First Death In Dublin City (Thomas Bishop Book 1) (8 page)

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 hurt, 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.

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.

As he got out of his car in the rainy parking lot of Ballyfermot station, he couldn’t help but feel that he was far from fighting fit. He ran in the main entrance with his jacket up over his head to cover up from the torrential downpour. At the desk a Garda was speaking to junkie about parole or some such, trying to get through to his methamphetamine-soaked brain that he was two hours late, and therefore the Garda couldn’t sign his sheet.

Tommy knocked on the graffitied wood counter and took from his pocket an ID.

‘Let me in, will you?’ He asked, and the staff man nodded and walked away from the counter. Tommy walked to the side door to wait for it to open, and while he waited the junkie turned to him.

‘Sorry, mate, but can you help me? Only he won’t sign me parole sheet.’ He said in an ugly slurred voice.

‘Find me Amy Clancy and I will.’ Said Tommy.

The junkie rocked back and forward on the spot as he tried to process the information. Worth a shot anyway. Behind him the heavy wooden door opened.

‘Wait!’ Said the junkie as Tommy was walking through the door.

‘What?’ Asked Tommy impatiently.

‘She was found in Glenaulin right?’ He asked, still teetering from one leg to another.

‘She was yeah.’ Said Tommy.

‘Well have ya asked the homeless?’ He asked.

‘The homeless. Why would I ask them?’ Asked Tommy.

‘Only they may have seen something see? There’s always people staying in Glenaulin, whenever the Glen is full.’ He said

‘Holy shit.’ Said Tommy, slapping the rank and file on the arm. ‘Sign this guy’s parole sheet and under superior officer, sign Detective Inspector Thomas Bishop. If anyone asks send them to me.’

The rank and file just nodded, while the junkie shouted his thanks after Tommy, but he was already gone. Into the back where an old Munster Garda called Peter Hayes was filling out paperwork; Peter almost went as far back as Tommy’s dad’s days in the force.

‘Ah Tommy, how are ya boy?’ He asked.

‘Good as ever. I had some fellas of yours knocking on doors round here?’ Said Tommy.

‘Ya, uhm, I have it here sure, see where I can find it now.’

From down the corridor a shout came. ‘Lemme out! Lemme out!’

It was from the drunktank, someone had just woken up.

‘Want me to shut him up?’ Asked Tommy.

‘No, it’s fine. Picked him up asleep on the road last night, wouldn’t wake for love nor money.’ Said Peter.

‘Who is he?’ Asked Tommy.

‘Fella by the name of Mick O’Reilly. He was a man once, that is until his son was murdered.’ Said Peter.

‘Shit. Regular customer?’ Asked Tommy.

‘Like the moon, at least every month he’s in here.’ Said Peter.

‘Hmm.’ Said Tommy, now taking out the pile of reports left for him to peruse. He spent fifteen minutes looking through them, and as he had been warned and as he had well expected, the canvass of Ballyfermot’s council estates had garnered nothing. Sweet fuck all. Tommy’s only relief during it all came when Peter escorted this Mick O’Reilly from the drunk tank.

Tommy knew Mick’s type, and they all had a story like his. People like Mick remembered Dublin city in the rare old times, when all men had Ronnie Drew beards and everyone lived in tenements and passing out in the street was the done thing. A shame, he was born in the wrong age. In Dublin alcoholics are two a penny, thought Tommy, and Mick was just another member of the cider supping herd.

The notes being useless, Tommy decided to grab some breakfast to make his trip feel worth it, so, he headed over to The Beehive, a restaurant on the Old Galway Road that served up a fine full Irish. Not only that, but they were affiliated with the city’s main home for those afflicted with Intellectual Disability, Steward’s Hospital, and all the waiters and waitresses there were clients. Over a few years of attending, Tommy had gotten to know the staff, and it was always good to stop to talk to someone who wasn’t depressed, like everyone else was in this country. Someone who would just talk about sports, or Halloween, instead of austerity or missing children.

So, Tommy rang Anne, who was out knocking on doors in Trinity Hall, and the two agreed to meet at the Old Beehive in half an hour. Tommy checked in at home, and made sure Morris was doing fine, before picking up an Umbrella and leaving again.

