All the CARDINALS MEN

By JJ Barrie

The young boys had nowhere to go, no one to trust.

Victims at twelve, they could not comprehend the systematic abuse and excruciating pain. They cried until there were no more tears left...

The engrossing story of priests, paedophilia and murder could be anywhere where institutions have ignored or covered up for the predators in their
ranks preying on boys in their care.
The families exhibit all the colour and harshness of life in post-war inner Sydney. Alcohol and adversity, petty crime and truancy add to the severity of their early lives. Rapid
progression into the welfare system, aggravated by bureaucracy and a lack of compassion, control
or interest, the boys were sent to a church-run boys' home adjacent to a Roman Catholic Seminary.
The association the priests and seminarians had with the home, made for an explosive mix. The inevitable occurred – boys were abused. The failure of the church hierarchy to ensure the
safety of the boys in the care of their priests and subsequent concealment by the celibate hierarchy – provides the background

Throughout the church, this conspiracy continues unabated...
'A sensitive treatment of the subject. A marvellously well-plotted crime novel with an intriguing plot, a cracker of a tale and very engrossing...'
Tom Flood, Miles Franklin Award winning author and editor.

• Language: English
• Publisher: CUSTOM BOOK PUBLICATIONS
• Release date: Jul 21, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476109923

JJ Barrie

J J BARRIE, the Australian born author and novelist, recently retired after years of involvement in general business writing in order to concentrate on a love of historical crime and investigative procedure. The first historical crime novel was published in 2009.An abiding interest over decades in English family history largely related to Cambridgeshire and adjacent counties continues. Particular interest and research into industrialisation and the resultant migration to the colonies has resulted in THE EMIGRANTS. The trilogy is almost complete with the first volume - THE BROTHERS FIVE - published in eBook and print formats by Custom Books. The second volume - GOLD & GLORY - is in edit for release towards the end of 2012. The final volume is in draft and planned to be released in 2014.Now writing fulltime and extensively traveled, with a close knowledge of much of Europe and Asia, each novel has a particular affinity with their locales as reflected in the revised historical novel just released – MONA LISA: THE VIRGIN MOTHER. Several other historical thrillers are works in progress, notably CURSE OF THE DIAMONDS and THE SHELFORDS OF SHELFORD – both set predominantly in England.More information is at www.jjbarrie.com

Book preview

PROLOGUE

At St. Josephs Chapel, he waited on his knees for confession. Robbie sought more than absolution.

The priest donned his vestments and surplice. With his hands steepled, he walked down the aisle, nodding unctuously to those on their knees near the old carved confessional. Heavy full-length velvet outer curtains enclosed the cubicles. On one side was the priest; the other was for the penitent. An aged mesh grill – punctuated with holes each the size of a penny – separated the two tiny spaces. The black dividing curtain was pulled back for the priest to contemplate their sins, and impose atonement on his remorseful clients.

Father Daniel O’Neill paid much more attention to the ancient ritual of confession than just the lip service given by so many priests. Every Friday the young priest sat on the hard bench from two until four, longer if there were any remaining customers. Those wishing to win favour with their God took a position in the nearby pews early, their arrival setting the order of their confession. On occasions, a penitent offered a white-coated doctor the opportunity to jump the queue – something Robbie would politely reject. With a little luck and good planning, he should be the last in line.

*****

The residents’ lounge was empty.

He removed a white coat off the hanger, laying the chrome and black-tubed stethoscope on the table. Those lost nights working as a male prostitute in the square opposite had served him well. Every week, for months, a regular doctor client had used the residents’ change room or one of the storage rooms for their interludes. Robbie knew his way around the hospital like the back of his hand.

The mechanism of the aging, cream locker door sprang open in seconds. He selected the items he required, took the wad of gum from his mouth and used it to jam it closed again. Dressing himself in the white coat, Robbie passed the stethoscope around his neck and walked towards the doctors’ entry. His natural blond hair was closely cropped in a modern, simple and inconspicuous style. The loose coat, flapping open in the afternoon breeze, hid the weapon secreted in the small of his back. The short rusted steel dart had taken hours to polish and resharpen. It now rested next to the two pens clipped in his top pocket.

