Read Online The Dead (The Saxon & Fitzgerald Mysteries Book 1) by Ingrid Black - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Ingrid Black
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set alight. Police suspected a grudge attack over an unpaid loan. The other, Jo Philpott, was found stabbed to death a couple of years after Fagan’s own disappearance, in a laneway off Benburb Street just across the river from the Guinness brewery. This was another red-light district, where only the most desperate prostitutes worked, even more desperate than those who worked the Grand Canal, and Jo was the most desperate of all. She was forty-two and eight months pregnant when she bled to death. The woman’s boyfriend/pimp went missing shortly after the crime, and on discovery, confessed. He’d done it, he said, because she’d been cheating on him. She’d had sex with other men scores of times a day to feed his drug habit, and then he lost it when she slept with one for free.
Her blood was found on his clothing which, criminal genius that he was, he’d stuffed in a refuse bin next door; his fingerprints matched those on the knife found at the scene. He was now in Mountjoy doing a ten-year stretch, having pleaded temporary insanity, diminished responsibility, deprived childhood, you name it, but was expected to be released soon when, no doubt, he’d find some other Jo Philpott to finance his prodigious chemical intake.
It was the third murder which stood out, that of one Monica Lee, whose naked body had been found in the Dublin mountains two years ago, three weeks after going missing. Finding her was an act of pure chance. She’d been thrown down the side of a deep vale that was used by locals for dumping, and was already in an advanced state of decomposition due to bad weather. There had been gnawing of the body by rats too, which meant identification was only possible by dental records.
What was more, the physical environment had been torn up by three weeks of heavy rain and the usual comings and goings from the dump. Tyre tracks were too numerous to distinguish, and those of three weeks back had long since been obliterated.
Ambrose Lynch’s autopsy report was appended to the case notes. I skipped through the pages of details to the conclusions at the end. Death had been by massive brain haemorrhaging caused by indeterminate frontal blunt-force injury, possibly with a brick. Fragments of stone had been taken from the wound and sent for analysis, though no conclusive evidence as to its nature had been found. She was probably raped too, Lynch thought – two separate traces of semen were found inside her, no match on records, and there was some internal damage – but the poor state of the remains was so bad that he couldn’t say for sure.
Cautious as ever, that was Lynch.
And maybe he was right to be cautious. Monica was known to have rough sex with clients without a condom if they paid extra; she made no secret of it. Proving that she was raped would be virtually impossible, even when it did come accompanied by a brick to the forehead.
There were, of course, some obvious differences between this killing and that of Mary Lynch last night and Fagan’s own victims.
The body was concealed, for one thing, not left in the open to be found. Monica Lee was naked, not dressed – her clothes were never found. There was the probable rape. Method of death, crucially, was different too, and this killer had used restraints on both the victim’s hands and ankles, and a gag. Plus there was no note left with the body, no religious angle. The only possible hint there was the absence of a crucifix which, the dead woman’s friends assured police, Monica Lee had always worn; but that was a long shot. If the crucifix was all that was taken, it might’ve suggested a significance for the killer, but everything Monica had on her that night was taken, so whatever symbolism there might’ve been was hidden.
No witnesses saw Monica get into the car that took her away on the night of her death. No witnesses saw her body dumped. No witnesses saw her in between, however long that might be. Fitzgerald’s hunch had been that Monica
Her blood was found on his clothing which, criminal genius that he was, he’d stuffed in a refuse bin next door; his fingerprints matched those on the knife found at the scene. He was now in Mountjoy doing a ten-year stretch, having pleaded temporary insanity, diminished responsibility, deprived childhood, you name it, but was expected to be released soon when, no doubt, he’d find some other Jo Philpott to finance his prodigious chemical intake.
It was the third murder which stood out, that of one Monica Lee, whose naked body had been found in the Dublin mountains two years ago, three weeks after going missing. Finding her was an act of pure chance. She’d been thrown down the side of a deep vale that was used by locals for dumping, and was already in an advanced state of decomposition due to bad weather. There had been gnawing of the body by rats too, which meant identification was only possible by dental records.
What was more, the physical environment had been torn up by three weeks of heavy rain and the usual comings and goings from the dump. Tyre tracks were too numerous to distinguish, and those of three weeks back had long since been obliterated.
Ambrose Lynch’s autopsy report was appended to the case notes. I skipped through the pages of details to the conclusions at the end. Death had been by massive brain haemorrhaging caused by indeterminate frontal blunt-force injury, possibly with a brick. Fragments of stone had been taken from the wound and sent for analysis, though no conclusive evidence as to its nature had been found. She was probably raped too, Lynch thought – two separate traces of semen were found inside her, no match on records, and there was some internal damage – but the poor state of the remains was so bad that he couldn’t say for sure.
Cautious as ever, that was Lynch.
And maybe he was right to be cautious. Monica was known to have rough sex with clients without a condom if they paid extra; she made no secret of it. Proving that she was raped would be virtually impossible, even when it did come accompanied by a brick to the forehead.
There were, of course, some obvious differences between this killing and that of Mary Lynch last night and Fagan’s own victims.
The body was concealed, for one thing, not left in the open to be found. Monica Lee was naked, not dressed – her clothes were never found. There was the probable rape. Method of death, crucially, was different too, and this killer had used restraints on both the victim’s hands and ankles, and a gag. Plus there was no note left with the body, no religious angle. The only possible hint there was the absence of a crucifix which, the dead woman’s friends assured police, Monica Lee had always worn; but that was a long shot. If the crucifix was all that was taken, it might’ve suggested a significance for the killer, but everything Monica had on her that night was taken, so whatever symbolism there might’ve been was hidden.
No witnesses saw Monica get into the car that took her away on the night of her death. No witnesses saw her body dumped. No witnesses saw her in between, however long that might be. Fitzgerald’s hunch had been that Monica
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