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  Another woman said: “A man alone with all those women! You may be too shy to come, Father!”

  The man turned slightly and I recognized the unyielding features of Father Burke. He was an impressive-looking cleric, standing ramrod straight in his black suit and Roman collar. There wasn’t a touch of green on his person. He put me in mind of the old-school priests of my childhood. They would bawl at you from the pulpit if you shuffled in late for Mass and cuff your ears if you took the Lord’s name in vain. Then, on a good day, they’d join you in a game of touch football in the school yard. Father Burke disengaged himself from his admirers and moved towards the door. He came to a halt when he saw me and regarded me impassively with his hooded black eyes. “Mr. Collins. I would not have expected to see you here.” The Irish was more clipped than ever. Either he didn’t like the look on my face or he saw me as the harbinger of a painful ordeal in his future.

  “Hello, Father Burke,” I responded as I would have to a courteous greeting. “The boss gave me a nudge in this direction. Some of the funds will be going to the choir school, he said. Has he been here today?”

  “Ah. I see. And no, I haven’t seen anyone here from the House of Stratton.”

  “Well, I’d better put down enough money on the Crown and Anchor for both of us.”

  “You do that, then.” He gave me a curt nod of dismissal.

  I moved on to a casino table where I dutifully lost a few dollars, then bolted for the exit. But I wasn’t fast enough. Father O’Flaherty came by at that moment and smiled at me. “Good, Monty. You’re still in time to catch some of the variety show. They’re running the video now. After you, sir.” He ushered me into the conference room. The place was filled with people who, I suspected, were there to watch their own or a family member’s performance. On the screen, two middle-aged men were hamming it up on the subject of fundraising from the pulpit. Then a young girl read a poem she had written about the youth centre. The scene switched, with an amateur-looking segue, to a group of children shuffling onto the stage in choristers’ robes. “Our junior children’s choir,” O’Flaherty whispered to me, “with a few young adult choristers to help out with the lower voices.”

  A priest joined the choir on stage and said in a broad Irish brogue: “And now we’ll be singing ‘Faith of Our Fathers.’ Here, let me play the first few bars for you.” At this, the children covered their ears as if in pain. The priest played two bars on the piano and then hit a comically sour note. “Sure, we’ll be doing it a cappella, I’m thinking.” This brought knowing chuckles from the people around me. The skit was mildly amusing from my point of view but it was more than that to these people, so I assumed an in-joke was in progress. The priest turned to the choir and I saw that it was in fact an attractive young woman in her late teens. The clerical uniform was a black suit jacket with its lapels pinned around a small square of white at the throat. Her short dark hair was sprinkled with white powder at the temples. This was meant to be Father Burke.

  Another figure came on stage then. Dressed in an early nineteenth-century coat and wearing a wig, the figure was immediately recognizable as Beethoven. The choir children made exaggerated gestures of delight and beckoned Beethoven closer to the piano. They pointed to the Burke character and Beethoven nodded. Like a magician, he put his hands over the head of the Father Burke character, who then played the music correctly. The children sang the piece, and sang it quite well. Beethoven turned from the piano to the audience and shrugged as if to say: “See? It’s easy.” Laughter again. I was stunned to see that the man in the Beethoven wig was Burke himself.

  Father O’Flaherty whispered in my ear again. “Father Burke. He works magic with the children; he’s a brilliant choir director. And he’s God’s gift as a singer himself. But on the pipe organ? He’s Paddy from Cork, I’m afraid. Just plays enough to pick out the melody line and accompanying chords.”

  “And he agreed to take part in this little vignette?” I couldn’t picture it, from what I had seen of the man.

  “Oh sure. It’s pretty well known about his playing. He’ll tell it on himself. ‘The only musical instrument I can play well,’ he says, ‘is myself.’ Most of what he does with the children is unaccompanied, a cappella. If not, he brings someone in to play the organ. He was good-humoured about the skit.”

