I pick up the phone. Dial Baz’s number in the hope he’s burning the candle. He answers after the fourth ring, his voice scratchy and low.
“Hey,” he says.
I gaze down at the images. “Where are you?”
“Trying to be normal. Pretending to sleep.”
“I think I’ve hit on something.”
I hear a rustling, picture him reaching for the light, checking the time. “Go on.”
“Ger Shine’s injuries are almost identical to Bríd Hennessy’s. Conor was laid out like John Hennessy.”
A yawn. “And Alan? He was on his side.”
“Cara was found on her side.”
I hear him draw breath, know that he is seeing the landscape of the killer’s world. There’s more silence, as if he’s waiting to wake up. I imagine him rubbing sleep from his face, massaging blood into his cheeks. “So the blouse then? Him wanting to take some of the crime scene back to the victim’s house?”
“I don’t know. That’s the anomaly. But I’m sure it’s part of the ritual,” I say. “A further invasion of Ger Shine’s life.”
“Is it not enough for these guys to murder people?”
I look down at Alan Shine’s image, the discoloration of his skin telling me his killer kept his body for days before leaving it in the church. “Anything to prolong the thrill,” I answer.
“So we’ve got a killer checking all the boxes of a crime scene, victim, weapon, and killer, but has some sort of hero worship for Hennessy? Is that it?”
“Or anger on his behalf,” I add. “Someone who suffered similarly and needs society to pay attention.”
“Whoever it is, they’re finished, right? Victim, weapon, killer. There’s no more.”
I look around the room, a shrine to Hennessy’s innocence. “They’ll never be finished. Maybe he repeats the pattern, maybe he’ll add some new twists but he’ll never finish. The hit is too delicious and the frequency of the murders is concerning.”
“Escalation,” Baz agrees. “So if we’re dealing with some sicko who has a fascination with Hennessy or wants in on his glory, it would have to be someone who knows the case, right? Knew how to pose the bodies.”
“The crime scene photos are on the internet for anyone to find. Besides, if we’re looking in that direction we’d have to include anyone working on the documentary, anyone who worked the case years ago.”
A long sigh comes down the line. “If this person is obsessed with the Hennessys, could he be in danger?”
“Seán?”
“Or the sister.”
I hadn’t even thought about that and with the harassment Tanya said Seán was receiving, the jibes on the street, the graffiti on his flat door, it could be a possibility. But until we’ve something more definite, an overt threat, there’s little the Bureau can do about it. “I can’t see the commissioner signing off on protection for Seán Hennessy.”
“We should all be working on the same team,” Baz says, unconsciously parroting Hegarty.
I think of Clancy, sitting across from me in the pub, his head down with the weight of his secrets and the enormity of his suspension. “We should,” I say into the phone. “Doesn’t mean we are.”
CHAPTER 19
THE GUN IS LIGHT in my hand. I aim, finger-light squeeze. A loud pop and I see the target bounce. Straight through the heart. Easy as that. I see him falling back, the killer, arms, head flung back, shock spreading over his face making his eyes wide, his mouth round.
“Not too rusty,” Baz says. He draws the target forward. Examines the bullet hole. “The heart, right through.”
I holster the gun. Adjust it at my shoulder. “I hate these.”
Baz steps away from the firing platform. Tucks his Sig into his waistband. “You might not hate them so much when one saves your life.”
I think of the near misses I’ve had in the past and I should agree. “In my experience they cause more trouble than they prevent.” I check the time. “Have you spoken to Clancy?”
Baz lifts the goggles from his eyes. “That I did. He shouldn’t have kept this stuff to himself. Then or now.”
“Thing is, it doesn’t make much difference to the case. Even with Rona’s admission that he’d been with her.”
I don’t know, it could have helped people see how it happened. Seán probably got home and an argument about him being out all night might have been the match to light the tinder.”
I shiver, thinking of Bríd Hennessy’s escape route. Planned out, her bags packed, just a little too late. I take up my coat. Go to the desk, sign out the weapon.
“We got press in twenty,” I say to Baz.
* * *
—
UP ON THE FLOOR, I stop and study the case board. It has grown into a mighty oak of listing tendrils. The Hennessys and their tragic demise, short summaries on short lives, trail down one side. Wobbling arrows of blue marker drawn between the Shine and Sheridan murders. Outside, down on the street, the sound of demonstrators. Calling for our heads. Or someone’s.
I walk to the window, peek out between the blinds. Hennessy’s face erected like a messiah on placards. Images of his family on others. And among them our present-day victims. Geraldine Shine’s dark glossy hair swept over her bare shoulder, as she was that morning on her Facebook page, unsuspecting of what lay in store only hours later. The cries alternate from “Justice for Hennessy” to “Justice for Victims of Abuse.”
The staff have taken to using the fire escape to enter and leave the building. It takes only a shadow passing the front door before the media and crowds close in. The result is an office that sings with pressure. The tension pressing up against the dull gray walls. All morning phones flash, ringtones screeching down the spine of the room.
