This story goes with a much larger universe, populated by many characters created by lots of different people. Because of that, it may not be very satisfying on it's own (or make a lot of sense since a lot of this back story exists solely to explain things that Nightcrawler, as Father Wagner, says and does almost 20 years later.)
To get the full picture I would suggest visiting and reading the following"instances" (the game's word for character interactions played outside the arc of the larger game plot) :
6/29 Instance: Fight fight!
7/05 - Deliberations, Negotiations, and Revelations.
7/10 Instance: Saint Wagner
7/17 Instance: Secret Mustard
7/23 Instance: Why Wagner is afraid of books
7/24 Instance: Twaching
christmas thread: Wagner
8/14 Instance: The Exorcist
8/19 Instance: Better than Monster Movies
8/24 Instance: Even Fruitcakes Have Layers
That should help get you started on who Father Wagner is and why this back story exists in the first place.
Frozen in time and motion, the photographers and reporters were locked in a tableau of silent activity. They were caught as though in action, like a frame of film in which they were pressing shutters, waving pencils, and brandishing small tape recorders, with their mouths open as if in speech and yet completely without sound. They surrounded their subject, a figure who was also motionless, lying on the ground and curled up on his side.
A balding man in a motorized wheelchair rolled up and surveyed the scene, shaking his head sadly. A single companion stood several steps behind him, appearing like something of a bodyguard. He had a vaguely simian posture that made him appear much less intelligent than he actually was. The balding man nodded wordlessly and his companion stepped forward at the unspoken command, nimbly finding his way through the stationary crowd. He scooped the fallen man up from the ground easily, as though he was lifting a small child, and carried him back.
"Will he be all right?" The man in the chair asked.
"I think so."
As the three of them were pulling away in a black limousine, the circle of reporters appeared to thaw, slowly to come to life again. As though under a hypnotists spell they began ripping up pages, erasing tapes, and scribbling over lines of notes. Photographers opened their cameras, letting the exposed film spill out into the light or discarded the memory of their digital cameras. When they were finished with these tasks, they came fully awake, unaware of what they'd done, or what they'd seen.
The last 15 minutes of their lives had been erased. Permanently.