Father Pedophile

By Joseph M. Downs

A world filled with dark secrets and sins. Where comfort is found in the pain of others. Physical, mental, sexual, and spiritual pain haunt the characters in this riveting tale of men maintaining undue power over helpless victims.

One man, searching for the truth, leads us on a journey into our own inner beings. Surrounded by secrets of his own, he seeks that truth for all of us. With a cast of characters ranging from a Down Syndrome sex-abused victim to a sadistic murderer and rapist, the tale of Father Pedophile leads us to the good and evil found everywhere.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Sep 22, 2003
• ISBN: 9781462836604

Joseph M. Downs

The author of Life of Lies again reaches into the depths of this worlds heart and soul. Bringing us face to face with our own harsh realities, and challenging us to conquer our own demons and fears. Again the uniqueness of his work provides insight to each of our lives. Joe Downs is a life-long resident of Louisville, KY. Born the youngest of five male siblings, and raised in the harsh inner-city settings commonly found in his novels. Currently he is enjoying the life provided by a loving family and good friends. He is a husband, father, and four-time grandfather

Book preview

Prologue

Not all good men are saints, nor all sinners evil.

Philippe Genova knew this even at his tender age of nine. He had heard his favorite uncle lament that sentiment more than once. Uncle Alberto, or as Philippe and his sibling lovingly called him, Uncle Archbishop, was indeed a wise man.

Philippe, the epitome of the American melting pot with his mixed French and Italian descent, wished he had been as wise. Instead, he listened to the neighborhood teenagers and ignored Uncle Archbishop. They talked the sex talk, and instructed Philippe on methods of self-joy. In vain Philippe had tried, but puberty was not on his side. Worst yet, his father had caught him committing the sin.

Punishment time was upon him. Time to atone. Philippe knew the reprimand would be worse than before, knew that to defile himself was high on Papa’s list of mortal sins. Still, there was hope. Uncle Archbishop had crossed the ocean from Italy for his yearly visit, and even now sat in the family room. Papa was furious though, and self-obligated to teach his child the punishment for sin. As it turned out, no calming words from his holy brother was going to keep the man from doing his fatherly duty.

So Philippe braced himself, cries for forgiveness going unheard. Papa was just, and he knew that the retribution would be in accordance with the sin. How Philippe now wished his digression had been a venial sin only. His older sister and younger brother had both been sent away from the room to visit with Uncle Archbishop. The nine-year-old’s fear grew worse.

Papa yanked the boy towards him roughly. How dare you! he spat. With your uncle in the same house. And what if your sister or brother saw what I saw? Were you going to teach them that trash?

Papa’s words rang with terrifying fervor through Philippe’s ears. Words always sounded harsher in Papa’s Americanized accent, instead of the smoothing tone of Uncle Archbishop. But Papa had been American since he was ten. Philippe himself being born here, and had never seen either family land. His mother, knowing their surname would always speak Italian, provided her maiden name as her son’s given name, trying to assure the French relationship also stayed relevant. I’m sorry, Papa, the boy cried. Please, don’t hurt me.

The huge man’s head quietly shook back and forth. Sad eyes peered at his sinful son. Philippe felt another jolt of pain and fear take over his body. His mother always handed out well-deserved spankings. This time, this sin, Papa was furious and wanted to deliver the retribution. It would definitely hurt more, simply due to the overpowering strength of the man. The anger would add even more force to the blows. And, for more harsh results, no chance of padding from any clothes was being allowed, no softening of the punishing and stinging slaps.

Whack! Harsh punishment was delivered by strong and severe swats. Philippe understood the need for stern discipline from his father. What he didn’t understand was the part of his father’s lesson that followed the spanking. Nearly unbearable, forbidden pain, which Papa hesitated and struggled with before teaching his child the curse of sin.

Throughout the punishment Papa preached to Philippe. Quoting the commandments in both gruff tones and then mere whimpers, " . . . Honor thy father and mother . . . Thou shalt not kill . . . Thou shalt not commit adultery." All Ten Commandments repeated over and over until Papa’s voice cracked mournfully and finally faded away.

The words swirled in the child’s ears, and then buried themselves deep within his subconscious being. With the final insult and heavenly preaching, Philippe felt biblical fire and brimstone rain down on his soul. The boy instantly rationalized that Papa had delivered justice in order to save his son from Satan’s realm.

Afterwards, alone in his room, Philippe begged and prayed for heavenly forgiveness. To commit a sin so severe that Papa would punish him such, the boy could only hope he’d been redeemed; a sin so terrible that even his father cried after delivering the punishment, leaving the room without the capability of speech.

