Donal Keane was sitting still and calm in the room as Logue and Harper entered. Harper extended his hand and said, “Hi, I am Detective Sam Harper, and this is Detective Ray Logue.”
They all shook hands and then Harper and Logue took a seat opposite to Keane.
“Professor Keane, we know that you were living in Ireland up until the Summer of 1979, why did you move to the states, here to Boston?”
“For a change of scenery. After my mother died, I decided to move here to live with my uncle and aunt. I pursued further studies and then got a job here… What is all this really about? Do I need my lawyer for this? Am I in trouble? I thought that you said on the phone this morning, Detective Harper, that you wanted me to help you with an investigation because I was, as you said, an expert on a certain matter.”
“As long as you answer all our questions truthfully, I don’t think we will have any problem, Professor Keane, you won’t require a lawyer. As I said, I just want you to help us with our investigation,” Harper responded.
Keane nodded, and this time Logue continued with the questioning.
“Donal, can you please recall where were you on June second, 1979?”
“Seriously? You are asking me to recall where I was on a specific day over thirty years ago? How am I supposed to know that? This is ridiculous.”
“Why don’t I remind you? You were in Blairstown in County Galway, and you were seen leaving a pub with Hazel Deveraux, who was murdered the following day. You know that Hazel was murdered, don’t you?”
Keane gasped and then looked wide eyed at Logue and Harper.
“Yes, I heard that she had been murdered, it’s such a long time ago.”
“So, you admit that you knew Hazel Devereaux?”
“Of course I knew her. We worked together in my uncle’s factory that summer in 1979. She was studying English at Trinity College. She was in her final year of her degree. She had repeat exams coming up and I helped her to prepare for them. We would meet every weekend at my house and I would tutor her.”
“What university were you teaching at then?”
“I wasn’t teaching at any university. I had just completed my M.A. in English at Galway University and I was working part time as a journalist. I often gave grinds to under graduates, it helped to pay the bills. Hazel was one such student.”
“Did her parents know?”
“No, they didn’t. Hazel didn’t want them to know that she was getting grinds, she wanted to appear independent. I remember that she told me she was going through a bad breakup. It really messed her up and that was the reason why her grades started to go down.
“Did you have any kind of relationship with her?”
On hearing the question, Keane vehemently answered, “No of course not.”
“Why did you leave Ireland right after Hazel was murdered?” Harper cut in.
“First of all, I had no idea that Hazel was murdered when I left Ireland. I knew that she was missing. The last time I saw her was when we chatted outside a pub… My God, I can’t remember, it’s so long ago now.”
“When or how did you find out that Hazel was murdered?” Harper asked.
“I don’t know, I must have read it in a newspaper.”
Logue and Harper went silent. They thought about what to ask next because so far, Keane hadn’t revealed anything. To them, it looked that he was trying to evade the important questions. He appeared to be the prime suspect, but they had no way to prove it.
Harper opened the file in front of him and took out the pictures of the Boston victims of the killer and slid them towards Keane.
“Do you know these people?”
Keane touched the pictures and gave attention to each one.
“No, I don’t know any of those people.”
“These are five people who were murdered in the past twenty years here in Boston and they all seem to have a mutual connection – you. The first victim, a female, twenty-seven-year-old Emma Wilson was murdered on June third, 1989. The second victim, forty-five-year-old John Barry was murdered on December sixth of that same year. The list goes on: on June third, 1999, Gloria Fitzgerald, on December the sixth, 1999, Richard Clarke was decapitated and the most recent victim on June third of this year, Carissa Meyers, had her throat slit,” Harper shouted.
“That’s a preposterous accusation. How are those murders linked to me?”
“They all studied at the University you work at. You could have gained access to their addresses,” Logue intervened.
“That doesn’t mean anything! There are dozens of other professors, lecturers and assorted staff members who have been working there way longer than me. Are you accusing me of killing them? I don’t know what games you are playing. Are you just trying to get promotion, the pair of you, by trying to fix me up? By pinning the blame on an innocent man? I need to call my lawyer, now.”
“All right, hear me out. You left Ireland in 1979, the time Hazel Devereaux was murdered. Then in the span of twenty years here in Boston, five other people were brutally murdered. They all studied at your university and had a letter delivered to their homes before their murders containing a line from a poem called A Paean by Edgar Allan Poe,” Logue outlined.
“This is really laughable, gentlemen,” Keane sneered.
“You are an expert on the poetry of Poe. In fact, you have researched, lectured and published many books on the topic,” Logue said, pointing at Keane.
“So what?”
Harper took out his cell phone and texted Callaghan to get him a copy of Keane’s book that contained the analysis of A Paean. In the meantime, the two detectives simply stared at Keane. Silence was a powerful tool at times in breaking a suspect down, both of them had learned that over the years.
A few minutes passed and there was a knock on the door. Logue stood up and opened it. Callaghan handed him the book and then left. Logue got back to his chair and pushed the book towards Keane and launched back into the questioning.
“Is this your book?”
“Yes. I wrote it five years ago.”
“Was there a reason you wrote it?”
