Tina's Story -Chapter 99 -Dead Man Writing- A Gray Muzzle story
Tina's Story Chapter 99- Dead Man Writing -A Gray Muzzle story
Author's note: The remaining stories have dwindled to a precious few now. What better way to consider those few remaining moments, than to share them with a dead man....or a very soon to be dead man. So, here we are. A room, a man, contemplating his final moments on earth.
The burly hybrid sat down at a large, rough hewn table. It was a modest room, clean, but sparse. There was little in the way of furniture, save the heavy old rough table, and the benches that went with it. The room was dark, other than a single bare light bulb that hung from the ceiling. Sitting at the table, he took a yellow lined tablet, and began to write:
Dearest Missy, Dearest Lovey,
This is the most difficult letter of my life. Fitting somehow, since it's also my last. How do I say everything I could have said, should have said in my life? The sad reality is that I can't. So, in the end, all I can offer is these few final words.
I'm sorry. There. 'Tis been said. I wronged you both, and for that I take the deepest of regrets to my grave. I was never a father to my children, and for that I'll face the judgement of God Almighty in short order. If you can, in time, find it in your hearts to offer my memory some measure of charity, I will be eternally grateful. And Missy, if you can share memories of a better person in better times that would help. In the end, I have failed you, and for that there is a price, one that I will pay momentarily.
I understand that words alone can offer ill comfort for all the harm I've occasioned. So, I offer this. I've left my humble estate, such as it is, for you to manage for the children. It's all I have, but I leave it gladly to them, a final gift from their father, who offered them precious little in life.
It's time now, I have an appointment to keep that I shant delay or postpone.
Do not cry for me
Or speak my name in sadness
But laugh,
And speak of me as if I were still here.
I loved you so,
Twas Heaven here with you.
Love Always,
ONE IRELAND!
Sean
As he lay the pen on the table, large tears fell on the completed page. Pushing the pad aside, he picked up a satellite telephone. With great deliberation, he dialed a number.
"Constable? Never mind who this is. There's someone you've been dying to meet at the Mulrooney farm, at the end of Grisham Road."
With that, he ended the call. Scarcely waiting, he stepped up on the bench, then to the table. It seemed to be a struggle, this simple task. Standing atop the table, he grasped a rope hanging from a beam. He then placed the pre tied noose around his neck, and pulled it snug. Eyes open, staring straight ahead, he took a step off the edge of the table. The rope recoiled it's slack with a mighty tug, and his large lifeless body swung eerily in the now silent farmhouse.
Within the half hour, the farmhouse was wound in yellow crime scene tape. There were several police cars, paramedics, and the coroners van.
"Poor Bastard" the coroner observed to no one in particular "What a sad, lonely way to go. How did you find him?"
"A phone call" Constable O'Malley replied "His own, I'm guessing."
With that, the paramedic lowered the body, after the rope was cut. As a crime scene, the rope was to be preserved as evidence.
"Suicide?" O'Malley asked.
"Looks that way. Can't see how it would be anything else. See those blood vessels in the eyes? Brachial hemmoraging. Comes with asphyxiation. 'Course, it's not asphyxiation that kills 'em, it's the broken neck. Could have removed that rope seconds later, he'd still be dead."
With that, the medics took the body and placed it in a black vinyl bag, zipping it securely before placing it on the gurney for transport. In a short time, the body had departed for the local funeral parlor that served as the town's morgue. The evidence- the phone, the pad and note, the pen..were all bagged and tagged.
"That about it?" the Coroner asked.
"Guess so. Still......"
"What, O'Malley? Speak your mind. I've never known you to mince words"
O'Malley rubbed his chin.
"It's just.....I don't know. Something....I can't put my finger on it. There's more here than it seems."
The two turned to leave. Crossing the dining room to leave, the Coroner's shoe caught a floorboard, causing him to trip.
"JESUS, MARY JOSEPH!" the Coroner cursed, holding his knee. O'Malley knelt to help, when something caught his eye.
"Don't offer a hand, Constable!" the Coroner complained.
"SHHH! Look at this, Doc!"
With that, he looked closely at the board that stuck up.
"See that? Old board."
