Vodka doesn't freeze jj-1

by Leah Giarratano

  'What happened with the investigation?' Jill asked.

  'Castle Hill cops talked to Manzi,' answered Harris, still looking down at the file. 'Said he never heard of the kid. When O'Hare started skitzing out, they had to move on. He could never have testified.'

  'So Manzi just got away with it.' Jill was disgusted.

  'Well, he did until someone caved his head in with a claw hammer,' said Harris.

  'Because O'Hare's got a violent past, we thought we'd better bring him in.' Jardine spoke for the first time on the matter.

  'Someone with schizophrenia is going to be too disorganised to commit all these crimes,' said Jill. 'It can't be him.'

  'Yeah, well, he's medicated most of the time, so who knows. Anyway, we've gotta cover all bases. And you're up,' said Jardine. 'Room 1. Take the file. He's not due in until two. His father's bringing him down.'

  Jill and Scotty made their way to the interview room and started reading the file on O'Hare. The rape he had reported had been especially brutal and had extended over a couple of hours. According to the report, Manzi had inserted a bottle into O'Hare's anus.

  At 1.15 a PA came in and told them that O'Hare was waiting for them, early and alone. They made their way out to the reception area and saw a huge young man in a suit coat and jeans, his body folded into one of the plastic chairs bolted to the floor. Jill and Scotty looked at one another. This guy's shoe size was going to be at least thirteen – nothing like the size eight prints found at the crime scenes.

  'Mr O'Hare, thanks very much for coming in.' Jill made her way over to his seat. He stood, and Jill had to tilt her head right back.

  'Sorry about the suit,' Travis O'Hare said, looking down at her. 'I've got court later on.'

  'What's that for, Travis?' asked Scotty; even he had to look up a little.

  'Um, assault. It's all bullshit though. My lawyer said there's no worries. Just another attempt to entrap me, but I've got all shields closed.'

  'That's good then.' Jill led them into the interview room.

  From the first question, Jill knew this interview would go nowhere. O'Hare's answers to even direct questions were confused and disjointed. His eyes glittered and stared through her. His hands were huge, and for such a big man, at times he made sudden, unexpected movements, quickly shifting position, at one time standing, causing Scotty to tense beside her.

  Although she knew this was not the killer, Jill asked him anyway whether he'd seen Manzi recently. She later wished she hadn't.

  'He'll never garden again.' O'Hare wasn't really looking at anyone.

  'What do you mean, Travis?'

  'Satan and his organised followers designed a time machine to take me there, but they didn't know I had recorded it all. The numbers took care of all that.'

  'What are you talking about, Travis?' Scotty used an authoritative tone. The interview room seemed suddenly very small.

  'Oh, I've made sure he'll never cut me up again. There's no chance of that now. It's all recorded. We can play it back anytime we want. It's beautiful. It's been designed with the gardens and the numbers.' O'Hare was smiling now, laughing and mumbling.

  'Did you take your medication this morning, Travis?' asked Jill, moving her chair a little further from the huge man.

  'That's all been cooked by Satan. They've tried too many times to poison me.'

  Without warning, he was on his feet, and within one step had crossed the floor to reach Jill. She saw his huge fist coming towards her face, before Scotty crashed into him, knocking him off balance. It took both of them to even begin to restrain him, and the room was trashed by the time two other officers arrived to help.

  In handcuffs and howling incoherently, Scotty and Jill led O'Hare through the squad room out to await an ambulance to take him to Cumberland. Jill heard Elvis's laughter even over O'Hare, roaring in restraints beside her. 'Let's get out of here, J,' said Scotty as they saw the ambulance off.

  'We're supposed to be working with them all day.'

  'Fuck them.'

  'I'm with you. Wanna go find Jamaal?'

  'Definitely.'

  They both knew that they should let the rest of the taskforce know that they were going to re-interview the only person who had survived the serial killer, but neither mentioned doing so.

  Jardine and Harris had last interviewed Mahmoud while he was still in hospital, but all of his details were on file. Jill always kept her copy of the file up to date.

