Aftermath (4 page)

“
R
TE has
some breaking news this lunchtime, tragic news in fact.

Beloved former Irish rugby hero Josh Morrison, was brutally attacked following a break-in at his home in Killiney in the early hours of this morning. We don't yet have a lot of specifics, but early reports are that he was stabbed a number of times, and remains in critical condition at St. Vincent’s Hospital.

Morrison, best known as former Leinster and Irish International rugby captain, occasional RTE pundit, and now millionaire owner of Perk coffee, was brought to St. Vincent’s following the attack, and is currently in intensive care.

We don't have word yet on his condition, except that it is critical, and he has been admitted into emergency surgery. On the scene in South Dublin now is Rebecca Murray. Rebecca, what more can you tell us, if anything?”

"Thank you, Declan. Well, it is indeed a dire scene at the Morrison residence today. Josh was stabbed while inside his Killiney home, Villa Azealea during the early morning hours.

Authorities have been very-closed mouthed about the incident, however we know that his wife, and much-loved presenter of
Good Morning Ireland
, Annabel Morrison allegedly interrupted the attack. Thankfully the perpetrator fled the scene and Annabel is believed to be unharmed. Detectives and crime scene investigators arrived at the house shortly before sunrise, looking for clues or traces on who might have committed this heinous crime."

"Rebecca, have the detectives imparted any additional details about the attack?"

"Declan, the authorities have been very quiet with the media so far understandably, as they are focused on the task at hand. Rumors have circulated that perhaps Josh Morrison stumbled upon a robbery in progress and was injured in the course of trying to apprehend the thief."

"Any further information about the family? Was anyone else in the house at the time?”

"Josh and Annabel Morrison have a twelve-year old daughter, Lottie who thankfully, was away at a friend’s house, according to sources close to the family. As you may know, the Morrison’s older son no longer resides here in Ireland; twenty-three year old Dylan Morrison now lives and works in the United States."

"Thank you, Rebecca, please keep us posted. Now over to Terry Ward, who is at St. Vincent’s Hospital with a report on Josh Morrison's condition. Terry?"

"Declan, we've just received word from the hospital staff that mercifully, Josh is alive and now stable following the attack. While we don't have specifics, we believe that he was stabbed at least twice, suffered secondary related lacerations, and was rushed to the Emergency Room in critical condition. I have with me Roy McMahon, a paramedic who was on the scene. Roy, can you tell us any more about Josh Morrison's condition?"

"We arrived at the house in the early hours of this morning, following a 999 call placed by Mrs. Morrison who reported finding Mr. Morrison brutally attacked and unconscious. Upon arrival, we saw he’d suffered multiple lacerations and was in critical condition. We intubated him on scene and brought him here, where he has since been stabilized and admitted into surgery."

"I'm sure this was a shocking sight Roy. Can you tell us in your expert opinion how you think Mr. Morrison will do over the next few hours?"

"The surgeons have quite a task ahead of them, to be honest, Terry. They will need to immediately check for internal organ damage, and attend to all open lacerations. If a major artery was struck, Josh will need an immediate transfusion. The A&E did a stellar job of stabilizing his condition before too much blood was lost though, so we are optimistic he'll make it out of this okay."

“Thank you Roy. Hopefully when Josh does make it out, he can assist the detectives in finding the perpetrator of this horrific attack, which has brought Ireland’s toughest rugby centre, down."

"
W
here's the girl
?"

"Hm?" It was now early evening, and Chris was navigating through rush-hour traffic, spinning the car into quick turns and unpredictable lane-changes.

Josh Morrison was out of theater, and they’d been given the go-ahead to talk to the doctors about his condition, and examine his injuries.

Analysis of the lacerations and their characteristics would give them a better sense of both the perpetrator and the weapon. While Josh couldn't yet talk, his wounds would.

"The girl?” Reilly repeated. “They have a twelve-year-old daughter."

"The hospital," said Kennedy in between mouthfuls of coffee cake.

"Did she see it happen?"

"We haven't talked to her yet, but Annabel says she was at a friend's house," said Chris.

"Mrs. Morrison," Reilly corrected.

"What?"

"Mrs. Morrison, not Annabel. Unless I'm mistaken--is she a personal friend?"

"The face of
Good Morning Ireland
,” Kennedy contributed. "A personal friend to each and every one of her viewers."

