by Casey Hill
The fracture on the crown of his skull was stark and revolting; Reilly couldn’t look at it for too long without feeling nauseous once again.
This was not a crime of precision, or of planning, she decided. Whomever had committed this crime had done it on impulse, without any plan or logic for disposing of the body or avoiding leaving evidence. The recklessness of the attack, coupled with the complete battering that Graham Hackett had taken, indicted that what had occurred was a crime of passion.
Whoever had murdered this kid was consumed by blind rage.
But this was a plus from a forensic point of view, because a crime of passion by its very nature meant that the attacker (or attackers) were likely not very precise or careful about concealing their presence. When they’d finished dusting the doorways and surfaces, they should be able to find some prints as well as shoe impressions, skin tissue etc. In a crime scene this bloody, there should be plenty of grist for the GFU mill.
Gathering the materials she needed to dust the frame of the doorway, she eyed to the younger investigator. “Any initial observations?” she asked.
When she’d first taken the GFU position over three years before, Reilly had launched straight into the role of coach, always pushing the bar higher and higher in terms of her expectations for the team. Her teaching moments were fewer and farther between now, but Gary recognized the question as one of those moments and took another glance around the room, trying to see things the way Reilly would.
“It looks to me as if the poor divil put up a pretty good fight. The attack looks to have started here …” He gestured to the disturbed items on top of the drawer by the window, sounding like a nervous medical student presenting a case to their supervisor, then took a few steps across the room. “There was a struggle, the attacker got hold of some kind of weapon, and the victim and his attacker moved across the room, until one of them ended up pressed up against this wall. Based on the size and shape of the impression, we can only assume it was the victim or someone roughly the victim’s size. His final position near the bed appears to be where he fell after multiple disabling blows from the weapon dropped him, as there are no tracks on the carpet to indicate that the body was dragged or moved. And the final blow to the head definitely happened when he was down.”
“And kept him down,” Reilly said, swallowing afresh at the severity of the head contusion. There was no question the attacker had intended that final blow to inflict the worst damage possible, and send poor Graham Hackett to his death.
She nodded along with Gary’s observations, having come to much the same conclusions. No obvious sign of a baseball bat or anything resembling a murder weapon in here though, so they could only assume the attacker took that with him when he left.
She finished dusting the doorway, finding numerous partials and a couple of solid prints as expected. Once they’d run the comparisons on the Hackett family fingerprints and shoe treads, hopefully something out of place would stand out.
But as always, Reilly knew from hard worn experience that things were never that easy.
4
Michael Glynn glared down at the morning newspaper in disgust. The cover story featured a piece on one of his previous clients, and he knew for a fact he would soon be hearing something about it. There were days when he seriously questioned his decision to become a solicitor, especially when he had to consider the caliber of some of the people he had as clients. The more he thought about it, the more he managed to work himself into a rage.
He threw half of his toast down on the plate and muttered a curse under his breath, grasping the paper with both hands.
His wife, Susan was sitting across the table from him, gauging his mood. It wasn’t uncommon for the stories in the paper to get on her husband’s nerves, especially early in the morning. But Michael was particularly annoyed by the paper today, so she brought up the one topic that always seemed to pull him out of such funks.
“Have you seen the kids this morning?”
“Conor rushed out the door as I was getting up,” her husband replied, his tone bubbling barely contained rage as he glanced over at her, “Told me he’d be training all morning.”
Susan sighed and scooped her porridge around in her bowl, intending to draw Michael’s attention away a little more. “Won’t he have time enough for that in Sydney? We hardly see him anymore. He’ll burn himself out training so much with those boys.”
“It seems to me that Holly is the one who is always out with boys,” Michael folded the paper up and set it to the side. Gratified, Susan smiled as he continued on, taking the last bite of his toast, “Where is she anyway? I didn’t hear her come home last night.”
He frowned at the thought of his seventeen year old daughter staying out all night. He always worried about her, especially given the crowd she was hanging around with recently. As a solicitor, he knew how to pick out the good from the bad. Despite that distinct quality, he supposed he was like most fathers in the way that he didn’t particularly like the idea of his daughter being out with any boy.
Susan checked the time 6:58 – two minutes before her husband needed to be out the door for the morning commute.
She stood and started clearing the table, humming a tune as she went, “I’ll go check on her in a minute, she was probably just careful not to wake us coming in last night.”
Holly had just finished secondary school and spent the night before celebrating the end of the state exams with her friends, promising to be home by one AM at the latest.
Michael glanced at his watch and nodded. He walked over to his wife and wrapped his arms around her waist, placing a quick kiss on her cheek.
“I’ll see you tonight, pet,” he said, before grabbing his briefcase and making his way out. Susan caught him for another kiss and straightened his tie before he finally went out the door, right on time.
But if Susan had known what she would find when she went to look for her daughter, she might have hurried the post breakfast clear-up, or skipped it altogether. As it was, she finished tidying the kitchen at a leisurely pace, singing and opening the windows to let in the warmer late-June air before she finally went upstairs to rouse her daughter.
