The Confession of Joe Cullen (23 page)

“Of course, you grew up Francis Luke O'Healey. The Irish pull no punches when it comes to naming a poor, helpless child. Have you become a Buddhist? The Zen Buddhists say that he who knows cannot talk, while he who talks does not know.”

“No, sir. I'm still a Catholic priest.”

“My secretary,” the bishop said, “who is infected in a similar fashion, insists that one can be a Catholic Zen Buddhist or a Jewish Zen Buddhist or a Protestant Zen Buddhist.”

“There's a point there,” O'Healey admitted, “since the word
Zen
means only to sit in meditation, and I'm not sure that it asks for any more.”

“You went to a Jesuit seminary?”

“Yes.”

“I thought so. Now let's get back to this business of liberation theology. Let me read you something.” The bishop picked up a magazine, opened it, and read, “‘We deal with a question of suffering, which can also be termed a question of pain, and I have never heard a suggestion that a Catholic priest can turn his back on human suffering and pain and remain a priest of the church in anything but name —'”

“I wrote that,” Father O'Healey said.

“Of course. Nevertheless, I want to read it. to you and I want you to listen to it.”

“If you wish.”

“I continue: ‘Time after time, I have heard the argument that a human being remains a human being, rich or poor; and while I may dispute the absolute validity of such a position, I can accept it generically. We are children of God. I have never doubted that, but I do doubt that pain and suffering among the rich can ever be measured against pain among the poor. The latter is too much to measure against anything but itself. Thus I see the mission to the poor and the oppressed as being the highest calling to which a priest can aspire; and if the poor are oppressed and if their condition derives from their oppression, must a priest abandon them? Can he still minister to them and not be a part of their struggle against their oppressor?'” The bishop finished reading and looked at Father O'Healey questioningly.

“Unto Caesar what is Caesar's and unto God what is God's?” Father O'Healey asked.

“It is Holy Writ.”

“I can't imagine God partitioning things — the Almighty parceling out His turf and responsibility.”

“I always have trouble with Jesuits,” the bishop admitted.

“Anyway, it's inconceivable to me that Jesus could have said such a thing.” Then O'Healey added, “I like you and respect you, Bishop, and I wish you did not, find me so troublesome.”

“You are troublesome,” the bishop admitted. “When you marched with the gays, the cardinal was very put out, and your various speeches in the freeze movement — the media, you know.”

“One can hardly scream quietly.”

“Yes, but one can pray quietly.”

Father O'Healey nodded. He tried to practice humility, but it was not his best thing.

“You must understand,” the bishop said, “that if most of our priests were of your point of view, the church might tremble to its very foundation.”

Which might be a very good thing, Father O'Healey thought, but said nothing aloud.

“On the other hand,” the bishop admitted, “if I were to send a priest down there who possessed the opposite point of view, he might sequester himself in the Church of the Apostles, where there are always soldiers, as I hear, and very few worshippers. I am not quite a fool about all this, Father O'Healey, and I know that the poor farmers and Indians have fled into the hills, and Father Veste felt that his mission there was meaningless, and that the opposition to the murder squads was Marxist, and he had the excuse of his mother's illness — and of course I want to be fair to him.”

“Marxist?”

“Father O'Healey, I am quite aware that the only people in this country who claim to understand Marxism are the Jesuits.”

“I did take a course that included Marxism.”

“I am sure you did,” the bishop said a bit testily, “but I am in no mood to argue the question.”

“No, of course not. But please, we must consider how on earth a group of illiterate peasants who have seen their crops stolen, their families beaten and murdered — we must consider how they could possibly be Marxists. They can't read. They have never heard of Karl Marx. They don't know that the Soviet Union exists. They only know that unless they resist, they will die.”

“Have you ever been in Honduras, Father O'Healey?”

“No, but I've spoken to people who have been there. I worked in Mexico for a year. My Spanish is excellent. I am not going into this with my eyes closed, but I must be honest with you. I will go where the people are, and if it means being with a guerrilla movement, then I will be there. I don't know how else I can serve.”

Rather sadly, the bishop said, “I won't stand in your way. I do wish things were otherwise. Our government has troops in Honduras, and the country is our ally and is ranked as one of the nations of the free world — and this makes things difficult to explain.”

“I appreciate that.”

“I almost wish you had not told me of your intentions. On the other hand, how can I deny what you say?”

That was eight years ago. Now, eight years later, the bishop was told that a New York City policeman, a Lieutenant Melvin Freedman, was on the phone, calling from New York. The bishop, in his study, picked up the telephone and asked Lieutenant Freedman what he could do for him.

“I have been informed,” Freedman began, and then stopped and said, “Do I call you father? Or what? I'm not Catholic,”

“Whatever you wish. It doesn't really matter.”

“Good enough, Bishop. Now, I have been informed that you had a working relationship with Father Francis O'Healey and that you were at least in part responsible for his going to Central America.”

“Where did you get this information?”

“I have an old friend who's a cop, or let us say a detective who is assigned to the cardinal when something needs protection. He got the information through the cardinal.”

“I see. Yes, it's true. Father O'Healey and I worked together here in San Francisco. It was clearly his desire to go to Central America, and he was sent there. Certainly, he did not take the step against the wishes of the church, if that's what you're after?”

“No, not that.”

“Then you must tell me what your interest is. We've had no word from Father O'Healey for some weeks now, and we are deeply concerned.”

“No word at all? Please, sir, I'll explain in a moment what our interest is. If you have any doubts about who I am, you can obtain our precinct number from Information and call us back.”

“That won't be necessary, Lieutenant Freedman. I'm old enough and possibly wise enough to recognize the voice of an honest man.”

“Thank you. Now, about Father O'Healey — no word at all?”

