Chapter 13.

Inspector Tom Brown sat behind his desk, a look of disbelief on his chubby face.

"You have got to be mistaken," he said. "Has this been verified?"

Detective Michael Clarke sat opposite him, looking decidedly uncomfortable. Clarke was thirty-two — tall, slim, with a fashionable haircut that evoked stylist, not barber.

"Bunt just called from the hospital. There’s no question about it. They found a driving license, and Bunt did a visual ID. He knows him well. You know half the guys went to Portrush High. We all know him."

Brown closed his eyes and scratched his head.

"John Kilroy." The image of his close friend filled his thoughts. "It just does not make any sense. Has he said anything yet?"

"No. It's almost as if he is drugged up on something."

Brown leaned forward, annoyed. "Let’s keep the guesswork out of it. The media would just love that for a headline."

Clarke apologized. "Any update on the kid?" Brown asked.

"Still unconscious. They’re running more tests."

"What else did Bunt say?"

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"Sir, I will keep this brief. I want to go over to the hospital immediately and talk with Kilroy."

Clarke opened a notebook. "The inside of the house is destroyed. We estimate Kilroy was alone for twenty minutes." He looked up from his notes. "Two guys with sledgehammers could not have done the damage he did."

"Are we sure he acted alone?"

"It looks that way." Clarke scanned more pages. "We have the preliminary medical report on Kilroy. It's just . . . unbelievable."

"Go on," Brown said uncomfortably, his concentration zoning in as out as Clarke talked. An image flashed into his head. It was of his wife and Anne Kilroy at a church function the previous Christmas. It was all too personal to remain detached.

"It appears he did at least some of the damage, maybe most of it, with his hands and feet. No weapons, axes, or similar, were found at the scene. All the fingers on his right hand are broken, all the knuckles crushed. His wrists are smashed. There is similar damage to the left. He also lost the thumb on his left hand."

"What do you mean?"

"He has no thumb on his left hand. It’s likely back at the house."

"Jesus," Brown groaned. "It's just unbelievable."

"Most of the bones are broken on his left foot. His right foot is more or less pulverized. It may have to be amputated. His right shoe came off at some point, and he just kept going. He also has a broken nose they think happened earlier in the day. The other injuries are cuts and scrapes on the arms and legs. He lost a lot of blood." Clarke turned back to his notes.

"Any toxicology tests yet?" Brown asked.

"They’re running them now."

"Okay, you better get going."

Clarke stood up and nodded. "Do you want me to inform his wife, or do you . . .?"

"Leave it to me." Brown paused for a moment but with clearly more to say. "You know that Officer Quinn is Anne Kilroy’s brother."

"Yeah, I know." The frown on Clarke's face intensified. "Should I talk to him?"

"No, I’ll take care of it."

Clarke turned and left the room.

Brown grabbed the phone and dialed the Kilroy residence. Anne picked up on the first ring.