The Gilded Madonna

by Garrick Jones

  “Jesus!” I said, after Jack had pulled back the tarpaulin covering the body, exposing it down to the midriff. The man had been disem­bowelled. His guts neatly placed in a pile on his right-hand side.

  “Done while he was still alive,” Jack said, taking another mouthful of his breakfast. “There’s too much blood soaked into the ground and spread about for it to have happened post-mortem.”

  “Cause of death?”

  Jack kneeled and turned the man’s head. There was a bullet entry wound on the left-hand side, a little behind and above his ear.

  “Distance or close up?”

  In reply, the forensic officer lifted the man’s head from the ground by the hair on the top of his head and gestured for me to kneel to have a look. The back of the man’s skull was missing.

  “Deflected exit wound. In the side and out the back, shattering the occipital bone and removing the scalp and flesh from the back and base of his skull. Didn’t die straight away. Poor bastard was probably aware the murderer was reeling his intestines out and piling them up at his side.”

  I dry-heaved a bit and then asked, “What’s that in his mouth?”

  Jack pulled back the rest of the tarpaulin.

  “His penis,” he said.

  I turned my head and threw up.

  *****

  We sat in a briefing with D.I. Fox, who’d been pulled out of bed after not much sleep himself. The factory explosion and associated bank robberies had made for a very time-consuming case, especially with the families of so many victims demanding answers.

  “So, D.C. Paleotti, perhaps you can fill me in on the two victims?” he said.

  “The victim found inside the men’s toilet was definitely one of the Silent Cop’s. Same method of murder, throat slit from behind at the time of, or shortly after ejaculation. Same cross-shaped incision below the navel and above the pubis with an embedded Catseye marble. Bite mark on the upper area of the torso on the left-hand side between the point of the shoulder and the neck.”

  “What do we know about him?”

  Vince handed him the victim’s record, which some poor bastard had had to retrieve from central records at six in the morning and then return to the clink to wait outside our room in case we needed a runner for anything else.

  “He’s one of the Marrickville gang. I recognised his street name,” I volunteered.

  “Tell me, Clyde,” Brendan Fox said, perching on the edge of Dioli’s desk.

  “Last year, at Daley Morrison’s funeral, I overheard a conversation between Rinaldo Tocacci and his right-hand man, Larry the Lamb, about their protection racket in the inner west. I took down notes of the conversation, and when I read the victim’s charge sheet, I recognised his moniker: Fava. It means “broad bean”, but colloquially it’s a nickname given to a man with a large penis.”

  “So?”

  “So, if his gang name refers to the size of his dick and he sleeps with men, one or two of the other gang members have either seen it, or have been better acquainted with it, or know who he usually visits for queer sex, even though he’s married.”

  “I still don’t see any relevance, Clyde.”

  “Well, you know we now have a sketch of the murderer. The relevance is about finding other blokes who go to these places at night. The more of them we can find, the more possibility there is of making connections to our killer. I know it’s a long stretch, but what do we have now? Two contacts; one of whom was a witness, the other is only a possibility too, someone I know who doesn’t engage in the risky types of behaviour all the Silent Cop killer’s victims have, but who has been to parks at night.”

  “Has he seen the drawing yet?”

  “No, Brendan. I’ll show him very soon.”

  “All right. We have so little to go on, and you’re thinking that maybe this petty crim might have a few friends who don’t mind a bit of shirt-lifting in the same sorts of places?”

  “I think it’s highly unlikely that even if they do they’ll talk. However, as we do have their names linked to a criminal gang, there’s always the threat of being charged, unless … well, you know how it goes.”

  “Can you put your hands on the list of this ‘Fava’s’ associates, Clyde?”

  “No, but you can. I can see the edge of the file sitting at the bottom of D.S. Dioli’s in tray just next to your arse.”

