Operation Wormwood

by Helen C. Escott

  “What do you want, Charlie?” she asked.

  Tears began to fall from his eyes again as he tried to respond.

  “I want to go home. I want to find a home.” His body shook harder with each word.

  She put her arms around his shoulders, hugging him tightly, and rocked him like a child. He was twice her size, but her capacity to love was bigger than the whole church.

  “I got you, Charlie. I’ll be your home.”

  Emotions that had been suppressed for years began to surface for both of them.

  “You have a lot of healing to do, Charlie, a lot of lost time to make up for.”

  “I want to leave the priesthood,” he confessed.

  “I’m not surprised.”

  “I’m not a child molester.” He looked at her without blinking.

  “I know, Charlie.”

  “I am terrified that I am going to do to a child what was done to me. I would rather die than continue this cycle of abuse.” Sister Pius knew he meant what he said. “I don’t know how to be normal. I don’t know how to be with a woman. I don’t know how to be part of a family. I was raised by a monster.” His eyes were blank as he stared into space.

  “Charlie, we are a fine mess, you and I.” The nun handed him another tissue. “You without a mother, and me without a child. I watched you grow up. I should have grabbed you and ran.”

  “I know you tried. I watched him stop you.”

  A pang of guilt came over her. “Families are not made from blood, Charlie. Families are made from love.” In her heart she wished she had done more to save him. She wished she had spoken out more, gone to the media, done something.

  “I put my papers in. I’m retiring,” she said, surprising him.

  “You can retire from the nun-hood?” Charles asked jokingly.

  “I’m retiring as a teacher but also giving up my vows as a Sister of Mercy.” She surprised herself when she said it out loud. “I have a house that was left to me by my mother, and I will be moving there soon.” She took out a tissue to wipe her own face. “Charlie, there is a room there for you. There will always be a room there for you, Charlie.”

  Charles reached over, took her by the hand, and held it tightly in his. “I have to talk to Sgt. Myra. It’s too late to stop the path of destruction left behind by Keating, but I have to give his victims closure.”

  “You have to do what feels right to you, Charlie. It’s a chance to start over. You’re an educated man. No one needs to know your story unless you choose to tell them.”

  He stood up and extended his hand to help Sister Pius. They began to walk in silence down the long main aisle in the centre of the Basilica of St. John the Baptist. They both stopped next to the baptismal font and dipped a finger into the holy water and blessed themselves. Then they walked toward the wooden doors in the back of the church.

  A large statue of Jesus on the Cross hung next to the back door. As she passed, Sister Pius looked at the face of Jesus. For an instant she thought she could see a tear roll down his cheek. It sent a shiver throughout her body. She stepped into the sunshine, holding little Charlie Horan’s hand. She began to sing sweetly to herself. Have you laid down your burdens? Have you found peace and rest? Are you washed in the blood of the lamb?

  20

  Dr. Luke Gillespie had been given his orders by the hospital administration and the provincial Minister of Health: Trace the disease back to its origins and keep victims of Wormwood from giving it to anyone else.

  “Wormwood?” he said out loud. “Great, now even I am calling it that,” he said to himself. He had submitted blood samples from all four victims to the lab so they could be tested for poison. He wanted to make sure these victims were not being targeted by some sick serial killer. He needed to find the similarities. Luke knew it was the only way to truly find out what this disease was and how it had been transmitted.

  Nationally, the federal Department of Health finally started tracking the disease. They committed to creating a database that listed each case and its particulars, such as province, victim’s sex, occupation, blood type, other diseases, known criminal activity, etc. First rule of order was to determine if each patient had Wormwood and not something else.

  Luke would now be working with a national team of infectious disease experts. Once they were able to find the origins, then they would be able to stop or at least contain the disease. When all information was combined, they would hopefully get a better understanding on how it was spreading. Now that the federal government was backing them, there would be money to assign research studies, put out warnings to potential victims, and stop false information from spreading to the public and the media.

  I don’t understand why the federal Department of Health had this information for a year or more and did nothing with it, Luke pondered.

  One thing all involved agreed on was this disease, whatever it is, didn’t discriminate. It didn’t matter who the victim was, what province they were from or ethnic background, whether they were rich or poor. Luke was happy the national group was in charge of finding out if it was a virus that was causing the disease to spread. Everyone feared a pandemic.

  He put together a medical form for doctors and nurses to use when dealing with any patient who had the Wormwood symptoms. He had to find out who the patient had contact with, when they got sick, and where they were when the first symptoms appeared.

  Once doctors across the country had their facts together and shared into a national database, they would start getting answers and create a plan. The number one mystery was, How are people getting infected? Once they had an answer to that, they would be able to control the spread of the disease. Everyone involved knew this was not going to be solved overnight.

  Each province was required to send weekly reports to the federal Minister of Health, and his office would compile a monthly report for the medical community and update the media with any new information. The minister would be the keeper of all information concerning Wormwood, and his office alone would decide who would know what and when they would know it. Rumours were spreading faster than the disease, and the government needed to keep on top of it.

