Cold Steel (20 page)

28

Monday, 18 May.

Frank Clancy woke at six thirty. He showered but did not shave. Under the hot spray he cut at his thick black curls with sharp surgical scissors. He groaned when he saw the end result. At the front his hair was jagged edged, at the back it stuck up. He hadn't time to improve the cut. He didn't care. He wanted to change his image, be less easily identified. Confuse the shadow. By seven he was down in his office on level three, unrecognised and undisturbed. He wore denims, white T-shirt under low-neck cable-knit sweater, white trainers. Over the sweater he had pulled on a loose-fitting linen jacket. He looked more pop star than haematologist. Especially with the hairstyle. He created a fax, simple and direct.

MUST MEET
YOU
AS SOON AS POSSIBLE TO DISCUSS MEDICAL PROBLEM OF MUTUAL INTEREST. WILL CALL YOUR OFFICE LATER TODAY. DO NOT, REPEAT, DO NOT REPLY TO THIS FAX.

He double-checked the address number from the medical directory and sent the page down the line. Then he picked up the phone and rang reservations at Dublin airport. After five minutes haggling and switching of flights he booked himself on a Delta Airlines direct to Boston, leaving at two that afternoon. He hung up, then rang his ward sister, one hand on the phone, other pinching his nostrils.

'Louise, it's Dr Clancy.' Louise sounded half-asleep, Clancy as if his nose was blocked. 'Sorry to disturb you but I need to pass on some information.' There was just the right amount of nasal twang. Louise told him she was listening. 'I've picked up a dreadful flu,' he snorted loudly and coughed, 'and won't be in for a couple of days.' Louise told him how sorry she was to hear this. 'Thanks. I'm going to switch the phones off and take to the bed so tell the team I won't be contactable.' Louise said she would. 'I've left two large brown envelopes in the bottom drawer of your desk. If you don't hear from me by Wednesday morning would you make sure they are sent out?' Louise repeated the instructions to be sure she'd heard them correctly. 'One can go by courier, the other in the internal post.'

He hung up and looked out the office windows. Breakfast was being served, patients were being shaken awake. The nursing roster was changing, fresh-faced girls replacing the tired night shift. What am I doing? This unit is full of ill patients and I'm playing private investigator. I'm a doctor, not a detective. My work is here, on these wards. He suddenly felt alone and vulnerable. I'm up against the might of the government. One suspicious doctor against the system. This is stupid, plain stupid.

He slumped back, physically weary and mentally exhausted. Then he saw a note stuck on his PC monitor. HAROLD MORELL DIED LAST NIGHT. The arrogant smiling face of Linda Speer flashed in his mind. I've gotta see this through, it's too important.

He picked up his holdall and checked the corridor. When he felt sure he wouldn't be noticed, he teased open the door with the tip of a trainer and slipped away. He took the service stairs to avoid meeting colleagues, dodged through the kitchens to the ambulance bay on street level and hitched a lift into the centre of Dublin. The ambulance driver couldn't stop himself smirking at the hairstyle. On O'Connell Street Clancy jumped out at a set of red lights and hailed a taxi.

'Take me to the airport.'

The cab driver kept one suspicious eye on him as he turned the car around. 'What'd you do to your hair?'

Clancy inspected himself in the rear-view mirror. He looked so ridiculous he had to laugh.

