CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
I confronted Maguire as he left the courthouse.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I don’t know how many times I have to tell you, but I really am sorry.”
Maguire stopped but then tried to walk around me without saying anything.
“Christ,” I said after him. “Look, I know it was wrong. I know I almost screwed up the entire police operation. But Jesus you got the guy and the judge just gave him life so he’s going to rot in jail until he dies. Maybe even get killed himself inside.”
Maguire spun around and faced me. He took two steps forward so we were just a pace apart.
“In the past month Tighe I have not given you a single thought,” he spat. “Not a single minute of consideration. You didn’t deserve my time. Now after all the shit that has gone on with my friend and partner being killed, and I hold you to blame in part for that, and a young girl almost butchered, not to mention the ghastly murder of the other women, you seem to think it’s alright to just sidle up to me and say you’re sorry. That everything will then be fine.”
“I know….” I began.
“Well, let me spell it out for you. Clearly. So that even a fucking reporter can understand it. It is not all alright. It is all fucked up. You fucked up. I fucked up.”
“Bartholemew is behind bars.”
“Right. He is. But it’s no thanks to you. Your contribution very nearly led to his getting away and being free to maim and kill again and again.”
He turned to walk away from me once more.
“Did he say anything to you?” I called after him. “Did Bartholemew tell you anything?”
I did not hear clearly what Maguire said as he continued walking away from me, but it sounded like he was seeking saviour from journalists and politicians.
*
He did not mind being left alone in the cell.
The solitude was welcome.
Gave him a little time to think before they came for him.
He had already had a lot of time to think and he knew that never again would he be allowed the freedom to do anything but think.
But like all great men he was on top of everything else a thinker.
He had already demonstrated that.
At least five times.
Those five at the very least recognised him as a thinker.
He recalled two literary sayings he had once read.
It was Shakespeare who wrote: “For murder, though it have no tongue, will speak with most miraculous organ.”
As for death itself he was certain a second writer whose name he could not remember was personally prophetic: “I have a rendezvous with death at some disputed barricade.”
Mmmmhhhhggg.