by Alan Carter
Lara worked her way through the rest of the mobiles. On the last one he was there again: in the background of another sculling and cleavage shot. Less defined than the previous pic but this time given away by the same VonZipper T-shirt she’d identified earlier. He was talking on a mobile phone, its blue-white light illuminating his right cheek. Would he be on the records of any of the telcos? If so, they might be able to track him. She started making the calls.
‘He’s dead.’
Cato didn’t take up the DI’s offer of an afternoon off. Instead he’d downed some painkillers, topped up his blood sugar levels with a pie and a Cherry Ripe, and paid Shellie a visit.
Shellie’s brow furrowed. ‘How? When?’
‘This morning. Killed by one or more fellow inmates.’
Shellie filled two coffee mugs with hot water. What was that look on her face? Wistful perhaps? Regretful? Relieved? ‘I’m glad Gordon’s dead, it makes it all a bit easier.’ She handed a coffee to Cato.
‘Pity he didn’t give up Bree first,’ Cato said.
Shellie nodded automatically. She led them both outside to the patio table. ‘Sorry for last night. Sometimes it all gets too much and I need to let off steam. You copped it.’
‘No worries.’
‘So what happens next?’ she said, not seeming to care about the answer.
‘We put the case together, prosecute the perpetrators, move on.’
‘You sound like a report. “Perpetrators”.’
‘Sorry.’
‘Are you?’
Every question, look, or gesture felt like a trap today. Cato wished he hadn’t said yes to the coffee, he wanted a quick, cowardly getaway.
‘Will there be a funeral?’
Cato hadn’t thought about it. ‘Probably, eventually.’
‘Let me know when.’
‘Why? I thought you’d want to keep well away.’
She shook her head. ‘I’d like to see the bastard off the face of the earth. It’s the least I can do. For Bree.’
Funerals. That reminded Cato of something. ‘Did Wellard ever talk to you about his brother?’
‘Kevin?’
‘Yeah. He died.’
‘Drowned.’
‘That right? I didn’t know the details.’
‘Mundaring. The dam. Why?’
The informer tip-off dates that didn’t make sense. The last visit, yesterday. He disappeared. Didn’t come back. Something was beginning to take shape but it depended on the answer to Cato’s next question.
The internet cafe was a good place to hide. He was surrounded by teenage gamers, young men in hoodies and baseball caps, opting to spend their days of summer in this stuffy hole. They used foul language and they looked at him like they were better than him. Why, thought Dieudonne, because you are white? Because you are Australian? He recalled the gang who’d surrounded him on Australia Day, measuring him up: little black man, easy target they thought. They fell away like frightened children when he stood up to them. Maybe these hoodie boys would also try to find out for themselves. Let them. His blood was up.
It was both a strange yet familiar sensation for Dieudonne: being hunted. In Kivu he had been both predator and prey. Usually it was a simple affair: follow tracks, sniff the wind, look for smoke, listen for sounds. Move in, terrorise, kill, leave. Here in Australia there was all this clever technology. Cameras that follow you everywhere, phones that track you. He wondered how many of those gadgets would be powered by the magic dust, tantalum? He closed his emails, typed in the word and clicked the search button. The first page told him what he already knew: tantalum is very precious and very important. They use it to make the electronic games that all the children play and to make the mobile phones that everybody says they need. Life in Kivu was cheap, cheaper than one grain of the rare earth that made all those toys and gadgets for a grasping greedy planet.
Another click. Wikipedia told him that the dust the world digs out of the big hole near his village was named after Tantalus, the father of Niobe, the goddess of tears in Greek mythology. Dieudonne chuckled to himself. One of the gamers straight across from him looked up.
‘Choo laughin’ at?’
‘Nothing to do with you, my friend.’ Something about Dieudonne’s tone of voice and blank expression told the young man not to take the matter further. The gamer ducked his head and returned to his online killing spree.
Tantalus was a rich man, his wealth came from mining. Like many ancient Greek mythological figures he had both mortal and divine parents. Tantalus was welcomed to Zeus’s table in Olympus, home of the gods. But once there, like a gatecrasher at a suburban party, he misbehaved and stole the food of his hosts to bring back to his people. Worse still, he revealed the secrets of the gods.
