Marked Off

by Don Cameron

  O’Neill turned towards the voice. ‘And who are you?’ he asked evenly.

  The young man sat up. ‘Charlie Ahern, The Daily News.’

  O’Neill grinned and nodded a few times. ‘Let me tell you this, Charlie Ahern from The Daily News, we are investigating two vicious murders, not holding a beauty contest.’ He paused and his voice dropped menacingly. ‘Do I make myself clear?’

  Charlie swallowed hard, his face now redder. ‘Perfectly.’

  Christine Connolly nudged Brady and her look was as much about surprise as admiration for O’Neill. She knew that he was as sharp as a tack, and didn’t fancy being on the wrong end of those piercing eyes.

  ‘Both women, although they happened to have lived quite close to one another, did not, so far as we have established, know each other. There is the obvious age difference of nearly twenty years for starters, which would make a friendship unlikely.’

  ‘So you’re saying that there is no connection between them?’ It was John O’Toole from The Local, looking decidedly uncomfortable in the surroundings. This was big league stuff, and a million miles away from the local hockey games that he reported. His was sweating profusely and his face was like a ripe tomato. O’Neill almost felt sorry for him. Almost.

  O’Neill had expected this question and had thought long and hard about a reply. This was the only reason the vultures were in front of him. They wanted him to say that a serial killer was on the loose in South Dublin so that they could race back to their offices and write up sensational eye-catching headlines. Not this time, boys, he thought, and flicked a stray hair from his brow.

  ‘Of course there’s a connection,’ he said, and there was a dramatic intake of breath. It was sensational and caught everyone by total surprise. ‘Both women have been brutally murdered, that’s the connection. What more can I say?’

  Journalists gawped at him and at each other before O’Toole managed, ‘But …’ and was drowned out by the shouts and screams from the sweaty journalists.

  ‘You’re taking the piss!’ cried one standing against the wall.

  ‘What do you mean?’ shouted another, his eyes staring at O’Neill.

  ‘Quiet!’ roared Doyle. ‘This is no way to behave. We are involved in a most serious matter and I expect you to behave appropriately.’ He shook his head. ‘You must appreciate the seriousness of this situation and forget the point-scoring that you have in mind. If you’ll all quieten down, Inspector O’Neill can continue. Thank you.’

  There was a rustling of notepads and mumbles of disquiet for a few moments, but they soon stopped. The atmosphere in the room was now very uncomfortable. About right, thought O’Neill, before continuing.

  ‘Now that I’ve answered that question, I have to appeal to you, your viewers, listeners and readers to give the police any knowledge they may have about these matters. You may not think that what you know is important, but you should let us be the judge of that.’

  He pointed to the flip chart and the two photos. ‘Look at these photos, and think. Think hard. When did you last see either of these women and where was it? I know that it’s not easy, so please take your time before contacting us. Your help is very much appreciated.’ He paused again and picked up his papers. ‘Whoever is responsible for these crimes needs to be caught as soon as possible, and with the help of the public I’m sure that we can do just that. Thank you,’ he said, and stood up.

  ‘You can’t leave us hanging …’ somebody said angrily.

  Doyle, O’Neill and Connolly left the room and headed upstairs as angry voices filled the hall before slowly leaving the building. There was a lot of frustration in the air, but Doyle and O’Neill knew that the TV coverage would show them in a good light. They were officers doing a difficult, dangerous job and here they were being harangued by an unruly pack of newshounds who merely wanted a headline for their own benefit. They had won the sympathy stakes, for now, and that was all that they wanted.

  Within minutes, Doyle took a phone call and said very little as he listened. ‘Thank you, sir,’ he said finally, and put the phone back into the rack. ‘That was the Commissioner, Danny, and he was impressed. He’s right behind us, so just keep up the good work. We’ll soon catch a break – we deserve it.’

  ‘As do the people outside,’ replied O’Neill.

  ‘Indeed, Danny, they most certainly do.’

