“People don’t go down there very often. I do once in a while. The priests might. Sister Marguerite? I’d say not. Maybe the youth workers.”
“Where did it come from, the wig?”
“Tyler bought it. With a lot of the other costumes for the show. I sent him off to Frenchy’s with fifteen bucks in his pocket.” Frenchy’s, the chain of Maritime second-hand clothing stores, where unemployed fish plant workers and doctors’ wives shopped for everything from cleaning rags to designer garments for prices as low as a couple of dollars.
“All right, Eileen. I’m off. I know I can rely on you.”
As soon as I was in my office, I called Brennan to fill him in. “Eileen confirms what you told me about O’Flaherty pulling the wig off, and it’s eating away at her that she didn’t speak up about it. Though I’m sure we can both understand why she wouldn’t want to rush to judgment about Father O’Flaherty.”
“Exactly. Here we are in the sober light of day, and it seems absurd to have suspected Michael. Of all people.”
“But we’ve got him pulling the wig off, with the inevitable hair samples the killer wanted. What kind of a liar do you think O’Flaherty would make?”
“What do you mean?”
“I questioned him about it.” Silence at the other end. “I put it in the context of the entertainment planned for the Knights of Columbus. I caught up with him last night at the centre, sat him down with a light shining in his face. So to speak. And brought up the subject of the skit and the wig. He didn’t deny it.” I waited for a reaction. “Brennan?”
“I’m listening.”
“He didn’t deny that it happened that way. But the thing is, he didn’t look the least flustered. ‘Oh, did I now? I don’t remember.’ Is he capable of being that cool under fire?”
“I wouldn’t have thought so. You’ve played poker with him. You
know every card in his hand just by the face on him.”
“Right. Well, we’re going to have to go deeper into this. But in the meantime, carry on the way you always do. And, though it sounds preposterous, be on guard.”
“You’re right. It does sound preposterous. But I hear you.”
How long a distance covered since we lost that line.
An answer hovers in the air.
Fingers recall numbers that have slipped the mind,
almost hoping no one’s there...
If we could trace our steps — recreate the crime —
Find our way back through the woods,
If we could focus on the finest point in time
where we were both misunderstood.
— Lennie Gallant, Chris LeDrew, “Something Unspoken”
I
I wanted to give myself a break from thinking about the case. The night after I spoke to Eileen about the wig I was sitting home, picking out a tune on an old acoustic guitar, determined to relax. But the case continued to occupy my thoughts. We had confirmation of Brennan’s revelation about O’Flaherty yanking the wig off his head, and pulling Brennan’s hair out in the process. We had O’Flaherty claiming he could not remember, but not denying it. Not bothering to deny it, was a more accurate description. Was he an accomplished and ruthless liar? Was it possible that something so significant, the wig incident and the potential for obtaining the needed hair samples, was not even a factor in the case? No. It had to be a factor, a key element of the planning, at least for the first killing. But how did it fit in with the other pieces of the puzzle, the scar and the initials?
I did not know what experts the police had consulted about the meaning of
IBR
. The Crown had not led any evidence on the point. How could they? The only person who really knew what the letters
stood for was the killer. And the police didn’t need an explanation; they had the sign of the cross, carved into the bodies of the two victims, a symbol identical to the one branded on the chest of the accused. Burke could think of no one who knew the scar intimately. The facts were stark: if there wasn’t anyone else, then he had killed the women. I desperately wanted to find another explanation.
I decided to look at those confounding letters. Every time I had put my mind to them, I had considered and rejected the idea of asking Burke to participate. If he was guilty he would lead me on a chase from here to eternity to keep me from solving the riddle. Finally, after trying every alphabetical and numerical combination my tired brain could produce, I made up my mind to hash it out with him anyway. It might not bring me any closer to establishing a defence — in fact, I could end up facing the possibility that there was no defence — but I might be an older and wiser man by the end of the night.
It was nine in the evening when I called the rectory, and Mrs. Kelly told me Father Burke was in his room with some other priests, but she graciously offered to take a message from me, a mere layman, asking him to call me. I sat by the phone with a pen and paper making up crosswords and other puzzles with the letters
IBR
. The phone rang at 9:15.
“Monty. Brennan here.”
“I know your voice now, Brennan. I have for some time.”
“Ah. I suppose you do. Mrs. K. just came up with your message.” I could hear conversation and laughter in the background. If there had been any strain involved in a meeting with fellow priests after his conviction, it must have eased. I had little doubt that, as painful as it would be, he would have proclaimed his innocence to everyone he had to see. Otherwise, social intercourse would have been impossible.
“Can you spare me a few minutes, Brennan? If so, I’d like to scoot in to see you.”
“Sure thing. I’m trying to keep order here with a bunch of football hooligans. Come on over.”
He was still in his black shirt and Roman collar when I arrived, as were his guests. Burke and three priests I didn’t know were sitting around a table with books and papers spread in front of them. They appeared to be working, but they had a football game on television.
Notre Dame and Purdue. I did a double take. I had seen the game Saturday afternoon. Then I noticed the
VCR
and concluded somebody was a gridiron fanatic. One priest knew every play and was cuing the others about what to expect. It took me a moment to realize that I had never seen a television in Burke’s room before. The Notre Dame enthusiast saw me looking at it and explained: “O’Flaherty’s. He’s out, so we heisted it. It’s going back after the game. Brennan doesn’t deign to watch television.” The priests each had a beer in front of them, and were quick to offer me one. Brennan and an older man were smoking.
“Good evening, Montague,” Brennan greeted me. “Something on your mind? Come on.” He put an arm around my shoulder, held the cigarette away from me with the other hand, and leaned his ear in towards me. “You remember how it goes: Bless me Father, for I have sinned. It has been thirty years since my last confession.”
“You’re a card, Brennan. I want us to put our heads together and try to decode this
IBR
business.”
His face clouded over. “All right, all right. These guys won’t be here much longer. Have a seat.” I nursed a beer and listened to the priests planning a theology seminar. We were a long, long way from the Baltimore Catechism; it was Johannine this and Christological that, and something called the “hypostatic union,” which seemed to relate to the dual nature of Christ as human and divine. Not for the first time, I was struck by how much there was to know in this world, and the next. And how, after twenty years of formal education, I was well versed in some subjects and not even literate in others. I tuned in to the game, just as Purdue’s quarterback got sacked. Click, whirr, the tape rewound and Purdue got sacked again.
When the game was over, the guests unplugged the television and made ready to transport it to its rightful home. I leapt up to offer my services because I could not resist the chance to see O’Flaherty’s room. It was at the end of a corridor that ran at right angles to Brennan’s. A little bit of Ireland on North American soil. Mike had Irish posters, a calendar, books, a wall map, and a 1950s record player, with an
LP
by Paddy someone on the turntable. One bureau held a collection of Celtic crosses, carved of stone, ranging in height from ten inches or so to nearly two feet. One of the priests bumped into the table on his way by and knocked one of the crosses onto the floor.
Luckily, it didn’t break, and he moved his foot out of the way just in time. “Would I get Workers’ Compensation if I lost a toe returning a stolen
TV
?” The only non-Irish items on display were some pre-Vatican
II
missals, a wall devoted to group photos of children making their First Communion, and a little shrine to the Blessed Virgin with fresh flowers (costly at this time of year, I would have thought) placed where their fragrance could be enjoyed by the Holy Mother.
When I returned to Brennan’s room, he and I sat down and faced each other across his table. “You’re back in uniform.”
“I am. If I take the attitude that I don’t want to disgrace the collar, that’s tantamount to saying I’m guilty. Which I’m not. And He knows it.” His eyes looked heavenward. “So I dress like the other fellows around here.”
I got to the point. “I assume you’ve tried your hand at decoding
IBR
already, applying arcane principles of biblical interpretation?”
“No, I have not. It’s some psycho’s initials. Or the initials of his other personality.” He leaned back and crossed his arms. “We could be here all night and be none the wiser at the end of it.”
“Let’s give it a shot. So to speak.” I raised my eyebrows in the direction of the drinks cupboard.
