The Robbers

by Paul Anderson

  ‘Hush now, Pumpkin Pie.’

  His Magnum kicked: the final kiss goodnight. The heavens seemed to open as Voss withdrew and ejaculated over the small of the woman’s bare back. Thunder rolled and heavy rain fell, as if in an effort to cover the fact that Voss had ever been there. He drank in the sight of the woman’s dead body. Slapped the slut’s bare pimpled arse. Hit her cheeks hard. Slapped them red. Voss pulled free his hanky and rubbed it along the wet dirt. With the makeshift mud cloth he wiped away his jism. He knew he wasn’t the sharpest tool in the shed but he wasn’t dumb enough to leave any DNA behind. Voss rolled the thing over onto her back into a forming puddle. Then he twisted his big gun barrel into her cunt and let a second round go.

  It was half past eleven by the time Kelso’s house cleared—some of the detective dads cradling sleeping children, one or two of the wives dragging their unsteady husbands home. Like two green bottles left sitting on the wall, Kelso and Malone sat back and lit up smokes. Noticed sheet lightning down south. Kelso checked the time.

  ‘What are you doin’, pal? You heading home?’

  ‘S’pose. I’m on at seven in the morning.’

  ‘Come on. Let’s check O’Leary’s down the road. It’s usually full till three.’

  Inside, Kelso tossed Malone a jacket. Pulled one on himself. ‘Who could resist, hey?’

  Kelso was right. The Irish pub was abuzz. Full of primo quim. Where the fuck did all these stunning young women erupt from, Malone wondered as he usually did in popular after-dark venues. He half expected the glamours to sneer, bearing fangs as if having arisen from coffins after another day of slumber. Malone tagged behind Kelso, who seemed to move through the crowd like the daywalker Blade—neither fully human nor wholly vampiric: a part of the mass yet separate from it. The bloke just had an untouchable aura. Malone figured he’d dealt with men fifteen times as bad as the worst mother-fucker in this joint. Kelso bought the first round of bourbon and dries. Stepped into a conversation with three likely types—a blonde, a brunette and a black-haired Eurasian. He introduced Malone. The trio worked together at a city travel agency. The DJ had the dance floor; House of Pain’s ‘Jump Around’ in total mind control.

  Two hours and five rounds of drinks later and Kelso appeared to have scored. He’d cracked on to an apparent keen one in the form of the Eurasian. Despite Kelso’s attempts to drag Malone into the picture, the black-eyed journo just couldn’t engage. He peeled off. Took a rest at the end of the bar. Lit up a dart and watched the busy room, fully aware he wasn’t a part of this pub’s social stratosphere. The young women seemed to buzz in their angelic world—drinking Jaegar bombs and chasing rugged Chuck Yeager types—while he flew under their radar. Kamikazes weren’t supposed to engage with angels. Kelso appeared with the Eurasian in hand. Charlie was her name. She seemed a pleasant twenty-something: self-confident, tipsy and suggestive.

  ‘We’re outta here, Malone. You coming or staying?’

  Malone crashed on Kelso’s couch as the detective led the woman to his bedroom. Kelso reappeared and tossed him a pillow and a blanket.

  ‘Nice work,’ Malone whispered, feeling trashed.

  ‘Squad motto,’ Kelso whispered back, his jacket already off and shirt buttons undone. ‘If you can’t be with the one you love, then love the one you’re with.’

  Yep. Kelso certainly had charm. Covered by the blanket, Malone fell away quickly. A Chinese girl called Destiny rippled across his mind’s eye, only to bow down before a vision of Jessica.

  ‘Malone … Wake up. Malone.’

  Malone opened his heavy eyes. Sergeant Barnes was over him, boxer shorts only. His lustful eyes aflame as if champing to spray some napalm.

  ‘This chick’s a real firecracker. I’ve talked her into a threesome.’

  ‘Who? What?’

  ‘Charlie wants to take us both on,’ Barnes challenged. ‘So put some blood in it, boy.’

  Malone seemed to float to the bedroom where a handcuffed Charlie knelt naked on a futon bed, jet black hair snaking over her shoulder. A dragon tattoo drawn up her flank.

  ‘Saddle up, soldiers,’ she ordered. ‘I’m your prisoner of war.’

