CHAPTER 21
MY BROTHER’S GAZE never leaves mine as I take the stand. Worry has turned his eyes into small round beads. His mouth is tight, almost stern. He’s angry. Possibly at me. My mother’s hand rests over his, comforting.
Abigail was true to her word. One hour is all it took for her to find the clippings and analyze the paint found under Tracy Ward’s nails. Initial tests show it’s iron-based, a similar makeup to the blue used in the Costello and Keegan murders. The information has fastened like a tick in my head, and it’s all I can do not to run from the court. It doesn’t mean he’s innocent. He attacked me. Self-defense? I squeeze my eyes shut, take a breath. Clancy is sitting at the back, his face pulled into lines of concern. For me or the case, I can’t be sure.
I place my palm on the Book and raise my right hand.
“I do solemnly, sincerely, and truly declare that the evidence I shall give will be the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.”
The Book is removed.
“Be seated,” the judge commands.
I seek out Neary. He’s tall but very thin. He’s on hunger strike, proclaiming his innocence. An exercise in control, perhaps? A killer’s trait. When the papers get a snap of his skeletal frame, it won’t take long for sympathy to trickle down into the collective consciousness. He keeps his head low, but from where I’m sitting I see the moist glow across his forehead, over the top of his lip, the convulsive swallowing to wet an anxious throat. I see the signs of fear.
A warm prickle spreads in answer along my hairline. I pull my eyes away, face forward. I must waver because the judge’s voice snaps through my thoughts.
“Detective Sheehan? Would you like to take a drink of water?”
Swallow. I shake my head. “No, thank you, Judge.”
She raises an eyebrow. “Very well.”
She looks to the prosecution, for whom I’m the principal witness. I know that my testimony is what’s standing between Neary’s freedom and Ward’s justice.
“Your witness, Mr. Tanner. Stay between the lines, please,” she warns.
Mike Tanner gets up from his seat, still looking at his notes. If it’s possible, he appears more anxious than I do. His apparent nerves have the strange effect of easing mine. He stands before me, rests his hand on his stomach.
I cough, clear the stickiness from my throat.
“Detective Sheehan,” he begins. “You have a very long and assured history working with the Gardaí?”
“Yes.”
He presses his fingertips to his lips as if he might throw up. “Would you care to take us through your illustrious career?”
I frown.
He doesn’t raise his eyes, waves a hand.
My breathing picks up. “I started out in investigative work, worked up through the ranks before being promoted to detective chief super two years ago. I now help manage the Bureau for Serious Crime. I report to the commissioner through the assistant commissioner Mr. Jack Clancy.”
I pause, take a sip of water. “The bureau is a specialist department that deals with particular crime cases.”
Finally, whatever seems to have been ailing Tanner appears to pass. He swallows, straightens, and manages a more definite smile in my direction.
“That’s a lot of experience.” He checks his notes. “On Saturday, 4 June 2011, can you remember where you were at ten p.m.?”
I try to ignore the march of goose bumps along my arms, the heat under my armpits, the dull pain like a toothache throbbing over the side of my head, down my neck.
“Yes.” I touch my tongue to my lips. “I was responding to a distress call.”
“Distress call?”
“An emergency. The call was serious in nature and had been patched through to me. It was a call from Tracy Ward’s house.”
“You were in your office when the call came in?”
“No. I was returning from a meeting with my superiors.”
“So late?”
“We were working on a case. An attempted murder.”
“Would you state for the court who was the victim of this attempted murder?”
Sheridan, the defense lawyer, speaks up. “Judge, I don’t see what this has to do with the current case. Mr. Neary is not on trial for this other crime, so, respectfully, I object to the question.”
The judge checks her notes, looks up at Tanner from above her glasses. “This related?”
“Yes, Judge.”
“All right. You may answer the question, Detective Sheehan.”
“The meeting was about an attack on a young woman named Rachel Cummins.”
“Who did Ms. Cummins eventually identify as her assailant?”
“Once we had Mr. Neary in custody for Tracy Ward’s murder, Cummins identified him as her attacker.” I can’t look up.
Tanner pushes me. “Is Mr. Neary in this court presently?”
“Yes.”
“Would you identify Mr. Neary for the court, Detective?”
I press my eyes shut, then lift my head and look directly at him. “He’s sitting in the front bench, white shirt, open button.”
“Please let it be known to the court that the witness has identified Mr. Neary, the defendant.”
The judge barks, “Notified.”
“At the time of this meeting, you made some interesting observations about Ms. Cummins’s injuries.”
He passes a sheet of paper to me. It is a copy printed from my computer and details Ms. Cummins’s injuries and a few shady guesses at the offender’s profile from what Rachel had told us.
“Would you read them out to us, please, Detective?”
I clear my throat, lean in toward the microphone, and try to hold the paper steady.
“‘Ms. Cummins suffered severe injury to her right carotid artery, which, if it had not been for her neighbor, would have undoubtedly resulted in her death. The offender had struck from behind, a blow that had stunned the victim but not knocked her out.
