Ryan is first out of his seat. He takes up his chair and sets it against the wall where the others will soon be stacked. Steve stretches a kink out of his spine, his neck, his joints pop.
He removes his phone from the projector. “I’ll get a printout of this up straightaway.”
“Thanks.”
Finally, Paul approaches. “That was Assistant Commissioner Jack Clancy on the phone before, Chief. He says you’ve a meeting in the morning at Garda HQ with the commissioner.”
I go to Helen’s desk to sign the warrant request for Geraldine Shine’s phone records. He follows. “He’ll have to do without me, Paul. I can’t leave this.”
“He says it’s vital.”
“Send this to the district court immediately, please, Helen.” And I hand her the warrant request.
“Yes, Chief,” she replies.
I straighten. Face Paul. He lifts his chins, runs a finger beneath them. “What’ll I tell him, Chief?”
“What time?”
“Eleven A.M. He says the commissioner won’t budge.”
I divide up the hours ahead of us, weigh the inevitable backlash if I ignore a request to meet with Phoenix Park against the cost in time. The bloody headache I’ll get from Jack Clancy afterward might be more than it’s worth not to show up.
I give Paul a nod. “Fuck it. Right. Yeah. Okay, I’ll be there.”
“Thanks, Chief.”
Baz is at the door, shrugging into his sodden coat. “I’m heading back out to the scene. Check on door-to-door.”
“The autopsies are scheduled for ten thirty A.M. You okay to oversee them?”
“You’re not going to be there?”
“I’ve a meeting in Phoenix Park.”
He snorts. “Not like you to loosen your grip on a case once it’s sucking diesel. I thought you’d be pushing for a front-row seat?”
I throw him a grin. “You need someone to hold your hand?”
He slides me a teasing look. “Just know how you hate to take your eye off the ball.”
“Just because I’m not there doesn’t mean I can’t sense when prey hits the web.”
He laughs. “Fuck me for asking.” He glances across the office toward the window then flicks up the collar of his coat. “I don’t like the look of this case at all. It’s got follow-up written all over it. Clontarf certainly won’t be sleeping easy with a killer prowling the streets.”
And I can feel the chill of his words ring through my bones. I think of another killer, Seán Hennessy, already walking those streets. “I met up with Tanya yesterday evening before the call.”
He runs a hand over the sides of his coat until he hears the jingle of his keys. “Oh? What crook is she pulling off the hook now?”
“Seán Hennessy.”
“Should I know who he is?”
“Convicted for murdering his parents and attempting to murder his sister. He was released four months ago, wants to challenge the charges made against him. ” I glance back at the case board, look pointedly at the photos of the Shines.
Baz fixes his gaze on me. I’ve got his attention now. “Is that so?” He’s still for a moment as he takes this in then, “Would he have had the time? To kill then get to you and Tanya?”
“Judith says Geraldine Shine could have been dead for as long as two hours.”
He looks doubtful but his eyes don’t leave mine. He knows better than to dismiss the unlikely. “We bring him in then.”
“On what? Guilty once, therefore again? That won’t go down well. Tanya says there’s TV involved.”
Baz puts his hand on the door, shrugs. “Fuck TV. Get a uniform out to him. We’re only trying to rule him out.” He pulls the door open. “Along with the rest of the bleedin’ city it looks like; you know as well as I do that there’s more than one man in this country capable of evil.”
I nod. “You’re right. Autopsy should give us something.”
“Hope to fuck it does, ’cause lord knows there’s little in the way of evidence at the scene.”
“Call me with anything new.”
He leaves and I go to the coffee machine. It’s going to be a long morning.
CHAPTER 4
I TURN DOWN the road, through the grand pillars of Phoenix Park. A fine, persistent drizzle falls across the windshield. The trees are shapeless dark figures in the surrounding mist. In the green, beyond a cast-iron fence, a personal trainer charges over and back in a series of short sprints; his client, soaked and heaving, stumbles after him. I slow down in anticipation of a speed bump, reach out to the note Paul gave me on the meeting.
