by Don Cameron
Paul Grant, too, was on the phone when O’Neill went to see Doyle. He knocked and received a gruff ‘come in’ in reply.
The boss looked off. His hair wasn’t as neatly parted as usual and his tie hung off-centre. His desk was in disarray, with letters and files scattered untidily over the surface. The mess seemed to explain Doyle’s distress.
When he thought about it, he wasn’t as surprised by the latest killing as Doyle must be. He was closer to the action, but Doyle still had to run the shop and deal with the PR. An investigation like this was a new experience for everyone, and particularly dangerous for Doyle – especially career-wise. The media were now interested in the case, looking for an angle, and knowledge of the pencil would be sensational. It had to be kept secret for as long as possible, but with a case like this he knew people would be tempted to talk. It would not be the first time it happened and it certainly wouldn’t be the last. It would be just another hurdle to overcome.
Doyle put his pen down and indicated for O’Neill to sit. He pulled up a chair and sat down opposite. Neither of them had slept much lately. Welcome to the club, thought O’Neill, straightening his tie.
‘Well, the shit really has hit the fan, Danny. The boys in The Park are taking an even closer interest now after another pencil was found.’ He shook his head in disbelief.
Through the open window a ship’s hooter went off and caught Doyle’s attention.
‘Just as well Christine Connolly showed up, sir,’ said O’Neill. ‘She must have known something.’
Doyle managed a wry smile. ‘Should be glad for that, I suppose.’
‘Yes, sir. Now it doesn’t seem like such a bad idea after all. Inspired, maybe,’ added O’Neill evenly. He meant it. The profiler who had spent time in the FBI’s training centre was a welcome addition. A few days ago he would not have thought that, but things change.
Doyle put his elbows on the desk. ‘The bigwigs in The Park are nervous about the pencil detail getting out. So, first thing to do is make sure that this information stays inside the station. Inside the Detectives’ Room.’
O’Neill nodded.
‘We’ll have a press conference at 4p.m. so get your information ready. I’ll open the show and you will detail the findings to date, excluding the pencil detail, of course. We can hand out a description of Clipboard Man and maybe a sketch of him if we can get one done. That always throws the media off balance and reduces the number of questions. Are you okay with that?’
‘Yes, sir, not a problem. I’m calling a meeting for ten o’clock and we will review everything we have and what we need to do next.’ He knew Doyle was studying him and wondering how he was coping. He knew Doyle was thinking about Helen Murray, about Liz, about their effect on him, about whether he was suitable for the job. He also knew that, right now, he was the best man for the job, and hoped Doyle would let him get on with it.
‘Good stuff, Danny. I’ll drop in, thanks.’
The office was busy with phones constantly ringing. Things were really getting crazy, but he would not allow them to get out of control.
‘Right people, listen up.’ The talk stopped immediately and Christine Connolly placed her hand over the phone’s mouthpiece. ‘We all know that what we are dealing with is very serious. It’s like nothing we’ve had to deal with before, so I want, need, everybody to know where we’re at. We’ll have a team meeting in thirty minutes, so if you have something to do, you’d better do it now. Thanks.’
O’Neill checked his emails and then went to the restaurant for a much needed coffee. He had a feeling he would need his wits about him.
*
Brady closed the windows and turned the fans to full speed. O’Neill stood in front of the board, facing a sea of anxious faces. Sergeant O’Connor stood against the wall at the back, alongside the uniformed officers who looked nervous. Last night’s murder had lifted the case to a new level and everyone knew that they would be under the spotlight like never before. None of them, except maybe Christine Connolly, had any experience of these matters, and they looked to O’Neill for leadership. ‘Grace under pressure,’ was what Dixon would have expected, and he was determined to show the troops that he could handle it. ‘Firstly, Dave, can you bring us up to date on last night’s events, please?’
Dave Conroy’s top shirt button was open and his tie hung at an angle. He still looked tired but O’Neill wanted him to give a firsthand account. It was always better that way.
