Ken Bruen - The Killing of the Tinkers

“What?”

“Your flu, it’s gone.”

“Oh, yeah.”

“I’m so happy. I bought you a get-well card, it has Snoopy on the front, and I don’t even know if you like him. Oh Jack, there’s so much I’m dying to know about you. I’ll come over right now.”

“Laura…I…um…listen…I won’t be seeing you.”

“You mean today?”

“Today and…every other day.”

“Why, Jack? Did I do something wrong? Did I…”

I had to cut this, said,

“I’ve met someone else.”

“Oh God, is she lovely?”

“She’s older.”

And I hung up.

Lord knows, feeling bad is the skin I’ve worn almost all my life. Standing there, the dead phone in my hand, I plunged new depths. Walked to the cupboard, took out the poitín and the doorbell went. I said,

“Fuck.”

Stomped out and tore the door open. It was Brendan Flood, ex-garda, religious nut, information grand master. Through gritted teeth, I said,

“I gave at the office.”

Took him a minute, then,

“I’m not begging.”

I moved past him, examined the door. He looked at me questioningly. I said,

“Thought maybe there was a sign here that read ‘Assholes Convention’.”

Went inside, showed him into the living room. The poitín was neon lit in the kitchen. I gestured to the sofa and he sat. He had a battered briefcase which he placed on his knees. He said,

“You look better, Jack.”

“Clean living.”

“Our prayers are working, alleluia.”

“What do you want?”

He opened the briefcase, began to sort through papers, said,

“You’ll know about forensic psychology.”

“Not much.”

“Despite the guards’ lack of interest in the killing of those young men, a forensics man was sufficiently intrigued to make his own study.”

“On all the bodies?”

“Yes.”

“Why would he do that?”

“He’s writing a book.”

“And you know him…how?”

“He’s in our prayer group.”

“Of course.”

“Here’s what he found.”

The killer is male, early thirties. A batchelor, only child. Very high IQ. A craftsman. Drives a van that’s been refitted. As a child, he’d have killed or tortured animals. Learnt early to cover himself. Growing up, he’d have had minor skirmishes with the law but learn from each mistake. At some stage, he’d have attempted a serious assault on another male. You meet him, he’s polite, speaks well, educated but he feels nothing. He’s simply not there. Remorse is alien to him. His characteristics are grandiosity and hidden hostility. The psychiatric heading is a narcissistic personality disorder and poor impulse control. Violence is inevitable. Sexual gratification comes with the first kill. He will then be unable to stop.

Flood stopped, asked,

“Could I have a glass of water, please?”

For all the world like Richard Dreyfuss in Jaws . I got the water, toyed with the idea of a poitín spike, but let it go. As I handed him the water, his hand shook. I said,

“Jeez, this shit really gets to you.”

“Please don’t swear. Yes, evil deeply disturbs me.”

I sat, lit a cig, said,

“Highly impressive, but it amounts to what? I already know who the killer is.”

He drank deep of the water, gulped, said,

“Ah, Mr Bryson. That’s why I’m here. I’m not sure he fits the profile.”

“Profile, bollocks. Where do you think you are? Quantico? Wake up. You’re an ex-guard with no future, playing at detection. Believe me, I know how sad it gets. You pray, I drink, and may someone have mercy on our miserable souls.”

He was stunned by my outburst. Sat back in the sofa as if I’d hit him. In a sense, I had. A few moments before he spoke, then,

“I didn’t realise the depth of your bitterness. I am sorry for your despair.”

“Whoa, Flood, back up. I don’t want your sorrow.”

He took a deep breath, said,

“Jack, these assessments are uncanny in their accuracy.”

“So?”

“If it’s Bryson, he wouldn’t have run.”

I stood, said,

“It’s him.”

He stood, pleaded,

“Jack, listen please. You have that friend, the English policeman, get him to check the background on Bryson, see if it matches the profile.”

“Was there anything else?”

“Jack!”

I showed him the door, said,

“Tell your friend I’ll buy the book.”

“You have a hard heart, Jack Taylor.”

“So they tell me.”

And I shut the door.

The phone rang continuously that afternoon. I could care. I was the other side of Roscommon’s finest.

There are few nightmares to touch those engendered by poitín. In the early sixties, there was a classic whine record called “Tell Laura I Love Her”. The guy in the song is killed on his motorcycle as he roars the above. I dreamt of this. The guy was Jeff on his Harley, and my Laura is calling my name. I’m covered in swan entrails, and Clancy is coming at me with a machete. I came to in the back yard, rain lashing down upon me. No idea how I got there. The poitín bottle was smashed against the rear wall.

I crawled into the hallway and threw up, vomit cascading along my sodden clothes. A thirst burning supreme. Managed to stand and pull the ruined clothes off. Shoved them in the washing machine, turned to max. Then had to force it open, water pouring on to the floor, and ladle in washing powder. Kicked it shut. Into the kitchen and found a can of Heineken, lacerated my fingers attempting to open it. Muttered,

“Thank you, God.”

Swallowed half and threw up again. I climbed the stairs and got in the shower. Did five scalding minutes, dried myself slowly as every muscle ached. Nothing kicks the shit out of you as systematically as that uisce beatha . No wonder Connemara men drink sherry for penance during Lent. Pulled on jeans and a T-shirt. To my horror, the shirt had a logo. When I finally focused, I read “I’m a gas man.”

Fuck.

Lay on the bed and passed out. Didn’t wake till late evening. More nightmares. Sat up with a start, my heart pounding. I’d been sick again, so tore the bed linen off. Another shower, feeling one degree less awful. Downstairs to search for another cure. Not a drop: zilch, nada, nothing. Had drained everything in the house. I’d have to go out. Last pair of jeans, sweatshirt and my guards coat. Buttoned it tight as a spasm of ice racked my system. A cold from the very dead. The phone went and I nearly didn’t answer. If I hadn’t, I wonder if things would have turned out any different. Probably not, but I can’t help wondering. Picked it up, said,

“Hello?”

“Jack, it’s Sweeper.”

“Yea?”

“We got him.”

“What?”

“In Athlone, working with the homeless.”

“Jesus.”

“He’s asking for you.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. Do you want to see him?”

“Um…OK.”

“I’m sending Mikey for you.”

“Tell him I’ll be in Nestor’s.”

“OK.”

I headed for the pub. Jeff was behind the bar, looking fit and healthy. The sentry was in place and said,

“Saviour of the swans.”

I ignored him. Jeff said,

“You don’t look so good, Jack.”