“I’m running every test I can think of, but one explanation on the table is from a police officer,” said the doctor, knowing this was going to sound crazy. “He knows all three of the patients and says there is a possible connection.” Luke was aware he sounded like Chicken Little saying the sky was falling.
Mrs. Furey sat back and stared at Luke as if she was waiting for him to say, “April Fools!” But she knew he was serious. Dr. Gillespie was a good and respectable doctor.
“Tell me again,” she said, and closed her eyes as if to let it all sink in without interruption.
“All three patients have the exact same symptoms. I’ve run every test known to the medical profession, and everything comes back inconclusive. The only connection these men have is they are all under investigation by the RNC’s Child Exploitation Unit. I don’t know if they are all known to each other. I have also heard from the same police officer that there are more cases that are not being reported.” He had gone over this in his head a hundred times, and by now it was starting to sound sane to him.
“There has to be another reason.” Mrs. Furey opened her eyes and looked at Luke again.
“The police officer, who is very knowledgeable in this area of crime, is meeting with me this afternoon. He claims to have files on pedophiles that prove this disease has been around for over a year, but the victims have been hiding it.
“All I’m asking for is a video conference with other hospitals and permission to contact the Association of Physicians to ask if they have encountered the same symptoms. We’ll need our own serious disease doctors to attend the video conference, too.” Luke knew she wasn’t buying it.
“I won’t mention that the patients are being investigated by the police unless they bring it up first.” He suspected that this was going to be an uphill battle. “If nothing else, we may have an epidemic on our hands, and we have to deal with it. We wouldn’t want anyone to say we knew first and did nothing about it.”
Mrs. Furey tapped her fingers on her desktop. “All right, I’ll set up the teleconference, but don’t say anything about a disease that only targets child molesters.” She sat back in her chair. “I can only imagine the media coverage this would get. It would be the first time the public raised money to stop us from curing a disease.”
Luke was questioning himself on beginning this process. It could generate many complicated problems as the result of his interference into something he knew nothing about.
“That’s all I am asking for. I just want to discuss it with other doctors to see if there is anything I am missing.” Luke was satisfied. His hospital pager went off, and he knew it was Sgt. Myra back with his files.
6
Sgt. Myra’s desk was covered in files. Months of notes and investigative work were neatly stacked inside each folder. He didn’t have to read through them. The sergeant knew from memory, and too many nightmares, what each of them contained. He opened his desk drawer for some elastic bands to put around the bigger files so they would stay intact.
It was still there. The picture frame he had put in the drawer, face down, a year ago.
Myra was a third-generation cop in the Royal Newfoundland Constabulary. His father had retired from a proud, forty-year career, and his grandfather before that had served for thirty-five years. There was no doubt from the day he was born what his career would be.
The Royal Newfoundland Constabulary is the oldest civil police force in North America. It was modelled after the Royal Irish Constabulary with the secondment in 1844 of Timothy Mitchell of the Royal Irish Constabulary to be inspector general. Myra’s dress uniforms, right down to his pith helmet, still resembled those of his Irish brothers and sisters.
Myra knew from a young age that the only reason his father had a son was to carry on the family business. His mother was a devout Irish Catholic who knew she would have little say in what her son would grow up to be, but that didn’t stop her from becoming the greatest influence on his life choices. His mother was a schoolteacher who loved children, often spending a good portion of her meagre salary on crayons, chalk, and other items for the students in her class. She had desperately wanted children ever since she was a child herself. Although she and her husband tried like good Catholics to conceive, they could only get pregnant once. When she gave birth to her only child, she knew what his name would be. Nicholas. Nicholas Myra. She would name him after the patron saint of children.
When he was growing up, his mother would tell him the story of Archbishop Nicholas, who was known to have returned lost children to their parents, resurrected children from the dead, and rescued them from kidnappers and other dangerous situations. His official feast day was December 6, Sgt. Nicholas Myra’s birthday.
Sgt. Myra was now in his thirtieth year of policing. He had joined the RNC at twenty-one after attaining his psychology degree from Memorial University. Throughout his childhood, he would watch his father get ready for work. Putting on his freshly starched uniform with pride. Shining his parade boots and silver badge. Nick grew up playing cops and robbers with the neighbourhood children, always being the cop.
During his last year in high school, a seed of doubt nagged at him. He wasn’t as sure about policing as he once was. He would discuss it with his mother sometimes, but never with his father. His mother knew he wasn’t as hard on the inside as the other Myra men. Despite his intimidating size, Nicholas had a soft interior that he desperately tried to hide.
His mother spent many nights watching her husband sit in his easy chair staring at the TV screen, not even knowing what was on the screen. Deep in thought about the files he worked every day. Sometimes she would hear him late at night, downstairs in the kitchen, crying. Crying over the things he had seen throughout the day. The things that never left his mind. The things that no one should see. As the years went by, it became harder and harder for him to put on his uniform. But he did. In the tradition that his father had passed on to him. He put on his uniform, choked back his tears, swallowed his fears, and went to work. Always smiling. Always dedicated. Always a police officer of the highest regard. His son would carry on where he left off.
