by Unknown
‘It’s ironic,’ Eckles said. ‘We send out half the friggin’ force looking for this prick, and he heads straight for your place. How’d he even know where you live?’
I had no idea. ‘Maybe he rang your office and asked for an address,’ I said, not wanting to talk any more.
Apparently Kirzek had used a rope to gain access to my balcony, three storeys above street level. I often didn’t bother to lock those doors, assuming no burglar would ever attempt the climb. I was still amazed that a man his size could manage it. Guess it wasn’t all fat after all. I’d have to make up a story of some sort for Edgar so he didn’t freak out on me.
‘Is that it?’ Cassie said to Gurt, who’d scribbled everything we said in his daybook.
The fact they’d allowed Cassie and me to be quizzed informally, and in the same room, indicated that they weren’t interested in using the shooting against us. Just as well. We’d effectively captured and shot a suspected serial killer who’d evaded both the Homicide Squad and the Special Operations Group. To go after Cassie for the shooting would mean bringing about their own undoing for the foiled arrest.
‘That’s it for now,’ Gurt said, closing his book. ‘There’ll be more to come though. We’ll need it on record, from both of you.’
Stello stood, stretched his legs. ‘Hope we can contain it, keep the media off it.’
‘You will,’ Cassie said. ‘What’s happening with the priest, by the way? Miles Jorgensen?’
‘Ah, we’re holding on to him,’ said Stello, looking at Eckles, then back at me. ‘Thanks for your help on that too. Kirzek’s car was around the corner from your place. Had the laptop in it. It’s a real doozy. We’ve got the techs on it as we speak. They’ve struck a list of what looks like coded phone numbers and email addresses. It’ll probably take all night to break it, but from what they’re saying it looks like the genuine article. A real spider web. Teachers, prison workers, clergymen, all sorts of fruitcakes.’
I nodded, relieved.
Cassie asked Gurt if they wanted to do the formal interview tonight or if it could wait.
‘You’re the shooter, Withers. We can knock it off now, then we can all go home. Or we can come back another time. It’s up to you.’
‘Do I get a rep?’
‘Sure,’ said Gurt. ‘A Police Association rep has been contacted and is waiting at the Crime Department.’
‘All right, just give us a minute,’ she said.
I followed Cassie out of the room. Once we were out of earshot, I put a hand on her shoulder and squeezed it gently.
‘You’ll be fine. They’re not gunning for you or else we would’ve been grilled in the furnace to start with. That was all about getting our stories straight, making sure what goes on the news is palatable. Like a rehearsal.’
‘I know. What about you?’
‘I’m good.’
‘Sure?’
‘Yeah, I just . . . I just wanted to thank you. I mean, when Kirzek had me on the floor . . .’
‘It’s okay,’ Cassie said. ‘You don’t need to say it.’
‘Yes, I do. You got there just in time, Cass. He had me down and if you hadn’t shown up . . .’
Again I choked, and this time I gave up trying to say what we both already knew: that she’d saved my life.
‘Thank you,’ I said, hugging her gently. ‘For Ella too.’
Cassie held my embrace. ‘Wish me luck,’ she said when she pulled away.
‘You won’t need it.’
I watched her follow the others down the hall. At the exit she looked back at me, like a child on the first day of school, and a terrible feeling that I’d never see her again washed over me. I contemplated going after them but knew I was being irrational. Instead I limped through to Ella’s cubicle in the emergency room, favouring my sprained right knee. Ella was still asleep, but looked peaceful and calm, her face no longer as pale as when she’d been brought in.
A nurse was standing by the bed, writing notes on a clipboard.
‘How’s she doing?’ I asked.
‘Better,’ she replied. ‘Blood pressure and heart rate are both normal. She’s breathing on her own and the saline drip’s keeping her hydrated. But she’ll be out of it for a few more hours, at least. Depends how long it takes to wear off.’
‘It?’
‘Tests aren’t back yet, but we’re thinking a benzodiazepine of some sort. Temazepam or something like it.’