  After running hard on Sandymount Strand and feeling less stressed than he had in days, he was sipping a glass of orange juice when someone rang his doorbell.

  He opened the door and was surprised to see Shelly Tobin standing there with a large pizza box in one hand and a bottle of red wine in the other. ‘I was watching the press conference and I thought you did really well. And so I brought you these.’ She raised both the pizza and wine a little higher.

  He smiled, loving the moment. ‘What a wonderful surprise,’ he said. ‘I feel as though I’ve won the lottery.’

  Shelly lowered her eyelids. ‘Much better than that.’

  He felt his Adam’s apple jump in his throat. ‘Well, what can I say. Come in, come in.’

  She stepped closer and he smelt her fragrance. It was intoxicating. She kissed him on the cheek and deftly closed the door with a quick flick from her foot. She was staying and he wasn’t about to stop her.

  ‘I’m starving,’ she said giddily, ‘absolutely ravenous.’

  That night was the first night in a long time that the demons didn’t come. There was no room for them when there was love in his life. It was what he needed, and he smiled as he listened to Shelly’s slow, rhythmic breathing only inches away. He could still feel the smile on his face while drifting off to sleep.

  20

  Click, stop. Click, play. He held the remote control as the screen came alive and the scene inside the police station began. He was sitting on the edge of the sofa smoking a cigarette, his eyes narrowing as he paid attention. Click, and he raised the volume. He had watched it three times yesterday and now, after a night out cruising around on his motorbike, he was drawn in again.

  The room in the police station was crowded and he could feel the nervous tension in the shaky camera work. No doubt the pushing and shoving of the excited journalists made it impossible for the TV cameras to get a steady shot. It added to the craziness, and he grinned at the thought.

  ‘All this for me,’ he said quietly, and leaned back.

  The scene focused on Inspector Danny O’Neill. He paused the tape so he could examine the man who was leading the investigation. Their eyes met and he felt that this man was dangerous – an opponent to be feared. The piece in The Local informed readers that O’Neill was the best officer they had and had an unblemished record. Well, almost. He had been in charge of the Helen Murray case that was still unsolved. It was something that ‘stuck in my gut’, quoted the reporter and something ‘that will not happen again.’ It was a bold statement and since then O’Neill had delivered on his promise. O’Neill had personally led his team in five different murder cases, all of which had ended in the killers being caught and convicted. He was a tough bastard alright and his line ‘ ... of course there’s a connection’ showed that he was a clever one too. He had thrown the media off the scent and kept the unbelievable news of a serial killer back. Yeah, that was smart, and he gave the policeman a nod of approval. He would have to be careful, very careful, as Inspector Danny O’Neill had a serious agenda. Catching him would no doubt be the feather in his cap, but it would also ease his conscience about the Helen Murray case.

  He took another pull and sucked the smoke deep inside his lungs before blowing several smoke rings across the room. In the stale air, the smoke rings slowly unfurled before drifting towards the screen and O’Neill’s frozen face. ‘You’re in my sights just like I am in yours,’ he said. ‘But I’m invisible. Do you hear me? Invisible, and you’ll never catch me.’
r />   He stood up, stretched, and went over to his collection of pictures. Two of them had a big X drawn across them and a knife stuck in the middle, but there were plenty more waiting for him. His girls. He scanned them, and then gently touched each one with the tips of his fingers, but saw only one person – his mother.

  He closed his eyes and remembered. Remembered the night when he kept his promise, and everything changed.

  She had been out with one of her temporary boyfriends and came home drunk and angry. The boyfriend obviously didn’t fancy her enough to ‘come inside for a coffee’ and she slammed the door in loud frustration. He heard her opening and closing cupboards in the kitchen, shouting all the time about how useless all the men in her life were. She was ranting louder than he had ever heard her before and he prepared himself for the worst. Another beating. And she would probably tear up his drawings and break his pencils – he hated her.

