Murder in Just Cause

by Anne Cleeland

  “I don’t want interesting,” Munoz replied firmly. “I don’t want to deal with drama.”

  “Well, if you were married to a simple farmer, Izzy, you’d be bored in a fortnight.”

  “I’d run his books,” the beauty countered. “And I’d start a canning operation, to tide him over in the winter time.”

  Doyle observed with all sincerity, “God help the poor man.”

  Munoz chuckled, and Doyle chuckled too, but she also drew the conclusion that poor Gabriel was doomed. No doubt this touchy subject was what he wanted to speak to Doyle about, and it was just as well she’d sidestepped an awkward conversation; as Munoz had observed, Doyle was by no means an expert, and wouldn’t know what to say.

  With an inward sigh, Doyle gazed out her window. This love-and-longing business is so crackin’ complicated, she thought; you’d think they’d make it a lot more straightforward, with big, shiny signs illuminating the path to happiness.

  In the ensuing silence, Doyle noted that they were headed in the general direction of the housing projects yet again, and knew a moment’s qualm, considering their experiences there the day before. “So; what’s this assignment about?”

  “I sent you the file,” Munoz replied. “Didn’t you read it?”

  “No,” Doyle replied with a great deal of dignity. “I’ve got to keep my mind clear for my hunches.”

  After making an exasperated sound, Munoz explained, “It’s a witness interview at Holy Trinity Clinic.”

  “Another awful assignment,” Doyle declared with deep distaste. “I don’t have fond memories of that wretched place—had a suspect leap through the window, once. I’m surprised they didn’t just close it up, when the Church burned down.”

  Munoz lifted a shoulder. “Maybe the Diocese decided it was still worthwhile.”

  “Unlikely, Munoz; the Diocese is backin’ St. Michael’s new clinic, now. Mayhap Holy Trinity applied for public fundin’, or somethin’—I think the Health Professions Council was givin’ them money, before.”

  Munoz gave her a significant look. “The witness we’re interviewing thinks they’re running drugs.”

  “Ah,” said Doyle. “Say no more.”

  This was not a first; oftentimes the personnel in these types of inner-city clinics took advantage of their access to narcotics, and pilfered some on the sly to sell at a huge profit—oftentimes to the very patients they treated. It was a continuing problem, since the staff at such clinics tended to have a high turnover rate, and oftentimes the quality of the personnel was not the best.

  Doyle observed, “It’s the same old story, and no one ever seems to get a handle on the same old problems. You’d think they’d make an effort to crack down more than they do.”

  “Maybe they don’t want to get a handle on the problem,” Munoz pointed out, a bit cynically. “There’s a lot of money to be made.”

  But Doyle persisted, “Someone, somewhere must care about it, Munoz. Mayhap they need to start doin’ integrity checks on the personnel at the clinic to see if they’re tempted—just like they do for coppers.”

  “I don’t think the Health Service would allow integrity checks. It’s not like the Met.”

  Doyle had to agree with this inarguable truth, and then wondered—at bit uneasily—why this particular assignment had been given to Munoz. After all, it was not the sort of thing DS Munoz normally handled; usually drug-related crimes were handled by officers who were experienced in spotting the “tells” that went along with drug-running, since the criminals were very good at covering their tracks.

  I don’t know as I like this, Doyle decided, trying to tamp down a sense of alarm; we shouldn’t be here in the first place, and Munoz’s MAO is nowhere in sight.

  Thinking to explore these varied and distressing suspicions, Doyle ventured, “Why did they put you on a Vice run, Munoz?”

  “I don’t know. I do what I’m told, Doyle.”

  They pulled into a parking place on the street that was near-but-not-too-near the Clinic—always best to approach circumspectly, in this area of town—and Munoz turned the car off.

  But Doyle was distracted because she’d spotted a large-and-familiar figure, who began walking toward them on the pavement. In abject surprise, she exclaimed, “Mother a’ mercy; I think—why, I think that’s Inspector Geary, from Dublin.”

  Munoz raised her brows. “You know him? He’s my MAO.”

