Nine Lives Read online

  “Have we anything else to go on?” Logue asked, scratching his head.

  “Well… there is something… I was just going through the old case file. I kept a photocopy of all of it here, I suppose because it was my first real investigation and because, in my mind anyway, it was never completed,” Mulcahy said and opened the file.

  “There were two notes discovered, one at the house Hazel was renting and one at Frank’s home. The note sent to Hazel must have arrived the day or days before she was murdered, because the envelope containing the note was opened, presumably by her, and both the note and envelope placed in a drawer. A second note was dropped through the letterbox of Frank’s house around noon of the morning he died. His wife opened the envelope and gave its contents to Inspector Harding. Both handwritten notes were short, containing just a line each, possibly a song lyric. The one sent to Hazel Devereaux said, The Solemn song be sung. The one sent to Frank Rudden’s house said, Dead beauty with a tear. To me, it appears that both notes were like the killer’s calling cards. An announcement that he or she was planning to kill them. The fact that Hazel received her note a day or perhaps two before suggests to me that her murder was planned, premeditated by the killer. On the other hand, Frank’s murder wasn’t. Poor Frank was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. He was a witness to the abduction or possible murder of Hazel Devereaux and so he had to be silenced.”

  “What do the notes mean, are they song lyrics as you say, did you ever find out?” Logue asked.

  “They are lines from a poem,” McGarry said confidently, staring at his iPhone.

  “What?” Logue asked.

  “They are lines from a poem by Edgar Allen Poe called… A Paean,” McGarry said, reading the results from the search engine on his phone.

  “Really, and I thought you were texting your wife what you wanted for your dinner tonight, McGarry. I was wondering what you were doing with your hands under the table. I was too afraid to ask.” Logue laughed.

  “He’s right,” Mulcahy said looking at the monitor of his desktop after doing the same search. “Why the hell didn’t I think of doing that before… Well done, Jack.”

  “Brownie points for you,” Logue whispered to his colleague.

  “The Solemn song be sung, on the note sent to Hazel is from verse one, and Dead beauty with a tear from Frank’s note is from verse two,” Mulcahy said, reading from his monitor. “The word Paean is a Greek word, it means a song of praise, a tribute. There appear to be eleven verses in the poem.”

  “I never studied that one for my Leaving Cert,” Logue remarked.

  Mulcahy turned around from his screen after hearing Logue’s flippant remark and faced the two detectives.

  “Okay, well… give me some time to see if we get the green light to reopen the case and I’ll get back to you. How are you getting along with the Farrell case, by the way?” Mulcahy asked.

  “We have Tom Gaffney in for questioning in the afternoon, hopefully that will lead to something,” Logue replied.

  “Right, well keep me informed… I’ll let you know when or if we get the go ahead to reopen the Devereaux case.”

  ***

  Four hours later Logue was sitting at his desk studying the video of the Tom Gaffney interview and taking notes. As he did so as Mulcahy steamed towards him, moving at a pace exceptional for a man of his years and build.

  “Logue, have you got an up to date passport?” the superintendent asked.

  “I have… I think, why? Are we going on a holiday, Jim? I believe Santa Ponsa is lovely this time of the year. Am I allowed to bring Patricia with me, or is it just a boy’s holiday? I’m easy either way.”

  “Less of your crap, Logue…. You’re going to Boston on Monday.”

  “Boston? It’s November, it will be freezing over there… But then again I have a few mates over there I could look up.”

  “Shut the fuck up and have a look at this. Push over,” Mulcahy ordered, moving his large posterior into place and shoving Logue off his chair so he could use his computer. Mulcahy clicked on a search engine and brought up a report from the Boston Herald about the murder of a woman called Carissa Meyers.

  “Do you see this, Logue, Carissa Meyers was murdered in Boston back on June third of this year and look at this,” Mulcahy said as he pulled up another search result and read it aloud. “June third, 1999, Gloria Fitzgerald, also in Boston and here again on December sixth, 1999, another murder, Richard Clarke. I can go back further. Write the names down, Logue and the dates of the murders. Here are two more in 1989, on June third Emma Wilson and on December sixth John Barry.”