The gods were furious so Tantalus offered up his son as a sacrifice to appease them. He cut the boy up, cooked him, and served him up in a banquet for the gods. The gods found out and were even angrier. Tantalus was then punished after death, condemned to stand knee-deep in water with perfect fruit growing above his head. If he bent to drink the water, it drained below the level he could reach, and if he reached for the fruit, the branches moved out of his grasp. Eternally tantalised to temper his greed.
Dieudonne loved the story: it was like those the old people of the village would tell before the militias came. It had cannibalism, human sacrifice, infanticide: atrocities he was all too familiar with. The militias, the businessmen, the government officials; they all passed through his village and took whatever they saw: food, women and girls, boys for fighting, lives. They took the dust. They always wanted more and they would never be satisfied.
Dieudonne once again studied the boys around him, their eyes locked on the screens, faces twitching, transported into a cartoon world where only the quick and strong survive. A world where blood gushes and guns roar. Would they be so brave faced with the real thing? Technology. They craved it. They believed it was the answer to all of their problems. They were very wrong. He logged out and went to pay his hire fee. He smiled at the aggressive game-boy: it could be seen as a peace sign or a provocation, he didn’t care. He’d grown up knowing you can slaughter a nation in less than a week using only machetes. Hunted. With all the technology in the world it had taken them nearly two weeks to even catch his scent.
The instructions were to do it tonight. He needed to sharpen his knife.
At home after an early finish and a recuperative nap, Cato had put in a call to Andy Crouch to follow up his thoughts on Kevin Wellard. The retiree’s phone was switched off so that line of inquiry would have to wait. Meanwhile Cato had the post-mortem reports and photos on Christos Papadakis and on the pig found in bushland at Beeliar. The images were fanned out across the kitchen table. Cato made sure he finished his dinner before getting them out and it was just as well. Spaghetti bolognese sat warm and heavy in his stomach: he hoped it would stay there. The night was still and balmy and traffic throbbed along the main drag that connected to the bottom of the street. The smell of frying meat wafted up from the corner burger joint. Next door, Madge was clearly on the mend: barking, albeit feebly, at the waning moon. For some reason that had reminded Cato to get around to the subject of the nail gun.
Around forty nails in each case: following the line of the spine, one either side, spaced approximately according to where the vertebrae would be. Then, in both cases, bunched around the base of the skull was another deadly bloom of between ten and twenty nails: among these, at least one would have been the eventual killer. According to the pathologist, the sequence of placement along the spine meant that Christos Papadakis would have endured a torture of medieval agonies prior to death; same with the pig. In both cases the nails were the same size and, given the corresponding patterns, had probably been fired by the same person with the same gun. Prime suspect: Mickey Nguyen, one seriously sick puppy.
Had he done this before? Cato scanned an email from DC Chris Thornton listing hospital admittances for nail-gun injuries in
the last twelve months. They averaged two or three a month. Most were fingers and hands but one poor bloke managed to blind himself when he checked too closely on a malfunctioning Senco. There were two instances of deliberate or malicious abuse: an apprentice hazing incident in Geraldton left one young man with a plank attached to his left foot, and a disaffected youth in Bunbury used one to self-harm. No reports anywhere of unusual patterns up the spine.
The pig had no doubt been used for practice then buried at the locale Wellard had led them to. The coincidence factor was huge but why was DI Hutchens so interested in pursuing it if both Nguyen and Wellard were dead? Cato decided to try the direct approach first: he prodded his mobile.
‘So what’s the point?’ said Cato after outlining his observations on the two cases. ‘Mickey and Wellard are no longer with us. It’s a coincidence, but is it a priority?’ He could hear soft music in the background, Burt Bacharach. Cato pictured dimmed lights or candles, chilled wine, Mrs Hutchens in a negligee. Maybe he was projecting.
‘Is this urgent?’ DI Hutchens was very territorial about his personal time. It was a one-way street; everybody else could get stuffed and fit in with his plans.
