God help him, McCain was glad she’d been too late. Maybe the one good impact of Bella’s accident was her father’s death.
The Job III
It’s common knowledge, isn’t it?
Most crooks are dumb
They make mistakes—lots of them—because no education from CSI-this-that-or-the-other, or their last cellmate, is going to make up for what they just aren’t capable of grasping
It’s only the ‘easy life’ until they get caught
And they will get caught because they’re not the sharpest tools in the shed
That’s why they’re crooks
Get the picture?
Mind you, they keep me in a job – a job I mostly love, though I miss the action now that I’m typically chained to the desk
So, sometimes I take a patrol
It’s like the good old days again
Riding the van, educating a rookie, slowing down the lead foots, all the while on alert for a call, or anything suss, reason to give the strobes and siren a whirl
C’mon, crooks, do your best
But expect to be caught, so work on your story
Surprise us: anything but ‘I’m your boss’ or ‘I wasn’t doing anything wrong’
Make it good
Make it a cracker
Make our day
Get the picture?
Hot Patrol
Originally published as ‘Hot Job’ in ‘The Foothills Magazine’, December 2013–February 2014 edition
Sally swiped her nape and grimaced at her slick fingers. It was nowhere near the hottest part of summer, either.
Not that it was scorching. More, uncomfortable. Sticky inside the uniform, her undies were sweaty and her hair had frizzed into red pipe-cleaners. The night was airless but not oppressive enough that they would be inundated with alcohol-fuelled domestics or need to patrol for match-happy larrikins. But there was a full moon and that invariably drew the local NUPHYs out of the woodwork.
Her eyebrows lifted at her non-PC slip. Tut-tut. Most improper to label a punter with ‘needs urgent psychological help yesterday’…even if the straightjacket fits.
Sally snorted and almost wished they would be besieged with such callouts. Anything would be an improvement on the old clock-watch and paperwork-push in the station.
The desk sergeant waved as he passed her open door. He hitched and rolled his stiff leg, the legacy of an encounter with a sledgehammer-wielding customer thirteen years ago that had ended his active duty.
Sally screwed her face. She hadn’t seen active duty in a long time. The thing about promotion, it’s not until you have the new nameplate and stripes that you realise you were much happier in operations than handling administrative–political bullshit.
There I go again with inappropriate thinking. She chuckled. Shit, shoot me if I completely morph into a puppet to uptight policy.
She clanged two gold coins into a mental piggy bank. The swear jar. Hubby Tony nicknamed her ‘Trash Mouth’ – a sure case of the pot calling the kettle black. Her Tony, who was also a cop, had a mouth on him, too. But thick skin and a trash mouth were prerequisites of their job. And he banked more than her every day.
A smile still in her eyes, she swigged from her water bottle and observed the rookie attack a mountain of filing. He paused to smooth a hair, sighed and plucked the next sheet.
The youngster, Paul Starr, appeared as brain-dead as she felt. That batch of filing equated to an apprentice cabinetmaker being sent to the hardware store for a left-handed screwdriver. But Starr needed to work that out for himself and wouldn’t thank his boss, more particularly his female boss, for setting him straight.
Sally shut her yellow folder and lay her palm on top for a moment. She pressed down on the desk and heaved out of the chair.
Another thing Tony accused her of: comfortable married-woman spread. She blamed her ample girth on pen-pushing and assured him that his belly made a worthy rival. But he was right – she needed to get in shape. She’d be on par with fictional detective Henry Crabbe in Pie in the Sky if she took on a crook these days and would have to rely on outwitting, rather than outrunning.
Not a big ask, considering the IQ of the average crook.
Sally called, ‘Mac, anything up?’
The desk sergeant gave a thumbs-down.
‘P – Starr.’
Phew, close shave. Almost called him Porn Star, the moniker the crew gave their vain rookie after he’d hit on every female at the station save for her. He’d been with them about a month. Time she got to know him better.
‘Ma’am?’
‘Grab the van keys. We’re hitting the road so I can get to know you while it’s quiet.’
