Aftermath (9 page)

“
W
ith us this evening
, is former criminal justice barrister, Elaine Thompson. Elaine, thank you for joining us."

"Pleasure to be here, thank you."

"Now Elaine, there has been much in the press over the past day or two about the fact that the Gardai have made very little progress on the Morrison investigation. And many voices have expressed a concern that if it takes much longer, they may not solve the case at case at all. That Josh Morrison's brutal attacker may well go free."

"Well I suppose it's easy to forget, since there has been so much press, that they are really only in the very early stages of the investigation. In clean situations, detectives often have a list of suspects and it takes time to reach them all, interview them and begin to build a case."

"So what is DDP’s office up to now?"

"Staff from the Department of Public Prosecutions would be working closely with the investigative team, reviewing all evidence assembled from the crime scene. Remember, the DPP’s job isn't to find the person who stabbed Josh Morrison, that's the job of the detectives. The prosecutor’s office is simply looking to see if any evidence the detectives have against a suspect will hold up in court."

“But unless something has changed, or Store Street is not releasing information, the case has yet to see a suspect, doesn't it? Would the DPP still be involved at this time?"

"Absolutely. Even without a suspect, the detectives need authorization from the courts for search warrants and eventually arrest warrants. At this point, the DPP will be reviewing evidence that may require legal authorization for further investigation. Unfortunately the victim in this case remains incapacitated, and the authorities have no choice but to conduct their investigation without his input. The only witness arrived after the attack had taken place."

"Annabel Morrison.”

“Yes, and from what I’m aware was only able to provide a very limited physical description of the perpetrator."

“So if this crime against Josh is random--and it certainly appears that way, what chance do the investigators have in finding a suspect for the courts to prosecute?"

"These cases are never easy to muddle through. There are entirely too many variables. Random cases rarely see resolution and certainly if the investigation goes too far into the next week or so, chances are any viable, yet undiscovered physical evidence will be lost."

"Thank you Elaine, for that interesting insider scoop on the legal aspects of the Morrison case. Are you available to stick around and take questions from our listeners?"

"Of course."

"Great, well stay tuned and we'll take your calls. You know the show, you know the number! Be back right after this."

T
he following morning
, while the team continued combing through the evidence from the Morrison attack, Reilly was still thinking about the timeline.

They had the 999 dispatch time, but nothing from the other end of the spectrum. The taxi firm the TV station used hadn’t yet come back to Rory with details of the car or driver that had dropped Annabel home after her night out in Ballsbridge.

Reilly reckoned more precise information was needed about what time Annabel had left the pub. ‘About two am’ wasn't good enough as far as she was concerned.

Getting a handle on when the wife actually arrived back at the house would go a long way towards understanding when the attack on her husband had happened.

And more importantly, if there was something off about her story, the timeframe would reveal it.

T
he Gate House
pub wasn't open at when she arrived at 10.30 am, so she waited in the car and thumbed through her emails.

After about half an hour, Reilly saw a fifty-something heavy-set man opening up, so she got out.

“Hey there," she said, showing her credentials. "I'm with the GFU, are you a manager here?"

“I’m the owner, Paddy Barrett,” he said extending his hand. “Is this about the Morrison thing? I already told those detectives everything.”

“I know that and thank you. But I'm from the GFU, and I just need to ask one or two questions. Hope you don't mind?"

"Forensics? My place isn't a crime scene is it?"

“Of course not, we just need to ascertain a firm timeline in the investigation. Do you have security cameras here?”

“Yep. Gave ‘em to the detectives.”

Good. Seemed the guys were following up on Annabel’s story then.

“Well, do you happen to keep your till receipts? For accounting purposes. I’m looking for Friday night in particular.”

He shrugged. "I might have them--if they're credit card transactions. Cash ones get input each night. Why, what do you need those for?"

“They might be no use at all, but like I said, I just need to follow up."

"Come in," he said, leading her through to the bar. "I was working that night. The TV crowd come in most Fridays, actually. Nothing unusual to report. Same rowdy bunch, blowing off steam after a hard week. You would be too, if you had a job like theirs."

"I'm sure," she said raising an eyebrow. Yep, her job was a picnic compared to the trials of make-up, hair and pieces-to-camera.

He went to the back office behind the bar and rifled through some folders, "Yeah, I have Friday’s receipts. Here it is, they usually set up tab."

Reilly looked it over. Hefty bill--over four hundred quid. Nice tip. Then she snapped her gaze up to the owner. "This receipt was processed just after 1.15 am.”