  Too late, I realised I’d dumped Dioli in the shit can. Brendan Fox was as sharp as they came. He’d notice the “no action” stamp and the sign-off signature date being the same as the day the file was lodged. I’d given it to Mark on the day we’d had our file-measuring competition. The fact he’d put it in his in tray at all was a little surprising. Maybe my threat of asking him to come to speak to our enquiry had made him decide that he’d better have a look, but hadn’t yet had time to get around to it.

  Fox pulled the file out and undid the string around the rosette seal on the front cover. He opened it and flipped through for a moment before looking at me over the top of it.

  “Christ, Clyde, why did you ever leave us? I’d quite forgotten there was no one like you for outstanding paperwork.”

  “Maybe I wouldn’t have left had I been working with blokes like you, Brendan.”

  He chuckled. “Now that we’ve patted each other on the back, what can you tell me about the other body, Vincenzo?”

  Vince blushed lightly at Fox’s use of his first name. “Time of death was around eight p.m. The man’s the local council worker who locks up the toilets at the end of every day.”

  “Any clues to why he was killed so savagely?”

  “Only theories, boss.”

  “Go on.”

  “Well, we found the toilet keys in the urinal, something I found very strange. Here’s the only way I could see it: Killer approaches council man and offers him a bribe to keep the toilet open, or maybe even tries to steal the keys. Maybe the council worker says no, who knows? But there’s bits of saltbush caught in the ring of the key. It only grows in one patch about twenty feet away from the back of the toilet. So, at some stage, the keys went from the council worker’s pocket to the salt bush before ending up among the trough lollies.”

  “Perhaps the killer threatened him, and he threw them away. Is that possible?”

  “Yeah, if he accosted him while he was standing at the gate to the toilet, the throw’s not that hard.”

  “And yet, the body was found in a patch of lantana, about thirty yards away?”

  “Chased him there? Shot him and then mutilated the body before returning to look for the keys when they’d been thrown?” I asked.

  “There’s definitely the pattern of someone falling forward at speed in the grass,” Jack added. “Green stains on the palms and on the knees of his trousers. I’d say he was running for his life, lost his balance and fell face first, sprawling on the ground.”

  “We need to canvas the area and see whether any of the locals saw or heard anything,” Fox said.

  “Unlikely,” I added. “I don’t know if you’ve ever been there, Brendan, but there’s a large row of tall Norfolk Island pines along the edge of the park. The trees block the view of the park from the flats on the other side of the road. I noticed it this morning when I arrived, wondering the same thing, whether we could perhaps speak to anyone who might have been looking at the park, or noticed anything going on. The flats are too far away from where the council worker’s body was found. It’s unlikely anyone heard a gunshot, but it’s worth trying.”

  “There is one thing …” Vince said timidly.

  “What’s that?”

  “You may not know this, Clyde, but the usher from the Boomerang lives in one of those flats opposite the park.”

  “What usher from the Boomerang?” Fox asked.

  “Just a friend of a friend, Brendan,” I said. “I’ll call in and see if he saw or heard anything.”

  “Why him in particular?”

  “No reason,” I said nonchalantly.

  “Clyde S
mith,” the D.I. said, “I didn’t come down in the last shower you know. This usher, is he one of ‘the lads’?”

  “I have no first-hand knowledge,” I lied. I had seen the man emerge from behind the rocks shortly followed by Craig. “But I can find out.”

  “Well, just make sure you’re discreet when you speak to him, all right?”

  “When you say discreet, what do you think I’d do?”

  “Keep your trousers on, preferably, Clyde.”

  I didn’t know how he knew, but he seemed to. What the hell, I didn’t care. I was a private citizen these days.

  “Maybe you’d like to go in my place, Brendan?”

  “Not my thing, Clyde.”

  “You’d be the first Arab man I ever met who didn’t play for both teams.”

  “Clyde Smith, you’re embarrassing D.C. Paleotti.”

  Vince was far from embarrassed, in fact he had his head down, examining something in one of his files, seeming to be trying his hardest not to laugh.

  *****

  Tom was waiting for me outside the clink. Harry had phoned him and told him I’d need a lift.

  “You have a car now?”

  “You’re the one who told me to get one.”

