Blood on a Saint (16 page)

“Nothing unusual about drinking a lot at the tavern? Is that what you’re saying, Father?”

“No, it is not. Not what I’m saying.”

“How often do you go to the Midtown?”

MacEwen was on his feet. “Your Honour, how often Father Burke goes to the Midtown or any other restaurant or bar is not relevant here. What is relevant is what Father Burke heard and saw of Mr. Podgis on the evening of September twenty-third.”

“Mr. Collins, unless you can show that this witness’s past behaviour is relevant, I would ask that you stick to the events of twenty-three September.”

“Yes, Your Honour. Father Burke, you say you walked home after drinking at the bar, and you went to bed. Correct?”

“Correct.”

“What did you do before you went to bed?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, did you head up to bed as soon as you got to the rectory?”

“Am I missing something here?”

“I’ll ask the questions, Father.”

“So ask one that makes sense, Mr. Collins.”

Judge Thomas looked from witness to lawyer with a questioning expression but did not speak. Monty knew he’d be hearing about this at the next Collins-Burke session at the Midtown. If there was a next session. But this was his job. It was rarely a pleasant one, for him, the client, or the opposing witness.

“Did you stop and chat with anyone else at the rectory before hitting the sack?”

“I had a few words with Michael O’Flaherty.”

“That’s Monsignor O’Flaherty, the pastor at St. Bernadette’s?”

“Yes.”

“Tell us about the conversation.”

“Mike had missed me when I went home briefly after the television show, so he waited up to talk to me about it. He’d been watching the show. Saw me leave the set.”

Monty could picture the scene. Michael would be bubbling over, wanting to talk about the drama of the TV studio walk-out.

“Yes?”

“He was quite appalled, I have to say.”

“At your walking off?”

“No, at the low level of programming. The nasty, tawdry drivel that is fed into people’s homes even when the topic is as lofty and sacred as the existence of the Divine and the meaning of human life.”

“So you chatted about this. Over a late-night snack maybe? A cup of tea?”

“The occasion called for something stronger.”

“So what did you have?”

“One glass of whiskey.”

“I see. Big glass, little glass? What?”

Burke gave him the evil eye again. “A couple of ounces.”

“You went to sleep after that, did you, Father?”

“I did.”

“What time did you wake up, do you recall?”

“It was around half-two. I heard the sirens.”

“Before that, had you heard anything? Sounds from the churchyard?”

“Not a thing.”

“No screams or sounds of a struggle?”

Burke did not reply. He had already delivered himself of the response and did not deign to elaborate.

“So it took the sound of sirens to rouse you from sleep, and you only had one glass of whiskey before bed? Could it have been the amount you drank at the Midtown that accounted for you sleeping through the attack on Jordyn Snider in your backyard?”

Burke’s eyes bored into him. Finally he said, “The fact that I did not hear the murder implicates me in something, is that what you’re suggesting?”

“As I said, Father, I’m asking the questions here. But to give you the courtesy of a response, let me explain. It occurred to me that if you had consumed a significant amount of alcohol at the Midtown just before meeting Mr. Podgis on the sidewalk, your recollection of what he said and how he said it may be less than accurate.”

Bill MacEwen was on his feet. “Your Honour, Mr. Collins is not a witness. I would respectfully ask that he not give evidence but limit himself to his proper role, asking questions, not testifying on behalf of his client.”

“Mr. Collins?”

“I apologize, Your Honour. No more questions for this witness.”

Burke was excused, and directed one more damning look at Monty before he left the courtroom.

The Crown’s next witness was Al Baker, a sound engineer who went to Grafton Street after working a show at the Metro Centre the night of September 23. He had arranged to meet a pal outside the tavern at eleven thirty and was waiting on the sidewalk when he saw two men arguing fifteen feet or so from the Midtown’s door.

“I didn’t catch on who he was at the time, but I know now it was Podgis. He was hollering right into the other guy, the taller guy’s, face. The tall guy was just standing there looking down at him as if he was thinking, ‘Who is this asshole?’ And Podgis was crapping all over the tall guy, going on and on. The tall guy got off a few good lines. I couldn’t tell you now what they said to each other at that point. But it was obvious that Podgis was just wasting his time, because he was outclassed in every way by the taller guy.”

