Operation Wormwood

by Helen C. Escott

  Father Peter Cooke needed to hide from the world for a little while. He sat quietly in the chapel gazing at The Veiled Virgin. The basilica was full day and night with a steady stream of people. He had to bring in extra volunteers just to empty the donation boxes in the back of the church. His office and mobile phones rang constantly. The church’s elderly secretary was at her wits’ end. Between media requests for interviews and parishioners’ requests for blessings, he could not keep up. He was overwhelmed. The archdiocese sent over two additional priests just to have someone in the basilica every day to talk to people. But the public wanted him. He had become a rock-star priest. Something he never thought possible.

  “Not words but deeds,” said a woman’s voice, cutting into his thoughts.

  Father Cooke turned quickly to see Sister Pius standing in the doorway of the chapel.

  “It’s the motto of the Presentation Sisters,” she informed him.

  Father Cooke looked back toward The Veiled Virgin.

  “It means we not only talk the talk, but we walk the walk.” Father Cooke was deep in thought. “Her facial expression has a holy, ethereal quality, doesn’t it?” Sister Pius continued. “Many people say it leaves them with a deeply religious experience, unique and lasting.”

  The priest sighed heavily.

  “Many people believe that if they say the rosary on their knees in front of this statue, the Virgin Mary will answer their prayers.” The nun sat in the pew next to Father Cooke. “But your prayers have already been answered. Maybe you are here just to marvel at the beautiful marble and glow of her face. It is quite stunning, isn’t it?”

  “The church is my happy place,” he finally responded. “Growing up, my friends had dreams of being doctors, lawyers, architects. Not me. I wanted to be a priest. My family thought I was nuts. My father threatened to disown me. My mother begged me to reconsider. They thought it was a phase and it would pass. I knew it wouldn’t. It was a calling. I could feel the Lord calling me, pulling me into this life.”

  Sister Pius had known Father Cooke for many years. She had no doubt he was telling the truth. “I felt the same the way,” she told him.

  “I’d become so disillusioned in the past ten years. I believe in the Lord’s work. I couldn’t understand why others couldn’t.”

  Sister Pius sat silently, letting him talk.

  “I was so frustrated by the Vatican’s lack of engagement with their people. They have no idea what it is like to be a priest on the front line. A priest with a big empty church barely able to scrape enough money out of the collection plate to pay the heat bill.” He turned to face Sister Pius. “Did I do wrong, Mary? Did I betray those who confessed their deepest sins to me?”

  “You certainly got what you prayed for,” the nun answered.

  “Did I break my vow? These sinners came to my confessional to unburden their souls and confess their sins to me as a priest in the Sacrament of Penance. That’s a very sacred trust. Each one of them knows that in the confessional they are not speaking to me, but through me to the Lord.”

  Sister Pius listened intently. “Sometimes I am glad the Church does not allow women to hear confessions. I don’t know if I could hear the sins of a murderer or sexual deviant and not make a call to the police. I don’t know if I could put my vows before the protection of people.”

  “Most days you just hear the same thing,” said Father Cooke. “They cheated on a spouse, stole from their workplace, spread gossip. It’s so easy to tell them to say ten Hail Marys and do something good for somebody. But then there are the times I struggle.” He stood up and began pacing back and forth in front of The Veiled Virgin. “When I spoke to the media and the parishioners, I didn’t give any names or dates of offences. I spoke in general terms. No one was identified. I know the Code of Canon Law states it is a crime for a confessor in any way to betray a penitent by word or in any other manner or for any reason.

  “I asked each penitent to go to the police and confess their sins to truly unburden their souls and give their victims closure. They weren’t interested. It left me wondering if they were sitting in my confessional to unburden their souls or to torture me, knowing I could do nothing with the information.” He turned to face Sister Pius. “I recognized some of the voices, you know. Having to smile and act normal in front of someone you know just raped a child and intends to do it again is a crucifixion of another kind.”

  “What are you hearing from the new archbishop?” Sister Pius inquired.

  “I am being investigated internally for directly violating the seal of confession. If I am found guilty, it could mean anything from automatic excommunication down to being punished in other ways—like being sent to a monastery for perpetual penance.”

  “Harsh,” she said, already knowing the answer to her question. “So, when a priest molests children, they send him to a monastery for counselling or to another parish to hide him, but they excommunicate a priest who protects children?”

  Father Cooke sat in the pew again with his head in his hands. “I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how to be anything but a priest. I honestly thought I would be buried with my collar on. I never meant any harm.”

  “I am leaving the church,” she said flatly.

  “What? Why? I hope this circus I created is not responsible for your decision.”

  “No, it’s something I’ve thought about for a long time. I think I always knew at some point I would retire from the church. Hang up my habit and live a normal life. I think I would like to own a dog and a cat.”

  “A dog and a cat.” He could see it. “That sounds lovely, doesn’t it?”

