AHMM, November 2006

by Dell Magazine Authors

  Leonard introduced himself and said why he was there. “Aunty Phyllis said you might be able to help me."

  Theodore Kame scratched in the gray curls on his chest. “Maybe. Lunchtime, now. You want a cuppa?” He nodded toward the blackened billy set under his shade.

  "Could use one. Got some tucker in the Esky.” Leonard rummaged in the cooler behind the front seat. “You like dried fruit and ham?"

  Kame's grin showed stained and missing teeth as he stirred up his fire. “Store bought! We'll have a feast!"

  Information waited until after the feast. Wrinkled skin sagging from his bony frame, Kame belched and stretched on the cool, shaded sand with his third cup of tea. “Care for a quid?” He held out a small dark roll.

  "Thanks anyway—don't smoke."

  "For a chew, not a smoke. This be pituri, City Boy.” He gestured popping the oblong wad into his mouth. “Chew it, rub it on your lips, rub behind your ear if you like: good for hunger, good for energy, then good for sleep."

  "What's in it?"

  "Nicotine. You know us-mob discovered nicotine? American Indians, they claim tobacco, but we be the first. Used to, we traded pituri for ax heads, spear points, whatever. Dry the leaves, mix with acacia ash, use flax to tie it up, and there you are."

  "Acacia ash?"

  "Yeah. Can use half a dozen woods, but acacia's best. More alkaloid to draw out the nicotine. That's the science of it, anyway.” His hand waved over his shoulder toward the shrub-covered cliffs above the streambed. “Good soil, good rock, good pituri. Use it to stir the blood before battle, use the smoke for anesthesia at circumcision ceremonies. No more, of course. Now it's only for a few rituals, or just party time."

  "You know a lot about its history."

  "Part of me job—Council pays me to be watchman for sacred places hereabouts."

  A flash of Aunty Phyllis's intense eyes crossed Leonard's memory. “What sacred places?"

  "Rock painting sites mostly."

  Leonard fished the rock flake from his shirt pocket. “You recognize this?"

  "Ah.” Kame gazed at the fragment in his calloused palm. “This has to do with the dead one."

  Leonard studied the man's face. “Why do you think so?"

  Kame's thumb caressed the chip. “It's from up Mongona-way."

  A mountain twenty or so kilometers north, near the Lizard Hollow camp. “How do you know?"

  "Color, touch—this color red, the feel of this grit. It's good rock for painting on—porous so the vegetable dye goes in, but not so soft that it bleeds fuzzy-like. And that site's sheltered from the weather by an overhang.” The spray of gray hair on the man's head wagged once. “And there's been stealing there."

  "Stealing?"

  "Somebody tried to cut out a rock painting. Buggered it all to hell. Can't cut that rock without shattering it. So then they started copying."

  "How copy?"

  "Rubbing. Take greased paper—dripping on tissue maybe—lay it over the painting and rub it with your hand to pick up pigment.” Kame dragged the side of one hand across the back of another. “Sometimes, if the painting is etched in, they rub the paper with a soft pencil. Then maybe they transfer it to another stone—plenty rock midden there—and off they go."

  "The dead man did this?"

  A shrug. “No more since he died."

  "When did it start?"

  "Two, maybe three years ago. Never caught nobody at it, though—just saw sign."

  "It's a crime to copy them?"

  "Two crimes. Three, really.” He counted them off on long fingers. “One, you got to get the People's permission to copy any Aboriginal art. Two, vandalism. These Oombulgurri rock paintings, they're the only ones like them in the world; but dripping softens the pigment and the rubbing wears it away. Three, it steals the soul of the painting. An Old One left himself there for his people, but then somebody copies it and sells it to somebody else."

  "For a lot of money?"

  "Aboriginal art's big business, now: museums, rich collectors, tourists."

  * * * *

  The evening duty watch waved Leonard toward a vacated desk. “Use that telephone, mate. Don't forget to log your calls—Sergeant gets fussy about that."

