“I think we’re a long way from lockin’ him up. At least from Philly PD standards. Before I forget, do you have a photo of Patrick Drum?”
“Yes, on file back at my headquarters. And as far as locking up someone, we seem to have a bit more leeway here. In your world nothing we’ve seen here would be useable in a court of law. Because of our history we have more, shall I say, latitude.”
Mickey smiles. “Okay then. What do ya say we use some of that latitude of yours to eyeball inside Drum’s barn?”
Kevin returns the smile. “Let’s skedaddle.”
Mickey follows Kevin to the front of the barn. Kevin goes directly to one of the fifteen-foot-high doors and tries to swing it open.
“Give me a hand with this door, Mick. It’s hung up on something.”
Mickey hears a loud click followed by a puff. The two men look at each other wide eyed. Mickey shouts, “Kevin, no!” He runs to Kevin and grabs him around the chest. But it’s too late. Boom! Mickey and Kevin are lifted off the ground and jettisoned halfway across the yard. The air is heavy with the smoke and dust, making it hard to breathe at first. Mickey’s clothes are tattered and he starts cringing in pain from his fresh bumps and bruises, but nothing seems broken.
Both men are covered in red mud, rubble, and scorched hay from the barn. Mickey is stunned but not seriously hurt. He regains his full faculties in seconds and starts to run the scene through his brain over and over again. If only… I should have…
Being behind Kevin at the time of the blast sheltered Mickey from the full force of the explosion. Kevin wasn’t so lucky. He was unconscious and bleeding profusely from a deep puncture wound where a splintered axe handle was impaled in his right leg, just above his knee. He also has blood coming from both ears.
Mickey checks Kevin’s vital signs. He’s got a pulse and is breathing on his own. Mickey carefully elevates Kevin’s right leg and wraps his woven leather belt around his upper thigh, tightens it and buckles it in place to stop the bleeding. Then contrary to everything he’s been taught, he finds Kevin’s cell phone and punches in 999. Calmly, Mickey tells the operator what just happened.
“There’s been an explosion at 27 Road Clancy in Castleknock. It’s the Drum Sheep Ranch. A Garda superintendent is seriously injured. He’s unconscious, has a weak pulse, but is breathing on his own. The super has a deep puncture wound of the right thigh and appears to have several bone fractures.”
“Hold the line, please.” The operator takes the information and dispatches the appropriate personnel. “An emergency response team from the closest hospital has been summoned to your location, sir. It should arrive any minute. Also the local Garda supervisor is responding.”
“I’ll be on scene when they arrive.”
“What’s your name, sir?”
Mickey makes the decision to ignore the question. Instead he presses the end button. Then, he takes advantage of a bad situation and finishes what he and Kevin came to do. He moves away from Kevin and brushes the dirt and dust off himself.
Mickey cautiously moves toward what was once two towering barn doors. The damage caused by the explosion encompasses three-quarters of the front wall of the barn. The whole area now has an oily or roof-tar smell. For Mickey that means C4.
Since C4 has no real odor of its own, manufacturers have been adding butyl or methyl mercaptan to help detect a breakdown or seepage of the material. Because the air is full of the oily smell, Mickey knows that means there was an extensive amount of C4 used to accomplish the near-deadly task.
Mickey peeks inside the barn and can see the yellow Volvo. It doesn’t appear to have been damaged in the blast. In fact, nothing from ten feet inside the barn to the rear of the barn seems to have any noticeable damage.
Shape charge!
Mickey has seen this type of explosive device hundreds of times, starting with claymore mines in Vietnam and in the streets of Philly when the drug gangs set booby traps at the doors of their drug houses. Based on his experience Mickey believes that the person who assembled the Drum bomb definitely had expertise with explosives, especially C4, and most assuredly intended to maim or kill anyone who opened the barn door without permission.
For Mickey, there are really only a few reasons why someone would set up a device like the one on the barn door—self-protection, increase chances for escape, destroy, or cover up incriminating evidence.