“No, and that worries us terribly. We made inquiries of the church in Honduras and of the Honduran embassy in Washington. The embassy claims to know nothing about him or his whereabouts, and the church says they heard only that he was back or on his way back to the States.”

“Have you spoken to the State Department?”

“Yes. They have no knowledge of where he might be or what may have happened to him. We fear the worst, and your call troubles me. Please — if you know more—”

“In a moment. If you will permit me — about letters, sir. Have you had any letters from him?”

“Oh, yes. Yes, indeed.”

“And the last letter? When did you receive it?”

“I think it was September fifth.”

“Could you make a copy of it and mail it to me? I'll give you the address.”

“Yes. I see no reason not to, Lieutenant. Now please, tell me — is he dead?”

“Now understand that this is hearsay, but we do have some indication that he may have been killed.”

“What kind of information?”

“We have a witness who says that Father O'Healey was pushed out of a helicopter to his death.”

“God help him,” the bishop whispered. “What a terrible thing! Is there any real evidence?”

“I suppose you could say that evidence of a murder is not real until you find the body, and this is probably a body that we'll never find.”

“But you believe it?”

“I'm afraid I do,” Freedman said.

“Lieutenant Freedman, please understand me. I must press you. This is a man with family, a mother still alive, two sisters — and aunts and uncles. What am I to tell them? If Father O'Healey is alive and I tell them he's dead — that would be a terrible thing, don't you see?”

“Yes, but I think that's up to you. I felt that someone out in San Francisco had to know the truth, inasmuch as there is any truth, and that led me to you. I could imagine the worry and speculation at your end.”

“Yes, and good of you. But tell me why. Why would anyone kill him in such an awful way?”

“Well, he was with the poor people, the peons or whatever you call them, and they never get a fair shake, and I guess he pushed too hard.”

“But he was only a priest. He didn't carry arms. What could he possibly do?”

“I don't know. Maybe be in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“But Honduras is an ally of ours,” the priest argued. “I read that we have four thousand American troops there. Why would we let them kill priests?”

Freedman had no acceptable answers. He knew some answers, but how could a New York cop convince the bishop that his nation, the cop's nation, the bishop's nation, fostered murder squads and armed them with the latest weapons and never interfered with their license to kill anyone who disputed their right to steal, rape, and murder, and in return were paid off with millions of dollars worth of cocaine, brought into and sold in a country where such acts were against the law?

He put down the phone. Obviously, he could not say to the bishop, “That fucken son of a bitch CIA.”

But when he repeated his conversation to Ramos, the detective shrugged and said, “I'm sure the bishop knows why. Up there in San Francisco, the church has turned helping those poor bastards in Central America into a religion. I sent them fifty dollars. Funny, but the church is in the center of it. I never thought it would be.”

“What spooks us? Are they reds?” Freedman persisted.

“That's what the bullshit says. Reds. Marxists. What the hell is a Marxist, Lieutenant?”

“A Russian, I suppose. A communist — people in Africa. I read there are three or four countries in Africa supposed to be Marxist. The state owns everything or something like that — how the hell do I know?”

“You're a college graduate.”

“Yeah, stand up and cheer.”

“Father O'Healey's people? Come on, they don't even know what the word means,” Ramos said.

Then the copy of O'Healey's last letter to the bishop arrived. Freedman read it, and he passed it to Ramos to read.

“My dear old friend,” it began, “I write this with a heavy heart and with no assurance that it will ever reach you. They are making it more difficult each day to send letters out of the country to the States. We have a way to get our mail through, but I cannot explain it. It's a totally new way, and if I described it, it would put certain people in jeopardy. Be it said at least that I can write without restraint, without fear.

“If I say that I have had a tragic day, I also feel that I am repeating myself. I have tried in previous letters not to involve you or the church, but I think that things have undergone a qualitative change. Perhaps the presence of so many American troops here and a sense of America's need for Honduras in its war against Nicaragua have emboldened the worst elements in the government.

“Usually, when the death squads decide to attack a village that they have specified as being Marxist — a totally lunatic term for these poor, illiterate Indians — they act against the men and the boys. If the men are trapped in the village, they are executed, so they have worked out a way of signaling that gives a village advance notice that it is in jeopardy. If the murder squad is not too large, the armed men will fight it; otherwise, the men and boys hide in the bush. Until now, the murder squads have been content with knocking the women about and smashing things and a certain amount of raping, although the most attractive women will hide in the bush with the men.

“The day before yesterday, I was in a village, baptizing three newborn babes, when word came that we were the target of a murder squad. Since there were only three rifles and one pistol in the village, the better part of valor made the men decide to hide in the bush. I went with them, and we took every boy who was over eight years old. We were about a mile from the village, crouched in the jungle growth, when we heard the sound of shooting. Some of the men wanted to rush back immediately; others counseled caution. Everyone was terribly disturbed, and when we felt it was safe to return, the village was silent except for the barking of the dogs. When we came into the village, we discovered that every living soul in the village was dead, old women, young women, boys and girls and the infants I had just baptized. They had been executed by the light rapid-fire carbines that we have flooded the military with. One infant I had baptized, eleven days old, had twelve bullet holes in her tiny body, the little corpse so ripped to pieces that it bore no resemblance to a human being.

“If my hand shakes and my writing is poor, consider what I have witnessed — done to these poor people by the will of some giant power, many miles away and even more distant in terms of their understanding. For a whole day, I gave the last rites and helped to dig graves and then I spent the night in prayer, trying to find God and know what one of His priests should do.

“Yours in Christ, Francis O'Healey.”

After finishing the letter, Ramos stared in silence at Freed-man. They were sitting in Freedman's tiny office at the precinct house, both of them silent now and looking at each other the way two people at a funeral, both of them close to and beloved of the deceased, might look at each other.