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‘Who’s that?’ barked Heath from inside the cell.
‘Sergeant Jenkins,’ said Chandler and shook his head in disgust. The disease of using formal titles was catching.
‘You can’t keep me in here, Sergeant! I don’t wanna be trapped while Gabriel’s loose out there.’
‘For all we know he’s escaping from you,’ Chandler reminded him.
‘You know fuck all.’ Heath paused. ‘We can’t both be suspects for the same thing.’
‘At the minute anything’s possible, Mr Barwell. And if he is out there and after you, then the safest place you can be is in here.’
Heath laughed, a shrill screech that Chandler noted was a little unhinged. ‘Safe? After you believed his bullshit story and let him go.’
‘A story identical to yours.’
‘They can’t be exactly the same.’
Chandler yanked the metal flap in the cell door down to view his prisoner. Heath was pressed up close to the door, the cross around his neck strangling greasy, sweat-stained flesh.
‘The guts of it, yes.’
‘Like what?’
Chandler smiled. ‘I can’t disclose that.’
‘So you’re just gonna lock me in here and wait to see what happens? See whether he’ll break in and finish what he started?’
‘There’s due process to go—’
‘Due process, my arse. You just want to see if you can find him again. And if you can’t find him, you’ll pin this shit on me. I know how this goes down. What the fuck happened to innocent ’til proved guilty?’
‘Some would say you muddied that line in attempting to steal a car. We have enough to charge you for with that.’
‘Yeah? And why would I steal a car if I wasn’t scared for my life? I’m no criminal.’ Heath paused, his fingers playing with the cross around his neck, twirling it over and around. ‘Okay, one little assault,’ he continued, ‘but I was drunk and they were drunk. They were mouthing off about a pal of mine.’
As Heath talked, Chandler studied his behaviour. He was finding Heath hard to read. He sweated like a guilty man but in that cake tin of a cell he would have to be inhuman not to sweat, as there was little or no breeze blowing through the tiny, square window. Heath was alone in there surrounded by walls steeped in the oily sins of those who’d come before. As his rant continued, Heath started to puff, his swollen cheeks filling with air. Given his aggressive manner and quick temper it was easy to mark him as a possible killer.
‘So I hit him,’ continued Heath. ‘It was no big deal. He didn’t want to press charges, I didn’t want to press charges; but the manager called the cops anyway.’ Heath stopped. He stared at Chandler, seeming to spot something he didn’t like. Maybe a look that told him he was getting nowhere.
‘You’re making a big mistake,’ said Heath, his tone suddenly threatening. ‘Once I get out of here . . .’ Chandler waited for the explosion and rage-driven confession. If he could get it wrapped up before Mitch got here he’d avoid his own firing squad.
‘I’ll get my lawyer or any fucking lawyer on to you. Politicians too. They warned me the West was full of weirdoes, people who’d knife you for no other reason than for something to do, but to find myself in a town full of them . . .’
Heath was now seething; flecks of spittle dabbled around his dry lips. The anger soon turned to desperation, slapping his palm off the greasy wall. ‘Can I get something to drink in here? Or get the air con turned on? I’ve got rights.’
‘Including the right to remain silent,’ noted Chandler as he left, experiencing a sense of disappointment. He’d hoped for something from the outburst, some indication that he had the right man behind bars. He’d got nothing but an unhinged rant.
Shutting himself in his office, Chandler went through the recording he’d made that morning, absorbing the voices oozing from the speakers.
Gabriel’s voice was almost a distant memory by now, spawning a deep gnawing in Chandler’s gut that he had let him walk, even though he couldn’t have known then that it was the wrong decision. He listened to the entire interview, trying to visualize Gabriel’s statement and mannerisms, identify where they differed to Heath’s, places Gabriel seemed weak or unclear, something to swing the needle to or from him.
