The Coven Murders (An Occult Mystery Thriller) by Brian O'Hare

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

THIRTEEN

Friday 15th July, 2016: Morning 

McCullough, who for once was sitting upright on his chair, his mien unusually serious, waited with some tension as Sheehan called the chattering group to order. "Okay, everybody, Sergeant McCullough has asked me to organise a short meeting of the team this morning. He has something important to impart ..." He glanced at McCullough. "... at least, so he tells me." 

McCullough didn't miss the puzzlement that registered on most of the faces that turned to look at him. He could see that one or two were quick to observe the studied neutrality on the countenances of Miller and Connors and his eyes crinkled with mild amusement. It was obvious that the team, without quite knowing why, was beginning to experience a somewhat curious anticipation. 

"All right, Sergeant," Sheehan said. "What is it that thunders so loud in the index?" 

"Uh ... what, Chief?" McCullough's literary background had its limits. 

Sheehan said, poker-faced, "Just a wee bit of Shakespeare to add a level of culture to the proceedings." It was clear that he too sensed that something was in the air. 

 The team was now thoroughly bewildered. The boss playfully quoting Shakespeare? McCullough calling the shots? Some looked at each other for enlightenment, others shrugged their ignorance, and yet others looked to the chief for an explanation. 

"You have the floor, Sergeant," Sheehan urged. "Let's hope this is as good as you seem to think it is." 

McCullough nodded vigorously. "Oh, it is, Chief. It is." He gazed at his colleagues, savouring the attention. 

"Enough with the enigmatic looks, Sergeant," Allen said with some impatience. "What's all the mystery about?" 

 Torn between giving a blow-by-blow account of how he acquired his information, or shocking the team with an instantaneous announcement, McCullough opted for the latter course. Triumphantly holding his notebook high above his head, he said dramatically, "I know the name and original address of the skeleton in the grave." 

The amazement he had hoped for was even more gratifying than he anticipated. There were shouts of, "What?" "You're kidding." "Way to go, Sarge." And from the chief, a congratulatory, "Well done, Sergeant." 

When the excitement died down, Sheehan said, "Right, Sergeant. Tell us all." 

 McCullough was silent for a moment, sensing for the first time a measure of respect in the attitude of the others. This was a rare occurrence. Despite his customary indifference, he now felt part of the team and was oddly affected by it. "Myself, Connors and Miller were manning the phones all morning, ringing various hospitals up and down the country." In a spirit of uncharacteristic modesty, he added, "It could have been any of us, but when I phoned The City, I got a hit. A very nice lady there did some research, based on the information I gave her..." Some of the old bombast was back. "... and she came up with the goods. Our skeleton is Eileen Connell, early twenties, appeared at The City Hospital on seventh July, nineteen ninety-five, heavily pregnant but seeking treatment for an unstable fracture of the humeral neck. Her surgeon at the time, Mr. Ethan Bell, is retired now. She never came back to have the pins removed." 

"That's her," Allen whooped. "You've found her, Sarge. That's definitely her." 

McCullough could not control the huge grin that wreathed his face. 

"A very important find, Edwin. Well done," Sheehan said. Turning to the team, he added firmly, "This information doesn't leave this room. It's just between us. And not even the slightest hint to any of those newshounds we keep tripping over at the gate ... or anybody." His gaze drifted back to McCullough. "Did you say something about an address, Sergeant?"