Dublin Odyssey

by Michael P. Cooney

  “You lost? Saw ya parked out on the main road when I left a while back.”

  “I was a little lost. But I’m fine now.”

  “So then what ya doing on this land?”

  “I’m looking for Patrick Drum. I have a message for him.”

  “What kind of message?”

  “Are you Patrick Drum?”

  At first, the man seems hesitant to answer. He looks Mickey up and down. Mickey’s seen that look many times over his twenty-seven-year career. It’s that “blank stare.” It’s that split second between telling the truth or faking it. Finally, the man atop the tractor responds.

  “That I am. And who might you be?”

  For a whole host of reasons, Mickey decides to lie to Patrick. Or to the guy who says he’s Patrick.

  “My name is Ernie Evans. I’m a tow-truck driver for the Philadelphia Police Department. I worked with your brother Jerry. After he retired in 1991 we used to get together once or twice a month for dinner and play cards at his house on Olive Street. I used to keep him up on what all the guys in his old unit were up to.”

  “What ya say your name is again?”

  “Ernie Evans.”

  “Funny, I don’t remember Jerry talking ‘bout no Evans or card games at his house.”

  Mickey opts to embellish on his first lie.

  “Jerry wasn’t exactly the best poker player. He lost on a regular basis. Maybe he just didn’t want the world to know about his not-so-profitable pastime.”

  The man grins. “That could very well be it. He’s been falling behind on his end of the rent over here for some time. You Irish, Evans?”

  “On my mom’s side. My father was a Scotsman, from Motherwell, across the Channel.”

  “I know where Motherwell is, Evans. I got a lot of good chums over there.”

  “Have ya now?” Mickey doesn’t wait for the man’s retort. “Jerry talked about you and this ranch all the time. Told me about how you mainly run the place. And he helps when he comes over.”

  “Is that right? And what else did my brudder tell ya, Ernie Evans?”

  “He told me he’s part owner in this ranch and that he was coming back to stay for good real soon.”

  The man doesn’t respond. He continues staring at Mickey with his beady bloodshot green eyes, from his perch on the tractor. He keeps biting the inside of his bottom lip and rubbing his sun-burnt wrinkled neck with a sweat-stained white handkerchief. It’s as if he’s either deep in thought or determining whether or not to believe anything Mickey is telling him. He breaks his silence.

  “So, what’s your message, Evans?”

  Mickey breaks the bad news about Jerry’s untimely death as tactfully as possible.

  Appearing stunned and a bit agitated, the man asks, “So why did the police send a tow-truck driver all the way to Ireland to give me the news ‘bout my brudder Jerry?”

  Mickey tells still another lie. “‘Cause I volunteered. Jerry’s last captain knew I was leaving for Ireland to trace my mom’s roots. So, because Jerry and I were good friends, on and off the job, I suggested rather than him calling you or sending you a letter, I could tell you in person. Jerry always said phone calls and letters about the death of a loved one are cold and not how the Irish treat each other.”

  “That sounds like Jerry.”

  The man gets down off the tractor and shakes hands with Ernie Evans, good friend of his brother Jerry. From Mickey’s point of view he’s not completely sold that the man in front of him is actually Jerry’s brother.

  “Thank you for coming all this way, Evans. Can you tell me when Jerry passed and the circumstances?”

  Mickey quickly goes into his BS mode. Okay, let’s try this on, Paddy.

  “Tuesday! A friend stopped by to check on Jerry because he wasn’t answering his phone. When Jerry didn’t answer his door the friend got even more worried, so he called the police. Because Jerry was a retired PD employee it was decided to gain entrance into his home. To check on his well-being. I’m sorry to say the officer found Jerry slumped over at his kitchen table. The rescue team was summoned but it was too late. Again, I’m really sorry to have to tell ya the bad news.”

  The man takes a few minutes to take in what Mickey just said to him.

  “So you say Jerry was sitting at the kitchen table when he died?”

  “That’s right. My understanding is he had a massive heart attack.”

  The man takes off his Jeff cap and runs his thick weathered fingers through his hair.

  “Heart attack, you say?”

