Authors: Rob Kitchin
He was sat on a small stage, sitting behind a cloth-covered table. Multiple microphones crowded the surface, their necks ringed with network logos. Off to his left was a small podium, which Bishop moved to and cleared his throat.
‘Please, ladies and gentlemen, if we could make a start.’ Bishop waited for the room to descend to a hush. He then started to read out a prepared statement. ‘It’s my unfortunate duty to inform you that Grainne Malone was murdered yesterday evening whilst running in the Phoenix Park. She was attacked and then strangled some time around nine o’clock. From items that were left at the scene we believe that she was killed by the same person who murdered Laura Schmidt and David Hennessey. We are appealing for witnesses who were in the Phoenix Park last night to come forward to help us with our enquiries. We are also still seeking to speak to anyone who was in the grounds of Maynooth University on the night of Monday the 14
th
, and visited Glencree Peace and Reconciliation Centre on the night of Sunday 13
th
of April.
‘All available resources are being directed at catching the killer of Laura Schmidt, David Hennessey and Grainne Malone. It is clear, however, that we are seeking a very dangerous individual who is preying on people who are alone and vulnerable in public places. We are therefore advising all members of the public to be extra vigilant in the coming days and not to move about at night unaccompanied unless absolutely necessary. Until caught, there is every likelihood that the killer will try to strike again. If anyone sees anybody acting suspiciously or in a threatening manner under no circumstances should they approach or try to apprehend them, instead ring the gardai immediately. Any help the public can provide that will help us apprehend the killer will be gratefully received.’ Bishop paused and pulled a tight smile.
The room was suddenly filled with a barrage of questions.
‘Please. Please, ladies and gentlemen, one at a time. Yes, you, wearing the purple.’ Bishop pointed at a dark haired woman wearing a purple blouse over a black skirt.
‘The killer left business cards and chapters for his book at the scene of the last two murders. Can you confirm that he left the cards and a chapter with the body of Grainne Malone? And if so, what did the note say?’
Bishop scrunched his face, deciding how to answer the question. ‘We can confirm that they were both present. However, at this time we do not want to reveal their contents as they are critical to the enquiry. If these items have been sent to the media then we would appeal strongly to you not to publish the material. We do not want any copycat murders or hoaxes that might make catching the …’ Bishop paused, not wanting to say ‘The Raven’, ‘murderer more difficult. We want the knowledge of the notes to be limited to the gardai and the killer. I know this is a difficult request to make, especially as they add meat to your stories, but I cannot express strongly enough the need to keep this material out of the public domain until he is caught.’
The air filled with questions as Bishop ended.
‘Please. Please, ladies and gentlemen, one at a time. Yes, madam, fourth row back with the red scarf.’
‘Hi, yes,’ the woman said with an American accent. ‘Ireland’s not noted for its serial killers. In fact I’m not sure you’ve had to deal with one outside of maybe gang or paramilitary in-fighting, and I’m not sure they really fit the mode of what we might call a serial killer, more like hired assassins. Do you think you have the expertise and the resources to deal with catching a serial killer of this type? I notice for example that you don’t employ a criminal psychologist or something similar.’
McEvoy shifted uncomfortably in his seat and glanced over at Bishop.
Bishop’s face had flushed a deep red, his body language becoming defensive. ‘We have a highly skilled police force with many specialist officers. They have many years’ experience of solving murders and other serious crimes and we are confident that they are doing the best job possible. If we need to bring in other specialists, whether that be criminal psychologists or forensic anthropologists we do that. We are not shy about asking for help from experts in
Ireland
or from elsewhere –
Europe
or
North America
. We are a small country of just over four million people with a low murder rate, nearly all of which is domestic or gang-related in nature. We do not have the need for such full-time staff. Yes, they would be useful now, but we would no doubt be criticised by the media for wasting resources on un-needed personnel any other time.’
‘Does that mean you’ll be hiring in such staff?’ a red haired man asked, quickly.
‘I’m not sure we have such plans at the moment. Colm, perhaps you can answer that?’
McEvoy looked up from the doodle he was pencilling on the pad in front of him, startled by the use of his name.
‘I, er, it’s a possibility,’ he conceded, his mind foggy with tiredness. ‘Forensic evidence would, however, I think, be more useful. Rather than a set of possibilities, we’d be looking for a specific individual. He has killed one person a day for the past three days. The balance of probabilities says he will kill again today. A profile is not going to stop that. Specifics, not generalities, will stop that. We are working on establishing the specifics that will identify the killer.’
‘So how confident are you that you’ll catch him before he’s finished all his chapters?’ an overweight, bald-headed man asked sceptically.
‘We’re doing our best. We have hundreds of gardai working on the case.’ It was not the answer the man was looking for, but it was the best McEvoy felt he could offer. There was no point lying; if he said that they would catch him and they didn’t, then they would never hear the end of it. It would be used to whip the gardai for years to come. That said, if they didn’t catch him, they’d suffer the same fate. They were damned either way.
‘That’s not very reassuring,’ the man replied predictably. ‘What the public wants to hear is a “yes”.’
‘There’s no point making promises that we do not know we can keep,’ McEvoy said, shrugging his shoulders. ‘We are doing our best to catch him. We can only do our best. Until we catch him, we’re asking people to be extra vigilant.’
