Chapter Eight
The glare of the early morning sun was doing nothing for his tired eyes. He had forgotten his sunglasses and they were bone dry, burning slightly behind the eyelids. He had only about three hours sleep after they had finished up with Tama's body the previous evening. The consensus was that his co offenders got rid of him as the weakest link, afraid that he had talked to the police and would lead them into a trap. That was the theory, now they just had to prove it.
Matthews had wanted to separate the two cases, but Bridger had argued that they were connected and that his team had a greater chance of getting to the truth if they worked on both simultaneously.
Matthews had deferred to Bridger's train of thought and had not even put any hooks in his decision. It made Bridger slightly nervous the way Matthews was acting, he knew where he stood with him but he could not help but think that Matthews was just waiting for him to trip up.
He did question Bridger about his reason for visiting Kingi in prison when there were two murder enquiries underway, pushing for details about what Kingi wanted and how he had communicated it to him. Bridger had been unable to elaborate on either of those two subjects.
Kingi senior had been Bridger's informant before jail had caught up with him. Theirs was a relationship that was always fraught and uneasy but over the years, it had borne out a wealth of information. He used some information as background, stored it away for another day and some he acted upon either way it had led to a few arrests, usually of the opposition.
Informants were closely guarded secrets within the police, few, if any other officers, would know of the relationship between an informant and their handler. It was as much for the informants protection as anything else and it ensured that information would be free flowing if the 'Human Source' thought he was something special. However, it was usually because Bridger paid for the information. He certainly had not expected to have to pay Kingi this morning, as the law could construe it as exploitation, paying a serving prisoner. In Bridger’s experience, though, they usually wanted something in return. Information was never free.
Right now, he had that appointment to keep with Joseph Kingi senior.
He had actually thought about postponing now they had an extra body on their hands but did not want to let Matthews know that, as he had seemed on edge about the visit. He also had a hunch that Big J may be able to help with both murders. In any case, the team was in capable hands with Brian Johnson at the helm while he was visiting his chum in jail.
Having set a few tasks to keep everyone busy while he was at the Milton Prison as he only planned to be away a couple of hours, he felt fairly relaxed that they would continue to progress the enquiry while he was tied up. They would do all the usual jobs first in order to satisfy any later judicial process. The chain of evidence needed to be intact.
Jo Williamson and John Mouller had drawn the longest straw and had the choice of either attending Tama's post-mortem or doing the dreaded door knock at the next of kin’s address. Not much of a choice but they had chosen the door knock which would also include door-to-door inquiries in the local area. 'The Pad' was on their list. It was what he would have chosen to do as well if he had the choice. Death always looked uglier when dissected by curious doctors.
Becky Wright and Grant Wylie would attend the hospital again and Brian Johnson would be overseeing the tasking roster from the office. A busy day for all those involved, but that is what the public expected of them.
Bridger had his stereo up loud as he descended the south side of Saddle Hill on the southern motorway. Mosgiel, with its Hollywood style sign placed on the hillside, spread itself out below and to the right of him.
Referred to as 'Mollywood' by the locals, the jewel of the Taieri Plains received its name from Mossgiel Ayrshire, a farm owned by the poet Robert Burns, who was the uncle of the Reverend Robert Burns; one of the co founders of Dunedin.
Historically a place of industry with a large woollen mill long since closed, it was now just another suburb of Dunedin; a small town engulfed in the extremely large city boundary.
The rest of the Taieri Plains stretched out before him bordered on one side by the Maungatua and Silverpeaks ranges, with a low range of coastal hills on the other separating the Plains from the cold Pacific Ocean.
The other end of the Plains was his destination this morning. Milton Prison, a new build complex housing around 480 prisoners from Dunedin and all over New Zealand. A place where Joseph Kingi senior had spent the last three years for drug dealing, aggravated assault, and robbery, based mostly on Bridger's evidence in chief. It was evidence that Big J had been disputing from the day he received his sentence
The journey was going to be about twenty minutes long so Bridger just relaxed into his seat and let the music wash over him as he drove south. The Rubens cover recording of the Hunters and Collectors classic 'Holy Grail' pouring through the speakers.
