Only the Dead

by Ben Sanders

  Devereaux had another swallow of water. Rhys had racked up a page of notes, Briar and Bowen at a half-page apiece. He hoped the words ‘followed procedure’ were in there somewhere.

  ‘My appraisal of the injured officer in the bathroom was that he was critically hurt. His colleague downstairs was bleeding severely. From this I concluded that the suspect was both violent and equipped with a dangerous weapon.’ He paused. ‘In light of this assessment, I didn’t want to act in a manner that could lead to anyone else being injured. We were in a confined space with a clearly volatile offender. I felt that any action short of engaging the suspect as I did could result in further casualties.’

  Briar and Bowen absorbed it blank-faced. Rhys appended another line to his notes. He was yet to utter a word.

  Briar said, ‘So would you say that your ensuing actions were well considered?’

  ‘With regard to the context, I’d say they were.’

  ‘Explain what you mean.’

  ‘I didn’t have time to do anything but pick a course of action and follow through on it.’

  ‘You didn’t act impulsively?’

  ‘Two men were badly injured. I think a certain amount of impulsiveness would have been appropriate, irrespective of whether or not I displayed any.’

  Briar raised his stack of notes, cut the deck with a thumbnail. He skimmed for a moment then looked back at Devereaux.

  ‘Sergeant, this is not the first time you’ve been involved in a violent incident, is it?’

  Devereaux didn’t answer.

  ‘Sergeant?’

  ‘You read the answer straight out of my file; I assumed the question was rhetorical.’

  Bowen sighed and shook his head, twirled his forefinger for Briar to continue.

  Briar said, ‘August 2011, you were involved in an arrest during which you discharged a taser at a suspect, before ramming another suspect with your vehicle.’

  ‘I’d been threatened with a sledgehammer.’

  ‘But it’s true the incident occurred?’

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘And also a year prior to that, July 2010, you shot a suspect in the leg with a handgun.’

  ‘I’m struggling to see the relevance of this.’

  ‘I’m merely trying to establish a pattern of behaviour.’

  ‘You mean you’re attempting to introduce prejudicial material.’

  Bowen said, ‘Chrissakes.’ He got up and stopped the camera. ‘Sergeant, I told you to answer the questions.’

  Devereaux said, ‘Unfortunately, this isn’t just Q and A; you can’t pull the plug every time I make a point you disagree with.’

  Bowen sat down. ‘Watch your tone with me.’

  Devereaux didn’t answer.

  Briar said, ‘All we’re doing is trying to establish whether you’ve been involved in similar incidents.’

  ‘Right. Why would you want to do that?’

  Briar, with a cruel simper: ‘To determine whether this pattern of events occurs because you premeditate violent actions.’ He almost purred on the last three words.

  Devereaux said, ‘One minute I act impulsively, next I premeditate my shootings.’ He stood up. ‘Pick one, because I’m pretty sure I can’t be guilty of both.’

  He turned and walked towards the door. ‘Let’s take five minutes.’

  FIFTEEN

  TUESDAY, 14 FEBRUARY, 10.43 A.M.

  The interview lasted another hour. Devereaux found a bathroom and lit a cigarette: never better than after a sustained grilling, employment prospects shaky. He kept his eyes closed for the first lungful, head raised to vent smoke through a ceiling duct. He undid his tie and pocketed it. The top edge of his collar had stamped a ring in his neck. He ran the tap and finger-combed his hair with water, glanced up just as Briar himself walked in. The sight of Devereaux cued a pause, but he didn’t leave. He stepped up on the urinal pedestal and unzipped himself. Gaze on a shallow upwards tilt, like he didn’t want to bear witness to what was happening down there.

  He ducked his chin and hiked one leg as he zipped himself up. He turned and made the hand basin at a slow amble, eyes on Devereaux’s face in the mirror, like it was the only place to look. He began washing his hands. Devereaux’s tie was spilling out of his coat pocket. He gathered it and stuffed it deeper, out of sight. Briar saw the movement and smiled, like he sensed the relief in being free of it. He held eye contact and found the soap dispenser by touch alone, worked up a thick lather.

