The Tribute

by John Byron

  ‘Oh, honey,’ said Chartier. ‘It’s too much.’

  ‘What else am I going to do? I can’t go back to work.’

  ‘Take some time off,’ suggested Janssen.

  ‘And just sit there picturing it? I’d rather help catch the fucker.’ Janssen and Chartier both nodded doubtfully. ‘We’re fine, if that’s what you’re worried about,’ said Jo, nodding at her brother. The detectives were visibly unconvinced of that, too.

  Murphy wore a look of strained tolerance, waiting for all the feelings to dissipate. ‘Let’s just get on with it, can we?’

  ‘He’s right,’ said Jo. ‘Can we?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Chartier, squeezing her arm. ‘Whatever helps.’

  ‘But you should see our counsellor,’ added Janssen.

  ‘It’s a good idea,’ said Murphy.

  ‘You too, boss,’ said Chartier.

  ‘Yeah, nah, I think I’ll pass. I understand that humans find it helpful, but that shit doesn’t work on me.’

  Jo snorted a reluctant laugh and wiped her nose. ‘God, you’re annoying,’ she told her brother. ‘I wish I could just hate you.’

  ‘So listen,’ Murphy asked her, ‘how are you set for company overnight?’

  Jo felt the others’ radars step up to high sensitivity. She very deliberately kept her gaze on her brother. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘The SOCOs are still at my place.’

  ‘Oh, right. Yeah.’ In a normal family, Jo supposed, a sister would offer her brother her spare room as long as he needed it. Instead, she waited for him to continue.

  ‘So I was thinking about staying at the pub over the road here. Close to the action. But if you need the company I could stay with you instead.’

  ‘No, that sounds best,’ she replied a little too quickly. ‘Thanks anyway.’

  ‘No worries,’ said Murphy, oblivious. He’d done his fraternal duty and had been excused. Perfect outcome.

  ‘So, what can I get started on?’ Jo asked the detectives.

  ‘Denison Bank’s sending over all the relevant data, but it’s in proprietary formats,’ said Janssen. ‘Maybe you could figure out how it all works, so we can put it into spreadsheets.’

  ‘Okay, I’ll get started.’ She left the office and headed downstairs.

  Murphy closed the door. ‘All right, is there anything you two want to tell me now she’s not around?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Janssen, ‘but I’d prefer to tell you when you’re not around, either.’

  ‘No time for that. Let’s hear it.’

  Janssen looked at Chartier, who frowned grimly, then back at Murphy. ‘Spud, Mack says Sylvia was pregnant. Five weeks.’

  ‘The baby didn’t make it,’ said Chartier. ‘I’m so sorry, boss.’

  Murphy buried his head in his hands so they couldn’t see his face. He found it cold comfort to have been proved right. He looked up to find his subordinates exchanging an alarmed glance. Perhaps he was overdoing it.

  ‘Does Jo know about this?’ he asked.

  ‘I doubt it,’ said Chartier.

  ‘Well, someone better tell her.’ Chartier moved to leave – in Murphy’s world this would definitely be women’s work – but he stopped her. ‘No, you stay. You do it,’ he told Janssen, who nodded and left.

  Murphy lowered his voice. ‘I’m told you reviewed the security footage over the past week. Before the attack.’

  Chartier breathed out slowly and shifted her focus. ‘That’s right.’

  ‘So what did you find?’

  ‘Nothing, really. She was just going about her days. You know, cooking, housework. Reading, swimming, guitar. Nothing relevant.’

  Murphy weighed the wisdom of the next question, but he had to know. ‘Did she have any company?’

  ‘No,’ replied Chartier, puzzled. ‘Were you expecting any?’

  Murphy straightened and waved a hand. ‘Just the old woman next door. Never mind.’

  ‘Oh. Well, no. It was just Sylvia. And you, of course.’

  ‘All right. Off you go.’

  Chartier nodded and left the room.

  Murphy locked the door behind her and closed the blinds on the internal window. He drew a fresh bottle of Lagavulin from his bottom drawer, cracked the customs seal and pulled the cork. He put the bottle to his lips and took a decent swig, rolling the burn around his mouth.

  The big question was what to do now. What if she came out of hospital fucken brain-dead? He’d be expected to care for her. Feed her baby food, shower her, wipe her fucken arse. Not likely.

