A Reason To Kill, page 54
Garth had been Dan’s close friend since school days and Bridget made things uncomfortable now in their relationship. She openly disliked him since he’d questioned her cousin Neil Carey. ‘Like he was a criminal’, she’d accused Mitchell that day and he’d never been able to reclaim the easy camaraderie that existed between him and his friend’s child until that incident.
Dan hadn’t visited the Monroe home of late. On his last visit he had remarked how he’d flown in the same plane from New York that Bridget’s friend Deirdre O’Neill was on. Bridget immediately went on the offensive. “What were you doing, spying on her?”
Dan found he was explaining a simple coincidence in full detail. That of course was before he discovered O’Neill’s connection to Megan O’Donnell. He’d been taking a closer look into both young ladies activities but hadn’t come up with anything incriminating. But since that discovery, he’d moved the O’Neill girl up in rank in his dossier on the IGA.
“Myles Henry was shot and killed.” The officer’s tone was noncommittal. “Trying to escape.”
“Escape what?” Mitchell asked. It didn’t seem conceivable that the skinny little bloke, who put all his weight on his right leg and dragged the left, couldn’t have been easily apprehended.
“Questioning in the murders of course. His son was taken into custody.”
“For what? Because of his aunt’s maiden name? I questioned both, Miles Henry and his son, a few years back.” Mitchell said. “Henry was practically a cripple caused by his three years stay in our boystown.”
“Mitchell?” The officer’s features hardened as he stared at the inspector in disgust. “Are you aware they simply murdered unarmed soldiers?”
“Gentlemen,” Reese raised his hand. “Dan, let Burt play the tapes. Listen to them closely, and then make a judgment.”
“Of course. Excuse me.” A smile only touched the surface of Mitchell’s mouth. The officer inserted the first tape. It spun on in Kevin’s halting tremor and Dan Mitchell thought, his voice hasn’t changed much. He reflected on Kevin’s face; an attractive adolescent, with a fresh air complexion, a nose semi circled in light beige freckles. The memory brought an honest grin as he remembered how the boy had squirmed that day as if his chair was electrified.
The first tape hissed away as Kevin whispered his prayers. Calling on his God, for himself to be strong, for his pa who’d done nothing, for his ma. “He has no idea his father’s dead?”
“Not then nor his mother.” The military man answered Mitchell’s question.
“His mother?”
“Died in hospital—heart. This part was recorded before interrogation. I wanted you to hear it. Wouldn’t you agree that boy is a bit too frightened for an innocent? Now,” as he changed tapes he continued, “I want you to remember I was assured the boy hadn’t been abused or even questioned excessively prior to the administration of the drug. Still, you heard the way he carried on. Now hear what he has to tell us under drugs?”
The young voice began to take on a distinctive slur. Mitchell could recognize the clear sharp tones of Colonel Oliver Reed in the background encouraging the boy to talk. Ollie’s paying politics, he made a mental note. He’d never mentioned a word of these suspicions before.
“Dee can be weird.” Sniffles aided in corrupting the boy’s low tones so silence reigned in the room as they strained to hear. For one so young Kevin disclosed an exceptional knowledge of arms. He told how transporting them across the border had often literally become child’s play. “Sure. Lasses, work in the South…home on weekends…lads on the border know ‘em. Sure, Dee can come across without so much as a side glance.” But he seemed to lack knowledge of from where the contraband arrived. He disclosed nothing on plans made to use the weapons. He knew about cash shipments and pound transfers but apparently hadn’t a clue how or where the money originated.
“Da-a-y we switch the flags. Just Dee’s crazy idea. Lass likes to play games calls ‘em sucker bait. Keeps everybody chasin’ their own tail,” came through a giggle. “Bri flew the bird only just met him.”
“Bri? Who?” Reed could be heard constantly pressing for more information.
“Yank, Fitzgerald, don’t like our games—said we got a death wish.”
