Operation Wormwood

by Helen C. Escott

  * * * * *

  Two days later, Sgt. Myra sat in Chief DeSilva’s office in a very foul mood.

  “Do you know why no one wants to be your partner?” the chief asked, not waiting for an answer. “You’re broody!”

  “That’s not even a word,” Myra groaned.

  “It means you’re brooding and moody,” said DeSilva. He threw his hands up in the air. “All the time!”

  “That’s not true. I am pleasant sometimes.” Myra was trying to recall when.

  “Name one time,” the chief snapped. “Just one, over the last, say, twenty years?”

  “I’m pissed off!” Myra interrupted. “I’m more than pissed off. I’m sick of it.”

  “Sick of what?” The chief’s voice softened. “The job?”

  “The job! People! The weather! You name it. I am just sick of it.” Myra knew he had passed burnt out months ago.

  “You need some time off, Nick?” Chief DeSilva was concerned. Nick Myra was one of his best friends as well as one of his best cops.

  “I thought I had him.” Myra stood up and faced the big window looking toward St. John’s harbour. “I can’t believe they found nothing.”

  “Nick, you know as well as I do that this was a fishing expedition. The car was clean. I even ordered them to go through it again. There are no victims, and there’s no DNA besides Macy’s on the items you seized.” DeSilva felt for Sgt. Myra. He knew he took the losses too personally.

  “He left the hospital this morning,” Myra informed him.

  “You didn’t confront him, did you?” The chief was hoping he hadn’t done something stupid.

  “No, you know I didn’t. I stayed in my car and watched him from a safe distance.”

  “Jesus, Nick.” The chief jumped up. “We have him on other charges. A careless move like that could get them thrown out. He didn’t see you, did he?”

  “No. He was grinning ear to ear getting into a taxi. He knew I was going to search that car. He knew what I would find.” Sgt. Myra felt defeated. “He set me up.”

  The chief tried to reassure him. “Maybe you’re reading too much into this. For God’s sake, Nick, I have duct tape in my car! What guy doesn’t? It doesn’t mean I am a predator!”

  Nick smirked. “Do you also have condoms and a balaclava in your trunk?”

  “I use a balaclava when I’m on my Ski-doo. It doesn’t make me a criminal!” The chief knew he was grasping at straws now to make Nick feel better.

  “You know he shaves his body hair and uses condoms so he doesn’t leave DNA. You know he covers his face and hands so he can’t be identified.” Nick was pissed that he had been outsmarted.

  “Yet we do not have one sexual assault complaint with that MO in the whole province. Not one!” the chief emphasized. “Let this one go. It will eat at your gut. Maybe you should take a couple of weeks off after the award ceremony. Maybe it’s time to leave the unit.” He knew Myra wouldn’t take this well. “You know, I could use someone with your credentials up here to keep me out of trouble.”

  “You want me to come here and read your files for you?” Disgust was written all over Myra’s face. “You think I’m ready to come to the third floor and say, ‘Yes, sir, no, sir,’ all day?”

  “It’s not a demotion. I’m giving you the Chief’s Commendation. It’s the highest honour.” Chief DeSilva knew he wasn’t buying it. “You’ll be my right-hand man.”

  “I’ll be your lackey. No thanks.” Nick was having none of this.

  DeSilva puffed out his chest. “It’s an honour to work directly for the chief!”

  “It’s where you put those who have been promoted beyond their level of competence. You and I both agreed on that many years ago.”

  “I know you don’t see it this way, but I am offering you an amazing opportunity.” Chief DeSilva became very serious. “I’m not planning on spending more than another year or two in this chair. With your education and policing track record, you could easily become a front-runner for the top job.”

  Nick looked at his friend. “I never aspired to be chief.”

  “That’s the best kind of chief. You know that.” DeSilva sat behind the desk and pulled his chair in. A sign that it was time for his visitors to leave.

  “I’m not a politician, Chief. If I can’t do the job, I will leave on my own terms.” Myra took the hint and opened the chief’s door.

  “Nick, you did great work here. I will see you at the award ceremony tomorrow. Think about my offer.”

  Sgt. Nicholas Myra left the chief’s office with a heavy heart. He knew as soon as he left the room the chief would be on the phone to Health Services asking them to “drop by” and do a mental health assessment without letting on what they were doing.

  He was having a hard time controlling the night terrors lately, and it showed on his face. He knew he was taking his files way too personally. Watching Kevin Macy walk out of the hospital earlier that day was like a kick in the guts to him. Myra knew his anger was becoming harder to control, and he wondered if the chief knew that he had punched the door at the corrections centre. He thought about calling Agatha Catania and asking her out for coffee just to talk to someone, then decided against it when he realized she may not like this side of him.

  Sgt. Myra didn’t know how to get close to anyone anymore. He thought about calling his psychologist, but she would only tell him what he already knew: he was suffering from severe PTSD symptoms. He was struggling every day. He couldn’t live with the job, but he couldn’t live without it. It was a struggle to get out of bed each morning and go to work.

  I will leave on my own terms, he thought to himself. He just didn’t know what those terms were yet.

