Blood on a Saint

by Anne Emery

  “All right, Lorena. If you think of anything else, I’d appreciate it if you’d give me a call. Here’s my card. And thanks for your time today.”

  “You’re welcome, Montague.”

  †

  Monty had not learned much of anything from his neighbourhood survey. There was a stepfather, a timid mother, the daughter walking alone late at night. One might mould those bits of information into a profile of sorts, but there were no concrete details that Monty could use. There were no names, specifically no boyfriends’ names. So the next stop would be the police station. The police had their man, as least as they saw things, but they would have looked into the victim’s background to see what might have led her to such a violent end. Monty hoped he might get something out of his police contact. If not, he would consider giving the assignment to a private investigator. But if he could tap into work that had already been done, he would begin there.

  He picked up the phone and called the police station for Constable Truman Beals. He was out, so Monty left a message and heard back within the hour. They arranged to meet at the Tim Hortons on Spring Garden Road.

  “Truman, how’s it going?” Monty asked when they were seated with their coffee.

  “Not too bad, Monty. You? Been blowing your harp at the Shag lately?”

  “Oh, yeah. The usual. You should do a guest performance again sometime soon.” Beals’s guest appearances with Monty’s blues band had become infrequent since Beals joined the cop shop. Too many “persons known to police” in the crowd at the Flying Stag, a.k.a. the Shag.

  “I’ll think it over. But in the meantime maybe Podgis will do a live show from there, little tribute to his lawyer after you get him off.”

  “Think I’ll get him off?”

  “Wouldn’t be the first shit bird you got released from captivity.”

  “Thank you, Truman. That makes me feel really good about myself. I won’t have to attend the self-esteem workshop this week.”

  “Damn. I won’t be seeing you there? You’re the only one in the whole group who shares with me. I feel a relapse coming on.”

  “You’ll get over it. Couple of nights on the beat, everybody waving and smiling at their local coppers, you’ll be your usual fulfilled, empowered self. But, to tide you over till then, here’s a chance to help a member of the defence bar help his wrongfully accused client beat the rap. Think how good that will feel.”

  “I’m armed, white boy. Don’t piss me off.”

  “Busy yourself with your coffee to cover the awkward moment while I try to figure out how to get this conversation to go where I want it to go.”

  Beals took a leisurely sip of his double-double. Monty did the same.

  “All right,” Beals said, “what are you after?”

  “Jordyn Snider’s love life.”

  “With Podgis, you mean? It didn’t last.”

  “Not with Podgis. As far as I know, they never met.”

  “They met. It was nasty, brutish, and short. Like him.”

  “Well, I can’t really expect you to be open-minded and inclusive about who else might have done this, Tru. But I know you would have looked into her background, to see how likely she would be to take up with Podgis on the spur of the moment. That would have involved her history with men. And that’s what I’m looking for. Her boyfriends.”

  “Brandon the rapist, you mean? That who you’re asking about?”

  “Must be. What’s the story? Was Jordyn the victim?”

  “No. It was another, very young, girl.”

  “And the guy?”

  “Brandon Toth, eighteen years old when this happened two years ago, convicted of sexual assault causing bodily harm. Got eight years.”

  “Whoa! Must have been bad.”

  “Oh, yeah.”

  “So he’s still in the pen.”

  “He’ll always be in. Soon as he gets out, he’ll do it again. And back inside he goes.”

  “And this was Jordyn’s beau.”

  “Till they broke up.”

  “I should hope they broke up. Having your boyfriend sent to jail for raping another girl is one of the leading causes of women ending relationships, according to the latest study in — ”

  “He dumped her.”

  “Oh. Met somebody new in the showers in the penitentiary?”

  “Who the fuck knows? Point is, he’s behind bars in Dorchester. So you can’t pin the murder on him.”

  “Yeah, yeah, I know. But maybe she had other suitors drawn from the same pool.” If so they would make very handy scapegoats in the defence of Pike Podgis.

