Read The Confession of Joe Cullen for Free Online Page B

knew what was coming. It was, strangely enough, more difficult to talk about than murder.
    â€œNo. Twice we went down empty.”
    â€œEmpty? Why?”
    Cullen looking at Cullen was at the edge of despair. The peace and relief that had pervaded him were suddenly tied into knots, and for a long moment he sat with his eyes closed, seeking himself desperately in the darkness. He felt tears in his eyes, but whether they were for the dead priest or the live killer or the answer to the question, he did not know, and perhaps they were for none of those but only for himself, Cullen, whoever Cullen was.
    â€œLet me suggest it,” Freedman said gently. “You went down with guns and you came back with cocaine.”
    Cullen nodded.
    â€œYou went down empty to bring back cocaine.”
    â€œThat’s right,” Cullen said.
    â€œYou brought back cocaine on every trip?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œHow much on each trip?”
    â€œIt varied. Sometimes as little as forty pounds. Once, two hundred pounds.”
    Jones let out his breath in a long whistle. Ramos whispered, “Mother of God.” Freedman said, “They didn’t need guns. For that kind of money they could buy the Pentagon.” Jones said, “You brought it in on every trip?”
    Cullen nodded. Murder did not put their backs up like this. Murder was normal in this precinct. Why, Cullen wondered, did he feel defensive about this when he had put aside all his defenses in the matter of Father O’Healey?
    â€œYou knew what you were carrying?” Freedman demanded.
    â€œI knew because everyone knew,” Cullen said. “I wasn’t supposed to know. There was no white powder floating around. The stuff came baled up in heavy sacking. But Oscar knew and he put me onto it, and others knew — but, Jesus God, as far as I knew, I was working for the government. The army was in it and the CIA built the damned airstrip, and maybe two, three times, Oscar would introduce me to some clown, and then tell me he was CIA, and there were two Sikorsky S76S parked there—”
    â€œYou’re telling me,” Freedman interrupted, “that you’re so fucken stupid that you figured the government is running in its own cocaine?” It was the first time he had raised his voice.
    â€œWhat would you think? You just heard it. I lived with it. I come into a situation where the set-up costs millions. Maybe I’m stupid but not so stupid I don’t know who’s running the contras. Who the fuck knows what a war is or where it’s coming from? Did I know it in Nam? Like hell I did.”
    Freedman nodded. He understood that. He had been in Vietnam. “All right, Cullen. Suppose you tell us about the priest.”
    It came together for Cullen, simply and directly, another small piece, and his heart hammered less violently. “We had a three-day layover,” Cullen said. He paused and drew a long breath. Jones picked up the pack of cigarettes on Leary’s desk, selected one, took cigarette and matches to Cullen, and then lit the cigarette for him. If someone had asked Jones why he did this, he might have answered that he wanted to cool the situation, but the truth went deeper. Something in him went out to the big, deflated Irishman, a recognition of mystery like the mystery in himself. Cullen thanked him, nodding his shaggy head.
    Ramos, scribbling on a scrap of paper, looked up and said, “Maybe ten million a week, give or take. That’s nice money.”
    â€œTell us about the priest,” Freedman said again.
    â€œThey brought him in by car,” Cullen said, speaking very slowly. “There was a lousy little road to the airstrip, and they drove up in one of those big six-wheelers that we build for the army. He came with two Honduran army officers and he was cuffed. He wore a black cassock, and he had red hair and bright blue eyes. I noticed the eyes. They protruded, if you know what I