  Mrs. Furey had issued gloves, masks, and protective gowns to all staff who were to have contact with patients who showed signs of Wormwood. She had directed her informatics department to install whatever was needed on their computers so Luke’s team could stay in contact with teams across the country.

  The team was already interviewing patients, looking through their hospital records, and talking to their families. Several team members were assigned to go back through historical files to look for the symptoms in past patients or deceased patients. Blood and other bodily fluids had been taken and sent to labs and were waiting to be analyzed. Eventually the puzzle would start to come together.

  The national team did have one breakthrough: the disease was not contagious. There was no fear of catching it through accidentally touching blood or body fluids or by touching a person affected in any way.

  Mrs. Furey would oversee the hospital’s response to the crisis and coordinate the efforts of all other hospitals in the province. Luke would remain the spokesperson.

  Questions and requests for interviews came in daily from the media to the hospital’s public affairs office. There were no answers to give them, but Luke did his best to make at least one weekly appearance at a media outlet. Although it was eating up his valuable research time, he knew people wanted to know what was happening. Everywhere he went, it was all anyone spoke about. People were getting sick and dying. People didn’t really understand how it was being spread, but that didn’t stop them from spreading rumours. Every doctor involved knew they had to make quick progress with this mysterious illness.

  He put the finishing touches on his weekly report to the federal Minister of Health and emailed it to Mrs. Furey for fin
al review. Once she had given it her seal of approval, she emailed the encrypted report to the federal Minister of Health.

  * * * * *

  The report landed directly in the inbox of Minister Ronald McKenzie. He was anxious to read its contents and opened the message with great anticipation. This Dr. Luke Gillespie seems to know what he’s doing. Maybe a little too much.

  McKenzie knew he had to slow down the progress of this research. He would have to consult the network to find out how to derail a medical and police investigation all at once. This wasn’t going to be easy. He put the report in a secret folder he hid on his computer from his assistant and secretary. He would have to put a stop to all of this. The network demanded it. They had threatened to release certain information and pictures concerning his digressions.

  Minister Ronald McKenzie wondered how he would do this discreetly. He felt something hit his chest. Looking down, he saw a deep red bloodstain on the front of his white shirt. He quickly reached for his box of tissues and grabbed a bunch, putting them to his nose. Lately, the blood was thicker and darker than ever. My God, I am so thirsty, he thought to himself.

  21

  Sgt. Nicholas Myra answered the phone on his desk. He was focused on carefully reading through the stack of files in front of him. He did not want to miss one detail. The phone ringing made him jump, and he grabbed the receiver. “Myra,” he snapped. “No, I am not expecting anyone.” He then leaned back in his chair, and a rare smile came across his lips. “All right, then,” he said. “I’m on my way. Please sign them in.” He placed the receiver back down and thought, I have waited ten years for that call.

  Sister Pius was dressed in jeans and a neatly pressed plaid shirt. Her short hair had a modern style, and Sgt. Myra didn’t recognize her when he entered the front lobby of the Royal Newfoundland Constabulary headquarters. Father Charles Horan also wore jeans and an untucked plain white shirt, and he carried a small black briefcase. Anyone else in the lobby would think they were mother and son, there to report a property crime, but Myra knew better. He knew this day would come.

  As he approached Charles, Myra reached out his hand. “Welcome to RNC headquarters, Father Horan.” It was the first time Myra had used Charles’s official title. He looked down into the face of the lady standing next to Horan and laughed. “Sister Pius, I would not be able to pick you out of a police lineup in your civilian clothes.”

  “Jeans,” she corrected him. “Police wear civilian clothes, clergy wear jeans when we are off-duty,” she laughed.

  “Well, this is a surprise. I know you’re not here because you miss me. So, what can I help you with?” Myra noticed Charles was nervous.

  “We would like to talk to you in private,” whispered Sister Pius.

  “By all means.” Myra gestured toward the door. “We can speak in my office.” He used his building pass to open the secure door to the private hallway and led his guests through the maze of offices. He swiped his card on a box outside his special section. His team was busy working, but each member popped their head up to look when they realized who was with the sergeant.

  “Come in and take a seat.” Myra pointed to the two chairs in his private office and closed the door. “Before we start, I have to ask you if I can record our conversation.”

  “No,” exclaimed Charles. “I am not ready for that yet.” He placed the briefcase on his lap. Myra couldn’t help but stare at it.

  “Okay. Then, let’s talk.”

  “I will start.” Sister Pius sat straight in her chair. “Charlie and I have had a long conversation. I want you to know that he has been a victim of Archbishop Keating’s for years. I had no idea how sick and twisted this whole thing really was.” Her eyes filled with tears, and Myra passed her a tissue from a box on his desk. “Charlie would like to make a statement.”

  Sgt. Myra sat back in his chair. He glanced back between Sister Pius and Father Horan. He didn’t know how to tell them. “Sister . . . Charlie . . . the archbishop is dead. I can’t charge a dead man. It’s too late.” Myra was disappointed in his own words.

  “No, but you can charge the rest.” Charles slammed the black briefcase onto Myra’s desk. “Here’s everything you need.”

  Myra jolted upright and put his big hands on the briefcase. He unzipped it and looking inside. “What is this?”

