For I Have Sinned a Cate Harlow Private Investigation Read online

  Back at my car I thank Giles again and he pulls me close for a hug. “Go home, get some sleep. I’ll be here tomorrow around six.” He sniffs the bourbon on my breath. “You okay to drive?”

  “Yes. That little episode with Bo’s friend woke me up. I'm fine.”

  “Does he have a name other than Bo’s friend?”

  “Not that he would tell me.”

  He watches me get into my car and buckle up. “Good night, Cate. Be careful driving.”

  “You too, Giles. See you tomorrow.”

  And I drive home with my thoughts running the gamut from Joshua McElroy who was sexually abused by a parish priest and had no recourse but to escape and disappear to a homeless man named Bo’s friend who wants to talk to me.

  Chapter 20

  After falling into bed and sleeping a restless five whole hours, I found myself, at six in the morning, wide-awake and filled with rage over what I had read in Joshua’s journal. Grabbing my tennis bag, I set out to hit some balls against the volley wall at the park.

  My swollen right hand is wrapped with an Ace bandage because I was too tired to ice it when I got home last night even though I did take ibuprofen for the pain and inflammation. I feel the ache every time the ball hits the racket but that's good because I need focus. I’m pretending that the ball is the pedophile who ruined not only Joshua’s life but, through his acts, shattered Marie and her whole family. Thwack! Front-hand, backhand, thwack! I play this mind-game for an hour and then go home to shower.

  Despite a minimum amount of sleep, I feel energized. My plan, after a quick stop at my office, is to go to the rectory of St. Matthew's and find out what I can about any priests and their relationship to Joshua. But first and foremost I need coffee.

  ****

  Myrtle is not in her usual place when I come in; she’s standing by the window cradling a mug of tea. There’s the smell of fresh coffee and a small carton of half-and-half next to the pot.

  Without turning around, Myrtle tells me that she didn’t have time to stop at Timothy’s but the coffee I smell brewing is the next best thing.

  “Sure, okay, Myrtle. That’s good. You alright?”

  She turns towards me and I can see she had less sleep than I had.

  “Last night Harry woke up when I came in. He’s a light sleeper. He could see that I was upset and I told him about Joshua McElroy. Oh, I didn’t tell him anyone's name, just mentioned what had happened. It’s in the news; you see it all the time about clergy abusing children. He didn’t ask any personal questions, just sat and talked with me until I felt better.

  “I know that these things happen Cate, I know that the courts are handing down judgments and convictions both to the individual abusers and to the churches. But this cruel crime has never entered into my own little world. Now with Marie and your case, it has. It isn’t truly personal, I know, but it bothers me to come this close to it. I was a grade school teacher; I taught children the same age as Joshua was when he was abused. They are so innocent and vulnerable at that age. This is a horror.”

  I grab my mug and fix my coffee the way I like it then check the fridge for yogurt. Myrtle has stocked it with pomegranate and blueberry. I choose the pomegranate and settle at my desk.

  “Myrtle, most of my cases are simple; the cheating spouses ones are nothing that you can lose sleep over. Only a few of my clients can be called tragic. I agree with you, this is a horror, but I’m going to bring this horror to a close and hopefully get justice for Marie. I’m starting to believe that Joshua may very well be alive. If he is, I want to find him.”

  She turns back to the window. “I hope to God you do Catherine. I hope you do and soon.”

  ****

  The call from Father Richard Boyd from the Paterson Diocese comes in as I’m driving out to St. Matthew’s in Queens and Myrtle forwards it to my cell, which is synched to my car phone. Pressing the answer button on the steering wheel, I say,

  “This is Cate Harlow.”

  “Ms. Harlow, this is Father Richard Boyd. I called you a few days ago.”

  “Yes, I got your message. It sounded important. ”

  “I think it is. The priest, the one you called about a few weeks ago, a Francis Xavier Murphy? Well, the name came up in the accounting audit when our new system was finally up and running. I came across some records with his name next to a code that I hadn’t seen before. I was curious so I checked the code against a list we have. Francis Xavier Murphy was a priest in the diocese for thirty-seven years.”

