always planned carefully. That was the secret of his successes. That was how he had first tasted sweet revenge.
Elizabeth Anne Duggan had asthma, everyone in the orphanage knew that. They could hear her coming long before they saw her, wheezing and coughing and panting. She was often seen leaning and grunting against a wall, waiting for her breath to return, fumbling among the layers of her black dress for the tablets that gave her relief. And when any of the children saw her take one, they ran to warn the others, for whatever was in those tablets sent her wild. With a seemingly renewed strength she would scour the corridors and dormitories looking for the slightest scuff mark on a wall or a bed not properly made, a locker not closed or tidy. And with shaking and trembling hands she would find someone, anyone to vent her rage upon. More often than not it was Dean Lynch, more often than not it was he who was made to suffer for her drug-induced rage, for it was the stimulant in the tablets that drove her to such extremes as well as relieving her asthma.
But he finally sorted her out.
He decided he'd had enough, he felt he could take no more. More importantly, he'd discovered by accident how to end his misery, how to end the tormenting, the taunting, the false accusations and beatings. And it was so simple. When he discovered how to do it he was astounded at its simplicity.
He stole six small pink tablets that the gardener used for his high blood pressure. He stole them after he'd read the label on the bottle in which they were kept. One to be taken twice daily. Never to be taken by asthma sufferers.
He'd brooded over that warning for weeks before he made his move. And when he'd thought his plan through he felt a quiver of excitement for the first time in his life, an electric tingling of delight as his mind registered the audacity, the sheer danger, of what was to happen. And happen it did, after he switched the tablets.
The shouts along the corridors alerted him to his success. As he followed the older children and staff running towards the noise, the sight of the collapsed and sweating and black-faced Elizabeth Anne Duggan struggling to stand up, struggling to breathe, greeted him. Through the milling crowd that had gathered around wondering how to help, Dean Lynch watched. And smiled. Just before Elizabeth Anne Duggan gave up her last tortured attempt at breathing she looked up to see the twelve-year-old Dean Lynch smiling down at her.
It was a smug, satisfied smile.
It was a job well done.
15
9.55 am
City Morgue, Store Street
Dublin's city morgue was situated on the corner of Store Street and Amiens Street in the north inner city. The building itself was old, part of a complex housing the Garda station in Store Street, the Coroner's office and the morgue itself. The city planners could never have foreseen the dramatic increase in crime that would completely swamp these facilities in later years. The Garda station in Store Street was the busiest in the city, dealing with up to ten thousand arrests each year. The morgue, too, was busier than the planners had originally anticipated.
Much busier.
Jack McGrath hated the morgue even more than he hated hospitals. Whatever it was about hospital smells, the morgue had its own particular odour that clung to clothes and hair. He paced up and down the courtyard separating the Coroner's office from the entrance to the morgue, puffing furiously on the fifth cigarette of the morning. Outside the gates he could hear the morning rush hour traffic as it blared and honked its way across the quays. McGrath ground his butt under a heel and made his way inside.
The main autopsy room was sixty feet long, thirty-five feet wide and as white as could be kept. There were white tiles from floor to roof, white paint on all woodwork and three white marble autopsy tables, each about ten feet from the other, centred and anchored to the middle of the tiled floor. At the
Elizabeth Anne Duggan had asthma, everyone in the orphanage knew that. They could hear her coming long before they saw her, wheezing and coughing and panting. She was often seen leaning and grunting against a wall, waiting for her breath to return, fumbling among the layers of her black dress for the tablets that gave her relief. And when any of the children saw her take one, they ran to warn the others, for whatever was in those tablets sent her wild. With a seemingly renewed strength she would scour the corridors and dormitories looking for the slightest scuff mark on a wall or a bed not properly made, a locker not closed or tidy. And with shaking and trembling hands she would find someone, anyone to vent her rage upon. More often than not it was Dean Lynch, more often than not it was he who was made to suffer for her drug-induced rage, for it was the stimulant in the tablets that drove her to such extremes as well as relieving her asthma.
But he finally sorted her out.
He decided he'd had enough, he felt he could take no more. More importantly, he'd discovered by accident how to end his misery, how to end the tormenting, the taunting, the false accusations and beatings. And it was so simple. When he discovered how to do it he was astounded at its simplicity.
He stole six small pink tablets that the gardener used for his high blood pressure. He stole them after he'd read the label on the bottle in which they were kept. One to be taken twice daily. Never to be taken by asthma sufferers.
He'd brooded over that warning for weeks before he made his move. And when he'd thought his plan through he felt a quiver of excitement for the first time in his life, an electric tingling of delight as his mind registered the audacity, the sheer danger, of what was to happen. And happen it did, after he switched the tablets.
The shouts along the corridors alerted him to his success. As he followed the older children and staff running towards the noise, the sight of the collapsed and sweating and black-faced Elizabeth Anne Duggan struggling to stand up, struggling to breathe, greeted him. Through the milling crowd that had gathered around wondering how to help, Dean Lynch watched. And smiled. Just before Elizabeth Anne Duggan gave up her last tortured attempt at breathing she looked up to see the twelve-year-old Dean Lynch smiling down at her.
It was a smug, satisfied smile.
It was a job well done.
15
9.55 am
City Morgue, Store Street
Dublin's city morgue was situated on the corner of Store Street and Amiens Street in the north inner city. The building itself was old, part of a complex housing the Garda station in Store Street, the Coroner's office and the morgue itself. The city planners could never have foreseen the dramatic increase in crime that would completely swamp these facilities in later years. The Garda station in Store Street was the busiest in the city, dealing with up to ten thousand arrests each year. The morgue, too, was busier than the planners had originally anticipated.
Much busier.
Jack McGrath hated the morgue even more than he hated hospitals. Whatever it was about hospital smells, the morgue had its own particular odour that clung to clothes and hair. He paced up and down the courtyard separating the Coroner's office from the entrance to the morgue, puffing furiously on the fifth cigarette of the morning. Outside the gates he could hear the morning rush hour traffic as it blared and honked its way across the quays. McGrath ground his butt under a heel and made his way inside.
The main autopsy room was sixty feet long, thirty-five feet wide and as white as could be kept. There were white tiles from floor to roof, white paint on all woodwork and three white marble autopsy tables, each about ten feet from the other, centred and anchored to the middle of the tiled floor. At the
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