CHAPTER TWO
The relationship of tattoos to antisocial personality disorder would seem obvious. However, as we live in politically correct times, nothing can be taken for granted any more. Knee-jerk responses like this one need to be hypothesized and then studied under conditions of clinical accuracy.
Preliminary results seem to confirm what we all thought anyway; forensic psychiatric inpatients are more likely to have tattoos.
No kidding.
They are likely to have a higher percentage of overall body area tattooed. They are also more likely to have histories of sexual and substance abuse and suicide attempts than non-tattooed offenders.
So why do they get more tattoos? What are they trying to do? Externalize? Internalize? Keep themselves safe from demons the rest of us can't see?
Are they just crazy or do they know something the rest of us don't?
The oldest known tattoos date back 5000 years to a male found frozen in the Alps in 1991.
He was very, very dead.
The latest tattoo in human history is the one that is about to be drilled into the stretched out skin on my back.
And me? I'm as good as dead anyway...
The needle pierces my skin at 3000 jabs a minute. What's that per second? 50 times?
My math's not bad.
How likely am I now to take drugs, sexually abuse and engage in suicidal anti-social behavior?
Answer; very, very much indeed.
So why is a 'normal' guy like me getting a tattoo etched onto his back? Well, although I'd rather not talk about it, you're in my head already, so you might as well hear it.
It all started with a murder, like a lot of dumb, sordid human stories do. Some time ago a body was found in the woods to the rear of the quiet Sunnyvale estate in Darklow, Co. Wickford. Known for its taciturn people and industrial history, Darklow is a small, beautiful town, with a population of approximately 12703 at the last census. Sleepy, lost, depressed, and of course, like everywhere else in Ireland these days, increasingly poor and violent.
I live there. Or at least I did until quite recently. The Sunnyvale estate is a gated community in a lush rural setting, just outside Darklow centre and with a beautiful view of the Wickford Mountains.
The body was inside the perimeter of the 'compound', as some residents like to call the estate. Had it been outside, no big deal. But it wasn't. It was inside, in a wooded area just opposite a row of houses. Directly opposite number 17 Sunnyvale Avenue.
An 8 year old boy found the body.
The deceased was naked and covered in tattoos except, it was rumored, for one large section missing from the middle of his upper back and across the shoulder blades. To the relief of everyone, he wasn't a local resident, not one that we could think of anyway. Those kinds of tattoos would have stood out on our little estate even today when so many ordinary Joes feel compelled to decorate themselves like prison inmates.
A meeting of the residents association was convened by founder member Dennis Small. That's me. I invited the local police to attend. Fortunately, our local police sergeant is also a resident of the estate so the meeting was well attended by the Gardai. My fellow citizens were angry and afraid. I was angry too. It was Thursday and normally at this time I would be in my basement restoring antiques.
I was not happy.
"Who was this young man?" Mrs. O'Grady asked.
"We haven't identified him yet." Sergeant Mike Biggs replied.
Mike Biggs had been with the Darklow police station since as long as I could remember and that was a good ten years. I'd never seen him look so nervous. Small town cop with a big crime on his hands. I didn't blame him. I was unsettled too. He lived in Sunnyvale, number 17 Sunnyvale Avenue. The body had been found directly opposite his house. It was his son who had found the body. I felt for him and for his family. Policeman or not he was also a human being and no child should have to ever see something as gruesome as that. He was here in uniform tonight.
"Is it true he was missing a piece of skin?" asked a traumatized Mrs. Dunne.
"I can't confirm or deny that Mrs. Dunne, not until the autopsy report has come in."
"So there was no tattoo missing?" Derek Reilly, hard local resident asked. Mrs. Dunne gasped. "A tattoo? There was a man with tattoos on our estate?" She looked terrified, horrified. I knew how she felt, but of course. If she hadn’t been so short-sighted and befuddled she would have observed that half the people in the room around her sported skin art and she would have passed out on the spot. It can't be easy for more traditional older people like Mrs. Dunne to watch this continual decline in taste and values that goes on year after year.
"As I said Mr. Reilly, I can't confirm or deny. All I can say at this point is that all avenues of investigation are open including that of foul play."
