Out of the Darkness Comes the Light

I would like to thank the officers and the detectives of the 40th Precinct and the New York Police Department for their kindness. Thank you to Officer Christopher Karney as well as numerous officers of the Chicago Police Department for their assistance and support.

This book is dedicated to those who have suffered from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.

For Tiffany

My one and only love

I miss you everyday

Prologue

Belfast, Northern Ireland - 1975

Five year old Michael Emmett Doherty was suddenly awakened by a loud knocking on the door followed immediately by the shattering and splintering of wood as the British Army assisted by the RUC (Royal Ulster Constabulary), busted down the front door, pushing their way into the corridor.

Mike lay in his bed and buried himself under the covers shivering, to afraid to move. The soldiers came barging into his bedroom with their guns and yanked the blanket from his bed, exposing his frightened body.

Get out! they yelled at him.

Mike’s grandmother, Fiona, ran into the room and grabbed him by the arm then led him out into the hallway while yelling obscenities at the soldiers.

What do you mean by startling the wee lad, you feckin gobshites? Fiona said. She was so angry that all the blood ran to her face and she was beat red. He’s just an innocent boy!

The soldiers didn’t acknowledged her as they pulled out all the drawers from the chest, opened the wardrobe, tore up the carpet, and threw his clothes onto the floor in a heap.

Mike stood in the hallway and tightly held his grandmother’s hand while he watched the soldiers. He was confused and didn’t know what was happening. Had he done something wrong? Why were they rummaging and tearing up his belongings?

There’s nothing to find in this house. This is a Christian home. Now get out right now! You’re scaring the wee boy!

Shut up you Fenian whore! One of the soldiers said as he pushed her to the side of the hallway. Stand still!

The soldiers ripped up the floorboards to see if there was anything hidden beneath. They remained in the home for several hours, going from room to room, not allowing anyone to go back to sleep and ordering them to stay in the hallway until they had left.

He hated them for tearing the house and making his grandmother angry. He retaliated by going up to one of the soldiers and kicking him on his legs as hard as he could.

Mind yerself boy! the soldier scolded.

Before the soldier could do anything, Fiona grabbed him by the arm and pulled him behind her in order to protect him from the soldier’s wrath.

After the soldiers left, Fiona was beside herself. She went about the house, swearing at the soldiers as she looked at the mess they had made.

Chapter One

The Troubles

Tuesday, March 31, 1970

The Troubles came to Ballymurphy on Easter morning in 1970. The Orange bands assembled in New Barnesly and struck up loud and clear. Within minutes the music had attracted large numbers of young people from Ballymurphy up to the Springfield Road. By the time the Orangemen came marching out of New Barnesly, the Royal Scots commander, stood in the middle of the road, threw his hands in the air and shouted. There wasn’t anything that could be done to avoid the confrontation that was soon to start. A young lad threw a brick and hit one of the men setting off a series of missiles in either direction. The RUC and British military quickly flooded the area to slowly usher the men down Springfield Road, however, the damage was already done.

Fights broke out between the residents and the British troops and the fragile peace that had been brokered by Frank Cahill and his neighbour Johnny McCulloiugh, as well as several others had been shattered. Throughout the night, riots broke out. Crowds gathered on Springfield Road and when the Orange bands appeared on their way back to Bangor, they were quickly attacked. The Royal Scots, backed by jeering flag-waving loyalists, immediately turned on Ballymurphy, and the first engagement between the British Army and Irish Nationalists for two generations was under way.

The Easter riots ended in the early morning hours of Friday, April 3rd, when the IRA finally managed to persuade the rioters to call off their action. Immediately afterwards, the British army’s general commander, announced that, in the future, petrol-bombers should expect to be shot dead.

