The Doom Murders is the first novel in The Inspector Sheehan Mysteries series. It's a straightforward mystery set in Belfast and has received 40 4/5 star reviews on Amazon.com. It is aimed at adults but has no content that would be particularly upsetting...I think!
Detective Chief Inspector Jim Sheehan studied the mutilated corpse. “Something about the body doesn’t seem right,” he muttered.
Detective Sergeant Kevin Doyle looked at him askance. His inscrutable face almost registered surprise. “It’s naked, sir!” he said. “The tongue is pulled some three inches out of its mouth. It’s lying sprawled on the floor on its back. It’s got knife wounds all over the place. Why wouldn’t it look not right?”
The chief inspector stared again at the dead body of the Most Reverend Charles Loughran, until today Bishop of the Diocese of Down and Connor. His sergeant was right, of course. This was a brutal murder. The wounds had been inflicted with considerable ferocity but, while there was plenty of blood, it was clear that the victim’s clothes had been removed post-mortem. The bloodied garments were lying in an untidy heap against a far wall, slung there as if to distance them as far as possible from the body. But how did the bishop finish up lying on the floor on his back, his right knee bent, twisted almost, and tucked under his left leg, his handsnstretched backwards above his head? Did he simply fall like that after the killer had undressed him or had he been posed like that? And the tongue? How did that happen?
Dr. Richard Campbell, Deputy State Forensic Pathologist, a stout man, balding, was kneeling by the body. He had rolled it half-over to examine the back and sides, feeling around the back of the head for bruising or lacerations. Returning the body to its original position, he struggled to his feet, almost losing his balance. He righted himself, breathing rather more heavily than he should. He flicked a glance at Sheehan’s trim, efficient shape as he peeled off his latex gloves and said, somewhat testily, “I really am going to have to start going to the gym.”
The corners of Sheehan’s lips twitched but he simply said, “Well, what’s the story?”
“I won’t be sure until I see the body back in the mortuary but I’d say the knife wounds did it.”
“Y’ think!” It wasn’t a question.
“Come now, Jim. I’ve learned a long time ago not to jump at the obvious. But this time, yes, I think!”
“Any other injuries? Signs of a struggle?”
“None that I can see. The infra-red photos might show some latent bruising but I can’t see anything at the moment.”
“No trauma to the head anywhere?”
“No.”
“He’s a big man. Gave in without much of a struggle, did he not? How did the killer overcome him so easily?”
“Hard to say right now …”
“Ah, come on, Dick. You can hazard some sort of a guess. It’ll be at least a couple of weeks before I see your report.”
“Well, don’t hold me to anything, the autopsy could change things entirely, but I’d say the first blow from the knife probably came as a surprise. If it didn’t kill him right away, it certainly would have immobilised him.”
“Pretty lucky, what? I mean, the heart is well protected by the sternum and the ribs, isn’t it?”
The doctor nodded but said, “Might have been more than luck. There’s a severe wound in the middle.” He pointed. “There, just at the top of the abdomen. Looks like it might have done the trick. If the blade was aimed at just the right angle, it could have hit the heart immediately. If you knew what you were doing, it wouldn’t be that difficult.”
“Medical knowledge?”
“Maybe, or combat training, perhaps.”
“Time of death?”
The pathologist consulted his pencilled notes. “Liver temperature relative to room temperature, rigor mortis well started, one and a half degrees an hour …” He muttered some figures, brows furrowed as he did some mental calculations, and said, “I might have to change my mind about this but I’d guess roughly between ten pm yesterday and four o’clock this morning.” He clicked shut his brief case and looked at his watch. “Nearly ten o’clock and I haven’t opened the office yet. I’m outta here.”
“What about the tongue? How did it get like that?”
“Oh, it was obviously pulled out deliberately. Judging by the bruises I’d guess a pair of pliers.”
“Why?” The pathologist shrugged. “Absolutely no idea.”
“Okay! I might call in to see you in a day or so.”
“Ah, come on, Jim. I’m already up to my eyes. Any suspicious deaths near the Royal always have me doing a Force Medical Officer’s work as well as my own. Gimme a few days.”
“I know, Dick, but this was a bishop.”
“All right, all right.” He spent a moment in thought. “This is Thursday. Call in to the mortuary at the Royal Victoria sometime next week. I might have something.”
