Running on Empty (19 page)

‘No, it’s something you’d normally associate with special ops guys’.

‘And the second one, the girl, that rifle you talk about. Is that a U.S. army issue sniper rifle? , asked Brad.

‘Yes’.

The John Deere manual lay ignored, as he stared pensively out the window.

Brad’s train of thought was interrupted as the phone rang. He looked at the screen. It was Curt Maybury, Brad’s immediate supervisor. Maybury, now what does he want, thought Brad? Ever since they first met, and Maybury’s subsequent appointment as Brad’s boss, the two didn’t see eye to eye. Brad was of the old school. Do the donkey work, knock on doors and talk to people, take in what’s happening out on the streets, and you’ll usually get to the bottom of things. You can’t smell what’s happening from behind a desk. Maybury, on the other hand, reckoned the world could be saved from behind a computer screen. Brad didn’t trust computers, didn’t like using them either. It took him forever to file a report, tapping slowly on the keyboard, one key at a time.

He answered. ‘Hi Boss’

‘Brad, will you drop over to see me?’

He walked down the corridor to the other end of the hall, knocked, and entered.

‘Brad, take a seat. How are things progressing with that double homicide, the two fished out of the bay?

‘It’s a work in progress, boss, I’m looking at a couple of things, nothing concrete yet though’.

‘Right, well there’s another case I’d like you to look into. It’s not a homicide, per se, but it’s not far off either. A female was admitted to Massachusetts General this morning. She’s in a pretty bad way, shot in both legs, broken jaw, broken nose, broken ribs, somebody worked her over good. Maybe you could take it on board, see what’s behind it. She could be just a crack head who annoyed her dealer. She’s a vagrant, apparently’.

‘I’ll check it out, boss’

As he got back to his desk, Brad’s phone rang.

‘Hi Brad, it’s Mandy again. Sorry, I forgot to mention about the identities of the victims. Have the dental records of both, but no luck with the Chinese guy. The bureaucracy involved in dealing with the Chinese authorities is unreal. You’d think we were asking for the locations of their missile sites or something. The girl, on the other hand, now has a name, Christine Lawlor. If I hear anything more back on the Chinaman, I’ll let you know. Don’t hold your breath, though’.

The attendant opened the door to Tom Feeney’s apartment, and Brad entered the hall. He’d done a bit of legwork, and found Christine Lawlor’s workplace. A short conversation with one of her work colleagues revealed her relationship with Tom, which led him here. The sunlight shone through the big bay window. The first thing Brad noticed were the smudge marks on the glass.
That windows been replaced recently
, he reckoned. When he spotted the dark patch on the wooden floor next to the couch, he knew instinctively this was where Christine Lawlor was murdered. He walked through the rest of the apartment, observing.

So, who’s been here? Who replaced the window. Who rifled through the clothes in the wardrobe. Where’s his computer? Don’t tell me a thirty year old guy doesn’t own a computer.

He walked back to the main room. He stood, trying to imagine the trajectory of a bullet passing through the window, through Christine Lawlors skull, the dark patch. That bullet could have ricocheted anywhere. What if there was more than one shot, though? He called back to base, requesting the room be sealed off for forensics. He’d love to have a chat with this Tom Feeney guy, but that would have to wait. He had an appointment with Massachusetts General.

Brad stood outside the hospital entrance, with a feeling of foreboding. He hadn’t set foot in this hospital in fourteen years, not since Amy. He was accompanied down the hall of block one, floor three by the on-duty intern.

‘Listen detective’ he began, ‘this girl was maybe thirty minutes from death when she was admitted. She’d lost four pints of blood or more. She’s been beaten to a pulp and shot twice. It’s a miracle she’s still alive. Only for the fact she was so healthy and fit to begin with has saved her’.

‘I take it she’s not a druggie then?’

‘Oh no, there’s no sign of drug abuse whatsoever. If she were a drug user, you’d be visiting a corpse, for sure’.

‘Where’s she from. Do you have an address?.

‘She’s a vagrant, apparently. No fixed abode’.

‘Where was she picked up?’

‘On wasteland, out by the docks, near the bay’.

‘And who called it in?’

‘Some guy, wouldn’t give his name. Sounded in shock himself by all accounts. Look detective, what I’m saying is, you have to thread very softly here. She drifts in and out of consciousness. I don’t know how she’d be of help anyway, her jaw is all wired up, she can’t talk. The most she can do is nod.

‘Ok, no problem. Do me a favor. Find out off the crew the exact location of where she was picked up?’

‘I’ll get back to you on that’.

‘Do we have a name?’

‘No name, no ID, nothing whatsoever’

Brad entered the room. What he saw was not good. Sally’s face was black and blue, one eye was swollen closed. Her jaw was wired, her nose set, she was hooked up to both a blood transfusion and a morphine drip, and both her legs were swathed in bandages. He sat down on the chair beside her. She was unconscious, breathing softly. He studied Sally. She was what, early to mid twenties maybe?

Amy would have been around the same age as this girl had she lived. A door was slowly being levered open by this place, this sight. A door put there to keep out the demons, to hold back the pain, to keep functioning. As he sat there, looking at this crumpled rag doll, thoughts flooded back.

Fourteen years ago, December twelfth, was the last time Brad sat in this hospital, by a bed like this.

He was at work when he got the call. A hit and run, they said. He sat there, watching the fragile body of a nine year old trying to fight the inevitable. When Amy finally gave up life, so did he really. Life was gone, what remained was just existence. Suddenly, he noticed the girl was staring at him with her one functioning eye. How long had she been conscious? He wiped his eye with the back of his hand.