Philippe had lain for hours with his quiet inner pain and the physical burning from the retribution. He tried to sleep and was almost there when the rapping came on his door. Again fear took control and the boy could not call out. Was more to come, he wondered. Was the sin still not rectified?

The door creaked open.

Uncle Archbishop softly walked in. He too, like Papa, was a huge man, usually displaying a broad smile to match his face. The smile was there. Not broad, but warmer than usual. Philippe, he almost whispered. Sit up and speak with me.

The boy rose up slowly, delayed by the pain. Forgive me, Uncle, Philippe stuttered, almost adopting his uncle’s Italian accent as he often did when around his idol.

It was hard to believe the two men were brothers. One raised here in America where Philippe was born, the other mostly in Italy. Parted by broken relationships, some way they had managed to stay as brothers should. Philippe eyed the man curiously, afraid his atonement was not yet complete. But Uncle Archbishop made no threatening moves towards him, instead sitting lightly down next to the boy until his full weight was on the edge of the bed. A soft but firm hand cupped the boy’s head. There is nothing to be forgiven, my son.

But I have sinned so dearly.

No, Philippe. Uncle Archbishop warmly smiled. You committed no sin. Your father, there is the sin.

The boy stared confusingly at his uncle. What was this man saying? he wondered. How could a father saving his son from damnation be a sinner? This didn’t seem right. But, then again, his uncle was an archbishop, and never wrong. Then, I’m safe? Not going to hell?

His big uncle was still smiling softly. You were never in danger, my child. Not from God.

Then why did Papa hurt me so? Philippe’s eyes were pleading for answers to other questions never asked.

Philippe, Uncle Archbishop sighed. Do you trust me?

The boy only nodded, but it was a sincere and honest nod.

Good, his uncle smiled. Then I will tell you a secret. Then you tell me a secret. And for all time we will be bound by our secrets, just as we are by the one we share right now.

Philippe understood. Only nine years old and he understood. His sin or whatever it was, and his father’s sin or whatever it was, would never be spoken of outside of this room. Still, he ached for the love and bonding Uncle Archbishop spoke of. Secrets? he asked. Are these true secrets only between us?

Uncle Archbishop’s demeanor grew more serious. Yes, Philippe. Just between us. With another soft sigh he asked, Do you understand the sanctity of confession?

Yes, the boy simply replied.

Then what I’m sharing with you, you should understand how secret it is. It’s from your father’s confession.

Philippe felt a sense of excitement. A secret was to be shared that was so dear it came from the confessional. What is it, Uncle?

First, the broad smile reappeared. You must vow eternal silence. If word got back to the pope I told you a secret from your father’s confession, I would be the one in danger of damnation.

Now Philippe became really excited, so much so that the earlier pains were being forgotten. I promise. Never a word. Until the day I die.

Good then, his uncle patted the boy’s knee. I will tell you. Philippe edged closer, eager to hear. Uncle Archbishop continued, Your father came to me and confessed what he had done to you, his son. He cried, and he asked for forgiveness. Asked what he had to do to save his own soul.

What did you tell him? Philippe asked almost too loudly.

Shhh, his uncle beamed. Secrets are not to be spoken out loudly. The boy made a motion to cover his mouth as his uncle continued. I told your father his redemption would come only by never touching you or hurting you again, nor your brother or sister. But that is not the real secret, not my sin.

Philippe was stunned. You can sin, Uncle?

The big man chuckled, Oh yes, I can sin. Then more solemnly continued, My secret, Philippe, is that I lied to your father.

How so? the boy asked.

I told him he was forgiven if he did as I said. Actually, I condemned his soul to hell then and there.

Philippe was aghast. The all-powerful Uncle Archbishop had decided the eternal fate of his father. Because of his own actions, sin, or whatever it was, Papa was to burn in hell with Satan by his side. No, Uncle, please, he almost cried too loudly before knowing the words escaped his lips. He’s my papa.

Uncle Archbishop reared back in bewilderment, You want him forgiven?

Yes. Please. Philippe begged. He must have sinned if you say so, but please let him be. Forgive him.

A deep sigh now escaped the uncle, I cannot undo what I’ve committed to do. But you, Philippe, if you can forgive him then so can God.

But I can! The boy exclaimed.

Okay, then. So be it, Uncle Archbishop mumbled. You will one day make a better priest than me.

