25

Father Charles Horan’s service would be a private affair and take place in the smaller Marian Chapel located on the right-hand side of the Basilica of St. John the Baptist. Normally a visitor would be fascinated by the hand-carved wooden recessed Stations of the Cross or the four beautiful stained glass windows representing the Immaculate Conception, the Assumption of Our Lady, the Immaculate Heart of Mary, and Our Lady of Fatima. This morning, its lone visitor didn’t notice anything but the gold-coloured urn placed on a podium at the front altar.

Sgt. Myra sat in the back of the chapel in a white oak pew, staring at the urn containing the cremated remains of Father Charles Horan. The chapel was empty, as he was the first to arrive at the funeral service. He was glad no one else was there. It gave him a chance to spend some time alone with Charles. Myra felt an overwhelming sense of guilt. He had been so thrilled to receive the files from Father Horan that he got caught up in the excitement and the magnitude of the operation. He had wanted to sit down and talk with Charles, and he made mental notes of the things he wanted to tell him. He’d wanted to tell Charles face to face that he had helped so many victims. But he’d kept putting it off because there was so much happening at once.

The phone call.

He should have answered Charles’s phone call. That could have made all the difference. Maybe Charles had called to tell him what he was about to do. Maybe he could have talked him out of it. He could have helped him. Charles could be alive right now if he had just answered the phone. It would have taken a minute or two to save his life. A damn minute. I didn’t have a damn minute to answer the phone for the man who gave me the biggest break of my career.

The last few days had been like a roller coaster. Tracking down victims and helping them. Tracking down pedophiles and charging them with their crimes. The roller coaster was taking him on high highs and low lows. He needed to get off. He needed his brain to stop over-thinking. He needed the nightmares to stop. On his way to the funeral, Chief DeSilva had called to say Myra would be getting the Chief’s Commendation for the good work he and his team had done. How could he accept an award that had cost another man his life? He felt like he had placed the noose around Charles’s neck. Sgt. Myra felt like the blood of the lamb was now on his hands.

Someone had set up an easel next to Horan’s urn. He guessed it had been Sister Pius. It was covered in pictures of Charles wearing his Roman collar and in plain clothes. In some of the pictures he was very young. Myra thought they must have been taken when he first went to the orphanage. He noted Charles was smiling in the younger pictures, but the smile disappeared as he aged. Myra couldn’t help but notice how Charles had started out as a handsome young boy but seemed to age two years for every year he lived. Much like himself.

So much promise lost, thought Myra. The seasoned police officer was relieved that Charles had been cremated. He didn’t want to look into his face as he lay in a casket. A Chief’s Commendation. The highest honour a police officer could receive. How could he accept it knowing he too was now covered in the blood of the lamb? He would forever see Charles’s blood on his hands.

His mind kept going back to the day before. The news conference. The call from Sister Pius. The shock when she screamed into the phone. She was screaming as she told him she was standing in the archbishop’s office and Charles had hanged himself. Myra raced to the rectory after alerting other police officers and an ambulance.

Sister Pius had been on her knees, sobbing hysterically. Nick jumped up on the desk and lifted Charles’s lifeless body up to take the pressure of the rope off his neck. Two constables arrived at the same time and rushed to his aid. They each held a leg while Nick cut him down. The ambulance attendants arrived seconds later. The three police officers laid Horan’s limp body on the stretcher. As the attendants started to wheel him out, Sister Pius grabbed Charles and hugged him, sobbing, rocking him like he had been her own son. Nick had to pull her away. She was hysterical, and it took a while to calm her down. She eventually became very quiet and withdrawn. He had walked her back to the Mother House and left her in the care of her sisters. Then he had sat in his car for a long time, unable to turn the key in the ignition.

Myra couldn’t help but wonder who Charles Horan would be now if he had not been put in the orphanage. Where would he be right now? Certainly not in an urn. Maybe married to a nice girl with a family and a career. He may have had a very normal life. A life that was stolen by a very evil man. The archbishop killed Charles, but Myra felt as though he had put the noose around his neck.

* * * * *

Father Cooke stood pacing in the room behind the Marian Chapel, rehearsing his sermon for Father Horan’s service. He tried hard to focus, but his hands were shaking. His own future was hanging in the wind. He thought how ironic it was that his last duty as a priest would be to conduct a funeral for another priest. Every time his cellphone rang he jumped, expecting it to be the archbishop’s secretary requesting he come to the office.

The news of Father Horan’s suicide ran through the religious ranks. Never had anyone in the order heard of a priest dying by suicide. Father Cooke thought back on Horan’s relationship with Archbishop Keating. They seemed unusually close. It always gave him a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. Now rumours were flying about just how unusual that relationship was.

He didn’t know Horan that well. The young priest had kept to himself. Father Cooke always got the feeling Father Horan didn’t trust him, and he didn’t know why. He respected Horan’s boundaries and did not pursue a friendship. Still, he was honoured when Sister Pius asked him to do the funeral service. He was worried that other clergy would not respect him now or question his motives after the spectacle he had made of himself in the basilica.

