So he thought back to the phone conversation he’d had earlier that day with a federal agent in Canberra, the Officer in Charge of Transnational and Multi-Jurisdictional Crime, Acting Superintendent Brian Thurlow.
Marr started off by identifying himself, then detailed the situation along the same lines he’d explained to Senior Sergeant Simpson several weeks ago. Namely the mysterious snakebite death of Theo Stomann – which Thurlow found extraordinary – followed by the equally strange demise of Mike O’Connor and Brent Dickenson at the “hands” of two other snakes, and the baffling disappearance of Robert Murray.
“Ah yes, the mysterious Murray and his wife,” Thurlow said. “Just jumped in their Landcruiser in Brissie one summer’s afternoon and were never seen again. Their car was picked up by traffic cameras on the M1 heading south either to the Gold Coast, or his old man’s place up in the hinterland, but they never made it.”
Mike was impressed. “You seem to be all over it.”
“For sure. Got a cousin who’s on the job on the Goldie, and he was telling me about it quite recently at a family wedding. Initially it was thought to be a kidnapping with his father being so incredibly loaded. Plus there were signs of a struggle at their unit, some sort of glass table smashed and freshly made dents in the walls. But as time goes by, they’re strongly suspecting murder-suicide or foul play. No ransom note. No ATM cards being used. No mobiles answered. No nothing.”
“Well, Brian what makes things curious-er and curious-er,” Marr continued, “is that Murray, Stomann, O’Connor and Dickenson were compadres.”
“The outlaw motorcycle gang!?”
“What?! Sorry, no I meant friends, but you’re not too far off the mark. The more I see of their Facebook posts, and the posts they like and share, the more I realise that, despite their age – some pushing forty – they’re part of some secret neo-nazi gang. They’re definitely hard-core racists. Blokes like Colin Caldwell and Ed Van Heerden have started harping on about racial purity and something they call ‘the White Renaissance’.
“Plus in several happy snaps, our friends are holding their thumbs and forefingers together in a circle. It used to mean OK, but these days I’m led to believe it’s a recognised white supremacists’ gesture.”
There was a long pause before Thurlow spoke again. It sounded like he was taking notes.
“That’s very interesting Mike,” he said, “and I’ll certainly pass that bit of intel onto my mates in our Counter-Terrorism Unit; although they’ve probably already got them red flagged. I was with that unit until about a year ago and I know that investigating far-right extremism now takes up around 40% of the Feds’ counter-terrorism caseload.”
Marr had no idea it was so rampant.
“But surely they’re illegal, these fanatical groups? The way they publicly state they support Brenton Tarrant, the guy responsible for the New Zealand mosque massacre, and demand that Derek Chauvin be pardoned for the George Floyd murder, and go around in intimidating packs burning crosses and yelling ‘Heil Hitler’ and ‘Long Live the Ku Klux Klan’ and all that…”
“They probably should be outlawed, but unless they are actually inciting violence, or preparing for a terrorist act, all we can legally do is keep our eye on them and wait for them to do something stupid.”
“Seriously?”
“Yeah, well it’s almost impossible to get a conviction. Despite the sharp rise in white supremacists – and all the incessant racist chatter on social media you mentioned before – to date, only 21 of these thugs and bullies have ever been convicted of hate crimes in Australia. And most just got a slap on their heavily tattooed wrists and sent home to do it all again.”
Marr paused for a moment to let that all sink in.
“So, there’s nothing we can do about these guys who met up at the Rock, who are dropping like flies?”
“Mate as far as I can gather, they are the victims here. If they were the ones killing the snakes, or threatening people with snakes, we could act. Snakes are deemed to be protected native wildlife, so if they deliberately killed one, they could face still fines anywhere between $10,000 and $80,000, plus up to five years in jail depending on which state or territory they’re in. But it’s the snakes that are killing them.”
“Exactly. And don’t you think we should find out why?”
“Spank me!”
“What?!!”
“Oooh, please spank me, Mike. I love it. Slap my arse. Like that. Again. That’s it. Harder. Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god…I’m coming…”
And just like that, he was back in his bedroom, and for the next 60 seconds at least, the neo-Nazis could go fuck themselves.
Chapter 11
A meeting of the minds.
“So,” began Caldwell needlessly tapping his stubby with a serrated steak knife to get everyone’s attention; all eyes were already on him, “I suppose you’re wondering why I called you all here.”
He was standing at the front of a private back room at the Hope & Anchor Tavern, a pub with its origins dating back to 1807, just off Constitution Dock in Hobart. His local.
Strategically positioned under a hundred-year-old Aussie Flag, next to a rack of painstakingly restored antique rifles, he looked around the room, studying all five faces. No one was smiling at his little attempt at humour.
They all knew exactly why Caldwell had summonsed them to Tasmania, in fact they were surprised it hadn’t happened sooner; there was only one topic they wanted to discuss. They were equally surprised when he steered clear of it.
He clicked the heels of his cherry red Docs together loudly, gave the room the white supremacists’ salute, and commenced his spiel.
