Chapter 17
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Suddenly, O’Brien sat bolt upright, slamming his coffee mug down onto his desk and slopping its contents. “Feck,” he muttered, searching for something to sop up the spilled coffee.
“Healy, get in here,” he yelled, “and bring paper hand towels!”
“Yes, sir, Chief.” Sergeant Healy rushed into O’Brien’s office, paper towels in hand.
“Clean up this mess, Healy,” O’Brien pointed to the spilled coffee, “and don’t mess up my papers.”
“Yes, sir,” Healy said.
A thin and mousy character, Padraig Healy played Laurel to O’Brien’s Hardy. A mop of curly red hair always looked in need of a brush. He did his desk job well, and O’Brien knew he could count on him.
“A discovery, sir?” Healy carefully mopped up the spill, being sure not to disturb the cluttered desk.
“Feck, yes!” O’Brien responded. “The murder victim’s friend indicated he was a classmate in computer programming at the university.
That had to be Dr. MacGowan’s GMIT class.
Declan Knowlan is MacGowan’s partner, not only in business, if you understand my meaning.
Knowlan has a history of gang involvement.
While we have no evidence linking either man to this crime, the connection to the victim is suspicious. ”
“You did it again, sir,” Healy said. “Made a connection that everyone else missed.”
“I’m going over to have a bit of a chinwag with MacGowan.” O’Brien stood to grab his overcoat. “He needs to have the fear put in him, and I’m the guy to do it.”
“Very good, sir,” Healy nodded.
* * *
Rod woke, stretched, and gazed at his snoozing husband. It was well after sunrise on Monday, their first full week in Ireland. He rolled over and crawled out of bed, nudging the covers off as he tried not to disturb Wyl.
“Hey, babe…” Wyl’s sleepy voice vibrated the bed.
“I was trying not to wake you, husband.” Rod lay back down and faced Wyl. “You looked so angelic that I didn’t want to disturb you.”
“It would disturb me more to wake to an empty bed,” Wyl said.
Rod hugged Wyl. “Well, I wouldn’t want my husband to be disturbed.”
“Are you saying your husband is usually disturbed?” Wyl chuckled.
“This coming from a man who fled the scene when a Marine buddy questioned his relationship with me.” Rod palmed Wyl’s chest and rocked him back and forth.
“I heard you put him in his place,” Wyl said.
“Not before he helped us put a fresh coat of paint on the garage door.” Rod laughed out loud. “C’mon, let’s grab a shower and have breakfast.”
After a quick kiss, they crawled out of bed and went through their usual shower/shave/groom/dress ritual before hitting the kitchen.
“What do you want for breakfast?” Rod asked.
“What do we have?”
“If we had ham, we could have ham and eggs; if we had eggs,” Rod laughed. “We used most of what we had yesterday, but we have strawberries. I’ll make oatmeal. We’ll add butter, fresh strawberries, and brown sugar. You make toast and coffee. That should get us going for the morning.”
“Sounds good, babe,” Wyl reached for the loaf of bakery bread to slice for the toast.
“We need a grocery run today.” Rod stirred the oatmeal.
“Can we buy bacon? I’m dying for bacon and eggs.”
“The Irish don’t have bacon like we’re used to, babe. The bacon here is more like Canadian bacon.”
“Remind me to tell Felipe to buy a parcel of hogs. I want bacon every meal when we get back.” Wyl sliced the loaf with a bread knife.
Rod shook his head. “I can feel my arteries clogging listening to you.” He turned off the flame under the oatmeal. “You promised to wrap your arms around me at Christmas. With all that fat, salt, and nitrates, I’ll be lucky you don’t spontaneously combust by Thanksgiving.”
“And I had to go and marry a college professor. I should have known better.” Wyl’s turn to shake his head.
“Hey…I was smart enough to snare you in my trap.”
“Maybe I let you snare me in your trap.” Wyl chuckled.
Rod made a beeline across the kitchen to Wyl, wiggling his fingers.
Wyl turned and ran from the kitchen, laughing out loud, Rod in hot pursuit and catching him on the couch, tickling his ribs mercilessly as Wyl roared with laughter, and they both collapsed in each other’s arms. They got quiet and gazed into each other’s eyes.
“God, I love you.” Rod leaned in to capture Wyl’s mouth in a kiss.
The kiss broke. “I love you more,” Wyl wrapped his arms around Rod and locked their lips.
The kiss parted. “We need to eat, or we’ll be here all day,” Rod said.
“You’re on top of me, and I’m not about to move until you do.” Wyl chuckled.
“Only because I’m hungry.” Rod pushed off Wyl and got to his feet, offering his hand.
They returned to the kitchen, and Rod dished up the oatmeal while Wyl buttered the toast. They sat at breakfast.
