by Finn Bell
When the guards bring Albus Maihi over I marvel at how well he still looks; a large, fit-looking man in his late fifties who still moves with ease. His hands, arms and neck are an ongoing network of interwoven Māori tattoos and scars tracing lines of hard muscle. Gang leadership is by no means an easy life. Albus has weathered it better than most.
“Albus, you look well. Prison clearly agrees with you,” Tobe says by way of greeting as Albus takes a seat across from us and the prison guards retreat. Beyond the glass prison life continues, apparently oblivious to us, but you can tell by the way no one is directly looking at us that several prisoners are taking notice.
“Tobe, Nick, good to see you again. How’s the leg?” Albus asks as he sits down and studies the papers laid out in front of him.
“Aches when it’s going to rain, very handy,” Tobe replies.
Albus takes his time looking at each piece of paper on the desk then sighs and looks up at us before saying, “Martin must be pretty angry to try and pull this.”
“Yeah, but he hasn’t beaten anybody with a chair today so I’d say his people skills are improving,” I respond.
“Fact that you’re here so soon means someone made it out. Who are you liking for it?” Albus asks.
There’s no use trying to figure out how Albus Maihi, stuck in prison, could possibly know what happened in Lawrence literally only a few hours ago when we haven’t even made a media statement yet. Gangs have their dirty tricks too. And even more money than Becca Patrick and the Channel 3 News.
“We ID’d him at the scene. It’s your bestie, Remu Black,” I lie to see how it plays. Albus hears this without expression.
“In that case I can only respond by saying that to the best of my knowledge Remu Black has never been convicted of any crime. Further, he is an upstanding, law-abiding citizen who is a pillar of the community and a constant support in my own sincere effort to rehabilitate myself,” Albus says with a blank expression.
It’s true. Remu Black is good at what he does, and even though we know he’s as guilty as they come, he holds the rare title of ‘never been convicted of crime’ even after years of our most sincere efforts.
“Come on lads, I haven’t got all morning. I have to go see my therapist, talk about my feelings. Then do some more reforming of my criminal self. Plus, we get brownies with lunch today. I can see the big stick clear enough,” Albus continues, pointing down at the papers on the table. “And Tobe, I know you’re not the type to even try the carrot. What do you want?”
“Remu took a hostage with him. I want you to get word to him, tell him to let the man go. Whatever he was trying to get done out in Lawrence is over. He gains nothing by killing the hostage now. We already know it’s him and we have witnesses who are willing to testify. So tell Remu that if we find James Chen in a shallow grave he’ll never see the outside of prison again. Breaking and entering. Kidnap. Assault. Assault on minors. Assault on police. Arson. Murder. He’s the only one left alive. If he doesn’t let James go we lay it all at his door,” Tobe says.
Albus takes his time in replying. No sign of emotion on his face as he calmly studies the pictures on the table again.
“Hard words from a man with empty hands. Setting aside that this is of course not Remu Black, whoever you’re looking for is gone. You fucked up not catching him in Lawrence. Weather still looks good. Few more hours in the forest gets him into the foothills, then it’s mountains all the way to Fiordland. You’ve already lost. This is just desperation,” Albus says, nodding towards the photos before concluding, “But then you already know that.”
“There’s a lot of dead bodies out in Lawrence this morning. I’ll have them send you the crime scene photos,” I say as I start to collect the papers on the table. “Manga Kahu is a gang blessed with many enemies. Not a good time for most of the leadership to show up with all those embarrassing bullet holes. But that aside it’s still about numbers. You’re in here. So are a fair few of the others. Who’s left out there, free to actually still run things? When we find Remu he’s another dead man. That’s a whole lot of nobody left at the top to do crime out there. Things could get a bit fraught for you,” I say.