Another press conference to hold back the baying crowds, and it feels like I’ve been asked to part the Red Sea. We’ve been reduced to scraping the bucket. Desperate for a lead, and the public might just give it to us. Hope that the bias in favor of or against Seán Hennessy does not get in our way. We’ve managed to become the enemy in the public’s eye. We’re not to be trusted. And the result is anger. Facebook pages have appeared calling on witnesses and armchair detectives to put together their own clues. It’s a fucking mess of misinformation and we have to look through it all. Poor Paul spends his day hunched over his screen, his brow drawn in ridges, his mouth a tight pout of panic.
I check the time. The afternoon is twirling away. I swallow down frustration and walk around the office floor, restless. The staff sense it; no one dares look up from their screens in case they draw my eye. I move to Helen’s desk.
“Yes, Chief,” she says, not looking up from her computer, a quick click of the mouse and she minimizes her screen. She flushes, glances up guiltily.
“We’re staying focused here?”
“Yes, Chief.”
I give the tab a pointed look and her color deepens, creeping up over the long sweep of her forehead, the tight scrape of her hair. She clicks the minimized tab and a site on boats appears. Inflatable boats, rowboats, small dinghies.
“It’s probably nothing but I’ve been thinking about how the killer got Sheridan’s body to the coastline.” She throws a quick glance up at me, checks my expression, which must appear encouraging because she continues: “We’ve been scouring the CCTV along that area. And there’s not much but it would have been risky for him to access via the street, wouldn’t it? Even in the middle of the night. You said he’d have this well planned so I thought, maybe, he wouldn’t have risked carrying a dead man across the prom and then down the slipway to the beach.”
I stare at the array of boats on the computer, feel the claws of this case loosen a little. “He came in by boat.”
“This way he wouldn’t risk being seen and could get nice and close to the beach. You said he’s likely familiar with the are
a, the tides.”
I picture the word KILLER at Conor Sheridan’s feet, scratched into the sand. “Yes.”
She turns away from the screen, her eyes alight with the idea, words coming fast now. “It would be hard work for him, sure, but I guess if we’re looking for someone who has the strength to strangle someone then our killer could manage it, so I’m thinking he hired one or owns one. That way he could come in, hook up to the slipway or somewhere close to it, unload Conor’s body onto the strand.”
And another curtain pulls back from the killer’s window. An extra shadow, the pointed nose of a boat appears. The motor on a low gear, quiet. Nothing big enough to cause a witness to search the dark horizon. The boat bounces slowly toward the coast then drifts up along the slipway.
The killer secures it. Goes about getting his cargo to shore. He pauses only long enough to check the beach. There are no witnesses, an empty coastline. The perfect canvas. It’s hard work, but he’s fit. He’s planned for this. A dead man’s lift.
He’s chosen an area of the beach where the sea is lazy, where the waves are last to leave and last to come. He lays out the body. It doesn’t take him long. And in a way, that’s disappointing. He’s held on to this one for longer than he should have. There’s an anticlimax of sorts. Already he’s longing for another. Another buzz, another victim. One last message, a taunt for the media, a statement of revenge maybe, written into the sand. And then he’s gone.
I smile. “This is good work, Helen. Can you feed it out to our uniforms?”
She returns my smile. “Sure.”
Baz appears in the doorway, waves for my attention. I look at my watch again.
“Also, it might be worth checking with the coast guard,” I say to Helen. “See if they spotted any boats on the water.”
“Righto,” she replies, then flinches, hearing Ryan in her own voice. “Sorry, I mean, Chief.”
The conference room is packed to the gills. Journalists stripped of the usual Irish summer attire, overcoats, sit on the edges of their seats. Notebooks and phones carefully shielded from their neighbors; no one wants to give away their angle. At the front, TV crews train their cameras on the lectern, check their speakers, their focus. The cameramen wait like cats behind their equipment, ready to pounce. Baz stands back, waits for me to step up to the mic, then joins me at my side.
“Thank you for coming,” I say. “I’m Detective Chief Superintendent Frankie Sheehan and am acting as the senior investigating officer over these tragic cases.” I give a brief summary. Geraldine and Alan Shine in the church, Conor on the beach. Then I make my plea. “We have no suspects as yet but our investigation is still in its early stages. We urge anyone who was in or around the area of St. Catherine’s church on the evening of the nineteenth of August to get in touch, or anyone who was on Clontarf promenade in the early hours of the twenty-second of August. We ask the public to report any behavior they might deem suspicious to us.
“Both Alan Shine and Conor Sheridan were missing for some days before their bodies were discovered. Is there someone who recalls seeing them alive in the week before their murders?” I take a steadying breath, leave room for the viewer to think, then using Helen’s theory I continue: “We believe there was a boat used to transport Conor Sheridan’s remains to Clontarf beach on the morning his body was discovered, the twenty-second of August. Did anyone see a boat? Did someone borrow a boat from you? If you’ve any information you feel might help our investigation, please call this number.” I turn to the placard behind me, where the helpline is printed in large font. Paul will be on the other end, ready to sift through it all in the hope of finding a golden nugget. “Thank you.”
The questions fire out from the seats. “Are these random murders?” “What’s the relationship between Conor Sheridan and the Shines?” “Will there be more victims?” And finally, the one I’ve been waiting for, a young female journalist at the front.
