by Ron Elliott
‘Yes, of course.’
‘Very well. Could I have a green one? You can pick your own colour. I’ll get dressed.’
Iris went upstairs. She recalled the last thing she’d done before bed was to put all her clothes, including the skirt, into the washing machine. She supposed she had destroyed evidence. She’d thrown away the clothes she’d worn the day of the school explosion. Was it really so easy to put disconcerting events behind her?
She put on shorts and a t-shirt, went into the bathroom. She decided not to subject the detective to more of her morning face. Her eyes were puffy. She dusted the wrinkles, chose a subtle pinkish lipstick, Chanel.
He stood at the back windows, sipping his coffee and gazing into the garden. It was magnificent in the morning, a tangled forest dappling sunshine onto the grass and limestone surrounding the huge swimming pool. The jacaranda still held the last of its flowers.
Iris said, ‘Your bandage has gone.’
He held up his arm, flexed it gingerly. ‘It was in the way.’
Iris found her coffee on the counter.
‘You don’t have any milk,’ he said.
‘Sorry.’
‘I don’t need milk.’ He went to the kitchen table, sat at the other end.
‘You’re not going to comment on the house?’
‘Nice house.’
‘Everybody comments on the house.’
‘There’s all kinds of houses.’
Iris thought he pretended to be unimpressed. He didn’t want to show any inferiority. Maybe he even resented the house. Iris used to. ‘Well, enough pleasantries, Detective. What?’
‘A few things, Mrs Foster.’ He took a pocket sound recorder from his man bag, placed it on the table. He took out his mobile, a small notebook, fished for a pen.
Iris took her coffee and sat at the table within range of the recorder. She said, ‘How is the investigation going?’
He looked at her sharply. ‘It’s an operational matter.’
‘I can help more, if I know things.’
‘Let’s deal with the incidents at Fieldhaven last night first.’
‘I am working on the case.’
‘As far as I know Mrs Foster, you have been helping Dr Silverberg. You used to work for the Fire and Rescue Service. You have also done contract work and consultancy for a number of departments, including the police.’
Iris noted the recorder, raising an eyebrow at the detective.
‘It’s all in your file, Mrs Foster.’
‘Well, if it’s in my file.’
‘I’m working for people, Mrs Foster. They like transcripts.’
‘To add to the file. You’re not on the terrorists.’
He shook his head.
‘Or the bikies.’
He sat back watching her. He didn’t answer.
‘You’re on the Martian.’
He paused ever so slightly before saying, ‘I was on the schoolkids.’
‘Until it played out. Now you’re miscellaneous.’
He nearly smiled. ‘Yes. Miscellaneous loose ends. Speaking of which, any problem with me asking a couple of questions for the record?’
He had a healthy ego, this man. He believed in himself. He knew who he was, where he fitted into the world. Maybe he wasn’t a type A personality, but a healthy B, happy to work within the team. He’d make a good firey, thought Iris.
‘Fire away, Detective.’
‘The suspect at Fieldhaven, the Martian …’
‘James. He calls himself James.’
‘He apparently disclosed an incident to you.’
‘Yes. While I was assessing him, he appeared to re-experience a particular traumatic event which I believe forms part of his psychosis. A fire in his house. I believe his two children and possibly his wife died in the house fire. The wife’s name is Nisa. I’m not sure where it occurred. Asia. He speaks an Asian language. Not Chinese or Japanese or Vietnamese. Oh, and I think those burn wounds on his back were part of the same incident, so hospital records and some police investigation should be available.’
The detective took notes.
Iris added, ‘I went back partly to test your theory, Detective.’
‘My theory!’
‘Yes. Whether he had a breakdown after he’d set the school bomb.’
‘And …’
‘I don’t think the school bomb is in his life. Only this family fire.’
‘An odd way to put it. Not very conclusive.’
‘I live in a world of guesses.’
‘What do you guess about our school bomber?’
