The Tribute

by John Byron

  But then Murphy swivelled back around, hung up the phone and said, ‘Thank you for coming in, Jo,’ all formal and officious.

  Her little bubble of sibling affection burst. ‘You didn’t leave me much choice.’

  ‘Nothing to do with me; that’s between you and your boss. The commissioner just pitched her an idea.’

  So the order really had come down from the top. ‘And you knew exactly what would happen.’

  ‘Not everything is a conspiracy, Joanna.’

  ‘No, only when you’re involved. Anyway, you could have at least asked me.’

  ‘No time for that. We’re on the clock here, you know.’

  She knew the real reason was that Murphy couldn’t bring himself to ask her for help: that would involve crediting her expertise, after years of writing off her work as frivolous bullshit. But there was no point going down that road. She drew a deep breath and tried to leave it behind her.

  ‘Well, anyway. Here I am. What now?’

  ‘Do you have your briefing ready?’

  ‘Yeah. It’s a modified version of the lecture, with Holbein dialled back and Vesalius beefed up.’

  ‘Good. We’ll do it after lunch when the whole unit’s assembled.’

  ‘What about in the meantime?’

  ‘I’ll introduce you, we’ll sort out the paperwork, get you a desk.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘And you’ll have to give us a bio sample.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘To exclude any DNA you might leave behind at a crime scene.’

  ‘Oh.’ She hadn’t considered that. ‘You’re not going to need me there, are you?’

  ‘We don’t catch crooks with archival research, Jo. This is the business end.’

  ‘Fair enough.’ She hoped it would only be a formality. The discussion with the forensic fellow had been vivid enough. ‘Is it a blood sample?’

  ‘No, they swab inside your cheek. Piece of piss.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Let’s go.’ Murphy led her across the floor to the opposite wall, which was filled with notes, floorplans, maps and pictures of buildings, and an array of brutal crime-scene photos that she avoided looking at. Murphy pointed to a spot on the floor: to her own great surprise, Jo stopped at the position he’d indicated. People gathered.

  ‘Homicide,’ said Murphy, ‘meet our anatomy art consultant, Dr Joanna King.’ Jo felt the curious gaze of the detectives. ‘Jo, you’ve met Chartier, and you may remember Janssen from the police awards last year.’

  She certainly did. ‘Hey, Thijs.’ He smiled tightly in reply.

  ‘That’s Nguyễn, and Nikolaidis, our data cruncher, and Harris, our apprentice,’ he said, pointing to a young man with an unruly head of ginger hair and an apologetic smile.

  ‘Hi, everyone,’ Jo said, barely resisting the impulse to wave. She felt like a complete idiot.

  ‘This is the core unit,’ said Murphy. ‘We’re getting some uniforms for the hackwork: they’ll be here for your briefing this arvo. So will Mack.’ He clocked Jo’s blank look and added, ‘The SOCO.’ When that still didn’t help he spelled it out. ‘The scenes-of-crime officer you spoke with the other day. Kenworth.’

  ‘Oh, right.’

  ‘Why don’t you tell everyone about your work?’ suggested Murphy.

  ‘No, I’ll save that for this afternoon.’ A couple of the cops smirked and Murphy looked peeved. Evidently people didn’t say no to him much around here. Well, she’d had years of practice and had become quite good at it. If he didn’t like his team seeing it, he should have thought of that before dragooning her.

  This reminded her that she was still standing on the spot he’d designated. She moved away, joining the crowd and turning to face him. It was his show now. He looked stranded. She sensed the grins around her widening a little.

  ‘Fine,’ said Murphy in his gruff, suit-yourself voice. ‘Janssen, what’s the update on the new English edition? Did you get the list of buyers from the publishers?’

  ‘Yes, they’ve sold eleven copies in Australia directly, all to libraries,’ replied his deputy. ‘But they say that most non-institutional sales are going through third-party websites. Untraceable.’

  Nikolaidis snorted. ‘Nothing’s untraceable.’

  ‘Any news on extra resources, boss?’ Nguyễn asked.