  Chapter 15

  There would be no going back, after this.

  Doyle concluded that the appearance of Inspector Geary on the scene was one coincidence too far, and immediately felt somewhat better about the situation; it may be a set-up, but it must be Acton’s set-up, so she’d just sit tight and see what there was to see. Best be wary, though; there was a reason her exasperating husband hadn’t warned her of this little wrinkle, and she’d do well to find out why that was.

  Once they’d assembled on the pavement, the Irishman shook Doyle’s hand in his grave manner. He was a big, solid man in the best Irish-copper tradition, and very much no-nonsense. “Grand to see you again, Officer Doyle.”

  “And you, sir.” She paused. “Who has the lead?” This was a valid question, since Inspector Geary may be an MAO, but he out-ranked the two girls.

  “DS Munoz has the lead,” he explained. “I’m just a visitor.”

  “Well, as long as it’s not me,” Doyle joked, and tried to ignore the cross-currents of emotion between the other two. He can’t possibly have made a pass at her, she thought in surprise; he’s not the pass-making type.

  They turned in the Clinic’s direction, and Munoz checked the notes on her mobile to begin her briefing. “The witness is a Davie McShane, who’s a lab tech. He’s suspicious about drug-running on the premises, and suggests we set-up surveillance.”

  “They don’t have surveillance already in place?” Geary asked in surprise. CCTV cameras were everywhere in London, and so the Inspector could be forgiven for thinking that a free clinic in the inner-city would be surveillance-central.

  “There’s street view, but nothing inside,” Munoz told him. “Which I suppose is an indicator that they may well be conducting an illegal enterprise.”

  Doyle explained to Geary, “It’s not completely unexpected—there’s a long history, with this Clinic. This was where the Met’s corruption rig housed its records—and there was a murder here, as a result.” Considering present company, she diplomatically decided it was probably best not to mention who’d done the aforesaid murdering.

  Munoz added, “And that’s not the only thing; the Church that sponsored this Clinic was deliberately burned down, after the corruption rig was rolled up.”

  And best not to mention who’d done the aforesaid church-burning-down, thought Doyle. Faith, I’ve got more secrets than I can keep track of, which is a sad, sad commentary on the company that I keep.

  “Let’s go in, then, and see what Mr. McShane has to say.” Munoz sheathed her mobile, and the three detectives continued toward the Clinic.

  “Doesn’t it seem a bit strange, that he wants to meet on the premises?” Doyle mused aloud. “It won’t be much of a sting, if three detectives have been seen nosin’ about in broad daylight.” Not to mention that there was no mistaking that Geary was a copper, despite his plainclothes—the man may as well be wearing a sign around his neck.

  “The Clinic’s usually closed today—they only have the funds to keep it open four days a week,” Munoz explained. “The witness said he wanted to show us some records, and it has to be on-premises because they’re paper, and not electronic.”

  This would seem to be another tell-tale sign that someone was conducting illegal drug sales off-the-books, but it still seemed strange to Doyle—that the witness couldn’t just make some copies on the sly, and bring them in to headquarters. Not to mention that an interview with coppers on the premises would openly expose him as an informant, and drug villains tended to be very retribution-minded. Her scalp prickled, and she frowned in surprise
. What? Drug villains tended to be ruthless; this was not a news flash.

  Munoz texted their arrival at the Clinic’s door, and it was unlocked by McShane himself, who was a wiry young man in his mid-thirties. Despite his Irish-sounding name, Doyle knew immediately that his ancestors didn’t originate from the Auld Sod—although it may not have meant anything, since he could have been adopted.

  Munoz made the introductions and the witness greeted them briefly, wooden-faced. It seemed to Doyle that he wasn’t happy to see Geary, bringing up the rear, which did not bode well; she wondered a bit uneasily if perhaps they were wandering into another trap, set for Munoz.

  “Follow me.” The witness turned to lead them into the back offices, but just as he did, Geary violently launched himself against the young man, slamming him face-down on the in-take counter, and twisting-up his arm behind him. “Easy there, lad.”

