The Tribute

by John Byron

  That pearl of erudition struck the room silent, so the police minister grunted ambiguously and turned to Murphy. ‘Why don’t you lead off, detective?’

  This was a surprise – Murphy had not actually been told what the meeting was for – but he was used to being put on the spot, so he unrolled a crisp operational update on the case. Superintendent Manning added an aura of calm competence with some textbook platitudes. The police minister asked the others if they had anything to add. Deputy Commissioner Hughes passed, letting the men play their cards before making her contribution, while Commissioner Carr spread his hands munificently and said, ‘We are eager to hear how we can help, minister.’

  ‘Thank you, detective,’ said the police minister, ‘I’ve learned more in five minutes from you than from five months of morning digests.’ He glanced significantly at the commissioner. ‘The lack of progress is frustrating, though.’

  The attorney-general leaned in to add his two bobs’ worth. ‘We have three grief-stricken families, five million frightened citizens, and six months until the election, detective.’

  ‘It is frustrating, minister,’ agreed Murphy, ignoring the attorney. ‘These are the cleanest crime scenes our forensic people have ever seen – he’s meticulous and extremely well-prepared. We’ve doorknocked like the Salvos, but we’ve found no eyewitnesses. There is no apparent link between victims, other than that they’re reasonably well-off.’ He decided not to mention the resource constraints that added autopsy and toxicology delays to their woes. Not in front of the Klingons.

  But the chief Klingon smelled his hesitation anyway. The attorney-general leaned forward. ‘You have also comprehensively failed, have you not, detective, to account for his confident access to the premises, and his capacity to occupy them with apparent impunity over such extensive durations?’

  ‘Yes, attorney, they are both unknown factors at this stage.’ This was interesting – only the briefings for the police minister and the premier had gone into those concerns in detail. Murphy wondered how the attorney-general was accessing them, and what else he knew. ‘But we’re confident those aspects will provide the key leads once we pinpoint them. That’s why we are downplaying them in the media.’

  ‘The media, yes,’ said the police minister. ‘We’ll come to that. But first can you tell us how you are deploying the additional resources the premier and I have placed at your disposal?’

  ‘We’ve benefited significantly from additional uniformed officers to help with the substantial volume of analytical work,’ said Murphy. ‘If we crack those elements we were just discussing, it will be due to that assistance.’

  The police minister beamed.

  ‘What about the premier’s funding?’ asked the principal adviser.

  ‘That’s enabled us to acquire certain materials essential to the research. Again, absolutely pivotal to success.’

  ‘And we certainly appreciate your advocacy to the premier for those additional resources, minister,’ said the commissioner, throwing their boss an extra bone.

  The police minister nodded benevolently. ‘I’m particularly impressed with how early you latched onto this anatomy angle, detective. I understand you’ve brought in an expert consultant?’

  ‘That’s correct, sir,’ said Murphy. ‘A specialist from the University of Sydney.’ Both politicians puffed out their chests at the mention of their alma mater.

  ‘The premier asked me to convey how pleased he is to see you using such creative initiative,’ said the adviser. ‘It’s the future of policing.’

  ‘And of universities,’ added the attorney-general. ‘It’s time those leftists rendered their contribution. You mention that your killer is targeting the affluent, Murphy. It seems probable he’s a communist, wouldn’t you say? Have you consulted ASIO yet?’

  Oh good, a witch-hunt will help no end, thought Murphy, but he kept his reply civil. ‘That is the victim profile so far, attorney, but there could be either positive or negative selection principles at play, sir. Or both.’

  ‘Meaning what?’

  ‘It could indicate that he is pursuing rich people deliberately, for whatever reason —’

  ‘Envy, Murphy, it’s the politics of envy.’

  ‘— but it’s more likely that poorer people drop out of his selection process, because they don’t enjoy the conditions he needs to undertake his dissections,’ said Murphy. ‘Privacy, distance from the neighbours, big empty houses, and lots of time at their command.’

