The Death of an Irish Sinner

by Bartholomew Gill

  McGarr shifted Maddie to one arm and pulled Nuala into them. “They’re in good hands. Good hands.”

  With a burst of power the helicopter rose slowly above the trees, tilted forward, and was suddenly gone, leaving only the staccato beat of its rotors.

  “Come, we’ll go back to the house,” McGarr said, directing them up the hill.

  Maddie had quieted, and Nuala was only mumbling something, probably a prayer. But McGarr remained unsatisfied with the explanation. “Tell you what—you two go back. I’ll be with you in a jiff. Pack up some clothes, Nuala. You can stay in Rathmines till they’re well.”

  He turned back toward the shooting blinds.

  “Where are you going?” Maddie asked.

  “To pick up the guns.”

  “Ah, to hell with the blasted guns,” Nuala said to his back.

  At the site, McGarr found the shattered gun with only the end of the barrel and the stock remaining intact. The breech, upper barrel, and even the small of the stock were ripped apart.

  What force that must have taken, McGarr could not begin to guess. But it had to have been more considerable than a single shotgun shell, unless the gun itself had been defective.

  But the gun was new, given to Noreen by Fitz himself as a Christmas present only two years earlier.

  McGarr squatted down and with a finger began probing through the debris and blood for the shell casing, which he found still slotted in what was left of the shattered breech.

  Twelve gauge. Curiously, it was still bright and brassy, seemingly unscathed. If the shell had been the cause of the explosion, would it have remained in the breech without damage?

  McGarr did not think so. He picked up the end of the barrel, holding it up to the sky. It was not plugged, whatever obstruction might have caused the explosion having been ejected. If there had been an obstruction.

  Tossing the barrel down, his eye caught another bright bit of brass. He picked it up: a flattened, pitted, and frayed disk of metal. It was the case head of a shell with a 21 still plainly visible in the middle.

  McGarr spun around and examined the several other guns that were stacked neatly in the gun rack behind the shooting station. Not one was a 21 gauge. In fact, McGarr did not think either Noreen or Fitz owned a gun with such an unusual caliber.

  McGarr raised his head and again looked up at the sky. And he allowed himself to consider for the first time since he had come upon them what had happened to his beloved wife and her father, who had been for nearly two decades perhaps his closest friend and would not—McGarr knew—survive. To die, like that, with half of your face blown off.

  But Noreen. Noreen! If there was a God in heaven, he averred, she would survive. She had to survive.

  His eyes suddenly brimming with tears, McGarr glanced back down at the blasted case head, and it occurred to him what had happened.

  Somebody—could it have been Noreen herself or Fitz by accident?—had chambered a 21-gauge shell into the gun. McGarr knew from his own weapons training that a 20-or even more so a 21-gauge shotgun shell could pass through the chamber of a larger 12-gauge shotgun and would lodge in the bore just forward of the forcing cone area.

  That done, the following 12-gauge shell would still fully chamber, with the smaller shell having created an obstruction in the barrel that would almost surely cause a catastrophic failure upon firing.

  But both Fitz and Noreen were veteran shooters and did not own a 21-gauge weapon and would not have any reason to possess a 21-gauge shell.

  Perhaps the 12-gauge shell had not chambered completely with the 21-gauge round stuck in the barrel, McGarr thought, trying to reconstruct what had occurred. Or, because of the obstruction, the firing pin had not struck the primer exactly enough to fire the cartridge. Noreen had then handed the gun to Fitz.

  Breaking open the action, he must have pushed the cartridge in farther, snapped the gun shut, and holding it up to the sky, squeezed the trigger.

  The blast of the 12-gauge shell struck the smaller 21-gauge shell, which also exploded, pushing its shell casing backward and preventing the emission of the larger 12-gauge shot and exploded gases.

  Result? The gun barrel itself erupted, spewing shrapnel and shot. One large shard took off half of Fitz’s face. One small bit entered Noreen’s skull.

  “Oh, why?” McGarr said aloud. Noreen being the kindest, gentlest, most compassionate person McGarr had ever known.

