Only the Dead

by Ben Sanders

  They sat and laughed. Devereaux reached over and cracked a window. Across the street a woman was assembling a planter box out of timber.

  Driver to passenger: ‘What do you reckon she’s up to?’

  ‘Making a garden thing, probably.’

  ‘Looks like a coffin.’

  ‘Yeah, kind of. She’s made it family-sized.’

  ‘You reckon she’s topped her family?’

  ‘Maybe. Folks get up to all sorts down here, I tell you.’

  Devereaux eyed the back of the guy’s head. The passenger seemed to feel the weight of the attention on his skull. He spun the mirror so he and Devereaux were eye to eye.

  ‘Do you like being a detective?’ the kid said.

  ‘Excuse me?’

  The guy looked confused. Devereaux twirled an index finger.

  The penny dropped: ‘Do you like being a detective, sir?’

  ‘Yes. Sorry, what was your name?’

  ‘O’Neil.’

  ‘Yes, Constable O’Neil, I do enjoy being a detective. Also I notice we were fifteen over the limit the whole way here, so if you could grab me the pepper spray it would be much appreciated.’

  They fell quiet. Devereaux leaned forward and plucked wet shirt off his back. He needed a cigarette. The pack in his pocket was fully loaded and ready for consumption: Marlboros, tight against the pocket lining, like a kid’s face on the shop glass.

  The two guys in the front exchanged glances.

  ‘Sorry,’ the driver said. ‘Some guys just kinda, you know. We’re not that formal with them.’

  ‘We’ll call it even. I didn’t know you guys were arseholes.’

  No reply. They faced forward and shut up. He spread his arms full-wingspan across the top of the seats and watched the street. It was grime-smeared residential, light wind presiding, gangly tree shadows listless in the heat. The radio blipped in with nothing-updates: the target vehicle was parked in the driveway, not the garage; there was nobody around; it looked all clear; they were under the vehicle; they’d begun installing the device—

  The transmission cut. They lost the guy mid-sentence. Dead air stretched out.

  Devereaux leaned forward. ‘Radio them back and see what’s happening.’

  The driver thumbed his shoulder mic, ducked his chin and requested a repeat on the last transmission. No response. More unacknowledged chatter as the Armed Offenders Squad sent out a similar request.

  ‘Keep trying until they come back on line,’ Devereaux said.

  The driver keyed his shoulder mic again and requested a situation report. No reply, nothing on the dashboard unit. He repeated the message, got an identical result. The passenger propped his elbow on the sill and thumbed his lip.

  ‘Head along up the street,’ Devereaux said. ‘We’ll see what’s up. Tell AOS to hold, we don’t need a scene.’

  The driver did as directed. Planter box woman’s gaze panned with them as they passed. The target address was less than a minute away, a two-storey weatherboard shielded by one right turn. Up the street, the driver of the AOS truck flicked a peace sign out his window. They swung into the street just as the radio cut back in: ‘Ten-ten, repeat, we are ten-ten.’

  Urgent assistance required. Come bail us out.

  ‘Ah, shit.’ The kid’s eyes in the mirror, before Devereaux was yelling at him to hit it, and he nailed the gas pedal.

  The car lurched under the dose of throttle, the guys up front ducked to dash level to gauge progress, Devereaux braced door to door against the cornering forces. The passenger radioing the AOS team to roll.

  The driver overshot his mark and stomped the brake. They thumped to a standstill. Devereaux snapped forward, lap belt cinching deep. They were skewed across the centre of the street, rubber smoking in thin twists. A dull pop as the boot released, ragged door slams as the guys up front beelined for the gun safe in back. Devereaux unclicked and slid out, saw the house twenty metres back along the street, the car in the driveway, blood daubs on the concrete.

  ‘Oh, shit, someone’s bleeding.’

  The driver who’d spoken. The two uniforms had formed up in the street, shaky assault rifles to shoulder, sighted in on the house. A screech as the AOS team pulled up behind them. Devereaux rounded the rear of the car. The gun safe had been pillaged: one measly Glock the price for being third. Shaky fingers liberated it from its foam recess. A full clip: he drew a bead on the pavement to check the sights, jacked a round into the chamber.

