“Been there, done that, and have arthritis in my hands to prove it.” The inspector laughed.
They made their way to Sgt. Myra’s office. He closed the door, and the two police officers sat across from each other.
“Sgt. Myra, I want you to know up front that I did everything I could for those girls. I threatened to quit my job and go to the media. I couldn’t get anywhere.” The frustration showed in his face.
“Start from the beginning. Tell me what happened.”
“One of the parents came to the detachment in Goose Bay with her daughter. She showed me the whip marks on the child’s back and behind. The child was only six years old!” Michaels let out a heavy sigh. “I was outraged. I had kids that age, myself. I asked her what happened, and the mother told me all about Principal Mary Power.” He leaned forward and put his hands on his knees with a slap. “I took a statement from the mother and the child. I took pictures, and I got in my patrol car and drove to Sheshatshiu. I walked right in her office and said, ‘Principal, we are going to have a chat.’” Michaels was spitting with anger.
“She was so smug. Sitting there all prim and proper. I could have pulled her over the desk and pounded her for whipping that child.” He sat back in his chair. “She said she didn’t know anything about it. She tried to convince me the mother did it. I knew she was lying.”
He ran a shaking hand over his white hair. “The mother called me later that afternoon and withdrew the statement. She said it was a lie, that Miss Power hadn’t hit her. She blamed the marks on her son, who was a year older than the daughter. I called the Crown prosecutor’s office and was told to drop it. I didn’t have enough evidence for a charge.”
Myra leaned forward in his chair. “I met with Rosemary Penashue at the correctional centre for women. She said she also gave you a statement.”
“Yes, I know Rosemary. I met her when she was a toddler and watched her grow up. She was a good kid, but she changed around the time she turned ten. It broke my heart when I saw her in the jail cell one morning,” Michaels remembered. “I didn’t give up on that first file. I kept digging, but I wasn’t finding anything. Then, one night we busted a couple of young girls who were sniffing gasoline behind a bar. They were only thirteen or fourteen years old. While they were in the police car, they were going on about Miss Power and how she raped and beat them and how I should arrest her. I brought them to the hospital for monitoring, and in the morning I went back and asked them about what they had said the night before. At first they denied it, but after a few questions they started to spill the beans.”
Myra had taken a notebook out of his desk and was writing as fast as he could.
“I told them I wanted to speak to any girl who had been abused at that school, and they spread the word. By the end of that month, I had thirty statements from girls of all ages. Their abuse was horrific. It ranged from sexual to physical torture.” Inspector Michaels was disgusted with the memory.
“What happened once you had all the statements?”
“I notified the RCMP’s criminal operations officer of what I had, and he notified the Department of Justice and the Department of Child Welfare. I was ready to take the top off it. I notified my staff to be ready for this huge takedown, where we would arrest Power and a lineup of social workers would be there to help those girls get the help they needed.”
Michaels folded his arms in frustration. “I waited for days, then weeks. I didn’t want to rattle the chain of command. Labrador is already an underserved area when it comes to headquarters. You know, out of sight out of mind. I got tired of waiting, so I picked up the phone and called the second-in-command. I asked him what was taking so long. These children were being abused daily, and we needed to move.” His eyes narrowed. “I was told the Department of Justice would not be proceeding with any charges against Miss Power because the girls were not credible. I was flabbergasted.” He slammed his hands down on his knees again.
“I was ready to rip the head off someone! I knew I had enough to charge her, so I started to dig again. I found out that the ministers of Justice and Social Services spent quite a bit of time in Goose Bay, and rumour had it they liked young girls. Miss Power had an ample supply. I also found out that the families of every one of the thirty girls who gave a statement got a call from social services saying their welfare allotment was now under review. Apparently, the Minister of Social Services himself made the call.”
“That’s unusual,” remarked Myra.
“That’s damn unusual!” Michaels sputtered. “I found out from a maid who worked at the hotel in Goose Bay that a few of the government ministers were running a sex-for-welfare scheme. Some big names were showing up in Goose Bay and not making any government announcements but spending a night or two at the hotel, and young girls—very young girls,” he emphasized, “were being brought in to spend time with them.” Inspector Michaels seemed equally happy to get this off his chest but sick to relive it.
“Did you charge them?” Myra asked.
“You have to remember the time. It was the early eighties, and government ministers were above the law. One of the politicians involved went on to federal politics, another one died. The rest retired but stayed involved with their parties in different ways. A lot of favours were called in. I tried to investigate it but kept hitting brick walls. I even ran an undercover operation, but I couldn’t get the girls to admit to anything. Everyone was getting kickbacks. Better welfare benefits, jobs, and apartments or housing.” Michaels threw his hands up in the air out of frustration. “The investigation was shut down from the highest level. I was warned repeatedly to leave it alone. I wrote strongly worded memo after memo. To no avail. Then I came into the office one morning and was informed I was transferred to Corner Brook. Corner Brook!” he yelled. “Nothing against the west coast, but I was happy where I was.
