Operation Wormwood

  He looked around the room. Suddenly, he was overwhelmed. It looked like a torture chamber to him, but at the same time it was the only home he had known. He knew he had done the right thing by turning the files over to Myra, but part of him felt like Judas Iscariot. Charles felt like he had betrayed the only father he had ever known. He knew some of his peers would condemn him. The priest would never feel at home inside the church again, but he would never feel at home anywhere else. He thought about the thirty files he had turned over to the police. He thought about the innocent blood of the victims that had been spilled.

  In the final act of a man who could not live with himself or with the memory of what he had lived through, he pulled the big leather chair out from behind the archbishop’s desk and stood on top of it. He had flung a rope around the heating pipes that ran along the ceiling of the archbishop’s office. Charles placed the noose around his neck and bowed his head. He began to whisper the Our Father. “They will bury me in the field of blood. Father forgive me for what I do.”

  In a matter of seconds, it was over. Father Charles Horan’s torment had ended.

  * * * * *

  Sgt. Myra left the news conference room feeling triumphant. The operation, under his command, had gone off without a hitch. As soon as he got back to his office, he picked up his phone and called his voice mail. Myra heard Charles’s voice for the last time.

  “Sgt. Myra.” Charles Horan’s voice cracked with emotion. “I cannot live with my pain anymore. Please forgive me.”

  24

  Dr. Luke Gillespie tapped on the open door to Mrs. Furey’s office. She looked up. “Come on in.”

  “Any word?” Luke asked hopefully.

  “Not a thing.” She shrugged. “How long does it take a minister to read a report? It was only ten pages long! I sent it over two week ago.”

  Luke sat in the chair in front of her desk. “It’s frustrating. I thought this thing would go like wildfire.”

  Mrs. Furey leaned back in her chair. “I don’t know. I contacted my counterparts across the country. They’re having the same issue of not getting any feedback from the Minister of Health. I don’t know if he’s not getting the reports or if he is just taking his time reading them.”

  “I hope no one else is vetting my report. I want the minister to know exactly what we’re dealing with. Are there any whispers in your world of what’s going on?”

  “Nothing official,” responded Mrs. Furey, “but I’m hearing gossip that the minister has been aware of this issue for more than a year and has been sent several communiqués about it.”

  “So, if he was aware of it, why hasn’t he done anything about it?” Luke asked.

  “I guess that’s the million-dollar question, isn’t it?”

  “I thought I would check because I was surprised I haven’t heard anything. I’ve talked to other doctors on the national team. They have all sent in their reports, but no one has heard anything back.” As an afterthought, Luke asked, “I don’t suppose the government is trying to hide the information for some reason?”

  Mrs. Furey replied, “Why would they? What would the purpose be? If some type of epidemic is killing people, it would be in government’s best interest to get out in front of it and do something about it.”

  Luke nodded in agreement. “That’s what I was thinking. I researched the way government officials handled the SARS crisis. They spent millions of dollars educating the public and putting money into resources needed by front-line health workers.”

  “I wonder if it’s because the disease seems to only affect a certain group of people? Maybe that’s why they’re dragging their heels,” said Mrs. Furey. “Maybe they’re solving their crime issues with a health issue?”

  “Do you think politicians are afraid they will get bad publicity by putting public money into curing a disease that is believed to only affect pedophiles?”

  Mrs. Furey thought about it for a second. “I don’t know. Your guess is as good as mine. But we both seem to have met a bottleneck in the system.” She sat up and leaned forward over her desk, resting her arms over the mounds of files that covered it. “I have a friend who is a reporter in Ottawa. I think I’m going to give her a call and see if she has an inside scoop on it. I’ll let you know if I hear anything. In the meantime, keep this under your hat. We may have stumbled into a hornet’s nest here. I think it’s best if we both keep our backs to the wall so we don’t get stung.”