‘The woman murdered in Belfield last night was Angie Murphy; single, thirty-one years old and a lecturer in chemistry in the university. Yes, I know someone is going to ask “Why was she there, is the college not closed for holidays?” And the answer is, yes it is closed, but she was working on a technical paper she was planning to present at a scientific conference in Paris next month.’ He paused and looked around the room – he had everybody’s undivided attention. ‘Angie Murphy was a very intelligent young woman with a bright future. She had already been invited to spend next year at a college in California, lecturing and working in her specialist area. Her death is a blow not only to her family and friends, but to a wider audience. It’s a sad loss indeed.’
He showed who Angie Murphy was and brought her closer to the team. Although they would never know her beyond the case in hand, she wasn’t a mere statistic, but a person who deserved their respect. He turned and pointed at a photo that he had earlier stuck on the board. ‘This is Angie Murphy and you can see that she was also, like Barbara Ryan, a very good-looking woman.’ The photo showed a smiling blonde woman, her eyes alive in response to something funny that the photographer had just said.
‘Here’s the really interesting bit,’ he continued, and wrote beside the photo. ‘She lived on Woodbine Avenue.’
He stopped and looked around, a quizzical frown on his brow.
Brady was the first to speak. ‘And where exactly is Woodbine Avenue? That is the point you’re making, right?’
‘Yes, it’s the very point I’m making, Pat. Because, surprise, surprise, Angie Murphy lived about 300 yards from Barbara Ryan’s house.’
The silence was deafening.
The implication of his words was not lost on his audience. He continued. ‘Now, we have a lot to do. One: we have to check out what was happening in Angie Murphy’s life before she was murdered. Two: we need to see if there is any place where she and Barbara Ryan may have met. A book club, tennis club, library, I don’t know, but somewhere they crossed paths with the killer. And three: the fact that both women were murdered by a pencil, shows that we are most definitely looking for the same attacker. Much as it hurts me to say it, we are looking for a serial killer.’ The last two words made everyone look at the board and the two photos. How many more names would be added before the case was over?
O’Neill stepped forward again. ‘Thanks, Dave, that was excellent.’ He turned to the board and then back to the team. ‘So what we need to do, as Dave mentioned, is to find out everything about Angie Murphy and see what, if anything, ties her and Barbara Ryan together. Something must, due to the proximity of their homes; but experience tells me that it will not be that easy to establish a connection. We will need to carry out more house-to-house questioning, so make sure to keep an open mind. Even the smallest thing, the smallest piece of information might be a game changer. Don’t rush it – we don’t want to go back over the work, but time is precious.’
He turned to Grant. ‘I want you to do a similar exercise as you did on Barbara Ryan’s mobile phone and landline. And her computer, too.’
‘And her phone at work?’
‘Of course,’ said O’Neill, appreciating Grant’s sharpness.
Doyle spoke and all heads turned to him. ‘You’ll be happy to know that we will be getting some help, Danny. Another six uniformed officers will be arriving this morning and they have been assigned for the duration.’
That was great news; O’Neill was delighted.
Doyle continued. ‘Police cars have been instructed to be on the lookout in the area and to carry out random roadblocks. If our man is driving around, stalking or whatever, then this might put the wind up him, knock him off balance – maybe he’ll make a mistake. Whatever it takes we’ll do it. Carry on, Danny, I’ll talk with you later.’
He left the meeting wondering what the following days would bring. It was going to be a difficult time and he needed to be at his best. If he was honest he would have preferred to be at sea, sailing to Wexford, or if the weather was suitable, over to Cornwall where some friends had a house. But it was what it was, and he knew deep down that many of his colleagues would like to be in his position. To lead a case like this, to catch Dublin’s first serial killer, was a career defining opportunity and a big boost in future promotion stakes. He would not be forgotten, and a significant move up the ladder was assured if he performed well. He thought about all this but let the idea slip away. His task was stopping a maniac who was out there killing innocent women, that’s what mattered most.