  “That’s what my captain was told. Massive heart attack.”

  “Oh well. I knew Jerry was coming home. But I didn’t expect it would be in a pine box.”

  Ya don’t seem to be too broken up over the sudden death of your brother, Paddy.

  “Well, Ernie Evans, would ya like to come up to the house for a little Jameson’s? It’s a tradition.”

  Mickey accepts the invite but settles for a strong glass of Irish tea. It gives him a chance to eyeball the inside of the house and pump Patrick. From where Mick sat in the house he could look out the back window and see the barn. He nurses his tall glass of hot tea while his host does the same with his twenty-year-old whiskey that brought out a few boyhood stories about good old Jerry Drum.

  “Ya know, I always figured Jerry would die from his prostate cancer. He hated doctors. Refused to take treatments.”

  Cancer? Doc Steinberg never mentioned cancer. I’m starting to feel this guy is less pain stricken and more probative.

  “Sorry. I wasn’t given the details of Jerry’s death. But I am surprised to hear he had cancer. He never mentioned it to me. Ever!”

  How’s that Paddy Drum? Or whoever you are. Did I pass?

  “One other thing, sir. Will you be going to America to claim Jerry’s remains? Or will your brother be buried in America?”

  “Gotta think ‘bout that one. It’s harvest time around here. Who should I notify if I want to go to Philly for Jerry?”

  “The city’s Medical Examiner’s office.”

  Mickey recites the ME’s phone number to Patrick.

  Hope I didn’t spook him by giving him the ME’s number from memory. I’m supposed to be a tow-truck driver.

  Appearing satisfied with Mickey’s version of Jerry Drum’s passing, the man abruptly ends their little get-together.

  “Okay, then.” The man holds up the piece of paper he wrote the ME’s number on. “I’ll decide about Jerry, and call this number in a day or two.”

  “I’m sure that would be okay.” Take all the time you want. Jerry’s in good hands.

  “Think I’d like some alone time now. So if you don’t mind…”

  “I understand. And I’m really sorry for your loss.”

  “And I, yours. You lost a good friend, too. And thank you very much for coming out here to deliver the news of my brudder’s passing in person. You’re a good man, Ernie Evans.”

  This guy is starting to look more and more like the classic rent-a-suspect. Something about his bloodshot eyes.

  Mickey walks to his car and retraces his route back to Dublin. All the way back to his suite, he weighs the possibility that Patrick, or whoever he is, was somehow involved in the death of his brother Jerry. At this point he’s leaning toward he is involved. But it’s just a gut feeling right now. Evidence to follow.

  Mickey looks at his watch. Almost 2:30. Still good on time.

  By the time he finds a parking space close to the O’Leary house, it is 3:15. He calculates the five-hour time difference in Philly, calls his wife and catches her at work.

  CHAPTER 18

  “A little pleases a poor man.”

  Irish Proverb

  After Mickey takes a shower and gets ready for his dinner meeting with Superintendent O’Clooney at Michael’s place, it’s 4:15 PM, Dublin time. He takes a quick look at the shots he took at the Drum Ranch. From an investigative perspective, some are more interesting than others. He makes a ment
al note of those corresponding numbers. Then it’s back down the private lift to ground level and on foot to O’Leary’s Pub. He walks along the west side of Saint Stephen’s Green, taking in the sights to Grafton Street. He crosses Nassau, passes the Bank of Ireland, where the security guard observed those two suspicious Americans caught on tape, then he’s on to Westmoreland Street. He turns left at the Liffey River. O’Leary’s Pub faces the river and is just a stone’s throw from the now-famous Temple Bar area.

  The Temple Bar section of Dublin sits between Dame Street and the Liffey. It was named after Sir William Temple who bought the land in the 1600s. Back then the term “bar” meant riverside path. Originally the homes of a conglomerate of small merchants were scattered around the area. Over the years, the whole neighborhood went into decline. Plans to raise the area and construct a bus station never materialized.

  In the 1960s, artists and retailers took short-term leases that turned into long-term arrangements. And the area became the “in spot,” jammed with bars, restaurants, shops and galleries. Philadelphia’s equivalent is South Street, made famous by the Orlons 1960s hit record of the same name.

