Deadly Ancestors: A Bernadette Callahan Mystery (Bernadette Callahan Detective Series Book 5)

by Lyle Nicholson

  “As I have not verified anything, I have nothing to say. Now, excuse me. I am very busy with my duties,” Bernadette said. She whirled and walked away. Who the hell was this guy, and what was the Daily Bleed Blog?

  The hearing for the release of Cahal Callahan was being held in the courtroom of Judge Vicars. She didn’t have a good feeling about him. He was very Irish, almost to a fault. He was known to wear a hideous green suit with a shamrock pattern underneath his robes on St. Patrick’s Day and his little dog would accompany him to his chambers wearing a green tam O Shanter hat.

  She walked into the courtroom. The place was full, as usual—defense lawyers giving last minute briefings to clients, relatives, and friends sitting in the courtroom hoping for a good outcome. It looked like a three-ring circus at times.

  She once thought of the courtroom as a parody on the ancient coliseums of Rome. Here, instead of being thrown to the lions, the truth was always on trial.

  The truth did not always do well, but somehow at the end of the day, motions were filed, summons made, and clients either went their way to freedom or followed a sheriff to incarceration.

  They’d moved Cahal’s case to the front of the docket so Bernadette could come from the police department and not be waiting all day. The one thing about Judge Vicars, he hated having the police spending hours in his courtroom tied up in testimony when they could be outside fighting crime and bringing him fresh cases.

  Bernadette walked to the front of the courtroom and greeted Joe Christie, Cahals’ lawyer, and Frank Stallenback the crown prosecutor.

  The judge greeted everyone and asked that the prisoner, Cahal Callahan, be brought in.

  Cahal walked in; he was dressed in orange coveralls, his hands and legs in shackles. He looked over at Bernadette as he walked in and smiled. She looked down and found an interesting fingernail to look at.

  “I see we’re all here,” Judge Vicar said. “Now, I believe you have a petition to grant Mr. Cahal his freedom, Mr. Christie?”

  Joe was mid-forties, with a beige complexion with soft brown hair and blue eyes. His eyes always narrowed when he considered any question from a judge, as if he were about to set correct the greatest injustice in the world.

  Joe Christie rose from his chair. “Yes, your honor, the defense finds no reason why my client, Mr. Cahal Callahan, should be incarcerated any further. There is not one shred of evidence found against him. He was only in the wrong place at the wrong time. A mere matter of poor circumstances, and, as an alleged murder has taken place at the seminary yesterday, while my client was locked up in the remand center, I can see no other avenue than to set him free.”

  “Very well, council, and what does the Crown have to say in response?” Judge Vicar asked of Stallenback.

  Stallenback was thin, fifty-plus with a trim pencil mustache that no one had told him was out of style. He shuffled his papers before he spoke. “Well, yes the defendant may have been in remand during the recent incident, which I might add has not been ruled a murder and is still under investigation, but we still need more time to collect evidence in this case.”

  “How long has he been in remand?” the judge asked.

  “Seventy-eight hours, your honor,” Christie said in an accusatory tone towards the prosecutor.

  “Based on the evidence I see before me; I see no reason to hold this man any further. However, we do have the charge of possession of an illegal weapon,” the judge said.

  “Well, your honor, as my client has stated, this was a misunderstanding on his part. I’m sure considering his age and no past record of any kind we could let this—"

  “Not in my court, you don’t,” Judge Vicars said. “You can make your arguments on his next trial date. I think we can fit you in sometime in March. If something else comes up, we’ll let you know. I’ll set bail at ten thousand dollars, cash or surety. Please see the clerk of the court.”

  Cahal stood up. “But your honor, I don’t have that kind of money. What am I to do?”

  “Unless, your niece, Bernadette Callahan, is willing to pay your bail and take you into her home, I see you as being a guest of our remand center. Or you get on the phone to your people at home and get them to come to your aid. Now, next case,” Judge Vicars said rapping his gavel firmly.

  Joe Christie turned to Bernadette. “Well, Detective, I guess it’s up to you. Either claim him or see him back in jail.”

