‘Harry Petrakis: known underworld figure, drug dealer and extortionist. He’s been nominated as a person of interest in at least one unsolved drug-related murder. His history shows a propensity for violence, including towards police …This is the last time we see him—heading out towards the southern car park.’
Kelso asked, ‘What time did he arrive?’
Sidwell looked across to Shaw. Back to Kelso. ‘He entered at 8.49 p.m.’
‘With anyone or on his own?’
‘On his own.’
An aerial map of the Chirnside Park industrial estate came up on the screen. Sidwell indicated relevant sites with a laser pointer.
‘We know Gilmore and Hunter drove off in this direction, which leads around the rear of the McDonald’s, along this service road through the industrial estate and towards the Lucky Dragon. The unit had planned to sit off the restaurant here … and their vehicle was found further up the service lane here, opposite an area of trees … here. The total distance from the McDonald’s car park to the shooting scene is approximately one kilometre.’
The presentation ended there.
Shaw spoke to his taskforce. ‘The SOG has been briefed. As soon as we nominate a safe and secure arrest point, we’ll move in and pick Petrakis up.’
A bemused-looking Kelso turned to Rogers. ‘We’re not after Harry Petrakis.’
‘Keep an open mind,’ Rogers suggested. ‘He’s worth a look.’
Shaw saw the two Robbers sharing something. ‘Anything you’d like to add, Shane? It’s an open forum here. We’re all on the same team.’
Kelso spoke. ‘Petrakis—he’s not one of our Paradox bandits. Look at his body shape. He doesn’t fit the description of either Schwarzenegger or Rambo.’
Shaw sat, arms crossed. ‘Let’s get something straight. This taskforce will not be focusing solely on one possibility. I need you to keep an open mind, otherwise you might miss something crucial. I seconded you with reservations. Don’t make me regret my decision.’
Whitney and Sidwell exchanged glances. Smirked. Sat back to watch an expectant train crash.
Kelso ploughed on. ‘That whole region, around Croydon and Lilydale, is peppered with drug-dealing hotspots—and Petrakis is known to deal in that area. He wouldn’t shit in his own backyard by murdering two cops there. We were tracking two on the prowl. Gilmore said, “two guns”. Petrakis—he arrived at the Macca’s alone, stayed there for about twenty-four minutes, and left alone. It’s fair to say he was by himself.’
Shaw’s reprimand came straight back. ‘He is a legitimate person of interest who has to be eliminated or firmed as a suspect. Basic detective work, Mr Kelso.’
‘Yes, boss. I agree that he has to be eliminated as a suspect—’cos he ain’t one.’
Kelso sat back. Rogers leaned in. Nudged his partner in the ribs. ‘You forgot to ask him round for a barbecue …’
Shaw got on with the business. ‘Mark, liaise with Brad Tomlinson at the SOG. We’ll move in at the most appropriate time to eliminate the chance of anyone getting hurt—and that means the arrest team, members of the public—’
Shaw turned to glare at Kelso and Rogers, ‘—and Petrakis himself.’
CHAPTER 52
Harry ‘Hercules’ Petrakis was hanging out with an extortion victim at a high-rise Parkville motel. Holding the fellow drug dealer by his ankles, Petrakis was swinging the wretch headfirst like a pendulum from a high rear balcony. It was a classic Petrakis shakedown, his gold Euro bling glinted in the winter sun.
‘Where’s my pseudo, cunt? You promised me a quarter.’
‘It’ll be ready next Thursday Harry! I’ve had four teams buying hard and now we’ve gotta boil down the pills. You’ll get your fucking Suzie! You’ll get it!’
‘I’d better, you worm. The only reason I’m not dropping you is ’cos I don’t wanna get done for littering.’
‘Okay! Pull me up! Jesus, please … pull me up!’
Petrakis, a fake-tanned Adonis with bleach-blond tips and big gold earring, lifted his victim back over the railing and stood him up. Straightened his clothes and brushed him down like an old-style barber.
Petrakis marched from the foyer out on to Royal Parade and down a sidestreet towards the zoo. Mid-conversation on one of his mobiles, he strutted towards his black BMW—and into a total eclipse of the sun. Four black figures, armed with Heckler & Koch pistols, swarmed him after leaping from the back of a nondescript van.