  The house was off-white, a garage adjacent spilling a strip of driveway to the kerb. The front door hung wide. He led with the gun and approached at a sprint, dizzy under the adrenaline hit. The two kids tailing him either side. AOS way back, the sergeant screaming for them to let his team in first to clear the premises. Devereaux had no hope of hearing: adrenaline rush swamped all.

  The car’s bonnet was up, he dropped to a duck-walk and checked beneath the chassis. A loose bundle of limp leads, a huge arcing slash of blood leading away from it towards the house. The downslope edge beaded with a thin wave. A wail from the house, frantic ten-ten pleadings from the shoulder mics of the two guys riding his heels.

  Across the open yard and straight in the front door. Glock first, muzzle twitchy, trigger finger tight. One surveillance guy crumpled foetal in the entry, a mangled bicep leaking scarlet through clawed fingers. A whimper, and then crinkled eye contact. Devereaux stormed through. Stairs branched left and up, bloodstains on the treads like pursed lips, beckoning come hither. He jumped them two at a time and made the upstairs hallway, fanned the Glock in a shaky one-eighty to cover each direction. To the right: an open bathroom door, the second surveillance officer propped against mildewed tilework. Torso slumped, legs askew. The floor a bloody hand-smear collage. A deep leg gash leaking steady.

  He heard Devereaux. A pummelled head raised from an exhausted slouch, a mumble on shiny lips as Devereaux entered the room, gun raised. A heavy sideways pan of the guy’s gaze stopped him dead, right there on the threshold. A pause within that frantic, frantic moment. He tracked the fallen officer’s line of sight.

  Just do it.

  He whipped left, a sharp ninety-degree turn, fired three times point blank through the door, wrist snapping back under the force. Dead shells arced and flipped, tinkling. Woodchips rode the cordite bloom and bit his cheeks. A man with a machete fell sideways from his position behind the door, two bullet holes through his stomach. He clutched himself, gasping, and thumped against the wall. A scream, a broken slash of red against the paintwork as he slid to the floor.

  More backup arrived: another AOS team diverted off a nearby callout, and a roving patrol unit that had caught the ten-ten. Ample support to cover first aid. He sat on the landing and fought dizziness as the tension backed off, gun still in hand. He racked the slide to clear the chambered round. It rolled clear and toddled its way down the stairs. He watched its escape, gentle brushes of passing thighs against his shoulder preventing a total daze. Paramedics arrived, clipped directives in the face of carnage. Clatters and dull thumps as stretchers and first-aid kits ascended the stairs.

  Someone tapped his shoulder. He spun and saw a female constable looking down at him.

  ‘Sergeant, maybe you should give me your gun.’

  He handed it over. She took it gingerly. Two fingers only, like something tainted. He caught a glimpse back through the bathroom door: the cop’s blood everywhere, the cop himself looking well south of normal. An ambulance guy trying to raise a vein to put in an IV line. Machete man, prone on his back, getting oxygen via a mask.

  A sudden, whispered prayer: Please don’t die.

  They sealed the street and took preliminary statements. Witness accounts came replete with big hand gestures and hyperbole. Wild-eyed bystanders drank in sordid hearsay. Devereaux watched it all from the back seat of a patrol car. The wounded officers were gone — stabilised, then whisked to hospital, good health pending.

  Staying calm was proving hard. His victim had left the scene in
full crisis regalia: mask, stretcher and IV. The cigarette box was biting his thigh — he’d shoot the guy again for just one puff. He freed the pack from his pocket and tossed it on the seat beside him. A taunt from arm’s length, dog pulled up short before the bone.

  He tipped his head against the glass to catch a glimpse of what was happening inside. No luck. Plastic evidence markers picked out driveway blood spatter. Reporters were clustered at the cordon. Stoic uniforms fended questions with stern replies of ‘No comment’. He fidgeted. This was a fresh perspective for him. He was death’s inside man. Prior homicide experience was from the other side of the glass. He kept his gaze on the front door and saw the senior on-scene detective walk out towards the street, phone raised to his face, mouth rigid. The receiving end of a one-sided chat. Devereaux didn’t want to look concerned, leaned back in his seat to evince calm.

