Operation Wormwood

by Helen C. Escott

  * * * * *

  Father Cooke stood pacing in the room behind the Marian Chapel, rehearsing his sermon for Father Horan’s service. He tried hard to focus, but his hands were shaking. His own future was hanging in the wind. He thought how ironic it was that his last duty as a priest would be to conduct a funeral for another priest. Every time his cellphone rang he jumped, expecting it to be the archbishop’s secretary requesting he come to the office.

  The news of Father Horan’s suicide ran through the religious ranks. Never had anyone in the order heard of a priest dying by suicide. Father Cooke thought back on Horan’s relationship with Archbishop Keating. They seemed unusually close. It always gave him a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. Now rumours were flying about just how unusual that relationship was.

  He didn’t know Horan that well. The young priest had kept to himself. Father Cooke always got the feeling Father Horan didn’t trust him, and he didn’t know why. He respected Horan’s boundaries and did not pursue a friendship. Still, he was honoured when Sister Pius asked him to do the funeral service. He was worried that other clergy would not respect him now or question his motives after the spectacle he had made of himself in the basilica.

  The chapel slowly began to fill to its ninety-seat capacity. Sister Pius was the second to arrive. She walked in with her head down and didn’t notice the police officer sitting alone in the back of the chapel. She sat in the front row and immediately got on her knees and began to pray. Dr. Luke Gillespie and Nurse Agatha Catania came in next. They both nodded to Nick and slid into his pew. After exchanging pleasantries, they sat in silence. Luke was surprised to see Mrs. Furey come in next. She nodded at him and sat in the pew in front of his.

  Sgt. Myra kept his eyes on Sister Pius. He stiffened when he noticed her shoulders shaking, indicating that she was crying. He decided to join her in the front row, and as he entered, she looked up at him. He took her hand and held it during the sixty-minute service.

  The chapel began to fill with other priests and nuns who were there to show their support and share their pain. Father Horan’s death was a death in the family. Whether they knew him or not, they had lost a brother, and they grieved their loss.

  Sgt. Myra noticed a uniform out of the corner of his eye. He turned around to see three rows filled with the members of his unit—police officers he had worked with—and Chief DeSilva. As he watched them fill the pews, a lump formed in his throat. Myra remembered he, too, was part of a family, and he was humbled by their attendance. He knew they were there for him. He turned back toward the altar, still wondering how they could award him such an honour while knowing it had cost the life of this priest.

  Father Cooke donned his holy vestment, took a deep breath, and stood at the back of the chapel. As the organist played “Be Not Afraid,” he walked in behind the few altar boys still volunteering at the church. He took his place at the altar and observed the small crowd in front of him. The funeral service was the same as every other he had conducted throughout his career, but his sermon was different.

  He wished he had listened to his gut about Father Horan. Maybe if he tried harder, he could have helped him. Maybe Charles didn’t trust him because he thought Father Cooke was a pedophile, too. It made him sick to his stomach. He felt the same as every clergy in the room. Like he should have done more. Like he should have investigated the whispers about Charles’s relationship with the archbishop.

  There was a lot of guilt to go around in this small chapel.

  Father Cooke tried to explain during his sermon why Father Horan had taken his own life. He told the story of a friend who boarded a plane with his young child. During the flight, they experienced severe turbulence. The child became very frightened and started to cry. The father comforted the child until the turbulence stopped, and then the child went back to playing. On the flight back from their vacation, the child became very anxious when he had to board the plane and began to cry. People around them rolled their eyes in disgust at this unruly child. There were comments of, “What a spoiled child!” “Why can’t you get him under control?” And, of course, the angry stares and judgment. The father sat there with the child and rocked him, comforting him.

  Father Cooke said, “The child’s father knew how he’d gotten that way. The father knew it was his experience with turbulence that created the anxiety and made the child cry. He knew the best thing he could do for his son was ignore everyone around them and sit and comfort his child until he stopped crying.” He then said, “God the Father knew why Father Horan had such anxiety. He knew how he’d gotten that way. And he is now in his Father’s arms being comforted without judgment.”

  Sister Pius began to weep even more, and Sgt. Myra put his strong arms around her, offering her comfort. He knew she was thinking of yesterday, holding Charles’s lifeless body on the stretcher. He knew the image would never leave her mind . . . or his.

  After the service, everyone sadly walked out of the chapel. The sisters at the Mother House had arranged for a tea and cookie reception. The clergy all attended. The police officers went back to work. Dr. Gillespie, Nurse Catania, and Mrs. Furey walked out together and headed back to the hospital. Sister Pius and Sgt. Myra stayed in the chapel.

  “I thought he was ready to move on with his life,” she confessed.

  “He may have had this planned all along,” replied Myra.

  “Do you think so?” the nun asked, while her mind went over every conversation she’d had with him over the past week. “I didn’t see this coming. I missed something.”

  “You didn’t miss anything,” he reassured her. “I think Charlie was on a mission. I think when he turned the files over to me his mind was made up.”