Reilly rolled her eyes and continued going through the brief incident file that Chris had compiled

The Morrisons had two kids, Lottie who was twelve, and twenty-three year Dylan who’d started work as a software engineer in Silicon Valley the previous year.

Forty-five year old Josh Morrison had lots of friends and business associates, it seemed.

She already knew he owned Perk Coffee — a major Irish cafe chain that he’d started not long after retiring from his rugby career. No business partners, but plenty of associates. One name popped out at her — Cormac Flanagan. Seemed Steve Buscemi represented the business side of things, as well as the Morrisons personally.

Chris's phone buzzed and so he tossed it over to Kennedy, who answered, following another heavy swallow of cake.

"Yeah? Yeah," he said. Then listened. "Yeah." More listening. "Yeah." Then he hung up, took another bite.

The car was silent for a moment.

“Well, who was it?" Chris asked finally.

“O’Brien,” he said, full mouthed. "Wants us to talk to a producer."

"Hollywood finally take a look at my script?" Chris quipped.

That earned him another eye roll from Reilly.

"No, Annabel’s bosses at the TV station. They're all in a frenzy apparently.”

“What? They think they can get some kind of scoop on this whole thing?” she grunted. “Last I checked, you’re not in public affairs."

Kennedy shrugged. “Be good at it, I reckon. Have a real face for TV.”

Chris clicked his tongue. “It’s not a priority though. Let's talk to Annabel...Mrs. Morrison first."

"And Lottie," Reilly said.

"Lottie?"

"Their daughter."

"Not sure that's necessary, Reilly. She’s twelve years old, and she wasn't at the house when the attack happened.”

"Maybe not, but it'd be nice to have a statement from each family member all the same. A little background in case we need to shore up any findings," she said as gently as she could.

"She's twelve and was at a friend's house," Chris repeated tersely. “What’s there to shore up?”

"Are we sure about that?"

"We'll look after it," said Kennedy, rushing to avoid another confrontation. "Don't worry."

"Just looking at all of the angles here. What about the son?"

"We've already been in touch," said Kennedy. “Got him on Skype from the States at lunchtime - I’ll show you the recording. Living in your neck of the woods apparently. He’s getting a flight home tomorrow.”

“Which part?” Reilly asked, feeling an automatic pang of homesickness. The mention of California reminded her that she really needed to call her father.

“Silicone Valley - wherever that is,” Kennedy grinned, deliberately mispronouncing. “Sounds like my kinda place.”

R
eilly had been
at St Vincent’s hospital a number of times, though mostly at the mortuary with the ME.

Her own GP was at a clinic in Ranelagh, and although the Irish constantly bemoaned their medical facilities, she figured they were miles better than the ones she grew up with back home in the States, where you had to plop down a fortune every time you got so much as an ear infection.

As Chris pulled the car up front, she quickly realized that the Morrison sensation-infection had spread.

The hospital entrance was inundated with media trying to get a story, and security staff trying to stop them.

Amidst this were hospital staff, nurses and patients trying to make their way through the doors to go about their everyday business. The security guys were doing their best to mitigate, but it was already out of control.

As they approached the entrance, a member of the press immediately recognized Chris and Kennedy as Serious Crimes Detectives.

“Detective, detectives!” a chorus of voices shouted all at once. Questions were lobbed unreturned, like a tennis practice session.

"What is Josh's condition? Was it a robbery? How malicious was the attack? Do you have any suspects?"

And a litany of other questions they would obviously not be inclined to answer. The three muscled their way through the crowd and finally made it through to reception where the scene was more contained.

This whole thing was going to very quickly spin out of control.

His wife’s involvement in the media aside, Josh Morrison could only be described as a force unto himself. Former Irish rugby international, owner of a hugely successful domestic retail business, celebrity pundit and all-round media darling. His connections in the sports and business worlds would be wide and far-reaching.

If the attack on him was not an unfortunate case of robbery gone wrong, then there really was no shortage of other equally plausible scenarios, and an immense pool of suspects even in his immediate sphere of influence; anyone he could have crossed or done wrong in the sports, media or business sector.

Maybe someone who was resentful of his wealth and status? Rival businessmen, scorned colleagues, ex-lovers, who knew? Josh Morrison was one of those men who invited trouble just by existing. Such personally-motivated attacks were random—and most of the time, without reliable witnesses, largely unsolvable.