"Including foul play? Did he cut off his own head?" Derek said, he seemed to be more incensed than anyone else in the room and not prepared to let Sgt. Biggs of the hook. If anyone could put Mike under pressure it would be him. There were gasps at this suggestion. Not everyone had heard the rumor. Mrs. Dunne looked very shaky on her feet so I helped her to find a seat and sit down. She was a widow, living alone on the estate. Of course she would be terrified.
"Who told you that? Nothing has been established." Mike Biggs said. "It is by no means confirmed that foul play was involved. I would urge you to keep unsubstantiated rumors like this to yourself."
"I heard about the head too." Peadar Croney said. "And if you want to know where I heard it then just ask me." He had heard it from his own son, a school friend of Mike Biggs shortly before the Sergeant had clamped down on his son's communications. Maybe it was just children exaggerating or maybe not. There were a lot of resources here; the whole of Darklow Garda station, both of the town ambulances and the forensics team from Dublin hadn't even arrived yet. I sat next to Mrs. Dunne with my arm around her.
Sgt. Biggs didn't ask Peadar the question.
"Why would anyone do such a thing?" Mrs. Dunne said in a frail voice.
"Now look what you've done Peadar." Sgt. Biggs hissed. "That has not been confirmed Mrs. Dunne. There is no need to concern yourself for the moment. Just take your usual security precautions, nothing more and stay away from this area. It's a crime scene. Any contamination of evidence and you may be subject to prosecution yourself."
Mike Biggs was a good man. Only in his late 30s but with all the rectitude of a senior pillar of the local community. Today he was being unusually strict and formal, no doubt in view of the serious nature of the event.
"Has there been any unusual criminal activity in the area of late?" I asked.
He gave me an angry look.
"I assure you Dennis, the Gardai know how to do their job. We don't require suggestions from amateur detectives."
It was a bit sharp. I was only trying to stay informed and offer any help if I could. Obviously Mike was under a lot of stress so I decided to leave him alone. After all, he was on our side, a resident of the estate and just as concerned as us. For God's sake, the poor guy would see the crime scene sitting down to eat his breakfast tomorrow morning.
On the other hand, if he wasn't doing his job properly as a result of stress, the Mike Biggs I knew would be happy to be called out on it. I decided the estate as a whole was more important than keeping Mike happy.
"I propose we set up a neighborhood watch patrol immediately." I said.
"Hear, hear." There was a lot of support, particularly from Derek Reilly, Peadar Crony and another tough looking local Dad by the name of Michael Nulty.
Mike Biggs didn't look happy at all.
"Now come here to me Dennis, we already have a residents’ association," he was a member himself, "and the squad car comes through here all the time. Sure what else would a neighborhood patrol do? This poor fellah probably wasn't even killed here."
"So he was killed then." Derek said.
"I didn't say killed."
"Yes you did."
"I did not. Not officially."
"Come off it Mike, this isn't the evening news or your boss in Dublin you're talking too. I'm your neighbor and I live in this estate. Tell us what's going on."
Mike paused and took a deep breath.
"OK. I'm still not saying there was foul play here, but in the case that there was, it would still not indicate that there would be a repeat of the crime or that it represented the beginning of a trend. This would just be a convenient spot for a gang to drop off someone they've hit. Now in this case a neighborhood patrol isn't going to make any difference, is it? The horse is already out of the field, what's the use in closing the gate now?"
So, already we could assume that it was, in fact, a crime. A murder, probably gangland, right here in our safe little estate in the countryside. A patrol, I thought, would at least make everyone feel more secure. Particularly people like Mrs. Dunne.
"Well what harm can a patrol do Mike? Is there a law against it?" I said.
"There is no law against it and you know that, so we can do whatever we want." Derek Reilly said. His attitude wasn't helping. I was glad I had someone fired up, but I wanted Mike on my side as well.
"Obviously we would prefer the Gardai to be involved Mike, but this is short notice. I think we would all like to have something done tonight so we may have to involve you later and just keep you posted for now."
"OK Dennis, you can do what you want, all I'm saying is that this is still a safe neighborhood and you don't want to overreact to an event like this. Even if this was a gang related crime, and I'm not saying it is, there would be no direct threat to the estate itself. It is just unfortunate that this man's body landed here on our doorstep."
