Never Alone (21 page)

thirty-seven

Megan intentionally ran into
Nappa and Rasmussen at the
corner of Matthew Garrison's address, and she rapped Nappa's
shoulder. Hard. “Hello, Detectives. What a coincidence running into my coworkers here. Based on the address, I'd assume you're here to speak to the vic's friend from the summer camp program, the counselor?”

Neither men looked or were shocked.

Megan pointed to the Starbucks on the corner and in an ultra-sweet voice said, “I'll be right over there when you're done. I think we just have
loads
to catch up on.”

“You're buying,” Nappa answered.

Megan heard Rasmussen add,
“She vacations at Starbucks?” followed by suppressed laughter from both.

Over one hour later, Megan saw Nappa and Rasmussen emerging from Matt Garrison's building enroute to the Starbucks she'd been seated at, now drinking her second cappuccino. “What the hell took so long?” Megan squinted up at Nappa's mouth. “And what is on the corner of your mouth?”

Nappa wiped both edges of his mouth with the back of his hand. “Curry.”

Rasmussen shook his head. “I'll get us two coffees, be right back.” He held out a palm, and Megan slapped a ten in it.

“Garrison's roommate was home, Garrison was on his way from the McAllister family gathering in Connecticut.”

“I'm still at a loss for your curry
mouth stains.”

“The guy offered us finger sandwiches and Perrier while we waited.”

Megan lowered her head and raised her eyebrows. “Oh-kaaay.”

Rasmussen returned with the coffees—and no change.

“I'll start first,” she said, as if there were any doubt Megan was
to begin the conversation. “I heard from my friend regarding
McAllister's laptop. I found out about the unknown guy Bauer
spoke of. The vic met him on an online dating service: S-I-N,
stands for Single Irish New Yorkers. Nice guy. Very upset about her murder. His name is Seamus McCann.”

“Wait, you met with someone potentially involved in this case while you're on ‘vacation'?” Nappa was visibly annoyed.

“Not as a detective, but as a ‘friend'. And just so you know, he isn't a
part of the case
. A nice guy. So strike the SIN initials off the unknown list.”

Nappa pulled out his notepad, flipping through pages.

“Tell me about Garrison,” Megan requested in her usual tactful manner.

Rasmussen spoke up before sipping his black coffee. “I'll let Mr. ‘I ate four finger sandwiches, and drank two Perriers' tell you.”

“Nice,” Nappa responded.

“Nappa, the ‘roommate' offers finger sandwiches and Perrier, answers the door in spandex shorts and nothing else, and you still think they are only roommates. The floating candles, potpourri, and long hug with kiss when Garrison arrived home wasn
't a bit of a clue?” Rasmussen wasn't homophobic, he was just amused at Nappa's
naiveté
.

Nappa ignored Rasmussen's goading. “Garrison and McAllister worked together at Sparta Camp during the summers for the last three years. That's how they met and became friends. Garrison's first thought was that Professor Bauer committed the murder, and we all know now that isn't the case.”

Megan rubbed her back from Bauer's assault, but she didn't complain.
“Did he have any idea about the unknown initials on the list from McAllister's datebook?”

“Nothing on BE or BD,” Nappa answered.

“Well, we know BD is for blood drive, but the BE, that one I can't wrap my brain around.”

“Nothing from the phone records, private or professional,” Rasmussen added.

“There is one thing Garrison added. He mentioned McAllister became friends with some new staff counselors this past summer and he'd check with the office that runs the camp tomorrow morning, try to get a list for us.”

“Good. Have you checked on the video from McAllister's building? Has the lab been able to identify what was on the unsub's wrist?” She could tell by his expression that Nappa felt it was a waste of time, but she pressed anyway. “Look, I know you didn't see anything, but I'm telling you,
I did
. I can't make the call, you have to, so just put pressure on the techs.”

“I didn't see anything,” Nappa answered.

Megan looked at Rasmussen for some form of support.

“I need to watch it a few more times,” he responded. “Also, here's the copy of McAllister's last gynecologist appointment you wanted Palumbo to get.”

While Megan read through the report, Nappa went on, “The sewing kit package was sent to you from the main post office on Eighth
Avenue. Nothing more came up.”

“Wait.” Megan flipped through the file from Shannon's gynecologist. “What date is BE on?”

Nappa went through his notes. “The sixteenth.”

Megan held up the folder. “We just figured out BE. She had a mammogram on the sixteenth. BE is for
breast ex
am.” Megan huffed,
then handed Nappa an envelope. “Here, I printed out two sets.”

“What's this?” Nappa handed Rasmussen a copy.

