Only the Dead

by Ben Sanders

  He dialled his mailbox number and put the thing on speakerphone. Bowen’s clipped tone: ‘Sergeant, Lloyd Bowen. Unfortunately, I have to inform you that as of thirty minutes ago, Michael Porter has passed away—’

  Devereaux deleted the message.

  Michael Porter: his surveillance target from yesterday. His victim.

  He dropped the phone on the nightstand and pushed the covers aside, sat on the edge of the bed. The floor yawed. He felt faint.

  My victim.

  He repeated it a few times. Maybe the first time he’d coupled those two words aloud. He ran a hand through his hair. The guy was dead. He tried not to think: an influx of pessimism might spark something rash. Let’s not be stupid.

  The one thought he couldn’t suppress: marvel at this weirdly novel horror. So this is what it’s like. A vision hit: a brief preview of the remaining forty-odd years he’d have to bear this new hard truth. He considered calling John Hale, but decided not to. He’d killed the guy unaided; he’d endure the guilt of it alone, too.

  The phone rang, and he saw Bowen’s name light up again. Devereaux ignored it. He sat there a while, and then he went to take a shower.

  The McCarthy meeting was scheduled for nine. Duvall arrived early, combed and squared away in dark attire: his funeral suit, replete with tie.

  A constable met him and led him through to a meeting room. It was a small cubicle, equipped with a table and three chairs. A window gave out onto the Cook/Vincent streets intersection. Duvall claimed a chair and sat. The constable promised DI McCarthy’s arrival was imminent. Duvall shifted his chair back and tried for casual: stretched legs and crossed ankles, reminiscent of The Don on High Street.

  It was a seventeen-minute wait. The door opened at a minute before nine and McCarthy walked in. He had another, slightly younger, guy in tow. Duvall stood and traded handshakes. The younger guy was a cop called Frank Briar. They had takeaway coffee but no paperwork, which meant they probably had nothing to give him, which meant no file access. Which meant the following tête-à-tête might not be all that useful.

  The Don drew his chair close and hunched in over the table. He was a very big guy: a one-hand coffee cup grip took his fingers full circle. He nudged the table a fraction, shunted it towards Duvall, forced him closer to the wall.

  ‘I honestly didn’t think I was going to be able to find any dirt on you,’ McCarthy said. ‘But I did.’

  Duvall didn’t answer.

  ‘You assaulted a suspect back in ’ninety-seven,’ McCarthy said. ‘You want to tell me about that?’

  No notepad, no recorder. He wasn’t that interested in the finer points. Or maybe he already had them.

  ‘I allegedly assaulted a suspect.’

  ‘You resigned shortly after. Makes me think it was a reasonably credible accusation.’

  Duvall kept his arms unfolded for fear of looking cagey. He was backed up in the corner of the room, table inches from his abdomen, forcing him upright. He said, ‘I was at a point in my career where I was ready to move on. I didn’t want to stain my record, so I walked away from it.’

  McCarthy said nothing. Briar thumbed his chin stubble. The silence grew. Tried and true cop tactics: wait for the interviewee to fill the silence. Duvall didn’t bow to it.

  McCarthy checked his watch, like timing the pause. He said, ‘You’d had enough of everything?’

  ‘Yeah, I was sick of it.’

  ‘The people or the work?’

  ‘The people are the work.’

  ‘So who was worse: the cops or the criminals?’

  ‘I’m not sure. Some of them were both.’

  McCarthy smiled, stiletto-thin. He said, ‘Ironic you say that, given the circumstances of your resignation.’

  ‘Not like you to be accused of misconduct, though, is it Don?’

  McCarthy laughed. He said, ‘I’m glad we’re on first-name terms.’ He had some coffee. Duvall drank in his body language: relaxed posture, no telltale arterial tick as he tipped the cup back. Morgue-drawer cool. Briar crossed one leg and rocked back in his chair, cup cradled in his lap.

  The Don said, ‘Here’s the thing, though, Mitchell. I’ve still got my job, but you don’t. I’m just trying to get a handle on why that might be.’