  Could somebody have purposely…spiked the barrel to…what? To send him a message? Of? Caution, perhaps? As in, it could happen to him too? He wished it had, being more deserving.

  Or perhaps to distract him with the catastrophic injuries that the explosion and shattering of the barrel were sure to cause.

  “Ah, Noreen!” he said aloud. To think he had caused this—killed her father, perhaps killed her too.

  Who could have spiked the barrel? The possibilities were many, given the years that he’d been a Guard and the enemies he’d made. But who recently had access to the guns, which were kept in cases in the den? Unlocked. There was no need for locks in such a family.

  Parmalee. When McGarr had gone into the kitchen to phone his headquarters two nights earlier. Or, having stayed the night, he could easily have stolen downstairs in the large house and nobody would have known. Even if somebody had heard him on the stairs, they would have thought he was going for a drink or something to eat.

  Of course, Chazz Sweeney had also shown up in the den, Fitz supplying him with a surfeit of drink until McGarr returned. Surely Fitz had been called away to the phone throughout that time. Or by Nuala to do this and that. He had not remained with the man for the several hours that Sweeney had occupied the room.

  As well, Sweeney had been both up front with his wishes and confident that McGarr would carry them out. There had been no need for such a…barbaric warning.

  No. It had been Parmalee, who was the joker, the literal vice in all that had happened since Mary-Jo Stanton’s death. Or who was responsible for her death. Slipping a smaller shell into the breech of a gun belonging to McGarr’s wife, just to send him a message, put a gust of wind up his britches, was surely just the sort of sneaky, nasty, impersonal, and—in the present instance—cruel act of which he was capable, McGarr did not doubt.

  Glancing back up at the sky, which was freighted with high, puffy clouds, he roared, “Parmalee!” And was suddenly lost in rage.

  At the car, he found his mobile phone. “Bernie—find me Parmalee.”

  “What about Noreen and Fitz? We’re worried sick here.”

  “Find me Parmalee!”

  “Peter, how can I help you? Where are you?”

  “I’ll not say it again—find me Parmalee.”

  “Hughie’s been trying to do just that for the last five hours, but—”

  McGarr rang off.

  CHAPTER 17

  AT THE HOSPITAL, the most that the resident physician in charge would reveal was that both Fitz and Noreen were in surgery and would be for some time.

  When McGarr asked for the official status of their conditions, the man’s eyes shied to Nuala and Maddie, and he wondered if he could speak with McGarr alone.

  “Your father-in-law, Mr….” He glanced down at his clipboard.

  “Frenche.”

  “As well as your wife, Noreen, are gravely injured. In Mr. Frenche’s instance, it would take a miracle for him to live. The trauma to his face and head are extensive, he’s lost blood, and—as you know, he’s rather elderly.”

  The man seemed to sigh before meeting McGarr’s eyes. “Your wife has a rather large piece of metal lodged at the base of her brain.”

  “Your prognosis?”

  “I have none, and there is none at the moment. The surgeon, whose specialty such injuries are, is flying in from the west, as we speak, in a Garda helicopter that a Superintendent”—he glanced down at the clipboard—

  “McKeon arranged.

  “Another of your staff, I assume, Inspector Bresnahan, will meet
him at a heliport about two miles distant from here. It’s the best that we can do, I’m afraid. Better, in fact, given the help that you’ve been able to provide. Given the circumstances.

  “But her condition has been stabilized, and she’ll suffer no further damage.”

  “And what’s the extent of that—the damage?”

  He shook his head. “Again, we’ll just have to wait for the specialist.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Wichman. An American. He’s highly regarded.”

  Thanking the man, McGarr went back out to the foyer, where Nuala and Maddie waited, worry lining their faces.

  “Well?” Nuala demanded.

  McGarr shook his head and relayed the information, leaving out Fitz’s probable fate. It was, he realized, the life-changing event in her and Maddie’s life more than in his.

  Nuala would lose a husband and perhaps her only daughter; Maddie might lose her mother and her only living grandfather. McGarr would only lose a great, good friend but—please, God—not the love of his life.