  Even if she pulled through with no permanent damage, there’d be a long convalescence. Months of living with her, looking after her, knowing the whole time that she’d planned to take off with some cunt who’d knocked her up; knowing she was probably still planning to take off once she was back on her feet. Fuck that, too.

  But he couldn’t exactly walk in there and rip out all her wires, either. And Porter wasn’t going to finish the job, not with a police guard on the ward. No, he’d have to bide his time, see what shape she came out in, and figure it out from there.

  He poured a decent measure of whisky into a mug and recorked the bottle. Better pace this one. He felt exhausted, strung out, overwhelmed.

  But fucken vindicated.

  Tuesday 15 January – evening

  Porter checked in to a modest flat in Clovelly, all organised online to avoid face-to-face contact. After attending to his injuries, he spent several hours changing his appearance, applying tonal makeup and discreet facial prosthetics, and giving himself a completely new hairstyle. He turned on the television and found himself all over the evening news, but it was a face that the casual observer would not recognise in the new one in the mirror. The TAFE course on theatre production he had taken in preparation for this day had been well worth the time invested.

  He was not surprised to learn that Sylvia Murphy had a heavy police guard on her hospital room, but neither was he discomfited. He had every intention of fulfilling his Tribute by dissecting the heart of Murphy’s beloved, but she would keep for another day: for now, he would turn his attention to the brain of Murphy’s intellectual sister. The poetic symmetry was irresistible, after all, and it compensated somewhat for the unfortunate necessity of proceeding out of order.

  Once night fell he painted his fingertips with clear nail polish, then went out to the car and swapped his old number plates for a clean pair he’d found in a questionable auto wrecking yard. He drove to Coogee, checking the route and scoping the streetscape. He parked near King’s apartment block, then walked to the top end of the beach and back, admiring the luminescent foam on the island in the middle of the bay beneath the nearly full moon. He slowed as he approached the park opposite King’s place from the north, exploiting a lull in the passing foot traffic to dash into a thick stand of heath banksia beneath a low-growing clutch of honey myrtle. The vantage point was well hidden but had a clear view of her building’s front door.

  He didn’t have long to wait. King and a tall plainclothes policeman arrived in a late-model sedan and entered her building. One of the Homicide detectives, no doubt. The lights went out soon after, but the policeman did not emerge. Porter hadn’t anticipated an overnight security detail, but he wasn’t overly concerned: they wouldn’t keep that up for long.

  He crept out of his hiding place, crossed to the building and tried the keys from Murphy’s house on the frosted-glass lobby door. The yellow one turned the barrel, confirming his hunch. He suppressed a shiver of excitement and slipped inside to look around, but there was nothing to see beyond the letterboxes and a few forgotten items stored beneath the stairwell.

  This was enough risk for one night. It was time to rest so he would perform optimally when the time came. He left the building and walked away down the hill, exhilarated at the audacity of his plan, before circling back around the block to his vehicle and driving to his anonymous apartment.

  Wednesday 16 January – morning

  ‘W
e compared DNA from the skin and blood at the scene with cell tissue from his home,’ Mack told the morning briefing. ‘It’s conclusive: Stephen Porter is our man.’ There was a rumble of approval. ‘We also found a spotless copy of the New Fabrica, locked away. You nailed it, Jo.’

  ‘It was Sylvia’s idea, really.’ Jo dragged her eyes away from the blown-up photos of the killer and turned back towards the group.

  ‘So who is this prick?’ Murphy asked. ‘What’s his backstory?’

  Nguyễn read from her notebook. ‘It’s fairly unexceptional, actually. He grew up in Dulwich Hill, just him, his mum and his big sister. No dad on the scene. He went to the local primary school then Fort Street High. After matriculation he studied medicine at Sydney —’

  ‘I knew it!’ Murphy turned to Mack. The SOCO raised his eyebrows in reply.

  ‘Yeah,’ said Nguyễn, ‘but we were too narrow, looking for graduates: he dropped out in third year. Then he did odd jobs – watch repairs, bar work on Taverner’s Hill, selling insurance. Enrolled at the Sydney College of the Arts. It’s part of Sydney Uni, too.’

  ‘But not on the main campus,’ said Jo. ‘They’re in the old psych hospital in Rozelle.’