“From what Aunt Maureen told me about the crosses, being related to Saint Bridget? I did a search. There's a lot of information. Long story short, Saint Bridget is one of the three patron saints of Ireland, along with Saint Patrick and Saint Columba. She
was known for her saintly stuff—feed the poor, help the sick, et ce
tera.”

“Basically, all of
your
virtues,” Rasmussen mocked.

“You should switch from detective to stand-up comic, Ras.”

“So, what are you getting at with Saint Bridget?” Nappa asked.

“Okay, let's trace back a bit. McAllister was thoughtfully placed in that kneeling prayer position.”

“Yeah, and I agree with what you said; it makes sense
. She looked as though she were praying.”

“Thanks, now there are a lot of different stories about Saint Bridget, but what kept coming up was that she refused many offers of marriage and decided to become a nun. She started the very first convent in Ireland and was the first female bishop. Her patronage covers, like, a million things: milkmaids, dairy workers, travelers, nurses, blacksmiths, children whose parents aren't married, poets. It goes on and on. Are you ready for this? Her feast day is February first.”

Nappa looked confused, “What does that have to do with—”

“February first is Shannon McAllister's birthday.”

“Son of a bitch.” Nappa covered his mouth.

“Wait, there's more. The cross? The legend goes that Saint
Bridget made the cross from rushes she found on the ground beside a dying man in order to convert him. The crosses are made to invoke protection in the home against fire, illness, and disease. They're made from rushes, sometimes straw. Each contains a woven square in the center and four radials, which are tied to the end. Every February first, the old cross is taken down and burned and the new one is put in its place, usually above a doorway or main entrance to the home. What I can't figure out is why not connect to Saint Teresa, or Saint Rose?” Megan felt a tinge of guilt when she heard herself say her mother's name, especially with the word
saint
before it. “The killer put time into making these. But why, and what is the significance to Saint Bridget? The cross is meant for protection, but he's already killed her, so what's left to protect?”

“Maybe in his mind it's not about protecting the home. Maybe he's protecting something else?” Nappa wondered.

Megan thought back to the memorial in
The Catholic Times,
“
Shannon M. You Have Been Returned
.” She slugged Nappa in the shoulder. “Motherfucker.” The words flew out like darts thrown at a bull's-eye, making a direct hit, but she still whispered them: “Her soul. That's it, that's why he puts the cross up.”

“Her soul? You mean he puts the cross up to protect her soul from the time he kills her—or, as that memorial says, ‘returns her'—until she gets where? To heaven?”

“Possibly, or maybe he sends her to Saint Bridget.” Megan held up the background on McAllister. “Look at Shannon's background, look at how much charity work she did. She volunteered at soup
kitchens and a camp for sick kids. She was counseling drug-­
addicted, mentally fucked-up ex-cons, for Chrissake. How many people have we interviewed who have commented on how compassionate she was, how selfless? He could have some kind of fixation on benevolent women.”

Nappa looked like he was starting to wrap his mind around Megan's theory. “Then this guy views women as saints.”

“Not all women; only certain women. Women he feels possess attributes similar to Saint Bridget. I don't think it's a coincidence that Shannon has an Irish background or that particular birthday. Maybe that's the first thing that attracts him, and it develops from there. There's something else that's been bothering me.”

“What's that?” he asked.

“When we spoke with the McAllisters, I asked Mrs. McAllister if Shannon was on birth control.”

“When did you ask her that?” Nappa interrupted.

“When Mrs. McAllister went to get the contact sheet for the camp counselors. My gut told me it wasn't something to bring up in front of Mr. McAllister, so that's why I ducked out of the living room for a few minutes. I asked her if Shannon was on birth control. Mrs. McAllister said she was on the pill to clear up her skin and regulate her period.” Megan tilted her head, mocking the reasons Mrs. McAllister had for Shannon's use of the pill.

Nappa winced at the
period
part
of Megan's comment. The man could view mutilated bodies ten times a week, but when a woman mentioned menstruation, he got uncomfortable. “More like protect her when she was having sex with a married professor.”

“Exactly, but here's the thing: Why didn't we find it in her apartment? Most women keep their birth control in a dresser or nightstand. Nothing was found. And on top of that, Mrs. McAllister said she would occasionally take a pain reliever for a back problem. So where are those bottles?” Megan asked.

“The Catholic Church is against birth control. If the killer
found it in her apartment, maybe he got rid of it, so she didn't appear tainted in any way.”

“Saint Bridget was a virgin. Maybe it's important that part of the illusion remains for him,” Rasmussen added.