  A wave of guilt and anger welled up in him again; and he knew he must—but he could not—just sit there and comfort them. Not when he knew who had brought the tragedy to pass. “You take this, I have another in the car.” He handed Nuala his cell phone. “I’ll phone you every hour or so.”

  “What—you’re not going to stay with us?”

  McGarr considered taking Nuala aside, but Maddie should also understand why he was leaving. “It was not an accident.”

  The older woman looked away, obviously trying to understand how the accident could have been otherwise.

  “Think how careful Fitz was—is—about his guns, how he taught Noreen. I’ll tell you the details later, but I really should follow this up while I can.”

  “Ooooh! Really?” Her voice sounded to McGarr like the keening he had heard his own grandmother utter upon the death of her husband. Years ago. “Has it anything to do with Mr. Sweeney?”

  “Could be.”

  “Then you be very careful. He’s…a bit of a chancer, I’d say. And ruthless.”

  “Daddy!” Maddie said through further tears and rushed to him. “Oh, Daddy—don’t leave me. Don’t leave me!”

  Saying, “He’ll be all right, he’ll be all right,” Nuala had to pry her away. “And you will too.”

  Brimming with a mix of emotions too distressing even to contemplate, McGarr went back out to the car.

  Dery Parmalee was nowhere to be found, McKeon reported when McGarr reached him at Murder Squad headquarters.

  “Hughie put in six hours trying to run Parmalee down. But he was knackered after his busy night last night, and he’s gone home for a wee snooze.”

  “I’ve got Rut’ie, Swords, and Sinclair on him now, and I’ve been phoning both his residence and Ath Cliath steadily. Busy signals at both places.”

  Every news organization in the world with a Catholic readership would be wanting to interview him about his claim that Escrivá was Mary-Jo Stanton’s father, thought McGarr.

  And/or buy the rights to the manuscript, if it actually existed and Parmalee had possession of it, as he claimed.

  “Wait,” McKeon continued. “Here’s Swords. I’ll put him on.” There was a pause and then, “Chief—they’ve got security on every door, and I’m afraid I had to muscle a bloke. But he’s either not there or hiding under a desk. And I heard definite concern in the voice of his managing editor. I think it’s true—they don’t know where he is. And if Ath Cliath can’t deliver after the claims he’s made—”

  Their credibility would be ruined, and the paper might not survive, thought McGarr, who had his own issues with survival.

  “Where does he live? What’s his address?”

  McKeon came back on. “Are you all right, Peter? Where are you now?”

  “The address, please.”

  McKeon gave it to him—a commercial building off a laneway in the Liberties, not more than a short walk from where Ward and Bresnahan now lived.

  “Do you need help?” Now there was concern in McKeon’s own voice. “I could meet you there.”

  “I need you where you are. And thanks very much for the helicopter and the surgeon.”

  “How are they?”

  “Not good. I’ll be in touch.”

  When McGarr got close to the Liberties, he speed-dialed Ward, whom he woke and asked to meet him at Parmalee’s.

  “You have the key I gave you?” Ward asked.

  “Of course.”

  “I’ll be there as soon as I can, Chief.”

  An old brick commercial building of four floors, it had a wide cargo door beside the front entrance. There were no lights on, even though the day was declining. Not even around back, where McGarr discovered a raging guard dog that would be inside the building, McGarr reasoned, were Parmalee away.

  “Laughlin & Sons,” a faded sign announced. “Corn Factors: Barley, Rye and Other Grains.” There was no other advisory, not even a nameplate, and McGarr imagined that Parmalee—as a successful publisher—owned or rented the entire building.

  When his insistent ringing met with no response, not even from the intercom, McGarr used the key that Ward had provided. Once in, he switched on the hall lights, leaving the door ajar for Ward.

  McGarr did not know what to expect of Parmalee’s digs, given who the man was and his background—ex-Jesuit and book writer, now tabloid journalist/publisher. But what he found rather amazed him.

  The first floor was one large open room painted a stark white, with brilliant fluorescent lights lining the ceiling. Apart from a beechwood floor that gleamed like blond ice, there was not one stick of furniture or any other appurtenance.

