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.

“When I interviewed the coach, his nose started to bleed. He asked for water. I could tell his mouth was dry, because he could barely say a word. I gave him bottled water. After he drank, he spat it out on the floor. It was followed by a gush of blood. My counterparts in the unit joked that I was roughing up my suspects, but I didn’t lay a hand on him, as much as I would have loved to. But a good investigator knows you have to pretend to be the friend of these guys to make them confess.” He looked straight at Luke. “Molestation is never about sexual gratification. It’s about power. Having power over someone. That’s what drives them. As an investigator, I have to get the power back.”

“Really?” Luke was surprised.

“It’s always about having power over the weak, the defenceless, and the innocent.” Nicholas Myra stood up and put his hands in his pants pocket. He was an intimidating-looking man, even when he was trying to be friendly. He rarely smiled, and even when he tried, his thick, brown moustache covered his top lip completely. Smiling didn’t come naturally to him. He had decided long ago he achieved more in life by frowning.

“Case after case, I couldn’t help but notice that the nosebleeds were constant. Other investigators in the unit also made note of it in their files. Each molester said water tasted like vinegar. Then one time I asked a suspect about it. This suspect was picked up in a pedophile ring. He told me the symptoms were becoming more common among his type, but they were afraid to go to the doctors. He referred to it as Wormwood.”

“Wormwood?” asked Luke. “What the hell is Wormwood? I never noticed any worms on these patients.”

“It’s some kind of Biblical reference,” Myra informed him. “You’ll have to talk to someone who knows more about the Bible than me.”

“Well, the one who knows the most about the Bible is lying in ICU, bleeding to death,” declared Luke, “and I don’t think he is going to talk to me about Wormwood.”

Sgt. Myra gathered up his files and put them back in his large square briefcase. Dr. Gillespie sat back in his chair with his hands locked behind his head, deep in thought.

“It’s a lot to think about, isn’t it?” Myra asked him.

“Yes. I am a doctor, not a detective. My job is to save lives, not research the Bible.”

“Well, I am a detective, not a doctor, and my job is to protect lives, not research the Bible. But right now, I would take advice or help from anyone who could help me do my job.”

Luke stood up. “I have to go do my rounds. I need to think about this. The hospital is organizing the teleconference for tomorrow afternoon. Maybe I’ll know more then.”

“Can you let me know what you find out?”

“As long as it’s not about individual patients.” Then Luke had another thought. “Maybe it would be good for us to share information and keep it between ourselves for now.”

“I think there is a benefit for both of us in that. Not telling you how to do your job, but could you test their blood for poison? The results may change the course of both of our investigations.”