Evans nodded acknowledgment before speaking. “Well, on arrival to the mortuary, the deceased is labeled with their identity before being placed in the cold chamber. The Gardaí fill out a P1 form, the deceased’s belongings are catalogued and the body is undressed or left clothed depending on whether there is to be a post-mortem in the event a crime is being considered.”
“And if a crime is considered?”
“The process would generally be the same, but we would have to liaise with the Senior Investigating Officer in charge of the case regarding storage and handling of the body. We usually keep the bodies in a positive temperature chamber between two and four degrees, that allows the body to be kept for several weeks but doesn’t prevent decomposition. For suspected victims of a crime, we store the body in a negative temperature chamber, which ranges between minus ten and minus fifty degrees Celsius. This renders the body completely frozen and therefore good for the collection of forensic evidence.”
“Do the Gardaí have influence in regards to your standard operating procedures?”
Evans thought for a moment. “Not really. They can arrange to have the body moved if necessary, but other than that…”
“And in the case of Obadiah Stark, everything was procedure? I imagine you’ll be aware of the concerns raised following his execution, so I was just curious to know if you had to take extra measures regarding his transportation, security for the body, decoy transfers etc.”
The coroner held a short silence before snorting. “I wasn’t aware of any concerns, but to answer your question, procedure was followed as usual, the only difference being that the PSNI contacted us ahead of his transportation to ensure a technician was going to be on hand to receive the body.”
“PSNI?”
“Police Service of Northern Ireland.”
“Right,” Joe acknowledged with a smile. “And this was all prior to Stark leaving Absolom?”
“The warden informed us the execution had taken place, we were then contacted by the PSNI regarding the time of his arrival.”
“Are all executed prisoners transferred from Absolom brought by boat?”
“The execution of prisoners is a rare occurrence, Mr. O’Connell,” Evans replied with annoyance. “Maybe one every year or so, depending on the efficacy of the prisoner’s solicitor. Richard hates the perception that Absolom is there purely for the capital punishment of prisoners. He believes that it stands for more, that simply being there isn’t enough for the inmates to appreciate the gravity of their actions. For that reason, he takes consultation from justice organisations as to how he can better facilitate the rehabilitation of their minds, especially those awaiting execution.”
Joe considered his response. “So, he seeks advice on how he can teach them remorse before he puts them to death?”
Evans rubbed his cheek slowly. “That’s a crude way of putting it, but yes. Not everyone considers the death penalty enough of a punishment, Mr. O’Connell. Some people feel that they have to at least appreciate the gravity of their actions before they die. Otherwise, true justice hasn’t really been achieved.”
Joe met the coroner’s intense gaze, uncomfortable with his rhetoric. “These organisations…how much involvement do they have?”
“It’s purely on a consultation basis as far as I know.”
“I can’t imagine it’s a service they provide out of altruism.”
Evans shrugged. “You’d have to speak to Richard regarding their arrangement. Consider the other side of the coin, Mr. O’Connell. Society demands these people suffer for their crimes, not live comfortably in their final days. As I said, sometimes death isn’t considered enough.”
“Isn’t enough?” Joe said flatly. “I wasn’t aware capital punishment was at the whim and demands of a capricious public.”
“You obviously don’t agree with the death sentence,” stated Evans
“I’ve never agreed with an eye for an eye, though in Stark’s case I can see how an exception could be made. Still, I fail to see how incarceration therapy of any kind could have made that man feel any remorse.
Evans smiled. “A debate for another time perhaps.”
“Going back to transportation,” Joe continued. “The boat came straight here following the execution?”
“As far as I know,” Evans replied. “Not certain what time. The duty-attendant will have that information in the log at reception.”
“You might be interested to know that records indicate there was a delay in the Absol’s return to Dunquin that night. Any idea why?”
“I don’t take note of shipping lane traffic as a rule, Mr. O’Connell,” Evans said curtly.