  “But I’m not even sure if he’s my relative.” Bernadette protested.

  “He asked me to give you this,” Christie said as he passed a small picture to her.

  It was an old photo, yellowed with age, that showed a picture of two men, one was her dad, the other was a much younger Cahal. In his arms he held a young girl. It was her, Bernadette, her own two year old staring back at her. They stood in front of a pub, called the James Nolan.

  “You want me to post his bail and take him in?” Bernadette asked.

  The sheriff came beside Cahal. She was a young woman named Cheryl Duncan. She could see the indecision in Bernadette’s facial expression. She stood there with the handcuffs waiting. But her look said it all. The next contestant was waiting, time to make a decision.

  Bernadette put her hand to her forehead. “I feel like the ghost of my father has come back to haunt me over this. Okay, I’ll post bail and take him into my care.”

  Cahal beamed. “What a wonderful niece you are, my girl. I knew you had the true Callahan spark in you. A fine thing you’ve done for this old man today.”

  Bernadette walked over to him. “Uncle Cahal, if that’s who you are. I am now effectively your new jailer. You will be waiting at my house with my fiancé and me until your trail. I’m sure you’ll be acquitted. But if you do anything silly to compromise the ten thousand bail, I’m putting up for you, I will find you, and I will probably shorten your life. Do you understand me?”

  Cahal’s smile became wider, and he looked at Joe Christie. “See, what brass this lass has, a champion amongst detectives. Well, let’s get going then.”

  Bernadette put up her hand. “Not so fast. I have to see the clerk of the court and make the arrangements. You can rest easy here. The sheriff will take you to a waiting area and I’ll have to phone Chris, my fiancé, to pick you up. I’ve got a whole shift to fill back at work.”

  “Well, now, that’s grand it is. Perhaps your man and I will drop by a pub to celebrate my release when he comes by,” Cahal said.

  Bernadette glared at him. “Not bloody likely. Look, you are on bail, that’s just like prison but not in prison. You will not be venturing to any pubs, and you will be seeing a court clerk once a week to report.”

  “Oh, I see…well then, that’s fine my dear, no need to cause an uproar. I’ll be a meek as a lamb, not a problem. You’ll see,” Cahal said.

  Bernadette turned and headed for the court clerk’s office. She sent a text to Chris to tell him what she’d done. He sent a text that he was fine with her decision, as Cahal was her relative. He’d pick him up when he was processed.

  It took almost an hour to process the bail order. She had to put up the money in a surety, which meant an attachment on the mortgage on her home. As the home was still in her name as Chris and her weren’t married yet, it was easy. The hardest part was signing the papers.

  As she did, she realized that she’d given Cahal Callahan relevance. She’d given him bail, his freedom, and made him real. He just didn’t seem real.

  She left the courtroom, still livid over having been backed into a corner. Why hadn’t Cahal shown her the photo when she’d met him at the jail? It was like a trump card. He played her like she played poker; never reveal your cards until the last moment, bluff as long as possible. Her father had taught her that. She smiled at the thought; maybe Cahal was the real thing.

  Now, she had a case to work on, she needed to see the coroner and get the report on the dead priest. There was so much about the attempted murder and the murder at the seminary that wasn’t right. Nothing fit. She
was hoping some of the pieces would fall into place soon.

  8

  The coroner’s office was only a few blocks from the law courts, the police headquarters and the remand center. Someone knew in the planning of the city that the law and death would be intertwined. They’d made it easy to move the examination of death to the examination of the law in a few blocks.

  Chris sent a text to her, telling her he’d already contacted Joe Christie to let him know when to pick up Cahal.

  She walked into the coroner’s office feeling only slightly relieved. Chris always had her back. If anyone could take care of a strange family situation like this one, it was him.

  Her boots squeaked on the tile floor as she pushed through the doors that sighed as the air rushed out. The smell—she never got used to it—was formaldehyde. No matter how she breathed, the stuff went down her throat and sat somewhere in the pit of her stomach.

