High Beam

by SJ Brown

  Cartwright breathed. “Yes, my parents. Both passed away now. And this is my sister, Mary.”

  “With?”

  “Who? Oh, her husband Larry. She’s just retired after a distinguished career as a teacher and principal.” There did not seem to be anything of note to distinguish Larry so Mahoney thanked Cartwright and they began to exit the room.

  He patted his suit pockets and made to go. “Well, thank you for your time. Sergeant Munro and I had better push on. We have a lot of ground to cover.”

  Just as they were about to walk out the front door, Munro uttered a parting shot. “Not a bad place really. If you like that sort of thing. Not my taste.” Cartwright’s shoulders stiffened ever so slightly. “My girlfriend would love it though. She’s into all that.” There was a vague gesture with his arm. “You got a missus here?”

  Cartwright bristled. “No, I haven’t. Not at this stage.” And with that the officers departed.

  CHAPTER 23

  Monday 15th March Noon

  If any of the various members of the Murder Squad were unsure of the level of public interest in the current case then the media conference that morning was a telling guide. That there was a media conference at all was something of an anomaly. In some cases of suspicious death, journalists from the local newspaper and television stations would be briefed and a request made directly to the public for assistance. Mostly the relevant authorities got on with the task of sorting out the problem and life went on with little regard outside of the dead person’s family.

  Of course, there were celebrated or notorious incidents that drew all manner of media organizations to Tasmania. The chilling and horrific events of April 1996 at Port Arthur turned the Apple Isle into one of the most newsworthy locations on the planet for a week. A rock fall in a mine in Beaconsfield in the state’s northern region also brought the spotlight. Two miners were trapped underground for many days as way above them the interstate television and radio crews jostled for information, any information. This potential catastrophe ended fortuitously for two elated men who walked out arms flying high in victory. One man was killed by the accident but the exposure was on the survivors.

  Heroes made for better stories. You cannot interview a dead person and his grieving family would not boost the ratings anywhere near as much as valiant tales of endurance and survival. So the duo became temporarily famous and then went on with their lives.

  Soon after, the normal state of affairs was resumed. Tassie just disappeared. It was not unlike a British author’s remark about American newspapers. You could perform your very own conjuring trick simply by virtue of being a European in the continental United States. Buy a newspaper and see your country disappear. Tasmanians could do just the same. Fly over Bass Strait to Melbourne and maybe find a paper in a week that mentioned the state.

  But this case would obviously redress the balance. The victim was a footballer. And not just any footballer. A rising star in the Tassie Devils Australian Football League team. After years of being ignored by the mainland executive, a license to run a team in the upper echelon national competition had been granted. In its debut season, interest in the expansion club was at fever pitch.

  Locals felt vindicated after decades of shabby treatment by interstate authorities. The cream of the local talent had been plundered by wealthy Melbourne clubs. Some of these players became absolute legends in the Victorian Football League and, by also representing that state, helped make it the powerhouse of Aussie Rules football. Precious little was done to compensate the local leagues. They still drew excellent crowds and enjoyed strong indigenous support. All that was changed now. The move by the VFL to create a national league in the 1980s had, by the 1990s, created a behemoth that effectively destroyed the Tassie competition.

  Now, if youngsters asked which football team you followed and you mentioned a team in Hobart, they would say, “No. AFL?” For a few years a powerful Victorian club had become the Tasmanian team simply by virtue of agreeing to relocate a few home matches to Launceston in the state’s north. Their adoption of the role of quasi-ambassadors seemed heartfelt but most doubted they would be quite so genuine if the Tasmanian government withdrew the ludicrously generous backing that was provided.

  Pressure mounted. Furious lobbying of the League’s Commissioners went on. Powerbrokers assembled a sound business plan for the proposed Tasmanian team. Still no dice. And then a strange thing happened. A young singer-songwriter who was plying his trade in Melbourne sang a song. Not on the radio and not a song about football. He was singing the national anthem as part of the pre-match ritual at a headline rugby league match. He did it well but that was not the noteworthy thing. On his guitar was a “Tassie for the AFL” sticker that was picked up by TV cameras and the press photographers.