Believing he only has a short time before the emergency team and the Garda start arriving, and after calculating the likelihood of a second device, Mickey checks Kevin again. Then he leaves the cell phone and camera on the ground next to Kevin and enters the barn. He methodically walks down the center of the barn, looking for anything out of the norm. To his delight the canvas backpack with the police patchwork is still hanging exactly where Mickey photographed it the day before, on the post next to the Volvo.
In the distance Mickey can hear the distinct sound of the emergency vehicle’s sirens. Not wanting to be part of any lengthy Garda court case, Mickey takes a quick look inside the Volvo through the closed windows on the driver’s side first, then the back window. On the passenger side the front window is down. On the seat is a large white cowboy hat. Mickey gently moves the hat aside to expose the bottom half of a small white pad with words written helter-skelter across and down the page.
Although it looks like gibberish, Mickey nevertheless painstakingly duplicates what’s on the pad. When he’s finished, he compares the two pages. Got it! Out of instinct, he moves the white hat completely aside and shouts, “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!” Glaring up at him, in bold black letters, from the top of the page are the words:
FROM THE DESK OF
CHIEF INSPECTOR MICHAEL ODYSSEUS
First at the Jerry Drum homicide scene and now in a Volvo in a barn in Ireland. Where next?
Mickey, sensing time is running out, goes for the canvas backpack next. Without unhooking it from the large hook it’s hanging from, he gently unzips the main compartment with the tip of his FOP pen. Inside, he can see several sheets of paper with handwriting that he can’t really read. There is also what looks to be a photocopy of the east coast of Ireland with three cities circled: Dublin, Howth, and Dalkey. Beside Howth is the number 31. Mickey jots down what he can read accurately.
Mickey can hear the sirens much louder now, so he retraces his steps out of the barn, picks up his camera and Kevin’s cell phone from the ground, and waits for help to arrive. He’s tempted to take a few more photos of the interior of the barn but resists. He’s concerned that the electrical surge from the camera could set off a secondary device. He’ll let the investigators do their thing and settle for what he already has.
CHAPTER 25
“This life is but a vapour.”
Irish Proverb
It didn’t take long for the medical emergency team to start their evaluation and stabilization of Kevin. Sergeant Lynch and his bomb dog, Tracer, pulled into the Drum ranch just as the team was placing Kevin into the back of their van. With the barn area looking and smelling like a war zone, Tracer went bonkers. So much so the sergeant had to put him back in the SUV. While the emergency personnel packed up and after talking with Mickey, Sergeant Lynch requested crime-scene investigators to report to the scene. He was informed that they were already on the way. A black-and-white Garda truck marked CRIME SCENE INVESTIGATION, and two marked black-and-white Garda cars pulled into the Drum driveway minutes later.
Superintendent O’Clooney was first transported to Castleknock Memorial Catholic Hospital. Later, he was airlifted to Saint James Hospital at Brookfield Road and Saint James Walk in west Dublin.
Mickey followed Sergeant Lynch to the hospital in Castleknock and then to the Saint James Hospital in the superintendent’s black Fiat. Kevin’s family and the Garda commissioner were notified and met at Saint James. Mickey watched as Kevin’s wife stood by his bedside, holding his hand. A scene Mickey’s had to endure over the years when his friends and subordinates have been injured or killed on
and off the job. There are no words to express the pain in the eyes of families that are forced to go through the torture of loved ones lying in a hospital bed unconscious and not knowing. He can only imagine what the commissioner is saying to Kevin’s wife.
One of the attending doctors comes out of the room and Mickey stops him in the hall to ask about Kevin’s prognosis.
“Good afternoon, Doctor. I’m Captain Devlin. I was with the superintendent when he was hurt. Can you tell me anything about his condition?”
“Good afternoon to you, too. I’m Doctor O’Neill. So you’re the American?”
“Yes. I’m in Ireland working with O’Clooney on a case that originated in Philadelphia. The superintendent and I were investigating the property of a person of interest in the Castleknock area, when part of the structure exploded. Is he—”
“Well, Captain. I hear you used your belt to stop the bleeding. Probably saved his life. And the super is lucky that he received proper medical attention so quickly; otherwise his prognosis would be a lot dimmer at this point. The axe handle just missed a major artery. The fine doctors at Castleknock Memorial did a grand job to stabilize the superintendent.
