Sign of the Cross

by Anne Emery

  “Give up my passport? You mean I’ll be spared one of Mike O’Flaherty’s Blarney and Blather tours of the Emerald Isle? And here I was thinking this was the worst day of my life.”

  You’d better hope and pray this is the worst day of your life, I thought, knowing all too well how much worse it could get. All I said was: “Wear a suit and tie, and for God’s sake, if the media get wind of this, do not try to hide your face on the way into the station. Or on your way out of court if... after I get you sprung. Look dignified. Don’t utter a word.”

  He did not utter another word to me but rooted around for his clothes, then headed into the bathroom for a shower. He was in there for twenty minutes, obviously prolonging the bliss of soap and hot water as if he thought he was going up the river for good. When he finally emerged in a cloud of steam, I was engrossed in writing notes on the many, many things I would have to keep in mind as the day went on. By the time I looked up, he was dressed in a white shirt and grey dress pants and was reaching for a belt. The pants looked too big. He had lost weight during the past few stressful weeks.

  “Have you got anything smaller?”

  “Smaller? What are you talking about?”

  “Pants that fit more snugly around the waist?”

  He regarded me with a touch of amusement. “You only represent nattily dressed clients?”

  “When the sheriff escorts you from the courtroom down to your cell, he’s going to take your belt and shoelaces. If your clothes don’t fit, you’ll be one of those guys who has to walk around all day holding his pants up.”

  He sank down in his chair, all questions of apparel forgotten. I prodded him, and he returned to his closet. He found a navy suit that promised to stay on when the indignities began.

  “Now, you’re going to eat.”

  “Eat?” He looked at me as if I had offered him hemlock.

  “Breakfast. You’ll need something in your stomach.”

  I drove him to the north end of the city, to Kempt Road where Jimmy’s Homestead Restaurant sat amid a growing number of automobile showrooms. The place had a regular clientele ranging from judges to truckers. Jimmy had come to Canada from Sparta; the head waitress, Pat, was from Athens. But there were no lingering animosities. I ordered two large breakfasts of eggs, sausages, toast and home fries, coffee and orange juice. Brennan sat, squeamish and pale. I wolfed down my meal as if I were the one going on a jailhouse diet.

  “Eat, Brennan.”

  “You sound like my mother, God bless her and keep her. Wait till she hears what’s befallen her darling boy now. And Declan, well, it doesn’t bear thinking about.”

  “Don’t worry about that now. Rowan and I will handle your family. Your mother will know you’re innocent. She’ll know you’ve got clean underwear and socks on, and that you had a good, healthy breakfast. And Brennan? Listen to me as if your life depends on it. You are not giving a statement to the police. By a statement I mean anything at all. Keep your mouth shut. Even if you’re innocent, it’s never —”

  “Even though I’m innocent.”

  “And I want to make something else clear: do not put yourself in the way of any needless aggravation from the police. Don’t provoke them, don’t needle them, don’t argue with them, don’t be a smartass. Be polite and cooperative, except where it comes to talking. Then be firm: you have nothing to say. Period.”

  He finally ate something. We pulled up to the police station just before eight o’clock. I got him in the door without seeing any reporters. Sergeant Ron Davidson met us inside and placed Brennan under arrest, then read him his rights. As soon as Davidson stopped speaking, Burke started: “You’ve got the wrong man “ I overrode him: “My client will not be giving a statement, Sergeant. He has nothing to say. Nothing,” I repeated, with a warning glance at Burke. I had to leave him in their hands because I needed to prepare for court. I departed with misgivings.

  It was a good thing Rowan accompanied me to the gargoyle-bedecked provincial courthouse for Burke’s arraignment. The media were out in force, and I left them to my smooth-talking, silver-haired partner while I went downstairs to see Brennan. Despite twenty years of seeing my clients in jail cells, I found the sight incongruous and unnerving: a man from whom I had received Holy Communion was behind bars with the ragtag and bobtail of Halifax’s underclass. I could hear a man babbling psychotically until he gagged and vomited; someone else reacted with a string of slurred obscenities. How had the priest’s housekeeper described his work with prisoners? “The least of these my brethren.” Well, he was amongst them now. He sat in the cell, arms folded across his chest, making a passable show of looking nonchalant. But I had come to know him well enough to see the intense hostility crackling beneath the surface. The sheriff gave us a meeting room, but there wasn’t much to discuss. I assured Brennan that the arraignment would be brief. That was small comfort because, from the time he left the courtroom, he would be locked up, first at the courthouse and then at the Halifax County Correctional Centre. I left him and went upstairs to court.

  The gallery was packed with reporters and gawkers when the priest was brought in to be arraigned on two counts of first-degree murder. To give him credit, Brennan managed to convey an impression of serenity. I jumped up to waive reading of the charges. There was no plea at this stage, and the proceeding was over in minutes. My client was returned to his cell in the basement.

  Before he was taken to the Correctional Centre, I went down and gave him a warning: “Brennan, the place you’re going will not give you any joy. Everyone is shoved in together. Remand is considered hard time. Please keep your cool, don’t let anyone provoke you. We just have to get you through these next few days.”

