Aftermath (11 page)

A
fter that
, she knew that if she went home, there was no chance she'd be going to sleep. There was hardly any point in trying.

So instead she kept driving and went straight back to the GFU.

The crew was all gone by this point, and only minimal power-saving lights were on.

She holed up in her office and started to blindly go through case files other than the Morrison investigation that needed her attention.

Then later, against her better judgment while having a coffee break, she started checking out news headlines on the internet. That was a mistake. Apparently this whole investigation was a fiasco, if the press were to be believed. Golden-boy Josh Morrison’s attacker was still on the loose and no one knew anything.

She shut down the browser in disgust and started rifling though some paperwork the team had left on her desk earlier: a brief analysis from Gary of the victim’s bloodied clothes… and from Rory, a print-out of Richard O'Donnell's all known associates and relatives.

She skimmed the list, and nearly fell out of her chair when she saw the address jump out at her like a slap in the face.

With barely a breath, she dialed Chris, completely forgetting their harsh words of earlier.

"Get a patrol car, you're going back to Killiney Hill."

“What? Why?"

“Ted O’Donnell lives right next door to the Morrisons. And he’s Richard O'Donnell's brother."

D
amned media
, she thought, as half an hour later, she tried to discretely find a place to park away from the news coverage mayhem.

By now, even Sky News was involved, along with God knows who else. The never-ending news cycle.

Reilly had to believe that something more important in the world was going on, but apparently not.

A domestic attack on a has-been Irish athlete who happened to be married to a C-list celebrity TV presenter, was clearly of most importance to the national media, broadcast or otherwise, to set up permanent camp in an affluent Dublin suburb.

If humanity had some sort of "worthwhile" barometer, the weather would be looking pretty terrible right now, she thought tiredly.

Partly cloudy and raining assholes.

She quietly skirted the perimeter of the media gathering and looked down the street to the O'Donnell property.

Something told her that they wouldn't need to wait long to move forward on this investigation now.

The chances that the brother of a known larcenist was living next store to an attempted larceny were so nil, that O’Donnell
had
to be the guy.

They just needed to find him, bring him in for questioning and connect him to the scene, then they could go back to normal and the media could stop this ridiculous grandstanding about the value and worth of the force.

She scanned the area looking for the detectives. They would likely be coming in stealthily as well.

In any event, the prospect of finding the suspect on site was not very good. If Richard O’Donnell had in fact attempted to rob his brother’s next door neighbor, ending up stabbing him the process, then he was surely in hiding somewhere.

The best they could hope for was a lead from the brother, who based upon the convertible BMW parked in the driveway, looked to be home.

Only snag was, they didn't have time for a warrant.

But if Ted O’Donnell was at all co-operative, much could be gained from the initial interview, Reilly knew.

That was why she wanted to be there. She hoped to get an inkling of something - however tenuous - to connect Richard O’Donnell to the evidence from the Morrison scene, and get that ever-valuable pink slip of paper.

Something the brother might be hiding, hesitant about, or simply unable to withhold. These sorts of interviews always gave something away.

A hunch leading to another before connecting the dots and with luck, all the way to the arrest of their prime suspect. And the more the suspect ran, the guiltier he looked, until finally forensics just needed to fill in the gaps and make the prosecuting case even stronger.

"Hey," said Chris from behind, startling her so much she jumped.

“Nice catch, Goldilocks. Any bets on whether or not the suspect will be there?” Kennedy said.

"Doubtful," said Reilly. "But his brother is by the look of it."

“OK, let us ask the questions, OK?” Kennedy warned, rather unnecessarily “the last thing we need is you barreling in head-first with your UV lamp.”

“Ha.”

The three approached the gated entrance to the O’Donnell house as quietly and discreetly as possible, but inevitably they were spotted.

It was a journalist from TV3 who noticed first, then the rest followed, moving en masse down the street from the neighboring house.

"Detective, what’s happening?" the woman asked as they approached the intercom. Other journos snaked in around, and nearly mobbed them before Chris brushed them off.