She looks up, sets her pen over her notebook. “Patrice Philips with the Clontarf Gazette. Are these murders related to the Hennessy killings in 1995?”
I work to keep my face neutral. “We have many lines of inquiry open and are investigating all avenues,” I reply. And the room recognizes the answer for what it is, a big fat yes.
“Is Seán Hennessy a suspect?” the journalist goes on. There is a sweep of murmuring throughout the room. The cameraman pulls back from the lens. Blinks then refocuses. He doesn’t want to miss a thing.
“Mr. Hennessy is not a suspect at this time.”
My hands tighten on the edge of the lectern. I do the best I can to stamp out the embers that are about to set us all alight. “I’m aware of the growing speculation around the Hennessy case. But we’re here today to appeal to the public for information and witnesses pertaining to the murders of Alan Shine, Geraldine Shine, and Conor Sheridan. Thank you very much for your time.”
I step down and every journo in the room is on their feet. Over the din, I hear the female journo’s voice again: “What do you say to the idea that the arrest in 1995 and subsequent conviction of Seán Hennessy were wrongful?”
I smile at the cameras, ignore the voices rising at my back.
We return to my office, close the door.
I sit at my desk, drop my head into my hands. After a few deep breaths, I look up at Baz. “I might pay Seán Hennessy a visit. See how he’s taking all this attention.”
He blows air through his lips. “The powers that be will like that.”
“Nothing official but if I happen to bump into him then what can I do?”
He nods. “He could do with answering some questions. Perhaps he’s been talking to someone inside. Someone who also has a thirst to quench when it comes to murder. You need company?”
I stand and pull on my jacket. “No, hold the fort here.”
He lifts the holster from the back of my chair. “Forgetting something?”
“Thanks.”
Removing my jacket, I hook the holster across my shoulders, check the gun. I remind myself that the weapon is mine to help, to defend. Not to kill.
* * *
—
I PULL A BLANKET off the backseat of the car, throw it around my shoulders, and huddle deeper against the seat. I’m outside Hennessy’s flat. Or rather, I’ve picked a place across the road, another street running perpendicular to his that allows me to sit hidden among a row of parked cars.
It’s cold. The wind rages against the car, every now and then an angry spatter of rain hits the windshield. A little draft has worked its way through the elements of the car and I long to start the engine and turn up the heat. I rub my arms and stare up at Hennessy’s window. His flat is in a square complex that has seen better days, all windows ignoring the sea view and looking out on the rooftops of the adjacent street. Wisely, the media vans and journos stalking the premises have given up. Gone home for tea and biscuits. Hennessy is holed up on the third floor.
I try to get my head back to where it was a week ago. A place where Seán Hennessy was the one who murdered his parents and his father was innocent. But I’ve seen enough domestic violence cases to recognize the pattern when it’s in front of me. All the evidence that pointed to Seán, even his sister’s testimony, is either weak or has crumbled under scrutiny. John Hennessy was a controlling abuser who, when he felt his family was close to escaping his clutches, decided to try to murder them all. But there’s something about his son, Seán, that I can’t quite shake. The remembered feeling of him as a predator. I’m not sure where it comes from, a castoff from the long-held belief that he’d committed the worst of crimes or an echo chiming in my mind after my meeting with his sister. Whatever it is, I need to exorcise those last remaining ghosts and there’s only one person who can do that for me.
In the past four weeks, Seán’s called the local garda station four times. Reports of abuse and harassment. Dog shit smeared on his do
or handle. A bottle pegged at him from a passing car. Verbal attacks in the local newsagents. Eggs flung at his window. He’s frightened, he says, and I wonder why he doesn’t move. Why he’d want to live in a place that must hold such painful memories for him.
My phone lights up from the passenger seat and I reach out from under the blanket and grab at it.
“Chief?” Steve says down the line when I answer. “We’re all good on Sheridan’s computer here.”
I keep my eyes on Hennessy’s window. “Give me something, anything, from that computer.”
“Thought you’d never ask.” I imagine him holding his numb jaw as he speaks. He lowers his voice. “Our Sheridan was getting hate mail on the Hennessy article. Starting years back. He kept all of it, scanned it into a file on his desktop.” I hear the click of the mouse. “Every one arrives around the anniversary of the Hennessy murders, the week he wrote that article.” Another few clicks. “I’ve sent the details to your email.”
I hear him tap on the keyboard, Sheridan’s history flickering on Steve’s screen.
I put him on speaker and click through the screen on my phone. A scanned image appears. It’s a letter, handwritten, block capitals, short but the last line is chilling.
YOU DID THIS. I WON’T FORGET. YOU WILL ALL PAY. I CAN WAIT.
“That’s the common theme,” Steve says. “But despite the personal tone, the letters don’t suggest a personal attack. I mean, like, not specific to him.”
“You might want to tell that to Conor Sheridan’s very specifically dead body in Whitehall.”
“No, I mean, the target is not so much only Sheridan but talks as if Sheridan represents the media.”
The Killer in Me Page 22
