Aftermath (6 page)

R
eturning to the house
, she then caught up with Lucy to go through a step by step run through of the team’s initial findings before everything was packed up and returned to the lab.

“How's your mum doing?” she asked, as they worked.

Lucy shrugged. "I think mostly okay. Dad and I are both throwing ourselves into work as usual. Good distraction, I suppose.”

Reilly nodded. "I can relate to that."

"I'm not sure if Dad ever really thanked you for... you know," she said.

She smiled. "In his own way. And no thanks needed.”

The psychological mechanics of losing a daughter had to be the hardest to understand. Humans were not engineered to see offspring die. It was the sons and daughters that were supposed to take care of the parents and see them pass, with full knowledge their legacy will live on.

Losing a child--no matter the age, but especially a young child--did something to a person. Reilly had seen it a few times on the job, but most noticeably with Jack Gorman. The truth was perhaps, not worse than the assumptions, but horrifying all the same. To confront that, to be forced to confront that, could take a toll on a person.

Reilly was surprised that Gorman didn't lash out more than he did.

In the end, though, he wanted to know the truth about Grace. And now that he did, he was forever transformed. It was a subtle transformation, but one none-the-less.

He seemed calmer these days. Or if not calm, more patient, and less spiky. He also seemed immensely sad. Like a fire was squelched deep within.

Lucy was that way too. The young had woman aged twenty years over the last month. The realities and ruthlessness of the world in which she lived and worked could now not be more evident.

Reilly knew from personal experience that incidents like these did more than just change a person. Senseless violence, death and murder had a tendency to dismantle people altogether. Not terribly different from say, soldiers in a war zone--all perceptions of reality get pulled apart, set aside and rebuilt more accurately and realistically.

It was beyond a new pessimism about reality, more a new sense of the randomness of it. And moreover, a true understanding of how powerless one is to change the course of their fate.

Or protect the fate of the people they love.

It could be said that tragedy anesthetizes people--makes them numb to the potential for atrocity. But it was more than that.

Although Reilly was still quite young when she lost her mother, she went through this dismantling as well. Certainly pessimistic (although she would argue "realistic"), certainly numb to atrocities other people reacted to, she was wiser. Not wise in the sense that she knew things other people did, but that she had a more thorough understanding of things without being told what/why/how.

She could put together pieces of a puzzle quicker and had fewer second-guesses, self-doubt or hesitation. She had a good sense of what needed to happen, without knowing the reason why. It was almost like the debris of everyday living that so clouded everyone else's judgment was no longer blocking her path, and so she could see forward easier than most.

She could see the bigger picture.

Lucy was like that now too. Something had changed in her since her return to the GFU after a brief spell of bereavement leave. She was more intuitive, focused, determined. She made fewer errors and was making better judgment-calls.

It was moments like these, when they were working closely that Reilly noticed the transformation the most. She seemed to be on auto-pilot, each gesture pre-programmed without error and with no hesitation.

She was so in touch with the flow of work that Reilly often just let her off. Even earlier she was in charge of the Morrison crime scene while Reilly was at the hospital.

As these thoughts surfaced, she decided to step back and let Lucy do her thing. She was already inputting data for iSPI, adding the shoe impressions Gary had found.

The data was sent securely to the lab, Reilly even noted that Lucy used encryption without having to be reminded. She followed up by phone to the GFU to make sure Julius had received it.

After that, the team broke up and agreed to stop off for a brief food break before reconvening later back at the GFU lab.

“
W
ell
, we all know rugby legend Josh and we certainly know Perk. Clearly he has the Midas touch as the prosperous coffee chain pulled in over six million euro last year, and now rivals even the ubiquitous Starbucks. But we might not know about the money behind Annabel, or the couple’s lucrative financial portfolio."

"That's right, Lee. Ireland’s sweetheart Annabel Morrison is worth a couple of million in her own right."

"Surely that's not from her
Good Morning Ireland
gig? I didn't think TV paid that well.”

“Well, that certainly doesn't hurt. Top Irish presenters typically clock in at around a couple of hundred grand. Not bad. Still, much of Annabel's wealth comes of course from her fashion endorsements. Irish and occasionally international brands pay the lady a small fortune to wear clothing, appear in commercials, or in the case of Steps Trainers, simply to walk down the street."

"Any guesses on the combined Morrison wealth?"

"Total? I'd say they pull in five or six million a year, or somewhere in that ballpark."

"They didn't start out that way though, did they?"

“No. It might have been Josh's early sports fame that brought the couple to prominence, but Annabel never missed a step as her husband jumped ahead. The Morrisons are every bit shrewd business partners, as they are a loving married couple."

"Ireland's own power couple."

"Well, I wouldn't call them Brad and Angelina, but basically they’re Ireland’s Brad and Angelina."

“And childhood sweethearts, too.”