  The guy came around the rear of the car and slid in next to Devereaux. The phone snapped closed in sync with his door slam.

  ‘Sorry we’ve kept you so long.’

  ‘How is he?’

  ‘Which one?’

  ‘The one I shot.’

  The guy tapped the phone against his thigh. ‘You got him twice. He lost some blood.’

  ‘So did one of our guys.’

  ‘Yeah. I know.’

  ‘What’s damaged?’

  ‘Tilework, plaster.’

  ‘No. Like, what happened to the guy I gave two rounds to?’

  ‘I don’t know. I guess they’ll find out.’

  ‘But he’s breathing?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘So then what’s the deal? Let me—’

  ‘We’ve got to take you in, do it all properly.’ He paused. ‘Nothing to worry about yet but, you know. We’ve got to do it formally. Maybe get a lawyer on the phone.’

  Not bad advice. But, shit, it sounded bad. Worry oozed afresh: suspension, dismissal, manslaughter charge, in ascending degree of severity.

  ‘Is anyone dead?’

  A placating smile. ‘No. Nobody’s dead.’

  He sighed — a held breath he didn’t know he had.

  ‘Are you okay?’ the guy said.

  ‘I never hurt anyone that badly.’

  ‘I wouldn’t worry. It’ll probably be fine.’

  ‘I hope so. “Not fine” is definitely worth worrying about.’

  ‘He had a record, if it makes it any better.’

  ‘It doesn’t. It shouldn’t. In fact, I think it’ll probably make things worse.’

  The guy didn’t seem to understand. Devereaux looked away. The window was discoloured in a ring where his forehead had stamped it. Sweaty whorls cast by frown lines. ‘Get out,’ he said. ‘You’re sitting on my cigarettes.’

  THREE

  MONDAY, 13 FEBRUARY, 5.16 P.M.

  Mitch Duvall met Don McCarthy at a café on High Street, just south of Vulcan Lane, and sat him down with takeaway coffee at a metal table outside. The street at that point was a narrow channel of masonry façades, random human eddies as people dodged glacial one-way traffic.

  The Don wasn’t a talker. Not much on offer other than a ‘Hi’ and a handshake.

  Duvall tabled a soft icebreaker. ‘I probably could have found something closer to the station for you, save you coming all the way down here.’

  He was all nerves: a stutter doubled up his S’s. McCarthy pretended not to notice, and shrugged it off. He sat sideways in his seat, his back to the wall. ‘What can I do for you?’

  Duvall took a breath to find even keel. ‘I just wanted to follow up our conversation from last week.’

  No reply. The Don was renowned as a consummate hard-arse. Grey crew cut, grey suit, and a grey disposition to match. Mitch had done some research. He’d unearthed some great Don-related rumours: he was reputed to carry brass knuckles and a .380 ankle gun; he’d faced an assault charge after beating a rape suspect; his torso bore embedded bullet fragments.

  ‘You’ll have to jog my memory,’ McCarthy said.

  Duvall read it as a lie. Legend held that nothing slipped past The Don. He observed the world with an outwardly flat disinterest that captured all.

  ‘The robbery stuff,’ Duvall said.

  The Don sampled his coffee. A small mouthful, swallowed on a grimace. ‘My position hasn’t changed since we last spoke. I’m not prepared to grant you access to active police files.’

  ‘I used to be a detective.’

  ‘I prefer to deal with people who still are.’

  ‘I just want to look at the files.’

  McCarthy’s cup made a click as he placed it on the table. He spun it with two fingers so that the label faced him square. He said, ‘How old are you?’

  ‘I’m fifty-two.’

  He smiled. ‘Year younger than me. Do you get offended easily?’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘I said, do you get offended easily?’

  ‘I don’t see what that has to do with anything.’

  ‘I have thirty people younger and better than you, younger and better than me maybe, working this.’

