Blood on a Saint (10 page)

“Bob Mahoney, please. Tell him it’s Monty Collins. Is that Cindy?”

“Yes, it’s me. How are you, Monty?”

“Great. You?”

“Can’t complain. But then, who’d listen if I did? Hold on, I’ll get him for you.”

A couple of seconds later, Bob Mahoney was on the line. “Hey, Monty, how’s it going?”

“The usual craziness.”

“You’ve got a high-profile client, I see.”

“Oh yeah.”

Mahoney laughed. Monty knew his former colleague could predict exactly what it would be like to represent the abrasive TV man.

“So, what can I do you for?”

“I’m interested in one of my old clients.”

“Let me guess. Ignatius Boyle.”

“You can be the next psychic on the
Pike Podgis Show
once I get him off.”

“Yeah, but for now I’ll keep my day job. So what are you looking for?”

“My files for Ignatius. I represented him on a couple of things years ago, but I can’t remember what they were. Nothing too outrageous, I don’t think, or I wouldn’t have forgotten.”

“Let me retrieve the files and call you back.”

“Great, Bob. Thanks.”

Mahoney was on the phone half an hour later with the information. “You had him for a bunch of minor offences in the early 1980s: public drunkenness a couple of times, creating a disturbance, and common assault in 1984.”

“Tell me about the assault.”

“It was a fight. Three of them were brought in. They got into a tussle over a pack of smokes that one of them had. Nobody was seriously hurt. They all got probation. Then we had him again after you’d been long gone, in 1989. Indecent exposure.”

“That doesn’t sound like Ignatius.”

“No, I didn’t think so. Give me a minute to read through the file.” Monty waited, thinking of new possibilities concerning Ignatius Boyle if he had a record as a sex offender.

“Here we go,” said Mahoney. “A couple of young girls met him on Hollis Street. Not a stitch on him. He started talking to them, and they ran away and called the police.”

“Was he, uh, doing anything when the girls approached? Enjoying his own company, so to speak?”

“Could have been. The girls said he had his hand between his legs, but we don’t have any more details than that.”

“I see.”

“His story was that somebody had stolen his clothes. Who knows? He was piss drunk at the time.”

“What did he get for that?”

“Again, probation. It was on the low end of the scale, and he had no record of similar offences. In the end, Boyle has never done any jail time.”

“That’s it for the sex offences?”

“That’s it for our files on him, anyway. And I don’t imagine he’s ever been able to afford a private lawyer. So I’d say that’s it. And now he’s a saint.”

“He wouldn’t be the first saint to walk around bare naked. Didn’t St. Francis of Assisi throw away all his clothes at some point?”

“I don’t know about you, Monty, but we didn’t learn that in Catechism class. All the holy men and women were appropriately dressed and decently covered up when the nuns taught me.”

“It must have been a rogue nun who let slip the word about St. Francis in the buff. But that’s interesting news about Ignatius.”

†

It was with great relief that Monty sank into oblivion that night. Before taking refuge in sleep he had descended far beneath the realms of saints Ignatius and Francis of Assisi. Constable Truman Beals, true to his word, had delivered to Monty’s office a copy of a tape containing several episodes of the
Pike Podgis Show
. Monty had zapped through the first few shows, one on ugly and dangerous insects that had allegedly been crossbred by chemical companies known collectively as Big Pesticide and were now amongst us and out of control, and a program in which a leering Podgis told viewers about the items men were buying out of vending machines in certain parts of the Far East, including used panties supposedly worn by schoolgirls. Monty did not even want to think about this or what it said about the men who constituted the market for such items. Next was a show about parents who were in crisis over whether to give up their dangerous pet dogs or snakes in order to regain custody of their kids from Children’s Aid. That dilemma was not unknown to Monty’s client base; he hit fast-forward. He also skipped over the plight of aging porn stars trying to make a comeback on the nursing home circuit and some of the embarrassing injuries that resulted. Monty didn’t hit the play button, or the hard liquor, until “Things Guys Will Do to Get Lucky.” Monty recalled with some unease Truman’s remark about the lengths to which Podgis himself might go for some success in the crib. The broadcast was a tedious litany of bad disguises, bad hair, and comically phoney French and Italian accents; impostor physicians in soiled white coats and sex therapists with smarmy smiles; and one guy who had invested in a brand-new Cadillac and made the rounds of the bars and modelling agencies in Toronto with cheesy photos and business cards claiming he was a “hospitality agent” for the actor Michael Landon, not realizing Landon had died two weeks before the first payment was due on the Caddie. The show ended with the line “And, of course, rape.” Statistics on sex offences in Canada and the U.S.A. scrolled over the screen, and Monty hit fast forward again, until he came to “What Girls Will Do For Guys.” It opened with a collage of news clips showing nasty or ratty-looking guys heading in or out of court, each with an entourage of females in his wake.

