Being known to Garda’ doesnÕt mean youÕre their friend

Date Published: {J}

You’d have thought that, if a man was known to Gardaí, his life would be more protected than exposed – but in fact being known to Gardaí is one surefire way of being shot to death.

That makes me very afraid because I’m known to many Gardaí and many Gardaí know me; some of them have been friends of mine since schooldays and one of them is my brother in law.

But by making public the fact that I’m known to Gardaí, I may now be exposing myself to the danger of sudden and traumatic death. The fact that I’m known to some doctors and nurses might be a small consolation here, but only if I’m attacked near a hospital.

“Known to Gardaí” is one of those clichés which television reporters, in particular, refer to as broadcasting shorthand for a string of convictions as long as your proverbial arm – so why don’t they just say it straight out then?

These crime junkies of the small screen are also frequently guilty of doing a disservice to the investigative powers of the boys and girls in blue.

Say, for example, a man is found dead in a ditch with two bullet wounds to his head, his hands tied behind his back and six inch nails driven through both of his kneecaps.

It hardly takes Taggart to spot the telltale signs of a murrrder here – but reporters announce nothing more to the nation than that Gardaí are treating the death as suspicious.

Suspicious would be if the bloke in the ditch had a strange bump on his head; not if he was full of more lead than your average pencil.

Admittedly we all resort to the old euphemism in the case of a suicide, where – rather than add to the distress of the family – we simply say that Gardaí have ruled out foul play.

But if the case of these suspicious deaths, the breathless correspondent frequently goes on to describe in graphic detail the injuries inflicted on the victims – with a little bit of editorialising thrown in, pointing out that gun crime is the scourge of our streets or that playing with the big boys can damage your health.

Then we give the criminals nicknames that turn this whole farce into Gotham City. We have the General, the Monk, the Viper, the Coach, the Footballer, Fatso, the Tosser, the Boxer and the rest of them.

It makes them sound like Batman and Robin should be in hot pursuit, after a plea from Commissioner Gordon or a bell on the old red Batphone.

When the Viper was shot, one of the television reports revealed “one of the bullets bounced off his skull, just above the eye…” so that was undoubtedly a suspicious incident involving a man who was known to Gardaí.

The murder of Veronica Guerin was a brutal, vicious, barbaric attack on the mother of a young boy. But Veronica, like the rest of the crime correspondents, flew too close to the sun – and given that they’re not exactly dealing with Mensa candidates, someone was always going to get hurt.

And yet Veronica’s death only sparked a whole new plethora of crime reporters – print and television – all bursting to reveal what life was like on the dark side of our streets.

I’m glad the only Monks I know are in the Abbey and the footballers are in Terryland Park; you can go there secure in the knowledge that they’re unlikely to hurt you because even if they did shoot at you, most of the time, they’d be likely to miss.

The Viper capitalized on his nickname by setting up a licenced ‘collection service’ to force hardpressed householders to pay up their bad debts.

And funnily enough a guy called the Viper on your doorstep demanding his money might have more impact than a letter from some lending agency – particularly if it’s one that the taxpayers have just loaned several billion to in the first place.

If he calls again, just tell him you’re known to the Gardaí – that will leave him wondering if they’re your friends or, if like him, you have a long criminal record.

For more read page 13 of this week’s Connacht Tribune