  ‘As you know, we got another run on the evening news last night. The commissioner rang me as the story went to air.’ The assembled detectives shuffled grimly. ‘It went well, actually. Our, ah, innovation play came through.’ Murphy shot a glance at Jo. ‘On top of the uniforms and the consultancy, we have a standing call on additional manpower including after-hours, up to a certain point but at my discretion, plus a small expense line for unconventional leads. Premier’s funding it out of contingency reserves.’

  ‘Nine months out from an election and getting smashed in the polls,’ said Niklaodis. ‘Gotta love democracy.’

  ‘Let’s meet again after lunch,’ said Murphy, ignoring the taunt. ‘Chartier, show Jo around and run her through what we have so far. See if you can find something she might care to work on. Janssen, sort out a desk for her.’ He stalked off to his office, obviously still annoyed about Jo’s little act of rebellion.

  Janssen and Chartier stayed as the squad dispersed.

  ‘Don’t worry about him,’ said Amy.

  ‘Oh, I don’t,’ replied Jo. She didn’t need them to explain her brother to her. It would be like this on and off the whole time: it always was. Besides, his prickliness was partly due to the weirdness of having her in his workplace. She felt exactly the same. They’d both get used to it. Mostly. Maybe.

  ‘So I’m an innovation play, huh?’ she asked Thijs.

  He saw that she’d worked it out, and he had the grace to be embarrassed about it. ‘He’s just talking about funding. This is a genuine line of enquiry, Jo. Forensics are convinced, and they’re the experts.’

  Jo let him off the hook. ‘It’s okay, Thijs. I know what he’s like.’

  ‘So what do you want to see first?’ asked Amy.

  ‘Your espresso machine,’ she replied. ‘I’m dying for a coffee.’

  Wednesday 11 July – evening

  Murphy handed Rocky another schooner of Reschs. He’d come down the Diggers to watch the State of Origin decider on the big screen, and had run into the half-back from his weekend rugby league side. Lang Park had worked its usual magic on New South Wales, though, and by half-time it was over. There was nothing to do but drink.

  ‘Cheers.’ They watched the first-half recap.

  ‘Christ, what a shocker,’ said Rocky. ‘We hardly had the bloody ball.’

  ‘Yeah, we’re fucked now,’ said Murphy. ‘You can’t come back from this.’

  ‘We can’t, anyway.’

  ‘Missing Bastian badly.’

  ‘Missing Ireland, is who.’

  ‘Gotta hand it to Queensland, they’re on fire.’

  ‘How good’s McLaughlin?’

  ‘Sheil.’

  ‘Shrives.’

  ‘Bastards.’

  They groaned at each Blues blunder and sarcastically cheered the odd Maroons fumble. The ad break was sheer relief.

  ‘Up to much on the weekend, Rock?’

  ‘Just the usual. Soccer, Little Athletics, some kid’s birthday party. You?’

  ‘Sailing on the harbour,’ said Murphy. ‘Tip run. Watch the footy. Saturday night at the movies.’ Sunday afternoon fuck in the pool, produce some new footage for the private video collection. This last to himself.

  ‘Haven’t been to the flicks in ages,’ said Rocky. ‘What’re you going to see?’

  ‘Dunno. I’d like the Sicario sequel, but it’s Sylvia’s choice.’

  ‘She doesn’t like crime?’

  ‘It’s not that. She has this rule about women in film. The Bechdel Test.’

  ‘How’s it go?’

  Murphy counted off with his fingers. ‘A movie has to: one, have two or more wome
n in it; who, two, speak to one another; about, three, something other than a man.’

  Rocky shook his head. ‘Chick flicks, basically.’

  ‘It’s not that bad. You only need the one scene. No Country for Old Men passes. Pulp Fiction.’

  ‘Still. That must rule out half of all movies, surely?’

  ‘That’s about right, actually.’

  ‘Oh, well, half the movies for them, half for us. Sounds fair.’

  ‘That’s not really how they see it, mate.’

  Rocky grunted. ‘Bit of a feminist, is she?’

  ‘Don’t fucken start me. But it’s my sister’s rule, actually. She’s an academic.’

  ‘Oh, fuck.’

  ‘Yeah, “Oh, fuck” is right. She won’t see a movie at all if it fails. At least Sylvia watches when it’s my choice.’