  Malone’s mind told him that he should have been kissing Charlie on the cheek out of thanks—rather than lapping licentiously at her cunt like a drunk man at the well while the staff sergeant fucked her mouth. After all, her uninhibited spirit was working hand in hand with his cause by strengthening his bond with Barnes. If this was another of his conscience-driven nightmares, then it was a welcome change from the others involving the maniacal staff sergeant.

  CHAPTER 29

  It was just after six in the morning when Kelso roused Malone from a deep dreamy sleep on the couch, and pushed his black-eyed friend towards the shower. As Malone woke under a stream of cold water, Kelso ironed a white shirt and had it hanging ready for him. He called Malone a cab, and threw the journo a squad tie as he high-fived him out the front door.

  During his time on the suburban, Malone had seen a lot on the dreaded seven o’clock Sunday morning crime shift. ‘The shift of doom,’ some called it. There were the fatal car crashes—human offal and body parts scattered like giant trails of cannibal vomit. Drivers or passengers, sometimes both, sitting propped up by their seatbelts. Malone once saw a fireman pull a bloke from a panel van by the handle of a teapot embedded in his skull. Like shrapnel, the pot had shot from the back of the van when the driver crashed head-on into a light pole. It was certainly lights out for that bloke. There were the homicides. Bodies lying in front yards or on nature strips, lividity providing a candle-wax pallor. Mouths agape. Eyes vacant. Rigored hands like claws. Sometimes they lay without an obvious mark on them. Other times they sported very blatant, grievous wounds. There were the howls and screams of relatives trying to rush crime scenes. Raw emotion. Pure grief. Denial. Anger. Confusion, and then the dizzying realisation that their loved one was gone and never coming back. There were the scowling, battered faces of inebriated rock apes being treated by paramedics after street brawls, shambolic Pro Hart designs painted in blood across the footpaths. There were the heroin overdoses; human bodies writhing like earthworms in turned soil. More recently there were the psychotic episodes, police having to subdue enraged methylamphetamine users. Ice, they called it. Crank. Crystal meth. There were the rape complaints. The stabbings. The muggings. It was the rawest of all shifts. The aftermath of a Saturday night in suburbia.

  With belfry bells ringing and bourbon still in his ink, Malone soaked up the first hour of the morning brooming through overnight press releases. Hidden in a nondescript six-storey block, the leased police rounds office was a messy space. Bordered by shelves packed with redundant newspaper files now electronically accessible on the library database, Malone’s desk was covered in sheets of paper, police documents and newspapers. A corkboard at one end was pinned with rosters, press releases and famous photographs of death. A radio scanner crackled police codes and call signs. Malone snarfed down an egg-and-bacon muffin and a hash brown he’d bought from the St Kilda Road Macca’s. Sitting back with feet on desk and nursing a cup of OJ, he took advantage of the peace and quiet. Just half an hour. That’s all he asked: thirty minutes of quiet before the earth opened up and swallowed somebody. Ten minutes into his power nap and his ears caught a scanner code. It was a code 33: a dead body.

  ‘Come on … Give me a location.’

  The local 307 unit relayed the message. ‘Aah VKC, we’ve got the body of a young woman with what appears to be massive gunshot injuries to her head and abdomen. In tea-tree near a car park at the Black Rock cliff, Beach Road.’

  Malone didn’t need any more information. He knew the area well. Black Rock had been part of his patch when reporting for the Southern Star. With pad, pen and two Cabcharges, he was out the door and hailing a taxi. En route he phoned his chief of staff and asked for a photographer to be dispatched. A young woman was dead. Shot in the head and guts. The earth had swallowed another soul overnight.

/>   Malone was the first journo to arrive at the cliff-top car park, all puddled mud thanks to the overnight rain. He’d even beaten the on-call Homicide crew and media liaison rep. A local detective was babysitting the waterlogged scene until the Hommies and forensics arrived. Malone knew the local D. It was Detective Sergeant Chris Carlson, from Brighton. Malone caught his attention. Carlson wandered over to the tape.

  ‘G’day, Chris.’

  ‘Malone. What drags you back to the ’burbs?’

  ‘A nasty murder by the sound of things.’

  ‘You got that right, mate.’

  ‘What’s it like in there?’

