by Anne Emery
Suddenly, Father Burke stopped speaking, stepped away from the pulpit, and started walking from the sanctuary and down the centre aisle. Monty could see the sudden tension in the postures of the children and the mother. He could hardly believe his eyes. How cranky was Burke today? How sore was his head? Had he had such a hard night that he would interrupt his sermon and march down the aisle to confront a family with a crying child? All heads turned as he passed them on the way by. Everybody in the church was watching as he drew even with the mother and baby. The mum looked up at him, a mortified expression on her face. The brother and sister watched the priest with wide, apprehensive eyes. Monty saw Burke lean over, say something to the mother, and remove the baby from her care. He then proceeded up the aisle towards the altar with the squalling infant in his arms. All heads turned to the front and followed his progress. He returned to the pulpit and faced the congregation.
“This,” he said, turning his face to the baby, “this is what it’s all about. This is where love, unconditional love, begins. A mother’s love for her child. A father’s love.” He bent over the baby and kissed its forehead, spoke words nobody else could hear, and the baby calmed down, made a little cooing sound, and lay contentedly in the priest’s arms. “How can anyone look at this beautiful face and not be filled with love?”
There wasn’t a sound in the church except for his voice. Everyone stared at him, rapt with attention.
“When anyone does anything to hurt another human being, when anyone takes another person’s life, this is who they are hurting, this is who they are killing. This is the life that is destroyed. Every one of us starts life as a helpless child like this. Any time we are tempted to mistreat a person, to lash out, to do a person harm verbally or physically or any other way, we must stop and think, that this is how we all began, this is who we all are. Everyone is precious in the eyes of God and everyone should be precious to each and every one of us. If we can’t see the face of Christ in every person, and I admit it is difficult with some, then we should do our best at least to see the face of the child.”
Monty took a quick look at his fellow choristers. To a man, to a boy, they had their eyes fixed on Father Burke. They were stunned into silence and immobility.
Brennan
If ever there was a night that called for a trip to the Midtown with Monty Collins, it was the night after the third confession of Pike Podgis. Brennan had seen Monty at the choir school Mass, but he had to avoid a night of drinking with Monty when he was in this frame of mind, a mind consumed with seeing Monty’s client go down in flames for his crimes. And he could not go and unwind with a drink chez MacNeil for the same reason. Turning up on the doorstep of Monty’s wife was out of the question. All because Monty was stuck representing the odious Podgis. Brennan thought of a couple of other fellows he might go drinking with, but figured he would be lousy company for them.
So he holed up by himself in his room at the parish house, with a quart of John Jameson and the music of the Mozart Requiem. The dark, brilliant music washed over him. But it was wasted on him, lost as he was in his bottle of Jameson and his black thoughts about Pike Podgis. He knew he should confess yesterday’s violent outburst and the nearly overwhelming temptation to pound the man to a bloody pulp. But he could not confess it. Not yet. For the same reason he could not have granted absolution to Podgis: no remorse. He drank and brooded, drank and brooded. Podgis had brutally murdered a young girl, a young girl who had once been a dear little baby like the one at Mass, and then Podgis had brutally gloated about it in the confessional. He virtually confessed to killing young Jeanie Ballantine as well, the girl who had moved from Halifax to Toronto with her family. And the sexual innuendoes: did they reflect his true impulses, or were they just meant to goad Brennan into some kind of response? Why would Podgis do that? But, then, why come to Brennan’s confessional at all? What was he up to? He had made cruel, callous remarks about the girl’s grieving mother. And he was convinced he was going to walk. The foul creature seemed confident that he would escape punishment for the Jordyn Snider murder. On what grounds? Was there some way he thought he could pin this on someone else? What had he found, or made up? How could he explain away the victim’s blood on his shoes, or the fact that he had been spotted leaving the scene? How could he get out from under the weight of that evidence? What was going on?
