For the first time in social media history, God began to trend.
The media did not have to wait long for a person to interview on the street. Before they had a chance to pack up their trucks parked around the Basilica of St. John the Baptist, people began to flock to the church where it was all happening. Cars began to block Military Road on both sides as the faithful came to the church in hordes and droves. They stood with their phones stretched out to the end of their arms taking selfies with the Blessed Virgin in the background. Then with the saint himself, John the Baptist. Within a short time, the road was blocked, and the police showed up to direct traffic through the narrow streets.
The doors of the basilica were soon flung open, and people began to fill the church. For the first time in years, staff opened the two balconies on either side of the altar. Father Peter Cooke, like the Apostle John himself, was perched on the ornate gold chair behind the marble altar. He sat quietly and prayed. He prayed for forgiveness. He prayed for guidance. But mostly he prayed a prayer of thanks.
Once it was standing room only, he stood up. Still dressed in his Eucharist vestment, he walked to the grand pulpit on the left of the altar. The church suddenly went quiet, and all eyes watched this priest climb the steps to the pulpit and stand in front of the microphone. He surveyed his church. Not a seat available. He had dreamed of this moment. He thanked God, cleared his throat, and began.
“Then Jesus came from Galilee to John at the Jordan to be baptized by him. John would have prevented Him, saying, ‘I need to be baptized by You, and You come to me?’ But Jesus answered him, ‘Let it be so now, for it is proper for us in this way to fulfill all righteousness.’ Then he consented. And when Jesus had been baptized, just as He came up from the water, suddenly the heavens were open to Him and He saw the Spirit of God, descending like a dove and alighting on Him. And a voice from Heaven said, ‘This is My Son, the Beloved, with whom I am well pleased.’ Matthew 3:13-17.” Father Cooke never took his intense stare off the crowd the whole time he spoke. He didn’t need any notes or the Bible in front of him. He had practised for this moment his whole priesthood.
“Welcome back to the Church, my brothers and sisters. Welcome back home.”
All of a sudden, the quiet was broken by sobs that started out muffled but turned into great cries as people began to feel they were a witness to something great. Something bigger than themselves. A feeling of anticipation hung over the basilica, the hairs stood on the back of people’s necks, and shivers went down their spines. They could feel the presence of something unworldly.
“Let us renew our own baptismal covenant.” Father Cooke lowered his head. “Do you believe in God the Father?”
The crowd voiced loudly and in unison, “I believe in God, the Father Almighty, Creator of Heaven and Earth.”
“Do you believe in Jesus Christ, the Son of God?”
The thunder of voices reverberated through the arches of the church as the faithful recited, “I believe in Jesus Christ, His only Son, our Lord. He was conceived by the power of the Holy Spirit and born of the Virgin Mary. He suffered under Pontius Pilate, was crucified, died, and was buried. He descended to the dead. On the third day, He arose again. He ascended into heaven and is seated at the right hand of the Father. He will come again to judge the living and the dead.”
Father Cooke looked toward the heavens. “Do you believe in God the Holy Spirit?”
The media had set up cameras throughout the church to capture people in prayer. They recited by memory, “I believe in God the Holy Spirit, the Holy Catholic Church, the communion of saints, the forgiveness of sins, the resurrection of the body, and life everlasting.”
“Will you continue in the Apostles’ teaching and fellowship, in the breaking of bread, and in the prayers?”
Nobody noticed the media cameras, because every second person had a phone stretched high in the air, recording the service, either streaming it live to a social media account or recording it to post as soon as it finished. Others were taking pictures and posting them as fast as they could. They answered, “I will, with God’s help.”
Father Cooke was basking in the glory of it all. “Will you persevere in resisting evil and, whenever you fall into sin, repent and return to the Lord?”
Church etiquette had flown out of the stained glass windows. “I will, with God’s help,” they responded.
“Will you proclaim by word and example the good news of God in Christ?”
The chants were getting louder. “I will, with God’s help.”
“Will you seek and serve Christ in all persons, loving your neighbour as yourself?”
Throughout the world, people were watching the service on their TVs and speaking in tandem with the mass of people at the basilica. “I will, with God’s help.”
“Will you strive for justice and peace among all people, and respect the dignity of every human being?”
People of all religions tuned in through social media, and the response began to trend worldwide. “I will, with God’s help.”
“Will you strive to safeguard the integrity of God’s creation, and respect, sustain, and renew the life of the Earth?”
The warrior cry could be heard throughout the world. “I will, with God’s help.”
“Brothers and sisters. Jesus told us He would come again to judge the living and the dead. You may have believed that He was coming back in the form of a man, as He did before.” Father Cooke surveyed his audience, who hung on to his every word. “This time, He has returned in the form of a disease called Wormwood. This disease will judge the living and the dead.” The audible gasps could be heard outside the church.
“Jesus said, ‘Let the little children come to Me, and do not hinder them! For the kingdom of Heaven belongs to such as these.’ Well, the children came to Him, didn’t they?”
Heads nodded throughout the church.