“Um, lads … you know that’s the wrong house don’t ye?” another smart-ass scoffed.

Flashes were going off, cameras were circling around. Mayhem soon ensued.

“Just routine guys. Nothing worth firing up the breaking news banner for.”

There were mumbles of uncertainty in the crowd, but generally this explanation was accepted and the crowd thinned. Reilly overheard someone mutter something about keystone cops.

The electronic gates opened even without Chris needing to announce their arrival via the intercom, and the front door was open by the time they walked up the driveway and reached the house.

Ted O'Donnell was middle-aged, probably approaching late-forties. He was gray around the temples and had a beer paunch, but looked healthy otherwise.

He was wearing a Leinster rugby jersey, and his tracksuit bottoms were obviously meant for lounging, not exercising.

“Can I help you detectives?" he asked, looking surprised. “I’ve already been questioned extensively about…”

"Need to know if you've seen your brother about recently?" Kennedy asked.

The man’s eyes widened. “Richard? No - why would I?”

“I understand he’s on release from Mountjoy.”

“I wouldn't know. Needless to say my baby brother and I don’t run in the same circles…”

“Any chance we could talk inside?” Kennedy asked. He threw a head back towards the gate. “Get away from that lot for a minute.”

“Of course. I apologize.”

The three stepped inside, Reilly grateful for once for the media presence that had facilitated their entry, and for Kennedy’s quick thinking in making it happen.

The O’Donnell house was another mock-Georgian laid out much in the same way as the Morrison’s, with some of the same finishes, and she guessed that many of these houses on this particular patch of Killiney Hill, were built at the same time, and by the same developer.

The same large entryway led through to an open plan kitchen diner, but their host didn't lead them any further than that.

“Are you married Mr O’Donnell?" Chris asked.

Ted shook his head. “Separated. I’m here by myself.”

While the detectives continued to pepper O’Donnell with bland questions surrounding the incident on Friday night, Reilly tried to figure out a way to look around a little without appearing suspicious or invasive.

Suddenly she had a brainwave.

“I’m so sorry,” she said to Ted O’Donnell, looking pained. “This is really embarrassing but …I’m pregnant and I wonder if …”

The man looked baffled for a moment (as did Chris and Kennedy) but then realization dawned.

“Of course," he said. “Guest bathroom is upstairs, first on the left.”

Delighted that she had played such a master stroke, though a bit guilty that she had used the blob to do so, she hurried upstairs, aware that she only had a few minutes until O’Donnell became suspicious.

But she was barely at the top of the stairs when she realized she didn't need to look any further.

Ted O’Donnell was lying through his teeth. Richard O’Donnell had been here all right, she didn't need physical evidence to prove that.

Reilly exhaled.

The DPP probably wouldn't be happy, but … needs must.

"
L
ook
, my brother might be a lot of things …” O’Donnell was saying to the detectives, “but I know he wouldn't stab a man like that. Richie is just a kid, involved with petty stuff mostly … TVs, stereos or jewelry; things that are easy to sell on."

"Can you think of anywhere your brother might be so that we can clear him?" asked Chris. "Right now, I'll be frank--it's not looking very good.”

The man paled a little. “How so?”

That was Reilly's cue. “Are you a smoker, Mr. O’Donnell?”

“Used to be, but I gave up about ten years ago, why do you ask?”

“A cigarette butt with your brother's fingerprints on it was found on the Morrisons' property. That seems a bit odd, don't you think? If you haven't seen him for some time.”

Ted O’Donnell’s face suddenly closed.

"I'm afraid I can't talk to you any further without a solicitor."

"Are you sure that's necessary? If we could just take a quick look around …”

“Goodbye detectives," he said pointing toward the door.

Chris looked past Ted's shoulder at Reilly to see her expression, and read enough to know she that had something.

They left the house, Ted slamming the door behind them.

“Well,” Chris urged as they headed back down the driveway, into a cacophony of cameras and media people.

“You didn’t get it?” she asked, toying with them a little.

“Get what?”

“The heady smell of days’ old Marlboro.”