“If the birth control isn't found in the apartment or in her possession, then in his twisted perception, she remains pure, so to speak,” Nappa said.

“The unsub isn't a stranger, because he's taken time to get to know her, or at least he thinks he has. I think it's someone who's been in her life a short time, maybe only a few months. And I'm willing to go out on a limb and say that the initials from her day planner, the ones we haven't been able to match up yet to any names or phone numbers, I bet he's one of those names.” Then the irony of Shannon's murder hit her. “You know what's sad?”

“What?”

“If my theory about this guy is right, I think she'd still be alive. That is, if he'd known about the affair. It would have made Shannon impure, unwholesome in his eyes.”

“Yeah, but she was still seeing the professor a few weeks before
her murder, so there's a chance the killer knew about it and it
didn't matter.”

Megan rolled her eyes in amusement at Nappa's naiveté.
“Nappa, a woman does not go shouting off the rooftops that she's sleeping with a married man. It's not exactly something you share with new acquaintances. If she met the killer a few months ago, Shannon was already weaning herself away from Professor Bauer during that time.”

“Weaning herself away? What does that mean, exactly? You either dump someone or you don't.”

“Hey, if the sex is good, it's hard to leave,” Megan said, and then added, “Not that I would know, it's just the word on the street.” She grinned.

“There's still one big question,” Rasmussen said.

“What's that?” Megan asked.

“Why the rings, why the suturing?”

She shrugged. “I have no idea.” She stared at him and repeated, “I have no idea.” She checked her watch. “Okay, I have to go.”

“Where are you going?” Nappa shook his head. “No, wait. I don't want to know. The less I know what you're up to, the better.”

“Let me know when Garrison calls you in the morning regarding the info he's getting.” He reluctantly agreed. “Thanks.” Megan turned to walk toward the subway, adding, “Keep your personal cell on.”

“Are you going to be okay?”

She didn't answer, just raised her hand as she distanced herself from his concern and formed an OK sign with her fingers.

“You better be,” Nappa whispered.

thirty-eight

The store was exactly
in the vicinity where Megan had remembered. A green canopy with
sheehan's irish gifts
written in Celtic-style white lettering took up the corner of the Brooklyn street. Less than six months ago, she and Aunt Maureen visited Doreen Sheehan's store to pick out presents for the newborns of the Murphy clan.

The bell on the door chimed as Megan entered. Doreen Sheehan stood behind a glass jewelry cabinet restocking inventory. She was in her sixties, with a silver pixie cut. Her diminutive build could deceive one into thinking her personality was equal in size, but as Megan soon recalled, she was tough Irish stock.

“Hello, luv, what can I do you for today?”

Megan remembered Doreen was born and raised in Dublin, but she'd been living here for over forty years. She wondered if the woman put the Irish accent on a little thick to boost sales.

“Well, actually I'm here to …”

“Wait a second, I know you, darlin'. ” She shook her finger. “Yes, you're Pat and Rose's girl.”

“Megan McGinn.”

“Maureen Murphy's goddaughter, right?”

“You have a good memory,” Megan said.

“God bless your father's soul. I didn't know him well, but from what I did, I knew he was good as gold, he was. How's your mum doin'? Maureen said she's in hospital. Holding up well, is she?”

Vacant of all rational thought.
“Nursing home, actually. She's doing as good as can be expected, thank you for asking.”

“Good to hear. Good to hear. I just saw Maureen two weeks ago at bingo.” Doreen put one palm up to her cheek as if telling a secret. “Took home the pot, she did. But don't let it get around, especially to the mister.”

“Cross my heart.” Megan looked around the store and out of curiosity looked above the doorway. “I'm interested in that.” Megan pointed up to the Saint Bridget's cross above the entrance.

“Ah, Saint Bridget, the Mary of the Gael. What exactly are you looking for, sweetheart? Jewelry? Maybe a necklace?”

Megan had temporarily forgotten the fact that her cross was missing, but the question was a hard reminder.

“Did you make that cross, Mrs. Sheehan?”

“Yes. Been making them since I was a wee girl in Ireland. My granny taught me how. It's a tradition, you know. Place the new cross above the door, take the old one down and burn it.”

“Yes, I know. Where do you get the rushes from?” Megan asked.

“Darlin', that one isn't made out of rushes—yes, they're supposed to be, but I made that out of crepe paper from a craft store. Don't tell anyone, but it's been up there for eight years now.”

“Your secret is safe with me. But if I wanted to get rushes, specifically from Ireland, how would I get them?”