“What did we do?” He took on the tone of a TV evangelist. “What did we do?” he asked louder.
Shouts could be heard from the pews.
“We turned our backs. We protected the perpetrators and hated the victims. We were wrong.”
The people jumped to their feet and cheered.
“We were wrong! And we are sorry!” His voice became gentle as he choked back tears. “I come to you today to ask for your forgiveness for my Church. I beg you for your mercy.” Throughout the basilica, people wept openly as they finally heard the words they had waited their entire lives to hear.
“God will have his revenge on those who sinned in His name.” Father Cooke’s voice rose again. “He will show no mercy.” He took a deep breath and said the words that would damn sinners for all time. “You will know the sinners by the mark of the blood of the lamb. They will have severe nosebleeds to show their sins, severe pain to pay for their sins, and an unquenchable thirst until they confess their sins.”
The cheering from inside the Basilica of St. John the Baptist could be heard as far away as the St. John’s waterfront.
* * * * *
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!” cried Mrs. Furey. For the first time in her career as hospital administrator, she doubted her abilities to do her job. Her thoughts were in overdrive as she almost fainted into the nearest chair. “What the hell are we going to do?” She looked toward Sgt. Myra and Dr. Gillespie.
At the same time, her assistant flung open the door to her office and came barging in. “The hospital lobby is full of reporters! They are running through the emergency department looking for patients with signs of this new disease!” She was visibly shaking as she continued. “The emergency doctors are asking for security. Other floors are calling for security, too. Patients are fighting patients! Anyone who is showing signs of Wormwood is under attack! What are you going to do?”
Mrs. Furey felt her stomach turn, and bile rose to her throat. She c
hoked down the taste of her own vomit. “Call security. Tell them to bring in everyone they can get. Call Code Black. The hospital is on lockdown.” Her assistant ran to her office and began making calls.
Sgt. Myra’s cellphone began to vibrate. He grabbed it from its holster and put it to his ear as he hurried to a corner of the office, as if he could talk privately. It was a habit. He answered with quick yes and no responses, then put the phone back in its holster. “That was the chief’s office. I have to get back to headquarters. Apparently, our lobby is full of reporters, too.” He looked from Luke to Mrs. Furey. “Get ready for a crisis of epic proportions.”
As Myra left the office, Mrs. Furey closed the door behind him, locking herself and Luke in the office. “I need a spokesperson. It has to be you.”
Luke’s mouth fell open. “I am not media trained,” he protested.
“I don’t care. You’re a doctor. You are now the official expert on this. We are staying in here until we get our story straight, then we are going in front of the cameras.” Mrs. Furey sat behind her desk and pulled out the tray to her keyboard.
“Why are we speaking? Wouldn’t it be best to wait and see how this plays out?” Luke knew this was a bad idea.
“Wait for what? This is a crisis. You heard Sgt. Myra. We have about two hours to respond, or the reporters will go elsewhere and create a story we can’t control.” She picked up her phone and pressed the direct line to her assistant. “Get me the PR and communications people. Now!” She banged the receiver down so hard Luke jumped. “Look at the TV screen.”
She stared transfixed by what she was watching. Father Cooke had finished his sermon and was walking through the crowd gathered in the basilica. People flocked around him taking pictures, shaking his hand, reaching out to touch his vestment.
“Look at him,” Mrs. Furey said. “He looks like Jesus riding into Jerusalem on a donkey. I’m surprised they’re not singing hosanna, waving palm branches, and spreading their coats on the ground in front of him to walk on.” A knock came on her office door, and her assistant showed the PR and communications team in.
Luke sat quietly, thinking. He knew the story of Palm Sunday, when Jesus rode the donkey into Jerusalem. He feared Mrs. Furey didn’t know the whole story. Luke knew from his Catholic upbringing that Jesus did this to mock the Romans. When the Romans marched home after violently conquering a territory, they would ride their stallions through the streets as people waved palm branches as a sign of victory. Jesus knew this would enrage the Romans.
What Luke knew, which Mrs. Furey didn’t, was they were now the Romans.
16
Sgt. Myra sat in the private waiting area outside the office of the chief of police. The chief’s assistant sat behind her desk staring at him, not knowing what to say. An adrenalin rush of excitement, a level that only a police officer could understand, was coursing through the veins of everyone who wore a uniform due to the news of a disease that targeted pedophiles.
Sgt. Myra leaned back in his chair, running through his statement in his mind. Fact checking, repeatedly. The phone rang, and the assistant picked up the receiver, answered with a simple, “Yes sir,” then nodded toward the chief’s closed door.
“You can go in, now, sir.”
Sgt. Myra stood to his full six-foot-four height. But he knew Chief Robert DeSilva had his own brand of intimidation. He was well respected by the front line as a cop’s cop. He had climbed his way up the policing ladder and strategically spent time in general patrol, major crime, drug section, commercial crime, then went to the policy side of policing in strategic planning and criminal operations. There was no area of policing that he hadn’t spent time in. He was also a master of navigating the political landscape of his masters.