‘I think he likes the numbers, the fuss. He keeps score. He likes the attention. And he likes getting away with it. Because he likes getting away with it, he doesn’t get too close. He liked preparing. He is content to imagine the pain. He rigs things so as to cause suffering. He likes hurting.’
‘Who are you working with on this?’
‘Your taskforce, I assume, through Frank.’
‘You have a lot of information, even considering you might have seen a couple of our files in the incident room. Your profile is way ahead of the curve.’
‘Theories.’
‘Why were you in the incident room again?’
‘I was looking for one of your team members. I didn’t realise the room was off limits, Detective Pavlovic. I’m sorry about that. The breach has clearly put me offside with you.’
‘Who were you looking for again?’
‘A fire investigator.’
‘Why?’
‘I possessed information he’d asked for.’
‘Was it Charles Koch?’
Iris considered the recorder again. An interrogation trick is to have a suspect go over the same story a number of times to see if it tallies with itself. Interrogations were now called interviews, of course. Just the facts, no prejudice. ‘Yes. I think if you check back on your previous recording of our conversation outside the room, you’ll find I said so.’
‘So you’re working with him on his Zorro theory, huh?’
‘I’ve given him a few ideas, yes. Shouldn’t I have?’
‘Did you know he is looking up old cases?’
‘Good for him. It is a sensible line of inquiry, don’t you think?’
‘The taskforce are aware of his movements. They’ve sanctioned his involvement.’
‘They.’
‘Yes?’
‘You said they, rather than we. Odd choice. Does it mean you don’t feel part of the team, or do you disagree with their decision regarding Chuck’s access?’
‘The school doesn’t fit the Zorro pattern Chuck put forward.’
‘I’m keeping an open mind,’ said Iris.
‘Me too,’ he retorted. ‘Do you think Chuck could have done this?’
‘The school!’
‘Yeah. Keeping an open mind, could Charles Koch have set this up?’
‘Why?’
‘To confirm his ideas. To be a hero again. He misses the limelight. His plan was to stop it, only it went wrong. Like the security guard in Atlanta.’
‘Richard Jewell?’
‘Yeah. Sad, lonely fake hero looking for affirmation.’
‘Richard Jewell was innocent. He was sad and lonely but he was a hero. It was the media who suggested he did it, because his personality and background didn’t fit their idea of a hero. A classic case of bad profiling and it victimised a man who should have been applauded for doing his job.’
‘It does happen. You tossed people out of the volunteer fire brigade on those grounds.’
Iris grimaced. He was annoying, the detective. She quite liked him.
‘So, is Kochie a hero or the other?’
‘Yes, I’ve read his file. So, he was a hero once. Does he miss it?’
‘Yes he does.’ Iris lifted her empty cup. ‘Do you want another coffee?’
‘No, three’s my limit for the morning.’
Iris went to the coffee maker, chose a Rosabaya. She said, ‘Yo
u’re married. Your wife suggested the coffee limit. You’ve got kids. You play sport. You went to a Catholic boys school and university. You admire your father enormously. He never went to university. He’s very proud of you.’
Pavlovic studied her. ‘I’ll have a glass of water. Correct. Every single one. Nice party trick. Or I’m very shallow. So, why won’t you answer about Koch?’
‘It feels disloyal. And I don’t trust you.’
‘You shouldn’t trust me. I’m investigating the murder of eleven people and the attempted murder of over a thousand. I’m not asking you to lend me money.’
‘Give me more information.’
‘This isn’t a negotiation.’
‘Yes it is. I did my party trick to impress you so you might entertain the idea I could be valuable to the investigation.’
‘I know you can be valuable. I saw your work at the school with the boy who put out the fire, remember. Pegged him, cleared him in a minute. I’m impressed. A fan.’
‘You are reading my file.’
‘I’ve started, yes. It’s more than one file.’
‘Chuck’s really a suspect?’
‘Everyone is a suspect until the case is solved. Poor policing is when you concentrate on only one suspect, consequently work the evidence to fit.’
Iris brought her coffee back, indicated the recorder. ‘Off the record.’