"Mike, all I want to do is help out the Gardai. We'll just do a patrol to keep an eye on things and be sure to call you if anything is out of order. There's no question of us trying to intervene or take things into their own hands."
He didn't say anything.
"Show of hands. Everyone in favor of a neighborhood patrol?"
Derek Reilly was first up and gave a menacing stare around the meeting hall, daring any man to keep his hand down.
Nearly all hands went up.
Mike looked even less happy.
I did feel for him, but I also believed that we could be of assistance to him. For God's sake, he had a wife and two young children, it would make them feel more secure to know that we were walking past the house regularly throughout the night, keeping an eye on things. The Gardai can’t be everywhere at once.
"Volunteers for tonight's patrol?" I asked.
About five hard looking local dads put their hands up, and a couple of the more spirited local ladies.
"Now let's be very careful here." Mike's disapproval was making him distinctly nervous. "We don't want any vigilantism in this town. We had a problem with that kind of thing back in the 80s and 90s and we don't want those days to come back again."
I hadn't been aware of the problem back then, at least not in Darklow. Surely in this little town it couldn't have been that bad. Nothing like where I grew up in Dublin. These small town Gardai have no conception of just how extreme things are in big cities.
"It's a neighborhood watch patrol Mike. If there's any problems you'll be the first to know." I meant it, but Mike didn't look convinced.
"Look, Sergeant Biggs," I used his official title to show some respect, "I'm just trying to be civic minded. You know how I feel about these things. If you let something small go, whatever it is, a bit of graffiti, minor vandalism, it's seen as a license...." He cut me off.
"I know all about the broken window theory Dennis. I was in New York to do training on the method for God's sake, so please don't lecture me on criminology and crime prevention. I'm not going to tell you how to do insurance, now am I?"
"This isn't a broken window Mike," I reverted back to his first name, "this is a bloody murder." There were murmurs of assent from the group. I had always been good at motivating groups likes this, even in a country as notoriously difficult to rile people in as Ireland.
"I'm aware of the potential crime Dennis, and I'm telling you now, as the head of the Darklow Garda station, that I would prefer if you didn't go ahead with this. I can't stop you obviously but I won't back you up on this if anything goes wrong."
"What do you think will go wrong?" Peadar asked. Mike ignored the question.
"If you want to wait then we can work something out together, get some training done, set up some good communications, but I am against anyone going out on this estate tonight and potentially damaging evidence. If I see anyone near the crime scene or anywhere near those woods I'll be issuing a warning to them."
"Is there more to this than you're telling us?" Michael asked.
"Ah Jesus of course not. As I said I can't stop you, but I can ask you and I can appeal to your good sense. Please don't do anything until we've talked it all over and until the crime scene and surrounding area has been well tested for evidence, OK?"
He finally left, unhappy, but he had done all he could possibly do. I didn't think anything at all was going to really happen myself but I knew that we needed to be seen to do something. If we didn’t, then before you knew it our estate would be seen as a dumping ground for gangland criminals. If there were regular patrols on the estate then they would look elsewhere.
I turned to the small, nervous assembly of my neighbors. I could see the resolve already fading away. I love my country and I love Irish people, but I know them very well. After a little bit of talk and letting off steam they would all just go back home and grumble about things in front of the telly or with their mates down in the pub. The usual. Complain, complain, complain and then do nothing. I needed to act fast.
"We all know Sgt. Biggs is a good honest Garda and a great member of the Sunnyvale community, right?" There were nods of agreement. "Now I grew up in inner city Dublin, in the 1990s and when I was a kid the neighborhood I lived in was just as peaceful, tidy and clean as this estate is today. One day a group of kids vandalized the signs on the entrance to our estate and we did nothing. By the time I was a teenager my parents were afraid to leave their house after 6pm. It was a like a prison for working people. Once the local kids knew they could get away with vandalism then they were always looking to up the ante. Before long the drug dealers moved in. Still no-one did anything and it was already a lot harder to change things by then. After that there were crime bosses living in the area and it was too late to do anything. Men were being shot on their doorsteps in front of their own children. People were openly beaten as punishment on the streets. Forget about being afraid to go out after 6pm, people were afraid to be out on the streets at all."
Poor Mrs. Dunne looked as though she would pass out again.