“A week later, my house was packed up and we were on our way. Fastest transfer you have ever seen. I was frustrated beyond belief. I became very bitter after that, and Sgt. Myra, I was never a bitter man. I loved my job. I loved putting on the uniform. But after Labrador, I struggled for a lot of years.”
“I understand your frustration. Believe me, I do. Inspector, you mentioned thirty statements. Where are they now? Would they be in records?”
“Nick . . . you don’t mind if I call you Nick, do you, son? You can call me Boyd.”
“Not at all.”
“Nick, the funniest thing. I was told to send all the statements to the Department of Justice so the Crown prosecutors could decide if we had enough to go to trial. I told you I waited a long time and then called our criminal operations people?”
Myra nodded. “Yes, that’s right.”
“Well, after they said there wasn’t enough to go to trial, I asked for the box of statements back. You see, I put them all in a white banker’s box with hanging file organizers. I am meticulous when it comes to note taking and being organized.”
Myra felt like he was talking to an older version of himself.
“Each of the thirty files contained the victim’s handwritten statement, my typed copy of their statement, a photo of each victim, and an information sheet giving their age, address, etc.”
Myra recognized and appreciated his old-fashioned way of doing good police work. “So, where is it?”
“They lost it!” Michaels snarled. “They said the box was lost in the mail after they sent it back to me! I asked for the courier’s receipt, so we could track it, and I was told it was shipped through the general mail!” He huffed in disgust. “Now, have you ever sent a statement through the general mail?”
“What do you think happened to it?”
“Well, you know what happened to it. It may be my dirty mind, but the politicians involved in the sex-for-welfare scam had it destroyed.”
“So, they are all gone?” Myra was sick of th
ese dead ends.
“Now, Nick, we may wear different uniforms, but we have the same beliefs. You wouldn’t trust a politician any more than I would. You also know that a good police officer keeps two sets of notes. A set he turns in, and a set he keeps in a safe place. Politicians have a way of making things disappear.” He slapped his hands on his knees. “I had a feeling that was going to happen. I made a copy of everything in the files. I shipped it to my parents’ house in New Brunswick. It stayed there until they passed away, and then I stored it in a safe place in my basement, hoping to God that someone would call me someday and ask about it.”
Myra felt a warm feeling coming over him and thought, This must be what happiness feels like. “So, you have the files?”
“Yes, they’re in the trunk of my car. I wasn’t bringing them in until my gut told me you were going to do something with them.”
“What does your gut tell you now?”
“That you’re a good cop. Maybe a better cop than me, because you’re going to do something with this that I couldn’t,” responded Michaels.
“Only because the timing is right and two good cops collaborated on this file,” agreed Sgt. Myra. “What about the death of the young girl, Suzie Rich? What were the details around her death?”
“That was tragic,” the older man said with a sigh. “We got the call early in the afternoon. I was in St. John’s for meetings, and two junior officers responded. Miss Power had moved her body into the school nurse’s office. She had an obvious red mark on her forehead, but Miss Power told the officers the girl fell off a swing and she had put her there to rest. Then when she came back to check on the girl, she was dead.” He looked down at his feet as the feeling of dread came back over him.
“The ambulance came shortly after the officers arrived and took her to the hospital. The doctor said the head wound was the cause of death and the fall from the swing was consistent with the injury. The doctor also said there were other marks and bruises but nothing out of the norm for a child of her age. Her parents buried her shortly after that.” Michaels was obviously distressed. “I went over that file. The body had been moved, and they let the kids out to play shortly after the police arrived. So, the scene has been contaminated. We had to go on the doctor’s report.”
“What did you think?” pondered Myra.
“I was flying back from St. John’s to Goose Bay. The planes they used for that run were small, two-seater models. Probably about ten to twelve people would fit in one. I made the trip quite frequently. When I got on the plane in St. John’s Airport, who should get on with me but the Minister of Justice and the Minister of Social Services. I said hello, and they just nodded and took their seats. They weren’t in a talkative mood. I figured they were pissed with me and my investigation.”
Myra had almost filled out his notebook.
“So, when we got to Goose Bay, I had an unmarked car, you see, that I had left at the airport. So, I got in my car and waited. Then I followed them. Sure enough, the two ministers went straight to the hospital, then to the home of the deceased child. They were there about an hour. Then they drove straight back to the airport and flew back to St. John’s.” He looked Myra in the eyes. “Now,” he paused, “what do you think happened?”
“I think Mary Power got away with murder by calling in a few of her own favours.” Myra’s blood was beginning to boil again.
“Can I ask why you are calling me now? Are there more complaints?” Inspector Michaels asked.
“Have you been following the media stories on Wormwood, the disease that is allegedly killing pedophiles?”
“Yes, of course. It’s the talk of the town.”
“Well, Mary Power is in hospital with what seems like this disease, but her record is clean. I am digging, trying to find something, and I happened to find Rosemary, who told me about you.”