"That's what's so amazing, really. That they could have such aligned interests from so young. It really takes tremendous commitment to one another to amass this sort of family empire in a small country like this. And still relatively young too, both only in their mid-forties.”

“Obviously beloved by the entire country and with good reason. But they’ve kept their noses clean too."

“True. Considering they’re a couple with this kind of influence--not only in the Irish sports world, but in broadcast news, fashion and entertainment--they've really been stalwarts of their community.
Perk
repeatedly gets voted best place to work, Annabel is of course Ireland’s sweetheart, and her TV colleagues and producers adore her, as do the media … really these two can do no wrong. Life is squeaky clean and they also find the time to contribute to so many charity events too."

"Such a shame what's happening to them now."

“Well, I suppose if you think about it, they were a prime target for such an invasion. They have not only money, but influence too. You get to them, maybe you can get to the keys of the city."

"True, true. Well thanks for joining us on
Live at Five
today. Gary Flynn is finance analyst for
The Irish Independent
. Thanks again, Gary.”

“Pleasure.”

O
n the way
back to the GFU, Reilly took a detour to Store Street to check in with the detectives and update them on the team’s findings, while they shared information they’d since garnered from friends and family members.

Dylan Morrison was a handsome kid, and about five years older than he’d been in the family portrait, Reilly realized. He was now in his early twenties and of the "goth" persuasion, as he would have been labeled in Southern California.

His skin was deathly pale, hair dyed black and he wore a large ironic silver cross around a black button-down shirt.

Not your typical Silicon Valley tech.

Chris started the Skype recording, and flipped the laptop around so Reilly could watch the interview they’d taken from him earlier that day.

Dylan seemed to be answering the video call from a train--probably on an iPad by the look of it. The picture was washed out from the glare of the train window, and the angle of the shot came up at his nose, his head barely in the frame.

"Thanks for taking the call," Chris began. “I’m sure you’re wondering …”

"Mom already called me. I know what happened."

“We’re very sorry about what happened to your father, and are doing all we can to find the perpetrator,” he assured him smoothly. “As part of this process we need to interview all family members. I’m sure you understand.”

“No problem. I’m just on my way to a work conference in San Francisco. As soon as I'm done with that I’ll get a flight home."

"Okay, thank you for that, but it's not necessary for our investigation. I'm sure your mother would appreciate it, though.”

Dylan nodded, but his face remained impassive.

“A real bucket of emotions,” Kennedy commented wryly.

“As you see, we didn't get much from him,” Chris said when the video finished. “No grudges or arguments with associates of his father that he knew of, or was concerned about. Or if the business was having any problems. Nothing out of the ordinary.”

"Yeah, except that he lives on the opposite side of the planet," Kennedy pointed out.

"Software engineer at Oracle?” Reilly shrugged. “It’s a good job. Many college grads would leave home for a gig like that. So have you spoken to anyone at the station yet?” she asked, musing.

“The TV station?" Chris asked, somewhat incredulously.

She felt her hackles raise again. “Yes, the
Good Morning Ireland
production team to be specific.” He was a good cop. Why was he so resistant to any angle involving Annabel Morrison?

"What is wrong with you?” Chris persisted. “I already told you - we talked to the barman at the GateHouse and the details she gave about her whereabouts last night checked out. More to the point, I sincerely doubt a slip of thing like Annabel Morrison came home and overpowered her fourteen-stone mountain of a husband.”

"How would you know?" she barked back. "You couldn't ask her any questions earlier because she was too busy weeping on your chest.”

“Woah," Kennedy laughed nervously.

"That's unacceptable, Reilly.” Chris said, standing up.

"Is it? Because it seems like I'm the only one taking this investigation seriously. If it's not you consoling the poor princess in despair, then it's everyone at that house mooning over shoes and trophies and putting selfies on Instagram.”

"Calm down..." Chris attempted.

"No, you know what? It's fine. And for the record, no I don't think Annabel Morrison could inflict such an attack on her husband without injuring herself in the process, but I definitely think a couple of holes in the story warrant some further investigation. So can we stop with the defensiveness?"

The table was quiet for a time before Kennedy attempted, "So... the TV station…”

"We need to know exactly who Annabel was with last night. And if anyone there has any indication on what or how much she drank. Also, I’m pretty sure there's more to this family than the PR spin, and if anyone could shed some more light on that, it would be Annabel’s boss or colleagues."

"I'll set something up if we can," he said. "Anything else?"

“This wasn't a simple robbery gone wrong, I’m sure of it. That level of injury … the overt fury of the attack, it was personal. Somebody had a grudge against Josh Morrison.”

"We've compiled a list of business associates, past teammates, old Blackrock College student buddies, the works.”

"And the wife’s?”

Chris rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Reilly, your job is to focus on the evidence. Ours is to focus on motive. Until the evidence suggests Annabel Morrison had anything to do with this, I'm going to ask you to stop."

