Operation Wormwood

by Helen C. Escott

  “That is strange.” Sgt. Myra made a mental note to let his profiler know this information to see what he would make of it.

  “Well, this guy blows Father Cooke’s theory out of the water,” Luke added.

  “How’s that?” Myra was intrigued.

  “Macy has no victims except for a rubber doll who can’t think about abuse. Father Cooke says PPXI patients display the symptoms when their victims relive the abuse. So, Macy proves his theory wrong.”

  Sgt. Myra didn’t believe in Father Cooke’s theory any more than Luke did, but he liked how it sent a ripple of fear through the pedophile community. “Maybe I just haven’t found his victims yet.”

  “Either way, I hope to release him today or tomorrow. He is out of the woods, as far as I am concerned.” Dr. Gillespie was happy to see him go, too.

  “Not as far as I am concerned,” Sgt. Myra reminded him. “He still has to face charges on child pornography. Luke, can I have a word?” He pointed toward the door. “It’s a personal matter,” he said as he looked at Agatha.

  The two men found a private corner a few feet away. “I called a friend in the RCMP in Nova Scotia who did a search for me, and sure enough, Minister McKenzie did have a complaint against him, but it was withdrawn after the victim recanted.”

  “What happened after that?” Luke’s gut told him how that story ended.

  “Nothing. No victim, no crime.” But Myra knew there was more to it. “My friend also told me there were rumours, nothing that could be confirmed. But without a complaint, he can’t investigate.”

  Luke headed back to the ICU, and Sgt. Myra went back to see Agatha. As he walked back into the room, she stood up and walked toward the door. “Well, it’s been nice talking to you. Some of us have to work for a living.”

  “Remember, any time you need to talk, call my cell. I never sleep.” Myra wished he could get his own PTSD symptoms under control.

  For a second, she thought he had let his guard down, but he turned and left the ward.

  A million thoughts swirled around in his brain as Sgt. Myra waited for the elevator door to open. Only the psychiatrist was left from the original four, but he still couldn’t find any real victims. His team was granted a warrant that allowed them to contact his patients, and he personally went to visit the ones he thought had potential to be victims. He was clean. Other than the child pornography on his computer and the sex doll, they had nothing on him.

  The elevator door opened as Agatha’s information kept running through his mind. He shaves his whole body. Why would he shave his whole body every day? Myra knew there was something to that piece of information.

  Then it hit him.

  “No victims have come forward,” he concluded, “because they don’t know he is the perpetrator!”

  He hit the elevator button for the main floor, hoping there would be no stops in between. He had to get back to the office as soon as possible.

  Why hadn’t he seen it before? “Macy shaves his whole body, so he doesn’t leave DNA at a scene.” He ran to his car and called his office. A detective answered the call.

  “We need a warrant for Kevin Macy’s car!” Sgt. Myra yelled in to the phone.

  “Why?” asked the confused detective. “What are we looking for?”

  “A rape kit,” Sgt. Myra answered.

  33

  The heat inside the television studio was stifling. The bright lights were blinding him and creating big white spots every time he blinked. After his news conference on the steps of the Basilica of St. John the Baptist, Father Peter Cooke had done a few stand-up interviews with the local media, and then the church put a halt to it. That was until he met with the new archbishop, who had unveiled Rome’s plan for him.

  Over the past week he was quickly educated on the church’s new strategy. It was a two-part plan: to bring people back to the church and keep them there; and use social and traditional media to their advantage.

  Ever since he announced God had created a disease that killed pedophiles, churches throughout the world were filled during worship times and bustling with people during regular hours. The collection plates were overflowing. It was like manna from heaven. There had even been reports of statues of the Virgin Mary crying in a European country and a statue of Jesus blinking in New York. Miracles, it seemed, were everywhere, and Father Cooke had become the ringmaster to the whole circus.

  This was his first national interview, and it was nerve-wracking. He had spoken to the producer a week ago, who was doing the initial background research. She warned him the deadline was extremely tight. The interview would be only a couple minutes long. Then it would be edited to include some visually compelling footage from his original news conference and footage from stories about churches around the country. The whole thing would air that night during the evening newscast.

  Father Cooke came prepared with his key messages passed down from Rome’s public affairs agency like the Ten Commandments:

  1. The Roman Catholic Church is a welcoming, inclusive,

  open, and family-oriented church that is sorry for the

  abuses of the past.

  2. The church is a place where people who are hurting and

  struggling can find meaning in their lives.

  3. The church is a safe place to seek answers to complex

  questions about religion, life, and personal identity.

  He sat down with his assistant before the interview and rehearsed his answers to the anticipated questions. Father Cooke thought the interview would be positive, because he truly believed God had come back to earth and washed it in the blood of the lamb, but he knew there would be some difficult questions about the Church’s lack of support for abuse victims. He knew he would have the home team advantage when it came to research on the Church. Father Cooke had been a priest for a long time, and he had an honours degree in theology. A reporter given a Google search paragraph on the Catholic Church was not going to stump him.

