Aftermath (3 page)

She tried her utmost not to, but unbidden, her mind immediately began playing out what had happened.

The victim, taken by surprise, (possibly slashed?) by his attacker while standing at the island had turned to defend himself; there was a struggle, and likely some defensive lacerations and a deeper sharp force wound inflicted before the victim collapsed backwards against the table, shattering it with the weight of his (and with luck the perp’s) fall, before bleeding out amongst the splinter.

Mixed in with the broken glass was the source of the scent that had so overpowered her just then, a smashed bottle of Jack Daniels.

Associated secondary tissue lacerations from glass shards, mixed in with all that blood would muddy the waters, but the great thing about a stabbing attack from a forensic point of view, Reilly thought, was that it necessitated close contact between the victim and the attacker.

Lots of opportunity for transference of trace fibers, fluids, hair. And if the attacker sustained an injury during the struggle all the better.

Though of course, she realized then, her spirits falling a little, the victim in question was still alive, wasn't he? Good news of course, but with so many people along the chain - the wife, first responders, paramedics, hospital staff and theater nurses - contaminating and often even removing evidence from the body, living victims presented their own problems.

“Clear the room, please,” she ordered the only other person besides the detectives in the kitchen, as she set down her kitbag and began putting on latex gloves.

The man, who looked a little like the actor Steve Buscemi, didn't budge. Reilly stared at him a moment and then gestured again to the door with her eyes.

“Ah the forensic unit I presume. Your name?" he asked, extending a hand.

Reilly didn't bother to look down at his hand and certainly didn't shake it--not only was she not in the mood for pleasantries, but it would contaminate her gloves.

"Reilly Steel, GFU,” she replied just above monotone.

"Flanagan, Cormac Flanagan," he said in a blustering tone. "I represent Mr. and Mrs. Morrison."

“I see, Flanagan, Cormac Flanagan," she replied tersely. “If you’ll excuse me, I have work to do.”

“Actually …”

Flanagan was still saying something, but Reilly didn't hear what. Instead, she stood right in front of him as he blocked her way to the island.

“Detective, this man is in my way. And his presence is contaminating the crime scene.”

"Come on, mate," Chris urged, typically placating.

Cormac Flanagan stuttered a moment. “Excuse me, but I have a responsibility to my clients to ensure that nothing..."

"Right," barked Kennedy suddenly, muscling forward. He grabbed the solicitor’s arm and pushed him forcibly out the door. Then turning around with a satisfied grin, the big man wiped his hands dramatically and rested them on his hips. “That’s how it’s done,” he said pointedly at Chris.

“Remind me of that when an official complaint arrives on O’Brien’s desk,” his partner muttered. "So, here’s the run-down," he said to Reilly, straight back to business. “We’re guessing the attack began here at the island, because the carnage proceeds from that point forward.”

Chris went on to outline pretty much the same thought process as her own, while Reilly was mindful not to let such conjecture get in the way of her examination.

"Then," Kennedy continued, “the struggle ends over there at what was once the dining table. Wife comes home, maybe spooks the attacker, sees her husband bleeding out amongst broken glass, and panics. Calls 999 and reports the break-in. Medics come in, Morrison is half-dead--or mostly dead, likely. In shock and unconscious anyway. They stabilize him and take him to A&E. And here we are.”

Reilly looked at Kennedy. “A break-in, you said?”

“Supposedly.”

“The victim - Morrison - confirm that?"

“The man’s unconscious and intubated at the moment," Chris pointed out. “Hardly in a state to corroborate anything.”

Reilly nodded, and looked again around the room.

Incidents like these were always best examined through a process, and already the process was messed up. She began a preliminary examination of the crime scene, circling the perimeter as was her usual mode, but she’d already taken in the scene without paying closer attention to the entry points.

So she retraced her steps.

First back out the hallway to the front door. It was still open to the driveway, sloppily so.

But even on cursory inspection, Reilly could ascertain that there were no obvious forced entry points, and the front glass panels on either side were intact.