‘Police! Don’t move!’ they barked in unison. ‘Down on the ground. Now!’
In an instant, Petrakis was face down on the footpath, his wrists behind his back and trussed with cable ties.
‘You fuckin’ dogs! What’s this all about? You’ve got nothin’ … Nothin’!’
The SOG officers bundled him into the rear of the white van. It was as if Petrakis had never been there.
Petrakis sat forward resting his waxed tree-trunk arms on the interview room table. This wasn’t the Drug Squad who’d dragged him in. This was the taskforce investigating the recent police murders—and they’d sent the fucking SOG out to get him. And all because he’d felt like a Big Mac and fries. Whitney and Sidwell entered like special agents Johnson and Johnson.
Rogers and Kelso stood with Shaw, Brennan and Hendricks watching from the other side of a two-way mirror.
Whitney spoke first. ‘Everything okay, Mr Petrakis? Is there anything we can get you before we begin?’
The standover merchant turned drug dealer decided to make his current situation work for him. ‘Yeah. I’m hungry. Get me a souvlaki—with garlic and barbecue sauce—and a bottle of Pellegrino water. Then I’ll tell you what you want to know.’
Whitney was slightly taken aback. ‘We haven’t even told you what this is about … and you haven’t even asked.’
‘Come on, mate. This about those two jacks who got knocked. You know I was at the McDonald’s that night. The evidence is overwhelming. So get me me food and I’ll tell you the whole story.’
Sidwell took his turn. ‘We must remind you that you have been cautioned and anything you do or say can and will be used against you—’
Petrakis finished his sentence for him. ‘In a court of law. Yeah, I know all that.’
‘And you’ve been offered the opportunity to contact a legal practitioner.’
‘Yeah. Don’t need one of those. You got me cold.’
‘So you’re prepared to give us a full confession.’
‘Yep. I’m cactus.’
Whitney was upbeat. ‘Right. Well we’ll take that up with you in a record of interview after you’ve eaten.’
‘Nah mate, we can talk while I’m eatin’.’
‘All right, well, sit tight and we’ll return with your food.’
On the other side of the mirror, Rogers shook his head. Kelso buried his head in a hand and rubbed his eyes. ‘Boss, stop this now before these two—’
‘Zip it, detective. I thought we’d been through this …’
Kelso sighed. This was an embarrassment. Political correctness gone mad. And it was about to backfire horribly. Just eliminate this prick and be done with it. Don’t provide him with fucking table service and let him shit on you in the process.
Petrakis was starting to enjoy himself. ‘Can I ring me mum and tell her I’ve been arrested over the police murders?’
Whitney was standing by the interview room door. ‘We’ll let you make that call after the interview. We might have some things to check along the way, so we can’t let you ring your mum until it’s all finished.’
‘Oh yeah. Sweet.’
Whitney and Sidwell left the room. Walked across the office to Brewer’s desk.
‘Doug, could you whip up Toorak Road and grab me a souvlaki … shit, did he want lamb or chicken?’
‘Hang on, I’ll check.’
Sidwell darted and poked his head back in the interview room. Came back. ‘Lamb. He wants lamb.’
Whitney took up the meal order again. ‘Okay, Doug?
A lamb souva with garlic and barbecue sauce, and a bottle of Pelligrino water.’
Brewer stood and opened his hand for the money. Sidwell coughed up a twenty. It was a small price to pay for their imminent victory, and the glory that was sure to follow.
Petrakis accepted his lunch. Ripped open his souvlaki and chewed down, his bottle of sparkling water on the table in front of him. Sidwell and Whitney sat across from him. Whitney started the formal recording process.
‘This is a recorded interview between Detective Senior Constable Simon Whitney and Harry Petrakis conducted at the office of the Athena Taskforce.’
He read aloud the date.
‘Also present is my corroborator, Detective Senior Constable Mark Sidwell.’
‘Detective Senior Constable Sidwell present.’
Whitney went on pro forma. ‘Mr Petrakis, do you agree that the time is now 12.17 p.m.?’