Review of mission statement, is all the note says. I feel the tug of apprehension. I’m not a fan of being unprepared and definitely not when meeting the woman who could pull the plug on our operations. Or even, the Bureau.
Séamus Barrett, the commissioner who set up the Bureau, retired this year. His replacement is an ex-financier with sod-all law experience. Donna Hegarty. And now this, what is it, an assessment? A checkup. In some ways, a change in commissioner could be a good thing. But generally, when it comes to the gardaí, I’ve found change is a motherfucker. And meetings to discuss that change an even bigger one.
Through the trees, the main garda HQ appears. I turn through the gate, pull up at the security barrier. Flash my badge and the barrier lifts. I park. Check the time. A quarter past eleven. I’m late. I sit for a few moments, enjoying a further few seconds in the warmth of the car. Beyond the headquarters, the clouds are thickening, darkening.
Taking my bag, I step out of the car and slip into my raincoat. I pull my hood up against the swirling damp breeze, squint through the drizzle at the building, and sigh at what’s waiting for me inside. I lock the car, tuck my head against the rain, and walk quickly toward the entrance.
Johnny Byrnes looks up when I enter. Johnny was once a detective working Murder for breakfast, lunch, dinner, and beyond. Five years ago, three years before he would have made chief super, he was moved to Gangs and a knife through the abdomen saw him impaled to a desk job for the remainder of his working life. His move to HQ made room for me. I felt bad but at the same time didn’t. Everyone wants to work Murder, everyone wants to lead Murder, but there are only so many spaces at the top. I was sad he’d been injured. But it was an opportunity made for me and I stepped into those ruby slippers without hesitation.
“Detective Sheehan,” he says. The browns of his eyes are surrounded by a network of thin blood vessels, the bottom lids slack and watering. His nose wears the signs of a drinker.
I push back my hood. “Johnny. Hi. I’m here to see the commissioner.”
He nods and I see the tremble in his hand as he picks up the phone. “Detective Chief Superintendent Sheehan here to see you, ma’am.”
The reception desk is curved, positioned against a wall to the right; portraits of the significant men of the garda look down on the room. Johnny hangs up the phone, takes a lanyard from a box on the desk. A printer behind him spits out a square card with my name and title on it. He slides the card into the lanyard, passes it over the desk. Stands and points down the hall.
“If you go up the stairs there, Mrs. Hegarty is in meeting room two with the assistant commissioner.” And I think in that moment he’s glad he’s not in my shoes.
I unzip my wet coat, hang it on a rack near the entrance then, nodding my thanks to Johnny, I head for the stairs.
When I get to the meeting room, I find Clancy and Donna Hegarty at the far side of the boardroom table. Clancy stands, supports himself against the desk with his fingertips, the pad of his index finger taps an impatient beat against the surface.
“Detective Sheehan.” He lifts his hand and makes a show of checking his watch. “Nice of you to make the effort.” He gives me a hard glare, his mouth compressed against his teeth. He might as well have roared, What fucking time
do you call this?
“If it saved the commissioner a trip into town in early-morning traffic, then I’m glad to oblige,” I answer and watch the edges of Clancy’s mouth disappear further into his face.
“Nice to finally meet you, Detective Sheehan.” The commissioner doesn’t get up but acknowledges me with a curt tip of her head. I’ve only seen photos of her in the newspaper or the little news flier on the force I delete from my inbox once a quarter.
In her photo, she appears younger, less stooped, less like someone’s granny. She’s hitting mid-sixties at least, not unusual for anyone of seniority in this occupation, but her attire is bundled, a cardigan stretched over her chest, pale-yellow blouse, loose and layered over the waist of the pink floral pattern on her pencil skirt. But it’s in her eyes that I look for the woman and they have it: the patient gleam of authority. Don’t look at how I am; look at who I am, they say.
