First Death In Dublin City (Thomas Bishop Book 1)

by Colm-Christopher Collins

  ##

  They hopped into the car, but before Tommy turned on the car, his frustration overcame him. Next thing he knew he was punching the steering wheel, his anger overcoming him, his knuckles stinging.

  ‘Tommy! Tommy!’ Said Anne.

  ‘Fuck this poxy situation.’ Tommy said.

  ‘Look, cool it-’

  ‘Shut up.’ Tommy said.

  ‘Alright so, just drive.’ Anne said.

  The rage within Tommy was poisonous, the anger waiting at his tongue to barb the air.

  ‘I’ve a source I need to check with; might know some witnesses. The body won’t be in the morgue yet, so I say we check in with them first.’

  ‘Whatever.’ Anne said, so Tommy pulled out from the kerb.

  He drove them to the Liffey, the car completely silent. Swinging left, Tommy waited till he reached Heuston Station before crossing to the Northside. At the Courts then he turned right, so as to reach O’Devaney Gardens.

  ‘Stay in the car.’ Tommy said.

  ‘But -’ Anne said.

  ‘Stay, I’ll be out in a few.’ Tommy said.

  O’Devaney Gardens represented a scene replicable in capitals all over Europe. Gangs of kids roamed the grey concrete street with nothing to do until school came around, while their older comrades dreamed of the day they could drop out of school without hassle from the NEWB and become full time drug dealers. Bleak and hopeless, there was nothing of cheer and beauty within O’Devaney Gardens. Where once, the poorest areas of Dublin had been the cornerstones of culture and community in the city, in the seventies the city had then flooded with drugs, and now poverty in this city held nothing but a bleak and hopeless grey for those who suffered its cold grasp.

  Tommy walked by a burned out car and a crew of hooded kids standing in a circle. Runners, the lot of them. Whenever a pregnant mother or doped out junkie came a knocking, they would give the nod to one of the runners, who, flying up a number of stairs, would let someone higher up the chain know that some vials were needed.

  Tommy was not in the mood for dealing with runners, so he brushed past them and went onto the stairs himself. They called after him, but he ignored them, and none tried to stop him. He heard somebody whisper ‘five oh’ and the others fell silent. Five oh, an American expression for the police. Tommy wondered what it was that made this new crop of inner city gangland criminals so Americanised. Any inner city boy now, instead of becoming the distinctively Irish criminal the previous generation were, was instead walking around with Tupac tattoos and airmax runners. Globalisation affects all parts of society, evidently.

  Up two flights of rusting stairs, and onto an old landing, where there were two men standing. Both were youths a little older than the kids downstairs, and dressed in slightly less shiny clothes.

  Tommy looked at them.

  ‘Sup boss.’ The one of the right said.

  ‘Barber in charge today?’ Asked Tommy.

  ‘You a Garda?’ Asked the one on the left.

  Tommy just rolled his eyes at him.

  ‘Yeah, sure, he’s around today.’ Said the one on the right. He was a giant man, weighing close to twenty stone no doubt, and wearing an old rip off Liverpool jersey.

  ‘Lemme talk to him.’ Said Tommy. Tubby nodded, took out a phone and sent off a text.

  Tommy leaned back against the bars that were last painted in the eighties. The guy on the left, a short, emaciated prick with the look of a junkie; eyed Tommy up. Tommy wasn’t afraid; not that he thought he could take him, there was nothing quite like the aggressiveness of an addict looking for a fix, but clearly he didn’t have too much going on behind his blank, angry, eyes and wouldn’t attack unless his boss ordered him. Tubby, however, seemed to be much more with it. Tommy would have to remember his face for whenever he next popped into the Drugs and Organised Crime Bureau.

  After two minutes, Tubby’s phone buzzed and then he turned it off. He indicated to Tommy to follow him, and walked to the stairs. Up to the fifth floor of the flats, where two Nigerian women were fighting on a balcony over a set of curlers, or so it seemed anyway, while their young children ran in and out of doorways.

  At the end of the hallway there leaned against the wall a figure in a green Celtic hoodie. Even from here, Tommy could tell it was the Barber. Jerry O’Driscoll was his actual name, but his habit of burning the hair of those he found unfavourable had earned him his nickname. He was a short man, with a shaved head tattooed with the name of each of the signatories of the Proclamation; and beneath his eyes were tattooed five names, one for each his children.