  She’d be retching sometime later. It was just a matter of time. Bodies never bothered her; she’d seen so many in her years in the police force that she was numb to them. It’s what they did to the bodies in here that got to her.

  The bodies were dissected, the fluids drained, and every conceivable part was weighed and measured.

  The receptionist told her where to find Dr. Andrew. He was in his usual form, wearing his kilt covered in a lab coat. The kilt always swished as he walked. There was a running joke at the detachment. Every new recruit was told to ask Dr. Andrew why he wore his kilt.

  “So, the boys can breathe,” he’d always reply in his thick Scot’s brogue that would make the new recruits blush when they understood he meant his balls.

  “Good morning, Doctor Andrew,” Bernadette said.

  “Aye, good morning, Detective,” the doctor replied. He was standing over a cadaver with his tools busily dissecting its cavity.

  Bernadette didn’t look away, but kept her eyes focused on the doctor. “You find anything interesting on our victim from the seminary?”

  Doctor Andrew looked up. “Oh, aye. Here let me get the file.” He dropped his instruments in a metal dish and stripped off his gloves. He walked with his kilt swishing about his legs to a table. After rummaging amongst the files, he found the one he was looking for.

  “Yes, Father Fredericks, aged seventy-seven years, Caucasian, cause of death was strangulation, but there was a massive amount of GHB in his blood,” Dr. Andrew said.

  “The date rape drug?” Bernadette asked as she pulled her notebook from her jacket.

  “Aye, that’s it. The stuff will knock you out silly if taken in a large dose. The victim might have been conscious enough for the murderer to make him stand on the chair then use the rope to hoist him up. There was enough GHB in his system to knock out a horse. The victim didn’t stand much of a chance.”

  “So, we’re not looking for a tall person, just someone strong enough to pick up a one-hundred-and-fifty-pound man?” Bernadette asked.

  “Well, no,” Dr. Andrew replied. “If the murderer jacked him up with the drug, the victim would have stood on the chair and giggled while they hoisted him up the rope. Sorry to give such a graphic, but that could have been the case. All he had to do was steer him there.”

  Bernadette rubbed her chin. “Then I’ve got someone who gets close enough to Father Fredericks to give him the drug. Were there any needle marks on his skin?”

  “No, not a one. But the crime scene techs found a bottle of whiskey laced with the stuff by the victim’s bed. Seems the man was known to have a wee dram at night.”

  “So, the killer let Father Fredericks administer the drug himself. What a hell of way to go…” Bernadette said.

  “Aye, and it was a fine single malt whiskey, he would never have detected the salty taste of GHB.”

  “Any abrasion on the victims hand showing a struggle?”

  “No, none. And no skin under his fingernails. He was a willing victim for his own gallows.”

  “The killer must have entered into the seminary and laced Father Frederick’s bottle. Had to be before he went to bed. Thanks Doctor. I’ll look forward to your complete official report.”

  She walked out of the Coroner’s office and made it back to the detachment without seeing any reporters. She found Evanston in the office and brought her up to speed with her morning’s findings.

  “Ah, before we get into this too deeply,” Evanston said sipping on coffee, “tell me again how you got saddled with Cahal. That part sounds incredible.”

  Bernadette put up her hand. “Evans, I will hurt you if you continue that line of bullshit. Now let’s get to work.”

  Evanston grinned. “Sorry, couldn’t help it. I did run a check with border services. They had few Irish Nationals hitting our country, as most of them know we’re so cold this time of year you can freeze the balls off a brass monkey. But a group of twenty landed in Calgary then headed to Banff to do a ski holiday.”

  “They have a tour group name we can contact?”

  “Already on it. I found the tour operator and told them they had to give us all the hotels they were staying at. I’ve contacted constables in Banff to check on them.”

  Bernadette poured a coffee and put in her sugar and cream. “Great, that will give the officers in Banff something new to do other than herd the elk out of town, so they don’t bother the tourists.”

  “Or to keep the drunk skiers from annoying the elk,” Evanston said.

  “My moneys on the elk,” Bernadette said. “Have we run checks on the supposed Irish ski holiday group on our international database?”