As he listened to Gabriel explain how he was following the casual tip to look for work inland, Chandler’s instinct was to believe the silky voice oozing from the tape. Maybe it was the even-tempered tone, lulling him into agreement or merely because Gabriel’s story had been told to him first, but subconsciously it made it seem truer, the cover song heard first and in his head becoming the original.
The recording continued. Gabriel’s disappointment that Heath hadn’t driven away. Genuine disappointment. The description of the car – identical to Heath’s in colour and worthlessness. Then the phrase, ‘No killer introduces themselves.’
Chandler stopped the recording.
No killer introduces themselves.
Delivered as if he understood what a killer would do, how a killer would act.
He pressed Play. Gabriel’s voice continued, explaining that they had travelled inland, Heath convincing him he knew of better places to find work, fairer wages. Drinking the water, the funny taste and vivid description of how it paralysed him. The shed and being shackled to the wall. The cuffs and the workbench. A clear description of the room and the contents.
The threat of becoming number fifty-five. Trying to break free. The vivid red marks on his wrists and hands – on both their wrists and hands – from when he hacked his way free. Describing Heath at the cluttered desk, the plans and papers, the cross on the wall. A detailed account. The escape and the gravesite. Falling over the edge. Waking up to see Heath beside him. Fleeing without checking if his captor were still alive before arriving into town on a bicycle.
It was a strange choice. Not the immediate mode of transport that Chandler would choose if lying, but also one that was hard to track down. Plus, it was a decent ride from the Hill to town. Anyone who was being pursued by a killer surely could have found something better.
Like trying to steal a car.
Gabriel’s statement ended there but Chandler dwelled on what Gabriel had said after, about having nowhere to go, a man alone in the world, a man without ties.
Leaning back in the chair he let the details sink in. What made sense and what didn’t and what raised his suspicions. Top of that list was the comment: no killer introduces themselves. An extraordinary statement, a cold truth. There was also the depth of description regarding the shed and cabin, including the cross on the wall. Too well imagined. Perhaps more than would be seen in a panicked glance – perhaps a place seen more than once. But then again fear might have heightened Gabriel’s senses, storing the details in his effort to get away.
With Gabriel’s statement fresh in his memory, Chandler turned to Heath’s interview. First thing that stood out was the lack of detail about where he was going, as if he hadn’t had time to prepare the information in advance. Nothing else stood out between their stories until he got to being drugged. Heath’s recollection was certainly hazier, the haziness continuing throughout his explanation of how he escaped, a little less descriptive, the details blocked by fear, a tremor in his voice as he recalled it, on edge even then, as if for that moment he was back in the shed, chained to the wall and trying to hack his way free. The haziness was apt if he had indeed been drugged but Chandler wondered if it were a ruse, masking details on purpose, trying too hard to appear innocent.
There was again a paucity of detail over Heath’s escape, a brief mention of Gabriel at the desk before the graves, the encounter in the woods and fall. Waking next to Gabriel and running. What followed was a section that concerned Chandler, the rage displayed when accused of stealing the car, the rage and lack of remorse, insisting that it had to be done. The temper it exposed and the temper he still exhibited in the cell, the way he twisted the chain around his neck, reminding Chandler of what had been describe
d as hanging in the cabin.
There were frayed edges with each story. Chandler needed to unpick them to find the truth.
13
2002
In a world capable of pinpointing everything from the tiniest atoms to sun-swallowing supernovae, Martin’s whereabouts remained unknown. Thermal body scans had proved ineffective, as had the transmitters. The eyes in the sky had uncovered nothing but barren land, and the simple trace of his phone had yielded zilch, the battery long dead. All that was left were human eyes, ears and feet, and the gruelling terrain had taken a toll on all of these.
It was the first break of the morning and Chandler had reminded the group to sweep the rest area thoroughly; not for clues but to scatter any creature eager for a fresh meal. This morning Chandler found himself sitting with a couple of police officers from Mount Magnet, drafted in due to their experience of searching for missing hikers. He had noted already how they didn’t chat as they walked, saving their energy, covering ground quickly and thoroughly, clearing an area in seconds before moving on.