  ‘The prodigal detective returns.’ Barber stepped away from the wall and flashed Tommy a smile peppered with golden teeth. So far as Tommy knew, he’d had his jaw shattered when attacked in Mountjoy.

  ‘I don’t feel good about this.’ Said Tommy.

  ‘C’mere to me.’ He said and shrugged his shoulder for Tommy to follow.

  ‘You’re still alive.’ Said Tommy.

  Barber turned around, worried. ‘Why, did you hear something?’

  ‘No, except guys like you, death seems to be an occupational hazard.’ Said Tommy.

  ‘No one’s gotten me yet.’ He said. He was leading Tommy through a dingy apartment, where two young men slept on couches; night dealers, more than likely.

  Then, into the bathroom. There was a bath that had been installed a century ago, and in it sat a box. TEMPLE STREET CHILDREN’S HOSPITAL was written on the side, and Tommy felt a pang of guilt as he thought of the morphine some sick child may be missing.

  Already to blame for the death of Amy Clancy, stealing from a sick child isn’t that much of a push beyond the moral horizon.

  Barber took from a box three vials.

  ‘Three will do?’ And Tommy nodded in reply.

  From his pocket Tommy took several notes he had taken from an ATM in Rathmines directly after telling Gary Clancy the bad news, the moment he had seen Amy’s body in the shallow water, he knew that this was coming.

  ‘One fifty?’ Asked Tommy.

  ‘One, you’re a good guy, so consider it a police discount.’ Said Barber, taking two fifties off Tommy, and smiling, mocking him.

  ‘Now, piss off.’ He said, and Tommy duly obliged.

  Out in the car Anne was looking at Tommy confused, however the vials in his pocket put rest somewhat to his agitation.

  ‘Anne, sorry for getting mad.’ Tommy said.

  ‘It’s ok, what you saw today.. Well what was that about?’ Anne said.

  ‘I was checking in with a source I have on the streets, see if any dealers saw anything in relation to Amy being dumped.’ Tommy said.

  ‘Get anything?’ Anne asked.

  ‘Nothing as of yet, but it was worth checking out.’ Tommy said.

  15

  The Dublin City Morgue, a building that dated back to 1903, was demolished back in 1999 and in an ever shelved project has yet to be repaired, so instead of Store Street, the home of the Coroner’s Court, Tommy and Anne drove to Marino. The temporary morgue used in Dublin was in the O’Brien Institute, the training college for the country’s firemen. The institute was on a greenfield site, just at the back of ArdScoil Rís, and had a long gravel path to reach the old Victorian building.

  They buzzed and were allowed in, a secretary asking them their business, to which they replied that they were Gardaí, and they were allowed through to the morgue, or at least the door into it. Tommy knocked, and two minutes later out came Orlaith Ryan, a state coroner.

  ‘Tommy, I’ve just started on the Amy Clancy body.’ Said Orlaith. He being a homicide detective, and she a coroner, they had gotten to know each other rather well.

  ‘Can you tell us anything?’ Asked Tommy.

  ‘Half an hour.’ Said Orlaith, shutting the door after her.

  Tommy and Anne sat on hardbacked chairs in silence for five minutes, before Anne spoke up.

  ‘Where did you say she was dumped again?’ Asked Anne.

  ‘Glenaulin
Park. It’s in Palmerstown.’ Said Tommy.

  ‘Don’t you live in Palmerstown?’ Asked Anne.

  ‘Sure do. The park is very near my house. Whenever a match is played there, I can hear the shouts if I leave my window open.’ Said Tommy, relaxing into his seat and running his hand through his hair, stressed.

  ‘Are you ok? You seem very, very off.’ Anne seemed worried.

  ‘She was dumped in a stream, against the grate of a storm drain. She had been wrapped in a towel but the water had pulled it off her.’ Said Tommy, staring into the distance.

  ‘I don’t get how this bothers you.’ Said Anne.

  ‘What do you mean? It’s a dead girl, of course I’m bothered.’ Said Tommy.

  Anne rubbed her hands over each other, nervous. ‘You’ve seen worse.’

  ‘You have.’ Said Anne. Tommy was curious, what did she know.

  ‘Have you done your homework on me?’ Asked Tommy.

  ‘Operation Bell.’ Said Anne.

  Tommy rolled his eyes, very tired after all these years of hearing about the case that made his career, Operation Bell.