Door mat was also still in place, but slightly askew. Alarm panel active, no hint of tampering.

Carefully moving back through the reception area and through to the kitchen, she kept a close eye out for anything that suggested break-in.

The sliding glass patio door off to the side of the dining area looked somewhat askew, and on closer examination she soon realized that it was off its track a little, and looked to have been shoved open - leaving enough space for someone to slip through?

Enough for someone of her stature anyway she discovered, and having processed the door frame and surrounding areas, she slipped on a fresh pair of booties and stepped through the doorway and out onto the patio.

The morning sun still hadn't come up, but it was getting close. Night here seemed always coldest just before sunrise, and she wished she'd brought a jacket.

The Morrison backyard consisted of a wide granite patio area complete with easy chairs, another glass and rattan dining table and matching chairs.

Beyond this an expansive recently mowed lawn sat in the midst of an attractively landscaped border of lush tropical ferns, palms and bamboo, while a five foot granite wall bordered the property. All reassuringly expensive.

If anyone came in (and perhaps got out) the back way through the sliding door, it was not immediately apparent that they had done so.

There was no sign of disturbance on the patio, no shoe impressions on the lawn or amongst the planted borders along the perimeter wall.

“'Hey," Kennedy barked out at her through the patio door. “Crime scene’s in here, you know.”

Swapping out her booties for fresh ones, Reilly returned to the kitchen and muttered to herself as she prepared to walk the grid.

“Too early to say,” she said muttered almost to herself, “but I’m not really seeing anything here that screams break-in.”

“Fan-bloody-tastic,” Kennedy drawled, wearily meeting Chris’s gaze.“Here we go again.”

A
few minutes later
, the rest of the GFU team showed up.

Lucy Gorman arrived first, her demeanor these days a little more reserved than her usual bubbly self.

The fall-out of a recent case was still scarred on her young face. Following an age-old investigation, Reilly had helped her younger colleague uncover the truth about her missing sister Grace, and it was obvious she was still suffering in the aftermath.

Still, the girl worked on studiously, these days often more a soldier than a joker. She was careful with the evidence, light on her feet and typically insightful.

Though today, Reilly noted, she was more than a little distracted.

“I can’t believe we’re actually here. This is amazing," Lucy said when she first arrived at the house not long after Reilly had made the first sweep of the kitchen.

"A brutal stabbing that’s left a man fighting for his life? Not sure I’d describe that as amazing.”

“No. I mean … Annabel Morrison. We’re actually in
Annabel Morrison's
house. And Josh ..."

"Who's unconscious in ICU," Reilly reminded her.

“Oh God I know. I don't mean..."

"It's okay Lucy. Why don't you start upstairs; start dusting the staircase and the doors and keep an eye out for any signs of burglary in the bedrooms.”

“Will do.”

Rory and Gary arrived at the same time, so she sent the latter to comb the garden, and tech-maestro Rory to liaise with the Morrison’s home security firm, and assess if the family used any related security technology to help identify a break-in.

While the team moved through the house, Reilly spent over an hour meticulously cataloguing the primary crime scene.

She took photos of the blood spray to allow for spatter analysis, shoe print impressions from beneath the island and surrounds (though the wife and paramedics had unfortunately tracked haphazard impressions all over the place) dusted kitchen appliances, utensils, surfaces, and combed for trace until every square centimeter of the Morrison kitchen had been examined in great detail.

Then she did it all again, but this time with her iSPI camera, so she could feed relevant data directly into the visualizer. Later, the software would be able to reconstruct the scene three-dimensionally, so the team could manipulate and assess according to their preference. The sun was long up by the time she was finished.

The detectives had since left for the hospital to check up on Josh Morrison’s condition, and begin interviewing the man’s wife about the attack.

Reilly was eager to hear about the victim’s condition too.

If he was alive she would go on down to the hospital to examine his wounds and enter his bloodied clothes into evidence, but if he died she’d have to wait for the ME, Karen Thompson to do it.