  'Let's go to Lakemba then.' Jamaal, however, was in Hunters Hill, drinking Coca-Cola in the billiard room at the back of the mansion. As was the case from most rooms of this house, the view was incredible. Jamaal kept the hate from his features as he glanced at his boss's profile. Twenty grand he'd given him for the boy. Sebastian would make five times that. More. Jamaal knew he would never have a house like this if he wasn't allowed a more pivotal role in the business.

  The pain in his head still bent him double at times. More than money, more than a mansion like this, or a life without his fat wife, though, Jamaal wanted to find the son-of-a-whore who had hit him with the hammer.

  'Boss,' he began, interrupting Sebastian reading the paper.

  'Yes, Jamaal.' Sebastian did not look up.

  'Have you heard any more about who has been killing our friends?'

  'Well yes, Jamaal. We are drawing quite close to finding this person.'

  'You haven't told me anything about it.'

  'I haven't.'

  'Who is looking into this for you? How are you getting your information? If you tell me, I could help. Maybe I can find this person faster. You never know.'

  'No. You never do.'

  Jamaal's silent fury was palpable in the room.

  'Jamaal. You know you are my right hand.' Sebastian finally put down his paper. 'We have been together for many years. You know I know you. You want this man very badly, as do I, but we cannot afford for there to be any mistakes. He knows us. What we do. He knows you, Jamaal. I am certain that he knows me.

  'This man is more dangerous than you might imagine, Jamaal. It is not the risk to our members that concerns me most. We can always find more friends. It is that this man draws the police to us. Do you understand? They already have been asking questions about you and me. A female detective in particular is worrying me greatly. Just two days ago, Jamaal, she was at the youth centre. She asked for you, do you know?

  'In short, my friend, I cannot allow any more attention to be drawn to us. Your temper at this time could be our undoing. We do have plans coming together to meet this person soon, but you must be patient.'

  Jamaal stayed silent for a while. He would be patient a little longer.

  'Who is the bitch that asks for me?'

  'Now that, Jamaal, is perhaps something youcould turn your attention to.' He paused. 'In addition, I will need your expert hand to prepare the welcoming party for our friend, Jerome.' He smiled. 'I do not think Tadpole can wait much longer to introduce him to our society.' On the way out to Lakemba, Jill filled Scotty in on Jamaal Mahmoud's criminal history. She'd pulled his records after the hospital visit with Honey. While his boss, Sebastian, had managed to escape any criminal convictions, Mahmoud had had numerous charges laid against him.

  'Assault mostly, both in gaol and outside. Drugs, goods in custody, two charges for kidnapping and extortion. The last two didn't stick.' Jill's feet were up on the dash again.

  'Kidnapping a child?'

  'Nope. Adult male. In the burns unit at Concord Hospital, the victim made a statement, claiming Mahmoud had abducted and tortured him. Kept him for two days. Cops were collecting his statement between his surgeries – he had a skin graft for one of the burns on his inner thigh; jaw wired; left eye socket and cheek reconstructed. They were getting ready to bring Jamaal in when the vic suddenly realised he'd made a mistake. Wasn't Jamaal at all that did this to him. In fact he was certain of it, and was sure he wouldn't be able to identify who did do it.'

  'Of course.'

  'Hmm.'
/>
  Scotty was silent a moment, then said, 'I've been wondering, Jill, if Manzi and Jamaal let the perp in their car, then Jamaal must know who hit him. Why do you reckon the killer's still out there alive?'

  'I've wondered that too.'

  'What if it was Mahmoud who did it? Could be the third person in the car was escaping him – hit Jamaal to get away.'

  There was silence for a moment, until Scotty discounted his own supposition. 'Nah. Blood found on Jamaal was all his own, none of Manzi's. One thing's for sure though, J,' continued Scotty, 'we wouldn't be the only people out here hunting this bloke.'

  'And we've got to get to him first. He's gonna give us Mahmoud and Sebastian, and whoever else is on his shit-list to do next.'

  'His or her shit-list.'

  Jill had her head in the street directory. 'It's left at the lights, Scotty. Then second right.'