  “How the hell?”

  “Pay as you go, Clyde. Get with the times. It’s second-hand, but goes like a beauty, and Harry’s father helped me choose it.”

  “Did he now?”

  “I was talking to him about the idea on Christmas Day. Seems your Harry learned to look after cars from a World War One motor mechanic.”

  “He’s our Harry, Tom, not just mine.”

  “Where to, Clyde?”

  “Unless something terrible has happened, I haven’t slept yet. What time is it?”

  “Quarter past ten.”

  “Maybe I should call past the Bishops …”

  “Maybe you should go home and get some sleep. Tell you what, I’ll pick up something for lunch and wake you at about say one? Or do you want to sleep through?”

  “Grab something from Stones, Tom.”

  “Is Stones open, Clyde? It’s New Year’s Day.”

  “They might open late and close early, but unless something drastic has happened, they’ve always been open. Lots of New Year’s Eve party hangovers to provide food for. Ralph always said it was the busiest day of his year.”

  “I’ll give them a call first to make sure then, shall I?” Tom asked.

  “I’m sure there’ll be no need, but if they’re closed for some reason the fish and chip shop on the corner is open three hundred and sixty-five days of the year.”

  “Righto, Clyde. Anything else?”

  “Where’s Harry? Did he say?”

  “At home. He took Dioli there for his mum to look after.”

  “What?”

  “He rang me from Dioli’s house. Said the D.S. was so drunk he’d pissed himself and was lying on the floor of the kitchen howling his head off about being alone—”

  “I’ll wait to hear the details from the horse’s mouth, thanks, Tom.”

  “Righto, Clyde. Home then is it?”

  “Yes please, Tom, and whatever Gerd and Liesl have on special for lunch sounds great—take one of my Pyrex dishes with a lid from under the stove. I’ll give you my spare key. If I don’t wake up easily, yell directly in my ear, really loudly, and then stand back as quick as you can.”

  “Stand back? Why?”

  “Cause I might get such a fright I pick you up and throw you out of my bedroom window, head first.”

  Tom chuckled, but I did notice the wary sideways glance he gave me as we turned into Mount Street off Coogee Bay Road on our way to my flat.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  The following morning, after I’d got up early to make a few dozen copies of the photographs I’d taken of Art’s sketches, I heard voices as I climbed the stairs to my office.

  My office door was closed, the blind drawn, the sign I’d made saying we’d be closed until Monday the seventh of January still in place. I opened the door. There was no mail on the floor, so I assumed Tom must have collected it. The sound of loud laughter coming from Harry’s office made me curious.

  “Hello there,” I said around the doorway.

  Harry, Tom, and Mark Dioli were standing in front of Harry’s large blackboard, Harry with his shirtsleeves rolled up to the elbow, and Tom in shorts and a polo shirt. It was odd to see him laughing with Dioli, especially as the detective’s rudeness was the main reason he’d resigned. Mark wore his suit. It looked like he might have been passing through on the way to his office.

  I noticed his bruises were still dark, covering the right-hand side of his neck, and there was a row of stitches through his right eyebrow. It had been covered with a sticking plaster when I’d last seen him.

  “Hello, Clyde,” he said, raising two fingers in a casual gesture of hello, but avoiding direct eye contact.

  “What’s all this, then?” I asked, indicating the blackboard as I leafed through the pile of mail I’d picked up from Harry’s reception counter on the way into the room.

  “Harry kindly put me up at his parents’ house last night, and he offered to drop me to work.”

  “There’s something I thought of while I was lying in bed this morning,” Harry said. “And I wanted to run it past Mark and you and Tom, here in my office, away from the rest of his crew at the police station.”

  Harry didn’t need to explain it was a face-saving gesture. Like me, he’d long ago figured out that Dioli always had to appear to be the man in charge. Now I knew more about him and his background, I understood. It was no skin off my nose if I had to sit in the backseat.

  “Now we know the murderer has a gun and isn’t afraid to use it, it changes things, doesn’t it, Clyde,” Harry said.