“What a daft question… I love literature, it’s my passion and my profession. I thought it would be a good idea to publish my theories and perceptions on some of my favourite books and poems.”
“A large section of the book is dedicated to Edgar Allan Poe and that particular poem, A Paean.”
Keane seemed to pause for a minute and think about a reply.
“Look, I don’t know what to say except that Edgar Allan Poe is a very popular poet and writer, he is read by thousands if not millions of people in this country alone, and dozens of people have written about Edgar Allan Poe. So, should they all be accused of murder?” Keane laughed. “This is all so ridiculous.”
Logue decided to try a different line of questioning. Harper remained quiet and observed.
“When you left Ireland, there were no more murders in that country that followed the pattern of these killings we are investigating. You arrived in Boston and the killings started happening every ten years after that, two a year and on the same dates, June third and December sixth and always on a year ending in nine, eighty-nine, ninety-nine, zero-nine,” Logue elaborated.
“I don’t understand. Thousands of people came to the states in 1979 and you suspect me of these crimes. Your line of reasoning and questioning make no sense whatsoever.”
“Why nine?”
“What are you on about, Detective?”
“Have you a fixation with the number nine? The years of the murders ending in nine. The dates add up to nine. The third of the sixth. The sixth of the twelfth.”
“No, Detective, I haven’t,” Keane said coolly as leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms.
“What is your date of birth?”
“What has that got to do with anything?”
“What is it?” Logue asked again.
“If you must know, it’s the second of May 1955.”
“Okay, if you add all the digits in your date of birth you get twenty-seven. Two and seven equal nine. That makes nine your life number.”
“Okay, that’s it. I have heard just about enough nonsense. Are you going to tell me my fortune now or read my palm? I am sitting here for the past hour, listening to the pair of you fools accuse me of seven murders. You have not a shred of evidence to link me to the murders, only daft notions that frankly make no sense. If this was not such a serious matter, it would be farcical. Can I please go now?” Keane demanded, starting to rise from his chair.
Harper and Logue looked at each other and knew that the questioning had come to an end. They had nothing more to ask and so far, they hadn’t gotten anything out of Keane. Chances were that he had always prepared himself for this day and therefore was not going to crack easily.
“Thank you for your time, Mr. Keane. We would advise you not to leave this jurisdiction while the investigation is ongoing,” Harper said as he stood up and shook hands with the professor.
Logue led him out the door and together they watched him walk away. When he had disappeared down the hall, Callaghan left the office where she was watching the video feed and entered the interview room.
“That didn’t go the way I was expecting,” Callaghan said, standing next to Logue.
Logue looked at her and said, “That man has real talent. He rarely got agitated at all.”
As they were talking, Woods came from the main hall and asked, “How did it go?”
“You weren’t here to watch it?” Harper asked
“No. The captain called me for another case. I was busy tracking some information for him.”
“You can watch the tapes later, you didn’t miss much,” Harper replied.
“Why don’t we all have a drink and you can fill me in,” Woods suggested.
Harper looked at Logue and Callaghan and said, “You guys in?”
“Yeah,” Logue and Callaghan said at the same time.
“Cool! Why don’t you guys get to the car? I just need to bring the case files so that I can make notes,” Woods said.
Chapter 14: Code of Silence
Wednesday 25th November 2009
O’Malley’s Bar
6:30 PM
Logue and the investigation team pushed opened the front door of O’Malleys’ bar. They grabbed stools at the counter and ordered drinks.
“Hey, Olivia. Back again so soon?”
“Hey, Dale. Yeah, just needed to blow off some steam and this is my favourite bar in town. You know the rest of the gang, Sam, John and Ray.”
“Yeah, I know them. Sam, you ain’t been in here in a while, don’t tell me you don’t like my beer.” Dale laughed.
“Your beer is just fine, Dale, just a bit busy, you know how it is,” Sam replied.
“I wish I did, Sam, look around you, business ain’t good at present. Not too many regulars anymore. It’s hard for a guy to pay the bills, you know what I’m saying,” Dale said, pointing around at all the empty seats.
“Tomorrow is Thanksgiving and Christmas is just around the corner, Dale, people are saving up for Santa Claus.” Callaghan smiled. “Relax… Now gets us some drinks and quit your yakking.”
“All right, I know when to shut up. What you all havin’, beers for the guys and a vodka and fresh orange juice for the lady, am I right?” Dale said confidently.
“You got it.” Callaghan cheered.
“No, a martini for me with a lemon twist,” Woods interrupted.
“What the fuck?” Logue said as he slapped Woods on the back.
Dale came back with all the drinks and placed them on the bar. There was even a martini on a tray with olives in it and a small umbrella.
Logue raised his eyes at Callaghan and she just laughed and pointed at Woods.
Having seen the interaction, Woods said, “What? I can’t drink a martini? These little babies are delicious! I don’t know how you guys chug down that filthy dishwater you call beer.”
“Whatever,” Harper said, raising his hands in the air.
“So, fill me in, guys, on our mysterious Professor Keane, would you,” Woods said as he stirred his martini.
