Authors: Rob Kitchin
Cleary sat at the desk and played with the locked drawers, trying to tease them open. ‘I’ll talk to one of the lads, see if he has anything to get these open with,’ he said heading for the door. ‘Also
these.’ He slapped the top of the filing cabinet nearest the door.
McEvoy worked his way round the room slowly, trying to get a measure of the man. Nothing in particular leapt out at him. He pulled his mobile from his pocket.
‘Roche.’
‘It’s Colm,’ he said, downbeat. ‘He’s not here. According to his head of department he’s in Providence, Rhode Island. She said he left at the weekend. If he went before Saturday evening, then he’s in the clear.’
‘Shit! I bet he flew out yesterday – probably flew Aer Lingus direct to Boston. I’ll get someone to check with the airports. I’ll also talk to Bishop. If he’s in the US then we’ll need to alert the authorities there.’
McEvoy let out a long breath. ‘Jesus, what a mess. I’ll find out whether he turned up for this conference or not. He might be carrying on as normal, seeing whether he’s got away with it.’
‘Good idea. His house looks clean by the way. Nothing obvious linked to any of the victims. I’ve just let the crime scene people in. It seems there are plenty of samples for
DNA
and they’re making that a priority. We should know whether it matches the samples from Glencree and Rathmoylan by late this afternoon. And it looks like he lived alone – only men’s clothes in the wardrobes and a single toothbrush in the bathroom.’
‘We also need someone to talk to Dermot Brady,’ McEvoy suggested, ‘see if he knows McCormack and whether he knows of any link between him and Laura Schmidt.’
‘I’ll find someone to do that. Right, I’ll let you get on with it then. I’ll get speak to you soon as I hear anything.’
‘Thanks.’ McEvoy slipped the phone back into his pocket and massaged his temples.
If McCormack was The Raven then he had taken flight. He’d spent several years studying in the U.S. so it was familiar territory. There were thousands of illegal Irish there, plus God knows how many millions from other countries. If they could operate below the radar of the authorities then so could McCormack. He’d slip into the underworld, buy himself a new identity, and start a new life. And even if they did catch him, there would be the rigmarole of extradition. It might be years before he saw an Irish court, especially if he had dual citizenship, which was a strong possibility.
Barney Plunkett knocked on the door and entered along with Kathy Jacobs.
McEvoy blew his nose and glanced over at them with sadness in his eyes. ‘I think the bastard might have got clean away. While we were messing about going round the various murder sites he was sat on a plane to Boston.’ He scratched at his head. ‘Barney, I need you to find out if McCormack actually turned up at that feckin’ conference. The secretary has the details.’
‘I’m on it.’ Plunkett hurried from the room.
‘You were right,’ McEvoy said to Jacobs. ‘He was a high flyer and he’d been turned down for promotion. According to the head of department he’d have been promoted next year or the year after. Might have gone up to professor a couple of years after that.’
‘He was impatient. He was probably angry that someone like Hennessey, someone less brilliant than him, got promoted instead.’
‘So he decides to kill him?’
‘Some people have difficulty judging perceived crimes and their appropriate punishment,’ Jacobs explained. ‘McCormack blamed Hennessey rather than the promotion panel, and he felt the crime demanded the ultimate punishment. He’s developed some kind of pronounced psychosis. He’s living in a different reality to you and me.’
‘Jesus.’ McEvoy turned and stared out of the window, his mind unable to pull coherent thoughts together.
Kathy Jacobs slipped in behind the desk and sat down. ‘Is it okay if I take a look at this?’ she said, pointing at McCormack’s computer.
A young man in an Arctic Monkeys t-shirt and ripped jeans stood up and moved out of the way. ‘I’ve logged on as the administrator. Once you’ve finished, just shut it down or give me a call.’ He wrote a four-digit number on a sticky note and placed it on the desk.
‘Thanks,’ McEvoy said absently, Jacobs sliding into the vacated seat.
Jacobs glanced down the list of folders, McEvoy watching over her shoulder. ‘Conferences’, ‘Current Books’, ‘Future’, ‘Grants’, ‘Old Books’, ‘Papers’, ‘Projects’, ‘References’, ‘Teaching’, ‘Website’.
She clicked on ‘Current Books.’ There were four folders in the new list, the third of which was entitled
The Rule Book.
She opened the folder. There were several files listed: Chapters 1 to 8, ‘Card 1’, ‘Card 2’, ‘Oughterard’, ‘Phoenix Park’, ‘Addresses’.
She clicked on ‘Chapter 1’. The Word program loaded and the first chapter of
The Rule Book
appeared.
‘Well, that’s any doubt dispelled,’ she said quietly.
‘Open Chapter 8,’ McEvoy instructed. ‘We never received a Chapter 8.’
She opened the chapter.
The Rules
Chapter Eight: Postscript
“Even experienced killers make mistakes.”
ALWAYS
FOLLOW
ALL
THE RULES
Laura or David or Samantha?
Until next time ...
‘Jesus,’ McEvoy muttered. ‘Who the hell is Samantha?’
