Blood on a Saint (4 page)

“He’s right,” Thornhill agreed with a smile, “we are stardust.”

“Or, to put it less kindly,” Burke said, “we are thermonuclear waste.” This got a laugh from the audience. “Anyway, as I was saying, Monsignor Georges Lemaître of Belgium was way ahead of the pack on this. And much of his work was affirmed with the discovery of cosmic background radiation in the 1960s, which got two scientists the Nobel Prize in physics.”

This too was news to Podgis’s fans in the audience.

“Is he making it up about these priests?” Podgis demanded of Professor Thornhill.

“Of course not,” Thornhill replied, “it’s the gospel truth.”

Burke looked directly into the camera for the first time and said, “If you want to see a bit of that cosmic microwave radiation for yourself, turn your television dial off the channel, find some ‘static,’ and those are microwaves still coming in.”

“Jesus!” Maura squawked. “He’s telling everybody to turn off the show!”

“That’ll be the highlight of the evening for him.”

But Burke had gamely returned to the debate. “We have a saying in the Church that truth cannot contradict truth. The Pope says theologians have a duty to keep themselves up to date with science. And, if necessary, to change their teaching.”

Podgis made his eyes bulge in the direction of the audience and bellowed: “Who knew? Gotta wonder. Are these guys in bed with each other, or what? Or has somebody been paid off? Put a few thousand gold coins in the Vatican coffers and they’ll say real nice things about science. Like that we all came from chimps. Even the Virgin Mary. The Virgin Monkey. Is that it?” This was rewarded with shrieking and the pounding of feet by the audience.

“What do you think of them apples, Professor Thornhill, the Church onside with the monkey gang?”

“I’m not surprised. Although there is resistance to the theory of evolution among some biblical fundamentalists, particularly in the U.S., which is lamentable, they are only one segment of the population of religious believers. Those are not the people I am interested in debating. It is much more important to engage those who — ”

Podgis cut Thornhill off again and swung around to Burke, who again drew back from his leer.

“How do you know there’s a God? Visions from the sky, or what?”

“Signs that have been thoroughly investigated are one way of knowing, yes. But we can use our reason. Aristotle teaches us that — ”

“Sounds like you’re taking us back to school, Padre. I don’t know about you guys — ” he jerked his head in the direction of the audience “ — but this all sounds like too much work to me! Can you say it in thirty seconds before we go to commercial? I love commercial breaks. I got a personal itch and I get a chance to scratch myself raw during the break.” Hoots from the audience. “Here’s a question for you, Padre. If God is good — ” Podgis made a big show of gouging at his crotch “ — why did he create jock itch? Or maybe it’s something worse. Thinking about the scrag I was with last night, maybe it’s genital warts!”

“Imagine what Brennan — look at him!” Maura exclaimed.

Burke was out of his seat, leaning across Podgis, and offering his hand to Robert Thornhill. Thornhill looked at him uncertainly, took his hand, and shook it. “Rob,” Burke said, “it’s a shame we couldn’t have had our discussion in an atmosphere of civility. Maybe another time.” Then Burke took the microphone off his lapel, opened his fingers, let the mike drop to the floor, and walked out.

“
What!?
” Podgis bleated. “You cannot do this to me!” Anger flared in his face, followed by something that looked like panic.

The scene switched from host to audience. Some of the people watched Burke’s exit with their mouths hanging open. Some stared straight ahead. Others looked embarrassed.

“Well!” Podgis’s voice was heard again. “Looks like he’s taking his marbles and going home. Whaddya say, folks? Sore loser?” A rhythmic clapping started up. The camera caught a man standing in the aisle, clapping his hands and trying to provoke a chant. “Loser! Loser!” A few in the audience took it up; others looked away.

The scene switched back to Podgis, who appeared to be enraged. He made a less-than-successful attempt at a grin and turned to Thornhill. “Looks like a knockout for you in the first round, Professor. Exit one sore loser!”

“I think not, Mr. Podgis. There’s been no winner and no loser, because there’s been no debate. Father Burke was evidently frustrated by — ”

“No debate? Let’s have one now. You guys out there. Who wants to get up here and debate miracles with Professor Thornhill? Who’s gonna come up and get your face on national TV?” Podgis looked into the camera and said, “The war of words continues, right after these messages.”

