Hellbound: The Tally Man by David McCaffrey

many years. During his eight years with the paper, his crime reporting had gone from simply commenting on local delinquencies, to being one of the countries’ leading sources of information on not only local criminals and their activities, but on international crimes and their after-effects, both politically and emotionally. Ciaran always expected good work from Joe, but even he was constantly surprised by his ability to gather information from witnesses, victims, and most intriguingly, the criminals themselves in some cases. Not only did Joe seem to understand the bureaucratic ways of things, but he had an ability to get under the skin of the people he was investigating, often coming back and producing a piece of journalism that was not only factually accurate, but imaginative and powerful. Though Ciaran didn’t want to know how Joe gained most of his information, he did know that not once in eight years had Joe O’Connell produced a mediocre piece of work for The Daily Éire. It was that reason and Joe’s knowledge of the crimes that had convinced Ciaran to offer him the prestigious job of reporting on the execution of Obadiah Stark.
    As he spoke in his melodic Gaelic tone, he looked serious but thoughtful. “So, how are you? I know we haven’t really spoken since the prison.”
    Joe shrugged his shoulders, not used to answering questions from his editor that required emotional honesty. “Okay. You know, just getting on with things.”
    “There’s no shame in admitting that watching someone die, regardless of what they’ve done, is a pretty big deal. I don’t know how I would feel about it.” Joe could feel his boss’s sincerity as he spoke, his voice soft and empathetic.
    “Well, he didn’t writhe around in agony. He just looked like he fell asleep, albeit suffering what appeared to be a myoclonic jerk halfway through.”
    Ciaran looked at Joe quizzically. “What’s a myoclonic jerk?”
    “You know when you’re just falling asleep and your dreaming you’re riding a bike and you fall off. You wake yourself up by jumping in your sleep as you bang your head in your dream. That’s a myoclonic jerk. Obadiah had what looked like one, just before he actually died. It was creepy, actually.” Joe stared at the floor for a moment, playing back the moment in his mind when Obadiah had looked at everyone in the viewing chamber. It had almost been as if something had momentarily interrupted the execution process.
    “Interesting,” Ciaran replied, moving his empty coffee cup absentmindedly across the desktop.
    Looking back up, Joe smiled halfheartedly. The whole conversation had him uncomfortable. Sensing his unease, Ciaran quickly moved onto his reason for asking to see him. “Anyway, I received a phone call from Margaret Keld this morning.”
    Joe quickly straightened up in the chair, his interest piqued and his discomfort forgotten. “Really? And…?”
    “…and, she’s agreed to your request for an interview and is willing to meet you today. She laid down a few stipulations, but nothing that will interfere with you too much, I don’t think.” Ciaran sounded almost triumphant as he delivered the news.
    Joe looked surprised. “To be honest, I never thought she’d agree to talk to me. I mean, she’s turned down every interview request ever made since her daughter died.”
    Ciaran took the opportunity to remind Joe of his responsibility. “Well, it’s good news for you that for whatever reason, she’s changed her mind. But remember Joe, I had to go out on a limb for this one. I had to pull a lot of strings, considering it has nothing to do with anything that will benefit this paper. One of her provisos was that the interview is not exploitive, purely factual. She doesn’t want her daughter’s name being used as a promotional tool.”
    Joe knew Ciaran was referring to his book, an independent piece of work, neither sanctioned nor opposed by the paper, and one that also required Joe to use many of The