  “Let’s keep each other updated on official news and gossip,” agreed Luke. He left her office to return to the ICU ward. His report writing and research was keeping him from his patients, and he wanted to get back to the ward to see if anything had changed.

  Mrs. Furey closed the door behind Luke. She took her cellphone out of her purse and typed in the name of her old friend. She pressed the number and waited for her to answer.

  “Hello! Greetings from the beautiful island of Newfoundland,” Mrs. Furey said happily.

  “Well, if this isn’t a blast from my past,” answered her friend. “It’s been a long time. There must be something serious happening for you to call me.”

  They exchanged a few pleasantries and spent a few seconds catching up on each other’s lives. Then Mrs. Furey got to the point. “Have you ever heard of a disease called Wormwood?”

  “Yes, everybody has. It’s all over the media,” the reporter commented.

  “Okay. Are you still following the prime minister around these days?”

  “Still on the political beat as usual. Why?”

  “At your next media scrum, can you question the prime minister on Wormwood?”

  “We’ve been doing that for weeks,” her friend explained. “We’ve been asking him about it daily since the story broke.”

  “Are you aware the Minister of Health has received reports from all the hospitals across the country over two weeks ago?” Furey teased. “Off the record, we haven’t heard a thing back from him. There’s rumours that he has known about Wormwood for over a year and has done nothing about it.”

  “Really,” the reporter said, smelling a news story.

  “I can’t imagine another issue that’s more pressing right now than an epidemic that’s killing people.”

  “You mean killing pedophiles?” joked the reporter.

  “That hasn’t been proven yet,” Furey corrected her. “But there are grumblings among the national medical team members. They are wondering why there’s no response from the minister. You would think he’d want to get out in front of this.”

  “Yes, it’s weird that a politician has a national soapbox to stand on with guaranteed front-page coverage but isn’t using it. That doesn’t make sense at all,” agreed the reporter. “Let me check into it. Thanks for the scoop.”

  “Off the record, remember,” reminded Mrs. Furey.

  “Of course. I built a reputation with ‘off the record,’” her friend disclosed.

  * * * * *

  Dr. Gillespie entered the ICU. The smell and heat were as sickly as ever, but it still smelled like home to him.

  “Well, look what the cat dragged in,” snorted Nurse Agatha Catania. “We thought the big TV star was too good to do rounds anymore.”

  Luke sighed. “Please don’t start. You know how I feel about the media.”

  “Well, your patients are all waiting for you. Let’s start with Mr. Macy.” She was happy to have their team back together.

  Luke took the clipboard and started to read through the stats. “Does the fact that people believe this disease is a pedophile disease affect the way you treat them?”

  “Do you think this is the first time a nurse had to care for someone they knew was a pedophile?” Agatha asked him. “Or a wife beater? Or a criminal of any kind? Do you know how many times my ass gets grabbed in the run of a day? Or how many times someo
ne grabs my breast? But I take a deep breath, and I give them the best care that I know how to give because I am a professional. That’s what nurses do. We swallow our pride and our fear, and we do our job.” She stood strong and put her hands on her hips. “Just for the record, how many times has a patient grabbed your penis?”

  “None,” he confessed.

  “That’s what I thought,” she muttered. “Let’s do our rounds.”

  They entered Mr. Macy’s room. “You’re the doctor from TV,” Macy accused him. “I don’t trust you.”

  “Mr. Macy, I am here to provide care. If you don’t want it, I will leave,” responded Gillespie.

  At that, Macy sat up in the bed and clutched his chest with both hands as pain swept through his body. The blood began to flow from his nose as he began to choke from breathing it in. Luke immediately grabbed his IV drip and opened the valve to release more morphine while Agatha grabbed a towel and tried to keep the blood away from his mouth and nose to improve his breathing.

  “Make it stop!” Macy screamed, repeatedly.

  “Only you can do that.”

  Luke and Agatha looked toward the door to see that a solemn-looking Sgt. Myra had entered the room.