“O’Donnells?” Kevin seemed insulted by Reed’s question concerning the paymaster. “Sure they ain’t nothin’. Like ta strut thinkin’ they’re important but they ain’t in the game. Dee brought the Yanks in. Connors, he’s a better bloke than ‘is cousin—more our kind. Davy was real pissed with him though—right pissed off at all of us.”
“Davy? Who?”
“Day,” obviously misunderstood. “We switched the flag, Da,” came through a sudden attack of gagging, then retching.
Roger Monaghan warned, “You have to let up. He’s only a boy.”
“Fine, let him rest. We have all the time it takes now,” said Reed. It was the last voice Mitchell heard above the sound of Kevin’s vomiting.
“Well, Inspector?” The officer pushed the off switch and sat back as if expecting to enjoy Mitchell’s come down.
“Play me the rest.”
“Sorry, there’s no more for now.”
“Why?”
“Because,” Burt admitted, “the prisoner is no longer coherent.”
“Come again?”
“The Henry boy is afflicted by drug induced hysteria or something along those lines.”
“You mean?” Mitchell cut him short. “You lads have managed to drive a teenage boy insane.”
“Our drugs didn’t do it!”
“Dan,” It was Reese who now protested. “It wasn’t us.” He intentionally aligned himself with the Army. “Someone got to the boy to silence him. Are you are aware of the names that boy gave us? Those evil young monsters playing games by harassing the Army, the police, for years. They had to have some adult supervision.” Anger thickened his normally controlled tone. “And what’s more tragic? We still have no hard evidence; we only have this pathetic boy’s testimony.”
“And you lack even that now,” Mitchell said. It wasn’t just the truth of the matter that irritated him; it was the fact the Army had deliberately excluded him from this phase of the investigation. “Those kids could have been moving contraband; that I can accept. Just as it doesn’t surprise me that Deirdre O’Neill cooked up nonsensical schemes such as switching the flags. But I can’t tie those antics up with murder.”
“Let me help.” The military tone bordered on disgust. “Naturally, when the lad started popping names like Connors, Fitzgerald, O’Neill, we didn’t go to sleep. Raymond Connors junior, the eldest son of John Connors, attended school with Franco Andre Baumont.”
“Hundreds of boys attended school with Baumont. I think I have spoken to all of them.”
Reese interrupted, “Several minister’s sons did, Dan. In fact Connors and Sheppard were classmates and roommates of Baumont. Today Franco’s sort could in no way influence either Stewart Sheppard or RJ Connors. Still, up to his death, they all engaged in social contact. But where Stewart and RJ are mature young men who found Franco’s politics warped, Jason Connors is young, immature, and as the O’Neill girl has proven, easily influenced. I know you’ve discovered Franco had some deep ties with the Red Guard and PLO so why not the Irish or this new group, the IGA?”
Offered tea, Dan Mitchell sipped it without tasting. “I’ve known about the IGA for years,” he said. “The original idea behind the foreign clubs was to recapture a dwindling pride in being of Irish extraction. A group of Irish businessmen mostly Protestant but including several Catholics began the whole thing to boost the sale of Irish goods—harmless enough. They have cells operating in Ireland, the States, Canada, even England and Australia. Today they seem mostly involved with raising money to back chosen politicians in their own countries.
“After I discovered the O’Neill girl’s connection with Megan O’Donnell, I did some more research on the IGA. It’s a loosely formed organization with each cell operating independently. What if any connection the junior groups have with each other or adult groups is questionably. In fact I could discover very little. The Connors and Fitzgerald boys weren’t even members of Deirdre O’Neill’s original group. They got drafted by the girl or joined looking for excitement. Deirdre someday could be a threat, right now, as those games of hers prove, the brat is a nuisance.”
Reese’s tone was authoritative but not overpowering. “You could be right Dan. You seem to have done your homework on them.” He smiled and then it faded as he warned, “But what if you’re wrong? What if these childish antics have adult supervision and a purpose behind them? Can we afford to take that chance?”