After the first forty-eight hours the chances of cracking a case like that were practically nil. Add another day and you may as well close up shop on the investigation. All of the crime shows and detective books liked to glamorize this process, but really it was generally boring and fruitless.

But this case was different in a few ways. For one thing, it was extremely high profile.

Reminded her actually, of the fervor around OJ Simpson in LA at the time. Similar in scale for a small country like this--though she hoped not as messy and sensationalist.

Reilly’s only hope was that this whole thing would be easily resolved and quickly, so they could move on to more serious crimes - homicides and suchlike - which were ultimately their bread and butter, and
should
be their priority.

The longer this took, the more pressure would be applied from both outside the department and in, and the more likely the investigative team were to jump to conclusions or make mistakes.

The entire thing was under a huge spotlight. The perp would feel unnerved and flee. The top brass already felt enormous pressure to wrap it up - hence the DPP liaison at the house earlier.

No matter how this was diced, it would be at best frustrating, and at worst very messy.

T
wo uniforms were
there to meet them, and hurriedly escorted them upstairs to where Josh Morrison was being treated.

Reilly recognized one from a previous case, Fitzgerald, she recalled. He had good hair, thick and lustrous. A cop-face--but the good kind. And blue eyes.

“You’re just in time, Mr. Morrison is stabilized, and not long back from theater,” Fitzgerald said.

"Is he talking?" Chris asked.

"Still intubated. And they induced a coma."

"Why?" Reilly asked. "Did he suffer head trauma?"

"Missed that bit," Fitzgerald shrugged. "Something about his liver?”

"Was he ever conscious?”

“No. Been under since he was found."

They arrived outside the ICU to find Josh Morrison in isolation behind a window, and hooked up on various monitors, breathing with a tube and completely covered in bandages.

There were several doctors and nurses in there checking charts, looking at equipment and clearing out other equipment.

The ICU head nurse, pretty and in her mid-forties, had a calm and gentle face as she came outside to talk to the detectives.

“Desperate day,” she said with a thick Cork accent. “Poor divil had a terrible time of it. Nearly lost a couple of fingers defending himself."

“How many wounds altogether could you make out?” Kennedy asked.

"Some lacerations on his palms where he grabbed the weapon, incised wound along the shoulder blades, and a puncture wound just below the ribs. You’ll have a better idea obviously, but to my mind, looks like it was a chef's knife."

The word struck Reilly cold, and for a moment she felt dizzy, but she regained composure.

It's been over a month. Get Over It.

Her recent run in with a psychopath known as "the chef” during a previous case, was all too fresh. Chris seemed to feel it too and gave her an unblinking, sympathetic look. Fortunately, he was the only one to notice her falter.

The woman continued. "Surgeon came down and admitted him once we had him stabilized. He was up in theatre for nearly three hours straight. The knife punctured part of his liver, now he's got nothing left in there to stop the blood toxins. We induced a coma until we can get that liver working again. Have a cocktail in his IV that should do the job in a couple of days. Higher brain functions bound to fail if we don't."

Kennedy let out a low whistle. They were all feeling that whistle.

“Blood alcohol level?” Reilly asked, thinking of the bourbon bottle.

“Not a dickie bird,” the woman told them, which Reilly readily translated as ‘nothing.’ Interesting, so who was drinking from the Jack Daniels bottle on the dining room table? Assuming that was where it had been before the struggle.

"Thanks, nurse," said Chris. “GFU will need to examine the wounds soon if we can."

"Of course; I’ve already let the attending nurses know you were coming," she said. “One will need to stay to observe, or assist if needs be.”

“Not a problem, thank you - and we’d appreciate the help. We’ll also need the clothes Mr Morrison was wearing when he was brought in.”

“Better talk to A&E about that. I’ll buzz them now and ask them to get everything ready for you.”

Reilly knew that any forensic trace found on the victim’s clothing would have already been badly contaminated by the wife, paramedics and the hospital staff, who would likely have cut them off his body, but you never knew.

In any case the torn and bloody garments would help in assessing the nature of the damage inflicted, and if they were lucky, identifying the weapon used.

In the ICU unit, Josh Morrison was intubated, attached to a respirator and EKG. They'd turned off the audio, but she could see the regular slow heart beat on the monitor. He had bandages all over his body.

“OK to get a quick look at the sutured wounds?” she asked the nurse. "I need photos and measurements of the lacerations."