10.00 am

The meeting was held in room twenty-three, fourth floor, police headquarters in Harcourt Street, two miles from the city centre. Outside rain poured down from leaden skies while inside six men sat around a circular table trying to shake drops from shoulders and hair. Commissioner Murphy was dressed in full uniform, white shirt with navy tie, navy slacks and jacket with gold epaulettes. The cuffs showed the appropriate number of stripes. He sat at the middle of one side of the table with his back to a window. A large flip chart with the Jennifer Marks' murder scene diagrams and photographs was positioned in one corner. Opposite was Arnold Leeson, director of the forensic science laboratory. He was wearing slacks and sweater. To his right was Dr Patrick Dillon, forensic psychiatrist to Rockdale Hospital for the Criminally Insane. He had dressed in a charcoal pin-stripe two-piece suit with white shirt, stiff collar and university tie. In his breast pocket half an inch of white handkerchief poked out. Jim Clarke sat beside the commissioner with Tony Molloy worrying to his right. Moss Kavanagh leaned against a wall. The introductions were brief, most knowing one another by reputation. 'This investigation has got off to good start,' Murphy began. 'Within a remarkably short time we've arrested the main suspect. If we did as well as this elsewhere I'd be delighted.' The audience did not respond. 'However in their haste to close down unwelcome publicity certain government ministers are directing leaks to the effect the case is as good as closed. The word going out is Kelly is as
guilty as hell, mad as a hatter and safely locked up in the hospital for the seriously mad.' He paused. 'So I suppose we should all go home and put the kettle on.' A few amused smiles flickered.

Murphy stretched his long fingers out and ran the palms of his hands along the highly polished table surface. He seemed to examine a particle of dirt on his jacket sleeve and brushed at it.

'Well, I'm not happy. What's good for the government isn't always good for the police. If this rumour mongering continues I can see us going through hell in the courts. Kelly can't be declared guilty without understanding what he's being charged with.'

There was a murmur of agreement.

'He's become the centre of attention for media from all over the world. Since that attack on the warder, he's been branded a cross between Hannibal Lecter and Attila the Hun.' More smiles flickered. 'Dr Dillon,' Murphy continued, 'told me when I spoke with him last night that the hospital has been besieged by cameramen and reporters.'

Dillon cut in, 'We had three TV crews hanging out of helicopters yesterday. Laying aside the breach of security, the noise unsettled many of my patients.'

Murphy came back, 'And that's not something we'd relish, a riot in Rockdale.'

Dillon shifted in his chair and spoke again. 'Two of my staff have been contacted by tabloid reporters looking for background. One was offered £5000 to take a photograph of Kelly in his cell.'

Angry mutterings erupted. Murphy's hand went up for silence. 'Before this gets totally out of control,' he said, 'I want to know what we're dealing with. I'd like to sleep easier in my bed, not haunted by thoughts of courtroom challenges further down the line.' He looked at each in turn for confirmation. Satisfied, he started separating fax reports. 'You've all read the toxicology report?'

Yes by five.

'Okay, she had heroin, cannabis and alcohol in the blood. The vaginal, rectal and oral swabs are negative.' Murphy scanned another fax. 'The markings on her neck were old and not relevant.' He looked up. 'That's all new information to hand.' He leaned back in his chair, kneading his forehead with the knuckles of his right hand. 'Okay, Arnie, what do you have?'

Arnold Leeson shuffled paper, forensic reports and two faxes. 'Right,' he started, 'let's begin with what you want to hear. The blood on Kelly's tee shirt, tracksuit bottoms and trainers is that of Jennifer Marks. The PCR test has confirmed that without any doubt.'

The commissioner sighed with relief. 'That's the good news.'

Leeson had a hand up for attention. 'The rest is incomplete,' he paused to put paperwork in order, 'and I'm expecting more information. What's here may confuse rather than clarify.'

Murphy sat forward, eyes narrowing, as Leeson went on.

'The traces of soil scraped from Kelly's trainers do not match samples taken where the body was found. That area was in undergrowth, the clay heavily mixed with a peat mixture. Nor,' continued Leeson, 'do the soil patterns on the trainers fit in with how the footprints were disguised.'

He stood up to demonstrate, moving to a corner where his feet could be seen. Five heads strained to watch.

'When you want to scuff footprints in a hurry you tend to sweep the inside of your shoes, or in this case trainers, across the indents.' Leeson swept his right foot along the carpet. 'Soil should collect on the instep. Kelly's trainers don't show that pattern.' He sat down and scanned another page quickly. 'Where the body was dumped cobwebs had collected. The twig samples we received had cobwebs on them as well as fibres not yet identified. Kelly's clothes did not have any cobwebs on them and the cotton fibres of the T-shirt and tracksuit bottoms do not match
what was clinging to the undergrowth.'

Molloy shifted forward on his seat and slipped his jacket off, the movement momentarily distracting.

