by Ian Edward
Reardon, in turn, was just as interested in hearing from Adam about a typical day in the life of a detective sergeant. Adam, who’d never found it easy talking about himself or his work, found himself opening up, as he did with Kate.
He briefly sketched in his background, joining the local station after his training at the Police Academy, progressing from probationary to senior constable, attending detective school, his stint as a junior detective in a city suburban centre, then his posting back to Northern Rocks as the solo detective sergeant.
Kate returned with a tray of tea and coffee just as the phone on her wall began ringing.
Adam’s eyes followed her to the phone, watching as she picked up the receiver.
She listened.
She sucked in a sudden breath of air, an exclamation of shock escaping her lips. Adam’s words to Reardon trailed away, as Reardon too turned his gaze toward her.
Adam knew, from the horror in her eyes and the bewilderment on her face that this was no ordinary, everyday piece of bad news. He sensed, in that instant, that everything was about to change.
CHAPTER TWENTY ONE
For Kate, the next twenty-four hours were an emotional whirlwind. Grief, disbelief, anxiety, confusion and anger mixed together to form an explosive cocktail – but the fuse to light it was drained away, her energy consumed and depleted by the sheer enormity of the tragedy.
‘Ms. Kovacs, it’s Harold Letterfield from the Wildlife Conservation Commission. I’ve been trying to contact your parents in Sydney for several hours but there’s been no answer. They’re not away, to your knowledge, at the present time?’
‘No. I’m sure they’ll be back before long.’ Her words sounded strange to her ears. Calm. Distant. But her heart began to pound – for some reason she knew what was coming. She didn’t know how, she just knew.
‘Ms. Kovacs, I’m calling about Greg-’
‘Yes.’ She hadn’t waited for him to complete the sentence. She felt certain she knew the words that were coming, but she wanted to be proved wrong, prayed she was wrong. She breathed heavily and was vaguely aware of Adam watching her as James turned.
‘I’m terribly sorry to inform you that Greg has passed away.’
She didn’t want those words, or this moment, to be part of her life but she knew now they always would be – frozen in time and imbedded in her consciousness, a vivid memory that would always be there, part of her history, part of her life story. Not Greg. Please, God, anything but that. Not Greg…
There wasn’t a flight from the local airport to the Northern Territory until later the following day. Even then, Kate would need to catch a small four-seater to take her from the Territory’s main centre, Alice Springs, and out to Settler’s Gorge.
James Reardon wouldn’t hear of it. He insisted on chartering a private aircraft to fly Kate straight to Settler’s Gorge the following morning. He couldn’t go himself, but Adam declared he was taking some time off to accompany her. Reardon was glad of that. He also arranged another charter plane to collect Kate's parents and younger sister and fly them in.
Kate had never been to an outback township like Settler’s Gorge.
It was a large town covering a wide area. This was because it had grown outward – not upwards, like the big coastal cities. The absence of skyscrapers, and the similar heights of many of the buildings and homes, gave it the appearance, from the air, of a family of gnomes out in the rolling spaces.
The airfield was a large oval, a single runway and a small cluster of buildings made of timber and fibro, each with a tin roof. For some reason Kate had the unusual, pointless thought that the shiny, reflective surface of those rooftops must have been a distraction to approaching pilots.
She and Adam were met at the airfield by Letterfield and Trish Watts. They were whisked away by chauffeured car to the Wildlife Preservation HQ. Both Letterfield and Trish offered their condolences, but said little else on the trip other than to enquire how the flight had been and to report that the charter from Sydney with Kate’s parents was expected later in the day.
Kate found herself staring intently out the window at the passing landscape. This was the place where her brother had spent the last few years of his life, a place with which he’d become totally familiar, which looked so…alien to her. Newer buildings and houses stood alongside older dwellings and overall the town had a colonial feel that belonged to an earlier age. The streets were wide and framed by rows of trees that had been allowed to grow and spread their branches. The foliage seemed to rotate like great, green fans when rustled by breeze.