  “Was?”

  There’s a long pause.

  “I'm going out on a limb here, Ms. Harlow. I only called you because of what the code states and it bothers me.”

  “What does it say?” I signal right and pull over to the side of the road as quickly as I can. I need to concentrate on what he’s telling me.

  “He’s a legal dependent.”

  “You mean he is taken care of by the church for life. That's nothing new Father, that’s par for the course for all religions. Almost all major ones provide those benefits to clergy.”

  “If you mean that the Church will take care of all those who go into religious life, yes, that is true, but this is something different.”

  “How so?”

  “Francis Xavier Murphy went through a process called laicization.”

  “And what is that?”

  “Basically, an agreement to leave the priesthood but it is stipulated that you will still be taken care. Sometimes there’s room-and-board supplied by the church for a period of time and you get to keep your small pension and health benefits. And that’s fine; men have requested laicization for various reasons, one of which is to marry. Naturally the benefits stop if a former priest marries. Some request the process because they feel they can’t keep the vow of celibacy even if they don’t want to get married.”

  “But something didn’t seem right about this one so I dug a little deeper to find out why he left. What I found, in a hidden file, was that this Francis Xavier Murphy was also paid twenty-thousand dollars as “incitamentum relinquere”.

  “If my Latin serves me correctly, that phrase means an incentive to relinquish.”

  “You’re absolutely correct. That’s an incentive to leave the priesthood and that alone explains everything.” He pauses again. “Ms. Harlow, this man you called about? Records indicate sexual misconduct with a minor. In blunt terms, it means he was paid to leave because he is a child molester.”

  We speak for another fifteen minutes and I thank him for coming forward with this information. But I have to ask why he would go against the hierarchy of the church.

  “Why do it, Father? It’s been kept secret for a reason and I’m certain that your superiors at the diocese would make sure there were unpleasant consequences for anyone leaking this out.”

  “Ms. Harlow, I became a priest not just because I wanted to serve God but because I wanted to help people. People who were unhappy, or lost or just plain needed someone to talk to. Heaven, hell, pro-life, sins; none of that matters to me. It’s helping people to deal with all the crap life throws at them that’s important to me. Truthfully, I am disgusted with what has been allowed to happen within the confines of the Church. The cover-ups, the male dominated bullshit; even here most of it is nothing more than an old-boys club that hides the evil done and protects those who have committed the molestation by promoting them and moving them to other parishes. And now this; paying them off and taking care of them for life.

  “What has happened in the priesthood fills me with intense anger and, God forgive me, but sometimes when I hear about a crime committed against these monsters, I think that, just maybe, the men who call themselves priests, the ones you found mutilated, deserved the awful punishment. Almost as if it is God’s revenge. I want the younger generation of priests like me to make positive changes and to help those who have been damaged by the sexual abuse allowed to run rampant."

  I sigh deeply. “I have to agree with you there. Listen, I
won’t give you as my source but I’ve got to call the lead detective on this particular case and let him know.”

  “If it helps him to make his case the use of my name is fine with me.”

  “Thanks, Father, but that's not necessary. It can be done so no one knows who leaked what. By the way, can I just call you Richard? You can call me Cate.”

  “Sure. Not a Catholic?”

  “No, I’m not but that’s not the reason. I’m guessing that I’m older than you.”

  “Well, I’m twenty-six.”

  “Oh, yeah, definitely older Richard. An older sister,” I say hurriedly.

  After our conversation, I call Will at headquarters and give him the new information. Will tells me he’ll take a trip out to the diocese again later today and thanks me for my info.

  “Just remember Will, don’t use that young priest's name. He says he won’t mind but I’d prefer that you didn’t. It was enough that he came forward with this information.”

  “No source revealed on my end. I’ll call you later.”