  ‘How appropriate,’ Nikolaidis said.

  ‘He specialised in anatomical drawing,’ continued Nguyễn. ‘We found the catalogue for the graduating exhibition in his honours year. All stuff like the Fabrica.’

  ‘Let me guess: his thesis was on Vesalius?’ asked Jo.

  ‘We don’t know yet, Dr King,’ chimed in Harris. ‘The college is asking for a court direction to access his academic records.’

  ‘That’s bullshit, Harris,’ said Murphy. ‘It’s a murder investigation and those are relevant files. The case law is clear.’

  ‘That’s true, boss,’ said Chartier, defending the rookie. ‘But these places don’t hire lawyers to answer the phones.’

  ‘The commissioner seems to know the vice-chancellor quite well,’ said Jo dryly. ‘Why don’t you get him to ask her?’

  ‘I don’t need the commissioner to hold my prick while I piss,’ said Murphy. ‘This is bread-and-butter stuff.’

  ‘All right, then. I know the provost, I can try her,’ said Jo.

  ‘Do that. See about his med-school files while you’re at it, will you?’

  Jo nodded. ‘Do we know anything else about his art career?’ she asked Nguyễn.

  ‘Yeah, looks like it never really took off. Not enough to live on, anyway. He’d been part-time with the insurance firm through art school but went full-time after graduation. They were eventually swallowed up by Denison Bank, and he moved to the back-office side. Ended up in tech support. He’s worked there ever since.’

  ‘So how would we find out if he ever sold any art?’ asked Jo.

  ‘Fraud Squad have an active fine-arts brief,’ said Nikolaidis. ‘Cox will know how to find out. Why?’

  ‘I just can’t shake the feeling he looks familiar,’ she said, looking again at the trio of photographs fastened to the board.

  ‘You might know people he knows,’ suggested Janssen. ‘Someone could know his haunts.’

  Jo nodded. ‘It might help to see what he was painting. Did he have a studio at home, Dave?’

  ‘No. There was an easel in a sunroom but there was nothing on it.’

  ‘Did he have any of his own artwork up?’

  ‘Didn’t really notice what was on the walls, to be honest.’ Murphy looked at Harris, who shook his head.

  ‘We photographed everything,’ said Mack. ‘I’ll show you later. He has a few original pieces I didn’t recognise, a couple of reproductions tending to the anatomical. A fairly gruesome pietà.’

  ‘Mantegna’s Lamentation, I’d bet. The foreshortened one.’

  ‘That’s it.’ Mack nodded. ‘And your Dead Christ. The frame looks new.’

  ‘He sticks to his ’hood, doesn’t he?’ Harris broke in, studying the city map. ‘Raised in Dulwich Hill, high school in Petersham, bar job on Taverners Hill, med school in Darlington, art school in Rozelle, lives in Marrickville, works in Alexandria. D’you reckon he has issues?’

  ‘Living in the inner west is not a psychiatric condition, Harris,’ said Nikolaidis, who lived in Erskineville.

  ‘Still, it’s interesting that he’s ranged all over town on the job, while living in such a tight pocket,’ said Nguyễn.

  ‘He broke all the rules by killing someone in Glebe, then,’ observed Janssen. Conventional wisdom held that serial killers tended to keep a prudent distance between home and their crime scenes. There was a theory that with enough victims, an unwitting serial killer would eventually draw a ring around their own district.

  ‘Maybe he’s read the same books we have,’ suggested Chartier.

  ‘Was there anything from the doorknock?’ asked Murphy.

  ‘Just the usual stuff,’ said Nguyễn. ‘He’s quiet, keeps his yard tidy, brings your bin in, keeps to himself …’

  ‘“Can’t believe a nice fellow like him is mixed up in something like this”?’ suggested Nikolaidis.

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Same at his workplace,’ added Janssen. ‘Model employee, reliable colleague, happy to help with a swap – maybe a little boring.’

  ‘What about the sister?’ asked Murphy.

  ‘Dead end,’ said Chartier. ‘She’s in a care facility: late-stage lung cancer. Hasn’t seen her brother for six or seven years. Not close to begin with, apparently, then they fell out over some family dispute. She’s got two daughters, one still at home. I’m told the girl literally spat on the ground when asked about her Uncle Stephen.’