“‘The offender then dragged her into the bedroom, where he proceeded to tie her arms to the headboard. He managed to get the left arm secured when Ms. Cummins came round and screamed. There was a struggle in which he tried to cut her throat. She kicked him hard enough to shake the knife from his hand, but not before he managed to nick the carotid.’”
I stop, take a drink of water. Heat rises to my cheeks and I long to press the cold glass to my skin. I continue to read my assessment of Neary’s attack.
“‘The offender escaped out the window, after he heard a neighbor come home. My understanding so far of the assailant is that he is likely male, strong, with unusual sexual drives that are aided by overpowering his victims.
“‘Looking at the clumsy articulation of the crime, it’s possible that this was his first attempt at murder. It is likely that the perp will try again with a different victim.’” The pages begin to tremble in my hand. “‘Next time, he will plan it better. With better planning will come a greater arrogance and sense of control. The next victim may suffer mutilation before they are eventually killed.’”
Tanner has his head bowed during the reiteration of my notes. When I stop speaking, he nods. Then he reads a further snippet from my case notes on Rachel Cummins.
“In fact, you go on to say that the killer is ‘likely intelligent, of at least average IQ, charming, possibly married, outwardly optimistic, manipulative, and will appear to function very well within the boundaries of society.’”
“Yes. That’s right.”
“Mr. Neary is a paramedic, IQ 98, was happily married, and is on the board of his local church, no less. Would you say he fits the bill?”
Sheridan stands. “Judge, this is not for the witness to decide.”
“Calm down, Mr. Sheridan.” She shoots a glare at Tanner. “You’re driving a dangerous road here, Co
unsel. Life’s too short for me to repeat myself. Another strike like that and you’re out.”
“Sorry, Judge.”
Tanner walks back to his bench. “When you received the call to check out Tracy Ward’s place, what did you do?”
I square my shoulders. Try to assume some command over my anxiety. I look to Clancy, steal strength from his presence. I can’t let Tracy Ward down. A long sigh; then I take myself back to that night.
“I picked up the call. We were already on high alert because of Ms. Cummins’s assault, and I suspected that her attacker would try again. I heard a call come over the radio and I phoned in. I was given the location and told that the woman had been cut off. I told the on-duty officer that I would take up the call and to let my team know. It was in a small cul-de-sac, in Drumcondra.
“When I arrived, the lights were off and I thought I might have the wrong address. As I was getting out of the car, the assistant commissioner Jack Clancy phoned, requesting that I wait for his backup before entering. I told him I would, but then I heard a shout that seemed to come from inside the house. It sounded threatening. I got out and went to the front door, but it was locked. The back door was open.
“I went through into the main hallway, the front door was at the end. It was empty but I could smell blood. I could see an open door farther on to my right, so I moved down the hallway. I knew that there was likely someone critically injured inside.
“There was a significant breeze blowing out through the open door and a glance inside showed me that the window was wide-open. I assumed the assailant had fled, but when I stepped into the room a dark figure lurched at me with a knife. I turned to run out of the front door, but I stumbled and started to fall. When I glanced upward, I saw Ivan Neary’s face. The knife was in his hand. He struck me at the base of my neck, and then across my temple. When I came to, Jack Clancy, Detective Baz Harwood, and a uniformed officer had arrived. Tracy Ward was pronounced dead. Mr. Neary had been arrested.”
A low banging starts up in my ears. The judge taps her pen on her notes. Each time the tip hits the paper, the sound echoes through my head. A woman leans forward, coughs into her hand; someone shifts in their seat, a rub of denim, a slow draw of warm air into a yawn.
“Detective?” Tanner is looking at me.
I force my nails into the palms of my hands, feel the bite of pain. “Sorry.”
Tanner nods. “Thank you, Detective.” Then he turns to the judge. “That will be all, Judge.”
I study my clasped hands, try to get a grip. When I look up, Justin, my brother, is watching me.
He appears more concerned than ever, and his worry makes me momentarily confused until I see the defense lawyer gather his papers. I’m not finished. Merely through the warm-up.
Tanner returns to his seat.
The judge makes a note, then addresses the defense. “Your witness, Mr. Sheridan.”
Sheridan stands.
I try not to look, try not to watch, but can’t keep my eyes from Ivan Neary’s. He stares at me, face pleading.
Sheridan’s voice pulls me back. “Detective, is it true that you entered Tracy Ward’s house alone?”
“Yes,” I reply.
I can feel the breeze snaking down the hallway, feel it reach my skin. A cold summer wind, unlikely for June, coming from the open bedroom window. The sound of my breath, close, guarded, my arm raised, ready to defend.
“Detective?” Sheridan is waiting.
“Sorry, could you repeat the question?”
“Of course.” He smiles. “Would you agree that there were no other witnesses present at the time of your attack?”
In my mind, I see Tracy’s nails, as they were in the photo, paint caked beneath the tips. Then the short linear wound on the white skin of Eleanor’s arm, the dark cavern of Amy Keegan’s mouth. “Blue Murder,” the papers had said.
The judge leans across the desk. “Detective, could you answer the question, please?”
I lick my lips. Clancy gives me a hard look.
“Y-yes,” I stammer. “I was the only witness.”