  “So what, sir? It’s Boston, it’s a big city with a big population. There are lots of murders taking place there every year. Isn’t there trouble there between rival gangsters, the Winter Hill gang and Whitey Bulger and all that malarkey? They are always wiping each other out.”

  “You know what your biggest problem is, Logue?”

  “Nope.”

  “You fecking talk too much, you don’t give your brain time to engage itself. Look at the bloody list you just wrote down, what can you discern from it?”

  “Ehhh… they were all murdered in Boston,” Logue answered in a sarcastic tone, looking at Mulcahy as if he had lost his marbles.

  “Yes, and the dates.”

  “June third, December sixth, June third and December sixth again.”

  “That’s right, and how about the years they take place?” Mulcahy asked.

  “Ehhh… Every ten years, on years ending in nine, that is ehh… eighty-nine, ninety-nine and zero-nine. Oh, right, I see the pattern now… That’s interesting,” Logue said as he took up the sheet of paper and studied it again.

  “Right, it’s starting to sink into that big Donegal head of yours,” Mulcahy said, and Logue glanced at his reflection in a mirror on the wall and focused on his head.

  Mulcahy turned around to the keyboard and brought up the search results, speaking as he did. “I discovered another pattern. The method of murder is also similar. The females all had their throats cut and the men were all beheaded, the same way Hazel Devereaux was killed, her throat slit, and Frank Rudden appears to have been beheaded.”

  “Right, and they were both murdered in 1979, again a year ending in nine and on June third. How did you make that connection in the first place?”

  “Just a pure fluke to be honest, early this morning after you and McGarry left the office… where is McGarry, by the way.”

  “Oh, he had to pick up his eldest son from his… ahem, Salsa class.” Logue giggled.

  “Salsa, really… fucking hell… Anyway, where was I?”

  “The flukey search?”

  “Oh yeah… I just put June third and murder into the search engine and I meant to put in 1979 but I accidentally keyed in 2009, and it brought up the Carissa Meyers murder. I tried another one with the same date for 1999 and I got the reference to the murder of Gloria Fitzgerald. As I was browsing that, I hit on a website from some conspiracy theory whack job and he claimed there was a serial killer operating in Boston. He made reference to all the dates and murders I called out to you earlier. It all sounds a bit crazy and farfetched, but it isn’t. The murders all follow a clear pattern and I think that the murders in 1979 of Hazel Devereaux and Frank Rudden fit into that pattern. My theory is, and perhaps you might think that I am going out on a limb here, but I believe that the person who murdered Hazel and Frank fled to Boston, where they killed again and again, killing five people in total over there. They have murdered seven people if we count Hazel and Frank. If the pattern is continued, which I believe it will be, the serial killer will murder again on December sixth this year, December sixth 2009, which is less than three weeks away.”

  “Right… And you want me to go to Boston to…?”

  “I want you, Logue, to liaise with the Boston detectives working on the case, to pool our resources and knowledge. One thing that always bugged me since I worked on that case was the whereabouts of a man
called Donal Keane, who worked with and was friendly with Hazel Devereaux. I always believed that it was highly suspicious the way he moved to Boston shortly after she went missing. I wanted to try to trace him, but Harding blocked me. I want you to try to track him down, Logue, I believe he knows something about the murder.”

  “So, when do I go, and can I bring McGarry with me?”

  “No, McGarry will have to stay here. I know you two guys are a bit like the Lone Ranger and Tonto, practically joined at the hip, but I need Jack to tie up the Farrell case. I am getting pressure from above on that one. Farrell’s son is well connected. You see, it’s all fucking politics. Anyway, you’re going on Monday morning, I have you booked on an 8 am flight from Shannon. I have also been busy on the phone this morning and I have arranged for you to meet up with the two Boston detectives working on the case, Sam Harper and Olivia Callaghan. Get yourself a haircut, Logue, and a decent suit. You have to make a good impression over there if you want the Yanks to treat you seriously.”