With all that had been happening he hadn't once thought about his marital troubles since attending the scene of Tama Wilson's demise the previous evening.
He began working over in his mind how he was going to play this. His memory of Big J was of an overly egotistical male that liked to dominate the conversation, twisting it to suit whatever purpose he wanted at the time, which changed on a second by second basis.
Bridger's purpose was to explore whether Big J knew the identity of the three masked males they were hunting. If Joseph junior were involved, Big J would know about it.
Big J was not likely to inform on his son, but he was the one who had made contact so it was obvious that he wanted to speak about something and if he gave the names of the other two, then it would only be a matter of time before they linked them to Joseph junior. Then it would be job done.
The music continued to play, 'And those big black birds, they were circling in the sky. And you know what they say, yeah, nobody deserves to die'.
Bridger thought about Tama, were the big black birds circling now, looking to pick off the remains of the dead from this literal battlefield. Tama may have been a bad egg, but as The Rubens was singing, 'Nobody deserves to die'.
I will have to stop reading Nietzsche, Bridger thought, there are too many hidden meanings in everything.
It did not seem like long before the big grey concrete walls of the prison loomed into view. The walls were massive making the place look like a modern day fortress, only they wanted to keep people inside this fortress, no one in their right mind would want to invade the place.
Parking the car in the closest place he could find to the entrance, Bridger gathered everything he would need for the interview, if that were what this was going to be, and walked towards the front door.
He looked up at the blueness of the sky and took in a deep breath of the fresh air. He knew once he was inside the walls the feeling would change, the air would be stale and the sky, if he could glimpse it at all, would be a faded shade of the blue he could see now.
Prison was a horrible place, made worse by the desperation of those it contained. He had been here before and even though Milton Prison was relatively new, he knew the walls had still been saturated and infected with the hopelessness of wasted lives.
He hoped he would only be inside a couple of hours then he could get on with some real work and leave the desperate to the people paid to look after them.
Martin woke with a start, sitting up he could see a bright light shining at the end of a very black hole, tunnel like. The glare made him squint, he felt stiff and damp, and the light offered warmth and comfort.
Images of death flashed through his mind.
"Where the fuck am I," he said aloud. His voice echoed slightly, an empty hollow sound.
He could feel a cold hard surface under his hands, the chill was sitting about an inch off the ground, floating. The occasional wet drop fell from the blackness above him and hit the equally invisible stone floor.
Slowly it all came back to him. The image of Tama ly
ing face down in the dirt, his head spread all over the tree, the feeling of revulsion, hatred and despair that had invaded his body.
Tama was his best friend and now he was dead.
He had run, as far as he could, but it had not helped dissipate the hollow numbness that had settled in the pit of his stomach. Tama's death was down to him, it had been the inevitable outcome of their actions. He knew he should have done something back at the store; he could have saved Tama before it all got out of control. Now he had two deaths hanging over his head, one, which was out of his control, and the other that was as a direct consequence.
He stood up in the darkness, the walls of the tunnel close on either side. It had been a place to sleep, a place to contain his angry thoughts as they fought for control of his mind, a place to hide.
It was now another place of childhood play forever tarnished with the memory of death.
Tunnel Beach is located about 8km from the city centre, a small beach only protected from the rest of the coast by a small headland and large un-scalable cliffs, it's really only usable at low tide. The shoreline is accessed by a short tunnel cut into the rocks as a path descends down to the beach, it was built by another Cargill, this time John Cargill in the 1870's, to give his family easy access. It was rumoured that it was to enable John's daughter to use the beach without having to expose herself to the public at nearby St Clair.
It was the first place Martin had thought of last night, no one would look for him there.