At the front doors of the hospital, he ran his hands through his hair and put on a pair of heavy-framed sunglasses, pushing them up his slight aquiline nose. Every bit the consummate young doctor on an errand, nobody took any interest in him as he ambled into the church. He lit a votive candle and crossing himself, deposited a dollar note into the alms box.

Robbie moved along the aisle before walking into an empty pew as close as possible to the confessional. He absently noted the old woman and a young man ahead of him. The outer curtain pulled aside and a man shuffled away, mumbling the first of his twenty daily Hail Mary’s, his weekly penance. The woman rose and glanced at Robbie once before entering the draped space. She drew the heavy curtain closed with a defiant tug, obviously not one who found a doctor’s time valuable.

As he waited patiently on his knees, Robbie wondered about this praying. It had never done anything for him before, so maybe he was not doing it right. God? He was not around when he needed him.

Five minutes passed before the drapes slid back on the brass rings, resonating on the metal rod. The woman emerged, suitably abashed. He wondered fleetingly what she could have confessed to cause her face to colour. He turned his head, smiling to the young man to precede him. Robbie settled down for another period on his knees. He was the next – and last.

Minutes later, the man shuffled out, muttering to himself. Robbie strode into the confessional, pulling the curtain across the opening.

The priest intoned mechanically, 'Yes, my son; let us pray…'

He sat down on the polished bench. He could see only the shadowed image of the priest’s head bent in prayer. He removed the gun, loaded the dart and cocked the lever handle. He turned towards the priest as he ceased the prayer and whispered, 'Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned…'

Robbie pointed the barrel through one of the holes, aiming with care at the priest’s ear, before he pulled the trigger firmly. There was no noise, nothing more than the sound of air rushing out. The dart entered the ear. He slumped forward, grunted once and then was silent, his head resting on his chest as if asleep. After a few moments, the only evidence was a drop of blood accumulating, soon to clot and obscure the tiny wound. Robbie replaced the weapon, exited the confessional and closed the curtain.

The chapel was empty – not a single soul waited for redemption.

In the vestibule, he walked out into the late afternoon sunshine towards the hospital where he entered through the staff entrance, taking the stairs down to the residents’ lounge. The borrowed items returned, he gummed the locker door closed again. The change of identity had taken only minutes.

With the heavy rims replaced by a pair of aviator-style sunglasses, Robbie entered the lift to the ward exit where, mingling with departing visitors, he disappeared out the front doors of the main entrance. Less than another minute elapsed. Nobody had really seen him. Certainly, no one would be able to identify him in his white coat; they were everywhere in the busy teaching hospital.

Walking along the footpath towards Kings Cross, he smiled to himself.

'Number two!'

*****

BOOK ONE

BRICKWORKS GUTTED – ARSON SUSPECTED

Fire destroys Truck, Workshops, Offices Damaged

…a company spokesman said work to repair the damage would commence as soon as possible. Two boys, aged about thirteen, seen running from the scene, have not yet been identified. Police are seeking assistance from the public. Anyone with information is urged to contact Balmain Police.

Extract BALMAIN TIMES Tuesday, 19 AUGUST 1972

*****

CHAPTER ONE

Detective Chief Inspector Robert Holden gazed out his picture window over Hyde Park opposite, idly watching the local kids in a game of touch football. One of his young detectives entered after knocking.

'Boss, you got a minute?'

'Sure, Jimmy, sit down.'

'The skeleton case you asked me to investigate – the remains found in the southern highlands,' he said, opening the file. 'Not an easy one – all we got is he was an eleven or twelve year-old boy – maybe be a small thirteen, and the skeleton is six or seven years old. The dental chart is reasonable and forensics is looking at some remnants of cloth. My guess, boss – I reckon he's one of the boys from the home down on the highlands. I talked with a Brother Emile at the Catholic Seminary that runs the place; he seems to have a few ideas about who the boy might be.'

'I can’t spare anyone else now; you still on the Pilcher double murder?'

'Yeah, boss and Ray wants me back. What would you like me to do next?'

'Leave the file with me. I’m planning to play golf at Mittagong on Sunday; I might stay over and go down to this place – what’s the name – Chalkers Crossing, and take a look myself. I need the number for that priest.'