Chapter Two

Ballymurphy

Ballymurphy was a tight knit Catholic community on the western edge of Belfast that was in constant danger of loyalist violence. The streets were lined with drab terraced concrete rowhouses, twenty to a row, which were built in 1947 on a site acquired to cope with the rising population of the city. The rowhouses had been constructed by pouring cement and aggregate into shutters and skimming the finished result with grout. The quickly constructed shells would later result in problems of cold, dampness and ill-health in Ballymurphy. The terraced houses were typical of the poorer areas. Thirty years later, they became derelict and were a safe hiding place for the IRA (Irish Republican Army).

The adult male unemployment rate hovered near ninety percent. Opportunities for Catholics in Northern Ireland were restricted by discrimination, lack of education and skills, and the location of industry. The consequences were poverty, deprivation, and state-sponsored anti-Catholic bigotry. Catholics found themselves the victims of economic and social discrimination. With almost half the families living on state benefits that were discretionary, it only added to the humiliation of having to argue the case at the local office and the stigmatization that followed.

Ballymurphy was predominantly nationalist and republican. Parts of Springfield Road formed an interface area with the neighbouring loyalist areas of the Greater Shankill and it was the site of tremendous activity during the Troubles.

Michael Emmett Doherty arrived in Northern Ireland at the age of four in the spring of 1975 and was to be raised by his paternal grandparents on the mean streets of Ballymurphy.

The first four years of his life were filled with emotional and physical abuse from both his alcoholic parents. The scars ran deep and would haunt his throughout his life. No longer wanting to care for Mike, his mother sent him to live with his paternal grandparents in Belfast.

The ceasefire between the British and the IRA made little difference to life in Ballymurphy. Bombs continued to explode and there were many sectarian shootings that left a dozen people dead and many more injured.

The innocence of the Ballymurphy children would soon die out as the sectarianism of West Belfast gripped its evil hold on them as they grew up. For their fate and loyalties were etched in stone from the day they were born.

Within his first week living in the Ballymurphy estate, Mike got into a fight with some of the neighbourhood kids. There were three of them, the biggest one acting as an interrogator while the other two blocked his exit.

Are you a Prod? one of the kids challenged him. Are you a Prod or a Mick?

I’m Catholic, Mike proudly replied.

Where do you live?

None of you business.

Don’t give me any of your guff. Another kid said then pushed Mike. Knock his melt in.

They grabbed him by the shirt and gave him a hiding.

But when Mike broke the nose of one kid, they quickly accepted him into their group.

It was mid summer when Mike heard the high-pitched whistle of the fifes and incessant roll of the drums fill the sky. He was playing outside in a dark patch of earth that was his playground when the band paraded down his street. The exhilarating sound excited him as they passed by. He listened than ran after them down the street. He was too young to realize those bands that marched past through the various neighbourhoods in Northern Ireland, awakened historical scars and wounds, often instilling fear and hatred in some residents, while others a glorious pride and passion. He loved it and every time they passed by during those long summer months, he would join them as he marched alongside. This caused great concern with his grandparents for his safety.

On one occasion, Fiona ran outside to fetch Mike as did all the other Catholic mothers when the Loyalist bands marched down the street, however, He was no where to be seen. He had gone missing. Fiona went door to door, asking her neighbours had they seen her grandchild. She asked the neighbourhood boys had they seen him. But no one had. Fiona was sick with worry. It wasn’t till hours later when He came skipping down the road, happy as a clam, whistling a loyalist tune as he hummed the words he had heard while following the band down Springhill Road. He didn’t have a care in the world nor did he realize the danger of his actions. If anyone heard him, he would’ve been beaten.

Fiona came running out of the house and whisked him away in her arms, crying as she carried him back home before any trouble started. When they returned home, she scolded him for running away and not staying close to home. When she threatened to give him a good smacking, he cowered in a ball. He became hysterical and begged not to be beaten. She cradled her grandson in her arms and kissed him gently on the forehead. She promised him he would never have to worry about being beaten again.

Later that night, while Mike was getting dressed for bed, Fiona saw old scars on his little body. When she asked about them, he refused to answer.

