Operation Wormwood

by Helen C. Escott

  By the time Dr. Gillespie made it back to the ICU, Sgt. Myra was already sitting in the private room reserved for families of the palliative care patients. “I was hoping to find you here,” he greeted the police sergeant. “You’re just the guy I’m looking for.”

  “And they say miracles don’t happen anymore.” Myra grinned under his thick moustache.

  Dr. Gillespie closed the door and sat across from Sgt. Myra. “Can you find out some information on the federal Minister of Health for me?”

  Myra’s ears perked up. “Are you doing investigations now? Should I scrub up for surgery?”

  “No, thanks. I wouldn’t want your job for all the money in the world,” Gillespie answered. “I’d rather be up to my elbows in blood and guts than have to put on a uniform and do what you do.”

  “It does weigh you down at times. Although I can’t imagine being up to your elbows in blood and guts makes for a restful night’s sleep either.”

  “I guess we all have our crosses to bear.” Luke sighed. “Can you use your investigative skills to find out some information about the minister?”

  “You mean you want me to snoop around?” Myra cocked his head to the side. “That requires fewer skills.”

  Gillespie filled him in. “We’re having trouble getting any information from the minister’s office. I thought it was just my office, but I’ve had several conference calls with our national medical group, and we can’t seem to get any help from his office.”

  “Maybe he’s busy. You know politicians have staff to do all the work. They’re just figureheads. Bureaucrats run the country.”

  “At the beginning I was thinking it was caught somewhere in the system, too, but the national chair for our group has sent correspondence directly to Minister McKenzie, and he doesn’t get any response.”

  “So, you want me to snoop around and gather information on the federal Minister of Health because he doesn’t respond to his email? Should I investigate the prime minister while I’m at it?” Nicholas Myra knew how hard political investigations were to conduct, especially on the down-low.

  “No,” Gillespie said. “But there is a rumour he sexually assaulted a young boy years ago and it was swept under the rug.”

  “People make accusations about famous people all the time. Ninety-nine per cent of the time it comes from jealousy or hateful people who just don’t like to see anyone else get ahead.” Myra had seen this happen many times before. “I once had a call from a lady who demanded I make arrangements to have Elvis’s body exhumed and a DNA test done because she was convinced he was her father. There are lots of nutbars out there.”

  “The rumour is the minister paid off the accuser,” Gillespie continued. “But where there’s smoke, there’s fire, as you would say.”

  “Okay, you have to stop hanging out with me, or maybe you’re watching too many TV crime shows.”

  “Come on, I know your spidey senses are tingling.” Gillespie could see the wheels turning in Myra’s brain.

  “Well, normally when one victim of sexual abuse comes forward, I believe there are ten who are afraid to speak up,” Myra said. “Do you know where the victim made the accusation? Canada is a big country.”

  “I’m not sure, but I would try his political riding. He’s from Nova Scotia.” Luke knew Myra couldn’t resist.

  “I’ll make some calls.” Myra’s gut told him there was more to this. “By the way, did you run any tests on the blood of the Wormwood patients?”

  “It’s called PPXI now, and yes I did,” Gillespie informed him. “No poison or any foreign substance showed up in their bloodwork. They didn’t even test positive for illegal drugs. The most I found was cold medication.”

  “I don’t like medical terms. I am calling it Wormwood.” Myra knew the name scared child molesters. “That’s interesting. So, that proves no one is poisoning them. Now I have to look at other ways this could be happening.”

  “So, you’re still not buying the God theory?”

  “Atheists like us are going to have a hard time swallowing that one.” With the poison theory off the table, Myra didn’t know what he believed anymore.

  Gillespie agreed. “It would be professional suicide if I announced I even remotely considered the God theory.”

  “What about past patients? Are you finding out anything in that area?” Myra knew he would have to get a warrant to officially get the records.

