The Man Who Murdered God (18 page)

“We would like some privacy, Brother Schur,” the abbot said with a wave of his hand. “Please return to your room or some other activity.” The small man nodded and left, his head bowed, his strange felt slippers making the same snick-snick sound on the hardwood floors.

“Let's sit here,” Brother Farrell suggested, indicating a grouping of four chairs near the fireplace. “Trust me. We will not be disturbed.”

The men sank deeply into the chairs, and each crossed his legs. Bernie Lipson retrieved his notebook from his jacket and rested it on his knee.

“Now.” Brother Farrell pulled himself upright, nodding and smiling at Kevin Deeley. “To what do we owe the honour of this visit from such distinguished gentlemen?”

Deeley was about to answer, but McGuire was unable to contain himself. “Do you know a Robert Kennedy Griffin, twenty-two years old, former address, Lexington, Massachusetts?”

The effect on the monk was immediate. He sank back in the chair and brought his hands together, prayer-like, resting them in his lap. His face sagged. He blinked several times, then spoke slowly.

“Bobby. Yes, somehow I knew Bobby would return. In one way or another.”

“Who was Brother Halloran?” McGuire barked.

Brother Farrell turned to look directly at McGuire as though deciding whether to answer. “The abbot who preceded me,” he answered finally. “He has gone to his reward. And while it may have been God who took him, it was what happened to Bobby that sent him.” The monk's hands were trembling and his face was ashen. He turned to Deeley with an expression of hope. “We are a dying order, Father Deeley,” he pleaded. “You know that. The brothers and I, we want only to live out our lives here on earth within this monastery. You can understand that, can't you?”

“Of course I can, Brother Farrell,” Deeley replied. He reached out to touch the monk's arm gently. “But we must co-operate with these gentlemen. We are dealing here with horrible, heinous crimes against man and against God, and they must be addressed.”

The monk nodded wearily. He sat upright again and began to speak in a toneless, droning voice, his eyes, unfocused and unwavering, staring at the dingy walls of the room.

She was trying to scream, to plead, to wrench herself away from him, but he was too powerful, too determined. They rolled from the sofa onto the floor, and his hands were tightening, tightening on her neck as she arched her back and kicked and sought his eyes with her fingernails to claw, to scratch, to stop this demon she had unleashed with love.

With no effect. Weakening, she knew what was about to happen, and she cried within her while her body fought heroically. Cried for the young and trusting girl who had once held Manhattan in her hand. Cried for the young and sweet-faced boy who loomed above her, squeezing her life away with red-hot rage.

“I believe it was his priest who suggested Bobby consider spending a period with us. To strengthen himself spiritually.”

As Farrell spoke, his eyes avoided the three men watching him.

“Brother Halloran promoted the idea of the diocese of the monastery as a retreat. It seemed a way to help revive our order. He believed we could attract some younger men with a novice program. The novices would be with us for two years, living the life of a spiritual man, to help them determine if they indeed wanted to enter the embrace of the Mother Church. Brother Halloran said it would be a way of tempering them, like fine steel.

“And so he spoke to friends at the diocese and to priests he was acquainted with. Soon we had a few young men visit us, but most were unsuitable for one reason or another. Some were obviously sent by their parents as a form of discipline, as though we were a poor alternative to a good military school. Others clearly didn't have the strength of character to live the demanding life of a brother.”

Farrell smiled to himself. “But Bobby, we knew, was special. You could sense something in him that was rare in anyone. At any age. He was only sixteen years old, still a boy physically of course. But his perceptions, his grasp of the significance of spirituality, were simply first rate.”

“So you admitted him?” Deeley asked.

“Yes. Of course we did.” Farrell drew himself upright. “For the first few weeks, he was assigned to a room by himself. The room was comfortable, certainly more comfortable than those of the other brothers, save the abbot's himself. He was given a cloak and slippers to wear and a course of readings to study and ponder.”

The monk's eyes brightened. “Bobby responded so beautifully. He rose with us at matins—”

“At what?” McGuire interrupted.

“Matins,” Deeley explained. “Morning prayer. Which is at what time, Brother Farrell?”

“Four a.m.,” the monk replied. “We would gather in the chapel for prayers and readings before breakfast. Then Bobby would retire to his room for study during the morning. We would meet again for sext. The noon meal,” Farrell explained to McGuire, anticipating his question. “In the afternoon Bobby would help in the cataloguing of our book collection or in the leather-work and weaving chambers downstairs. He would join us at vespers, the evening prayer service, and retire to his room at sunset.”

“What happened after he became accustomed to the routine?” Deeley enquired.