‘Hi honey, how are you keeping?’ he began.

Sally looked at him.

‘Can you talk?’

Sally shook her head, slowly.

‘Look, I’m only here to help. I want to track down the animal who did this to you. Do you understand?’

She nodded.

‘Can you write, I mean, do you know how to write?’

She nodded.

Brad produced a pen and notepad, and placed them in her hand.

‘What’s your name honey?

‘
Sally Carmichael’
she scrawled.

‘Hi Sally, I’m Brad. What happened to you?’

‘I fell down the stairs?’

‘Do you know who did this to you?’

‘No’

‘Do you know why?’

‘No’

‘Is there anything else you can tell me?’

‘Well, I won’t be playing the sax for a while I guess’

She’s got balls to be making jokes, as beat up as she is
, thought Brad, and smiled slightly, before becoming solemn again.

‘Ok Sally, we’ll leave it at that for now. I don’t know if you are trying to protect somebody, or hide something, or whatever. I sure hope, if that’s the case, it’s not the scum who did this to you. If that’s your intention, you’re wasting your time, because, with or without your help, I fully intend to nail the bastard. You take care now, y’hear. We’ll talk again soon’.

It was late afternoon when Brad Johnson arrived at the Feeney family home. He rang the doorbell, and a middle aged woman answered the door.

‘Yes?’

‘Good afternoon ma’am, I’m Detective Johnson’ he said, flashing his badge, ’may I come in?’

‘Oh, have you got news of Thomas? We’re worried sick. We don’t know what to think. I only buried my husband last week, and now this. What news have you got, please, please tell us. I don’t know what to think. Please help us’. She looked completely drained, like she hadn’t slept in a week.

What the hell is this all about,
thought Brad.

‘I don’t understand ma’am, is Thomas missing?

‘Why, yes. Is that not why you’re here? There’s been no contact, no sighting of him since Monday’.

‘Monday?’ said Brad,
the day of the double murder,
he thought to himself.

‘And, have you not had any information of his whereabouts since then?’

‘All we know is what we’ve been told, what Joseph was told, by his boss the other night. That he had some sort of a breakdown, and hurt some people. I know my son, Detective, and he’s a very level headed boy, and I know there’s no way he could have a breakdown, and there’s certainly no way he’d hurt people. There must be some mistake. I only talked to him last Monday, and he seemed fine, a bit preoccupied maybe, but certainly not on the verge of a breakdown’.

‘Is Joseph here, Mrs. Feeney?’

‘No, he went out earlier’.

‘If he comes back this evening, will you please get him to call me. Here’s my card. Incidentally, what’s his bosses name?’

‘Fielding, Mark Fielding. He works down in Government buildings on Brookdale street’.

She looked at him pleadingly.

‘Find my boy, Detective, find my boy and bring him home. He’s a good boy. He’s done nothing wrong. Find Thomas, please’.

‘I’ll do my best, Mrs. Feeney, I’ll certainly do my best’

What the hell is all this about,
thought Brad.

This Tom Feeney goes missing, supposedly from some sort of breakdown, on the same day two people are murdered, one his girlfriend, and one with no obvious connection. I’d like to have a chat with his brother, and I’ll be making a bee line for this Mark Fielding, first thing tomorrow, to find out, among other things, why a double homicide wasn’t reported, and how come the result of those murders ended up in Boston harbor.

‘How’s she cutting?’

‘’I’m sorry, what did you say?’

As Tom stared out to sea, he hadn’t noticed the three youths approaching.

‘I said, how’s she cutting. What’s happenin’. How’re ya keepin’ y’know? you’re not from around these parts, are ya? A yank, are ya?’

‘Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t understand. Yes, you’re right, I’m American’.

‘You wouldn’t have a few euro to spare, would ya, boss, it’s just like, we lost all our money, see? And we have to get back home, y’know, so, if you have a few euro to spare, that would be great’.

Tom’s eyes quickly scanned the horizon, but could see no one else, apart from these three. This didn’t look good. They were constantly shifting position as they talked.

‘No, I’m afraid I’m broke myself. Got my wallet pinched when I arrived in Ireland, so, I’m flat broke too. I wouldn’t mind, but I’ve to make my way up to Sligo, to see my uncle. Maybe you’ve heard of him, Pat Feeney’s his name’.

‘I wouldn’t know any of them fuckers up in Sligo. Wouldn’t be seen dead up in that kip. Are ya sure you’ve no money, we’re not lookin’ for much. What’s in the case, mister?’

Still they kept moving.

‘Just some dirty clothes, that’s all. I’ve been traveling a good bit to get here. Wish I could help you out fellas’

The last thing he remembered was a sharp pain to the back of his skull, before he passed out. When he came to, they were gone. Slowly, he sat up. His head was throbbing. He put his hand to the back of his neck. He could feel blood. In panic, he frantically felt for Sally’s chain in the warm liquid. Then his fingers found it, and the fear abated. He looked around. The suitcase was gone. He checked his pockets. His wallet, including his ticket to Sligo, was gone too. He was back to having nothing.

Great, just fucking great,
he thought.

Night was beginning to fall, it was getting colder.
Only one thing for it,
he thought. He began to slowly, gingerly, make his way towards the red brick bridge. He reached the opening, and crawled in.
I’ve traveled three thousand miles, to end up back at square one. No money, and living in a cave. Just fucking great.