Petrakis glanced at the detective’s watch. It wasn’t as flash as his. He agreed on the time. Gave his age and date of birth.
‘We intend to interview you in relation to the murders of Victoria Police officers David Gilmore and Mitchell Hunter at Chirnside Park on the morning of 4 July. Before we do that, we must advise you that you are not obliged to say or do anything but anything you say or do may be given in evidence. Do you understand that?’
Petrakis spoke with a mouthful. ‘Yep.’
Watching from the other side, Kelso leaned in over Rogers’ shoulder. ‘These two just can’t see it coming …’
Whitney continued. ‘What do you say in relation to the allegation that you were responsible for the murders of officers Gilmore and Hunter?’
‘I was there at the McDonald’s, and saw a copper buying food.’
‘How did you know he was a police officer?’
Petrakis took another bite. Wiped the sauce from his mouth with the serviette. ‘He pulled up his top to take out his wallet and I saw he was packing a .38 in a police holster.’
‘So what did you do?’
‘I finished my burger and fries and walked out …’
‘And … ?’
Sidwell interjected. ‘What were you doing at the McDonald’s store?’
‘Eating a Big Mac. I love ’em. Not as much as a souvlaki though.’
‘Right.’
Back to Whitney. ‘So what did you do after you saw officer Gilmore leave the restaurant?’
Kelso couldn’t help himself. ‘Here it comes,’ he announced to all and sundry on their side of the two-way mirror.
Petrakis didn’t miss a beat. ‘I walked to me car, and drove to me girlfriend’s parents’ house—where I’m stayin’ at the moment.’
Still Whitney: ‘Right … Earlier you told us that the evidence against you in relation to the shooting of the two police officers was “overwhelming”—that was the word you used—and that you were prepared to make a full confession.’
Petrakis burped, sending a woeful waft around the small room. He swigged his drink. And then changed his tune. ‘I said the evidence that no doubt shows me at Macca’s was overwhelming—and that I’d make a full confession about eating me tea there that night. I never said anything about knocking two jacks. Dunno anything about that … Ask me girlfriend and her parents. I was at their place by ten, I reckon. Me and my woman watched a flick on telly, had a root and went to sleep about two.’
‘Right … so you’re denying any involvement in the shooting of officers Gilmore and Hunter.’
‘I had nothin’ to do with that, you goose. But thanks for lunch. I’ll be going now.’
‘Your girlfriend and her parents better corroborate your story. What are their names?’
Petrakis provided the details.
‘Don’t travel too far,’ Whitney warned. ‘We may want to re-question you. In the meantime, Mr Sidwell, could you escort Mr Petrakis from the building.’
The rest of the Athena detectives were back in the office proper when Sidwell walked Petrakis across the floor. Rogers and Kelso sat back at their desks, eyeballing the big smug cunt with death stares.
‘Coming through—dead man walking,’ Kelso yelled.
Petrakis smiled and blew the loud detective a kiss on his way out to the elevators. Whitney walked from the interview room to his desk. Sat. Took a swig of plain, flat bottled water.
‘Hey, Whitney,’ Kelso said across the desks, ‘next time throw in a Greek salad and he might tell you about the night he ate at Hungry Jacks.’
Whitney flicked Kelso the finger. Petrakis, with all his gold chains and rings, was now off Athena’s list.
CHAPTER 53
In police parlance, the dogs were all over Glen Pascoe like a cheap suit. Sitting off a Laser hatchback registered to a Mary Pascoe, the two surveillance officers logged times and locations as they watched. Inside the Laser, Pascoe looked all strung out and fidgety. He gobbled down a Mars bar. Swigged Coke from a plastic bottle.
‘Target appears to be watching the Westpac branch in South Street, Heidelberg,’ one of the surveillance boys reported into his two-way. ‘Change that. Target is now on the move.’
Shadowing the surveillance vehicle in a Robbers sedan, McCrann and Caulfield sat monitoring transmissions. Surveillance had revealed that Siegfried seemed itchy. He’d been casing banks in recent days and looked set to roll the dice—yet again.
‘Stay with him,’ Caulfield told the dogs. ‘Do not let him out of your sight.’