  ‘Bad. Point blank to the back of her head. But she doesn’t look as bad as you.’

  ‘Yeah, I had a big one last night.’

  ‘So did she by the looks of things—dress up and undies down …vaj shot out as well.’

  Not much shocked Malone any more, but that added detail came close.

  ‘Fuck me.’

  ‘You’d better keep that to yourself. I reckon the Hommies will want to keep that under wraps.’

  ‘The rain won’t have helped forensics.’

  ‘Any trace evidence will be gone.’

  Carlson looked around. Continued. ‘No ID. No bag. No purse. It’ll be up to the Hommies to establish who she is.’

  ‘Shit. This could bring Black Rock’s housing prices right down.’

  Carlson smirked. ‘Yeah. From about two mill to one point nine.’

  ‘Who found the body?’

  ‘A local jogger … He’s pretty fucked up.’

  ‘Right. So if I was to go doorknocking …’

  ‘I reckon Halfmoon Court would be a good start.’

  Malone didn’t push for any more. Carlson had already divulged more than he should have. It wasn’t his scene. It wasn’t his job. Squad sedans and a media liaison car drove convoy into the car park. Carlson walked over to greet the Homicide crew and no doubt gladly hand the mess over to them. Two hours later Detective Inspector Andrew Shaw outlined what he wanted released into the public domain. A media throng gathered around the austere head of Homicide, his tie a perfect Windsor, and suit jacket buttoned. Shaw didn’t give much away. A local man jogging along the track came across the victim at about five past eight, Shaw said. Dead woman’s age: undetermined but most likely early twenties. She appeared to have been shot where she was found, most likely after intercourse. Underwear was partially removed. Shaw was not prepared to go into detail about the gunshot injuries, or likely calibre of weapon. Forensics would determine that in due course. Fingerprints, and DNA if necessary, would be used to confirm identity. Dental records were not an option, Shaw said. No bag or purse had been found. Shaw described the victim’s clothing. When pressed for his opinion, he conceded the shooting appeared to be an execution-style killing committed at close range. He appealed for public information about any activity seen in the car park the previous evening. Then he thanked the media for their time. It was all super formal with Shaw. The media had scant content without the victim’s ID and a photo. Malone was thankful for Carlson and the extra info he’d provided. After the other media crews packed up and left, Malone and his snapper headed to Halfmoon Court to find the unlucky jogger.

  CHAPTER 30

  The following morning was a landmark one for the Victoria Police Armed Robbery Squad. It was the day they welcomed a woman on board, as per instruction from Spring Street. Hunter brought her up from the St Kilda Road foyer and walked her into the office. Drake leaned in and whispered to Gucciardo. ‘The Wheel of Fortune model’s arrived. Break out the scented candles.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Gooch answered. ‘Welcome to the Vajootsa Squad.’

  Lynch checked out her arse as she waded through the manly ectoplasm, un-intimidated by the cock-shaped daggers no doubt drilling her back. While Rebecca Caulfield had a vagina in her pants, she had a plan up her sleeve. Kelso gave her a wink and a ‘g’day’. McCrann raised his eyebrows and managed a polite smile. His wife must have had told him to make the female detective feel welcome. Hunter guided the new recruit into Shepherd’s glass office, where he was sitting in consultation with Rogers.

  ‘Boss, the new detective’s arrived. Rebecca Caulfield, meet Inspector Ken Shepherd.’

  Shepherd and Rogers rose to welcome their new colleague. Shepherd felt slightly awkward. Rogers seemed quite at ease.

  ‘Max Rogers. Good to have you on board.’ Caulfield shook his extended hand. Rogers raised his eyebrows and smiled to Shepherd on his way out. ‘Righto, boss, I’ll get back to it.’

  Shepherd put his hand forward. ‘Ken Shepherd.’

  ‘Rebecca Caulfield.’

  She had a strong grip. Shepherd sensed that she was no wallflower. ‘Please. Sit … You want a cup of coffee?’

  Wearing a dark-grey suit and light-coloured blouse, Caulfield sat back. Legs crossed. Hands clasped in lap. No rings. ‘Is this the part where I say “Yes” and you say “Make mine black with two”?’

  A quip. Shepherd had a live wire on his hands. ‘Word of warning: the coffee’s shit up here.’

