by Anne Emery
“Well then, how do you explain what happened? Why do I get the feeling that, if I stay on this case, I’m going to spend all my time running after you for explanations of things I should have heard about on day one? Now, tell me the truth. What was going on?”
“There was nothing going on between me and the young girl,” he began in a quiet voice. “It’s true we had an argument that day about that boyfriend of hers. A real piece of work. Sitting up there in Dorchester Penitentiary for the rape of a little teenaged girl. Leeza wanted me to go up to see the boyfriend. What is it? Two, three hours away? She knew I do prison visits once a week. He needed help, she said. What she really meant was she wanted me to start paying this clown regular visits, so when parole time came round, I’d be there to support a recommendation for release.”
This sounded plausible. But it would. Burke had had a month and a half to think it up.
There was a knock at the door and my client looked as annoyed as I felt. “What is it?” I snapped, and Tina, my secretary, poked her elaborately styled head in the door.
“I’m sorry to interrupt, but what response did you want me to give Mr. Gillis on his offer to settle? You told me you’re turning it down but what do you want to say in the letter?”
“Just tell him no. We’ll be a while here, Tina, and I don’t want to be disturbed.” She apologized and backed out.
Burke was looking at me with a glint of amusement in his eyes. “You were saying?” I prodded him.
“Aside from the parole assistance the girl envisioned down the road, what she was really after was a regular ride up to Dorchester to see this gobshite. I would drive and pay the expenses, and she’d save herself a bus trip.” He seemed genuinely angry. “Can you figure that out, Collins? A girl still wanting to cozy up to a boyfriend who’d not only had sex with another girl, but had committed rape?”
“Why did she think you would even consider this?”
“Out of the goodness of my heart, I’m thinking. But if not that...”
“There was something in it for you.”
“Right. She started to unbutton her shirt, telling me that all this would be mine, if we could take off together the next week for Dorchester.”
“So what was your reaction to that?”
He glared at me and peppered me with some unsacerdotal language: “You mean, did I try to get a leg up over her? I’m a little more self-disciplined than that. Besides, I was too pissed off. I grabbed her wrist to stop her taking her clothes off. To prevent her from demeaning herself any further. Then she said she was quitting the youth centre and moving to Dorchester to be close to this arsehole. She’d get some kind of work up there, or sell herself if she had to. I told her not to do anything so idiotic. Christ. This girl would do anything for that woman-hater of a boyfriend!”
“We’re guys, Father. We both know what assholes men can be. But I have yet to see a male so vicious or so ugly that he does not have a woman waiting faithfully in the wings. You witnessed a prime example that day you were in the courtroom. Mother of an abused child. And I’m sure you’ll remember it was the woman’s boyfriend who abused —”
Burke was shaking his head. “Don’t be telling me that again.”
“And in order to do what I had to do for my client, I took her apart on the stand.”
He didn’t need me to tell him this was what the Crown prosecutor would do to him if his case went to trial.
He gave me a long look, then returned to the encounter with Leeza Rae. “Anyway. I grabbed her wrist, she told me to fuck off, and she ran out of the building. You can be sure I didn’t mention this to the police when they didn’t seem to know about it.”
“We can’t assume they don’t know about it.”
“Oh God,” he muttered, “somebody killed this girl, and, considering the company she kept —”
“Moody Walker thinks it was you.”
“It wasn’t.”
“And I would like to convince him of that. Or at least find something I can toss his way to make him look elsewhere and stop dropping your name to his old cronies on the force. I can’t do it directly. I don’t want him to know you’ve retained counsel. But listen to me, Father. I cannot represent you if you continue to withhold evidence from me.” The priest nodded, taking it in at last. “Now, I’m going to ask you once more. Is there anything else that happened between you and this girl? Anything. Any time. Anywhere.”
“Just one thing. After that row we had in the classroom, she came in and apologized. It may have been the next day. She said she had been out of line, she was sorry, and could we be friends again? I have no doubt that she just wanted to butter me up, so she could work on me again. But I said I was sorry too, for getting angry with her. After that, we just said hello in the corridors. No tension, but no more chats. I saw her at the dance the night she was killed. I think I danced with her but if I did, it wasn’t for long, or she probably would have started up a conversation and I’d remember it. It may have been one of those dance games where everyone cuts in. I simply don’t know.”
Father Burke looked exhausted. My fury had dissipated and my heart went out to him, as aggravating as he could be. After all, I had spent my adult life defending people accused of doing the most wretched things to other people. Some innocent, most guilty. So I must have been a softie, deep deep down. “Why don’t you go home now, put on a set of headphones and listen to some music? Or make your own. If there’s nothing more you can tell me, we’ll just have to wait this out.”
“I’m not a wait-it-out kind of man.”
“I can see that, Father. But we can’t make any moves, apart from some discreet investigating on the side. But that’s not you, it’s me. I’ll be in touch.”
He stood and put out his hand. I reached for it and we shook. “Montague,” the clipped tone had softened somewhat, “I know you’re doing your best for me, and I appreciate it. I’m a little tense these days.”
I smiled. “Little wonder. Talk to you soon.”