  “Peter,” Sister Pius said, taking his hand in hers, “no matter what happens, I want you to know that I support you and I know your heart is pure. I know you had no ill intent.”

  He could feel tears well up in his eyes and did his best to keep them from rolling down his face. He looked toward The Veiled Virgin. “I don’t have many friends. Being a priest is a solitary choice for a man, but I have always counted you as a good friend.”

  She put her arms around him and hugged him tightly. After a few seconds, she let go and stood up. “Not words but deeds, remember. I have some rounds to do on the nursing home floor.”

  “Thank you, Sister,” he said sincerely.

  “For what?”

  “For hearing the confession of a tormented priest.” He grinned.

  “Any time, Father Cooke, any time.” As she left the chapel, she saw him get down on his knees and begin to pray the rosary. She hoped that The Veiled Virgin would answer his prayers as She had done for so many others.

  * * * * *

  The archdiocese office was busier than it had ever been. The secretary usually took two to three calls a day, and one of them was always from her sister. Lately she was taking over a hundred a day and had gone through stacks of telephone message pads that had been collecting dust in her desk drawer for years. The call that came in that afternoon would be one she would tell everyone about for the rest of her life. Her children, and their children, would talk about this phone call in great detail.

  By the time she opened the door to the archbishop’s office, she was out of breath and her face was red, even though it was only a twelve-foot walk. “Pick up the phone, Archbishop . . . pick up the phone,” she wheezed.

  The archbishop was startled when the door to his office flung open so abruptly. His first thought was his secretary was having a stroke. He jumped up from his chair. “Are you okay?”

  “Pick up the phone,” she yelled. “It’s the Vatican . . . the Vatican!”

  “The Vatican?” he questioned. “Are you sure it’s not another prank call?”

  Her hand clasped her chest. “It’s not just the Vatican . . . it’s the Holy Father! His Holiness is calling you, himself!” she screamed. “Pick up the phon
e, it’s the Vicar of Christ!”

  “Oh, good Lord!” He fell back in the chair. “Why didn’t you say?” He ran his fingers through his hair and straightened his collar as if the Pope could see him through the phone. He was only on the job two weeks; he had started in the midst of a media storm, and now the Pope was on the phone. His hand shook as it picked up the receiver. “Your Holiness,” he bellowed into the phone, then, without realizing it, he blessed himself. “It is such an honour, Your Holiness, it is such an honour.”

  The conversation lasted almost forty-five minutes. By the time both priests hung up the phone, there was no doubt about what the plan was for Father Peter Cooke.

  23

  Sgt. Nicholas Myra had meticulously planned every detail in the execution of Operation Wormwood. Thirty marked and unmarked patrol cars sat waiting in the RCMP’s hidden garage in the basement of their headquarters. Each contained two police officers, some in plain clothes, some in uniform. At precisely 0900 hours, the garage door would open and the cars would begin to roll. Search warrants had been obtained, affidavits had been sworn to, and charges had been laid.

  Myra wanted the takedown to happen after children went to school. He didn’t want a child seeing a parent being taken out of the house in handcuffs. Social workers and police officers were waiting in secure rooms in the schools of the children affected. School principals were only notified when the teams showed up that morning. They were told nothing more than it was a police operation and they needed several secure rooms in which to interview children. The police commander in each school informed the principal that at 9:00 a.m. they would be given a list. They would then go to each classroom, ask for the child on the list, and bring them to an assigned room. The investigators and social workers would then interview each child to find out if they were victims of abuse or not. Those victimized would be rescued and sent to secure locations where experts in the child abuse field would be waiting to work with them. Those not abused would be sent to Child Protection Services until their homes were cleared for their return.

  At 0800 hours, Myra called out, “Room.”

  Police officers from both forces lined up in three ranks.

  “Attention!”

  The shuffle of uniforms was followed by one loud bang as their boots hit the pavement in the garage.

  “At ease . . . stand easy.”

  Myra stood before the rank and file. His six-foot-four stature, broad build, and uniform gave him instant respect. A million thoughts were running around in his head, but he had no trouble keeping them all in order as he made his announcements to the officers.

  “At exactly nine hundred hours, the garage doors will open and your cars will leave in single file. We have thirty targets this morning. Each of you has been given a target’s file that contains their name, address, work address, photo, and a list of identifying marks such as tattoos and scars. When you leave this building, you will not use lights or sirens. We will not draw any attention to ourselves.”

  Each officer hung on to his every word. They felt honoured to be part of this operation. They knew this one was for the history books.

  “We do not use force unless we are challenged. Some of the targets have guns in their houses, and they are the files with the red tabs. No one leaves here without their bulletproof vest. You will park as close to the target’s home as possible. Each team will go to the front door together, one will knock or ring the doorbell, the other will stand out of sight. When the door opens, if you recognize your target, you ask him to identify himself, then inform him he is under arrest and what the charge is. If someone else answers the door, you ask for your target by name. If he comes to the door, you follow the same procedure. Once the target is in the patrol car, you radio back to the operational command centre. All targets are to be transported to the RNC headquarters for processing.” Myra was mentally ticking off boxes in his head from his operational plan.