He walked upwards towards the entrance of the tunnel and emerged back into the light, a perfect vista of the Pacific Ocean edged by sandstone cliffs, one sporting a large naturally formed arch, opened up behind him. The green grass of the paddocks spread out to the front of him was rippling in the slight breeze as he looked at the track that would lead him back to the top.
The sun was shining, it was warm now he had left the chill of the tunnel, everything was normal. Image's of a much younger Tama playing on the track, flashed through Martin's thoughts.
He saw him smiling as he went as close to the edge of the cliff as possible, a game they had played as children.
Suddenly Tama's expression went from happy to anguish, a puzzled and betrayed look on his face. He heard Tama say, 'Why?' before he watched him step backwards and disappear over the edge.
The vision shocked him and he stumbled, and then fell against the side of the hill landing heavily on his backside.
He reached out his hand towards the cliffs edge, a hopeless gesture directed at the empty space the image of Tama had occupied.
Tama was gone... It was too late.
Martin began to cry.
"He's not pretty I'm afraid", the pathologist said as he snapped his rubber gloves onto his fingers. Dr James Mortimer had been a doctor for twenty years after graduating with first class honours at the Otago University, a local boy who never left. He had been a pathologist for the past five years and was well acquainted with what the police required from him.
"There is not much left of the cranial region, but I understand identification is not an issue".
Grant Wylie hated post-mortem procedures as much as children hated vegetables, and in his experience, that was a lot. This would be his second viewing in less than 24 hours.
"We know who he is Doctor." Grant said. "We are really just going through the motions here. I'm not sure how much evidential value there will be having you confirm that he died after having his head blown off".
"That may be Detective, but as you and I both know evidence can come from the most unlikely places. We won't know what we might find until we have a closer look". Dr Mortimer did not wait for a reply before walking into the cutting room.
Grant looked at Becky and shrugged his shoulders feeling slightly admonished.
"I'm just glad we are behind this window and not in there with him." Becky said. "That stink can be horrendous".
They both looked though the window and watched as Dr Mortimer arranged the tools of his trade in order of appearance.
Grant thought he could see a slight sadistic smile on his lips as he picked up the scalpel that sat neatly next to the large set of bolt cutters. A chill ran through him as he looked at the pile of human waste laid out on the gurney before them.
There is no dignity in death, he thought, it comes to everyone; he just hoped he would be spared the Doctor's attention when his time came.
A knock on the door behind them interrupted the surreal scene making them both jump.
"Excuse me Detectives but the Doctor asked me to give you this". The nurse was petite and looked foreign; she had a brown A4 size envelope in her hand. "It's the results of the procedure for Mr Chen".
She looked like she wanted to hand over the documents and leave as quickly as possible, glancing distastefully at the activities through the window.
Becky took the envelope and the nurse retreated through the door.
"Thanks’" she called to the back of her head as the nurse disappeared down the hall. Turning back to Grant "You would think they would have a stronger stomach with their job".
Grant just nodded his eyes on the A4 envelope in Becky's hand.
"Grant can you keep an eye on Dr Jekyll in there while I have a quick glance at this"
Grant was about to protest but then thought better of it, he knew Becky hated death as much as he did. Doing her a favour might work out well for him in the future, besides he had already seen the worst of it, once the pathologist sliced open the body the shock factor was less. He took the organs out one by one, examining and weighing them before placing them in a bag, which ended up stitched back into the body at the end. The face would be peeled back to enable the skull to be opened up to reveal the brain's secrets. It did not look human after a while and that made the experience a little more bearable.
"If I have to", he said, smiling a false smile before turning back to the gruesome show being played out for his viewing pleasure.
Dr Mortimer had already opened the chest cavity and was using the large bolt droppers to cut the cartilage away from the middle of the rib cage to enable access to its contents. Inside was the heart, lungs and various other things that Grant had no idea about, and a lot of blood.