  ‘And this weekend it’s her pick, eh?’

  ‘Her pick, her rules.’

  ‘Becktell Test.’ Rocky snorted. ‘Typical.’ He stared sourly into his beer, shaking his head, then his face lit up. ‘Actually, we need one for parents.’

  ‘One what?’

  ‘One of them tests. Call it the Rocky Test.’

  ‘How d’you mean?’

  ‘Take my place, for instance. Me and the missus can go days without talking about anything other than the kids. I mean, at all.’

  ‘Bloody hell.’

  ‘Living in a houseful of kids is bullshit, Spud. It’s a fucken zoo.’

  ‘I thought you only had the two?’

  ‘Two’s a houseful, mate, believe me.’

  ‘What about Cath?’

  ‘Nah she’s right into it, mate. It’s like it’s her bloody life’s work or something.’

  ‘How about when they’re asleep? Don’t you talk then?’

  ‘Nah, that’s my issue. It goes quiet all right, but then we talk about the kids, or we clean up after them, or we’re knackered and crash out.’

  ‘Hence the Rocky Test.’

  ‘Exactly. A pass is a day when the parents talk about something other than the fucken children.’

  ‘A benchmark for adult living.’

  ‘Actually, I’m starting to see your sister’s point, Spud.’

  Murphy raised his eyebrows sceptically over the rim of his schooner.

  ‘No, really,’ said Rocky. ‘It’s like what the femos say about blokes.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘The kids rule the fucken roost,’ said Rocky, animated now. ‘They’re so in control they don’t even realise it. They’re like, I dunno …’

  ‘Tyrants?’ suggested Murphy. He could see where this was going.

  ‘Yeah, tyrants, exactly! Everything’s all about them when they’re around, and it’s fucken still all about them even when they’re not.’ Murphy tilted away, magnetically repelled by Rocky’s vehemence. ‘I mean, they’re great and all, don’t get me wrong – they’re the best thing on earth some days, but other times they’re like miniature fucken emperors with the power of life and death.’ Rocky took a long draught of beer then sighed deeply.

  ‘But, mate, you can’t be surprised,’ said Murphy. ‘It’s not a state secret.’

  ‘What do you mean? What isn’t?’

  ‘That children will take over your life. It’s been widely publicised.’

  ‘Yeah, but Christ, not like this.’

  ‘Yeah, like this,’ Murphy insisted. ‘Fucken, exactly like this.’

  ‘I knew it wasn’t gunna be easy, but fuck me …’

  ‘Come on, mate, it’s been going on since we came down from the trees,’ said Murphy. ‘That’s why I had the snip.’

  ‘Half your bloody luck, Spud.’

  ‘Wasn’t luck, I saw it coming. Not for me, I can tell you.’

  ‘Well I got blindsided mate, fucken T-boned,’ said Rocky. ‘They have their moments, like I say, but Jesus you pay for them.’

  ‘You weren’t shotgunned, though?’ asked Murphy. Rocky shook his head. ‘So you knew the deal going in.’

  The half-back mumbled into his beer. ‘Yeah, s’pose.’

  Murphy weighed the insensitivity of his next question. Bugger it: he started it. ‘So why the fuck’d ya have ’em, Rock?’

  There was another sigh as Rocky straightened up. ‘I dunno, mate. Cath … yeah. I really don’t fucken know.’ He stared morbidly at the bottom of his glass. ‘Oh, well.’ He drained his schooner, and when he came up for air his face had brightened. ‘Such is life, eh? Said the actress to the bishop.’ He smiled and wiggled his empty glass at Murphy. ‘Anothery?’

  Thursday 12 July – afternoon

  Jo was sitting at the big briefing table with the detectives, trying to get a sense of how she was supposed to fit into their operation. Murphy was in his office, and Thijs was out somewhere, but after a flurry of conversations in the wake of her briefing, the others were still unsure of how to engage with her. They had been interested in her expertise and for the most part seemed genuinely alive to its potential contribution to the investigation, but after the initial questions they had mostly returned to their familiar rhythms.

