Blood Sunset

by Unknown

  The screen cut to footage of the fires from a helicopter. The Alpine ranges looked like a row of erupting volcanos, giant plumes of smoke wafting into the air.

  ‘More than half a million hectares of national forest have been destroyed,’ the reporter went on. ‘Three of the major fires have joined together, and firefighters are still battling the inferno. In a further blow for already exhausted firefighters, local water supplies are down to less than twenty per cent.’

  A map of the state appeared, with red fireballs indicating the affected areas. They began north of Melbourne and headed all the way around down to the south-eastern coastline. It looked as though the fires were surrounding the city and moving in. I remembered Ella’s comment about the apocalypse. She hadn’t been far off.

  ‘In a positive break for police, a man in his twenties has been arrested and charged with three counts of arson and aggravated vandalism,’ said the reporter. ‘It’s believed the man may be responsible for up to seven separate outbreaks across the Alpine region. He’s expected to face an out-of-sessions hearing tomorrow, where more charges may follow.’

  The reporter signed off and Edgar muted the volume.

  ‘Filthy little rodent,’ he snarled. ‘You know what they should do to him?’

  ‘What’s that, Ed?’

  ‘Slice off his old fella, sizzle it up in a frying pan and make him eat the bastard. That’d bloody learn him.’

  ‘Sounds like you wanna be the chef.’

  ‘My oath I’d do it. Be my pleasure. In fact, you know what I’d bloody well do?’ He leant forward on his chair, waving a finger. ‘I’d sew up his arsehole and just keep feeding him until he burst. How d’ya reckon he’d cop that?’

  I smiled at the image.

  ‘I’m serious, Rubens. That’s what’s wrong with this bloody generation. They haven’t been smacked on the arse hard enough. None of my lot ever ran amok like the kids do these days. We did what we were told and we respected our parents.’

  I wondered whether Edgar was referring to kids like Dallas Boyd, and whether parents like Vincent Rowe deserved respect.

  ‘I hope he goes to prison for a long time,’ he continued. ‘But I doubt it. He’ll just get a bloody slap on the wrist. Courts are so piss-weak these days. Don’t get me started on that! One of my RSL mates got beaten up and robbed last year. Your lot caught the mongrel and guess what happened?’

  I shrugged, trying to recall any assault on an elderly victim in St Kilda before my return to duty.

  ‘Suspended sentence.’

  Now I remembered. It was an ATM job. The victim had been knocked to the ground by an offender who tried to snatch his money as it dispensed from the machine, not realising that the victim had just been checking his account. During the struggle the victim cracked a hip bone. He’d spent two weeks in hospital and would probably never walk again without severe pain. For us it had been an easy one. A detective had viewed the CCTV footage from the bank and identified the crook as a local shithead. He was charged and bailed, but in the end the court decided jail time wasn’t necessary. No wonder so many elderly people were angry and bitter. No wonder men like Edgar opted to stay home most of the time.

  ‘Howard told me you lot did a sterling job, looked after him nice and proper,’ said Edgar, his walking stick gripped tight, like a flagpole.

  I figured Howard was the victim.

  ‘We need people like you, Rubens. With all this drug stuff, we can’t even go to the bank without some mongrel knocking us over the head.’ He thrust the stick towards the television and Tank scrambled to the side. ‘And now they’re burning the place down, killing people and wrecking their houses. I don’t even want to go out on my balcony any more the air’s so bad.’

  His lower jaw trembled and I saw the fear and loneliness that was the beginning of the end for many elderly people. I’d seen it before in victims of burglaries and assaults. A loss of hope. When the negatives overtook the positives. If it kept up, pretty soon Edgar would stop ironing his shirts and polishing his shoes. He might even give up altogether.

  ‘You know, statistically older citizens have a less than two per cent chance of ever being the victim of an assault,’ I said, trying to reassure him. ‘And most burglars don’t want to break into a house when someone’s home. You’re at home most of the time so it’s very unlikely anything will ever happen to you.’

  ‘I don’t care about any of that rubbish. I saw what that mongrel did to Howard.’ Edgar used his walking stick to brace himself as he stood. I went to help him but he waved me away. ‘I’m fine. I just want to show you something.’