  Recently installed heating vents and circuitry had been left exposed and conspicuous, as was the recent trend in rehabbing former commercial buildings.

  The second floor was the same and smelled of fresh paint and even fresher varnish. Its restoration had just been completed. Had Parmalee been planning to move Ath Cliath’s newsroom or some other aspect of its operations here? he wondered.

  The door to the third floor was equipped with a stout, modern lock, but when McGarr tried the handle, it swung in to expose a view far different from that on the antiseptic lower levels of the building. Obviously his living quarters, it looked as if Parmalee had scoured antiques shops and estate sales and furnished the flat like a smaller version of Barbastro.

  The foyer, which seemed to be a duplicate of that in Dunlavin, had handsome carved double doors complete with fanlight, opening into a reception hall with a splendid double staircase leading up to the final floor.

  McGarr slowly made his way through other rooms that contained sculpted plaster ceilings, inlaid mahogany doors, a magnificent carved white-marble Adam fireplace. Most of the rooms were hung with tapestries, portraits, and ornate mirrors in heavy gilt frames. There were burgundy velour wing chairs in the sitting room, butter leather overstuffed chairs in the drawing room, and an enormous crystal chandelier in the central hall.

  The kitchen was Barbastro’s too—an enormous Victorian work space stacked with multipaned cabinetry and flagged with heavy stone. A deal table sat near the door to what proved to be a set of back stairs.

  From there, McGarr could hear the dog barking again. At Ward, he assumed. But as a precaution, he drew out his Walther and checked its action.

  The grand staircase had been solidly constructed and was new, with no spongy steps or squeaks. At the top, he found himself on the floor of the building that contained the bedrooms when he switched on lights.

  Here too, McGarr imagined, the ornate model of Barbastro was repeated. But it was the house that Parmalee had lived in when he had been working with Mary-Jo—the house that McGarr had visited as a guest—and not the house that had evolved after Father Fred Duggan arrived ten years ago, the house with locked “quarters” at the top of the building.

  And what was he smelling—something strange and harshly…metallic. Or sweetly metallic.
McGarr had smelled that odor before, and he knew where.

  But sensing somebody on the stairs behind him, he stepped back into a shadow and caught sight of Ward climbing the stairs two at a time. There was somebody behind him.

  Ward explained, “This is…what’s your first name again?”

  “Enda.”

  “Enda Flatly with the Drug Squad.”

  Flatly raised the Garda dogtag ID that hung from a lanyard around his neck. Like McGarr and Ward, he too held a gun.

  “I couldn’t help noticing the lights and open door, Chief Superintendent. Thought I’d poke my head in, have a look around.” He was youngish—middle thirties—with short-cropped blond hair and a brace of rings gilding his right ear. Wearing a leather jacket and jeans, he had black gloves studded with large brass buttons on the knuckles.

  “Good man,” said McGarr. “But we have the situation in hand.” He pointed toward the stairs. “This is our operation.”

  “Begging your pardon, sir—I think I’ll stay.”

  McGarr waited.

  “Well, I was on stakeout and saw you use a key to get in here. How is it that you have a key? We’ve been investigating Parmalee as well, you see.” Flatly’s smile was brittle, but his light eyes were bright. There was a large space between his front teeth.

  “Are you a friend of Mr. Parmalee, or did you just happen to come by the key that Superintendent Ward took from Parmalee two nights ago when he beat the piss out of him, opened the door, and carried him inside?”

  “You’re investigating Parmalee for…?” McGarr asked.

  “Ecstasy. Like the tablets Superintendent Ward filled Parmalee’s pockets with and scattered around the ground outside. I have it all on infrared film.

  “Tell you what—” Flatly jerked up his weapon and punched the barrel into the back of Ward’s skull. “I’m tired of your shit. You two gods with a badge.

  “Both of you—drop your weapons. Nothing burns my arse more than two fucking corrupt cops! Drop ’em!”

  Shoving Ward forward into McGarr, Flatly assumed the half crouch of a shooting position with both hands on his large-caliber handgun. “Try me?”