The Robbers

by Paul Anderson

  The Robbers watched McFarlane survey the scene as if he was an expert. Watched him stand over Hunter’s body. Kneel. Bow his head in true Shakespearean fashion then stand and walk back to his car. Another squad car arrived. Andrew Shaw stepped from the sedan along with three of his own.

  ‘Blow the fucking trumpets,’ McCrann said aloud. ‘The Homicide Squad’s arrived.’

  McFarlane shook Shaw’s hand. Shaw introduced his three detectives. Aidan Brennan. Simon Whitney. Mark Sidwell. McFarlane shook all their hands. They were his point of reference now. His murder experts.

  The Robbers watched the pleasantries from the other side. Gucciardo was bitter. ‘Yeah, don’t worry about us, Commissioner.’

  Shaw and McFarlane continued to converse, the commissioner’s chief media adviser and a media liaison office rep listening in. Brennan entered the scene and traced steps to Hunter’s body. Leaned over and made a cursory sketch. Scribbled notes—gunshot wounds, position of body, distance from car and so on. Whitney and Sidwell, fresh-pressed like Mormons, walked across to the assembled Robbers. Full of starch, Whitney took the lead.

  ‘Detective Senior Constable Whitney from Homicide. This is Detective Sidwell, of the same office.’

  McCrann turned to Barlow. ‘Who the fuck do these blokes think they are? The fucking FBI?’

  ‘We need statements from everyone involved in tonight’s operation.’

  Shepherd answered. ‘That’s us … and those guys over there.’ He pointed to Paradox officers who were not members of The Robbers. One sat smoking, head in hand. Another talked on his mobile.

  Whitney was all business. ‘Can I ask you please to separate and not discuss the events between yourselves again, until you are spoken to by Detective Sidwell or myself.’

  Still wearing a splash of Gilmore’s blood across his face, Lynch fired up. ‘Are you fucking serious, pal? We just lost two of our brothers tonight—’

  Shepherd moved to defuse. ‘Stay calm, boy …’

  Whitney just wasn’t helping. ‘We understand your situation, and your loss, but we would appreciate a professional approach to the task at hand.’

  Lynch moved to front the Homicide prick. Shepherd eased him back. Spoke to keep peace at a war scene. He did not want The Robbers publicly butting heads with Homicide as a colleague’s blood ran down the gutter. There had to be a show of solidarity for the cameras. He spoke to Whitney, ‘We’ll play this however you want. This is your scene now.’

  Shepherd turned to Lynch. ‘This is their scene now, right Whiskers?’

  Lynch to Whitney: ‘Yeah, it’s your scene now, so get fucking cracking and work it.’

  Whitney still wouldn’t give an inch. ‘I don’t appreciate your tone. Detective … ?’

  ‘Detective Lynch.’

  Whitney made an aside to Sidwell. ‘How apt.’

  Lynch, with fists, ‘Boss, this is bullshit!’

  Shepherd, with hand on Lynch’s shoulder, ‘Just give ’em a statement so they can get moving on this.’

  As the minutes ticked over, more media trucks arrived. TV outside broadcast vans with their satellite dishes began to set up shop; unseen helicopters buzzed the night sky. McFarlane looked above. Stared up the road at the growing media throng. Bad news seemed to travel faster than good news ever did.

  ‘Jesus, this is going to turn into a circus. This is a major incident.’

  Shaw looked at his commissioner.

  ‘It doesn’t get any bigger. An attack on a police officer is an attack on the very fabric of our community.’

  McFarlane leaned back against his sedan.

  ‘I do not want the Armed Robbery Squad receiving any sympathy out of this. The focus will be on you and your taskforce … The public will be expecting a major response from us on this one.’

  ‘The public? What about every police officer in this state? What about the two dead officers’ families? With respect, they’re the people who should be at the forefront of your thoughts right now.’

  The commissioner straightened.

  ‘Of course, Andrew. When we’re ready you can give the media an outline of what happened here, and I’ll tell them about the taskforce. You are now in charge of …’

  McFarlane ruminated for a second or two, searching for a name that would resonate across the broadcasts and in the headlines.

  ‘The Athena Taskforce. That’s got a nice ring to it.’

  ‘If you’ll excuse me, sir,’ Shaw said matter-of-factly, ‘I have a crime scene to take charge of.’