Nicholas had always been a devoted son. Respectful of his father. Tender toward his mother. Never ashamed to hold her hand, even as a teenager. He was the perfect combination of his mother’s caring spirit and his father’s rugged good looks. All through high school and university, girls would fawn over him, but he was shy. Finding his height and dangling, long limbs awkward, their attention would make him nervous. A quality that seemed to add to his attractiveness. A more confident boy with his looks could become quite the ladies’ man, but not Nicholas. His mother had raised him to be a gentleman. His father had raised him to be a policeman.
His mother talked his father into letting Nicholas get a university degree before going into policing. She convinced his father that a university education would help their son rise through the ranks quicker. She was buying time, allowing her son to reconsider the family business. His father agreed, secretly hoping his son would not follow in his footsteps. The day his father stood before the graduation parade and handed his son his badge was the both the happiest and saddest day of his life. Inspector Myra welcoming Constable Myra into the force, while Superintendent Myra sat in his wheelchair, looking on with great pride. The family was back in business.
His first year on the job, he met his wife, Maria. She was a legal secretary he was introduced to during a Christmas party. She instantly fell in love with the tall, handsome police officer who blushed when he caught her eye. Within a year, they were married. He loved her more than anything, except the job. He forgot to come home. Rarely making it to special occasions that were important her. Ten years later, she’d had enough. She filed for divorce. He was devastated. Not knowing what he had done wrong.
He provided for his family the best he could. He told her from the beginning that no one marries
a police officer for the money or quality family time. She didn’t care in the beginning. She did in the end. Even when he was home, he was working. Always alone in his thoughts. Always running through the door when his phone rang. Never able to discuss his cases. Never wanting to. He thought he was protecting her. She thought he was shutting her out.
Ten years later, two people who loved each other divorced each other. She found comfort in the arms of a lawyer she worked with. He found comfort in the files that surrounded his desk. He put their wedding photo in his desk drawer, face down.
Over the years there would be other women, but he was married to his job. They would all leave after a while. They would cry, he would go to his office, work, and occasionally turn the photo over when he missed her.
7
Dr. Gillespie and Sgt. Myra met in a private boardroom on the fifth floor that overlooked the hills surrounding the Health Sciences Complex. The long cherry wood table was bare except for a conference calling speaker. A dozen black leather chairs surrounded the table and were perfectly arranged for the next meeting of the medical minds who would sit in them. Myra reached down into his large black briefcase and lifted out about two dozen file folders, stacking them on the table.
He sat down and took the first file off the top of the stack. A legal-size, white file folder with a blue form printed on the outside cover that allowed police officers to document the status, jurisdiction, personal data, and diary dates of each investigation.
“Are you going to meet with your counterparts about the nose-bleeding disease?” Myra asked him.
“I just came from a meeting with the hospital administrator. She thinks I’m crazy now—thank you for that, by the way. She’s going to set up a teleconference with other hospitals and doctors. But I’m not allowed to say they are being investigated by the police for anything.”
“I’m not surprised. I don’t really believe the connection myself,” Myra confessed. “I mean, come on. I think someone who was sexually abused as a child is getting to these people somehow and poisoning them with something.”
“So, you don’t really believe there’s a new disease killing pedophiles? Then why are you pushing that theory?” asked Gillespie.
“It scares the crap out of child molesters. Ever since the rumours of this disease started circulating, their online chat groups have all but dried up. They are scared to death. No pun intended.”
“So, you used me?” The colour drained from Luke’s cheeks.
“No, not at all. I never said I believed the theory. I just told you the rumour so that other people could hear it. By the way, I’m not even sure about them being poisoned. All I know is, something or someone has declared open season on pedophiles, and they are dying before I can charge them. Now I have to find out how, and I think you can help.” Sgt. Myra laid his file down on top of the stack in front of him. “We can help each other here. We both need to find out why these people are dying, even if it is for different reasons.”
Gillespie relaxed a little. “I suppose you’re right.”
“This is a file I started about twelve months ago.” Myra opened the thick folder and read from memory. “This was when I first noticed the symptoms.” Luke was struck by the incredible penmanship on the top page. Observing the inquisitive look on his face, Myra confessed, “My mother was a teacher. We practised handwriting and spelling every night. I have been accused of typing my handwritten notes on occasion, but it is ink.” Then he added, “Yes. I do think I have OCD, and no, I have not been tested.”
“I’ll leave you with your self-diagnosis,” said Gillespie. “Meanwhile, what do you have there?”
“I won’t go into too much detail, but basically, a ten-year-old girl tells her teacher her stepfather is hurting her at bedtime. The teacher alerts Child Protective Services, who in turn alert us.” Myra leaned back in his chair. In addition to keeping impeccable notes, he also had a photographic memory and could recall, with detail, any scene or interview after just a few seconds of looking at the file.