After reading the scant information, Holden agreed he should commence with the boys’ home. If he found a link to a boy missing around that time, he might be a start. The locals could finish the investigation. Never enough staff. He had telephoned St. Patrick’s Seminary; the Brother immediately grasped the direction investigations could take.

Only a half-hour early morning drive from Mittagong to the site of the gruesome find, Holden drove up to the seminary a few minutes after nine. A great old place, he thought, noticing a tall, dark-haired priest in a brown shapeless cassock coming towards him.

'Bob Holden, Father,' he said in greeting.

Shaking hands, the priest replied, 'No, just Brother, and Emile is fine; I’m surprised to find a Chief Inspector on this.'

'I was down here anyway, so I thought I’d check the matter out. Now, the information we talked about?'

'Do you want to inspect where the body, er… the skel… I mean, the remains were found?'

'In your hands, Emile, but at some point I would like a tour of the place. I need some background, seeing the incident was five or six years ago,' he added.

Entering the ground floor cubicle Emile used as his office, he said, 'Sit down... if you can fit? They don’t make cupboards any smaller. You might like to glance at these files.' Brother Emile explained the computer records and his results. 'Not much we can’t do with this new system.'

The aroma of coffee wafted as the priest returned from the kitchen. Holden asked, 'Brother, a question first; you seem sure the body was one of the younger boys from the old homes, but those are closed now, aren’t they?'

'I wasn’t here, of course; they removed fifteens and under a few years back, for reasons nobody seems to want to talk about. We still administer the homes but they’re all sixteen and seventeen-year-olds. My intuition says he was a boy from Rawson House which held the youngest boys.'

Holden smiled, 'Sounds like a good place to start.'

'We had little information before the computer came in – only a mess of files. I had a huge job finding them, much less getting consent to let me at them. This guy is interesting, but when you read further, Welfare couldn’t find the parents either. Given the lack of cooperation between the States, I think they went interstate. That’s why nothing could be found; they’ll be in Queensland, or somewhere. This second file was one of the youngest. He was barely thirteen but if you check at his medical records, he wasn’t well developed for his age. This is what is left of his file.'

Holden was immediately alert. 'Are you suggesting the files are doctored, Brother?'

'Just a sense, Chief Inspector; sanitised might be a better way of putting it. Too many inconsistencies; I get an awful feeling these files – and quite a few others, I should add – are, shall we say, incomplete.'

'Robert Andrew Sullivan – certainly a good place to start but you’re right, not much here at all,' Holden added, leafing through the negligible information.

'Our contact in the department had not a thing; he simply vanished from the face of the earth. This is the only other boy I could find unaccounted for but I ruled him out because they released him to his mother a month after Sullivan disappeared. Welfare had nothing on him, either.'

'Probably back in the system,' Holden commented idly. 'Not much we can do with these boys from broken homes, juvenile crime and welfare. A downward street, and a tough start to life.' Holden made some entries in his notebook. 'We’ll concentrate on this file; leave the others. Anyway, we should take a look around so I am in your hands. I’m bloody impressed with all the work, I can tell you… sorry.'

The priest smiled, 'No problem.'

Holden and Brother Emile walked around the culvert where the council workers had found the skeleton a week earlier. 'Seems he crawled in and couldn’t get out,' Holden remarked.

'The big storms we had a while back washed out the muck and the remains, by the look of things. Kind of sad; death of a child is always difficult.'

'Yeah, well, that’s life,' remarked Holden, adding unemotionally, 'where are the boys’ dental records kept?'

'The original files are at the main office next to the schoolhouse. Easy enough to check. I don’t remember any dental information but Mrs. Bembow has worked there for years – she will know the dentist.'

'Okay,' Holden pondered, taking off his signature hat and wiping his brow. 'I wonder how he…?'

'He was murdered? I suppose so, seeing you’re from Homicide. Sorry, none of my business – a premonition, that’s all,' the priest interrupted.

'The fact the case is with Homicide means little. In the end, every unnatural death comes back to us from the Coroner’s office. There is nothing to support foul play at this time – except the circumstances of his disappearance.'