  ‘I’ll come and tap you on the shoulder when it’s time for the press conference.’

  ‘I’d actually appreciate it if you didn’t traipse through my crime scene again. Your adviser can ring me.’

  ‘Yes. Good idea. This is your scene. Run it how you wish.’

  Shaw entered the scene and approached Brennan, closely studying the grass. ‘Anything of preliminary interest?’

  ‘Apart from two dead witnesses?’

  ‘Go on …’

  Brennan began a summary from his initial observations. He pointed with his silver pen as he spoke. It caught the lights, glinting like a sabre. ‘Three fresh cigarette butts about fifteen metres from the squad vehicle. A discarded beer bottle about ten metres in off the roadway. There are McDonald’s wrappers and coffee cups in the police vehicle, suggesting the two deceased purchased food and beverages there at some point.’

  ‘Get the CCTV,’ Shaw suggested. ‘Someone in there with a grudge against police might have seen them and followed them out.’

  ‘On to it.’

  Brennan walked Shaw to Hunter’s body. A crime scene as well as a firearms expert were with them.

  Shaw shook his head. ‘It’s a goddamn execution.’

  Brennan took up a forensic replay. ‘Before he took the head shot, Detective Hunter was already on the ground having been hit by a round in the back—exit wound in the sternum, here.’

  Brennan moved his pen to point at the bloodstained hole in Hunter’s grey windcheater. The crime scene man took flash photos. Brennan rose and took up the role of the shooter based on Hunter’s wounds, positioning himself over the body where the gunman most likely stood, his silver pen now doubling as the killer’s weapon. The crime scene guy spoke. ‘Severity of the hand wound and angle of the head shot would suggest he was shot at close range. You can see the gunpowder residue on what’s left of his hand.’

  Shaw put his left hand up to his face, imitating what would have been Hunter’s futile attempt to save his own life. ‘Classic defensive.’

  Brennan continued the narration. ‘It gets worse, if that’s possible.’ He knelt again and pointed the pen at a dark muddy imprint on the inside of the right wrist of Hunter’s windcheater.

  ‘The shooter was standing on his wrist, most probably to stop Detective Hunter from raising his service revolver.’

  Shaw took a good look at the imprint. ‘Get photos of that straight away.’ He looked around the bitumen. ‘There don’t appear to be any shell casings.’

  ‘Given the size of the wounds, we’re most likely looking for a .38 revolver,’ the firearms expert said.

  ‘Nice and common … Okay, let’s take a look at the second victim.’

  Kelso pulled up outside the neat weatherboard with white picket fence and manicured garden: the single-storey weatherboard that had not deteriorated over the passing years. His mobile rang. It was Malone.

  ‘Kell. Jesus. What the fuck’s happened?’

  ‘We’ve lost two, pal. Dave Gilmore and Mitch Hunter. The cunts aced both of ’em.’

  ‘Oh fuck, mate. Fuck no.’

  ‘We’ve lost two … I gotta go. I’ll talk to you later.’

  Kelso’s head sank into his hands. Outside the car he retched up some bile. Spat it into the gutter.

  The house was in darkness. Kelso knocked softly at first, then rapped harder. A dog barked. The porch light came on. Rex Hunter, tying up a dressing gown, answered the door, his face a grim reflection
of Kelso’s. No words were necessary. Rex finally spoke. ‘This is going to kill his mother, Shane. You’d better come inside.’

  CHAPTER 45

  Shaw and his men were well into the murder scene, the coroner and a pathologist having studied both bodies; death certified under a media glare.

  ‘I want tarps raised across both bodies,’ Shaw ordered. ‘I don’t know if it’s going to rain, but I don’t want to take that chance.’

  He changed focus. ‘Daybooks?’

  Brennan answered. ‘Still in the vehicle.’

  ‘Which means they were out in a hurry.’

  Whitney joined in. ‘No radio communication, so they must have seen something they liked and were out on the hop … Hunter fired no rounds.’

  Shaw was connecting dots. ‘Okay. So what’s happened to lead Gilmore to where he was found?’

  Brennan told the story based on what the scene suggested. ‘DNA will have to be confirmed, but this bloodstain suggests he caught his bullet here.’

  Again Brennan re-enacted the tragedy. The crime scene was but a stage. ‘He went to ground here, before making his way from the road into this clutch of trees.’