  The attorney-general was clearly not happy with this but the police minister cleared his throat to signify an end to the preliminaries. ‘So a lot is being done but there’s not much to show for it, and the entire city waits in dread. He will continue, I suppose, if not apprehended?’

  Murphy nodded. There was no denying the facts. ‘He’s embarked on a series and he won’t stop until it’s complete, we catch him or he walks in front of a bus.’

  ‘There’s been a rich discussion around the cabinet table,’ said the police minister, with a sideways frown at the attorney-general, ‘with some, ah, imaginative options canvassed. The cabinet has proposed an alternative course of action that might help bring this case to a conclusion. The premier would like you to consider it.’

  So that’s what this was all about. Cabinet was up in arms, egged on by the attorney-general; someone’d had a brainwave about how to do a copper’s job, and the premier had decided to let some air out of the tyres by advancing the proposal. The police minister would’ve objected to the meddling, so the attorney-general was here to make sure the minister stuck to the script; the premier’s spook was here to ensure the attorney didn’t verbal the rest of them. What a clusterfuck.

  Not for the first time, Murphy reflected that the political preselection ecology in New South Wales had to be the last frontier of human understanding. Infuckenscrutable.

  Once the police personnel had digested the political play, the commissioner said, ‘We are open to all practical suggestions, minister.’

  The police minister turned to the premier’s adviser. ‘Angus?’

  ‘Thank you, minister, and with your permission, attorney?’ The attorney-general signalled his consent with a long blink, and the adviser turned to the police. ‘The ministerial offices have been enlisted for ideas on this one,’ he said, nodding in the direction of the police minister’s chief of staff.

  God help us, thought Murphy. That prick was about as useful as an ashtray on a motorbike.

  ‘The policy advisers have sketched out the main challenges,’ the adviser went on, ‘but it was the press secretaries who came up with the solution.’

  ‘Not exactly, Angus,’ admonished the attorney-general. ‘Credit where it’s due, please.’

  The adviser nodded. ‘True, the attorney’s press secretary thought it up then workshopped it with the others. The problem is we’re being slaughtered in the media for lack of progress. You don’t want to share details like this anatomy angle, fair enough, but that leaves a void and the broadcasters just make shit up to fill it. The premier is starting to take some lead, and the backbench is getting antsy. It was regrettable when the police force was under fire, of course, but now it’s become a political issue it’s time to act.’

  Murphy felt his poker face beginning to slip.

  ‘So the press secs have developed a whole integrated strategy,’ this Angus character continued. ‘The short version is we drop a major media splash across several outlets. Give one of the TVs an exclusive up-front, then back it in with the other networks – plus radio, print, socials.’

  ‘To what end, Angus?’ asked the commissioner.

  The adviser sat back and spread his hands. ‘We go your lad big-time: trash his brand, piss him off, flush him out.’

  ‘That’s just too random,’ objected the superintendent. ‘He could do anything.’

  ‘Yeah, nah, we’re onto that,’ the adviser replied. ‘See, this is essentially a political comms op, and that’s something we do extremely well
.’ Murphy nearly laughed aloud at that claim, but he managed to suppress it. ‘You want to provoke a reaction, yes, but you direct his aggression. You inflame him so he acts without his usual preparation, but so he comes at you in a particular direction. Where you’ll be waiting for him.’

  Murphy had been watching the two cabinet ministers’ contrasting reactions: the attorney-general leaning in and nodding along open-mouthed, his stumpy pink tongue on his bottom lip; the police minister sitting back, arms folded with a scowl on his face.

  ‘This harnesses all the media aggro and turns it to our advantage,’ continued the premier’s adviser. ‘It directs the spotlight away from criticism to action, making us look decisive and proactive. Who knows, it might even bring him down. I think it addresses all our needs.’