  Through the one-way mesh of a security screen door, and over the sound of a toddler crying, Mrs Mahmoud gave them nothing. No, her husband wasn't home. No, she didn't know where he was. No, she didn't have a mobile phone number for him. She shut the door while Jill was still saying goodbye.

  'Friendly.'

  'Real chatty.'

  Jill and Scotty looked the outside of the house over, but nothing really distinguished it from the others in the street. Even the bars on every window were more common than not in this neighbourhood.

  They stepped over a child's broken bike on the way back to their car.

  40

  'About the case,' she said by way of greeting. 'We should tell the others about Mercy.'

  The morning was clear and cool so Jill and Scotty had met for a bike ride, something they hadn't done since the murders began.

  Scotty looked at her sideways.

  'Like you said, the cigarette butts could be anyone's.'

  Jill gave him back his sideways glance.

  'So, do you figure she's capable of it?' Scotty's tone was sceptical.

  'I dunno. What if she's just tailing these guys?' said Jill. 'What if she knows there's a paedophile ring and she's just watching them?'

  'What for?'

  Jill laced her shoes. Third time, prolonging the conversation. 'I keep asking myself that. But I think maybe she left me that photo.'

  'You reckon she saw Crabbe get murdered?'

  'Yeah. I think I do.'

  'Just from the cigarettes?'

  'And that she's worked with the victims of the first three dead men.'

  'That we know of. We should check out Crabbe's vics.'

  'And just that she is… I don't know… off.' Jill concluded.

  'Well, we'll bring it up first thing tomorrow.' The task-force was to meet at nine.

  'Meantime,' Scotty continued, straddling his bike and strapping on his helmet, 'let's get your ritual humiliation over with. It looks like it's going to rain again.' He took off on the bike. Late that afternoon, her breath fogging the glass, Jill stood in her living room, staring out at the ocean, watching the surf creaming the rocks to the left of the beach, the playground of some diving gulls. The rain hung poised in corpulent thunderclouds.

  Immobile at the glass, she felt agitated. Her life mirrored the case at the moment, simultaneously hurtling forward, and stagnant, stuck. Thoughts and feelings boiled just beneath her awareness. She wanted to face them, but at the same time there was nothing in the world she wanted less. Her thoughts were a hundred swimmers drowning in her subconscious, raising hands above the surface for moments, before being swamped again by waves of repression.

  The vodka in the freezer. There was always that.

  A scream of frustration came out as a sigh, and Jill turned from the glass doors. When she realised she was pacing the room, she walked to the front door and slipped her runners back on; she put the hood up on her sweatshirt, grabbed the keys and headed out.

  The stairwell was always a little dank in autumn and winter, but Jill didn't notice as she flew down the stairs and out onto the road. For a weekday afternoon, Maroubra was quiet. Today was cool, and a storm was predicted.

  The worries that had been buzzing around her head began to dissipate in the fresh air, and Jill jogged impatiently on the median strip in the middle of the road out the front of her unit block, waiting for a dawdling taxi to get out of the way.

  She's got an arse like a boy, thought Jamaal Mahmoud, watching her from his white van in the carpark closest to the beach. I wonder what she'll sound like crying.

  Jill turned right and ran up the incline towards Malabar; she needed a long run, a road run. The rain began to fall as she pounded the pavement. An Asian family ran back to their car to escape the fat drops, a squealing young girl holding her mother's hand. After she'd passed them, Jill stuck out her tongue and collected some rain. She felt a thrill of pleasure when the smell of newly wet soil and road hit the back of her throat with the raindrop. As usual, a rush of dread followed the pleasurable feeling. Her body's warning system had been switched on at age twelve, and had not shut off since. Feelings of relaxation registered threat, signalling her defences to snap on.

  Her eyes narrowed through the rain and she scanned the environment for danger. The family had reached their station wagon; the young mother clipped on her daughter's seatbelt from outside of the car, her back in the rain. A few cars passed, wipers on, windscreens beginning to fog. There was no foot traffic anywhere near her. She got back to the rhythm of the run.

  She could feel the damp on her shoulders now, as the rain made it through her thin windcheater, but the hood kept it off her face as it began to pour down steadily. A good rain; Sydney had been in drought all summer. She preferred the cool to the hot, scratchy feeling she'd had under her skin all day.

