Blood on a Saint

by Anne Emery

  “Thanks, Moody. What I need is a canvass of the residential buildings on Morris and Hollis streets. At least near the intersection of those two streets. The woman who says she saw Podgis leaving the murder scene the morning of September twenty-fourth also admitted at the prelim that she had heard voices. Plural. One of them may have been a woman’s. And it sounded as if these voices woke her up before she became aware of Podgis. He had soft-soled shoes on, and was alone. So my thinking is that she heard somebody else’s footsteps going by. And these voices. I’d like to know whether anybody else heard something that morning.”

  “Sounds pretty straightforward. I’ll get on it first thing tomorrow. Anybody who is out, I’ll go back and check in the afternoon or evening till I catch them at home.”

  “Perfect. Thank you.”

  “Good. You’ll hear from me as soon as I have something.”

  †

  “What are you doing for my case, Collins?”

  It was Podgis shouting down the phone at him twenty minutes after Moody Walker left on his assignment.

  “I am examining all the evidence disclosed by the Crown and figuring out where we can attack it. Lining up witnesses to interview and possibly call to testify at trial. Waiting for your alibi witness to have an attack of conscience — oh, baby, I can’t let them take you away from me forever; I’ll call your lawyer and offer to take the stand and tell the world you were with me that night — only she hasn’t called. Hasn’t called me, at any rate. You?”

  “You really piss me off, Collins. When this is all over, I’m gonna do a show, more like a series of shows, about smartass lawyers who don’t give a fuck about their clients and just string them along and take their money.”

  “It’s already been done. And the fact that I piss you off does not mean I am not working hard on your defence. Does not mean I will not do a stellar job in trying to get you off. I know what I’m doing, Podgis. I’ve been doing it for over twenty years.”

  “What you’ve been doing for over twenty years is defending guilty people.”

  “And frequently getting them acquitted. Or getting them very good deals in sentencing.”

  “Yeah, there you go. Sentencing. Guilty. But let me tell you this again, Collins. I’m not one of your guilty clients. I am innocent. In case you don’t recognize it, that’s a seven-letter word that means I didn’t do it.”

  “Eight.”

  “What?”

  “Eight letters.”

  “How much are you going to soak me for the math and spelling lesson?”

  “It’s all part of the package.”

  “Now let me get back to the point. Why aren’t you out there in front of the cameras, arranging interviews with CTV and CBC and the papers, telling them about this miscarriage of justice? One more wrongfully accused man in this country, one more man about to lose his whole life locked up for a murder he didn’t commit. Not news anymore?”

  “I don’t work the press, Podgis. I work the justice system.”

  “Well, then, work it. Get out there and investigate. Like me. I shouldn’t have to do all the work here. Somebody else did this. There’s a killer on the loose, and an innocent man facing trial.”

  “Do you know why you are facing trial, Podgis? Because you were observed running from the murder scene in the early hours of the morning, and Jordyn Snider’s blood was on your shoes.”

  “We’ve been over this a million times, Collins. Is your memory going? I was not running from the scene. I was hurrying to my hotel room in the cold. I walked near the scene, but I did not see the girl lying there. Either her blood was sprayed a long distance out, or she was moved.”

  “She wasn’t moved. That was established at the prelim, by the police and the medical examiner.”

  “And you believe them.”

  “Yes, I believe them.”

  “You’ve been a lawyer how long, and it’s never occurred to you they’re lying?”

  “Why would the medical examiner be lying?”

  “Ah-ha. I notice you don’t ask that about the cops. So I assume you’re familiar with their tendency to lie and say whatever they have to in order to get their man. And the man they want to get this time, desperately, is Pike Podgis.”

  “Why are they out to get you, Podgis?”

  “You know fucking well why. I told you before. I’ve exposed their lies and their shoddy investigative practices on my show over and over again. I’m on their most-wanted list. It was a fantasy come true for them when they found out I had been near the murder scene, thanks to that old crone that flew across the street to rat me out for walking on Byrne Street in the middle of the night. But she blew it. She revealed that she had heard voices that night. That’s what woke her up. As you made clear on cross-examination — I’ll give you credit for that much — whatever woke her up was long over by the time she hauled her skinny ass out of bed and saw me on the street. She saw me alone, not yelling at somebody else. She admitted that one of the voices was female. So, somebody else was out there. She knows it, the police know it. And nobody’s doing a goddamn thing about it. Because they want Pike Podgis to go down for this. Well, I intend to find out who else was out there that night, even if you won’t. If I have to be my own detective, so be it. Won’t be the first time I investigated a case. Too bad this time it’s my own ass on the line.”

  Of course, Podgis was not the only one intrigued by the fact that somebody else was out there. More than one person, perhaps a man and a woman.

  “I have a private investigator working on the case.”

  That stopped him.

  “Are you there, Podgis?”

  “Yeah, I’m here. I’m just stunned to find out you’re actually doing something. Who’s this private dick?”

  “He’s a retired police sergeant by the name of Moody Walker. And he’s good.”

  “He better be. What’s he doing for me?”

  “He’s checking out the neighbourhood around Morris and Hollis streets to find out if anyone else heard those voices.”