Mac and one of the other uniforms guffawed. Starr’s olive complexion paled and Sally beamed.
I do love parts of my job.
The first ten minutes went as well as a blind date. The rookie was on his best behaviour and duller than dishwater. But he soon settled down and even cracked a joke about a blonde trying to steal a police car. She laughed with him and decided the kid was growing on her.
Like a wart.
She sniggered and he looked bemused.
They coasted past St Joe’s school and the oval. He turned onto the highway, then pulled into the car park at the Middle Hotel and did a slow drive through. Nothing was happening even there.
‘Let’s take a look-see at the Royal.’
As they proceeded towards the other pub nearby, their marked van stood out among the thin traffic, which slowed to fifty clicks. Sally smirked. All-so-innocent until they and the cop car diverged, then the lead foots would revert to their normal tricks.
Starr dropped the F-bomb, shot her an appalled glance and apologised. ‘Sorry, ma’am. But it’s bloody boring tonight, isn’t it?’
‘Yep,’ she agreed. ‘Not even a bloody jaywalker.’
Cha-ching in the swear jar.
They caught a red light at Dawson Street.
Starr drummed his fingers in time with their blinker and Sally murmured, ‘So where’s he off to?’
They viewed a tow truck with its ambers on flash bear in the Tecoma direction.
Their light changed and she blew out a breath. ‘Follow it.’
The constable did a confused head tilt, then focused on merging back onto the highway.
Sally answered his unspoken question. ‘Maybe he’s en route to a breakdown. Or maybe he’s on his way to the next call to come through our radio. Let’s luck it.’
Starr grinned. ‘The whole shebang?’
‘Settle, Constable. Just shadow for now.’
He nodded, a nose twitch the single tell-tale of his disappointment at the vetoed strobes and siren.
The tow truck maintained a steady pace at five clicks under the varying speed limit as they traversed the foothills. Despite the continuous flash of amber, there was no sense of urgency.
The truck indicated right an instant before the next traffic light. The divvy van trailed. Still no matching incident report came through the radio or via the bat phone when Sally rang Mac.
She disconnected from Mac and commented, ‘Where is this bloke going?’
The rookie shrugged.
They corkscrewed through steep and narrow streets. Two sets of headlights and the towie’s flashers cut through the darkness. Even when they twisted onto a wider carriageway and the landscape rolled from residential to sweeping fields, they met few other vehicles in either direction. And the truck and van continued to drift.
Starr eyed his boss. She narrowed her gaze and signalled to persist.
A trickle of sweat dripped from her nose and she wiped it mechanically. Clock-watching and perspiration didn’t rate against the scene in front of them. She sensed that action brewed.
The towie meandered once more into a built-up neighbourhood, then forked at the roundabout onto Dawson and completed a full circle.
Sally muttered, ‘I think we got our NUPHY.’
Riveted on the road
and truck ahead, Starr didn’t react.
Sally radioed through. ‘We seem to have ourselves a hot job. Driver acting suspiciously.’
She paused to double-check the seat next to the driver. Empty or occupied by someone bloody short. ‘One head on board.’ After updating their position, she called off.
‘Move in. The whole shebang.’
‘Pleasure, ma’am.’
The constable blinded her with his porno-worthy pearly whites.
In response to their red-and-blue lights and a whoop of the siren, the tow truck slowed. Then it accelerated. It swerved left at the Tourist Road and Sally groaned. Starr leaned forward.
The towie wasn’t playing nice.
They couldn’t cut him off on this section of the hill; it was too dangerous, notwithstanding the patchy traffic. If they tried to force him over and he misjudged the verge, the truck would skydive and eventually hurtle into a mountain ash.
Sally saw herself as fat man Crabbe.
Outwit, not outrun.
She visualised the surrounding terrain and the circuitous ride they’d just followed. Then she strategised, hoping he’d play straight into her hands. He turned right, taking the high road.
Dumb crook.
Sally pointed. ‘We’ll take the low road.’
‘Why?’
‘You’ll see,’ she told her rookie. ‘I bet you a beer he’s planning to lead us back to the highway.’