  Dioli took his jacket off when he saw me do the same and offered us his pack of smokes. They were a brand I couldn’t regularly afford, but I took one and thanked him.

  “It was something kept going through my mind last night, too,” I replied. “I bet the coroner’s findings are that the barrel of the gun was deflected as the man pulled too hard on the trigger—otherwise the bullet would have smashed out the right-hand side of his skull. The unaccustomed effort to keep his hand steady made him twist his wrist as he fired, and that’s why the exit wound was at the back of the head. More than likely, he’s not used to using a gun, so probably isn’t a war veteran.”

  “Nine point six five millimetre round dug out of the ground,” Dioli said.

  “Enfield No. 2 pistol comes straight to mind,” I said.

  “Those were my thoughts too, 1932 military issue mainly and a few hundred to the Federal Police from memory,” Harry said. “Farmers and veterinarians could get them under licence for putting down animals.”

  “Why a short arm?” Dioli asked. “I’d have thought farmers would use a rifle.”

  “Rifles are long, you have to stand back. Close up and quick with a revolver,” Harry explained. “Especially with smaller animals. Put your foot on a snake and shoot its head off with a rifle? Too awkward. Easier to lean down and shoot the bastard between the eyes with a handgun in my experience.”

  “So, what’s with the squiggles on the blackboard?” I asked, trying to supress a grin at Dioli’s reaction to Harry’s nonchalant description of dispatching snakes. It was something I’d heard a lot of the guys who’d served in Malaya and Borneo had become quite adept at.

  “It’s my rough map of the Waverley district,” Harry said. “This part here, which looks like someone’s taken a bite out of it, is Coogee Bay and then above that, Gordon’s Bay, Clovelly, Tamarama, Bondi. Then to the south, there’s Maroubra. These blue crosses are all the public toilets. The red crosses are where the seven ritualised murders have taken place—we can ignore the council worker who was eviscerated at the scene of the last killing, I think we all agree he just got in the way. However, there were no two Silent Cop victims in the same park. They’re all in a three-mile radius
from here,” he added, stabbing at the northern end of the outline of the beach he’d drawn.

  “Which means he probably lives in the area, otherwise, why here?” Dioli said. “Most multiple murders are usually close to home—take the Jack Ripper cases, for example.”

  Harry continued, “The longest distance between any of the toilets in which a murder takes place is four and a half miles, between the murder last night in South Coogee and your second murder three years ago, Clyde, behind the Boys’ High School in Moore Park. That means he most likely lives somewhere in-between.”

  “Yeah, who’d walk nearly five miles for a root?” Tom said cheekily.

  “You would,” I quipped, “if some sheila ever took pity on you that is.”

  Harry, Tom, and I laughed. Dioli didn’t. I knew it in that instant—he didn’t do physical intimacy. I supposed I wouldn’t either, if what had happened to him had been my experience. No doubt he’d seen things, even when he was tiny, that would have frightened the shit out of him and turned him off sex for life.

  Mark Dioli ignored us and began to draw lines connecting the red crosses. He then picked up a piece of green chalk and drew a circle around the centre where the lines mostly intersected. “Here,” he said, dotting the chalk on the board with an emphatic click, “somewhere around here—this is most likely where the killer lives, central to all of the murders.”

  “Where would that be on the council map, Tom?”

  Tom returned from my office a few moments later with a copy of Gregory’s Street Directory. I always kept one handy if I needed to check how to get somewhere I’d never been to before. He looked back and forth between the blackboard while leafing through the pages of the directory. “Here we are, in this area bounded by Alison Road, Carrington Road, Clovelly Road, and Avoca Street.”

  “What’s this empty area bang in the middle?” Dioli asked.

  Tom picked up the directory and turned it to the light, squinting. “It’s Glebe Gully,” he said.

  The three men looked at me. I was the local. “It’s a storm water ditch, natural creek and bushland, about five acres in all,” I explained. “We were never allowed to go play there as kids, because my parents thought it was dangerous.”