  Devereaux’s mental clock notched twenty seconds. He kept the cigarette between his teeth and puffed idly. The water gurgled gently. The duct fan kicked in with a rush and tugged at the cigarette fumes. Briar shut off the tap and flicked his hands dry and pushed backwards through the door. He mouthed something on the way out that looked like ‘Killer’.

  Back at his desk. He took a five-minute pause to recoup, then called Don McCarthy. No answer. He tried Bowen’s office line.

  ‘Sergeant. So soon.’

  ‘I was just wondering if there’s been any news.’

  ‘In regards to what?’

  ‘The man shot yesterday.’

  The man shot. Something made him skip the crucial pronoun. Something stopped him saying ‘killed’.

  Bowen said, ‘He’s dead. That’s pretty much the end of the bulletin.’

  ‘I’d like to attend the funeral.’

  ‘Out of the question.’

  ‘You say that a lot.’

  ‘I seem to go round in circles with you sometimes. I don’t want you near the man, even if he’s dead. I don’t want you near the family. I don’t want you anywhere near the issue, and I don’t want you to raise it with me again.’

  He walked down to Queen Street. Late breakfast/early lunch was a kebab from a place on the corner of Wellesley, chased by a large serving of McDonald’s fries. The footpath was choked. He kept close to the gutter, twisted litter tottering ahead in the breeze. His cellphone rang as he was walking back up Queen, but he let it go to voicemail. Newsagent’s stands bore grim news: Man Hospitalised in Police Shooting; Police Shooting Leaves Man Critical. They hadn’t been told ‘critical’ had been upgraded to ‘dead’. No accusatory photographs, but he kept his head ducked anyway. A brisk march, like he could outpace his problems.

  He stopped at a phone booth on the corner of Wellesley. The directories were tattered, but he managed to find Howard Ford’s number. He stayed in the booth, used his cellphone to dial. Ford’s mother answered.

  ‘Mrs Ford, it’s Sean Devereaux. I’m a police detective, I believe we’ve met—’

  ‘You let them hurt Howard.’

  ‘I understand he was arrested last night, I just wanted to check he’s okay—’

  ‘Well, he’s not. He’s not okay, goddamn you. He’s got a bloody nose, and bruising, and he’s absolutely goddamn terrified. I tell you. You know what he’s like. Here I was thinking you’re a decent man, but you let this happen to him.’

  ‘Look, I had nothing to do with it; I just wanted to check he’s been released, and that he’s all right.’

  She was crying. She shouted to cut him off. ‘I told you he’s not. I told you he’s not all right. You lot, you’re just pigs. You’re a pig, and you’re a disgrace. That you could stand by and let this happen to him. My God.’ Her voice shivered. ‘You’re a disgrace, don’t you dare call me again. Why would a boy like him know anything about the nonsense you were asking him?’

  She hung up. He put his phone in his pocket and stood there a moment, shoulder against the glass. The light changed and pedestrians disgorged across the intersection. The earnest urban scurry. The phone handset was off the hook, swinging gently by its cord. He’d seen hangings match that same weak oscillation. His cell went again, but he ignored it.

  Do I still really want to do this?

  He got back to the station at eleven-twenty. Thirty-eight unread emails greeted him. Don McCarthy’s name claimed first and second place: message one informing staff of a case progress meeting at el
even-fifteen, message two a terse instruction to attend said meeting.

  Shit. He was already five minutes late, and The Don had a thing about punctuality. He left his tie in a desk drawer and went through to the robbery situation room. Desks were pushed aside to accommodate temporary rows of seating. Frank Briar and a felt-penned whiteboard occupied centre stage. The crowd was thirty-plus: tall, suit-clad men skewed sideways on plastic chairs, on tiptoe, and knees together. A Mexican wave of turned heads as they sensed his entry. A curled patchwork of paper on the walls. He took a seat in the back row beside Grayson. He saw Lloyd Bowen in the front row.

  Grayson leaned in for a whisper. ‘How did it go?’

  Meaning the interview.

  ‘I don’t know. If I don’t turn up next week, assume it went badly.’

  A tap at his shoulder. He turned around, saw Don McCarthy bent forward and beckoning. They stepped outside.

  The Don said, ‘How was this morning?’ A flat tone implied indifference.

  ‘Peachy.’