He buttoned it off. He got up, went to the cupboard, found a glass, went to the tap and got his water. He was used to being in other people’s houses. He knew where they put things.
‘Sorry,’ said Iris, meaning the water. ‘Like a number of heroes, he is angry his life didn’t turn out better, after his heroism.’ Iris thought about Charles. ‘The world didn’t reward him. In fact the event hurt him, both physically and mentally. His co-workers tease him because of his injury, and I’m sure he’s crotchety. Well more than grumpy. Was he dismissed for punching a colleague?’
‘Sick leave, but yes.’
‘Is this the first time?’
‘No.’
‘Drinking?’
‘Yes.’
‘Has he been sent to counselling?’
‘Yes. He doesn’t cooperate.’
‘He’s angry that he’s not been listened to over many years concerning Zorro.’
‘Could he bring Zorro into being? He has the technical knowledge.’
‘He does. In spades.’ Iris considered Charles in this new light. ‘He’s no longer married, is he?’
‘Not for years. Lives on a boat, apparently.’
‘So he doesn’t have an alibi?’
‘No. Now he’s put himself next to the Fire Lady. A pretty good way of getting the strokes, keep an eye on things, on the inside of the investigation.’
‘Just keeping an open mind, are you?’
‘I’m not saying he did it. I’m saying is he a possible?’
Iris thought about it before answering. ‘I don’t think so. I don’t think he’s got the chutzpa to fly so close to the inside, to the heat, while doing it. He’s not secretive. He’s not compartmentalised or … you’re looking for the personality type who makes a good spy. I don’t think Charles fits. He’s a puncher. We’re looking for a sneaky waiter who spits in your food before he brings it to you, smiling.’
Pavlovic seemed to weigh the image before he said, ‘Do you want to step out for a cigarette? Don’t mind me.’
‘I don’t smoke.’
‘So when you were seeing James, in the hospital room, after midnight, why did you have a lighter in your bag?’
‘You never can tell when you might want to offer a light.’
‘This fire, the one in the hospital room …’
‘Yes. I was distracted and he got the cigarette lighter from my handbag.’
‘What were you distracted by?’
‘Notes. Things I was doing during the assessment. Perhaps I was more tired than I realised. He’s a very clever pickpocket. He can also get out of handcuffs.’
‘Was he in handcuffs?’
‘Of course not.’
‘You wrestled with him?’
Iris felt herself blink before she said, ‘Yes.’
‘Was this before or after he set the fire?’
‘After I put it out.’
‘How long did you wrestle?’
‘He tried to get past me. I blocked him. Less than ten seconds I’d say. I let him light the fire so I could see what he did.’ She smiled.
Pavlovic blinked. Twice. His lips tightened ever so slightly.
She added, ‘I will probably lose my job and my accreditation if you tell anyone.’
‘Do you always get away with shit like this?’
‘Detective, I never get away with shit. Ever. It always comes back. Will you tell me what you’ve got so I can help?’
Pavlovic studied her again before he finally said, ‘They stole the ether from a company called LabSup. They did it all by phone and paper. Deliver here. Pick it up here. Drop it here. Invoices and requisition forms. They knew what, how and even what kind of voices to use. They got stuff delivered. We have the paper trail but no human presence.’ He took the time to study her before adding, ‘We are about to announce a raid on a lockup where forensics tell us he stuffed the containers into gymnastic mats.’
‘The gymnastic mats were delivered to the school in the same way?’
‘While the head of the sports program was on leave, so no one could contradict the order. The physical education staff simply pointed to a wall where they were stacked.’
‘Do you have any CCTV footage of the weekend?’
Pavlovic sat filtering through what he would and would not reveal to her. He finally said, ‘We have a dog walker, over a couple of weeks. We think he’s casing the place. Disguised.’
‘A man?’
‘Disguised.’
‘The truck?’
‘Stolen from the school weeks before. Landscapers had been working on a wall. When it reappeared, it was familiar.’
