The Death of an Irish Sinner

by Bartholomew Gill

  “How Dery murdered Frank, I can only guess. But as his Ath Cliath tells it, somebody—meaning somebody from Opus Dei—got Frank drunk, then made it look like he cranked up the come-along himself and committed suicide.”

  “Ath Cliath?” Noreen asked. “That paper doesn’t come out until Friday.”

  “Special edition. It’s all over town today, a thick thing both literally and figuratively, with allegations that we Opusians murdered Mary-Jo to keep her from revealing that she was actually the daughter of José Maria Escrivá, our founder. Then we made Mudd’s death appear to be a suicide.

  “He even claims he possesses the manuscript that Mary-Jo was about to submit to her publisher—a biography of Escrivá in which she documents his paternity. Parmalee says he’ll be publishing a chapter of it every week, beginning this coming Friday.”

  “Does he say how he got ahold of it?”

  “It’s right on the front page—she gave it to him, he says, because she feared for her life. He claims he’s even got a letter from her to prove it.”

  Surely a publishing coup, thought Noreen. And what an irony.

  Considering her will, instead of Opus Dei’s garnering another huge windfall by publishing an expurgated version of the book, Parmalee himself—Opus Dei’s bête noire—would certainly reap thousands, if not millions, while hoisting the religious order on the petard of its founder’s supposed sin.

  Add in her murder and Mudd’s either staged or actual murder/suicide and…well, the drama of it all was delicious. But perhaps too good to be true, were Parmalee found to have murdered them both and stolen the manuscript, as Manahan’s allegation seemed to suggest.

  But somebody had been present in Mary-Jo’s quarters on the top floor of Barbastro when McGarr had entered to investigate. It was then that Geraldine Breen had attacked him, allowing the other person to escape. The place had been searched and the painting of Escrivá stolen along with all files dealing with him and supposedly the manuscript of the biography.

  Could it have been Parmalee?

  “When did Mudd tell you about Parmalee?”

  “After you interviewed me yesterday.”

  “How?”

  “I rang him up at the cottage. I admit that he wasn’t entirely coherent; he sounded a bit drunk. But I have never—make that I never, ever—heard Frank Mudd utter an untruth.”

  Although evidently Mudd had lied to Peter more than once, Noreen thought. “Why did you phone him?”

  “Because, after the questions you asked, it occurred to me that he had to have something to do with her death. Nobody else on the property would have had any cause to be anything other than grateful for Mary-Jo’s beneficence.”

  Without doubt a holy thought but innocent in the extreme, given the will, in which millions of pounds of motives for murder abounded. “May I ask one other question?”

  Manahan nodded.

  “Did you ever give Frank Mudd a Stafford jacket?”

  Wide-eyed, Manahan shook her head. “I did give him a Burberry with a matching hat. But that was years ago, before he emigrated. I should imagine it’s history by now.”

  CHAPTER 16

  THE DOOR OF THE chemist shop in Dunlavin was standing open at noon when McGarr and Ward arrived with an order to search and/or confiscate the listening devices that were illegally monitoring Barbastro from Parmalee’s flat.

  After perusing the document, chemist Joan Daley handed it back to McGarr. “I can’t make head nor tail of that gobbledegook. All I know is—I let the flat to Mr. Parmalee, who pays the rent like clockwork, and neither of you is him. End of story.” Her makeup was only somewhat less obvious than the cosmetic mask she had worn on the night before.

  “As far as I’m concerned, you go up there, you’re breaking the law. Again.”

  McGarr was already halfway up the stairs with Ward in his wake.

  “I’m going to ring up Mr. Parmalee this very moment, as I should have last night.”

  “Do that. And ask him to join us. We’ve a few questions for the man.”

  At the table that held Parmalee’s array of equipment, McGarr let Ward take over, electronics being rather a generational pursuit.

  “As I suspected, Parmalee recorded what he picked up on flash cards.” Ward pointed to the several slots on what McGarr supposed was a recorder, then held up one of the recording cards. “As you can see, they’re tiny, eminently portable, and easy to conceal.

