Murder in an Irish Churchyard

by Carlene O'Connor

  “Good catch,” Macdara said, admiration in his voice.

  “I didn’t s-steal it,” the bookmaker stuttered as he clung onto it, clearly nervous.

  “You didn’t tell us about it either, did ye?” Macdara said.

  Siobhán had to admit, if only to herself, that there was something quite attractive about Detective Sergeant Macdara Flannery pulling rank. Aisling probably thinks so too. “The American man gave it to you?” Macdara asked.

  “It was a gift, alright.”

  “Let’s see it,” Macdara said.

  The lad took it off lightning quick. “Can I remove my things?”

  Macdara glared at him. “Was it empty when he gave it to you?”

  The lad’s head bobbed up and down so fast, Siobhán was afraid it was going to fly off. “He emptied it out himself, sir.”

  “Where?”

  The lad’s eyes slid to the left. “It won’t do you much good.”

  “Why do you say that?” Siobhán said, trying to make her voice stern too. It elicited another eyebrow raise from Macdara.

  “I saw a few of the papers,” the lad said, leaning in and whispering. “Looked like half of them were burned.”

  “ ‘Burned’?” Macdara said.

  “The matches in the cemetery,” Siobhán said. The lad’s eyes widened and Siobhán clamped her mouth shut before Macdara could give her a kick to the shins.

  “Where did he throw out these papers?” Macdara asked.

  This time the cheeky lad smiled. “The Dumpsters,” he said with a jerk of his head. “Around back of the stands.”

  “‘D-dumpsters,’” Siobhán stammered. “More than one?”

  He gave a friendly jerk of his head. “It’s a big place.” He leaned in, and nodded to the buildings. “Lucky for you I saw which one he used. Last one. The only one you can see from here.”

  Macdara and Siobhán turned. Sure enough in the distance they could see the Dumpster he was on about.

  “Have they been emptied since he was here?” Macdara asked.

  The lad shrugged. “I’d say the snow delayed the pickup, alright. So you could be in luck!”

  “Hear that,” Macdara said, turning to Siobhán with a wink. “We ‘could be in luck.’ ”

  “Too bad he can’t sell us a leprechaun,” Siobhán quipped. The lad had the decency to blush. A Dumpster full of rubbish. Luck of the Irish indeed.

  * * *

  A mountain of rubbish was more like it. Kilimanjaro. Crisp wrappers, red sauce, half-eaten cheeseburgers, wet newspapers, mineral cans, cigarette butts. Macdara groaned and threw a look to Siobhán, who was standing as far away as she could get. “Didn’t plan for this in college, did ye?”

  “No. But there’s plenty of it in the bistro life.” She left out the fact that she usually let the lads handle the rubbish.

  Macdara stared at it as if he hated his life. “Might as well dig in.” He kept perfectly still.

  “We should,” Siobhán said. “Anything Brandon threw away is going to be at the bottom, you know.” She didn’t move. She glanced at her hands. “We’ll need gloves.” She stared at the enormous container. “And a ladder.”

  “No need,” Macdara said. “I’d be happy to give you a boost up.”

  “Ah, sure. Then I can pull you in after me.”

  Macdara laughed. “Ladder it is.” He looked in the direction of the beer stand. “And plenty of Guinness.”

  “We’re on duty.”

  “I don’t care.”

  An hour and a half later, buzzing from a few pints and up to their elbows in trash, Siobhán pulled out a charred piece of paper from the mound of horrors. “This might be something.”

  “What is it?” Macdara slid close to her and looked over her shoulder. She could smell his cologne, a welcome relief from the smells wafting out of the Dumpster. The desire to turn around and put her arms around him was at an alarmingly high level. Making out with your detective sergeant would most assuredly be frowned upon. She concentrated on the piece of paper, at least what was left of it. The handwriting was the same as the letter the pathologist had found. “This is it. It must be penned by the same person. The ‘Dear Ann’ letter.”

  “Guess it’s better than a ‘Dear John’ letter.”

  “Funny man.”

  “Sorry. What does it say?”

