by John Byron
‘We’re not exactly sure yet.’ As far as they could tell, Carroll explained, both Murphy and Porter had been in Jo’s apartment last night. It was not clear why they were there. There had been a fight: there was broken furniture and a lot of blood. Evidently there had been a pursuit. They’d ended up inside the Ladies’ Baths, where it appeared they had killed one another in some kind of shoot-out. Their bodies were found when the baths opened at sunrise.
Jo made the tea while the policewoman spoke. Sylvia’s Dutch teapot had been a thirtieth birthday present from Jo’s mother, not long before she died. A lifetime ago. Two lifetimes ago, if you counted Murphy.
‘So Dave shot Stephen Porter?’
‘Yes, ma’am,’ said Moody.
‘Dead?’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘And you said Porter shot my brother.’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘What, at the same time?’
‘That’s how it looks.’
‘I thought that only happened in the movies.’
Carroll shrugged. ‘It appears Detective Murphy has been shot with his own service weapon.’
‘But … so how did he shoot Porter, then?’
‘He had another registered firearm. A revolver.’
‘That wasn’t his service weapon?’
‘No, that was his own. He had a police-issue sidearm as well. We think Porter stole it from here when he attacked your sister-in-law.’
‘Bloody hell.’ Was this as simple as it sounded, or was it a trap?
‘We understand it’s a massive shock, Dr King, especially just after the attack on Mrs Murphy.’ Moody cleared his throat and opened his notebook. ‘But we need to ask you a few questions.’
‘Of course. I’m not sure how I can help, but whatever you want.’
‘Dr King, when did you last see your brother?’ asked Carroll.
‘Well, Amy brought me home last night. Detective Chartier.’ They nodded. ‘I went to sleep but when I woke up she was gone. I couldn’t face being alone, so I came around here.’
‘When was this?’
‘I’m not sure. Round midnight.’
‘How’d you get here?’
‘I walked. It’s twenty minutes.’
‘What happened then?’
‘We had a drink, talked about Sylvia. I wasn’t hungry but Dave made me eat. Then I went to bed in the spare room. He was still up.’ She pointed at the whisky bottle on the coffee table.
‘And that was the last time you saw him?’
‘Yes.’
‘And what time was that? When you went to sleep.’
‘I don’t know. Oneish?’
‘And did you hear him leave at all?’
‘No.’
‘Did you sleep through?’
‘I went to the bathroom at one point.’
‘When was that?’
‘About 3.30.’
‘Was Detective Murphy here then?’
‘He wasn’t up, but I assume so.’
‘And when did you get up this morning, Dr King?’
‘Just now.’
‘You told us he didn’t seem to be home.’
‘He didn’t come to the door for you. And their bedroom’s empty, as you saw.’ The bedroom door was wide open, the bed neatly made.
‘Did Detective Murphy have a key to your place, Dr King?’ asked Moody.
‘Yes they have a full set, front and back.’
‘Does anyone else have keys to your apartment?’
‘No.’
‘Do you know why Detective Murphy has gone to your place in the middle of the night, Dr King?’ asked Carroll. ‘Something you discussed last night, maybe?’
‘I have no idea. We just talked about Sylvia’s condition, when we should visit her in hospital.’
‘Anything to do with her that would send him there? Photos, maybe?’
‘Not that I can think of.’
‘Any papers relating to that anatomy book?’
‘No, everything’s with the Homicide Squad. He knew that.’
‘Nothing else about your academic work?’
‘No, I’m sorry. I agree it’s strange he was there, but I really have no idea why.’
‘Will you keep thinking about it, please, Dr King? It’s the main blank patch in our understanding.’
‘Of course. But can I ask: how did you even know they’d been in my flat?’
‘When the Baths called in the incident, a flag came up in the system, since it’s on your street. We were concerned for your welfare, so we gained entry.’
Gained entry. Jo wondered if she’d have to repair that later.
