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All I saw at first was a group of men attempting to wrap and lift a large unwieldy object. It could have been a large dog, such was the awkwardness of its dead weight. It was partly covered in thick white plastic sheeting, which kept blowing open. Molesworth Street at about 10.30am was, otherwise, eerily empty and silent despite its proximity to the gates of Leinster House.
Then I noticed a discreet green van marked “ambulance” and thought, “Has someone collapsed”? But if a TD, say, had collapsed on the way to work, there would have been a fuss – an ambulance, journalists, gardaí keeping back onlookers, and a doctor, surely? And there seemed to be no urgency to this silent scene, as the men struggled with their cumbersome burden. Was it the aftermath of a murder? It couldn’t be – there was no one protecting the scene, no forensic crew in white jumpsuits or tent erected for privacy. No cameras.
In the split second it took to formulate the truth, I knew from the utter lack of ceremony, starkness of the scene, and the complete lack of anyone but the body and the men sent to collect it, that this could only be the corpse of a homeless person.