She would also like to query the wife but while the detectives would be looking for suspects, Reilly would be looking for evidence, partly to eliminate Annabel and other family members from the investigation, but also to get a better sense of what exactly had happened last night.

Though she knew the wife would still be in shock, Reilly preferred talking to witnesses when they were still unawares, unable to craft answers to targeted questions except by simply telling the truth.

Her questions would be about specific details, the kind of thing that interviewees would never think about, so could only create an honest response.

‘What shoes were you wearing?’ ‘Did you have your jacket on or off? ‘Were you carrying a water bottle?’--those kinds of things. Questions that, by themselves, meant nothing, but when put together helped fill gaps, or more often than not created new ones.

She let the team finish off the messy business of dusting for partials, collecting environmental samples, and plucking fibers from couches, chairs and toilet seats, and in short - cataloging every nook and cranny of the entire Morrison property.

In any case, they seemed to be enjoying themselves in some weird macabre way, she thought, wondering again why so many people got off on being up close and personal to so-called ‘celebrities’.

For her part, Reilly thought, looking again at the bloodbath that was the Morrisons’ kitchen, she would not like to be in this family’s shoes - Manolos or otherwise - for all the money in the world.

L
ater that afternoon
, Kennedy and Chris returned, looking tired.

"You'd think the president had been stabbed," Chris sighed, confirming her suspicions about his mood.

"Is it bad out there now?" she asked, gratefully taking the sandwich he’d brought her.

“Unbelievable. Every journo, photographer and TV station in the country. With Morrison involved, we all knew this was going to be high-profile but …”

Undue media attention was never good for an investigation and despite all the high-profile cases they’d had in her time at the GFU, Reilly wasn't sure she'd ever been involved with anything involving someone so obviously beloved in Irish life.

"Whatcha reckon?" Kennedy asked, eyeing her. “Still not convinced?”

She shook her head. “About a break-in, no. There’s no sign of disturbance anywhere else in the house, a wad of cash in one of the kitchen containers, expensive paintings in the living room, drawer of obviously pricey jewelry upstairs, not to mention a closet full of designer clothes and shoes and so on … Easy pickings for any thief worth his salt.”

"You think Annabel Morrison is lying then? At the hospital she said she was certain her arrival interrupted a robbery," Chris told her.

“Did she happen to see the attacker?”

“She’s still very distraught understandably, so we’re holding off on a full interview for the moment. She did say she noticed someone rushing off, but didn't get a good look. Naturally she was more concerned about her husband.”

“How is Morrison?”

“Stable but critical. He was still in theater when we left the hospital.”

“Hopefully they’ll let us examine the wounds soon. Then we can have a proper chat with the wife.”

“Give Annabel some time, Reilly,” Chris said shortly. “She’s just spent all night frantic over her husband. Besides, we’ve already had a word.”

But that was just an informal chat to establish the basics. Whereas Reilly wanted more. And what was with this ‘Annabel’ stuff - since when did Chris call material witnesses by their first name?

“What time are you bringing the style queen in tomorrow then?” Reilly asked somewhat petulantly, referring to the numerous media fashion awards and ‘steal her style’ articles that Annabel Morrison seemed to dominate.

They were both quiet. Sensing their hesitation, she stared. “What's going on here?"

“What?" Kennedy ventured, all innocence.

"You mean to tell me that the wife is not a suspect?"

“Not at present," Chris confirmed. “She's just seen her husband bleed out all over their kitchen floor. It's not like we want to treat her like a criminal after a trauma like that."

"I'm not suggesting that you do, but she at least needs to answer some basic questions pertinent to the investigation."

"Like what?"

"Like who was sleeping in the third upstairs bedroom?”

Chris looked at Kennedy, who shrugged.

"And why was the sliding patio door wedged open from the inside?"

She led them back through to the kitchen, and over to the door. “If a so-called intruder had forced it open, the bottom would be more likely to pop out on the outside."

“Well spotted blondie,” Kennedy said.