  Leonard first telephoned the Sydney district headquarters, telling the duty clerk what he needed, how quickly he needed it, and how to leave the information at the Wyndham Station. When he returned from a late dinner, some of his questions had been answered: He had a list of telephone numbers to begin calling early in the morning, and a reply from Perth that the pieces of slug taken from the victim were from a .22 caliber, hollow nosed, short round—a cheap bullet most likely fired from a handgun.

  * * * *

  The Eastern Time Zone was two hours ahead of Wyndham's, but despite an early start, it took several hours for Leonard to reach the people he wanted to question. Then, finding a quiet corner of the station, he organized his information and considered where it led. Follow-up calls took him almost to noon, then he drove back to the Barramundi Paradise Tackle and Bait Shop.

  "I found out where your son got the money to buy this store, Mrs. Mitchell."

  The woman's protruding eyes grew even larger. “What's that mean?"

  "It means he was selling copies of rock art to a man in Melbourne, a Mr. Steven Reid. Owns the Gallery of Indigenous Arts and Crafts. Told me he bought copies of the paintings and slabs of rock from the original site. Was very proud to say his copies were as close as to the original as humanly possible."

  The woman's lips clamped tight, loosened, clamped again as if she chewed something between her front teeth.

  "Named your son as his supplier. Said he's become an excellent copyist."

  The lips flexed again.

  "Was very unhappy to learn about his death."

  This time the tears were not held back. They silently spilled over her cheeks as she stared through Leonard as if he were a window to something in the past.

  "It's best you tell me everything you know."

  * * * *

  Mrs. Mitchell did not know everything, but her guesses fit what Leonard began to see. By the time he neared Lizard Hollow, dusk drew the brush closer to the track and kangaroos began to leap out of the trees and across his headlights. At the cluster of small houses and humpies, figures silhouetted against cooking fires watched him park the Rover and get out stiffly. Silence greeted his request to talk with the camp's Law Giver, Peter Williams. Then a wiry shadow stepped forward.

  Later, after sharing food and conversation that masked the real reason for Constable Smith's visit, Peter Williams guided Leonard along a trail to a council fire that flared in front of a wall of rock. The day's heat still pulsed off the stone and gritty sand, but at least the flies slept. As he waited for the men to gather, Leonard watched sparks rise from the fire and swirl among stars spread across the sky. It was hard to believe there were people who never lifted their eyes from their feet to see a sky like that, people whose city lights blanked their heaven.

  It was equally hard to believe that here, at the men's council fire on land that had been home since Dreamtime, no one in Lizard Hollow knew why Roland Mitchell had been killed.

  The dozen faces, mostly bearded, remained closed. Dark eyes, webbed red from wood smoke or alcohol or both, shifted from the fire to other faces across the circle, then dropped again. The silence following Leonard's politely oblique questions stretched until Peter Williams, lanky shins and dusty bare feet showing beneath the tattered cuffs of his frayed trousers, tugged at his white beard. “Yeah, Constable, if it was payback for a tribal law the man broke, we would know. And we don't know. So maybe a waijella done it.” Williams added softly, “You said he was shot."

  Waijella—"white fella.” Leonard let a suitable amount of time pass before replying mildly, “Maybe somebody knows some reason a waijella might want to shoot him."

  A beardless young man grunted his wish to speak but remained silent until he was certain none of the older men wanted to t
alk first. Kenneth—that was the name Leonard heard someone use when the sit-down started—finally said, “A waijella can shoot a black fella like a dingo. Both the same to the waijella. You know that!” A mumble of agreement came from the group.

  "I know whoever killed this man—waijella or black fella—he'll have a fair trial."

  A silence of unvoiced doubt about the fairness of white justice greeted that statement. Leonard went on. “Old times, maybe the dingo and the black fella were the same. But now we have the Social Justice Act for our rights. We have the Native Title Act for our land claims. Now we have Aboriginal members of Parliament.” Leonard tugged at his collar emblem. “We even have Aboriginal coppers."

  "That's half a step,” said another beardless face. Quiet laughter excused the youth's ill manners in speaking too hastily.

  Leonard laughed too—it was a good thrust at his half-white blood. “Yeah, a small step for mankind. But this is murder, and this is a police investigation. The killed man had spear wounds in his leg that he got before he was shot. Maybe whoever killed him speared him first. Maybe he broke tribal law again and so was killed. Maybe he was killed for some other reason, maybe good, maybe bad. Whatever the case, this is police business now, not tribal law. It will be the right thing to help me find out why this man was killed and who did it."