The chapel slowly began to fill to its ninety-seat capacity. Sister Pius was the second to arrive. She walked in with her head down and didn’t notice the police officer sitting alone in the back of the chapel. She sat in the front row and immediately got on her knees and began to pray. Dr. Luke Gillespie and Nurse Agatha Catania came in next. They both nodded to Nick and slid into his pew. After exchanging pleasantries, they sat in silence. Luke was surprised to see Mrs. Furey come in next. She nodded at him and sat in the pew in front of his.

Sgt. Myra kept his eyes on Sister Pius. He stiffened when he noticed her shoulders shaking, indicating that she was crying. He decided to join her in the front row, and as he entered, she looked up at him. He took her hand and held it during the sixty-minute service.

The chapel began to fill with other priests and nuns who were there to show their support and share their pain. Father Horan’s death was a death in the family. Whether they knew him or not, they had lost a brother, and they grieved their loss.

Sgt. Myra noticed a uniform out of the corner of his eye. He turned around to see three rows filled with the members of his unit—police officers he had worked with—and Chief DeSilva. As he watched them fill the pews, a lump formed in his throat. Myra remembered he, too, was part of a family, and he was humbled by their attendance. He knew they were there for him. He turned back toward the altar, still wondering how they could award him such an honour while knowing it had cost the life of this priest.

Father Cooke donned his holy vestment, took a deep breath, and stood at the back of the chapel. As the organist played “Be Not Afraid,” he walked in behind the few altar boys still volunteering at the church. He took his place at the altar and observed the small crowd in front of him. The funeral service was the same as every other he had conducted throughout his career, but his sermon was different.

He wished he had listened to his gut about Father Horan. Maybe if he tried harder, he could have helped him. Maybe Charles didn’t trust him because he thought Father Cooke was a pedophile, too. It made him sick to his stomach. He felt the same as every clergy in the room. Like he should have done more. Like he should have investigated the whispers about Charles’s relationship with the archbishop.

There was a lot of guilt to go around in this small chapel.

Father Cooke tried to explain during his sermon why Father Horan had taken his own life. He told the story of a friend who boarded a plane with his young child. During the flight, they experienced severe turbulence. The child became very frightened and started to cry. The father comforted the child until the turbulence stopped, and then the child went back to playing. On the flight back from their vacation, the child became very anxious when he had to board the plane and began to cry. People around them rolled their eyes in disgust at this unruly child. There were comments of, “What a spoiled child!” “Why can’t you get him under control?” And, of course, the angry stares and judgment. The father sat there with the child and rocked him, comforting him.

Father Cooke said, “The child’s father knew how he’d gotten that way. The father knew it was his experience with turbulence that created the anxiety and made the child cry. He knew the best thing he could do for his son was ignore everyone around them and sit and comfort his child until he stopped crying.” He then said, “God the Father knew why Father Horan had such anxiety. He knew how he’d gotten that way. And he is now in his Father’s arms being comforted without judgment.”

Sister Pius began to weep even more, and Sgt. Myra put his strong arms around her, offering her comfort. He knew she was thinking of yesterday, holding Charles’s lifeless body on the stretcher. He knew the image would never leave her mind . . . or his.

After the service, everyone sadly walked out of the chapel. The sisters at the Mother House had arranged for a tea and cookie reception. The clergy all attended. The police officers went back to work. Dr. Gillespie, Nurse Catania, and Mrs. Furey walked out together and headed back to the hospital. Sister Pius and Sgt. Myra stayed in the chapel.

“I thought he was ready to move on with his life,” she confessed.

“He may have had this planned all along,” replied Myra.

“Do you think so?” the nun asked, while her mind went over every conversation she’d had with him over the past week. “I didn’t see this coming. I missed something.”

“You didn’t miss anything,” he reassured her. “I think Charlie was on a mission. I think when he turned the files over to me his mind was made up.”

“Why?” she sobbed. “Why? I had offered him a safe place. He could have gone on with his life.”

“He was broken. He didn’t know how to fix himself.” Myra’s guilt only grew with each word.

“I am broken now, too,” said Sister Pius, leaning heavily on Myra’s arm. “Help me back to the Mother House, please. I need to lie down.”

Along the walk, Sgt. Myra lamented on a past belief. “Sister, my mother used to say everything happens for a reason. Do you believe that?”

“No, I don’t. I believe good things happen to bad people, and bad things happen to good people. There’s no rhyme or reason to it. The universe is a random place, but I do believe you get back what you put out.” She let out a heavy sigh. “Sgt. Myra, you of all people should know the difference on that one.”

“Yes, I guess I suppose I should.”

As he left the Mother House, the grey sky that had been threatening rain all morning opened and began to pour. He walked past the statue of the Virgin Mary in the front yard. The rain looked like tears streaming down Her face. Even She was disappointed in him today. Even She judged his selfishness.