  McCarthy nodded at the door. ‘The meeting’s a waste of time; we’re just going through the motions to keep the brass at Bullshit Castle happy.’

  Devereaux didn’t answer.

  McCarthy said, ‘Go home, you look like shit.’

  Probably a fair assessment. He didn’t feel that flash. Fast food probably hadn’t helped. He thought of the files on his desk, the work he needed to do. Then again, in his current state he was unlikely to make much headway.

  McCarthy said, ‘I need you back here at nineteen hundred. We’ve got some work to do.’

  Devereaux looked at him. He wanted to say no. He wanted to say he’d killed a man, that he felt wrung out, capable of nothing. But he sensed McCarthy could see this: nothing like a glimpse of weakness to make the bastard’s day. So he said, ‘What is it?’

  McCarthy smiled, like he’d already seen the script. ‘I wouldn’t want to spoil the surprise.’ He clapped him on the arm. ‘Bring your A-game.’

  SIXTEEN

  TUESDAY, 14 FEBRUARY, 12.10 P.M.

  Background checks.

  Hale constructed a piecemeal Leland Earle history via Google. Herald archives yielded good information: Earle was doing time for robbery, and assault on a police officer. Six years, non-parole. He was no cub scout.

  Hale called the prison direct and spoke to the senior Department of Corrections supervisor at general populace, and requested an interview. Ex-cop status won him leniency: fifteen minutes with Mr Earle, alone.

  He arrived a little after one. He left his pocket contents in a locker at reception, and a corrections officer led him up to meet the guy he’d spoken to on the phone. The officer’s name was Kenzie. He was heavy and fiftyish with wide, Irish-looking features. He hiked his belt with his thumbs as he stood up and came round his desk to shake hands. Judicious combing partially disguised a wide bald spot.

  ‘Can’t say he’s awful happy about having to talk to you.’

  ‘I’m not exactly thrilled either.’

  ‘Normally we wouldn’t be so snappy about setting this up for you. But I’m an ex-cop myself, matter of fact.’

  He shot Hale a wink.

  He was led to an interview room. A wire mesh window showed a man he assumed to be Leland Earle seated at a small table. An empty chair sat opposite.

  ‘You just holler if you need anything,’ Kenzie said. ‘There’ll be a couple of fellas standing right out here.’

  Hale thanked him. An officer unlocked the door, and he went in. Earle didn’t seem to register the arrival. His gaze was static, head canted sideways, like a mannequin in storage. He was mid-thirties, shaven head branded with WHITEPOWER in harsh Gothic stencil, letters edged scarlet for emphasis. He wore a white singlet and an unzipped orange jumpsuit, the top half bunched at his lower back. Empty arms cast limp to the floor.

  Hale scraped the spare chair back and sat down. Earle’s gaze was somewhere beyond the far wall. Hale turned his chair sideways and stretched his legs out and crossed his ankles. He appraised Earle openly. The man had some bulk: long hours pumping exercise yard iron had left his chest and biceps looking barely contained. Purple slugs of vein lay fatly beneath taut skin. A thin arc of scar contoured his left cheek, rail ties of sutures still present.

  The long-range stare drew in closer to home. ‘The hell you looking at, gay boy?’

  ‘What’d you do to your face?’

  Earle smirked. ‘How you think I might’ve got it?’

  ‘Painfully.’

  ‘Yeah, painfully.’ He mimed a lasso. ‘Padlock on the end of a bit of rope.’

  Hale didn’t answer.

  The smirk again. ‘What you after? You a cop or something?’

  Hale didn’t reply. He just sat and held eye contact.

  Earle grew uneasy. ‘Did you not hear my question?’

  ‘I wanted to ask you about the fight club robbery on the third of January this year.’

  The gaze zoned back to long distance. A gentle back-and-forth shuffle of his focus, like watching a far-off ballgame. ‘It was down in Otara.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘You’re not going to find anyone who tells you jack shit.’

  ‘That’s why I came to see you first.’

  Earle spread his arms. ‘Why would I know anything about fight clubs?’

  ‘I don’t know. The police interviewed you after it happened; I thought maybe you could just tell me what you told them.’

  A triumphant look: ‘So you’re not a cop, then.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So who are you?’