  Five minutes later his bedroom door was thrown open and she was standing there with her hands on either side of the doorframe. Her bleach-blonde hair was tousled and her red lipstick smeared all over her chin. She was breathing quickly, gasping almost, and the hall light behind her made her look like an avenging angel.

  He jumped out of bed, scared.

  ‘And what the fuck have you been doing, you little bastard?’ she spat.

  He shivered and took a step away from his bed.

  She came into the room waving her arms madly. ‘More of them stupid, fucking drawings.’ Her voice went higher. ‘What a waste,’ she spat. ‘You’re just like your useless father. He was full of shit.’ She waved her hands crazily. ‘Jesus,’ she screamed, ‘what did I do to deserve this? FUCK!’

  She saw his drawings on the small table by the fireside and picked one up. ‘Just look at this, would ya?’ She held it up to get a better look and then tossed it at him. ‘It’s shit, like my life and every man I’ve ever met.’ She turned and stared at him. ‘And you, my boy, are just the fucking same. You’re all the fucking same.’ She kept saying this as she picked up his drawings and threw them around the room.

  He was on his knees trying to gather them up when he saw her reach for his satchel. ‘Stop, stop, please stop!’ he pleaded, but she ignored him and emptied his pencils onto the floor.

  In that moment something inside him snapped. After all the years of abuse and neglect, he finally had enough. He dropped the drawings and walked purposefully over to where his mother was stamping on his drawings and breaking his pencils. ‘Stop,’ he instructed coldly, and grabbed her wrist.

  ‘Wha…’ was all she said as she noticed the look in his eyes. They were cold and crystal clear. He felt an icy calm descend over him. He was only twelve, but he was stronger than she was, and she knew she had lost.

  ‘Don’t ever do that again,’ he said evenly, taking the pencils from her and putting them back in his satchel. He let her go and she put her hand to her mouth to stifle a cry. She was looking at him differently now, and she slowly and quietly made her way out of his room, never taking her eyes off him. As she stood in the hall looking at him he walked to the door and closed it. Not a word was ever said about what had just happened. She had seen the anger in his eyes and felt the strength in his grip, and knew she could no longer inflict her anger and frustration on him. In that moment, he learned the power of fear and control. A bridge had been crossed and she was left on the other side.

  The siren from an ambulance or fire brigade brought him back. When he opened his eyes, Inspector Danny O’Neill was looking at him. He was startled momentarily and felt that he had let the police man in on his secret. It was rubbish, of course, but he had a sense of unease that wasn’t there before. Pay attention, it said, this guy is dangerous. And now he knew what he was going to do and let the idea float about awhile. He would throw O’Neill off the scent – two could play at that game. Somebody else was going to die, and he could see the smiling face of the smug bastard whose time was suddenly running out.

  He took another drag, exhaling loudly, but couldn’t dismiss the unexpected feeling of being watched.

  He looked at the photos and wondered who was going to be next. He knew that the police would eventually make the connection, probably already had, and knew he had to work quickly. He looked at the photographs, from face to face, and selected the next lucky girl. ‘You’re all mine, darling,’ he said quietly before blowing a smoke ring at her.

  He was in charge and that was how it was going to stay. Fuck Danny O’Neill and the rest of them. He was going to show them, show them big time. It would be his proudest moment. He turned the television off and watched Danny O’Neill disappearing out of his life. ‘Fuck off,’ he whispered, ‘fuck off, little man.’

  21

  Two days had passed since the press conference, but the murder team was still answering telephone calls from the public. Most of them proved to be fruitless, but with the extra uniforms now in place they were gathering a lot of evidence.

  ‘Evidence, my arse,’ spat Brady, slamming the phone down. ‘I never knew there were so many fucking crazies out there. People with wild imaginations and too much bloody time on their hands. Christ.’

  Christine Connolly was speaking to another caller and made a ‘I know exactly what you mean’ face but continued writing. ‘What’s your name and number, please?’ she asked and then the caller rung off. She too slammed down the phone. ‘What a waste! This is getting us nowhere.’ She pushed her chair back, stood up and looked at Brady. ‘I’m going to the restaurant; I need a break. Are you coming?’

