Blood on a Saint (25 page)

He spared them the story he had heard about Boyle in the van filled with teenage kids, one of them the murder victim, Jordyn Snider. He would be keeping that to himself until he knew what it meant and what use to make of it.

“Nope. Your turn. What can you tell me about Gary?”

“His last name is Hebb, and he was hustling people for money in the churchyard. Claiming it was for the homeless, for charity, whatever else he came up with. I’ve never managed to catch him at it. He always disappears when I’m around. But why are you interested in him?”

“I told you before. A murder like this has ‘boyfriend’ written all over it.”

“Well, then,” Burke said, “you wouldn’t be looking at Befanee’s boyfriend; you’d be looking at Jordyn’s.”

“You said a mouthful there.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m already working that angle.”

“What do you want with Befanee’s beloved?” Maura asked.

“If he considers Befanee his meal ticket and the churchyard his turf for making money, he might not have appreciated Jordyn muscling in on the action.”

“How did she muscle in? I know we saw her on television.”

“Remember how she and Bef tried to outdo each other in that news clip? Who knows what went on when the TV lights went off?”

“When the TV lights were off, Befanee and Jordyn were probably off too. Getting on TV could have been the whole
raison d’être
for the two of them.”

“Could very well have been. All the more reason to check out Gary. Big TV careers at stake for the girls, hanger-on or even management status for the boys. Even if it was only in their own minds, that’s where motive resides.”

Brennan

The following morning found Brennan Burke in the unaccustomed role of media researcher. Specifically, he was in the library at St. Mary’s University going through crime stories generated by the news media in Toronto for the past ten months. He knew in advance that he would probably find nothing and that, even if he did find something, he would not be able to do anything with it. He taught an evening course in philosophy at the university, and he knew one of the professors in the criminology department, Fiona O’Regan. He had called upon her to see how he could find and examine the media reports for the ten-month period. He did not let on that he was interested only in coverage of the murder of eighteen-year-old Jeanie Ballantine. His interest in the Ballantine case had arisen from what he had heard in the confessional, from Podgis, and therefore he could not breathe a word about it. Fiona had been curious, but circumspect, and gathered the information for him, providing him with a television and video player in addition to microfilms of the newspaper stories for the given range of dates.

Brennan ignored all but the material relating to Jeanie Ballantine and did his best to ignore much of that. The sadistic attack on the lovely young girl was unbearable to contemplate, and he did not want to read the details except as they might pertain to a carpet knife found under the body, as disclosed by Podgis. He also wanted to see any stories done by Podgis himself. It took the better part of a day to go through all the newspaper articles and half the television reports. It was a dismal process. He felt soiled even by reading about the case second-hand at a distance of eight hundred miles.

He gave it up for the day, having received no enlightenment, and decided to finish the search if possible the next day. So, as soon as the library opened on Friday, he was at it again. Nothing about the knife found under the body, but a couple of articles hinted that there were elements of the crime, the injuries, and the scene that had not been made public. Brennan knew as well as anyone that this was typical of a crime investigation: the police would keep certain facts to themselves in order to test the credibility of witnesses who might come forward with real or bogus information.

He had saved to the last Pike Podgis’s stories on the murder case. This was not saving the best for the last, but putting off the most distasteful task until it could no longer be avoided. Not having followed the television mouthpiece’s career, Brennan had not been aware that he continued to file the occasional news report in addition to his work on his own weekly program. Brennan’s research confirmed what he would have predicted: that Podgis’s return to news reporting was limited to the most salacious or disturbing major news stories. Lurid murders, other violent crimes, sex scandals, misdeeds committed by politicians or other well-known people. Scanning his reports on the Ballantine case bore this out; Podgis’s face on the screen was distorted with outrage and excitement about the horrible details of the case, the dreadful injuries and indignities visited upon the poor, dear little girl who had been attacked and slain.

