Endgame: CSI Reilly Steel #7

by Casey Hill

  Teens were scattered throughout, lounging in comfortable, weird shaped chairs, sitting at tables with their ears plugged up by music.

  “Kids these days …” Kennedy remarked, shaking his head as the two detectives made their way to the counter.

  Chris could only imagine how Reilly would feel in a place like this. His nose was hardly half as sensitive as hers and he could smell all sorts of stuff. First, the coffee was incredibly strong, then burnt milk, cooking smells, and the stench coming from the guy sitting in the corner, watching them closely.

  Who knew being a part of the cool crowd meant you wouldn’t shower - ever? Chris glanced back at the guy, then turned around when it was apparent he had no intention of lessening his gaze. Deodorant must have been off limits, too.

  Neither of the detectives particularly liked tracking people down at their place of work, especially in dives like this. The person of interest they were looking to talk to, Rebecca Davies aka Becks - flagged as important by Rory’s analysis of Graham Hackett’s social media - had listed this place as her job on her own social media profile.

  A boy around of about nineteen or twenty was busy working the counter, filling cups with coffee and low-fat vegan mocha lattes. His jet black hair was freshly washed and brushed up on top of his head in a common metrosexual style. He was thin and reedy, a pair of thick-rimmed glasses perched on his nose. The kid was what Chris would have called a ‘Norman’ when he was in school, but these types were the new cool, apparently. He thought of the slogan on Rory’s T-shirt back at the GFU: ‘Nerds rule the world.’

  Kennedy wrinkled his nose as the boy poured something made of soy into a cup and served it up to a young girl. What had happened to good old coffee?

  “Excuse me,” Chris said, approaching the kid from the side of the queue. “Is Rebecca here?”

  The boy narrowed his eyes, looking immediately suspicious, “Who's asking?” he muttered in an insolent tone.

  Chris matched the kid’s flippant attitude by pulling out his credentials. “We need to talk to her,” he stated in his most authoritative tone. The kid’s eyes widened and he glanced over his shoulder before looking back at the detectives.

  “She’s out back,” he said quickly, his loyalties to Rebecca stretching only so far, apparently. Then he stepped to the side and unlatched a small door that would allow them through to the kitchen area. “She’s on a fag break,” the kid added.

  “Cheers mate,” Kennedy said, as the two walked around him and through the door.

  Outside the dimly lit cafe, the sky mirrored the cement’s depressed grey color, and heavy clouds threatened rain. It had been drizzling earlier when Kennedy and Chris set out and their clothes were still damp.

  Summer in Dublin.

  A girl was sitting on a concrete step, her legs bent at a right angle in front of her. She was clad in a casual uniform similar to the one the kid inside the shop wore, minus the black apron. Her long brown hair was streaked with multiple colors and tied up on top of her head. She brought a cigarette to her lips as the men approached her.

  “Rebecca Davies?” Kennedy asked, horrified by the sight of someone so young poisoning her lungs like that. A heavy smoker himself, he'd always told his own two that hell that would descend on them if he ever caught them smoking anything.

  She looked up at them, her gaze almost bored. Her face was small and young, though her eyes were hardened with experience which made her look older than a teenager. Her lips were painted pink and she had heavy eye liner around her eyes, shadowing her face.

  She looked away as she blew the smoke between her lips and into the heavy city air. When she turned back, she threw the butt on the cement, snubbing it out with her trainer, and said. “I suppose you’re here because of Graham?”

  Kennedy and Chris looked at each other. So she knew the grim fate of the boy with whom she had been flirting online. “Yes, we are,” Kennedy said, “you’re a person Graham was in touch with most in the lead up to his demise, so we’d like to ask you a few questions.”

  The cigarette butt she had thrown on the cement was already long dead, but she kept turning it over and over with the bottom of her worn footwear. “Well, it doesn’t sound to me like I’ve much of a choice,” she said coolly, picking up the mostly demolished cigarette and tossing it in a nearby skip.

