Ordinary Evil

Copyright © 2014 Eugene Ferraro.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

iUniverse books may be ordered through booksellers or by contacting:

iUniverse

1663 Liberty Drive

Bloomington, IN 47403

www.iuniverse.com

1-800-Authors (1-800-288-4677)

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

ISBN: 978-1-4917-0489-9 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4917-0490-5 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4917-0491-2 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2013915054

iUniverse rev. date: 1/23/2014

CONTENTS

Author’s Note

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Author’s Acknowledgements

For Norman Baxley and Erwin Wright

Ordinary: adj., of no special quality or interest; commonplace; unexceptional. n, a bishop, archbishop or other priest or his deputy, in his capacity as an absolute church authority

AUTHOR’S NOTE

T oday, with disturbing frequency, scandals continue to break out regarding clerical abuse of young people and children within the Roman Catholic Church. Some of the more recent have occurred in Ireland, Belgium, Mexico and, most frequently, the United States.

In reality, however, such events are nothing new. In December 2002, just in time for Christmas, Pope John Paul II accepted the resignation of one of the most powerful Catholic bishops, Cardinal Bernard Law, archbishop of Boston. This was the result of accusations that some of the priests under his supervision had sexually abused children and that he had not taken sufficient action to stop them. A similar scandal had occurred in Boston in the early 1990s and other less publicized ones were taking place throughout the United States a decade earlier.

Obviously, none of these incidents had been resolved to a degree that would insure that they would not reoccur. All of this, therefore, begs the question: How could the Roman Catholic Church, an institution tasked with nothing less than the salvation of mankind, let this happen?

Upon this rock, I shall build my church. When Jesus said that to Peter, however, he created an institution. Like any institution, it soon became a bureaucracy. From the very beginning, one of its primary virtues was and still is obedience. Like any bureaucracy, it also manifests an unlimited capacity for self-preservation, addiction to secrecy, and the potential for evil.

The following is a work of fiction. It does not pretend to answer the question posed earlier. Nevertheless, it may offer some insight into how such terrible things … damaged souls, broken families, and saddest of all, lives lost … could happen.

JUNE 15, 1968

PROLOGUE

Boston, Massachusetts

H is Roman collar a shining light for a beautiful afternoon, Father Bertrand Dascomb planned to make good use of this rare day of freedom. He was especially cheery. The city was a wonderful place with summer about to begin. He would browse some galleries, visit a bookstore or two or perhaps catch a movie. How long, he wondered, before he would get such an opportunity again.

He began his stroll at the State House on Beacon Hill, headed across the Boston Common and on through the Public Gardens, where the swan boats gently paddled their way across the pond.

On the other side, he connected to Boylston Street and began to walk west, captivated by the lush picture windows of the exclusive stores that lined the Back Bay.

Two blocks later, he was approaching the largest toy store in the city. He had always wanted to go inside, but his mother complained that it was too rich for their blood. To the Dascombs, whose home was only a ninety-minute drive away, Boston was another country. Now, though, he could finally see what he had missed, perhaps even buy himself a souvenir of the occasion.

Outside the festively decorated entrance was a larger-than-life burnished bronze bear. No child could enter or leave the establishment without encountering it. Mothers were helpless. They could do little but stand aside and watch their children laugh with delight as they touched the charming distraction.

Standing watch over him was a teenage boy splendidly costumed as a toy soldier. Garbed in a scarlet tunic with brass buttons, a white patent leather bandoleer and sash, the youthful sentry served as the bear’s bodyguard and the store’s doorman. Elaborately made up, he had two bright red cheeks painted on his face.

At the first sight of the youth, sword in a scabbard at his side and his shining helmet held crisply in place by a leather chinstrap, the priest felt an involuntary shiver ripple right through him, finally settling deep in his loins.

It’s hardly my fault, he thought. He was, he knew, vulnerable to certain images, and this one was perfect.