  Murphy considered his options. It was colossally risky, of course, but not the worst idea he’d ever heard – in fact he’d done something like it himself once or twice. But it was the sort of the thing a cop would cook up on the quiet with the help of a trusted journo mate, not a roomful of dodgy political hacks. He knew for a fact his brass would never go for it. It had major operational flaws: anticipating the behaviour of an unknown perpetrator would be a lot harder to achieve in the field than on a whiteboard, for one. They still didn’t have any idea how their perp was selecting his victims, so steering his reaction would be all speculation. It wasn’t going to fly, not without a lot more intel on their target. In any case, with so many cooks around the broth something was bound to go wrong. And he knew who would carry the can when it did. Nup.

  The room had been quiet while the police absorbed the plan. All eyes turned to Murphy for a reaction. Oh well, he thought, in for a penny. He leaned forward.

  ‘Listen, Machiavelli, I really don’t give a fuck what you think.’

  The commissioner groaned and the superintendent slumped visibly in his seat. The premier’s man was completely unperturbed, returning Murphy’s gaze with polite curiosity about what he would say next. Murphy was curious about that himself.

  ‘You’re batting well out of your crease, detective,’ observed the deputy commissioner. ‘You might want to rephrase that.’

  It was the first thing she’d said since entering this shark tank, and it was excellent advice. And remember who butters your bread, Murphy told himself. ‘With respect,’ he lied, ‘the premier’s support is invaluable, and our minister’s role is obviously fundamental, but amateur opinions are not pertinent to this operation.’ The attorney-general bristled at this, but the police minister smiled widely and the commissioner revived a little. ‘And the fantasies of your press secretaries are dangerously misguided.’ He was well ahead and under the laws of sustainable gambling, ahead was where you quit. ‘This investigation is strictly a police matter,’ he wrapped up, gesturing to his bosses and the police minister. ‘It will be executed by police personnel, within police procedures, under police authority.’

  Murphy having divided, the commissioner proceeded to conquer. ‘And with the unpredictability of the subject’s behaviour, combined with the operational fluidity that characterises any open criminal investigation, the introduction of such a dynamic, uncontrolled variable would only imperil the outcome, rather than securing it.’ Nicely put, if you went in for that kind of language.

  The politicians and staffers had clearly not considered that angle: this could backfire in ways impossible to imagine, let alone prevent. In any case, the police minister clearly regarded his detective’s fine fuck-you to be the end of the matter. He had discharged his obligation to propose the idea, and the result was clear. There would be no provocative press kit released into the wild.

  But the attorney-general could not quite let it go. ‘“But it is not the place of the Police to convict guilty men, as it is by them they get their living”,’ he intoned. ‘Ned Kelly, The Jerilderie Letter. The Taig was not impercipient.’

  ‘Attorney, our sole objective is to stop this man before he kills again,’ said the commissioner, barely controlling his fury. ‘Any other suggestion is outrageous.’

  ‘Yes that’s unworthy, Leonard, even of you,’ admonished the police minister.

  The attorney-general turned to Murphy. ‘Proceed as you must, detective, and apprehend your quarry with despatch. You can be sure we will be observing closely.’

  Murphy considered making a proportionate response but merely nodded in reply. He bade the police minister farewell, directed a loose, ironic salute to his brass, and fled the room.

  Saturday 22 September – night

  Porter quickly completed his routine shift duties and triaged some extra hackwork. He made a pot of tea then turned to his latest prospective candidate.

  Damien Henley had nominated himself for Volume IIII late in Porter’s previous shift, delivering a protracted tirade of vile aggression. As soon as the dreadful man had slammed the receiver down, Porter had set to work. His early impression had been favourable, but the shift had ended before he could be sure. He had to either finish his assessment tonight, or release Henley: he could not hold up the credit card cancellation any longer.

  Henley had refinanced with Denison Bank two years ago to renovate a house overlooking the Georges River, although ‘renovation’ completely failed to capture the scale of the exercise. The plans showed a perfectly sound and sensibly proportioned house making way for a grandiloquent mansion: of the original Californian bungalow, only the vintage façade remained. There were now five bedrooms, four bathrooms, a library, a conservatory and a home gym – all fully wired, climate controlled and tastefully lit, with European fittings throughout – with a three-car garage and cellar beneath and a broad deck, an enormous hot tub and an extensive Japanese garden out the back.