  The clouds were pretty much sitting on the road, the sky connected to the earth by sheets of rain. She cut though it, her sneakers sending up small splashes with every step. Puddles and shadows formed quickly. She was only vaguely aware of the road traffic now.

  Jamaal, cruising along the street a hundred metres behind her, was dry in his van. His image of her as an adolescent boy was working well for him – from the back view, there was no real difference – he had his erect penis in one hand, the other hand on the wheel. He was listening to love song dedications on the radio, looking very much forward to their meeting.

  He hadn't planned on taking her today, but the weather was perfect. The rain was coming down so hard now he could hear it over the music. His wipers were on double speed. Crazy bitch. Running like this in the rain.

  He let go of his member and popped open the glove box. The chloroformed cloth was there in a bag. Be prepared. He knew there was a big housing commission block coming up, with a park on the right. There was a vacant lot just before the housing project. He could take her there. All the windows would be closed in the units. Any screams would be lost in the rain.

  Lightning rendered the clouds green for a moment and a huge thunderclap sounded. A sign, thought Jamaal. Braking a little, he reached into the glove box and removed the bag. He put it on the seat next to him, and struggled to put his penis back into his pants. He considered leaving it out while he took her, but she'd have plenty of time to see it later.

  Jill came out of her reverie with the thunderclap. Shit. Close. She realised that her shoes were full of water and even her underclothes were soaked. Her visibility was poor, and a sudden shudder ran up her spine. To the next pole then, and then home, she told herself. She always had to have a goal to reach, couldn't just turn around. The pole was just before the housing projects up ahead. That would have to do.

  Jamaal stopped his van just near the telegraph pole in front of the vacant block. He had enjoyed this feeling many times before. The quiet space before an attack. A building feeling. Adrenalin squirted from his sympathetic nervous system, triggering his heart to beat faster, engorging the muscles in his limbs with blood. His fingers opened and closed a little, grasping at nothing. His nostrils flared for more air, his pupils dilated to take in more light. T
he sweat glands on his hands activated to assist with grip. Jamaal was consciously aware of none of these physiological reactions, but he instinctively knew them well; he also knew his body would not fail him when he needed it.

  Soon. All his thoughts focused upon the figure approaching. He knew that once he touched the handle of the door he would not stop until he had her in the van.

  Jamaal stretched his left hand to the seat next to him and palmed the cloth with his right hand. He reached for the door handle.

  Jill reached the telegraph pole, touched it, and turned for home. It was absolutely pissing down.

  'Sharmuta!' Jamaal screamed in Arabic. He physically shook with the effort of staying in the car. His heart shuddered to slow down. He smashed his fist into the steering wheel. Once, twice. 'Fucking cunt!'

  He threw the cloth onto the passenger seat and reached for a cigarette, his fingers trembling. The chloroform from the rag, the vapours still on his fingers, entered his nostrils and he swooned; he blinked back the blackness, still cursing, his anger, if anything, climbing.

  His mobile rang four times before he answered, choking out a grunt.

  Jamaal's wife was on the phone, wanting to know where he had been and where the money for food was. She wanted to know why the police had come to their home.

  Jamaal's eyeballs felt like they were melting, and his head hurt so badly that he wondered whether somewhere in there his brain was bleeding.

  41

  'Okay. Today's the day we round up our three best suspects. All of these people are linked to at least three of the dead men.'

  Jardine stood at the whiteboard, addressing the assembled group; the taskforce had already met for an hour this morning, and Jill had told them about the cigarette butts at the park. The bosses had now come in for a run-down.

  Jardine was average height, average build, with dark thinning hair. Wearing chainstore suit pants, white shirt and a blue tie, his vinyl shoes needed replacing and faint discolouration marked the neck of his shirt. Lunchroom gossip said he was in the process of a divorce and that his ex-wife had recently shown up at Central and accused one of the PAs of sleeping with him. Apparently, the females here considered him quite a catch. Jill couldn't figure it, but hell, how was she to know. Her gut instinct when she met most males was to walk the other way; half the time their smell alone made her want to run.