  Next day it was all over the media. Pundits, former players and the fans all practically simultaneously threw their support behind the bid and it became an unstoppable force. Functions were put on at the Commercial Club Hotel in Fitzroy, a bohemian suburb in Melbourne. The venue was apt. The Fitzroy club had been the first casualty of the transition from a traditional suburban competition to a national competition that was more akin to a marketing company than a sport. The fresh momentum bore fruit and come the 2010 season there really was going to be a Tasmanian team in the AFL.

  And Brad Finch was one of the local marquee players. Big things were predicted for him. Now, with the season a few weeks away, his death had sparked a media storm. Mahoney, Kendall and the Tasmanian Police Press Liaison Officer were startled by the flashing bulbs and the bright television lights as they walked into the Conference Room. They seated themselves behind a rectangular table facing the assembled throng. A few journalists darted forward to prop recording devices on the front edge of the table. The microphones were tested for clarity and lights were up for the circus.

  Sergeant Joanne Gill, the press officer, opened proceedings with a very carefully worded statement. The circumspect address was concise, clear and completely lacking any real insight into the case.

  So far, so blah. The hacks patiently sat through it, waiting for the opportunity to launch questions at the operational officers. DC Kendall, as planned, responded to the general enquiries regarding the basic facts of the case. Yes, the location of the body’s discovery had provided some crucial leads. No, she was not able to disclose that information. And so the tennis rally pattern was established. A reporter would serve a terse question; Kate would return with a carefully considered answer but would not continue much further with the immediate follow up. Mahoney had forewarned her that very few of the experienced journalists really expected to elicit from her any critical information but the show needed to be played out.

  After ten minutes or so, the pack shifted their attention squarely on DI Mahoney. To him they directed the queries regarding the potential impact of the loss of Finch from the football world. They must have felt his female colleague unqualified to deal with the important stuff. Mahoney was barely qualified to assess this either, but did have the requisite experience to treat the exchanges with sufficient gravity and seemingly satisfy the sizeable contingent of sportswriters that had boosted the size of the gallery. All in all, the conference went relatively smoothly. A call for community support in establishing the movements of the deceased had been made and would duly be forwarded in the forthcoming news bulletins.

  Just as Sergeant Gill was drawing the conference to a close, one more query slipped its way through. A local stringer who wrote copy for the national press. “DI Mahoney, can you verify the comments made earlier by Sergeant Munro?” Of course he could not. What would he be verifying? So he asked. Wished he did not have to.

  “Earlier, he asserted that this case was one suspicious death. No more, no less, so if the people making the fuss would bugger off quicker, it would be solved.”

  Shit, shit, shit, shit.

  * * *

  Half a
n hour later in the incident room, the aforementioned excrement collided with the fan. Munro was sitting at his desk methodically reading the autopsy report. The whole team had been apprised of the preliminary findings, and potential conclusions to be drawn, by Mahoney but he knew he needed to be fully aware of the details if he was to do his job properly.

  Kendall walked into the room and went straight to her laptop. Seconds passed. Munro looked up “So how did it go with the pack of hounds? Were they happy with the scraps?”

  Kendall breathed deeply as she waited for her log on to finish. “Mostly OK. There are plenty of them scouring for material, for sure. This is turning out to be a pretty big deal.” Kate was about to pass on the sting in the tail of the conference but Munro was winding up.

  “Pity they aren’t baying when some poor old bugger gets done over in a smash and grab. Bloody weird priorities if you ask me.”

  “Well, next time somebody asks you perhaps you could zip your stupid mouth.” Sergeant Gill was in the room. “You’ve gone and done it this time, you clown.” Her procession to Munro’s desk was paced to time with the invective streaming from her own mouth. “What were you thinking? No, don’t answer that. Because you don’t think, do you? You’re an instinctive cop. A man who gets the job done.” No steam, just pure fire.

