Paul Hendrickson

(WASHINGTON, D.C.) — They are older, bulkier now, though much else about them seems remarkably the same. We are what we were, but not quite. Sometimes it almost seems like a dream. There were maybe 120 of us spread over four years of high school and two years of college. We came from Catholic grammar schools in places like Bayonne and Dubuque. We were altar boys, daily communicants. We belonged to the only “the” Church, as Lenny Bruce once said. We wanted, all of us, to be priests. Some of us made it. He has seen men wrap other men’s testicles in live phone wire, then sit back with a smoke and a Victoria Falls beer waiting for a call to come in. “It’s more effective if you make the guy sit in a tray of water,” he says. A jolt like that won’t kill you, just snap your head around like it’s on a pivot. After that the prisoner usually talked. He wouldn’t participate in such interrogations, he says. He had other ways, psychological