Blood on a Saint

by Anne Emery

  “Right, right. And your Tommy Douglas is out for the evening, is he?”

  “He’s out with Lexie. She may be buying a car! She’s going to try and get a red one, and I’ll be the first person to get a ride in it except for Tommy!”

  “That will be grand.”

  They all had dinner, and then Normie took the baby, Dominic, upstairs to entertain him before bedtime. Monty, Maura, and Burke shared a bottle of red, but there was no serious drinking.

  “How are things at the carnival, Father?” Maura asked. “Have you been doing your regular shift at the Bernie Bears souvenir stand?”

  “If you get up in the morning and read that the Bernie Bears stand and the stand selling lurid glow-in-the-dark pulsating sacred hearts and all the rest of the korny kiosks of katholic kitsch have been razed by a purifying flame, you will know who struck the match.”

  “Oh, Father, where’s your entrepreneurial spirit? Why aren’t you out there at the Knights of Columbus barbecue, flipping Befanee burgers?”

  “Flip this.”

  “Is that what you said to the one in the Honeymoon Suite, Father?” Monty inquired.

  Maura looked at Burke. “What’s this?”

  Burke gave Monty a black look, and Monty took the opportunity to get off that subject and back to Befanee Tate.

  “Speaking of Befanee, I’ve been meaning to ask you about her boyfriend. Gary, is it?”

  “You’re asking me about him why? So I can assist in the defence of the killer of Jordyn Snider?”

  “The man wrongly accused of the murder, I’m sure you meant to say, Brennan.”

  “That clown!” Maura exclaimed. “I’d like to see him behind bars even if he didn’t commit the murder.”

  “He is not just a clown, MacNeil,” Burke replied. “He is evil.”

  Monty was surprised at the vehemence of the assertion, and said of his client, “He is a clown, Brennan. A buffoon, a nuisance. That doesn’t mean he’s a killer or that he’s evil. He’s pathetic.”

  “He’s more than that. He’s not just a poor, sad bastard. There is evil there.”

  Monty looked at Burke. There had been times when the priest seemed to be able to feel evil coming off someone, but perhaps many of us were like that. Monty had read accounts in the law reports of victims who had had encounters with true psychopaths, and sometimes the victims claimed they could sense evil in the perpetrators. Could see it in their eyes. But Monty did not get that feeling from Podgis. That did not mean it was not there; it could be obscured by the man’s customary bluster.

  “Monty,” Maura said, “just among the three of us here, do you really think there is any doubt — any reasonable doubt — that Podgis killed Jordyn Snider?”

  He decided to give a forthright answer. “I think he probably did it, but there is room for doubt. My job as we all know is to expand that doubt enough to get an acquittal.”

  “How probable is ‘probably’?”

  “Highly probable. But I have to tell you he flatly denies it.”

  Burke looked at him as if to say, as he often did, “Are yeh well, Montague?”

  “He says he has an alibi, and I’ve been trying to check it out.”

  “Been trying, eh, Monty?” Maura asked. “I notice you didn’t say, ‘And it checks out.’”

  “Hey, I could solve this tomorrow, nail down the alibi, and get the charges dropped, but I have to milk the case for all the billable hours I can get.”

  His wife did not even bother to respond. She knew him better than that; if he had evidence exonerating a client, he would present it immediately. Money was not a big motivating factor for him.

  Instead, she asked, “What was the motive? There’s no evidence that he had ever met her.”

  Monty did not reveal the fact that Jordyn had been in the studio audience for the Podgis show. No doubt the police and the Crown knew that, but it had not come up at the prelim. They might be holding it to make an impact at trial.

  All he said was, “Sex would be the most likely motive. You’ve seen her. A killing like this is most often a sex crime, and that’s the case even if there was no actual sexual assault. Failure to score sexually commonly leads to violence, as I’m sure we all know. I’m just speculating that this was likely the situation, if indeed he killed her.”

  “Daddy! Come up and see my farm!” Normie called from her bedroom.

  “Coming right up, dolly!”

  Good. He could enjoy his daughter’s company for a few minutes and put off his unpopular request for more assistance with his defence of Podgis. He climbed the stairs to Normie’s room, where she and little brother Dominic were playing with the toy farm she got for Christmas. She had it set up on her windowsill where her dolls used to be. Now Monty saw a menagerie of animals ranging from horses to barn cats to species not native to the continent, like lions and a rhinoceros.

  “Hey, gang,” he said on arrival. He bent down and hugged his daughter, ruffling her auburn curls.

  “Hi, Daddy!”

  “Dada! Kitty! Walk!” Dominic picked up a cat and pushed it along the floor, making it walk, then patted its head and said, “Good!”

  “Daddy, he learned a new word. Watch this. Wait.”

  Normie scrabbled around under her bed. Monty had never been under there, but he understood that it contained the store of all his daughter’s earthly goods. She drew out a piece of white paper and began making creases in it. Dominic watched the process in great anticipation. When she finished her work, she had produced a paper airplane, and Dominic reached out to grab it. “Plane! Plane!”

  “See? He can say it now.” She lowered her voice. “He can’t fly it very well yet. But maybe it’s my fault because of how I made it.”

