gettin’ mommy and daddy to sign any permission slips just yet. You’re gonna dig into some basic criminal psychology today, nothing too in-depth, just enough understanding for you to spot character traits in your adversaries that could benefit you in innumerable ways.”
By 7:30am, Michael had been seated in the classroom for only about two minutes. I hate this compressed timetable shit. Five minutes early is ten minutes late. At the stroke of the bottom half of the hour, Father Harry, the aging, grandfatherly monsignor from yesterday’s mass, entered the back of the room and strode purposefully up to the front. Michael looked around and saw that Zeb still hadn’t joined them. He’ll get to pay for that later, too. That dude’s never gonna get to sleep in a bed.
“Good morning. I think I’ve met everyone, but, just in case, please call me Father Harry. I don’t wanna be the only one without a nickname here.” Father Harry smiled, and several students chuckled along with him. “I have a background in psychology, criminal manifestations, and rehabilitation therapies. I’ve only got the day to give you an introduction to this broad topic, so we’d best be started now.”
Breaking for only a half-hour lunch, Father Harry guided a lecture and interactive discussion for the rest of the day, and they covered the most prominent topics: schizophrenia, sociopathy, psychopathy, narcissism, antisocial personality disorders, multiple personality disorder, addiction and co-dependence, Munchausen’s, Munchausen’s By Proxy, and borderline personality disorder.
Michael looked at his watch and saw it was already after 5pm. We’ve been at this all day, and he’s still only given us the highlight reel.
Father Harry looked down at a brown leather-bound notebook he’d set on a corner of the front banquet table. “Looks like the last thing that I wanted to cover before we end today’s session is more of a philosophical topic. Anyone want to postulate the difference between ‘murder’ and ‘killing?’”
Michael consciously decided to stay out of this conversation, lest he find himself on the losing end of tomorrow’s round of Guess What?
“Killing is simply the ending of a life,” Alpha offered and tried to minimize his French accent, “while murder is the deliberate act of doing so. You can kill someone by accident.”
“Murder also requires a victim,” Sergio added. “Tragedies kill, but don’t create a real victim.”
Father Harry nodded to acknowledge both answers. “Is there a Biblical difference in the two?”
“Of course,” Thomas blurted out, “otherwise all war’d be mortal sin, and we couldn’t subject serial killers to the death penalty.”
“Thank you for the transition, Thomas,” Harry hesitantly offered, “although I wanna make sure we come back to the original topic in a bit.” He stopped as though in search of the right words. “I’m sure you’re all familiar with the approved change that Pope Cornelius II and Cardinal Laddeneau recently announced about death penalties. It’s caused quite a stir between Catholics of varying ideological beliefs and interpretations of our texts and scriptures. Just for our clarification and dissection of the actual text and its specific words, I’ll read it verbatim so we’re all starting from the same footing.”
He donned small reading glasses, retrieved his notebook, and referred to the pages of its interior. “22-67. Nations throughout history have used death penalties to punish heinous crimes committed within their jurisdictions. Traditionally, we have conditionally tolerated death penalties carried out by legitimate authorities as an extreme and regrettable necessity to protect common human dignity. However, our deepened understanding now compels us to affirm that death penalties are inadmissible and unnecessary. Humane detention methods commonly exist that protect the dignity of both the populace and the incarcerated. Therefore, it is an inviolable attack on the guilty to deny them every moment of their God-given opportunity to seek Him and His truth.”
Father Harry looked up and scanned the room as he continued. “So, now, keeping in mind the difference between ‘murder’ and ‘killing,’ and the allowed justifications for killing, what does Pope Cornelius’ recent death penalty declaration mean?”
Michael and most of the other students glanced around, waiting for one of them to be the first to offer an answer. Somebody’s gotta go first. “Sir, I think most people read that to mean that all state-sponsored death as criminal punishment is no longer allowed.”
“Okay, that’s a start, and somewhat specific, right? You brought up several qualifications there: a state, a criminal, and punishment for his crimes. What else?”
Zeb raised his hand and spoke. “It also reaffirms the Catholic belief in the dignity of all human life, which is the core issue around state-sponsored death penalties. It’s effectively one man, or group of people, deciding to put another down by majority rule, like an infectious animal.”