‘Dr King, do you know where Detective Murphy’s gun safe is?’ asked Moody.
‘Sorry, no. I didn’t even know he had one.’
‘Did you ever notice what he did with his sidearm when he came home?’
‘Yeah, he keeps it in here,’ said Jo, waving at the kitchen drawers. ‘Drives Sylvia nuts.’ The police exchanged a disapproving frown, and Carroll came over to the kitchen. ‘Third drawer down.’ The policewoman opened the drawer with a pen and sniffed inside. She nodded at Moody.
‘You’re welcome to look around for the safe if you like.’
‘That’s okay, a site team will be over later,’ said Carroll. ‘They’re at your place now, I’m afraid. The detectives will let you know when you can go home.’
‘And they’ll have to formally interview you, Dr King,’ added Moody. ‘There are a lot of gaps still.’
‘I understand. I’ll ring Detective Janssen.’
Moody stood and approached the framed St George rugby league jersey on the wall. ‘That’s quite a piece. Is it original?’
‘Yes. From the 1977 premiership. My father bought it for Dave at a charity auction when he was a boy. He’s had it on the wall ever since.’
‘Your dad a St George supporter?’
‘No, but Dave’s father was. He died in 1978. That was his last grand final.’
‘The replay against Parramatta.’
‘That’s right. Craig Young wore that jersey in the tied match. Are you a Dragon?’
‘Used to be. More a Waratah these days.’
‘Detective Murphy would’ve been young when he lost his father,’ said Carroll.
‘Yes, he was five years old.’
‘What happened, if you don’t mind me asking?’
‘He was a police officer, shot in the line of duty. Still unsolved, I believe.’ That brought all conversation to a halt.
After they left, Jo closed the door, leaned against it and slid to the ground. She took shallow, measured breaths until she heard the patrol car drive off, then she let herself go, sobbing and heaving.
Swatches of mid-grey, little more than the sensation of light, soft and diffuse within the enveloping dark. A dreamlike floating, mostly pleasant but with a darkness there, ominous, ever crouching just behind, waiting. Background sounds, a brisk clattering, the odd raised voice, utterances that are no words. What is this place?
—
Red first, then yellow, and painful slashes of white. Words without meaning, questions without answers. The dark lurking presence now shows itself at night: it is her pain. Her suitor, her betrothed. They keep it back for her but it is patient. Time is on its side. Oblivion protects her, for now, but not for much longer.
—
A simple cartoon face, a child’s watercolour ruined by rain, framed within the aperture; kindly, smiling. The mouth opens and she recognises its voice, from before. She cannot remember, yet she knows he has watched over her, here in this place. She opens her mouth without realising it, croaks noiselessly: ‘Mack.’
—
Then one afternoon she returns to the world intact: to this empty room that she still can’t see properly. Shapes and colours, yes – and movement – but only right in front. She can make out objects but only up close, and not at all clearly.
But she can hear the sounds on the ward. She understands
them. She knows who she is. She remembers. She knows where she is, and why. Her right hand by instinct moves to stroke her belly, but before she even touches it she knows, she knows. She weeps for her lost child, slides back into the black.
—
She is all cried out. She thinks she might be ready. She knows it will be a hard road back – that people will want a lot from her. The doctors, the police. Her husband. She has to hold him at bay somehow, until she can think. The work will be her cover. The work of recovery, of witnessing. Her pain will help; her pain will steer her.
She is tired already, but she knows she has to make a start. She reaches for a cable, finds it and follows it to a small box, presses the button at its centre. The door is flung open. There’s a figure in blue, in deep soft focus. ‘Sylvia!’ It’s her friend Lucia, crying, hugging her tightly. ‘You’re back.’
She asks for Jo.
—
The world she came back to was not the one she had left. Her baby was gone: the central fact of her life before the attack was now a yawning void. She knew she should have been pleased when the doctors told her she’d make a full recovery, but she could not yet feel good about that without her little girl.