  “I have a research team going through emergency’s records in Newfoundland and Labrador. We found ten patients who may meet the criteria for PPXI, but they were not admitted. Some of their charts said it was pneumonia or a stomach flu. One patient was a hemophiliac, so that would explain his bleeding. All ten talked about pain in their joints, nosebleeds, thirst, weight loss, etc.” Gillespie shrugged his shoulders. “Nothing screamed ‘new disease’ to any of the attending doctors or nurses.”

  “Any of them die?”

  “My team is in the process of following up with phone calls to the patients.” Gillespie stopped, realizing past patient information couldn’t be shared. “You’re going to have to get a warrant if you want the results of that research. I can’t share it with you.”

  “I understand,” said Myra. “It’s different circumstances when you’re investigating a past investigation as opposed to a current investigation.”

  “I’m okay with the professional courtesy of sharing information among professionals, but the results of the search and the names of past patients are something that you would be better off going through the proper channels on.”

  “In the meantime, I am here on official police business. I am formally charging Mary Power with sexual assault on a minor in her care.”

  “You’re going to have a hard time doing that. She’s in rough shape,” Dr. Gillespie confided.

  “Really? She was fine when I left here yesterday. What happened?”

  “I don’t know. Last night she took a violent turn for the worse. Her body has been drained of blood.” Gillespie noticed the look on Myra’s face. “Why are you smirking? You never smirk.”

  “I assure you, Doctor, I do not smirk,” Myra said. “I interviewed one of her victims last night. We had a long talk. I am sure her victim thought about the abuse all night.”

  “Oh my God!” Luke stood up. “You’re testing Father Cooke’s theory! You made a victim relive the abuse to torture her perpetrator!”

  “You don’t believe in God,” Myra answered. “You’re a man of science. So, Father Cooke’s theory should be bullshit to you.”

  “Is that what you did?” The doctor wasn’t sure what he believed anymore.

  “I was investigating a historical crime. I questioned a victim about her abuse, and we talked for a long time about a lot of allegations against Ms. Power. If she took a turn for the worse while one of her victims was reliving her abuse . . .” He paused. “That’s mere coincidence.”

  Dr. Gillespie opened the door. “We can look in on her, but if I feel she is not coherent enough to understand what you’re saying, you will be escorted out.” He pointed toward her room. “Do you understand?”

  “I do.” Sgt. Myra followed him toward Mary Power’s room. Suddenly, the ICU was on full alert. Dr. Gillespie was running toward Mary Power’s room, and nurses were following. “She’s started again!” he heard Nurse Agatha yell.

  Sgt. Myra stood outside the hospital room and watched through the viewing window as a full team of medical specialists frantically worked to keep Mary Power alive. Her hospital gown and blankets were covered in her blood.

  “That’s not her blood. It’s the blood of all her victims,” Myra said under his breath. He played back the recording in his head of Rosemary telling him about Suzie Rich. He imagined the small child being overpowered and beaten by this woman who had all the control. Mary Power still wore the tiny
pink bow in her hair.

  For a brief second, he caught Mary Power staring directly at him. He put his left hand over the sore knuckles on his right hand and cracked them, making a sound that rose above the commotion in the room. The last thing she saw was Sgt. Nicholas Myra mouthing the words, Your ride is here.

  31

  Sister Pius sat on her double bed looking around at the pale yellow walls. The nun had lived in this bedroom for the past thirty years. She looked up at the large crack that ran across the white plastered ceiling. It was there when she first moved in. The room was only painted once to her recollection. The walls were bare except for a gold-coloured crucifix that hung above the head of her bed and a calendar pinned to the wall over a small brown desk. She took her vow of poverty to heart.