‘But he’s got at least three options once he reaches Hughes.’
‘And I’m sure he’ll return to where we’ve just been via the shortest route.’
Starr pursed his lips showing he was unconvinced. Luckily, he manoeuvred the van with a dexterity that impressed his superior more than his attitude.
They hovered at the Hughes Street intersection. And sure enough, a minute later the tow truck ambled into sight. Starr pulled the van across the road and the truck halted.
Sally said, ‘You owe me a beer,’ and hooked her finger at the constable. They approached the driver’s door and she made a winding motion. The bloke dropped the window and peered down at them.
‘Good evening.’ The senior sergeant smiled as she took in the man’s bare torso.
The driver replied, ‘It is.’ He seemed relaxed but for dilated pupils.
He glanced around Sally and pointed. ‘Hey, pretty boy, love your fluoro vest.’ He strummed his ribcage and added, ‘It’d look good on me, don’t ya reckon?’
The rookie flushed; his boss grinned on the inside.
‘Where’s the incident?’ She pointed to the flashing amber bars.
The bloke cackled. ‘I was hot and bored, what can I say?’
Definitely high. He hadn’t blinked.
‘Got your licence handy?’
‘Woo-woo-woo-woo!’ The sound vibrated as the man flapped a hand over his mouth.
Sally’s neck jerked back in response.
What the bloody hell?
‘Woo-woo-woo-woo!’ With another battle cry, the bloke scrambled over the passenger seat and slithered through the window. The cops watched as he climbed onto the roof and beat it like a bongo drum in synch with the flashing lights.
‘See what I see, Starr?’
He nodded mutely, floored by the driver’s boxer shorts: black with three luminous pink arrows that pointed at a love heart over his crotch.
Classy.
‘Our night just became a whole lot more entertaining,’ she drawled. Then she shouted over the clamour, ‘Make your way down, matey.’
The driver shrugged, yet instead of joining them, he re-entered the cabin via the far window.
‘Licence please.’
‘No can do.’
Sally frowned. ‘It’s at home?’
‘Nope.’
‘You don’t have a licence?’
The bloke hooted his horn. A dog barked in reply, which set off a chorus of howls in the neighbourhood.
‘That would be an affirmative.’
She hazarded, ‘Unlicensed and this isn’t your truck, right?’
He waved her nearer. ‘You’re so smart, you should be a cop.’
Another horn blast and a screech of laughter sent the dogs into a fresh yap-and-yelp contest.
‘Oh, we have ourselves a com-e-dian.’
Sally straightened and hiked up her equipment belt around her marshmallow belly.
‘Righto, how funny is it that you’re taking a drug and alcohol test?’
She rolled her eyes as the man exited the truck and scaled the nearest gumtree.
‘Think we could be in for a long time of it, Constable?’ she asked her offsider.
‘A long time and a good time,’ Starr quipped with one of his gleaming grins.
The Job IV
Hell, I hate these cases, they get right under the skin
Make me doubt I’m in the right job
although, what else would I do?
Make me doubt we make a difference
beyond clearance rates
or supporting victims’ loved ones
It’s not the stuff of superheroes
not likely to earn a medal, and honestly wouldn’t want one
But finding the truth
putting away the culprit
is a good day in the office
Not much beats it
Hell…it’s worth the pain
Losing Heidi
Winner Scarlet Stiletto Awards 2014 Special Commendation
Hunger seemed irreverent in their business. But tell that to her empty gut.
Jude Reeve must’ve heard it rumble because she asked, ‘When’d you last eat, boss?’
Inspector Rose Sturt squinted raw eyes at her colleague and shrugged. It was hours since she’d grabbed a pie, as her team caught this case back-to-back with wrapping up a nursing-home homicide.
‘Suspected as much.’ Reeve dropped a bag onto Sturt’s desk.
‘You’re the best, Jude.’
With a mock-bow, Reeve handed her a small bottle. ‘Because nobody delivers a salad roll and OJ like me?’
‘Because you think of it.’