Then on the third day, when she cautiously asked where Murphy was, Jo told her that he was dead: apparently shot by the man who had attacked her. It upset Sylvia deeply that Dave had been killed, and she cried for him, not for herself. She had never wanted him hurt, she had just wanted to live in peace.
Nor did she take any consolation from the death of Porter. She was glad that his series of killings had been stopped, but she was appalled at the idea that Murphy had executed him.
Before long, Sylvia in her turn told Jo about her own decision to leave Murphy, before the attack. She told her all her reasons, and why she hadn’t confided in her at the time of the attack. Jo was supportive of Sylvia, but had little to say about Murphy directly. Sylvia was at first surprised at Jo’s muted response – she had always been forthright about her brother’s shortcomings – but then, Jo was grieving too. She had lost her last family member.
Sylvia gave bedside evidence to the police, but it had little relevance to the coronial inquest or the internal inquiry into the dual shooting. Sylvia wasn’t called to either hearing; Jo was called to both, but the questioning was perfunctory, a recapitulation of her witness statement. The forensics supported the standard theory of grossly unprofessional conduct on Murphy’s part, resulting in mutual homicide. Despite the cloud hanging over him, the New South Wales Police Force buried Murphy with full honours while Sylvia was still in hospital.
—
Sylvia was discharged at last and she went home to Randwick. Jo came to look after her. Neither of them loved being there, with the shadow of Murphy hanging over the house, but Sylvia was not yet up to climbing the four flights of stairs to Jo’s place. Once Sylvia was up and about, though, they started getting the house in order to put it on the market.
Autumn had called a cease-fire for the Anzac Day holiday: it was a mild, still, clear blue Sydney day, the air washed clean over weeks of squally weather. The morning sun streamed into the back of the house as Sylvia cleaned out the laundry alcove. Jo was working in another room, as had become their habit. By silent consensus they were avoiding mention of him, but the result was that Murphy loomed over every conversation: he had finally placed the distance between the sisters-in-law that he had never managed to in life. Jo had spent the occasional night with either Amy or Thijs, to give Sylvia a little space, but it only accentuated their caution with one another when they were together. Neither of them seemed to know what to do about it.
Sylvia put all that aside for the moment to concentrate on her work. Every nook and corner was encrusted with dried laundry powder, beneath strings and balls and pellets of dense, hardened lint. She pulled the washing machine right out from the wall to get in behind and something clattered to the floor. As she bent to pick it up, she saw it was a plastic card.
Her Denison Bank credit card.
Sylvia froze in place, staring at the object in her hand. She tracked back over that time, and knew without doubt that she hadn’t lost it in the laundry. Her memory was fully restored, and she had given it a lot of thought at the time. There was simply no way her card had found its way there by accident. Which meant someone had put it there on purpose.
It could only have been Murphy.
It might have been just another gaslighting exercise. But as she considered those final days and saw how it all fitted together, she knew that it wasn’t.
Sylvia didn’t remember crossing to the sofa, but that was where Jo found her: head down, her hands dangling between her legs, holding the card.
‘What’s up, sis?’ asked Jo.
Sylvia looked up, her face streaked in tears. ‘He set me up,’ she croaked.
There was a long pause while Jo absorbed this. ‘What do you mean?’ she asked, haltingly.
Sylvia lifted her hands, holding out the credit card for Jo to see. Sylvia tried to find the words to explain what it meant, but when she refocused from the card to her sister-in-law’s face, she could see it already written there. Jo’s skin was drained of all colour, her mouth open in a silent gasp of horror.
‘You knew what he did,’ whispered Sylvia.
Jo nodded slightly, unable to speak.
Sylvia held Jo’s eyes for a long while. ‘When?’ she asked.
Jo opened her mouth, paused, spoke. ‘At the end.’
‘You were there?’ A question.
Jo nodded again. Her fear was all over her now.
