The Killer in Me

by Olivia Kiernan

  Tanya leans forward in her chair, reaches out, and points to a one-inch gash in his neck. “We know from the report that it’s likely the knife was angled in such a way that the direction of the attack came from his right side.” I look down at the wound, open on his skin like a taut red mouth. “So here’s the first serious injury, it hit the carotid. And this one”—she moves her finger to another gash just above the collarbone—“would have been afterward as it went through the subclavian artery and the brachial plexus, severing the nerve supply and ultimately leaving the arm paralyzed.” She moves her hand across the photo. “But it’s this that’s got us excited.”

  She points to a number of smaller wounds around the throat. Four tiny breaks in the skin, triangular cuts where the knife entered but didn’t fully penetrate the deeper structures of the neck. “The original postmortem said they were partial stab wounds sustained during a struggle but we don’t agree with that. There were no other defensive wounds on John Hennessy, none on his hands or up his arms.”

  She lays out the other photos in the folder, showing John Hennessy’s swollen abdomen, thick hands and arms still covered in dried blood and spatter. I look from one image to the next, knowing what’s coming.

  Tanya taps the image of John’s neck again, her finger hovering over the tiny nicks in his skin. “Our guy says these are—”

  “—hesitation marks,” I finish.

  Leaning back, she spreads her hands. “Exactly.”

  She has my attention and she knows it. She goes on; excitement speeds through her voice. “The father was a complete tyrant. Even Cara admitted that. A drunk, abusive, unpredictable, angry, and vengeful.”

  “Agreed.”

  “So you might ask, what upset the status quo? What could have clicked in him, made him graduate from potential killer to killer?”

  I know the answer to this one. It happens all the time. A manipulative narcissist is threatened by desertion. He’d rather kill his entire family than let go of that control. And Bríd Hennessy’s hot, flustered face rushes by me on that path. So long ago and I want to reach out. Stop her.

  “I’ve done a little digging around Bríd Hennessy’s past.” She reaches over the paper at her side and removes a file from the back of the desk. “Turns out she visited a women’s refuge in the south side about a week before this kicked off.”

  I find myself feeling a stupid kind of hope that Bríd Hennessy could make it, that she might pull free of her fate.

  Tanya hands me a form. “I think she was planning on leaving him.”

  In the file, a transcript from a phone call from a women’s refuge, dated a couple of weeks after the murders. Bríd Hennessy had visited on the third of August 1995.

  “This isn’t in the record?”

  “It is! But the lead detective at the time discounted it. Just over a week later she was murdered. By the time the report came in, gardaí would’ve had Seán nice and neat where they wanted him. It’s no surprise this was swept to the side. An intentional oversight if ever I saw one.”

  I look down at the print on the page, a helplessness stealing through me. “A few weeks before the murders, she asked Mam to help her leave.”

  Tanya’s not able to hide the tinny sound of betrayal in her voice. “Your mum told you this?”

  “Don’t take it personally. Mam’s a hard nut to crack.”

  She makes a snorting sound. “Must run in the family.”

  I sigh. “It was a hard time for my parents. Dad was very ill. Mam doesn’t know anything really, just that Bríd came here. Mam gave her a pamphlet for a women’s refuge shortly afterward and that was it.”

  Tanya doesn’t push it further. She knows the ins and outs of my family well, how we’re held together only by our silences.

  I change the subject before she can ask more questions. “If he’s found innocent, we’re looking at a huge financial strain on the force.”

  “The man’s been convicted for a crime he didn’t commit. Served seventeen years. Someone should pay,” she says a little tartly.

  I hand her back Bríd Hennessy’s call for help and she takes it, places it on top of the other papers gently, stroking down the corners as if she could wipe away Bríd’s concerns.

  “From what you’ve shown me, you’ve a strong case.”

  She glances at me, nods. “Yes, we do but Cara’s testimony is a problem.”

  “The law does like a firsthand witness.”