*****

The old converted sandstone building opposite the Mittagong Railway Station had seen better days but the garden in the front was neat and tidy with the bed of daffodils already in full flower. The wrought iron gate squeaked open to a path down the side of the building where the polished brass plate signalled the entrance to the surgery. He pushed the door, the air immediately announcing the dentist, reminding Holden fleetingly of his hatred as a child.

'They all smell alike,' commented Brother Emile.

'Yeah, I was thinking the same thing,' Holden replied, smiling.

At the counter, Holden introduced himself before giving the receptionist a calling card. 'Oh, Chief Inspector, and how are you today, Brother?'

'Fine, thank you, Mrs. Parsons; we’d like to talk with Dr. Gibson when he’s free.'

'He should be out in…' The dentist, garbed in his white smock, with half glasses perched precariously on his hooked nose, walked through the office door. 'Doctor, these gentlemen wish to see you,' handing him the card.

'We don’t often get a Chief Inspector down here; why don’t you come in?'

After closing the door to his office, the dentist added, 'Now what can I do for you?'

Holden said, 'Doctor, the skeleton found in the culvert a week ago – out near the seminary – do you recall the case?'

'Yes, of course; it was all over the papers.'

'These are the dental charts prepared by the Coroner’s Office,' Holden replied, passing the package. 'There is reason to believe the remains may be of a boy who absconded from the boys’ home between five and seven years ago. We favour one they never found; a Robert Sullivan, about thirteen when he took off.'

'One name – well, shouldn’t take long to find him,' adding into the intercom, 'Mrs. Parsons, could you check for a file for the detective, please?'

Gibson compared the pathologist’s charts against his own. 'Gentlemen, I’ll need time to go through this in detail; I suspect the chart will probably be this fellow. I hope I can be definitive. Sometimes we get close, but we shall see. I’ll be able to determine if the chart is his tonight, when it’s not so hectic.'

'Thanks Doctor, that’s all we need. I’ll call you in the morning. If it turns out to be him, we can talk again,' replied Holden, rising and shaking hands.

Outside Holden commented to Brother Emile, 'Maybe a sixty percent match at this stage. Yes, almost no doubt in my mind.'

'None in mine either,' responded the priest. 'The poor mother, her name is Mary Sullivan – father killed in a car accident years before – the family used to live in Balmain. I wonder where she lives now. Anyway, here’s the full file.'

'Well done, Brother. If you ever want a change of job, all you need to do is call me,' Holden responded, trying to lighten the palpable load Brother Emile had assumed. 'Remember, it might just be the closure the mother needs. I’m going to wander around, get my bearings, make a few enquiries, talk to people – that sort of thing. Thanks for your help, Emile. I’ll let you know the dental results.'

In the car, Holden contemplated the situation. Not lost your old touch, Bob, he mused; identification is not too bad for the first day, and before lunch at that. A fleeting thought passed through his mind – something niggled. 'Balmain,' he said to himself. 'No, surely not…'

*****

Mary Sullivan still resided in Balmain – up the road from her best friend, Thelma Cassidy – and in the same terrace she had once shared with her long-dead husband, Thomas. When he died in the car crash, Mary remained distraught for weeks. With a four-year-old son, young Tom, and another on the way, her mother visited and stayed and Father Ryan came but nothing lifted the veil of sadness.

Ignored in her despondency, the baby decided the time had come to enter the world. The tiny, one-month premature boy – weighing in at five pounds and a bit – arrived with a few wisps of black hair, a pallid scrunched-up face, and puffy cheeks.

'He’s so like Thomas. He wanted to name him Robert if he was a boy. That’s what we’ll do. Isn’t he beautiful, my little Robbie?' she said to the relieved nurse, kissing the baby again.

'Ah,' said Father Ryan to Mary’s worried mother, 'she’ll be all right – you mark my words. God has got himself involved, she’ll be fine now, you’ll see.'

Tom Sullivan was different. Mary often found difficulty in understanding the contrast between her two sons. Tom was diligent, intelligent and interested, while young Robbie paid no attention to anything – except mischief.

In the nearly five years since the death of her Thomas, she had turned to the aging parish priest, Father Ryan, for his understanding, wisdom and assistance.