Logue placed the beer on the bar and gave his full attention to Woods as he spoke.
“Keane is definitely an interesting fella. If he is our serial killer, then we have a problem. I felt as if he was three steps ahead of us. He had an answer for every question and on top of that, the answers were black and white. No giveaways in between, where we could trip and catch him.”
Callaghan took out the notepad from her pocket, the one she had been scribbling in during the interview and placed it on the bar. She flipped several pages and then pushed it towards Woods.
“I wrote every answer he gave, and they were well-phrased. If you analyze them carefully, you will realize that he created a timeline to explain his whereabouts, from the time he left Ireland in 1979 to the time he arrived here in Boston.”
“What did he say about his American Gothic Literature book?” Woods asked.
This time, Logue replied, “He said he wrote it because he loves that genre.”
“You see, he’s a very controlling man. He mapped out his killings and he needed a memento to remember his life’s work. Maybe the truth is plain sight and we just have to look closer. Maybe the clues are in the book.”
Woods flipped the file sitting on the bar and then after reading it for a few minutes asked Callaghan, “What about his first victim, Hazel Devereaux? What did he say about her, had he a relationship with her?”
“He said that he was giving her private tuition,” Callaghan replied.
Hearing that, Woods’ eyes bugged out and he looked at Callaghan as if she had grown a beard. “Are you kidding me? Really? Do we believe that shit? Does he have any evidence to back that up?”
“No, he doesn’t,” Logue responded.
Woods sighed at that and said, “So we are back to square one.”
“Yes, that sounds about right,” Callaghan replied, raising her vodka.
Three hours passed quickly, and the conversation turned to other important matters like the Boston Celtics game on the TV. When it ended, Harper got up from his stool and looked at his watch. Taking some cash out of his pocket he placed it on the bar and called aloud, “Tab’s on me. I am out of here now. Night guys. I will see you on Friday morning, enjoy your Thanksgiving.”
Harper walked out of the bar leaving Callaghan and Logue taking the last sips of their drinks as they watched Woods, nursing his fifth Martini.
“I think I’ll go too, I’m getting a cab, you want to share the fare, guys? My route will take you past your hotel, Ray, and we can swing by your way too, John,” Callaghan said.
“Na. You guys go ahead. I am gonna finish this baby. I’ll catch a cab later myself,” Woods said, obviously not wanting to play gooseberry. He had heard the rumours about Callaghan and Logue.
“All right, see you on Friday morning, John,” Callaghan said, tossing his hair.
“Go easy on those Martinis, they are dynamite.” Logue laughed as he walked out of the bar.
“You are one funny guy, Ray,” Woods said sarcastically.
After the pair had left, Woods took out the case file from his man bag and began to read it again as he sipped his martini. Dale approached the stool where Woods was sitting and began to wipe the counter top with a cloth.
“What’s that case about?” he said pointing towards the file.
Woods closed the file hearing Dale’s voice and said, “Sorry man, confidential.”
“Oh, come on. You know I won’t tell anyone. Give me something juicy.”
“Really? You won’t say anything. You, who likes to shout out people’s personal business while the pub is full.” Woods laughed.
“That’s just for fun, man, and you know it.”
“Well, it wasn’t fun when you outed me to that cop, whose car I bumped into last year.”
“I didn’t know it was you.”
Dale cajoled a little more, but Woods closed the file and pushed it down the counter a little.
“You need another drink?”
“Na, I’m good. I am just gonna watch the TV a little more and leave. I know I will have a bitching hangover tomorrow and I have a long drive to my folk’s house.”
“All right.”
The bar was clearing out of the few remaining customers as Dale busied himself picking up empties and tidying up. As he gathered up newspapers scattered around on tables he piled them up and placed them on the counter, covering Woods’ case file. The detective was engrossed in TV and never noticed the bar owner’s actions.
Woods sat for half an hour more and then called for a cab. A few seconds later, his phone buzzed. He looked at it and saw that the taxi had arrived. He threw back the last of the drink, pocketed his phone, grabbed his man bag and left.
As soon as he exited Dale carried the bundle of papers and the file into his small office at the back of the bar. Slipping out the case file he stared at for a few seconds and then flipped it open and started reading its contents. Just a few minutes in his eyes widened. Dale realized that he had hit the jackpot. He knew that he could make a good few bucks out of the information if he sold it to the press and his money worries might be over temporarily.
He walked backwards to a chair to sit down as he read the file. He was mesmerised by it.
“Holy shit,” he whispered.
If a serial killer was on the loose, he had a duty to inform people he thought, so that they could protect themselves. This was huge and potentially life threatening. He thought about his actions for a minute and finally decided that he needed to do it. What was the harm in it? He was actually helping them with the case and he knew just the person to call.
Dale took out his cellphone from his pocket and dialed a number. After two rings, a woman picked up the phone and said, “Hi. This is Trisha from the Boston Herald office. How may I help you?”
“Hi, I have some exciting news for you. There’s this case about…”
Chapter 15: Painkiller
Friday 27th November 2009
Nine Lives Page 10