  “I’m clear—I’m clear,” the man gasped against the linoleum counter-top, and made no attempt to resist this rough treatment.

  Without loosening his grip, Geary pulled a gun from the back of the witness’s waistband—where it had been covered by his coat—and then patted him down.

  “Have you a permit for the weapon?” Munoz asked, ably recovering her poise. It was possible that it wasn’t an illegal weapon, if the man was licensed by the state for some reason.

  “No,” McShane replied briefly. “No permit.”

  This was sufficient reason to perform an arrest on the spot—since it was illegal for a private citizen to carry a handgun—but in this case, the witness was a whistleblower, and so it created a dilemma for Munoz, who paused, considering.

  “It’s army-issue,” said Geary briefly, as he pocketed the weapon. He then addressed the witness, as he released him from his hold. “You’ll get it back, lad, but only if you behave yourself.”

  “I don’t know if I can promise we’ll return his illegal weapon,” Munoz said in an even tone.

  “Beggin’ your pardon, ma’am,” Geary said immediately. “I forgot myself.”

  The witness straightened up and resumed his progress toward the offices behind them as though nothing had happened, whilst Doyle decided there was something to be said about brash Irish coppers who weren’t afraid to knock a few heads together; theoretically Munoz may be in charge, but there was no denying that a large and fisty man sent an undeniable message.

  As they followed Geary into the back office, Munoz took the opportunity to lean in to Doyle and say in a quiet voice, “Did you notice his tattoo?”

  “No,” Doyle admitted. Trust Munoz to be noticing details like tattoos whilst a violent and unexpected take-down was going on; Doyle, by contrast, had been startled out of her skin.

  “It’s on his hand. It’s a homemade one, like the ones they do in prison. It’s a symbol of some sort—on the knuckles of his left hand.”

  “D’you think he’s been in prison, then?” This actually wouldn’t be much of a surprise; our Mr. McShane here seemed a bit too self-contained for a lab tech who was willing to snitch on drug-runners.

  “I don’t know, but it’s the same tattoo as my kook had, on the same hand.”

  Doyle turned to stare at her in surprise. “Did he indeed?”

  “Yes.” The other girl frowned, thinking this over. “It may just be a coincidence—maybe they both served time in prison, or belonged to the same gang, growing up.”

  “This is where it would be handy to have someone who was familiar with tattoos,” Doyle remarked. The Vice team, in particular, tended to know the meanings behind the wide variety of hieroglyphics they came across in their work, which was only another reason it was strange that Munoz had been assigned to interview this particular witness.

  McShane walked into the office at the back, and as they all assembled in the room he pulled open a file cabinet, then reached toward the back to remove a plain manila envelope that had been tucked away behind the other files. “Here—I removed some invoices and lading bills to show you.”

  He pulled a few papers from the top of the envelope’s contents, and spread them out on the battered steel-case desk. “Here—you can see there are discrepancies, in the quantities. On this one, the lading bill shows twice what was listed on the invoices.” With a finger, he pointed to each.

  “And the ladin’ bills are in pencil,” Geary observed, leaning over to look. “Easy to fiddle with.”

  “More smoky goin’s-on,” Doyle agreed, as McShane slid the documents back into the envelope. “A shame this place didn’t burn to the ground, too.”

  “This is where the inoculations were tainted,” McShane said, in an even tone. “A couple of years ago.”

  The word hung heavy in the air, and there was a moment of profound silence.

  Munoz suddenly asked, “What does the tattoo on your hand mean, Mr. McShane?”

  The witness turned his hand to contemplate it, and shrugged negligently. “Nothing. I saw it somewhere, and I liked the design.”

  Munoz pulled her mobile. “I’d like to take a photo, if I may.”

  The man replied evenly, “Do you have a warrant?”

  There was another small silence.

  Geary asked, “Can you give us any more information about this drug-bundlin’ rig, Mr. McShane?”

  McShane shrugged, his expression giving nothing away. “I know that the bookkeeper answers to a woman. I’ve never met her, I’ve just heard him speaking to her on the phone—he complains about her a lot.” He paused. “But I got the feeling she was a police officer.”