Talk got around to how likely Martin’s survival was after a week out here. Agreement was that it depended on how well equipped he was and how sound of mind.
‘Fractious, from what we know,’ offered Mitch, ‘a mix of emotion, shock and anger.’
Jared, the Mount Magnet cop with a booming voice, interrupted. ‘If he wanted to go away for good, he could, easily. Give a reasonably fit person a head start of forty-eight hours out here and the chances of you finding them are slim. It won’t be the hunger or thirst that gets him, it’ll be the panic. Realizing that you’re in the shit but unable to do anything to solve it. He’ll get desperate, make a mistake, and then bang he’ll fall, break a leg and die at the bottom of some ditch.’
There was silence. Chandler was glad none of the family were there to overhear.
Mitch cut in. ‘How often do you find ’em?’
‘Maybe ten per cent of the time,’ said Jared, causing the volunteers to mutter amongst themselves. ‘Well . . .’ he corrected, ‘actually probably four or five per cent.’
More groans erupted, the volunteers questioning why they were out here chasing a lost cause. Chandler fell foul of the defeatism too, his mind drifting back to Teri and their unborn child, and how unprepared they were for what was coming.
He had only met her this New Year at a party in town. And not as a guest. Being the ideal combination of young, a rookie and single, Chandler and Mitch had drawn the short straw for duty that night, allowing the rest of the force to get home to their families to celebrate. Teri was in from the coast to visit her family, using the trip as an excuse to get into mischief.
Chandler and Mitch had been called out by a neighbour concerned about underage drinking at the party next door. It was a detail neither cared much for; they were going to get shit thrown at them either way, for interrupting the party in full swing, or for throwing people out.
They entered the house to the usual barks of disapproval, insults and people desperately fleeing the uniform. Not Teri though. She confronted both of them, already obviously worse for wear, blue dress slipping off her shoulders, exposing the straps of her red bikini. Easily towering over her, Chandler requested the owner of the house to make themselves known. Teri told them both to leave as they were fucking up the vibe, but it was only when she shoved him in the chest that Chandler really paid attention to her and her piercing brown eyes. They were wide and as dangerous as a bushfire. Seeing she was a little drunk he prepared to negotiate with her, but Mitch wasn’t so lenient. It had only been two months, but already his partner wore the uniform like a second skin, basking in the authority and flashing his badge with a fervour that bordered on fanatic, keen to wield the power he never had as a reedy teenager.
With Mitch and Teri threatening to kick off the new year with some form of aggravated assault, Chandler was forced to wedge himself between them. Even as he ushered Mitch out the door, reminding him to stay professional – a request that only made Mitch angrier – he could feel Teri’s tiny frame jostle him insistently in the back.
Leaving Mitch pacing around the cruiser like an angry bull, Chandler went back in to deal with the original complaint. Eventually, he persuaded the owner of the house and Teri that it was only going to be a talking-to and the sooner she agreed to it, the sooner she could get back to celebrating. He warned her about underage drinking and keeping herself protected – to which Teri replied that if anyone tried anything they would get a shot glass to the face. Shocked by her brutal honesty, he warned her against that response. She retorted by asking if she should mail them a letter asking them politely to piss off instead. Instantly he could see that there was no correct answer with her and possibly never would be. She was a force of nature and by the end of their talk she had somehow got him to agree to come back after his shift finished in an hour.
Chandler left it at that, warning the owner of the house to drag all the revellers in from the garden to keep the noise contained. And also to keep an eye on his younger visitors, warning him that he would be back to check.
In the end his shift ran a few hours late, Mitch still fuming about the girl at the party who showed such disrespect towards him and the badge. Chandler nodded and told his colleague to get a good night’s sleep. Driving home, he detoured past the party house. The front garden was empty aside from the chirp of crickets . . . until the front door opened and a man stripped down to his boxers tumbled out the door, the thud of the music seemingly forcing him out.