"Look, I don't know what's going on between you two lately..." Kennedy tried to say.

“Nothing,” both snapped at the same time.

Reilly stood up, "Nothing is right. Nothing at all."

That cut him, she could tell. And was a lie. There was indeed something going on between them, had always been.

But it was complicated.

S
he felt discombobulated all
the way to the car, and the entire drive to the GFU. Her team was already busying themselves in the lab when she arrived.

Lucy had submitted trace samples for analysis, and Rory was busy going through the Morrison’s computer records.

Julius was analyzing blood pattern photographs taken from the scene, and Gary was sorting through the physical evidence bags.

It would be a while before any kind of coherent picture began to emerge, so Reilly hunkered down at her desk and started absently going through the file, still thinking about her behavior just now.

The truth was, she wasn't sure what it was about Annabel Morrison, but she just didn't trust the woman.

She knew she would need a clearer sense of the attack and how and when it happened in order to take her out of the focus.

In this line of work she inherently latched onto something early, and eventually the evidence would either substantiate or negate her assumptions - her gut.

In this case, she had to admit that she also didn't like the way everyone seemed to be transfixed by Annabel, and held her up as this paragon of virtue, someone to be admired and adored. The woman was a trumped-up talk show host. So what?

She knew this cynicism was partly due to time spent working in and around Los Angeles.

Too many of these superficial nobodies took over the town there and tried their utmost to draw in every ounce of attention the world could bestow upon them. In Hollywood, fame came with a lot of perks, certainly.

But in a big city filled with rich and famous, it was all too easy to identify those with substance and those without. Those without - the wannabes - were always trying harder, working harder, putting up appearances. If you're Jack Nicholson, you don't need appearances. You are your own walking brand and the city will part ways for you. Whereas if you’re just some guy with one movie under your belt, you want everyone to
think
you're Jack Nicholson.

Annabel Morrison was like that, Reilly thought. She was trying too hard. In a small place like Ireland, where celebrity isn't the currency that it is in L.A., people can’t really see through it. She could get away with the facade as long as she wanted, and so earned social currency through this manufactured persona.

Worse than being "fake," it was building an entire livelihood on a caricature. How could someone like that make an honest statement about anything?

And was her husband's stabbing truly a horrible moment in Annabel’s life, or just an opportunity to further bolster her profile?

Perhaps it was unfair, but the thought was there nonetheless, and while Reilly couldn't articulate it, the concept was wedged beneath her thinking, making the investigative process uncomfortable.

Worse, she couldn't seem to discuss it openly with Chris, so there was no way to know if her suspicions were truly unfounded or not. He, like everyone else seemed smitten by the Morrisons’ celebrity.

Of course the wife had to be a suspect, and if not the person--the caricature. Maybe Annabel Morrison wasn't the murdering type, but perhaps her caricature was?

Chris's assertion was correct though--there was no way a woman of Annabel’s stature could have overpowered her husband that easily without displaying signs of a struggle. The guy was a rugby player for goodness sake, nearly two hundred pounds of raw muscle and bone, whereas Annabel looked like she hadn’t eaten a good meal in a decade.

She needed to remember her training. Forensics investigators were trained to avoid criminal deduction, to ignore traditional motive and opportunity and focus only on what the evidence was saying.

But her gut rarely lied, and she was mindful that the evidence might well lead to places that would make, not only Chris, but a lot of people uncomfortable.

Her iPhone rang then and she picked up. “Steel."

“Hello Ms Steel. This is Dr Corcoran. We had an appointment earlier this afternoon.”

She cursed under her breath. "Yes, I’m very sorry. I've been pulled onto a case.…”

"I understand and have been briefed. I do think it is important, however that we meet - soon.” As he spoke, Reilly was distracted by the ding of an incoming message in her earpiece, and the chime indicating new emails.

"Clearly now is not a good time…”

"I'm not sure you quite understand, Ms Steel. HR and Detective O’Brien - your superior - has insisted. I'm available now if you are."

A headache began forming behind her right eye, as once again incoming information began pouring into the device she held to her ear.

This whole PSTD thing - was it about competency after the whole Tony Ellis thing? If she couldn't handle herself under pressure, what sort of investigator was she? If she couldn't keep it together through the thick and thin, how could the department rely on her? By pushing for counseling, was O’Brien implying she was inept? Not capable? Or was this some sort of sympathy card because of her gender?

Sure, she’d a nasty run in with a murderer yes, and had put, not only her own, but her baby’s life in danger. Yes, the incident had put her on edge. Who wouldn't be on edge?

“Give me a couple of days until things calm down,” she told the psychologist, putting him off.

But would things ever calm down? That was what she’d signed up for though, wasn't it?

No, Reilly didn't need some shrink pouring over her life, and talking about her shortcomings, or worse her ‘feelings’ about the pregnancy.

Instead, she’d do what she always did to cut through her demons; concentrate on doing what she did best.