  I take a deep breath. “The commissioner wants me to feed back what you’ve got. Your angle, so to speak.”

  Her head snaps up. “And?”

  “I’ll have to tell her something. I mean, you’ll be submitting this soon, I imagine.”

  She wakes her computer screen, moves the cursor to shut it down. The hard drive makes a short whirring noise, and then the screen drops to black. “I bet she’s dying to sweep all this under the carpet.”

  Tanya leans back in the chair, her eyes lift, move around the room, circle the narrative of the Hennessy murders stuck to the walls. Finally she comes back to me. “But I know that no matter how uncomfortable the consequences, you’ll do the right thing. That’s why I asked you to help.”

  Heat spreads over my skin.

  “Besides”—she smiles—“you’ll want to be able to sleep at night.”

  I push my fingertips against my eyes, drive away gritty exhaustion. “Well, we all know what a pipe dream that is.” The sound of the kettle boiling below comes up through the ceiling, the deep murmur of Justin’s voice, Mam’s quick reply, the sound of Dad’s step on the stairs on his way to bed. I ease up from the box and rub at the tightening scar tissue along my leg. “If the Bureau is under threat I don’t want it to go down while I’m resting on my backside,” I say. “When the time comes, you’ll have my full report on Seán Hennessy, I promise.” And I feel Donna Hegarty standing behind me, her arms folded across her soft middle, her mouth tighter than a cat’s arse.

  * * *

  —

  I STUFF A SECOND PILLOW under my head. Try to balance myself in the worn hollow of the single bed. The springs jabbing into my shoulder blades, the wool blankets scratching my skin. The room is dark, small, and overly hot. The radiator at my leg on full tilt. Storage heater. Takes half the day to crank up, then it’s hot as lava and you can do nothing to turn it down. I hold my phone on its side, search through Seán Hennessy’s files, and play the next clip.

  “On my twelfth birthday, my da bought me a dog. A man should have a dog, he said. A mongrel. Russet stripe down one side of her face, black speckles over her back. A white tail that waved like a flag when she was happy. She was an outdoor dog, Da told me. Never to cross the threshold of our home. So I built her a kennel in the backyard, got some old felt, nailed it to the roof, and lined out the inside with coats I had grown out of, old duvets and pillows. Inside, it was as dry and warm as a summer’s day when I’d finished. I spent hours teaching her to sit. To fetch. She had the softest mouth. That dog could’ve carried a live chick across mountains and deposit it at your feet unharmed.

  “She was friendly to a fault. Always running up to strangers on the beach, sticking her wet nose into closed palms. But with my da, she knew. When he was around, she knew to make herself scarce. I’d watch her in the morning from my bedroom window, him making his way round the side, heading for work, and her eyes following his every move. If he did call her to him, she approached slowly, that white tail couched between her legs, her belly as low as her legs would allow.

  “One morning she didn’t come to the back door for her morning feed. I thought she was ill, so took up the bowl and went to her. Squatted next to the kennel, reached out to stroke her head. Her eyes haunted, loaded with wondrous exhaustion; three fat little bodies nestled in the long fur along her middle. Pups. I was elated. I reached out, scooped one up, Lola’s nose followed the movement, nuzzled the back
of my hand. Be careful, it said. The pup was snow white, a tip of black on the tail. His eyes were closed but I could make out miniature lashes, a tiny row of white spikes. His paws a newborn pink, so pure and soft. Unmarked.

  “All day at school, I willed the time to pass so that I could get home to them. And when I did, myself and Cara sat under an umbrella in the rain, just staring at them, occasionally reaching out to stroke their trembling coats.

  “My da, he came home from work. Found us at the kennel. Lola curled tight around her young, her nose counting each beating bundle of flesh. He stood over us, hands on hips, lips tight. I followed him back into the kitchen. They were already going at it, Ma and Da. Can’t they at least keep them for a while, John? We don’t have room for more fucking dogs; we’ve enough of them in the house already. Ma’s face, I saw her retreating into that place. Drawing herself low, just like Lola did. I felt helpless. I could sense something dark approaching, as deeply as you feel the shift in the air before a storm.