“You mentioned before everything was procedure, so there was no autopsy?”
“Wasn’t necessary. We know how he died and, politically, no one was curious about anything else. His death was by lethal injection, and that’s what’s on his death certificate.”
Joe took advantage of his opportunity. “Funny you should mention that. I was looking into the necessary paperwork required following an execution before a death certificate can be produced, just to make certain I had all the information before I went ahead and published it…”
“And?” Evans squinted at Joe.
“…and, I found something unusual.”
The coroner furrowed his brow. “I’m sorry, I don’t follow.”
“Correct me if I’m wrong, but I have it on good authority that a death certificate can only be issued once the execution has been critiqued by the warden and filed in the Master Execution File.”
“That’s right” The coroner tensed in his seat, his eyes narrowing.
“Yet I have a source who states that Obadiah Stark’s file is empty. There’s nothing in it relating to his execution. If that’s the case, how can he have a death certificate on file at the local registry office?”
Silence punctuated the air, allowing the low buzzing sound of the overhead light to makes its presence felt. Joe noticed that Evans’ skin had begun to turn pink and blotch. The part of his shirt visible along the top of the lab coat appeared to be clinging to him as though he were sweating.
“I wouldn’t know, Mr. O’Connell. Are you often compelled to indulge the whims of someone who may well only be telling you this for their Warholian fifteen minutes of fame? Assuming it’s true and not simply a filing error, do you have any proof to support this potentially libelous allegation?”
Joe shook his head and continued, despite knowing that the man before him would continue to be obdurate. “No. But I do have proof that the boat transferring Stark’s body appeared to take four hours to make what is generally a ninety-minute journey the night of his execution. I also have a source that claims Stark’s master execution file is empty, therefore citing irregularities regarding the completion of his death certificate. As a journalist, I’d like to know why. Given the high profile of the case, a simple ‘procedural error’ coming to light regarding the keeping of poor paperwork would be a bit embarrassing for all concerned, don’t you think? His crimes, victims, not to mention the fact he evaded the authorities on both sides of the Atlantic for the best part of a decade… it would be a travesty if something as incidental as a death certificate could cast doubt on whether procedure was followed at his execution.”
The coroner responded quickly. “Well, I can’t help you with the boat you mentioned, and access to any of the deceased’s information is only for employees of this facility.” Evans was becoming jittery and fractious. He fished a packet of cigarettes from his pocket and lit one, ignoring the country’s no smoking laws and exhaling the blue smoke with a sharp breath. It was obvious from his body language that he wanted to be anywhere but here and was eager to get Joe out of the room as quickly as possible.
“Is Stark’s body still here?” Joe pressed.
Evans turned his head to stare at the door, as though indicating Joe to leave. “Why?”
“Just curious.”
Evans refused to take the ba
it. “Sorry, we have rules we have to follow as well, you know. You can see what time his body was booked at the front desk, but other than that…”
Joe smiled dejectedly but held the coroner’s stare. “Well, it was worth a try. I guess I could edit my piece to exclude the need for those details. I mean, it’s not as though you’ve got anything to hide, is it?”
Evans raised his eyebrows, his expression one of subtle disquiet. “Is there anything else I can help you with, Mr. O’Connell?” It was more of an insistence than a question.
Joe considered, refusing to let his doggedness at calling him ‘Mr. O’Connell’ irritate him. “No, thank you,” he replied as he slowly putting his notepad back in his bag. “I think I’ve got everything I need.”
He turned towards the door, the coroner right behind him almost ushering him out the office. Joe turned and held Evans’ stare for a moment before smiling. “Oh, just one more thing. You didn’t tell me the name of the group working with Sabitch.”
“The Brethren,” Evans snapped, flicking a piece of fluff from his lab coat. “Now if you don’t mind, I have a lot to do.”
“Right,” Joe replied with a slow nod before moving down the stairs.