Chandler went inside, still in uniform. Once again people parted for him.
‘Where’s your dog of a partner?’
Chandler turned. There she was. Teri. Still fully alert even after all the partying, her elfin frame somehow able to process all the alcohol.
‘He’s at home,’ said Chandler.
Teri seemed impressed, maybe even relieved that Chandler had ditched him. ‘He was a drag.’
‘He’s just serious.’
‘A serious pain in the arse.’
Chandler didn’t disagree. Already he knew better than to disagree with her.
‘So, are you on duty?’ she asked.
‘No, strictly off now.’
‘Good,’ said Teri, shoving a beer into his hand. ‘Take off the badge though.’
The rest of the night passed around them, drinking and chatting until four or five in the morning, Chandler quickly feeling the effects of the uncounted bottles.
After that night and for the first few months he drove up to Port Hedland to meet her when he wasn’t on shift. By February she had turned eighteen. By April she was pregnant, and by June he didn’t have to drive all the way up to the coast any longer. She had moved down to Wilbrook to live with him and his parents. June and July passed by in the excitement of a new place to live and a new life, but by September the leaves were falling off the roses, her arguments with his overbearing parents wilting what remained of the flowers.
Now at the start of December the frostiness encompassed everything. She was eight months pregnant, irritable and in the middle of a scorching summer out here in the arse-end-of-nowhere, as she had come to call it. He wanted to get back and support her. But he had a job to do. Out here in the wilderness. Looking for a boy who had got himself lost.
14
‘State want to talk to you,’ Nick shouted from the front desk.
The constable patched them through.
‘Chandler?’
‘Steve.’
No formalities here. Steve Yaxley was an old-school captain based out of Newman, hard-working but approachable, willing to help out where he could. His voice thundered across the electronics between them.
‘I heard about the situation you have there. Our boys are in place, on the highway and on Ninety-five. No way in or out.’
Mitch had worked quickly, pulling strings to put everything in place without fuss and without Chandler’s help. Flexing his muscles.
‘Thanks, Steve.’
‘At least Mitch has to play by some rules.’
‘I guess . . .’ said Steve.
‘Anything else you need from me?’
‘Nothing more you can do. The main routes in and out of town are blocked. If you have any spare officers you might want to put them on the dirt roads we can’t cover. You’ll know those better than we do.’
‘Thanks, Steve,’ said Chandler, feeling somewhat bypassed, like he was part of the problem rather than the solution.
Hanging up, he checked in with his three. All had nothing suspicious to report, a few locals asking questions, but none carrying a passenger matching Gabriel’s description. After that it was back to waiting, the rising heat only exacerbating the fear that something was going to happen, and the frustration that he couldn’t do anything about it. It was all about time now. And they didn’t know how much of it they had until Gabriel reappeared or another body showed up.
‘Sarge?’
Chandler looked at Nick who seemed too restless to do paperwork.
‘Yep?’
‘You ever had a serial killer in the cells before?’
‘Nick . . .’ Chandler began, but there was no point trying to stop his officer’s ardent imagination. For the next ten minutes Chandler listened to the fruits of Nick’s informal studies, listing the infamous – Chandler had stopped him when he proclaimed them ‘the great’ – Australian serial killers including Worrell and Miller, who strangled seven women around Adelaide in the seventies, Peter Dupas, who killed at least three in Victoria, before moving on to the top dog Ivan Milat. Even Chandler had heard of him, a man hard to forget, the psycho who had murdered seven backpackers around Belanglo State Forest in the late eighties and early nineties.
‘You know, Sarge,’ said Nick, breaking off from his gruesome biography, ‘maybe this guy’s a copycat, picking up young travellers, finishing them off, before dumping them on the Hill.’