Dascomb stopped and watched the boy gracefully open the door for a sleek young woman with two elegantly dressed little girls in tow. Both quickly broke away from their mother and headed right for the bear.

Oh, girls, really, she said.

Dascomb could see, though, that she was not put out, because she immediately pulled a Polaroid camera out of her substantial handbag.

Stand right there, girls, she said. I’ll take a picture of you with Teddy and the toy soldier.

Her daughters squealed their approval and she ordered the sentry to join them, but she was so laden with shopping bags that she fumbled with the camera.

Please allow me, Father Dascomb said, happily intervening. Surely you want to be included with your beautiful daughters in such a lovely picture. Photography’s my hobby. Let me take it.

Why thank you, Father, the woman said. That’s very kind of you. She quickly handed him the camera and stood beside the boy, who was positioned between her children.

Smiling, the priest looked through the eyepiece, but he did not care for what he saw. Why don’t you girls stand directly in the front of the bear? Mother can stand on one side of him and your handsome young friend on the other.

All four complied and Father Dascomb surveyed the results in the viewfinder. Satisfied, he adjusted the focus lever. Is everyone ready?

They nodded enthusiastically.

Smile, everyone. He clicked the shutter. Sounds of movement followed from within the camera as it began its magical process of development and extrusion.

Please, Dascomb said as he carefully removed the emerging black and white photo. If you don’t mind, may I take one more? A striking figure, he flashed his most winning smile. For Father.

Well, sure, she said, a bit surprised. Why not? Okay, girls. Let’s do another. Again he gazed into the viewfinder to see four faces smiling back at him. Carefully composing his frame, he balanced the vertical line of the boy’s helmet with the diagonal lines of his bandoleer.

Take a half-step to your left, please, he said to the youth. The moment the boy did, Dascomb adjusted his frame to isolate him completely from the others. This time, asking no one to smile, he simply clicked the shutter.

Thank you very much he said, as he handed the first picture to the woman. Once more the camera began to purr.

With a smile for the boy, the priest removed the second print and handed the camera back to the mother. Holding the undeveloped one in his right hand, he saluted the youth with his left.

A lovely souvenir of my visit to Boston, Dascomb said. God bless you all.

Without ever setting foot inside the store, the priest strolled away, gently holding his prize in his fingertips. As he continued on his way, all the sights and sounds about him began to diminish. Several strides later, the boy’s form was taking shape.

In the briefest of encounters, Father Bert Dascomb happily realized that he had stolen a moment to savor later on and in many days to come. With each new stride he felt as if he were gliding on air.

He had his souvenir. The boy was his.

APRIL 1965

CHAPTER 1

San Martin Cutud, Philippines

A mparo Ramos was wearing a snow-white tunic. On her head was a crown of tin. The wooden cross lay on the ground. Amparo, her arms completely extended, lay on top of it. Knotted ropes bound each of her arms to the cross, with long ends extending from each knot to be used to pull the cross upright.

Two men wearing the garb of Roman centurions knelt beside her. One held a stout wooden hammer and two long aluminum nails soaked in alcohol. She smiled at him as he took one of the nails in his left hand and centered it over her right palm. The other man held her hand in place. Amparo and the centurion with the hammer looked into each other’s eyes and she nodded. He acknowledged her, raised the hammer high, and drove it home, pounding the nail through her palm and solidly into the wooden cross.

"The pasyon, the old priest said to the young seminarian who accompanied him, is the story of the suffering and crucifixion of Christ. His passion. It is so much a part of their local traditions and culture that they must do things like this."

God bless you all, screamed Amparo Ramos as the pain shot through her. She began to breathe deeply and rapidly as the two men knelt by her other hand. Again, one took the second nail, while the other held her left palm in place. She took a deep breath and nodded. The centurion lowered the hammer, driving the nail through her palm.

I love you, Jesus, she cried. Show us the way.

The two men then began to nail her feet to the cross. When they were done, two more men in white tunics used lengths of rope to bind her hands and feet to it.

The crucifixion was taking place in San Martin Cutud, a small village north of Manila. It was nearly noon and the high sun was broiling hot as the men prepared to raise Amparo’s cross. The centurions took the long rope ends that extended from the knots binding her arms, while the men in tunics concentrated on the straight beam of her cross. Together, they carefully hoisted the cross with a smiling Amparo nailed to it and brought it to rest securely in a deep posthole in the ground.

Every person from this village is here, the old priest said to his young visitor from Rome, and playing some role in this.

Within a few minutes, thirteen upright crosses stood in a cluster with Amparo’s at the head. Earlier that day, the thirteen crucified had struggled, bearing their crosses along a tropical via dolorosa through the village, while the hordes watched. On the way, men dressed as Roman soldiers used burrillos … clusters of bamboo fingers tied in two-foot lengths … to whip them, and paddles laced with slivers of broken glass, to rip their flesh.

When they reached their Golgotha, seven of those crucified were tied to their crosses, but the five closest to Amparo, like her, were nailed to theirs. Before them was a group of attendants, some dressed as Roman centurions, others as soldiers. Some women stood by holding large wooden bowls filled with a thick white paste.

They will use the paste to dress their wounds, the old priest said. I blessed it at Mass.

As her eyes flashed open then shut, Amparo Ramos muttered incoherently. One moment she smiled. The next she was in agony.

The villagers say she has the power to heal, the old priest said. They say she is possessed by the spirit of Jesus Christ.

What about the crowd? The young seminarian had so many questions.

They believe it, the old priest said. Of the others crucified, all are Filipino except one. He is European like you. He came a very long way to suffer so much. It must be terrible the first time.

The seminarian shuddered. What do you mean the first time?

This is her fifth crucifixion. It is the European’s first. Each year another one or two follow her example. And so it grows.

Why do they do it?

There are as many answers as those crucified, the old priest said. The European told me it would make him finally comprehend how much Jesus suffered. As for the others, perhaps it is a form of prayer. Sometimes a relative is sick so they offer their suffering in hope that Jesus will help their loved one. They each have their reasons and it is not for me to judge them.

He pointed to the man on Amparo’s left who, unlike the others, bore his agony in silence. He is a convicted murderer. This is his seventh time. Each year, he is released from the penitentiary for this one day.

There’s so much blood. The visitor could not believe what he was seeing.

It is all about blood, said the old priest. We think we know, but we never really begin to understand the horror until we see it.

Amparo Ramos was becoming more hysterical. Pray everyone, she screamed. God be with you.

And also with you, roared the crowd of two thousand who were watching. Hearing them, Amparo Ramos began to writhe on the cross. The blood that had thus far dribbled from her wounds began to flow more profusely.

It is nearly over, the old priest said. In a few more minutes, they will be taken down. He made the sign of the cross. How does it make you feel?

Luchino Montefiore was unable to answer. The young seminarian, soon to be ordained a priest, lay unconscious in the dirt. This opportunity, to accompany a group of Vatican diplomats to the Philippines, so carefully arranged for him by his sponsor as a reward for successful completion of his studies in Rome, was not to include this stop.

Unlike the others, content to deal with an abstraction, he had jumped at the chance to come to San Martin Cutud to see for himself what his superiors only whispered about. Now he lay bleeding from a nasty gash above his right eye, which happened when his head hit the ground.

The old priest smiled. It was not unusual for strangers, even future priests, to faint when seeing such things. As he knelt to attend to him, Luchino’s right leg twitched involuntarily.

Tyre, Massachusetts

Keep out, the sign said. Violators are subject to arrest. But it had not stopped him before and did not stop him today. A few yards beyond the rusting chain-link fence with the barbed wire on top was the rolling, swelling bulge in the ground that extended for miles. It looked as if a gigantic serpent were traveling just below the surface, causing the terrain above to swell as it burrowed along.

Below, water flowed from the reservoir in the west to the towns and cities in the east. The water’s path cut right across the state, penetrating dense woods of pine trees, like the ones right behind his house.

To twelve-year-old Joey Fredette, the lure of the aqueduct was irresistible. Only now, with every running step, he regretted ever setting foot anywhere near it. If he ran any farther he would puke. Sweat poured out of him, soaking his clothes and chilling his body as it mixed with the crisp cold air. Soon it would be dark and even colder. His face was dirty and bloody. The sleeves of his jacket were ripped. He had no idea where to go and dared not look back because he knew what he had left a mile behind, near the pumping station.

He meant the younger boy no harm. It could not have happened. But one look at his bloodstained hands convinced him. I’d ne … never do that, he cried out loud. I’m not supposed to play with Robbie. I didn’t do it.

He could hear Robbie Daigle’s mom screaming at her son. Stay away from that creep. You hear me! Keep away from him!

His own mother too, in her thin little voice: Now, Joey. You know Robbie’s mom doesn’t want you hanging around him. For God’s sakes, Joey. You’re twelve years old. Stick to kids your own age!

But, Ma, Joey stuttered. They hate m … me! They all hate me. It was true. Couldn’t she see that? Being the new kid. Knowing nobody liked him. Knowing he would be chosen last, if at all. Stuck with a drunk for a father who used him for a punching bag. All Joey had was Robbie Daigle.

Ignore the other kids, his mother had told him. They’ll come around.

No. They wo … won’t, Joey tried to tell her. Robbie’s different, he wanted to say. He listens to me.

He’s only seven, she said. Stay away from him.

But Joey had not listened. The bulge created by the aqueduct was fenced in on both sides with barbed wire on top. Several weeks earlier, he had dug under a section of the fence just large enough to crawl through and covered it with pine needles. Even to the experienced eye, the small depression was unnoticeable.

A few days before Joey had found a dead rabbit. Though it was still warm to the touch, he could tell it was dead. The other kids told stories about Joey catching small animals and hurting them, but they were lies. He loved animals. Unable to leave it there, he had picked up the limp rabbit, cradled it in his arms, and taken it deeper into the woods. Using a piece of a broken branch for a shovel, he cleared a small patch of ground under the pine needles and scraped out a small hole. He laid the rabbit in the makeshift grave, gently placed a layer of pine needles over it, and carefully replaced the dirt. He marked the spot with a large rock and, being a good Catholic boy, finished by saying a Hail Mary over the grave. Though he did not understand what the words meant, it was his favorite prayer.

When things get hard, his mother had always told him, the Blessed Mother will make things work out. But no Hail Mary would help him today. To talk Robbie into coming along, he had told him he would show him the rabbit’s grave. But when they got to it, Robbie insisted that Joey dig it up.

I wanna see it, Robbie said. You promised.

I’m not go … gonna dig him up, Joey said, getting angry. It ain’t right. It’s late. We better get home. But the whining little brat was not listening.

Robbie’s voice rose to a maddening whine. But you promised.

We gotta get home.

I’ll bet you killed it. That’s why you won’t show me. Just like they say.

Joey was getting nervous. What if Robbie started yapping as soon as he got back? The other kids would believe him too. See, they would say. It’s all true.

I’ll tell, Robbie said.

Joey was scared now. How do I keep him from telling? The only thing that came to mind was to show Robbie the knife. It was worth a try. He reached into his left pocket and took it out. He opened it up and held it out so Robbie could look it over.

But Robbie wanted to play with it. When Joey refused, Robbie grabbed for it. They grappled. Joey’s left hand gripping Robbie’s right. Robbie clung furiously to Joey’s arm. In a frantic attempt to shake him off, Joey lashed out as hard as he could.