I frowned in confusion. ‘Sleeping tablets? Wasn’t GHB?’
‘What makes you say that?’
‘Never mind.’
When the nurse was gone I sat down beside the bed and watched Ella sleep. Her chest rose and fell in a slow rhythm, arms laid at each side. To get what you want, you have to know what you want. I took one of her thin, pale hands and stroked it gently. One of her nails had snapped and it reminded me how fragile the human body was, how life could change in the blink of an eye. I touched the stitches on my neck and my hand traced its way down to the scar beneath my left collar where the bullet had torn into me a year before, leaving me lying in a hospital bed for three weeks. Then there were the emotional scars, the marriage separation and the effort we’d both made over the past twelve months to rebuild our relationship. In that moment I knew I would never go back to St Kilda.
‘Wake up, baby,’ I whispered, leaning over the bed and kissing her forehead. ‘It’s over. Let’s go home.’
Over the next couple of hours, I wondered how men like Gervas Kirzek could exist without notice for so long, then suddenly unleash such brutal rage. I also thought about how the laptop housed details of the entire network of paedophiles known as The Holy Brethren. With any luck, the priest – Father Miles Jorgensen – would go down for something. With a little more luck, maybe they’d put him in the general prison population, see how he liked it.
‘Excuse me,’ said a nurse from behind me. ‘I have a woman from DHS here to see you – Sarah Harrigan. She’s at the front counter asking for you. Something about a file you requested.’
I was about to say I didn’t want to see her when I realised she’d probably gone out of her way to get the information I’d asked for about Dallas Boyd. I made my way to the emergency room foyer where a woman in a khaki suit waited in one of the moulded plastic chairs.
‘Detective McCauley,’ she said, extending a hand. ‘I was up early this morning, saw the news on television and decided to come straight over. Is everything okay?’
‘I’m a tad banged up but I’ll live,’ I said, shaking her hand.
‘I tried your mobile but it didn’t answer,’ she said, holding up a manila file. ‘Figured I’d take the chance and drop this off on my way to work. Feel like a coffee?’
I stared at the file as if it could answer something for me.
‘I don’t know that there’s anything left to discuss. If you watched the news, you would’ve seen that the guy responsible for Dallas Boyd’s murder is dead.’
‘That’s not what I wanted to talk about,’ she said, lowering her voice so the other people in the waiting room didn’t hear. ‘When I saw the news report on Stuart Parks, I couldn’t believe it. That makes three of them.’
‘Three what?’
‘Three kids, all dead. I mean, they all grew up in foster care together, they were all incarcerated together, then within a few years all three of them are dead. It’s a tragedy.’
I studied the sadness in her face. It was the same look I’d seen on Will Novak when he’d learnt Dallas Boyd was involved in the child sex trade. She believed in her mission the same way Novak believed in his.
‘Okay, there’s a cafeteria around the corner,’ I said.
We small-talked about my injuries on the way to the cafeteria, but the whole time a question nagged me. It was something she’d said about all three kids being dead. Dallas Boyd, given a hot shot and left to die in the loading bay behind Café Vit. Justin Quinn, his throat slit in Talbot Reserve. And Sparks, stabbed to death outside the squa
t. Why was Dallas Boyd’s murder so different from the others?
The hospital cafeteria smelt of coffee and frying bacon. The seating area was sprinkled with family members and visitors waiting for news of loved ones, and the odd patient who’d slipped out for an early breakfast or a cheeky cigarette.
‘I pulled a lot of strings for this, detective,’ Sarah said after we’d ordered and sat down. ‘I made copies of everything we have on the three boys you asked about. It’s all here.’
She opened the file, which contained three neat piles, each held in place by a bulldog clip. I fanned through the first few pages, trying to think of a polite way to tell her I didn’t need them any more.
‘Thank you,’ I said finally. ‘Hopefully I’ll have a chance to go through it later today.’
‘I hope so too, even if the killer is dead.’