Brennan reached for the bottle again. Two ounces left. Infinite and loving God of all creation, had he downed a whole quart of Jameson sitting here stewing about Podgis? Was the man worth the price of a bottle? He poured the last two ounces into his glass, drained it, and banged the glass down on his table. He was going to deal with this. He just didn’t know how. A priest was bound by the seal of the confessional. Brennan was so utterly committed to his sacramental duty that, even in an extreme situation like this, he would not reveal what he had learned. He was not an agent of the state, and rightly so. But he could not just sit and do nothing. He had to find out whatever it was that Podgis knew, or whatever it was that Podgis had manufactured, to make him so cocky about his chances of acquittal. Was it something he and Monty were working on together, or was Podgis digging around on his own? Whatever it was, if Brennan could find it, perhaps he could counter it, neutralize it, make it go away. Maybe he could spook Podgis into making a mistake and convicting himself by his own actions. Brennan had one and only one goal in this: to see Podgis go away and spend twenty-five years in the purgatory of prison before being cast into the outer darkness for all eternity. Brennan just hoped he could send the man to hell without risking excommunication himself.
He had to get into Podgis’s flat. Podgis had rented a place when he was released on bail, and Brennan had a good idea where it was. He would get the address and . . . then what? He couldn’t very well follow the man into his apartment and search the place with Podgis sitting there on his arse watching him. Unless Brennan beat him unconscious, which was a fairly tempting idea. But no, he had to be practical, if pouring a quart of whiskey down his throat and plotting a break-in could be termed practical. How in the hell could he break into the place? Smash the door in, and be arrested himself? Podgis was on a curfew, so that reduced the hours in which a break-in could be done. And, again, how would he get in? He gave a moment’s thought to calling up certain relations of his in Ireland, people who had occasionally crossed the line into illicit behaviour in the past: “Howareyeh? Good, good, the blessings of God on you and all belonging to you. Oh, while I have you here, could you instruct me in how to pick a lock?” No. And he could hardly call upon Monty Collins to introduce him to one of his criminal clients for assistance in breaking in to the home of his current client . . .
Wait a minute. Monty wasn’t the only person with a stable of criminal acquaintances. What about all the fellows Brennan had met and counselled in his ministry at the Correctional Centre? Who was out? Who could be persuaded to do a little undercover work for kindly Father Burke, the prison chaplain? Who had finely honed burglary skills? Who could be trusted?
Monty
Monty had not given up the idea that there might, just might, be someone out there who could be set up as the straw man, the alternative to Pike Podgis as the likely killer of Jordyn Snider. Ignatius Boyle was looking good for the role, with his conviction for indecent exposure and the fact that he knew the victim. Knew her, went off with her in a van full of kids, and then was spurned by her in the aftermath. But it would not hurt to have another guy on standby.
He nearly lost his resolve when he answered a call from Phyllis Podgis, thanking him and Maura for their kindness to her and informing Monty that she would be boarding the train back to Toronto. She said she could not be with Podgis when he was “like this.” But, in the same breath, she pleaded with Monty not to judge her former spouse too harshly. “He puts on a front to hide his . . . When he’s unhappy, he tries to hide it.” Monty did not ask when the man had ever been happy, and under what circumstances. Obviously t
he goodwill of a woman who, however inexplicably, truly cared for him, and had travelled a long distance by train to support him, had done nothing to pierce his armour-plated hide. Monty wished Phyllis well, and they said goodbye.
He dialled Maura’s number to give her the update but there was no answer; he left a message with the details of Phyllis’s call.
He turned then to the notes he had made following his conversation at Tim Hortons with Constable Truman Beals. Right. Drew MacLean, an old boyfriend of Jordyn’s. He was listed in the phone book with an address in Bedford, and when he answered Monty’s call, he said he would be willing to talk about Jordyn. He was coming downtown Thursday evening, to meet friends for a movie at the Oxford. So he and Monty decided to get together across the street at the Spartan restaurant before that, at six o’clock.