“Our Benefactor is well pleased with what happened at Ayers Rock,” he said.
Everyone frowned and looked at each other as if to say “What the fuck? He’s pleased that Theo carked it? And that we’re all rapists and murderers… those of us who are left at least.”
He continued. “The Benefactor’s decision to send us “subdued elder statesmen” on this mission, instead of a rabid bunch of in-your-face twenty-somethings, has paid off handsomely. In the short time we were there, we did achieve our objective. We did manage to infiltrate the True Australia Party conference. And using the contentious fact that us law-abiding white Australians have been banned from climbing The Rock – our bloody Rock – as a conversation-starter, we have got at least one Federal MP and two Senators on side. And rightfully so. Unless we push back – hard – the coons will be saying that the Sydney Harbour Bridge is theirs next. And Tasmania!”
He looked around proudly.
“Thanks to our powers of persuasion, these key influencers at True Australia have sworn to fight hard against any attempts to move Australia Day to a new date. Fucking oath January 26 is Invasion Day and we should celebrate that invasion – as should those ungrateful black pricks who we dragged kicking and screaming out of the stone age.
“As well as that, our new colleagues at True Australia are going to lobby tirelessly to decrease willy-nilly handouts to those lazy abos, and reverse the Ayers Rock ban. So mission accomplished, gentlemen. Well done, us.”
Van Heerden started clapping, and the rest slowly, almost unenthusiastically joined in. Caldwell smiled at his 2-IC and waited for the mild applause to subside.
“In other far more exciting news brothers, the Benefactor has managed to do something no one else has ever achieved in the history of this country. He has overcome petty jealousies, hidden agendas and geographic rivalries and is consolidating, boys.”
Having watched every Hitler speech ever recorded many times over, he increased his tempo and intensity.
“I am extremely proud to inform you that as of yesterday, most if not all of the proud Aryan groups throughout Oz have united. That’s right, National Order, Aussie Patriots, Unit 88, SWAN -The Society of Western Australian Nationalists, The Tarrantites, True Blue, The Chauvin-ists, Antipodean Resistance, and most importantly those bastions of white supre
macy, The Lads Society – us – have all joined forces.
“And it is a force to be reckoned with! From now on we will all be part of a truly national resistance organisation known as Home Base, with ties to the highly respected and rightfully feared The Base in the United States which is spreading steadily throughout the world. One cause. One voice. One victory. The White Renaissance has begun, my brothers! My brothers in arms!!”
By the end of his rant, he was almost shouting, with bits of spittle popping out from his thin lips.
He had worked four of the five into a frenzy, with much whistling, high fives, “Hell Yairs” and stomping of Doc Martins…all except Muir.
“You don’t seem overly excited, Matt. What’s your problem?”
“What about the snakes?” Muir replied, and everyone dropped the celebrations and fell silent. Bellotti and Somerville stopped mid high-five, then realised they were holding hands and roughly shoved each other away in case anyone thought they were gay.
Caldwell was furious that someone had dropped the ‘S’ word and put a dampener on his big announcement.
“I tell you about the biggest and best thing to happen since the White Australia policy of the 1950’s, and all you can say is ‘What about the snakes’?”
“Yeah, nah,” Muir answered nervously. “it’s just that I’m next.”
“Next? Next to do what? Says who?”
“That old abo pointed the bone at us and so far Murray, Stomann, O’Connor, and Dickenson have all been killed by snakes and I was next in line that night, and he knew all our names and he ripped his own leg bone clean out and his teeth grew back and he disappeared into thin air and he…”
“Whoa, hold it right there before you start hyperventilating, sport. Forget all that smoke and mirrors bullshit that took place back at Ayers Rock, OK? And listen to me, right? For starters, Robert and his missus aren’t dead, just missing.”
Caldwell’s frown became a smirk.
“And if they are dead, what? A snake bit them both, then hid their bodies and their car?”
“Well no, but…”
“As for the others it’s probably the power of autosuggestion. Think about it. A batshit crazy boong with a boner tells them they’re going to be killed by a snake, yes? All they think about is snakes, right? So the first snake they see instead of running away from it like any normal human being would, or shooting the cunt, or hitting it with an axe, they’re mesmerised. They either freeze, or they get closer to it so they can keep an eye on it, or some shit… and bingo.”
Muir wasn’t totally reassured.
“Maybe, but it don’t change the fact that I’m next on the list…and I’m dead set shitting myself, looking over my shoulder, seeing and hearing things that aren’t there, cold sweats, can’t sleep at night, half expecting...”
As Muir worked himself up to a frenzy again, Caldwell walked slowly and nonchalantly around the room, examining the antique tools, weapons, cross-cut saws and colonial knick-knacks mounted on the wall. And thinking.
Strange, I would have thought that Marco Bellotti would have been the first to hoist the white flag. Weak-as-piss Italians! If his cowardly forefathers had stuck by the Fuhrer in his hour of need, instead of turning tail and running, we’d be enjoying global racial purity by now.