  “I don’t know whether she dipped into that pool more than once or not. But I do know Podgis did a show on that peculiar phenomenon.”

  “On what phenomenon?” Monty asked, trying to sound more casual than he felt.

  “On girls who date bad boys. I don’t mean guys with fast cars and a dime bag of weed in the glove compartment. I mean guys who have committed rape, aggravated assault, murder. Doesn’t hurt their chances of scoring with some of the girls out there. Not a bit. The show was about the lengths these girls will go to in order to keep their psychopathic sweethearts happy. Whoa! Just when I thought I’d heard it all. Of course, Podgis also did a show on ‘the things guys will do to get laid.’ He’d know! Guy looks like that? What would he have to do to get lucky with a woman? Kill her, I guess.”

  Monty knew when it was better to keep silent and be thought a fool than to open his mouth and remove all doubt.

  Beals smiled and made him an offer. “I’ll dub you a copy of the tape of those shows. There are some other dandies on the tape too.”

  “That won’t be necessary.”

  “Think nothing of it. I’ll be happy to. Now, where were we before we got distracted by Pike Podgis: His Life and Works?”

  “Jordyn Snider: Her Life and Loves.”

  Beals looked as if he was thinking it over, then said, “Okay. We interviewed one guy she went out with.”

  “Who?”

  “Drew MacLean.”

  “Did he give you an alibi?”

  “He’s definitely not a killer.”

  “So. No alibi.”

  “He doesn’t need one. As I said, not a killer.”

  “You only see the good in people, Truman. Have you ever arrested anybody?”

  “Have you ever had an innocent client?”

  “On occasion.”

  “How about this occasion?”

  “How can you look into the sweet face of Perry Calvin Podgis and ask such a question?”

  Chapter 5

  Brennan

  If Brennan thought the appetite for miracles might miraculously disappear from his churchyard, a story in the Wednesday, October 7, edition of the Herald suggested otherwise. Miracle fever would not be extinguished any time soon.

  NEW MIRACLE CLAIMED IN HALIFAX

  Pilgrims camped on the grounds of St. Bernadette’s church in Halifax are claiming a new miracle. The church is the site of alleged apparitions of the Virgin Mary. It is also a murder scene, where 19-year-old Jordyn Snider was stabbed to death. But the crowds are still coming. And now, devotees say, a man has been given the miraculous gift of a second language, thanks to the intervention of the Blessed Virgin. Ignatius Boyle, a 56-year-old homeless man, is a well-known figure in front of the library on Spring Garden Road and at the St. Bernadette’s statue where the Virgin is said to have appeared. Now Boyle, a unilingual anglophone, is speaking French. People who have known him for years say he has never spoken French before now. Boyle suffered a fall on Morris Street two weeks ago, and was rendered unconscious. He was taken to the Victoria General Hospital early on the morning of September 24 with undetermined head injuries. Befanee Tate, the young woman at the centre of the Mary sightings, says that when Boyle awoke from his coma t
hree days ago, he began speaking to hospital staff in French. He has not spoken a word in English. According to Tate, one of the other pilgrims, a francophone woman from Moncton, New Brunswick, visited Boyle and was able to translate what he said. The New Brunswick woman said there was a religious component to his remarks. The hospital would not give out any information about Boyle’s condition, but people have been gathering in the hospital parking lot and keeping a vigil beneath his window. One man said Boyle had acknowledged their presence with a wave and a sign of the cross.

  Ignatius Boyle. Hard to forget that name. Brennan recalled meeting him before the infamous Podgis debate and remembered liking the fellow right away. What had Boyle told him? He had not finished school. Sounded as if he’d been on the drink as a young lad, but he had not said anything more than that in explanation of the way his life had turned out. He had been permitted to sit in on some philosophy classes at St. Mary’s, thanks to a few sympathetic professors. Brennan was familiar with the philosophy department at the university; the courses were taught in English. There was also the mission Boyle had taken upon himself, to assist the street kids.