  When I turned to the screen again, the Burke character stood and Beethoven moved back. The children shuffled into a new order and picked up pieces of music from their seats. Then Beethoven spoke in a German accent: “Zere is a little heiliger Engel who hass not got her music. Get your music, Fräulein.” Beethoven put his hands on the shoulders of a gorgeous little black girl with long braids, who was peering out at the audience and waving. She jerked around, startled, and the audience on the videotape laughed affectionately. When she had her music in place, Beethoven moved out of view, leaving the “choir director” in charge. The Burke character lifted his hands and amateurishly waved them in front of the children as they sang Franck’s Panis Angelicus. Every once in a while Beethoven’s hands came into view at the edge of the screen, and a finger pointed heavenward to keep the pitch up. The singing was heartbreakingly sweet. When the last chord faded, both audiences burst into applause. The Burke character bowed deeply and Beethoven waved a hand in acknowledgement.

  “They are wonderful,” I said to O’Flaherty.

  He beamed back at me. “Do you know Father Burke?”

  “I’ve met him. I’m a little surprised to see him taking part.”

  “Sure, I can see your point, not knowing him well at all.”

  “He seems pretty tightly wrapped. He doesn’t really strike me as a guy who’s open to the redeeming love of Christ.”

  Michael O’Flaherty smiled. “Maybe he’s got his own private stock bottled up inside.”

  Chapter 2

  Locus iste a Deo factus est, inaestimabile sacramentum.

  Irreprehensibilis est.

  (This place was made by God, a priceless sacrament.

  It is beyond reproach.)

  — The Mass, Graduale

  I

  I made a pass by Tim Hortons the next Monday morning hoping to see Sergeant Moody Walker, but there was no sign of him. I had better luck in the afternoon. I was just about to give up when I spied him lumbering in from the parking lot. When he had his coffee, I raised my cup and he came over to join me.

  “How have you been, Moody? I hear you’ve retired.”

  “Bored. Dull. After all the long nights on surveillance, you’d think I’d be glad of the spare time. But I’m not much of a man for spare time.”

  “Don’t tell me you miss work. The rest of us live for the day we don’t have to pick up a pen or take a call ever again.”

  “I do miss it.”

  “I wish I had a job I loved that much,” I said to him.

  “Didn’t say I loved it. Said I miss it.”

  “Did they see you off properly? Big piss-up at the Police Club?”

  “My lips are sealed.” Walker’s eyes narrowed as the door to the shop opened wide. Two young people jostled each other in the doorway. They had pieces of metal sticking out of the bits of flesh we could see, and every item of clothing was ripped and frayed. “Will you look at that,” the policeman groused. “Ever notice that about nonconformists, Collins? They all look alike.”

  “I guess I’d have to go along with you on that, Moody. So, how are they making out in your absence? Police business shut down, or what?”

  “Right,” he grumbled.

  “You didn’t leave anything on your desk, did you?” I persisted. “Somebody about to be collared when your last shift ended?”

  “Nah, not really.” He bit into a powdery lemon doughnut. “There ar
e a couple of unsolveds that are pissing me off. But not much I can do about that.”

  “Unsolved what?” I asked as I toyed with the rim of my cup. Maybe this time I’d roll it up and find I’d won a prize. A free cup of coffee, for instance.

  “Unsolved murders, what else? I don’t much care about unsolved car stereo thefts. Those could be seen as a service to the public.”

  “What killings have been eating away at you? They never got whoever gunned down that crack dealer in the park, did they?”

  Walker snorted. “Everybody knows who did that one. He’ll make a mistake. They always do. And we’ll — the department will nail him.” I waited, taking a leisurely look around the coffee shop. “The guy I want is the guy who bashed in the skull of that young girl and left her under the bridge. Leeza Rae. Happened after I left the shop but it pisses me off. The department hasn’t got its head around that one, but I think they’re just not looking in the right place.” Moody patted his pockets and brought out a cigarette and lighter. He offered me a smoke but I shook my head. I had embarked on a long painful withdrawal from nicotine when my son was born.