'All God’s children are different, Mary. Some He views with more grace than others – He has chosen Thomas for something special, to be sure. He is not just one of the usual children – he is a child of God. God has a design for him and he is a true believer. Mark my word; he will go far, Mary. Young Robbie, it’s too early to understand His design for him but it will become apparent in time.'

It was the longest speech she had heard the wily father make outside the pulpit. He continued, 'Mary, I’ve not told you this before, but when our Thomas died – God rest his soul – I asked our Bishop to provide the boys with a good Catholic schooling. Now the time is nigh for Tom, and not so long to go for Robbie, either. Here.' He passed the single sheet to Mary. Under the hand of the Bishop, the letter admitted Tom as a dayboy to St. Aloysius College.

'He’ll have to be up a little earlier to catch the bus, but it’ll be worth the trouble, Mary.'

Entering the strictures of the austere and authoritarian Roman Catholic school – Tom blossomed intellectually and embraced God with both arms. Stimulated and satisfied, he almost immediately gained distinction in his studies and swiftly rose to the pinnacle of his class. Unknowingly, Tom was preparing himself for a life dedicated to God.

By the time Robbie reached sixth class, Tom had commenced training for his religious orders at the St. Patrick’s Seminary. His younger brother was showing a wild Irish streak and already had his first real run-in with the Balmain Police. Robbie Sullivan, on a twelve-month good behaviour bond, headed for a life of crime.

*****

CHAPTER TWO

At the imposing red brick Balmain Police Station, Thelma Cassidy hesitated before ascending the dozen wide, but worn, sandstone steps onto the portico. Heels clicking on the floor tiles, she strode into the foyer.

The sergeant’s desk was empty. She sat down on the hard bench, digging deeply into her handbag for a cigarette. With her pert smile and flashing blue eyes, Thelma was even a little seductive, having retained her young figure and good looks. It was not her first time in the old police station; she knew the layout well. Over the last few years, her four boys had been in trouble with the police more than once.

Billy, her eldest, seemed to be always into something. Geoffrey and Raymond followed his lead with break and enters, and stealing.

Now it was her youngest – Michael.

Tears welled in her eyes. She dabbed with an already-soaked handkerchief and waited. 'Why isn’t bloody Will here? He’s never home when he’s needed. Carpenter, turned able seaman; I sure can pick ‘em,' she mumbled, looking for her matches. She began to think back over the past thirteen years to the dull overcast Sydney day when she had met her husband and her troubles had started, but the return of the grandfatherly sergeant to his charge desk broke her reverie.

'You say something, love?' he asked.

'I can’t control them. They’re full of mischief and now its crime.'

Thelma Cassidy was at the end of her tether.

Upstairs, the detective also found his patience waning. Holden had separated the boys, putting one in each of the three interview rooms. The cigarette-marked table and the steel chairs showed years of use and abuse. He tried to question the youngest boy once more.

'Righto, Mikey; your brother, Ray, he’s told us everything. His statement is being typed up right now. Yer going to tell us what went down, son?'

'Nah, an’ I’m not Mikey – it’s Mick. An’ you can’t pull that one on me. Geoff says that’s what all you cops do. An’ he wouldn’t give me up, ‘cause he’s me big brother.' The boy was pushing to keep the tears back but he was not going to cry. You could almost read his mind. Balmain boys don’t cry – not in front of coppers anyway. Tough little bugger, Holden thought.

Detective Sergeant Robert Maxwell Holden had the singular misfortune to be one of two detectives on duty. He stormed out of the tiny room on the first floor, he tripped on a piece of worn linoleum in the hallway. 'Shit!' he exclaimed angrily. 'I gotta get the bloody lino fixed before I kill my fuckin’ self.' Holden kept mumbling, 'Knee high to a bloody grasshopper, that’s all he is. Jesus! He’s a feisty kid for a fuckin’ eight-year-old. Lucky I even got his name.'

He glanced at his watch: seven o’clock on a Wednesday night. He should be at the Town Hall pub listening to the day’s yarns, telling a whopper or two and having a few middies.

In the duty room, he commented to the other detective, 'Bloody kids! Y’know what I’ve got? I got three brothers: Michael Cassidy, aged eight; Raymond Cassidy, just ten; and Geoffrey Cassidy, barely thirteen. Address? No bloody idea ‘cause none of ‘em will talk. The uniforms nicked the kids in possession of two bikes and tryin’ to pinch a third.'