  Kenneth's angry voice broke the silence. “Maybe other things come first, like jobs and health care. White Australians live twenty years more than we do. Ten times as many of our children die than the rest of Australia. What are you doing about those crimes, Constable?” A soft chorus of grunts supported the question.

  Leonard nodded. “There are many crimes. I can deal with only a few. I think you can help with this one."

  "Yeah! We heard all that Reconciliation talk. We still have four times as much unemployment as the rest of the country. We have tuberculosis too, and AIDS. Even effing leprosy, man! How many lepers in Perth, eh? How many white lepers at all? You going to say you got your job because you're half black? I tell you, you got it because you're half white!"

  Another tense silence before Peter Williams spoke again. “We'll think on this. You got everything you need, mate?"

  The use of “mate” told Leonard that the question wasn't an offer of help with the murder but of hospitality for the night. “No worries, Peter. Thanks for hearing me.” He added in a softer voice, “But I need a word more alone with you."

  "What about?"

  "What I came for."

  The wiry man's shoulders rose and fell beneath his frayed shirt. “Let's take a walk, then."

  Leonard followed into the starlit dark, letting his eyes adjust to the gray of sand and the black of painful clumps of spinifex.

  After a while, Peter Williams stopped walking. “What did you come for, Constable?"

  "The one who killed him."

  "Why you think it was one of us-mob?"

  Leonard found a comfortable slab of rock and sat, gesturing for Peter Williams to join him. “Because the white man who met him in the bush didn't kill him. He was making money from him. The white man went to get more drawings and more rocks to copy the drawings on."

  "Maybe it was another white man."

  "No other white man met him there.” Leonard smoothed a patch of sand and dragged a finger through it. “One set of tracks in from Gibb River Road.” The finger reversed. “The same set out, carrying the rocks. Whoever killed him came through the bush. Whoever killed him knew the land."

  "You said he was shot. Gun's a white man's weapon. Everybody knows that."

  Leonard nodded. “He was shot. Had me fooled. A .22 pistol, which means the killer had to get close. A bullet that small has to be fired pretty close to the skull."

  In the moonlight, the gaunt figure shifted but did not reply.

  "He was killed by someone he let get close to him. Maybe someone he knew. Someone who knew the land. Someone who had a reason."

  "You don't know who it was. You don't know!"

  "He was punished once for stealing pictographs, but he did it again. That's the reason.” The shadowy figure did not reply. Leonard went on. “You are a Law Giver, Peter. Maybe you didn't know it was going to happen, maybe you did. Maybe you pulled the trigger, maybe someone else did.” The hunched shadow remained silent. Finally Leonard asked, “Were you sent to a state school?"

  "What?"

  "State school. I was taken to a state school. Orphan. Did they take you too?"

  "Yeah. Six years."

  Leonard nodded. “Used to hear all the time: ‘Behave like you're civilized!’ They tell you that too?"

  "Yeah—then caned the bloody hell out of us!"

  Leonard grinned and rubbed the memory embedded in the backs of his own thighs. “Caned civilization into us, didn't they?"

  "Um."

  "There's enough to bring white police to Lizard Hollow, Peter. It will be like they're caning the whole camp."

  Silence.

  "An argument could be made that he was killed because he violated tribal law. It won't justify his death, but it might make the punishment lighter. Especially if the shooter gives himself up. No guarantees, but it might.” After another silence, he asked, “Was it you killed him?"

  In the dark, Leonard heard a long breath in the man's nose. “No. There were five of us. We tried to get there before he could sell the pictures, but we didn't."

  Peter Williams did not go on. Leonard filled in the story. “So you surrounded him. That's how the killer got close behind him."

  "Yeah."

  "And you took the money he had on him: eight hundred dollars, right?"

  "How'd you know?"

  "The white man said he paid eight hundred dollars for four rubbings and four good stones. It wasn't found on his body.” Leonard let that sink in.

  "It wasn't for the money. It was the pictures. They belonged to the People—so the money did.” Williams added, “And he been warned!"

