Inferno (CSI Reilly Steel #2) (26 page)

‘I’m fine.  What have we got?’

Any lethargy he felt was quickly dispelled by the note Kennedy handed him from Inspector O’Brien’s office: ‘PRIORITY. Package received. Possibly relevant to current Punisher investigation.’

‘So when do we get it?’ he asked.

His partner shrugged. ‘You know the protocol – it will be hours before we see anything.’ 

Since 9/11, all incoming packages to law enforcement had to be checked carefully – first of all for explosives – then by the GFU for fingerprints or trace.  It would be a considerable while before either of the detectives found out what was in the package.

The explosives check took time.  First the main package was checked for chemical traces, then the small padded envelope inside was X-rayed, confirming that there was a DVD inside.  Only once those checks were completed could the GFU lab team access the package to examine for fingerprints, trace  anything that might help them find the sender.

It was early afternoon before the package finally sat on the gleaming countertop in the GFU lab, the bright lights shining down on it.

Reilly stood in the lab with Julius, Gary and Rory. The run-of-the-mill-looking envelope, fresh from its explosive check, lay innocently on the workbench.

‘OK, first of all – thoughts?’

They team studied the workbench. ‘We could check out the envelope itself?’ Gary suggested.  ‘See who makes these, sells them.’

Reilly nodded. ‘Great, that’ll be your job then. Thanks for offering.’

Ignoring his look of disappointment at being handed such a mundane task, she looked again at the envelope.

Julius was peering at it. ‘The handwriting looks interesting.’

Reilly followed the older tech’s gaze. It was interesting – very elegant, a flowing script, almost like a distinctive font.  ‘Those in charge of Punisher investigation, Harcourt Street Station,’ it read. 

‘What does it tell you?’

‘Knight said that we were looking for an artist – this is the handwriting of someone who is artistic, creative.’ 

‘Agreed, Julius. Anything else?’

‘The fact that he refers to himself as the Punisher means he must read the newspapers, so he knows exactly what they’re saying about him,’ Gary said.

‘And that he’s comfortable, almost proud of the nickname,’ Julius continued.

Reilly nodded. It had been her first thought upon seeing the envelope.

‘Self-adhesive stamps,’ as always Rory seemed less interested in the psychology than in the evidence, ‘so no saliva for DNA.’

‘Unfortunately,’ Julius agreed in a rueful tone. ‘And it’s simply postmarked Dublin, so no clues there that might help us narrow our search. He’s thorough, isn’t he?’

‘Yep.’ Reilly reached out and flipped the package over with her pen.

‘No return address either,’ Gary joked. ‘There’s a surprise.’

She turned to Julius. ‘Dust it for prints, then we’ll open it and see what it is he
has
decided to share with us.’

As expected, there were lots of prints on the envelope – it would have been handled by several people on its passage through the postal system – but as the sender hadn’t left a single, or even partial fingerprint at any of the crime scenes, the prints they obtained were of little use. That didn’t stop them checking any they did find against the database, but as Reilly expected, nothing came up a match.

So far, so little ...

Finally the team carefully pried open the envelope, which had been sealed with its self-adhesive flap, and no additional tape. They carefully examined the adhesive, but again, the sender had been meticulous – there was absolutely zero trace on the adhesive surfaces.

Eventually, they were ready to see what was inside. 

With Rory’s assistance, Reilly carefully slid the contents out: a single DVD in a clear, plastic jewel case. The lab tech recorded the particulars of the products – a standard Sony DVD, a no-name jewel case – and again they went through the likely fruitless ritual of dusting the case and the disk itself for prints. There was no paper, no accompanying note, or anything written on either the DVD or the case to identify what might be on the disk.

‘Nothing but minuscule traces of latex,’ Rory muttered as his efforts once again came unstuck.

Reilly nodded. ‘Gloves, of course.’

At last – hours after the package had first been delivered – all the checks were complete, and they could finally see what had been sent to them. The sense of anticipation around the lab was rife.

‘You know, we could all be making a big assumption here,’ Gary said, as Reilly picked up her tweezers and prepared to release the disk from its case.

She looked at him, puzzled. ‘About what?’

‘Well, we don’t even know if this is from the killer, do we?’ He laughed. ‘It could just as easily be Rory’s holiday snaps.’

