Nine Lives

by Kevin McManus

  “Logue you are a real…” Callaghan couldn’t finish what she was saying as her cell phone rang. It was Harper trying to contact her.

  “Hello, Sam.”

  “Olivia, are you still at Keane’s house?” Harper asked.

  “Yes, why?”

  “We might have something, one of the staff members at the college told me that Keane rents a fishing cabin up in Rockport. He goes up there some weekends and during his vacation. See if you can find anything with reference to it there in the house.”

  “Okay, we’ll get on to it, Sam. I’ll ring you back if we find anything,” Callaghan said and hung up.

  “Okay, Ray, get your ass down here, we’ve got to find something connected with a rental up in Rockport, a fishing cabin.”

  Logue and Callaghan tore the kitchen apart looking for anything of relevance. Twenty minutes into the search Callaghan discovered an item of significance.

  “Here we go, a guide to the best fishing in Rockport,” she said, pulling the book off a shelf and flicking it open. As she did so something came loose and fell to the oak floor.

  Logue bent down to pick it up. “High and Dry, dry cleaning service, 112 Park Street, Rockport,” Logue read from the small business card.

  “Why was that stuck in there?” Callaghan asked.

  “Probably because he used the service or planned to use it, I would imagine.”

  “Is there a phone number?”

  “Yea, but I can’t read it, I left my fecking glasses down somewhere and now I can’t find them. They must be upstairs. Here, you read it.”

  “Let’s give them a call. Who knows, they might have heard of Keane,” Callaghan said, taking out her cell phone and dialling the number on the card.

  The phone rang out for a minute and eventually somebody answered. “Hi, this is High and Dry cleaners, how can I help you?”

  “Oh hi, this is Detective Olivia Callaghan from the Boston Police Department. I wonder, could you assist me with something?”

  “Well, oh gosh… I hope so.”

  “Thank you, and your name is?”

  “It’s Barbara, Barbara Perkins.”

  “Hi Barbara. Okay, the reason I am ringing you is because I am trying to locate a missing person. His name is Donal Keane. We received information that he rents a fishing cabin up in Rockport and we discovered one of your business cards in his home in Boston. Do you have a record of any kind of customers who use your business? We need to get the address of the fishing cabin.”

  “Oh, I see, well we do things in a very old-fashioned way here, I’m afraid. We just write down customer’s names and addresses in a ledger. You will have to allow me a little time to go through it. Do you want to hold, or can I call you back?”

  “Can you call me back on this number, do you want me to call it out to you?”

  “No that’s okay, it’s on my caller ID screen, I’ll ring you back in a few minutes.”

  “Thank you.”

  “It’s worth a try, good thinking, we could do with you back home in Port Ard,” Logue said.

  “Really… Ahh that’s nice, was that your attempt at an awkward compliment?” Callaghan grinned.

  “Best you’re going to get from me, baby.”

  “Baby… My god you are such a sexist.”

  Their conversation was interrupted by a call back from Barbara at the Dry Cleaners.

  “Hi, Detective Callaghan. I went through the ledger and discovered that we had three customers called Donal Keane. However, I was able to narrow it down for you. We have a customer called Donal Keane and he rents one of the Sandycove fishing cabins. He must be renting it a long time because he has used our service at least twenty times over the last ten years or so. One of the girls who works here actually remembers him. She said that he was very polite, he sounded very well spoken with an Irish accent. He told Linda that he works at a university. The other two Donal Keanes mentioned on our books were just passing through and gave a hotel address.”

  “Barbara, that is fantastic, you have been so helpful, can you give me that address for the Sandycove fishing cabin, please?” Callaghan asked.

  “Certainly, it is number 18 Sandycove. It’s just off Franklin Street down past the harbor. You have to take a turn off to the left and it’s up a narrow road, gee I suppose about four miles or so. You will see a large sign for Sandycove. It’s in a fairly remote wooded area with the Sandycove Bay in front of it. If you get lost, ask anybody for directions. The natives are friendly. By the way, I hope Donal is okay. Is he is missing for long? I hope you find him.”