  ‘I’m an ex-cop.’

  ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘John Hale.’

  Earle’s head tilted back. ‘Not the John Hale worked Manukau Patrol ’bout ten years ago?’

  ‘That would be me.’

  Earle nodded. ‘Yeah. Got a couple of friends who crossed your line one time or another. Remember at New Year’s drinks one year, someone said we’d all be better off if you were dead, and I toasted it at the time without knowing who you were, so I’m glad I can put a face to the name, you know?’ He laughed.

  ‘What did the police ask you?’

  ‘Why should I tell you?’

  ‘I can put in a good word for you.’

  ‘You’ve got that sort of cred, do you?’

  ‘You’ve got nothing to lose by finding out.’

  Earle thought about it. Garbled prison noise reached them faintly. ‘They were asking me about this guy I used to know called Glyn Giles.’

  ‘Used to know?’

  ‘Still know. I haven’t seen him in a long time.’

  ‘What did they want to know about him?’

  Earle shrugged. ‘Can’t remember.’

  ‘You have anything at all you’d like to tell me?’

  The guy smiled, almost playfully. ‘About what?’

  ‘About the robberies.’

  ‘I know whoever did it pissed off the wrong people. There’s a ransom out, or a contract, whatever you want to call it.’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘Guess.’

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘Money for finding the guys who did those robberies. A dead-or-alive type thing.’

  ‘How much is it?’

  Shrug.

  Hale said, ‘Who issued it?’

  ‘Beats me.’ He gave a little smile, like the reality was contrary.

  ‘You look like you’re lying.’

  He shook his head. ‘Everybody wants them found.’

  ‘Who’s everybody?’

  ‘I don’t know. Like a few different parties. I heard some guys in the chemical trade want to track them down.’

  ‘The chemical trade.’

  Earle smiled. ‘Euphemism. They pissed off some drug dealer somehow, and now the dealer wants to know where they are. Don’t ask me for more, that’s just what I heard.’

  ‘I’m sure you could elaborate a little more.’

  ‘Not really. Thi
s is all just gossip. I’m passing it on out of the goodness of my heart.’

  ‘Who’s this dealer?’

  No answer.

  ‘Did this dealer issue the contract?’

  ‘Dunno. Squeeze someone else.’

  Hale said, ‘A young girl was hit in the head with a hammer.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, I know. They showed me a photo. But at the end of the day, I don’t know her. I don’t really give a shit.’

  ‘I’m disappointed that’s your position.’

  ‘Yeah, well, I’m disappointed that good guys I know have done hard time just because they met you.’ The sanctimonious inmate look: incarcerated, but still privy to the truth of the world.

  Hale smiled at him. He drew his chair in tight to the table and steepled his fingers in front of his face.

  ‘What’s so funny, dickweed?’

  Hale shrugged. ‘I never met a fascist I didn’t want to suffocate.’

  Earle shimmied himself closer. A brief flash of definition in his shoulders as he pulled his chair in. ‘I’m going to send up a little prayer,’ he said. ‘Here goes: I pray that the next time you see my face, you’ll be drawing your last breath at the same time.’

  Hale smiled again. ‘I look forward to it.’

  Their faces were a foot apart. Earle snapped forward suddenly from the waist, lining up a head-butt. Hale leaned sideways in his chair and slipped outside the line. He popped Earle a single right-hand jab. Open fist, the heel of his hand. The blow caught Earle flush on the brow. He fell back in his chair, eyes shock-glazed.

  Hale stood up. Earle flinched, stayed seated. Nothing like a darn good fright to keep them docile. Hale checked the door: no worried faces at the little window. Moral tuition was best unobserved.

  ‘Good prison lesson for you,’ Hale said. ‘Watch your mouth.’

  He resisted the urge to flex the impact out of his forearm. He slid his chair in then stepped to the door and knocked gently to be let out.

  SEVENTEEN

  TUESDAY, 14 FEBRUARY, 1.29 P.M.

  It was a West Auckland address: single level, brick, a gentle sag in the street-facing guttering. A low hedge fronted patchy lawn scarred by tyre swaths. Duvall was disappointed. Part of him thought she might have gone a little more high class. A central city suite, in preference to the suburbs.