As he tried to sleep that night, he saw the orange reflection of fire against the windows of cars parked out front. He heard yelling and screaming. He hid under his covers and shivered in fear. He missed his parents and his home. He wished he could go back to New York. He couldn’t understand what he had done wrong to be sent away to live in such a horrible place. The gunshots in the distance drove him into a panic as he leaped out of bed and hid in the closet. He curled up into a ball in the corner and cried himself to sleep.

Unable to sleep more than a few hours a night, Mike became hyperactive and as a result he often got into mischief. This would follow him into adulthood.

As the Troubles escalated and riots raged between the Republicans and the British Army and the RUC, the Ballymurphy Estate had become the focal point of the Troubles and the violence seemed to continue most nights throughout the year.

Barricades of burning buses, Lorries, cars and vans would light up the night sky, filling it with a wash of orange flames that crackled and hissed combined with the stench of burning metal and rubber. The air permeated with tear gas from grenades that the RUC and the Army pelted down on the Republicans.

One night, while Mike was looking out the living room window, watching the rioting, Fiona pulled him away just as a canister of gas came crashing through and filled the room with smoke. The nauseous fumes were everywhere as he huddled in the corner, coughing violently and choking from the effects of the saturation of gas. He became ill and vomited. Fiona picked him up in her arms and carried him upstairs to the bathroom. She closed the door and placed a towel against the bottom of the door. She splashed cold water on his face and held him close to her.

Be strong Michael. She said in a comforting voice. Be strong.

He wiped his tears and shook of his fears.

The following night, Mike looked in the mirror. He had defiance in his eyes and hatred began to emerge. He walked out the door of his home and made his way down the Falls Road to join the gathering crowd, however, for the first time, he stopped to pick up bricks and any unbroken bottles he could find on his way. Mike was but seven years old and had taken enough.

With a scarf around his head and his wee hands sticking out of the sleeves of his jacket, he joined the others as they rocked the large van. One of the older boys told Mike to get back but he wanted to be part of turning it over, he wanted the barricades and road blocks up before those 'Black Bastards' came. He stood there wide eyed, covered in dirt and smelling of burning tires as he looked up and down the street, waiting for those nasty Brits. His adrenaline intensified as he held a bottle in one hand and a brick in the other. He could feel the sheer anger burning in the back of his throat.

On the way to primary school the next morning, the neighbourhood kids collected the used gas containers and rubber bullets and took them as prized souvenirs to show their classmates.

During those weeks and months, the IRA became increasingly powerful, ordering men around as if they were troops and instilling their own brand of discipline, forming ‘discipline squads’.

Summer 1977

Fiona took Mike to mass each Sunday and to various church functions. The trappings of Catholicism were a part of life and he accepted the church’s teachings. He believed in Heaven and Hell, in the devil and eternal damnation.

Michael Emmet Doherty made his First Communion on Sunday, June 15, 1977. He enjoyed being an altar boy, and he took his responsibilities seriously. He was often the first to volunteer for early mass and stayed on in the evening to tidy up the church. For Mike, the ceremonies conjured up another world beyond the violence and the fighting of the war-torn streets of Belfast. A world he hoped might transcend the injustices and discrimination as well as the prejudice between the Irish Catholics and the English Protestants. Confession was an important ritual; however, He found the build-up was often fraught with unease. As he approached the dark stuffy shadow of the confessional, his eyes fixed on the stained glass window above where his hopes of redemption lay. He felt his anxiety increase as he entered the booth and closed the door. The priest on the other side opened a small sliding door.

In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Ghost. Amen. Mike said as he knelt down and made the sign of the cross. Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been a week since my last confession.

There was a grunt from beyond the screened window as Mike began to list his sins, one by one in a stammering rush. Father Sullivan, fifty-two, dressed in an old-fashioned black soutane. He was meticulous and strict. He asked how many times the sin had been repeated and how often he disobeyed his grandparents.

As always, the end of the confession brought sudden panic.

Did I forget something? He thought desperately as Father Sullivan cleared his throat and mumbled a blessing, forgiving him of his sins as his large hands silhouetted against the iron mesh grille, making the sign of the cross.