  The handwriting was loopy, and with it halfway burned and smeared with unknown Dumpster substances, it was hard to read. She could make out Cork, America, and on the boat. “It will take some time to decipher. And we’re missing half.”

  Macdara nodded, then looked at the paper. “Why only burn half?”

  “Maybe he or she was interrupted?”

  “Or maybe they just burned the incriminating parts.” Macdara sounded as if he was onto something.

  Siobhán shook her head. “I don’t agree.”

  “Why not?”

  “One in the morning in a cemetery? Why wouldn’t he or she just burn the whole thing?”

  “Good point.”

  Siobhán began to pace. “I think we can safely assume the burning took place before Peter was killed.”

  “I’ll give you that,” Macdara said. “Hard to imagine someone sticking around to burn papers after shooting a man in the heart.”

  “Exactly. The killer had to know that someone might have heard the gunshot. He or she would run.”

  “Someone trying to provoke him?”

  “Someone who didn’t want Peter to have these papers?”

  “But why?”

  Macdara sighed. “If we knew the answer to that, we’d be further along. I’d say Brandon Mallon may be the man to answer our questions.”

  Siobhán tried to imagine the scene. “Let’s go with it. Let’s say Brandon met his father in the cemetery.”

  “Okay,” Macdara said. “Why?”

  “What if Peter found out Brandon was gambling again? Remember, one more infraction and he would be cut out of his father’s will.”

  “Go on.”

  “Maybe Brandon discovered the headstone first. Remember some witnesses saw a younger man in town.”

  “Who said he was here to ‘right a great wrong.’ What would Brandon have been referring to?”

  “His years of disappointing his father by gambling?”

  Macdara shrugged. “Keep going.”

  “Brandon decides to make up for it. What better way to impress Peter Mallon than to show a love for genealogy? Brandon may have purchased the letters or found the letters. But at the cemetery things don’t go as planned. Peter doesn’t agree to reinstate Brandon into the will. In a fury Brandon starts to burn the letters. Peter could have lunged to stop him. The gun falls out—”

  “Who brought the gun and why?”

  “Peter definitely could have taken the gun. But not to kill Brandon.”

  “Then why?”

  “I don’t have all the answers.” She stared at horses in the distance. “Tracy insists her father was failing mentally. It could account for some of his odd behavior. Perhaps he stole the gun because he was becoming increasingly paranoid.” She thought of the mysterious old lady, and brought the subject up with Macdara. “Father Kearney said this old woman appeared as ‘mad as a bag of cats.’ ”

  “And?”

  “And she’d been seen pacing in the cemetery, in the back row where the Mallon headstone was located.”

  “I’m waiting for your conclusion.”

  “Peter could have had his own run-ins with her. He could have stolen the gun because he was afraid of her.”

  Macdara held up his hands. “Speaking as a man, I think you might want to hold off before you go accusing our victim of being afraid of an elderly woman.”

  “That’s sexist.”

  Macdara gave a nod of his head. “Might be. Advice still stands.”

  “Chris Gordon admitted that Peter was in the museum asking about the antique revolvers close to when the revolver went missing. A donation blocked his view of the gun
case. Peter Mallon would have easily been able to steal the gun. Chris Gordon also confirmed the sighting of our tall old lady. She could have taken the gun. Startled Peter.”

  “One theory at a time. Let’s stick with Brandon.”

  “Right, right.” Siobhán began to pace, allowing the fresh air to heal the memories of the Dumpster. “In the cemetery Brandon could have freaked out when he saw the gun. The two of them could have reached for it at the same time. Brandon gets the gun. Either he panics and shoots, or he’s so enraged about the will that he kills him.”

  “Then he has to find a way to get rid of the satchels and the letters. It’s a solid theory. Good work.”

  “It’s not completely solid,” Siobhán said.

  “Correct. There’s the gun. What happened to it? What else?”

  “Why would Brandon give us the receipt from the races? Why not get rid of that one?”

  “It’s possible he didn’t realize it was mixed in. Or he didn’t count on us figuring it out.”

  Siobhán bit her lip. It was true. Killers made mistakes all the time. Especially when they were under pressure. “Now what?”