A petit, pretty young girl behind the desk returned Joe’s smile as he approached her and placed his hands on the countertop.
“Hi. I’ve just been speaking to your boss and he told me that if I needed anything, you were the girl to see…” He leaned forward to look at her name badge. “…Kelly.”
He continued to flash his most charming smile as he subtly looked her up and down. Her black hair was long and flowing, with large, brown doe eyes that seemed to take up her whole face. Joe thought there was almost something childlike and mysterious about the way she was looking at him. As though she was thinking something dirty.
“And what do you need exactly?”
Joe gave her a playful look. “Ten minutes would probably be enough, but actually I was wondering if you could tell me what time the boat that brought in Obadiah Stark’s body arrived on September 7th.”
Kelly’s smile quickly disappeared. “Sure,” she said, her fingers flicking across the keyboard in front of her.
“You okay?” Joe couldn’t help notice that she had gone from looking seductive to troubled in a matter of seconds.
“Yeah, it’s just hearing that guy’s name. It gives me the creeps.”
Joe smiled softly. “I know what you mean.”
“Okay, here we go…his body was booked in at 21:14.”
Joe frowned. “Are you certain?”
Kelly nodded. “Uh-uh, it’s right here. They were preparing for his arrival before my shift finished that night. I remember being glad I wasn’t going to have to be the one who was here when he arrived.”
Joe turned away for the desk as he thought.
The Absol did dock here that night, pretty much on time. So why didn’t it arrive back in Dunquin until after midnight?
Joe felt Kelly’s large, brown eyes boring into him. “Is there anything else I can help with?”
“No,” Joe said thoughtfully. “You’ve been very helpful, thank you.”
She gave him one last beaming smile as he slowly headed for the exit.
“You’re welcome.”
* * *
Evans watched Joe approach the reception desk before closing the door and picking up the telephone. He paused halfway through dialing the numbers as though uncertain whether to proceed before completing the digits and leaning back in his chair. Evans realised that he was holding his breath whilst he waited for a connection. There was a click as the phone was picked up at the other end but no one spoke.
“It’s me. I’ve just had a reporter asking to see the booking log for the night of Stark’s execution. I didn’t give him anything and he seemed satisfied, but I don’t know. You told me that no one would ask questions. This is my career on the line here. If I’d have known people where going to start poking around, I would have…” he was about to say ‘asked for more money’, but caught himself. He knew better than to bite the proverbial hand.
The line remained silent. “What should I do?” Evans asked nervously.
“Was it O’Connell?”
“How did you know?”
There was a pause. “Do nothing,” Then the line went dead.
The coroner cradled the handset against his chest before slamming it back into its receiver. Clasping his hands together to try and stop them from shaking, he took a final drag before stubbing out the cigarette so hard ash plumbed into the air. It was still gently falling as he made his way out of the office and across the mortuary floor.
* * *
It was eight o’clock and dark by the time Joe headed back towards The Daily Éire. He had felt the need to freshen up after leaving the mortuary, thinking that a shower and a few cups of coffee would help him put things into perspective. Instead, he had fallen asleep on the sofa and awoke just after seven with a desire to revisit some of his interviews before trying to make some sort of sense out of the myriad of scenarios he had flying through his mind.
Parking at the top of Denny Street and stopping to have a quick chat with the Daily Éire’s security guard Paul Helm or ‘Buster’ as he was better known, Joe had proceeded to walk through the lobby and straight for his office. Choosing to leave the larger expanse of the room in darkness, he had flicked through the filing cabinet, stopping occasionally to pull out a brown folder and place it on his desk before putting them all in his shoulder bag and heading back up the street.
“Shit,” Joe said.