“No problem, I can change out the bandages now, while I’m at it.”

Taking her time to gently remove bandages, Reilly snapped photos, and took measurements as the nurse went about her business.

From a forensic point of view, it was important that sharp force injuries (stab wounds) were distinguished from lacerations (tearing apart of tissues), which were a type of blunt force injury.

The presence of tissue bridging within the depths of the wound, below the level of the skin surface - represented by nerves, vessels, and other soft tissues that extended across the gap from one side to the opposite side - were indicative of a laceration, which was what she was seeing now.

The injury to Morrison’s shoulder was an incised wound, where a cut or "slash," had resulted when an object with a sharp tip or sharp edge, made contact with the skin, with the direction of the force occurring in a more-or-less tangential fashion. Incised wounds were typically longer than they were deep.

As the bleeding from the incised wound had been stopped and the gash cleaned, that one was straightforward enough for Reilly to assess.

Examination of the stab wound - present under the victim’s ribs - would be a lot more difficult, and would yield considerably less information, by nature of the fact that it had been sutured, and so some of the detail often so easily gathered from a corpse would be impossible.

These were caused by a pointed object typically having a sharp tip when the object is forced into the skin and underlying tissues, with the direction of the force in a more-or-less perpendicular angle with the skin.

Reilly carefully measured all the wounds’ margins and angles and took note of the defensive injuries on Josh Morrison’s fingers.

Such information, along with blood spill and drip patterns, foot impressions, handprints, and fingerprints taken from the crime scene, were all hugely important in helping the team determine what had happened during the attack, and she hoped, ultimately identify the perpetrator.

She tried to remain unaffected as she measured and recorded, keeping in step with the science, not the emotion, but it was difficult in the face of such a fresh attack, and while the man was still lying unconscious on the bed.

And she couldn't help but wonder if Tony Ellis would have done something similar to her if Chris hadn't shown up…

She shook her head. This was a brand new investigation and the attack bore no relation whatsoever to what had happened to her a few weeks’ back. She needed to focus.

When it was all done, she thanked the ICU nurse and stepped back out to join the detectives.

But they were paying Reilly no attention, and she soon discovered why.

The TV Queen herself, Annabel Morrison was walking down the corridor. Even with tear-stained puffy eyes, an expression carved from sustained trauma, lack of make-up and whatever workout clothes she'd changed into in the meantime, she looked stunning.

Though as with most TV people, much smaller and thinner in person, the television presenter had lustrous blonde hair that hung in waves over her shoulders--quite the contrast to Reilly's own wiry locks that were often bunched up in an untamed ponytail.

With her brilliant green eyes, toned body, and sex appeal to match her stardom, importance seemed to emanate off her in waves.

As she approached, all the men standing nearby fell silent and stopped moving. Except for Kennedy, who kept shifting between his feet.

Annabel arrived at the door of ICU, and without saying a word, flashed everyone with a dismissive “who-the-hell-are-you and what-are-you-doing-here" expression, shot through with a deep sense of superiority.

Chris stood up straight, and came to life.

"Mrs. Morrison, hello again.” he said, with the smooth tones and affable expression he used to put people at ease.

The woman’s eyes widened. “You’re still here since this morning? Why aren’t you out looking for that
monster
?” she gasped, her voice barely above a whisper.

“We’ve just arrived with the GFU to assess your husband’s injuries,” Chris soothed. “Good to hear that he’s doing better.”

“Don’t worry Annabel, rest assured that we are doing all we can to find this guy," Kennedy sputtered with such lack of eloquence Reilly physically turned to look at him.

"Surely the man who stabbed my husband is not at this hospital," the woman replied pointedly, eyes narrowing.

The man…

Unlike the others, Reilly wasn't about to tip-toe.

“So you believe the attacker was male?” she began, “that’s helpful information. In any case, now that your husband’s condition is stable, my colleagues and I would like to have a private word. The detectives need a full statement from you now, and the GFU also has some questions that will help us with our investigation. Also, we will need your prints and blood type, so as to differentiate you from the perpetrator.”

“And you are?” the woman asked coldly.

“Reilly Steel, Garda Forensic Unit.”

“Oh, of course, anything you need," Annabel said, softening a bit.

Chris waylaid a passing nurse. "Is there somewhere private we can speak?"

“Sure, this way."