Rory looked embarrassed.  Stories of the holiday he and a couple of his rugby mates had taken in Majorca a few weeks back were legendary and had spread all throughout the GFU. ‘I really don’t think—’

‘Don’t mind him,’ Julius said. ‘When do you think we’ll be able to watch it, Reilly?’

‘As soon as the detectives are done with it, I promise.’

Chris and Kennedy were already en route to the GFU building to see exactly what was on the disk. Reilly had tried to contact Reuben too, but his mobile went straight to voicemail and he wasn’t in his hotel room.

She had plenty of work to distract her while she waited.

Soon the detectives arrived, and they all settled into the chairs in the conference room.

Reilly slipped the disk into the DVD player. The drawer slid shut, she hit ‘Play’ and the room fell silent as the DVD player hummed softly into life. They would soon know if this was the breakthrough they had been waiting for.

‘I really hope this is what we think it is,’ Kennedy grumbled.  ‘If it’s just some guy’s home movies I’m not going to be a happy bunny.’

‘That would make a change,’ Chris muttered.

As Reilly took a seat, an image filled the screen.  It was a printed sheet of white paper, bearing the following typed words:
Law and order exist for the purpose of establishing justice, and when they fail in this purpose they become the dangerously structured dams that block the flow of social progress. Martin Luther King, Jr.

It was quickly followed by another sentence that read:
I am simply unblocking that flow to social progress...

Reilly pressed the pause button on the remote control.  She nodded towards the screen. ‘Once again, he’s careful – those are simply A4 sheets printed off a computer – nothing distinctive or characteristic about them.’

‘No doubting his motives either,’ Chris commented.

‘Let’s see what else he’s got.’ She hit the play button again and the white sheet of paper dissolved into video footage.

‘That’s Coffey,’ Kennedy pointed out, quickly recognizing the man on screen.

The journalist was sitting at a small table, his feet bound to the legs of the chair. He was writing something and occasionally he looked up towards the camera. Reilly was busy studying the background, trying to figure out where Coffey was being held while the footage was filmed.

It was clear he’d suffered.  There was a streak of blood down one cheek, his hair was dishevelled and his clothes dirty. Although sadly for him, Reilly thought, shuddering at the memory of Coffey bobbing about in putrefying sewage, they were about to get a whole lot dirtier.

After about a minute or so Coffey looked up. ‘I’ve finished.’

The screen flickered in what looked to be a sharp edit.  In the next shot Coffey was holding up a sheaf of papers. He looked directly at the camera. 

‘This is my confession,’ he said, his voice cracking. He looked to be on the verge of tears, fearful and psychologically weakened by his experience, dark circles beneath his eyes as he stared uncertainly towards the camera. He paused to catch his breath and wiped his face, trying to compose himself.

‘Although I was brought here against my will, what I have written here is the truth – nothing has been added or changed.’  He set the papers back down on the table, and slowly signed each page with a trembling hand.  ‘There ...’ He held them out to the unseen person behind the camera and the image faded to black.

Chris turned to look at Reilly. ‘You didn’t get anything else in the package – some papers, Coffey’s confession?’

Reilly shook her head.  ‘Just the disk.’

They both looked back towards the screen as more typed words flashed into view. These read:

‘W
ell, there’s certainly no question now that Reuben’s correct,’ Reilly stated. ‘Our killer is indeed re-enacting the punishments from Dante’s
Inferno
.’

‘Flatterers?’ Chris queried. ‘How was Coffey a flatterer?’

‘He used words to flatter some and exploit others,’ Reilly explained. ‘The excrement represents the words he produced.’

‘Or again, journalists are full of shit,’ Kennedy said flatly.

The white sheet on the screen faded away, and was once again replaced by more video footage, this time of ex-cop John Crowe.

He was a giant of a man , the kind you’d want on your side in a fight, Reilly noted, and definitely the kind of guy you wouldn’t want to cross. His face was hard, with short-cropped gray hair and flinty pale blue eyes. But however tough Crowe might have been, right then he was a prisoner, entirely at someone else’s whim, at someone else’s mercy, and he knew it.

