“That’s not what I wanted to happen,” I tell Roly when we’re in his car again, on our way back toward Glenmalure.
“Really?” He draws it out and raises his eyebrows at me. I try not to blush.
“Look, D’arcy.” He sighs and runs a hand through his hair. “We’ve got Regan on board. We’ve got Wilcox on board. If you can help us find Niamh Horrigan, then it’s grand. You’ve got two days—from tomorrow morning—to review the files. Griz will be with you at all times. You are not to be alone with them and you are not to discuss anything you read with any other person. That is absolutely non-negotiable. And nobody can know you’re doing this. If there’s even one fucking story about how we had to call in the Americans because we weren’t up to the job, they’ll have my head and Regan’s head and Wilcox’s, too.”
“Of course, Roly.”
He sighs again. “Mr. Horrigan’s brother is best friends with a fucking TD and pressure was placed upon Wilcox. Don’t make him sorry. Just mind yourself and work as quickly as you can, right?”
“Right. Thanks. I’ll do anything I can, though as I told them, there may be nothing else to find.”
He raises his eyebrows again. “There’s always something else to find,” he says ominously. “I know that better than anyone.”
We park in the turnoff where he brought me the first day and start walking back along the road toward Laragh. We walk for thirty minutes before he says, “This is Drumkee.” I’d been expecting a town, but it’s nothing more than a stretch of land on either side of the road, a few outbuildings reaching up into the hills. A few driveways hint at cottages somewhere in the trees. “Right about there is where the button was found.” He points to a spot on the other side of the stone wall. “Up there, into the trees.”
“So she’d completed the walk and was walking back towards Laragh,” I say. “And he drove up and pulled the car over. She must have realized something was wrong. Otherwise, the struggle would have been right here by the road. She must have started running back towards the trees, but he came after her.” I climb over the wall. “Where is it? How far?”
Roly directs me to the spot. We walk for a couple of minutes into the trees.
“He’s strong and able for the run,” Roly says.
I look around. “It’s not far from Glenmalure and Laragh, but it’s pretty desolate here, isn’t it? There hasn’t been a car since we’ve been here. And those cottages are too far away to see anything. You wouldn’t worry too much about being seen.”
“But you wouldn’t be sure,” Roly says. “It’s pretty brazen, taking her next to the road.”
“What’s on the CCTV?” I ask. “Anything?”
“You’ll be looking at it soon enough,” he says bitterly. “Ah, no, nothing good. Regular traffic on the lodge security camera and one on a house further up the road towards Laragh.” We stand there for a few more minutes and then walk back toward the Wicklow Way signposts.
“I just want to walk up a bit,” I tell Roly. “To remind myself where I found the necklace.”
It doesn’t take us long to reach the spot. “I think that’s it,” I say. “I recognize that tree.” I suddenly remember drawing a little map that I handed over in the Irishtown Garda Station and I wonder if he ever saw it.
We stand there for a minute. I try to picture Erin, walking along: The necklace snagging on a tree branch, falling silently to the ground, Erin walking on. Or, another image: Erin, running, someone chasing her, grabbing for her, the necklace torn, forgotten on the ground as Erin is lifted and carried …
Except that’s not what happened. So … Someone pulling the necklace from Erin’s throat, Erin looking down at the woman on the ground.
I shake the image from my head. “Okay,” I say. “I’m done here. Let’s go back to the city.”
25
TUESDAY, MAY 31,
2016
It’s eight a.m. before they can get all the files set up in the conference room at Pearse Street and get the necessary people to sign off on me looking at them.
I down an espresso and Griz and I wait while people scurry around, bringing in boxes and laptops. Roly made me come in a back door; there’s a scrum of reporters along the narrow sidewalk by the main entrance. Looking out the second-story window, I can see Stephen Hines, the great bulk of him leaning casually against the wall. He’s looking at his phone, waiting there as if he has all the time in the world.
“Where do you want to start?” Griz asks, once we’re alone. It’s a gorgeous day, the sun streaming in the windows. I move my chair into a beam of light flopping across the conference table.
“Explain the system,” I tell her. She goes over the evolution of Garda investigation recordkeeping, typed and signed statements from interviews in the ’90s, casebooks with all the relevant information included, files and files of paper. Then there are recorded and transcribed interviews and some digital records for more recent cases. It’s a hodgepodge, like the records for any law enforcement investigation spanning twenty-three years. But I’m lucky—because of the task force and cold case review, almost everything I want to look at has been copied and is stored together in neatly labeled files.
“I can find things for you and bring you casebooks or any other files you might want,” she says. She has on a bright yellow blouse and red pants. Her hair is glossy, tucked behind her ears, and her reading glasses are red and yellow plaid to match her outfit. My black sweater and jeans feel funereal next to her bright colors.
“I want to start with the initial missing person reports and the postmortems,” I tell her. “I want to come up with a rough profile. Then I’m going to read through everything quick and see if anyone jumps out at me.”
I think of Len Giacomo and try to clear my mind of all my preconceptions. I start reading, translating the initial Garda reports and the pathologist’s jargon into my own shorthand so I’ll have all the essential details at my fingertips.
After a couple of hours of reading and asking Griz to find details, I have five sheets of paper. I write each victim’s name and a few details underneath each, then circle each name.
Katerina Greiner, 24, brown hair, brown eyes, German national. Date of disappearance not known. COD cranial blunt force trauma. Sexual assault unknown.
Erin Flaherty, 23, blue eyes, brown hair, average height and weight. American. No remains found. Last seen at bed-and-breakfast in Glenmalure Sept. 17, 1993. Evidence suggests she may have returned to Dublin. Remains not found.
Teresa McKenny, 19, brown hair, blue eyes, Irish national. Last seen June 18, 1998. Disappeared while walking along the R747. Body discovered July 5. Evidence suggests death occurred not more than two days prior. COD cranial blunt force trauma. Evidence of repeated sexual assault. Evidence of adhesive around mouth. Evidence of ligature marks on both wrists. No physical evidence due to submersion in water.
June Talbot, 30, blond hair, green eyes, English. Disappeared September 3, 2006 near Baltinglass Abbey. Body discovered September 17. Death not more than two days prior. COD cranial blunt force trauma. Evidence of repeated sexual assault. Evidence of adhesive around mouth. Evidence of ligature/wrists. No physical evidence due to submersion in water.