She sipped her coffee and we both watched as an elderly lady on a walking frame hobbled through the cafeteria to a table in the back. I took a bite of my croissant and absently thumbed through pages of case notes, psychological assessments and progress reports, most of which I knew would be heavy on detail and overly repetitious. Halfway through the croissant, I recognised a name highlighted on the jacket of the folder that triggered a memory, a loose end.
‘Derek Jardine,’ I said, reading the name. ‘He went to Queensland, didn’t he?’
‘That’s right. After they all got out of Malmsbury, they lived at the CARS shelter for a short time then went their separate ways. Dallas Boyd moved into the flat, Stuart Parks lived the street life and Derek Jardine went to live on the Gold Coast. In the end I guess none of their choices mattered: they all led to the same place.’
And just then it hit me.
‘You’re saying Derek Jardine is dead as well?’
‘Well, yeah.’ She took the file back and opened it to a page of case notes. ‘My last contact with Dallas Boyd was in November last year. He’d just come back from Queensland. Dallas went up to find Jardine and came back after he learnt he was dead. Needless to say he was distraught.’
‘Right. How’d he die?’
‘Bashed in a hotel room,’ she said. ‘No one was ever charged, but the police up there were thinking it might’ve been a client.’
‘A client?’ I said, blinking away fatigue. ‘Was he hooking?’
‘Not just hooking,’ she said, lowering her voice. ‘He was deep into the skin trade. That’s probably why he went to live on the Gold Coast. It’s sin city up there.’
I sipped my coffee, thinking.
‘Between you and me,’ Sarah added, flipping through the file, ‘I wasn’t that surprised when I heard he was dead. Derek was always a bit wild. He used to rip off clients, beat them up and take their money. That was his scam. Of course, I doubt many of his victims ever reported it to the police. If they did, they probably made something up.’
Nodding, I wondered whether Derek Jardine’s murder might have been connected to Dallas Boyd’s and the others in St Kilda. It seemed unlikely, given the time difference, the varying circumstances and the distance between locations. But there was one thing it might explain: Dallas Boyd’s motive. First his friend was bashed to death in a hotel room, possibly by a paedophile client, then his little sister was infected with chlamydia by the stepfather. It just might’ve been enough to make him turn against them. Like a blind man with a cane, I could sense the path ahead even though I couldn’t see it. I packed up the file, thanked her and asked if I could hold on to it.
‘Sure, just don’t burn me on this.’
‘You have my word, I won’t. Thank you.’
Walking with her to the door, I asked for an update on Rachel Boyd.
‘See, now you’re asking about an active case,’ she said. ‘A live one, which I can’t go into.’
‘Have you seen the place they live in?’ I replied, following her outside. ‘It’s a disgrace. They shouldn’t even be allowed to keep her there.’
‘You’re entitled to your opinion, but like I said, I can’t talk about it.’
‘Well, if you want my opinion, she needs to be removed from there. Her stepfather’s a genuine scumbag. Surely you know about the chlamydia?’
She stopped and stared at the traffic whizzing by on Royal Parade, unsure how far to commit.
‘Come on,’ I said. ‘We’re both on the same side, right?’
‘Of course we are, but it’s complicated. Leaving kids in an abusive environment isn’t right, but shunting them in and out of foster care doesn’t help either. Children need security and routine as much as they need safety.’
I shook my head, unconvinced.
‘All I can tell you is that wheels are in motion and a decision on Rachel’s welfare will be made soon,’ she said.
‘Better not wait too long or she’ll end up in this file too,’ I said.
‘Look, I know what you think, that we should just march in there and take her away, but removing a child from their legal guardian isn’t always the best solution.’
‘What is the best solution? Waiting until they’re hooked on drugs or infected with HIV? Jesus, you should read the coroner’s report on Dallas Boyd, count how many broken bones he suffered at the hands of his so-called guardian. Seriously, at what point do we say enough is enough?’
Sarah let out a long sigh, as though she was tired of having the debate.