Brennan came upon a series of interviews Podgis had done with the girl’s parents. One took place in the family’s kitchen, with Podgis leaning across the table, holding the mother’s hand as she wept about her daughter. The woman was shaking; her lips trembled, and tears streamed from her eyes. The camera switched from her agonized face to that of a sympathetic Podgis. “Just let it all out, Cheryl. We all feel your pain.” As much pain as Brennan felt watching this, he knew that nothing could approach the pain of a mother or father whose child might be enduring unspeakable horrors in some unknown location. The father could be seen standing stoically in the background. In another clip, Podgis stood side by side with the distraught parents on the lawn of their large suburban home, again before the girl’s body had been found, as they begged the abductor to return their beloved child to them. They said they would do anything the perpetrator asked, anything, to get her back. Podgis’s face filled the screen, and he seemed to be blinking away tears as he echoed the parents’ plea: “Whoever you are, wherever you are, if you see this broadcast, please please bring Jeanie home.” His voice cracked on the last word. The stories after that were about the finding of her body, the cause of death, and the absence of any useful leads to a suspect.

If Podgis had had anything to do with the abduction and murder of Jeanie Ballantine, Brennan did not know what on earth he was going to do. The confessional seal was sacrosanct, no matter how horrific the confession. Podgis could keep on scuttling around in the shadows; what could Brennan do to bring the ugly truth into the light?

Monty

Monty made a couple of reconnaissance missions to the statue of St. Bernadette hoping to catch sight of Gary Hebb mooching off the well-meaning pilgrims in the churchyard. If Monty struck out three times, he would find Hebb’s home address and track him down there. Sure enough, no luck the third time. He decided to seek out Brennan Burke or Michael O’Flaherty at the rectory to see if they had any information other than the bare minimum Burke had already provided.

Only O’Flaherty was in residence on Saturday morning, so Monty settled in for a chat with him.

“I know his name is Gary Hebb. He lives out in some place called Beaver Bank. I’m not sure where that is, but I remember hearing from Befanee that he lived a ways out of the city. That fellow has me very concerned, I have to say, Monty. I believe he is out there taking money from poor, unsuspecting people who are here for the most honourable, if misguided, reasons. One of the pilgrims told me Hebb claimed Befanee has been receiving private revelations and that the Virgin made references to individual people in the crowd. And that those who contributed most to charity would be the most likely to be graced with a personal revelation!”

“Close it down, Michael. This isn’t doing anyone any good. The longer the people are out there, the more of these scams will be perpetrated on them. And call the police on this Gary. He’s defrauding people. On your property.”

“Oh, Monty, I’ve been thinking the same thing, that I should call the police. But Brennan said he would take care of it. That makes me a little nervous; I’m not sure what he has in mind.”

Burke would probably threaten to pound this Gary into the churchyard and bury him there.

“Brennan’s not one for bringing in the cops. It goes against his family tradition. As you well know.”

“You’re right on the money there, Monty.”

Monty and Michael O’Flaherty had both been in Ireland and had met some of the Burkes over there; whether it was Irish Republican subversion or shady dealings of a less political nature, the Burkes had a long history of avoiding the authorities.

“But, Michael, this is a matter for the police, not for Brennan’s own brand of intimidation. So give them a call. But before you do, let me at this boyfriend.”

O’Flaherty looked alarmed. “What do you have in mind, Monty?”

“Nothing violent, Mike, I assure you. I want to talk to him about the murder case.”

“Do you think he might know something?”

“He might. Or he might have had his own motive for getting rid of Jordyn.”

“Good heavens!”

“It’s highly unlikely, but it’s a loose end I have to tie up for my defence of you-know-who.”

“That man. I don’t know where you get the patience to deal with some of the people you have to represent, Monty.”

“It’s part of my job, but that doesn’t mean it’s not aggravating at times.”

“I’m sure. Well, as I say, he’s a Hebb from Beaver Bank.”

“Thanks, Mike. See you later.”

Monty found Hebb Sunday afternoon, living in a trailer in the Beaver Bank area north of the city. He knocked, and heard a voice telling him to come in. There was no sign of Befanee, or of a woman’s touch in the decor or in the refuse in the tiny kitchen. The place stunk of dog and of grease. Kentucky Fried Chicken boxes were stacked on top of the garbage can. Bargain-of-the-week booze bottles filled one corner, and an ashtray filled with butts teetered on the arm of a La-Z-Boy chair in front of a humongous, new-looking TV set. Monty perched on the edge of a folding metal chair facing a couch where Hebb sat with a massive, brutal-looking dog at his side. The visionary’s chosen one was big and heavy with lank, dark hair. Like the dog.

He looked around, looked at Monty, and said, “I’m busy.”

“I’m sure you are, so let’s make this quick.”

