Inferno (CSI Reilly Steel #2) (15 page)

‘I agree that the manner of their demise was atypical, to say the least, as is this most recent incident,’ he admitted. He gave her a sharp look, and peered out from beneath his thick, gray eyebrows. ‘However, I remain unconvinced that there is anything to link these deaths, other than their bizarre execution. And unlike you, Ms Steel, I’ve been in this business long enough to have encountered just about everything, and try not to be swayed by an overwrought imagination.’

He scratched at his stubbled chin with his nicotine-stained fingers, while Reilly fought the urge to tell him to take a hike. This wasn’t a figment of her ‘overwrought imagination’, it was the direction the investigative team had been ordered to take.

She ran her fingers through her hair, and looked him straight in the eyes. ‘What do you want me to do – ignore Inspector O’Brien’s orders?’

‘Of course not. It’s the reason we’re both here, isn’t it? So are you going to enlighten me on why you want to see Mr Coffey’s body? I’m sure Dr Thompson will be pleased to learn you are questioning her professionalism as well as my own.’

Reilly sighed. This guy was seriously hard work. ‘I’m not questioning anyone’s professionalism, Jack,’ she said wearily. ‘There’s just something I need to check.’

Reilly didn’t know which she hated the most – the smell or the cold. Although the morgue building was brand new, the autopsy room itself was sparse, functional, and designed for only one purpose – the efficient examination of corpses.

A wall of huge steel doors on one side housed the bodies, keeping them cold until the ME was done with them. In the center of the room were two examination tables, cold stainless steel, with hoses and drains to wash away the blood and associated gore when the autopsy was complete.

The mortuary assistant in attendance just then was a former summer intern who had stayed on as a part-time volunteer when the college season started up again. He was still young, in his early twenties, but extremely well read and intelligent for his scant years, a nice young kid who was a favorite of Reilly’s, mostly because she could never be sure what sort of crazy getup he would be wearing.

Today he was dressed as a goth. His usually fair hair had been dyed black, and his face was powdered whiter than his bleached white lab coat. His hands coming out through the cuffs of the coat were covered in black fishnet fingerless gloves , and beneath his black jeans were a pair of brilliantly glossy black and white striped boots.

‘Doc told me you wanted to check out the journo?’ he said, handing them gowns, gloves and facemasks as they entered the autopsy suite.

Reilly nodded. ‘Yes, Luke. Thanks for coming out at such short notice.’

‘No problemo.’

Both suited up, Gorman and Reilly waited as Luke pulled open one of the large metal drawers, and rolled out the gurney before slamming the door shut with a heavy metallic thud that echoed round the cold room.

Coffey looked bad – he was a heavyset man, with pale, hairy skin and a huge protruding belly. Death had done him no favors, either. His skin was pasty white with an almost purple sheen, his chest a cross-work of stitching where his internal organs had been removed during autopsy.

Luke rolled him under a bright overhead light, and then left them to it.

Gorman looked at Reilly. ‘So what, specifically, are we looking for that you think might have been missed first time around?’

Reilly ran her gaze over the corpse. She collected her thoughts. ‘Remember we were speculating about how anyone would have gotten Crowe in the freezer or Coffey in the tank – alive, especially?’

Gorman nodded, and went to pull a packet of cigarettes out from beneath his gown before remembering himself. He tucked them away. ‘Neither is a small man, and nothing turned up on the tox screen, so no drugging.’

‘I think they were both bound, then not dragged, but
wheeled
onsite.’ Thinking back on those narrow impressions on the grass approaching the tree yesterday, Reilly was willing to bet money on it that Jennings had also been transported across the extensive grounds of the church by the same method.

Gorman scowled. ‘How  like on a stretcher?’

‘No. I’m thinking something more along the lines of those two-wheel dollies delivery drivers use.’

His expression was dubious but he said nothing.

Reilly looked over Coffey’s body, paying close attention to the wrists.

‘No ligature marks on Crowe either,’ Gorman said quickly. ‘We checked.’

‘What if the killer didn’t use rope but something else to bind them?’

‘Like what? Duct tape?’

Reilly nodded and held up one of Coffey’s hands, peering closely at his wrists. ‘It is an effective way of binding someone, and it wouldn’t leave the marks we typically see from ropes.’

Gorman was standing back, watching but reluctant to participate. ‘Well, if that’s what you’re looking for, I would check the clothes. Chances are the tape might not even have touched the skin.’