“So, what happened then, Mr. Baker?”

“After this went on for a bit longer, Podgis said he had better things to do than hang around, because he had a girl he was going to meet. Or he called her something, a piece of tail or something. I don’t recall exactly. And he made this gross motion with his hands, like, you know . . .”

“Like what, Mr. Baker?”

“Well . . .” He looked at Judge Thomas uncertainly, and the judge nodded at him to go ahead.

“He made a circle of his forefinger and thumb, and then moved a finger from his other hand in and out. You know . . . and then stuck his tongue in and out of his mouth. It wasn’t pretty, let me tell you.”

“Yes, all right, go on.”

“The tall guy made a face, the kind of face you’d make if you found a bug in your salad.” Monty could picture it all too well; he had seen the same look of distaste on Burke’s face many a time. “And he said something to Podgis like ‘Maybe she’ll get lucky tonight. If the stars and planets are aligned just right, maybe a meteorite will come to earth and crash in front of her door, or she’ll be abducted by aliens, and won’t be able to get out to meet you.’ Something like that.”

There was muffled laughter in the courtroom. Pike’s face was like a thundercloud.

“So then Podgis said, ‘Eat your heart out, Burke.’ That was the tall guy’s name. ‘Eat your heart out, because I can have a woman whenever I like and you can’t. Nah nah nah
nah
nah. Like a little kid! Unbelievable. But he got zung right back.”

“Excuse me, Mr. Baker? Did you say ‘zung’?”

“Yeah. Yes. Sorry, I meant Burke got him with a zinger, because he started singing that George Thorogood song, ‘Bad to the Bone.’ You know, the one where the guy brags about how bad he is and how he has all the women after him. Well, Burke sang him a few lines from the song. Even had the stutter on the ‘bad.’ Bit of air guitar happening. It was priceless.” Baker started laughing, enjoying the scene all over again.

This was the first Monty had heard of Burke — the Reverend Father Burke — doing a bad-ass Thorogood song outside the Midtown. It was all Monty could do to keep a straight face at the defence table.

“How did Mr. Podgis react to that bit of . . . to hearing that song?”

“I thought his head was going to blow up.”

“I see. Angry, was he?”

“Objection, Your Honour,” Monty said, rising from his seat. “Leading.”

“I withdraw the question, Your Honour. Please continue, Mr. Baker.”

“All I could think was that any woman I know, like my wife, would have gone for the taller guy, Burke, over this TV clown. I don’t go for guys; don’t get me wrong. But anybody could see that Burke was the tall, dark, handsome type the women look at, you know? And he had a good voice too. Sounded smart. Unlike Podgis quacking away. The boys in the studio must have to do some serious adjustment before that grating voice goes out over the air.”

Monty did not look at Podgis; he could almost feel the steam coming out of his ears.

Baker paused for a second, then said, “I thought Burke maybe had something wrong with him that he couldn’t . . . you know, Podgis saying he couldn’t have a woman. Maybe he had a war wound or something — pissed off the IRA and got hurt — I don’t know. He turned so his face was in the light, and I could see he had a little bit of a downturn in one of his eyelids as if he’d been in a fight.”

Monty did not care to be reminded of that eye injury, given that he was the cause of it when, at the low point of his marital woes, he had lashed out at Burke in a moment of drunken anger. But he did not want to think about that now.

The witness said, “Or I thought maybe it was just that he was married, and couldn’t go out cruising. But I get it now. He’s a priest. I didn’t know that at the time; he didn’t have a collar on.”

“Did Mr. Podgis say anything more about this woman he was going to meet?”

“I don’t know. My buddy arrived and we took off.”

“Nothing more for this witness, Your Honour.”

“Mr. Collins?”

Monty got up. This would not take long; there was nothing to be gained by giving the witness more time to paint Podgis as an obnoxious loser. But there was one point that could stand to be reinforced. “Mr. Baker. Your evidence is that Mr. Podgis was very open about the date that he had planned.”

“Oh, yeah, for sure.”

“He didn’t try to hide the fact.”

“No way.”

“Thank you. I have nothing else, Your Honour.”