  Amy Chartier looked up from across the table and smiled at Jo before returning to the recent case files she was working her way through, looking for links. Amy had been the most welcoming to Jo, showing her around and lunching with her most days. She’d opened up about her struggle to be taken seriously coming into what had previously been an all-male Homicide Squad. She’d faced the usual package that came with being not only female, but also gay – open doubt about her capability combined with unwanted sexual attention. But Amy was an old hand by the time she’d made detective, having dealt with that attitude since she’d entered her teens, so she’d just focused on the job and deflected the odd advance until the men of the squad accepted her as she was.

  Angelo Nikolaidis rose from his place to Jo’s left and walked across to the incident board to inspect a forensic report. She watched him stretch out his tall, narrow frame with a deliberate, fastidious movement that had the air of ritual about it. He had greeted Jo as he greeted the world, with a reflexive, knowing cynicism, but the squad’s resident philosopher had soon impressed her with his alert intelligence and openness of mind.

  At the end of the table Liệu Nguyễn had drawn her feet up onto the chair in front of her slight frame while she leafed through the second victim’s financials. Liệu had been the most sceptical about Jo’s role in the case, which Jo had put down to her preference for dogged adherence to textbook investigative procedure. Jo could well imagine that an orthodox bent would be prudent for a petite Asian-Australian woman working in a rough, white, blokey police culture. For all that, Liệu had been friendly and helpful to Jo, not allowing her professional reservations to become personal.

  That left young Cooper Harris, sitting to Jo’s right, his leg bouncing up and down in some exotic staccato time signature known only to him. From what Jo could see, Cooper was still finding his way in the squad, in equal parts eager to make the hero’s breakthrough and desperate to be accepted as one of the gang. A fit young blond surfer type, he was all restless energy and enthusiasm. He had to be at least half golden retriever.

  Not that there was anything much for them to devote their energies to yet. There were no forensic leads; the doorknocking had been fruitless; the families and colleagues knew nothing; the hotline attracted only cranks and conspiracy theorists; and the victims had nothing in common. The squad’s copy of the New Fabrica had not yet arrived from Basel – the police commissioner had approved the $2000 purchase on the proviso it went to the state library after the case – so Jo couldn’t even dive into that. It was hard to concentrate when there was nothing to concentrate on.

  Maybe it was time for an espresso. She texted Thijs:

  — Coffee?

  His reply came almost immediately.

  — Yes pls! Can’t go far tho at court can you come down?

  That’s right, he’d been called to give evidence on an old case. He was at the Downi
ng Centre in the old Mark Foy’s building, a few blocks away.

  — Sure! Courthouse or cafe?

  — Cafe next door. Barista-at-law (haha) do you know it?

  Jo replied one-handed while packing up:

  — Ill find it on my weayh

  The detectives ignored her completely as she took off out the door.

  She wondered what Thijs felt about her being around. She hadn’t thought much about him since their brief dalliance the previous year – a surprising one-night stand that had rolled on agreeably for a few weeks. It had been a restorative encounter after many months of post-breakup blues. This last week or so had reminded her how much she enjoyed his company. Maybe she’d test the waters.

  He was standing out the front of Barista-at-Law, next to a defiant winter-flowering wattle, its gnarled trunk surrounded by asphalt. Inside, the cafe was filled with cops and lawyers, a mash-up of guns and technical webbing with wigs and robes.

  ‘When do you have to be back in court?’ Jo asked.

  ‘They just adjourned, actually, so there’s no rush.’ They ordered and found a table in a corner. They made small talk until their coffees arrived.

  ‘So, Thijs, did you enjoy my public lecture in April?’ asked Jo.

  His spoon halted above his long black. ‘I didn’t think you’d seen me. The room was full.’

  ‘An hour’s a long time to look at the faces.’

  ‘I suppose so.’ He stirred in his sugar. ‘It was very good. Your argument is convincing, about Holbein. I’ve been thinking back on it lately.’

  ‘It’s a shame Dave wasn’t there.’

  ‘Yes. He asked me about the dissection theory, in light of your lecture.’

  ‘Really? I thought he just pulled me in here to please the brass.’

  ‘I wouldn’t go that far,’ said Thijs. ‘He’s coming around to your angle. He just doesn’t trust theory.’

  ‘Especially anything complex.’