  “Did you attend the party at the Hackett residence last Wednesday night?” Chris asked. He’d never understood smoking - there were much better ways to stimulate the dopamine in your brain.

  “Nope,” she said, “I was here, working until closing at 11. You can ask Jonathan in there, or any one of the regulars. Security camera in there, too, but doubt it works.”

  Kennedy nodded and made a note to get a copy of the footage as soon as they were finished. Likely just hours and hours of those weirdo kids in there with their strange hippy music, but they’d have to cover all the bases.

  “What about after 11?”

  She shrugged. “I just went home - you can check with my roommate. Teenage parties aren't really my thing.”

  “Tell us about your relationship with Graham Hackett? You two were….close?”

  The girl regarded them indifferently for a moment, then she sighed and said, “Listen, I know why you’re here, so I might as well just tell you the whole story so we can get this over with. I don’t know anything about Graham’s murder, other than the fact that it happened. And to be honest, I wasn't that shocked to hear about it. For someone who was so fucking obsessed with popularity, Graham wasn't that popular. He loved the rush he got from people being impressed by his GAA shit. I think maybe that’s why he was interested in me in the beginning, because I didn’t pay him any attention.”

  She stopped and picked at her shoes for a moment, taking a deep breath as if gathering her thoughts.

  “OK. So how did you two meet then? He seems a little … out of your circle.”

  “You mean younger than me?” She snorted. “I went out with his brother for a while. Over that time, I got to meet Graham a bit, but I didn’t really know him - Simon used to just parade me around the house just to annoy his folks - like he was the cat and I was a dirty mouse he’d dragged in. That’s part of the reason I broke up with the wanker – he was just using me to get back at his parents for something. Who knows what? But it worked; they were terrified their golden university kid was going to stick with someone like me,” she let out a snort and started digging around in her pockets, probably for another cigarette.

  “Someone like you?”

  “Yeah. Let’s be honest detectives, I’m not exactly the kind of girl you bring home. The Hacketts didn't want their high-achieving son getting involved with a no-hoper dropout.”

  “And what about Graham? He obviously didn't feel that way.”

  Her faced changed a little then. “Graham came in here one day a while back to get out of the rain. When he saw that I was working here, he started hanging around a bit more. We talked a bit, and I realized he was actually OK - a lot sounder and more down to earth than his brother. Then after a while he took it a bit further, asked me for my number. Started texting me and the like. Looking back, maybe I shouldn’t have encouraged him but Graham was OK. Everyone had him pegged as this brainless jock type but he had a smarter side, too. He listened to music … and poetry,” she jerked her thumb toward the brick hall behind them, “like it was more than background noise. I liked that about him. It was a shame he had to keep all that flare inside him a secret from his other friends. A pain to have to pretend to be something you’re not but I guess we can all be like that.” When she found the cigarette she was looking for she lit it. “Like I said, what Graham cared about the most was what people thought of him. How many points he could score, how many girls he could score.”

  “And did he score - with you?”

  She shook her head defiantly. “When I started thinking about Graham as more than just Simon’s little brother, I ended things with Simon. He didn’t know anything at all a
bout us being friends unless Graham told him since.” Her composed face was falling away as she desperately puffed on her nicotine, “But I guess I’ll never have the chance to ask him, will I?”

  “When exactly did you break up with Simon?” Chris asked, the wheels turning in his head.

  Rebecca looked down and sighed. “Last week - the day before that stupid party.”

  Bingo…

  Chris’s senses were immediately on high alert. Was this the cause of the argument between the brothers that night? Perhaps Simon found out that his brother was sniffing around his girlfriend, and the two had come to blows? Which might explain why Simon seemed so unmoved - self-righteous almost - when they interviewed him the following morning.

  But was Graham - apparently a known player with the ladies - moving in on his girlfriend, motive enough to make Simon his little brother’s killer?