Philippe smiled, though he didn’t believe the last part. No one could be as good as Uncle Archbishop. Even when he did become a priest himself, here in America they would call him Father Phil, he would never be as wise or holy as his uncle.

Now, his uncle told him. You must share a secret with me for our bond to hold.

What? The nine-year-old asked earnestly, eager to please and bond.

Well, you have to decide, the wide grin again appeared. But it has to be something you never want to share with anyone else.

Philippe thought for a long, hard moment. Such secrets at this young age were hard to come by. Finally he spoke, When Papa caught me sinning, I mean doing what I was doing . . .

Yes, Uncle Archbishop asked lightly.

I was really having fun doing it.

1

Father Phil scrubbed vigorously to wash the semen from the side of his hand. Of course, all sperm residue had been easily rinsed away. It was the guilt he continued lathering and rubbing at intensely. At thirty-nine, Philippe Genova, Father Phil, still harbored needs for self-gratification and the shame that came with it, especially for a priest. A middle-aged priest at that.

How would old Uncle Cardinal feel about this? he often wondered. The favorite nephew, secret sharer, and respected priest of a large church congregation whacking off more now than when an adolescent. Was this what all celibate clerics did to keep their sanity? Father Phil doubted it, but the deed certainly relieved his tensions.

Whack! He could almost feel the pain for his sin. But that was not his sin, or so his uncle led him to believe. Over the years he grew more and more in agreement with the wise uncle. Still, the burning pain lingered even after thirty years of deep contemplation and self-acceptance.

He began drying his hands finally, trying to focus on the day’s schedule. A new assistant was moving into the rectory. Father Mark Rynk, newly ordained into the priesthood, was joining the parish. It was to be the young man’s first assignment. Sent to learn from the experience of Father Phil, pastor of St. Luke parish for fourteen years now. A feat most priests at such a young age very seldom achieve. Becoming head priest to such a massive church at age twenty-five, with no older priest to guide him, Father Phil learned by doing, and made mistakes he wished never happened. But mistakes happen; life goes on. Father Mark would fare better having this mentor.

The thoughts reminded him of his own, considerably far away, lifelong mentor. Father Phil’s uncle, now a cardinal residing at the Vatican, had also achieved rarities as a young priest, actually becoming one of the youngest, if not the youngest of modern times, archbishop. Later he reached the rank of cardinal while still considered fairly young for such a noble position, yet always finding time to speak with his nephew, and still sharing secrets.

Now working within the Vatican, secrets were becoming more enticing. Only he and two other cardinals had direct access to the pope anymore. Ever since the illness, the holy father unable or unwilling to see others, only three men now spoke with him. And of these three, Uncle Cardinal shared some secrets with the Catholic leader.

But it had been a while since Father Phil had spoken to his uncle, much less seen him. The annual pilgrimage the cardinal makes to America was cancelled, two years running now. The pope, too ill to leave alone, with most of the other cardinals not wanting the great man to step down from the position, required a constant vigil. All of the cardinals adored the holy father, some even whispered of sainthood after death. He was the perfect leader, rumored to have worked a bona fide miracle, and sinless.

No one’s sinless, Uncle Cardinal lamented once while discussing the issue. Then stopped abruptly, and Father Phil felt as if the secret sharer was holding back something vitally interesting.

Secret time? He asked his uncle, Something to share?

No, the old man had sighed. Just a comment. Wisdom for the masses.

Father Phil knew better than to accuse his uncle, a cardinal nonetheless, of lying. But he also knew the truth hadn’t been told. His final conclusion was the pope had sinned somehow also, and that made his own disgrace a little less disgraceful. And what of miracles? That this pope, as a young priest, healed the blind. Rumors of healing a three-year-old that were later dispelled when the prostitute mother was proven to do anything for money. With no witness and no proof, it should have been laughable, but some wanted to keep a good rumor alive. Once, when the pope was asked directly about it he simply turned away without reply. One of his trusted servants, Uncle Cardinal, responded with a chuckle while shaking his head no.

Enough of that silliness, Father Phil actually said aloud to himself. As a priest he knew miracles happened, but not in this century. Unless modern medicine and scientific discoveries, knowledge and skills given to man by God, were to be counted. Maybe then they happened, but only then. Besides, he had to get prepared for Father Mark’s arrival and tend to everyday church business. And a business it was.

2

Freddy Freak Ellis loves many things in his world. Beer, sex, his tattoos, the motorcycle he cruised on, and being king of his neighborhood. Staying king was all-important, which sometimes meant violence. The one thing he loved above all else. Today he wanted it all.