  “Well, he is only missing for about… forty-eight hours. I’m sure we will find him, he’s probably fine, don’t worry and thank you very much, Barbara, you have been terrific,” Callaghan said and ended the call.

  “I’d better ring Sam and tell him the good news,” Callaghan said to Logue.

  Two minutes later after passing on the information to Harper he was ready to organise the way forward in the search for Keane.

  “Okay, Olivia, you and Ray head straight up to Rockport. It’s only about an hour’s drive. Head straight for the address. I’ll dispatch some officers up there as back up. In the meantime, I’ll get the search warrant approved and get Woods to find out who the owner of 18 Sandycove is so we can get the cabin opened up. I should be up there about a half an hour after you arrive.”

  “Right, Sam, we are heading for the car now, see you up there.”

  Chapter 19: Snowblind

  Monday 7th December 2009

  18 Sandycove, Rockport

  2:30 PM

  When Callaghan finally succeeded in reaching Rockport through challenging wintery driving conditions, she gladly brought her car to a halt in the snow-covered avenue that led up to the steep hill where the Sandycove cabins were situated.

  “We are going the rest of the way on foot, Ray. I’m done driving and this baby ain’t gonna make it up that friggin’ hill.”

  Logue got out of the car and looked around. The place was beautiful, like something out of a Christmas card. To his right he could see the imprints left where children had frolicked and carved out snow angels. The hollows left behind were starting to fill with fresh snow that whispered and danced as it descended upon the silent, frozen and calm earth. The flakes fell everywhere, on the glittering pine trees, the roof of ice that sheltered an adjoining lake and in silent drifts on all the bare places. The snow crystals maintained their subtle dance, wafting sideways on the gentle stream of the breeze, until a white mantle would conceal and hide everything and nothing and the landscape vanished into an expansive and quiet snowbound domain where the winter powered over all.

  As they reached the summit of the hill they approached the first of four log cabins that faced outwards towards the bay. Realising they would have to trudge further on through the compacted snow, Logue cursed as he awkwardly moved onwards.

  “Where in the name of fuck is number eighteen?”

  “We have a bit further to go yet, quit moaning, I thought you were supposed to be a tough Irishman, have you never walked through snow before?” Callaghan laughed.

  “We don’t get heavy snow like this where I come from. Well, maybe once in a blue moon.”

  Eventually they reached the cabin and were glad to see that a police SUV had arrived before them and the front door was open. As soon as they went inside they began their search. The interior was small and sparsely furnished. It contained a kitchen-living room, one bedroom and a bathroom.

  “I don’t see much fishing equipment here,” Logue commented.

  “It’s probably outside in the shed, why don’t you check that out? I’ll have a look about here. It shouldn’t take too long. There is nothing much in here to search,” Callaghan responded.

  “Great, I get to go out to a freezing cold shed,” Logue moaned, heading out the door.

  When Logue reached the out building he discovered that it was locked with a large bolt and padlock. He pulled at it for a minute but realis
ed he was getting nowhere.

  “You want a hand there, buddy?” a uniformed officer said with a bemused look on his face, walking up behind the Irishman.

  “Have you got a bar, a crowbar or whatever you fellas call it over here?” Logue asked.

  “Yeah, I got one in the back of the jeep, I’ll go get it.”

  Logue watched the officer as he opened up his vehicle and produced the bar.

  “Cheers, what you name?” Logue asked.

  “I’m Higgins, Mike Higgins.”

  “A good Irish name.”

  “It sure is.”

  “I’m Ray, Ray Logue.”

  “Good to meet you, Ray,” Mike said and handed Logue the bar.

  “Likewise.”

  “Well, that’s not going to go back on too easy,” Mike said in a droll voice as he watched Logue insert the bar behind the bolt and rip it off the door along with a large chunk of wood.

  “No, I suppose not,” Logue said, pulling open the two large doors of the shed.

  The interior was well stocked with tools and fishing equipment. A row of large knives hung on the side of the wall. At the centre of the shed was a 15ft Dejon fishing boat resting on a car trailer. Logue placed a pair of gloves on his hands as he began to walk around, opening the many storage boxes on the neat and well-ordered shelves. They mostly contained fishing bait, fishing line and everything that a fishing enthusiast would dream of owning.