  “We see if we can find anything else and then get the heck out of here.”

  Siobhán had been pacing again, when she saw something balled up behind the Dumpster. A swirl of black material with a dark red patch caught her eye. She knelt, and even though she was wearing gloves, she only used two fingers to pull it out. It was a black coat. Covered in blood. “Something like this?”

  Macdara stared. “Yes,” he said. “Something just like that.”

  “A black coat,” Siobhán said. “Just like the one Brandon was wearing in the photograph at the Titanic exhibition.”

  “That’s right,” Macdara said. “I’d forgotten all about that.”

  With her gloved hand Siobhán held up the bloodied coat. “Guess he didn’t leave it in the jax after all.”

  Chapter 16

  Brandon Mallon was back in Paddy Power, twitching under a television alive with cartoon dogs racing. Siobhán wanted to turn it off and drag every lad out of the place by the ear. Instead she gently tapped Brandon on the shoulder. He nearly jumped out of his trousers. When he whirled around, his eyes were bloodshot and glassy. Deep into his addiction, he seemed to take several moments before even registering who they were. When his eyes finally lit with recognition, Siobhán hoisted up Peter Mallon’s leather satchel. “Look what we found.”

  He stared at it as if it were a severed head; then he licked his chapped lips and ran his fingers through his hair. Siobhán wondered when he’d bathed last. They had better solve this mystery before every member of this group had a complete breakdown.

  “Hey,” he said, his voice cracking, “where did you find it?”

  “At the Cork Racecourse,” Macdara said. “Fancy that.”

  “Oh,” Brandon said. “I see.”

  So far he wasn’t lying to them, but he wasn’t being forthright either. “Why don’t we go somewhere and have a little chat,” Siobhán said.

  “How about I meet you in a little bit?” Brandon said. “I have a race coming up.”

  Macdara glanced at the television in disgust. “Fake Fido will have to wait.” He took Brandon by the elbow. “Let’s take a stroll to the station.”

  * * *

  At the station Brandon perched on a wobbly chair and stared at the exit as if biding his time before he could bolt. Beads of sweat dotted his forehead. He was terrified of authority, or maybe after spending all day in the betting shop, he wasn’t acclimated to natural light. His knee was bouncing, and his eyes were constantly flicking around. Siobhán wanted to sit on his bouncing knee, kick it, do anything to stop it. She hated watching other people fidget.

  “We know you burned the contents of the satchel, then dumped it on a bookie,” Siobhán said. “I’m sure you’re on CCTV at the races. We can check it.” She felt a kick to her shin and stopped short of crying out. Macdara glared at her. She kicked him back and returned the glare. Brandon put his head down. “We spent hours digging through a nasty Dumpster,” Siobhán said. “I’m scarred for life. You’d better start talking.” She didn’t care if Macdara kicked her again; she couldn’t get out of her head the horrific image of wet newspapers smeared with red sauce and unidentified slime. It may have killed her appetite forever. Brandon’s shoulders started to shake. When he looked up, tears were streaming down his face.

  “My father was already dead,” Brandon said. “There was nothing I could do.”

  Macdara and Siobhán exchanged a look.

  Siobhán leaned forward. “You were in the cemetery that night?”

  Brandon sighed. Macdara reached down and brought up the bloody jacket. They were going to send it for testing, but had decided to present it to Brandon and see his reaction.

  Brandon’s tears ran down his cheeks, and he buried his face in his hands. “I swear, he was already dead. I checked for a pulse. He was so cold. There was nothing I could do. Nothing.”

  “You could have called the police,” Siobhán said. She felt a flush of shame, knowing the same applied to her.

  “Instead you stole his satchel and ran?” Macdara said.

  “I wanted to see if his will was in there,” Brandon said. “He’d been threatening to cut me out.”

  “Was it?” Macdara asked. They hadn’t found a will in the Dumpster.

  “No,” Brandon said. “It was more of his genealogy research.”

  “Which you burned,” Siobhán said.

  “No,” Brandon said. “When I arrived, there were papers all over the ground. Partially burned. I stuffed them back into the satchel. Then I just dumped them out when I realized there was nothing important.”

