Editor’s Note: The author of this story has chosen to remain anonymous to protect the privacy of those involved. If you or someone you know has experienced sexual abuse or assault, you are not alone. Help is available. In the U.S., you can contact the National Sexual Assault Hotline at 1-800-656-4673 or visit RAINN.org for 24/7 confidential support.
One of the reasons I always felt suited to dealing with difficult people I interacted with as a law enforcement officer was because I grew up in a home where my father was three people.
The first was a hardworking, gregarious person with a great sense of humor. However, five to six nights a week, when I was growing up, the second and third person came home from work intoxicated at around 3 a.m. On some nights, he came home, a happy-go-lucky drunk. On others, he woke up the entire household — angry, brooding drunk, prone to causing trouble.
I witnessed the latter too often and can only describe him as a potentially violent stranger wearing a thousand-yard stare, seeking out vengeance from an unseen demon, for transgressions which, to me, remained a mystery at the time.
When I reached the age of 40, my father quite suddenly quit drinking — cold turkey — and became the first person I described for the rest of our lives 100% of the time. He remained that gregarious, hard-working man with a great sense of humor.
What demon had haunted him for a time remained a mystery to me.
The mystery demon
It would not be until my father saw his imminent death on the horizon that he revealed to me who the demon was — whose crimes had scarred him so deeply he tried to erase them with alcohol for much of his life. The demon was a Catholic priest, who had sexually abused him as a young boy.
Dad died leaving me with this scant information and no more.
At the time of my father’s death, I was a retired police officer without authority, possessing a report of a troubling crime visited upon my father that nearly destroyed his life 70-plus years earlier. I felt in my heart that my father told me about this crime knowing I would strive to get some semblance of justice for him that he never received in life. Like many sexual assault victims, he had been too ashamed to report the crime to anyone.
I decided to conduct one last investigation on behalf of the boyhood innocence that was ripped from my father and replaced with a life of torment.
The first person I contacted was his wife — my mother. I asked if she knew anything about what my dad had told me.
Asking the question was like popping a champagne cork.
My mother had been the vessel which held my father’s secret pain throughout his life. He had, in life, asked her to keep his secret. Now that his soul had flown and he had shared it with me, she felt freed from her promise of silence and the facts poured out like champagne from that uncorked proverbial bottle.
The demon was “Father F.” He had been the person who taught the altar boys to serve Mass in Latin and coached the elementary school basketball team to a city championship. My father was an altar boy and a proud starter on the championship team. “Father F” was a very personable priest by all accounts and initially doted on my father above all others.
“Father F” would regularly come to Dad’s classroom and pull him right out of class to coach him on being a server. The coaching started as a legitimate exercise, but eventually the assaults began. They were committed regularly either in the furnace room of the school or the furnace room of the church across the street.
Yes, in the church.
I had seen both of these rooms when I was an officer investigating “open doors.” Both were dark and dirty basement rooms that looked to me like torture chambers in a medieval castle — except with a furnace. Thinking about it now, my thought is, “What a terrible environment for a little boy to be raped in.”
There were countless such encounters over several years until finally one was interrupted by the priest’s brother, who was described by my father as a “WWII hero, home on leave.” My father said the soldier walked in on an attempted assault and ran the priest up against the wall. The war hero’s hands were on “Father F’s” throat. The soldier called the priest a “pervert,” and said to my father, “If he does this again to you or anyone else, contact me. I will come back and kill him.”
“Father F” apparently believed his brother and the assaults on this little boy ended that very day.
The boy kept “Father F’s” secret and struggled to put what had happened to him into perspective for the rest of his life.
“Father F”
After confirming the assaults were real and egregious, I turned to the internet and discovered that “Father F” had been dead for over two decades. I even found photos of him in all his glory saying Mass at the altar of a beautiful cathedral. What was telling about his career was the fact that “Father F” was bounced from parish to parish, never staying too long in one place. I wondered, “Protected?”
“Father F” died a highly venerated priest. I couldn’t let that stand.
I discovered where he was buried and contemplated taking a road trip every spring and using Roundup to write the words “Pervert Priest” on his grave. That was just the fleeting thought of an angry son.