  “I know what you’re thinking. You’re wondering if Simon knocked off his brother because Graham was interested in me. But that’s not the way Simon works. He likes to act like he’s all tough and apathetic and all that bullshit, but when it comes down to it, he wouldn’t do anything to hurt Graham. I know he sat up late with him the whole week of his final exams to help him study and in fairness, he’s the one who helped make Graham the player he is.” Rebecca shook her head, “Graham never even gave him credit for that. He never did realize what he had in Simon. He might have been a wanker to everyone else but I know he really cared about his brother. Some of us get useless waster siblings who never help us with a thing in our lives, but Graham got Simon.”

  “The grass is always greener and all that…” Kennedy quipped.

  “Nope,” Rebecca said, getting to her feet, “you pull the grass up, and the other side is usually made of muck. Are we done here?”

  AS THE DETECTIVES made their way back through the hangout and out to the car, they were silent as they climbed in.

  A couple of minutes passed before Kennedy startled Chris by voicing his thoughts rather suddenly.

  “Do you think the kid was in love with that girl - the Hackett kid, I mean?” he asked.

  Chris looked at him from the passenger seat – neither of them was keen about sharing their feelings. He considered the question and realized that he didn’t know. It was hard to tell with other people, hell, it was nearly impossible to tell for yourself. Those two kids hadn’t even known each other that long, and they were so young. Didn’t it take a certain amount of maturity to be in love? Didn’t it take a certain amount of time, of seeing them every day, spending moments together, until you knew for certain?

  Then again, a person was a person, and love was love. Chris could recall one time in particular he had been so taken with a woman he hadn’t even stopped to think. Just because the love wasn’t convenient or logical didn’t mean it didn’t count.

  “I don’t know,” Chris shrugged, after a long pause, “Maybe he was.”

  Kennedy shook his head, and Chris was surprised by how interested his partner was in all this. “So he loved her and didn’t get a chance to tell her, didn’t get a chance to see where it would go, where it would take them. Now he’s six feet under, and she can move on and tell all the people she wants to tell, but it’ll never be the right person.”

  When Kennedy caught the confused look Chris was giving him, he said, “I met Josie when we were around that age. What would it have been like to never tell her I loved her? Or got married and lived this long together? When you find your person, you find your person, Chris,” his partner said.

  Kennedy’s words stirred something in Chris’s gut, made him almost nauseous. Before he had a chance to try and figure it out, his partner went on. “When you find your person, you find your person. And if you decide to put off telling ‘em they’re your person, then you risk losing everything. They could be taken, or gone or even dead the next time you see ‘em. So what I suppose I’m trying to say is, don’t risk it, mate.” He looked sideways at Chris, who by then truly didn’t know what to say. “Don’t risk your person.”

  23

  MuddyPaws: Hey S, have you spoken to Holly yet? How is she. Messaged her and her phone is still off.

  Missislippy: Yeah called around earlier. She’s still a bit shook up.

  MuddyPaws: Oh no, it’s sooo awful. Think I’ll go see her later, I can’t sleep thinking about it. If only I hadn’t gone off with yer man…

  Missislippy: She doesn't blame you Megan, she’s just torn up because she can’t remember what happened. Said it was so embarrassing telling the cops she was too drunk to know exactly what happened……and in front of her mam too!

  MuddyPaws: Was she badly hurt? Hearing all sorts of rumors but don’t know for sure, did someone try to … you know?

  Missislippy: He tried, but no, TG. She has some bruising and scratches, but she got away from him. She’s more a mess mentally, coz she can’t remember what happened.

  MuddyPaws: Gosh, I know we all had a good bit to drink but I didn’t think any of us had enough to black out!? You don’t think maybe someone slipped something into her drink or something…?

  Missislippy: I’ve thought about that myself, espec when she’s always such a mother hen making sure the rest of us don’t go mad. I told the cops that I didn't think she had too much to drink, but I could see them kinda just rolling their eyes.