  On his last visit to Dublin, Mickey and his wife bought a couple of black golf shirts with Temple Bar embroidered in red over a small chest-high pocket. Mickey wears his every year at the annual Chiefs of Police golf outing in July. The Devlins also went way over budget and purchased an oil painting of the Ha’penny Bridge and another original oil of the Irish Sea.

  On the way to O’Leary’s Pub, Mick familiarizes himself with the famous and expanded Grafton Street area. It’s been six years since he’s been in Dublin. Ireland has become a thriving metropolis with its business-friendly philosophy of lower taxes and popular incentives. Scores of companies from around the world have moved to the Erin Isle.

  This new infusion of commerce brought with it tens of thousands of additional residents as well as shoppers exploding onto the scene. The city of Dublin being the most affected by the surge. At all times of the day and night the pedestrian traffic is polite but intense. Shoppers can be heard speaking with a diverse array of accents interspersed with the predominant Irish brogue.

  Mickey arrives at O’Leary’s with ten minutes to spare. He sees Michael at the far end of the longer of two elaborate wood bars talking to customers. Both bars look to be from the 1920s, each with matching floor-to-ceiling, well-stocked credenzas against the opposing wall. All the floors are covered in twenty-by-twenty black-and-white marble tiles with equally sized colorful tiles of the O’Leary Clan’s coat of arms and family crest running down the middle between the two bars. The marble floors have in-laid brass strips in place of grout, giving it an “old world” look.

  There are scarcely any open spaces on the tan stucco walls all covered with classic Irish proverbs, color pictures of Irish sports heroes and autographed caricatures of famous Dubliners. The pub is packed with the locals and green-clad tourists intermingling and sharing stories of their Irish roots. There are a whole host of traditional Irish songs being piped into the bar. Some telling of the Great Famine and others of Ireland’s fight for independence sprinkled with just the right amount of more festive lyrics known by locals and tourists alike.

  As Mickey takes in the pub’s atmosphere, he tries to get Michael’s attention but he is heavily engaged in filling four pints of dark stout one after another from the same oversized silver tap handle.

  Mickey delicately makes his way through the deep crowd of patrons to the other end of the room where Michael is now immersed in a conversation, political in nature. Mickey finally gets Michael’s attention and over the crowd noise asks if the superintendent has arrived yet. Michael nods, and signals Mickey to follow him through the archway to the back of the pub.

  A less-noisy area, this room houses one of four full menu eateries. The other three being the Daniel O’Connell Mezzanine and bar, the James Joyce Balcony room one floor up that has open-air dining available year round and the William Yeats Theater restaurant on the top floor. Before Mickey leaves for home he’ll try to spend some time in each O’Leary eatery.

  At the very back of the first-floor restaurant there is a grand circular wooden staircase to a small landing with access to two secluded dining rooms. Mickey follows his host to one of them. The room is a ten by twelve foot, dimly lit space with wood floors, walls covered with paper from another era and a grand Waterford chandelier. The room is warm and cozy. And the dinnerware and china plates are impressive. Once inside, he’s greeted by Superintendent O’Clooney of the Dublin Garda. He’s holding what looks to Mickey like a thick case file.

  “Mickey, how was your trip? Ya all settled in?”

  “Trip was good. Doin’ great. Rented a car and already did a little sightseeing.”

  “Good for you. Where did ya go?”

  “Drove around Dublin, then headed west to Castleknock.”

  Michael encourages his guests to take their seats. “All right fellows, take a load off. Sit. Make yourselves comfortable. I’ll send Margaret in to take your drink order.”

  Both men voice their appreciation.

  “My pleasure. Talk to you fellows after dinner. Somebody has to work around here. Enjoy!”

  After Michael leaves, O’Clooney starts, “I was glad to hear you decided to come over. The kind of stuff we’re gonna talk about is better in person.”

  “I agree. Who’s going first?”

  “You’re the guest here. You can start.”

  The door swings open and Margaret comes in to take their drink order. The superintendent orders a Guinness. Mickey gets tea.