  “But because Parmalee couldn’t be here all the time, he probably used this computer here”—Ward pointed to the CPU that had been placed on the floor beneath the table—“to monitor key words.”

  “You’re coddin’ me.”

  Ward shook his head. “It’s done all the time, has been for…at least the decade since voice recognition was perfected. We can get some yoke from the Tech Squad to come out here and figure out which words, but I’d bet some were all those things he claims to know about Opus Dei and Escrivá, the founder.”

  McGarr made a mental note to notify the Tech Squad. “For the moment, let’s see what we can pick up.”

  Flipping several toggle switches, Ward soon located voices—several people at prayer. While they chanted, McGarr had Ward run him through the procedure of switching between the monitors in the rooms of Barbastro, before saying, “I think I’m okay now. See if you can locate Parmalee.”

  “But how will you get about if I have the car?”

  “Noreen. I’ll ring her up. Failing that, I’ll walk. It’s only just up the road. And remember—what we want is a copy of the letter from Mary-Jo that Parmalee said accompanied the manuscript and a copy of the manuscript itself, if possible.

  “If he won’t give you that”—and McGarr had little hope Parmalee would allow anybody to copy the biography that he planned to run chapter by chapter in Ath Cliath—“you at least want to eyeball it, feel its heft, turn the pages.”

  “Examine the bibliography, footnotes.”

  McGarr nodded. Since she was renowned for her scholarship, any book of Mary-Jo Stanton’s would be laden with attribution.

  They had gone over the plan in the car on the drive out from Dublin: Ward would find Parmalee and demand he display the letter and manuscript. It would give Ward some idea of where Parmalee was storing the items.

  Later they could obtain a search warrant. Had Parmalee been the person who tossed Mary-Jo Stanton’s quarters on the night of her murder and stole the portrait of Escrivá—to say nothing of the manuscript—he might keep the two items together in some safe place. That way he would have art, as journalists termed graphic representations, when he began running the biography in his paper.

  “If you suspect it’s nearby, bust him. We’ll toss the place and take our chances.” With the law, which the highly litigious Parmalee was sure to invoke.

  After Ward had left, McGarr removed his jacket and loosened his tie. As he’d been shown, the channels could be controlled with a clicker, meaning that he did not have to sit by the controls.

  Pulling back the heavy drapes that kept the room in near darkness, McGarr raised the shades and discovered that the windows provided a rather fine view of Barbastro: the cottage in the copse, the garden where Mary-Jo Stanton’s corpse had been discovered, with the large chalk-white house in the distance across an expanse of chartreuse lawn. Fountains plashed at four separate sites, and a wing of eider ducks, pausing on their northward migration, alighted gracefully in the pond by the stables.

  As he listened for the first hour, McGarr conducted a second exhaustive search of the premises, discovering nothing additional other than a Swarovsky spotting scope and tripod that Parmalee had hung from a hook high up on the wall of a closet off the main room.

  Positioning it in the window that looked out on Barbastro, he found that the most powerful of its three lenses placed him virtually on the front steps of the large white house.

  Meanwhile, he listened to Fathers Duggan and Sclavi conversing mainly in Spanish about the arrangements for Mary-Jo’
s wake and funeral. Most phone calls were conducted in English.

  Because of the autopsy, the casket would be closed, McGarr learned during one call. “But only the faithful will be allowed in, the faithful alone,” Duggan mused. “By invitation. I’m drawing up the list to be taken round by messenger.” Silence ensued, and then, “I know, I know—it’s hugely distressing. But, as you’re wont to say, no sin goes unpunished. Ultimately.”

  McGarr turned his head and glanced at the bank of electronic gear. Duggan was probably speaking with Delia Manahan. The conversation was soon completed.

  And then, about two in the afternoon, as McGarr was tracking Duggan’s voice from room to room, he heard Sclavi inform Duggan that he had a call, “en el teléfono seguro.”

  Duggan waited until the door closed, McGarr could hear, before picking up. “Hello.” And then, after listening for a rather long time, “I know, Chazz. I know. There was nothing we could do, no way to stop him.”