As Mike stood up from the knee rest, he felt the power of the confessional slip tormentingly beyond his grasp. He felt as though he had not earned forgiveness, that were some tiny imperfection in his confession; which had rendered the absolution worthless. He walked to one of the pews and knelt down. As he began to recite Hail Marys, an empty space opened beneath him, sucking him down to a void below.

May 5th, 1981

At 1:17 am on Tuesday, twenty-seven year old Bobby Sands, Irish Nationalist and member of the Provisional Irish Republican Army died in the H-Block prison hospital at Long Kesh. He had been on a hunger strike for sixty-six days. The anger throughout the community was extensive. So passionate and bitter had people become about the hunger strikers, the Irish people’s respect for martyrdom had been resurrected.

In the following months, nine more would die and tens of thousands of people attended their funerals.

Mike watched the memorial services on the telly, as well as the riots that flared across the north. He felt compassion for them and supported the men who had died in prison for their beliefs. It inspired the spirit of republican defiance that grew within him.

Like every young Catholic boy, Mike had edged towards total support of the IRA during the hunger-strikes of the late 1970s and 1980’s when Republican prisoners demanded the status of prisoners of war rather than ordinary criminals; as had been the case before 1976. The British Government had at last relented, permitting them to wear their own clothing and meeting out some of their demands. However, it came with a hefty price and was too late for the ten Republicans who had died in jail. In the streets a total of sixty-one people had been killed in retaliation, including twenty members of the security forces. The IRA launched a new campaign of violence and escalated the Troubles to which the likes had not yet been seen. The Ballymurphy Estate had now become one of the IRA’s best recruiting areas in Belfast.

During one of those unseasonably warm nights, Mike and his mates were hiding in the barricades of burned out buses, dodging the rubber bullets that were being fired towards them by the RUC, commonly referred to as ‘peelers’, sheltering behind their Land Rovers. The vehicles were parked side by side as the officers would use them as cover to protect themselves from the bombs and stones that were being thrown.

All of sudden, Mike noticed everyone moving back then realized that he was the only one left standing alone.

Come back, Michael! someone yelled out.

Within seconds, he heard the rattle of machine-gun fire. The IRA were retaliating, firing machine-gun bullets at the Land Rovers in a bid to force the RUC to withdraw. He turned and ran away, nearly escaping the barrage of bullets.

At the age of eleven, Mike got his first job delivering newspapers, awaking each morning around 4:30 am then going to school afterwards. He earned about eight pounds a week and was careful to save all his earnings. Nonetheless, it wasn’t enough to keep him out of trouble.

Activities for young people were limited and cinemas were all but closed. Just to go shopping in the city centre required passing through security gates and being subjected to body searches and questioning. There was also the fear of sniper fire and stray rounds that sometimes struck down innocent bystanders just going about there daily lives.

In the spring, Mike began St. Peter’s Secondary School. He never ditched classes like most of his mates had done. He loved to read and had a voracious appetite for learning. The teachers adored him and he received high grades. He was a sensitive child and loved to please. The fact that he never received the love he desired nor meet his parent’s expectations often tormented him.

Mike became infatuated with a beautiful, red-haired eleven-year-old girl by the name of Deirdre who sat one row behind him in class. She had a cupid-like face and engaging green eyes. Her captivating smile immediately caught his attention and they soon became good friends. There was an undeniable chemistry between them. They were inseparable, wanting to spend as much time together as possible.

As he reached his mid teens, he was growing tall standing 6’0 and thin, with his dark brown hair and green eyes reflecting fear and trepidation. With each day, he looked more and more like his father William. He became more daring and mischievous, attracting trouble and risks that would occasionally bring him face to face with various authorities – the Army, the RUC, the IRA and, more importantly his grandmother.

Mike periodically received warnings from the IRA Disciplinary Squad in their area but for most part, he merely watched the action with a certain desire, respect, and fear.