Chapter 5
Always with true faith my prayer rose to the holy shrines.
Always with true faith I gave flowers to adorn the altar.
In my hour of sorrow why, why, o Lord,
why do you reward me this way?
— Puccini, Giacosa/Illica, “Vissi d’arte,” Tosca
I
The circus had come to town and I brought Tommy Douglas and Normie to the Metro Centre for the show. Normie was bouncing with excitement, as much because it was a school night as because this was her first time at a circus. I had her umpteenth pair of eyeglasses stored safely in my pocket, to be handed out when the show began. With any luck, they would emerge unbroken at the end of the evening. All three of us got caught up in the show. It was not until intermission that the evening lost its lustre. The kids joined a long line at the canteen and I stood around waiting, enjoying the crowd. Then I spied Moody Walker, dressed in a tweed sports jacket over a St. Mary’s University sweatshirt, in the company of two young boys. Nephews, or possibly grandsons. Walker saw me at the same time, and I went over to be civil. We chatted about the show and upcoming sports events.
“How’s retirement suiting you these days, Sergeant? Settling in to it any better?”
“Not quite yet. I’m helping the police with their inquiries, you know, the way civilians are supposed to do.” His lugubrious features brightened into a smile. “That murder we discussed a while back.”
“Oh, yes?” I held my breath.
“Vern Doucette, who’s in charge of the case, is setting aside some time for me day after next. I’m going to lay it all out for him, the case I think we have against this priest. These guys think they can get away with anything, wearing that collar. I’ll show him a c
ollar!” He peered at me. “You don’t look so good, Collins. You’re not an altar boy or anything, are you? If you’re a friend of this Burke, better find yourself another confessor. Hey, Phil!” Walker spotted a pal and gave me a farewell salute. I waited for the kids to get their snacks. Tommy came towards me with an enormous bag of buttered popcorn, and offered it to me. I couldn’t even look at it.
“You guys go back to your seats. I’ll be with you in a second. And Tom, make sure she goes to her seat and stays in it. And keeps her glasses on.”
“Sure, Dad. You all right?”
“Mmm.” I turned and went into the nearest washroom, where I splashed my face with cold water and stood for a minute to calm down. The mirror told me I looked the way I always did, as if I didn’t have a care in the world. Then I headed for a phone and dialed the Strattons’ number.
“Hello.” Sylvia’s plummy voice.
“Hello Sylvia. It’s Monty.”
“Oh, yes, how are you Monty? You must pay us a visit soon. We haven’t seen you.”
“Thanks, Sylvia. I’ll do that. Is Rowan around?”
Rowan came on the line. “My dear Collins. Good of you to call. You’ve just saved me from a very bad hand at whist. I shall be eternally grateful.”
“Rowan, I’m at the Metro Centre. Just ran into Moody Walker. He says he has a meeting set up with Sergeant Doucette the day after tomorrow. He’s going to lay out his case against our friend.”
“Does he know we’re on for Burke?” Rowan asked quickly.
“I don’t think so. But he noticed I looked a little distressed when I heard the news. Wondered if I’m a friend of our man.”
“Well, I have a few chips to call in over at the police department. A certain senior officer — my source for the Moody Walker information in the first place. He’ll tell me yes or no when the decision comes down. Won’t pass along anything about the evidence though, blast him. We’ll have to wait till disclosure time for that. If it goes that far, I should say. Of course we shan’t know how long Doucette will take to mull things over. Do you want to give our friend the heads up, or shall I?”
“I’ll speak to him tomorrow. Thanks, Rowan.”
II
I called the rectory first thing in the morning, but Mrs. Kelly told me Father Burke was out for choir practice and would not be back until late afternoon. I found it hard to concentrate on my other files. I was supposed to conduct a discovery examination of the plaintiff’s expert in a complex construction suit, but I turned that over to one of the associates, someone whose mind would be on the job. I was halfheartedly proofreading draft one of an appeal factum when my phone rang.
“Montague. Brennan Burke here. You called.”
“Yes, I did. Brennan, could we —”
I heard a child’s voice. “Who you talkin’ to, Father?”
“Just a minute, Montague. What did I ask you to do there, Alvin? Not pester me, was it?”
I remembered the little dark-skinned angel I had seen clambering up to her place in the choir loft. And the sweet voice that emerged once she had cleared her throat.
“Who’s that on the phone?” she wanted to know.
“Someone very important,” Burke replied.
“Who? That white guy?”
There was a moment’s hesitation.
“He’s a white guy, yes.”
“No, I mean that guy in the white dress and hat.”
“Ah. That’s a picture of the Pope, Alvin. Is he on the phone with me, you’re asking?”
“Where am I s’posed to start singing?” she demanded.
“As I said, you start the second line, there, after I sing Deo. Right there. Gloria in excelsis Deo” the priest intoned, beautifully, and then I heard the child’s voice join in: “Et in terra... “ She sang directly into the phone, to me, the guy in white.