"So what are we supposed to do now? Go out and fight some bloody psycho murderer in the woods at night?" Peadar said.
I respectfully ignored him and continued on.
"There was another estate right next to ours and when the first bit of graffiti went up they immediately went out and cleaned it up. Local parents came together and set up a neighborhood watch patrol. The next time kids went to vandalize something they were immediately intercepted and a few words was all it took. When the drug dealers began to move in they could see that this neighborhood would be harder than the one next door, so they steered clear of it. People were happy to live there so no houses were up for sale or vacant on the local county council books. Drug lords couldn't move in if they wanted to. And sure how could they anyway? Their soldiers would have been confronted on the streets and asked to take their business elsewhere. Let me tell you there was never any violence or burglary on that estate. On mine? A daily occurrence. By the time the locals got together to fight back they had a war on their hands that they just couldn't win. I haven't been back there in years. Everybody I knew either moved out or got locked up and now the police don't even bother going in there anymore"
I paused to let my words sink in.
"So who's ready to go out on patrol tonight?" A tiny sea of hands went up.
When I got back home I began to regret already the success of convincing my fellow neighbors. Now I would have to explain myself to Marianne, my partner of nearly 20 years and the very centre of my world. Together with my two children of course. I knew she wouldn't be thrilled. We lived in small semi-detached with a nice view of the Wickford hills. Our house isn't huge, but it's enough for us. What's more important is that we have good neighbors, a clean estate and our children's' friends are not tiny, menacing, tattoo covered tracksuit warriors with an early start on a career in drug dealing.
The tattoo thing was another slippery slope issue with me. My kids could choose to be anything they wanted to be, as long as it was legal. I understand that in Ireland there will be a bit of excessive drinking in the teen years and Irish parents are fools if they think they can eliminate this, but tattoos? I drew the line there. Thankfully none of the children on the estate had any yet even if some of the dads and mums were not setting a good example.
Marianne was upstairs when I announced as casually as I could; "I'm just heading out to do a walk-around of the estate with James Keogh sweetheart. Won't be long." The moment of silence before her response spoke volumes. She chose to wait, then walk all the way downstairs looking at me with her beautiful, wise and disapproving eyes.
No eyes in the world could look at me like those. I squirmed.
"Dennis. Please." She came all the way over and looked up at me. She took both my hands in hers. I tried not to look directly into her eyes. She would only win, she always did. I knew she was the strong one, but damn it, she always had to go and prove that she was the wise one as well.
"It's just a walk around sweetheart ... just to make the older people feel safe."
"Do you know your son wanted to speak to you tonight?"
Damn it. She always had something.
"He can speak to me any time He knows that."
"Does he?"
She was right. Something had changed between me and him of late. We used to be like best friends. Now he treated me like a loathsome old tyrant.
"I'll speak to him first thing tomorrow."
"How about first thing right now. Before you go out."
"Jesus Marianne, we've all agreed already and I'm the bloody organizer. If I'm late how will that look?"
She said nothing but I knew she was furious.
It won't take long. I'll talk to him as soon as I get back."
"You better. He's still very far from being over it."
One of his friends, a kid he looked up to had gone missing a couple of weeks back. There was no indication of what had happened to him. Just left to catch the bus one night and never showed up at home. You couldn’t even know if you were to grieve or not.
"Who was this kid anyway? How come we never heard about him before?"
"Maybe that's what he wants to talk to you about?"
"OK, look, as soon as I get back. It won't take more than 30 minutes, 40 at the outside."
"OK, whatever. Just be careful."
I nodded.
"And don't forget your son."
She could make me feel like a schoolboy again in seconds, even after all these years. She took me face in her hands, pulled my head down towards her and then kissed my forehead. "I mean it." She said. "You don't need to be everybody's hero."
"I know." I still couldn't risk looking at her.
"You just need to be our hero, OK? Not the whole world's."
James and I did the first patrol, circling the estate with another pair who circled in the opposite direction; Mrs. MacDonald and Ken O'Donnell. Both pairs skirted past the woods where the body had been found and where Gardai from the technical division were still gathering evidence. We were very careful not to get too close. Other than a sudden downpour of rain lasting ten minutes or so where we all had to duck for cover, there was nothing to report.
