Inferno (CSI Reilly Steel #2) (29 page)

‘He’s not really a madman,’ Reuben drawled, fiddling with his precious Mont Blanc pen. ‘That’s the problem, really.’

O’Brien shot him a furious glare, but the profiler seemed impervious.

‘So do we have anything? Anything at all?’

They glanced at each other like unruly kids hauled up before the headmaster, as if trying to decide how to tell their side of the story without getting anyone else in trouble.

‘I’m afraid Reuben is right,’ Reilly finally replied. ‘It seems pretty clear that our killer had all this planned out long before he committed the first murder. So far he’s made few mistakes, or has given us little that moves us forward.’

‘Except,’ Kennedy added, glancing at the others, ‘now that we’ve found the judge, we might have a good chance of connecting the dots and finding a link between all five victims, and maybe figure out the original crime that it’s all related to.’

O’Brien now had his back to them, and was gazing out the window. ‘You mean the justice angle?’  He turned round suddenly. ‘Assuming it’s related to an actual crime ...’

‘There is little question that all these murders  these punishments  stem from a single transgression,’ Reuben said. ‘As I outlined in my profile, what we have is an angry vigilante who is intimately familiar with the failings of the modern courts system, and determined to extract what vicious justice he can from those he thinks were complicit.’

‘All very well and good, but how does it help us find the maniac?’ O’Brien demanded.

‘We’re going to cross-reference any cases that Morgan sat on, where Crowe gave evidence, what Coffey wrote about, and so on,’ Kennedy went on. ‘We’ve been having trouble with the warrant for Dr Jennings’ files. Identifying the suicide victim in his care could well be the key to all of this.’

Reilly couldn’t help but think how the delay was a perfect example of how frustrating the law – and how slow the wheels of justice  could be.

‘Well, do whatever it takes to get that, for fuck’s sake!’ For a moment it looked as though O’Brien was going to combust, but instead he turned and addressed Reuben again. ‘So you think there’s just the one more victim – “the primary perpetrator”, as you referred to him in your profile?’

Knight nodded. ‘Assuming he’s telling the truth.’

O’Brien glowered at him. ‘We’re not paying you to assume – does it fit the profile or doesn’t it?’

Reuben gave an easy smile. ‘Based on the rigorous planning, the exaggerated theatricality of it all?  Absolutely. He had a well-thought-out plan that he has executed to perfection. Dante’s
Inferno
is his blueprint. There’s no reason to think that he would deviate from his cause now.’

‘Right.  Well, let’s see if we can find the bugger before he claims his last victim. That would be some degree of consolation at least ...’

Later that morning, Chris returned to the large conference room, his head feeling like it was on fire. The long wooden table was covered in boxes of files. An administrative assistant wheeled a trolley in, laden with yet more files and folders.

He glanced around. ‘Where do you want them?’

Chris looked up – in truth he couldn’t care less. He pointed to the far side of the room. ‘Just stack them against the wall over there.’

The assistant dutifully rolled his trolley over, and unloaded the boxes one by one.

‘Is that the last one?’ Chris asked.

‘Yep, that’s your lot.’

‘Thank God for that.’

As the assistant rolled his trolley out, Kennedy strode in, his hands full with a cardboard tray of coffees and a Starbucks bag. ‘Here we go,’ he said brightly, ‘some half-decent coffee.’ He looked at the heavily laden table and his face fell.  ‘Bloody hell! Please tell me that’s all of it.’

Chris nodded. ‘Yep, this should be fun.’

There was no room on the table, so Kennedy dumped the coffees on a small filing cabinet, and dropped down into a chair. He held out the bag to Chris. ‘How about a bit of sugar to get your engine started? It’s going to be a long bloody day.’  He bit a huge chunk out of his muffin, and slurped on his coffee. ‘I got you some kind of fruity one.’

Chris almost retched at even the thought of food. ‘Do you have any idea how many calories are in those things?’ he said, hoping that Kennedy would think he was just worried about his health, rather than his hungover stomach.

His partner was busily cramming pieces into his mouth. ‘Do you have any idea how little I care?’ he spluttered through a mouthful of crumbs.

Chris cast a glance at his partner’s bulging waistline and raised a smile. ‘I could hazard a guess.’