There was a break for commercials and then the camera zoomed in on Father Burke’s replacement. The poor devil Podgis brought up to the stage would not have known where or when in history Christ was crucified, let alone what Aristotle taught or what a subatomic particle was. He identified himself as Del Snooks and wasted no time declaiming into the camera that we know God exists because the Bible tells us so, and if that is not good enough for some people they will find out on their deathbed when the fires of hell will be leaping at their feet.
Then
they’ll be howling for a miracle.

Rob Thornhill looked as if he would have traded his tenured professorship, and perhaps his first-born child, for a miracle that would get him out of there, but good manners kept him in his seat. He offered a few half-hearted comments about what science looks for in terms of proof but did nothing to add to Del Snooks’s self-immolation. That task fell to certain braying members of the audience who took up the argument for a Godless universe with about the same level of intelligence and effect as Snooks was able to muster for a loving creator.

“May I?” Monty picked up the remote and pointed it at the screen.

“Please do,” Maura urged him, and the television blinked off.

“Well!” he said, at a loss for anything else to say.

Maura weighed the evidence. “I’d say the ‘no’ side has it. I was a believer while it was Burke and Thornhill, both of them bearers of the divine spark of intelligence and dignity. But once the show was turned over to Snooks and his antagonists from the audience, and Podgis egging them on . . . well, could any of them be the handiwork of an all-powerful, all-knowing, all-good God? As Burke said of our physical bodies, I say of these poor schmucks in their entirety: thermonuclear waste.”

†

Bruce MacKinnon’s cartoon in the
Herald
the next day showed Podgis with a black eye, sprawled on the floor, but clinging to the leg of a departing man: “Baby, please don’t go!” And early morning radio hosts and disc jockeys made Podgis the butt of their jokes. Judging from the expression on Podgis’s face when Burke walked out on him, Monty figured he was not a man who would enjoy the role of laughingstock.

But the humour was short-lived. Monty heard the news on CBC Radio while driving to work that morning.

“Halifax residents were shocked this morning to learn that a young woman was found dead on the property of St. Bernadette’s church in downtown Halifax in the early hours of the morning.
And
that controversial television personality Perry ‘Pike’ Podgis has been taken into custody in connection with the death. Hugh Donaldson is on the scene. What can you tell us, Hugh?”

“Bill, all of Byrne Street, the church, choir school, and rectory, are cordoned off today, as police comb the area for evidence in the death of nineteen-year-old Jordyn Snider. Her body was found at the site where some people say the Virgin Mary has appeared in recent weeks. Jordyn’s face will be familiar to people following the story of claimed apparitions at the statue of St. Bernadette. Well, now there is blood on the face of the saint, and the churchyard is a crime scene. And if all this was not enough to give people a jolt as they start their day, talk show guerrilla Pike Podgis is in custody and is expected to make an appearance in court this morning. Police won’t confirm it, but sources tell CBC News that Podgis is going to be arraigned on a charge of murder.

“Podgis was in town to do a live show on the so-called miracles at the church. Bill, I don’t know whether you caught the show last night, but Podgis hosted a debate between an atheist, Professor Rob Thornhill of Dalhousie University, and Father Brennan Burke, priest at St. Bernadette’s. It was quite a scene. The cool, cerebral priest, the always-courteous Professor Thornhill, and Pike, the rabid controversialist. Twenty minutes into the show, Father Burke got up and walked out. An enraged Podgis invited a member of the audience to replace him, but it wasn’t much of a debate after that. Pike Podgis was his usual inflammatory self. An autopsy will be held later today.”

“Thank you, Hugh. We’ll check in with you later on to see how things are developing. In other news . . .”

Monty was not interested in other news. A girl killed at St. Bernadette’s, and Pike Podgis being questioned — possibly charged — in the murder. Instead of going to the office, he made a detour to St. Bernadette’s.