W
hile Chris
and Kennedy tried to persuade a judge that Reilly’s nose had given them enough to at least charge Ted O’Donnell with obstruction, Reilly started playing things out in her head to see if she could make the brother fit into the suspected scenario.

Richard, fresh out of a short spell in Mountjoy, goes to his well-off big brother’s half-empty McMansion to lay low for a while, instead of the crappy court-assigned address. In direct violation of his probation, but not enough to raise any eyebrows.

But the pull of the famed, (and loaded) Morrisons next door is irresistible, and after a while he starts to learn their comings and goings. Starts to figure out where certain things might be stashed, like Annabel’s jewelry or shoe collection, easy pickings for a low-level thief.

Decides to make a play late one night, while nobody’s home. Annabel is usually out late on Friday nights and the daughter stays with friends. Clearly doesn't expect Josh to be there.

But Josh is home, and O’Donnell is caught red-handed, flips out and takes off.

This would all likely have happened without Ted's knowledge, but surely the man would be suspicious about his brother's sudden and coincidental disappearance?

So realizing it was only a matter of time before the cops came calling, Ted decides to play dumb and deny all knowledge that his brother was ever there.

All well and good until Reilly and her famed nose steps inside.

All they needed now was something solid enough to connect Richard O'Donnell with the crime. Sure she had the partial from the cigarette, but that only told them that O’Donnell had smoked a cigarette that somehow ended up in the Morrisons’ garden.

Based on the data stored on him in the PULSE system though, Richard O’Donnell only loosely fit the brief profile they’d built up of Josh’s attacker; he was five foot nine, and described as ‘wirily built’.

There was no mention of his shoe size, and nothing at all in the file about any calluses on his fingers. And as his larceny sentence was below the three years or more required to necessitate DNA sampling, they couldn't try match any existing trace to that.

But if they brought him in,
when
they brought him in, Reilly clarified to herself, she was sure the evidence of the bloody struggle with Josh Morrison on Friday night would be visible for all to see.

L
ater that same night
, close to midnight, they were once again all standing outside Ted O'Donnell's residence, the media once again circling the heights of Killiney Bay like bats in a cave, and the detectives clutching an obstruction of justice warrant conjured by the courts.

“What is it now?” Ted O’Donnell said, from the intercom.

“Open the gate please, Mr O’Donnell.”

He didn't open the gate; instead he opened his front door.

At the entrance, some cameramen had perched themselves on the gate pillars, and as the flashes went off, Chris could see Ted standing in the doorway, shielding his eyes from the onslaught.

"What the hell …?” he shrieked, as the gate buzzed them in.

The audience of journalists went ballistic, shouting out a barrage of questions and throwing flashes of light from their cameras.

“We have reason to believe you lied to us earlier about your brother’s whereabouts,” Chris told him tersely when they reached the doorway. “As a result you are being charged with perverting the course of justice."

“I’m not saying a word until my solicitor gets here."

"You don't have to,” said Kennedy as they escorted the man through the throngs of ravenous journalists and into a patrol car.

F
inally being so
close to reaching a suspect in the case that had been tearing everyone apart for the last few days, Reilly was more than happy to go along to Store Street and listen in on O’Donnell questioning.

Inside the observation room, she was surprised to see Chris, Kennedy and a tired and unkempt Helen Marsh there.

O’Donnell was alone, sitting on the other side of the two-way mirror, waiting.

"Won't let us start the interview without his solicitor," said Chris exasperated.

"I wouldn't either,” said Helen.

“Well, it's two in the morning, so good luck getting anyone to come out at this hour,” grouched Kennedy. “And of course, we’re not just waiting for any old solicitor, oh no - we’re waiting for a big-shot solicitor, the kind you get when you live on Killiney Hill."

“Maybe he and Steve Buscemi should get together and go bowling," Reilly quipped, though no one else in the room seemed to get the joke.

They fell quiet and waited for some time. After about half an hour or so she got up and decided to get everyone some coffee. Could be a long night.

When she returned she saw Chris and Ted O'Donnell in the interview room with a gray-haired older woman.