  “ ‘Nothing important’?” Siobhán said. “If you weren’t the killer, then obviously either your father or his murderer started to burn those papers.”

  “It must have been my father,” Brandon said.

  Macdara leaned forward. “Why do you say that?”

  “If it was the killer, why didn’t he take the satchel with him?” Brandon asked.

  “Maybe he did,” Siobhán said.

  Brandon blinked. “I don’t understand.”

  “She’s suggesting you’re the killer,” Macdara said.

  “He was already dead!” Brandon’s voice rose to a wail, and all heads in the station turned toward him.

  “At the least you’ve destroyed evidence, lied to the police, and hindered an active investigation,” Macdara said. “We could charge you right now.”

  “You’re going to need a good attorney,” Siobhán added.

  “Please,” Brandon said. “Do you know the exact time of the murder?”

  “Why?” Macdara said.

  “Because I was in a pub until ten past one in the morning,” Brandon said. “Talk to the bartender. It’s that funeral pub.”

  “Butler’s?” Siobhán asked.

  “Yes. Butler’s Undertaker, Lounge, and Pub. I was there until ten past one. Ask him.”

  “We can’t trust you now,” Siobhán said.

  Brandon wiped his tears and crossed his arms. The grief was gone, and Siobhán watched as Brandon entered the anger phase. “If he hadn’t been so obsessed with the past, he’d be alive right now. Who cares about letters from hundreds of years ago? I hated my father’s obsession with his research. Greta’s even worse. The past! That’s all they care about. The past. And he judged me for my addiction? He was way more of an addict than I was, and unlike mine, his addiction got him killed. I wish we’d never come here!” He pounded his fist on the desk.

  “How did you know your father was at the cemetery?” Siobhán asked.

  “I followed in his footsteps,” Brandon said. “In a way.”

  “Start from the beginning,” Macdara said. “And if we think you’re leaving anything out, then these are going to get used.” Macdara opened his drawer and pulled out handcuffs. Siobhán resisted the urge to pat him on the back. Props were fun and effe
ctive. Brandon’s eyes widened with fear.

  “The beginning,” Macdara said again. “Every single step.”

  * * *

  Brandon took a moment before he began his account. “I was sitting in a pub in Cork when I saw my father pass by the window. I almost missed him. He was speed-walking, nearly running. I hadn’t seen him since he’d abruptly left the museum.” He looked up as if he’d just realized something.

  “Go on,” Macdara said.

  “I just thought of something he said to me at the museum. ‘Secrets always come out.’ ”

  “‘Secrets always come out,’” Siobhán repeated. Very cryptic. “Did you ask him what he was referring to?”

  Brandon hung his head. “I didn’t have to. It was his way of telling me he knew I was gambling again.”

  Siobhán wasn’t convinced that’s what Peter meant. Perhaps he was referring to his discovery of his great-grandfather’s tombstone. But, of course, Brandon, having a guilty conscience, would have taken it that personal way.

  “Let’s get back to the story,” Macdara said. “You saw him pass by the window. Then what?”

  “I ran out after him. Followed him down the street. I was shocked to see him getting into a cab. It was half past eleven. Where was he going?”

  “So you got into a cab and followed him?”

  “No,” Brandon said. “I got into his cab.”

  “What?” This revelation floored Siobhán.

  “I practically threw myself in front of it. I don’t know why. Maybe I sensed something horrible was going to happen. Just a feeling. I don’t know. I’d never thrown myself in front of a moving vehicle before.”

  Siobhán clenched her fist. So somewhere in Cork was a taxi driver sitting on this information. She wished she could find him and charge him with obstructing an investigation.

  “Go on,” Macdara said.

  “I got in the cab. Started blabbering like a drunken idiot. Apologizing. Asking him where he was going. He tried to tell me everything was fine, tried everything to get me out of his cab. He kept looking at his watch. He finally told the driver to go. I kept blabbering. He stopped me. Told me he knew that I was gambling, but he wasn’t going to cut me out of the will. Said he was going to get me help instead. I was flabbergasted. I mean. That was not like my father.”