  “Glad to hear it.”

  He didn’t sound all that glad to hear it. But Monty was not about to use up any of his time wondering what would constitute glad tidings in the life of Pike Podgis.

  “Let me know as soon as you get anything,” his client said. “I’m paying the bills here.”

  The news about Walker, though, was not enough for Podgis. He wound himself up again. “And another point you made at the prelim, about the blood . . . the cops were lying about that too. They knew perfectly well that whoever did this would have been splattered with blood. They took my clothes and they know they weren’t bloody, except for the shoes from that walk through the grounds. So they pretend some killers never get any blood on them. Yeah, right. Well, guess what? We all know there was a guy with blood on him that night, only a hop, skip, and a jump from the murder scene. Saint Ignatius Boyle.”

  Ignatius Boyle was still the most obvious alternative to plant in the minds of a future jury; there was no question that the location and timing of his head injury and bloodied face were a curious coinci­dence, to say the least. But Monty’s concern was that, if he found out what had really happened to Boyle, it might be more damaging than helpful to his case.

  Podgis was still railing against the local saint. “Half those saints were wacky anyway, right?”

  “Holy, Podgis, they were holy. They weren’t out killing young women.”

  “This one was, by the look of things.”

  “Not necessarily. He may have been another victim. Or a witness, knocked out of contention by the killer.”

  “The killer would have killed him, not left him there to wake up.”

  “He very nearly didn’t wake up. He was in a coma for a week and a half. Killer may have thought he was dead, and couldn’t take the chance of being seen standing over the body ch
ecking for a pulse. We just don’t know. Or, at least I don’t.”

  “I’ve had enough of you right now, Collins. Why don’t you take an hour or so off from billable time and drop in to the law school? See if they’re giving a course called Representing the Innocent Client 101. You do that, and I’ll go find the real killer, so I can get this over with and get on with my life. Goodbye.”

  †

  Monty had in fact been planning to do another bit of probing on behalf of Podgis but, when the ill-mannered lout had lit into him yet again, it took away any incentive Monty might have had to reassure him. Now that he was off the phone, Monty proceeded with the task he had set himself, to ask a few questions about Ignatius Boyle. This would not reflect well on Monty or his client, so he intended to stick to people he knew, rather than wander all around the city asking questions of anyone who would likely have come into contact with Boyle. He had two places in mind, the First Day shelter for homeless men and the public library on Spring Garden Road.

  Simone Deveaux was the house director at First Day. Monty had worked with her from time to time when he was with Nova Scotia Legal Aid. She welcomed him into the shelter, a large wooden building a few blocks from the downtown core on Barrington Street. Several dozen men were gathered in the television room, and Monty recognized many of them from the streets and the courts. Simone wore a tweed blazer over a pair of jeans, and her white hair was pulled back. She brought him into the kitchen and placed a cup of tea on the table in front of him. Monty explained the situation: Ignatius Boyle found unconscious near the murder scene with blood on his face. None of this was news to Simone, who had been following the story, including the claims of miracles associated with Boyle.

  “As you can imagine,” he said, “I can’t ignore the fact that Ignatius was found there. But I realize there may be no connection at all between him and what happened in the churchyard.”

  “I understand. Sometimes Ignatius bunks down outdoors, as you may know; he has a favourite spot behind an old house on Hollis Street. Where he was found that night was not far from that ‘other home.’ So we don’t have him here every night.”

  “Why is that? Why does he go out on the street when he has a nice, warm bed in here and a roof over his head?”

  “I’m not sure, Monty. We always make it clear he is welcome. And he loves to come in for his showers and his meals. But I think he’s disturbed by some of the other guys here. The graphic stories, the language. It can be a little strong, a little offensive. Sometimes it gets to be too much for Ignatius, and he goes off on his own.”

  “What’s your understanding of why he’s, well, why he’s homeless?”

  “Severe alcohol dependence, is all I know. He told me he started drinking at a very young age, never finished school, lost a few jobs, a long downward spiral. It ran in his family, he said. It’s a real shame, because he is a very intelligent person. Any chance he gets, he sits down and reads, and not just drivel. He once told me he had wanted to become a priest or a teacher. I have to say I have never seen him drunk myself. For what it’s worth, Monty, my take on Ignatius is that he would more likely be a victim of violence than a perpetrator. I have not seen any signs of violence or hostility in him any time he’s been with us at First Day. He is quiet and kind and considerate. And he’s quick to try and help the other men here if he can, especially the younger ones. I’ve never seen him work any miracles, but I would describe him as a spiritual person.”

  “Ever hear him speak French?”

  “No. I have a French name so sometimes the fellows here will say bonjour or merci. I don’t remember even that from Ignatius.”

  “All right. Thanks, Simone, I appreciate it.”

  “Any time.”

  Next stop was the library. The lawn in front of the 1950s greystone building and the low stone wall along the sidewalk were gathering places for people downtown, and Ignatius Boyle was one of the regulars sitting on the wall. He would greet friends and acquaintances as they passed by, and would occasionally issue a recommendation for this or that event at one of the nearby churches. Monty went inside and met with a senior administrator of the library, a woman he had known since his undergraduate days. Emma Sparks was slim, dark-skinned, and elegant. Like Monty, she was an opera buff, and they discussed the production of Traviata they had heard recently on CBC Radio.