  Again, there was a moment of profound silence, and Doyle had the impression that—despite his negligent attitude—the witness was all attention, like a hound at the point. The interesting part was that he wasn’t telling the truth—he’d overheard no conversations, for example, and—even stranger—Doyle was fast coming to the conclusion that the man didn’t work here, at all.

  If he was feeding them information, then the fact that he’d brought up the inoculations case could not be a coincidence, and so—yet again—Doyle was hoisted on the horns of a dilemma, since she couldn’t very well tell the others that he was making up nearly everything he said out of whole cloth—not to mention that she didn’t think he worked here in the first place.

  I could ring up Acton, she thought, but—unless I very much miss my guess—Acton is fully aware of this strange situation, which is why we are blessed with the presence of a burly Irish Inspector, who—by the by—doesn’t seem overly-alarmed. That, and he’d casually picked up the manila envelope so as to tuck it under his arm, whilst McShane’s sharp eyes watched him do it.

  It was all very perplexing, and Doyle was on the verge of deciding that she should give up trying to figure out what to do and just ring-up Acton on the spot, when the silence was broken by a tentative tap on the door, as it was slowly pushed open.

  Chapter 16

  Mission accomplished.

  Doyle and Munoz immediately moved to defensive positions, as Geary stepped forward to halt the door’s progress with his foot, standing flattened to one side. “Police,” he called out. “Who’s there?”

  There was a small silence. “Code One,” a woman’s voice called out in surprise, and Geary opened the door to reveal an astonished Sergeant Ruppe. She was in uniform, and stood on the threshold, trying to hide her alarm as she reviewed the room’s occupants. “Oh—oh, sorry; there’d been a report of suspicious activity—the place is supposed to be closed, today.” She gave no explanation as to why she didn’t have a second officer with her, or why she hadn’t called for back-up, which was the protocol when a patrol officer was investigating suspicious activity.

  Oh-ho, Doyle realized; it is some sort of trap, only it’s not for us, this time around.

  “We’ve a Code Five situation,” Munoz explained. “It would be best to be on your way, Sergeant.” A Code Five indicated that there was an undercover operation in progress, which meant uniformed patrol officers were to avoid the site so as not to give the game away.
Not that it mattered anymore, of course; anyone paying half-attention would realize the assorted persons currently littering the Clinic’s premises were LEOs—they certainly weren’t staff or patients, and the place was supposed to be closed.

  But what was more interesting to Doyle was Ruppe’s palpable dismay, as she hesitated for a moment, prevented by Munoz’s words from asking the questions she was clearly dying to ask.

  “Right, then. Sorry—I’ll clear out,” the woman finally said, and turned to leave on stiff legs.

  Stricken, she is, thought Doyle, watching her go. She must be the police officer McShane was referring to—which also meant that she was must be involved in the Clinic’s drug smuggling rig. Although this was not exactly a surprise, after all—she’d been AWOL before, and was hip-deep in the strange situation at the kook-murder site. When you connected all the dots, it did seem clear that Sergeant Ruppe was a dirty copper, and shame on her, for betraying her family’s honor.

  “Now, there’s a wrinkle,” observed Geary, into the resulting silence.

  “Let’s not jump to conclusions,” Munoz cautioned, and then turned to ask McShane, “Did you recognize that officer—ever seen her before?”

  “No,” said McShane.

  “Ever hear her voice?”

  “No,” he repeated, and offered nothing more.

  He’s cool as ice, Doyle thought; not your average lab tech by any means. But she was then struck with another sudden insight, as she realized that the witness wasn’t at all surprised by this turn of events. In fact, Doyle decided, our Mr. McShane was very satisfied, beneath his impassive expression. He must have known that Ruppe was going to come in—known it, and also knew that she was going to get a very unpleasant surprise.

  Munoz had apparently decided that she was well-sick of being blindsided, and that it was past time to retreat for a debriefing. “Thank you for coming forward,” she said in a brisk tone to the witness. “We have your contact information?”