  “Right,” Logue replied bluntly.

  “And Logue, take my advice, listen to what the detectives have to say over there, more listening and less talking. Keep your stupid comments to yourself, I don’t think those Yanks will understand your fucked-up sense of humour anyway,” Mulcahy said as he got up from the chair and walked back to his office.

  Chapter 8: Black Rose

  Monday 23rd November 2009

  Logan international Airport, Boston

  10:00 AM

  As Logue endured the seven-hour flight he contemplated the case. He knew that for Mulcahy, it was unfinished business. Jim had only a few years left in the force and the murder of Hazel Devereaux had been eating away at him for thirty years, an itch that he couldn’t scratch. So now, whether he cared to admit it or not, he had put his high achiever on the case and that was Logue. Mulcahy and Logue had never seen eye to eye, but both men had a deep admiration for the other. Logue had learned a lot from his superintendent, but of course he would never tell him that. In many ways, Logue and Mulcahy were too alike, both stubborn, aggressive, hot tempered, cantankerous old school cops who ground out the results in case after case.

  There was something about this case that grabbed all of Logue’s attention. It was intriguing what Mulcahy had told him. The letters, the serial killings, the lack of enough evidence to apprehend someone; cases like these got his blood pumping. How often was it that you got to work on such an investigation. It was like something out of a crime novel.

  Through his almost twenty years of detective work, Logue had learned that every murderer has a motive behind the kill. Most of them are driven by something significant or traumatic that happened in their past and a trigger always pushed them to take the last step.

  With a jolt, the plane touched down on the runway and interrupted Logue’s musings. Five minutes later after a farewell address from the pilot, the doors opened and it was time to disembark. Logue grabbed his briefcase from the overhead locker and waited impatiently as the line of passengers began to exit in front of him. They talked and laughed and slowly took hold of their belongings as Logue clenched his fists with annoyance. “For the love of God, why does it take so long for these tools to get off a plane,” he whispered. “After seven hours of being cramped and breathing the same filthy and smelly air, you would imagine the dumb fucks would just want to get off as quickly as possible.”

  An hour later, after standing in lines of people again to collect his luggage, take a piss, go through security and passport control he finally made it outside into the daylight. He took a deep breath, feeling the chill morning Boston breeze on his face. Looking up at a bright and sunny blue sky, it felt good to be free from the stale and stagnant air of the overcrowded airport interior. Logue didn’t mind flying, but he hated airports. He was feeling tired and grumpy. If he could just get to the hotel he had booked online the day before he could get a snooze for a few hours followed by a nice hot shower, and then a meal and a drink or two in the hotel bar. Tomorrow he could contact the Boston Police department and begin work on the investigation.

  As he began to get his bearings he surveyed the area in front of him, observing taxis pulling up and departing and children crying as they waited with their parents to get on buses. The place was noisy, hectic, and a major change from the streets of Port Ard.

  He couldn’t stand there all day like a lost sheep, he thought, he would have to fight his way through the throng of people to grab the next available cab. After twenty minutes, Logue found himself at the head of the line and with an outstretched arm he hailed the oncoming taxi. As the vehicle stopped next to him he opened the back door to get in, but as he was doing so a large man in a tight grey suit jostled him, causing him to lose his grip on his briefcase which dropped to the pavement. As Logue reached down to pick it up, he saw the cab pulling away with the poacher inside.

  One thing was for sure, people did lose their manners after a long flight. Jet lag was a bitch, and didn’t he know it. As he cursed his situation he noticed an attractive woman standing in front of him holding up a sign with his name on it. His first impression was that she must be from his hotel. Had they arranged a transfer for him from the airport, he wondered.

  “Hi, my name is Ray Logue,” he said, shaking her hand.

  “Welcome, Detective Logue, my name is Detective Olivia Callaghan. I hope your flight was good?”