  Duvall smiled. He shunted the desk away a fraction and regained nominal comfort. ‘You told me yesterday if you managed to dig anything up on me, I wouldn’t make it past the front desk. And yet I have. I’m just trying to get a handle on why that might be.’

  McCarthy had some coffee, and his gaze came back to Duvall. Sharp enough to pierce lead. He smiled. ‘My tolerance for lip runs pretty low,’ he said. ‘You’re going to have to work to endear yourself to me now.’

  ‘I’m just worried that this meeting is a waste of time.’

  ‘How could it be a waste of time?’

  ‘Because you’ve brought me in here just to tell me you’re not prepared to offer up any of the information I’ve been asking for.’

  McCarthy shrugged. He prised one edge of his plastic coffee lid, then resealed it. ‘Divulging the contents of official files is a decision we take very seriously,’ he said. ‘Especially when the requester has been accused of assault.’

  ‘Okay. I understand. Maybe you could stop wasting time and tell me whether you’re going to grant access.’

  Nobody spoke. Duvall read it as a ‘no’. Briar and McCarthy settled into an easy stare. He figured if they weren’t going to give him access, they’d either brought him in for a scaring, or to gauge how much he knew.

  Duvall took a breath and theorised, off the cuff. He said, ‘October eight was an inside job.’

  McCarthy clicked out of his flat gaze. ‘Why?’

  ‘It was neat, in and out, which means they knew what they were doing, but for some reason they didn’t do a prior stakeout.’

  ‘What makes you think that?’

  ‘The area around the bank is commercial, it’s under camera surveillance. If you’d found anything, you would have made an arrest. But we’re four months down the track and there’s been nothing. So there was no visible preparation on their part.’

  McCarthy said, ‘Maybe they did slick recon.’

  ‘Nobody’s that good.’

  ‘A bank’s a bank; you know what you’re getting in to. You don’t need that much preparation.’

  ‘They hit at a time when it was quiet and the safe was loaded.’

  ‘You can make an educated guess about when it’s quiet. And the safe could have just been luck.’

  Duvall said, ‘They used different getaway cars each time; the bank and the armoured van jobs were three minutes, maximum.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So they’re smart, they’ve worked with each other before; there’s some sort of strong past association, they’re comfortable with using force.’

  ‘But they burned the cars. That strike you as a smart move?’

  ‘Depends.’

  ‘On what?’

  ‘Maybe there was no way of making certain they could eradicate forensic evidence. Which suggests they’d had the vehicles a while, or used them a number of times, something like that.’

  ‘So then, who are we looking for?’

  ‘Three, moderately clued-up guys between the ages of twenty-five and forty, either with prison, military or police backgrounds.’

  ‘Prison, military or police. That’s quite a moral swing.’

  ‘Maybe. They knew what they were doing.’

  ‘Albeit only moderately clued-up.’

  ‘At least two of them. The driver isn’t necessarily a bright spark.’

  ‘Maybe they rotate roles; three jobs, they all get a turn driving.’

  ‘I doubt it. Well-oiled machine; they go with a proven system.’

  Nobody replied. Briar finished his coffee, set it down and adjusted the edge flush with the side of the table.

  Duvall said, ‘At least one of them has ties with the Otara community. The fight club thing in January wa
s publicised word of mouth, so that was the only way they could have known about it.’

  Nobody replied. The Don had some coffee and let the pause drag on. At length he said, ‘Coming back to your original question, no, we’re not actually prepared to grant you access to police information.’

  ‘Right. So this was a waste of time.’

  The Don laughed. Mercury fillings nesting way back. ‘It’s not a waste of time,’ he said. ‘By no means a waste of time.’

  He leaned in over the table again. The hunch hiked his shoulders to ear level. ‘Here’s the official line,’ he said. ‘Nobody’s letting you anywhere near this thing. Nobody’s answering questions; nobody’s granting you file access. Nobody gives a shit about what you’ve dreamed up from reading the Herald online.’

