One thing was warm and solid: something on my shoulder, holding me in place, holding my feet down on the ground. I almost threw it off before I understood that it was Richie’s hand. “Detective Kennedy,” his voice said mildly, in my ear. “This fella’s definite that there was nothing going on between him and Jenny. I figure that’s fair enough. Don’t you?”
I stared at him like an idiot, mouth open. I didn’t know whether to punch him or clutch at him for dear life.
Richie said matter-of-factly, “I’d love a quick chat with Conor. Is that all right?”
I still couldn’t speak. I nodded and backed away. The walls had printed their ragged texture deep into my palms.
Richie turned two chairs away from the table to face each other, just a couple of feet apart. “Conor,” he said, motioning to one of them. “Have a seat.”
Conor didn’t move. His face still had that rigidity. I couldn’t tell if he had heard the words.
“Go on. I’m not gonna ask about your motive, and I don’t think you and Jenny were doing the bold thing. Swear to God. I just need to clear up a couple of bits and pieces, just for myself. OK?”
After a moment Conor dropped into the chair. Something in the movement—the sudden looseness of it, as if his legs had gone under him—made me realize: I had been getting to him, after all. He had been a hairsbreadth from breaking: howling at me, hitting me, I would never know what. I could have been a hairsbreadth from the answer.
I wanted to roar, send Richie flying and get my hands around Conor’s throat. Instead I stood there, with my hands hanging at my sides and my mouth open, gawking uselessly at the pair of them. After a moment I saw the evidence bag, crumpled in a corner, and bent to get it. The movement sent heartburn shooting up my throat, hot and corrosive.
Richie asked Conor, “You all right?”
Conor had his elbows braced on his knees and his hands clasped tight. “I’m fine.”
“Would you have a cup of tea? Coffee? Water?”
“I’m fine.”
“Good,” Richie said peacefully, taking the other chair and shifting himself comfortable. “I just want to make sure I’m clear on a few things. OK?”
“Whatever.”
“Deadly. Just to start with: how bad did Pat get, exactly?”
“He was depressed. He wasn’t going up the walls, but yeah, he was down. I said that.”
Richie scraped at something on the knee of his trousers, tilted his head to squint at it. He said, “Tell you something I’ve noticed. Every time we start talking about Pat, you’re straight in to tell us he wasn’t crazy. Did you notice that?”
“Because he wasn’t.”
Richie nodded, still inspecting his trousers. He said, “When you went in, Monday night. Was the computer on?”
Conor examined that from every angle before he answered. “No. Off.”
“It had a password. How’d you get past that?”
“Guessed. Once, back before Jack was born, I gave Pat shit about using ‘Emma’ for some password. He just laughed, said it’d be grand. I figured there was a decent chance any password since Jack came along would be ‘EmmaJack.’”
“Fair play to you. So you turned on the computer, wiped all the internet stuff. Why?”
“It was none of your business.”
“Is that where you’d found out about the animal, yeah? On the computer?”
Conor’s eyes, empty of everything except wariness, came up to meet Richie’s. Richie didn’t blink. He said steadily, “We’ve read the lot. We already know.”
Conor said, “I went in one day, a couple of months back. The computer was on. Some board full of hunters, all trying to figure out what was in Pat and Jenny’s gaff. I went through the browser history: more of the same.”
“Why didn’t you tell us to start with?”
“Didn’t want you getting the wrong idea.”
Richie said, “You mean you didn’t want us thinking Pat went mental and killed his family. Am I right?”
“Because he didn’t. I did.”
“Fair enough. But the stuff on the computer, that had to tell you Pat wasn’t in great shape. Didn’t it?”
Conor’s head moved. “It’s the internet. You can’t go by what people say on there.”
“Still, but. If that was one of my mates, I’d’ve been worried.”
“I was.”
“I figured that, all right. Ever see him crying?”
“Yeah. Twice.”
“Arguing with Jenny?”
“Yeah.”
“Giving her a slap?” Conor’s chin shot up angrily, but Richie had a hand raised, silencing him. “Hang on. I’m not just pulling this out of my arse. We’ve got evidence that says he was hitting her.”
“That’s a load of—”
“Just give me a sec, yeah? I want to be sure I say this right. Pat had been following the rules all along, doing everything he was told, and then the rules dropped him in the shite, big-time. Like you said yourself: who was he, once that happened? People who don’t know who they are, man, they’re dangerous. They could do anything. I don’t think anyone’d be shocked if Pat lost the run of himself, now and then. I’m not excusing it or nothing; just saying I can see how it could happen even to a good guy.”
Conor said, “Can I answer now?”
“Go ahead.”
“Pat never hurt Jenny. Never hurt the kids, either. Yeah, he was in tatters. Yeah, I saw him punch a wall a couple of times—the last time, he couldn’t use that hand for days after; probably it was bad enough that he should’ve gone to the hospital. But her, the kids . . . never.”
Richie asked, “Why didn’t you get in touch with him, man?”