  Brennan was walking now. The group moved to Gilmore’s body. ‘He was found lying injured here—as we see him in situ. As you’ve already seen, single gunshot to the chest. Exit wound up through left shoulder. CPR was attempted but failed.’

  Whitney was the bullet counter. ‘This one fired five rounds.’

  Sidwell had been through the statements. ‘Apparently told a colleague he saw a parrot.’

  Shaw couldn’t place this dot. ‘That mean anything?’

  Sidwell could have been a robot. ‘Unknown. He was in shock and crossing over. We’ll have to check the books.’

  O’Shea took a deep breath and tapped on the door. It was the knock every police officer’s family dreaded: the knock in the dead of night—the ‘death knock’. O’Shea had done several during his time back in uniform, and had never expected to perform one on a copper’s home. The porch light flicked on. Julie Gilmore stood barefoot and wrapped in a dressing gown. The sight of Richard O’Shea standing there, in civilian clothing, spoke volumes.

  ‘Hi, Julie. Can I come in?’

  ‘What’s happened?

  ‘Can I come inside please …’

  Julie backed down the hallway. Took a seat at the kitchen table. O’Shea closed the door behind him.

  ‘He’s dead, isn’t he. Tim’s lost his father, hasn’t he.’

  There were no tears. No histrionics. Just a sad tone of resignation.

  ‘I’m afraid so. He and Mitchell Hunter were ambushed on an operation tonight. Both were shot. Both passed away at the scene.’

  Julie’s mind began to spin. O’Shea poured her a glass of water and sat.

  ‘He said it was a big operation,’ Julie recollected, staring right through O’Shea. ‘I never thought …’

  ‘None of us imagined this.’

  ‘Where did it happen?’

  In pyjamas, little Tim Gilmore shuffled into the kitchen, all ruffled hair and bleary eyes.

  ‘Hi, Uncle Richard.’

  O’Shea looked at Julie and then across to the little boy.

  ‘G’day, kid.’

  ‘Mummy, what’s happened? Is Daddy home?’

  O’Shea’s eyes welled. He let a tear run. It exploded as it hit the table.

  CHAPTER 46

  At first light the line searches began. Ballistics experts with metal detectors started scouring for projectiles. Yellow plates adorned with black numbers sat placed about the scene. It was still a hive of activity and emotion for all—apart from the men from Homicide. Like methodical automatons, they appeared to work with a cold touch. The Paradox 605 sedan—its engine still running for the benefit of forensics crews—began to stall. It shuddered and spluttered, its dial below empty. Every officer in the vicinity froze and stared as the car died out.

  Further away down the road, Shaw and McFarlane were addressing the media contingent. Malone was among it, along with Tony Hemmings. Shaw responded to an initial question. ‘All I can say at this stage is that two members of the Armed Robbery Squad—detective senior constables David Gilmore, aged thirty-two, and Mitchell Hunter, aged thirty-three—were shot dead by an unknown offender or offenders during a stake-out operation. The exact circumstances are not yet known. A full forensic sweep of the crime scene is continuing.’

  The questions came. The Herald Sun: ‘What sort of covert stake-out operation?’

  ‘Victoria Police was involved in an operation to try to apprehend two bandits operating in the eastern region of Melbourne. Operation Paradox had utilised manpower from two districts and had two-man teams sitting off possible targets.’

  Malone had the follow-up. ‘So do you think those two bandits were responsible for these murders?’

  ‘It is too early to say. We’re keeping an open mind and will be investigating several avenues of inquiry.’

  Hemmings had to get a question in. ‘Would you describe this as a reckless operation orchestrated by the Armed Robbery Squad?’

  ‘All covert police operations are fraught with danger—’

  McFarlane stepped in front of the microphones.

  ‘Detective Inspector Shaw will be heading up a special taskforce code-named Athena to fully investigate these senseless murders. Crimes don’t get any bigger than this. An attack on a police officer is an attack on the very fabric of our community … My thoughts are now with every police officer in this state. My thoughts are also with the two dead officers’ families—they are the people who should be at the forefront of our thoughts right now.’

  Shaw stared ahead. Didn’t bat an eyelid at the stolen words. The commissioner’s recital had him backtracking over Gilmore’s dying words about a parrot. What the hell had the Armed Robbery detective meant by that?