  “It had better be just a few days, or —” But he was a quick study; he realized before he finished his thought that there was no “or else.” From now on he had absolutely no say in the direction his life would take.

  III

  Brennan was in the Correctional Centre for a week and a half before we could be heard in the Supreme Court on the question of his release. I visited as often as I could. Maura made a couple of trips and came back exceedingly concerned. One minute he would talk about working with the other inmates as a priest; the next minute he would not plan beyond the end of the visit. When our court date finally came up, the hearing took two days. There was a great deal of case law against us and the Crown prosecutors hammered home the evidence the police had amassed against Burke: hairs matching his on both victims’ bodies, the cruciform scar on both victims, his connection with Leeza Rae, her suggestions to friends that a priest was interested in her sexually, his connection with Janeece Tuck and his grief over her death. The Crown said it was likely Burke would be convicted. Because he faced life in prison, there was a high risk that he would flee the country rather than chance a trial. With two women dead — “so far” was the implication — the public was in danger if he was let out. I countered that he had lived for nearly half a century without hurting anyone or getting in trouble with the law; his life had been stable and exemplary all along; his actions after the murders, including talking to the police and giving hair samples, were those of an innocent man. My argument was peppered with the phrases “innocent man,” “wrongful arrest,” and “miscarriage of justice.” Unspoken but audible nonetheless was “damages suit.” Justice Angus Ross, a veteran nearing retirement, showed no reaction to the Crown’s efforts or to mine, and reserved his decision. That was a Thursday; we would reconvene on Monday, June 4, to learn our fate. Brennan was led, dejected, to his cell.

  The gallery was full again on the day of the decision. Brennan looked pale and wasted, nearly immobilized by stress, as he waited for the judge to appear. But the tide had turned in our favour. Justice Ross agreed to release him on a $20,OOO
recognizance with one surety, Rowan Stratton, and with a number of conditions, including that he stay within the boundaries of Halifax County, surrender his passport, and have no contact with any of the Crown witnesses. We amended the order to allow contact with the people at St. Bernadette’s.

  Brennan had the good sense to look humble and cooperative when the judge delivered his parting shot: “Don’t make me regret this.”

  He refrained from giving malevolent looks or hostile remarks to the mob of reporters who dogged us till we got to my car and sped off.

  “We’d better not go back to the rectory right away,” I advised him as I shifted gears and pulled into Upper Water Street. “The press will be waiting for you. How about a walk in the park? Bit of fresh air and sun before the real work begins.”

  We made our way through the south end of the city until we were on Young Avenue, one of the city’s most exclusive streets, lined with massive trees and stately old houses. At the end of Young was Point Pleasant Park, an oasis of nearly two hundred acres of trees, walking paths, picnic areas, and beaches lapped by the salt waters of Halifax Harbour and the Northwest Arm. The city still pays Her Majesty’s Government a rent of one shilling a year for the property. Brennan and I pocketed our ties and slung our jackets over our shoulders as we walked the paths.

  “So, did a taste of life on the inside focus your mind, Brennan? Any ideas about who’s doing this to you?” He shook his head. “If not, all I can do is chip away wherever I can at the Crown’s case. Raise a reasonable doubt. It would be infinitely better if you could come up with someone with a killer instinct, who is out to get you.”

  “This all sounds fantastical to me,” he replied. “You have to realize that.”

  “And you have to realize that it sounds fantastical to me that you cannot identify a single person even remotely possible as a suspect.” He looked blank. “For Christ’s sake, Brennan, when are you going to start taking this seriously? After you’re convicted and sent back to prison for good? It could very well happen. Wise up, and tell me who could have done this.”

  “You think I’m protecting someone, don’t you? Which means you must hold me in very high regard.” With a wry expression, he went on before I could reply. “‘Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friend.’ But think about it, Montague. If I were protecting someone, to the point where I would risk spending the rest of my life in prison, that person would much more likely be a woman than a man, wouldn’t you think? And although it’s possible that a woman committed these murders — we can’t rule it out, I suppose — it’s much more likely to have been a man. Psychopaths tend to be white males, right? Do you think I’d protect someone like that?”

  I had, of course, thought about it, in much the same way as he set it out.

  We wound our way through the paths and came out at the southern tip of the park, looking out towards the Atlantic Ocean. A couple of sailboats glided by. After a while we hiked back to the entrance, got ice cream cones at the corner store, then made the journey back downtown in silence. We had nothing to say. But the police had plenty.

  Chapter 11

  What do I hear? Am I then sunk so low,

  To have this upstart boy preferred before me?

  — Handel/Jennens, Saul

  I

  Now that charges had been laid, I had access to the evidence — and I hoped it was all the evidence — the police had against my client. I looked at the first Information, much more accurately named in French as the Dénonciation. Sergeant Ron Davidson, a member of the Halifax Police Department, stated on the form that he had reasonable grounds to believe, and did believe, that Brennan Xavier Burke, on or about the 15th day of February, 1990, at or near Halifax, in the Province of Nova Scotia, did commit first-degree murder on the person of Leeza Dawn Rae, contrary to Section 235(1) of the Criminal Code. The second Information made the same accusation against Brennan Xavier Burke with respect to the murder of Tanya Jane Cudmore on May 10, 1990.