  "You know that. I know that. You think the white police will believe it? They'll think you murdered him for the money. Murder and robbery. Put all five of you in prison for a long, long time. That's almost half the men in Lizard Hollow. Leaves a lot of women and children without their men—for a long time."

  "Yeah."

  "It would be better for everybody if whoever pulled the trigger turns himself in. That way, just one goes to prison.” He added, “Maybe that money should go to his family."

  "I'll think on this."

  * * * *

  All in all, it had been a very long and busy day. Spreading his canvas swag on a soft patch of sand near the Rover, Leonard placed boots, water, and torch within easy reach. He shook out his sleeping bag and slid into it, groaning at the stretch of sore muscles, and arranged his trousers as a pillow.

  As his tired mind went over what he and Peter Williams agreed on, Leonard stared at the spark of cold blue light that, out of all others filling the night sky, he had focused his thoughts on. Finally, his eyes drooped and he felt his weight sag more heavily against the welcoming earth. Just before sleep the star seemed to wink back.

  A week later in Derby, ALC Smith received a telephone call from Sergeant Hall. He was happy to tell Constable Smith that his work wasn't a complete waste of time: One Kenneth Ngariri had just walked out of the bush to give himself up for the murder of Roland Mitchell.

  Copyright © 2006 Rex Burns

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  BOOKED & PRINTED by Robert C. Hahn

  Rubenfeld, Hart & Goldstein has the ring of a high-powered law firm, and if these three gentlemen should ever decide to combine their talents to form a practice they would no doubt be quite successful. Their combined academic and professional pedigrees include Stanford, Brandeis, Columbia Law School, Harvard, Yale, Princeton, Juilliard Drama School, Davidson, and Franklin Pierce Law School.

  Jed Rubenfeld is an expert on constitutional law. John Hart adds expertise on labor law as well as criminal defense experience. And Paul Goldstein's forte is
intellectual property law. Add them together and what do you get? Three lawyers trying to pass a different bar to become successful novelists as others such as John Grisham and Scott Turrow have done before.

  * * * *

  * * * *

  As one might expect from the different legal niches they've occupied, these first time novelists have created plots that echo their scholarly or professional interests.

  Jed Rubenfeld's THE INTERPRETATION OF MURDER (Holt, $26) draws not on his expertise on constitutional law but rather on two other academic interests. He studied Shakespeare at Juilliard, and his fascination with the conundrum posed by Hamlet's behavior forms a crucial part of his mystery. His undergraduate thesis on Sigmund Freud allows him to combine what he learned with intelligent speculation to cast Freud as a major character in his novel and to provide an answer to a question that has puzzled Freud scholars for almost a century.

  Set in 1909, Rubenfeld's debut mystery deals with Freud's first and only trip to the United States. Although the actual trip was a success, it left Freud with a bitterness toward the United States that has puzzled scholars ever since. Rubenfeld believes that some unknown event may have caused that reaction, and his novel posits a murder, a conspiracy, and jealousies among Freud's followers that all contribute to that reaction.

  Young American psychologist Stratham Younger, an admirer of Freud, plays psychoanalyst and detective when a young woman is viciously attacked and left mute as an aftereffect. With Freud acting as adviser, Younger attends the victim. The investigation veers into many unexpected directions, allowing Rubenfeld to explore and exploit the rich political and cultural history of New York at the turn of the century, including such events as Harry Thaw's murder of architect Stanford White and the building of the Manhattan Bridge.

  Taken as a mystery, it plays nicely as a period story. Taken as a novel, it provides a fascinating, though fictional, portrait of Freud, Carl Jung, and other adherents and detractors of Freud's revolutionary theories. Rubenfeld's author's note following the conclusion of the book is a careful attempt to clarify any liberties he has taken with factual matters.

  John Hart's protagonist in THE KING OF LIES (St. Martin's /Thomas Dunne, $22.95) is a lawyer, but not a very successful one. In fact, Jackson Workman Pickens, commonly known as “Work,” can't count too many ways that he is successful despite a fair amount of wealth, a beautiful and accomplished wife, and a position in the large North Carolina law practice built from scratch by his father, Ezra.