  “Confessing makes it stop, Kevin. You know that.” Myra had an angry look in his eyes.

  “Not now, Sergeant,” yelled Dr. Gillespie.

  “If you say so. You know where I’ll be,” offered Myra.

  Luke and Agatha worked to get their patient under control, and Sgt. Myra sat in the private room near the ICU. By the time the patient was sedated, the doctor and nurse were splattered in blood. They both took off their protective gowns and gloves and threw them in the garbage. “I need to go check my face for blood,” said Agatha.

  “I’ll be talking to Sgt. Myra about hospital policies,” declared Dr. Gillespie. “Nick, maybe it’s you that sends the patients into convulsions of blood,” Gillespie said as he sat across from Myra. “I’m noticing that when you are around, they get worse. Maybe you’re poisoning them.”

  “If it was only my presence, then I would sit in the penitentiary all day,” snapped Myra.

  “Well, if you came to interview Macy, you’ve wasted your time,” Luke stated. “He is completely out.”

  “Father Horan is dead.”

  “What? How? You said he didn’t have it!” Luke fell back in his chair. A lump formed in his throat.

  “He didn’t. He died by suicide.” Myra felt a great sense of loss. More than he should have.

  Dr. Gillespie looked at the big police sergeant for a long time. “Suicide?”

  Myra could feel his body start to shake, and he felt incredibly cold. “He hanged himself in the archbishop’s office this morning.”

  “Oh my God,” was all Luke could get out. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine,” Myra lied.

  “How does this affect your case?” Luke knew Sgt. Myra was not okay. He couldn’t stop staring at his shaking hands.

  “Charles gave me the archbishop’s files before he died. The archbishop kept incredible details on all his victims and the pedophile ring he operated. We arrested twenty people today, and police forces across the country are still arresting people. Because of Charlie, a lot of victims have been rescued and a lot of criminals will be brought to justice.”

  “So, does this end your investigation?” Luke asked hopefully.

  “No. It’s just the beginning. We still have to figure out how people are getting this disease. I’m hoping Macy can give me some details.”

  “Well, not for the next hour or so. Ms. Power is still here. Are you talking to her?”

  “She was next on the list, so I guess she’s going to be first, if you don’t mind?” Myra was hoping Luke would say no. He really didn’t want to interview anyone today. He just wanted to go home. Then he remembered that there was no one home. Just an empty house.

  “Is she under investigation?” Luke couldn’t remember her being on his list.

  “Actually, no. This would only be a courtesy call. I have nothing on her. She is a victim of a crime, if it turns out someone poisoned her.”

  “Sgt. Myra,” said Agatha Catania, a little more loudly than she would’ve liked. “My two favourite guys in one room. How lucky am I?” She laughed.

  Sgt. Myra stood up and walked past the nurse with a slight nod. He took out his notebook as he entered Mary Power’s hospital room.

  “What was that?” Agatha looked at Luke with a confused look on her face.

  “He has a lot on his mind. Father Horan died by suicide today.” Luke stood up and rubbed his hands over his eyes to make sure there were no signs of tears.

  “Wow. Didn’t see that coming.” Agatha watched Myra as he entered Ms. Power’s room. “He didn’t even say hi to me.”

  “I think Sgt. Myra is married to his job. I don’t think he sees anyone.” Luke tried to focus on the patient charts in his hands.

  “Sometimes he is sweet in that ‘I want to save him’ kind of way, and sometimes I think he is hollow on the inside.” Agatha didn’t hide the disappointment on her face.

  “The man can’t give you what he doesn’t have, and today he doesn’t have a lot.”

  Agatha and Luke walked back into the ICU and looked into Ms. Power’s room. She caught a glimpse of Sgt. Myra as he sat talking to the school principal.

  He looked smaller today, she thought. He looked broken.

