by Anne Emery
When I looked into her living room, I reeled backwards in shock. The room was a shambles of blood and chaos; the smell of death overpowered the stale odour of smoke that hung in the room. I fought down the urge to be sick. My first thought — and it shamed me — was: What have I touched? My second thought was to look down at my feet to make sure I had not stepped in anything that would show up in a shoe print. Nessie Murphy was face down on the floor, blood pooled around her head. There was spatter on the walls and the couch. Lying on its side near her body was the DC3 ashtray stand; ashes and cigarette butts littered the floor around her. The bronze propellers of the old aircraft were bent and broken. The heavy marble ashtray rested against her head. I didn’t have to be a forensic investigator to know it had been used to club her to death. Her horse figurines were nowhere in sight. Books had been yanked from the bookcase in the corner. The scene suggested she had been dead for a while. But not that long: I had been there myself less than twenty-four hours ago. Was that why she had been killed, because I had been here?
Every instinct told me to bolt. But I steeled myself to go through with my plan, to retrieve the papers. I was treading on dangerous ground, interfering with a crime scene and plotting a theft of what would be key evidence for the police investigating her death. But I took a deep breath and told myself to get moving. Then I noticed a pair of worn bedroom slippers sticking out of the hall closet. I removed my shoes and socks, and shoved my bare feet into the slippers. Let those be the footprints they find, if any. As I made my way to the back of the flat, I was relieved to see that the blood and gore were confined to the area immediately around the victim. I peered into the first bedroom. Like the living room, it had been tossed. An old-fashioned jewellery box had been upended on the bed; the mattress was askew as if someone had groped beneath it. On the floor beside the bed was a plastic shopping bag with photographs spilling out of it; I dumped the pictures and wrapped the bag around my right hand before touching any items in the room. No papers. I proceeded to the other bedroom. Here again all the items had been rifled. Two battered leather briefcases had been wrenched open and left empty. I searched every drawer and shelf but found no documents, no diary.
I had just entered the kitchen when I heard a sudden creaking sound, and my heart banged in my chest. I stood perfectly still, covered in a sheen of sweat. Nothing happened. After a few tense moments I resumed my quest but again found nothing. How long till someone came to the flat? I grabbed a paper towel from the holder and left the kitchen. I looked ahead through the hallway to the front door and saw a car slowing down in front of the house. I held my breath. It moved on. Probably just on the hunt for a parking space. I searched the front closet, only to confirm what I already knew: the papers were gone.
I was so desperate to get away I felt my heart might give out before I got clear of the building. I toed off the slippers, grabbed my shoes with shaking hands, shoved them on my feet, kicked the slippers back into position, looked around again to reassure myself I had not left behind any markers visible to the naked eye, then wiped the doorknob with the paper towel, closed the door, removed the plastic bag, stuffed it along with the paper towel in my pocket, and walked as calmly from the house as if I had been there to sell the obstinate old woman a life-insurance policy. I did not see anyone about, but that did not mean there were not curious eyes behind the curtains of the dilapidated houses on the street. I got into my car, fumbled and dropped my keys, finally got the car going, and drove away from the neighbourhood. My eyes were drawn obsessively to the rearview mirror; where did that white van come from? Good, it veered off. After motoring aimlessly for half an hour, I stopped several towns away and threw the paper towel and plastic bag in a Dumpster. Convinced at last that it was safe to return to the hotel, I headed in that direction, narrowly averting a collision that would have been entirely my fault. When I got to my room I showered and changed, then collapsed on the bed. When I finally felt calm enough I got up and drove back across the river, went to a pay phone close to the Brooklyn Bridge, called 911, reported Nessie’s death in what I hoped was a generic New York accent, hung up and hightailed it to the Burkes’.
What did it mean that the papers were gone? Had Nessie destroyed them herself before falling victim to a murderer’s hand? Was this a simple break-in, someone preying on a crippled old lady, taking a few keepsakes to be sold at a flea market? Unlikely. The burglar had one purpose and one purpose alone: the retrieval of the records that had been a threat to somebody’s security for forty years. The theft of her trinkets was a cover-up. Was the murder a byproduct of the need to get the papers? Or was it a planned execution?
†
Brennan was the only one home; his parents were still at church. He came to the door carrying a book, which I saw was a breviary. I was about to shatter his mood of peaceful contemplation.
“Nessie Murphy is dead.”
He stared at me. “Dead!”
“Murdered.”
“God save us! How do you know this?”
I described what I had found. “And I did not cover myself with glory at the scene.”
“What do you mean?”
“I sneaked around the house while she was lying there, covered my hand with a plastic bag and proceeded to search the place. Looking for the obituary, the diaries and whatever other papers Cathal had and Nessie found. Which is what I went for in the first place.”
“And?”
“The papers weren’t there.”
“I see.” He looked beyond me to the window. “Christ only knows what was in those papers. I wonder how easy it would be for someone to make sense of them. Nessie knew her brother’s writing, and obviously had a sense of whatever shorthand he might have used. Perhaps his scribblings won’t make sense to anyone else.”
