The Killer in Me

by Olivia Kiernan

  “Well, he knocked me sixty sheets to the wind. That was the third day. I cried out but no one came. After, I lay curled on the bed and the door banged open. They ordered Reece outta the cell. They checked me over. Not a word out of them. Then I guess they decided I was well enough and left. Reece was packed back into the cell. He pulled himself tall and the look in his eyes as he stood over me. It drove ice needles through my blood. I didn’t need to be looking for trouble no more. No. Here it was. Two feet from my life for the next seventeen years.”

  I close the computer, take up my coffee, return to the window. The beetle is still lurching up the wall but its back leg has caught on a sleeping tendril of the web, ensnared. The leg tugs, and his stiff body rolls. Then he’s gone. Falls. Down into the little soft pouch. And there, a tiny spider. Faster than light, it scrabbles over the web, anoints the beetle with some deadly toxin. The spider retreats but I know it’s watching. I can see the brown shadow of it beneath the veil of silver. The beetle turns, enmeshing itself more surely. And slowly the poison takes over; its black legs bend, tuck, and fold neatly inwards.

  CHAPTER 7

  I’M PLACING BETS in my head about how long it will take Father Healy to remove his collar. We’ve cranked up the heat in the interview room. The lights are high. No water on the table. Baz sits relaxed, two buttons open on his shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbow. Every now and then, he lifts the folder and waves it in front of his face. Dark strands of hair lift from his forehead. Each time he does this, the priest shifts in the chair. The heavy, starched black suit he’s wearing is enough to make me sweat in sympathy.

  Baz checks his notes. “So you’re saying that no one can confirm your whereabouts between one fifteen P.M. and when you returned to the church at . . . eight forty-five P.M.?”

  “I was out visiting, Detective.”

  “You sure you can’t give us any names?”

  Regret turns down his mouth. “Some of it’s very sensitive. It wouldn’t be right for me to disclose it.”

  “Patrick, I don’t think that’s altogether right.” Baz lays his palms on the table. The priest’s neck winds in at the use of his Christian name. “You told my colleague Geraldine Shine visited you. Why can’t you disclose where you were when Geraldine Shine was being slaughtered in your own church?”

  Healy’s brows, gray thickets of hair, draw downwards. “I shouldn’t have admitted that to your colleague. I was shocked. Traumatized. Two people had been murdered.”

  “We know that.” Baz opens the file, takes out the photos of the scene. Places them square on the table. Healy’s eyes drop down to the gruesome images. “Talk to us. Help us.”

  Healy opens his mouth, closes it again. “I can’t. I took an oath.”

  “An oath can’t protect you from the law.”

  “Do you have some water?”

  “In a moment. Alan Shine was a lay minister, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “You didn’t think it odd when he never showed up for Sunday’s service?”

  Healy shakes his head. “Lay ministers help out when they can. It’s not always set in stone, the timetable, so to speak. And when Mr. Shine did sign up, it was usually for the midweek mass.”

  Baz nods slowly and waits for a while before asking his next question, but his eyes never leave the priest’s. Healy shifts on the seat, his ample stomach pressing up against the table.

  “Let’s go over your movements again. You finished service at one, right?” Baz asks.

  “Yes. I waited at the door, saying good-bye to those who attended. It wasn’t a busy service. Most were gone in about fifteen minutes.”

  “What did you do once the last of your congregation had left?”

  “I went into the vestry. Changed out of my clothes. Mrs. Berry had put out a flask of tea and some sandwiches for my visits, which she does every Sunday. I got in the car and started my rounds.”

  “And you had your phone with you?”

  “I did. But it was on silent, which is why I didn’t hear Mrs. Berry’s calls when she tried to reach me after . . . after finding the bodies.” His mouth twists.