  Now, what was this? He had been injured and had developed an ability he had never had before. Brennan read the article again. September 24. Did they have that right? That would have been the same early morning the young girl was killed.

  There was a knock on his door, and he called, “Come in.”

  Michael O’Flaherty. “Morning, Brennan. Have you seen the paper?”

  “I’m just after seeing it.”

  “One of us should go and see that poor man, Boyle.”

  “Certainly. I’ll go. I met him a while back.”

  “Did you now? I’ve seen him around but, apart from saying hello, I’ve never met him. Did you notice the night they say he fell and hurt his head?”

  “Yes. Same night as the murder. Well, the morning. And not far from here.”

  “You have to wonder.”

  “I’ll see what I can find out. Though if he really is speaking only French, I won’t get much out of him. You’re not a French speaker yourself, Michael?”

  “Sadly, no, apart from a few little phrases. Much of New Brunswick is French-speaking but not Saint John, where I grew up. I’ll see if I can reach Father Cormier. No, wait, he’s up in Moncton this week.”

  “No worries. I’ll seek the advice of our friend Collins. He’ll be curious about this, to say the least. He has some French but, if he’s not up to the task, he’ll know someone who is.”

  Brennan picked up the phone and punched in Collins’s number at home. No answer after eight rings. Brennan tried his direct line at the office. Success.

  “Hello.”

  “Monty.”

  “Yes.”

  “Have you read this morning’s paper?”

  “Mmm.”

  “Have you lost your ability to speak English? It’s going around, they tell me.”

  “Right. Call you back.” Click.

  Brennan hung up the phone and shrugged.

  “What is it?” Michael asked.

  “Monty was being a bit odd. Wouldn’t speak. But said he’d call me back.”

  “Maybe he was with a client.”

  “It’s early but he must have been. Maybe seeing someone before court.”

  “All right, Brennan. I’ll leave you to it.”

  Collins returned the priest’s call ten minutes later. “Brennan, sorry about the earlier call.”

  “Ego te absolvo. What’s going on?”

  “Podgis was in here.”

  “Fortune smiles on you, my lad.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “Anyway, what I was calling about was the story in the Herald. Have you — ”

  “Oh, yeah. I’ve seen it.”

  “Well?”

  “Same date as the murder. I have to get in there. I’m hoping they’ll let me in to take his statement if he’s able.”

  “His statement.”

  “As you might imagine, Ignatius Boyle is a person of interest to me, if not to the police.”

  Of course. That’s why Podgis had been in Collins’s office so early in the day. Brennan had been thinking, to the extent that he had started to process the information at all, that Ignatius Boyle might have suffered violence at the hands of the same individual who had killed Jordyn Snider. And if that was Pike Podgis, so be it. But now Brennan saw things another way.

  “You’re going to try to pin this murder on poor Ignatius Boyle. That’s what the early morning confab with Podgis was about.”

  “I’m not going to try to pin it on Boyle if he had nothing to do with it, Brennan. But you have to admit it’s a curious set of facts. One of the ‘seers’ at the apparition site was murdered, and one of the regular pilgrims, Boyle, was found unconscious nearby on the same night.”

  “I notice you use the passive voice when you say the young one ‘was murdered.’ But then, what else are you going to say? As for Ignatius, he’s not just a regular pilgrim. He was a regular visitor at the churchyard even before this. He’s a familiar figure on the streets downtown as well.”

  “I know, Brennan. He was a client from time to time when I was with Legal Aid.”

  “For what?”

  “I don’t remember anything about it. I’d have to look it up.”

  “He’s obviously had a hard life. This is probably not the first time he’s been injured. So there’s no obvious connection between the girl’s murder and Ignatius being found on the street.”

  “Still, it’s something I have to run down in building a defence for my client.”

  “How can you bear to be in the same room with Podgis?”

  “Comes with the territory. But that’s neither here nor there. The point is I want to get in there and talk to Boyle if I can.”