  ‘The dead in Operation Bell weren’t my fault.’ Said Tommy, speaking softly.

  ‘How’s Amy your fault?’ Said Anne, reaching over and touching Tommy’s shoulder.

  ‘Ah, I’ve just been a bit off lately is all.’

  ‘Well this case is weird.’ Said Anne.

  ‘What, a dead girl?’ Said Tommy.

  ‘No, that the killer picked that park. Why so close to you?’ Asked Anne.

  ‘Because he’s a cunt.’ Said Tommy.

  ‘Why not your front garden? If he wanted to provoke you, like he has, why not really pin the blame on you? And how could he have known it was you investigating anyway, NBCI is a secret organisation.’ Asked Anne.

  Tommy thought for a second. ‘Ok it’s weird.’ He admitted.

  ‘We’ll get him.’ Said Anne.

  Tommy nodded. ‘We’ll get him.’

  Orlaith walked out of the room, and nodded to the two of them. They followed her into the lab. The room was full of corpses, naked white bodies lying back upon their tables in various stages of examination. The smell of formaldehyde was so strong in the air Tommy could almost drink it. At the end of the room, Amy Clancy lying on a trolley. She looked peaceful, or at least would have had she not been mid-autopsy. Beside her were test tubes filled with her various bodily liquids, from samples of the content of her stomach, to slivers of what had been under her fingernails. There was blood and piss too, and already bacteria had begun to fester at her stab wounds. Tommy was reminded of just how bad an opened human being smelled.

  ‘What killed her?’ Asked Anne.

  ‘Multiple stab wounds to the chest, made with a weapon that was, perhaps, not as sharp as a knife.’ Orlaith pointed to the various chest wounds that added together to make Amy’s chest be almost non-existent.

  ‘No obvious signs of rape.’ She said, continuing.

  ‘Really?’ Asked Tommy.

  ‘Well, we won’t know until the tox screens come back, whether she had anything inserted into her vagina, anus or mouth, but look here.’ And Orlaith opened out Amy’s legs. ‘Completely clean, no bruises whatsoever. If there was rape he wasn’t very rough about it. Hyman isn’t broken either, nor is her sphincter injured.’

  ‘Are you sure that means he wasn’t raped?’ Asked Anne.

  ‘Do you remember the Alanna Bursey case?’ Orlaith said to Anne directly.

  ‘Of course, I was still in secondary school, but I mean, of course. Rape and murder of a twelve year old gets remembered.’ Said Anne.

  ‘Well I was assisting on that autopsy, and the anatomy of the two victims is in no way comparable. Women aren’t of a size or bone structure capable of biologically handling sex with an adult male until they at least are fourteen. Amy wasn’t even overweight, in fact I would hazard that she ate so irregularly as to match the criterion for an eating disorder. Had an adult male raped her the least we would be looking for would be trace bruising. When children get raped it isn’t rare that they end up with bone fractures or breaks. Amy here was not penetrated.’ Said Orlaith.

  ‘Shit, so wait, what other reason would someone have to kill a girl?’ Said Anne.

  ‘Contrary to popular opinion, men think about more than sex.’ Said Tommy, then realised what it was he had said. ‘Shit, I’m sorry, I don’t know why I made that joke.’

  ‘It’s fine, don’t worry.’

  ‘Money, sex, secrets and hate.’ Tommy put on gloves and began poking around the body, tested the teeth and skin, checking for signs of parental neglect.

  ‘What’s that?’ Asked Anne.

  Tommy ignored her. ‘What do you think of this wound?’ He asked, pointing at the congealed blood on Amy’s forehead.

  ‘Blunt object with a sharp point.’ Said Orlaith.

  Tommy looked at her. ‘Oxymoron much?’

  ‘I mean, something like a brick or the edge of a table. A cube or square. She was hit by a sharp point but it wasn’t a sharp instrument. Does that make sense?’ Asked Orlaith.

  ‘Perfect sense.’ Tommy looked up at Anne. ‘Money, sex, secrets and hate. The only reason people kill other people.’

  ‘What about people who enjoy killing?’ Asked Anne.

  ‘A statistical anomaly, you’ve been reading too much Thomas Harris.’ Tommy dumped the gloves in a bin. ‘I still think sex may have been a motivator, I’m not ruling it out.’

  ‘Sex being a motivator but no sex?’ Asked Anne.