  “I got them all inputted. So far, no hits,” Evanston said.

  “That’s the problem, you’ve got to have a record to be in the system. If our killer has never been arrested, we’ve got no trace on him.”

  Evanston leaned forward at her desk. “What’s makes you think we got a male killer?”

  “Well, someone would have been strong enough to hoist the victim into the noose, and when you think about it, you’d need someone to hold the noose open. I think we got a team. Could be male or female.” Bernadette said.

  “So, no stone unturned?” Evanston said.

  “Yeah, we look at every person on the ski holiday from Ireland.”

  “Oh, and by the way, the car you wanted me to check was a rental out of Edmonton Airport. The car was rented to Jacob Burkov.”

  “That’s the little jerk I met earlier. He was throwing some zinger questions. Said he worked for the Daily Bleed,” Bernadette said.

  “Oh gees, don’t mess with that guy,” Evanston said. “He runs everyone through the wringer, digs up dirt on them, and throws out all kinds of accusations.”

  “How do you know that?”

  Evanston dropped her eyes to her desk. “Okay, I’ve read his column a few times. He’s got great sponsors on his blog, and I get fifteen percent off of cat food for my cats Newman and Kramer. They love the stuff.

  “I have no idea what’s worse, you are buying cat food from a creepy blogging site or that you’ve named your cats after the Seinfeld show,” Bernadette said.

  Bernadette heard a ping on her phone. It was a text from Chris, it said, Got the Irishman, taking him home.

  9

  Belfast, Ireland

  Five men sat around a long wooden table. The room looked medieval. Candles provided the light, throwing shadows onto the shields and spears attached to the rough stone walls. At the head of the table a man sat in a robe with a hood over his head. He was wearing a mask made of gold.

  The other men sat there waiting for him to speak. He was to be addressed as Master or Magda when spoken to. He struck fear into them. Men who’d questioned him had lost fingers; men who disappointed him had disappeared.

  Master produced a phone and scrolled down the screen. “I don’t like what I’m seeing. How hard is it to kill two old priests in the backwaters of Canada?”

  “There were complications,” a man named Liam said, his voice almost cracking as he said the words. He
didn’t want to say anything but the fear of not responding was greater. He’d wished someone else had said his words.

  Master fixed his gaze on Liam. “Yes, thank you, Liam, for voicing the incompetence of this group. I thought I’d assembled the wealth of the ancestors of Ireland. It seems I’ve been mistaken.”

  “You’re not mistaken,” a man named Andrew said. “This was botched, yes, there seemed to be a guardian protecting the priests. We’ll deal with him. We had Father Frederick taken care of last night. Father Dominic is without protection in the hospital. It’s only a matter of hours before we have this dealt with.”

  “I’ll hold you accountable then, shall I, Andrew?” Master said.

  “Yes, I will be accountable,” Andrew said. There was nothing else he could say. He felt his intestines turn to water. He clenched his fists under the table. He’d signed his own death warrant if the assassins failed.

  “Good, now, what of the others that need to be taken care of?” Master asked.

  “Paddy O’Dea is being picked up as we speak,” Andrew said.

  “Good, we need to rid all links to our sacred order. Soon we will be able to operate in complete freedom,” Master said as he rose. They bowed their heads as he walked out of the room.

  Paddy O’Dea bought a pack Benson and Hedges cigarettes from the newsagents on Station Road in Kildare. He took a cigarette out, placing his usual curse on the smoking kills label on the packet. He coughed slightly, put a match to the end of the cigarette, inhaled deeply, and broke into a spasm of coughing.

  “Bloody hell,” Paddy exclaimed as his breath returned. “That was a bad spell.” He looked across the road. Cara and Brennan, his two grandchildren, were playing on the swings in the small park.

  He’d buy the wee ones off with the ice cream and cram them full of sweets so they wouldn’t tell their gran that Granddad had been puffing again. But what was he going to do at his age?

  A car pulled up beside him, and two young men with crew cuts and leather jackets got out. They looked like they were about to go into the shop, but they turned and walked toward him.