As he left the room, Sheehan called after him, “Thanks, Dick.” He turned his eyes once more to the crime scene, focusing particularly on the crime scene unit, dressed in tyvek white hooded coveralls and facemasks, as were he and Doyle. Some officers were dusting doors and windows for fingerprints, some crawling on the floor searching for fibres or any small item that might later prove significant. He spoke to one of the officers on the floor. “Anything?”
The man shook his head, “Nothing, sir.”
“Nothing?” Sheehan said.
The man shrugged. “Apart from the blood spatter, sir, clean as a whistle. Even the ordinary stuff you’d expect to be lying around; nothing.”
Sheehan turned to the man dusting the edges of the door. “Fingerprints?”
Again a laconic shrug. “Some, but they’re not fresh. I’d guess the victim’s, maybe some staff.”
“Bloody hell!” He turned to the photographer who had been flashing for several minutes. “All right, that’ll do.” He glanced at his sergeant who was standing above the body. Doyle was a large man, early fifties, a confirmed bachelor like himself. Normally dressed in a dark sports jacket, he looked huge and awkward in thenvoluminous biohazard coveralls. Awkward? Strange how misleading impressions can be. Nobody was more effective or more reliable in a tight corner than Doyle. But right now he was being neither effective nor reliable. He was just standing there, staring down at the corpse. “What are you doing, Doyle?” he called to the sergeant.
Doyle seemed nonplussed. “Uh … saying a wee prayer for his immortal soul.”
Sheehan felt a stab of guilt. Concern for the victim’s eternal destination had not brushed, even remotely, against the fringes of his own mind. Doyle, of course, was probably still thinking about his father. He had asked for a week off a couple of months before to bury him. Somewhere abroad. His parents had moved abroad after they retired. But where? Who knew? Somewhere in Europe, probably. Doyle was not profligate with information. Sheehan dismissed his feelings of guilt and said, “Aye, right. There’s time enough for his immortal soul.Right now we have to try and find out what’s happened to his mortal body. Go and find a sheet somewhere and cover him up. That’s no way for a bishop to be lying.”
He stared around the crime scene. He was in a large, well-appointed sitting room, or study perhaps, leather armchairs, bookshelves from floor to ceiling, a heavy, polished oak desk facing away from the window, a fireplace with the embers of the previous evening’s fire still warm. A large crucifix hung on the wall over the fireplace. Sheehan’s eyes rested on it before flicking guiltily away. His Catholicism, unlike Doyle’s, had lapsed some years before but he still had trouble confronting the images of his childhood faith.His eyes ranged the room once more. Everything seemed normal, in place. Nothing to indicate a struggle. No forensics. No weapon. This perp seems to know what he’s doing. His eyes strayed back to the body. “Who would want to kill a bishop?” he muttered.
Doyle had just re-entered the room with a sheet from the forensics van. “An atheist?”
Sheehan gave him a withering glance. “Aye, right. How did the perp get in?”
“Don’t know,” Doyle said. “Doors all locked. Windows securely fastened. No sign of a break-in. Maybe the victim knew the killer and let him in?”
Sheehan didn’t respond. He was looking at the CSI officer who was fingerprinting the desk. The man was focused on something at the side of the desk, staring at it, rubbing it gently with his thumb. Sheehan strode over to him. “Found something?”
The officer made a ‘maybe-maybe not’ waggle with his right hand and pointed to some small scratches on the side of the desk. “There’s a letter and some numbers here. They feel fresh, scraped in with a pin, or something with a sharp point.”
Sheehan, and Doyle who had followed his boss, peered over the investigator’s shoulder. Sheehan said, “Can you make them out?”
“Yes, sir,” the officer replied. “It’s a capital E followed by some numbers … 3 … 4 ... 1 … 0.”
“Have you any idea what they mean?” Sheehan asked.
“Not a clue. Probably nothing.”
“Maybe it’s an auctioneer’s lot number,” Doyle suggested.
“Bit vandalistic that, on that lovely desk,” Sheehan mused. “They usually put wee stickers on their lots.” He exhaled a frustrated breath. “Photograph the numbers anyway. And Sergeant, just to be sure, check out where the desk came from.”
The CSI officer stood up and began packing up his gear. The other members of the unit were doing the same.
“You guys finished?” Sheehan said.
The officers nodded.
“Okay, Doyle,” Sheehan said. “Have the body removed.” He began to struggle out of his own coveralls,having trouble, as always, with the zip. “Hate these bloody things,” he muttered. He handed the coveralls to Doyle who had just divested himself of his own. “Here! Get rid of these.” He looked at his watch. “After ten. Most of the staff will be in by now, I expect. Round them up. Maybe one of them can throw some light on this. I’ll start with the woman who found the body.”