  “If the target is not home, notify the command centre immediately, then began the search pattern outlined in your file starting with the target’s workplace, known hangouts, and friends. When arrested, you notify Command. Once the targets are in custody, the search teams will enter the homes.”

  Myra turned his focus to the second phase of the operation. “Search teams, when you enter the homes, we are looking for computers, cellphones, cameras—even if they are old and don’t look used—memory sticks, file folders, photo albums. Take your time searching each home. Look for hidden places like attics, ceilings with tiles that can be pushed up, secret compartments under a computer desk. Everything you find is to be placed in an evidence bag, sealed, then marked with your name, the date, and time.” He pulled himself to his full height and looked more menacing than ever before. “I cannot stress the importance of collecting the evidence properly. Read the search warrants and make sure you abide by the law. I want this done properly.”

  Myra looked into the faces of the police officers in front of him. “Attention!” The room reverberated with the sound of boots on the pavement. “Godspeed and be careful. Dismissed.” The police officers fell out and went back to their teams, each one going through exactly what they had to do.

  Father Charles Horan’s files were a gift from God, Sgt. Myra thought. The archbishop had kept detailed records on everyone in his ring. He had victims’ names, dates, where the offence happened, and who was in the room. Myra figured he was using the information to blackmail or control his pedophile ring.

  * * * * *

  As soon as Father Horan and Sister Pius had left the building, Sgt. Myra went back to his office and spent the rest of the day combing through the files. He called in all members of his team, and they took each file and dissected it according to their specialty. The analysts began the task of putting the information in order and creating a timeline. They began to find links to other pedophile rings operating both inside and outside the province. They outlined links between suspects and tracked past and current charges. The profiler was building a pedophile profile based on everything in the files. He began to analyze the patterns of each suspect, tracking their personality traits and behavioural patterns. The investigators were given a list of victims’ names. They were tasked with tracking each one down, explaining the situation, taking statements, and hopefully convincing them to testify.

  Myra informed Charles that he may have to testify, even though both of his abusers had died. He could be called as a witness to testify on where all the files came from, Myra explained.

  After he finished reading the files, he had called Charles and had a long conversation with him. Myra knew Horan was fragile, and he didn’t want to push him.

  “I am completely destroyed as a person,” Father Horan confessed. “I can never be whole again.”

  Myra tried to convince him that with intensive counselling he could learn to live with his past.

  “The anguish I feel is indescribable,” he cried. “My childhood was stolen, and now I fear I may offend myself.”

  “You’re not a pedophile, Charlie,” Sgt. Myra reassured him. “You’re a victim. You have to keep telling yourself that.” He feared Charles would never be able to look in a mirror without seeing a monster in the making.

  * * * * *

  Nicholas Myra’s phone alarm went off at 0850 hours. “To your cars,” he shouted. Police officers hurried to their patrol vehicles, anxiously awaiting the order to move. At exactly 0900 hours, the garage door opened. Sgt. Myra, along with his command team, stood next to the open door and watched the cars drive past until the last one left. By 0930 hours, the first target was picked up without incident. By noon, all twenty living pedophiles were in custody and being questioned. The media, who had been tipped off, waited at the side door of RNC headquarters, taking pictures of each handcuffed target as they were taken in for processing by two police officers.

  Sgt. Myra and his team were preparing
for the news conference that would follow the arrest. They had to ensure that all the targets were formally charged before releasing the names. Once the news release was given the final approval, the notice went out to the media that the news conference would take place in the RNC media relations room.

  Sgt. Myra prepared for the conference, reading and rereading the news release to make sure he didn’t fumble a word or mispronounce a name. The door to his office opened, and an officer said, “They are ready for you.” As he walked toward the media room, his cellphone began to ring. He took it out of his holster and looked at the name on display: charlie horan. He put the phone back in the holster and made a mental note to return the call as soon as the media circus died down. He would offer to meet him later for a coffee to make sure he was all right. Myra wanted to thank him in person for all his help. Without Charles, the police would never have been able to take this entire ring down and rescue the victims.

  Myra walked into the media room. The bright lights and flashes blinded him. He made his way to the podium and laid down the ground rules. He would first read the news release and then answer questions.

  * * * * *

  Father Horan got Sgt. Myra’s voice mail. He sat in the archbishop’s empty office and picked up a framed picture from the archbishop’s desk. Charles remembered the day it was taken. He had mixed emotions. He kissed the picture and put it back on the desk. So many bad memories here. So many good memories here. He stood up and looked into the mirror the archbishop kept on the back of his office door. He liked the way he looked in his black cassock with the clerical collar and his freshly pressed black pants.