  “Why?” she sobbed. “Why? I had offered him a safe place. He could have gone on with his life.”

  “He was broken. He didn’t know how to fix himself.” Myra’s guilt only grew with each word.

  “I am broken now, too,” said Sister Pius, leaning heavily on Myra’s arm. “Help me back to the Mother House, please. I need to lie down.”

  Along the walk, Sgt. Myra lamented on a past belief. “Sister, my mother used to say everything happens for a reason. Do you believe that?”

  “No, I don’t. I believe good things happen to bad people, and bad things happen to good people. There’s no rhyme or reason to it. The universe is a random place, but I do believe you get back what you put out.” She let out a heavy sigh. “Sgt. Myra, you of all people should know the difference on that one.”

  “Yes, I guess I suppose I should.”

  As he left the Mother House, the grey sky that had been threatening rain all morning opened and began to pour. He walked past the statue of the Virgin Mary in the front yard. The rain looked like tears streaming down Her face. Even She was disappointed in him today. Even She judged his selfishness.

  26

  Father Peter Cooke left the Marian Chapel and returned to the room behind it. He removed his holy vestment. Just as he returned the garment to his closet, the new archbishop’s assistant appeared in the doorway. “The archbishop would like to see you as soon as possible.”

  He nodded. “I will be there shortly.”

  After she walked away, he closed the door to get a few minutes to himself. His heart was racing, and his hands where shaking. He got down on his knees in the middle of the room and began to pray the Lord’s Prayer. “Our Father, who art in Heaven, hallowed be Thy name; Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done, on earth as it is in Heaven; Give us this day our daily bread and forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us; And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil.”

  His hands were clasped tightly in front of his heart and his head bowed with his eyes closed as he asked the Lord to be with him. Protect him. Forgive him. With each request, he prayed the Lord’s Prayer repeatedly. Finally, he opened his eyes and s
tood up. He took a deep breath and released it, trying to slow his heart rate. He opened the door and walked from the basilica to the office of the archbishop at the Pastoral Centre on Military Road, minutes from the church. It was lightly raining as he passed the town clock in the East Tower. The clock struck noon, and the sweet sounds of the great Joy Bells ringing could be heard for miles around.

  The Archdiocese of St. John’s had a Catholic population of 111,000 in thirty-six parishes. The total population of the geographic area was 213,000, meaning 52.1% of the population of the area self-reported as Roman Catholic. Since Father Cooke’s news conference, that number had grown well beyond the last census. Churches within the thirty-six parishes were full of people day and night. The basilica now had volunteers and paid staff on hand every day doing crowd control. This was an excellent example of “Be careful what you pray for.”

  Father Cooke was shaking, wet, and cold when he entered the archbishop’s office. A chill had entered his bones and ran through his spine. He could hear his teeth chattering as he greeted the archbishop with “Your Excellency.” The archbishop pointed toward a chair in front of his desk, and Father Cooke sat down.

  “Do you know that the word ‘news’ is actually an acronym?” he quizzed Father Cooke.

  “No, Your Grace. I did not.”

  “It stands for north, east, west, and south. Father, I had an interesting phone call this morning.”

  Father Cooke shifted his weight in the chair. His throat was too dry to respond. The archbishop continued.

  “The Most Holy Father called me himself. Can you imagine picking up the phone and hearing the voice of His Holiness calling from the Vatican?” The archbishop himself was now visibly shaken.

  “No, Your Grace, I could not.” The impact of being fired by the Pope felt like a million-pound weight on Cooke’s shoulders. “His Holiness is firing me?”

  “Firing you?” The archbishop was surprised. “He is not firing you. He is hiring you. The Most Holy Father himself called with strict orders to promote you to the position of media relations spokesperson for the archdiocese. You will now be given the title Very Reverend Peter Cooke.”

  Cooke sat stunned in the chair, trying to grasp what the archbishop was saying. His heart was beating so rapidly he was sure the archbishop could hear it.

  “Do you understand what I am saying?” The archbishop was trying to wrap his own mind around this new way of doing things. “The Holy Father wants you to continue what you are doing.”

  “He is not firing me?” Father Cooke asked in shock.

  “No, not at all. The Holy Father reports that, since your news conference, people throughout the world have been rushing to churches and filling the pews to capacity. My fellow, you have brought people back to the church in droves!”

  “I didn’t think about the impact outside of my own parish,” Father Cooke sputtered.

  “North, east, west, and south!” laughed the archbishop. “Your little media coup was broadcast worldwide. News stations throughout the world are playing and replaying your news conference and impromptu Mass. The Pope himself has called you ‘The Rock-Star Priest.’”

  Father Cooke could not control his shaking. He stood up and began pacing the room. “What do I do now? I didn’t think beyond the news conference. I really didn’t think the media would be that interested in what I had to say. I hoped they would, but I never imagined this would happen.”

  “Well, I have been instructed to hire you a digital media communications strategist to handle your media needs, and an assistant to handle your phone calls. My assistant has a message from a persistent fellow who wants to be your agent. You should call him.” The archbishop handed him a pink message slip with a name and number on it.