  “So do I.”

  “What for?”

  “To offer a bit of comfort to the man, for one thing. And to see for myself whether he has acquired overnight the ability to speak a second language.”

  “A miracle.”

  “A bit early to be talking like that. But the news article said there has been a religious component to his conversation, so I’d like to know what that is all about.”

  “Well, let’s meet at the VG and talk our way in to see him. Wear your collar.”

  “To help ease your way past the hospital personnel.”

  “You said it yourself: you want to comfort him.”

  “And in the process, help you defend Pike Podgis.”

  “Don’t think of it that way, Brennan. Think of your duty to visit the sick.”

  “All right, all right. Now, do you have somebody who can act as an interpreter in case he really does speak only in French?”

  “Monique LeBlanc, one of my law partners.”

  “Good. See you there in . . . ?”

  “Half an hour.”

  †

  A speculative murmur arose among Ignatius Boyle’s supporters gathered in the parking lot of the Victoria General Hospital as Brennan strode by. They obviously recognized him as the priest from St. Bernadette’s. He nodded a greeting, but kept going. He did not know any more than they did about Boyle’s rumoured acquisition of a second language. Monty Collins and Monique LeBlanc were waiting for him outside the entrance to the massive red-brick hospital. When he reached them, Monty introduced his partner to his priest.

  “Father Burke,” Monique said, “I have attended some of your concerts. You are a wonderful musician. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.”

  “The pleasure is mine,” he responded. As indeed it was. With big brown eyes and long blond hair, Monique LeBlanc was as pleasing to the eye as she was learned in the law.

  “Monique is a native of New Brunswick,” Monty told Brennan. “She hardly knew a word of
English until she started university. And she is more than happy to act as our interpreter.”

  The party of three asked at the reception desk for Ignatius Boyle’s room number, then proceeded to his room. Boyle lay in bed looking peaceful but tired. He opened his eyes when they entered but showed no sign of recognition.

  Brennan took Boyle’s right hand in his and held it gently. “Hello, Ignatius. Do you remember me?”

  The patient looked at him blankly. Brennan glanced at Monique.

  “Bonjour, Monsieur Boyle. Je m’appelle Monique LeBlanc, et je ...”

  That got his attention. Monique told him she would like to speak with him, and she requested his permission to tape the conversation. She drew out her little office Dictaphone and showed it to him. He made no protest, so the lawyers took that as consent, and Monique turned the device on. She started to speak to him again, but he began a soliloquy of his own: “Notre siècle est fort bizarre . . .”

  The three visitors could all understand that much, and perhaps agree. Our times are indeed bizarre.

  Monty signalled to Monique to prompt him again. She spoke to him in French, and they recorded his words: “. . . si par faiblesse je tombe quelquefois qu’aussitôt Votre divin regard purifie mon âme, consumant toutes mes imperfections, comme le feu qui transforme toute chose en lui-même . . .” His voice trailed off and he smiled, then seemed to drift into sleep.

  Monique played the tape back at low volume and listened to the words again. “I notice he uses the polite form of ‘you,’ that is, ‘vous,’ but usually when we pray in French we say ‘Tu,’ or ‘Thou.’ Anyway, what he said was: ‘If through frailty I fall sometimes, may Your — or Thy — Divine glance purify my soul immediately, consuming every imperfection — like fire which transforms all things into itself.’”

  Monty looked at Brennan, but Brennan simply did not know what to make of the man’s intriguing remarks.

  Ignatius remained silent for a few minutes, then resumed speaking: “Toutes nos justices ont des taches à Vos yeux. Je veux donc me revêtir de Votre propre justice et recevoir de Votre amour la possession éternelle de Vous-même.”

  Monique again replayed the taped remarks and translated them for her companions: “‘All our justice is tarnished in Your sight. It is therefore my desire to be clothed with Your own justice and to receive from Your love the eternal possession of Yourself.’”