“Somebody wanted them badly enough to kill for them. That individual will be able to decipher them.” I thought for a moment. “Those code books on Nessie’s shelf. The ones she used for the little bit of encryption she did in the obituary. There were no library stickers on those books, nothing on the spines. She didn’t hoof it all the way to the library in her walker. That little scene never happened.”
“So she bought them.”
“You didn’t see them, Brennan. Those books were well past their ‘best before’ date.”
“Secondhand book shop? No,” he replied in answer to his own question, “she couldn’t have assumed there would be code books on offer, and she wouldn’t have done all the standing that is part of a trip to a used book shop. So, old code books in the apartment. Cathal’s?”
“Could be. If they were hers, and she had a long familiarity with them, I don’t think we would have heard so much about how she devised an easy code for someone she knew to have worked in Army Intelligence. She wouldn’t have explained it. So yes, I’d say they were Cathal’s. And now they’re gone. Other books were left behind, but not the code books. Were the IRA into that kind of tradecraft?”
He shrugged. “I wouldn’t know.”
How would the IRA and its supporters have operated in those days? It was probably a minor point and I did not want to turn it into a research project. Maybe there had been some information in the news clipping about the waterfront heist. Had the story mentioned IRA codes, or subterfuges of that nature? I didn’t think so. The news story gave the name of an investigating officer, I remembered, but the robbery had occurred nearly forty years ago. What were the chances the cop was still alive? Well, Declan was still kicking, and Nessie Murphy had been, until yesterday. What was the officer’s name? Rose? No, that was the lawyer.
“Brennan, where’s the clipping your niece found, the news story about Gerald Connors?”
He left the room and came back with the photocopy. I scanned it: a straightforward report of crime and punishment. No details about the clandestine operations of the IRA. The police officer was a Constable Seamus O’Brien. A constable could be any age, given the large numbers of cops and the limited opportunities for promotio
n.
“So, where did you go after you found the body?”
I looked at Brennan and turned my mind to the present. “I went back to the hotel, showered, changed my clothes, drove to a pay phone in Brooklyn and made an anonymous call to 911 about Nessie, then came over here. Jesus Christ! I just left the woman lying there, I tried to steal evidence —” My voice had risen and I willed myself to calm down. “All right, Brennan. Who knows about our visits with Nessie?”
“I’m not sure.”
I waited, but he had nothing to say. Finally, I asked: “Do your brothers know?”
“I don’t think so. The only one I would have told would have been Patrick. And I don’t think I did.”
“Terry?”
“No. I wasn’t speaking to Terry about it.”
“How about your sister?”
“No.”
“Was Francis in on any of the discussions about this?”
“Not with me.”
I let a few moments pass. “And Declan. Does he know?”
He looked at me sharply. “We don’t know what he knows, but he didn’t get any of it from me.”
“Right.” Now, last but not least: “Did you tell Leo Killeen?”
He gave me an appraising look, then answered: “No.”
“I mean, in confessional mode or in any other —”
“No.”
“So, what do we do now?”
“Now we drop it.”
“What?”
“It’s Easter. You’re missing your family. You’ll be going home soon. Enjoy the rest of your time here.”
“But —”
“You’ve been exposed to a shooting, now a murder. If you’d turned up there sooner, you might have ended up with Nessie on the floor. In fact, you may be in danger anyway because whoever killed Nessie and took the papers may know that you —”
“And you, Brennan. But I don’t think so. I’m not able to think straight today, but if I were betting on this I’d say the killer got what he wanted: the papers. If he knows we’re involved, he knows why we’re involved. We’re in it for Declan. And if he knows Declan, he knows the man wouldn’t talk about this business even if his life depended on it. The killer knows we’re not going to appear on the six o’clock news. Nessie was the tattletale, the informer. Now she’s been silenced and her brother’s papers safely removed from prying eyes.”
“What are you saying? That this isn’t the same man who tried to kill my father? We’ve got two maniacs running around attacking people? I don’t take much comfort from that thought.” He was quiet for a few seconds, then picked up the thread again. “But I suppose the fact that the two attacks were so different — my father shot by a meticulous executioner with a gun, the old woman hit over the head with a piece of furniture —”
“Oh, I don’t put any stock in that, Brennan. I think Nessie’s killing was an execution. I think it was made to look like a burglary to muddy the waters. Our killer — if there is only one — is doing damage control. He knows she had the goods on the Irish operation back in the 1950s.”
“But who, aside from my father, would care about all that now? As far as we know it’s only Declan who would lose if his role were exposed. The other man, Connors, paid the price years ago.”
It was a good point and it made me think. What were we missing?
Brennan continued: “We’ve always taken the position that my father was shot in revenge for his part in that heist, shot by someone whose life was altered as a result of it. And I still think that’s true. We have to find Gerard Willman.”
I made no comment. I was not yet ready to announce that the attempt on Declan might be personal. That it came from the very heart of his family. And that the obituary might represent another avenue of inquiry altogether, whether parallel to, or intersecting with, the path taken by Francis. Was it possible Cathal and Francis knew each other? Where did Gerard Willman fit in? I would have to check with Terry to see whether the skip tracer had found him.