“Get thee behind me, Satan!” This from Burke. “Go over by the window, Alvin, start your part again, and let me make my call.” The child began to sing again, farther from the phone. “Sorry.” Burke lowered his voice. “Her father, or stepmother, or whoever it is this week, forgot to come pick her up. Again. Usually I leave her with one of the volunteers at the centre, or Eileen. We’ve all had our turn. But nobody’s free today. Imagine the parents forgetting their child. So, what’s on your mind?”
“I’m just on my way out now,” I hedged. “Is there somewhere we could get together this evening?”
If my client was worried, he didn’t let on. “You could always come up to my room. You’d be even more welcome if you brought with you, say, a Tomaso pizza.”
The Gloria stopped and the little voice said: “Pizza? I love pizza, but it makes me burp.”
“Are you hungry, Al? Maybe we could walk up the street and find something for you to eat. You’ve done enough work for today.”
“Go for something to eat, with you?” she squealed.
“Why not? You don’t want to walk up the street with an old fellow? I didn’t have a grey hair on my head till I met the likes of you, Alvin.”
“What are we gonna eat?”
“Have to go, Montague. You know how it is when you have kids. How about eight o’clock?”
“Fine.”
I stayed on at the office and did some other work. Then I ordered a pizza and drove to the north end of the city to pick it up. The pizzeria was in the Hydrostones, so named for the type of concrete block used in the houses that were rebuilt following the catastrophic Halifax Explosion of 1917.
I arrived at the rectory a few minutes early, still in my business suit, pizza in hand. Mrs. Kelly directed me to a dark-varnished staircase to the second floor. Just as the first step creaked under the weight of my foot, Sister Marguerite Dunne charged through the rectory door and pointed her finger upward. Mrs. Kelly nodded and we went up together.
“Moonlighting, are you, Mr. Collins? Not enough skullduggery to pay the bills?” Sister Dunne clearly found my situation amusing.
“Actually this is my real job, Sister. The work I do by day is just something to tide me over when there’s a lull in the pizza business, like weekdays nine to five. With the pizza job I provide a useful service, and I meet a nicer class of people.”
We walked to the end of an east-west corridor, which intersected with a hallway running north. The priest’s was the last room on the right before the turn. The door was ajar and I pushed it open. He was flaked out across an armchair, dressed in a thin white T-shirt tucked into a pair of faded denim shorts, and his feet were bare. His eyes were closed and he was conducting the music coming from the stereo. A woman with a glorious voice was singing misericordia something, and the melody was splendid enough to be Mozart. Father Burke heard the door but didn’t open his eyes. He waved a hand at me to be quiet.
“Her voice is like cream. Do you suppose she’d move in with me, Montague? If I spruced this place up a bit? Let her choose the curtains? Kiri Te Kanawa and Brennan Burke, together at last. All he asks of her is that she sing to him every night. She desires more of him, of course. But Brennan, his vows intact, merely plants a chaste kiss on her —”
I cleared my throat. “Uh, Father Burke...” I tried to impart a warning in my tone.
He reluctantly opened his eyes, which fell, not on me, but on Sister Dunne, and his eyelids flew open like sprung window shades. Until that instant, I could not have imagined such a look on his face, normally so composed. Surprise, embarrassment, and a complete inability to formulate an appropriate response. A rare experience for him, I expected.
“Marguerite!” he croaked, bolting from his chair and reaching out to snap off the stereo.
; The nun’s habitual air of restrained amusement had blossomed into undisguised triumph. “Well, Brennan! If I’d known you were sitting here in your underclothes, communing with a woman in New Zealand, I would not have intruded.” She smiled in joyful malice.
“I’m not in my underclothes!” Burke protested.
“Good thing she wasn’t singing the ‘Habanera’ from Carmen. We don’t know whether the vows would have remained intact in that case. Well, I won’t keep you. I just wanted to drop this off. I’ll get your comments later, if you’re still interested in ‘Christology in the Patristic Age: Development and Synthesis.’ Oh, and Brennan, the pizza man is here. The least you can do is come out of yourself and give him a tip. And do eat up.” She looked him up and down. “You look as if you’re losing weight. Must be love.” She smiled widely at me and clacked out of the room, her day complete.
“Shit!” Burke exclaimed, hands running through his hair.
“I have to admit, Brennan, that little scene did a hell of a lot to brighten up my day.”
“Glad I could be of service,” he replied with something of his usual tartness. “What’s on the pizza?”
“The works.”
“Good. I have a couple of very nice Italian wines a friend brought over for me. Unless you’d prefer whiskey.”
“Wine would be perfect,” I told him.
“We’ll open the Barolo and let it breathe for a bit; it’s been bottled up for ten years. Let’s start swigging the Chianti with our pizza.” He went to a cupboard and brought out the bottles and a corkscrew. His room was filled with books, ancient and new, musical scores, albums and compact discs, on the shelves and on the floor. But his bed was made up tight as a drum, and his clothes could be seen through the open door of his wardrobe, all hanging neatly with plastic over them to keep off the dust. There was a street scene that must have been Rome tacked on the wall, a calendar that obviously came from Ireland, and a couple of Renaissance reproductions in frames. No religious kitsch. I was especially taken with one of the prints and went over for a closer look.