Monty arrived a few minutes early, engaged in his regular banter with the owners about their rivals at the Athens restaurant, then sat at a booth and waited for Drew. He too got there ahead of the appointed time, and Monty stood to greet him. Drew MacLean was of medium height, slim with short brown hair and wire-rimmed glasses.
“Have a seat, Drew. Are you going to eat? I thought I might as well have supper here.”
“Well, I don’t know . . .”
“It’s on me. Order whatever you like.”
“Okay. I am a little hungry. Better to eat now than fill up with popcorn at the movie.”
“Right.”
Monty ordered the moussaka, Drew the souvlaki, and then they sat in silence, Monty wondering how to begin. He could hardly tell the young fellow he was looking for a boyfriend to cast in the role of a likely suspect to deflect guilt away from his client. But he had another angle worked out.
“As I explained on the phone, Drew, I’m representing the man accused of killing Jordyn.”
“Podgis.”
“Yes. And, as you might expect, we say Podgis did not even know Jordyn, so what would they have been doing together at that time of night? What I’m hoping to do is talk with some of the people Jordyn knew. To see how likely it would be that she would go off with a man she didn’t know, or barely knew, if you see what I mean. But before we get to that, what about you? What do you do?”
“I’m taking my science degree at Dalhousie.”
“How’s it going for you?”
“Great. A lot of work but I love it.”
“Glad to hear it. Are you going with anyone these days, or . . .”
“I’ve just started dating a girl in my class at Dal.”
“All right. So, could you go back a few years and tell me how you met Jordyn and how long you went out together?”
“We went together for two years in high school, on and off. Grades ten and eleven.”
“You both attended Halifax West?”
“Yes. She lived in Fairview and I lived in Clayton Park.”
“What was she like?”
“Maybe you’re asking the wrong guy.”
“But you went with her for two years!”
“Two years in which I loved her and dreamed of marrying her when we were older. It took me a while to realize I didn’t know her. At all.”
Drew was calm and matter-of-fact, but there was an element of bitterness that he could not quite hide.
“Tell me what you mean.”
“This should tell you something. It should have told me something, but you know how it is. Young and foolish, and not too clued in about the ways of the world when you’re a guy in grade ten. I made a big elaborate plan to take her out skating on the frog pond. Do you know where that is?”
“Yeah, out on Purcell’s Cove Road.”
“I love to skate outdoors, and I figured she would too. I didn’t have my driver’s licence yet, but my dad said he’d drive us out there, and come back and get us later. And my mum would make a picnic with hot chocolate in Thermos bottles. And put everything in a special container. And she was going to lend me one of the quilts she made, so we could huddle under it if we got cold before Dad came back. And I went out and bought black and white film for my camera, because I love those old-fashioned pictures. I figured Jordyn would like pictures of herself skating. And then we’d come back and watch a movie at my place.”
“How did it go?”
“It didn’t. She laughed at me and made fun of me about it. ‘Go in the car with your dad? Because you can’t drive? Are you crazy? What kind of a date is that? And your mum is making us hot chocolate, like we’re little kids or something? I’d never live it down! And we have to hang around outside in the cold? Wow! Big date!’ She went on and on. It was painful!”
“It’s painful even hearing about it, Drew. It sounded like a wonderful day you had planned for her. Why did you ever go near her again?”
“I figured it was me that was wrong. I didn’t know what girls liked. I was a loser. So I should smarten up and think of more grown-up things to do on a date. I spent the next day at school kind of following her around like a puppy. And I saw her giggling and whispering about something with a couple of her friends. Which could have been anything, so I didn’t think much of it till Cole Pilcher came strutting down the corridor with his hangers-on. This guy was bad news. Everybody knew it. And he said something really rude, really gross, to Jordyn. And instead of looking offended or even scared, she laughed and looked at her friends, and this set off another bout of the giggles. Even as naive as I was then, I caught on that she liked this guy. He was notorious! He had a juvenile record, he’d got at least one girl pregnant, and he treated girls like shit, and blabbed about everything he did with them.