'You sure have a tough problem, Bob. Glad I got a simple case of assault and battery. Wouldn’t want anything difficult at this hour of the night,' laughed Jim Brody, leaning back in the creaking chair.

'How about a hand? I’ll go interview the oldest one, you talk to the middle one. He’s in that one,' indicating the nearby holding room with his thumb.

'What do you want me to do – play bad cop, good cop with you? Looks like these little buggers got you beat, mate,' he joked. 'But seriously, Bob, you should ‘ave their mother or a solicitor here. Christ, me; I’d run a mile.'

Holden was already on his way to the third interview room.

'Young man,' he said to Raymond Cassidy. 'You’re Ray, aren’t you?'

'I don’t talk to fuckin’ coppers,' he responded, clamping his lips tight.

'Well, yer brother does. You were gettin’ a bike for young Michael when the uniforms nabbed yer. Right?'

'Bullshit, they wouldn’t talk. Anyway, which one you talkin’ about?'

'Geoff,' responded the detective, giving his best shot, looking at the blank sheet in his regulation notebook. 'Yeah, Geoff.'

'Nah. Yer bullshit, copper – piss off.'

Holden added, gritting his teeth, 'Mick says they’re yer bikes?'

'Ours? No way! They must’ve been sittin’ there. Yeah, must be it.'

'He’s goin’ to sign a statement; your stuffed, Ray.'

'Ha, ha, goin’ to be good, seein’ he don’t even read or write. Lyin’ through your teeth, yer are, copper.'

The exasperated detective knew when he was beaten. His rising temper was not improved by the boy’s parting comment.

'An’ if yer come back, I’ll scream yer touched me. It’ll really fuck yer up.'

Brody laughed a deep, throaty guffaw, his jowls shaking uncontrollably. 'You did well, Bob. Get ‘is statement, did you? Experienced crim, aged thirteen.'

'You’re right, I give up.' Holden picked up the heavy telephone handset, punching one of the ten buttons. ‘Sarge, how about you come up and try for an address? The young one is in two.'

Her youngest boy clutched at her floral dress and blubbered. Her heart went out to Michael. 'Sorry, Mum.'

Thelma Cassidy put her arms around his shoulders, but she was furious with her two older sons. 'What in the hell have you been doing? I want to hear it all from you before the bloody cop tells me. You first Geoff, an’ I need to know everything.'

A sheepish Geoffrey gestured to Ray. 'We wanted a bike, so we pinched two from Harry Hawkins bike shop at Rozelle this mornin’. Mick griped we hadn’t got him one, so we went back. I told ‘im to look after ours out the front. The back door was easy and we got a good one for ‘im, but a uniform nabbed us while we was pushin’ the bike over the fence. He cuffed us an’ took us roun’ the wagon. The other one had Mick by the scruff – an’ our bikes.'

'They weren’t your bikes! When are you going to learn? You stole them! They were never yours.'

Raymond tried to explain what went wrong. 'Yeah, Mum, I didn’t get a chance to call. The coppers came up too quick.'

'I don’t care about that. Don’t you three understand? You stole... stole the bloody bikes. For Christ sakes, what am I gonna do? You don’t even understand you broke the bloody law.' The three boys clammed up until she calmed down.

Michael responded guiltily, 'He asked who owned the bikes. I said they were me brothers. They got a wagon and threw the bikes in. Then they put us in the other one.'

'Sorry Mum, but they were Malvern Star Dragsters – the best bikes in the world,' Ray added.

'I’m scared, Mum,' Michael murmured, wiping another tear away. Thelma held his hand and gave it a squeeze.

'All of you be quiet. I’m going to have a talk to that detective.'

'He’s a real bastard, Mum,' retorted Geoffrey.

'Maybe, but you three are in deep trouble. You had anything to eat?'

'Just a Coke,' replied Ray. 'The sergeant got us one.'

Outside the interview room, Thelma Cassidy brushed away a few tears, fumbling in her bag for another cigarette.

Holden flicked open his chrome-plated Zippo.

'Handcuffs, I can’t believe your mob