“I interviewed the child, and over time she told me her mother worked a night shift, so her stepfather would put her to bed. And then play games with her. He started out touching her inappropriately and made her touch him. Within a month, it had escalated into intercourse. A medical exam proved her story. The stepfather had severely bruised and ripped her vagina. I charged him with sexual assault on a child, but I wished I could have charged him with the sexual torture of a child, because that’s what it was.”
“Why didn’t you charge him with the sexual torture of a child?” the doctor innocently asked.
“Ask our federal politicians. The sexual torture of a child is not a charge a police officer can lay. There are only degrees of sexual assault. If police officers made laws instead of politicians, pedophiles would never see the light of day again, and drunk drivers who kill would automatically be charged with murder. Politicians must please the bleeding hearts who vote them in. Police officers don’t care about who they piss off. They are just trying to do their jobs.” Myra was getting worked up just talking about it. Thoughts like this kept him up all night. He was trying to learn to let go.
“My God. How do you do this day after day?” Luke looked away from the file in disgust. Just looking at the words on the page made him queasy. Gillespie had been involved with several child abuse cases over the years. One stuck with him. He had to examine a baby who had been sexually abused and fill out a report on the assault for the police. She was an eighteen-month-old baby girl. He had followed the trial in the media. It was the boyfriend of the child’s seventeen-year-old mother who raped her.
The most shocking thing that remained with Luke was the little girl’s crossed eyes. Yet there was no record of her being born like that. He combed through her medical file from birth to the day she was admitted to emergency, and nothing. He called the child’s family physician, who had seen her four times, and was told the child did not have crossed eyes. After re-examining her, Dr. Gillespie concluded that the force of the rape had been so severe and traumatic that the impact had detached the child’s retina, and her eyes crossed. Once he put it together, he began to shake uncontrollably. He felt a hot stream of liquid run down his leg and realized that he had urinated on himself. He ran to his locker and showered in hot water while tears ran down his face. To this day, the memory of that child haunted his dreams.
“I focus on saving the child,” said Myra. “If people like us sat down and cried every time we had to investigate a crime like this, nothing would get done. At the end of the day, my job, or your job, is not for the faint of heart. It takes a hard-hearted, determined person to do what we do.” Sgt. Myra knew the best thing was to leave the files on his desk when he left work. The problem was he never left work.
For the first time, Myra showed his Achilles heel. “I interviewed the stepfather at the station. As soon as I started asking him questions, his nose began to bleed. It started as a trickle first, but within five minutes it was flowing like someone had turned on a tap. I just figured he was a hemophiliac or something.” He closed the file.
“After interviewing the mother and the stepfather, I found out she had met him on a local dating site. She advertised she was a single mother with one daughter. He answered the ad. The mother said all of them got along in the beginning. He showered both of them with gifts. Things they could never afford before she met him. After he moved in, the daughter started to become withdrawn. The mother says that’s when the nosebleeds started with the stepfather.
“She thought the daughter was being defiant and jealous because she never had to share her time before. Eventually the daughter became more and more defiant and the stepfather became sicker. She said the blood would drain out of his nose, and he would scream for water but constantly complained it tasted like vinegar.” Myra moved the folder to the bottom of the pile. “That’s the first time I heard of it
. I didn’t pay much attention to it then. I was more interested in finding out if he molested his stepdaughter than I was in finding out what his nosebleeds were about.”
Luke couldn’t help but ask, “Did he? Did he molest her?”
“Yes. It started as soon as he moved in. When we analyzed his computer, we could prove that he was trolling for single mothers on dating sites. He was targeting ones that worked shifts so he could get the kids alone in the nighttime.” Myra took the next file off the stack and opened it on the table. Once again, meticulously taken notes were pinned to the inside of the file, and the outside form was filled in with dates and times all written with the finest of penmanship.
“Just as I was wrapping up that case, this one came in.” He pointed to the writing on the page inside the file folder. “Ten-year-old boy, involved in hockey since he was five, loved the game, suddenly refused to play anymore.” He read it out like a grocery list.
“That’s not a crime, is it?” Luke tried to lighten the mood.
“He complained his coach made him angry. His father said the coach always showed him special attention. Coach claimed he was the next big thing. Kept him for extra practices and really built him up. The father thought he was a great guy and trusted him completely. Neither of the parents were educated, and both worked minimum-wage jobs. All extra money, or what little there was, went to pay for their son’s hockey lessons. It was an investment in his, and I guess their, future.
“He and his wife even invited the coach into their home for meals on several occasions. They noticed their son stayed in his room when the coach came over. They thought he didn’t like him because he was a tough coach. Then the son refused to play hockey, and after some arguing, he finally told them why. The coach had been molesting him for about a year.” Myra closed the file and slid it under the stack.
Operation Wormwood Page 6