Iris said, ‘No wonder they’re concentrating on terrorist cells. It’s almost military. Absolutely meticulous. I told Charles that profiling the school could almost be more important than profiling the bomber. Finding a motive for this school.’
‘Yes.’
Clearly they were pursuing that line. Iris recalled James was allergic to dogs, or he’d said so.
Pavlovic closed his notebook, put away his tape recorder. ‘Anything else you think of, or anything I can ask as it arises. Or thoughts on Koch.’
Iris said, ‘You aren’t miscellaneous. You’re investigating leads which are not connected with terrorism or organised crime.’
He shrugged.
‘The crazies.’
He nearly smiled.
Iris showed him out. As they reached the front door, he said, ‘Nice house.’
She laughed. Said, ‘It’s a bitch to clean. Or so I’m told.’
Chapter fifteen
Iris showered, changed into jeans and runners. She thought she might take the day off completely, in a way following Frank’s instructions. Clear the mind, unsedated. She would shop, garden, iron clothes, cook. She’d make sushi, which she always found calming. However, after she’d put a load of washing into the machine, she found herself ringing Charles Koch.
‘Huh?’
‘Chuck, it’s Iris. Where are you?’
‘On my boat.’
‘Can I come see you?’
‘Here?’
‘Yes, of course. I’ve had a visit from Detective Pavlovic. I may have more things to share.’
Charles gave his address, behind a marina, an hour down the coast. Iris drove along the old coast road, where new apartments had sprouted amongst the ageing industrial areas. The suburbs of smaller and smaller blocks formed an uninterrupted tapestry, all the way to what was once a coastal seaside retreat, now a city of retired people and their service providers.
Iris played Vivaldi. She thought about James. He had burned hi
s own children. His mind unable to cope, yet striving to defend itself from the unthinkable, created a complex fantasy which allowed him to approach the incident, to come at but not face it. There are no children on Mars, no families. If he can get back to the spaceship he can save his fellow crew. It was a wrapping, not a solution. Unlike pus around a thorn, it did not lead to expelling the foreign body. James was trapped in replaying the incident in its disguised form, trapped in a loop because he could never bring them back. His children, possibly his wife, were dead.
Iris followed her GPS, turning down before the Lochland Cut, driving between three-storey villas to the marina, where concrete jetties moored yachts and cabin cruisers with unimaginative names like Livin Da Dream, Calm Seas and Nirvana. She followed the main road to the end of the marina where a smaller track ran across the edge of the canal and around the back past abandoned boat trailers and an ancient beached dredger.
Iris parked near a torn wire fence at the entrance of a boat repair business. She smelt raw kerosene, diesel smoke, rotting seaweed. She looked into the boat repair, at the yachts in dry dock. A worker moved a mast on a forklift in the distance. She spied Chuck’s yellow ute a little way up inside the fence.
The ute was parked between a tiny yacht and a small power-boat, both up in wooden cradles, dry and high. A power cord and a hose led up to the powerboat.
Iris called, ‘Hello.’
Charles came from behind the cabin, called down to her. ‘You found it, huh?’ He wore torn pants, a firefighter t-shirt.
‘Looks like your directions were good.’
‘Come on up.’ He pointed to a wooden ramp constructed along the side. Chuck stood at the back of his boat, admiring the mishmash of stored and disassembled yachts as if it were a regatta in full sail. He swung around to Iris as she stepped onto the deck as though surprised. He gazed out again, inviting her to share what he saw.
Iris said, ‘Detective Pavlovic says you’re back in the room, off suspension.’
Chuck gave a shy smile. ‘Yeah. I took some of your ideas to them.’
‘Oh?’
‘I wasn’t going to get access to old cases from here. The wi-fi is a bit patchy.’ He pointed towards the marina. ‘I get it from the Majestic. Not always in port. Once they heard you were working with me, they took Zorro more seriously. Maybe I’m just the errand boy.’ He pointed to a director’s chair. ‘You want a beer?’