“That’s a good analogy, we can work with that, I think, gentlemen.” Father Harry set his notebook down on the front banquet table, removed his reading glass, and slowly paced as he spoke. “So, what change does this make in Church doctrine and dogma?”
Michael wanted to passionately debate this topic, but his opinions and personal experience with violence had routinely been discounted by those that demanded ideology trump human nature. Best to stay in the background on this one.
“From a clerical perspective,” Z offered, “regardless of my own feelings, I fear for the impact it has on the laity, especially those who support or have personally participated in state-sanctioned death penalties.”
Father Harry’s face lit up with excitement. “Excellent, Z, excellent. Yes, so, this demands a lot of additional inquiry, correct? Does the amended paragraph 22-67 in the Catechism mean, then, that all death penalty killings in years past were mortal sins? If so, doesn’t that mean that everyone who carried them out unknowingly added to their original sin, even though death penalties were allowed under narrow exceptions up until now? What if the executioner died between the death he facilitated and the recent revelation, do you think they faced God with that blemish on their soul? If this is in fact, a declaration from God, why now, after several millennia when appropriate and just death penalties were never a mortal sin?” Father Harry cleared his throat and waited for a response before he continued.
“For me personally,” Thomas loudly offered, “I think this ‘new understanding’ is just gonna let the worst criminal offenders live out the rest of their unrepentant lives on tax money from the people they wasted their freedom victimizing.”
That’s the first reasonable thing that asshole’s said, Michael thought. Borderline heretical, but reasonable just the same.
Father Harry ignored Thomas’ inferred denial of the Pope’s divine authority and infallibility and let his last questions remain rhetorical. “Can anyone think of an example in His Holy Scriptures where God uses a man, or men, or His children, as tools or instruments to deliver His directed and guided vengeance against His enemies?”
Michael slowly raised his hand and noticed that everyone else in the room did so as well. There are literally dozens of such examples.
“Does anything in this change have anything to do with God’s wrath or vengeance?”
Alpha shook his head and leaned forward. “No. It only concerns the nation-states and criminals, not God and sinners.”
Father Harry nodded his agreement. “So, can we all agree then, that this updated paragraph in the Catechism concerns only those three conditions: a nation, a criminal, and punishment? Well, a fourth concern exists, really. The Church has long held that the execution of a death penalty ultimately deprives the criminal of all further opportunities they would otherwise have to redeem their soul. You see, the state has forced the criminal into an unusual circumstance with the way most carry out death penalties. If the criminal offers a full confession and seeks absolution, that is used against them as evidence of their crimes; if they maintain their false innocence to avoid punishment, they risk meeting God with a stained and blemished soul that may send them to hell for all eternity.”
Michael noticed that, to varying degrees of enthusiasm, all the other students nodded in agreement.
“And, so, then,” the monsignor continued, “if God calls one of His children to righteous action, to bring violence against evil, against an unjust aggressor that threatened another human, maybe many humans, maybe all of humanity; and the unjust aggressor comes to pass, does this amended paragraph 22-67 offer anything about that?”
“No,” Michael replied along with several others, adding, “of course not.”
“Okay, good.” Father Harry put his hands up and looked at everyone seated before him. “Please, focus on this and stay with me now. To tie this back into the bulk of today’s discussion on criminal psychology,” he paused and resumed a methodic pace at the front of the room. “The defects in the human condition, in the brain, in the body, in the very soul that even medical science and psychology say cannot be treated or rehabilitated; the serial rapist, the pedophile, the criminally insane who see no wrong in denying their fellow humans of their divine dignity. It seems that everyone agrees these few, broken souls, even if they were to realize the error of their ways, confess their sins, and accept Christ into their heart and profess His teachings with their lips; even if they did all that, they can never be rehabilitated and will recommit their sins within hours, minutes, perhaps even seconds if their circumstances allowed it. These are the very same unjust aggressors that are affected by the change to 22-67, many of them. Very few people descend into the bowels of Death Row without the incurable ‘personality disorders’ and the criminality that is borne of it. Going back to our fourth concern, about the certainty of the fall of these men into Hell without a sincere confession and absolution. Knowing they are recidivists who will not meaningfully repent, can’t one argue that we’ve now only prolonged the collective suffering on earth? Their victims’ justice has been lessened, the aggressor’s life is shortened and caged, and many will inevitably spend eternity in Hell regardless.”