As they chewed, Sturt stretched her spine and hooked the desk lamp closer to a photograph of Jennifer Denton and her children. Now that her homicide inquiry was in hand, she could catch up on Reeve’s background work on the Denton case.
‘What’ve we got?’
‘Not much.’ Reeve gulped her orange juice and wiped her lips with a serviette before she continued. ‘Jennifer and Heidi were last seen outside the family home by Shelley Simpson, a mother in Heidi’s playgroup, at the local supermarket on 13 May. Yet, according to Martin Denton, Jennifer’s hubby, he last saw them at breakfast on Friday 14 May, the day Jennifer planned to visit her sister in Shepparton.’
‘Did you check with the sister?’ Sturt queried, as she flicked through the file.
‘Uh-huh. Anna Gerald—the sister—says she didn’t know anything about Jennifer and Heidi staying with her.’
The inspector pursed her lips.
Reeve seemed to read her mind. ‘Anna was quite distraught when I spoke to her. She blames herself for not calling Jennifer often enough or realising anything was wrong. But with four kids under six, she has her hands full. Mind you, if her sister had asked, I’ve no doubt Anna would’ve done anything to help.’
Reeve screwed up her mouth, emphasising the juts of her facial bones. She’d lost a few kilograms too many since joining their team. Stress, long hours and skipped meals had done the same to Sturt over her time with Homicide and with a wash of guilt she acknowledged that she hadn’t been looking out for Reeve.
‘Jennifer’s parents, Geoff and Margaret Locke, reckon she never mentioned visiting Anna to them, either. And apparently, they expected the Denton family for lunch on 16 May, but they didn’t turn up. The Lockes insist Jennifer would’ve called if her plans had changed and she wouldn’t leave her son behind for a daytrip, let alone an extended stay. In fact, none of these witnesses can recall the last time J
ennifer went anywhere outside of Melbourne without Martin and both kids.’
Sturt referred to the file. ‘So, mum and dad reported Jennifer and Heidi missing on 18 May?’
‘Uh-huh. But the desk sarge assumed it was all a misunderstanding and that Mrs Locke had overreacted, so he didn’t pursue it. In desperation, Mr Locke contacted a friend-of-a-friend at Prahran CIU on 21 May. And eventually, the case made its way to Connolly’s unit.’
Sturt took one mouthful of her juice and couldn’t stop glugging, so she waved her junior on. She hadn’t realised how dehydrated and hungry she’d become and the meal courtesy of Reeve barely made a dent on it.
‘Anyway, Prahran had hubby in, made general inquiries, hit a brick wall and –’ Reeve broke off to answer the telephone, listened and handed the receiver across. ‘Connolly, boss.’
‘Howdy.’
‘Progress, Rose?’
The peal of her mobile phone distracted Sturt but she let the call go to message bank. ‘Not yet, mate. Jude’s done some prelims and we’re going over the file.’
‘Martin Denton is a rum one,’ Connolly said. ‘Comes across distraught and I can’t prove he’s culpable of anything apart from wasting our time with all these stories—yet—but my gut’s screaming that the wife and child have come to grief at his hands.’
Sturt’s shoulder blade buzzed. The old knife wound did that when her gut tried to talk. It clearly agreed with her mate from the Missing Persons Unit.
After they’d wrapped up and disconnected, she checked with Reeve, ‘So far Denton’s changed his story three times?’
‘Four. First, Jennifer had gone to visit her sis.’ Reeve talked and paced. ‘When the family disputed that idea, he said they’d misunderstood him, she was visiting a girlfriend. Then, he spun a story about a stalker, alluding to her abduction. Latest is a confession that Jennifer discovered she was pregnant again, which triggered a nervous breakdown and caused her to take off.’
‘Pretty elaborate.’ Sturt exhaled loudly through her nostrils.
‘And doubtful. Connolly hasn’t been able to substantiate the breakdown theory. Although Jennifer wasn’t,’ Reeve corrected her slip, ‘isn’t one for girls’ nights and her friends are largely from Heidi’s three-year-old kinder group and Shawn’s school, she’s seemingly very well liked and a devoted mum.’
On The Job Page 5