"Like all the others"
"Ah, yes. But new nail. The others, hand hewn. These, machine made. "
"So, he fixed it with new nails...."
"But he DIDN'T fix it...."
Giving the board a firm tug, it pulled free.
"Jesus, Mary Joseph......."
"You can say that again, Doc......
There, laying beneath the floorboards was cash. Neat bundles of cash. Dollars. Pounds. Euros. Dinar. Yen. More cash than either had ever seen.
It was morning before the Constable made it back to his office. They had worked all night, tearing up floorboards, and gathering up the cash underneath. Scotland Yard had been called in, and Interpol. By the time they had found the last, it was long since a new day. The officer slumped in his chair when the phone rang.
"Be starting the autopsy soon. Thought you might like to be there."
"How's that knee?" he asked.
"Holding me up. I'll live. You coming?"
"I'll be right over."
By the time he arrived at the funeral home, the Coroner was ready to get to work. O'Malley donned a gown gloves and mask, and watched.
The Doctor began his report;
This is the autopsy of one Sean Shamus O'Reilly fifty five years of age, hybrid Irish Setter, suspect suicide. Body and extremities all normal and intact. He presents as a normal, well nourished adult male.....'
O Malley watched intently. The coroner pointed out certain things.
"Look at thse finger pads. They're mutilated."
"Accident?"
"Accident on purpose. I've seen this before, on people attempting to obliterate pad prints."
The Coroner noted the bruised neck, the eye hemmorage, the separation of the spinal cord. He then shaved and prepped the torso to open the chest cavity. The chest was shaved, and a saw used to open the breast bone. Methodically, he removed and observed organs. The doctor stopped.
"Now, that's not what I expected." He stated, poking around.
"What?"
"Metastatic lung disease" he explained.
"Speak plain, for my sake!"
"Lung Cancer. Spread to other organs. Couldn't have had much time left."
"Did...he know?"
"Had to. If he didn't know it was lung cancer, he certainly knew he was very ill."
"How bad?"
"Bad. I'm guessing he knew. And knew it was going to be a lot worse, very soon. You see it, you know."
"No, what, Doc?"
"Terminal suicides. One last act. Taking control of their lives. While they can."
"So, cause of death?"
"Suicide, by hanging. Secondary? Metastatic Lung Cancer, terminal phase."
A few days later, Constable O'Malley had gotten word that O'Reilly's body had been claimed. A local woman, of no particular interest had claimed the body for burial. A sister, she said. He had asked to be kept advised of funeral arrangements when they were made. The morning of the service, O'Malley drove to the rural church. Upon his arrival, he was surprised to see the small church packed.
"Odd", thought O'Malley, "This man that no one even knew packs a rural church. At the service, the Priest talked of O'reily's bravery, of his service in the war. When the casket was taken to the small church cemetery, he noticed them. Men, dressed in black, standing at attention, military fashion, saluting the casket, as if a fallen comrade. Then he understood. The troubles. Today, people tried to forget, but old memories die hard. As a young officer, O'Malley had seen these 'honor guards' before. O'Reilly was an I.R.A. soldier.
Days passed, and every day matters resumed the constable's attention. Mid morning, two strangers came calling. They were from the American FBI. They wanted to talk about Sean O'Reilly. The agents introduced themselves, and began to ask questions. O'Malley did his best to comply. But the questions continued. As he got up to make tea, the agents followed, with more questions. Finally, O'Reilly, an old brawler himself, spun and pinned one of the Americans, holding him to the wall by his necktie....
"Now listen! You little Yank Pissant! I don't give a rat's arse for you or your government's problems! Now, I've tried to be a good host; now YOU get to be a good guest, and give your host something. Ireland has no agreements with your country....so, if you want information, share...NOW!
With that, O'Malley dropped the agent, who fell to the floor. Catching his breath, his attitude changed.
"Can I ...sit?"
O'Malley pointed at a chair.
"There is someone that the United States has a great interest in. Known to us as 'The Hyena', from telexes we intercepted, "The Hyena' was the largest dealer of arms on the world stage."
"Sounds like a bad actor. But what does this have to do with me? And a small village suicide?"
The agent paused.
"We believe your Sean Shamus O'Reilly is 'The Hyena"