  Another pause. “You have to understand, Parmalee has been chewing on this since we convinced Mary-Jo to banish him. Given how…erratic and vindictive he is, it was inevitable that one day it would come to this. Didn’t we discuss this before Mary-Jo’s death?”

  Yet another long silence reigned before Duggan said, “Well…I don’t want to know how that could happen. Also, I think this conversation should come to an end. I’m a man of the cloth….”

  After still another lengthy pause, Duggan added, “I should remind you whom you’re talking to.” A few seconds went by. “I’m going to hang up now. I’m hanging up. I think we should speak at some other time, when you’re more yourself.”

  And after McGarr heard the receiver hit its yoke, Duggan roared. It was a deeply masculine burst of displeasure. Before—could it be?—he began to cry.

  McGarr aimed the clicker at the equipment and jacked the volume to the max.

  Yes, Duggan was bawling uncontrollably. “How did we get into this?” he asked through his tears. “And why? Why couldn’t Mary-Jo have lived out her life as God intended? Mary-Jo—dear heart in heaven—can you forgive us?”

  McGarr heard a knock, and Sclavi asked, “¿Cómo puedo ayudarte?”

  “You can’t!” Duggan barked in English, his voice cracking. “I’m inconsolable. How could we have strayed so far, so quickly.”

  Obviously advancing into the room, Sclavi said something else, but McGarr did not hear what it was. His own mobile phone was ringing.

  The party on the other end seemed to be having trouble steadying the phone. McGarr heard rustling, followed by a thump.

  Then: “Peter?”

  The voice was so thin yet shrill, McGarr did not recognize it at first.

  “Noreen?”

  “Oh, Peter—there’s been a terrible accident. We were out shooting, and the gun—my twelve-gauge? It jammed or…it wouldn’t fire. Fitz, my da’…dy took it. You’d better come home. We need you.”

  “I don’t have a car. I’m down in the village over the chemist shop. Can you collect me? Where’s Fitz?”

  “By my feet. He’s bleeding and…not well. It blew up in his face. Metal sprayed everywhere.”

  “Where’s Nuala and Maddie?”

  “Up at the house.”

  “Have you phoned anybody else?”

  “No…I…you.” From that, McGarr knew she was not well herself.

  “I’ll be right there.”

  Hanging up and making for the stairs, McGarr phoned his headquarters in Dublin, and when McKeon came on, he said, “Bernie—Fitz has had an accident at Ilnacullin. Noreen says a gun, a shotgun they were firing, blew up in his face. I want you to get all available help to him.”

  “Including the chopper?”

  “Yes. And whatever ambulance brigade serves Dunlavin. Dr…. O’Connell, I believe his name is. Hepractices in Naas. I’m going to see what I can do.”

  Now down in the chemist shop, McGarr folded up the phone and slipped it into a pocket. “D’you have a car?” he said to Joan Daley.

  “Of course I have a car.” She was counting out pills on the counter.

  “What kind of a car?”

  “A Ford, an Escort. It’s brand spanking new.”

  “What color?”

  “Blue. No, midnight blue.”

  “It’s outside the shop?”

  “Yes, that’s it there.” She nodded toward the open door.

  “Those the keys?” McGarr pointed to her purse, which was hanging from a peg nearby. The zipper was open.

  She glanced up at him. “Yes, those are the keys. Why do you—”

  Having to reach over her, McGarr snatched them from her purse. “I’m commandeering your car. You’ll be compensated.”

  With the shrieking woman on his heels, McGarr wrenched open the door of the automobile, started it up, and bolted up the street.

  At Ilnacullin, he did not stop at the house or stables but instead drove across the lawns and through the chip-and-put course that Fitz had installed after his long game left him.

  McGarr caught sight of them in the distance by the shooting blinds, Noreen down on her knees with her father’s head—looking like a bright red berry—in her lap. His arms were stretched out, his legs splayed.