  He took great care with his appearance, and he’d had a haircut that morning. Father Cooke had even splurged on a professional shave from his new hairstylist. He wore his white Roman collar with a freshly pressed black shirt and pants, and he’d sat down the night before and polished his shoes for a full hour. To get into the mindset of the image he wanted, he even watched the old black-and-white classic The Bells of St. Mary’s so he could imitate the Bing Crosby–Father Chuck O’Malley style. He did voice exercises while getting dressed to ensure he wouldn’t sound monotonous. The priest was glad the interview would be done sitting down. He told himself to focus on his key messages and remember not to swivel in the chair, as the public affairs person at the Vatican had told him.

  Father Cooke tried to keep his thoughts together and his mind calm as producers and studio people pinned a small microphone to his lapel. They had two chairs set up directly across from one another, and he was told there would be a camera over each of their shoulders to tape them separately. He was warned to look directly at the reporter and never to look at the camera. He’d just finished his mic check when the reporter came in and sat in the other chair. She was a young woman, probably in her late twenties. She had short brown hair that stylishly framed her beautiful face, and she wore a smart navy blue pantsuit. He wondered if she was Catholic.

  The young woman immediately reached out her hand to him as she sat. “So nice to meet the real Jesus Christ Superstar!”

  Father Cooke blushed. “Oh . . . no,” he stuttered. “Just a poor, simple priest trying to do God’s work.” He was trying to focus on his breathing and get back his Father O’Malley persona.

  As the producer clipped the mic to her lapel, a makeup person dabbed powder on her face. She kept smiling, singing the lyrics to the rock opera Jesus Christ Superstar to herself.

  “Okay, we are going live in sixty seconds,” t
he producer informed them.

  “Live? You mean you’re taping this to edit for the news? Is that what you mean by live?” Father Cooke felt a flash of panic.

  “Sorry, didn’t they tell you?” the interviewer asked him, pushing the makeup person aside. “We decided to go live on the national feed, then I suppose they will edit it for tonight’s news.” She took out a small mirror and checked her hair and makeup. “Did you want a touch of powder? It takes a way the glare of the lights on your face.”

  “No, no, no.” His forehead was already shiny from the beads of sweat coming down from his hairline.

  “No powder?” She looked at him.

  “No, I don’t want to go live.” He tried to stand up, but the wire from the mic pulled at his collar. “Your producer said this was taped.”

  She reached over and tapped his knee. “Don’t worry. It’s the same story. You know your stuff. Just take a deep breath and relax.”

  “I don’t know if I want to do this.” He suddenly felt like he was going to pass out.

  “Well, we are going live in fifteen seconds, so your choice is a shot of you walking off set or a shot of you sitting down talking with me.” She smiled sweetly at him. “What’s it going to be?”

  Just then he could hear the producer saying, “In three . . . two . . .”

  The reporter looked directly into the camera over Father Cooke’s shoulder. “Today I am speaking with Father Peter Cooke, parish priest at the Basilica of St. John the Baptist and the priest at the centre of the Wormwood storm. Father Cooke held a news conference a few days ago announcing that God was unleashing His plague upon the world and going after pedophiles.” She then turned her eyes toward Father Cooke. “Father Cooke, it’s a pleasure to speak to you.”

  He could feel his whole body shaking, and he stared directly into the camera lens, only managing to let out an awkward smile and a “thank you.” A producer standing just off camera waved his arm, motioning him to look at the reporter, and he jolted his eyes back toward her.

  “Thank you,” he repeated. “It’s a pleasure to be here,” he lied.

  To his surprise, the reporter went for the jugular. “So, God is killing pedophiles. Can you explain that?”

  “Well,” he began, “I believe Wormwood was created by God as a punishment for people who sexually abuse children.”

  “You believe,” she shot back. “Is it that you believe or the Church believes? Which one is it?” Her eyes had daggers in them.

  “Well, we both believe,” he stammered. “I mean to say that everyone in the Church community thought that Wormwood was a natural disaster that would devastate the earth and kill millions. But now we believe it is a disease. A disease that affects only pedophiles!”

  “So, the Church hierarchy is changing the belief they had for thousands of years because of a few bloody noses in Newfoundland?” She showed no sign of stopping, and Father Cooke began to wonder how long this minutes-long interview was really going to last.

  “That’s not true,” he said, leaving his Father O’Malley image back at the beginning of the interview. “I have documented dozens of cases here, and they have also been documented around the world.”

  “Is this a miracle?” She sat back in her chair, looking smug.

  “What?” He was lost.

  “Father, I am asking you if this is a miracle. You know, like from God. There have been lots of reports of miracles throughout your religion. Burning bushes and such. So, I am asking you if this is a miracle.”

  The reporter knew he was flustered and kind of felt sorry for him. She almost regretted not letting the producer call this morning to tell him the interview would now be live. This interview would be a defining moment in both of their careers.

  “I guess you can call it that.” Then he remembered his three talking points. “The Roman Catholic Church is a welcoming, inclusive, open, and family-oriented church that is sorry for the abuses of the past.” He almost shouted it at her.

