Scalpel (39 page)

Day 11

48

10.17 am, Thursday, 20th February 1997

Dublin City Morgue

It was, by any standards, an extraordinary morning. As Noel Dunne and Jack McGrath discussed sometime later, it seemed unreal, unbelievable, fantastic. A media circus.

Every journalist and reporter and TV crew in the city was diverted to cover the transfer of the body of Dean Lynch from the mortuary of the Merrion Hospital to the city morgue. At one point there were five privately chartered helicopters in the air, cameramen hanging precariously out of their sides, recording every move. The event was beamed live and direct on CNN and Sky, with the morning television programmes on BBC and ITV interrupted repeatedly to 'go to the scene'. In an unprecedented move RTE decided to run the event live as well and the nation came to a standstill to watch. It was one of the most dramatic events ever recorded live on television, the transfer of the body of the most evil and mentally deranged man in modern Irish criminal history. It pushed reports on the drawn football match right off the agenda.

The decision to transfer the body to the city morgue was for operational reasons. Dr Noel Dunne already had two other 'patients' awaiting his investigation. 'I'm not going out to the Merrion Hospital in the full view of every photographer and TV crew in the country to perform that postmortem. It's crazy and I'm not doing it. Bring him in here.'

There was little stomach for discussion or argument. The
body would be transferred. The assistant state pathologist was on her way up from Cork. Noel Dunne didn't much fancy spending all day and all night working.

Lynch's body was wheeled out on a trolley inside a black zip-up body bag and transferred to a waiting unmarked Garda estate wagon. The transfer took place at the back of the hospital mortuary, well away from the lenses and eyes of the waiting photographers and journalists who were held back by a heavy uniformed Gardai cordon. Only the helicopter crews captured that moment.

With two squad cars at front and back and four motorcycle outriders, the estate made its way along Merrion Road, down Shelbourne Road, across the Liffey arriving outside the opened double gates of the city morgue at 10.17 am. There was a second heavy Gardai presence around the building, all journalists, reporters, photographers and cameramen kept well back and behind crash barriers. As the estate wagon pulled in there were flashes from cameras, shouts from reporters and general mayhem as they vied for the best angle, the best viewpoint. Above, the whirling of helicopter blades added to the drama, their cameramen recording the unloading of the body onto a different trolley and it disappearing inside the morgue itself. The crews were enraged when they discovered they couldn't record anything else, the opaque ripple glass on the roof impervious to their lenses.

Inside Noel Dunne oversaw the lifting of the body onto the last autopsy table. The other two were already occupied. Dan Harrison stood by, Nikon at the ready, face as expressionless as usual. Pat Relihan waited for the nod to fingerprint. There were seven white boiler-suited ballistics men leaning against benches. The rest of the room was crowded with Gardai, uniformed and Special Branch. They spread out to allow Dunne to move freely.

'Dan?'

Dan Harrison looked up, his thoughts suddenly disturbed.

'Dan, I'd like an overall shot of the three from a number of angles. Try and get in some of the background, uniforms
and the like. I've a feeling we're going to need to record this little event for posterity.'

Harrison moved slowly around the room, looking for the best angles. Those watching shuffled to the side as he approached. Then the flashes began.

FLASH!

He moved to another corner.

FLASH!

And another.

FLASH!

'Take one of me in the middle, looking down at this fellow.' Dunne stood between tables two and three, making a show of inspecting the body.

FLASH!

In this way was the scene captured and later shown at the official public enquiry. A crowded city morgue with its three autopsy tables fully occupied.

On the first, with a plastic ID tag hanging around her right big toe, lay Betty Nolan, the telephone cable still tight around her neck. Her lifeless eyes stared up, as if straining to see the helicopters hovering above. On the second table lay Tommy Malone, his face and back of head totally disfigured, features distorted. Only the plastic name tag around his right big toe gave a clue as to his identity. And on the last table lay a black zip-up body bag.

'Okay, open it up,' ordered Dunne.

The zips came down in one movement, like the blade of a scalpel slicing. Three attendants, wearing plastic overalls and double surgical gloves, lifted the body up as Noel Dunne pulled the body bag away. They gently laid him back on the table.

There it was, finally. The body of Dean Lynch, still in his hospital whites. White coat, white shirt and muted tie. He was still dark haired with his thin black moustache, but no clear lens glasses perched on his nose. The whiteness was heavily stained by blood. And the wild eyes that had cast so much fear, that reflected so much evil and hate and anger
and betrayal. The eyes of death that Kate Hamilton had stared into, not once, but twice, were lifeless.

The tortured soul had fled. Only the body remained as testimony to his living. The spirit that had moved him, that pushed him to such extremes, that urged on his revenge, that drove his tormented mind to drive his tormented body to such destruction had gone.

Noel Dunne looked down at him, gradually noticing Jack McGrath at his side. The two said nothing, their fleeting eye exchange was enough.

Dunne turned to the audience. 'The forensic postmortem always begins with an external inspection of the body,' he began for the benefit of the younger Gardai assembled. He paused and looked along the three autopsy tables. 'The only question is, which one to start on today?'

Jack McGrath almost managed a grin.

'Well,' continued Dunne robustly, 'let's start in the order they came in. We'll start with the female.'

And the audience turned to Betty. Leaving the lifeless eyes of Tommy Malone and Dean Lynch to stare at the ceiling.