O’Neill called Conroy aside. ‘How are you today? You look tired.’ He had done well with his report to the team but O’Neill could see he was tired. He remembered being in Conroy’s position years before and didn’t want him to burn out. That was no good to anyone, and certainly not to the team who needed everybody to be present and correct.
There was no point in lying. ‘I’m tired. Didn’t get to bed until after five o’clock. But hey, I’m only tired, not dead.’
O’Neill nodded. ‘Thanks, that was good earlier.’ He meant it: Conroy had condensed all the details of the two cases into something short and clear. It was a good sign and he was impressed. ‘Right, I’d like you to come with me and we’ll check out Murphy’s house and see what we can find. After that you can go home early. You look as though you need it.’
Conroy grinned. ‘Thanks. A few hours of solid sleep would do the world of good.’
‘I’ll call O’Connell and Shelly Tobin and then we’re off.’ O’Neill spoke with Shelly first. She was about to do an autopsy, but her preliminary finding was that Angie Murphy had been beaten about the head, and that the pen stabbing was probably done after death. ‘What makes you say that?’
‘From the blood splatter we found at the scene and where it landed. If she had been stabbed like Barbara Ryan, the blood would have sprayed high and wide, and neither I nor Forensics found any evidence of that.’ She paused and he could imagine her in her green overalls, thinking. ‘His attack this time was more ferocious and directed, and the blows to the head were so fierce that they probably killed her almost immediately. It was brutal … he wasn’t taking any chances this time.’
Those words sent a chill down the line that O’Neill couldn’t escape. The killer had refined his attack method and had allowed for no margin of error. He was getting better, if that was the right word, and Angie Murphy never had a chance.
‘And the pencil, what can you tell me about that?’
He heard her shuffling papers.
‘Well, it’s the same style as was used to kill Barbara Ryan.’
‘Wow.’
‘And here’s the thing,’ she said, and paused for a moment. ‘I checked out the pencils and you’re not going to believe this but …’.
‘But what?’ O’Neill snapped.
‘ … this style of pencil has been off the market for years. Nearly thirteen according to the manufacturer.’
O’Neill made notes of what Shelly Tobin told him. ‘So what do you think this means?’ he said, thinking aloud.
‘I don’t know, Danny, but the killer has a stash of old pencils. Seems odd, but then people do collect all sorts, don’t they?’
‘Hmm, they sure do,’ he said, and looked into the distance, his mind wandering, looking for a link.
‘Danny,’ said Shelly, ‘are you still there?’
‘Yes, Shelly, I’m here,’ he replied. ‘I’m thinking, wondering … hell, I don’t know what I’m thinking.’
‘Danny,’ she said, concern in her voice.
‘Thanks, Shelly, thanks for that. It’s just that I’ve never had to deal with anything quite like this before.’
‘None of us have, Danny.’
‘I know, but it doesn’t make it any easier.’
‘I know it doesn’t, but if anyone is going to solve this case then it’s going to be you.’
He closed his eyes and let the words dance around inside his head. ‘Thanks, Shelly, it’s very good of you to say so. I needed that and it’s nice to know that someone has confidence in me.’
She almost laughed. ‘God, if anyone in that station has confidence, it’s you. And Doyle certainly knows it, otherwise you wouldn’t be leading the investigation.’
He didn’t tell her about the other officers who were on leave and how the case dropped into his lap. Or about how he was questioning himself and wondering if could still do it.
‘I hear what you’re saying and thanks again.’ Around him phones were ringing. ‘And let me have your final report as soon as possible, won’t you?’
‘It’ll be with you after lunch,’ she said clearly. ‘Now, allow me do my work. Bye.’
He hung up and called Gary O’Connell. His observations were just as Shelly Tobin had said, and his men were now examining Angie Murphy’s car and office. He would send on his report by the end of the day.