  Gill’s hands were by her side but her voice clearly enunciated the inverted commas of sarcasm and contempt. While the other officers in earshot, about the whole area, suddenly found pressing tasks to focus on, Munro swiveled in his chair to face the PR officer. She was literally standing over him. “And don’t even think of giving me that moronic grin. You’ve obliterated a great deal of goodwill in one fell swoop. You couldn’t do the team thing, could you? Had to spout off with your own opinion. Couldn’t stop your own bloody-minded prejudices seeping into the operation.” She ran her hand through a thick mane of dark shining hair.

  Kendall was unsure how to react. Munro was her closest team member. Should she stick up for him? How would he feel about her support in dealing with this Valkyrie? Yet she was forced to admit to herself that the tempestuous visitor was onto something. And she was really rather formidable. Not some ditsy girl who whipped up press releases and looked pretty for the cameras. Striking but not pretty. But it was hardly some sense of ovarian sisterhood that led Kate to bite her lip. It was simply that the female sergeant was on the mark.

  Munro liked to tread his own path sometimes. That was the word from other officers who worked with him on other cases. Very competent, strong instincts but liked to be lone gunslinger in town. Gill’s invective was interrupted by her mobile beeping. With a finger pointed at Munro in a ‘stay right there, I’m not finished yet’ gesture, she flipped her phone open to take the call.

  Just as Gill was concluding what was fairly obviously a conciliatory call, Mahoney entered. He went straight to Kendall and stood with his back to the combatants. Sotto voce he said, “I take it this is not a classic URST situation?”

  “Sorry, Sir?”

  “Unresolved sexual tension.”

  “Err, no.” Kate rolled her eyes theatrically as she smiled with her superior. Mahoney turned. Gill snapped her phone shut. Before her jaw could open, the senior officer spoke.

  “Sergeant Gill. Thank you for arranging the press conference. Very thorough. I don’t think anybody should walk away feeling short-changed from that.” Kendall was dumbfounded. He was obviously attempting to placate her and she must know it. But he was doing it in his clinical voice so no one could accuse him of that. And also what he said was accurate. Even Gill’s detractors (“she’s too assertive, you know, pushy”) admitted she was good, very good, in her role.

  “This case is going to be a huge challenge for all of us. Particularly for you, so I’ll be adopting every measure I can to assist you in dealing with the mob. We all must come together for this or we’ll be picked off. And no one wants that.” A knowing glance to Munro, more to indicate to Gill he was aware of the incendiary that needed to be defused.

  Sergeant Gill was left with nowhere to go. Face-saving was accomplished and the point was made. She thanked Mahoney and left, having promised to call him later for any updates. Mahoney faced Munro.

  “We need a chat.”

  “I don’t.” Munro spoke to his desk.

  “My office.” Practically a whisper.

  Mahoney was sitting on the front edge of his desk with his arms crossed as Munro entered. “Close the door behind you.” Even Mahoney could not hide the irritation in his voice. Munro did so and then stood six feet from his boss. Mahoney opened his arms, palms facing his junior officer. “Tell me. The whole and nothing but.”

  “Hicksey caught me at a bad moment.”

  “No justifications. Just the who, when, what.” Mahoney’s tone was now terse and the words clipped. This was no time for excuses.

  “Paul Hicks. A freelance journalist. Cornered me at hockey training last night. I made a forthright comment about all the hoopla.” He shrugged. “There it is.”

  Mahoney believed ‘forthright’ to be self-justifying obfuscation. He simply said, “SNAFU.”

  “I guess so, Sir. Sorry.”

  “No guessing about it. It is so. Even if the woman who beat you to three stripes says so.” That one stung. It was meant to. Part of the problem was Munro’s ego. He could not see that some people really did attain promotion because they deserved it. Munro, in his own eyes, was the honorable exception. His view was jaundiced, Mahoney knew, but he had his strengths. “What prompted this outburst?”