“Big-shot just arrived," whispered Kennedy. "This better end well."

“Has the DPP’s office decided on a plea?" she asked Helen, knowing that they would likely need to cook up something to get O’Donnell to talk.

"Not yet, let's just hear Chris opening salvo."

But Chris didn't talk first.

The solicitor immediately started in. "You're holding my client as a proxy for your real suspect and it is a waste of time and further, a violation of his rights."

"What rights? He lied to us about his brother’s whereabouts."

“Your evidence relating to Kevin O’Donnell is at
best
, circumstantial. There is nothing to prove that my client’s brother was at the Morrison residence at the time of the attack. Unless your evidence can connect my client to Richard’s presence in his home, then I think it is time to let him go."

“Look, we can make this a lot easier if he'd just be straight with us. Instead you are talking him out of options."

"Okay," said the solicitor. "Fire away."

Chris straightened himself and turned his attention to O’Donnell.

"How long was your brother, Richard staying at your house?"

He sighed heavily. “About two weeks,"

The solicitor jumped out of her skin and reeled on him, grabbing his arm, but she knew it was too late.

"I have nothing to hide," he shrugged.

"Seems you did when we asked you earlier," said Chris.

"I thought that maybe harboring him would get me in trouble," he explained.

“It did you get you trouble. Look where you are now.”

"I know that, look--I don't know where Rich is. I'm sorry I lied, can we move on now?"

"I'm afraid not. Obstruction is a very serious charge."

The solicitor spoke up. "What are you offering?"

"Offering?" O’Donnell repeated, eyes widening. "I'm not... wait, am I going to prison?"

"That all depends on your level of cooperation," said Chris.

“The Department of Public Prosecutions would be inclined to overlook some of your … indiscretions," he said. "We'd only need to know where your brother is now, so we can take him in for questioning. You understand, we aren't even looking to arrest him at this point. Really, from your perspective, we're just ruling him out—if as you say he couldn't have possibly committed such a heinous crime.”

"What's the offer?" the solicitor asked.

"With full cooperation? We'll drop the charges completely. The DPP isn't interested in punishing someone for a brief lapse of judgment."

Of course ‘obstruction’ was such a loose term, that Reilly knew it wouldn't get very far in court.

This whole thing had only ever been about leverage.

The solicitor would be a fool to refuse, but she'd seen enough of this stuff to know that legal people were not always the best judges on what was reasonable. For them it was sometimes like a game of poker. Whomever was the best liar would win those bouts.

Certainly the detectives did the same thing, they would often hold inconsequential or irrelevant evidence over the heads of the solicitor so that they would be intimidated into advising their clients to take a plea or particular deal.

In this case, there was no doubt Chris was playing it up, and it also became clear that the solicitor was taking the bait.

Though the wheels were still turning. The game could flip around with the upcoming conversation.

“All right," said O’Donnell. He lowered his eyes and wiped some sweat from his forehead. The solicitor whispered something to him and then took some notes on her pad.

"But listen, you aren't going to get anywhere with it. The only reason Richard took off in the first place is because he guessed you'd suspect him. He's not your man, I promise you.”

"What makes you say that?" Chris asked.

“Because he’s not some hardened criminal. He’s made a few mistakes certainly, and got caught up with a bad crowd and involved in a stupid situation that didn't end well for him. That conviction… it was a one-off.”

That was true, Reilly thought recalling the guy’s offender record. But it was typical for family to suggest that their flesh and blood had got ‘caught up in a bad crowd’, as if that somehow diminished their responsibility for their actions.

The fact remained that they’d found evidence relating to Richard O’Donnell, a known thief’s, presence on the Morrison property at some point during or before a reported robbery.

And whether or not the guy did it, they needed to find him so they could see if the other components of this crime fit.

“He’s working now, getting himself sorted out. He only stayed with me because he got a part-time job in a nightclub in Dun Laoghaire, and could save time on the trip to work. He's changed."

“Of course, he has," said Chris. "Where is he?"

"At his girlfriend’s house.”