Two years ago, after a debriefing that involved a particularly brutal investigation into the sexual assault on a three-month-old boy, the force’s health services coordinator made it mandatory that every police officer involved in that file was required to attend a psychological debriefing before returning to duty.
Myra had no intention of talking to the psychologist; he was going only to get his clearance and get back to work. There were so many files waiting for him. Every day there would be a new one. Another complaint. Another victim. One day he was standing in the break room talking to the police services dog trainer, who was commiserating about his never-ending stack of files. He said in the past three months alone he had been told to stand down a hundred and ten times. Myra realized that he had not been told to stand down in three years. He went from investigation to investigation.
He sat in the psychologist’s office counting the books on her shelf. There were seven standing up on the shelf and seven piled up on their sides on top of each other. She had seven framed educational documents hung on her wall, and her blinds were pulled up twenty-one inches from the ledge of the window.
She was a petite woman with friendly eyes, and she greeted Sgt. Myra like she knew him. He had no intention of talking. She started talking about the weather, how the winter felt like it was ten months long. She asked if he wanted a coffee. He politely said no. She asked how long he had been on the force, and he started to cry.
At first he choked back the tears, clenching his jaw to stop the sound of pain from coming out of his mouth. The tears welled up in his eyes and spilled down his cheeks, filling the deep crevices on his face and falling from his cheeks. He couldn’t stop it. He leaned forward and put his face in his hands to hide the pain, and his big body shook uncontrollably. The psychologist pulled some tissues from the box next to her chair and handed them to him without judgment. It took a good few minutes for Sgt. Myra to compose himself. He dried his face with the tissues and took a few big gulps of air.
He apologized. The psychologist said it wasn’t necessary. He poured out his heart to her. Giving her details of the nightmares that felt so real he was afraid to sleep. He confessed he isolated himself because he didn’t feel “normal” anymore and was unable to talk about anything other than policing. Sgt. Myra had no hobbies or interests since his divorce. He wanted to be alone, but he was afraid to be by himself.
He trusted her after that session and made appointments every two weeks. Never missing one. Over their many sessions she introduced him to coping techniques to deal with psychological stress. She introduced him to meditation and encouraged him to take up walking or running. He took her advice to heart and taught himself to meditate. He ran seven miles every day. She encouraged him to use humour and try to make light of stressful situations, as many police officers did. He could never master that one.
The one thing she could not do was stop the night terrors, the flashbacks, and the paranoia. She could not help him un-see the things that he had seen. She could not help him un-hear the sounds of children crying while being sexually tortured.
Sgt. Myra stood staring out his office window. It was evening now; the city was dark. At night, the windows at police headquarters became reflective so no one could see in. They became a mirror when you looked out if the lights were on.
Tonight, his blinds were pulled up as far as they could go. Way past twenty-one inches. He stood in front of his office window looking at himself. Earlier that afternoon he had been presented with the Chief’s Commendation. The highest honour a police officer can receive. The investigation into Wormwood had been long and exhausting. There was no sick serial killer hunting down pedophiles. There were too many victims across the country and around the world to make that theory stick. No poison showed up in any blood test. The medical community still hotly debated the God theory, while the religious community promoted it every chance they could.
His dedication to the file, the numerous arrests and the hard work of his task force, had earned accolades from the public, politicians, media, and his own chief. But he only focused on the one that got away. Macy had walked.
Sgt. Myra had never really believed in God until now. He had not even thought about religion until this morning, when he had taken his dress uniform out of the storage bag and put it on. His pith helmet made him look another seven inches taller, and his parade boots were polished to perfection. He could not remember the last time he had worn his dress uniform—or his regular uniform, for that matter. Myra had been in plainclothes units for so long he forgot where he had stored them after his divorce. He was surprised it still fit. All the running his psychologist suggested had paid off.
He had been thinking about God all day. God had managed to do what he could not. God had come up with a way to stop predators from preying on children.
Sgt. Myra had decided to thank Him in person.
He took a deep, long breath in through his nose and let it out through his mouth just like his meditation had taught him. He looked at his reflection in the window. He thought about Father Charles Horan and what his last minutes must have been like.
He looked deep into his own eyes. He took his service handgun out of the holster.
A cold breeze blew through Royal Newfoundland Constabulary headquarters. Everyone working that night felt a cold shiver down their spine.
Sgt. Nicholas Myra, named after the patron saint of protecting children, made a life-altering decision.
He would leave on his own terms.
37
I never thought I would see the day when we had to create a special ward like this, Mrs. Furey thought to herself as she stood in the hallway looking around at the small PPXI isolation ward. She had been able to pull together a ten-room section on the top floor away from the other patients. It was an overflow area used when the hospital was at capacity but more recently had become a graveyard for broken beds and other equipment.
