Death in Dublin - Peter McGarr 16 Read Free Page B

l i brary matters,” said Pape.
    “We’re the police,” McKeon objected, “not the pu b lic. And that man over there”—he jabbed a fi? nger at the display case—“is dead. Murdered.”
    McGarr touched McKeon’s arm. “Perhaps I might speak to you alone, Doctor—it is Doctor, isn’t it?”
    The man nodded.
    “Dr. Pape. And, really, we should make some room.”
    Tall lights on stanchions were being set up around the display case. With halogen torches, others were searching for evidence on the fl?oor, while another team lifted prints from the cases.
    The pathologist, Dr. Henry—a blowsy woman M c Garr’s own age—was leaning over the case with a kind of loupe held to one eye.
    Pointing the way, McGarr led Pape in one direction, while McKeon took the Kennedy woman in another.
    “What were the security precautions?”
    “I’ve already explained that as well. To the police.”
    McGarr cocked his head; if so, McKeon would have fi?lled him in.
    “To Jack Sheard, your superior.”
    Younger than McGarr by an easy dozen years, Sheard held the same rank, chief superintendent, but had far less seniority. Money laundering, major thefts, and frauds were his area of responsibility.
    “When?”
    “Earlier.”
    “Here?”
    “No—over the phone. Jack’s a graduate, you know.”
    And proud of it, McGarr remembered, Sheard one night having arrived at a Garda banquet wearing a tie emblazoned with the Trinity College crest. Few high-ranking Garda offi?cers had attended university, much less a college with such cachet.
    “Well, Jack is otherwise occupied, and you may have left something out.”
    After a sigh, Pape explained that at night the college posted a guard at each of four gates, with a fi?fth guard patrolling the grounds and buildings. Sloane himself maintained a command post at security headquarters, monitoring a bank of surveillance cameras. “Here in the Treasury and gift shop, surveillance also included voice and movement sensors.
    “Unfortunately, we’ve been one guard shy since the recent death of a member of the security detail, and Sloane was performing both functions.”
    “Death, how?”
    “Motorcar. He was knocked down in the street.”
    “How recent a death?”
    “A fortnight ago.”
    If the gates could be locked and monitored, why had Sloane not taken a guard off a gate for foot patrol? Mc-Garr reasoned. “In other words, when Sloane was on p a trol, there was nobody back at security headquarters.”
    “There you have it.” Pape’s smile was slight and s u perior.
    At least sixty-fi?ve, he was nearly gaunt with a long face and light brown hair that was thin on top but swept back in a gray-streaked mane that hung to his shoulders. His nose was thin, hawkish, and lined with crimson veins; his eyes were blue but ruddy.
    Without question donnish-looking, Pape was wea r ing a muted green-checked jacket over a beige shirt and dun tie.
    “While on patrol, would Mr. Sloane have entered the building?”
    Pape shook his head. “Not unless the sensors or cameras detected something.”
    “What about an alarm system or a silent alarm co n nected to the Garda barracks in Pearse Street?” It was just across from an entrance to the college.
    “It was disabled.”
    McGarr waited.
    Pape raised his head and looked down his nose at McGarr. “I’m afraid we’re the library that cried wolf, Inspector. Every time a student or visitor rattled the door after hours, wanting in, the alarms went off. With students now returning to campus, I imagine Sloane decided to take a hiatus from alarms.”
    “Were there students resident in college last night?”
    Pape shook his head. “During the day, yes. But only this morning were they allowed to move back in.”
    Planning, McGarr thought. The theft had been eng i neered to a fare-thee-well. Then why murder Sloane in such a dramatic way? Why not simply disable him, even with some violence, as they had the other guard?
    “What about here, the library—how do you