  25

  Father Charles Horan’s service would be a private affair and take place in the smaller Marian Chapel located on the right-hand side of the Basilica of St. John the Baptist. Normally a visitor would be fascinated by the hand-carved wooden recessed Stations of the Cross or the four beautiful stained glass windows representing the Immaculate Conception, the Assumption of Our Lady, the Immaculate Heart of Mary, and Our Lady of Fatima. This morning, its lone visitor didn’t notice anything but the gold-coloured urn placed on a podium at the front altar.

  Sgt. Myra sat in the back of the chapel in a white oak pew, staring at the urn containing the cremated remains of Father Charles Horan. The chapel was empty, as he was the first to arrive at the funeral service. He was glad no one else was there. It gave him a chance to spend some time alone with Charles. Myra felt an overwhelming sense of guilt. He had been so thrilled to receive the files from Father Horan that he got caught up in the excitement and the magnitude of the operation. He had wanted to sit down and talk with Charles, and he made mental notes of the things he wanted to tell him. He’d wanted to tell Charles face to face that he had helped so many victims. But he’d kept putting it off because there was so much happening at once.

  The phone call.

  He should have answered Charles’s phone call. That could have made all the difference. Maybe Charles had called to tell him what he was about to do. Maybe he could have talked him out of it. He could have helped him. Charles could be alive right now if he had just answered the phone. It would have taken a minute or two to save his life. A damn minute. I didn’t have a damn minute to answer the phone for the man who gave me the biggest break of my career.

  The last few days had been like a roller coaster. Tracking down victims and helping them. Tracking down pedophiles and charging them with their crimes. The roller coaster was taking him on high highs and low lows. He needed to get off. He needed his brain to stop over-thinking. He needed the nightmares to stop. On his way to the funeral, Chief DeSilva had called to say Myra would be getting the Chief’s Commendation for the good work he and his team had done. How could he accept an award that had cost another man his life? He felt like he had placed the noose around Charles’s neck. Sgt. Myra felt like the blood of the lamb was now on his hands.

  Someone had set up an easel next to Horan’s urn. He guessed it had been Sister Pius. It was covered in pictures of Charles wearing his Roman
collar and in plain clothes. In some of the pictures he was very young. Myra thought they must have been taken when he first went to the orphanage. He noted Charles was smiling in the younger pictures, but the smile disappeared as he aged. Myra couldn’t help but notice how Charles had started out as a handsome young boy but seemed to age two years for every year he lived. Much like himself.

  So much promise lost, thought Myra. The seasoned police officer was relieved that Charles had been cremated. He didn’t want to look into his face as he lay in a casket. A Chief’s Commendation. The highest honour a police officer could receive. How could he accept it knowing he too was now covered in the blood of the lamb? He would forever see Charles’s blood on his hands.

  His mind kept going back to the day before. The news conference. The call from Sister Pius. The shock when she screamed into the phone. She was screaming as she told him she was standing in the archbishop’s office and Charles had hanged himself. Myra raced to the rectory after alerting other police officers and an ambulance.

  Sister Pius had been on her knees, sobbing hysterically. Nick jumped up on the desk and lifted Charles’s lifeless body up to take the pressure of the rope off his neck. Two constables arrived at the same time and rushed to his aid. They each held a leg while Nick cut him down. The ambulance attendants arrived seconds later. The three police officers laid Horan’s limp body on the stretcher. As the attendants started to wheel him out, Sister Pius grabbed Charles and hugged him, sobbing, rocking him like he had been her own son. Nick had to pull her away. She was hysterical, and it took a while to calm her down. She eventually became very quiet and withdrawn. He had walked her back to the Mother House and left her in the care of her sisters. Then he had sat in his car for a long time, unable to turn the key in the ignition.

  Myra couldn’t help but wonder who Charles Horan would be now if he had not been put in the orphanage. Where would he be right now? Certainly not in an urn. Maybe married to a nice girl with a family and a career. He may have had a very normal life. A life that was stolen by a very evil man. The archbishop killed Charles, but Myra felt as though he had put the noose around his neck.