'We haven't been able to lift any prints off the knife,' continued Leeson, 'and the hand patterns on the body were too smudged for analysis. There were semen stains on the black skirt the girl was wearing but I haven't got the analysis of that to hand. I'm expecting it through this morning.'

Murphy began running his palms along the table again. 'Conflicting signals there, Arnie?'

'Very much so,' agreed Leeson.

A brief silence descended, broken only by the scraping of pens against paper.

'What about you, Dr Dillon, can you throw any light on this?' Murphy shifted his chair sideways and leaned back on it. 'Could Kelly have murdered this girl?'

Throughout the previous exchanges Patrick Dillon had kept his head down, toying occasionally with pen against blank paper, every now and then making notes in shorthand. As soon as Murphy questioned him he quickly circled the order of importance.

'First of all, Commissioner, I am a doctor and not a forensic investigator. My duty is to help Kelly regain his sanity.'

'We all apprec…' Murphy started to interrupt but Dillon cut him short.

'What I will say is strictly off the record,' he continued, 'and probably unethical as Kelly has not agreed that I reveal his medical status.' Fleeting smiles were exchanged. 'However let me tell you what is relevant. Kelly is a chronic drug abuser. His toxicology result alone makes for disturbing reading. The blood sample we took at Rockdale was positive for alcohol, cannabis, heroin, methadone, flunitrazepam, diazepam, cocaine and LSD. More worryingly he also had high levels of ketamine, an animal anaesthetic also known on the streets as Special K or LA Coke.' Dillon
explained further, 'Ketamine is usually mixed with ephedrine and passed off as Ecstasy. When taken it can have profound effects on heart and lungs.' Around the table mouths gaped. 'The side effects of ketamine alone, even without the other cocktail of drugs, include confusion, hallucinations and irrational behaviour.' Dillon ticked off his notes as he continued. 'Kelly is also in liver failure with enzymes grossly elevated. He is clinically and biochemically jaundiced.'

Moss Kavanagh decided to sit down.

'Psychologically,' continued Dillon, 'he is even worse. When admitted he was suffering a severe and violent schizophrenic episode, hearing voices and seeing visions. He had paranoid features, distrusting everyone, feeling he was under attack. He thought he could see and hear the devil.'

'Jesus,' muttered Kavanagh.

'And these, eh,' Donal Murphy struggled for the correct words, 'these thought disorders, were due to his drug taking?'

'I feel quite confident of that.'

'Could he have had thoughts driving him to kill the girl?'

'Yes.'

'Could this condition produce any other bizarre behaviour?' Murphy's hands now supported his chin.

'Anything you care to think of,' replied Dillon. 'I was at a conference recently where two cases of metamorphosis were reported.'

'Metamorphosis?'

'Yes,' explained Dillon. 'This is a delusionary state where the patient believes he is turning into an animal. The cases were in young males with schizo-affective disorders, one thought he was turning into a pig, the other into a werewolf.'

'Jesus,' whispered Kavanagh again.

'In terms of bizarre thought processes, anything can happen,' Dillon finished. His forehead creased and he began humming.

Murphy stared at him quizzically.

'Sorry,' Dillon smiled awkwardly as he caught the commissioner's expression. 'I was thinking.'

'Want to share?' asked Murphy.

'Yes, I do. This case bothers me.' He circled his notes again. The others watched expectantly. Dillon settled back in his chair, eyes down, face crumpled. He rested his chin on his left hand. 'What I've heard just doesn't add up.'

'What doesn't add up?' Murphy was now leaning heavily on the table and fiddling with his front collar for a button. It came free and he ran a finger around his neck, tugging the collar loose. The room had become warm and other hands loosened ties for comfort.

Dillon explained. 'The pattern of behaviour in this crime suggests some degree of control, of rational thought. The girl was stabbed. She was then dragged out of sight into undergrowth.' He switched hands to rest his chin. 'The killer searched that skirt seam and didn't find what he was looking for, then turned the body over and cut the back seam. What's important is he was actively looking and going about the most direct way of finding it.'

There was a brief silence while the listeners thought over Dillon's hypothesis.