The Doom Murders
ONE
Detective Chief Inspector Jim Sheehan studied the mutilated corpse. “Something about the body doesn’t seem right,” he muttered.
Detective Sergeant Kevin Doyle looked at him askance. His inscrutable face almost registered surprise. “It’s naked, sir!” he said. “The tongue is pulled some three inches out of its mouth. It’s lying sprawled on the floor on its back. It’s got knife wounds all over the place. Why wouldn’t it look not right?”
The chief inspector stared again at the dead body of the Most Reverend Charles Loughran, until today Bishop of the Diocese of Down and Connor. His sergeant was right, of course. This was a brutal murder. The wounds had been inflicted with considerable ferocity but, while there was plenty of blood, it was clear that the victim’s clothes had been removed post-mortem. The bloodied garments were lying in an untidy heap against a far wall, slung there as if to distance them as far as possible from the body. But how did the bishop finish up lying on the floor on his back, his right knee bent, twisted almost, and tucked under his left leg, his handsnstretched backwards above his head? Did he simply fall like that after the killer had undressed him or had he been posed like that? And the tongue? How did that happen?
Dr. Richard Campbell, Deputy State Forensic Pathologist, a stout man, balding, was kneeling by the body. He had rolled it half-over to examine the back and sides, feeling around the back of the head for bruising or lacerations. Returning the body to its original position, he struggled to his feet, almost losing his balance. He
righted himself, breathing rather more heavily than he should. He flicked a glance at Sheehan’s trim, efficient shape as he peeled off his latex gloves and said, somewhat testily, “I really am going to have to start going to the gym.”
The corners of Sheehan’s lips twitched but he simply said, “Well, what’s the story?”
“I won’t be sure until I see the body back in the mortuary but I’d say the knife wounds did it.”
“Y’ think!” It wasn’t a question.
“Come now, Jim. I’ve learned a long time ago not to jump at the obvious. But this time, yes, I think!”
“Any other injuries? Signs of a struggle?”
“None that I can see. The infra-red photos might show some latent bruising but I can’t see anything at the moment.”
“No trauma to the head anywhere?”
“No.”
“He’s a big man. Gave in without much of a struggle, did he not? How did the killer overcome him so easily?”
“Hard to say right now …”
“Ah, come on, Dick. You can hazard some sort of a guess. It’ll be at least a couple of weeks before I see your report.”
“Well, don’t hold me to anything, the autopsy could change things entirely, but I’d say the first blow from the knife probably came as a surprise. If it didn’t kill him right away, it certainly would have immobilised him.”
“Pretty lucky, what? I mean, the heart is well protected by the sternum and the ribs, isn’t it?”
The doctor nodded but said, “Might have been more than luck. There’s a severe wound in the middle.” He pointed. “There, just at the top of the abdomen. Looks like it might have done the trick. If the blade was aimed at just the right angle, it could have hit the heart immediately. If you knew what you were doing, it wouldn’t be that difficult.”
“Medical knowledge?”
“Maybe, or combat training, perhaps.”
“Time of death?”
The pathologist consulted his pencilled notes. “Liver temperature relative to room temperature, rigor mortis well started, one and a half degrees an hour …” He muttered some figures, brows furrowed as he did some mental calculations, and said, “I might have to change my mind about this but I’d guess roughly between ten pm yesterday and four o’clock this morning.” He clicked shut his brief case and looked at his watch. “Nearly ten o’clock and I haven’t opened the office yet. I’m outta here.”
“What about the tongue? How did it get like that?”
“Oh, it was obviously pulled out deliberately. Judging by the bruises I’d guess a pair of pliers.”
“Why?”
The pathologist shrugged. “Absolutely no idea.”
“Okay! I might call in to see you in a day or so.”
“Ah, come on, Jim. I’m already up to my eyes. Any suspicious deaths near the Royal always have me doing a Force Medical Officer’s work as well as my own. Gimme a few days.”
“I know, Dick, but this was a bishop.”
“All right, all right.” He spent a moment in thought. “This is Thursday. Call in to the mortuary at the Royal Victoria sometime next week. I might have something.”
As he left the room, Sheehan called after him, “Thanks, Dick.” He turned his eyes once more to the crime scene, focusing particularly on the crime scene unit, dressed in tyvek white hooded coveralls and facemasks, as were he and Doyle. Some officers were dusting doors and windows for fingerprints, some crawling on the floor searching for fibres or any small item that might later prove significant. He spoke to one of the officers on the floor. “Anything?”