  She had very little to pack. Her navy blue tunics, white blouses, and veils were neatly folded at the foot of her bed. Sister Pius suspected they would be recycled and given to whoever needed them. She had a small brown worn leather suitcase with two brass locks on the front, which she had last used when moving into the room. Standing up, she lifted the case off her bed. She looked out the bedroom window for the last time, peering down into the garden at the front of the Mother House. There stood a white statue of Our Lady of Fatima surrounded by three little children. The statues were grey when she first moved in. A couple of years ago, the groundskeeper had painted them white to give them new life. She decided, like Our Lady of Fatima, she too needed a good coat of white paint to give her new life.

  The tenants who rented her mother’s house had moved out. Her paperwork was filed with the church, and soon she would no longer be a nun. With the help of some of the Sisters, she was able to modestly furnish the house and turn it into a comfortable home for herself. She was looking forward to her first night in her own home. The home she had grown up in, and now the home that she would most likely die in.

  Sister Pius knew before she went home there was one stop she had to make. She picked up the plastic bag containing the flower arrangement she had bought earlier in the week and drove to the graveyard.

  Holy Sepulchre Cemetery is in Mount Pearl, the adjacent city west of St. John’s. The cemetery is a sacred place to a lot of people, and at Holy Sepulchre, great care goes into the maintenance of the resting places for the faithful departed.

  Father Charles Horan’s grave was in a plot reserved for Catholic priests. At first she thought there would be some push-back on burying him there. She remembered a time when a person who died by suicide would be denied funeral rites and even access for burial in a church cemetery. Many Catholics believed suicide victims were destined to go to hell, but she knew Charlie had already been to hell. No one in the Church so much as batted an eye when she planned his funeral. She, much like the other nuns and priests, no longer worried about the stigma of granting a funeral to a victim of suicide. As she put it to the archbishop, “They all knew Charlie was still subject to God’s love and mercy and therefore entitled to a proper funeral.”

  She parked her car and walked the short trail to Charles’s gravesite. The earth was still brown below his headstone. She took the flower arrangement and carefully put it in front of the stone. Sister Pius sat down on the dirt and begin to cry.

  “I’m so sorry your life turned out like this,” she sobbed. “I’m so sorry I could not stop this. I’m sorry you thought this was your only way out.” The sorrow overtook her tiny frame, and her body shook. The sun shone in the sky, but an airy chill ran through her body.

  * * * * *

  Kathie Fagan had big dreams for her future. She wanted to be a teacher, to get married, and have children. At sixteen she already had her first boyfriend, whom she was sure she would marry. Six months into the “carefully monitored” relationship, Kathie had missed her period. Then the next month she missed another one. Before she knew it, her little belly was beginning to swell. She confided in her mother, who knew exactly what to do.

  She told her friends she was gaining weight due to poor eating habits. When she reached her seventh month of pregnancy, Kathie was sent to live with her mother’s friend, a spinster who lived in central Newfoundland. It was June, and her school year had finished. In August, she quietly gave birth to a beautiful, healthy baby boy. He was taken from the delivery room and given to a good Catholic couple who would raise him as their own. Kathie was sent back to St. John’s. No one would know the difference. She never saw his face. She returned to school. It was never spoken of again.

  For years she wondered what he looked like. On his birthday she would spend the day in bed, crying. She gave up her dream of getting married and having children. Instead, she felt a calling to do God’s work. In her heart she felt she should be punished for her sins. What she didn’t know was the spinster had kept the baby and raise him until she died. The boy, who was then twelve years old, was placed in an orphanage in St. John’s to ensure his good Catholic education.

  When Kathie first saw him, she recognized his face. There was no mistaking his deep blue eyes. They were the same colour as her own. In the beginning, she thought it was her imagination. She had often seen her son’s face in every child she taught. Then one day she watched him walk down the corridor of the school. It was like seeing the ghost of her father. He walked with the same gait. He had a sadness about him. She thought it had come from being given away at birth. Kathie longed to tell him how much she loved him and how she would regret that decision for the rest of her life.

  But she had never planned to tell him. She never thought she could be part of his life. Then, through what she thought was divine intervention, the moment had presented itself. She would leave the convent and move into the house her mother had left her. She would finally take her baby home and put him in his bed.