“What’s on for today?” Wyl asked.
“I need to work on my presentation for tomorrow's evening lecture,” Rod said. “I’ve done nothing to prepare.”
“Now that you mention it, I need to focus on my presentation, too, babe. My engagement is on Wednesday at lunch. I’m a keynote speaker, so my speech needs to be entertaining and captivating.”
“Mine too,” Rod said. “Maybe we need to spend the day lounging around, working on our presentations, and relaxing.”
“Sounds perfect.”
The two finished the leisurely breakfast before settling down with their laptops to work on their speeches.
* * *
O’Brien left the station mid-morning and drove to the GMIT campus. Parking his cruiser in a no-parking zone in front of the building, he entered, found MacGowan’s office, and knocked lightly on the open door. “Dr. MacGowan?”
MacGowan looked up from his desk. “Yes. What can I do for you?” His voice showed his irritation at being disturbed.
O’Brien removed his hat as he entered. “I’m Chief Superintendent O’Brien with Garda. Do you have a minute?” He did not state the reason for his visit, but figured Ailbe already knew why.
“Of course, Chief Superintendent. Please, have a seat.”
“Thank you, Dr. MacGowan.” O’Brien unbuttoned his coat and planted his ample frame in a wooden guest chair.
“What can I help you with, Chief?” Ailbe was blunt and direct, a clear faux smile on his face.
O’Brien retrieved a small notebook and a pencil from his pocket. He opened the notebook to a clean page. “I’m following up on the death of a GMIT student, Keenan Moynihan. I believe he was one of your students.”
“That is correct. Mr. Moynihan was one of the best students ever to be in this program.”
O’Brien made notes as Ailbe spoke. He did this partly to remember and partly to unnerve the interviewee. He knew everyone was curious about his notes. The tactic worked for many perpetrators. “Do you have any idea why anyone would want him dead?”
Ailbe cleverly avoided answering O’Brien’s question by asking a question of his own. “Do you believe someone murdered the student?”
“Possibly.” O’Brien paused, primarily to up Ailbe’s tension a notch or two. “Evidence indicates foul play was involved, and I’m curious about what a college student would know that put his life in danger. Was he working on something that could have been criminal?”
A frown replaced Ailbe’s smile. The chief had a long history of interviewing individuals who habituated the territory south of the law. He could tell his questions got a little too close to home.
“I have no idea, Chief. Keenan was a popular student. Everyone liked him and admired him. He was the leader of this class. Not because he wanted to be, but because his personality and bearing made him a natural in that role.”
“Did he have a girlfriend or boyfriend?”
“Not as far as I know. I never saw Keenan show preference to a specific classmate, and he never mentioned anyone special, at least not to me.”
“Would any of his classmates have been jealous of his leadership or stature?”
“I never heard anyone say anything unkind about Keenan. Everyone wanted to be his friend.”
“I read the note from the constable who spoke with one of his fellow students the night before we found Keenan’s body. There was mention of a discovery. Do you know what he might have been talking about?”
Ailbe coughed and stood for water from the tray on the table near his desk. The Chief Superintendent smiled. He was getting close. Too close for Ailbe’s comfort.
Ailbe poured a glass and drank the entire contents. “My apologies for the interruption,” Ailbe placed the glass back on the tray. “Now, what was your question again?”
“The discovery,” O’Brien repeated.
“Oh yes. I assigned each student a research project as part of their program of study. Those projects intentionally overlap, but I leave it to the students to discover that overlap. If a student discovers it, I give them extra credit.”
“I suppose Moynihan had discovered that…what did you call it…overlap?” The chief was writing in his notebook.
“He had indeed,” Ailbe said.
“Did Mr. Moynihan visit with you about his discovery?” The chief closely watched Ailbe’s reaction as he asked the question. A flash of uncertainty flicked through Ailbe’s eyes.
“I don’t recall that he did, chief.” Ailbe avoided Chief O’Brien’s gaze.
“I see,” O’Brien noted the uneasiness MacGowan showed.
Something was fishy. “I think that is all the questions I have for now, Dr. MacGowan.” He closed the notebook and placed it, along with the pencil, in his jacket pocket.
“I thank you for your time. May I call on you again if I have any more questions?”
“Certainly. I am glad to help in any way I can.” Ailbe rose to see the Chief out.
The Chief rose from the chair, shook Ailbe’s proffered hand, and left the office.
* * *
As O’Brien walked into the station, he reflected on the conversation with MacGowan. He’s lying about visiting with Moynihan, and I’m betting he knows something else he’s not telling me.
He stopped at Healy’s desk. “Healy, I need records of Keenan Moynihan’s email for the past month. I need to see who he corresponded with and what they said. I also need his cell phone records, calls, and texts.”
“Yes, sir,” Healy nodded.