  Duvall didn’t answer. The Don spread his hands on the table. ‘There’s a point,’ he said, ‘when offers for help sort of drift into time-wasting. I’m sorry to say we are well past that point. We passed it a while back. Think of this morning as a sort of ‘eye for an eye’ type thing: you wasted my time, I just wasted yours.’ He saw a reply coming and raised a finger to cut it off. ‘I’ve got filing cabinets’ worth of opened, unsolved serious crime,’ he said. ‘There’s nothing to stop me from taking your assault case from back whenever it was and paying it some real close attention. You know? I don’t give a shit what sort of arrangement you came to that let you resign with a clean slate; if you keep getting in my face, I’m going to go digging. All right? You wouldn’t believe the sort of stuff I can dredge up. I’m a bit of a magician really. I can make credible evidence and witness testimony just spring up out of thin air.’

  He clucked his tongue and sat straight and glanced down at Briar’s coffee cup. ‘You finished with that, Frank?’

  ‘Yes, thank you, Don.’

  McCarthy stacked the two cups neatly in front of him. He smiled. ‘I’m glad we managed to clear that up,’ he said. ‘Frank will show you out.’

  FOURTEEN

  TUESDAY, 14 FEBRUARY, 9.31 A.M.

  An Auckland Central interview room, the official post-shooting debriefing. A boardroom table separated Devereaux from a line-up of Lloyd Bowen, Frank Briar and a Police Conduct Authority investigator named Thomas Rhys. Rhys was a heavy, flushed man in his sixties, face like a bee sting.

  Devereaux had skipped breakfast for fear it wouldn’t stay down. He was running on four hours’ sleep, coffee and half a cigarette. The glass of chilled water in front of him had worked up a full sweat, almost as nervous as he was. He’d shined his shoes, faint tang of polish lingering. Tie so tight he could feel his neck pulsing. He fingered the knot and tried to work up a bit of slack. Fainting wouldn’t look good.

  A digital camera stood atop a tripod to one side. Briar stood up and set it running, sat down again and stated the date and time, those present and the purpose of the meeting. He spoke leaning forward on folded arms, tie spilled across a forearm, head bent to read from a printed memorandum. His right hand fanned a ballpoint absently.

  He said, ‘I just want to get a bit of context to begin with. Sergeant, could you explain the background to yesterday’s operation?’

  Devereaux breathed out, dredged up what he’d rehearsed during the drive over. ‘The occupant of the target address was suspected of involvement in the Auckland Savings and Loan robbery on October eight last year.’

  ‘Okay. When you say occupant, you’re referring to the man that you opened fire on and shot yesterday afternoon. Is that correct? Michael Porter.’

  ‘That’s correct.’

  ‘In what capacity was this man suspected of being involved in the October eight robbery?’

  ‘That was what we were attempting to determine.’

  ‘Okay. So what was the basis of the warrant application that enabled you to focus on this particular individual?’

  ‘Maybe you should pull the paperwork.’

  Briar exhaled. He spread his hands and glanced up at the ceiling, appealing to some unseen audience. Bowen checked his watch, stated the time, and announced the interview was being suspended. He stood up and stopped the recorder, sat down again.

  ‘Sergeant,’ Bowen said. ‘You need to answer the questions, or we’re not going to get anywhere.’ His pen tapped in rhythm with his instruction. Briar smiled, mock warm.

  Devereaux looked at him. He remembered Leroy Turner’s story from only hours earlier, imagined Frank Briar in the back seat of an unmarked car, threatening to burn an earlobe if questions weren’t answered.

  Devereaux said, ‘This is essentially the prelim for an excessive force investigation.’

  Briar said, ‘And?’

  ‘And don’t you find it a little ironic that you’re the one asking the questions?’

  It was a weak jibe. Rhys didn’t get it. Bowen caught the meaning but said nothing. Briar took it on the chin, held his gaze.

  At length Bowen said, ‘Sergeant, I don’t want to have to interrupt this interview a second time. Just answer the questions.’

  He set the camera going again, stated the time and that the meeting was being resumed. Briar cleared his throat, repeated the question: ‘What was the basis of the warrant application that enabled you to focus on this particular individual?’