  She did not rise to meet him, and once out of the car, he could see it was serious. It seemed as though the older man no longer had half of his face. One eye was untouched. It was open and staring up at her. But his brow, his other eye, his cheek, and even most of his left ear looked like it had been wiped away with one pass of something sharp.

  There was blood everywhere—on Fitz, on Noreen, in a puddle on the ground around her knees. She looked up at McGarr, her green eyes glassy. “Is he gone?” she asked in that strange, disembodied voice. McGarr then noticed a black and cratered spot the size of a ten-P coin just behind her right ear. It looked like a splotch of dried blood, although he knew it couldn’t be.

  Now he was hearing the steady, distant thump of rotors. He had to get back in the car and drive to a clearing where the helicopter could land safely without further troubling either of them.

  “Oh—where are you going, Peter? I’m not sure I can support his head much longer.”

  When he glanced back at her, he saw she was not speaking toward him, as though she could neither turn her head nor follow him with her eyes.

  McGarr despaired, realizing he had heard that voice, seen those distanced eyes before. Choosing a landing site that was at least three hundred yards away, he hoped the helicopter was capable of carrying more than one victim and was equipped with litters or gurneys and personnel strong enough to carry the large man. There was no closer site.

  In a vortex of wind and clamor, the large military-looking craft landed.

  Out of the car now, McGarr opened all the doors and shouted, “This way! This way!” at the four EMT personnel dressed in green-and-orange coveralls. Each seemed to be carrying what looked like a suitcase. After they piled into the car, McGarr slammed it through the fields toward the shooting blinds.

  Now both Noreen and Fitz were down, and out of the corner of his eye, McGarr caught sight of Nuala and Maddie entering the field that led to the house. They were about two football fields away.

  “J. Hatch, M.D.,” the nameplate pinned to the medic’s chest said. Late thirties, slight, short blond hair. McGarr hoped she was competent.

  Kneeling by Fitz, she took his pulse while scanning his injuries. Seizing the plackets of his shirt, she ripped it open and checked his chest, before turning to Noreen.

  Whose eyes were still open. “I seemed to have tipped over. How’s my daddy?”

  Pushing back her hair near the wound behind her ear, the doctor stood suddenly. “She’s first, and hurry.”

  The two largest men snatched Noreen up and strapped her into a litter that the third man had unfolded from a case. And they left with her, the doctor running beside them toward the helicopter.

  “Do you think you could help me?” the third man asked McGarr, taking anothe
r litter out of its case.

  Fitz weighed at least fifteen stone, which felt much heavier as dead weight, McGarr could not help but think, again examining the gross injury to his father-in-law’s face. Jesus God, please let them live.

  Hearing Maddie now, crying out for her mother, he snapped his head toward the end of the field and saw Nuala holding her back.

  “Ready now?” the other man said. “If we can get him even a step or two closer, the sooner we can take off, the better. The others will relieve you the moment they get her aboard.”

  They ran as well as they were able, until the two others appeared by McGarr’s side, each taking a handle of the litter.

  But McGarr was not allowed aboard. “Sorry, Chief Superintendent. You know how it is. Not enough room, and—” Only medical personnel, who would deal with Noreen and Fitz unemotionally.

  The crying seemed louder now, and McGarr turned to find Maddie rushing down the hill toward the helicopter. Pivoting, he lowered his head as the bay door closed and the engine cranked over. And with arms out he caught her, so she couldn’t move beyond him.

  “What happened?”

  McGarr lifted her into his arms. “I don’t know, exactly. One of your mother’s shotguns wouldn’t fire, and when your grandpa tried to make it work, it exploded.” But how, he wondered—an obstruction in the barrel?

  A shell that somehow got packed with too much powder? No. And even if it did, the barrel—modern barrels, forged barrels—would hold for a shot or two. There had been a time when Fitz had packed his own loads, but long ago. And commercial shells were produced automatically, by machines with strict quality control.

  The helicopter began lifting off, and Nuala joined them, also asking, “For the love of God, Peter, what happened?”

  McGarr explained it again without convincing himself any further.

  “How bad is it?” Nuala asked.