  35

  The kitchen was quaint and lovely. The tea pot and cups were antique and lovely. Even the date crumbles and homemade chocolate chip cookies on the plate were sweet and lovely. Father Cooke thought everything in Sister Pius’s house was just lovely.

  She poured the tea and sat at the table next to him. “Sister, I didn’t know where else to go.” His big hands were still shaking.

  “It’s Kathie,” she reminded him, and he looked at her like he didn’t know what she was saying. “My name is Kathie.” She sipped her hot tea. “That’s my real name, and it’s what I go by now, not Sister Pius.”

  “Of course. I’m sorry. I’m just not thinking. He didn’t realize that he had put on his fisherman’s cap backwards until he arrived at her house and took it off.

  “Are you cold?” Kathie was concerned about him. She had watched the interview but wasn’t going to bring it up until he did.

  “No. I am fine. It’s nerves.” He used two hands to steady his cup. “The house looks great. It feels like a home.” He looked around the kitchen. “A really good home.”

  She looked around, taking note of all the renovations she wanted to make. “I need to update the cupboards. They were built with the house over a hundred years ago. I’m scared to death when I think about what I am going to find behind those old plaster walls,” she laughed. “Could be hundred-year-old copper pipes or the corpse of an old pirate. I think I would prefer the pirate.” They both gave a small chuckle, knowing they were just stalling before the real conversation took place.

  “Did you watch my interview?” Father Cooke laid the porcelain cup on the table.

  “Yes, I did.” She felt so sorry for him.

  “What did you think?” He valued her opinion on everything.

  “You were ambushed. Simply put. Ambushed. That reporter was trying to make a name for herself at your expense.” She was angry that someone would treat such a kind, decent man that way.

  “I was inexperienced. I should have been more prepared.” His hands began to shake again.

  “There’s no one more knowledgeable on Wormwood, or the c
hurch, or even God, for that matter, than you. She took advantage of your kind heart.” Kathie was disgusted with the way the reporter had spoken down to him.

  “I watched The Bells of St. Mary’s last night. I thought I could be Father O’Malley, saving the church while singing a fine tune.” He still had a boyish charm about him.

  “Does that make me Sister Mary Benedict? I always thought I looked like Ingrid Bergman,” she said, touching a hand to her cheek and striking a movie-star pose.

  Father Cooke joined his hands together on the table as if in prayer. “I didn’t see it coming. I’m afraid to go back to the rectory. There will be quite a few people waiting to make fun of me.” He was embarrassed and sad.

  “Then make fun of them back,” she scoffed. “Ask them what they have done throughout their careers that gave people back their hope, their dignity . . . their church?”

  “I didn’t think this through. I didn’t see beyond the news conference. I know that’s hard to believe, but I honestly thought I would bring this disease to light, tell people God was not only listening but responding to their prayers, and they would come back to the church and we would start over.” He sighed. “That would be the end of it.”

  “I believe you, Peter. I know you don’t have a bad bone in your body.” She was sincere and had always had a soft spot for him. “You walked into a hornet’s nest, and you got stung.”

  They both sipped their tea, deep in thought.

  “So, what’s your next move?” She poured him another cup.

  “Some remote cove in Labrador after the Holy Father sees that interview.” His future seemed more uncertain now than ever.

  She laid down her cup. “Peter, that’s not what I meant. What is your next move. You have to do something to fix this mess.”

  “Like what? I’m a laughingstock now.”

  “You’re an excellent priest, probably the best I have ever known. You believed when you held that news conference that God had a plan for you, right?”

  He nodded.

  “Do you think God has changed His mind? Do you think He has given up on you?”

  “Then maybe God should have sent me on a media course before He put me in front of a live camera.”

  “Well, that’s where you start.” Kathie stood up and took a notepad and pen out of a drawer. “Let’s make your list of demands.”

  “Am I the hostage, or are they?” She was beginning to see a glimpse of her old friend in his eyes.

  “Right now, you’re both. You need to go back to the rectory with a list of things you need to do your job. If you want to solve a problem, you must find a solution you can live with, otherwise they will give you a solution that you can’t live with.” She knew the archbishop’s staff would be scrambling just as Father Peter was. “Well, first they need to send you away for media training. And not some one-day course. It should be one that is in-depth and deals with issues specific to the church.”

  Father Cooke wrote down every word.

  “Then you need a communications assistant who will help you. One that will work with reporters and build a relationship. They should go to all interviews with you to keep you on track and take notes.”

  “Are you interested in the job?” he asked seriously.

  “Maybe. I do have an honours degree in English and a master’s in communications.”

  “Are you kidding me?”

  “I’m a teacher. I did go to university to learn to teach,” she scoffed. “When I was finished my degree, I realized how much I liked learning, so I kept going. Doing courses here and there. Pretty soon I had my master’s.”

  He shook his head. “You never cease to amaze me.”

  “I will help you put together a proper communications strategy, and you go back to present it to the archbishop.”