Approaching his car, he noticed that his far side front tire was flat. Throwing the bag onto the back seat, he bent down and saw the long slash horizontally across the front of the tire. Joe fingered it curiously, recognising that it couldn’t have happened by accident and could have only occurred in the last thirty or so minutes he had been in the office. He stood and moved to the boot, shifting the requisite car essentials to one side before lifting up the base. As he was unscrewing the spare Joe became aware of the black Audi pulling up, its headlights momentarily blinding him. He shielded his eyes, hearing the engine die and a door open and shut before a figure appeared beside him.
“Need a hand, mate?” the voice asked.
On any other day, Joe wouldn’t have been suspicious but after his discussion with Evans, his growing disquiet about everything Obadiah Stark and the now obviously slashed tire, Joe found himself unusually keyed to the convenient Samaritan’s over-enthused smile, slicked back hair and black jacket. He also couldn’t help noticing the Audi’s heavily tinted windows. But it wasn’t the tinting that had him uncomfortable so much as the fact that they were so black it was impossible to see inside.
Joe smiled up at his would-be helper. “No, I’ve changed one before. Cheers though” He glanced past the man to see Paul Helm, the security guard, in his usual spot of the booth by the door outside the office. Instead of feeling safer and less alone with him in his sights, Joe found himself in a whirlpool of anxiety and negative emotion. The man stood before him with his offer of help did little to dissuade Joe’s dispirited emotions.
“You’ve had a slashed tire before?” the stranger asked, peering over Joe’s shoulder. “You must be popular.”
Joe smiled an irritated smile up at him. “I’ll be okay, thanks.”
“Go on,” the stranger insisted. “It can be a pain in the arse changing these things. You get the spare and I’ll get the nuts loose and the car up. The name’s Milton.”
Joe shrugged and passed him the torque wrench before reaching into the boot for the jack.
“Joe,” he replied, shaking the man’s outstretched hand.
As Milton began working on loosening the nuts on the wheel, Joe placed the jack besides him and pulled the wheel out of the boot, bouncing it on the floor before rolling and resting it against the passenger’s side door. He grabbed his cigarettes from his pocket and lit one, taking a long drag on it before exhaling slowly.<
br />
He watched his convenient helper straining to turn the nut counter-clockwise before it twisted free and he began to spin it off the wheel.
“So, you from around here?” Joe asked.
Milton carried on working on the nuts as he spoke. “Not, really. Just passing through. But I saw you and figured I’d lend a hand. Wouldn’t do to have one of Ireland’s most famous reporter’s stranded at the side of the road.”
Joe frowned. “Do I know you?”
Milton gave a look of mild derision and idle curiosity, his obsidian eyes twinkling playfully in the reflection of the streetlights. “Relax, everyone knows who you are, Joe. You’re the man who kept the country up to date with one of the world’s most famous serial killers. And given the fact you’re just up the road from The Daily Éire, I didn’t really need a slide ruler and a pencil to figure it out.”
He nodded as he watched Milton twist off the last nut, place the wrench on the floor and began jacking up the car. Though the exchange still had him feeling a little uneasy, he began to wonder if he was letting everything that had happened recently cloud his better judgment and make him a little paranoid.
“How’s it going there,” he asked, flicking his cigarette on the floor and crushing it out with his heel.
“I think…” Milton replied with a grunt. “…that we’re done.” He twisted the jack twice more before standing and handing the wrench to Joe.
“Cheers,” Joe relied, placing the wrench on the roof of the car. He rolled the tire in position and bent down to fit it into place.
“No worries, Joey,” said Milton with a conceding nod before moving back towards his car.
Joe grabbed the wrench and bent to tighten the nuts. As he moved down past the window he noticed Milton’s reflection suddenly behind him, his arm rising up towards the back of Joe’s head and the click of the hammer being cocked.
“What the fuck?” Joe yelled as he turned and instinctively grabbed Milton’s hand. The gun fired softly into the space his head had just been occupying, the suppressor muffling the bang to a quiet hiss. Joe hit Milton three times in the sternum, sending him crashing backwards into the wall, the gun spinning from his hand.
Hellbound: The Tally Man Page 21