“Yeah, we don’t have a late license. I know it’s a little bit on the late side, but … well they’re good customers. I usually let them out the back on the quiet. You won’t say anything will you?”

Reilly knew that Irish pub owners routinely flaunted the liquor laws and if it didn’t have a late license, by rights The Gate House should have served last drinks at 12.30 and closed its doors shortly thereafter.

But Paddy’s concern had given her an edge. “Sure I won’t report you, but I will need to take this.”

“No problem - it’s all yours.”

Outside, she picked up the phone and called Chris.

“Did you know the Gate House doesn’t have a late license?” she said without preamble when he picked up.

“You’re joking,” he sounded suitably muted.

“So Annabel couldn't have left the pub at two am like she said. Not when the place closed its doors over an hour before.”

She told him about the till receipt and the bar owner’s assertion that he hadn’t let his patrons stay any longer past one am, and had let them out the back door.

So it was unlikely they’d see Annabel leaving on CCTV.

“Shit. OK, I’ll talk to Flanagan, see if we can bring her in for more questioning.”

“Great, and Chris?”

“What?” he asked tersely, obviously kicking himself for taking the wife at her word.

“Leave your white steed outside this time.”

B
ack at the lab
, there was some more news.

“Gary’s isolated a print on the worktop near the knife block that doesn't check out,” Lucy told her.

“You’re kidding me,” She headed straight to Gary’s work station where he was examining the print in question.

“It’s kinda weird,” he said, “which is how I missed it before. At first I thought it was smudged, but looking at it, I can see that the splotch is actually part of it …”

“Show me.”

He stepped back and Reilly lowered her eye to the viewfinder. The print did indeed look smudged along the side at first sight, but now she saw that there was a more definitive circular shape along the edge of the tip that appeared as a black spot.

“Callus,” she told him.

“That’s what I thought. You’ve seen something like it before?”

She nodded, excited by the find. If this belonged to the perp it gave them some very individualized information.

“And in other, possibly related news - we just got back a print hit on the cigarette butt," he told her.

She couldn't believe it. This day kept on getting better and better.

“Really?"

“Yes. Guy called Richard O’Donnell, twenty-two years old, just finished a year-long larceny stint and not long out on probation."

“You’re kidding me. So it
was
a burglary."

"Presumably," he said. "I have his offender information here."

“Does it happen to say anything about calluses on his fingers? Or his shoe size?” she added, thinking about those boot impressions in the lane way behind the garden.

“Not that I can see. Oh and we identified the tread on those too,” Lucy said, obviously following her train of thought. “Doc Martens, size eleven.”

“This is brilliant work, guys,” Reilly scanned through the report and took a note of the offender’s last known address. “I’ll pass it on to the detectives, so they can go and pick this guy up.”

“Ah hold on boss,” Gary warned, and she paused, waiting.

Always a catch.

“I’ve run comparisons, and there are no definitive similarities between the partial on the cigarette butt and any prints found inside the house.”

“Including the callused one?”

“Yes, so tell Batman and Robin to hold their horses; we can't match the smoker with the doer just yet."

Without connecting prints on the cigarette to those found in the house, the detectives didn't have enough cause to bring in Richard O’Donnell.

Yet.

The cigarette butt could have blown in on the wind, or even been dropped in the garden by a passing bird - Reilly could list in her head the various arguments spurious or otherwise, any defense solicitor worth his salt would use if they tried to pin this on the guy without being able to definitively put him in the Morrison kitchen.

Still, the fact that the cigarette had led to a known thief was more than enough reason to check Richard O’Donnell out.

“
N
ice lead
," said Kennedy, as he and Chris made their way to the address listed on Richard O’Donnell’s probation information. “The guy fits the breaking and entering theory at least.”

“Wonder if he fits Annabel’s description too,” Chris said, deliberately caustic, as they both knew that description was about as generic as you could get. ‘Normal height and weight, dark clothes, and a hoodie,’ could be used to describe the majority of the Dublin male youth population.

“Well if O’Donnell is our guy, chances are he's already taken off by now,” Kennedy continued. "And if he hasn't, at least we have enough to bring him in for questioning. How many reasons would a guy like that have for smoking in the Morrisons’ garden?"

In front of the house - a small former corporation three-bed evidently converted into flats, was an older woman out watering flowers. She looked to be in her early sixties, but with good posture and a wry look about her.

"You the landlady here?" asked Kennedy.

"Who wants to know?”