  Devereaux said, ‘The getaway vehicle used on October eight was a red ’92 Ford Falcon that was stolen specifically for the robbery. The suspect was seen loitering in the vicinity of the vehicle shortly before it was taken.’

  ‘And that fact alone provided evidence enough for a warrant?’

  ‘That fact combined with the suspect’s offending history of armed robbery.’

  Such purity in the pause between answer and question: scratch of pen nibs, the clock ticking faintly.

  ‘Okay. And what was the specific purpose of the operation?’

  ‘It was intended to install a GPS tracking device on the suspect’s vehicle in order to map his movements and identify potential associates.’

  ‘How many personnel were involved?’

  ‘Me and two other uniformed staff, a five-man Armed Offenders Squad team, two additional undercover tactical officers who were to install the device.’

  They nodded and jotted intermittently. Bowen kept a frown in place.

  Briar said, ‘Why was it that this operation was conducted in broad daylight at …’ He licked a digit and finger-walked through a stack of paper. ‘Four-thirty in the afternoon, rather than after dark?’ His eyes lifted, eager for a faltering reply.

  Devereaux said, ‘I didn’t make that decision. You’d need to refer that question to the officer in charge.’

  ‘But, to the best of your knowledge, why was the operation undertaken when it was?’

  ‘The suspect worked nights; best access to his vehicle was during the day.’

  Briar said, ‘Describe for us the events leading up to the shooting.’

  Devereaux watched the clock, massaged his tie knot for extra breathing space. ‘Just after sixteen-thirty hours, our radio cut out—’

  ‘Sorry. When you say “our”?’

  ‘I mean me and the two uniformed officers who were with me in an unmarked vehicle. The AOS team was in a second car further up the street.’

  ‘Right. So your radio communication failed?’

  ‘We lost contact midway through a broadcast. A moment later we received a request for emergency support.’ He downed some water. ‘We moved in, and when we reached the target address, there was a large quantity of blood on the driveway. I entered the house and found one of the tactical officers injured just inside the front door. I went upstairs, and discovered the second tactical officer, injured, in a bathroom, together with the suspect.’

  Briar flipped through his paperwork. ‘It was at this point that you fired on the suspect?’

  ‘That’s correct.’

  His notes rustled faintly as he palmed them. ‘Explain why you felt it necessary to discharge your weapon.’

  ‘I could see the second tactical officer on
the bathroom floor, injured, against the far wall. As I approached the door, he indicated that the suspect was also in the room, concealed behind the door. At this point I opened fire.’

  ‘You fired through the door?’

  ‘That’s correct.’

  ‘Three times?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How did the injured officer indicate to you that the suspect was in the room?’

  ‘Eye contact. He indicated with his line of sight that somebody was concealed behind the door.’

  ‘And this provided you with a comprehensive description of the situation?’

  ‘I’m not sure what you mean.’

  ‘Well. From what he conveyed to you by the direction of his gaze only, was it evident whether the suspect had a hostage?’

  ‘No, it was not.’

  ‘So, in effect, you fired blind through a door with no definitive indication of whether or not it was safe to do so.’

  ‘I knew from Habitation Index records that the house had only one occupant.’

  ‘But you had no way of being certain.’

  ‘I was certain that if I didn’t shoot him, someone else would be hurt instead.’

  Briar let the comment hang unchallenged. His tie had pooled atop his wrist again. He nudged it free and smoothed it against his shirt. ‘Did you offer a verbal warning before opening fire?’

  ‘No, I didn’t.’

  ‘And given the fact the suspect was behind the door, as you say, it would have been impossible to get a visual fix?’

  Devereaux paused, pictured the set-up: the open door, the blood on the floor, bright and irregular. He tried to think whether the hinge side was wide enough to allow a view through.

  ‘Sergeant?’ Briar said. ‘Did you have a visual—’

  ‘No, I did not.’

  ‘So what was your reasoning in choosing to fire as you did, as opposed to challenging the suspect to surrender?’