Sheridan continues. “Would you have attacked if you had come upon a killer? Defended yourself?”
“Speculation!” Tanner almost spits.
I jump in my seat; my hand bumps against the stand.
“The witness can’t possibly predict what she would or wouldn’t have done in that situation,” he continues.
“Judge, I’m merely pointing out that Mr. Neary could have mistaken Detective Sheehan for the killer.”
“Sustained,” the judge says. “Counsel, there are rules to follow. Follow them.”
“Apologies to the court.” Sheridan answers smoothly, but his question has done its job, has allied itself with the doubts in my mind.
I would have attacked. Without doubt.
“Is it true that you lost consciousness soon after the intruder attacked you?”
“Yes, until my team arrived.”
He smiles. “Ah, yes, your team.” He meets my eyes. “Did your team make the arrest?”
The knife grates against my skull; there’s a sharp grunt of Neary’s breath as he strikes out, a cry of anger or fear? The smell of blood, so much blood, the warm path of it down my neck, the thick drip of it from my fingers. Not pain, a strange numbness, a heaviness along my arm, a dull throb across my neck, my head, and then I’m falling, Neary’s face above me, knife shaking in his hand.
“Detective, are you all right?” The judge cuts across my thoughts. “Do you need a break?”
I reach out for the water; the glass clinks against my teeth.
“I’m fine.”
Sheridan nods. Opens his mouth, closes it. He glances briefly at the judge; then: “Detective, considering your experience in murder investigations, do you believe Tracy Ward’s killer was in that house when you were hit by Ivan Neary?”
Tanner stands. “Speculation!”
“Counsel, final warning,” the judge replies.
But I hear my voice. Quiet, cracking, but sure:
“No.”
* * *
—
TANNER IS PISSED. He storms off down the front steps, where he knows it will be impossible for me to follow due to the tsunami of media and paparazzi crowding the front of the courthouse. The press are waiting for his remarks. Ivan Neary is to be held overnight at least.
“This is a shit storm.” Baz paces over and back in the courtroom lobby. He’s looking into his phone, at Abigail’s full analysis of the pigment under Tracy’s nails. Prussian blue.
“Keep your voice down,” I hiss.
A journo steps out from a corridor that leads to the bog. He crosses the lobby and leaves without a backward glance.
“Sorry,” Baz mutters. “Let’s get out of here.”
He turns on his heel and sweeps out through the side of the building, where Clancy is waiting in the car. The entrance to the street is gated to prevent the press from bombarding witnesses, the innocent and the guilty alike.
Baz and I avoid the passenger seat and shuffle into the back. Clancy doesn’t say anything. He pulls away, wheels spinning, then brakes suddenly when he reaches the gates.
Immediately, camera lenses reach out over the windshield. I lean up against the headrest to avoid the invasive snaps.
“Well, you’ve truly fucked us here, Frankie,” Clancy barks, echoing Baz’s frustrations.
I shake my head. “I didn’t have time to tell you. You’d gone in by the time Abigail sent me the message.”
“Well, here’s a career tip for you, how about you fill your fucking team in on what you’re thinking? You ordered the tests.”
He sends a sliding glance at Baz.
“Don’t look at me. I didn’t know anything!” Baz shouts. “I’ve barely had time to eat and shit over the last few weeks wo
rking the cases we already have without digging up old ones.”
“The tests aren’t conclusive,” I say. “But we can’t ignore the connection between the cases, we can’t let a man go down for a crime he may not have committed.”
Clancy jerks the car through the traffic, punching the brakes and horn in equal measure against the Dublin crush.
“Well, we can’t nail the fucker now. That’s it. Innocent or not. We’ll be laughed out of court.”
I look out the window. I want to disappear.
Clancy continues. “He stabbed you, Frankie. Why would an innocent man attack a member of law enforcement at a crime scene? With the murder weapon, for fuck’s sake. Fibers of his clothes were found all over Tracy Ward’s body. Fingerprints! Everywhere! Not to mention the ID from Rachel Cummins.”
“I’m not sure there were fingerprints everywhere,” Baz mutters.
“Cummins identified him through an e-fit. She was shaken. Eager to put someone down,” I add.
Clancy cracks open the window, pushes a cigarette between his lips, lights it.
“Fucking shambles,” he says. He catches my eye in the rearview mirror, gives me a look of pure frustration. “You’re a great detective, Frankie, but fuck, you’ve got lousy timing.”
I turn, look out the window again. My voice sounds far away when I answer.
“That’s the problem.”
CHAPTER 22
SILENCE. TENSION. THESE are the great breeders of resentment. In the twenty minutes it takes for me to get back to the office, I’ve grown a substantial ball of fury in the pit of my stomach. Fury at myself. My fear, the paralyzing force that trails after every movement. I want to smack it down. Tell that bitch to shut her face so that I can think without a moderator.
At the office, Baz and I stand at the top of the room. Someone has placed a small plastic Christmas tree in the window, and a few stringy garlands drop down from the ceiling. Neither do much to lighten the atmosphere. The tension has followed us from the car and is now seeping out among the team.
Too Close to Breathe Page 19