Kennedy looked down at his belly, and gave it a gentle pat. ‘Hey, go easy on this fella – it takes a lot of work to get a body like this.’ He indicated the mountain of files. ‘So where do we start on this lot?’

Chris took a mouthful of coffee, and picked up a list. ‘These are all the major cases that Crowe and Judge Morgan had in common.’

‘How many?’

‘Let’s sort through them first,’ Chris suggested, ‘get the minor cases set aside, then have a look at each of the biggies.  We can make a list of those and then cross-reference them against any articles that Coffey wrote.’

Taking the new victim and the killer’s motive into account, they needed to go through Coffey’s articles again with a fine-tooth comb.

Reilly had agreed to take on this part of the workload, and had also suggested Rory from her office, who was  a speed-reader, by all accounts, and good at seeking out info relevant to an investigation. Much to Reuben’s consternation, he had also been roped-in to help with the search under strict orders from O’Brien.

Kennedy wasn’t looking at all happy. ‘Bloody hell, what a chore ...’

Chris looked at the list, and then at the case number on the nearest box.  ‘Right, this one is shoplifting. I think we can forget that.’ He pointed to one corner of the room. ‘Why not put the misdemeanors over there? The sooner we create some space on this table the better.’

By midday, the task was starting to take shape: all boxes for the minor cases had been removed and stacked at the far end of the room. The remaining ones – the forty-seven more serious cases common to Crowe and Judge Morgan – formed their own pile at the end of the table. 

Chris checked the list again and looked up. ‘I think that’s it.’

‘Great.’  Kennedy pulled the closest box towards his feet. ‘Then let’s grab a box each and dig in. What are we supposed to be looking for again?’ He opened the nearest box and looked inside at the densely packed files. 

‘Anything out of kilter,’ Chris replied. ‘Something to suggest that maybe Crowe “lost” evidence, or any possible link to Coffey or Jennings ...’

The afternoon passed slowly, each of them poring over one case file after another, looking for links, connections, and making notes that might tie in with some article of Coffey’s. Kennedy remained reasonably cheerful, but after a few hours even his enthusiasm was starting to wane.

Chris looked up from the case he was reading. This was pretty depressing stuff – case after case that was either dismissed on a technicality, or where a clearly guilty suspect was given a minimal sentence after the police had spent a huge amount of time gathering evidence.

He had learned long ago that it was best not to pay attention to what happened once the prosecution service got involved – it tended to lead to disappointment and frustration for the police and the investigators, seeing suspects they knew to be guilty either not being charged, getting acquitted, or receiving a minimal sentence.

At times like this he was half able to understand the motives of someone like their killer. After all, and despite his job, Chris knew perhaps better than most that justice was rarely served.

C
opper Face Jacks nightclub on Leeson Street was hopping on a Saturday night. The music blasted out, the drinks were flying, and the lads and ladies of Dublin were out in force on their weekend mating rituals. Drink in hand, Ricky Webb stood in the corner of the room watching it all.  It was his first night of freedom, and he was determined to enjoy it.

He had been released earlier that morning. The screw had come to his cell at eight o’clock, and walked him down to the office, the other inmates all calling out to him.

Officer Matthews, a hard-faced man with a jaw like Superman, had processed him wordlessly, filling out the forms and handing them over to Ricky to sign. Finally he handed Ricky his clothes, his dead watch, and three hundred and seventy quid in cash.

Ricky looked around for somewhere to change, but there was nowhere.  Matthews just stared at him. ‘Oh, what the fuck ...’ He tore off his prison clothes, threw them on the table, and dressed quickly in his civvies. He glanced up, and saw Matthews’ eyes still on him. ‘Had a good look?  Fancy me, do you?’

Matthews said nothing, and maintained his intense glare.

‘So are we all sorted?’

The guard nodded to the clothes Ricky had thrown on the table. ‘Fold them.’

‘Screw you.’

Matthews simply repeated his gesture. ‘Fold them. Mommy’s not here to clean up after you now.’

Ricky looked down at the clothes, then glanced at the door on the far side of the room.  Freedom was waiting for him. What the hell ...  He picked up the clothes, carefully folded them, set them back on the desk. ‘Happy now?’