  “I have my own ideas about what happened there.” He drew in a lungful of smoke and blew it towards the empty table to his right.

  “What’s the story?”

  “I have my eye on somebody I think is a bad, bad actor. A fine, upstanding citizen by day, a twisto by night.”

  Oh, God. “What do we have here, Moody?” I tried to keep it light. “The mayor using his chain of office for grisly deeds?”

  “Not a politician, no.” Moody took a sip of coffee, and leaned forward. “A priest.”

  I nodded as if this was something I heard every day. “Why do you say that?”

  “Forensic evidence on the body.” Moody took a quick look around him. “Some ritualistic, uh, aspects...” His voice trailed off.

  “Like what? Don’t leave me hanging off the cliff here, Moody.”

  “Hmph. You know better than that, Collins.” I did. There are things about a murder scene that are known only to the police and the killer, and the police want to keep it that way. A member of the defence bar would be the last person Walker would confide in. I tried again anyway.

  “Okay, but why this priest in particular?”

  “Things I know about him. And things I’ve heard. Product of bad cream. His old man has a history... But back to this girl. I’m not telling you anything you didn’t read in the papers. She worked at the youth centre they have over there at St. Bernadette’s. Attended a dance there the night she was killed. Probably thought she was safe as houses, all the kids dancing and drinking unleaded punch, with a bunch of priests and nuns scowling at them from the sidelines. She left the dance alone.” He shook his head and took another sip. I resisted the urge to push for more. Then Walker spoke again.

  “Ever wonder about religious people, Collins? I don’t mean your church-on-Sunday types, but the professional God-botherers. Especially, between me and you, the RC s.” I had served my time as an altar boy, but I was a typical lapsed Catholic and rarely went near a church. Walker went on: “But I’ll say this much for them — at least they don’t dunk pubescent girls in tanks of water like they did in my church. We were Baptists. Were. You can ask my sister about that! Anyway, back to the Catholics. The priests, the bishops, this vow of no nookie. What do you think that does to —” He broke off. I looked up and saw Father Michael O’Flaherty glowering at Walker. He looked like a different man. Gone was his customary cheerfulness.

  “Oh, Mike, sit down for Chrissake. This isn’t the first time you’ve heard me fretting about your sexual wellbeing.”

  “Indeed it is not, and I’m none too pleased to be hearin’ it again. It’s like I said before, you’re wasting your time fretting about me. It’s well documented that people in religious life tend to live longer than laymen!”

  Moody lifted his cup in the priest’s direction, and I got up. “Coffee, Father?”

  O’Flaherty looked at me. “Ah. Mr. Collins. Much obliged. Small double cream double sugar.”

  I went to the counter to get the old fellow his small double double, and to give the two of them a moment to patch things up. When I started back to the table, I heard O’Flaherty say: “Repressed this and repressed that. Bollocks! And you know what I think of this murder theory you’re propounding. If you’d only tell me what information you think you have, then —” He fell silent as I approached, but I noticed he had been looking intently at the retired detective as he spoke.

  “Father Mike here is trying to find me a hobby,” Walker said lightly as I returned.

  I made an effort to get into the spirit of things. “Moody was just telling me, Father, that he hopes to take up folk art as a pastime.”

  “Ha!” the cop bellowed. “I can’t do art, so I don’t. Why can’t everybody stick to what they know?”

  “Whyever don’t you join me in my hobby, Moody?” The priest had recovered his good humour.

  “What? Carting a bunch of old farts halfway around the world on specialized bus tours? No thank you.”

  “What is it you do, Father? Organize trips of some kind?” I asked.

  Walker answered for him. “Michael O’Flaherty is a professional Irishman. Born and raised in Saint John, New Brunswick, he is more Irish than Saint Patrick.”