  Hemmings continued with his line. ‘Commissioner, do you have any comment about the covert operation and its consequences?’

  ‘My personal thoughts are inconsequential. What is of paramount importance now is Detective Inspector Shaw and his taskforce—Athena is the Greek goddess of warfare, wisdom and justice, you know. The taskforce will consist of a hand-picked flying squad of the state’s top homicide detectives.’

  Malone too was trying to draw out the commissioner. ‘Will the taskforce also include members of the Armed Robbery Squad, considering the possibilities here?’

  ‘The Armed Robbery Squad does not have the expertise to deal with such a crime. We’ll leave this one to the experts.’

  ‘But surely the ARS would be able to assist with any armed robbery angle. That’s their expertise.’

  Shaw stepped in. ‘Their involvement will of course be considered, depending on what direction the investigation takes. We are keeping an open mind … Unfortunately we do not yet have descriptions of offenders. One of the dead officers managed to fire off several shots, so he could have wounded one or both of them. We would ask for any hospitals or medical clinics to report any suspicious gunshot injuries.’

  A question from the Channel Nine reporter. ‘Which officer fired the rounds?’

  ‘Detective Gilmore.’

  ‘What about Detective Hunter?’

  ‘He fired no rounds.’

  Malone again made himself heard over the babble. ‘Does that suggest he was taken by surprise?’

  ‘It is too early to speculate exactly how this event unfolded.’

  McFarlane took over. ‘I have every confidence in the Athena Taskforce to track down those responsible.’

  A media liaison officer stepped in. ‘All right, we’ll have to end it there, ladies and gentlemen. We will release photographs and biographies of the two deceased officers. All updates will now come via our office. Out of respect for the deceased men’s families we ask that you refrain from approaching relatives at this time.’

  McFarlane and Shaw left the scrum behind.

  ‘I didn’t approve any Armed Robbery
Squad involvement,’ McFarlane snapped.

  Shaw stopped. Looked the top cop in the eye. ‘With all due respect, Commissioner, you put me in charge—and I’m not about to cut off my nose to spite my investigation.’

  McFarlane poked Shaw’s chest. ‘If you decide to use them, keep their involvement to a minimum. You and your taskforce are going to have the weight of expectation bearing down on you from all quarters. And what you don’t need are the Armed Robbery Squad’s ham-fisted methods screwing things up. It’s all about professionalism. Image. A result.’

  ‘You obviously chose me for a reason, sir. Let me do my job. This taskforce will run to the letter. I don’t know any other way.’

  ‘Good. Clean this one up, Andrew, and watch your career fly.’

  CHAPTER 47

  Kelso had hit rock bottom. Through red and tired eyes he re-read Paradox information reports at his desk, having defied Shepherd’s orders for the squad to spend the day resting with loved ones. Shepherd said it was The Robbers’ plan to tackle the murders, on the quiet, with a fresh constitution and clear heads come Monday morning. Kelso read IR after IR, knowing it was in vain. He and Rogers had checked every Paradox lead to no avail. Grotesque caricatures of both Schwarzenegger and Rambo had been tormenting Kelso in his dreams. For the first time in his police career, he felt truly crestfallen. Stumped. Haunted. He felt responsible for the deaths of two colleagues: two brothers. One had been his best mate. Kelso stared at the Paradox whiteboard. Turned to the Tombstone poster of Wyatt Earp and his immortals. The Armed Robbery Squad were immortals no more. Dumping the case files, Kelso walked across the room and stood in front of the squad photo board. On it was a patchwork of snaps documenting happy days and happy nights; victories both professional and social. They were captured moments special to The Robbers. Kelso pulled free a particular picture and took it back to his desk. It was a shot of Happy and Mitch on the squad’s annual fishing trip in north Queensland, the mates holding up a decent-sized game fish at the stern of a boat. Sun shining. Sky nearly as bright as their big winning grins. The two had spent three hours sharing time on the line to land the gleaming fish. Much to the howls and protests from the rest of the boys on the cans, they’d released the prize back into the blue. Kelso thought about Mitch. Their cops-and-robbers games as kids. Their time at the academy: Mitch on the training track, at the firing range and regularly skulking into his dorm room past curfew after Friday night drinks. Kelso thought back on times together on the job and a holiday spent in Ireland drinking Guinness and rubbing the local clover. Irish girls would always be good girls, but Mitch’s ride was over.