“Divest ourselves of a few brain cells and we may start to think like the killer, you’re suggesting.” He poured us each an Irish whiskey and freed himself of his clerical collar. “Let’s get to it.”
“All right,” I began. “
IBR
. It could be someone’s initials. It could be ‘I, so-and-so.’”
“Yeah. ‘I, Brennan.’ Oops, I forgot. There are five more letters in my name and I don’t have room for them on this small body. Because I have to carve a crucifix on the other side. Next time I’ll pick on someone my own size.”
I ignored him and continued. “That I. Doesn’t I appear on the real crucifix?”
Brennan went to a drawer and pulled out an old wooden cross with the crucified Jesus on it in ivory. “Comes from home. Ireland, I mean. Very old. See here?
INRI
. J in Latin is of course I.
Iesus Nazarenus Rex Iudaeorum.
Jesus of Nazareth, King of the Jews. A mocking tribute.”
“So, this could be a J. If the person was thinking that way, he’d probably be talking about Jesus, right?”
“I suppose so.”
“It could be Jesus, B something, then R, maybe Rex.”
“It could be anything. And we’re not on the same wavelength as whoever wrote it,” my client snapped.
“Come on Brennan, it’s either this or the crucifix scar, and I got nowhere with you on that.” I sipped my drink. “Now, it may be letters or it may be numbers. What letter of the alphabet is I? Nine, correct? B is two. R is, let me count here, eighteen. Nine, two, eighteen. Nine times two is eighteen. Eighteen divided by nine is two. Do any of these numbers strike you as significant?”
“Not me, but I’ll bet they set off murderous impulses in somebody.” The priest sighed with exasperation and stared out the window into the darkness.
“Could it be an address? Someone’s birthday? Somebody born in 1918, now aged seventy-two? Ring any chimes for you?” No reply. “Can you think of anything significant that happened February ninth or September second of 1918? First World War.” Again no reply. “What was going on in Ireland in 1918?”
“Everybody was drinking and shagging and having babies. Or was that some other year?”
“Politically. Historically. What was happening?”
“The Easter Rising was over. The Troubles had yet to begin.”
“Which troubles were these?”
“Anglo-Irish War, 1919 to 1921. The
IRA
versus the Black and Tans. Before your grandfather Collins signed the Treaty.”
“Mike O’Flaherty seems to think there’s a bit of Collins blood in you, Brennan. A resemblance when you were younger.”
“Could be, but it must be fairly indirect. The man died in 1922.”
“All right. Let’s move on. Add all these figures up and you get twenty-nine.”
I looked at Brennan’s watch. It was eleven-forty-five. In Roman numerals. “What if they are Roman numerals?” I tried. He looked at me as if I were the class dunce. “I is one, but there’s no B or R, is there?”
“You shouldn’t spend so many nights without sleep. Your mind is not working in top condition here, Monty.”
“What if one of them, the I, is a Roman numeral, and the others are —”
“With so little time and so little space to work in, do you think this kook is going to get complicated?” Brennan asked.
“The first thing one would think of is a Bible verse, but not with this combination. I mean Bible verses would be cited like John 3:16, right?”
“Very good. You’ve opened the Bible at some point in your life. You give me hope, Collins.”
“Nah. There’s always a guy holding it up for the cameras at the Super Bowl.”
“Ah. Well, I have to get up very early in the morning.”
“Go ahead. Pour me another on your way by.” He poured me a whiskey, then went into the bathroom. I could hear water running, teeth being brushed, something falling and skipping across the floor, Brennan cursing. He came out, stripped down to a pair of blindingly white gym shorts, and climbed into his bed.
“Do you always sleep like that?”
“Like what?”
“With just a pair of shorts on?”
“What were you expecting, jammies with pictures of the
BVM
all over them?”
“
BVM?”
“Blessed Virgin Mary! I thought you were brought up Catholic!”
“Are you a light sleeper? Or are you out once you’re out?”
“Goodnight, Montague. Don’t let the door bang you in the arse on your way out,” he advised, and turned away.
I got up and paced around the room. I looked over the music collection and the shelves full of books I had never heard of, in English, Italian, Latin and German, along with several versions of the Bible.