At HQ they went to the executive meeting room. Kate was pleased to find it had a relaxed, informal feel. A light morning tea was served.
‘It will take us all a long to time to learn to cope with Greg’s passing,’ Letterfield said gently, ‘he was more than just a work colleague, he was a good friend to everyone here. Not to mention an outstanding ranger.’
‘The best,’ Trish Watts offered.
‘Greg loved his life here,’ Kate told them. Adam’s hand reached instinctively for hers. ‘Do I need to…identify…him,’ she stammered.
‘No need for you or your parents to be concerned with that,’ Letterfield said. ‘We’ve made the necessary ID.’
‘I’d like to see him.’
‘I don’t advise that, Kate. Perhaps you could get together with the medical examiner, have a chat with him.’
‘I’ll want to see him regardless.’
Letterfield nodded, his eyes betraying his knowledge of something darker. He knew Kate had spoken with the police on the telephone, before her flight, and she’d been made aware Greg died as a result of a crocodile attack. The full details, of course, had not yet been revealed.
‘The man that was with Greg…is he here?’
‘Walter Coolawirra. The hospital kept him under observation overnight, but I understand he’s home now.’
‘I’d like to talk to him.’
‘That won’t be a problem. Walter and Greg were close friends, he’ll want to meet with you.’
They arranged to see the medical examiner later in the day, and with Kate’s parents not due for a few hours, Trish took Kate and Adam out to see Walter.
The tracker lived in a modest timber cottage on the outer rim of the township. Like a large number of Aboriginal men in these parts, Walter was a man of many talents: professional ranger and gifted bush tracker; doting husband to Ethel, his wife of twenty three years, and a strong and caring father to his four children. He was also a skilled craftsman of wood figurines, which adorned the shelves of his home and which he sometimes exhibited and sold at local fairs.
Returning from the hospital, shaken and grieving the death of his friend, Walter had retreated to the enormous back yard. Ethel Coolawirra guided Kate, Adam and Trish through the small house and out the back. They found Walter in the shade of a large, gnarly tree, beside the all-purpose storage/work-place tin shed. He was focused on one of his intricate wood carvings and did not notice them until they were right on top of him. Ethel made the introductions. Walter rose to his feet, embraced Kate, and then sat again, squatting on the patchwork carpet of yellowed grass. He motioned for the others to do the same.
‘Greg spoke of you often,’ Walter said to Kate. ‘I know he had a good childhood and that you were his best friend. At a time like this we need to cling to such good thoughts.’
Kate nodded her agreement, tears stinging her eyes. ‘Can you tell me what happened out there, Walter?’
He shot her a puzzled expression, glancing also toward Trish. ‘They would’ve filled you in at the Commission offices…the police haven’t also spoken with you…?’
‘I wanted to hear from you. About his last days…about…’
Walter’s shoulders hunched into a sorrowful shrug. ‘I don’t know how those hunters knew we were out there, Kate. They couldn’t have seen us, and yet…’ He took a moment to compose himself. ‘They must’ve crept up on Greg from behind.’ His eyes
avoided hers. ‘What can I tell you…? Murderers…’
An ugly thought had been alive in Kate’s mind since she’d received Letterfield’s call. The way he’d explained the death. ‘…killed by the crocodile hunters we’ve been tracking…his remains being brought back today…’
Kate’s eyes bore into Walter’s. ‘He wasn’t dead, was he…they left him for the crocodiles, didn’t they?’
Walter cleared his throat, looking back at her now with watery eyes. ‘Yes.’ His voice was a croak.
Kate’s head dropped. She began to massage her temples vigorously. ‘Oh my dear God.’ And then – ‘What is left of him…to see?’
Walter simply shook his head.
They were back at the airfield when Kate’s parents and younger sister arrived. Adam stood awkwardly to the side as the four of them hugged each other, crying freely. There followed another get-together in Letterfield’s office, where the arrangements to have Greg’s remains flown to Sydney for burial were discussed. Then came the discussion with the medical examiner. Adam noted Kate said much less than he expected. Her parents nodded their heads in shock at the horrific details.