Sylvia thought about that. ‘Oh.’ She looked up. ‘It was you.’ A statement.
Jo was rigid, stricken. Then she nodded again, just once.
Sylvia looked down, took a deep breath and let out one harsh, anguished sob. Then inhaled again and stood. Moved to Jo. Opened her arms and held her tight.
Jo fell into her sister-in-law’s embrace and let it flow, for the first time in months, for the first time since that night. She cried for days and days, and Sylvia held her close until she was done.
FINIS
Author’s Note
Caution: here be spoilers.
It probably goes without saying that there is a bit of me in each of the characters in this yarn – in a couple of cases, I feel the need to emphasise, just a tiny bit. I’m left-handed, like Jo, and schooled in the humanities, although I can’t draw to save my life. I take my coffee as a double ristretto, like Murphy, and while I seldom drink, the only whisky you’ll find at my place is from Islay. Even their homes are known to me: Sylvia and Murphy live in a version of my former PhD supervisor’s place, and Jo lives in my brother’s former building – specifically the flat upstairs, then occupied by a celebrated actor and her young family.
I also spent three years studying medicine at Sydney Uni before dropping out and working odd jobs. Then I paid my way through my arts degree as a systems monitor on a bank help desk. Sound familiar? I’ve never killed anybody, and my interest in Vesalius is intellectual rather than pathological – but, yes, there’s something of me in Stephen Porter.
I’m coming to my point, but we need to turn left here for a sec. In med school we had this much-loved biochemistry lecturer named Vivian Whittaker. Both a scientist and an experienced medico, he was also a musician, a humanist and a terrific raconteur who gave dazzling lectures, full of dry wit and erudition. His annual lecture on porphyria was a legendary virtuoso performance attended by hundreds of people from all over the university. He used to set these diabolical exams – impossible to complete in the allotted time – on the indisputable premise that in an emergency situation, when we needed to know the diagnostic and therapeutic implications of some biochemical process we couldn’t go look it up in the library. We would need to know it then.
One day in third year, not longer after exams, I was crossing the campus when I ran into Dr Whittaker. I asked him, with not a little trepidation, whether he recalled how I’d
done.
‘Ah, yes, I remember your paper. You write rather well, you know.’
‘Oh, really?’ This sounded promising.
‘But you must remember the first rule of writing, Mr Byron: to write about what you know.’ At which he tipped his hat, wheeled about and kept walking.
This, of course, was both devastatingly brilliant, in a Wildean way – I was honoured to have been the object of such a great line, delivered ex tempore and con brio – and moderately deflating. I say moderately because I had already been floundering for a while and this news only reinforced my growing conviction that I was not on the right path. For the record I scored 58 per cent for Biochem III, which neatly enumerated my ambivalence about that career trajectory. Would you want to be treated by a doctor who’d been so unconvinced of their vocation that they barely passed everything? Me neither. I left.
A decade later I had absolutely inhaled a BA Hons at Adelaide Uni. (The big lesson here is, only ever study what you’re actually interested in learning.) I was back at Sydney Uni, starting my PhD in English, so I looked up Viv Whittaker and took him to lunch. I reminded him of our exchange ten years earlier and he roared laughing, appalled at himself. He apologised profusely ‘for being such a bastard’.
On the contrary, I replied, it had been one of several illuminating moments around the time that had helped me find a much better path. I regretted none of it.
‘Well, that’s good to hear and kind of you to say, but it’s still unforgivable,’ he replied. ‘And anyway, it’s lousy advice. Especially in the humanities. You should write beyond yourself, surely. Isn’t that the point? You write to find out what you don’t already know.’
And so it is with this story. I was very fortunate to grow up in a house where violence was never used as a means of doing family business. It was really only during my teenage years, as I heard and saw things in the homes of some of my peers, that I began to realise just how fortunate we were, and perhaps how unusual.
In more recent years, stories like these have come out from behind closed doors and into widespread community awareness, which is certainly a positive development.