  ****

  The Roman Catholic Church of St. Matthew encompasses an entire block that includes the church itself, a rectory, a convent, and a small elementary school. Except for the school, the buildings look gothic and dreary. There’s a sign on the rectory door that reads, Please ring bell only once. If this is an emergency please call 212 555 7043 and a priest will assist you. Thank you.

  I make a note of the number in my mind.

  Ringing the bell on the side of the entrance, I wait and finally hear footsteps hurrying to the door. A sturdy, elderly woman wiping her hands on an apron appears standing in the open doorway. “May I help you?”

  “I’m Cate Harlow and I would like to see the pastor if he’s available.”

  “Do you have an appointment with Father Morgan?”

  “No, I don’t but if he’s in I would like to speak with him. It’s confidential but, I can assure you, very important.”

  “Well… I don’t know. Father is very busy.”

  “It’s an important matter that concerns one of the parishioners. I can’t say more than that.” I hand her my card.

  “You’re an investigator?”

  “A private detective.” The word “detective” seems to carry more weight with people, private or not.

  She looks skeptical but waves me inside to sit and wait on a wooden deacon’s bench. I decide that being charming may be my best bet. “Whatever it is that you’re cooking smells wonderful,” I say smiling at her. Praise the cook, possible information there through a bit of gossip.

  “Oh it’s only a turkey pot-pie,” she says obviously pleased. “Do you like pot-pies?”

  I smile sweetly. “My grandmother used to make them for me all the time. She made them from scratch.” Actually Nonna Rita never made a potpie in her life but she was a whiz at whipping up a great white clam sauce with linguine and tons of clams and shrimp.

  “Oh I do too; the homemade ones are the best.” She smiles kindly at me. “Please, have a seat. If Father can see you, I’ll bring in some refreshments.” Her footsteps click down the polished hardwood floor in the hallway and disappear.

  The outer room where she has left me leads into what looks like a small office area. There’s one three-drawer file cabinet, a roll-top desk, and a rather large laptop computer. I hear voices down the hall, but no one is nearby so I step inside. The cabinet isn’t locked and I quietly pull open the top drawer. A glance at the neatly arranged files inside show me that the information contained in them has to do with budgets and bills. The second drawer seems to be stuck and I don’t want to chance making a noise to open it. I try the third and it slides open. There are voices drifting down the hall.

  “…Cate Harlow, she said, Father. Here’s her business card. Shall I tell her to wait?”

  “A private investigator? I have no idea what she can want with me but this is not a good time. I’m the only one in today. If it was an emergency with one of the parishioners then … but I don’t think this is an emergency. I may not be able to see her today at all. I have no way of knowing how long this will take and believe me this is an important meeting for us. I really am sorry. Ask if she can come back tomorrow. I’ll be available then.”

  Her shoes make the same clicking sound as before only this time she’s coming back to where I’m supposed to be. I push the drawer closed gently without getting a chance to see what is inside. When she returns, she finds me seated on the bench, legs crossed and hands folded.

  “Father Morgan is in the middle of a meeting and won’t be able to see you today but perhaps you could come back tomorrow? No? I’m sorry. Can I get you something to drink then, before you go? Father usually has herbal tea around this time and I’ll be bringing some into his meeting. I can get you a cup.”

  The smell of freshly brewed coffee gives me an idea. I have learned that people who work alone can be a great source of information. They are usually unobtrusive to their employers and observe a lot of what's going on.

  “No, thank you so much. I’m more of a coffee drinker. I love the smell of coffee coming from your kitchen.”

  “I’m a coffee drinker too! It’s my one vice. Listen,” she comes to stand next to me, “I’m still working in the kitchen, but if you’d like to come back there with me we can have some coffee. It’s fresh-made.”

  “Thank you so much, I’d like that.”

  Walking back to the kitchen I make note of the layout of rooms off the hallway. A TV room with a couch and two reclining chairs to the right of the hall, followed by a small dining room. Another office with floor to ceiling bookcases and a bathroom on the left; too open for any secretive activity.