That evening they had a sombre meal in the local hotel’s dining room and then an early night, Adam taking a room on his own, Kate sharing a large family room with her parents and sister.
The following morning they flew to Sydney. The funeral was to be just two days away. On a couple of occasions on the journey that day, Adam reflected on how he felt like a new member of this family group. It made him realise how close he and Kate had become in the short time they’d known each other. And how much a personal tragedy like this could cause a sudden, closer leap in a new relationship.
CHAPTER TWENTY TWO
Kevin Farrow’s widow, Amy and her new husband, lived in a split-level home in one of Miami’s beachside suburbs.
Hank surprised Jean when he’d asked if he could speak with Amy.
Amy had agreed when Jean phoned to ask and so, on her day off, Jean took Hank from Everglades City to Miami for the visit.
Amy Watts, as she was now known, was a woman with a strong physical presence – a firm nose and chin, as though finely chiselled from smooth porcelain; vibrant eyes; a tall, athletic physique. By contrast, she had a soft manner, a quiet voice. She was genuinely thrilled to see her ex-mother-in-law and the two women embraced heartily. ‘I don’t want it to go so long for us between visits.’
‘Life gets in the way,’ Jean said.
‘Then we have to do something about that. Agreed?’
‘Agreed.’ Jean then handled the introductions. ‘Hank was in the news game too. Retired now. But…’ and Jean cocked a crafty eyebrow in Hank’s direction, ‘...it seems he wants to do some writing about Kevin and the issues Kevin was passionate about.’
‘I believe Kevin kept diaries and that you have them stored somewhere,’ Hank said.
‘That’s right. And you’re more than welcome to look them over, Mr. Mendelsohn-’
‘Hank, please.’
‘…Hank.’ She smiled. ‘And I appreciate your interest. But the police poured over those diaries for clues, leads, whatever, and they didn’t find anything useful. Except, perhaps, Kevin’s mention of the photo. But that didn’t lead anywhere…’ Amy glanced at Jean and the two of them shared a frustrating memory.
‘Photo…?’
‘You’ll find all this in the police reports.’ Jean took up the story. ‘Kevin made references in his diary to a roll of film he shot while flying over the ‘Glades with one of the local charter services. They saw a boat out there. Kevin thought it was similar to the reports about the poachers’ vessel. He had a zoom and he snapped off a bunch of shots, developed them, and one in particular was a clear shot of at least one of the crew on the boat’s deck. Kevin wrote that he intended to have the picture enlarged, to get a clearer view of the man’s face and to try and make out the name on the side of the boat. It was less than a day later that Kevin headed off alone.
‘Not because he expected to take on these killers single handed, you understand. Kevin was neither a fool nor, for that matter, a hero. Just persistent. His intention would’ve been to sight the hunters, and snap off some better pictures that could’ve helped the police.’
‘And if that failed,’ said Amy, ‘he still had the aerial shot for enlargement.’
‘The police searched and searched but they never could find any sign of that blasted photo.’ Even after all this time, Jean Farrow’s voice dripped with her frustration.
‘Normal procedure,’ said Hank, ‘would be to send the pic in to the paper’s photo editor for the enlargement.’
‘The police checked that, of course, ’said Amy, ‘but the photo editor never received any such picture from Kevin.'
Jean said: ‘I always thought perhaps Kevin still had the photograph on him, but when the rangers found his backpack later, it wasn’t among his possessions. Nor was it in his car.’
‘I’ll get you the diary,’ Amy said in a small voice. Seeing the hurt in her eyes, Hank regretted digging up old wounds. He knew how hard it was to deal with grief when the past kept parading itself before you. He began to apologise but Amy, heading out of the room, waved him off. ‘No, it’s all right. I’m glad you want to write about Kevin.’ Equally as true but left unspoken was that she’d noted the way her ex mother-in-law looked at Hank. Amy hoped, really hoped, for Jean Farrow to find some happiness in her life. It was the least she deserved.