  ‘Crikey,’ said Nguyễn. ‘Where’s the other daughter?’

  ‘Los Angeles.’

  ‘Actress?’ asked Murphy.

  ‘Entertainment lawyer. Apparently he sends presents to her kid, but that’s it.’

  ‘Okay, scratch that,’ said Murphy. ‘What else?’

  ‘One unusual move,’ said Nikolaidis. ‘He sold his house September before last, then rented it back.’

  ‘Smart,’ said Murphy. ‘Got his equity out to avoid seizure.’

  ‘And cash to run with,’ added Harris.

  ‘How about the car?’ Jo asked.

  Nikolaidis smiled sadistically. ‘White ten-year-old Corolla sedan.’ Everyone groaned. It was the most common vehicle on the road in every category: age, model, body and colour. ‘His plates are flagged with Metro Traffic, and we’re canvassing all commercial carparks equipped with plate readers.’

  ‘I bet he’s swapped plates,’ said Janssen. ‘He’s a planner.’

  ‘Yeah, it’s what I’d do,’ said Murphy. ‘What about travel records?’

  ‘We’ve got his credit card statements going back eighteen years,’ said Nikolaidis. ‘Bankies are very steady in their financial habits, apparently.’

  ‘Discount interest rates,’ said Jo.

  ‘He’s done all his banking with the Fort his entire working life. We’re combing through it now. If he goes to ground, chances are it’ll be somewhere he’s been before.’

  ‘Could be someplace he hadn’t been for a while,’ said Chartier.

  ‘Yeah, but we figure he’ll have gone back for a fresh recce once he started planning all this,’ said Nguyễn.

  ‘Makes sense,’ said Murphy. ‘Let’s check for flights and get camera data for country New South Wales roads as well.’

  ‘How far back?’

  ‘We know he was planning in earnest when he put his house on the market,’ said Janssen. ‘Start a few months before then.’

  ‘That’s a lot of computation,’ said Nikolaidis.

  ‘You think our system’s not up for it?’ asked Murphy.

  ‘It can handle it, but it’ll take a while.’

  Murphy turned to Jo. ‘While you’re talking to this prefect of yours, maybe ask if the uni’s got a big fuck-off supercomputer we could get some time on.’

  ‘Provost,’ said Jo. ‘Okay.’

  ‘
What if he bought another house in a different name?’ asked Nguyễn.

  ‘No, he might have dropped some on a bolt-hole, but what he really needs now is a lot of cash,’ Murphy said. ‘His money’s in a bank somewhere, sure as there’s shit in a cat.’

  ‘Not Denison Bank, but,’ said Harris.

  ‘Probably not, although we should check Fort accounts opened by his user ID,’ said Janssen.

  ‘Both good points,’ said Murphy. ‘Let’s feed his basic backstory to the media; follow up last night’s bulletin. Get to it.’

  Murphy caught Mack’s eye as the team dispersed and cocked his head towards his office. They went in and Murphy shut the door. ‘I have a technical question for you, Mack. Strictly confidential.’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Janssen told me about the pregnancy.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Spud,’ Mack said gently.

  ‘Thanks, Mack. Look, I know this is a strange question.’

  ‘That’s okay. Anything you want to know.’

  ‘Don’t pass this on. That I’m asking.’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘Can we find out who the father was?’

  ‘Whose father?’

  ‘Whose do you think, Mack? Christ.’

  ‘What are you talking about? She was yours, Spud.’

  Murphy shook his head. ‘That can’t be right.’

  ‘The lab matched the DNA against your exclusion sample. It’s standard procedure.’

  ‘How reliable is that result?’ asked Murphy.

  ‘As near a hundred per cent as doesn’t matter.’ Mack gave Murphy a quizzical look. ‘What’s this about, Spud?’

  ‘Just … how’s that even possible? I had the snip years ago.’

  ‘Ah, I see,’ said Mack, with manifest relief. ‘Recanalisation. It’s where the tubes regrow over time. Not common, but not vanishingly rare, either.’

  ‘They told me about that, but I thought it only happened in the first year or so? I did some follow-up tests.’

  ‘Usually that’s right. But it can also happen after trauma, like surgery or an injury. Didn’t you take a knock down there last year?’