"It seems that Dr Mortimer was right, you don't know what you will find unless you look", Becky said, a trace of excitement in her voice "It says here that he found a small amount of blood and saliva 'Other than the victim's' on the victim's palm".
Grant looked incredulous, "How could he tell that it was different? There was so much blood from the victim it would have just mixed in with his own". He was thinking ahead to a Court hearing, any good defence lawyer would argue this discovery as very unlikely. They may even go so far as to say it was 'planted' unless a credible explanation for its discovery was offered.
"Doctor Mortimer is one step ahead of you again Grant, he has placed a side note on the file indicating how the sample was discovered...., " She looked up at Grant, then through the window at the Doctor, "He's not new at this you know Grant, he is the police's pathologist of choice". There was a very protective nuance in her voice, as if there was more than just professional admiration for the good Doctor.
Becky looked like she was going to keep the information to herself, but then thought better of it. "It looks like a long winded explanation", she said handing a document to Grant, "Have a read".
Grant looked at the sheet of paper and struggled to make sense of the Doctor's handwriting.
'The sample was found encased in the deceased's palm which was subject to rigor-mortis and had curled upon itself, thus enabling the mixed saliva blood sample to remain viscous. The sample presented differently than other secretions found on the body. In my opinion, someone other than the victim put it there by spitting on the palm area. This other person would have had an injury to the mouth or head/facial area to cause the saliva blood mix'.
"Well, he seems to have covered that off pretty efficiently, I guess we need to have it su
bmitted for DNA testing ASAP". Grant said begrudgingly.
"The person who was hit by Mr Chen with the bat would be injured," Becky said "My guess is that the sample would belong to him. From what I saw on the CCTV footage he was the one who entered the shop with the gun then handed it to our shooter when he tried to rape the young girl".
"Has the blood type been tested..., that's pretty simple isn't it?" Grant looked at the sheet he was holding, "Okay it has been.... O positive... Maybe we can match it to our friend lying on the table in there; it’s easier and faster to match DNA if you already have a suspect sample".
A knock on the window behind them interrupted their train of thought. Dr Mortimer was holding a small test card up to the window, it had drops of blood on it, he was shaking his head and indicating the sheet Grant was holding, they both looked closer at the card he was holding, indicating blood type A.
"It looks like Dr Mortimer is one step ahead of you again," Becky said smiling and then mouthing the words thank-you through the window.
"Well that would mean it is only a choice between our friend in there and one other for the shooter. The guy with the injury did not shoot Mr Chen, CCTV shows that." Grant said.
"My bet is that the DNA will match Joseph Kingi Junior, I still think he is a good fit for what I saw on the tapes." Becky replied."And that means the other person is likely to be one of his goons".
"Only one way to find out", Grant said waving the file in front of Becky, "Let's get the testing underway".
John Mouller did not know anyone that enjoyed this part of the job, aptly labelled the 'Death Knock’, heralding one of the only visitor’s you wouldn’t want at your door; he could not stand it when people broke down in front of him. He thought he had left that part of the job behind when he became a Detective. He was not a counsellor, he did not even know anyone who had died, apart from his grandparents and he was too young at the time to remember that. They were already to drive up to Tama’s house when a twist of fate saved the first part of the job. The uniform staff had brought Tama's mother into the station by the after she was found in a doss house close by. Dressed in a short tatty skirt, a tight t-shirt covered with a plain black leather vest and a pair of very high heels she looked as if she had just come in from a night working the streets.
John had taken in her sullen pale features, unkempt hair and the telltale pockmarks of a heavy drug user and decided she would not have made a lot of money if she had.
He had watched, as Jo had taken no notice of her appearance, treating her with the dignity the occasion accorded her. She had taken her through to an office with soft furniture and made her comfortable, and gave a hot cup of tea.
Jo had taken her time and chosen her words carefully. John had been impressed with her compassion.
