Darkhouse

‘Ah, John,’ said Mae. ‘Are you ready?’ She turned toward the kitchen door and held out her arm as if she was waiting to be escorted. She looked back over her shoulder to Richie. ‘We don’t want to miss the second half.’

‘That’s fair enough, Mrs Miller,’ said Richie, looking down at the floor.

Joe drove north through Dublin onto the Malahide Road. Before he hit the motorway to the airport, he took a left through the red iron gates of the Fire Training Centre, following a curved tree-lined drive. The sign to the mortuary guided him around a large field where half an aeroplane leant on its wing in the corner. When he saw the fake front of a nightclub painted onto a brick wall, it hit him – fire, training. He pulled up in front of four prefabs, the temporary home of the State Pathologist’s office. He hoped Dr McClatchie was sitting at her desk. She wasn’t. She was standing inside the door talking to her assistant.

‘Dr McClatchie, hi – my name is Joe Lucchesi, I’m an NYPD detective and, uh, I was wondering if you’d have a minute.’ He smiled.

She looked trapped, but she said, ‘OK, come into my office.’

‘It’s about the murder of Katie Lawson,’ he said.

‘Ah,’ she said, sitting down, gesturing for him to do the same. ‘NYPD? Why have you been drafted in?’

He weighed it up. ‘Uh, we haven’t,’ he said finally. He pulled out the fax and placed it on the desk between them with one of the more graphic photos on top. The name Tonya Ramer was printed above. She was laid out in the morgue, her face ghostly, but almost serene. The body had clearly been found within days of her murder. Between her legs was a mess of tissue and sharp black shards of what he knew was timber. The only other visible injuries were uneven lacerations on her knees and three slashes of similar length under each side of her rib cage. Lara looked down, then back up quickly, but she was using her fingers to spread out the other pages as she stared at him.

‘What are you playing at?’ she asked, bemused more than annoyed.

‘I wanted you to look at these photos and tell me if they are similar in any way to the injuries sustained to Katie Lawson.’

‘Are you mad?’ she asked in her clipped way, as if she was about to wave her hand and order someone to ‘have this man beheaded.’

He inhaled sharply and said, ‘Katie Lawson was my son’s girlfriend.’ She sat back and sighed. ‘And I know,’ he continued, ‘that my son is the number one suspect. I think the man who committed these murders,’ he pointed to the table, ‘could be the same man who killed Katie.’

She looked down reflexively, her eyes sweeping over the photos.

‘You know I couldn’t possibly discuss this with you. I’m actually amazed that you came in.’

‘You can’t blame a guy for trying. Believe me, I have a very real appreciation for what you’re trying to do over here – probably more than anyone else working on this case.’

‘Ah, but you’re not working on this case.’

‘You got me,’ he said. ‘But I’m dyin’, here.’ He flashed a look out at the morgue door. He smiled and leaned across the desk to drag the photos back into a pile.

‘I’m sorry for bothering you,’ he said, locking eyes with her. ‘But I hope my visit will go no further.’

‘Pardon?’ she said.

‘I can’t have the guards knowing I showed up here.’

She threw her eyes up to heaven. ‘Well, I’ve told you nothing.’

Ah, but you’ve told me everything, thought Joe. He was trained on gut reactions and reactions to gut reactions: flickers, twitches, shakes, gulps – cartoonish words for things that helped him differentiate an honest man from a liar. Her reaction to the photos had spoken volumes to him – the wounds were not the same. The one thing he couldn’t pinpoint, though, was the reason for the tiniest frown he caught on her face at the last second and her almost reluctant release of the photos.

‘Here’s my card if you need to get in contact with me.’ She stared at him. He ignored her expression, crossed out his New York number and wrote in his Irish mobile. He stood up to leave, but the motion was too quick on an empty stomach and he staggered to the side, grabbing onto the desk for support.

‘Are you OK?’ said Lara, moving towards him.

When he raised his head, tiny silver spots danced before his eyes.

‘Sit down,’ said Lara, pulling out the seat for him. ‘Are you OK?’

He managed a nod. He put his hand to the back of his neck and started rubbing it.

‘I just got a bit dizzy,’ he said. ‘I haven’t eaten.’ Suddenly he reached for her waste basket and retched violently, spitting saliva onto the crumpled papers and pencil parings inside. His face burned.

‘I knew I shouldn’t have bought wicker,’ she said.

‘Jesus, I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I don’t know…’

‘Have you got a stomach bug?’ she asked. ‘You’re terribly pale.’

‘No. I just haven’t eaten and I’ve taken some painkillers and other stuff. And coffee.’

‘Do you mind me asking why you’re on painkillers? Or do all cops follow that diet?’

He snorted a laugh. ‘No to the first question and yes to the second. But I get a lot of jaw pain and pressure in my head. It can hurt to eat, so I guess that’s why I get light-headed…’

‘Do you mind if I have a look?’ she said, already reaching her hands out. He jerked his head back.

‘You’re wasting your time.’

‘I’m the boss in my office,’ she said, ignoring his reluctance, pressing cold thumbs down the side of his nose and across his cheeks, then above both eyebrows. He held his breath. They avoided eye contact.

‘Sorry,’ he said, pushing her hand away. ‘I have to breathe.’

‘I never asked you to stop breathing,’ she said.

He flashed a glance at the wicker basket.

She laughed. ‘You should smell my world.’

She sat back against the edge of her desk.

‘Well, it’s not your sinuses,’ she said. ‘You say it’s sore to eat. Where?’

‘Here,’ he said, rubbing his fingers against the sharp ends of his sideburns. He shifted in his seat.

‘OK,’ she said and he took his hands down. She put two thumbs each side on the same spot.

‘Open and close your mouth,’ she said. ‘Can you feel anything?’

‘Like a crackle,’ he said.

‘Pain?’

‘No, but I’ve taken a lot to kill that.’

‘Oh, yes. Does your jaw ever lock? Do you ever hear it click?’

‘Yes.’

‘Do you get pain in your neck or your cheeks?’

‘Yes.’

‘Did you ever get diagnosed with toothache, earache or sinusitis?’

‘Yes, look I appreciate this, but I really have to get a move on.’

‘Have you ever suffered an injury to your face or jaw?’

Images of childhood fights flashed through his mind, a teenage car accident, a punch-up in a bar at his bachelor party, a door slammed against him in a raid, the explosion…

‘Uh-huh,’ he said.

She stepped back. ‘Good news or bad?’

‘Bad.’

She shook her head. ‘Pessimist?’

‘Worst Case Scenario Man.’

‘First of all, I’m not your GP, so what I’m giving you here is an educated guess. It could be one of two things: some form of facial neuralgia or possibly, TMJ dysfunction. The TMJ bit stands for Temporo-Mandibular Joint, the all-important joint that helps you open and close your jaw. And you’re American, you’ll understand the dysfunction part.’

Nothing was beyond a comment with Lara McClatchie.

‘I’m leaning towards TMJ dysfunction,’ she said. ‘I’ve seen it before. And my brother has it.’

She studied him for a moment. ‘Why am I getting the impression you’re just playing along?’