“And we were able to save his leg. But he’s far from being out of the woods. He’s had a major concussion, a couple of broken ribs, a near-catastrophic open wound to his leg, and a whole litany of other non-life-threatening injuries. But he’s a tough guy. You a praying man, Captain Devlin?”
“I am.”
“Then I’d say kick your prayers up a notch. The superintendent will need them.”
“Already got a jump on that one, Doc.”
“Good! ‘Cause it’s out of our hands at this point. Now I’ve got other patients to attend to.”
“Thank you, Doctor.”
Before the doctor leaves, he takes a closer look at Mickey’s facial injuries.
“Ya really ought to have someone clean those things out. Don’t want them to get infected, Captain. Why don’t ya—”
“I’ll be fine, Doc. I’ve had worse than this and lived through it. But thanks.”
“Okay, Captain. Remember…” As he walks down the long corridor, he turns to Mickey and points toward the ceiling. “He’ll be listening.”
“I hear ya, Doc. Thanks again.”
Mickey looks at his watch. Darn! The Timex he’s been wearing since his Police Academy days, the one that belonged to his Da, was damaged in the blast. The crystal was cracked and the hands were still. Frozen in time at 12:33. Holy! That’s got to be the exact time of the blast. Mickey looks down the white-tile hospital corridor and sees a clock on the wall fifteen yards away. He squints to see the time.
Two thirty. Shoot! Already missed the start of Collins’ class at Trinity. Can’t believe I said Collins. I’m outta here.
Mickey gives a statement to Garda detectives and then drops off Kevin’s Fiat and cell phone back at Garda Headquarters and picks up his rental. Saint James Hospital is only minutes from Phoenix Park. And Trinity College is only a short trip crosstown, providing afternoon traffic cooperates.
Should be able to make it to Trinity before class ends.
Traffic is grueling all around the college. Mickey circles Trinity twice, getting stuck on Nassau Street and College Green Street behind a line of Dublin’s famous yellow-and-red “Hop on, Hop off” buses. May is a big tourist month in all of Ireland, but Dublin in particular. With tourists, students, and a booming economy bringing thousands to the city, Dublin can be a challenging commute by car.
He finally waves down a pair of young Garda walking a beat along Pearse Street, flashes his badge, and gives them the condensed version of how he’s working with Garda Headquarters. He drops Superintendent O’Clooney’s name for good measure. Still wearing the same bomb-blast clothes and sporting a battered look about him, he took a chance hoping the young pair wouldn’t think he was a madman. Luckily for Mickey, the beat coppers bought into his tale of woe and let him park on Tara, a small street off the beaten path and a short walk to the main gate of Trinity College.
“Place this placard on your motorcar’s dash, Captain.”
Mickey looks at the index-sized card—Official Garda Business—then puts it on his dash.
“Thank you, gentlemen.”
Mickey locks his car and starts a slow jog for Trinity, dodging traffic all the way. Once inside the main grounds, Mickey goes directly to the Berkeley Library building at the far end of Fellow’s Square. When Mickey called earlier in the day to find out Professor Collins’ schedule, the very helpful administrator told him that Collins would be giving his American History Through Film class in one of the AV-equipped classrooms, AV-2.
Ignoring the curious looks from the campus crowd, Mickey arrives at room AV-2 at 3:17 PM. That’s if the classic grandfather clock sitting in the hall beside the room is correct. Looking through the slotted glass rear door of the darkened room, Mickey can see that it’s set up like a small movie theater with stadium seating. He gently opens the door and slips inside, struggling not to make a scene and be discovered.
Mickey looks over the five-foot knee wall, hoping to see the professor who’s aiming a red laser at a giant slide being projected from a carousel in the middle aisle. But the room is too dark to get a good look at the man with the husky voice in front of the class.
That voice sounds familiar. Can’t be certain if it’s Odysseus though. If I could just see the guy, maybe…
Mickey decides to back off and listen from just outside the door. From what Mickey can make out, it sounds like the professor is going over the twenty-six-second Zapruder Kennedy assassination film, all 486 frames, one at a time.