  “That’s some collections of knives, what would he want all those for?” Logue asked, staring up at them.

  “Beats me, maybe for gutting fish,” Mike answered.

  “You could gut a fecking whale with some of those blades, they are massive.”

  The boat was clean and bright after what appeared to be a new coat of paint. It still had the fresh paint smell. Underneath the trailer that held the boat Logue noticed a large section of carpet.

  “God, this guy is so particular and careful, he must have that carpet there to protect the painted concrete floor from getting scratched. Gee, you should see my shed at home, it is a God damn mess,” Mike laughed.

  “Yea, he is careful about everything,” Logue said as he walked across the carpet for a moment and then suddenly stopped. “What’s that?”

  “What’s what?” Mike asked.

  “Come over here a minute, walk over to me.”

  “Sure,” Mike responded and walked towards Logue.

  “Do you feel that? The floor is different underneath, right here.”

  “Yeah, it sounds like timber,” Mike said as he hit his foot off the carpet.

  “Let’s roll back the carpet,” Logue said, and crouched down to roll it back.

  “The trailer is holding it down,” Mike said and realised that they had only lifted it a few feet back.

  “Right, have you a hitch, can you get your jeep and pull the trailer and boat out?”

  “I should be able to,” Mike said heading towards his vehicle.

  Ten minutes later the trailer was attached to the hitch of the SUV and Mike began to pull it outside.

  Callaghan appeared outside the shed after hearing the hubbub. “What the heck are you doing, Ray, robbing the boat?”

  “Nope, come here, give me a hand,” Logue said and started to pull the carpet out of the shed. As it began to move and he walked backwards he stared at the floor of the shed. “Bingo.”

  “What?” Callaghan asked.

  “Look at that, it looks like a fucking door,” Logue said, dropping the carpet and running towards it. “What is Keane hiding under there?”

  Bending down he grabbed a small handle on the door and twisted it. The lock unfastened, and he pulled the door to open it, revealing a small staircase underneath.

  “Careful, Ray,” Callaghan said, pulling out her handgun and gesturing at Logue to do likewise.

  Logue slowly and carefully descended the staircase before stopping and calling back to Callaghan, “Can you grab a torch from over there on the shelf? I think there is one just below where those large knives are hanging.”

  “I’m going down there with you, Ray,” she said and picked up the torch, clicked it on and then followed Logue down the steps. When they reached the floor at the bottom of the short staircase Callaghan swung the torch around in an attempt to get a view of the place. Noticing a cord hanging down, she pulled it and a lightbulb in the ceiling came on.

  “Christ, look at this place, how long did it take Keane to dig out this bunker?” Logue said.

  The room was twelve by fourteen feet. The surrounding walls and ceiling were all lined with timbers to support it. At one end of the bunker was a small kitchen table with a chair pushed in tight to it. A large crucifix hung on the wall over the table. A two-seater leather couch was situated on a wall to the left of the table. To Logue’s right was a large cabinet with a TV on the top and underneath a VCR. At the base of the unit were three drawers. Logue pulled open the top drawer. Inside it were three video cassettes in black cases. He lifted one and turned it around to read the label on the front.

  “We have it, Olivia, look at this.”

  “Oh, Christ, Emma Wilson June third, 1989, the first victim in Boston.”

  “There are two more, June third, 1999, Gloria Fitzgerald and June third, 2009, Carissa Meyers.”

  “But none of the male victims, that’s strange. I presume the videos are recording of those poor girls’ murders,” Callaghan pointed out.

  “They must be, we will have to get them checked out. Not a viewing I’m looking forward to.”

  “No, me neither. What’s in the other drawers?”

  “Hold on,” Logue said and opened the second drawer. In it he discovered four files, each one labeled with the victims’ names. He pulled out the one labelled Carissa Meyers, brought it over to the small table and opened it. It contained nine polaroid photographs, each one depicting a stage in the murder of the victim.