“I’ll have to remind you again that Remu has never been convicted of a crime. And I don’t see a warrant with his name on it. But you know what, please do send me those photos. It’s important to cherish your family. Regardless of what happened, I’ve always been personally thankful for the example you’ve set in that regard Nick,” Albus says, looking at me with a smile. “Maybe I’ll get a chance to show you my own gratitude soon.”
Albus gets up and starts to leave, clearly done with the conversation.
I look over at Tobe but he just shakes his head and we let Albus go. The door closes behind him and through the glass we watch him walk away.
“Do we push it?” I ask Tobe, holding up the cold case.
“No, we’ll leave it there for now. Pursuing it further just takes time we don’t have. He’s got the message now and he’ll do it. I know him. There’s some connection between him and Remu. A debt of some kind. He’ll do it,” Tobe states.
“Your call. I need to get out to the car to check the messages. See if anything’s come up on the whereabouts of our other two candidates,” I say, checking my watch. The morning was emptying out already. And like Albus said, they could reach the mountains by sunset.
“First we need to see the priest,” Tobe says. “We’ve given Albus the word. Now we need to arrange things so he has the opportunity to pass it on.”
* * *
“You know I’m not a church-going man Tobe, what with my busy schedule of super fun sinning and that total lack of belief. I get that. But how come Father Ress can be a priest? To be ordained you have to be religious right, at least more than the rest of us? He swears, he drinks and even I keep better company than he does,” I say to Tobe as we’re escorted through to the prison chapel.
“You’re confusing religion with spirituality Nick. Spirituality is a language. Religion is just crowd control. And that’s not Father Ress’ way,” Tobe says over his shoulder.
“Well it’s his way that has me concerned. I read some of his old case files. He did some cold, ugly things in his day. The kind of cop gangsters got worried about. Then he just walks out. Becomes a priest. And now he routinely gets drunk with half the people he sent to prison. That’s when he’s not actually ministering to the ones still in here. I’m telling you, he’s bent,” I say.
“No, he’s not. Sometimes people, only some, become more themselves the older they get. It’s like they can’t help it. Like the time wears away all the lies we tell ourselves. Bobby Ress is what’s left when that happens,” Tobe says.
“Deep, but I stand by my hunch. Nobody spends a lifetime around these people without getting tainted somehow,” I counter as we push through the chapel doors.
“And now we push the little pink rabbit ears into the hole just so,” Father Ress says happily as he lifts up a fluffy, pink and white woollen booty in front of him, knitting needles held delicately to the sides. He’s the focus of a group of large, heavily-tattooed Māori men sitting in a circle of fierce concentration as each slowly copies the move on his own tiny, woollen booty. The picture only slightly marred by the faint clink and jingle of chains. Tobe gives me a look but says nothing.
“Father Ress,” Tobe says as he walks over. “Good to see you again.”
“Ah, Tobe and Nick. I heard you were in prison today,” Father Ress says with a smile as he notices us. “Aroha, could you take over please, follow out the other ear in the same way. There’s a good lad.”
“Can we speak in private?” Tobe asks Father Ress.
“Of course. Follow me,” he answers, leading us to the back of the small church where his office is walled in by another piece of shatterproof glass.
“Branching out from the faith?” I ask, looking back at the group.
“Ah, the knitting. It’s a trauma technique based on something ca
lled Eye Movement Desensitisation Therapy. Almost never works,” Father Ress replies over his shoulder.
“You mean sometimes it actually does?” I counter.
“Well I don’t just make them do it for shits and giggles,” Father Ress says.
“And the fluffy booties are integral to the healing process?” I ask.
“That’s my own addition. Annoys them no end. It’s the requirement of the Church that I attempt to offer salvation to their poor souls, which includes evidence-based best practice in rehabilitative therapies. Doesn’t mean you can’t also have a good time though,” Father Ress says as he ushers us into his office, shutting the glass door behind him.
“The chains are a nice touch,” I add, looking back at the frowning faces.
“Oh, that’s on them. Somebody in D Block wasn’t using his words yesterday. So, this about Lawrence?” he asks as he takes the chair behind the desk.