  Duvall drank coffee while he schemed a comeback. He could see a gridlocked slice of rush-hour Queen Street a block over, the foreground a clutter of Vulcan Lane restaurant patrons, taking in wine and late sun. He gambled, and went in strong: ‘Why didn’t you release a statement confirming the thing on January thirty was related to the robberies?’

  The Don smiled: an expo of perfect dentistry. ‘The “thing on January thirty”? We’re talking multiple homicide.’

  No denial. Duvall kept momentum. ‘Multiple homicide nobody can attribute to anything because the police haven’t issued any details.’

  ‘That’s not uncommon.’

  ‘It leaves people free to speculate.’

  ‘Not uncommon either.’

  ‘Media reports said both officers and civilians were killed.’

  ‘I don’t want to comment on the issue.’

  ‘That’s okay. I just want to run something past you.’

  ‘Please do.’

  ‘All this robbery stuff dates back months. The Auckland Savings and Loan was back in October, the armoured van thing November, that fight club in January. Everything’s gone quiet, makes people think you’re getting nowhere.’

  The Don said nothing. His legs were crossed ankle-on-ankle, stretched towards the kerb.

  Duvall leaned in for a glimpse of the fabled .380. No luck. He said, ‘January thirtieth, you’ve got a multiple homicide out West Auckland, neighbours are phoning in reports of what sounds like a shotgun.’

  ‘So you read the paper.’

  ‘I read between the lines.’

  ‘Oh, yes?’

  ‘Dead cops plus a dead civilian sounds a lot to me like botched witness protection.’

  The Don linked his fingers in his lap. He was causing a pedestrian snarl-up, a bottleneck where people were forced to queue single file to get past his feet.

  Duvall ploughed on. Toe-to-toe with McCarthy wasn’t easy. He felt his shirt clinging. He leaned in across the table to boost emphasis. ‘The homicides on January thirtieth are tied up with the robbery jobs.’

  The Don said, ‘And?’

  ‘And it’s not the sort of thing you want newspapers getting hold of.’

  McCarthy laughed. ‘They’re not stupid. They’ll have that theory already.’

  ‘They haven’t printed it. They might feel more inclined to if they have someone like me endorsing it.’

  An eyebrow jerk: ‘Someone like you?’

  ‘A former police officer.’

  McCarthy took his second mouthful of coffee. ‘I’m glad you got me down here,’ he said. ‘Even if it was just for the latte.’ He swilled his cup with fingertip pressure and mused. ‘How long were you in for?’ he said.

  ‘Seventeen years.’

  ‘Why did you leave?’

  ‘I wanted to go private.’

  He rocked sideways in his seat and pulled his investigator’s ID from his hip
pocket, like confirming he’d made good on his plan. McCarthy leaned in across the table and took it from him, perused it at arm’s length, thumb propping the leather holder. He let it fall closed with a gentle clap and tossed it back across the table.

  He said, ‘Was it worth it?’

  Duvall pocketed the holder. ‘Going private?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘I thought I might make more money.’

  ‘And did you?’

  ‘No.’

  The Don’s mouth dropped at the edges, like he’d banked on hearing something else. Another sip of coffee. He twisted in his seat and looked up at the wall behind him, maybe checking shadow height. A kid on a skateboard ran his mouth and told him to shift his feet. The Don gave him the finger: point and shoot without even thinking. He said, ‘How long are we going to keep this little dance up?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You ringing me. Me talking to you. You asking for access. Me denying.’

  ‘Don’t know. I kind of figured you would have relented by now.’

  McCarthy laughed. ‘If that’s the case you should have done some better research.’

  Duvall didn’t answer. McCarthy’s jacket hummed dully. He removed a cellphone and scanned a text message. Jaw flex hinted at bad news. He stood up. Duvall gauged his coffee as half full.

  ‘You can come see me tomorrow. Nine a.m. If you don’t make it, don’t bother trying to set up another meeting. Pray I don’t manage to dig up any shit on you, or you won’t make it past the front desk. And don’t go running your mouth to anyone you shouldn’t.’

  Duvall smiled. ‘What sort of people should I not be running my mouth to?’