  “I am indeed,” the priest agreed, not in the least stung by the jibes of his crony. “Saint Patrick was not blessed with the Irish parentage that I was privileged to enjoy. A four-cornered Irishman, and proud of it... that means all my grandparents, by the way, Mr. Collins. And you too may be proud. I’m sure you don’t need any lessons from me —”

  “But he’ll instruct you anyway, as long as the subject is Ireland,” Walker butted in.

  “— about the great Michael Collins, ‘the Big Fellow’ as he was known. Put the run to the Brits, but then was gunned down by his own —”

  “A violent death. Why doesn’t that surprise me?” Walker muttered.

  “The first time I saw my colleague Father Burke I thought I was having a vision. He looked enough like Mick Collins to be the Big Fellow reincarnated. Or at least he did back then. Not so much now that he’s older, except for the Irish mouth on him. I must inquire whether there’s a family connection.”

  “Oh, so Father Burke is someone you’ve known for a long time?” I asked.

  “No,” O’Flaherty said quickly, “I never met him until he arrived here in the fall. I’ve seen photographs of him when he was young, that’s all. Now, you were asking about me, so —”

  “We were?” Walker interrupted.

  “I spend as much time as I can on the old turf.” O’Flaherty warmed to his subject. “Tours, religious retreats: Knock, Lough Derg. I’d be happy to have you along. We could put on a Speeches from the Dock tour for you and fellow members of the bar. Nobody can do a speech from the dock like a condemned Irishman!”

  There was a shrewdness evident in the mild blue eyes, and I got the impression that the old boy did not miss much in spite of his jovial facade. After all, he had found out what I did to earn my daily bread. He now had a plan for Walker: “Moody, I’ll help you set it up. Sergeant Walker’s Police Tour of —”

  “You want me to lug a busload of gawks around famous crime scenes across the pond? You old ghoul. You’re awfully interested in blood and guts, for a man of the cloth.”

  “Not blood and guts, my dear Walker, not at all.” The priest’s expression grew sombre. “I am interested, in spite of myself — or is it because of my vocation? — in examining the depths to which man will sink when he turns from God and gives himself over to temptation. You both see it in your everyday lives, the evil perpetrated by men. And — I beg our Blessed Mother�
��s forgiveness — perpetrated by women as well. Does it come from within, or is there a cause that resides beyond human ken? The fons et origo mali.” Walker, for once, was without a rejoinder.

  “But the source of evil is not my concern at the moment,” O’Flaherty announced, slapping both hands on the table and pushing himself upright. “‘There’s husbandry in Heaven; their candles are all out.’” We looked at him blankly. “Votive candles. Need replacements. Shakespeare. Don’t you two know anything?” He walked out with a spring in his step.

  I raised my eyebrows at Walker across the table. He just shrugged. “Like I said, Collins, you have to wonder.” The policeman got up heavily from the table. “Great guy, though, Mike.” We waved to each other and he was off. I drove back downtown, to the Stratton Sommers office on Barrington Street.

  I was uneasy with the little I had heard from Walker, particularly his comment about a twisted element to the murder. Especially unnerving was his conviction that the killer was able to pass himself off as a good citizen while keeping a dangerous or deranged persona hidden from view. And what was this forensic evidence? Did they have threads from vestments or other clerical garb? Was there a lab report already? Possibly. And what were the ritualistic elements at the scene? It would be difficult to learn anything concrete about the evidence without tipping my hand to the police and drawing attention to my client. If Moody was alone on this, and the department was not looking seriously at Burke, I wanted to keep it that way. It was not part of my job description as a lawyer to investigate crimes, but I would have to do some detective work on this one. First I would have to persuade Father Burke to open up.

  II

  I called the choir school and was told that Father Burke was over at the rectory. I decided to go see him on my way home, not that I had anything more than vague suspicions to report after my conversation with Moody Walker. And from what I had seen of the priest, it was not likely that he would be forthcoming with any information of his own. The telephone conversation was brief.