by Casey Hill
She fixed herself a coffee and turned her attentions to the day ahead. Although it was already 7.30 a.m., it was so dark outside it still felt like the middle of the night. It was days like this she really missed the sun coming up over San Francisco Bay – that she missed the sun, period.
She closed her eyes and pictured the view from the headland back home where she usually parked her car – the wide sweep of the bay, the breakers rolling in from left to right, the sea that deep, dark green that she loved, whitecaps calling to her as she hauled on her wetsuit and unloaded her surfboard from the top of her car.
By contrast, winter here was oppressively bleak and miserable – at first, Reilly couldn’t understand how people even managed to rouse themselves from their beds, let alone summon the energy to work as hard as they did through those dark, gray days. But despite being starved of sun, Ireland was now Reilly’s home and, sixteen weeks in, she was just about beginning to get used to it.
Not that she’d had the opportunity to spend all that much time outside, though. Since moving to Dublin, she’d been practically chained to the lab, which she supposed was a good thing. Labs tended to be the same all over the world and the one place in which Reilly felt most at home.
‘Or the one place you feel most in control?’ Dr Kyle had suggested, and maybe he was right. In the lab, surrounded by familiar equipment and implements that always did her bidding, she felt at peace.
Albeit temporarily.
Reilly shivered and, pouring the last of her coffee down the sink, she returned to her coffin-cum-bedroom and began to get ready for work.
The spartan office was lit by two lines of fluorescent lights, which cast a harsh light on the long table. Reilly spread a collection of evidence bags across the table and watched as her team wandered in, coffee cups and notepads in hand. They jostled each other, raced for the prime seats like kids in school, then finally settled and looked up expectantly at her.
‘OK, what have we got?’ she asked, glancing at the array of bagged and labelled items on the table in front of her. There was a bloodied T-shirt, a broken beer glass, a half-eaten burger and some fries – or rather, ‘chips’ as they were listed on the inventory.
One of the lab assistants, Gary, cleared his throat and peered at the report. He was the most confident of the bunch, in his late twenties with shaggy brown hair and small wire-framed glasses. ‘According to the report, it’s from an assault in Temple Bar.’
A popular tourist area of the city Reilly knew, full of restaurants and pubs.
‘Yeah, it can get a bit rowdy down there at the weekends.’ Lucy said quietly. Lucy was the only other girl in the group, a honey-pot the guys constantly buzzed around. ‘Big groups of people out of it, not to mention all those hens and stags.’
‘Hens and stags?’
Lucy flicked her blond hair back from her face and Reilly immediately caught a scent of her perfume. One of those celebrity-endorsed ones she figured, trying to place it; Lovely or Amazing – something like that? ‘You know – last night of freedom before getting hitched?’
‘Ah, bachelor parties, you mean.’
‘Yeah. They usually get pretty wild.’
‘Pity it’s gone like that. It used to be such a nice area, all cobbled streets and old buildings.’ They all looked at Julius. He was the only one older than Reilly, a career lab tech with the social life to prove it. She hadn’t memorized all the details of his personnel file, but she did remember that he was forty-two, unmarried, and had worked at the forensic lab for over fifteen years. Now there was an unusual profile for a lab tech, she thought, sardonically.
These gatherings gave her a good feel for the team; their individual personalities, who excelled in certain areas and who didn’t. Because this job wasn’t just about collecting evidence and analyzing it to death, it was about spotting the small things, the tiny, seemingly insignificant threads that could suddenly bring an entire investigation together.
It was that great feeling, the immense thrill of chasing – and eventually finding – that crucial piece of evidence which had kept Reilly going all throughout her studies at Quantico, and later during her time with the California Police Department.
Her determinedly hands-on approach was one of the reasons the Irish Police Commissioner had offered her the job of ‘dragging the technical bureau into the twenty-first century’ in the first place. And if Reilly was going to get the brand new Garda Forensic Unit operating like a well-oiled machine – as per her brief – she knew she needed to keep its employees stimulated and interested in the evidence, rather than have them locked away carrying out mindless analysis in the recently built, state-of-the-art crime lab.