“Yes. We need a favour,” Tobe answers. “It’s bad. Several dead gangsters, almost all of them Manga Kahu leadership. Brian Kepu, two of the Black brothers, two of the Maihis. It ended with the father of the family they held hostage being kidnapped. There’s a chance he isn’t dead yet but we’re working against the clock. Martin put us on to trying to get word to the last surviving gangster to release him alive. That’s why we’re here.”
“Who’s the suspect?” Father Ress asks.
“Remu Black,” I answer.
“That doesn’t make sense. Why would Remu Black be in Lawrence?” Father Ress asks, shaking his head. “Why would any of them?
“Who’s your inside man?” Father Ress then asks.
“Albus Maihi,” I say.
“That’s bad luck. I know Albus very well and have for most of his life. He is, unfortunately for you, an honourable man,” Father Ress says with a grimace.
“Yeah, honourable. Such a common problem to encounter when dealing with your more dangerous career criminal,” I say, thinking that I don’t have nearly enough coffee in me for this conversation.
“You misunderstand me. I’m referring to honour as per the Jungian definition, meaning he has both honesty and integrity,” Father Ress says. When he sees my frown deepen he continues. “Honesty means saying what you do. Integrity means doing what you say. If you can do both, day in and day out, then that’s honour. People may not understand it in the academic sense but they can feel it in a person. It’s what makes them trust him. How do you think he’s survived at the top of that gang for so long? People believe in Albus Maihi.”
“We’ve already given him a push, but we’ve only got hours. We need you to give him a hand in getting outside access fast,” Tobe says.
“Like bringing Albus in for his weekly confessional and leaving my desk phone unlocked, and then getting engrossed in the finer points of the Easter mural we’re painting over Gate 7?”
“Indeed,” Tobe answers.
“Sure. It’d be good to feel my share of holy forgiveness work a bit harder for a change. I won’t guarantee he’ll go for it though,” Father Ress says.
“You don’t think it will work?” I ask.
“Couldn’t say. If he believes it to be the right thing to do then yes,” Father Ress answers.
“So you’re saying if Albus, hardened gangster and multiple murderer, can overcome his sense of honour and morality he may lower himself to help the police save a man’s life?” I retort, pinching the bridge of my nose to dull the beginning of a headache.
“Come now Nick. Where do you think you are? Prisons are spiritual places. The only thing people here have more of than the rest of the world is time. Sex, food, money – all the fun things people use to distract themselves from how they’re fucking up their lives – those things are all absent here. Prison means being forced to look at yourself, your decisions, without the chance to look away. Doing this hurts. Over time the pain makes most people worse but a few, the strong ones, find a kind of peace in it. Albus is one of them,” Father Ress says.
“Look here,” he continues as he rummages through his desk drawers before pulling out a small photograph.
“This is the tattoo Albus got when his daughter died last year. It’s in Māori but the English translation is on the back,” he says as he hands it over to me. The picture looks like it is of his chest, the heavily stylised Māori inscription lies faded and hidden amongst scars. When I turn it over it reads: Morality is not the doctrine of how we make ourselves happy, but how we make ourselves worthy of happiness.
* * *
We’re back in the prison parking lot, waiting for the engine to heat up while I check the various reports and messages on the computer, when Tobe says, “This will work. Albus will get word out. The only question is whether that word will reach Remu Black and reach him in time.”
“You’re taking a lot on faith I don’t have,” I say. “I haven’t met a gangster who doesn’t have a cell phone but things were a bit rough out in Lawrence so maybe he doesn’t anymore, or maybe it’s in pieces, or if he actually still has it with him the battery might be flat, and that’s assuming there’s reception,” I say. “Besides, we still don’t know what they were doing in Lawrence in the first place. What if they have a safe house out there, or more people nearby? Too many unknowns,” I say.
“Updates?” Tobe asks, warming up his hands in front of the car heater despite the air blowing out still being cold.