  “Frustration. I told our coach that training would be hard to make this week. He said it’s the season opener. Big week. First real chance for our club to grab a Senior Hockey Premiership for a decade. Didn’t I realize what’s at stake? What are my priorities? I tried to explain but he just said my place might be up for grabs. Really pissed me off.”

  “And right after this, Hicks, a fellow clubman, asks about the case, correct?”

  “Yeah, pretty much. Didn’t think he’d bring it up. You know, off the record and all that. Prick’s probably after my spot.” Munro’s indignation was again building up some steam.

  “Well, in this instance your professional responsibility will have to come first. We have a murder to solve and that takes precedence over your recreational activities.”

  Munro could not help rising to the rebuke. “So my life and its commitments have to go totally on hold because the bloody Tassie Devils are down one player. Jesus wept.” As soon as the words were out he grimaced, realizing a crucial boundary had been breached.

  Mahoney stood, went to the window and breathed deeply. His own first superintendent, if spoken to in such a manner, would have flayed the subordinate alive and ditched the remains in the incident room as a warning to others. He needed to keep the younger man onside yet ensure he appreciated just what was at stake. His voice was measured. “Tim, you are a good detective and should become an exemplary one. Your instincts are strong and your basic values are sound. But you cannot forget that it’s not just success on the sports field that demands high levels of perspiration. Much of what we do is sheer hard slog and we must be flexible enough to commit full-time to the job at hand.”

  Mahoney turned to face his associate. “We are experiencing an undue amount of pressure, I agree, and not necessarily for the right reasons. Nonetheless, we do not help ourselves if we fracture our efforts. Regardless of our opinion of the victim, the suspects and community expectations, our focus should always be solely on finding a solution. It’s much more than some sort of sacred trust: it is a fundamental responsibility that we do what we can to bring about some sort of justice.”

  Munro’s shoulders relaxed. Partly from relief that he was still in one piece but mainly because he had been praised by the Beekeeper. Some officers spent yearlong secondments in Serious Crime without even receiving a “Well done” so to be unequivocally tol
d he could cut the mustard was news indeed. “Yes, Sir. Sorry the fuse was a bit short then. It’s just that Jackie has been on at me about balance in my life and instead of telling her to give it a rest, I snapped at you. It won’t happen again, Sir.” He continued to stand rigidly.

  “I may not have some of the external commitments of my men, Tim, but I am very mindful of them. Nothing is ever asked of you that is not absolutely necessary. The reason I need you on the job is that your presence seems to somehow rattle Cartwright. It’s barely perceptible at the moment but there is definitely a tiny fissure there that will crack right open with sufficient well-directed pressure. He seems to feel quite comfortable jousting with me but you, without even seeming to mean to, unsettle him. It’s only little things but he reacts in a much less charming manner to any of your questions. If we talk to him again, the rough sandpaper of your interrogation may start to ruffle his smooth surface. Let’s hope so.”

  CHAPTER 24

  Monday 15th March 2pm

  Kendall and Mahoney were sitting in the latter’s office when DC Manning entered.

  “Lyn, take a seat. We’re keenly awaiting whatever you’ve got. By the looks of it, there’s some good news in there.”

  Manning was certainly looking quite chipper. “Hello, Kate. Yes, Sir. Plenty of traces. At both locations as it turns out.”

  “Good. Start with Kingston.”

  “OK. Not quite as telling as the Bowls Club but still good material. The line search by the cadets on Friday and again on Saturday produced nothing of any use. Same with the door-to-door. What we do have are two sets of freshly made footprints left in the immediate vicinity of where the body was discovered that cannot be accounted for. One set made by a pair of Dunlop Volleys with that easily identifiable sole pattern. And the other tread from what seem like work boots. Both sets follow a path to and from the trench. For both the depression on the way over was more marked, presumably because they were lugging a substantial weight.”