He was looking around, analyzing, assessing, but there was a hint of fear in his pale eyes, the realization that his fate was out of his hands. In the narrow focus of the video it was also difficult to make out where he was – the background was dark and featureless.

Crowe was sitting on a chair, his hands couldn’t be seen, but from the way his arms disappeared behind his back, it was clear that they were also secured firmly.

Unlike Tony Coffey, though, Crowe’s face showed no sign of defeat.  He may have realized that he was in a tight spot, but he was determined not to show it.  He was defiant, staring straight into the camera. ‘This sick fucker is making me talk,’ he growled.

‘That’s Crowe for you,’ Kennedy commented. ‘He wouldn’t kowtow to anyone.’

‘He wants me to make a confession,’ Crowe continued in his coarse Northside Dublin accent. ‘I’ve got nothin’ to hide, nothin’ to be ashamed of.  I did what I did, that’s the way it was; everyone who was smart did the same. You did what you were told, kept your mouth shut, no questions asked, then the perks and the promotions came along.’  He paused for a minute, as though thinking. ‘The guy—’

There was another sudden sharp change, as yet again the footage was edited and when the video resumed, Crowe was still talking.

‘I didn’t think anything of it; it wasn’t unusual for someone to make a request like that. You lose a bit of evidence, misplace a file, can’t remember a name ...’ Crowe stopped, and shrugged.  ‘I wasn’t totally happy about it,’ he admitted, ‘Guy was a nasty piece of work, an arrogant little fucker, if you asked me, but the top brass turned the heat up, so I did what I was told – and a week later ten grand in cash turned up in my locker.

‘So he
was
taking kickbacks,’ Kennedy said, his tone filled with disdain. ‘Stupid bastard ...’

‘Hold on ...’ Reilly paused the video. ‘What’s that – on Crowe’s shoulder?’ When the others looked confused, she pointed at the screen. ‘There on the jacket, on the right-hand side.’ She wasn’t sure at first if it was just the shadows in the barn, but was almost certain she could make out a distinctive light-colored mark on the cop’s dark jacket.

Chris screwed up his eyes. ‘Looks like it’s just dust of some kind. That horse feed,maybe?’

‘I don’t think so.  It looks very powdery and too light in color – not something you’d get in a farmhouse or barn.’ Had Crowe brushed up against something when being moved to the site, in the unsub’s van perhaps? 

It could be nothing, but she’d get the tech guys to zoom in on the footage later, see if they could ascertain what the mark was. If they could do that, perhaps they might also be able to work out where it had come from – and thus add another piece of physical evidence to the pile.

Kennedy looked thoughtful. ‘Listening to that, whatever Crowe did – destroyed evidence or whatever –  it sounds as though somebody higher up in the force was in on it too.’

‘Look, let’s not jump to conclusions,’ Chris said. ‘The last thing we want is O’Brien and the suits getting even more involved in this.’

Reilly shared Kennedy’s concerns. ‘But what if one of them is on the killer’s list?  We have to say something.’

‘I don’t think so.’

She looked at him with interest. ‘You sound pretty certain. What makes you say that?’

‘I may be wrong, but this guy is so careful, I don’t think he’d tip us off before he got to someone – he’s too determined to administer his own form of justice. Either he didn’t pick up on it, or else he didn’t know what Crowe was referring to.’

‘Why don’t we just keep watching?’ suggested Kennedy. ‘Maybe we’ll find out?’

Reilly resumed ‘Play’.

There was another quick edit before the footage continued with Crowe still talking. ‘You didn’t usually ask those questions, but in this case, I was pretty sure where the money had come from.’

Again the footage jumped abruptly.

‘Damnit!’ Kennedy exclaimed.

‘It stood to reason,’ Crowe went on. ‘I knew who his father was, so it didn’t take much to add two and two together and come up with four.’

‘Whose father?’ Chris asked. ‘Bloody hell, none of this is making any sense.’

There was another quick cut, and when they saw Crowe again, he looked more downcast.  ‘Of course it made a difference. If I’d presented all the evidence there’s little doubt the fucker would have got what was coming to him.’  He looked directly at the camera.  ‘Most of the time what we did was neither here nor there, but in this case, yeah, it made a big difference ...’

The screen faded, and yet another title card appeared: