Father Andrew Noonan had just heard the confession of a dying man, whose name was either Ira Hillyer or Karl Hilgendorf, depending on which story he believed. Hillyer was in the hospital suffering from gunshot wounds administered to him by a street g**g in Vienna. Noonan wasn’t convinced that this was a random shooting, but that’s the story Hillyer was telling.
“We don’t shoot people on the street,” Noonan said emphatically.
“Not without cause,” wheezed Hillyer. “They may think that they had a right to kill me and, perhaps, in the eyes of God, they did.”
Noonan shook this off, not wanting to give any kind of approval to shooting. But he detected a note of remorse in the voice of his patient, this Ira Hillyer who had called for him to hear his confession and provide absolution for his si