  Ryan steps into the viewing room behind me, closes the door quiet, as if he is in a library. “So,” he whispers, “I drove up to the parochial house like you asked, Chief, and had a nice chat with our Mrs. Berry.” He catches his reflection in the viewing window, touches a hand to the front of his hair, held upright by some kind of gel that hardens on contact. I suspect he has hair straighteners at home. It’s grating how much he fancies himself rotten but he can bring out the charm when he needs to, and I imagine Mrs. Berry was close to melting by the end of their meeting.

  He gives me his best smile, still basking in the warmth of Mrs. Berry’s eyes, forgetting that I’m not Mrs. Berry, and I give him a sobering look that smacks that feeling right out of him.

  “What’ve you got?”

  “His list of visitations for the Sunday and their numbers, in case there was any sort of emergency. Here.” He passes me a list of eight names. “I asked her about a few. There’s one or two who may not be the most reliable of witnesses. Addicts. Erm.” He leans over, careful not to get too close lest I bite. “That fella, Stuart Power. He’d phoned during the week about a visit; his mother is ill and I think he wanted a blessing. I called him and he said Healy canceled. The rest said they had only seen the priest at service over the past three weeks. No house calls. Mrs. Berry did say he’d missed tea at the parochial house. It felt like that woulda been unusual. A grand life he has there.”

  I scan down the list. “Can we run Cell Site Analysis on his phone? He said it was on silent, not off.”

  “Might not be able to get that for a day or so though, Chief.”

  “Get started on it.”

  “Sure, sure.”

  “And thanks.”

  A glimmer of a smile and he’s out the door.

  I move back to the mirrored window. To another, Baz might seem still at ease. Hands splayed casually on the table. Feet steady on the floor. But now I can see the red flush creeping up the back of his neck. The way his mouth has closed down when he speaks, his back teeth together. Every now and then he rolls a stiffness out of his right shoulder, rubs his ear before settling back into position with a sigh. He thought Healy would be an easy squeeze. But the priest has years on him when it comes to avoiding confession.

  “When was the last time you saw Geraldine Shine alive?”

  “Detective, I really—”

  Baz gives a frustrated laugh. “Come on, Father. What’s the point in not answering our questions? Surely your Lord above would want you to help us find her killer?” He pushes a finger against the images. “Unless you think you’ve something to hide.”

  “I’ve nothing to hide and only God to answer to.”

  “Lucky you.” Baz is getting sloppy. The priest has riled him. He didn’t expect a moral tug-of-war when fighting on the good side.

  I grab a bottle of water, knock on the door. Walk in. “Father Healy, sorry I’m late.”

  Baz folds his arms. “Detective chief superintendent entering the interview room at”—he glances at the clock—“oh eight twenty hours. Father, you’ve met my colleague, Detective Sheehan, at the scene?”

  “Forgive me but it is warm in here.” He hooks his finger beneath the white band at his throat, flips it free of the collar, and opens the top button.

  “It is. Here. Straight from the fridge.” I place the water in front of him.

  He picks up the bottle, opens it, and takes a long drink. “Thank you.”

  “You mind if I sit in awhile, Father?”

  “Sure,” Father Healy says. His eyes light on me. Wary.

  I place the information collected on Healy’s visits in front of Baz. He turns away to read through it.

  “You won’t know this,” I say to Healy, “but I us
ed to attend St. Catherine’s. As a child. I think your predecessor—”

  “Father McNamee,” he offers.

  “He was something of a character. You knew him?”

  “Briefly. I knew he liked to, erm, socialize.”

  I smile. “Not half. He never turned down a wedding reception, that’s for sure.”

  “Ah now, we all know there’s more of a party at a funeral.” He catches himself. His hand passes swiftly from his forehead, chest, then the tip of each arm in a sign of prayer. “Sorry.”

  “No, it’s true! Nothing wrong with saying so, is there?”

  “I guess there’s not,” he says. He smiles at me. It warms his dull brown eyes.

  “Father, we’re running through a minefield here. I can only imagine how hard it is to see a couple in your own community die like this. The fear it must ignite in your congregation.”

  “Yeah. We’ve had a lot of calls over the last couple of days.”