The sound of Rory's feet on the corridor and his excited screams finally penetrated Kate Hamilton's consciousness just after four o'clock that afternoon. She had woken, briefly, three hours earlier but was so distressed and agitated it required ten milligrams of Valium by injection to settle her. She dreamed she was being chased by Dean Lynch along a dimly lit corridor. Each time she looked over her shoulder she saw his hate filled eyes, blood-streaked face and hands, the scalpel clutched and swinging at her retreating back. As fast as she tried to run her legs felt more and more leaden and she sensed him gain and close in. She could almost feel his breath on her neck. In the dream she rounded one corner, then another, finally coming up against a closed door. Her desperate hands pulled and dragged at the handle, but they too seemed useless, powerless. Suddenly the handle gave and she pulled the door open. There stood
Dean Lynch, waiting, thin evil smile across blood-smeared face, scalpel in right hand held in the air. 'Goodbye, bitch.' The scalpel swung viciously down and pierced her right upper chest. The pain seared and she sat forward in the bed, screaming.

'It's all right, Kate, it's all right,' the nurses tried to comfort. The pain was real but came from the intercostal drains being removed. She had to be restrained in the bed and coaxed and consoled. But still her agitation wouldn't settle. As the injection took effect she relaxed enough to allow the doctors to remove the second drain and both IV lines. She relaxed enough to understand that the nightmare was over, that Dean Lynch was dead. That she really was alive. A nurse held her trembling body until sleep, mercifully, took over again.

Rory's feet, Rory's voice, Grandad's shushing pleas finally entered her consciousness, stirring her awake. She slowly became aware of the murmuring of voices. She felt, for the first time, a hand holding her own. It was a man's hand, she sensed that. It was a big hand, a strong hand, holding on to her own in handshake fashion. The grip wasn't firm but comforting. The hand felt strong, secure, rock steady. The thumb of the hand gently stroked the base of her own thumb. It was a comforting caress. The overwhelming feeling was one of control, care, reassurance. Affection. She opened her eyes slowly and found Paddy Holland.

'Hi,' he said.

'She's awake, Grandad, she's awake.' Rory was on the bed and allowed to hold her and kiss her and cuddle against her still-aching chest. Even though her tears would not stop this time they were tears of joy, of happiness, of relief. The nightmare was over. And even though Paddy Holland tried gently to remove his hand twice he found himself held tight. Don't let go of me. Ever.

'Mummy, Mr Holland has a puppy. He says he'll let me come to his house and play with it.'

Grandad watched from the foot of the bed. He watched
the hands that held each other and seemed not to want to release. He listened to the exchanges.

'I'm going to go down to the canteen to get a cup of tea.' He leaned down and kissed his only daughter on the forehead, his eyes telling her not to say anything, not to disturb this moment. As he slipped out the door he glanced back at the scene. Rory had cuddled up against his mother and with her left hand she was stroking his face, running her hands through his hair. He had his thumb in his mouth, Ted in his other hand. He was contented again. He had his mother. And Kate Hamilton was still holding tightly to the hand that held just as tightly to her right hand.

Three miles away in the ICU of the Central Maternity Hospital, Gordon O'Brien had his mother as well. He was content again, he could feel her caress, hear her heart beat, smell her body. In his own little way he too felt the nightmare was over.

Paddy Holland had allowed Sandra and Big Harry to lift their baby for short spells at a time. 'He's doing really well, fantastically well,' he'd said earlier. 'We just don't want to overtire him. He's got a lot of catching up to do and I don't want him rushed.' Sandra and Big Harry had nodded. They were barely able to contain the joy and relief at their child's remarkable recovery. They hardly dared believe the nightmare was over lest some other evil hands would come to snatch him away again.

The IV lines were still in place on his arms and he was still connected to the monitors but he was now alert, if very weak. He was even opening his eyes and looking around every now and then. Holland had inserted a naso-gastric tube, a line leading directly into the child's stomach, so that he could be fed. He was still too weak to suck but showing definite signs of hunger. The sunken eyes and shrunken belly had gone and his skin texture was looking much healthier. The small seven-pound baby that Sandra O'Brien had fed and winded and changed on the night Tommy Malone came
to steal him was indeed recovering. His drowsy eyes showed signs of sparkle, his limbs felt stronger when they moved.

'I'll tell you this,' Holland had commented admiringly, 'he's a real battler. He started life fighting and he's continued life fighting.' He had smiled at Sandra and Big Harry as they listened. 'And he's only eleven days old. What a start to life. What a baby.'

It was almost as if the child had understood Holland's words for at that very moment he let out the first cry to be heard since he'd arrived in hospital. Sandra had rushed to him and kissed his cheek and forehead and hands. 'Shush my pet, shush. Mummy's here, everything's fine, Mummy's here.' Big Harry had gone over and stood beside the crouched figure of his wife and lain a hand on her shoulder. She reached one hand back and held him. Her other hand was rested on the side of the incubator, fingers gently stroking at her baby's cheek.

'Mr O'Brien?' Big Harry turned around to find the sister in charge of ICU standing with a tray of tea and sandwiches. 'Take a break the two of you,' she advised. 'You've hardly eaten a thing all day.' She set the tray down on a chair and began pouring. 'You'll have to keep your own strength up, you know. When that wee boy gets on his feet he'll be a handful, I'm telling you. Eat up.' She placed a cup of tea in one of Sandra's hands and stuck a toasted cheese sandwich in the other. 'There's more if you want some. Just give a nod, I'll be along the corridor.' Then she was gone.

Sandra and Big Harry wolfed the food down, surprised at how hungry they were. They looked at one another for a moment and allowed their eyes to rest. Then Big Harry took the cup from Sandra's hand and laid it down gently on the floor so as not to disturb his sleeping baby boy. He took Sandra in his arms and held her, feeling her sob gently against his chest. He kissed the tears from her eyes and lifted her face so that he could see her better.

'It's all right, Sandra,' he said. 'It's all over.' They both turned and stared down at their baby, now stirring awake
again and beginning to whimper with hunger. Sandra took one of his small hands in her own and held it gently.

Looking through the ICU window, Theo Dempsey allowed himself a smile for the first time in what seemed like ages.

Epilogue