  “Who took the photographs? You can see Keane in them, he is holding the knife,” Callaghan asked.

  “Maybe he had the camera on a stand and used a timer, I don’t know,” Logue responded, shrugging.

  “Or maybe there was somebody else there helping him,” Callaghan contemplated.

  Logue put the photos back in the folder and left it on the table, went back over to the drawer and lifted the remaining files. He focused on one that had the name Hazel Devereaux on it. This file only contained two polaroid photos. One of Hazel lying in a shallow grave with her throat cut and a second one of Hazel sitting in what looked like a pub on a long brown leather seat. Two young men sat either side of her.

  “Who do you think the two guys are?” Logue asked.

  “The guy on the left could be a young Donal Keane, it does look like him. I have no idea who the guy on the right is.”

  Callaghan placed the photo back in the file and went over to pick up another one. When her back was turned Logue stuck the photo into the inside pocket of his jacket and closed the file.

  “What in the name of all that is holy, what the hell is this?” a voice said from the top of the stairs. Logue and Callaghan recognized it as Harper’s.

  “Logue found it, Sam. This is all we need to nail that son of a bitch Keane, if we ever find him. Look at the files on the table,” Callaghan said as Harper stepped off the bottom step of the staircase.

  “There are videos as well, but only of the female victims. There is nothing here to link Keane to the male victims,” Logue said.

  “What’s in the bottom drawer?” Harper said and went over to open it. “A big bastard of a knife, the murder weapon. It looks to be a Gurkha blade if I’m not mistaken.”

  “You know your knives,” Logue commented.

  “I’ve seen too many of them in my time and the damage they can do in the hands of a psycho.”

  “Yea.”

  “Well done, Ray, how did you find this… bunker?”

  “Just luck.”

  “Well it’s lucky for…” Harper didn’t finish his comment as
he was interrupted by his cell phone ringing. He lifted it out of his pocket and answered it.

  “Hello.”

  “Sam, it’s Woods here, we found a body in a disused water tank on the roof of an apartment building in Queensbridge. The head was removed. It looks like he was dead for a day or so, probably killed on December sixth. We think we can ID the body, it’s Donal Keane.”

  Chapter 20: Wake the Dead

  Monday 7th December 2009

  Mayfield Street Precinct

  9:00 PM

  Logue took out the polaroid of Hazel Devereaux, Donal Keane and the unknown third person he discovered in the file in Keane’s bunker and stared at it. The man looked like he was in his early twenties and was tall and well built. He was wearing a blue rugby jersey. Taking out his glasses Logue tried to make out what the crest said on the jersey, but it was too blurred to decipher. He realised that if he could enlarge the image he might have a better chance of reading it. Looking around he noticed a scanner and decided to make use of it. Placing the photo on the scanner screen he watched as the image appeared on the monitor on the desktop. He attempted to sharpen the image, but his attempts were unsuccessful. He was never much good at using computers, but he knew a man who was: Noel Whelan back at Port Ard station. Logue saved the image on the desktop and opened up his Hotmail account and emailed the image to Jack McGarry. Taking his phone out of his pocket he decided to give his partner in crime a ring.

  “Hey Logi bear, how’s it hangin’?” McGarry greeted Logue as he answered the phone.

  “Hey McGarry, you old codger, how’s things?”

  “Things are quiet here when you’re not about, any craic with you over there?”

  “No craic at all, the cops over here are so fecking serious, they can’t take a joke, so wound up. I hate to say it but I kind of miss the shit you talk about.”

  “What are the bars like, are you doing much boozing? I suppose you are on the piss every night.”

  “No, I’m actually drinking very little.”

  “So, have you made any headway in the case, are you coming back to us soon?”

  “Yea, we were finally getting somewhere, we just discovered photos and videos this morning that link our chief suspect, Donal Keane, to the murders, but that’s all screwed up now because the cops here just found him dead earlier today, he was murdered. At this point it looks like there were two people involved in the killings. I mean, that Keane had an accomplice and perhaps it was the accomplice who killed him because he or she was afraid he was going to squeal.”