frauds with the money going into Opus Dei coffers, assassinations of political figures like Salvador Allende in Chile, and perhaps even Pope John Paul.”
“The Pope?”
Parmalee nodded.
“But isn’t he alive?” McGarr asked.
The man closed his eyes dismissively. “The first John Paul. The John Paul who initiated all the liberal reforms in the Church, who championed Liberation Theology and birth control. They—the conservatives and Opus Dei—they thought of him as a mistake, an anomaly, and they got rid of him in thirty-three days.”
Again McGarr waited, wondering if Parmalee were a bit off. Or perhaps he had something to tell him more germane to Mary-Jo Stanton’s murder. Parmalee had a tic in his left eye; behind the octagon lenses of his eyeglasses it kept straying and darting back.
“They poisoned John Paul and claimed he’d suffered a heart attack, even though he’d just had a physical conducted by his doctor of over twenty years. It included an electrocardiogram. The man declared of John Paul ‘ Non sta bene, ma benone .’”
“Not just well, but very well,” the phrase meant. Before joining the Garda, McGarr had spent over a decade on the Continent, working for Criminal Justice in Marseilles and later for Interpol. “When was that?”
“John Paul died in September of 1978.”
McGarr seemed to remember hearing or reading about some controversy regarding that Pope’s death. But he also knew that the Vatican and the other institutions of the Roman Catholic Church had more than a few detractors. Claims of conspiracy and murder were floated whenever Popes died and were succeeded.
“Wasn’t there something about no autopsy?”
Parmalee’s eye snapped to the side and remained there. “Not just no autopsy. No forensic tests of any kind, no official death certificate. The body was embalmed almost immediately.
“Only a few weeks earlier, the Russian Orthodox Archbishop of Leningrad, who was only forty-nine years old, also died of a massive heart attack, while waiting in a papal antechamber before meeting with John Paul about a possible softening of the Church’s attitude toward Moscow. Opus Dei didn’t want that either.”
McGarr shrugged. “Why are you telling me this?”
“Because just as Opus Dei murdered Allende and John Paul when those two got in their way, they also murdered Mary-Jo this afternoon.”
“Why?”
“To keep her from committing the ultimate betrayal by sending the manuscript of her biography of Escrivá, the Opus Dei founder, to her publisher in London.”
McGarr sighed. It was getting late, and he would have a busy day on the morrow, handling the investigation and fending off the press. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”
The slight smile had reappeared on Parmalee’s face. “Because the manuscript contains the revelation that José Maria Escrivá de Balaguer may have been—and probably was—Mary-Jo’s father.”
“Her spiritual father?”
The man shook his head, the smile now almost gleeful. “Her fleshly father.”
“You have proof of this?”
“No, of course not. Only a DNA match could prove that conclusively, and I’m sure Opus Dei would fight that with every resource at their command. But I was hoping you found a copy of the manuscript tonight, or it’s still up in the study of her quarters on the third floor.”
McGarr thought of the intruder who had cut Escrivá’s portrait from the frame. There was too much…background—about Mary-Jo Stanton, the house and estate, and the Church—that he didn’t understand. And how did this Parmalee know that she had been murdered in the afternoon, when McGarr had contacted his office only an hour or so ago. “Buy you a drink?”
“At this time of night?”
“Move your car and get in.”
“But might I get towed?”
“Perhaps this might help. Fix it in a window.” McGarr handed Parmalee one of his cards.
CHAPTER 8
AT ILNACULLIN, MCGARR turned the car down the avenue of beeches that
“The Pope?”
Parmalee nodded.
“But isn’t he alive?” McGarr asked.
The man closed his eyes dismissively. “The first John Paul. The John Paul who initiated all the liberal reforms in the Church, who championed Liberation Theology and birth control. They—the conservatives and Opus Dei—they thought of him as a mistake, an anomaly, and they got rid of him in thirty-three days.”
Again McGarr waited, wondering if Parmalee were a bit off. Or perhaps he had something to tell him more germane to Mary-Jo Stanton’s murder. Parmalee had a tic in his left eye; behind the octagon lenses of his eyeglasses it kept straying and darting back.
“They poisoned John Paul and claimed he’d suffered a heart attack, even though he’d just had a physical conducted by his doctor of over twenty years. It included an electrocardiogram. The man declared of John Paul ‘ Non sta bene, ma benone .’”
“Not just well, but very well,” the phrase meant. Before joining the Garda, McGarr had spent over a decade on the Continent, working for Criminal Justice in Marseilles and later for Interpol. “When was that?”
“John Paul died in September of 1978.”
McGarr seemed to remember hearing or reading about some controversy regarding that Pope’s death. But he also knew that the Vatican and the other institutions of the Roman Catholic Church had more than a few detractors. Claims of conspiracy and murder were floated whenever Popes died and were succeeded.
“Wasn’t there something about no autopsy?”
Parmalee’s eye snapped to the side and remained there. “Not just no autopsy. No forensic tests of any kind, no official death certificate. The body was embalmed almost immediately.
“Only a few weeks earlier, the Russian Orthodox Archbishop of Leningrad, who was only forty-nine years old, also died of a massive heart attack, while waiting in a papal antechamber before meeting with John Paul about a possible softening of the Church’s attitude toward Moscow. Opus Dei didn’t want that either.”
McGarr shrugged. “Why are you telling me this?”
“Because just as Opus Dei murdered Allende and John Paul when those two got in their way, they also murdered Mary-Jo this afternoon.”
“Why?”
“To keep her from committing the ultimate betrayal by sending the manuscript of her biography of Escrivá, the Opus Dei founder, to her publisher in London.”
McGarr sighed. It was getting late, and he would have a busy day on the morrow, handling the investigation and fending off the press. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”
The slight smile had reappeared on Parmalee’s face. “Because the manuscript contains the revelation that José Maria Escrivá de Balaguer may have been—and probably was—Mary-Jo’s father.”
“Her spiritual father?”
The man shook his head, the smile now almost gleeful. “Her fleshly father.”
“You have proof of this?”
“No, of course not. Only a DNA match could prove that conclusively, and I’m sure Opus Dei would fight that with every resource at their command. But I was hoping you found a copy of the manuscript tonight, or it’s still up in the study of her quarters on the third floor.”
McGarr thought of the intruder who had cut Escrivá’s portrait from the frame. There was too much…background—about Mary-Jo Stanton, the house and estate, and the Church—that he didn’t understand. And how did this Parmalee know that she had been murdered in the afternoon, when McGarr had contacted his office only an hour or so ago. “Buy you a drink?”
“At this time of night?”
“Move your car and get in.”
“But might I get towed?”
“Perhaps this might help. Fix it in a window.” McGarr handed Parmalee one of his cards.
CHAPTER 8
AT ILNACULLIN, MCGARR turned the car down the avenue of beeches that
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