Reilly set Coffey’s arm back down on the gurney, and walked round to the other side. ‘Coffey’s clothes were such a mess it was impossible to get anything at all from them. But if any tape did touch the skin, then ...’ She lifted his other hand and again examined the wrist. ‘There.’

Gorman put his hands behind his back and leaned forward towards the point Reilly was examining. He scowled. ‘What exactly am I looking at?’

She turned the underside of Coffey’s arm towards the light. There was the faintest gap in the dark hair around his wrist. Perhaps removed by adhesive from duct tape?  Reilly looked up at Gorman. ‘See it? He must have been bound, just like Jennings, and I’d be willing to bet that Crowe was too.’ Such a shame he was already six foot under, and they couldn’t check.

Gorman straightened up. ‘What I see is wishful thinking,’ he said gruffly, stepping over to the line of metal doors. ‘Are we finished?  I’m sure Mr Coffey’s family would like to bury him sometime soon.’

Ignoring him, Reilly peeled off her gloves and threw them in the bin. Pulling a camera from her kitbag nearby, she pointed the lens and zoomed in on the area around Coffey’s wrist.

Gorman opened the door, and looked impatiently back towards Reilly as the flash of her camera lit up the room. ‘Luke, we’re finished here, or one of us is at least.’ He stood in the doorway, muttering away to himself. ‘If I don’t get some nicotine soon I’m going to get really cranky.’

Like we’d notice the difference
, Reilly shot back silently.

She took five photos in quick succession before finally standing up. ‘I’ll have Julius go over both sets of clothes again for traces of adhesive or resin,’ she told Gorman. ‘See what we have.’

Gorman looked at her, a dour expression on his face. ‘Whatever you like, Steel. Fool’s errands are, after all, your speciality.’

The pub in Dublin’s Sheriff Street was dark, unwelcoming – not a woman in sight and no background music. A football match played on the big-screen TV in the corner. When Chris and Kennedy walked in a few locals glanced up and gave them suspicious frowns before returning to the morose contemplation of their pints.

Chris looked around, and nudged his partner. ‘Remind me never to bring a date in here.’

Kennedy grunted. ‘You could bring Miss Baywatch, no problem,’ he chuckled under his breath. ‘I’m sure she’d love this place.’

They made their way to the bar, and slid onto two empty stools. The barman was a big guy in his late fifties, with the face of an ex-boxer, or maybe a prop forward – flattened nose, thick eyebrows, enlarged ears.  He looked as though he’d probably started (and finished) many a pub brawl. He gave the detectives a disinterested glance as they sat down, and wiped listlessly at the bar with a grimy tea towel.

Chris met his eye. ‘Two pints of Guinness.’

The barman slowly levered himself off the bar, and wordlessly filled two pint glasses, before setting them in front of him. Chris slid across a tenner. The barman took it, rang up the sale, and flipped the change on to the countertop.

‘Who you looking for?’ he asked suddenly.

Kennedy shook his head, and turned to Chris. ‘Told you we should have left our shiny badges in the car.’

‘Nah,’ Chris replied. ‘It’s the caps and trucheons that gave us away.’

The barman was not amused. ‘You two could come in here dressed like Ronald McDonald and I’d still know you were cops . So, who are you after?’

Kennedy took a sip. ‘Old mate of mine, Johnny Crowe, retired cop, spent a lot of time here.’

The barman nodded. ‘I knew him.’ He leaned his meaty forearms on the bar, picked idly at a cigarette burn in the wood with his thick fingernails. ‘What about him?’

‘We just want a little help for you,’ Chris said. ‘Some basic information.’

‘Like who did he drink with?’ chipped in Kennedy. ‘This was his home away from home – who were his mates?’

The barman looked thoughtful for a moment. ‘Can’t say there was anyone in particular. He just liked to have a drink, watch the game ...’

‘He didn’t have any mates here – any regulars?’ Chris asked. ‘Just liked to have a drink—’

‘And watch the game. That’s right.’

Chris nodded slowly and sipped at his beer. ‘I get it.’ 

He looked around, pointed to a group of teenagers sitting in the corner also drinking beer and watching the game. ‘I’ll bet that at least half of those are under age ...’ He indicated two more youngsters at the far end of the bar, drinks in hand.  ‘And if those two are eighteen I’ll eat your tea towel.’