He stopped alongside a life-size wooden mermaid and, as was his want, squeezed her right tit, before turning around and facing Muir and the boys.
“Relax Matt,” he said smiling. “I have broached this subject with The Benefactor and he has generously agreed to supply round-the-clock bodyguard protection to any of us who requires it.”
His thin lips couldn’t hide his look of disgust and contempt.
“These elite bodyguards will protect anyone who’s afraid of bogeymen, anyone who’s too gutless to face anything legless. So, let’s see a show of hands, men. Who among us are so piss weak, they need a babysitter, so spineless they need someone to take care of the itty-bitty snakies?”
His attempt at shaming the guys into bravery backfired somewhat, as first Muir, then Bellotti and Johansen raised their hands in turn.
“Really? Well, I’ll be fucked!” he said shaking his head sadly, before turning to face Somerville.
“You sure you don’t need one too, George? A few of your mates here look like they’ve shat their pants at the very mention of the word ‘snake’.”
Somerville had a braver-than-thou expression on his face. “Nah, Col. I should be sweet. Keep a loaded Winchester double-barrel shotgun beside me bed, plus I’ve got two massive rottweilers. Had ’em for years and they would literally die for me. Quietly confident I don’t need protection.”
Caldwell looked from him back to the three others as if to say, that’s how you do it, you soft-cocks. He then turned his attention to Van Heerden.
“What about you, Ed? Want a bodyguard?”
Van Heerden was dead quiet for a moment as if he were seriously pondering the question, then broke into his trademark menacing smile, cracked his knuckles and spat on the pub floor.
“The fucken snakes are the ones that’ll need protection, Col. Back in Jo’burg I killed my first Black Mamba when I was eight. And my first witch doctor when I sixteen. Bring it on I say.”
Caldwell clapped him on the back as he walked over to the fireplace, above which was a mounted deer’s head.
“On ya, Ed. I’m with you, mate. In fact if I ever see that old coon again, it’ll be his fucking head up on this wall. Meeting adjourned. Heil Hitler.”
Chapter 12
Snake tales.
“So, why snakes?”
It had been a question Mike had been meaning to ask Ronda for some time, but hadn’t got around to. They were lying in his king-sized bed on a lazy Sunday morning, having just enjoyed a little morning glory. Ronda may have been a pacificist, but there was nothing passive about the way she made love. After catching his breath, Mike had been out to fetch The Sunday Territorian and rustle up a couple of cappuccinos – he’d finally found the one café in Alice Springs that sold vegan coffee made on almond milk for Ronda – and was now sitting up in bed sipping his coffee with her snuggled into him.
“I just find them so damn interesting,” she replied. “Always have. Well, all animals really but snakes in particular. I remember as a kid, at the first break one of the boys in my class, Jonathon, killed a harmless tree snake. I walked away crying to myself, upset that this beautiful creature was dead. Then I decided that its death shouldn’t be in vain, that I should learn as much as I could about it. For posterity sort of. Although I didn’t even know what that meant back then.
“So after his posse moved on, I picked the poor dead snake up and studied it closely; observed the iridescent colourisation, saw how the intricate scales all meshed together seamlessly, bent it this way and that to simulate movement. Drew detailed sketches of it. Then after I’d conducted this, my first ever field experiment, I stashed the snake in Jonathon’s lunchbox. Sure taught that little bastard a lesson.”
Mike smiled. Yep, that pretty much summed Ronda up…a soft heart, an enquiring mind and a passion for righting wrongs.
“So that was how it all started eh,” he said, “with Jonathon’s snake sanger?”
“Pretty much,” she replied. “And as I was growing up, the more I read and heard about them, all 3,000 different types, the more fascinating they became. Plus there are so many extraordinary stories about these unique apex killers. For example, did you know that the first recorded snakebite fatality in Australia was actually the Melbourne Police Commissioner?”
“What!? Seriously?”
“True as god. In 1867 or thereabouts. His name was William Drummond. Apparently, a travelling carnival had arrived in Melbourne town and the Commissioner had gone along with a posse of his men to make sure everything was kosher. Well, you know what carnies are like. Anyway while he was there, a flamboyant showman called Squires…no, wait…Spires performed a trick in which he let himself be bitten by a massive Tige
r Snake with no noticeable side effects.”
Marr shuddered. “Ugh, how could anyone do that?”
“That’s what the Commish thought. ‘This guy’s a total fraud’, he said in a stage whisper to his constables, and then demanded that Spires let this ‘deadly’ snake bite him too. Nudge. Nudge. Wink. Wink. Spires desperately tried to talk him out of it, but the more he protested the more Drummond called him a fake and a charlatan and at the end of the day, the showman couldn’t have that. His livelihood depended on him being seen as ridgy didge. So, in front of a tent full of punters, Spires brought the big angry Tiger Snake over to the smug Commissioner and let it bite him on the wrist.”
Overkill : Pure Venom Page 8