  MuddyPaws: Were you talking to them for long? They seemed to be here for hours, asking all these questions basically about what everybody has been up to since Junior Cert? I mean, you think it’s more in their line to be out there trying to find out who attacked Holly and poor Graham. Made my blood boil!

  Missislippy: They were here a little while I suppose, but they asked for my phone to see any photos taken from the party or earlier in the night. I was morto tbh - the state of us.

  MuddyPaws: Yeah same here, don’t think a load of grinning eejits will tell them much. When they asked me about my photos my heart dropped…

  Missislippy: S**t - I never even thought of that. Did you tell them anything? About the photos - the other ones, I mean?

  MuddyPaws: Feck no! That’s ancient history as far as I’m concerned and I didn't want them to think I was annoyed at G for anything. Before you know it they’ll haul me down the police station thinking maybe I did it or something.

  Missislippy: You’re probably right. But what if it comes out? If they asked for our phones they’re probably going through G’s too.

  MuddyPaws: Well, fingers crossed they don’t find anything and he deleted everything since. Last thing I need…

  24

  The sun shone down on Lucy Gorman’s blond bob as she parked in the street and gazed up at the Hackett house again.

  It looked so much alike the others in the estate, the kind of normal unassuming home where the visit of evil feels alien and misplaced.

  Gary got out of the car and stood next to her.

  They walked up to the house. Despite the horror that had happened inside only days earlier, the exterior looked prim and neat, and the lawn was only barely grown up over the line of the concrete pavement.

  The interior of the house was still trashed from the party that had inevitably been Graham Hackett’s downfall. Empty beer cans were littered across the impeccable carpet and cups had tipped over on the tables. The refrigerator door was still hanging open, though someone had unplugged it, and the pile of vomit from the misfortunate first responder, still lay at the foot of the stairs.

  Because of the astringent-related trace found on the victim’s body, they were here to assess all bathroom products the Hackett family used to ascertain if there was anything they could rule out. If not, then they had to conclude that the trace had come from the killer and was worth pursuing further.

  The small bathroom downstairs truly was also in a wretched state – it appeared that the pile at the bottom of the stairs had come from the same person who hadn’t made it to the bathroom, because the remainder of the vomit was in the small, well decorated room.
>
  The glass-fronted shower was elegant and the surround decorated with slate limestone up to the ceiling. A shining chrome shower-head arched from the wall at the height of the surround. The shower tray appeared to be clean, thankfully none of the partygoers had thought to take care of their business behind the sliding glass door.

  Lucy carefully gathered samples from all the soaps and shampoos on the shelf inside, taking care to mark each with the specific brand and amount used.

  Gary did the same in the bathroom upstairs, then poked through the bedrooms, though avoiding going into the victim’s room, where the blood was still spattered on the walls in the same pattern now preserved forever on iSpi. Once they released the house, a team of professional cleaners would show up to take care of the gore.

  He started to descend the steps back down, but stopped when something caught his eye.

  A picture was hanging on the wall next to the multitude of photos of Graham Hackett and his teammates, but this one was of him and his brother Simon, clad in full GAA team gear and grinning at the camera, a hurley resting against their thighs.

  A few generic family pictures were in the hallway too, but the majority of the photos proudly focused on the Hackett boys sporting achievements.

  Ironic that the sport the brothers loved so much had ultimately proved to be Graham Hackett’s endgame.

  “Gary?” Lucy calling his voice made him jump a little. She appeared at the bottom of the stairs, the samples tucked away inside her kit bag. “Come on,’ she said, shuddering a little. “I’m ready to get out of here.”

  “EDWARD LYONS?” The late evening sun beat down on the backs of Chris and Kennedy as they approached two teenagers facing off in a hurling knockaround.

  The training pitch Graham Hackett frequented was full of lads practicing and running laps, and the air smelled of freshly cut grass and sweat.