The barman looked down at the blackened rag in his hand. He wiped it gently across the bar. ‘We’ve been together a long time, I’d hate to see any harm come to her ...’  He looked up, and tilted his head slightly to the far side of the room where two men sat talking quietly. ‘Those would be the closest to what you’d call friends of Crowe’s.’ Chris looked over Kennedy’s shoulder at them. ‘The small one is Micky McCarthy,’ explained the barman. ‘Corkonian git who fancies himself as a ladies’ man.  The big fellow – don’t know his real name – he’s a Russki or something.  Everyone calls him Ivan.’ He thought for a moment. ‘Nasty piece of work.  You might want watch yourself with that one.’

Kennedy glanced over at them. ‘They were Crowe’s mates?’

The barman shrugged. ‘Closest thing he had to mates around here.’

Chris picked up his pint. ‘All right then, let’s go mix with the locals ...’

The one the barman had referred to as Ivan looked up as they approached, his radar instantly on high alert. He had a brutal face, with a mass of dark hair swept back from sharp Slavic cheekbones. He started to stand but Chris moved quickly, and blocked his path, his badge in his hand.

‘Have a seat, Ivan, we just want to have a little chat.’

Micky McCarthy looked up and smiled. ‘Cops? Nice one.’ He had a singsong Cork accent, was small and wiry, and dressed in an Adidas T-shirt and shiny blue track suit bottoms. He smiled, showing several missing teeth.

The two men sat across from one another in a corner booth.  Kennedy and Chris slid in, one either side, blocking them in. Ivan looked back and forth between them, his dark eyes weighing up the situation.  Despite the smoking ban, he sucked on a cigarette, a haze of smoke wreathing his face.

‘What you want?’ His accent was strong, his grammar imperfect, but he had a presence, and an air of menace hung on his words.

‘We just want to ask you a few questions,’ Kennedy began. ‘About Johnny Crowe.’

Ivan furrowed his brow. ‘I don’t know no – what was his name?’

‘Crowe,’ Chris informed him, ‘John Crowe.’

McCarthy chipped in,  ‘Sure you do, Ivan. Cracker – Johnny Crowe was Cracker's real name.’

Ivan nodded slowly. ‘Ah, Cracker. Big guy, used to be cop?’

Kennedy nodded. ‘That’s the ticket.’

McCarthy gave a little laugh. ‘Poor fucker wound up in a freezer, last I heard.’

‘That’s right.’ Chris looked between the two of them. ‘Any ideas why?’

Ivan shrugged, flicked ash from his cigarette onto the table. ‘Why should we know that?’

‘Because you did business with him.’

Ivan shook his head. ‘Beer, yes. Business? No.’

Chris was seated next to Ivan. He turned and stared at him from close range. Ivan met his gaze, unblinking. ‘You know it’s illegal to smoke in a pub, don’t you?’

Ivan kept his eyes on Chris, took another drag on his cigarette and blew the smoke out towards him. ‘So arrest me.’

Chris felt a trickle run down his back – there was something almost feral in Ivan’s gaze. This was a man capable of murder. In fact, Chris felt certain that Ivan had killed already, and would have no qualms about doing so again. Was this their guy?

‘Boys, boys ...’  The tension seemed to be making McCarthy uncomfortable.  He reached across the table, and tugged at Chris’s arm. ‘Hey, we liked Cracker, and we don’t know anything about his death.  It was a shock to us too, wasn’t it, Ivan?’

Ivan’s eyes bored into Chris’s soul. Finally he smiled, a cold twist of his mouth that left his eyes unmoved, and stubbed his cigarette out on the table. ‘Sure.  Big shock.’

Chris finally looked away, and glanced across the table at Kennedy. ‘Well, if you don’t know anything ...’

‘I might know,’ Ivan growled.

They all looked back at him in surprise. ‘But you just said—’

‘I said I don’t do business with him. But I know Cracker, I know the shit he was into – some bad stuff,’ added Ivan. He gave his twisted smile again. ‘I would know if someone wanted him out of the way.’

‘Bad stuff ... like what?’ Kennedy asked.

Ivan shrugged noncommittally. ‘Just, bad stuff.  But ...’ he let the word hang, making sure he had their attention, ‘... his death?  It was nothing to do with his business.’ He smiled suddenly. ‘But he was ex-cop, yes?’

Chris nodded.

‘I hear not all cops are same.’ He smiled again. ‘You guys are cops.’  He looked back and forth between them. ‘You do good job mostly, but not always?’

Kennedy looked at him. ‘I don’t get you.’

Ivan leaned in, conspiratorial. ‘Cracker, he tell me one day, there were some peoples who asked him not to be such good cop ...’  He pulled a cigarette from his pocket, tapped it on the table.