DeSilva was not as tall as Myra, coming in at only six feet, but he was broad across the shoulders and had hands the size of baseball gloves. He had strikingly bright blue eyes that could look through you when he wanted answers, and he was known for not being able to smile. He had one look: very serious and very intense.
Sgt. Myra marched into Chief DeSilva’s office, saluted as a sign of respect, then reached across the chief’s desk and shook his hand.
“Nick, have a seat,” DeSilva said. He pointed toward two chairs in front of a large window that overlooked downtown St. John’s. They could see the basilica and the circus now surrounding it from this view. The two men sat across from each other, both not knowing what was going to happen next.
Chief DeSilva looked Sgt. Myra in the eye and started with, “What the hell, Nick?” He was flabbergasted. “We have been together a long time. We started out in training together. You’re one of my best cops. Are you losing it? Do you need time off?”
Myra was a little taken aback by the line of questions. “I don’t need time off. I need more resources for my unit. Other than that, I’m fine. I also didn’t speak to the media.”
“Okay, let’s start from the beginning. Father Cooke says he spoke to the police, so I am assuming that’s you. Am I right?”
“Yes, I spoke to him. As a witness. Several of the targets in my investigation mentioned they spoke to him. I knew he couldn’t tell me what they said because of his oath, and I respected that, but I had to try.” DeSilva would never question Myra’s ability as an investigator. He knew he left no stone unturned.
“Okay, my recommendation is to set up a task force.” The chief picked up his notebook and began to make a list. “You will be the lead. I will authorize a profiler to put together a rundown on each victim and perpetrator, two criminal analysts to start putting together the puzzle pieces and create a timeline, and two major crime investigators to help with the interviews.”
“Thank you!” Myra had wanted a team like this for years. “We need to get ready for the onslaught of victims coming forward.”
The chief cut in, “The purpose of this task force is to investigate and substantiate the accusations of the victims. Myra, I am not prepared to put God on trial. More than likely we have some sick, vengeful bastard on the loose who is poisoning these animals somehow.”
“Of course. I have considered that.” Myra already had a plan in his head. “But how do you explain victims in other parts of the country? If we have a serial killer who is targeting pedophiles, how is he criss-crossing the country finding his victims?”
“Well, that will be one of the objectives of the task force, won’t it?” The chief realized this was going to be a monumental undertaking that would more than likely define the reputation of his police force and his own personal legacy. “I want your team to start tracking the circles and squares in this investigation that will put together a strong case. We are going up against the Catholic Church and the medical field here. Your conclusion has to be bulletproof.”
Myra was making his own notes. “I know some of the circles and squares are not going to pan out, but I’m hoping some of them will start to link together. Where there’s smoke, there’s fire.”
The chief put down his pen. “Nick, my gut tells me this is vigilante justice. We need to look for someone who was molested as a kid and is now hunting down suspected pedophiles and somehow getting to them. There could be a group of them. We need to get a warrant for the medical files of the ones who have died and the ones in hospital to see if any of their bloodwork shows poison or a foreign substance.” DeSilva stood up and looked out the window at his city. Then to the crowds surrounding the basilica. “What’s your take on this priest, Peter Cooke?”
Myra leaned back in his chair. “My thoughts are someone is setting him up. I think someone went to him and confessed the whole Wormwood theory, then went about making it come true. So now he thinks it is real.”
The chief’s job was to always be one step ahead. “I would suggest to you that no matter how airtight you make this case, your conclusion is not going to be accepted by the majority of the public, w
ho want to believe this is a miracle.”
“I realize I can’t prove that God created a disease that kills pedophiles, because first I would have to prove there is a God.” Myra looked directly at the chief. “To be honest, over my career and what I have seen people do to each other, I could make a strong case that there is no God more so than I can prove there is one.”
“Well, if the medical community proves there is a disease that only affects pedophiles, then that proves Father Cooke right and he gets his miracle. But where does that leave us?” The chief was pondering his own question. “Does Jesus Christ become a serial killer?”
“The task force’s main objective is to find a serial killer who hasn’t died on the Cross,” chuckled Myra. “I really don’t want to have to issue a warrant for the arrest of Jesus Christ. That didn’t work out so well for the last cop who did that.”
“The task force will have all the resources it needs to succeed. You will deal with the facts, you will put them all together, and if you find out over the course of the investigation that there is no sick bastard killing pedophiles and this is a disease, then we will leave it to the medical community. They can confirm the symptoms and the outcome.”
Myra had a thousand thoughts flying around in his brain. “So, if it is a disease that only kills pedophiles, do I arrest God, or do we tell the task force to stand down?”
“We will deal with that on a day-by-day basis,” replied the chief. “Right now, you need to get started and get your people in place. I will put together the necessary paperwork and inform the Department of Justice. Let’s just hope the goddamned politicians don’t start jumping for Jesus to get votes.”
“Yes, sir. I will get started as soon as I get back to my office. Thank you, sir, for the resources. I know this will be a financial drain on the force, so I will do my best to keep our reputation intact.” Myra stood up and opened the door to the chief’s office and began to leave.