The bar was crowded as usual. Even with Freak and his followers constantly hoarding much of the floor space, many of the local neighborhood patrons still showed to enjoy a drink or two or more. Today was no exception. Saturday afternoons were sometimes as busy as the night hours. Smoke filled the room, the patrons streamed in and out at leisure. Liquor flowed from the interior of the saloon and out onto the sidewalk where the partying continued.

It was an old inner-city neighborhood. Predominately white, with only recently a few African-American and other races being allowed in without hassle. They normally stayed out of the liquor establishment, however. The bar sits on one corner of a four-way intersection. Opposite side of one street, a small park covered in black dirt and no grass provided a playground for the neighborhood tots. Opposite the other street side stood one of the many old and run-down houses, a shotgun style where a person could look through the front door and see out the back door. And catty-corner from the bar, which was lovingly named Pete’s Palace after its owner, stood the rectory and church of St. Luke parish. The four corners made for a very strange mixture of innocence, misery, holiness, and damnation.

Freak and his gang were in full swing. Sandy, one of the gang’s few women, was clinging to her leader’s arm. Her reddish hair dangled down in its normal unkempt and dirty style, unwashed for nearly a month. At five feet eight inches tall and nearly one hundred forty pounds on a solid frame, she appeared more masculine than some of the men in the room. A roll around her midsection hung out beneath a black halter-top that allowed easy access to over-developed breasts for any gang member wanting a feel. In any other place her body odor would have isolated Sandy from everyone else, here it blended in nicely.

Holding onto Freak, she brushed his right bicep and played with the tattoo. A skull enveloped most of the huge muscle, in place of its nose stood an inverted cross. Sandy played with the empty eye sockets. Freak liked the feeling and raised his left arm for her pleasure also. A lightning bolt passing through a wreath of thorns graced his left forearm. The hefty woman bent over and seductively licked the lightning bolt, and tried to produce a sexy smile with her yellowed teeth. Freak liked it. The smile and the telltale aroma from Sandy’s mouth revealing she had just finished performing oral sex on one or more of his companions enticed him. He was obviously aroused, and found the access beneath her halter-top.

That was when the older drunken man approaching them made his mistake. Hardly able to walk, he stumbled roughly into Freak’s back. Trying to gather himself up, the man used the stout shoulders of Freak’s five-foot-ten frame to balance himself.

Sorry, partner, he slurred.

Freak weighed in at one hundred ninety pounds of solid muscle and meanness. He looked at the heavier but flabby drunk and instantly recognized an easy target. Slowly, savoring the moment as he had seen in cheaply made movies, he guided Sandy away from him. She eagerly followed his lead, knowing with excitement what was to come. Freak doubled up one fist, then raised it to the fellow’s eye level so that the top of his knuckles showed.

See this, he asked of the man, proudly displaying the swastika tattoo that also matched the one on his other hand.

Of course the man knew Freak, or at least who he was. But liquor mixed with attitude and judgment problems always lead to bad decisions. Hey, fuck you! I said I was sorry.

Freak punched the drunkard with the curled-up hand he wasn’t showing. The man went down hard. A beer bottle appeared in Freak’s hand from someone nearby, and he shattered it over the downed man’s head. Blood trickled from the man’s ear as he cowered down and angrily mumbled, Oh, you son-of-a-bitch.

Buddy and Rick, two of Freak’s gang members, grabbed the fallen drunkard and pulled him to a standing position. Freak threw a hard right punch that jolted the sagging jaw of the helpless victim. Buddy used a free hand to join in, punching the fellow’s flabby midsection with most of his might. The air shot out of their man-toy. Sandy jumped in from behind her savior and kicked the sobbing drunkard in the groin. The man tried to double over, but Buddy grabbed a headful of hair and raised him upright once more. Freak delivered a crushing blow to the bridge of the man’s nose, the force knocking the victim loose from his two supports and he landed on the floor harshly. Rick, not wanting to be left out of the action, completed the assault with a downward stomp to the side of the man’s head.

Defeated and almost unconscious, the only movement showing was a labored breathing. Freak nudged the downed man’s leg and laughed to his friends, Get this prick out of here, he smells like he shit his pants.

A couple of gang members that had only watched and kept any would-be heroes out of the fray grabbed the limp legs in front of them and pulled them towards the front door. One concrete step down to the sidewalk added increased pain as the bar patron was mercilessly removed from the premises. Once outside, they rolled the still barely conscious body into the street gutter.

Heather, a second female member of the gang, had followed them out. At