‘It depends what research you accept,’ she said. ‘If you accept the research that the government accepts, then you take the view that children are best off remaining with their family unless they’re in immediate physical danger. Removing a child from the family home, however dysfunctional the household might be, causes undue stress on all members of the family, including the child, and should be the absolute last resort.’
‘Sounds like some rehearsed bureau-speak straight out of a manual,’ I said.
‘It is,’ she said, deadpan.
‘And you believe that shit?’
‘Detective, I’ve been doing this for over ten years now. Quite frankly, I don’t know what to believe any more.’
We stopped at a government sedan parked outside the hospital. Two crates were on the back seat, full of files just like the one I was carrying.
‘I’m sorry, I know it’s not your call,’ I said. ‘Just keep me in the loop as much as you can.’
‘I will,’ she said, opening the door and getting in the car. ‘I’ll call you as soon as I can let you know what the plan is. That’s the best I can do.’
I spent the next hour in Ella’s cubicle reading the file cover to cover. Between the three boys I counted over ninety separate reports from police, Juvenile Justice, Child Protection, hospitals, drug and alcohol workers and psychologists. Each was a depress-ingly dismal story of neglect, rebellion and child abuse. Parents like Dallas Boyd’s were the norm and I again wondered why it took so long before the system intervened. Why did a child’s life have to be in immediate physical danger before somebody stepped in?
As I packed the file into my briefcase, I noticed the mug shot and intel report on Sparks had slipped out of the side pocket. Still clipped to the back of the report was the call charge record on Dallas Boyd’s mobile phone that I’d yet to examine. The CCR provided a basic list of phone numbers for all the calls made to and from Boyd’s mobile in the hours either side of his murder. There were nine in total, the last being at 12.17 a.m., not long after he was dead. I cast my eyes over the list of numbers and noted that six of the calls were from the same number, five before midnight and the final one after the murder. Flipping back to the intel report, I confirmed that the number belonged to Sparks, which tallied with his report of trying to contact Boyd several times after he’d failed to show up at the rendezvous.
The remaining three calls were from another number, the most recent at 11.25 p.m. By this stage, Boyd would’ve left Tammy and Fletch at McDonald’s and headed off to meet Sparks to exchange the laptop. Just then it occurred to me that the timeline didn’t quite gel. McDonald’s w
as less than a hundred metres from Luna Park where Boyd and Sparks were to meet at midnight. So why did Boyd leave Tammy and Fletch so early, given it would’ve only taken him a few minutes to walk to Luna Park?
Maybe he planned to meet somebody en route, possibly a rock spider, perhaps make a quick sale. Or maybe he had another partner involved in the scam, somebody he needed to see before he met Sparks. Whatever the reason, there was one thing I was sure of: not long after receiving that last phone call he was murdered. Remembering Dr Wong’s belief that Boyd had shared a beer with his killer in the hour prior to his death, it seemed plausible that whoever this number belonged to had at least some involvement in the murder.
I stared at the number, reciting the combination in my mind, and suddenly a jolt of recognition sparked in me.
‘Son of a bitch,’ I said, fumbling with my wallet.
I found the business card I was looking for and my heart started pounding. The numbers matched.
34
ELLA STIRRED A LITTLE when I kissed her goodbye, but the nurse had assured me she wouldn’t wake properly for another few hours. Much as I wanted to be there when she did, I couldn’t ignore what was now in my possession. The system had failed Dallas Boyd, and so had we – the police. I couldn’t allow that to happen again.
I took a taxi home. Once inside, I opened my briefcase again, took out my daybook and located the DVD I’d copied from the 7-Eleven security camera. I put the disk in the player, sat back on the couch and opened my daybook, reviewing my case notes. According to my timeline, Dallas Boyd had been in the 7-Eleven with Tammy York at about 10 p.m. That I could confirm. From there they had hung around McDonald’s for around an hour, before Boyd had left to meet Sparks and en route had met up with his killer, whom I now suspected had called him and arranged to meet.