  I assume the bedrooms are upstairs but again it would be difficult to take a child up there without being noticed. Molesters like to work in secret. Joshua’s torment had to have been done elsewhere, somewhere that was hidden from everyday view.

  The woman taking me to the kitchen is named Bette and she is the housekeeper at the rectory. She gives me coffee that is hot and strong but I decline the apple-turnover she offers. The room is warm and has that homey feeling of a well-used kitchen. Putting a tray of pastries and tea things together she takes them to where the pastor is having the meeting.

  When she returns she begins to chop up vegetables and puts them neatly in a casserole dish before she pours her coffee and takes a pastry. Sitting across from me, Bette tells me that she has worked here for over forty years.

  “That’s quite an accomplishment, staying in one job for that long,” I say admiringly. “You must have seen some changes over the years. Demographics, new parishioners.”

  “We’re still pretty much of an Irish-American community. But we do have a new priest, Father Miguel Ruiz, who does the Mass in Spanish.”

  “So, you’ve seen changes here at the rectory too. You know, with priests coming here and leaving for other parishes.”

  “We don’t seem to have much of that. Father Ruiz is the only new one here in quite some time. Of course, we have had our share of priests who have been elevated to higher offices but only one left. That was Father Moore. He was made a monsignor, God bless him, and well deserved too. He was here for about fourteen years and he even stayed here for a while after he became monsignor, stayed for four more years. Then he suddenly left.”

  Remembering my conversation with Father Richard earlier this morning about priests being made an offer to leave the church I ask as casually as I can, “Oh? Why did he leave? Where did he go?”

  With obvious pride, she tells me that he’s now working in the office of the archbishop.

  “The whole parish is so proud. He’s a brilliant man, did wonders for the parish, and so kind. We miss him here.”

  “Do all the priests have different duties? I mean you said that he did wonders for the parish. I guess they all have their own unique talents.” Then I add, “God-given talents.”

  “Oh yes. Some are very good at the business end; you know mak
ing the money we receive from the diocese stretch as far as it can. They make sure that all the programs we run are funded, not only through the quota we receive but also through fund-raisers. Father Morgan is very good at that and he’s really good at talking to business leaders for contributions. He’s talking to a group of business people right now, trying to get their help in repairing the roof of the school. Father Hogan helps him too on that end but he’s so much better at doing things like Pre-Cana counseling, you know, talking to couples about to be married. He has a great rapport with young adults.

  “Now Father Moore, he was excellent with the children. He organized sports activities, got the new gym built for our traveling basketball team. Was in charge of the altar boys and then, when the Church allowed girls to assist at Mass, the altar girls. The children all loved him."

  “I guess he began his priesthood here then, right?”

  “Oh, no. He had been at two other parishes before he came here. Didn’t stay long at the other ones though, two maybe three years each. He went wherever His Excellency the archbishop sent him. A true man of God. His service at St. Matthew’s was the longest and we’re lucky we got to have him here. Everyone loved him, especially the children.”

  I have to be careful to phrase my questions so they don't sound like an interrogation.

  “I would assume he misses being with the kids then. What are his duties at the archbishop’s?”

  “Oh, he’s still involved in programs for the children of the archdiocese. He oversees new programs and mentors boys who are interested in the priesthood. Some of them are as young as ten, yet they seem to have that calling to serve God and he recognizes that in them. He always spent a lot of time mentoring the boys here.”

  “He sounds like a wonderful person,” I say politely. “How long ago did you say he left?”

  “Nine years ago, yes, going on ten now. And,” she leans forward, lowering her voice, “I never thought that it was just that the archbishop had an opening in his office that made him want to leave. He loved it here, told me that he could have just as easily stayed here and commuted to the archdiocese every day. It’s only twenty minutes. No, it was more than that. He told me his heart was broken and that’s why he had to leave. Bette, he said to me, I have a broken heart because I have lost someone dear to me. Poor man!”