  “I stayed in the kitchen, stood by the back door, watched as my da went to the garage, Cara yabbering after him, her chat full of puppy-dog tails and all things nice. He appeared then, one of those deep black buckets in his hands. He went to the garden tap, filled it. The water twisting out in a cold rope. Bucket full he carried it to the side of the house, laid it down.

  “It wasn’t until I saw him stride for the kennel that I began to move after him. Lola, sensing the same threat, began to bare her teeth, her tongue darting out, smacking against her muzzle, a trembling growl in her throat. But my da was master of all in our small home, and a growling dog was no match for him. He hauled her out by the collar, the fat pups rolling from her stomach like feathers dropping from a bird.

  “Fucking mutt, he said.

  “‘Da, don’t hurt her,’ I yelled.

  “I’m only getting her outta the bloody way.

  “He pitched her into the garage, locked the door. I went to the pups, gathered them up, folded them into my sweater. Me da, when he approached, looked down at the squirming nest in my arms, lifted his hand, and rested it on my shoulder.

  “A man should do what needs to be done, he said.

  “He pointed to the bucket.

  “Get rid of them, he said.

  “‘No.’ I was crying then, really sobbing. But I don’t think he noticed. He squeezed down on my shoulder and I swear to you I can still feel that now, as if my very bones were bending under his weight.

  “Get fucking rid of them, he said again.

  “He let me go, turned, and went into the kitchen. I knew he’d be watching. If I failed, he’d be waiting. Card marked. The garage door rattled. Lola crying, barking. I couldn’t stand it. And I guess I wanted it over too. I couldn’t win against him. If I didn’t do what he asked, he would take it out on me or my ma, and he’d kill the pups anyway, probably even Lola. I carried the little bundle to the bucket. Knelt down beside it. My hands shaking, I lifted out the first pup, little black tail curled in along its pink belly, tiny paws threading the air. A lump in my throat the size of a fist.

  “I put my hand and the pup in the water. I don’t know how long I held it there. How long does it take to break a heart?”

  * * *

  —

  I WAKE AT TWO A.M. Nightshirt stuck to my chest, sheets damp against my neck. My phone is trembling across the bedside table. I sit up, pull the shirt from my neck, and reach for the phone. The screen flashes Paul’s name.

  “Chief, we’ve got another body,” he says. “I think.”

  My heart hits fast thumps against my ears. “You think?”

  “I’ve called the local station.” His words come at a rush. “They’re sending a car there but we’ve nothing yet. I wasn’t sure what to do, to be honest. I didn’t think I should leave the Bureau. There’s no one else here to pick up calls.”

  “Slow down. What’s happened?”

  “I got a call about fifteen minutes ago. Saying there was another body in Clontarf.”

  “From?”

  “I’m running a location, nothing yet. A male caller. Just said there was another body in Clontarf along the strand and hung up.” A sagging feeling of dread pulls through me. Another victim. “It could be a prank call,” he continues. “We’ve had a few but I don’t know. This sounded . . . different.”

  I push back the covers, pull my limbs free, and reach for my clothes. “Get Steve on voice recognition as soon as he gets back. Call Baz; have the coroner alerted and a forensics team on standby. Feed back to the officers you’ve sent out that they should begin their search at the city end and work down. I’ll begin along the promenade. If they find anything they’re to stay back and alert me immediately.”

  “Yes, Chief,” he replies and ends the call.

  The forensic team and the coroner might be excessive and I can hear well enough Clancy’s lecture on money wasted on prank calls but we were expecting this. More murder. More death.