“You looking for a connection Mitchell?” Came in a sharp voice by the officer. “How about the fire and gas explosion that killed Baumont? Too neat. He had to have become a danger to some important people. With his financial and political connections he was valuable so why murder him?”
“The investigation disclaimed my original theory—definitely an accident—or do you have information I don’t?” He wasn’t expecting an answer, he knew far more about that case than the officer. His head swiveled towards Reese. “So what would you have me do Alex? Go after those brats?”
“Wait! Not like that. We’re not dealing with just anybody’s children. This situation is delicate. Take the O’Donnell boy, the Henry youth appears to have cleared him of involvement, but it isn’t proven. His uncle is moving towards a government seat.
“Then of course John Connors could surprise the world and get himself elected. American politics are less dependable than the weather.” The others joined in his short burst of insulting laughter.
Then he reminded. “An all-out blood bath in Ulster might please a few sick patriots and leave us drowning in the gore.”
“Of course you see the dilemma, Inspector?” The representative of the Army injected. “Now that we are aware of the situation, we can implement measures that will correct it in Ulster. But the American culprits are no longer there and we can’t expect much help from their government or Interpol in conducting our investigation without more substantial proof than this boy’s word.”
“You lads may have things under control in Ulster,” Mitchell said in a tone that cast doubt. “But before I head off on a worldwide jaunt trying to make sense of this business, I need to do some inquiries into the situation there.”
“Of course, Dan. You have a free hand and will receive the Army’s full cooperation,” Reese said. “And I trust those involved will handle this with the extreme discretion.” His eyes seemed to pick out the officer. “Until all the facts are in not a hint of this can be let slip.”
Chapter 100
Northern Ireland, 1984
Inspector Dan Mitchell stood inside the postmaster’s office. He was courting a slow burn and attempting to keep it in check. Reese had been correct when he’d said, ‘Dan, you can’t personally oversee every operation. It’s in everybody’s best interest if you had a change in attitude towards the military.’
Of course his boss was right—and it wasn’t the military in general that rubbed him the wrong way. It was just this one officer in particular. He said, “You’ve been opening these envelopes since April? And only now they are starting to cause concern to the point you bring them to my attention?”
“I suspect, they may have been coming a lot longer than that.” Colonel Oliver Reed took over the explanation from the embarrassed postal official. The ‘I’ was always distinctive in his explanations. As if he felt something lacked importance without his stamp of approval. “They only come once a month. They arrive between the first and seventh.”
And then, as if to clear up any misunderstanding that he had been lax Reed continued. “The lads who pick it up are never the same. I had them followed. They simply took the envelope home. After that we don’t know what happened but it turned up in their trash the next day. Naturally we investigated each one; they were Protestant youths between sixteen and eighteen with no known radical ties.”
“And all the envelopes hold is newsprint?” Mitchell’s tone in addressing the officer showed he was getting fed up with Reed’s apparent self-appointed military governor status.
“Some news. A New York Times obituary page.”
“Some kind of code?”
“Now it would seem so, Inspector, but we haven’t been able to decipher it.”
The three of them were moving into the main area of the post office when Mitchell spotted the girl entering the front door. He instantly recognized the teenager. Of all the damn times he thought, she’ll see me, call a hello, and blow the whole operation. He stepped back behind Reed’s larger frame hoping to prevent the occurrence.
~~~
Hesitating just inside the door, Bridget Monroe’s glance swept only the open area before she moved quickly to the mailboxes. She’d been forced to come at the last moment when this month’s courier got hurt in soccer practice and she couldn’t find anyone else. As she removed the envelope and shoved it in her pocket the three men stepped from the office doorway to confront her. Her eyes focused only on the uniforms. She spun around and ran. Ignoring Mitchell as he called out, “Bridget!” she fled through the exit before they could reach her.