As anticipated, the place had been overrun by police vehicles, television crews, yellow tape, crime scene investigators, and groups of onlookers outside the tape. Some of the pilgrims, preachers, and hawkers of miracle souvenirs were on hand as well, as was Monsignor Michael O’Flaherty. O’Flaherty, Monty knew, had just returned from the peace of a monastic retreat. From cloister to crime scene. It was said of O’Flaherty that, if he had not been called to the priesthood, he would have been a cop. An avid reader of detective fiction, he was occasionally tagged with the moniker Sergeant O’Flaherty. The monsignor was slight of build and white of hair. He spoke in a soft, lilting Irish voice. “Monty! Come round this way!”

Monty skirted the police tape and joined O’Flaherty at the door to the rectory.

“That man Podgis is in jail for the murder of a young girl. And it happened right here!”

“What have you heard, Michael?”

“Just that she was found here on the grounds, the life bled out of her.”

“Who found her?”

“I don’t know. Somebody called the police, but I don’t know who. I was awakened in the middle of the night by the sirens. I got myself dressed, and the police arrived at the door.”

“What did they say to you?”

“Oh, they were cagey at first. Said there’d been an incident in the churchyard. Asked me if I knew anything. I guess I had the look of innocence, because they proceeded to ask me whether I’d heard any noises, people about the place, and all that.”

If anyone on the planet had the look of innocence, it was the mild, early seventies, sweet-faced Monsignor O’Flaherty. He still had that look, even after a close encounter with the Troubles in Ireland on a recent visit. Violence there, violence here in his own backyard. But Monty stayed focused on the present.

“Was the body still out there?”

“It must have been, but they took it away after doing their investigation of the scene. You can still see the blood on the face of our saint.”

“Where’s Brennan?”

“Up in his room preparing for his day at the schola. Go on up and see him.”

Monty headed inside and took the stairs up to Brennan Burke’s room, knocked on the door, and was invited in. Burke was at his desk with a musical score spread out before him, a pencil in his hand, a pair of half-glasses perched on his aquiline nose.

“Did you nab him?” Monty said to Burke.

“Didn’t have to.”

“Police question you?”

“Yeah.”

“What did they want to know?”

“Where I went after walking off the set last night.”

“Where’d you go?”

“Where do you think?”

“Midtown?”

“Yes, I stopped in for a couple of draft, then came home.”

“Why did they want to know where you went? Are you a suspect?”

“I think I’m in the clear.”

“So, what were they after?”

“Wanted to know whether I’d seen Podgis again after the show.”

“Why would they think that?”

“Because I did.”

“You did what?”

“See him after the show.”

“
What
?”

“The gobshite tracked me down at the Midtown and — ”

“How did he know to find you there?”

“He’s an investigative reporter. Remember?”

“All right. So, what’s this about him tracking you down?”

Burke waved a dismissive hand. “Wanted to continue the debate, I guess. Seemed a little perturbed that I left the program.”

“I suspect that ‘a little perturbed’ is not in the typical range of emotions displayed by Podgis. More like frothing at the mouth, right?”

“Yeah, well . . .”

“Well, what?”

“Never mind that.”

There was something Burke wasn’t telling him, but Monty would get it out of him later. “So did you hear anything last night? Screams or anything like that from the churchyard?”

“No.”

“What time did all this ruckus begin?”

“Around half-two in the morning, or just before. Police and ambulance came roaring in. Then O’Flaherty was at my door, giving me the news.”

“Well, there will be plenty of news before this is over. I’m off to court.”

“Later.”

Two uniformed police officers were standing at the entrance to Byrne Street, where it formed a T intersection with Morris. One officer Monty knew, Truman Beals. If you could picture Otis Redding in a regulation police academy haircut and uniform, that was Truman. And he had the voice too. Before joining the police force, he had done the occasional gig with Monty’s blues band, Functus. Beals always prefaced these encounters with “Don’t ask me to sing ‘Dock of the Bay’ again.” And the band always agreed, then badgered him to do it anyway, and he always brought the house down with it, sounding uncannily like Redding himself. Of all the compliments Monty had received over his career as a bluesman, it was the one from Beals he treasured most: “Some of your tunes, not all, but some, if I close my eyes, you can almost pass for somebody who’s not a blue-eyed little white boy.”