  This had cost an absolute fortune, but as a highly remunerated executive for Recondite Technologies, a boutique local front for a global defence technology firm, Henley could well afford it. The final product was certainly impressive, but all that destruction and reconstruction was a colossal gamble on the market’s willingness to disregard common sense. On the other hand, Porter reflected, when had a bet on a luxury home with expansive water views ever gone wrong? In the Ponzi scheme that was the Sydney real-estate market, the reckoning was always indefinitely deferred.

  Porter returned to the layout, considering sightlines to the windows and doors, then brought the house up on both satellite and street views. The building’s disposition looked promising, subject to reconnaissance, but he was concerned about security systems. In a house this plush, especially one belonging to a wealthy defence contractor, they would be a logical inclusion, yet there was no reference to them in the plans or the insurance documents. It didn’t make sense.

  Porter dived into the murkier recesses of this vast reservoir of information, which was held by private enterprise and tacitly – if illicitly – available to the bank. As consumer data had become increasingly digitised, and as the pricing of products and services had increasingly become a function of accuracy in risk assessment, most commercial entities had realised that it was in their interests to allow mutual access to all manner of harmless customer data. Notionally illegal, of course, all it required was a studied carelessness regarding data security on certain commercial interchange channels. A technically savvy operative inside one of these companies could discover a great deal about any private individual, as long as they knew where to look. And Stephen Porter knew.

  He quickly discovered a technician’s run sheet showing the installation of a back-to-base alarm by a sister company within Henley’s corporate group, just after lock-up stage. Henley had not recorded its existence on his house-and-contents insurance policy, foregoing a modest discount on the premium, which was all but proof that the unit was stolen. Sure enough, Porter verified by serial number that the base unit had been reported to the manufacturer ‘damaged on delivery’: it would have been written off without return. The crooked job had doubtless been contra for an equally dubious favour.

  People were dread
ful.

  Happily, there were no surveillance cameras, only motion sensors and reed switches, which would not trouble Porter.

  Still at large in the Borgesian data ocean, Porter searched for other pitfalls, as well as routine behaviour that might suggest times to avoid, or approaches that could influence risk. He checked for deliveries to Henley’s address (clothes, wine, protein supplements); searched for the existence and range of fixed cameras on nearby buildings (one at the local newsagent, easily avoided); assessed the diligence of the neighbourhood watch group (comatose); checked ride-sharing logs for unusual pickup times (none recently); looked at Henley’s current airline bookings (nothing for weeks); and found the cleaning contract (no problem, this would all be over well before Friday).

  No red flags.

  Porter turned back to the Fort’s own system to make a final check on the executive’s domestic spending habits. Henley didn’t go out much, although he didn’t really cook either – it was all delivery and takeaway – and he drank too much vodka and ate too much ice-cream. He spent most evenings watching movies, including a moderate diet of tediously predictable porn. Every Saturday he rented the company of a young woman furnished by a discreet establishment in Sutherland. It added up to a single man who spent a lot of time at home, mostly alone.

  Henley was well insured for disasters that would leave him alive, but there was no life insurance, nor any declared beneficiary for his superannuation. There was no sign that anyone in this wide, brown land depended on Damien Henley – not whom he cared about, anyway. Just as well, because Mr Henley was needed for a higher calling.

  The final matter was timing. Porter went back to the commercial realm and navigated through a porous firewall into Henley’s ineffectually encrypted telecommunications data. He skimmed the candidate’s recent emails and text messages, establishing that he would in all likelihood be home alone from Sunday evening. He checked Henley’s diary for the coming week and found no commitments that would create any problems. He determined that Henley tended to organise his work life using the scheduling tool in his company’s desktop calendar program, mostly through the mobile phone app. Perfect.