  He hobbled over to a buffet by the balcony window and handed me a silver frame with a black and white photo of two men in uniform, rifles braced across their chests.

  ‘That’s me and Howie in England,’ he explained, his hand shaking as he pointed to the man on the left. ‘We served in the infantry together. Six years in total.’

  I studied the picture, once again reminded of my father’s home where similar photos lined the mantelpiece. A different war perhaps, different people and a different generation, but the faces were the same: young and keen, with a hint of fear behind the bravado.

  ‘Howie took a piece of shrapnel in the shoulder,’ Edgar continued. ‘He could’ve gone home, but he stayed on. Got himself fixed up and served out the rest of his tour in the rations regiment, keeping us all fed. He was a real patriot. He loved this country.’

  He took the picture back and replaced it. I wasn’t sure why he’d used past tense, whether Howard was dead or if he’d simply given up loving Australia.

  ‘He would’ve died for this country,’ Edgar said. ‘And this is how we repay him. It’s a fuckin’ disgrace.’

  I winced, not at Edgar’s swearing, but at the feeling of betrayal and loss that so many of the older generation felt. I knew what he was saying. His cynicism wasn’t dissimilar to that of many police after years in the job. Too much emphasis was placed on supporting the villains, not enough on the victims.

  ‘You’re right, Ed. It is a disgrace,’ I said, putting a hand on his elbow and helping him back to the lounge. This time he didn’t resist.

  ‘I like having you next door,’ he said, handing his dog the last of his sandwich then staring at the floor as he spoke. ‘It makes me feel safe. But you know what? As much as I enjoy your company, it’d make me feel much safer if you weren’t here.’

  I sipped my juice uneasily. ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘Go to work, Rubens,’ he said, his eyes welling. ‘Get out there and stop these mongrel dogs. I served this country for more than twenty years. Now it’s your turn. There may not be any bombs or trenches, but we’re at war all right.’

  I didn’t know what to say.

  ‘You do a good enough job,’ he went on, ‘then maybe when you’re my age you’ll still feel proud enough to call this country your own. Maybe there’ll still be a place for you.’

  ‘But Ed, I am working. I’m just on a day –’

  My phone started ringing and I cursed the interruption. I wanted to tell Ed I was back on the job, that it was simply a rest day. I wanted him to understand, but he turned away and I knew it wouldn’t matter what I said. I snatched up my phone and checked the caller ID. It was Cassie.

  ‘You’re not home, are you?’ she said after I answered.

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘I just called your house, since you said you were going home. No answer. Where have you been?’

  I looked at Edgar and made a face like I was annoyed.

  ‘Ah, out and about. What, has Eckles got you working a GPS on me?’

  ‘Just tell me where you are.’

  ‘Academy. Primary school liaison course.’

  ‘Okay, smart arse. I just hope you didn’t do what I think you did.’ She lowered her voice to a whisper. ‘The hommies are in the office with Freckles.’

  I stood up and moved into Edgar’s kitchen, trying to compute what Cassie had just said. Maybe Dr Wo
ng had phoned the Homicide Squad after we’d left the morgue and they’d sent in a response crew. Cassie was silent and I knew there was more.

  ‘What else?’ I said.

  ‘Ah, ESD’s in there as well. They’re all talking to Mark Finetti.’

  ‘Finetti? What’s going on?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’ve heard your name being mentioned a bit. Just get back here.’

  13

  IT TOOK ME OVER HALF AN HOUR to get to St Kilda. Ordinarily I would’ve been cursing the drivers and trams but Cassie’s phone call had left me hollow and uneasy. What the fuck was ESD doing asking about me? Why were they talking to the Homicide Squad? And what about Finetti? Surely they didn’t know about my visit to the commission flats.

  By the time I pulled into the watch-house car park it was after 1 p.m. Inside, the blinds in Eckles’ office were down but I could see the investigators crowded around the table in the adjacent conference room. Cassie rolled over in a chair as I dumped my briefcase and daybook at my desk.

  ‘Eckles wanted the handover brief,’ she said. ‘I told him to wait until you’d signed it but he wouldn’t cop it. They let Finetti out a few minutes ago.’