  The radiators click and hiss from every corner of the house. The air, fragile, brittle as time, dries in my mouth. I get dressed then go to the window, peel back the curtains. The street is empty. Cars parked along the pavement, windshields covered in cool condensation. And the moon, wide and full, throws cold light across the black sky. I let the curtain fall then turn to pull on my shoes. I unplug my phone, make my way quietly downstairs. In the kitchen, I search the drawers. Finding my dad’s torchlight, I flick the beam on and off to check the batteries. The light is yellow and weak but it will have to do. I tuck it inside my coat pocket, the weight pulling the fabric down, then I go to the front door, ease it open, and leave the rest of the house to sleep.

  * * *

  —

  THE NIGHT BREEZE curls around my throat. The beach is empty. The air damp and chill. I want to reach up, tighten the collar of my coat, but I can’t make my arms move. He’s slumped against the seawall, legs out like a doll, left foot turned in, hands folded neatly over his stomach. Dead. I know it from the unnatural tip of his head, his neck stretched out to his left shoulder. The torch remains unused in my hand; the batteries died within moments of turning it on. In the dim light, I cast my eyes around the area to and from the body. He’s dressed in a dark suit, a white shirt luminous in the shadows. And the smell, the breeze pushes the stench at me. I can taste it, the rot of decaying flesh. Just like Alan Shine.

  Up along the promenade, the road is quiet. Thin clouds of mist twirl in the orange streetlight. Beyond the silence, the occasional drunken shout as people tumble out of the local yacht club. Behind me, the fat moon rolls on the shining black sea and the beach glows blue in its wake. The waves splash and drop behind, beginning their slow climb back up the beach; the tide is turning. In a few hours, he’ll be underwater. The realization shoves my mind into gear and with stiff fingers I remove my phone from my pocket and make the call.

  CHAPTER 11

  IT’S NOT LONG before the cars draw up along the roadside. Doors slam; instructions are delivered and fall down from the promenade to my ears. Baz is first to emerge out of the darkness onto the beach. I force myself straight, step back, away from the body, my hands clenched in my pockets.

  “Frankie,” he calls. His long frame a slice of shadow.

  I wait until he’s next to me, breath clouding the air between us. He looks like shit. Whatever night he’s been dragged from was born of the same nightmare as mine.

  “Baz. Hi,” I say. “The coroner?”

  He catches his breath, turns. “She was just behind me.”

  I move my gaze away, over his shoulder. Judith Magee steps down off the slipway onto the narrow beach. She picks her way across the damp sand, her case cradled in her arms. Her short hair is already held fast in a net, headlamp in place and casting bright white beams over the shale.

  “Detectives.” She gives us a tight smile.

  “Judy,” Baz says. The doc’s
face draws inwards. Too familiar.

  “The body?”

  I turn toward the wall and death rushes up my nose.

  “Fuck. That’s ripe,” Baz mutters and lifts a hand to his face.

  Judith is already stretching her small hands into gloves. She slips a mask over her face, retrieves her case, and moves forward. I follow in her wake, breathing through my mouth. She crouches down, gets close. She moves quickly over the body, deft and sure. Eyelids peeled upward. Hands searching for obvious trauma, fingers pressing down over the bloated abdomen. In one brave movement she pulls down her mask and sniffs the area around the victim’s mouth.

  “No alcohol,” she says. “But I think it’s fair to say he’s not recently deceased.” She pauses, looks up but can’t quite meet my eyes. “You found him like this? You didn’t touch him?”

  “Of course not.”

  She stands, moves away, ushering us with her. She pulls her gloves off one by one, then slides them into an evidence bag. Preserving any clues clinging to the surface.

  “Murder,” she states. She nods toward the forensics van parked on the street. “Call your guys down. Full CSI. There’s enough here to knock the rear end out of the commissioner’s budget.”

  Baz and I share a glance. “She’ll like that,” Baz murmurs.

  Magee continues. “There’s some freezer burn under the hair, on the right side of his head. Possibly a wound near the occiput but I can’t be sure until we move him. I would say this is definitely related to our current case. And . . .” She pauses, turns her headlamp toward the body. “There’s that.”

  We follow the silver path of light. It picks out the ground between the man’s legs. Written into the sand is one word: KILLER.

  * * *

  —