Hence this morning’s gathering.
‘There were some witnesses,’ Gary went on, ‘but apparently it all happened very fast … most of them were trashed, so they can’t tell for sure who clocked him. The cops’ll need a solid description before they can charge anyone.’
Reilly wasn’t personally familiar with Temple Bar and made a mental note to go down there and take a look around. Since taking the job, she had spent much of whatever free time she did get walking through different parts of the city getting to know the surroundings and could now easily differentiate between the cobblestones at Dublin Castle to those situated around Trinity College – knowledge crucial to their work.
‘Anyway,’ Lucy grabbed the report from Gary, and continued reading, ‘according to the cops, there was a bit of aggro, two men got into it, it quickly got nasty, and now one of them is unconscious in Bishop’s Street Hospital after being glassed with a beer mug. The bloke who attacked him legged it before the police got there.’
Reilly nodded, translating Lucy’s slang as best she could. ‘OK, what else? CCTV?’
‘Hold on …’ Lucy quickly scanned through the report. ‘Nope. They’ve got some, but they can’t make the bloke out. Footage is blurred and there were too many other people around.’
‘OK,’ Reilly turned to the others. ‘Anyone got any thoughts?’
‘Well, we can test the blood on the T-shirt,’ Gary ventured.
‘Which tells us what exactly?’
‘It’ll tell us whose blood it is for one.’
‘But we know whose blood it is,’ Julius pointed out. ‘Obviously it belongs to the guy who was injured.’
‘Yeah, but it was a two-way fight, remember?’ Rory, as usual, had bided his time before speaking. ‘Maybe the attacker bled too, which means there might be two different samples on there. If there is, we can get a comparison sample from the victim, eliminate him, and then we’re left with the sample from the guy who did it.’ Rory was a rugby player, with a big build and dark, intense eyes. With his huge hands and crooked nose, he looked as though he himself knew a thing or two about street fights.
‘That still won’t help us identify the attacker, though, will it?’ Lucy said, turning to Reilly who had remained silent, content to let the team figure it out amongst themselves.
‘OK, so it won’t help us identify him now,’ Rory conceded, ‘but it will give us something for later, won’t it?’
‘Good point,’ she agreed. ‘But is there anything else here that could help us identify him, something we could use to give the police some kind of a definite description of him right now?’
There was a brief pause as the team contemplated this.
‘Fingerprints from the pint glass,’ Gary suggested, eventually. ‘Although, I suppose that’s only good for a comparison too, isn’t it?’
‘How about the burger?’ Lucy’s tone was studied. ‘It says here that the attacker was eating a burger just before the fight, so we could analyze his saliva for DNA.’
‘Still no good – wouldn’t he have to be already in the system for us to find a match?’ Julius pointed out and they all looked at Reilly for affirmation.
‘Correct. So again we’re only talking about comparative evidence. All of your suggestions are great, and would certainly help mount a case against th
is guy if or when he’s caught, but in the meantime, how do we help catch him? Come on, surely there’s something among all this?’
The set of faces before her looked blank as they each raked through the evidence, and took yet another look at photographs of the scene.
Deciding to put them out of their misery, Reilly picked up the bagged burger.
‘You were half right, Lucy,’ she announced, holding it aloft. ‘This is the single most important piece of evidence relating to this case. Not as Lucy pointed out, for DNA collection – although of course that too is important – but mostly because this innocent-looking cheeseburger can give us lots of information about this guy. His height, facial appearance, right down to whether he snores in bed or snuffles when he’s awake.’
They looked at her, puzzled.
‘In fact,’ Reilly went on, studying the bag more closely, ‘I can tell from just looking at it that our guy has got a thin, pinched face … probably narrow too. And he seems to be missing a couple of wisdom teeth—’
‘His bite mark,’ Julius muttered, the penny finally dropping.
‘Exactly. Now, a forensic dentist would have to give us specifics, but when time is of the essence and the cops are sure their attacker was the one eating the cheeseburger, we can at least confirm that it’s a guy with a long, narrow face.’