The guard grabbed the clothes and flung them into a laundry hamper behind him. ‘Now I am.’

‘Bastard.’

Matthews simply grinned, stepped over to the door, and rapped on it with his knuckles. There was a scrape, a clank of keys, and the door swung open.

A lanky young guard held the door open for him. ‘All right, let’s go.’

Webb stepped through, and the smell of asphalt assaulted his senses. He paused, looked up at the gray winter sky, and grinned.  ‘About fucking time.’

The young officer closed the door behind him.

Ricky looked around – everything looked so normal  so wonderfully, fucking normal.

‘Were you expecting someone to pick you up?’ the officer asked.

Ricky gave a grunt.  ‘Who the fuck would come to get me?’

Now in the pub, Ricky sipped his drink and thought again about the question.  He had spent the day chewing over it, letting his anger and frustration build.  His father was dead, his mother was a cold-faced bitch, and to the rest of the family he was a pariah, the skeleton in the cupboard, the black sheep they never spoke about.

But now he was back. Out after eighteen long months, and he wanted to make up for lost time ...

His dark eyes scanned the room. So far the night had been a big disappointment. Earlier, he had headed to The Baggot Inn, his old hangout. The place was full of yuppies, bankers and IT technicians in designer clothes, with not one of his old mates to be seen anywhere.

After a quick pint he had moved on to Coppers nightclub. At least that was still the same, still the best place to go and pick up easy women; that he could see straight away. None of his mates was there, no one recognized him, but the talent was there, and tonight, that was what mattered above all else.

Eighteen months he’d spent inside, eighteen long months of fantasizing, but tonight it was going to be the real thing. It didn’t matter which girl, he wasn’t fussy, and any would do so long as she was up for it. And here, they all usually were.

He nursed his pint, and watched the guys and the girls play their games. All the time he was clocking, assessing – who was with someone, who was single, who looked like they might be willing.

One by one the best-looking girls were hit on – some of them several times before they let anyone buy them a drink – and little by little the losers were left at the margins. The big girls, the ones whose features didn’t quite add up, the ones with too much make-up on, too many miles on the clock and all that.

Finally, Ricky made his move.

‘You all right, love?’

The girl looked up.  She was in her late twenties, with bleached blond hair, heavy make-up, a bit overweight, but nothing fatal. She wore a black miniskirt and a stretchy white top that struggled to contain her ample bosom. She had spent the evening on the dancefloor, as her more attractive friends got picked up at the bar, and now she was alone – alone, drunk, and vulnerable.

She looked up and saw a handsome face staring at her. 

‘Can I get you a drink?’

She smiled and Ricky was sure she was thinking he was a cut above the losers who’d approached her that night. ‘Sure. Bacardi and Coke.’

Ricky caught the barman’s attention, no easy task in this crowd. ‘Bacardi and Coke, and a pint,’ he shouted over the din of the music.  He turned back to her. ‘So what’s your name?’

‘Laura.’

Ricky took her hand, and brushed it with his lips. ‘Lovely to meet you, Laura.  Mine’s Ricky.’

Laura gave a little giggle. ‘Well ... you’re quite the romantic, aren’t you?’

The barman brought their drinks. Ricky flipped him a twenty and smiled at Laura. ‘Been watching you for a while.’

She sipped at her drink and looked up at him through heavily mascara’d eyelashes. ‘Oh, you have, have you?  And what have you been watching exactly?’

‘You’ve got quite a pair of legs, for starters,...’

She smiled, obviously thrilled with the compliment. ‘So what do you do, Ricky?’

‘What do I do?  Let’s just say I’m a ... private security consultant.’

‘Hmm.  Sounds interesting.’

‘Oh, it is.’

For the next hour Ricky plied Laura with drinks and compliments, and she in turn soaked them up. At around two thirty he decided to make his move. She was nicely drunk, and he was done waiting.

‘Fancy going somewhere quieter?’

She looked up at him, struggling to focus her eyes. ‘Where?’ she slurred.

‘My place is just around the corner,’ Ricky told her. ‘They’ve stopped serving here now. We could head back there for another one?’

She gave a watery smile. ‘Sounds good to me.’

Nice one, Ricky thought. As usual, it was almost too easy.