“Brother Halloran . . .” The monk stopped and stared at the floor for a moment, his hands resting on his knees. He breathed deeply and raised his eyes to stare blankly at the wall ahead of him. “Brother Halloran felt that small groups of monks could work together with the novice, providing him with a small family core group.” Farrell became more agitated, and his voice grew defensive and urgent in tone. “The idea was that a novice could benefit from multiple viewpoints and a closer . . . a closer working, study and spiritual relationship with . . . with a cell group.”

He paused, waiting for questions from the men. When there were none, he shifted his weight and brought his hands together, resting his chin on them. He stared at the floor as he spoke, stumbling over his words.

“Brother Halloran asked for volunteers to assist the novice in his training. A group of . . . of three of the brothers, led by Brother Larkin, came forward. And so Bobby was placed in their care and assigned to a group of rooms in the far wing of the building. Brother Larkin led the text repair and cataloguing activity. We have . . . we have thousands of spiritual texts within the monastery, many of them very old. And others arrive monthly as bequests or from the diocese.

“The group was autonomous in its work. Brother Larkin had the abbot's trust. Larkin was a stern man, very severe in his discipline. The other two brothers in his group, Brother Charles and Brother Higgins, were clearly dominated by him.” The monk shook his head quickly in short spastic motions as though attempting to shake the memory from his mind. “I never cared for either of those two. At least . . . at least Brother Larkin could boast intelligence and strength of spirit.

“In any case, within a few days Bobby was no longer appearing at matins or vespers. His food was brought to him in his room by the others in his cell group. When the abbot made enquiries about Bobby, he was told by Brother Larkin that Bobby was ill or was in deep study or was being subjected to discipline for not achieving the performance expected of him. And so we didn't see Bobby for a very long time.”

“How long?” McGuire demanded.

“For the first period, three to four months perhaps,” Farrell responded. “Which was not unusual,” he added hastily. “There was much to do and a great sense of spirituality among the few novices we had. And discipline under Brother Halloran was not . . . not what it should have been, perhaps.

“When we saw Bobby that first time again at vespers, he looked changed. He was silent and withdrawn. I remember Brother Halloran spoke to him, and he withdrew physically and began to cry. I was concerned, personally. I could tell something was wrong, but Brother Larkin stated gruffly that Bobby was his responsibility, and that his spiritual development was proceeding apace. And so we would see Bobby perhaps once monthly after that.”

“What of his mother?” Deeley asked. “Didn't his mother demand to see him?”

Farrell sighed. “She stopped by once or twice and was told Bobby was in retreat, and that she must bow to the wishes of the abbot for the two-year novice period.” He frowned briefly. “Mrs. Griffin is a very obedient daughter of the Church.”

“Jesus,” McGuire muttered.

“What was going on?” Deeley asked softly.

The monk looked up and found the priest's eyes. “You can guess what was going on, Father,” he answered.

McGuire and Lipson exchanged glances.

“And when was it discovered?” Deeley's voice had grown hard and cold.

“Something more than a year later.” Farrell's eyes moved away from the face of the priest and back again. “I . . . it was at my insistence. Two other brothers and I persuaded the abbot to accompany us to Brother Larkin's wing. We took Brother Higgins, because he had a key. The entrance to their wing was locked at all times. To protect the books from pilferage, supposedly. It was really at Brother Larkin's insistence.”

He paused, gathering strength to continue.

“Go on,” Deeley ordered. “Tell us what you saw.”

The monk shook his head. “I cannot. I can tell you only that I observed the most brutal, most disgusting activities being performed upon Bobby by Brother Larkin and Brother Charles.”

“You caught them in the act?” McGuire asked.

Farrell nodded.

“They had been sodomizing this poor kid for over a year, and nobody here knew about it?” McGuire almost shouted.

“There had been talk. Rumours,” Farrell responded. “But it was simply beyond our comprehension that men of God—”

“Men of God?” Deeley exploded. “These weren't men of God, you fool. These were men of Satan. They were animals, worse than dogs!”

“What happened?” McGuire asked quietly.

“The abbot called for the rest of the brethren,” Farrell replied. “We removed Bobby and barred the area to prevent Brothers Larkin and Charles from escaping. After we had unlocked the door, Brother Higgins disappeared. No one ever saw him again. And that evening Brother Charles committed suicide. He hung himself in the text-repair area, in full view of Larkin. He knew, I suppose, he would spend eternity in Hell, and there was no reason to fear the consequences of taking his own life.

“We were all shaken, of course. But none more so than Brother Halloran. He was concerned with the continuance of the order and with prescribing a suitable punishment for Brother Larkin. The rest, he decided, would be left in the hands of God.”

“So you covered it up?” Deeley demanded.

“We tried to let time and the spirit heal the damage,” Farrell pleaded. “We are a closed society here, Father. You can understand that—”

“Bullshit!” McGuire spat out at the monk, who looked at him calmly.

“It was Brother Halloran's decision to handle it in this manner?” Deeley asked.

The monk nodded. “Among his last earthly decisions. That evening Brother Halloran suffered a stroke from which he never recovered. He was taken by God a few months later.” Farrell made the sign of the cross as he spoke.

“And Larkin?” Deeley asked. “What became of Larkin?”

Farrell lifted his head and spoke with more strength in his voice. “It was the verdict of the abbot and those brothers within the ruling circle to condemn Brother Larkin to perpetual confinement within the abbey for the rest of his life on earth. He was to have no contact with others, save at feeding time. He was not to communicate with anyone under any circumstances but to spend his remaining time in contemplation with his spirit and in seeking forgiveness for his despicable crimes against man and God.”

“Where?”

“In a corner of the basement below us. Originally it was a root cellar, with a heavy wooden door and one window. Several years ago we converted it into a small retreat cell, with simple toilet and plumbing facilities. There is nothing else except a slab bed, some old blankets and one crucifix.”

Farrell looked at each of the others in turn. Then, anticipating the question, he said softly, “He remains there still.”

Deeley spoke first, in a voice which said he would brook no argument.

“Take us to him. Now.”

The four men rose together and left the common room without speaking. In the hallway, suspiciously near to the common-room doors, the wizened little monk Schur was walking slowly away, his eyes on a book held open in front of him. Farrell led the way past him, and the monk stepped aside to watch them proceed.

As they turned to descend an open stairway, they encountered two more monks, walking together silently. The mingled aroma of cooking drifted up the stairs, and they passed the basement kitchen, where three monks paused from slicing vegetables to look up. Another turn and they entered a long, unlit corridor, where Farrell paused to flick a wall switch. One light glowed mid-way down the corridor ahead of them. In the distance another light source spilled into the darkened area, casting a small rectangular shape onto the stone floor.

At the end of the corridor a door stood closed, secured with two sturdy brass locks on cast-iron hasps. A grilled opening, as deep and as wide as the spine of a book, had been fixed at eye level. The opening was hinged, and a sliding iron bolt, accessible only from the outside, held it firmly shut. “We pass his food through here,” Farrell explained.

Farrell leaned to the opening and looked in. Then he moved aside as, one by one, each of the others stepped up in turn to peer into the room.

A man, fascinating and hypnotic in his ugliness, glared back at them from a reclining position on the slab bed. He appeared be a large man, certainly well over six feet tall, although it was difficult to judge because the small opening prevented the men from seeing the prisoner's full length.

He was clad in a filthy grey garment similar to those worn by the other monks. His hair, surprisingly shiny and black, was long and tangled, his beard wispy and the same coal-black colour. He wore heavy black horn-rimmed glasses in front of shrewd eyes, which stared at the watchers defiantly. For all of this there were decidedly effeminate features about him: his hands were long and graceful, the slender fingers holding an ancient leather-bound book; and his mouth was full, the bottom lip almost pouting in its fleshy shape.

“Open it up,” McGuire instructed.

Farrell turned to look at Deeley.

“Do it,” the priest ordered.

Farrell nodded, resigned to being no longer the guiding force within his own monastery. “I will have to retrieve the keys from my office,” he mumbled, and set off to return along the corridor. Deeley resumed looking through the grillwork at the man who continued to watch him. There was a change in the monk's expression, subtle but unmistakable—he was beginning to smile.

The priest turned from the door and suddenly, powerfully, kicked the rough stone walls of the corridor. “Damn it!” he swore. “Damn it to hell!”

Farrell returned within minutes, shuffling keys around a large metal ring as he walked. He chose two and fumbled with them nervously while the others watched.

The padlocks opened reluctantly, and the abbot moved the hasps aside. Before opening the door, he turned to face Deeley and the detectives.

“Larkin has not spoken for almost four years,” he said softly. “And it has been expressly forbidden for anyone to communicate with him. He has taken a vow of silence—”

“Like his vow of celibacy?” Deeley asked, reaching beyond the abbot to open the door.

A stale aroma greeted the men as they entered the tiny room and stood against the wall facing the monk, who remained watching them from his slab bed, his smile having grown wider and more obscene.

Next to the bed stood a small table and single chair. A hand-turned pitcher and washing bowl sat to one side of the table. Crusty remains of bread lay scattered about on a dinner plate at the other end. High above the table, almost at ceiling level, a floodlight shone through the barred window from outside the building. It was the room's only source of light. In the corner, beyond the foot of the bed, a small cubicle held a simple wall-mounted sink and a seatless toilet. Dozens of ancient books, matching the one the reclining monk held in his hands, were stacked on the floor around the bed. The whitewashed walls were free of any decoration except for a simple wooden crucifix above the table.

Farrell cleared his throat and said, “This is Brother Larkin, who I was speaking about upstairs. He has taken a vow of silence and solitude. No one else has entered this chamber for four years.”