  ‘That’s no good. I need about six cups a day to function.’

  Shepherd sensed she wasn’t embellishing. Reading glasses up, he referred to her file. ‘Righto … Ten years’ service. Drove the van in St Kilda and Heidelberg … Rough-and-tumble areas. Broadmeadows CI … No picnic over there either. It would appear you like it hands on …’

  Shepherd realised his gaffe. Looked over the top of the file. ‘Shit, that sounded bad. What I meant was …’

  ‘Relax, boss. I’m not gunna file a sexual harassment claim over it.’

  Shepherd lowered the file. Removed his glasses. ‘So, you know how to deal with an angry man in the street then.’

  ‘I shoot first … and ask questions later.’

  ‘You’ll fit right in then.’

  ‘Look, boss, I think we both know why they’ve sent me here. I duxed my squad. Aced the DTS course. I’ve got commendations and all the rest of it. I know there’s a press conference planned to announce my appointment here.’

  Intrigued, Shepherd sat back. ‘This is usually the time and place where I talk the new guy down,’ he said. ‘Play some intimidating opera music and read the riot act. But you, you’re scaring me. I like it. Go on.’

  ‘I apologise for being forward, but I want you to know that I don’t see myself as some media pawn for command. I’m not a cover for Police Life or a page-three girl for the papers.’

  Caulfield uncrossed. Leaned forward in her chair. ‘I actually want to be here. I want to be treated like a Robber. Not just by you, but by all the blokes here. I don’t want this secondment as some quick way up the ladder. I just want to be regarded as one of the best detectives in the state.’

  ‘Try Homicide then. They’re the school prefects around here. Our image—internally and externally—ain’t that flash. It’s a reputation we welcome. We’re a brotherhood within the brotherhood.’

  A fire lit in Caulfield’s eyes. Shepherd felt he’d stoked it. ‘That’s what I joined for, boss. That camaraderie. You don’t find that anywhere else. Look, Command think they’re playing me on a break, but I’m playing them.’

  ‘Jesus, you’re a political animal.’

  He lit a cigarette. Sat back again. ‘Right. Well you’ve won me—for the time being. Good luck with the rest of the floor. Expect to be treated like everyone else in this squad. I have pretty basic rules. No unlawful behaviour off duty. Play hard. Work harder.’

  ‘Don’t know any other way.’

  ‘We’ll get on just fine then. Okay, you’ll be joining Crew four-zero-one—Steve McCrann, Frank Barlow and Dave Gilmore. Steve’s your sergeant. Come on. I’ll introduce you at what we call the Monday morning meeting.’

  CHAPTER 31

  The next morning Caulfield was strapped and vested for her first raid as a Robber. The target: Jason Michael Fraser. Form: two convictions for armed robbery, three for possession of unlicense
d weapons and one for drug trafficking. Suspected of: robbing the Watsonia Westpac Bank some six weeks earlier. Evidence linking him to the hold-up: fingerprints lifted from a Coke can Hunter found tossed in a garden bed across from the bank. The dabs had finally been processed and cross-referenced on the database. They registered a hit. It was enough to justify a search warrant and the arrest of Fraser for questioning, considering he lived in Norlane—about 75 kilometres from Watsonia as the crow flies. Crew 403, plus Caulfield and Barlow, formed the raiding party. Barlow had volunteered to saddle up due to past dealings with Fraser. Tickets had raided Fraser once while with the Drug Squad. It was just on dawn when The Robbers moved in. They parked several houses down and crept into position under darkness. Revolvers out and down. Double grip. Fingers off triggers—for the moment. Gooch led Drake and Barlow down the sideway. They positioned themselves in the backyard: Gooch and Drake behind trees and Barlow behind a woodpile. Hunter—lugging a battering ram better known as a ‘twelve pound key’—led Lynch and Caulfield to the shitty red brick’s front porch. Hunter battered his way through, locked wood becoming split wood. With .38 up, Lynch went in first; calls of ‘Police! Don’t move!’ echoed down the hallway. Caulfield was in behind him. The needle-like stink of acetone and other precursor chemicals bit into their eyes and nostrils. It was immediate. Hunter dumped the key; revolver out and up. Each detective took a room, ignoring the obvious odour.