  “Yes, it was, and please call me Ray.”

  Callaghan nodded and asked him to follow her. “This way.”

  So, the Boston police department had sent a detective to meet him, they meant business, Logue thought, watching Callaghan walk in front of him in a pair of tight black pants. Crossing a busy road, they reached a car park and a reserved parking space at its entrance. Callaghan popped the trunk on her Ford Explorer and Logue placed his suitcase inside, deciding to keep his briefcase in his hand as he got into the passenger’s seat. As Callaghan reversed the car, Logue decided to get himself apprised of the situation regarding the case.

  He waited for a few minutes until Callaghan got on the interstate and then asked, “I believe my boss back in Ireland, Jim Mulcahy, has filled you in why I’m here. Why don’t you give me the breakdown of what’s been happening with the case and we can discuss the details tomorrow at the meeting when we have more time? I’m shattered after that flight, I need a few hours kip.”

  “I am afraid that can’t happen. I was hoping you would look at the case files today at the precinct, and then we can go back over them tomorrow with all the evidence we have gathered so far.”

  Well, there went the dinner, shower and sleep, Logue thought as he rubbed his face and tried to cover up a yawn. Trying to hide his reluctance, he nodded at Callaghan.

  “All right, so about the case…”

  “Sure,” Callaghan said without taking her eyes off the road.

  “So far, we have found out that we are definitely dealing with a serial killer, and these murders have been going on for quite some time, twenty years, maybe more,” she said as she took a left and then slowed down, merging with heavy traffic.

  “Do we have any clue if it’s a man or a woman?” Logue asked.

  “No, not yet. We understand that there is a clear pattern now, but it is still hard to be certain about the sex of the killer.” The traffic cleared and she pressed onto the accelerator a little too hard.

  Logue thought about the remains of Frank Rudden and how he had been beheaded, and from what the forensics report had revealed, the power it took to detach the head from the body wasn’t something that could have been done by a woman. But they could have been wrong. For now, he was keeping the speculation to himself. Without looking at all the evidence, there was no way he could create a profile.

  “I have arranged a meeting with the other detective who has been working with me on this case. You have been given full access to all the files and documents we have. A fresh set of eyes will help us to move this case forward. Your superintendent, Jim M
ulcahy, was full of praise for you. He seemed confident that you could help us,” Callaghan said.

  “Really… that’s something.” Logue smirked.

  As he turned his head to discreetly look at Olivia’s face, he noticed that she was attractive, but very tired, with a worn expression. Of course, handling a murder case in which you felt lost and frustrated could drain you physically and emotionally. Logue himself was testament to that. The pressure of it all ate at you from the inside.

  It took them about twenty minutes to reach the Mayfield Precinct. Callaghan drove the Ford into the lot at the rear of the building and parked it at the first opening. As Logue got out of the car he stood for a minute to observe his surroundings. Everything seemed on such a larger scale to what he was used to, but he wasn’t daunted by it. He just shrugged and followed Callaghan around the corner to the front entrance. As the door opened, his ears were assaulted by a barrage of conversation. There were a dozen or more detectives, badges hanging from their necks, milling around. The place itself was clean and modern but each desk was untidy with heaps of files piled up.

  Callaghan weaved her way through the crowd with the Irish man in tow towards a door that had Conference Room 1 printed on it. Inside, a man was sitting and typing away furiously. His badge said Woods. He didn’t even look up or acknowledge their presence in the room. Meanwhile, Callaghan walked around a long rectangular table and picked up a box sitting on the ground next to a cream painted wall. With a loud thud, she dropped the box on the table. Woods sprang up in his chair with fright.

  “Sorry for disturbing you there, John,” she said as she smiled and winked at Logue.

  John Woods gave her a look of disdain and then got up from his seat and exited the room, as if he didn’t want to share the same air with the female detective. Logue took his place at the table and glanced around. A minute later a tall, African-American man in a well-tailored navy suit walked in, pulled out a chair and sat down.