‘I guess not.’
‘You need to look at your work and life balance, mate. You’re getting too obsessive. You need a girlfriend or something. Speaking of which, how did Shellie take the news?’
Cato ignored the jibe. ‘Kind of shocked, sir.’
‘Right, yeah, shame. Look, talk to me about nail guns tomorrow, mate, maybe read a good book or play that piano of yours. Get your mind off things.’
Lara Sumich had just stepped out of the shower and was drying herself when her door intercom buzzed. She’d luxuriated under the powerful jets, enjoying the warmth on the back of her neck as it soothed away the effects of several hours at a computer screen. The telcos were insisting on paperwork authorised at a higher level before proceeding with any of the high-tech tracing stuff they do: even then they weren’t promising anything. The buzzer went again and Lara squinted at the tiny screen next to the unlock button but could only see a shoulder.
‘That you, Col?’ She received a tinny incomprehensible grunt and hoped he hadn’t reverted to his grumpy state of a few days ago. She wrapped the towel around her head, buzzed him up, left her apartment door ajar and padded naked into the kitchen to get some wine out of the fridge.
Lara slipped on a pair of knickers and a T-shirt but she didn’t expect them to stay on for long. She admired her reflection in the lounge room window: nudging the big three-oh and still looking damned good if she didn’t say so herself. She began teasing her hair out to make it look beddable when a figure appeared behind her. It wasn’t Colin Graham.
Dieudonne shut the door behind him and slotted the deadbolt. He had a big knife in his hand. Lara turned to face him. Her service Glock was back at the station in the locker. Her backup baby Browning was in her undies drawer, seven or eight metres away in the bedroom. Dieudonne hadn’t moved. He wore baggy cargoes and another VonZipper T-shirt, red this time. He was about ten centimetres shorter than her and with less arm-reach – but the knife gave him a bit more.
‘Hi Dieudonne. Is that how you say it?’
He nodded and smiled. It was a beautiful smile, like a child’s.
‘What are you doing here?’
No reply. Big knife, locked door. Silly question. She had to stay calm and focus when what she really wanted to do was scream like a girl and throw up.
‘Cat got your tongue?’
Dieudonne looked puzzled, then smiled again. He seemed to be admiring her furniture, specifically her shelves. ‘So many books!’
‘Of course, you’re a bit of a reader aren’t you?’ She waved a hand generously. ‘Help yourself.’
Lara was edging towards the kitchen, where her knives were. It was nearer than the undies drawer. Dieudonne was slowly shuffling to block her way. Where was Colin Graham when you needed him?
‘I’m thirsty. I need a drink of water.’ She started to walk naturally and purposefully towards the kitchen. ‘Do you want some?’
Dieudonne marched up to her, left hand raised to grab her hair, and right hand swinging with the knife in a backhand slash aimed at her throat. Lara swatted away his left arm, danced back from the swinging arc of the knife, then punched him in the face as hard as she could. He was dazed, his nose was pouring with blood, and he looked humiliated and angry. Lara smacked a nicely chilled bottle of Cloudy Bay sauvignon blanc across his forehead. Dieudonne dropped like a stone. She made sure his lights went fully out by pounding him a couple of times with the heaviest pan she could find. Lara wasn’t sure if she’d killed him but didn’t particularly care. She searched his pockets and got a pleasant surprise.
‘You brought my taser back, how sweet.’
She flipped open her phone and summoned assistance.
25
Wednesday, February 10th. Morning.
Dieudonne was in hospital under police guard, suffering from concussion and a possible hairline fracture of the skull. News media were clamouring for a file picture of the photogenic kick-ass officer and for further details of Lara’s capture of the wanted man. Around the office it was slaps on the back, big smiles, good news week. Lara was at her desk, hunched over the phone.
‘Where were you?’
‘Family emergency: Dylan got sick.’ Dylan, Colin Graham’s youngest, by his previous marriage.
‘You couldn’t have called or texted?’