  The crime lab report for the Leeza Rae killing indicated that hairs found on the body matched those taken the day after the murder from Brennan Burke. I spent a lot of time with the gruesome photographs of the victims’ bodies. I had seen Tanya at Janeece’s funeral but I had never seen Leeza. I had heard she was a good-looking girl; the photos showed only someone who had been brutalized. Both women had the initials IBR carved above the right breast, and a small crucifix carved above the left. This was an accurate facsimile of the cruciform scar on my client’s chest. According to the medical examiner’s evidence, the presence of blood in the markings indicated that the women were still alive when the mutilation was done. The cause of death was pretty well identical for both women, a depressed skull fracture in the occipital region (back) of the head. Pieces of the skull had broken off and become embedded in the brain tissue, resulting in contusion (bruising) of the brain, and intracerebral hemorrhage (bleeding) causing death. Leeza Rae suffered more blows to the head than Tanya Cudmore had.

  There was much more witness information in Leeza’s file than in Tanya’s, which was not surprising given that Leeza had been killed after a dance where she had been seen by a hundred or more people. Personnel at the youth centre had been interviewed again while Brennan and I were in New York. The police were cagey when they asked about the dance. Physical contact was mentioned only in the wider context of how well, if at all, Brennan and Leeza knew each other. As to whether they had danced together, one of many questions about their relationship, the majority said yes. Eileen Darragh stuck loyally to no. She was quoted as saying: “I’m in that building every day, all day. As far as I could tell, Father Burke barely knew who Leeza was.” The investigators, acting on “information received,” also asked whether there had ever been any kind of argument or disagreement between Burke and Leeza Rae. Tyler MacDonald told the story of the confrontation in which Leeza’s shirt was partly unbuttoned. My question was: what information received? Was there an anonymous tip? Leeza’s file contained statements from two acquaintances, one male and one female, who said Leeza had boasted of a priest who “had the hots” for her and wanted to take her on trips out of town on the weekends. Junkets to Dorchester Penitentiary, I supposed.

  The witness statements in Tanya Cudmore’s file indicated that Tanya had been ejected from the home of Janeece’s father immediately after the child’s death but had returned, or been allowed back, two days before Tanya’s body was found. Janeece’s father had not been home at all the day before the body was discovered, so he was of no assistance as to where she was last seen. Neighbours in Tanya’s apartment block remembered seeing her in the afternoon but nobody was sure whether she was around in the evening. She often went to bingo, they said, so it was not unusual for her to be out. Family witnesses recalled that Father Burke had driven Janeece home on at least one occasion in his car, and they believed Tanya had met Burke when she had arrived late to collect Janeece after practice. They knew nothing about any conversation Tanya and Burke may have had, and certainly knew of no physical contact between them. Witnesses from St. Bernadette’s testified — reading between the lines I sensed their evidence was given reluctantly — about Burke’s apparent fondness for Janeece in the choir, his grief at the funeral, and his failure to stick it out till the end.

  The onus was on the Crown to prove its case beyond a reasonable doubt; it would be up to us to raise as many doubts as we could about the forensic and other evidence the police had gathered. It would be far better to come up with someone who might have borne a deadly grudge against the priest. Yet he could not, or would not, even provide me with the name of anyone on the North American continent who was familiar enough with his body (from the waist up was all I was asking) to be able to produce a facsimile of the cruciform scar above his heart. We desperately needed to
find such a person. The next best thing would be to throw up another possible suspect as a smokescreen. So I directed my mind to the matter of alternative suspects.

  II

  I was standing by my secretary’s desk when I noticed a small, stainless steel teapot beside her computer. I opened my mouth to tease her about possessing stolen property from a diner, when I thought of Mrs. Kelly at the rectory. Had someone stolen her teapot? No, that was a remark I made after she told me there had been a burglary. Not at the rectory, but at the archdiocesan office. I hadn’t given the break-in another thought. But now, coupled with the vandalism directed at Catholic churches in Halifax, it took on a whole new meaning as I struggled to fashion a defence for my client.

  Jason, a young man who had been vandalizing Catholic churches, acting out of a rage against the Church and its clerics, could be the smokescreen I needed to conjure up a reasonable doubt for the jury. Something had happened to Jason, in reality or in his own mind; how else to explain why he had flinched away, not only from Burke, which was understandable, but even from Michael O’Flaherty? The Catholic Church had been around for two thousand years and had engendered more grievances than could possibly be tabulated. Jason could be, well, a godsend for our defence. It was a nice coincidence that, when confronted by Burke, he had jumped him and tried to strike him in the head with a heavy object, namely a full can of spray paint.

  Jason would be good for us only if he had been in town when the murders occurred, in February and May. The fact that we did not have a full name for him would certainly hinder my efforts to present him as a suspect. But we had eyewitnesses who had seen and spoken to our vandal. I decided to call upon a forensic artist I had used in previous cases, to prepare a composite drawing from the description given by those witnesses. Time to reconvene the poker club.