  Before I could say anything the door clicked open and Eckles appeared, a tall man with receding white hair and a starched uniform beside him. The red crowns on his epaulettes identified him as the divisional superintendent, the highest-ranking cop in the southern metro area.

  ‘That’s him,’ Eckles said. ‘In the corner.’

  ‘Very well,’ the superintendent said. ‘Let me know how you go.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Eckles clicked his fingers. ‘McCauley, in here, let’s go!’

  Three men and two women sat at the conference table, sleeves rolled up, daybooks and notepads open in front of them. A guy I knew, Nik Stello, stood at the head, adding notations to a whiteboard. I recognised the two short-haired women as detectives from the Sexual Offences and Child Abuse Unit and nodded to them. Eckles directed me to a seat at the end and introduced the two men as Detectives Gurt and Quinlan.

  ‘They’re with Ethical Standards,’ Eckles said, closing the door. ‘And you know Nik from Homicide. His crew’s been assigned the Boyd case.’

  I nodded at Stello, a younger Italian detective I’d worked with many years before when he’d been a police prosecutor. Far as I knew, Stello was a skilled legal craftsman, able to shape evidence like a brilliant sculptor. How this translated to running an actual murder investigation was another matter. I’d heard he’d recently been appointed to the Homicide Squad and figured he was still finding his legs. Was this a case of prioritisation, of giving a no-count case to the new guy, or simply luck of the draw?

  ‘Let me make this quick,’ said Eckles, ‘since we don’t have much time. Stello will take over the investigation into the death of Dallas Boyd as of today. Dr Wong has briefed his crew and they’re awaiting orders to effect an arrest. You’re to submit all reports thus far to him and be forthcoming with any information you’ve yet to document. Is that clear?’

  This puzzled me. Less than three hours before, Eckles had instructed me not to pursue the matter, to let it go down as accidental unless the forensic pathologist ruled otherwise. Now Wong said it was homicide and suddenly he wanted full cooperation. Something wasn’t right.

  ‘Is that clear, detective?’ Eckles repeated.

  ‘Whatever.’

  ‘Good. Nik, your show.’

  I looked at Stello, waiting for his questions. His skin still had the polished look I remembered, like glazed terracotta. Neatly styled black hair swept back over his head, a gold cufflink sparkled at his wrist. He looked more like a model than a homicide investigator and I wondered if people still called him Stiletto.

  ‘Right, er, we’re especially interested in your thoughts on suspects,’ he said, and glanced at a report in his hands. ‘I’ve got your partner’s handover brief here and it seems the most logical place to start is with Vincent Rowe, the stepfather. Is that your view?’

  I looked around the table, trying to establish the meaning behind the question. All eyes were on me. Did they know I’d just been to visit the stepfather? Was that why ESD were here? Logic told me otherwise. Even if Rowe had called ESD after I’d left, this was too soon. There had to be something else.

  ‘I think he’s good for a child abuse case, but I doubt he killed Dallas Boyd.’

  ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘Because whoever killed Boyd had finesse.’

  ‘How do you know Rowe doesn’t?’ Eckles cut in, shuffling through papers in front of him. ‘I’ve read this guy’s sheet. Genuine scrote. Lady basher, history with little girls too.’

  Not having seen Rowe in his family environment, those at the table were right to assume he was good for the murder, but I’d looked into his eyes. Though I’d seen a man capable of murder, it wouldn’t be one of this calibre. Crash and bash was more Rowe’s style. Also, whoever killed Dallas Boyd had his trust.

  ‘Do you know something we don’t, McCauley?’ Eckles prodded.

  ‘Whoever it was slipped GHB into his drink,’ I said quickly. ‘That means Boyd dropped his guard and the killer took advantage of it.’ I looked at the female cops from the SOCA unit. ‘As you know, Boyd was working with the Department of Human Services to get his little sister removed from the unit. He hated his stepfather. There’s no way he’d drop his guard around Rowe. He was probably terrified of him.’

  The two SOCA cops turned to Eckles. The recognition was subtle but there just the same.

  ‘What aren’t you telling me?’ I asked.

  ‘Turns out your mate downstairs knew the kid,’ Eckles said.

  ‘Mate?’

  ‘Finetti,’ said Stello, sliding a page across the table. ‘This is dated just prior to Christmas. Finetti took a statement from Boyd about his stepfather. Have a read.’