The edge of the blade caught Robbie’s right wrist. Blood spurted out. Robbie’s shouts turned into screams. Things happened so fast. Joey needed to think, but how could he think with Robbie screaming like that? Was Robbie crying too? Were those tears? Crying like a baby and screeching at the same time! Screaming, crying! He had to get home, but Robbie would not shut up. Joey had to shut him up.

Robbie would not shut up.

St. Louis, Missouri

Will MacFarlane had been studying all day, taking only an hour off that morning to attend early Mass and occasional breaks since for smokes and black coffee. He was putting the finishing touches on a philosophy paper due the following morning.

In most medical schools, philosophy was not part of the curriculum, but Saint Louis University, or SLU as students referred to it, was firmly rooted in the Jesuit tradition of educating the whole person. If Will were masochistic enough to take a course in Catholic philosophy, no one was going to discourage him.

The material held a special allure for Will, enhanced by the mystery and sensuality of Catholicism itself. The palm frond he was holding, for instance. He had received it at Mass on Palm Sunday the week before and was constantly touching it since then.

The palm helped comfort him now that he was alone. He had broken with his parents two years earlier. The tired platitudes he heard over and over from them no longer worked for him. His father believed that force of will alone could fend off evil. To Will, that attitude was wanting. But that was only part of what bothered him. He was smart, personable, and easy to talk to, so why was he so damned uncomfortable with himself?

The moment he realized he might never get a satisfactory answer was when he first caught the scent … just a hint on the morning breeze. It piqued his curiosity and took his mind off himself. Determined to find out what it was and where it came from, he backtracked a few steps and turned to look back. Nothing.

Just as he thought he had lost it, he caught it again. Across the street a block ahead of him, he saw a weathered stucco structure. Was it coming from in there? How long had he been walking without noticing anything around him?

As soon as he heard the bell ring, he recognized what it was. Incense. He headed in the direction of the little church with the cross on top. There was something about it. Looking at it was like touching it.

A semester later, he was baptized a Catholic.

In the months that followed, he and Catholicism enjoyed a magical romance. Its ritual and mysticism fascinated him, although he had misgivings about what he perceived to be its hostility towards certain aspects of sexuality. He had struggled over those misgivings the previous week, contemplating his paper, managing until the previous Friday to avoid writing a single word. Now, after wrestling with St. Augustine all day, he was nearly done.

As a medical student, he was used to dealing with man’s physical nature. What bothered him was St. Augustine’s war within himself. To Will, the saint’s intellect and physical nature, much like Will’s own, were in terrible conflict.

His instructor, a dour young man, had not alluded to this in his lectures so Will resolved to discuss it in his paper. While his instructor had portrayed the saint as an inspiring example of using one’s life to get closer to God, Will had been struck by how Augustine had abandoned the woman who loved him and their son, a child he adored. There was a cruelty to such behavior that Will found hard to accept.

There is nothing, Will had written, quoting Augustine, which degrades the manly spirit more than the attractiveness of females and contact with their bodies. Unshowered and unshaven, lying on his unmade bed, still fiddling with the palm, Will simply could not accept that attitude and had written of his displeasure.

Always honest with himself, he understood that the same contradictions that had tortured Augustine existed within him, but in a very different way. Sex had obviously been a problem for Augustine and it was a problem for Will as well.

It was the time of night, however, when answers got harder to come by. The paper would have to go as it was. Restless, Will reached for his cigarettes only to realize his next would be his last. He got up and jammed his bare feet into his laced up sneakers. On the way out, he grabbed his jacket and donned his red St. Louis Cardinals cap.

The student union was always open. He passed by several lounges filled with study tables, easy chairs and sofas, where some students were still at work. When he got to the vending machines, he emptied his pocket of coins to select a black coffee and a pack of Camels. The coffee’s acrid taste made him wonder why he drank anything that tasted so bad. As the coffee hit the pit of his stomach, he felt another sensation. He had not urinated in hours, so he went down the dingy stairway to the men’s room.