The rain continued spattering so Tommy stayed in his car until Anne eventually came along, driving an unmarked Mondeo much like his.

‘I haven’t seen you in that one before?’ Asked Tommy.

‘Words come down from Phoenix Park, normal roster duty doesn’t apply for this one.’ Said Anne.

Normal roster duty had been instituted sometime back in 2010 in response to the nonexistence of a Garda budget. All crimes had 24 hours to be investigated, after which time they were considered solved and taken off all rosters. Make no sense? Welcome to 21st Century Ireland, Tommy had long learned to live with it, mainly by continually putting the same crimes into the register, an act that was in fact looked well upon by Phoenix Park, because, unless solved, the whole crime could be erased from the PULSE system, and the crime rates then reported as lower than had occurred before.

The fact that word had come from Phoenix Park to abandon regular rostering duties proved one thing: missing southsiders sold a lot of papers

Upon entering the restaurant, set in a beautiful building that had been built as a workhouse back in the famine, and hanging up their coats, they were greeted by the greeter, who was, in fact, also called Tommy.

‘Tommy! How’s it going?’ Asked Tommy, and the server put out his hand to shake.

‘Meet Anne, she works with me.’ Said Tommy.

‘Hi Anne.’ Said Tommy, and speaking now only to Tommy. ‘Is she your girlfriend?’

‘No Tommy, not my girlfriend, I wish though!’ Tommy said, and he was surprised to see Anne turn a bright red and only manage to wave at Tommy the server. Tommy cursed, hoping he hadn’t said something tantamount to sexual harassment.

They were seated and then ordered, Anne just having eggs and toast; Tommy having a full Irish as well as orange juice. They managed to make a quick end of it, and soon were on to discussing solely the case. Brainstorming was Tommy’s forte, and he preferred to do it alone, but Anne began the process and so Tommy was forced to follow.

‘No, no, no. You’re looking at this all wrong.’ Exclaimed Tommy after several minutes of this conversation. ‘The person who did it needed the motive, means and opportunity to abduct Amy; anyone who doesn’t have all three makes no sense.’

‘That’s why you don’t think Hugh did it?’ Asked Anne.

‘How did he bring her to Glenaulin?’ Tommy said.

‘Amy went with him.’ Said Anne.

‘Amy was scared shitless of him, there’s no way she went anywhere with him voluntarily.’

‘So, adults only then?’ Asked Anne.

‘Exactly, so who we’re looking for is an adult male. By the way I’m going to the Furry Glen tonight.’ Tommy said.

‘Hey, do what you gotta do, just don’t tell me about it.’ Said Anne.

‘No, Anne, not for that.’ The Furry Glen was a famous Dublin cruising spot. ‘I need to speak to the homeless.’ Tommy said.

‘And they’re in the Furry Glen?’ Asked Anne.

‘The ones I’m looking for are.’ Tommy said.

‘Are they gay?’ Asked Anne.

‘No Anne. You know during the Phoenix Park has got more to it than just a place to go for buttsex.’ Said Tommy.

‘It’s all I’ve heard it’s good for.’ Said Anne.

‘HQ and the Áras are there?’ Said Tommy.

‘Yeah, hence the buttsex.’ Said Anne, and Tommy in response just rolled his eyes and got up to go to the register to settle the bill.

‘Where to?’ Asked Anne, once they had gotten out into the rain and under an umbrella.

‘Find a traffic stop, start interviewing people, I suppose. Hope someone has something.’ Said Tommy.

‘No buttsex?’ Asked Anne.

‘You have the maturity of a four year old.’ Said Tommy as they got into the car. ‘And for that you’re driving.’ He said as he settled into his seat and closed his eyes to get some needed sleep.

‘A woman over last night?’ Asked Anne.

‘How could you tell?’ Asked Tommy.

‘Why else would you be so tired?’ Asked Anne.

‘Just drive.’ Said Tommy, and he began to drift off.

‘Call me next time you’re gonna head off for a fight cause you’re all depressed and shit, call me.’ Anne said.

Tommy looked at her quizzically, until Anne pointed at her own forehead and Tommy understood, the cut looked like it came from a bar fight.

‘Just drive.’ Tommy said again, but sleep evaded him as he couldn’t help but wonder why he had bought three vials of dope.