Main Street, Ivanhoe, was the surveillance crews’ next log entry. Pascoe stopped outside a bank, and then drove on. Circled a roundabout three times and then sped off, running a red light and beating cross-traffic by seconds. The surveillance crew was unable to follow.
‘Fuck! He burned us!’
The surveillance cop got on the radio.
‘We’ve lost contact with the target, over. He ran a red light at the intersection of Main and Hanson streets in Ivanhoe.’
Caulfield’s voice echoed through the dogs’ vehicle. ‘Find him!’
The surveillance cops scanned side streets. As they crossed an intersecting road they caught a flash of Pascoe—gun in hand, balla on and bolting into a bank.
‘Target has been reacquired. He’s entering the ANZ in Pelham Street, Ivanhoe. Appeared to be wearing a balaclava and was armed with a handgun.’
Inside the bank, Pascoe held his gun to the head of a woman; the rest of the customers were lying frightened on the floor.
‘Give me the big stuff. Hurry up!’
The female teller, middle aged, returned word calmly.
‘I don’t have any notes at the moment. I have to wait until the safe opens. It’s on a time lock … If you can wait five minutes …’
Pascoe—high on natural juice now—turned, scanned the scene outside and returned stare to the teller. Banged his gun against the side of his head. ‘Fuck … Fick!’
He knew he was tropical. The jacks were prowling and he didn’t have time for this. He was after quick cash. ‘Fuck it! I’ll be back later, bitch …’
Pushing his hostage aside, Pascoe ran out the door. Bolted to his mum’s waiting Laser where McCrann and Caulfield were on him and converging with revolvers drawn. Pascoe reached for the Laser door handle.
‘Police, don’t move!’
‘Drop your weapon!’
Gathered on the footpath outside the bank, the tellers and customers watched on.
‘Shoot him. Shoot him,’ the middle-aged teller whispered to herself.
McCrann and Caulfield leaned in further over their .38s; fingers on triggers. Pascoe still had hold of his gun.
‘Drop it!’ McCrann ordered. ‘Down on the ground. Now, fuckhead!’
‘Fuck! Fuck!’ Pascoe raised his arms and dropped to his knees.
‘Drop the fucking gun, Siegfried!’
The failed bandit placed the gun on the asphalt and p
ut his hands on his head, interlocking his tattooed fingers—several bearing skull and swastika rings. The Robbers moved in and secured him. Glen Pascoe had hit a new low.
Back in the familiar surrounds of an Armed Robbery Squad interview room, Pascoe appeared a jittery, arm-scratching ball of rubber bands.
‘When do I get my phone call?’
O’Shea, performing a welfare check, walked from the room without a word. Pascoe shouted after him.
‘Tell Shepherd I want my fucking phone call!’
O’Shea popped his head into Shepherd’s office. ‘Pascoe’s in One … again.’
At her desk, Caulfield unstrapped. Walked back into the interview room. Pascoe stood and dropped his pants and began to pull his cock. ‘Saug auf diesen, Schlampe!’
Caulfield tackled Pascoe to the carpet, his head bouncing off a wall on the way down. She had him subdued—still half nude—by the time McCrann appeared at the doorway.
‘Nude Twister … You’re a sick unit, Caulfield.’
‘Pass us a set of cuffs will ya, cuz?’
McCrann entered with the silver bracelets and passed them over, along with another quip.
‘Kama Sutra position number forty-two—Bandit Banging Carpet.’
CHAPTER 54
Petrakis pulled up at the lights, his BMW reverberating with bass-heavy house music like a nightclub on wheels. After a right and then a left, he softened the sound system. It was late, well past midnight, and he didn’t want to wake up his girlfriend’s parents. He eased the Beemer onto the nature strip, shut the door and locked the car. He never saw the two figures emerge from the darkness until they were on top of him—shouts of ‘Police! Down on the ground!’ absent this time around. Who were these cunts dressed in blue boiler suits, gloves and balaclavas? Any questions he may have had were answered with what felt like a baseball bat to the back of his head. He dropped to one knee. A makeshift hood was pulled over his eyes and cable ties wrapped around his wrists. He was bundled into the back of a car and driven away. The abduction was complete. It was as if he’d never been there.
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