“I have distributors in Ireland where I order my Saint Bridget's crosses from, but they come already made. I should think you could order the rushes from the same place and put them together yourself, if you wanted to go to all the trouble.”

“Would you mind giving me a list of your distributors?” she asked.

Megan sensed Doreen Sheehan's hesitancy, not that psychic
powers were needed. Doreen tapped the cash register with her pen a few times. “Oh sure, luv, that'll pay me rent.”

“May I have a copy of the list while I browse around?”

“Of course, darlin', be right back with your information.”

Knowing she'd be stopping off at the Murphys' before heading back to Manhattan, Megan was perusing the store for gifts when her phone vibrated.

Nappa's personal cell showed up on the screen.

“Hey,” Megan answered.

“I checked with the tech guys on the video. It's going to take some time to get a clearer visual, but the tech guy agrees with you. He sees something on the tape, too.”

She close fist punched the air. “I knew it!”

“Paige Gowan came into the precinct.”

“The PG from McAllister's datebook. Anything?”

“Nada. She also assumed Bauer had something to do with it,” Nappa answered. “One more thing, I just got off the phone with the lab. The second cross, the one from the sympathy card that had trace amounts of type AB blood, also had minute traces of paper towel.”

“Paper towel? What for?”

“He said it was probably to keep the reeds moist. What little was found was near where the tips had been trimmed. The second
cross also had traces of green sponge. But, again, very minute
traces.”

“Green sponge? Why would green sponge be on the reeds?”

“Foam brick, luv,” Doreen interrupted.

“Hang on, Nappa.” Megan turned to Doreen. “Pardon me?”

“Reeds are packed in saturated foam brick, like from floral shops.”

“Who is that?” Nappa asked.

“I'm in Brooklyn, let me call you back.” She flipped her cell
closed.

“I received a shipment yesterday, let me show you.” Doreen went into the back of the store and returned with an opened carton from Dublin. “See?” She showed Megan the moistened brick. “Same as a typical floral arrangement sent to ya.”

Megan recalled all too well the number of recent sympathy arrangements sent to her and Brendan acknowledging their father's death. “Yes, I see.”

She rang Nappa back. “Did the lab say if they came from the same bunch of reeds? The cross from the doorway and the cross from the card?”

“Couldn't tell, but they said if we want a more extensive
workup, it could be sent to a university out of state. They could run more tests.”

“What kind of tests?”

“Something about checking the pollen grains from the plant. It could identify the region they came from,” Nappa said.

“At this point, go for it.”

“It'll take some time, but it's worth
a shot. Unless, like your computer friend, you have another friend, a botanist perhaps?”

“Any botanists I know deal with a certain other kind of plant.”

“Information I don't need, McGinn,” said the ex-Narcotics officer before ending the call.

“Here's the list, darlin'. ” Doreen handed Megan a paper of over twenty distributors based in Ireland.

“I didn't realize there were so many.”

“And that's not even half of them—those are only the ones I order from. I go to trade shows in New York and New Jersey. They're always coming out with new things, so I like to use different distributors. It keeps the inventory fresh.”

Megan looked at the names and phone numbers on the list. “What time is it in Ireland right now?”

“They're five hours ahead, so a bit after nine in the evening. You might better wait until tomorrow, if calling them is what you're needing. Can I wrap those for you?” she asked.

Megan had picked out a pair of silver earrings for Maureen and a Donegal tweed cap for Uncle Mike.

“Actually, yes. Gifts for Maureen and Mike.”

“What, nothing for yourself, luv?”

Megan looked around the jewelry case. She already had a Claddagh ring, and still, in her mind, owned a cross necklace.

“Darlin', you asked so much about Saint Bridget, why don't you take that bracelet?”

A delicate silver bracelet had Saint Bridget's cross at the center of the clasp. Megan picked it up to check the price.

“I'll give it to you at cost, sweetheart.”

“All right. Thank you.”

Doreen removed the price tag from the bracelet before fastening it to Megan's wrist. She smiled. “Now you have Saint Bridget on your side, my dear.”

_____

As soon as Megan knocked on the Murphys' front door, she
could hear the mayhem inside. Kids laughing, dogs barking, and at least two different people yelling, “Someone's at the door!”

Aunt Maureen greeted her with a grandchild on one hip and another tugging at her from behind. She had a warm, welcoming smile on her face until she took a look at Megan's. “Meggie, what happened?” She gently touched Megan's chin, turning her face side to side.

“I'm okay. Really.”

“Come in here. We have a large group tonight: two out of the four boys and their entire crews—including the dogs.”