“Yes, ma’am. Thank you,” I answer, placing my bag on the table.
“Call me Donna, please. We’re all friends here,” she says, spreading her hands. Never was there a phrase that meant the opposite more. “All on the same team.”
Clancy moves a palm roughly over his cheek. “Yes, yes.”
I sit. My leg aches. Old scars from old cases tightening along my thigh. Donna Hegarty is already rubbing me the wrong way. “My caseload is particularly full today,” I say, looking straight at her. “We’ve had a double murder on the north side. It needs my full attention.”
“I’m aware of that.” She settles back against her seat. “A tragedy. Have we a motive yet?”
We? The woman has never set foot in a crime scene. “The layout of the bodies suggests a particular signature.”
“A signature?”
“A pattern the killer will feel compelled, for want of a better word, to act out. A ritual, if you like.”
She looks up, meets my eyes, holds me in her milky gray gaze, her mouth a firm line. “It’s so clear to you?”
Clancy interjects. “Frankie is used to working out these things; she’s had a lot of training in profiling, built up a lot of experience. She’s yet to fire off base.”
Donna frowns. “Is that so?”
“As the sky is blue,” he says. Beyond the window at his back, the sky continues to darken.
I look at him and wonder what it is he’s afraid of. There’s a threat here, in this room; I feel it but I’m not sure where it’s coming from.
Then as if to answer that question, Hegarty replies, “We all remember Ivan Neary, Mr. Clancy. Or at least, I do.”
I feel the vertebrae in my back lock straight. “We got our man in the end.”
“Hardly a case to be touting around as your best work.”
I draw a stream of air in through my teeth. A hiss and I don’t care if she hears it.
Clancy, sensing the room closing in, clears his throat. “We’re not here to talk about the past though, are we? The important thing about that case is that there was good work done and the end reflected that.”
I want to ask him if he’s dropped his balls in the car park outside.
“But that’s not what the public hears. It’s not the lingering memory,” Hegarty replies.
I open my mouth to speak but she silences me with a hand. She takes up a couple of pages from a stack at her side, pushes one to each of us. The first line. Mission statement, it reads:
To provide the highest level of expertise on cases of public interest.
She points down at the statement. “This is what the Bureau is about. This is why we selected you.” She takes the time to look at each of us in turn. “You’re supposed to be the killer whale here. Nothing should get by you.”
“Nothing has,” I say.
She lets her shoulders drop a little. It looks like she’s conceded something but I’ve a strong feeling she’s softening us up for something bigger.
My eyes stray to a clock on the wall. Time is seeping away. Our window around the crime and our killer closing fast.
In an attempt to push things along, I ask, “Is that what this is about? You don’t think we’re meeting our goals? Some words on paper?”
Her eyes widen. “As meek as words on paper are, Frankie, they are a good guidance for us. A reminder of what we’re about.” She opens a file on the desk. I can just about make out the images of Geraldine and Alan Shine in the church. “The Shine case—from what I’ve read, there’s a whiff of domestic violence about it, would you say?”
There’s only one other person in the room who could have given her those images so quickly. I glance at Clancy. He has the sense to look ashamed.
“So we’ve got an unhappy marriage,” she continues. “An abusive husband? I heard there’d been some reports of that nature? But he was dead before she was?”
“Yes. For some time.”
“So it couldn’t have been a murder-suicide then? Perhaps a jilted or jealous lover?”
I check my phone, try to hide the annoyance in my voice. “If I knew that I wouldn’t be here; I’d be charging someone right now.”
She pulls herself up, her round chest swelling beneath her blouse, and I know we’re getting to the heart of the matter. “You’re aware of the move to have Seán Hennessy’s conviction overturned?”