He passed through the swinging inner doors and set his coffee down on top of the urinal closest to the sinks. In the mirror, he stared at his unshaven face and unzipped his fly. As he relished the simple pleasure of taking a piss, he thought about tomorrow. With his paper out of the way, he could ease up.

As he zipped up his pants, he heard a squeak from a stall door. Until that moment, he thought he was alone. Thinking nothing of it, he grabbed his coffee and went to the sink to wash his hands. A moment later a student appeared. There was nothing out of the ordinary about him. Will nodded as he tossed a paper towel into the trash. Their eyes met for an instant, but there was something more. Perhaps it was that split second the student held his gaze or the bat of an eye that Will looked back. As Will swung open the door to leave, the student was washing his hands. As the door swung behind him, the stall door squeaked again.

Upstairs in the nearest lounge, Will plopped into an easy chair and sipped his coffee. From his seat, he could see the entire lounge and connecting corridor. He was lighting a cigarette when the student from the men’s room appeared in the lounge entry. He looked in, made eye contact with Will for an instant, then left.

Moments later, a man dressed in blue jeans with fancy stitching on the back pockets and a jean jacket appeared. He was carrying a briefcase. He glanced in the direction the student had taken and nonchalantly took a seat at an empty study table. Will looked him over as the man spread some papers on the table. The man affected a younger look, but he was probably close to fifty. Probably faculty, Will thought. He also noticed the man wore a wedding ring.

An average person might concoct a dozen scenarios to describe what Will had just seen, but he knew exactly what had occurred. Will had come to the union for coffee, smokes and a break. The other two had come for sex. He knew it and the student in the men’s room knew he knew it. And just in case Will had missed it, the student had followed him into the lounge to make sure he got it.

Despite his encounter moments before, the student’s second look was tendering Will an offer. The older man, Will was certain, might have done the same had he the opportunity. It was one more thing for Will MacFarlane to think about, besides his medical studies, Augustine, his future and his soul.

Pemberton, Massachusetts

Somehow, I knew Jesus was there with me, the old missionary priest said to the parishioners. I tried in my own humble way to drink in the beauty of Christ. To feel the tremendous flow of his love into my being. And then I asked, what, dear Jesus, would you have me do to be worthy of your love?

As she sat in her favorite spot in St. Rita’s Parish, her parents by her side, Kathryn Marie Gilligan thought about how she might answer the old priest’s question. She was quite taken with this grizzled little priest who had served in the church’s missions in Asia. What fascinated her most about him were his lush images and stories. More than any dogma, they appealed to her faith, still growing, now that she had just turned sixteen.

I would have you love me more, the old priest roared, startling everyone and sending a chill rippling through Kate. His voice boomed throughout the nave, where the parishioners sat quivering in the pews.

Lowering his voice, he continued. So I hurled myself to the floor before him. He told me to rise and opened his arms to embrace me.

And then the church was quiet … so still that even the slightest whisper could be heard. ‘Will you try to love me more?’ he said softly, as he held his arms out to me.

I raised my head slowly to him and looked into his eyes. ‘Yes, Lord,’ I replied. ‘I will try because I do love you so.’

‘Good,’ he said, and he took me into his arms. Suddenly, his touch filled my spirit with a flood of intimate love. Then he was gone. I lay in the darkness the rest of the night asking myself if it were only a dream. For years I told no one. But dream or not, I do believe that Jesus came to me that night because he loved me. My love, my own individual soul, was important to him. Dear brothers and sisters in Christ, he has that same love for each one of us. And all he asks in return is that we try to love him more. A request that surely all of you who pray in the name of your humble, obedient patron St. Rita, desire to fulfill.

It may be just a story, Kate Gilligan thought, but it was a pretty darned good one. And told within the majestic confines of St. Rita’s, a splendid edifice to God built by an army of immigrant Catholic masons, stoneworkers, carpenters and tradesmen, its effect was to make God all the more real to her.

She was among those gathered at St. Rita’s for a retreat, or, as the old priest referred to it, a mission.