That was the Crown’s last witness. Now it was time for the sole witness for the defence. Jurgen Leitner was an emergency room doctor at the Victoria General Hospital.

“Doctor Leitner, you saw a man named Ignatius Boyle when he arrived at the emergency room at the Victoria General on the morning of September twenty-fourth, correct?”

“That’s right.”

“What time was he admitted?”

“One eighteen.”

“Could you tell us what you observed about Mr. Boyle?”

“He was unconscious. There was swelling in the back of his head.”

“Did you form an opinion as to what had happened to him?”

“I thought he had fallen.”

“Did you consider any other possibilities?”

“Sure. We had seen Mr. Boyle in the ER in the past. We knew he was a person who had a hard life. Occasionally he came in with an injury and we treated him.”

“What sort of injuries had he suffered in the past?”

“Facial abrasions, lacerations, bruising.”

“Do you remember how these injuries came about?”

“The information we had was that he had been beaten up.”

“Would you have any way of knowing ‘who started it,’ so to speak?”

“Only what he told us, that this or that fellow in the street had attacked him. They were definitely injuries that could have come from a fight.”

“Fights that could have been instigated by others, or by him.”

“Either way, we looked after his injuries. Those incidents were quite a while ago; I don’t have the details.”

“I understand. Coming back to his admission on the morning of twenty-four September, what were your observations of Mr. Boyle? He was unconscious with swelling in the back of his head. Anything else?”

“We checked him over, of course. No other injuries.”

Monty picked up a copy of the ER record. “It says here, doctor, that there was blood on Mr. Boyle’s face.”

“Yes, a bit on his face. His forehead and right cheek.”

“Was it his own blood?”

“No.”

“How do you know that? Did you run tests on it?”

“No, we didn’t.”

“So how did you know it was not his own?”

“Because he was not bleeding. He had no open wounds anywhere.”

“So it was someone else’s blood.” Monty stated the obvious and let it hang in the air for a moment, then went on, “What did you do about the blood?”

“I’m not sure what you mean.”

“You didn’t test it.”

“No.”

“What did you do?”

“Nothing. We just cleaned him up.”

“Wiped the blood off.”

The doctor hesitated for a second, then said, “Yes.”

“And the cloth or whatever you used to wipe the blood, where would that be now?”

“Long gone.”

“Did you have any contact with the police at all?”

“Well, no.”

“Even though this man was found unconscious and had someone else’s blood on him?”

“This did not come to us by way of an emergency call. He was not brought in by ambulance, so the police would not have been notified, at least as far as I would know.”

“How did he come to be in the emergency room?”

“He was carried in by some young fellows. They told us they were on their way back to St. Mary’s U after a party. They were walking on Morris Street and saw the man lying there. They said they knew him, or at least had seen him before, on Spring Garden Road, around the library and the basilica. At first they thought he was just asleep. Or, you know, passed out. They tried to rouse him because they were concerned; it was cold and he was not wearing a coat. But they couldn’t wake him. They didn’t know what had happened to cause his fall. They hailed a taxi, placed Mr. Boyle in the car with them, and brought him to the ER. Good Samaritans.”

Monty had in fact already spoken to the St. Mary’s students and knew they had nothing to add.

“This blood. How did it look?”

“What do you mean?”

“Was it smeared around, or . . .”

“Not smeared. It was more like spots of blood.”

“Thank you, Doctor Leitner.”

†

It was late in the day, but judge and counsel agreed to keep going and wrap things up. The Crown’s argument was short and swift, because the burden on the Crown at a preliminary hearing is not nearly as onerous as it is at trial, where guilt has to be proved beyond a reasonable doubt. At this stage, all MacEwen had to do was convince the judge that there was evidence upon which a jury, acting reasonably and properly instructed, could convict the accused. Monty did what he could with what he had: there was no known connection between Podgis and the victim; there were other people in the area at the same time; the shoes Podgis was wearing had soft soles, and would not have made enough noise to have awakened Betty Isenor; there was another man near the scene with blood on him. But just before six o’clock, as expected, Judge Thomas committed Podgis to stand trial for the murder. Fortunately for Podgis, his bail provisions were left in place, and he would be free pending the trial. Free to rant and rail at his lawyer and the media about his wrongful committal to trial for a murder he did not commit.