  * * * * *

  Sister Pius stood up, wiped the dirt off her pants, and dried her tears. She began the walk back to her car. At the bottom of the short hill next to Charles’s grave, she stopped and looked back. The sun was shining brightly on her flower arrangement.

  The plastic blue flowers spelled one word: Son.

  32

  Sgt. Nicholas Myra sat in the ICU quiet room contemplating the past few days. It had been an hour since Mary Power passed away. Her file was now closed. Rosemary Penashue would never get to look into the eyes of her molester and see justice. He wondered if Power’s death would still give her closure. He had called the penitentiary in Goose Bay and spoken with her for about twenty minutes. Rosemary was glad she didn’t have to testify, but she was quiet. There was no screaming or crying. She stayed very calm. Myra figured she was in shock. When he finished talking to her, he called the warden and requested Rosemary see her counsellor immediately.

  “Penny for your thoughts.” Myra snapped to and looked up see Agatha Catania standing in the doorway.

  “You look more tired than I do,” he said with a grin.

  “Is that a smile? I thought I saw a smile there!” she teased.

  “How are you feeling?” His voice had a genuine sincerity in it. “These deaths are traumatizing. I know what you’re feeling. I have PTSD, and I’m here if you need someone to talk to.” It was the first time he had openly admitted to having post-traumatic stress to anyone other than his psychologist.

  Agatha felt a lump in her throat, and tears filled her eyes. She wiped them away. “No one understands what this is like. You know, my sister says, ‘Time to put on your big-girl pants and put the past behind you’. She is a computer programmer!” She laughed through her tears. “She doesn’t understand that my past is my every day. The trauma never ends. The death never ends.”

  Her tears disarmed Myra, and he didn’t know what to do. Seeing someone else’s weakness reminded him of his own. “I understand what you’re going through.”

  “I know you do.” She smiled. “I need a coffee to snap me back to life. Would you like one?”

  “I
would love a coffee. Just black, please.” Myra always did his best to reach out to others when he recognized symptoms of PTSD, but he always maintained a safe distance so he didn’t trigger his own stressors.

  Agatha returned with a coffee in each hand, followed by Dr. Gillespie, who was carrying his hot tea. She sat next to Sgt. Myra. Even in this traumatic state, she still marvelled at his good looks. His eyes were kind but sad. He had a persona that made her want to cuddle into his chest and encourage him to let his guard down. She didn’t know how to get through to him.

  Luke was spent. Every patient he had in ICU, except for Kevin Macy, had died. He took each death personally. The three of them talked for a long time about their workplace stress and how trauma had become their norm. They took turns giving examples of trauma from their past.

  “This job is not for everyone,” Nick confessed. “People often think they could be a cop or a nurse. Little do they know the pressure and stress that our jobs entail.”

  Luke nodded in agreement. “You’re preaching to the choir, brother.” He threw his paper cup in the garbage bucket and sighed heavily. “We have one last PPXI patient left in ICU. That’s the psychiatrist. Macy. Anyone else coming in with those symptoms will be put in the new isolation ward.”

  “I’m not calling it that,” Myra muttered.

  Luke shrugged. “We can’t call it Wormwood anymore. The medical community worldwide is to start referring to it by its medical name.”

  “Really? I am still calling it Wormwood,” Myra hissed. “So, only the psychiatrist is in your care? Has he been bleeding lately?”

  “No, not at all,” Agatha informed him. “We are only monitoring him. It looks like he’ll be going home soon.” She would be happy to see him leave. She’d had enough of this disease. “Strangest fellow, though.”

  “Why is that?” Myra asked.

  “He shaves his whole body!” She laughed. “Every day, he gets in the shower and shaves. Not just his head and face, either. He shaves his legs, his privates, under his arms. Everywhere.” She found it creepy when she had to take his vitals. “I’ve never seen a man do that.”