By the time it was over, Monty had witnessed the story of a woman who had left her husband and houseful of children to marry a psychopathic killer who was in prison for life; a girl who had delivered her younger sister, drugged and undressed, to her boyfriend for his own pleasure; a woman who had tried to hire a hit man to kill her daughter after the daughter blew the whistle on the father of the family for sexually abusing her; and a woman who had murdered her daughter because the woman’s boyfriend didn’t want the little girl around. And Podgis hadn’t made any of this up; these were real cases from the police blotters and the Canadian courts. As his head hit the pillow, Monty prayed that the booze or the mercy of God would save him from nightmares about the human depravity he had just witnessed, courtesy of his client.

Chapter 6

Monty

“How’s my case coming along?” It was Podgis, on the phone to Monty at the office Friday morning.

“It’s coming. I don’t just sit around and ignore my murder cases, Podgis.”

“Oh yeah? Well,
I’m
doing a lot of sitting around because I don’t have the money to do anything else. I gotta pay rent on a shitty apartment over here in Dartmouth. Can’t afford to stay in downtown Halifax. I’ve only been here a week since my bail hearing, but it feels like a year. Had to take the cheapest place I could find because I’m paying a mortgage on a new condo in Toronto.”

“I know, I know. But be thankful for a couple of things. You’re out on bail. It could easily have been otherwise. And your employer has you on paid leave till you ‘put all this behind you.’ You’re in luck there.”

“It’s not luck, Collins. It’s principle. You remember it, don’t you? Maybe you don’t. A man is innocent until proven guilty. So get out there and make sure I’m not found guilty. Through your slackness. I’ll ask you again: what’s happening with my case?”

“I’ve been knocking on doors searching for men in Jordyn Snider’s life, but I haven’t come up with anything we can use. At least not yet. And I haven’t received all the disclosure I need from the Crown, but that will come. Blood test results, for instance.” No response from Podgis. “How about your alibi witness? Miss April. Any luck tracking her down?”

“Not yet. You know how it is. One-night stands.”

“But you told me she wants to get herself on television. How is she going to do that if she doesn’t call you? That would be true under the best of circumstances: ‘Gotta call Pike, see if he can get me a spot on TV.’ But now, her hopes of fame are really dim. If Pike does federal time, April gets no screen time. Right? So why hasn’t she called to help you beat the rap?”

“She’s scared, you moron. Scared of getting involved in all this.”

“Did she tell you that? Did she contact you?”

“No, but even an idiot could figure out why.”

“Maybe you should have treated her a little better, Pike. If only you had known she would hold the rest of your life in her hands, you’d have asked for her address so you could send roses.”

“The only reason I’m putting up with you, Collins, and taking all this crap off you, is because I assume you’ll be just as much of a fucking asshole to the cops and the Crown witnesses who are going to get up and lie about me so they can bring me down.”

What kind of an ego thinks the whole world is out to bring him down? But Monty tried to bring things down to earth.

“You still haven’t told me where this tryst took place.”

“In her car.”

“Her car.”

“You heard me.”

“You were staying at the Halliburton House. Beautiful hotel.”

“Yeah. Nice little spot. Really close to the church and all the bullshit going on there. That’s why I picked it.”

“So why didn’t you take your girlfriend to your hotel room? Order in room service? You know, class the evening up a bit for her.”