The late shift was taken by Peadar Crony and Michael Nulty with Wilbur O'Shea and Derek Riley going the other way. All tough looking local dads, permanently in trainers and football jerseys, each, unfortunately with the odd tattoo here and there, but not as yet, passed onto their children. Couch potatoes in reality but hard enough looking and up for the task. Derek Reilly was the exception. He looked like a typical Sunnyvale Dad but he had no kids and was usually a bit better dressed. In reality he was by far the hardest, or better put, he was the only hard one at all. He used to be a bouncer in Dublin before he opened his own nightclub. As an owner he was even harder. It was rumored that he had gotten into trouble with the wrong people; organized crime and terrorism if you were to believe everything you heard. He sold up for millions at the height of the boom when things got too hot for him. Now he was retired and leading the quiet life of a country gent. His background didn't matter to me. I absolutely believe that everyone deserves at least one second chance.
As we changed shifts he leaned in close to me and growled out these words; "I didn't move out here to have this kind of shite happen on my doorstep. I'll fucking ruin anyone I see trespassing in here." It was reassuring, even if not exactly the kind of language I would use myself. I hate bad language. That and tattoos. But Derek had been a kind of unofficial police man in the estate for years. More so even than Sergeant Biggs. Kids and adults alike instinctively listened to him. He was a good man to have around for this kind of thing, a bit of muscle on our patrol. One thing I hated passionately about him though. The nasty looking spider web tattoo on his neck. It was a web with an eye in the middle of it, like an Egyptian hieroglyph. If he was so eager to distance himself from his criminal past and live a quiet middle-class life couldn't he just spend the few Euros to get that horrible eyesore removed?
Apparently not.
Old habits die hard I suppose. But still, he definitely would add a bit of backbone to our otherwise spineless community watch. As long as he didn't beat up some innocent drunken teenager by mistake.
When I got home the house was quiet except for the sound of Suzy, my fifteen year old daughter practicing her piano lessons in the living-room. We don't watch much TV or use that room together much so after about 8pm it was all hers. She would practice there all night if we let her. That's why I took out a loan to get her a decent piano to practice on. She was entering competitions already, even beginning to get some prizes. The local credit union gave me €9000 to buy a beautiful second hand Bechstein Model 8 upright piano. The loan was spread over eight years with still seven and a half to go. It would mean holidaying in Ireland again, or maybe even holidaying at home in Sunnyvale if my commissions turned out to be low again. But still worth every penny, even if she only had an outside chance. I would put myself in debt forever if it meant my kids could get ahead and have a chance of living their dreams.
"Hey sweetheart, don't practice too late, OK?" She was so focused she didn't hear me open the door, never looked around. I thought about kissing her goodnight but she was so into her practice, so dedicated. I softly closed the door and went to bed.
I went to bed.
Idiot.
When my mobile rang at 4.30am I didn't know where I was. I shook my head, tired to focus.
"Hello?"
I could still hear Suzy practicing downstairs. She was playing Beethoven's Piano Sonata number 9 from opus 14, one of her favorites. She had chosen it herself when she first started learning to play. She didn't know it was her grandmother's favorite sonata as well even though the two had never met. My mother loved classical music and passed it on to me. Some people complain about the broadcasting charge but I don't know what I'd do without state radio. The dial is always on Lyric FM in our house.
"...found Peadar and Michael tied to a tree, battered, and you're fucking next mate."
My stomach twisted into a hard knot.
"Who is this? What's going on?"
"You fucking heard me you twat and you fucking know who this is. Your stupid fucking harebrained patrol is over." He shouted the words into my ear.
"Derek? What's going on?"
Local hard man Derek Reilly ended the call without an answer. I was still just trying to get my eyes used to the dark, Suzy was still softly playing piano downstairs. I knew Derek Reilly was a tough guy but he had never threatened another resident and I considered myself to be on good terms with him.
"What's wrong baby?" Marianne was awake now, bleary eyed and confused.
"Derek Reilly has just threatened to batter me."
She sat bolt upright in bed.
"What? Really? I don't understand baby, what's going on?"
I didn't really want to tell her, but things always turned out better if I did.
"Something about more assaults on the estate and he seems to be blaming me."
She didn't say a word. She didn't have to. 'I told you so' was written all over her silhouette in the silver half light of the moon.