“What’s interesting to me is that there were no Secret Service agents assigned to ride the president’s rear bumper the day he was shot.”
“Doctor Collins, do you buy into the whole single-bullet theory?”
“Never did. That so-called commission was a sham. In my professional opinion, their theory is impossible.”
“Doctor Collins, you told us you lived in Philadelphia. Wasn’t that senator who wrote the ‘one bullet’ theory from Philadelphia, too?”
“Specter! Arlen Specter. He was a senator from Pennsylvania, when Kennedy was assassinated. Prior to that, he was Philadelphia’s District Attorney. He’s one of those career politicians we’ve talked about. You know! The kind of person who will do anything to get elected. The guy changes political parties so often he even forgets what he is. He’s the poster child for term limits. The world won’t miss him.”
At that point, a student with an obvious Middle Eastern accent asks a follow-up question.
“Professor Collins, sir.”
“Yes, Mr. Ramzi. What is it?”
“When you say the world won’t miss him, what exactly do you mean? Is that one of those American phrases you like to use with us that has a double meaning?”
“Talk to me after class, Ramzi.”
“Now back to November twenty-second, 1963. The reason given for not having agents riding the president’s bumper was because they were called back earlier by Agent in Charge, AIG, Emory P. Roberts. Coincidence? Or, conspiracy?”
The students start yelling a variety of responses. Conspiracy is clearly the overall theory for the absence of an agent riding with the Kennedys.
“Sounds like the majority of you are leaning toward conspiracy. Hold that thought for a while. Now does anyone remember the name of the Secret Service agent who took it upon himself to jump on the bumper of the president’s limo?”
Several students yell out, “Clint Hill.”
“That’s correct. Secret Service agent Clint Hill. And according to Hill, when he caught up to the President’s limo, he crawled to the First Lady and guided her back into her seat. He told the Warren Commission that he thought Mrs. Kennedy was reaching for a piece of her husband’s brain. He then placed his body above both Kennedys. At one point Hill flashed a ‘thumbs-down’ signal and shook his head from side-to-side at the agents in the
follow-up car.”
“Is that Hill in the freeze frame, Doctor Collins?”
“Yes. That’s him…” Mickey assumes Collins is pointing his laser pen at the screen. “Right—there. Hill testified that the right rear portion of the president’s head was missing. It was lying in the rear seat of the car. His brain was exposed. There was blood and bits of brain all over the entire rear portion of the car. Mrs. Kennedy was covered with blood. Hill rode the bumper all the way to Parkview Memorial Hospital.
“In 1975, Hill told a TV anchor that if he had gotten to the vehicle a second earlier, he would have been able to take the third shot, and felt a great deal of regret for not being able to reach him in time. Please note. Hill said he could have taken the third shot.”
There are loud mumbles throughout the class. Then one boisterous student, followed by others, yells, “Conspiracy. It was a conspiracy!”
“Okay! Okay! Let’s wrap up the Clint Hill part of the Kennedy assassination. Hill remained with Mrs. Kennedy until after the 1964 election. Then he was reassigned to President Johnson at the White House. In 1967, he became the SAIC, Special Agent in Charge, of the presidential protection unit. When Richard Nixon came to office, Hill moved to SAIC protecting the VP, Agnew. Later, Hill was assigned to Headquarters as Assistant Director of the Secret Service for all protection. Agent Hill, in my opinion of course, is an American hero. He retired in 1975.
“One of the reasons I decided to move this section up in the curriculum is because of the upcoming visit by the US president to Dublin at the end of this week. He’ll be giving, weather permitting, a speech in Merrion Square. So…”
“Doctor Collins. I read in the paper that the president’s here to trace his roots. And that for security reasons his schedule is not being publicized. You sure ‘bout the Merrion Square thing? Because if he’s gonna be there, I’d like to go.”
“Plan on attending. My spies tell me he’ll be there at twelve hundred hours. That’s twelve noon for you Yanks. I plan to be there. In fact, I’m giving extra credit for anyone who goes to and writes about the president’s speech. And one last thing—next week’s class is canceled. There’s an administrative meeting that I must attend. Stay safe. It’s a mean world out there.”
Dublin Odyssey Page 17