“But then Jordyn was all sweet and lovey-dovey with me later, so we started going out steadily. Till she dumped me for another jerk. I forget his name. She went with him for a while. But he stood her up for our high school dance, so she went with her girlfriends and saw Cole Pilcher there with a girl from another school. Jordyn caused a big scene, screaming and crying and shoving the new girl out of the way. Then Cole grabbed her by the arm, dragged her out of the gym and outside. I didn’t see any of this, but I heard about it from friends who saw her after. She had a bruise on her neck and a cut lip. Didn’t call the police, though. Spent all her time on the phone begging Cole to come back to her. He told her to get lost, but she persisted.”
“I see.”
“So you’re probably wondering how Jordyn and I ended up back together again!”
“Well . . .”
“She showed up at my house one night and said she wanted to talk. So we went out for a walk, and she said she was sorry about the way she had been acting. Those other guys were nothing to her, just an experiment. She felt she had grown up a lot as a result of this bad period in her life, and she now knew those fellows for what they were. And it all made her appreciate me more than ever. That I was the type of guy any girl would be lucky to have. And all that. So we started going out again. And things were fine for quite a while. Then I heard rumours that she had been seeing Brandon Toth. He ended up in prison because he raped a girl! But even before he did that, anyone with eyes could see there was something wrong with him.”
The tape of the Pike Podgis show about women who date violent men flashed through Monty’s mind like a fast-forward perp walk of murder suspects. Though at this distance in time, the probability that one of Jordyn’s cast of perps decided to kill her was admittedly low. Still, it opened up a new window on Jordyn as victim.
“Well, that was enough for me,” Drew said. “I broke up with Jordyn once and for all. About time, eh? She made a big drama out of it even though she didn’t care a fig about me. It was all so pathetic, on my part as well as hers.”
“Drew, somebody told me that Jordyn was acquainted with Ignatius Boyle. You know who I mean?”
It was clear from Drew’s reaction that this was unexpected. “The homeless guy they’re calling a saint. Got knocked out a
nd started speaking French. How would he have known Jordyn?”
“I don’t know, just something I heard.”
“You’re not saying he . . . no. I’ve seen him hanging around on Spring Garden Road. Jordyn loved to shop, so she’d be downtown quite a bit. She might have seen him on the street. But she would have ignored him. Having a kind word for the poor and homeless would not have been Jordyn’s style. So it wouldn’t make any sense for someone to say she knew him. As far as I’m aware, anyway.”
“Maybe my information is wrong.”
“Or maybe I’m wrong. I don’t have a very good record when it comes to Jordyn.”
Monty would not have been doing his job if he didn’t ask the next question: “Where were you on the night of September twenty-third?”
He expected Drew to be offended, but he laughed. “If I didn’t kill her back in grade eleven when I gave a shit, I sure didn’t kill her last fall. She was bad news, but she was old news. I should feel at least some sorrow about the fact that she was murdered. I know I should. But I don’t. I can’t help it. I can believe she pissed off the wrong kind of guy. Maybe even Podgis! Though that’s not what you want to hear. But honestly, if you ask me whether she would have taken up with him all of a sudden, late at night, I couldn’t say no. Especially if there was TV involved. Maybe he told her he’d get her on his show. That would have been enough. Her dream in life was to become a model or a TV star. She never did anything about it, as far as I know. Her main course of study seemed to be noting every detail of what other girls wore, or how they did their makeup or their hair, and making snarky remarks about them and constantly trying to outdo them. Apart from that, and sending photos of herself to God-knows-what modelling agency or TV show, she didn’t do much to pursue her ambitions. But I didn’t follow her career after high school. Podgis? That would be pretty low. But she’d been in worse company in her day.”