  “I answer to Rome now, not the archbishop, and that’s what I’m afraid of.” He felt like a fool. “They must think I’m a buffoon! Just some local hack who bit off more than he could chew.”

  “Rome has made their own mistakes, don’t worry. Let’s go with a ‘those without sin throw the first stone’ on that one,” she teased. “Peter, before we spend the next two hours writing this up, tell me up front—what do you want?”

  “I want this to go away. I want to do it over and be more prepared.” The anger was evident in his eyes.

  “You can’t make it go away. You’ll just have to roll with this one. Promise yourself that you’ll be more prepared next time.” Kathie put her cup down and asked again, “In the beginning, what did you want?”

  “I wanted the Church to say they were sorry for the hurt they caused. I wanted them to expel pedophile priests. I wanted people to come back to the Church and let God in their lives again.” Tears were stinging the corners of his eyes. “I never wanted fame or to be a celebrity. I wanted to have a full Church on a Sunday morning.”

  She pitied him. She knew he was telling the truth. They rolled up their sleeves, and a few hours later he had a communications strategy and an action plan he could live with. He hated to leave Kathie’s kitchen. He felt safe there. But he knew he had to face the music. He put on his coat and hugged her goodbye.

  “Hey, Father O’Malley!” She tossed his hat at him. “Don’t forget your cap.”

  * * * * *

  Father Cooke felt much better going into the archbishop’s office with a plan. The look on the archbishop’s face told him he was still angry and not in a very forgiving mood.

  “What happened? Were you daydreaming? Did you have a stroke?”

  Father Cooke sat back and waited for the tirade to end.

  “I’m hoping it was a stroke. We could all just pray for you and find you a nice little convalescent home where you can live out your years.” The archbishop was grinding his teeth at this point. “Because I have to come up with a good reason why you lost your bloody mind on national television!”

  “I was ambushed,” Father Cooke tried to explain. “I was told it would be pre-taped and edited for a later newscast. Things were changed at the last minute. I was given a choice of walking off and the camera following me, or staying and doing an interview. So, I stayed. Then she kept changing the subject and I got off course. I will do better next time, I promise.”

  “You think there’s a next time? Why did you have to start this in the first place?” The archbishop was so angry and frustrated he couldn’t contain it.

  Father Cooke very calmly began. “I started this because I was sick of getting up Sunday morning to preach to less than a dozen people. I was tired of children crossing the streets rather than walk next to me because they have been warned to ‘stay away from priests.’” An internal anger rose in his heart, and it hurt. “I started this because I wanted to be a priest, and I still do. I still believe in this Church.” He leaned forward and pointed his finger at the archbishop. “Isn’t that what you want? Don’t we want the same thing?”

  The archbishop sat back, joining his fingers over his belly. After a few seconds he said, “Peter we have something in common.”

  “We do?”

  “We both started at the same place. We both started as young men in seminary school with dreams of serving God in whatever capacity He asked. We both walked away from having a wife and a family so we could serve the Lord. We both know how lonely that can be.” He rubbed his temples with his fingers to try and push away the pain. “Peter, we both want the same thing. Don’t look at me like I am the enemy.”

  Father Cooke bowed his head and thought for a few minutes. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out the communications strategy and action plan that Sister Pius, or Kathie, had helped him write. “Read this, please.”

  The archbishop picked it up and started speed-reading through the material. A trick he had mastered in university. It seemed like an eternity before he
laid it back on his desk and looked at Father Cooke.

  “This is brilliant!” he shouted. “This is what you should have done from the beginning. You needed a plan.”

  Father Cooke was happy he had stopped by to see Kathie before the archbishop. The other way around could have proved detrimental to his career.

  “Let me make some calls. The first thing we need to do is get you on a plane to the Vatican, where you can work with their public affairs department and get you the training and experience you need.”

  “Won’t that take months?”

  “I don’t care how long it takes. If we are going to do this, we’re going to do it right. This debacle . . .” He pointed toward the TV. “. . . will never happen again.”

  Father Cooke felt a whole lot better coming out of the archbishop’s office than he had going in. As he passed lay staff and other priests in the halls on the way back to his room, he received only words of encouragement and praise.

  He realized that if he wanted to get his point across, he needed to turn to a higher power—the Vatican spin doctors. The next morning, he was packed and on an early-morning flight to Rome, where he would learn to tell an old story a new way.

  36

  Sgt. Nicholas Myra was meticulous.

  The cup on his desk held seven sharpened HB wooden pencils and seven uni-ball, fine black ink pens, caps down. The blinds on his office window were twenty-one inches from the ledge. Not approximately twenty-one inches—they were twenty-one inches.

  When his mind was stressed, he counted in sevens or derivatives of seven. He took seven steps, or fourteen, or twenty-one, or twenty-eight. Never eight, twenty, or thirty. If there were only four windows in a house, he had to count three windows in the next house to keep his mind steady.

  For the past two years he had been seeing a psychologist every two weeks. It wasn’t easy to get him there. A few months ago, his mother mentioned he was keeping to himself too much. Shortly after, his father offered to have a chat when he was ready. Friends would run into him and ask where he’d been.