~~~
The young military driver of an armored car was watching the antics of a group of males, no older than himself, closeted in a doorway. His head remained turned in their direction as they stepped from the ally and headed towards him. Forced to exist in a land of unexpected bombs and violence, a sudden nervousness caused him to jam down on the gas pedal. The heavy machine leaped forward. He didn’t see the running girl until her body was flung in the air by the impact. Slamming on his brake, he gagged as she came crashing down on the vehicle’s bulletproof windshield.
~~~
Mitchell reached Bridget where she lay with blood pooling around her, before the soldiers could spill from their war machine. Gently he turned her over. The delicate face he knew so well had connected with unyielding glass of the windshield and her body with the armored flesh of the lorry. The features were an unrecognizable mash of bloody pulp framed by soft black hair. Later it would be established that many fragile bones had splintered to puncture her heart, lungs and kidneys while parts of her skull had been driven into her brain. For now it was enough for Dan Mitchell to realize his longtime friend Garth Monroe’s young daughter was dead—he felt sick.
The soldiers had herded three young men back to the truck. “Just lightin’ up,” one captive complained and received a blow behind the ear. Another was flung face first against the truck’s side. When the colonel didn’t react to the unnecessary brutality, Mitchell did. “You.” He tapped one offending soldier on the back. “You’re conducting a search not skinning his hide.”
A ‘Nothing on them’ brought the often repeated mumbled, “Just lightin’ up,” from the youth with the bloody ear.
Mitchell knew the ambulance medics wouldn’t find a spark of life in Bridget. Still they went through the ritual as he watched.
~~~
Dan Mitchell had been with Bridget’s father the night she’d been born.
Now he watched, Judge Garth Monroe crumbled under the knowledge that he, himself, had welcomed the killers of his only child into his land.
He stood only five eight, weighted a hundred sixty-five tops, all his life he’d been a proud man. Proud of his ancestry that allowed him to be British though he was born and prospered on Irish soil.
“It was an accident.” Dan Mitchell tried to penetrate his friend’s terrible grief. “You can’t expect charges to be brought. She ran into the roadway.”
“Why?”
“I don’t really know. We only wanted to ask her a few questions?”
“Question her?” Disbelief filled the parent’s face. “You wanted to question my daughter! About what?”
Attempting to explain the suspicions concerning the envelopes, Dan Mitchell was taken aback by the sudden hysterical laughter that mixed with the sobs spilling through the father’s clenched teeth. “The Deadman’s Lottery. You murdered my little girl for that!”
~~~
“A lottery! A damn lottery! How much checking did you do?” Mitchell bent over Reed’s desk as he fired accusations. “Her daddy knew. How many other people knew? A bob a week the kids played. Winning hinged on your last name; when it showed up in the New York Times obituary column, you won. You know how many fuckin’ Irish names there are in New York City.”
“Stupid game—so now they have their own body to wager on.”
“It’s not over.” Mitchell’s training prevented a physical attack though he was sorely urged to smash the colonel’s smug mouth. “Monroe wants satisfaction. You killed his kid.”
“I’m not disciplining my men because of an accident.”
“It won’t end easy.” Mitchell warned. “We killed a Protestant lass for no damn reason. My guess? You’re in for some problems from that side again.”
“Just me?”
“I don’t see this as my top priority. I’m still going to be chasing some important problems, like explosives, dollars, and some actually nasty young yanks.”
Suddenly Reed swung his chair to face the window. “There’s more to this than a lottery.” He swung back to confront Mitchell. “Bridget knew not only the O’Neill girls but Kevin Henry? And why did she run?”
“Something scared her, maybe your uniform?”
“But she knew you. You were her father’s friend. Why should she run from you? She has a cousin, Carey’s boy; I should have him questioned…”
“Let that part rest for now. While it’s a nasty business is not likely to make world headline. We need you to keep this low key.” Mitchell warned. “Don’t start playing hardball with the rest of Bridget’s friends just yet. You’ll only give the Judge more reason to cause trouble. Whatever scared the girl we’ll probably never discover. But I’ll wager it had nothing to do with a kid’s lottery.”