‘The woman at the back wearing the blue blouse,’ Bishop said, trying to re-grab the initiative, hoping that she was going to ask about something else.
McEvoy eased on the jacket of his stained and creased suit. The press conference had lasted another five minutes until Bishop had brought it to a close. The questioning had become demanding, more critical, loaded with expectations that were unrealistic and undeliverable. It was becoming clear that however the case unfolded they would receive bad press. If they caught the killer in the next few hours, the question would be why they hadn’t caught him earlier; that they had allowed three deaths to occur. If they didn’t catch him until all the chapters were released there would be questions about resourcing, effort and strategy. He could already feel Bishop starting to distance himself from the case, making sure that people knew that it was McEvoy in charge of the investigation.
‘Go home, Colm,’ Bishop said, breaking the silence. ‘Go home and get some rest. The others can cope for a few hours.’
‘We need another team meeting. I need to catch up on Laura Schmidt and David Hennessey’s murders.’
‘That wasn’t a suggestion, Colm. That was an order. The team meetings can wait. Give the teams their heads for a while.’
McEvoy nodded reluctantly.
‘Ring your DIs and tell them not to bother you for a while,’ Bishop paused. ‘He’s making fools of us, Colm. He’s playing the press against us. There’s no way we’re going to be able to keep the lid on the cards and notes. They’re going to be everywhere by this afternoon now the international media are covering things. They won’t give a shit about our case; they’re just interested in the story. Then it’ll be the public and the politicians. You wait and see. They’ll want their pound of flesh as well.’
McEvoy pulled a tight smile, but kept silent, letting Bishop have his rant.
‘Go home, Colm, and pray the sick bastard makes a mistake.’ Bishop pulled open the meeting room door and exited, leaving McEvoy with the prints and the view of the Phoenix Park.
Simon Grainger walked across the incident room to where Charlie Deegan was standing staring at a newspaper.
‘Sir?’
‘Have you seen this?’ Deegan asked, stabbing his finger at the sheets. ‘They’ve spelt my fuckin’ name wrong. They’re missing an e.’
‘Dermot Brady was one of Hennessey’s students,’ Grainger said, ignoring Deegan’s bluster. ‘Hennessey gave a character reference at Brady’s trial.’
‘What?’ Deegan said, turning, having only half-heard Grainger.
‘I said, Hennessey gave a character reference for Dermot Brady at his trial.’
‘Brady and Hennessey go way back?’
Grainger noted that Deegan didn’t seem surprised by the connection. ‘Brady studied politics here. David Hennessey was his personal tutor. He’d only left university a couple of years when he ran down the mother and child. We have a definite link now between Brady, Laura Schmidt and Hennessey.’
Deegan glanced round the room, trying to work out if they could be overheard. Taking no chances, he stated, ‘Follow me,’ and left the room. He pulled to a halt in the corridor. ‘I’m going to bring Brady in and question him, okay?’ he whispered harshly. ‘I don’t want you putting out an alert for him, and there’s no need to contact McEvoy either.’
‘Don’t you think …’ Grainger started to whine.
‘It’s my job to do the thinking here,’ Deegan interrupted. ‘I’m in charge of the investigation into David Hennessey’s death. We’re looking into a link between Hennessey and Brady, nothing else. You understand?’
‘But surely we should at least contact Colm McEvoy,’ Grainger suggested, feeling uncomfortable with Deegan’s request.
‘I’ve just told you,
I’m
in charge of this investigation,’ Deegan stressed. ‘McEvoy is just co-ordinating between the cases, I make the operational decisions.’
Deegan could see the indecision in Grainger’s eyes. ‘Don’t try and fuck with me, Simon. Just do as I say or I’ll have you back in uniform before the end of the day. I can do it and you know it.’
Grainger chewed on his lip and nodded.
‘Good. If Brady is the killer and we nail him, we’ll get all the credit. Don’t forget that. We could all benefit from that,’ Deegan said in reconciliation.
He waited for Grainger to slope off back towards the incident room, then pulled his mobile from a pocket.
‘Yeah?’
‘It’s Charlie Deegan.’
‘Shit! Look, I’ve lost him again. He left his apartment block at 8.35, walked over a few streets, got in a dark blue Fiesta and drove off. There was nothing I could do. I was on foot. The car had a Dublin plate, 01-D-5 something. I couldn’t get the whole reg.’
‘What do you mean, you lost him!’ Deegan said angrily. ‘I need to bring him in for questioning.’
‘Well, put out an alert for him,’ the man snapped.
‘I want to talk to him, not launch a fuckin’ major manhunt. Go back to where he took the car from and wait for him. He’s bound to return at some point. Then bring him in for questioning.’
‘For fuck’s sake,’ the man muttered darkly. ‘You’d better know what you’re doing, Charlie.’
The bungalow was set back five yards from the road, fronted by a mature shrubbery and a lawn, the grass long, needing to be mown. To the left of the house was a gravel driveway, leading to a separate garage. The Raven cut between the garage and residence and edged along the back of the house. A wide, brick patio extended along the full length of the bungalow, dotted with groups of pots. He peered in through a window, framed by a clematis plant climbing a lattice. The bedroom was empty, the bed made, the contents tidy. The next window was frosted, a blind pulled three-quarters of the way down. He passed the back door and gazed into the kitchen. There was no sign of life.