  “I’m sure it’s pilot error and not a manufacturing defect, sweetheart.”

  “But we won’t blame him. He’s too little.”

  “Absolutely. Here, let’s give him a ride.”

  Monty picked the little boy up around the waist. “You make his wings, Normie.”

  “Okay!”

  She took his arms and gently stretched them out and slightly back in delta formation, for all the aerodynamic advantage she could produce. Monty flew Dominic around the room, to the accompaniment of jet noise coming from his daughter. The little guy was ecstatic and kept saying, “Plane! Plane!”

  When Monty put him down, he begged for more and was given a couple more flights before being grounded for the night.

  Monty kissed his daughter and gave her another hug. He did the same with Dominic, and Dominic put his arms around Monty’s neck and clung to him. Monty didn’t rush away. When the baby finally let go, he gave Monty a beatific smile, then got back to work. He looked from the paper airplane to the farm animals, and Normie offered the only solution possible. The farm would acquire its own airstrip for bringing in more creatures from afar. Monty left them to it.

  “How are things up there?” Maura asked when he returned.

  “Couldn’t be better.”

  Maura smiled and said no more.

  “Now, Brennan,” Monty reminded him, “you were going to give me some information on this Gary.”

  “Was I now.”

  “What’s his last name, and what do you think he’s been up to at the church? I’ll want a word with him.”

  “Well, no harm, I suppose, unless you manage to pin the murder on him. He’s a ne’er-do-well, and a petty grifter, but I don’t imagine he’ll stand up for long as your alternative suspect. You’ve already got poor Ignatius Boyle — street philosopher, linguistic miracle man, and missionary to disadvantaged kids — in that particular frame.”

  “Speaking again of sex crimes,” Monty said.

  “What?” Burke demanded. “What’s Ignatius got to do with sex crimes?”

  “He’s got a record.”

 
; “No doubt, for trespassing or public drunkenness.”

  “Worse.”

  “Oh, God help us. What is it?”

  “Indecent exposure.”

  Burke gave a weary sigh. “Tell me.”

  Maura did not look any happier than Burke as they awaited the news.

  “Exposed himself to two young girls on the street a few years ago. That’s all I know.”

  “No!” Maura exclaimed.

  “I don’t want to believe it.”

  “He was convicted, Brennan.”

  “Well, it’s a big step from there to murder.”

  “For sure. But it’s not a big step from a minor sexual offence to a more serious one. Maybe it escalated to something worse, maybe not. If so, he never got caught. What were you saying about Boyle and kids? Brennan?”

  “Nothing. He’s kind to them. That’s all.”

  Nobody spoke until Burke said, “Any more joy to spread this evening, Collins?”

  He spared them the story he had heard about Boyle in the van filled with teenage kids, one of them the murder victim, Jordyn Snider. He would be keeping that to himself until he knew what it meant and what use to make of it.

  “Nope. Your turn. What can you tell me about Gary?”

  “His last name is Hebb, and he was hustling people for money in the churchyard. Claiming it was for the homeless, for charity, whatever else he came up with. I’ve never managed to catch him at it. He always disappears when I’m around. But why are you interested in him?”

  “I told you before. A murder like this has ‘boyfriend’ written all over it.”

  “Well, then,” Burke said, “you wouldn’t be looking at Befanee’s boyfriend; you’d be looking at Jordyn’s.”

  “You said a mouthful there.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’m already working that angle.”

  “What do you want with Befanee’s beloved?” Maura asked.

  “If he considers Befanee his meal ticket and the churchyard his turf for making money, he might not have appreciated Jordyn muscling in on the action.”

  “How did she muscle in? I know we saw her on television.”

  “Remember how she and Bef tried to outdo each other in that news clip? Who knows what went on when the TV lights went off?”

  “When the TV lights were off, Befanee and Jordyn were probably off too. Getting on TV could have been the whole raison d’être for the two of them.”

  “Could very well have been. All the more reason to check out Gary. Big TV careers at stake for the girls, hanger-on or even management status for the boys. Even if it was only in their own minds, that’s where motive resides.”

  Brennan

  The following morning found Brennan Burke in the unaccustomed role of media researcher. Specifically, he was in the library at St. Mary’s University going through crime stories generated by the news media in Toronto for the past ten months. He knew in advance that he would probably find nothing and that, even if he did find something, he would not be able to do anything with it. He taught an evening course in philosophy at the university, and he knew one of the professors in the criminology department, Fiona O’Regan. He had called upon her to see how he could find and examine the media reports for the ten-month period. He did not let on that he was interested only in coverage of the murder of eighteen-year-old Jeanie Ballantine. His interest in the Ballantine case had arisen from what he had heard in the confessional, from Podgis, and therefore he could not breathe a word about it. Fiona had been curious, but circumspect, and gathered the information for him, providing him with a television and video player in addition to microfilms of the newspaper stories for the given range of dates.