Hank read through the relevant diary entries as Jean and Amy prepared a light snack. He decided he wanted to talk with the Miami newspaper’s photo editor, with the Everglades City detectives who’d worked the case, and with the helicopter pilot who’d flown Kevin over the region just days before the tragedy.
Hank wasn’t sure why, but he felt compelled to investigate this story. Perhaps it was due to the attraction he felt towards Jean, or perhaps he believed he might stumble upon new information. Whatever the reason, his compulsion was very real and growing stronger by the hour.
Chuck Jensen had been flying helicopters for thirty years. At fifty, he had the fitness of a man half his age and with his rugged features, closely shaved head and greying stubble he was every bit the outdoors everyman.
His office and helipad were crammed into the corner of a tiny airfield on the outskirts of Everglades City. He shook hands with Hank and leaned back in his chair, hands behind his head. He had both a cheeky grin and a down-to-earth manner. ‘So. Did you say you were in the news game, Hank?’
‘Used to be. Retired now.’
‘Ah. Writing a book?’
‘Not a bad idea, but right now I’m working on a freelance article, maybe even a series of articles. A few years back there were reports of a gang hunting ‘gators.’
‘Oh yeah.’ Jensen popped a piece of gum into his mouth and began chewing furiously. ‘Have to excuse me, Hank. Trying to give up the fags and the gum’s the only thing keeping me sane. I remember the stories about those hunters. Quite a few reports, then they seemed to disappear. But it’s not that unusual in Florida – from time to time there’s poachers about, and then they’re gone. Absolute bastards, all of them.’
‘You flew a photojournalist over the Glades about two years back. He was looking for the boat that belonged to those hunters.’
Jensen nodded. ‘The guy that got taken by the ‘Gators…’ Jensen’s memory of the flight and of Kevin Farrow was vague. ‘He took quite a few pics…’ Jensen recalled being questioned by the police after the death, but there hadn’t been anything special he’d remembered.
Hank wasn’t sure why he’d bothered meeting Jensen. Then he reminded himself, as he had at various times throughout his career, that doing the legwork was part and parcel of investigative journalism. Following the trail, no matter how cold, looking under every rock and into every nook and cranny – somewhere there was a piece of the story that had been missed. He’d already talked with the detectives and read the case files. Maybe the warmth he
sought along this cold trail didn’t rely on finding the missing photo – maybe it lay with what had become of the alligator gang.
‘What do you think happened to those hunters?’
‘Well, truth is this is a popular place. It’s become increasingly well travelled and visited. You can’t go hunting ‘gators, or anything else for that matter, without attracting attention sooner or later. No matter how organised you are.’
‘So you think, once the search escalated, these hunters decided to move on?’
‘Yeah. Once they’d killed that reporter the park was swarming with cops. They sent out fleets of choppers, and those dudes have sophisticated binoculars, heat seeking equipment, all sorts of shit.’ Jensen was chewing furiously on the gum and Hank found it distracting. He made a mental effort to look Jensen straight in the eyes to avoid the rolling jaw. ‘So I figure if they’re still in business they’ve moved somewhere more remote.’
If they’re still in business, Hank thought.
‘It’s not something you hear a lot about,’ said Hank, ‘this illegal alligator hunting. Do you know what kind of black market there is for these ‘gator skins?’
Chuck Jensen’s cheeks reddened. ‘Don’t get me started on that. Over in the third world countries there’s a roaring trade for our reptile skins, for all kinds of animal hide actually.’
Hank thanked Jensen for his time and got up to leave. ‘I read in the reports that you believed Kevin Farrow intended to send his roll of film straight into the newspaper.’
‘Did I? Don’t remember any details now, but yeah, he probably said something like that. I seem to recall he was a talkative type, very passionate about what he was doing. I liked that. I had no idea, though, he intended to go off backpackin’ to try and spot that boat.’
Jensen stood up and ambled, with Hank, to the door of his cluttered office.