“Hang on,” I say as I scan through the reports. “Here we go. Nothing on the searches, dog teams have lost the scent after the second stream crossing. Some breaks at least; we’ve got alibis and confirmed whereabouts for both Vester Maihi and Bill Kepu for last night and today. The only one still missing from the party is Remu. So let’s hope he’s not just out killing unsuspecting bits of nature. But Tobe, I’m telling you, this all still feels wrong,” I finish.
“Your dubious assertions of faith aside, let’s look at this logically. Do we have any other likely suspects? Anyone at all?” Tobe prompts.
“No,” I answer.
“Do we have the time, resources or orders to find them?” Tobe continues.
“No,” I answer.
“Then our position is clear. The risks of falsely accusing and pursuing Remu Black when he is innocent are far less than not doing so when he is in fact guilty,” Tobe declares.
“I hear you,” I answer reluctantly as I continue checking the list of messages. “Ah, here’s one from Maud. Andrea Chen is out of recovery and talking, and she and the kids are over at Mercy Hospital. Martin wants to know if we want some time with them. Could be worth it. We’ve still got work-ups on Remu Black. Masks or not, maybe they remember something, a scar or tattoo. It would give us more to move on than we’ve got now,” I suggest.
“Might as well. I can’t see what else we could do right now to further things,” Tobe says. Yeah, I think to myself, because we’ve put all our faith in a bad priest and an even worse gangster.
* * *
Mercy Hospital spreads across a hillside among some of the best real estate in the city. Owned by the Sisters of Mercy Catholic Mission, it was built long before the land around it became the desirable homes of the elite. And despite many desperately lucrative offers from those neighbours they’ve always refused to move. I like that. The hospital still cares for some of the poorest and most vulnerable people in this city, for free. This creates an odd meeting place for some of the highest and lowest members of society. The people living almost like animals in slums and the people who own those slums.
We come here often; gangsters get old too. And even with a life sentence, near the end most prisons would rather set you free to go die somewhere else, costing somebody else money. Down south most end up here with the Sisters of Mercy, the only people who will take them.
In their last days, when they can feel death smiling at them, some of them will call us. Tell the truth about all the things they did years ago. In reality it matters little to us, old men and their old crimes. Maybe we close-out a few cold case
s nobody cares about anymore, but sometimes we get lucky. Sometimes the fever or drugs or pain makes them slip up and tell us things they shouldn’t. Things about their families, things happening now. Things that can still help us make a difference.
To save time we get Remu Black’s file printed out at the nurses’ station instead of heading back to the office. We find Andrea Chen and her daughters, Kylie and Annabelle, behind a guarded door in their own private room. All three are sitting propped up, shoulder to shoulder in what must be the mother’s hospital bed. Aside from her heavily bandaged chest they seem to have few visible injuries. On the outside at least. I see they are reading a picture book together. Three tiny females huddled together, dark eyes staring fixedly.
As we go through the usual introductions I notice the book is called ‘The Velveteen Rabbit’. It looks like a children’s book, too old for girls already 13 and 16, but strange times can make you do strange things.
“I know you’ve already answered a lot of questions but we’ve got some pictures here we’d like you to look at. Do any of these people seem familiar? Did any of them call each other by any names or nick names,” Tobe asks as he opens the file.
Remu Black’s work up is current and includes a selection of close ups of his face, body, arms and hands, all bearing a unique pattern of prison tattoos and scars.
“I’m sorry, none of this seems familiar,” Andrea answers, shaking her head. “They came in so fast and there were so many of them. Honestly, I just remember all the guns everywhere. They were all wearing masks, and then they tied us all up and blindfolded us. They even taped over our ears and mouths. We couldn’t do anything.”
“How about you girls, does any of this remind you of something you saw? Did you hear anything, any names?” I ask.
“Sorry no, all I remember is they were all so big and they just kept yelling and pushing us all at once,” Kylie, the elder sister adds.