  “Be right back, gentlemen.”

  As soon as the door shuts, Mickey starts to tell O’Clooney about the Jerry Drum homicide, his follow-up with Detective Cliver and the Secret Service. He tells Kevin about items found at the Drum scene, his visit to Patrick Drum’s ranch in Castleknock and his first impressions of Patrick Drum.

  “Except for a couple of childhood memories about his dead brother Jerry, I didn’t see a whole lot of remorse in old Patrick’s eyes. It was almost as if he wasn’t surprised by the news.”

  Next, Mickey shares the photographs he took of Patrick’s property. Pointing out the ones whose number he wrote down earlier. O’Clooney listens attentively and looks at the small backlit viewfinder on Mickey’s Casio QV-11. It’s an advanced version of the 1995 Casio QV-10. Mickey was able to get them for the PPD with a grant using a little-known law-enforcement funding program for crime-scene investigators.

  “Nice camera. Is it yours or your department’s?”

  “It’s the PD’s. I got two for the guys in Homicide. I’m just taking this one on a test drive. And so far I like the ride. It can store up to ninety-six images.”

  “Cool!” O’Clooney continues scanning Mickey’s shots. “Interesting stuff. We have some aerials of the Drum Ranch but nothing like these. These could be useful in the near future.”

  “Thought so too.”

  Mickey watches O’Clooney scan through all the images, then has him take a closer look at photos five through seven.

  “I took those through the open barn door. It was pretty dark in there so I put my camera on auto flash. I didn’t look at the shots until I got back to Dublin. What do you think?”

  “Number six or seven, I’m not exactly sure. Just looks like the interior of a big barn. But number six…I think I see the front fender of a car. Looks like a late-model Volvo. I’m guessing white or yellow. Hard to tell. It’s got a tarp covering most of it. Is that what you’re seeing, Mickey?”

  “In number six, it is.”

  “So what am I missing?”

  CHAPTER 19

  “By time is everything revealed.”

  Irish Proverb

  Margaret comes back with beverages and takes their dinner orders. After she closes the door Mickey stands up and walks to Kevin’s side of the table and has him go back to image five. He points out what initially caught his interest back in his room. He gets Kevin�
�s impression of what seems to be a canvas backpack hanging from a hook or a nail on a large support beam just past the partially covered Volvo. Kevin takes a few seconds and focuses on the area Mickey is talking about.

  “I’ll be. There is a backpack. Looks like it’s got several patches attached to it. Anything else I missed?”

  “Can’t say, at this point. I really need to get some prints made up. The bigger, the better. This two-inch screen just doesn’t get the job done. I think these patches may tell us something.”

  “I can get that done for ya first thing tomorrow morning.”

  “That would be terrific.”

  “Okay, Kevin. Now what can you give me on what’s happening on your side of the pond?”

  “Oh yes, Michael Collins. Or should I say, ‘The Greek.’”

  “Only one man’s theory right now, Kevin.”

  Kevin picks up the folder that’s been sitting on the small round table next to theirs. He starts to open it but stops when Margaret returns carrying a silver serving tray over her right shoulder.

  “Hope you two gentlemen are hungry. There’s enough food here to feed a small army.”

  O’Clooney responds, “Starved. If there’s one thing ya can say about O’Leary’s, it’s they’re not stingy when it comes to portions. Everything is family style here.”

  As Margaret takes their orders from the tray and places them in front of the men, Mickey adds, “Looks and smells delightful.”

  “Now, is there anything else I get for you, gentlemen? Drink refills maybe?”

  Both men answer in unison, “No! I’m fine. Thanks.”

  “Then I’ll be leaving you alone. If you need anything else, just tug on the green cord over there and I’ll come a runnin’.”

  Margaret leaves and closes the door behind her.

  “Nice lady.”

  “Don’t let her hear ya say that, Mick. She’ll box your ears back.”

  The corners of Mickey’s mouth give way to half a smile. “Haven’t heard that line since my uncle Buddy chased me down the beach after I absconded with my cousin’s Davy Crockett inner tube.”