  “The archbishop was good at one thing: keeping files. He kept explicit details of everyone in his pedophile ring, their names, the dates, their perversions, pictures, names of the boys they molested. It’s all there.” Myra bit his bottom lip as Charles continued. “The night he died, I went back to the rectory and cleaned out the filing cabinet. I was going to burn everything, like he told me to. It was the look on Jermaine Cousin’s face that stopped me. I slept in the bed next to his brother. The sound of him crying at night still haunts me.” Charles was as white as a ghost. His voice was shaky, and his whole body trembled. “Everything you need is right here.”

  Even Sister Pius hadn’t seen that coming. She had no idea what was in the briefcase.

  “You’re kidding me.” Myra didn’t know what else to say. He took the files out and thumbed through the tabs. Each one had a name on it; some he recognized, and some he didn’t. Some names shocked the crap out of him.

  “There’s thirty-two files there. Twelve are dead now, counting John Duffy and Archbishop Keating,” Charles informed him. “Seven are in their late eighties or nineties and don’t participate anymore. Thirteen are still active.”

  “This is quite a bit of information,” said Myra. “Give me a minute. I have to think.” He stood up and turned toward the big window in his office overlooking the city of St. John’s. He nervously ran his hand over his face, pulling at the short hairs in his moustache, his form of a nervous tick. He turned around and looked at Horan. “Do you know Mary Power or Kevin Macy?”

  “No, they don’t ring a bell. Why?”

  “Take a second to think about it. Mary Power was a school principal in Labrador, and Kevin Macy is a child psychiatrist.” He thumbed through the names on the files as he asked Charles.

  “No. Nothing. I have never heard of them.”

  “Okay.” Myra stood next to his desk. “I don’t know how to thank you, Father Horan. I can say you have saved a lot of children by coming forward with this information. I’m going to need some time to go through these files, and I will need to talk to you again.” He looked at the files, and then at Charles. “Thank you. I know this wasn’t easy.”

  Father Horan lowered his head. “I should have done it years ago. I do have one request, Sgt. Myra. Can I speak to you alone?” He nervously glanced at Sister Pius, who was still in shock.

  “Sure. Sister Pius, would you mind?” Myra opened the door to his office and caught the attention of an investigator on his team. “Would you mind walking Sister Pius to the front lobby for me, please?”

  “Yes, sir.” The investigator opened the main door and led the nun away.

  Myra went back in his office and closed the door. He lifted the chair that Sister Pius was sitting in and turned it toward Charles so they could be face to face.

  “I didn’t want to discuss this in front of Sister Pius,” Charles confessed. “I want to ask you something.” His hands were still trembling, and a bead of sweat trickled down from his forehead onto his cheek. He wiped it away and stared at the floor. “I am afraid. I am afraid I am going to fall.”

  “What do you mean?” Myra prodded.

  “I am afraid one day I will look at a young boy and something evil will stir in me.” He lifted his head and looked at the sergeant. “How often do victims continue the circle of abuse?”

  Myra was beginning to realize how isolated Keating had kept Horan. “I don’t have statistics on that, Charlie. I can tell you that every time I read a pedophile their rights, they start singing from the same old book with the ‘I w
as molested as a child’ song.”

  He knew that wasn’t the answer Horan was looking for. “But I say to them, if you were molested, then you know how it feels. You know how powerless a child is under an adult. You know how alone it feels. What happened to you wasn’t your choice, and you did not deserve it. So, if you were a victim, why did you, as an adult, choose to do it to someone else?” Myra could feel the sickening gall rise in his throat. “I don’t care what their childhoods were like. They were adults when they chose to molest. I charge that adult.”

  Father Horan pushed his chair back and stood up. Myra did the same thing. “I never molested anyone, Sgt. Myra. I will take a polygraph on that one. I never wanted this.”

  “I know, Charlie. I have always known that.” Myra couldn’t help but ask, “Do you believe God created Wormwood to kill pedophiles and stop the sexual torture of children?”

  “Yes, I do,” Horan answered without missing a beat. “At least I hope so, because I prayed for years that He would.”

  “Charlie, you need to get some intensive counselling to go on with your life. A good counsellor can help you sort out your feelings. Just because you were a victim does not mean you will become a pedophile.”

  “If the thought ever crossed my mind, I would kill myself,” replied Father Horan.

  Myra was not expecting that answer.

  “Like I said, Charlie, get some help.” As Sgt. Myra walked Father Horan out of the building, he wondered if it was Charles who had started the Wormwood rumours.

  22

  Presentation Mother House is in the centre of St. John’s and part of a larger number of buildings that create a complex of ecclesiastical structures including the Basilica of St. John the Baptist. The cornerstone was laid by Archbishop John Thomas Mullock in 1850, and it was officially opened in 1853. The building remains an active Presentation convent and has been turned into a nursing home for aging nuns. A little-known fact is that the Mother House is home to one of the most perfect gems of religious art in the world—The Veiled Virgin, created by internationally acclaimed Italian sculptor Giovanni Strazza from Milan. It is considered a perfect wonder of the sculptor’s art.