  At above date and time I took a statement from Dallas BOYD (DOB 01/11/1992) about an assault committed on his younger sister, Rachel BOYD (DOB 07/05/2002). BOYD stated he believes his stepfather, Vincent ROWE (DOB 03/04/1971), was responsible for both sexual and physical abuse of his sister over a prolonged period of time. He wishes for police to intervene. Contact with SOCA and the Department of Human Services has been made.

  Sarah HARRIGAN of DHS Child Protection Unit assisting. Advised that BOYD’s family is of interest to DHS.

  BOYD stated he is fearful of stepfather avenging complaint and is concerned ROWE will harm him or his sister to prevent removal from home. Also stated stepfather has made threats through third parties that he will kill BOYD if sister is removed from home. ROWE has violent history and is known to police. BOYD advised to take due care and avoid all contact with stepfather.

  Intervention order pending.

  Handing the report back, I wondered why Finetti hadn’t mentioned any of this at the crime scene. Relief washed over me as I realised this was why the ESD were involved. I wasn’t the focus of attention after all.

  ‘Finetti was covering his arse,’ I said. ‘He knew the kid was in danger and he did nothing about it. Then the kid turns up dead. No wonder he kept quiet at the crime scene. He wanted it to be accidental.’

  ‘Don’t worry about Finetti,’ Gurt said. ‘We’ll discuss that in a moment.’

  I went to reply but Eckles cut me off. ‘You’re missing the point. Finetti’s report indicates a direct threat against this boy. Less than six weeks later he’s dead. The stepfather is our most logical starting point. Is there anything else Stello and his men need to know about before they arrest him?’

  Stello and his men, I thought. Sounded like a B-grade action flick. I wanted to tell them I’d seen the stepfather and that Rowe wasn’t slick enough to pull it off, but I knew how that would end.

  ‘You’re right,’ I said instead. ‘Rowe is the best starting point. There’s nothing else from me.’

  Eckles nodded to Stello and the SOCA cops, who stood, packed up their notes and walked out. I went to follow but was
called back.

  ‘Not you,’ said Gurt. ‘We’re not done yet.’

  Quinlan adjusted his tie, as though shaping up for a fight. The two ESD men wore near-identical grey suits, white shirts and blue ties, and both had sandy brown hair. They could’ve been brothers, though Gurt carried more weight than the other; like a before and after ad for a weight loss program. Feeling suddenly uneasy, I realised something wasn’t right. Eckles had been too confident earlier, which didn’t fit with the dilemma we shared for having initially ruled Boyd’s death accidental.

  ‘What have you done?’ I said to Eckles, easing back into my chair. ‘What have you told them?’

  He said nothing.

  ‘You were quick to shoot down Finetti before,’ Gurt said. ‘I must say, I’m impressed with your loyalty. Quite courageous, really.’

  ‘Hey, if Finetti knew this kid and didn’t say anything at the scene, then he needs to answer for it.’

  Gurt shuffled through his daybook, found the page he wanted. Quinlan opened his book too, as did Eckles, and they all wrote the date and time on a fresh page. When they were ready Gurt cleared his throat.

  ‘Detective, we wish to discuss your decision to state the death of Dallas Boyd as an accident despite believing otherwise. Are you happy to answer some preliminary questions about this or would you prefer we proceed straight to a formal interview?’

  My mind went into a spin dive. A formal interview? Didn’t they just say Finetti was the one who’d mishandled himself? And why was Eckles so cocky? Why wasn’t he in the shit too? He’d countersigned the bloody incident report.

  ‘Detective?’

  ‘Yes, go!’

  ‘Okay, for the record, I’d like to know why you actively pushed to have this death ruled accidental, even though there were signs that clearly indicated the contrary.’

  ‘I didn’t. At first the scene appeared typical of a normal OD. There were no suspicious circs I’d usually expect when somebody stages a murder.’

  ‘Usually expect?’ Quinlan said.

  ‘Yes. I go out of my way to look for suspicious circumstances at a scene like this,’ I said, shooting an angry look at Eckles. ‘I don’t do it because I want to impress people. I do it because that’s how I operate. If you expect anomalies, then you won’t miss anything.’