The police officer in me realized vandalism and revenge were never my forte. Seeking legal punishment for crimes was my forte.
My next step was to knock at the door of the rectory for the elementary school and church both my father and I had attended — unannounced. The priest who answered, like most of the priests I had ever known, proved to be a good man.
“Father A” listened to my story intently and believed it. He promised me he would conduct a ceremony to purify the places my father was assaulted. He would say Masses on behalf of my father’s memory. He shared with me the contact number of the bishop’s hotline available to report such crimes. “Father A” informed me, without explanation, “You must be persistent!”
I thanked him, left and immediately called the number. I received a recording, so I left a message. I followed up this call with a long series of properly distanced calls to avoid being thought to be dangerous. I was undeterred. I called many more times. No one returned my calls.
During this period, I continued with my investigation. I discovered priests who confirmed that when they were in the seminary there were “murmurings and rumors” about “Father F.” However, they had not experienced or witnessed any such crimes.
Amazingly, I was able to contact one nun who had witnessed an assault.
“Sister B” recalled a time when she had been a little girl and “Father F” was the priest at her parish. Her father and mother invited him regularly to their home for dinner. She said he seemed to be a very nice person and was quite attentive to her older brothers.
She recalled vividly one occasion when she came in and saw him “wrestling” with one of her brothers. She was just a little girl at the time and it was not until she grew older that she realized what he called “wrestling” was “inappropriate touching.”
“Sister B” agreed to discuss what she saw with an investigator if one was ever appointed to the case.
In addition to this, I obtained a list of names and contact information of those “boys” still alive who had been servers or played on the city championship basketball team.
Justice for my father
After over a year, a new bishop was appointed and he made a statement on the news. He promised there would be a renewed vigor toward addressing the sins of the Fathers. He encouraged those who had been wronged by a priest to contact the diocese.
The next day I made my last call and left another message. As the new bishop had promised, shortly thereafter I was contacted by an investigator.
The investigator was a retired detective from a nearby agency whom I knew, who said he was working on behalf of the new bishop. I gave him all the information I had to date. I breathed a sigh of relief because now I knew my father’s case was in good hands — the hands of a good cop!
The investigator re-contacted my witnesses and they confirmed what I had shared with him.
The detective eventually located more witnesses and more victims who were still alive. The victims were still haunted by what had happened to them as children at the hands of a man claiming to be Christ on Earth — who was to them the Devil incarnate.
One female witness was a cook at the parish where “Father F” was a priest. She walked in on an assault in progress. The former cook said she reported it to the pastor at the church, and when she deemed nothing was going to be done about it, she quit the job she loved, outraged over the incident.
The investigator completed his investigation and submitted his report to the bishop’s review board for consideration.
The review board considered the case against “Father F” and ruled that “Father F” was indeed a sexual offender who assaulted multiple victims. His name was added to the church’s sexual offender list.
My family sought nothing but received what was to us a priceless letter from the bishop stating: “I have accepted the recommendation of the independent review board and have directed that ‘Father F’s’ name be added to the public list of priests who have abused minors.” The bishop apologized to my family for the sins of “Father F.”
Prologue
Church abuse cases prove that whether a sexual offender wears a mask or a collar, without detection, apprehension and incarceration, they will continue to offend.
In the aftermath of this experience, my faith in God and his son Jesus Christ remains undiminished. I even still have faith in Catholic priests, because the ones I have known have made a positive impact on my life. I have found them to be as committed to the spiritual health of the communities they served as I was committed to the physical health of the community I served.
I must admit, however, my home parish church and elementary school I once attended can no longer be anything to me but the scene of the crime.
The officer who investigated this case was professional, empathetic, and as gentle with witnesses and victims as if they were his own family. What is great about being a police officer is that this description fits nearly every cop I have ever known in this profession.
Therefore, I will end this narrative by saying what you do is important and I believe you are truly God’s guardian angels placed here on Earth to physically protect his flock.
Victims — past, present and future — depend on you, so keep fighting the good fight.