  Brady was already moving to the door. ‘Yeah, I could do with one, too.’

  ‘That’s exactly what we all need,’ chirped Conroy, tapping a pen against his teeth.

  A break, yeah, but from where? The case was proving impossible. It was frustrating, but they all knew that they had to stay at it. It was old-fashioned police work they were doing and not some slick CSI stuff that could be solved in one quick go. This was the real world and there were no easy solutions. Murder was the dirtiest business and didn’t give up its secrets easily. Solving the case was all about perseverance and right now, that was all they had.

  *

  The team sat around once more as O’Neill stood in front of the board. Even with all that had gone on in the last few days, little had been added. He noticed that he had started grinding his teeth, and that was a bad sign; it showed the immense stress and strain he was under.

  ‘Okay, so where are we now?’ he asked.

  There was silence for a few moments before Christine Connolly spoke. ‘We’ve got nothing useful from the telephone calls. We are still following some of them up, but so far it’s a fruitless exercise.’

  ‘Yeah, I’ve spoken to more crazy people in the last few days than I thought even existed,’ added Brady sharply. ‘I don’t know what it is, maybe it’s something in the air, or maybe it’s a full moon thing, but some people seem to have it in for their neighbours. And family members.’ He held his hands out, palms upwards. ‘It’s like open season on anybody they don’t like. It’s mad.’ The look on his face told everyone just how annoyed and frustrated he was.

  ‘Is there any good news, anybody?’

  ‘I checked Angie Murphy’s mobile phone records and there was nothing unusual there. Nothing like the short call to the Ryan house before the attack,’ said Grant. ‘I also checked the home telephone and found nothing there either.’

  ‘Does that tell us anything?’ said O’Neill, thinking aloud.

  The fan hummed one way, then the other, in a sunlit corner of the room.

  ‘Probably means that he knew she would be in the college and there was no need to check up,’ said Connolly.

  ‘So he must have been stalking her and knew her routine,’ added Conroy.

  ‘Exactly, Dave,’ O’Neill said. ‘This guy is a planner; there’s no doubt about it
. But how the hell did he know so much about her? We still have no connection, although there must be one.’

  Connolly put her hand up. ‘I’ve been looking into the history of some serial killers to see if there is anything that may help us.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Well, the big thing about these guys is that they almost always operate to a pattern. One guy, Bobby Joe Long, killed at least ten prostitutes in Florida in the early 1980s.’

  ‘But our victims were not prostitutes,’ said Brady.

  ‘I know that, I’m just trying to show a pattern first.’

  ‘Carry on, please,’ said O’Neill. ‘This may be interesting.’

  ‘There are many other serial killers, but the one that really interests me is Ted Bundy. He is credited with killing over thirty women, although nobody knows exactly how many he killed, but it’s probably a lot more. He was a clean-cut guy who studied law.’

  She had their attention.

  Connolly looked around. ‘Bundy did not look like the monster that he was. This was part of the reason why it was so hard to catch him. He was … acceptable.’ She paused. ‘But the thing about Bundy was that most of his victims actually looked the same. This was unusual. They had long dark hair that was parted in the middle.’ She was speaking quickly now. ‘Why? Because he had been dumped by a girlfriend who had the same identifying look, and he took his anger out on women who reminded him of her. He wouldn’t let it go. Every time he killed a woman he was killing her – over and over.’

  O’Neill considered it an interesting line of thinking, but what did it do for the investigation?

  ‘So ...’ he said, encouraging her to elaborate.

  She stood up and walked over to the board and tapped the photos of both victims. ‘Two women, both were blonde and not unalike. We know that they are roughly the same height and, although not exactly sisters, they do have a lot in common.’

  It was true that the women did look alike, even allowing for the age difference. But what else, was there anything else?