‘I don’t know. His partner?’ Jacobs hazarded. ‘Whoever it is, he knew he’d taken too much of a chance with Laura and David,’ she said, stating the obvious. ‘His first two rules were “choose a victim at random” and “have no prior interaction with them before the kill.” He broke both of them. The first two murders were comfort kills – known quantities while he became more confident.’
‘Plus he was leaving notes,’ McEvoy observed, massaging his forehead. ‘He thought he could outwit his own logic.’
‘He nearly did. Except for Karen and the student who saw him with Laura we’d be none the wiser.’
‘We’d have got him eventually,’ McEvoy said without conviction. ‘Something would have turned up.’
‘Samantha probably,’ said Jacobs sardonically. ‘And you don’t have him yet. You just know who he is.’
‘I better ring Paul Roche.’ McEvoy pulled his phone from his pocket. ‘
It was answered on the fifth ring. ‘Roche.’
‘It’s Colm. We’ve managed to get onto his computer. There’s a Chapter Eight there. It’s a postscript. He lists three names – Laura, David and Samantha. We’ve no idea who Samantha is, but he knew he’d messed up – the US was his insurance policy.’
‘He’s not in the US,’ Roche said. ‘I was just about to ring you, the transport people have come back to me. He’d booked a return ticket to Boston, flying out yesterday at 11.45, only he didn’t show up. There’s no record of him flying anywhere else in the last two weeks from any airport in Ireland or the UK or leaving through any port.’
‘He must have bottled it,’ McEvoy said. ‘He didn’t like the idea of being on a plane for seven or eight hours not knowing if he’d be greeted by police at the other end. What did Bishop say?’
‘He’s about to announce a full-scale manhunt, the works. He doesn’t care whether McCormack’s innocent or guilty, he wants him apprehended. He’s organising an emergency press conference for one o’clock.’
‘Is that a good idea?’ McEvoy said, his determination fading. ‘We’ll lose any element of surprise.’
‘Half the media will already know who we’re looking for by now. They’ll have been tipped off by God knows how many people. Besides, we’ve no idea where the hell he is. I’ve heard back from Brady as well,’ Roche said, changing tack. ‘He knows McCormack, but only met him once or twice. He never saw him with Laura. Look, I need to go. I’ll be out there shortly, okay?’
McEvoy slipped the phone into his pocket and stared out of the window again, listening to the tapping of Jacobs’ fingernails on the keyboard.
After a short while, he turned to face her. ‘After the
O’Connell Street
murder he was last seen heading towards
Phibsborough Road
. That’s where Aoife whatshername saw him with Laura. The squat Karen lives in is not far from there either. We need to find out if he has a place there,’ he said, heading for the door, wanting to do something rather than hang around killing time. ‘And we need to find out who the hell Samantha is.’
McEvoy turned back onto
Phibsborough Road
and started heading back towards the
North Circular Road
. He glanced at the clock – 1.09. ‘This is hopeless,’ he muttered, once again downbeat, knowing that they were driving round aimlessly, looking for a needle in a haystack. ‘If he’s got any sense, he’d be long gone.’
‘Sense is something he probably hasn’t got a lot of right now,’ Jacobs replied, staring out at the pavement.
McEvoy snatched at the phone before it rang a second time. ‘Yes?’
‘It’s Barney. I’ve finally found someone who knows who Samantha is. McCormack kept his private life private. Her name is Samantha Evans. She’s a postdoctoral researcher in Trinity. She lives in a new apartment block on Goldsmith’s Road near to the Mater. I don’t know the name of the apartment block or her apartment number, but I’m going to see if I can get a full address out of Trinity.’
‘Okay, right. Call for backup will you, we’ll meet them there.’
‘Don’t do anything stupid, Colm,’ Plunkett warned.
‘Just order the feckin’ backup,’ McEvoy said testily, ending the call. ‘Where the hell’s Goldsmith’s Road,’ he muttered, turning right onto the North Circular Road.
He’d become addicted to the news since leaving the airport. He had only left the apartment once to buy the daily newspapers. He’d barely left the sofa. He’d simply sat in front of the flat-screen television and stared at it hypnotically. The Raven and his killing spree was still the headline news – hours and hours of broadcast time had been devoted to analysing his work, speculating on his personality, his motivation, his state of mind, his identity. It was all just hot air and hokum.
The image swapped from a smarmy looking news reader to that of a dishevelled and exhausted McEvoy. The superintendent appeared as a ghost – ashen and hollow. Barely ten seconds into the report it was cut short and the news reader re-appeared looking harried.
‘We’ve just received a statement issued by the Irish police,’ he said in a clipped, English accent, looking down at his notes. ‘They are seeking urgently to talk to Dr Andrew McCormack of the National University of Ireland, Maynooth.’
His picture from the university’s website appeared in the top right of the screen.
‘If anyone knows his present location or has seen him in the past two weeks they are to contact the An Garda Síochána immediately on their confidential hotline, 1800 666 111. Under no circumstances are members of the public to approach him. To repeat, An Garda Síochána, the Irish police, are seeking the whereabouts of …’