The family lived in a relatively quiet housing estate, and the Glynns liked to keep to their strict schedule. If they had been paying attention, the couple might have noticed the Garda cars gathered in the estate only a half mile down the road, or the collective hum of gossip that was spreading through the locality with news of what had befallen their neighbors.
Phones throughout the area were buzzing with the shocking story of what had happened to Graham Hackett as Susan made her way up the stairs to wake her daughter, completely oblivious.
Approaching Holly’s room and opening the door slowly, she poked her head in, expecting to see her youngest sprawled out on the bed snoring against her bright blue bedspread.
Instead Susan saw the bedroom left exactly the same way it had been the previous day, when she had gone in to tidy it up. The bed was still made, the curtains were pulled open.
Susan frowned. Maybe Holly hadn’t come home the night before? But that was most unlike her.
She pulled her mobile phone from her pocket and tried to remember how her daughter had shown her to get to the contacts. But before she could completely confuse herself, she caught the sound of the ensuite shower.
She snuck up outside the door and put her ear against the door, listening for Holly’s usual singing, but there was nothing but the sound of running water. Then she knocked on the bathroom door. “Holly, honey? Are you in there?”
When no response came from inside, Susan feared her daughter might have just left the water running, or maybe even fell and hit her head while inside, so she pushed the door open slowly. The light in the windowless bathroom was off, so she fumbled for the light switch, eventually getting it on and flooding the room.
A whimper sounded at the sudden introduction of light, and it took Susan a moment to fully comprehend the s
cene before her.
Her seventeen year old daughter was in the shower fully-clothed, crouching under the water, her eyes closed tightly. She was whimpering softly as the water beat against her back and ran down her clothes and body.
Susan took another step into the room, her shock dissipating as parental instinct took over. Holly’s black dress was torn up the side, her legs and her chin bruised, casting a dark shadow over her pale skin, and creating a sickly effect. Her face was red and shiny, eyes red-rimmed from crying and her hair was tangled beyond belief, wet and matted against her head by the stream of water.
Susan’s mouth went dry. She took another step forward, and when Holly saw her mother, she fell towards her, grasping at her mum’s clean, dry blouse.
The tears on Holly’s face mixed with the water streaming down her cheeks and into her mouth, masking the words that she was desperately trying to get out. Susan couldn’t understand what her terrified daughter was trying to tell her, but she could guess, and she felt a fresh plume of fear rise in her chest.
Her arms went around Holly, and she held her little girl’s cold, shivering body against her own, murmuring words of comfort, all while trying to stay calm herself.
Susan’s mind and emotions were scrambled as she tried to keep her own tears at bay at the sight of her daughter in such a distressed state.
But she knew enough at that point to call an ambulance, and eventually her husband, who returned home only minutes after the paramedics’ arrival, his face white with concern.
At the hospital, Susan remained at her daughter’s bedside, holding Holly’s hand.
While Michael paced the hallway outside the room, working the justice system and calling everyone he knew that might help him find the bastard who had done something unthinkable to his baby girl.
5
Reilly was just finishing up at the Hackett house and talking through various scenarios with the GFU team when her phone rang. She excused herself from the bedroom and removed her gloves, walking out onto the landing. She just managed to answer the call before it went to voicemail.
“Steel,” a deep voice came through the phone, and Reilly quickly identified it as belonging to Jack Gorman, her GFU counterpart. “Are you still working the Hackett residence?”
“Yes, we’re here now. Shouldn't be much longer though - why?”
There was a short pause, almost like Jack had swallowed or cleared his throat, Reilly noted. Something he only did when he was uncomfortable. The older man finally continued. “Seems there was a second assault in that area last night.”
Reilly’s mind jumped with the possibilities – Jack hadn’t said ‘a second murder’, which must mean the victim was still alive. But if the two victims were related by a common attacker, the live one might be someone who could tell them who the assailant was, or at least give them somewhere to start.
“Seventeen year old Holly Glynn is in currently at A&E in St Vincent’s with her parents. Seems she was sexually assaulted on her way home from a party at the Hackett house. She lives close by, the next estate over. ”
Reilly’s heart stopped in much the same fashion it had that morning when she had seen Graham Hackett’s body for the first time. She found her hand moving to her stomach almost subconsciously, in a purely emotional response, even as she spoke in a controlled and professional tone to her colleague. “Are we aware of any definite correlation between the two assaults?”
“No, but the girl’s parents consented to an interview after they heard about Graham Hackett. The parents also have the clothes the girl was wearing last night though apparently she wore them into the shower.” Reilly’s heart sank, realizing that any potentially helpful trace they could get from the clothes would be diluted and tainted, if not full-on obliterated. “Still, if there’s a chance you can get something from her that helps find the boy’s killer…”
Reilly was already gathering her things, “Which hospital did you say she was in?”