‘Thanks, Gary, keep in touch.’
The sun was high in the sky as O’Neill and Conroy left the station and drove to see Angie Murphy’s father. Another life ruined, thought O’Neill, and he could feel a sickness in the pit of his stomach. Two families had been left utterly devastated. He wondered when it was going to end. Sunbeams bounced playfully on the windscreen and bonnet, oblivious to the dark thoughts that were haunting the driver.
18
The news on the radio was bad; the local station carried Angie Murphy’s killing as its lead item. ‘And yet another killing in South Dublin,’ said the presenter. ‘What is the place coming to? It’s getting more like Los Angeles everyday. Okay, caller, what did you want to say?’
‘I want to know what the police are doing about all this crime. I mean, if it’s not safe for a woman to be in her own home or walking from work, then we may as well give up. It’s madness, sheer bloody madness,’ said the woman angrily.
‘I don’t know what the police are doing, but you’re not the first caller to ask that question, and I’m sure you won’t be the last. Our reporter will be at the police press conference later on, so maybe we’ll know more. Thank you for ringing in and now …’.
O’Neill turned off the radio and slapped the steering wheel hard. ‘What the fuck do they think we are, magicians?’ He shook his head. ‘Fuck, we might as well be sitting on our arses as far as they are concerned.’
‘Not much sympathy out there for us,’ said Conroy.
‘Hmm, sympathy would be a fine thing.’
‘Everyone is spooked, and lashing out. It’s to be expected … but not exactly appreciated,’ Conroy added calmly.
O’Neill slowed the car. ‘You’re right, but it just doesn’t help, does it? Here we are chasing a killer, a fucking serial killer, can you believe it, and all we’re getting is grief.’ He shook his head again. ‘We’re not the enemy, Dave, but listening to this shit, you wouldn’t be too sure.’ The traffic lights changed to green and they drove on in silence.
Joseph Murphy was red-eyed when he opened the door to the two policemen. His hair was uncombed and his shirt was creased. He probably hadn’t slept since Conroy brought him the sad news, and it took Murphy a few moments before he recognised him. He left the door open and they followed him into the kitchen.
He sat down and took a sip of tea. ‘There’s so
me in the pot,’ he said, pointing to the stove.
‘We’ve just had some, thanks,’ O’Neill lied and sat down.
Time seemed to have stood still in the kitchen and it reminded him of home, years ago. The gingham tablecloth, gas cooker and the noticeable absence of a wine rack caught his attention straight away. A small fridge was in the corner, piled high with a mountain of old newspapers. He’s obviously well informed, thought O’Neill, taking in the tired eyes across the table. Joseph Murphy must have been in his late sixties at least, when he considered Angie’s age. Maybe she was the last child. He’d soon find out.
He leaned on the table and watched Murphy, wondering, just for a moment, what the man was going through.
‘I’m very sorry for your loss, Mr Murphy, really very sorry indeed. Your daughter was a beautiful woman, and I cannot imagine the pain of your loss. I will not stop in my efforts to catch the killer, but I need you to help me. You understand?’
Murphy’s sad eyes met his and he hated looking into those damaged, old eyes. Life wasn’t always fair, everybody knew that, but sitting in this kitchen O’Neill knew that the old man had got a real kicking.
Conroy leaned against the sink, out of Murphy’s eye-line, pen at the ready. O’Neill said a silent prayer and hoped that Murphy would not start crying. It was understandable, but he needed answers. ‘Can you please tell me when you last saw or spoke to Angie?’
Murphy slowly and carefully put his cup down and took a deep breath. He was trying to keep it together and both policemen silently willed him to be strong. He coughed nervously and wiped his mouth with a hankie. ‘Yesterday, when she came home for dinner. I made lasagne, her favourite.’ He held his hands tightly and moved his fingers back and forth.
‘And what time was that?’
‘Five o’clock, we always ate at five.’
‘Just the two of you?’