Ailbe’s gut wrenched over such a discovery. This could ruin everything. An idea flashed into his head. “Mr. Moynihan, you receive extra credit on your project for discovering this connection. I assigned overlapping projects as a test to determine if students are capable of thinking outside the parameters enough to realize the commonalities. You have done well.”

Kennan relaxed. “Thank you, Dr. MacGowan. It makes sense and clears up a lot of confusion. I will share the information with the group.”

“Can we keep this between us, Mr. Moynihan?” Ailbe held Keenan’s gaze. “If you tell your classmates, they will not have an opportunity to earn the extra credit on their projects.”

“I understand, Dr. MacGowan. I won’t say a word.” Keenan hesitated momentarily as if another question came to mind, but he sighed. “Thank you for your time.”

“You are most welcome, Mr. Moynihan.”

Keenan left the office, and Ailbe picked up the phone and dialed Declan’s office. Their regular routine included talking at two o’clock in the afternoon to provide a break from classes. Still, a sense of urgency drove Ailbe to call straight away.

“Declan Knowlan,” Declan answered.

“We have a problem.” Ailbe’s gruff voice shook. “And we need to eliminate the problem.”

“Give me the information when we meet for drinks as usual. I’ll take care of it,” Declan said in a hushed, business-like voice before he disconnected.

Ailbe sighed as he cradled his handset. Everything went so well, and wham! It’s smart he kept Declan around. He needed Declan’s connections, a need ending once he implemented his plan.

* * *

Ailbe and Declan met at O’Connell’s at 4:30.

“What happened?” Declan sipped his Guinness and glared at Ailbe. “Did the master feck up? Student involvement got you in trouble?”

“Shut up. This isn’t my fault, Declan.” Ailbe spat the name, masking his anger. He leaned across the table. “A group of students worked on their projects together, and one of them figured out the projects dovetailed.”

“This is disastrous.” Angry darts flared from Declan’s glare.

“He must be stopped. It might put fear in the rest of them if he should disappear.” Ailbe feigned an expression of need, eyes pleading with Declan for cooperation.

“I assume you have the information,” Declan took a pull from his pint, ignoring Ailbe’s faked expression.

“This should do it.” Ailbe handed him a slip of paper. “Most evenings the students work until around 8:00. He’ll walk back to his flat after.”

Declan downed his Guinness. “I’ll make the call now.” Declan stood. “The issue will be resolved tonight. I’ll meet you at the car in fifteen minutes.” Declan left the pub.

* * *

On Tuesday evening, Keenan Moynihan walked along Old Dublin Road to his flat. Tired from the long day, he talked on his cell phone with his friend and classmate, Fergus Rafferty to pass the time.

“Aye, Fergus. Tis a queer coincidence our projects all align. I talked with Dr. MacGowan this morning about it.” Despite Dr. MacGowan’s explanation, Keenan remained troubled by his discovery. He and Fergus discussed the possible connections before he went to Dr. MacGowan's office, so he didn’t violate his promise to keep the situation secret.

“So what did MacGowan say?” Fergus said.

“He said I received extra credit because I discovered the overlap. I'm not to mention it to the other lads so they can discover it for themselves. I don’t buy it, Fergus. I think he’s talking a load of Blarney.”

Keenan paused as the motor noise of an approaching vehicle behind him made conversation difficult. “Hang on, Fergus.”

The van sped ahead of where he stood before tires squealed to a quick stop. Back doors opened and two men in dark clothes and hood masks ran for Keenan.

“Shite.” Panic flooded Keenan. “Call the police, Fergus. I think thugs are after me.” Keenan panted as he ran full speed away from the toughs. His backpack, loaded with books, slowed his pace as it slapped against his back.

The straps dug into his shoulders as something grabbed and pulled him backward. He landed on his back atop the backpack. His head thunked against the pavement, and things went fuzzy. Two strong hands grabbed his arms, pulled him up, and dragged him backward.

“Oy.” Keenan’s senses returned, and he struggled to break free. “What the feck…” He flailed his legs, but the toughs subdued him. His breath fogged in the cool evening air as he panted from physical exertion and morbid fear.

“Lemme go, you fekkers,” Keenan shouted.

“Shut up, kid,” one of the masked men growled as they muscled him into the back of the van, knocking the cell phone from his hand. One thug sat on Keenan’s legs and pinned his arms to the floor. The other pulled the doors closed with a metal thunk.

The van accelerate as a foul-smelling rag covered Keenan's nose and mouth. He gasped for air twice…

Fergus listened in horror through the phone. “Keenan…Keenan…” Tires squealed, and engine noise faded. More engine noise increased before the call went dead.

Fergus ran from the dormitory toward the area where Keenan walked each day, hoping to see a sign of his friend. As he crossed the bridge, passing car headlights revealed the metal and plastic fragments in the street. The remains of Keenan’s cell phone, no doubt. Another vehicle ran over those fragments. He pulled out his cell phone and dialed 112.

“Emergency Services. What is your emergency?”

“Somebody kidnapped my friend!”

“Kidnapped?”

“Yes. He and I chatted about something he discovered in our class, and he yelled something about thugs chasing him. I found what may be his cell phone smashed in the street.”

“Where are you?”

“I’m between the hospital and the university on Old Dublin Road.”

“I’ll send an officer straight away.”

* * *

A jogger discovered a body caught in the brush on the river’s edge Wednesday morning before dawn. Keenan Moynihan, face down in the River Corrib. A single bullet to the head.

CHAPTER TEN

Chief Superintendent Ciaran O’Brien studied the report on the dead GMIT student found in the river. A gunshot wound to the head left a lot of unanswered questions. This Wednesday started with a challenge. At 10:30, his phone rang.

O’Brien’s assistant, Sergeant Padraig Healy, poked his head in the doorway. “You should answer, sir. It’s the commissioner calling.”

A call from the top-ranking Gardaí official? O’Brien wondered what he did to warrant a call from the commissioner. “O’Brien.”

“Chief Superintendent. How are you this fine morning?”

The friendly greeting caught O’Brien off guard. Commissioner Seamus Kane’s authoritative tone often meant business, but this morning sounded almost pleasing. “Um…doing fine, sir.”

“Excellent. I’m sure you’re wondering why I called. I have a favor to ask of you and your department.”