Mrs Tania Wilson on the other hand had appeared not to care at all that someone had shot her only son to death. She just sat there sipping her tea and sucking air through the gap of her missing tooth, nodding her head as if she agreed with what Jo was telling her, her vacant eyes watching but not seeing.
He had watched as Jo tried to make her see the seriousness of the situation but it just did not seem to get through. In the end John had decided enough was enough and had put a stop to it, if Mrs Wilson did not care she might as well leave so they could get on with the rest of their task. Jo had voiced her concern but had deferred to John's experience as a Detective.
As they had watched her leave the station she had lit up a cigarette and approached the first person she saw asking for money.
Now they were on their way to the next part of their day, and he hoped it would be more productive. They had spent most of the short journey up to Corstaphine in silence.
"Where do you want to start?" Jo asked John, hoping the answer would be 'The Pad'. She wanted to get that enquiry out of the way as soon as she could. She had not had many dealings with Gang members before but had dealt with Joseph Kingi Junior once for a speeding offence. She was on her own when she had stopped his car; she had no idea who he was then, having only been in the job about six months.
Thinking it would be just another routine stop she had not bothered to update the communication centre of her status. As soon as she had approached the driver's window, she knew she had made a grave error of judgement. She could feel his menace radiating out of every pore of his pockmarked skin. The way he had looked at her made her stomach crawl, and he knew it. She was an easy target and he was not about to let any girl tell him how he should be driving.
When he stepped out of the car not even bothering to wait until she moved, then stood in her face she had nearly wet herself.
He had looked toward the empty patrol car and realised she was on her own, he did not even need to say anything, the look on his face told her the whole story. She had simply turned around and retreated to the relative safety of the patrol car.
As she drove away, she watched him in the rear-view mirror making lewd gestures towards her and laughing. She hated herself for that act of cowardice and she had never told anyone of the encounter. She just hoped that he would not remember their brief meeting.
"Let's start with Tama's house and move from there towards the scene", John replied "Retrace his steps; someone might have seen someone following him".
"Tama's friend Martin McLaren lives next door, doesn't he? Let’s start there then" Jo said nervously, still apprehensive about the impending visit to 'The Pad'.
John didn't notice her mood as he parked the car in the street between what looked like a wreck of a car and one that was in better condition but had no wheels, supported by two old jacks and a couple of blocks of wood.
Walking up the short path that spanned the unkempt grass of the front lawn Jo saw a curtain twitch in one of the windows facing them. Someone was home, and had seen them approaching.
The door flew open before they had a chance to step onto the porch.
"What the fuck do you's want", the man was flushed and sweaty, his paunch bulging dangerously over his scruffy sweat pants. "He's not even here, so you's can fuck off back to the pigsty if you want".
"I'm sorry, who are you?" John said in a neutral tone.
"I'm the one that lives here and telling you to get the fuck off my property". The man spoke with venom but his body language betrayed a nervousness, which did not escape their attention.
"Well...." Jo said forcefully "You obviously know who we are, so you know we won't be going now that you have insulted us. I take it you’re Martin's father?"
John looked at Jo wondering where this was going.
"Star... That loser is only my stepson, mores the pity. He's a waste of space, I only put up with him so his mother will keep sucking my dick". The man's black eyes looked Jo up and down and he licked his lips.
"Charming... is Martin or his mother home?" Jo continued.
"No and No..., now fuck off". The man stepped back inside and slammed the door in their faces.
John and Jo looked at each other. John just shrugged his shoulders, "That didn't go as well as I would have liked," he said, before he turned and started to walk back to the car.
Jo watched John retreat towards the car, wondering why he was not pushing things a little further. This man clearly had something to hide. She burned inwardly; she could not stand the way that some people viewed the Police as the enemy. Looking at the closed door she couldn't think of any legal reason to make him open it up again so she gave in and followed John silently back to the car, dreading her fast approaching date at 'The Pad'.
Wasted Lives, a Detective Mike Bridger novel Page 9