She was pleased the province had reallocated funds to help with the set-up. She would have been given a hard time by other hospital administrators if she took funds from already overburdened wards to set up what the gossips called the “Pedo Palace.” It was the first time she had to hire around-the-clock security guards to stand at the doors of a unit 24/7 checking hospital workers’ credentials and visitors’ IDs. She realized it would be big news to the gossip circuit whenever someone entered the unit. It was also incredibly hard to staff. From the nurses to the cleaners, they all claimed, “I have children; I don’t want to be near them.”
Dr. Luke Gillespie and Nurse Agatha Catania were standing at the double doors to the unit getting their hospital IDs checked by a big, husky guard when Mrs. Furey spotted them. Waving them in, she yelled, “They’re with me.” The guard passed back their IDs and closed the doors behind them.
“I feel like I have just been granted access to some swinging nightclub,” Luke joked.
“Can you believe this?” Mrs. Furey shook her head. “A ward dedicated to sick people—not to contain their disease, but rather to protect the victims from other patients, media, and prying eyes?”
“Just when you thought you’d seen it all.” Agatha was looking around at the set-up of the reception area. “I guess I better get started organizing this.” She had agreed to manage the unit. Luke had agreed to share his duties between the PPXI unit and the emergency ward.
There were already two patients admitted, and more were on the way. The provincial Department of Health decided that hospitals in the rural areas did not have the resources to dedicate to PPXI. All patients with those symptoms would be transferred to St. John’s to the Health Sciences Centre and kept on the dedicated PPXI ward. This would ensure their safety while allowing doctors to figure out a treatment plan. Two more patients were already on the way in, one from Corner Brook and one from Gander.
Dr. Gillespie, with the help of several other infectious
disease doctors, had already organized the ward into a medical experimental control group. They had put in a strict isolation policy for patients, health care workers, and visitors. There was still no way of knowing how the disease was being spread. They implemented several safety measures. Doctors originally thought it couldn’t be spread by bodily fluids, but now they were not so sure. Anyone entering the ward was required to wear hospital gowns, masks, and gloves.
“What’s the latest from your group?” Mrs. Furey asked Luke.
“There’s no medical evidence stating PPXI is being spread through human touch of any kind. But we must be careful. Better safe than sorry.” Luke walked into a vacant room and noticed the dark shades covering the windows. Pointing to them, he asked, “What’s this about?”
Mrs. Furey pulled the shades all the way down, shutting out the sunlight and turning the room dark. “This is a security measure in case media or vigilante justice groups try to use a drone to take pictures of patients through the window. It was a recommendation from my national committee. Some hospitals are already having to deal with that, believe it or not.”
“Really?” Luke had a feeling of dread. He knew this was going to get worse before it got better. “We know this is not a sexually transmitted disease and has no relation to hemophilia.”
“So, is this God punishing pedophiles?” Agatha just wanted an answer.
“My scientific mind wants to laugh at you for asking that question,” Luke continued. “But there’s a nagging in the back of my brain that tells me it is possible.”
“You can’t be serious!” bellowed Mrs. Furey.
“My group has had in-depth discussions with some of the most brilliant medical minds in the world. This group has someone from just about every religion. Some are atheist. None of us are taking the act-of-God factor off the table.”
“You know,” Agatha chimed in, “last year, a huge oak tree fell across my father’s car when we had that big storm. When he called his insurance company, they called it an act of God and wouldn’t covered it.”
“And . . .” Mrs. Furey waved her hand, encouraging her to continue.
“Insurance companies are notorious for nickel-and-diming you when you put in a claim, but even they recognize natural catastrophes as acts of God. So, if PPXI is a natural catastrophe, shouldn’t the medical community recognize it as an act of God?”
“My head hurts.” Mrs. Furey sat down behind the front desk. “That kind of makes sense to me.”
“Just think about it,” Luke explained. “Where did cancer come from? Every person on this earth has up to a hundred million cells in their body. When just one of those cells begins to grow and multiply, they can turn into cancer. Why does one person get cancer, and someone who has smoked cigarettes for fifty years doesn’t? Some medical minds believe cancer is a man-made disease caused by environmental factors such as pollution and diet.”
Luke paused to get his thoughts together. “Which seems credible when you track the disease from the Industrial Revolution to today. But where did it really come from? If you believe God created man, then you must also believe that God created cancer cells. Did God create cancer to deal with overpopulation? Some theorists believe that!” He looked at Agatha and Mrs. Furey. “Aren’t all diseases God’s way of dealing with overpopulation? Without disease, the only way a human could die is by accident, murder, or old age. How would we feed a population like that? There are already people dying of starvation in areas of the world.”
“I don’t believe that,” stated Agatha. “I don’t believe God wants anyone to suffer. As much as I want to believe He is making pedophiles suffer, I don’t believe He wants little children to go through chemo. I believe in God, and I am a spiritual person. I even believe God created disease, but I can’t believe he created it to make little children suffer. If you believe Wormwood is created by God to protect children, why wouldn’t He create a cancer that can’t kill children?” As an afterthought, she added, “Why hasn’t cancer been cured yet? With all the money being raised, where is the cure?”