  “Really?” She smirked. “When will women be able to say Mass? Why is it the Roman Catholic Church puts such importance on the Virgin Mary, yet you give no importance to women in your ranks?”

  “That’s not true . . .” He looked like a deer in the headlights. “Women play a very important and active role in the church. It has to do with sacred tradition and has nothing to do with the subject of this interview.”

  “If you are sorry for the abuses of the past, why is the Church still protecting pedophile priests?”

  “We believe that even those who are guilty of heinous crimes are entitled to our mercy. I understand that victims may find this hard to believe, but we have zero tolerance on abusive priests.” His mouth was extremely dry, and he was now infuriated.

  “Doesn’t your Pope sentence pedophile priests to penalties like a lifetime of penance and prayer? That’s a far cry from bleeding to death, don’t you think?”

  When will this end? he thought to himself. “Priests who are pedophiles also get Wormwood and die an agonizing death.”

  “Which priests?” She smelled blood in the water. “Are you talking about Archbishop Keating? Are you confirming that he was a pedophile?”

  Father Cooke froze in the chair and couldn’t get enough air into his lungs to form a word. He sounded like he had just run a ten-mile race. “I am not confirming anything!”

  “But you’re not denying it, either. Are you?” She wasn’t letting go.

  “How did this happen? I came here to talk about how the Church is a place where people who are hurting and struggling can find meaning in their lives.”

  “How about a place where people can find justice for pedophile priests ruining their lives?” The producer was giving her the “finish up” sign, but the young reporter kept going.

  “We invite people, all people, to come to the church,” Father Cooke said. “To seek answers to complex questions about religion, life, and personal identity.” He was losing this fight, and he knew it.

  “All people except for women who want to say Mass, gays and lesbians who want to marry, and victims of pedophile priests who want justice.” The producer now gave her the throat-slash cue to stop.

  He was confused and couldn’t get his thoughts in order. “Jesus tells us He forgives the wrongs we have done, as we forgive the wrongs that others have done to us.”

  “Father Peter Cooke. The Roman Catholic rock-star priest. Thank you for joining me.”

  The lights came up, and Father Cooke sank down in the chair. The producer unhooked the mic from his lapel, and the reporter stood up to check her face in the mirror.

  “Did you get my facial expressions, or should I do them again?” she asked the producer.

  “Yes, we got it all. Our switchboard is already lit up.”

  “Goody.” The young woman was thrilled. She looked at her guest, who was still sitting in his chair in disbelief. “Thanks for coming in.” She walked off the staging area and disappeared down a hallway.

  Father Cooke stood up, still confused. The producer was showing him to the exit. “Your reporter was confusing the teachings of Jesus in the Bible with the musical by Andrew Lloyd Webber. They’re not the same thing.” He was now standing on the front step of the TV studio. “Can we redo that? I need to clarify that for her.”

  “I’m sorry, Father. She is on to her next story, and the interview has already aired.” She didn’t make eye contact with him as she closed the door.

  A deflated Father Cooke staggered toward his car, asking himself what had just happened.

  A line sung by Pontius Pilate in Jesus Christ Superstar kept running through his mind, something about a misguided martyr.

  34

  Sgt. Myra had to work fast to get another warrant to search Kevin Macy’s vehicle. He decided to fill out the form himself. The sergeant knew the jud
ge would consider his long history and excellent reputation as an investigator when he assessed whether Myra’s subjective belief was objectively reasonable.

  He needed the search warrant to legally enter Macy’s vehicle and seize any specified evidence that would be relevant and material to a sex offence. Myra knew that Macy would never give him consent to search the car, and if he was being released from the hospital, he would have an opportunity to dispose of any evidence that could incriminate him.

  Myra was very specific and assured the judge that he required the warrant to “locate, examine, and preserve all the evidence relevant to a suspected sex crime.” Considering the charges that Macy already faced, Myra knew he had reasonable and probable grounds to believe that other offences had been committed. He needed to find evidence that would prove Macy had human victims, too.

  It took two hours for Sgt. Myra to be granted the search warrant, and forty-five minutes later he and two detectives were in Kevin Macy’s driveway. He looked at the detective with the lock kit. “Pop the trunk, then the doors,” he ordered. Each put on their rubber gloves. One detective searched the front of the car, while the other searched the back seat. Myra searched the trunk.

  Macy’s BMW was meticulously kept. Not so much as loose change in the cupholder. His trunk was equally as empty. The car looked like it had just come out of the showroom even though it was two years old. Myra lifted the trunk floor covering the spare tire. It was in showroom condition. Then he saw it. The corner of a shiny black box sticking out from underneath the spare tire. He lifted the tire out of the car and grinned. He’d hit the jackpot. Hidden behind was a box of condoms, a roll of duct tape, black leather gloves, and a black balaclava. What police officers refer to as a rape kit.

  He carefully lifted out each item and placed it in a clear plastic evidence bag. Labelling each one. By the time they were bagged, the tow truck was on site and ready to take the car into evidence, where it would be dusted for prints, hair samples, bodily fluid, or anything else that could be used as evidence against Macy. Now all Sgt. Myra had to do was wait.