  Emma then said, “After I spoke to you on the phone, Monty, I conducted a bit of an inquiry around the place. Discreetly, of course. All I can tell you is that I would see Ignatius sitting on the wall outside, and we would say a friendly hello and that was it. So I asked a few other people here. Sarah Fulton has something to tell you. She’s in the reference section, and it’s fairly quiet up there right now. Why don’t you go up and see her.”

  “I will. Thanks, Emma.”

  Sarah Fulton was short and a bit on the heavy side, and she appeared a little anxious when she saw Monty approaching. She took him into a room behind the public area, where they could speak privately.

  “I didn’t know what to do with this information, so I’m glad you stopped in. I’ll pass it along to you, and you can do whatever you see fit.”

  Monty waited.

  Sarah hesitated, then said, “I saw Ignatius Boyle with Jordyn Snider.”

  What? All Monty said was, “Oh, is that right?”

  “Yes. It was a few years ago. I’ve tried to remember when, but I can’t. It didn’t really stand out at the time.”

  “Was this outside the library or somewhere else?”

  “Out front, but they got into a vehicle together.” This was getting worse by the minute, for Boyle. Better for Monty and his client.

  “Actually, no,” Sarah corrected herself. “She was already in the van, but she got out to let him in. Let me start again. I was working here one night, and I had just gone out and was standing on the front steps. I looked towards the street and saw that a van had pulled up. One of the doors opened. The sliding door on the rear passenger side. So the light went on and I saw several young people inside. Teenaged kids. Ignatius was standing there saying something to them, and the next thing I saw was a girl getting out. It was Jordyn. I didn’t know her name at the time, but I recognized her from her pictures after the murder. She got out of the van, and Ignatius got in. She went back in herself. The door closed and they pulled away.”

  “What was Ignatius Boyle doing in a van full of teenagers?”

  “I couldn’t tell you. But whatever it was, I’d say it didn’t go all that well, because the next time I saw Ignatius and Jordyn together — not together, but her passing by on the sidewalk and him sitting on the wall — I could tell she wanted nothing to do with him. He seemed to be trying to talk to her, and she made a face as if to say ‘Leave me alone, you creep!’ and she moved away from him and then took off at a clip. Apart from that, I have no idea what happened. If they ever crossed paths before or after that, I didn’t see it. I’m here every day and I see him frequently, but those were the only times I noticed Jordyn.”

  Monty thanked Sarah and left the library, trying to figure out what this stunning new information meant, what it told him about Ignatius Boyle, and how he could use it in his defence of Pike Podgis.

  Brennan

  Brennan headed over to the church for confessions on Monday evening, following a weekend he had managed to devote to prayer and music. It was a cold, crisp January night, with a bit of snow on the ground and the moon bright in the sky. He was almost smiling as he walked. The choir school children had done a stellar job singing Mozart’s beautiful motet “Laudate Dominum.” Normie Collins had requested it for a “sick friend,” someone down with “consumption,” to hear her tell it. Well, regardless of the reason, he was happy to add the piece to the choir’s repertoire. He would bring in the men and older boys for the lower parts. The music was running through his head. Nothing better.

  “Bless me, Father, for I ha
ve sinned.”

  This was the fourth person to enter the confessional, and it was that rasping, hissing, disguised voice again. The nasty piece of work who had wanted to talk about the murdered girl. Brennan steeled himself for another encounter.

  “I can’t get her out of my mind, Father. Jordyn. Have you seen the pictures of her in the paper? On TV? I mean the pictures before she was a stiff. Or maybe you saw her in the churchyard when she was still moving and breathing.”

  “What do you want?”

  “I want forgiveness, Father. Absolution. I want to be a better man than the weak, lustful sinner that I am. I want to stop thinking about her! The long pale legs, the finely turned ankles. The high-necked but always — did you notice? — tight sweaters she would wear. And did you see her that time she had the hot pink miniskirt on? You guys probably spent a whole lot of time looking at her out the window of the rectory, right? Are those little skirts back in style, or was she just flaunting that firm little ass and, as they say, lookin’ for it — ”

  “I don’t want to hear another word of this selfish and twisted talk. About a young girl who was murdered. You are here for reasons unbefitting a Catholic in his church, making a mockery of the sacraments. If you need treatment for your problems, I can give you the name of a counsellor or a psychiatrist. If you have committed a crime, if you have some responsibility for the death of this young woman, again I urge you to turn yourself in. If you’re just here for shock value, get the hell out of here. I do not want to hear you. If you ever feel remorse for your sinful behaviour or your thoughts, come back in and confess properly. Preferably to another priest. Get out.”

  “Let’s cut the crap, Brennan. You know what I’m here to confess.”

  He had dropped the disguise. The voice belonged to Podgis. When Brennan looked through the screen the hood was down, the silhouette of the head visible.

  “Father? You there?”