“I didn’t want her in my hotel room.”

“Why ever not?”

“Might have been hard to get rid of her, if she was on my turf.”

Monty tried to imagine a gorgeous young blond in diaphanous apparel clinging to the squat form of Pike Podgis as he tried manfully to manoeuvre her out the door. The picture did not quite come into focus.

“You’re a cad and a bounder, Podgis.”

“Fuck off, Collins.”

“All right. Let’s get back to the car.”

It had to be a car, Monty figured. Podgis could hardly claim to have been at the woman’s apartment, then turn around and say he had no idea who she was beyond the sobriquet “April.” And he could not assert with a straight face that they had shared their love while lying in the grass somewhere in Halifax on the night of September 23 when the temperature was an unseasonably chilly four degrees Celsius. So he had little choice but to say they were in a car.

“Did you take note of the licence number by any chance?”

“I said I was porking her, not arresting her.”

“Not, perhaps, a love that will be immortalized by poets down through the ages.”

“You know why people get murdered, Collins?”

“Why don’t you tell me?”

“I don’t know from experience. But I can sympathize with the motives. And one of those motives would be ‘This guy really, really pisses me off.’ Combine that with ‘Kill all the lawyers’ and you’ve got a lethal mix. Am I right?”

“I would advise you not to give voice to your motive theory if you take the stand in your own defence. Not that I would advise you to testify. God forbid. Now, let’s get back to your defence. What kind of car was it?”

A little shitbox
, Monty predicted. He’d heard it all before.

“Some little shitbox. I don’t know what it was. I don’t know cars.”

“What colour was it?”

Dark.

“Dark. Black, grey, I don’t know. It was nighttime.”

“Time. Let’s talk about that. You were with a woman. You didn’t invite her to your place; she didn’t invite you to hers. She knows who you are; you don’t know who she is. You were bunched up together in her little car. It strikes me that this affair probably didn’t last too long. Not a lot of soul-baring conversation before or after. Am I right?”

No answer.

“What was the time frame? What time did you get together, and what time did you say
au revoir
?”

“Eleven thirty or so. We were together for a couple of hours.”

“Long time, for the encounter you’ve described.”

If he lived to be a hundred and five, Monty would never put a client on the stand to tell a tale like this. He formed an image of Pike Podgis in the witness box spinning this yarn and then being cross-examined by the Crown prosecutor. What would he look like up there, trying to keep this tissue of lies together? Might as well find out now, and put paid to any illusions on his client’s part that he would be able to tough it out in a court of law.

“Here’s what we’re going to do, Podgis.”

“What?”

“You’re going to walk me through the whole thing, starting with where you met the woman who would one day become your alibi witness.”

“I’ll try to ignore your bad attitude, Collins, but I may not be able to.”

“Try. Now give me your story.”

“I met her at the studio. I told you that.”

“Then where did you go?”

“I didn’t stick with her then. I made plans to meet up with her later.”

“Where did you go before then?”

“Went downtown for a while.”

“What for?”

“Nothing. Nothing to do with this. Just kil — whiling away the time till we could meet.”

“Why? What was she doing before then?”

“After the show, she had to put in some time with a group of girls she had promised to meet, fill them in about the program, eat some chicken wings, whatever.”

“Tell me where you went downtown.”

“Walked around.”

“Where?”

“Why do I suspect you already know that, Collins?”

“Your confrontation with Brennan Burke outside the Midtown Tavern didn’t take up a lot of your unaccounted-for time on murder night. Though you could start by telling me about that.”

“Nothing to tell. I wanted to head downtown, maybe have a drink or two. I had heard it around town that Burke’s a lush. Spends a lot of time at the Midtown, so I decided to stop by there.”

“Burke is not a lush.”

“If you say so.”

“He likes a drink from time to time, as a lot of us do.”

“Like I said, so I heard.”

“What happened?”

“He came out of the bar with a glow on, and I saw him and told him what I thought of him leaving in the middle of my show after he had agreed to participate.”

“This was a nice, polite disagreement, was it?”

“I told him what I thought of him.”

“What was his response?”