CHRIS LOOKED up as Reilly emerged from the house, walking with a purpose toward her car. He glanced at Kennedy who rolled his eyes, inclining his head in her direction as if to say ‘so what else is new?’
Saying nothing more, Chris took off in a light jog across the grass to catch up with her. “Where are you heading to in such a rush?”
Reilly was looking for her car keys, her sleepless fingers fumbling through the contents of her handbag three times unsuccessfully.
Chris leaned down and gently took the keys from her other hand, the one she was using to hold her bag open. “This what you’re looking for?” he asked, the hint of a smile on his lips.
With that, his phoned buzzed with a text message and he read it quickly, then nodded at her. “You’re heading to see the girl who was assaulted?”
“Yes, the parents have her clothes at the hospital. We need to get them.” She reached for the keys, but Chris pulled them away, “Why don’t you let me drive you? I’m headed there now anyway, you’re clearly tired, and this way we won’t have another body to take care of before the day is done. I can drop you straight back here or the lab when you’re finished.”
In most circumstances, she would have argued with him and insisted it was her car, and those were her keys, but her eyes were blurring as she looked at him.
His logic wasn’t exactly misplaced.
After a few seconds of tired, internal deliberation in which her prouder self quickly lost, Reilly nodded, making her way to the GFU van with Chris in tow.
He got in the driver seat and adjusted it so his knees weren’t against the dash, chuckling at the considerable height difference between him and Reilly.
When he was ready to move off, he looked over at her to ask her something, but her eyes were heavy-lidded in the passenger seat.
Chris shook his head, worried a little, as he made his way through the streets of South Dublin almost effortlessly.
Tall brick facades flashed by the windows and he quietly took in the scenery, being careful not to turn too sharply, or hit his brakes too quickly, so Reilly could doze off for a bit and get what he guessed was some much needed shut-eye.
He didn’t know all that much about pregnancy, but he figured with her insomnia, she must have gone much of the whole night before - if not all of it - without rest, and it couldn’t have been a good thing. Did she need to sleep more, for the baby? Or was that only with food?
He didn’t disturb her until he had parked in the subterranean car park beneath the hospital. She woke up immediately, and if she was embarrassed by her nap, she didn’t show it. She snatched her kitbag up from the floor and was out of the van and walking toward the hospital before Chris had a chance to gather his thoughts, let alone get a leg out of the vehicle.
The hospital’s tall-standing glass exterior loomed above them, exuding an air of modern development that contrasted with some of the much older Georgian buildings in the area. As they entered through the sliding glass doors and Chris approached the desk to ask about the whereabouts of the assault victim whose name was Holly Glynn, Reilly took a moment to dispel her sudden nausea.
The smell of the hospital, one that she felt particularly more acutely than most others, was more debilitating than actual crime scenes sometimes. The antiseptic and cleaning products did nothing to mask the odor of the sick and dying, little scents that she could easily single out.
Her nausea wasn’t just caused by the smell, however, as she was suddenly and painfully reminded of a previous admission she’d had in this very same building a few months back following an encounter with a killer called Tony Ellis.
When Chris returned with instructions on how to get to the right room, they made quick work of finding Holly Glynn’s location.
As the two approached the relevant hospital unit, they both exchanged a knowing glance at the sight of well-known Dublin solicitor Michael Glynn pacing outside the room.
“Glynn … I was wondering why the surname rang a bell,” Chris said. He exhaled. “Better watch our ba
cks with this one.”
Holly Glynn’s father was not a tall man, in fact he was rather stout and round. And right then was on the phone with someone, nearly shouting, his face a full angry red. As Reilly and Chris got further down the hallway, they heard him in all his rage. “...don’t care what McGowan says! You’ll do what I bloody well tell you to!”
They paused as they came to a stop outside the room Chris had been given as the assault victim’s location. As the two onlookers observed the father’s anger with growing unease, a woman slipped from a door behind them.
“Are you the detectives?” she asked, in a voice that had seen too many tears recently.
“Good morning, Mrs. Glynn is it?” Chris said, his hands clasped respectfully in front of him. “I’m Detective Chris Delaney and this is my colleague, Reilly Steel from the GFU. We’re here to talk to your daughter, and to pick up Holly’s clothes for forensic analysis.”
Reilly gave Mrs. Glynn what she hoped was a sympathetic smile, and the woman attempted to return the gesture, but fell just short.
“She’s … just in there,” Susan Glynn said worriedly. “She says nothing happened … that he just tried to hurt her. But still …”
“I’m sure it’s been a terrible morning for you, Mrs Glynn,” Chris said. “Why don’t you pop down to the canteen and get you and your husband some coffee, maybe take a breather while we talk to Holly?”
“I don’t know if …” She looked dubiously at Chris then turned back to Reilly. “I think a woman might be better…”
Reilly shifted uncomfortably; she wasn't trained or indeed familiar with questioning sexual assault victims. Though by all accounts, she realized with some relief, recalling what the mother had just said, that this was an apparent attempt rather than outright assault. Which would hopefully make things a lot easier on both her and the victim.