  ‘Fifty years ago the thought of same-sex attraction would rarely have crossed the mind of any detective in Ireland, given that it was of such pariah status. Similarly it is easy to fall into the idea that just because a sexual preference isn’t out in the open, it mustn’t exist; no, sex is indeed still on the table as a motivator.’ Asked Tommy.

  ‘Alright, sorry.’ And Anne rolled her eyes at Orlaith who just smiled.

  ‘One last thing.’ Said Tommy.

  ‘Finally.’ Said Anne with a smile.

  ‘There aren’t any ligature marks, am I right?’ Asked Tommy.

  ‘Yes, you’re right.’ Said Orlaith.

  ‘So she wasn’t restrained.’ Said Tommy.

  ‘Shit.’ Anne said.

  ‘Probably drugs. Ok, see you soon for the full report.’ Tommy waved at Orlaith and left with Anne in tow.

  ##

  Tommy stared at the angry man in the mirror above his mantle. His blue tie hung crumpled upon his neck and his shirt was open, exposing scars from numerous operations upon his chest. In his shaking right hand, the man in the mirror held a half empty shoulder of Huzzar; the despair in his eyes made clear he was hoping to drink enough to pass out before he did something really stupid – but the vodka was dry, and did little to quiet his rage.

  Tommy got up, and placing the bottle on the mantle, squared up to this loser. Fat, ugly, a nothing – rage flashed and Tommy smacked his head off this wretch. His headbutt cracked the mirror, strange fractals breaking through the glass, but it was not as badly cracked as his skin, with blood beginning to stream from the cut over his eyebrows – by the time he was taking out an old fold out table he didn’t know if it were blood or tears filling his mouth with the taste of salt and metal.

  In his shoe cupboard, in an old wooly sock held the vials he had purchased just hours earlier – he thought he’d last a few more weeks sober, and he hadn’t made it a day. He fished one of the vials out and placed it on a table, the clear liquid sitting still, ready to calm the wolves at Tommy’s soul. Tearing a syringe from a plastic packet, Tommy dipped the metal into the seal and sucked, the syringe now filling up of the same.

  Glancing down Tommy noticed that his arms hadn’t changed from when, all those years ago, he had been in the height of a habit. Strong, azure veins criss-crossed his forearms, as they always had since childhood – it made the need of a belt negligible. When he pricked himself with the needle full of morphine it didn’t particularly hur
t, yet he howled his bloody sob anyway.

  A thought unbidden rushed to his brain, one he hadn’t thought in months. He pricked and pushed, and felt the foreign liquid enter his blood. Quickly, before he passed out, he gathered all the equipment and threw it into a shoebox at his feet, both his sisters had keys to the house.

  In his mind’s eye, a girl was lying against Tommy’s knees; brown hair and round face. Her face was studded with freckles, and she occasionally smiled at him between drags of her rolled cigarette mixed with marijuana. It was the Phoenix Park, a summer day he’d never forget, she wearing a flowery dress to match the weather, he dressed in jeans and sweating.

  ‘Rebecca.’ He said, and passed out with her name on his lips.

  5

  Tommy was almost an hour late in reaching Ballyfermot station. He had awoken in the standard stupor, one he knew well from the seedy hostels and couches all across the UK. He had lived the addict’s life in England for almost two years, just before he had joined the Gardaí, but that didn’t make it any easier. He had needed water, but it taken him forever to get up, partially because his joints had stiffened up and partly because of the guilt of his having gone nuclear.

  Eventually however, he did manage to pull himself up out of the couch and into the kitchen. He’d spent two minutes straight puking in the sink, as yesterday’s burrito for lunch and steak he’d had for dinner came up in ugly chunks preserved in congealed bile. Finally, with his entire intestinal system drained he found no more need to puke, though the queasy nausea remained. He needed to piss, but he was barely able to see straight and the walls seemed to be moving, so Tommy just dropped his trousers and went in the kitchen sink. He felt no desire to shit; the opium would leave him constipated for hours before the diarrhoea would come. He felt too no desire to eat.

  It was at this time he checked his watch and realised that he was expected at Ballyfermot station within the hour, so he decided that some action was required. He was already going to be late, it was just the margin at this stage. Taking a pair of jeans and a shirt from the dirty pile of ‘to be washed’ clothes, he legged it out the front door. He would head over to the local MACE, and buy himself a can of red bull. If that stayed down he would have another, and then another. That, as well as plenty of paracetamol should have him fighting fit.