The detectives showed her their badges.

"Who is it this time?" she said sighing.

"Richard O'Donnell, we just need to ask him a few questions."

"That's the new boy, but I haven't seen him."

“Seen him for a while, or all?”

“At all. His rent is up to date though and that’s all I care about."

"Do you mind if we try the buzzer?"

“If you like, but as I’m sure you know, I can't let you into the flat without a warrant."

"Of course," Chris said, ever courteous. "Thank you.”

A
s expected
there was no reply at O’Donnell’s flat.

"So can you tell us anything more about your tenant?” Chris asked the woman. “How long has Richard O’Donnell been a tenant here?”

“About a month now I’d say. He signed the lease and everything, but most of that is done through Mountjoy."

"Do you typically work with the prison services then?"

She nodded. "Yes, it's me bread and butter. Everyone here has a past. I let them stay for as long as they want, and then they get themselves right and move on. Or they don't. Either way, I get paid. Not by them of course, but by the Social. Better than having to worry about squatters or troublemakers. I don’t see much of them either way.”

“You don’t live at the house yourself then.”

“God no, this place is just my pension. I live on the Northside. The house was my sister’s and she left it to me.”

“So you said you don’t have all that much communication with your tenants?” Chris continued.

“Suits me down to the ground. These fellas, they just want to hide away in their holes like they're used to. Don't seem to see much daylight. Most of them work small jobs, night shifts and all that. I let them mind their own business. I mind my own too."

“OK Ms …”

“Mullins. And it’s Mrs actually.

“Mrs Mullins. Thanks very much for your time. Here’s my card. If you do happen to see Mr O’Donnell, I’d appreciate it if you could give me a call.”

"
L
ook
, I'm very sorry for the Morrison thing, I mean really I am, but come on, this is starting to become a circus.”

"Are you saying that..."

"No listen, I mean come on.
Every
radio show.
Every
news broadcast. How can they possibly satisfy the media's bloodlust?”

"No, I can't..."

"You come on here..."

"Don't interrupt, I'm in the middle of..."

"It's what people want to know!"

"Since when do we provide news based upon what people want to know? We're journalists!"

"A man is attacked in his own home..."

“In a rich suburb like Killiney Hill. Come on! This is not a public threat! The only reason we're all so interested in this is because his wife has a nice arse!"

"That is completely unacceptable.”

"Is it? He's rich, his wife's a babe. That's why they care. It's an episode of Beverly Hills 90210. It's reality television. And the media is feeding it."

"The media is reporting on a heinous crime..."

"Oh save it!”

"Cynicism isn't even a..."

"And look, did you see this headline? By... I don't even know who this is... some sort of fanciful retired cop, calling the cops clueless."

"We're into the second day, they don't have a single suspect..."

"How many suspects do you think they get in an average day? They have to investigate don't they? What? Do you want them dragging in every idiot they come across? They have a job to do. The media just needs to back off and let them do it."

"The media's job is to make sure the public is aware..."

"And they're not aware? Do you think camping out in front of the Morrison residence day and night is absolutely necessary? We have major world problems going on at the moment. The Irish economy is falling into the toilet, entire countries are defaulting on debt, genocide in Africa--and here we are, every major story is about on a stabbing in some rich Dublin backwater? This is insane, and sensational.”

It's TV. We all want to know what happens in the next episode and get incensed when that plot point doesn't hit soon enough. Then we call our police force clueless and parade around their crime scenes like some indignant teenagers, completely detached from the reality of the situation. A man was stabbed. That's it, that's all. Can we move on please?"

"Well, no. Clearly we cannot."

C
hris and Kennedy
were pacing in the hallway at the courthouse.

The waiting was always the worst part. Who knew if that cigarette butt would be enough to convince the DPP’s office to give them a warrant for O’Donnell’s flat?

Chris guessed the suspect would not be there in any case, but as this was about the only decent lead they had on this so far, they needed to check it out.

Helen Marsh suddenly appeared in the hallway. Chris didn't notice where she'd come from or how she approached. The woman was like a ghost. Or ninja.

But most importantly she had that all important pink warrant slip in hand.

He grinned and snatched it from her.

"I have to say, the forensics isn’t great," she said. "The only reason we’re allowing this at all is because we want the public to know we at least have a suspect. If you do bring this guy in, let’s hope for a stronger case than a cigarette butt."

"The cigarette proves he was at the Morrison residence that night, Helen,” Chris assured her. “I’m sure it won’t be long before we can get the rest."