They were led to a small six-person conference room with a white board, presumably for staff meetings.

Reilly closed the door and let Mrs. Morrison get settled for a moment.

“I take it you’ve changed your clothes from this morning,” she said, and the other woman nodded.

“Yes…there was just so much blood.”

“Where are those clothes now?”

“My co-presenter … Tara… she picked these up from wardrobe at the studio, wanted me to have something more comfortable. I’m not sure what she did with my dress - dry cleaning I suppose? My jacket … I don’t know where that is …maybe downstairs somewhere. I used it try and stop the bleeding. It was Gucci.”

Of course it was.

Reilly eyed Kennedy who automatically picked up the phone. “I’m on it.”

“I’m so sorry, I didn't realize it was important….” the woman sniffed, looking close to tears.

“It’s fine, and we appreciate what you are going through, Mrs. Morrison," Reilly began, softening a little in the face of the woman’s obvious distress. “Thank you for co-operating."

Then she opened her kitbag and pulled out a fingerprinting kit along with a sterile needle, vial, alcohol and cotton balls.

“We’ll do everything we can to find the person who did this to your husband,” Kennedy told her, while trying to track down her clothes.

Chris remained stoic, but Reilly noticed he kept swallowing and clearing his throat as she took Annabel Morrison’s fingerprints.

She’d wait until the interview was finished before taking blood, for fear that the witness might pass out.

Annabel barely looked up, and appeared to be holding back a fresh wave of tears.

Reilly waited for Chris to do his job, but after the third time he cleared his throat, she decided to jump in. He was nervous, she realised.

“Mrs Morrison, can you tell us exactly what happened last night? Step by step, please?"

The woman shook her head, her perfect hair hardly moving. “Call me Annabel, please,” she replied as if by rote. “Oh, it’s all such a blur," she continued, her voice a low whisper. "I came home and ... and ... Josh … he…”

The flood she was holding back escaped, and her beautiful face wrenched into a painful grimace, her mouth open in a silent and clenched sob.

Chris jumped up and pulled up a chair right next to her, and without missing a beat, Annabel buried her face on his chest, shoulders rolling with uncontrollable sobs.

Oh for crying out loud ….

Then Kennedy got into it. He sauntered over and put his meaty hand on Annabel’s back and patted it gently.

"It's okay, love," he said gently. "We'll get him. It's okay."

Reilly reached into her bag, found some tissues then passed them across the table.

“Please continue," she said, trying to get her back on track. "You were saying that you came home and saw your husband … can you describe the scene in as much detail as you can remember please.”

Recovering quickly, Annabel took them and composed herself, wiping her face and nose.

Chris remained alongside her, concerned and sympathetic, gently tapping her arm as she recovered.

Suddenly, before she realized it, Reilly kicked him in the shin beneath the table. He jumped back, startled and then glared at her with a mystified expression. Fortunately, Morrison didn't seem to notice.

“I … saw him lying on the ground on top of broken glass, the dining table all smashed up. He wasn't saying anything…. there was so much blood. It seemed like there was blood all over the kitchen. So I checked on him, used my jacket to try and stop the bleeding, and then took out my phone and called 999..." she trailed off again, apparently reliving the scene.

“Did you get a look at his attacker at all?”

“I’m not sure … it’s all such a blur … I thought I saw someone slip off out of the corner of my eye - ”

“Slip off where - through the hallway and out the front door, or out the back way?” Reilly pressed. “And can you give us a description of this person?”

“I don’t know, I really can’t remember. I was just so … shocked. It was like everything just … froze.”

“Anything at all would be really helpful, Mrs Morrison.”

“He was wearing black I think, and his head was covered - a hoodie I think. Like I said - ”

“Approximate height, weight?”

“I’m sorry, I really have no idea. It all happened so fast …”

"What time was this?” Kennedy asked, taking over.

She shook her head, "I don't know. It was late. I think maybe 2.30?"

"Where were you till then? Sounds like a late night.”

"I sometimes go out with the production team on Friday nights. We celebrate wrapping up the week, and the fact that we can all sleep in at weekends."

Finally Chris started contributing. "You went out for drinks with people from
Good Morning Ireland?”

“Yes. Sometimes we meet at Roly’s for dinner, and then onwards to the Gate House for drinks. Just down the road from the studio.”

"Great pub grub in the Gate House," Kennedy commented unnecessarily.