‘He’s fine. Thanks for asking.’ That was Colin for you: attack, the best form of defence. ‘Anyway I was just calling to check you’re okay.’
‘Yeah, good.’ She relented. ‘Thanks.’ She wondered whether or not she should say the next thing. ‘When are you coming over?’
‘I’ll see if I can get there tonight. So what’s happening with the African?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Anything to tie him to the Santo thing?’
‘Early days, we didn’t get to do much talking yet. He’s the strong silent type. We’ll run the usual tests. We’ve also got his phone.’
‘Yeah? Good stuff, should help clear up a few matters.’
He sounded falsely bright and encouraging. Lara felt a minirush of sympathy for him: sick kids, demanding wife, under the disciplinary spotlight. ‘How are you going?’
‘Good, yeah.’
‘Any developments?’
‘Nothing I can’t handle. Been summoned to a meeting with the Internals again today. Apparently all the paperwork is in.’
‘Anything I can do?’
He chuckled. ‘You’ve already done more than enough, sweetheart.’
Hutchens was right: it was mainly Danny Mercurio who was the headkicker although his mate Kenny got a few in as well. Kenny must have been the one wielding the sharpened toothbrush, although by then Gordon Wellard was on the floor and out of frame while Kenny leant over him, administering the coup de grace. It was quick, brutal, and very effective and caught on three different CCTV angles. The assassins had not made any attempt to hide their identities. Indeed it seemed to Cato that they made a point of ensuring the viewer could tell exactly who’d done it, pausing side by side to look up into the camera over the serving counter before walking away. The attack had taken two minutes and twenty-three seconds.
Ten seconds after the killers have left, the kitchenhand walks into frame to find the body. He couldn’t fail to see the killers leave. He crouches down for a few seconds to take a closer look and seems calm as he picks up the wall phone and raises the alarm. Meanwhile the officer on duty in the CCTV monitoring room coincidentally and conveniently is distracted by a phone call, logged in at ten seconds before the attack occurs and logged out at ten seconds after it’s all over. It explains why nobody came rushing to stop them. Cato rewound to where Mercurio and friend posed for the camera and froze the image. Was he reading too much into it? For all of this to work it needed split-second timing and collusion between inmates an
d jailers. Cato grimaced; he knew how much DI Hutchens hated conspiracy theories.
‘It’s not Ocean’s Eleven,’ snapped Hutchens. ‘Split-second timing, my arse. We’re talking low-level bikie scum and screws who can’t wipe their bums without an instruction manual.’
It was a rather uncharitable view of his colleagues in Corrections but DI Hutchens wasn’t well known for his generosity of spirit. They were in the waiting room at the mortuary. The Professor was busy on an overnight car crash but she’d be with them asap. Cato kept his mouth shut while his boss fumed. Hutchens was tetchier than usual today, despite the capture of Dieudonne.
‘Look, Wellard’s given somebody the shits, and Dumb and Dumber stepped up for the job. End of story.’
‘They were both due out later this year,’ Cato reminded him. ‘Now they’re looking at life.’
‘Like I said, Dumb and Dumber, these people rarely think about consequences. Look at the statistics. Master criminals and fiendishly clever plots just don’t figure. I agree that they’ve stepped up to do a job and I’d like to know who it’s for, but I don’t buy the collusion shit. That’s going too far.’
‘So we steer clear of Corrections staff for now?’ asked Cato.
‘We steer clear of Corrections staff, full stop.’
Cato looked at his boss for any signs of an agenda. Inconclusive. ‘Sure,’ he said.
They were saved by a summons from the pathologist’s assistant, a surfie-type with a scorpion tattoo on the inside of his wrist.
‘Lead on, Igor,’ said Hutchens.
‘Ha friggin’ ha,’ the assistant muttered.
Professor Mackenzie hadn’t come across anything like it before. ‘It’s quite an impressive way to kill somebody. A combination of force and almost pinpoint accuracy.’ She nodded in admiration. ‘Killing a man with a toothbrush to the brain. That’s creative, resourceful, very classy.’
Hutchens was less impressed. ‘Was that what did it or was it the stamping on the head?’