  “Communities need to pull together. I’ve had a call only this morning from the press.” I fix my eyes on him. “About you.”

  “About me? What about me?”

  “Your relationship with Geraldine.” I hold up my hands. “I mean, I said whoa there. This is a priest. I couldn’t comment on that. But obviously, someone’s talking to someone.” He opens his mouth to speak but I continue. “And as for the church, it’ll be very hard on the congregation to return, don’t you think? At least until they know we’ve got whoever did this.” I wait a beat, set my eyes on him again, and lower my voice. “Whoever he is.”

  Healy looks from Baz to me. He turns his finger in on himself, points to his chest. “You think it was me?” He almost squeaks it.

  I let the question hang for a moment. “It’s not always about what we think. But we could straighten this out quickly, right?”

  Baz turns back in his seat. “We know you didn’t go to any of your usual visitations on Sunday, Father. In fact, most of those people you normally visit say they haven’t had a house call from you in almost three weeks. So I’ll ask you again. When was the last time you saw Geraldine Shine?”

  I see Healy turning his options over. Eyes down, mouth closed against his reply.

  Finally, he looks up. “I’m not sure.”

  “She text or call you on Sunday?”

  “I had a call from her on that Sunday. I can check my phone. It was right before service and I didn’t answer it. She sometimes phones to see if I’m available for a chat on a Sunday, especially if she’s been having a hard time at home and she can’t get down to the church. I tried her when I was out”—he sighs—“but I didn’t get a reply.”

  “Did you ever visit her house?”

  He flushes. “No.”

  Red patches rise on Baz’s face. He takes in a tight breath and eyeballs the priest. “What are you going to do if we find your prints or your DNA in Geraldine’s home, Father?”

  The priest swallows. I see the movement of it down his throat. His eyes lift to mine. “Okay, sometimes I called in.”

  “Sometimes?”

  “In the last few weeks, I’d stop by for a bit of lunch. She was feeling guilty about coming to the church so regularly, taking up my time.”

  Baz spreads his hands over the table. “That must have been cozy.”

  “It wasn’t like that.” Healy’s bottom lip turns in over his teeth. He swallows.

  “You weren’t worried about her husband finding you there?”

  His face draws in, his eyes round orbs of weariness. “I’m a priest. Why would her husband mind? Besides, Ger told me they were separated and even so, he was rarely there on a Sunday.”

  It’s always in the details. How regularly he must’ve visited the house to know Alan was rarely there on Sundays.

  “How long had you got this little deal going?”

  “Just the last few weeks.”

  The roast dinner begins to make sense.

  “But you didn’t go this week?”

  An intensity grows in his eyes and I think he might cry. “No. I didn’t.” He sniffs. “I wish to God I did. But I didn’t. Maybe she’d be alive now . . .” He trails off.

  Baz remains silent.

  I turn the screw. “Father, where were you between the hours of one thirty and seven on Sunday, the nineteenth of August?”

  He winds his thumbs, one over the other. “I was in a bar. Drinking. I’ve a text on my phone from Ger, asking where I was. You can see it, if you need to. But I didn’t meet with her. I needed to clear my head. I was beginning to—” His face reddens slightly. Thumbs stop winding. “I was finding it difficult to support her in her marriage.”

  “You had feelings for her?”

  He closes his eyes tight, squeezes them briefly. “My role was to help her find a way to remain in her marriage.” He gives me a pleading look. “That’s my job. How do you do that? Say to a woman that she should stay with a man like that? I prayed for guidance. I told her to pray too. For her to ask for the strength not to provoke him.” He takes a trembling breath. “And now this. Maybe this is God’s way. A way out for her.”

  Anger fills my mouth but I swallow it down.

  Baz steps in. “We’ll need the name of that bar, Father.”

  The priest nods. “Of course.”

  I get up, leave the room, then wait for Baz to join me. “We’ve got the paler version of the truth but we’ve got nothing further on him until something else comes in.” I look back at Father Healy.

  Baz’s face falls. He looks longingly in at the priest. “I’m really beginning to work up some hatred for this fucker.”