  “So, you want me to continue?” Father Cooke asked the archbishop. “Because I don’t know what my next move should be.”

  “No, I want to fire you for going behind my back and causing this circus, which I am sure will implode at some point, but the Holy Father sees value in what you are doing, and he wants you to continue. Surely you had a plan from the beginning?”

  “My only plan was to bring people back to the church. To apologize for the atrocities that some priests have committed against children.”

  “Well, you’d better have an Act II,” the archbishop warned him. “Your audience is waiting for you.”

  Father Cooke was lost. This was not what he was expecting. “What would Jesus do?” he asked himself out loud. “Speak to me, dear Jesus. Guide me through this.”

  “I am told to have your staff in place immediately, so we are not going through the normal hiring procedures. I have engaged a headhunting firm to get people in place by next week. The Vatican has already put the money into our budget to cover all your costs. You will be on a separate financial code than the rest of us. You are now working directly for the Vatican. An office has been cleaned out for you down the hall from mine.”

  “When should I move there?” Father Cooke felt like his questions were almost childish at this point.

  “Today,” sighed the archbishop. “Do me the professional courtesy of keeping me informed, please. You now report to a public relations cardinal in Rome. He will be calling you soon.”

  “I am not reporting to you?”

  “No. You’re Rome’s problem now.”

  “I never meant to be a problem. I meant to be the solution.”

  “Well, get yourself together. You have a lot of phone calls to return. Please shut the door on your way out.”

  Father Cooke opened the door to the archbishop’s office and looked back at him. “Can I consult with you from time to time, Your Grace?”

  “Keep me informed of everything you are doing, as I asked, but your reporting line is now to the Vatican. You are blessed, my son. The Most Holy Father himself has reached out and appointed you. That does not happen every day.”

  “I don’t know where to start. What about my duties as a priest at the basilica? Can I still say Mass?”

  “No, you won’t have time for those duties anymore now. You’re a rock star! I have already put another priest in charge of Mass.” Cooke wasn’t sure if the archbishop was being sarcastic or helpful.

  “Mass was the best part of my job.” Cooke turned to leave the office.

  “It’s not a job, Father Cooke. It is a way of life.” The archbishop leaned back in his big wooden chair. “Heavy is the head that wears the crown, Father. That’s why Jesus’s head is always bowed down on the Crucifix.”

  “Yes, Your Excellency.” Father Cooke’s head was heavy as he left the room and met the assistant who led him to his new office.

  The archbishop sat in his office remembering a Bible quote from his youth. For the lamb who is in the midst of the throne shall feed them and shall lead them unto living fountains of waters; and God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes.

  He prayed this lamb was not being led to the slaughter.

  27

  If eyes could burn a hole into someone, Mary Power would have an entry wound just above her temple, into her brain.

  This tiny woman was sleeping peacefully with her two hands neatly resting on her chest as if she were lying in a coffin. Sgt. Myra sat in the chair across from her bed, glaring at her. You rotten bitch, he thought. You molested your students, and I’ll prove it if it’s the last thing I do.

  His team had come up short. Mary Power was clean. Not even a traffic ticket. They heard some rumours, but nothing concrete. Myra instructed them to start again. He thought up another investigative approach. Now his team was pouring through school yearbooks from the junior and senior high schools where she had taught or had served as principal. They were instructed to compare each class picture to the class picture from the next year. They were looking for any student who was missing from the next year’s class pictures. If t
hey could find girls who were missing from those pictures, they were to cross-reference the names with criminal records. He was sure he would find her victims that way. His experience as a seasoned child exploitation investigator taught him that young victims of abuse, especially sexual abuse, tended to lash out by running away from home, quitting school, and committing criminal acts. It seemed to be the only way to get someone to listen to them.

  Mary Power woke with the feeling someone was watching her. She looked toward the police officer sitting next to her bed. “I wasn’t expecting company. How nice of you, Sgt. Myra, to watch over me.” Her voice was soft and sweet like a dear grandmother speaking to her favourite grandson. Her face was thin and grey from loss of blood. She pulled the wool blanket up around her chest with her long, skinny fingers as if to show her modesty. But Nick knew she was more a wicked witch than a loving grandmother.

  “You’re going to hell, Miss Power, and I am here to drive you.” Nick was out of character today. Normally he wouldn’t talk to a suspect like that. But today he wanted to grab her by the throat and pull the information out of her. He was having a hard time keeping himself in check.

  “Really? How can that be, Sgt. Myra? You have nothing on me, and you won’t get anything on me,” she answered smugly.

  “Oh, I will get something on you,” he snarled back at her. “I won’t stop until you’re in prison.”

  “What? A little old lady like me?” She sat up in the bed, put her hands together, and cracked her knuckles, sending a shiver down Myra’s spine. “I taught discipline, morals, and manners. I turned my girls into ladies.”

  Myra knew she was evil to the core, and he needed to find a way to bring it out into the open. His gut told him Mary Power tortured her students without any sense of regret. He hated when people had that “I am above the law” look to them.