Monty spied some library books on a packing crate beside the couch. The top one was titled
Marian Sightings: The Catholic Tourist’s Guide
.

“Been doing a bit of devotional reading, Gary?”

“What do you want?”

“I’m a lawyer, and one of my clients from time to time is the Catholic Church in Halifax.” That was not the client Monty was billing for this research trip, but he would get into that later. “What do you expect to gain from your girlfriend’s claimed visions?”

“She really sees things. She’s always been like that.”

“You mean she has seen the Virgin Mary before this?”

“Not Mary, but other stuff. Predictions, psychic dreams. She wants to write a book about her dreams. I’m trying to find her a publisher.”

Monty did not take him up on that, but asked, “What’s in it for you?”

“What do you mean? She’s my girlfriend. I help her out.”

“By taking money off people in the churchyard.”

“I can sue you for saying that.”

“No, you can’t. What do you tell the people, that you’re collecting for charity?”

“The Virgin Mary said in her messages to Bef to support the poor. Just ’cause you’re not poor I guess that’s why you’re crapping on what we’re trying to do.”

“What are you trying to do, Gary?”

“I know a lot of poor people, homeless guys. I try to help them out. What’s wrong with that?”

“What’s wrong is if you’re taking people’s money and not giving it to the poor but spending it on yourself.”

“Fuck you.”

“New TV, Gary?”

“Fuck off. I paid for it myself.”

“I’m sure you did. Where did the money come from?”

“I got a job. I don’t just sit around and collect pogey, like . . .”

“Like who, Gary? Poor people?”

“What’s your problem?”

“Where do you work?”

“I’m on layoff right now, but I’ll be called back.”

“Called back where?”

“Earl’s Excavation and Demolition.”

“What do they excavate?”

“Nothing now. That’s why I’m on layoff.”

“What do you know about Jordyn Snider?”

“Why are you asking about her?”

“She got killed. Why wouldn’t there be questions about her? But the point here is that I’m the lawyer for the guy charged with her death.”

“You represent Pike Podgis! That’s pretty cool. Maybe you’ll get on his program. Great show. The old Pikester. He tells it like it is.”

“I doubt I’ll be invited on the show. But about Jordyn . . .”

“I don’t know nothing about it.”

“Where were you the night of September twenty-third and the morning of the twenty-fourth?”

“What the fuck is this? I didn’t have nothing to do with that.”

“I don’t know, Gary. If you were somewhere else, why not just say so? Seems to me Jordyn might have presented a bit of unwelcome competition to Befanee and Gary Enterprises.”

“She moved right in on Bef. But I didn’t have nothing to do with her death. I was here all night.”

“With whom?”

“Befanee.”

“Tell me more about Jordyn. When did she come on the scene?”

“One day she just showed up and started hanging around, all dressed up and with her hair done. Then she came again another day when the TV reporters were coming to do another story about it all. And Jordyn kept pushing herself in front of Bef, talking to the people there. She even brought flowers to give out. And she talked about bringing a bunch of little kids next time because she said the Virgin Mary likes kids, and wanted to see them there. She was a fuckin’ faker.”

“And Befanee’s not.”

Silence.

“Did you know Jordyn before she showed up at the statue?”

“No.”

“Did Befanee know her?”

“She never seen her before in her life. What a bitch.”

“What? Who? Jordyn?”

“Yeah. You’re not supposed to crap on the dead but it’s true. She was a little bitch.”

“Tell me about her.”

“Befanee told her to get out of her way. The TV cameras were coming for her, not for Jordyn. And Jordyn started shitting all over Bef, saying she was too short and her face was too fat, and the cameras would pick up acne scars, and her hair was too thin and stringy, and her makeup looked like a kid had put it on and it made her look like a clown, and she would never make it on TV and would never make it as a model. Everybody would laugh at her. And Bef was all upset and told Jordyn that she was just jealous because of all the attention Bef was getting, and that she was going to be on TV a lot from now on, and Jordyn could just get lost and eat her heart out. But Jordyn didn’t back off. And then the TV truck pulled up, and Jordyn said she would get some people to hurt Befanee, hurt her really bad and mess her up. And Bef was scared shitless because she believed Jordyn would do it. She was dead serious. Jordyn was. Then the TV cameras were on, and Bef was on, and then Jordyn shoved her way on camera. Bef was really scared of her after that. But then she got killed.”