The man shook his head, “Nothing, sir.”
“Nothing?” Sheehan said.
The man shrugged. “Apart from the blood spatter, sir, clean as a whistle. Even the ordinary stuff you’d expect to be lying around; nothing.”
Sheehan turned to the man dusting the edges of the door. “Fingerprints?”
Again a laconic shrug. “Some, but they’re not fresh. I’d guess the victim’s, maybe some staff.”
“Bloody hell!” He turned to the photographer who had been flashing for several minutes. “All right, that’ll do.” He glanced at his sergeant who was standing above the body. Doyle was a large man, early fifties, a confirmed bachelor like himself. Normally dressed in a dark sports jacket, he looked huge and awkward in thenvoluminous biohazard coveralls. Awkward? Strange how misleading impressions can be. Nobody was more effective or more reliable in a tight corner than Doyle. But right now he was being neither effective nor reliable. He was just standing there, staring down at the corpse. “What are you doing, Doyle?” he called to the sergeant.
Doyle seemed nonplussed. “Uh … saying a wee prayer for his immortal soul.”
Sheehan felt a stab of guilt. Concern for the victim’s eternal destination had not brushed, even remotely, against the fringes of his own mind. Doyle, of course, was probably still thinking about his father. He had asked for a week off a couple of months before to bury him. Somewhere abroad. His parents had moved abroad after they retired. But where? Who knew? Somewhere in Europe, probably. Doyle was not profligate with information. Sheehan dismissed his feelings of guilt and said, “Aye, right. There’s time enough for his immortal soul.Right now we have to try and find out what’s happened to his mortal body. Go and find a sheet somewhere and cover him up. That’s no way for a bishop to be lying.”
He stared around the crime scene. He was in a large, well-appointed sitting room, or study perhaps, leather armchairs, bookshelves from floor to ceiling, a heavy, polished oak desk facing away from the window, a fireplace with the embers of the previous evening’s fire still warm. A large crucifix hung on the wall over the fireplace. Sheehan’s eyes rested on it before flicking guiltily away. His Catholicism, unlike Doyle’s, had lapsed some years before but he still had trouble confronting the images of his childhood faith.His eyes ranged the room once more. Everything seemed normal, in place. Nothing to indicate a struggle. No forensics. No weapon. This perp seems to know what he’s doing. His eyes strayed back to the body. “Who would want to kill a bishop?” he muttered.
Doyle had just re-entered the room with a sheet from the forensics van. “An atheist?”
Sheehan gave him a withering glance. “Aye, right. How did the perp get in?”
“Don’t know,” Doyle said. “Doors all locked. Windows securely fastened. No sign of a break-in. Maybe the victim knew the killer and let him in?”
Sheehan didn’t respond. He was looking at the CSI officer who was fingerprinting the desk. The man was focused on something at the side of the desk, staring at it, rubbing it gently with his thumb. Sheehan strode over to him. “Found something?”
The officer made a ‘maybe-maybe not’ waggle with his right hand and pointed to some small scratches on the side of the desk. “There’s a letter and some numbers here. They feel fresh, scraped in with a pin, or something with a sharp point.”
Sheehan, and Doyle who had followed his boss, peered over the investigator’s shoulder. Sheehan said, “Can you make them out?”
“Yes, sir,” the officer replied. “It’s a capital E followed by some numbers … 3 … 4 ... 1 … 0.”
“Have you any idea what they mean?” Sheehan asked.
“Not a clue. Probably nothing.”
“Maybe it’s an auctioneer’s lot number,” Doyle suggested.
“Bit vandalistic that, on that lovely desk,” Sheehan mused. “They usually put wee stickers on their lots.” He exhaled a frustrated breath. “Photograph the numbers anyway. And Sergeant, just to be sure, check out where the desk came from.”
The CSI officer stood up and began packing up his gear. The other members of the unit were doing the same.
“You guys finished?” Sheehan said.
The officers nodded.
“Okay, Doyle,” Sheehan said. “Have the body removed.” He began to struggle out of his own coveralls,having trouble, as always, with the zip. “Hate these bloody things,” he muttered. He handed the coveralls to Doyle who had just divested himself of his own. “Here! Get rid of these.” He looked at his watch. “After ten. Most of the staff will be in by now, I expect. Round them up. Maybe one of them can throw some light on this. I’ll start with the woman who found the body.”