  Brennan ignored all but the material relating to Jeanie Ballantine and did his best to ignore much of that. The sadistic attack on the lovely young girl was unbearable to contemplate, and he did not want to read the details except as they might pertain to a carpet knife found under the body, as disclosed by Podgis. He also wanted to see any stories done by Podgis himself. It took the better part of a day to go through all the newspaper articles and half the television reports. It was a dismal process. He felt soiled even by reading about the case second-hand at a distance of eight hundred miles.

  He gave it up for the day, having received no enlightenment, and decided to finish the search if possible the next day. So, as soon as the library opened on Friday, he was at it again. Nothing about the knife found under the body, but a couple of articles hinted that there were elements of the crime, the injuries, and the scene that had not been made public. Brennan knew as well as anyone that this was typical of a crime investigation: the police would keep certain facts to themselves in order to test the credibility of witnesses who might come forward with real or bogus information.

  He had saved to the last Pike Podgis’s stories on the murder case. This was not saving the best for the last, but putting off the most distasteful task until it could no longer be avoided. Not having followed the television mouthpiece’s career, Brennan had not been aware that he continued to file the occasional news report in addition to his work on his own weekly program. Brennan’s research confirmed what he would have predicted: that Podgis’s return to news reporting was limited to the most salacious or disturbing major news stories. Lurid murders, other violent crimes, sex scandals, misdeeds committed by politicians or other well-known people. Scanning his reports on the Ballantine case bore this out; Podgis’s face on the screen was distorted with outrage and excitement about the horrible details of the case, the dreadful injuries and indignities visited upon the poor, dear little girl who had been attacked and slain.

  Brennan came upon a series of interviews Podgis had done with the girl’s parents. One took place in the family’s kitchen, with Podgis leaning across the table, holding the mother’s hand as she wept about her daughter. The woman was shaking; her lips trembled, and tears streamed from her eyes. The camera switched from her agonized face to that of a sympathetic Podgis. “Just let it all out, Cheryl. We all feel your pain.” As much pain as Brennan felt watching this, he knew that nothing could approach the pain of a mother or father whose child might be enduring unspeakable horrors in some unknown location. The father could be seen standing stoically in the background. In another clip, Podgis stood side by side with the distraught parents on the lawn of their large suburban home, again before the girl’s body had been found, as they begged the abductor to return their beloved child to them. They said they would do anything the perpetrator asked, anything, to get her back. Podgis’s face filled the screen, and he seemed to be blinking away tears as he echoed the parents’ plea: “Whoever you are, wherever you are, if you see this broadcast, please please bring Jeanie home.” His voice cracked on the last word. The stories after that were about the finding of her body, the cause of death, and the absence of any useful leads to a suspect.

  If Podgis had had anything to do with the abduction and murder of Jeanie Ballantine, Brennan did not know what on earth he was going to do. The confessional seal was sacrosanct, no matter how horrific the confession. Podgis could keep on scuttling around in the shadows; what could Brennan do to bring the ugly truth into the light?

  Monty

  Monty made a couple of reconnaissance missions to the statue of St. Bernadette hoping to catch sight of Gary Hebb mooching off the well-meaning pilgrims in the churchyard. If Monty struck out three times, he would find Hebb’s home address and track him down there. Sure enough, no luck the third time. He decided to seek out Brennan Burke or Michael O’Flaherty at the rectory to see if they had any information other than the bare minimum Burke had already provided.

  Only O’Flaherty was in residence on Saturday morning, so Monty settled in for a chat with him.

  “I know his name is Gary Hebb. He lives out in some place called Beaver Bank. I’m not sure where that is, but I remember hearing fro
m Befanee that he lived a ways out of the city. That fellow has me very concerned, I have to say, Monty. I believe he is out there taking money from poor, unsuspecting people who are here for the most honourable, if misguided, reasons. One of the pilgrims told me Hebb claimed Befanee has been receiving private revelations and that the Virgin made references to individual people in the crowd. And that those who contributed most to charity would be the most likely to be graced with a personal revelation!”

  “Close it down, Michael. This isn’t doing anyone any good. The longer the people are out there, the more of these scams will be perpetrated on them. And call the police on this Gary. He’s defrauding people. On your property.”

  “Oh, Monty, I’ve been thinking the same thing, that I should call the police. But Brennan said he would take care of it. That makes me a little nervous; I’m not sure what he has in mind.”

  Burke would probably threaten to pound this Gary into the churchyard and bury him there.

  “Brennan’s not one for bringing in the cops. It goes against his family tradition. As you well know.”

  “You’re right on the money there, Monty.”

  Monty and Michael O’Flaherty had both been in Ireland and had met some of the Burkes over there; whether it was Irish Republican subversion or shady dealings of a less political nature, the Burkes had a long history of avoiding the authorities.

  “But, Michael, this is a matter for the police, not for Brennan’s own brand of intimidation. So give them a call. But before you do, let me at this boyfriend.”

  O’Flaherty looked alarmed. “What do you have in mind, Monty?”

  “Nothing violent, Mike, I assure you. I want to talk to him about the murder case.”

  “Do you think he might know something?”

  “He might. Or he might have had his own motive for getting rid of Jordyn.”

  “Good heavens!”

  “It’s highly unlikely, but it’s a loose end I have to tie up for my defence of you-know-who.”