One night after hours of rioting, the British army ‘snatch squads’, rushed into the Ballymurphy Estate, causing tremendous tension in the area. They came in with the unexpected speed of the raid.

Mike and his mates had found a great vantage point where they couldn’t be seen but were close enough to the road and waited for the army Saracens with their strong steel grids on the front, drive by the estate. They tossed glass bottles filled with paint, breaking them against the camouflaged vehicles.

Run, run, the feckers are coming! Mike screamed.

The soldiers leaped out of the land rovers and made arrests. Scores of residents stood in the streets or in front of their homes and banged trash bin lids on the streets, showing their hatred as they yelled obscenities and threw sticks, bottles and spit at them. Mike got caught up in it.

In the early hours of the morning, after the rioters turned in for the night, the Army returned with huge equipment to remove all the burned-out vehicles that had been torched the night before and used as barricades only to be repeated the following night.

The British soldiers often knocked on the front door where Mike lived at all hours of the day or night. Bossing his grandparent around and telling them what to do. They were elderly, never causing trouble yet they were being told what to do in their own home, as if the soldiers owned it. They’d search every room, looking at personal and private things. Nothing was sacred. He despised them for that. It was hard not too, the way they not only treated him and his grandparents but his friends as well.

After one such raid, Mike’s grandfather Eamon, died of a heart attack at the age of seventy-two. The stress was just too much to bear. He would never forgive them for it. Fiona was left alone to raise Michael, who had become more rebellious than ever.

One weekend morning, with half a dozen of his mates from the estate, while taking a long walk into the Black Mountains, they observed armed soldiers patrolling the estate. They tossed rocks at them while shouting obscenities and teasing them. All of a sudden, several soldiers rushed towards them.

Get the RUC, fast! One of the soldiers yelled into his radio.

Mike and his mates were ordered to empty their pockets, place their contents on the ground and remain still. Within several minutes, four RUC Land Rovers quickly descended onto the scene. He was scared but remained steadfast. He stood proud as they protested their innocence and after an hour of harassment, questioning and a stern warning, they were told to go home immediately. He never told his grandmother what had happened.

November 1987

Mike’s life was filled with security checkpoints, the constant military presence, as well as raids by the Army and the RUC, nightly riots, sectarian hatred and the noise of bombs tearing the city apart. It had a tremendous impact on him which produced enormous psychological trauma from the stress. He turned to alcohol just to cope.

While working at Andrews Flour Mill on Percy Street. Mike was often intimated and received written threats left on his locker and hard glares from many of his Protestant co-workers. However, by the end of the week, he was rewarded with a few shillings to spend on his school sweetheart, Deirdre. She had a calming effect on him.

While on the way home from the mill, Mike went to visit Deirdre as he usually did after a long hard day at work. However, this time she wasn’t there to greet him with her large smile and bright green eyes. Sean, her brother, answered the door.

Deirdre should be home soon. Sean said. Fancy a drink?

Aye. Mike replied as he followed Sean into the kitchen and sat at the table.

Sean, a full-fledged member of the IRA, pulled out a handgun from his waistband and set it on the table.

‘Oh shite.’ he thought. His face betraying his concern.

Do you know what this is? Sean asked as he pointed the weapon at Mike.

Aye, I do. he replied with great concern.

Are you daft? Sean asked a bit annoyed. What kind of gun?

I don’t know. Mike’s face turned pale.

It’s a 9mm. he replied. Do you know anything about these guns?

Mike shook his head. He was a bit anxious and nervous.

Come with me. Sean commanded in a serious tone.

Mike was hesitant. He searched his mind for anything he might have done or said wrong but came up empty. He followed Sean down the hall and out the back door into the small garden outside. His hands trembled and he prayed Deirdre would come home to rescue him. He was convinced that Sean was going to shot him to teach him a lesson.

Watch this. Sean said as he pointed the gun at a trash bin and pulled the trigger.

The noise of the shot seemed to reverberate around the neighbourhood.