My head snaps up at the change of subject and I feel a jolt of panic. Normally a callout to HQ and a meeting with the commissioner is to discuss our lack of loose change, the press, or new policy and how we might have broken it. Dull, dusty conversations that feel a mile away from the heat and hit of crime on the ground. My face grows hot under Hegarty’s expectant gaze and I wonder what the fuck she knows about my meeting with Seán Hennessy.
“Yes,” I reply. I feel Clancy watching me and I choose my words carefully. “The papers are already running his story.”
“So the timing for these fresh murders is not ideal.”
“No.” I shift in my seat, the reason for the commissioner’s callout becoming clear. Cover our arse because we’re about to take a hit.
She passes us both a photocopy from a newspaper. The headline from the front page pops in shouty black capitals: SON WHO MURDERED PARENTS RELEASED.
“Seán Hennessy was released four months ago. How familiar are you with the case?”
My head is shaking. “As familiar as the next person. I didn’t work it. I was still in uniform at the time, stationed elsewhere.”
“But the murders happened where you grew up, right?”
I’m silent.
She pushes on. “Did you know the family back then?”
Flashes of the case take turns in my head. Grainy photos from newspapers, images of the house taken from a distance, white suits ducking under garda tape.
“No.” Even as the words leave my mouth I remember. A memory that shouldn’t be important but feels important. It crawls out of the gray fog and plays in my head. Bríd Hennessy, the mother, passing me on the street. The swiftest of meetings. And not even that. It stirs in me a tiny well of discomfort. “I didn’t know them personally,” I say.
“He murdered the mother and father and attempted to kill his sister. She was ten at the time. Fifteen he was, when he committed these crimes. The judge sentenced him to fifteen years to be served on top of the two he’d already spent in custody up to that point. A harsh sentence for a minor and something that will not reflect favorably on any of us in hindsight if the conviction is overturned.”
I wait for Hegarty to elaborate, look over at Clancy, check for signs he knew the direction of this meeting. He’s focused on Hegarty, hanging on every word. Or pretending to.
“Mr. Hennessy has signed a contract with a production company called Blackthorn Films. They’ve been filming a tell-all documentary on the case.”
“I heard.”
Clancy shoots me a dark look.
“Oh?”
Hegarty raises a thin eyebrow.
“My sister-in-law, Tanya West, works for Justice Meets Justice. She’s asked me to look at the files. But I haven’t got to them yet.”
Hegarty tips her head to the side. “Do you think that’s the best idea?”
“It’s in my own time. I’m providing a background. Nothing official. My name or the Bureau won’t be mentioned.”
She makes a sharp clicking noise of disapproval then taps the image of Seán Hennessy. Her finger hits the smooth angle of his chin. “At the time, Mr. Hennessy made a verbal confession during interview but later retracted it. He hasn’t shown one jot of remorse throughout his incarceration. Make no mistake, he’s arranging the PR stunt of the century right now. Public sympathies are easily lost but just as easily won. For him to look good, we’ll have to look bad. If we don’t counter this with something, we’ll end up looking like the villains.”
That’s what she says. What I hear is: If Seán Hennessy’s conviction is overturned, the gardaí will face litigation. The payout in compensation could easily stroll into the millions.
She turns her laptop around and the screen lights up. “The trailer is already titillating viewers and setting tongues wagging. In case you missed it, here’s what they’re running with. I’ll let it do the talking, but I think it gives a glimpse of the cliff we’re about to drop off.”
The trailer plays, the screen opening from darkness to a man sitting on a stool against a gray background. Seán Hennessy. He wears light blue jeans that look soft to touch. A loose, dark green T-shirt. His shoulders and hands suggest outdoor work or someone not afraid to shovel the shit if he needs to. His face is strong-boned, aged enough to give him an attractive rougher edge. A small scar under his right eye looks like a dimple when he smiles or frowns. He looks kind. Patient. And I know exactly how viewers will perceive him when the documentary airs: vulnerable, victimized, and tragic.
The Killer in Me Page 5