Rory shook his head in wonderment. ‘I would never have thought of that,’ he admitted.
‘Well,’ the department’s new specialist forensic investigator said with a smile, ‘by the time I’m finished with you guys, there’s nothing in this world you won’t think of.’
2
At Harcourt Street station, Chris Delaney was putting the finishing touches to a written report when it happened again.
At first he tried to ignore it, putting the faint but all-too-familiar tingle in the joints of his first two fingers down to repetitive strain or sheer tiredness – he hadn’t been to bed in over twenty-eight hours so it was only to be expected that his joints would be fatigued. He shook his hand to try and shake the pain, carefully turned the page on his report, put it neatly on the pile of finished papers, and picked up his pen again.
But then, as if to prove him wrong, the throbbing surged from his fingers through his left arm and upper body, almost sending him into spasm. Dropping the pen, Chris winced as the ache overwhelmed him, and when Pete Kennedy approached his desk, he struggled to remain impassive.
‘What’s up with you?’ his fellow detective asked, eyebrows raised.
He tried to ride it out. ‘Nothing, just got cramp – from all this bloody writing, probably,’ he said through gritted teeth.
‘Writing?’ Kennedy sniffed, unconvinced. ‘From all that pumping iron if you ask me. I don’t know why the hell you bother.’
Although Kennedy was a towering six-footer and well able to carry some additional weight, he still had a bit of a paunch, something he had no interest in doing anything about. Chris, on the other hand, enjoyed his regular workouts at the gym. It helped him cope with the demands of the job and he welcomed the physical endurance aspect too.
Based out of the Serious Crime Unit, he and Kennedy spent the majority of their time working city homicide. For a country that barely ten years ago reported one incident of murder every few months, the newer, affluent and decidedly more bloodthirsty citizens of Ireland seemed intent on making up for lost time. And as resources in their division were gradually becoming more and more stretched, things seemed to be getting progressively worse. Their latest case was an especially puzzling one.
A week earlier, a headless and dismembered male torso was found floating in the city’s Royal Canal by a man out walking his dog. The Sub-Aqua Squad had spent hours in the murky, heavily polluted waters searching for remaining body parts and forensic evidence but so far had found nothing. Until they did, it was virtually impossible to identify the victim.
Following recent, similar episodic killings associated with sections of Ireland’s growing ethnic communities, it was tempting for the authorities to explain it away as yet another ritualistic killing and while the murder certainly bore some of the hallmarks – such as dismemberment – Chris wasn’t convinced. Some more sensationalist sections of the Irish media were only too eager to pin the incident on immigrants, but for him there was nothing definitive in the evidence so far that pointed the finger at any particular group. Not until they found the head, at any rate.
He swivelled round in his chair and looked at his watch. ‘Well, seeing as all’s quiet at the moment,’ he said to Kennedy, ‘I might head home for a few hours this morning – try and grab some sleep.’
He stacked his papers in a neat pile and put the pen away in his drawer, the thought of a couple of hours sleep sounding tempting. Not that it would make a blind bit of difference to his now almost continuous fatigue. Maybe he should pick up some of those multivitamin things on the way home – seeing that he hadn’t been eating properly, something like that might make the difference. And if it didn’t, well, then he’d have to think about getting himself checked out properly. He ruffled his dark hair in a desperate attempt to rouse himself. Not to mention organize a bloody long-overdue haircut.
‘Detectives?’
Chris was already slipping his jacket on when one of the uniforms put his head around the door, his tone agitated.
‘What’s up?’ Kennedy growled from the depths of a bacon sandwich.
‘O’Brien wants you both next door for a briefing – right away,’ the uniform told them. ‘And he looks pissed off.’
Chris and Kennedy exchanged looks. So much for sleep.
‘What’s it about?’ Kennedy asked as they followed the younger man down the hallway toward the Inspector’s office.
The uniform shrugged. ‘Not a clue.’
Kennedy looked at Chris and winked. ‘Let me guess – the Sub-Aqua Squad finally found that poor bastard’s flute.’