“You’re a good cop, Sgt. Myra. I know what it’s like to forget that about yourself, but you are a good cop.” Michaels reached over and patted Myra on the shoulder.
“I forget that a lot, lately,” declared Myra. “Boyd, I have to ask you one last question. As a police officer who has been around the block a time or two, do you buy into the theory that God created this disease?”
Inspector Michaels could tell from the look on Sgt. Myra’s face that he was serious. “Well, my son, if it is, it would be the first time God answered my prayers,” he responded with a very serious smile.
29
The fallout from the media coverage was severe. Dr. Luke Gillespie sat across from Mrs. Furey at the small meeting table in her office with the door closed.
“We have to be very careful about what we say and who we say it to,” Mrs. Furey whispered as she pointed to the door. “My entire day is now spent chasing down, squashing, and trying to find out who is spreading rumours.” She was usually well put together, but today she looked out of sorts. “Maintenance has just finished putting together the special ward for these patients,” she said, looking tormented. “Other patients are refusing to share rooms with anyone with blood on their gown! How silly is that? This is a damn hospital!” she declared. “Everyone has blood on them!”
Gillespie sat back and let her talk.
“I am sorry to burden you with my problems. I am just so friggin’ frustrated!”
“That’s okay,” he reassured her. “I know how it feels. I went to a grocery store last night, and the clerk at the checkout told me to let those bastards suffer. Can you believe that?”
Mrs. Furey shook her head in disgust. “So, I wanted to meet with you to discuss the national scene,” she said, taking her notes out of a file folder. “Did you attend the doctor’s national teleconference this morning?”
“Yes, I did.” Luke took his own notes out of a folder.
“Good, then we will be on the same page,” she continued. “The big thing right now is, we are not referring to the disease as ‘Wormwood,’ because that is what the alleged pedophiles call it.”
Luke jumped in. “Yes, we discussed that, also. Although the disease showed first as a bleeding disorder, we have to be very careful not to associate it with hemophilia.”
Mrs. Furey looked up from her notes. “My God, the poor hemophiliacs are devastated. I have heard from the president of the Hemophiliac Association. He has members who won’t even go to work or school because they are afraid.” She shook her head again. “Can you imagine? They have men and women who are scared to death they may bleed in front of someone and be accused of being a child molester.”
“I know. I’m hearing it from patients, too.”
“For Jesus’ sakes, I have von Willebrand’s disease!” Mrs. Furey confessed.
“I didn’t know that. It’s quite common,” Luke said.
“We were told the doctors would come up with a name for it. Have they decided yet?”
“We agreed it is to be considered a rare disease, because so far it affects fewer than 200,000 people in Canada. The official medical name will be PPXI,” Gillespie informed her.
“Okay, that sounds very medical. What does it mean?”
“Well, for blood to clot, your body needs blood proteins called clotting factors and blood cells called platelets. So, we took the P from proteins and the P from platelets. The XI means it occurs in about one out of 100,000 people.”
“PPXI, kind of rolls of the tongue,” Mrs. Furey joked. “We were told that once the name was decided on, there would be a federal rollout of PR material to all hospitals, media, and public announcing the name. All medical staff will then refer to it by the medical name to take away the stigma of Wormwood.”
“I would like to meet the PR team who is going to take the stigma of Wormwood away from this disease,” Luke said, and laughed. “Speaking of federal, any word back from the Minister of Health?”
“Not really. I am getting a tr
ickle of information, but no big response like I thought.”
“What about your reporter friend? Did she find anything?”
“She has heard a few rumours. Apparently, the federal minister has some skeletons in his closet.”
“Oh, really? Do tell.”
“She heard from a cop, off the record, of course, that the minister was once investigated for a sexual assault against a young boy when he was in his early twenties.”
Luke leaned back in his chair and gave her a hard look. “What happened?”
“No charges were laid. The complaint was dropped. My friend believes the complainant was paid off.”
“Interesting. That may explain the blockage at the top.”
“That’s what I was thinking,” she confessed.
“I wonder would Sgt. Myra be able to track down that info?”
“Might be worth asking him.”
“I’ll be seeing him shortly,” Luke said. “He called this morning to say he was coming over to officially charge Mary Power, one of the PPXI patients in ICU.”
She shrugged. “Nothing surprises me anymore.”
“Well, that was the plan, anyway. She took a turn for the worse last night. I don’t know what happened. She was stable, then yesterday afternoon, the floodgates literally opened.”
“Any idea what happened?” There was concern in Mrs. Furey’s voice.
“I don’t know. She’s being tortured, that’s for sure. I bet she has lost most of the blood in her body. We have given her transfusion after transfusion.” He stood up and looked out the big window overlooking the parkway. “I can’t give her any more morphine—it would overdose her—but she is screaming with pain.”
“Do you think she’s going to make it?”
“I don’t think Sgt. Myra will be able to charge her. I don’t think she’ll live to see tomorrow.”
30