A Jack Russell named Conan and a black Labrador named Daisy bombarded Megan with licks and tail wags as she entered. “Hey, guys.” In a momentary lapse Megan bent over to pet the dogs, shooting currents of pain through her back muscles.

Aunt Maureen noticed her wince. “What else is wrong with
you?”

“I'm fine, just pulled a muscle.”

“The hell you did. Patrick, come take a look at Megan,” Maureen yelled into the kitchen. Patrick was her second-eldest son, named after Megan's father, and he was also a doctor interning in orthopedics.

“Hey, Megs. Shit!” Patrick gave Megan a hug and a light peck on the cheek. He was the younger-looking version of Uncle Mike, only he now surpassed his father in height and not one gray strand could be found in the mop of black hair on his head. But the two men still shared the same warm smile.

“Patrick, the language,” Aunt Maureen scolded. “Meggie's hurt her back, take a look.”

By that time the rest of the Murphy clan in attendance had come into the living room to greet Megan: Patrick's wife, Moira; Kyle, the youngest Murphy brother; his wife, Veronica; and countless Murphy grandchildren.

Megan loved a full house, just not the medical attention. “Turn around, Meganator,” Patrick demanded, “let me take a look.”

“I'm fine, really.”

“Patrick, take her in the kitchen. I'm going to put a video on for the kids until dinner is ready.” Aunt Maureen received an enthusiastic response from the children, if not more so from the adults. The dogs, however, followed the scent of the roast cooking and joined the gathering in the kitchen.

Uncle Mike was checking on the roast when everyone crowded into the chef's quarters. “Genius at work, people. I need my space.”

“Dad, Megs is here.”

He wiped his hands on the kitchen towel, staring at Professor Bauer's handiwork. “So she is.”

Megan handed him the bag of gifts. “This is for you, and this is for Aunt Maureen. As for all of you other Murphys, you're going to have to wait until Christmas!”

“That'll wait. Patrick, look at Meggie's back,” Aunt Maureen or
dered.

“I'm fine. Really.” Megan's pleas fell on deaf ears.

Moira passed Megan a glass of red wine. “Drink up. You'll need it with this group tonight.”

“C'mon, strip for me,” Patrick joked.

“Patrick!” Maureen swatted his shoulder.

“Okay, I give up.” Megan took her jacket off. “Patrick, I'm telling you I'm fine, but take a gander anyway.”

Patrick raised her shirt up.

When Maureen saw her son's concerned look, she moved closer to see for herself. “What in God's name happened to you?”

Of course, this led to every adult in the room inspecting Megan's posterior region.

“I had a rather impromptu altercation with a suspect.” She
skirted having to tell the whole story.

Patrick felt around the bruise. “Does this hurt?”

“Only when you touch it.”

“What about here?” he asked. He pressed hard into the bottom of the bruised area.

“If you push any harder, I'm going to turn you from a Patrick into a Patricia.”

“Please do, three kids are enough,” Moira chimed in.

“You should really get some X-rays, and a few tests,” Patrick
said.

Uncle Mike was uncharacteristically quiet.

“Do you want me to set up an appointment?” Patrick asked.

“Let me give it a few days. I promise, if it doesn't feel better, I will call you for some tests. Fair enough?” she asked.

“Hey, you're the baby sister I never had. I'm just trying to watch your back.” Patrick messed Megan's hair. “Get it?
Watch your back.
”

“Your bedside manner sucks, but thanks anyway.”

Uncle Mike spoke up then. “Megan and I are going into my study. Help your mother with the rest of dinner.” He moved to the doorway and motioned Megan to follow.

In the study, Uncle Mike took out a bottle of whiskey and
poured them each a shot. “Did this happen before or after your
apartment was broken into? Before or after you started your
vaca
tion
?”

“How did you know about that?” She thought to herself how stupid a question it was as soon as it left her lips. Though not on the force anymore, Uncle Mike had eyes and ears everywhere in the department.

“Drink.” He handed Megan the glass. “Are you sure you're
okay?”

“Bruised but not broken. It looks worse than what it is. Prom
ise.”

“Sit. Talk.” Winning friends and influencing people were clearly not high on Uncle Mike's list during this conversation.

Megan went into full disclosure of every aspect of the case, from the moment she first arrived on the crime scene to an hour ago at the Irish gift store. Uncle Mike listened intently, though she could tell he badly wanted to interrupt and give Megan the riot act for not immediately acting the first time the unsub reached to her out via cell.

“So, there you have it.” She finished her drink.

“That's not all of it.”

“What? Yes, it is. I've told you everything.”

“Everything but the fact that you're on leave and still working the case.” He threw back the remaining whiskey in his glass.