O’Brien’s office was a mess of papers, boxes of files stacked against the walls, folders strewn all across his desk. But the Inspector himself was sharp, his round, red face and flyaway gray hair notwithstanding.
‘I wish it was something on the floater,’ he muttered. ‘But it’s something else entirely.’ His expression was grim. ‘Double shooting, possible homicide/suicide south of the city, in Dalkey. One male, one female, both pronounced dead at the scene.’
‘Domestic?’
‘Unlikely. They’re only kids, college kids, the girl barely in her twenties, apparently.’ He ran his fingers through his hair, messing it up even more.
‘Shit.’ Kennedy shook his head.
‘Too bloody right.’ The Inspector leaned back in his chair, looking like a man with the weight of the world on his shoulders.
‘In Dalkey, you said?’ Chris was taken aback at the victims’ age and profile. Dalkey was a decidedly upmarket part of the city and shootings were an unusual occurrence.
‘Maybe they stumbled across Daddy’s hunting gun?’ Kennedy said, evidently on a similar train of thought.
‘Could be. I don’t know what the weapon of choice was; to be honest, I don’t know that much at all,’ O’Brien replied. ‘There’s a unit from Blackrock already down there; they were first on the scene and as far as I know the Technical Bur—’ He paused mid-sentence, and rolled his eyes. ‘Sorry, I mean the GFU should be there by now too. It will take a bit of getting used to that one, although at least it rolls off the tongue a bit easier. Anyway, I need you two to get over there and see what you can make of it.’ He shook his head. ‘First the gangs, then the foreigners, and now we have posh kids shooting one another too – I’m telling you, this country’s gone mad altogether.’
Chris steered the unmarked Ford toward a vacant parking space and looked up at the modern apartment block. Limestone walls, aluminium balconies, well-tended gardens, sea views … Whoever owned this place had money.
‘That’s a hell of a vista,’ he observed. Even in winter, the view out across Dublin Bay was spectacular,
the rolling gray waves stacking up one by one as though impatient to crash against the shore.
‘Hell of a turnout too,’ Kennedy said, indicating the mass of vehicles parked outside. ‘I wonder would there be the same interest if the crime scene was on Sheriff Street?’
‘Guess not, but there are some pretty powerful neighbors around here who need reassuring things are under control,’ Chris replied, looking up the hill in the direction of Killiney, Dublin’s own Beverly Hills.
‘So, I wonder what kind of mood Miss America will be in today?’ Kennedy mumbled, nodding toward Reilly Steel’s GFU van. He lit a cigarette and leaned on the bonnet of the car, admiring the surroundings. Chris climbed from the car, trying not to groan at the ache in his legs. ‘No point rushing in if she’s still there. What do you make of her?’ Kennedy asked.
Chris shrugged. ‘Too early to say.’
‘Oh come on – don’t give me that. An FBI-trained crime tech brought over here to bring us country bumpkins up to date and you don’t have an opinion?’
It was true that eyebrows had been raised at the appointment and when a photograph of the blond, blue-eyed American had been passed around, there had been some sceptical comments. But far from being a wide-eyed bimbo, the latest addition to the force had trained at the FBI facility at Quantico and had expert knowledge and considerable field experience, as well as valuable exposure to the workings of the institution’s state-of-the-art crime lab. Steel had also apparently worked with some of the best forensic investigators in the world and was held in high regard by her peers. How the hell she had been lured to Dublin, Chris didn’t know, but either way, he was glad to have someone with her credentials on board.
He waved a hand as Kennedy’s smoke drifted toward him. ‘I reckon the head brass knew what they were doing when they brought her in – the old Technical Bureau was thirty years behind the times and we need all the help we can get.’
Up until then, they’d had little to do with the American. She tended to stay in the lab, apparently preferring working on the evidence than working the scene – something Chris could certainly relate to. But today Steel had had no choice but to attend as Jack Gorman, the field investigator their unit normally worked with, was away on a Caribbean cruise with his wife – some big anniversary celebration apparently.