I heard Teresa and Declan coming in the door, and my thoughts returned to Cathal. I thought of Nessie’s mean-spirited account of her brother’s obsession with Teresa Burke, an obsession that impelled him to uproot himself and his sister from their home, so he could follow Teresa to New York. How much did Teresa know about Cathal Murphy, or Charlie Fagan as he was called in Ireland?
I eventually got Mrs. Burke on her own, and wasted no time in getting to the point: “Teresa, when you showed Declan the obituary of Cathal Murphy, did you know who Cathal was?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Do you know who he is now?”
“My husband recently — belatedly — gave me a terse explanation that this was a fellow by the name of Charlie Fagan, from Dublin. Declan wasn’t very forthcoming, but I gathered it had been a man we had seen around the city. I remembered him after that.”
“But before that — before Declan’s outpourings on the subject — did the name set off any bells in your mind? When you first read the obituary?”
“No. Cathal is a common name in Ireland. It’s a common name in the Irish Republican Army, for that matter. Or was.”
“Tell me about Charlie Fagan when you knew him in Dublin.”
“I hardly knew him at all, Monty. He worked in a shop. I used to say hello to him. He was a nice young man, but I didn’t know anything about him.”
“Did you know he was in love with you?”
“I wouldn’t go so far as to say that. I noticed he was shy whenever I was around, but if I’d thought about it I’d have assumed he was like that with all young women.” She gave a helpless shrug.
“Were you aware that he had followed you over here?”
“No!”
“Were you ever aware of a man following you or watching you here in New York?”
“The children used to cod me about a secret admirer. ‘He was out there again, Mam!’ I paid them no mind. I’m sorry, Monty, I’m of no use to you here. To more pleasant subjects now: Terry and Sheila have invited us all over for Easter dinner. Patrick and his little girls will be there. I hope you’ll be joining us.”
Either that or I’d be moping around by myself somewhere. “If you can bear the sight of me any longer, I’d love to come.”
“You’re a part of the family now, Monty. I only wish Bridey could come up for it. I don’t quite know whether I should wish for Francis or not!”
Bridey yes, Francis no. Francis never, if you knew what I know.
Teresa left the room and Brennan came in. I recounted my talk with his mother. “Bridey was teasing your mother at the wedding reception, about a secret admirer. Bridey called him Mack. Do you remember any of this?”
“I vaguely remember a joke about it. Didn’t pay much attention. Here.” He picked up a pen and paper and wrote down a number. “Give her a call.”
“Bridey?”
“No, Saint Dymphna.”
So I dialled the number and a young boy answered. “Hi. Is your mother there?”
“One second please.” A series of bangs and then Bridey came on the line.
“Hello?”
“Hello, Bridey. It’s Monty.”
“Oh! How are you, Monty?”
“Fine. Listen. Brennan and I are wondering if you can help with something.”
“Sure. Ask away.”
“Do you remember, when we had lunch together —” Brennan looked at me “— I brought up the secret admirer you were teasing your mother about, but I can’t remember exactly what you said.”
“You don’t think this guy had something to do with the shooting! Please don’t tell me that!” Her voice had risen half an octave.
“No, if it’s who we think it was, he’s dead. But I’d certainly like to hear what you remember.”
“It’s just that when we were kids we saw a man kind of sauntering along a few blocks behind us when Mam would take us out somewhere.”
“How many times did this happen?”
“Only two or
three. That I saw, or remember. One time Terry and I were playing a few houses down and saw him watching our mother hanging out clothes.”
“How old was he?”
“Oh, Monty, you know kids. A grown-up is a grown-up. He could have been thirty-five; he could have been fifty, for all we knew.”
“What did he look like? How did he act?”
“I can’t remember what he looked like, honestly. Just a man. Nothing unusual about his clothes. I picture him in a shirt and tie, with a sweater and a tweed jacket. He wore one of those hats the men all wore in those days. What do you call it, a fedora? He didn’t do anything. Just stood there with his hands linked behind his back.”
“You mentioned a nickname you had for him. Mack, was it?”
“That’s right. I can’t remember why, maybe just because that was a common word back then. Got a light, Mack? Get lost, Mack. I don’t know.”
“Anything else?”
“No. Does Bren recall any of this?”
“Apparently not.”
“Terry might. He and I got into a big fight in connection with this man, but I can’t think what the fight was about. Shit. What was it? We got in trouble and, typical brother and sister, each of us tried to blame the other. We followed him! My God, I haven’t thought of that in years. Terry and I set out to follow the guy. And we were late getting home. Somehow we ended up in a big snit, and I punched Terry in the face. I have no idea what any of that was about. Ask Terry; I’d love to hear it!”
“I’ll give him a call. Where did you follow him to? Mack.”
“I can’t remember anything else about it, where we went or anything. I’m really sorry. But try Terry.”
“Thanks, Bridey. Well, bye for now.”
“Good luck!”
“They followed him!” I announced to Brennan. “She and Terry, but she can’t remember where or what happened.”