  * * *

  —

  STEVE IS TURNING the footprint retrieved from the Shine house on the screen. He looks pale, more so than usual.

  He lifts a spidery hand to the side of his face, wiggles his jaw about, and winces. “I’ve run it through our database on footwear,” he says. I peer down at the computer. He’s marked up areas of interest with thin blue arrows. “The impression is the outer toe region of this brand. The manufacturer has sent us copies of the outer sole and their respective molds.” He pulls up another image of a black sneaker. “For this product they used twelve different molds, all creating the same shoe. Each will have minor variations. Defects but not incredibly noticeable, to be fair. To Joe Public anyway. But to us, it’s helpful.”

  “So you can narrow it down to where it was distributed?”

  “We can try. There’s more. We got lucky. There’s a specific identifying characteristic here.” He hovers the mouse over the print, points to the manufacturer’s image of the outer sole. “An area of damage along the outer sole. This will be unique to the print. Probably where a stone or a piece of debris became embedded at one point.”

  I straighten. “So if we can find this trainer, we can link it conclusively to whoever broke into Geraldine Shine’s home?”

  “Yes,” he says.

  “Good, send it out to the rest of the team.”

  Helen pushes back from her chair. Phone pressed to her ear, her shoulder balancing the handset; one hand scribbling notes on a scrap of paper, the other striking keys on her computer.

  A light sheen has broken out across her forehead, brown hair smooth and gleaming under the office lights. “Right, thank you, Dr. James.” She ends the call, gets up from the seat, the scrap of paper in hand. “We’ve recovered fingerprints from the nightstand in the Shine bedroom and the bedroom door. Prints that don’t belong to either of the victims.”

  “You ran them through our database?”

  “Yes.”

  “Who?” The dark, sleek image of the deliveryman walks through my head.

  “Robert McDonagh.” She passes me the details. “Pretty much the same height and build as the man seen approaching the house in the CCTV footage the morning before the murders.”r />
  There’s a photo of him. I can smile now, really smile. “Robert McDonagh.” It’s him.

  “Priors include: aggravated assault, burglary, three counts of shoplifting before he was even mid-teens. And here, I think this might be a red flag.” Her narrow eyes darken. “Animal cruelty. Killed and mutilated a neighbor’s dog. That’s a warning sign, right?”

  Animal cruelty. An almost certain indicator of a killer’s future path.

  “We’ve got his address?”

  “A government-subsidized house in Dollymount.” She gives me a brief look of concern. “Clontarf. Lives with his mother. The father is a no-show.”

  “Lucky dad.”

  “I’ve stationed a pair of plainclothes at the house.”

  “Good. Thanks, Helen. I’ll go out with Baz and a unit now. We’ll collect his footwear. Work with Steve on the trainer and call me as soon as something else comes in.”

  CHAPTER 8

  THE DRIVE FROM THE CITY out to Robert McDonagh’s is slow. Morning commuters huddle like cattle beneath the shelter of bus stations. A sea of umbrellas moves down the wet street. When we get to the outskirts of Clontarf, the traffic lightens. The horizon breaks up; the gray sea meets the gray sky in a haze of silver mist. Even in this shitty weather, people have drawn up along the coast. Families and tourists gawping out at the sea, drinking from flasks and eating breakfast muffins. Kids, restless on their summer break, lean through from backseats to glower at the uncooperative sky. A few families are toughing it out. Raincoats on, beating a stride along the brown sand; their children, slapping seaweed at one another, digging moats round tumbling sandcastles. T-shirts soaked, feet bare.

  Baz peers out at them. “Fecking nutters. It’s Baltic. Is that what you used to do in your spare time?”

  “People who live by the sea don’t go to the sea.” I throw him a grin.

  I turn off the engine. The plainclothes are up ahead. Sitting in a blue Escort. I nod through the windshield; they nod back.

  “Subtle, aren’t they?” Baz remarks. “Look like a pair of bleedin’ hit men.”