“And why didn't the alarm go off?” she continued. “Where was the couple’s twelve-year old daughter? Who’d been drinking the bourbon? I’m assuming Mrs Morrison gave you the answers to those questions at least.”

When they didn't reply, she paused dramatically and added, "And where's the cat?"

“How do you …?” said Kennedy.

"Litterbox, food... no kitty."

"Not sure why that's relevant," Chris put in. “All the ruckus probably just spooked it.”

She shook her head. “That’s not the point."

"Reilly, don't worry. We'll do our due diligence," Chris said irritably, evidently annoyed that she’d highlighted some shortcomings. "But you have to remember something. This is Josh and Annabel Morrison, we’re talking about. They’re very well known in Irish life, have been married for what seems like forever, and by all accounts are a hugely devoted couple.

Throwing suspicion at her right off the bat … well, we need to be judicious here. The chance that Annabel was actually involved in an attack so ferocious is remote anyway. Josh is five-foot-eleven, and fourteen stone of solid muscle, whereas Annabel is barely a slip of a thing. Not to mention that when we saw her just now, she was traumatized and tearful yes, but barely had a hair out of place. Hardly consistent for someone who’d just been involved in a violent struggle. Sometimes a burglary is just a burglary."

“Not when the evidence is already strongly suggesting that it wasn’t a burglary at all. Of course, it might be possible--if said burglar was also a sadistic killer,” she added wryly.

"So now you’re saying the attack was carried out by a sadistic killer? Someone who took great pleasure in inflicting multiple knife wounds on Morrison? And you’re suggesting that this person is his wife of twenty-four years?”

"No," said Reilly a little too defensively. "I'm only suggesting we rule the wife out, and quickly."

"We will interview her, but only when it’s appropriate,” Chris argued, his tone firm. “These things are delicate and O’Brien will not only want - but expect - us to tread carefully. You already saw Helen Marsh here earlier.”

“Hey, you two settle down," interjected Kennedy, breaking up the tension “We’re all on the same team here.”

Reilly sighed. “Well, I need Annabel Morrison’s prints and blood type to eliminate her in any case - if that’s allowed,” she added, more annoyed than was strictly necessary. But just because these people were so-called celebrities didn't give them a pass. And she was surprised that the usually level-headed Chris seemed to have been taken in by such nonsense.

He nodded, taking a breath, "Let's just try not to piss her off, OK?”

“Mrs Morrison’s emotional reaction to our investigation is not really a top priority for me," she countered automatically. “And since, as you continually point out, her husband was so brutally attacked, I’m sure she won't stand in the way of us finding the perpetrator. After all, they were high school sweethearts, right?"

She was very much trying to keep her snark level down, but something about Chris's mannerism today was really getting under her skin.

He was never condescending to her like this, nor was he flippant about potential suspects. Something was happening under the surface and Reilly worried that it had nothing at all to do with the case.

They’d had somewhat of a … breakthrough in their relationship recently, and while it looked that they might be heading for something more than a close working relationship, the discovery of her pregnancy (the result of a short tryst with someone else during a trip back to States) had well and truly thrown a spanner in the works. While he’d insisted that he’d be there for her no matter what, she had been keeping her distance ever since, and it was likely Chris knew that--or at least felt it.

Reilly was no psychologist, but it seemed that he was acting out.

Or more specifically, acting like a wounded bird.

Poor Kennedy was stuck in the middle, likely having no idea why his colleagues had their claws out.

What really burned her up though, was that her snippiness and Chris’s cutting reaction would likely be reduced to just hormones on her part.

She hated how every time a pregnant woman showed the least bit of emotion the entire world blamed it on the baby, and consequently invalidated the sentiment.

Beneath the surface, Reilly was certain that was the case. And she deeply regretted that her pregnancy had been exposed to the force so early, but there had been no choice.

She also resented the reaction- or
non-
reactive - equivalent of whispering to each other and thumbing back at her with rolled eyes.

After two and half years of working her ass off and doing her damnedest to prove herself to the Irish police force, Reilly Steel had once again been reduced to water cooler conversation.