“Well, if people refer to PPXI as Wormwood, the disease created by God to kill pedophiles, and this unit as ‘Pedo Palace,’ then I don’t think we will have to worry about fundraising efforts from the public,” offered Mrs. Furey.
“As a doctor, I know some of the money goes into research, and the proof is in the new medications and equipment that keep people alive for longer and sometimes keeps them cancer-free for years.” Luke wondered himself sometimes. “I do question the large salaries of the management of these fundraising groups and why so much of the money leaves the province instead of staying here. I don’t understand why most of the money doesn’t go to help families with living expenses and other financial burdens cancer brings. It’s incredibly frustrating to me when I see someone fighting for their life who should be focused on healing. Instead, they’re fighting with banks to stop foreclosure on their homes, losing their cars, and going to food banks because they can’t work and run out of benefits.”
“Sometimes I wonder,” added Agatha, “what would happen if people stopped giving to cancer groups that fund research? Pharmaceutical companies make billions off cancer. Why would they release a cure? I often wonder, if a pharmaceutical company can create a drug to maintain your life throughout a disease, why can’t they create a drug to cure the disease?”
“There’s no money in curing diseases,” huffed Mrs. Furey. “So, seriously, this doesn’t leave the room. What are your personal thoughts on PPXI, or Wormwood, or whatever you want to call it?”
Agatha went first. “I want to believe that God is washing pedophiles in the blood of the lamb. I want to believe He is protecting children. But as a nurse, I don’t like to see anyone suffer. If these people abused children, then I think the law should deal with them. If God created this disease, then I am going to need more proof.”
Mrs. Furey stood up. “I am on the fence. I know people are saying if it’s only affecting pedophiles, who cares? Let them die! But I agree, we have a justice system to deal with that. Our job is to offer the best health care possible to everyone who comes through that door. I am going to need more proof to believe God is killing pedophiles.”
Luke sighed. “I am tired of watching people die. My job is to save lives and not judge. But sometimes I see little children come in, some just babies.” The gall from his stomach came up in his throat as he remembered the case of the baby girl he had treated years earlier. “I don’t know if God created this disease to kill pedophiles. I don’t know if you get it some other way.”
Luke felt his pager go off. He tilted it up toward his face. “It’s emergency.”
Agatha felt a sudden chill go down her spine. Luke picked up the phone to call the emergency unit.
While it rang, he finished with, “All I can say is, after watching the way the last three patients died, and the torture they went through, pedophiles had better watch their backs. Someone is coming for them.”
The emergency nurse answered on the second ring. “What’s up?” asked Dr. Gillespie.
“Paramedics just called in a trauma,” the nurse him. “A gunshot wound.”
Luke hung up the phone and looked at Agatha. “We’re needed in emergency.”
They ran toward the elevator. Once inside, Luke hit the button for the main floor.
“Luke,” Agatha asked. “Straight up. Would you tell a pedophile that Wormwood is created by God to punish them and protect children?”
Luke thought for a moment. “My question is, are they willing to take that chance?”
The elevator door opened to a scene of chaos. Police in their dress blue uniforms were everywhere. Agatha felt her knees give out and fell back against the elevator wall.
“Please, God, no!” she cried.
acknowledgements
As a writer, I tend to work in a bubble and
live in a fantasy world. Sometimes for long periods of time. It’s the only way I can see a chapter through until I reach the right ending. That state of mind can only exist with the support of others.
No writer is an island.
I would like to thank the many dedicated and hard-working police officers I have had the honour of working with throughout my career in the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. My Sgt. Myra is a combination of every one of you.
Many times I have lost my Christian faith, and many times Rev. Robert Cooke and Father Mark Nichols at St. Mark’s Anglican Church have found it for me. They have become friends of my family, and I love the way they teach that God loves everyone. There are no exclusions.
I spent ten years writing this book and finally had a rough draft in October 2017. I decided to take an advanced writing class with Matthew LeDrew. He helped me bring my writing and this book to a new level. His enthusiasm about writing is infectious. He brought me from a novice to a professional. I can’t thank him enough for turning my spark into a flame.
My dream was to have Flanker Press publish this book. I admired the way they promoted their artists and supported the local writing community. The day Jerry Cranford called to tell me Flanker wanted to publish this book was one of the most exciting days of my life. It really was a dream come true. I am so honoured to become a member of the Flanker Press family, and I hope it is a relationship that will flourish for years. Thank you, Jerry, and everyone else at Flanker for making my dream come true.
For ten years my husband, Robert, kept saying, “You have to write that book.” Every time I ran another idea for Operation Wormwood by him, he was extremely supportive and helpful. He believed this day would come long before I ever did. Having someone who believes in you is the most amazing gift a person can have.
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