Your turn. he said as he handed Mike the weapon.

Mike took the gun into his hand. This was his firsthand experience with a weapon. He wrapped his hand around the gun and placed his finger along the trigger, the feeling of the cold hard metal against his hand felt good.

Pull the trigger! Sean shouted. Pull the fecking trigger!

Mike pointed the gun at the dustbin, shut his eyes and squeezed the trigger tight with both hands. The gun jumped and the bullet made its mark into the bin.

Nothing to it Mike. Sean said. Try it again.

He raised the gun again and fired several more rounds at the bin until the gun emptied. He got a rush of adrenaline that raced through his body. His hands were tingly and sweaty. His heart nearly jumped out of his chest. However, it felt strangely comfortable in his hand and he liked it.

Mike began to relax. Maybe Sean wasn’t so bad after all.

When you want to be bigger than your skinny wee arse, come see me about a job.

Later that night, as Mike and Deirdre were walking down the street, a British soldier knocked into him on purpose.

Mike immediately turned around, Em, what was that all about?

The soldier remained silent as he pointed his weapon at Mike.

Michael, just walk away. Deirdre pleaded. Forget it, just walk away.

He stood there defiant in front of the soldier. What you going to do with that big man, shoot me? Well go on then shoot me. You think you’re so tough with that gun. You’re nothing without it.

Please Michael. Please, walk away. Deirdre said as she grabbed his arm.

Irish bastard. The soldier sneered.

Mike smiled then turned away.

The same soldier kicked him in the arse.

Mike immediately spun around and punched him in the face. Within seconds, several more soldiers came running towards him. A crowd began to riot, throwing whatever they could at the soldiers, blocking off the oncoming RUC access. He grabbed Deirdre’s hand and took off running.

On an unusually warm spring night in late April, Mike and his best mate Paddy were walking home, when they were jumped by five IRA men from the punishment squad. The men were dressed in all black clothing, wearing black gloves and their faces covered with black Baklavas. The men held Mike and Paddy as they searched them.

What’s this? one of the men said as he found some drugs in Paddy’s coat pocket.

Drugs are crimes against the community and you’ve been found guilty. The largest of the five men said.

Paddy tried to break free by punching one of the men in the face. They pushed him to the ground and kicked him violently.

Paddy yelled and screamed out in pain.

Feckin’ leave him alone! Mike shouted.

They threw Paddy against the brick wall of a building and held him there.

Fucks sake. Hold him still. One of the men commanded.

Please, give me another chance! he pleaded.

One of the men shot Paddy in the back of the leg.

He yelled out in a horrific scream as he fell to the ground.

Paddy! Mike yelled as he watched them shoot his best friend, You feckin bastards!

One of the men grabbed Mike again and held him in a choke hold as another one punched him in the face, breaking his nose.

That’s for getting in the way. he said then pushed Mike to the ground and gave him one final kick in the side. Be grateful we don’t shoot you in the knee.

By 1988, Belfast had been at war for nearly twenty years. The RUC would stop and question Mike on his way to work. They’d asked his name, address and date of birth, where he was going, and why. They would search him then make him stand and wait while they continued to question him causing him to be late for work.

Stand still and shut up Paddy. The soldier said in a demanding tone. Otherwise you’ll be on your way to the station.

Me name isn’t Paddy! Mike replied angrily.

Every time it was the same.

Mike supported the IRA in their efforts to defend the Catholic community against the RUC, the British Army and the hard-line Protestant Loyalists and the UVF (Ulster Volunteer Force), who terrorized Republican areas, killing innocent people at random, many of whom had no involvement with the IRA. And yet he couldn’t understand why it was necessary for the IRA, who protested that they were the guardian of the Catholic community, to use such strong-arm tactics against their own people through their disciplinary committees, their anonymous punishment gangs and their penchant for kneecapping young, so-called hoods. He had always been opposed to punishment squads, both IRA and Loyalist, because they were cruel, unfair and unjust.

When Mike was with his best mates walking home from playing