‘I can understand about half of what you’ve got down here, Ozzie,’ said Detective Middleton, flicking the cover back over the clipboard and placing it on a stainless steel bench next to a set of scales. ‘How about giving it to us straight. What happened?’
‘Okay,’ smiled the morgue doctor. ‘No worries.’ He adjusted his glasses as he moved closer to the bodies, pausing behind the closest one and placing his gloved hands on either side of its head.
‘Right. Well you see this one?’ The two detectives nodded in unison. ‘He got kicked in the stomach and had one side of his head bashed in: with what, I don’t know. But,’ the coroner poked his index finger up in the air, ‘like they say in the TV commercials—that’s not all. Before this happened his neck had been broken—which was actually what killed him.’
‘You mean whoever did it broke his neck first, then bashed his head in as well?’ said Detective Blackburn.
‘That’s right,’ smiled the coroner. ‘Efficient little blighter wasn’t he? Now this one,’ he continued, ‘died from a massive blow to the throat.’ Dr Joyce tilted his head back and tapped his Adam’s apple with the side of his hand. ‘You know—the old unarmed combat trick. A chop across the Adam’s apple. Crush the windpipe etcetera etcetera. Only this bloke looks almost like he’s been hit with an axe. His throat isn’t just crushed. It’s almost severed.’ The coroner smiled at the po-faced expressions on the faces of the two detectives, pausing for a moment before moving on to the last body.
‘And this one—with the flattened frontal cranium area. He looks like whoever did it tried to knock down the nearest wall with his head: and almost succeeded. I found traces of brick and mortar jammed into the wound as far up as the brain cavity.’
‘Shit!’ Detective Middleton glanced across at his partner standing there shaking his head.
‘Of course these are only the blows that killed them. There’s other contusions and lacerations. Fractured jaw. Fractured nose. . .’
‘Ozzie. Do you think there’s any connection between these killings and the ones on Thursday night?’ asked Detective Middleton.
‘Possibly.’
‘What sort of weapon’s being used Oz?’ asked Detective Blackburn. ‘You any idea?’
The coroner pushed his cap forward, folded his arms and cupped his chin in his hand. ‘Now that’s the thing that’s got me absolutely buggered,’ he said, taking a deep breath. ‘It looks like they or he or whatever used a housebrick or a club. Yet there’s no lacerations consistent with that and there’s no wood splinters or marks consistent with a wooden club, like say a baseball bat or something. And that one with the crushed larynx. I’m buggered if I know quite what to make of that.’
‘You any ideas at all?’ asked Detective Blackburn again.
‘Not really.’ Dr Joyce shook his head slowly, deep in thought. ‘But I did see something like this once a long time ago. I just can’t think what it was though.’ There was silence for a few moments as the two detectives looked expectantly at the pensive coroner. ‘Anyway, I’m going to take some more X-rays and do some tests this afternoon. Might even go through my old files.’ He gave his shoulders a slight shrug. ‘You never know. Something might turn up.’
The two detectives looked at each other, then at the three bodies and finally back at Dr Joyce who was now smiling at them.
‘Like I told you on Friday,’ he grinned. ‘It’s a funny rort this one . . . isn’t it?’
The two detectives looked a little wanly at the smiling coroner failing to see the joke, but realising that Dr Joyce’s general attitude of black humour, incongruous as it seemed at times towards all the death, mutilation and horror he must see every working day, was probably the only way he kept his sanity in a place like this.
‘Yeah,’ agreed Detective Middleton finally. ‘You’re right, Oz. It is a funny rort alright.’
They stood there talking for a few more minutes while the attendant wheeled the bodies back into the cool room. Then they took some more notes, got a xerox of the coroner’s report and after a lengthy drink of water near the office, thanked Dr Joyce again and said goodbye, saying they’d give him a ring towards the end of the week in case he’d come across something.
‘Well, what do you reckon, Greg?’ said Detective Blackburn, as they turned left at Ross Street into Broadway. ‘Do you think it was the same bloke or whatever killed all five?’
‘It sure looks like it, doesn’t it,’ replied his partner.
‘Yeah. It’s certainly shaping up that way. Skinheads. Deserted alleys. Same area. Same injuries—more or less.’
‘We’ll know for sure if there’s another one.’
‘You reckon there’ll be more?’
‘Dunno for sure. But I’m more or less expecting it.’
‘Shit! You got any ideas?’
‘Yeah. A couple.’
‘Like what?’
Detective Middleton gave his partner an odd smile as he drove through the traffic. ‘It’s a bit early yet. I’ll have a yarn to you back at the station, over a cup of coffee.’
‘Fair enough.’
While all this was going on, Davo was relaxing in his loungeroom having a nice cup of coffee himself and staring absently out the sliding glass windows at the light nor’wester gently blowing a few clouds over Waverley Oval. He was feeling quite pleased with himself; more than that, he felt great, almost enlightened. Thursday night’s killings were sensational, but last night’s were even better. His face broke into a grin as he recalled the tall skinhead’s last words. ‘We don’t want any poofters around here.’ Pity Wayne wasn’t around to hear that he chuckled, gazing up at the sky. Then again you never know. That cheeky little hairdresser might just be out there somewhere laughing his bloody head off. He took another sip of coffee and smiled out the window. Yeah. You just never know.
He’d had a great night’s sleep almost leaping out of bed in the morning to go training, which he absolutely tore into, after which he got the morning papers and gloated over them while he ate breakfast.
He’d managed to make the front page this time in both the Herald and the Telegraph; though it was only a few paragraphs in the corner as both papers were beating up a possible petrol strike. He almost cracked up when he saw the same two detectives mentioned and loved the bit where they denied there was any connection between the two separate killings. Davo roared when he read that.
‘Well you should know Middleton,’ he cried out loud. ‘I mean, twenty years in the force and all that . . . you long skinny dope.’
He carefully cut the clippings out, wrote the dates on the back and put them in the drawer with the others. The way things are going I might have to get myself a scrapbook before long he chuckled.
After breakfast he cleaned the flat up, then, seeing it was such a nice day, drove over to Watson’s Bay where he got some takeaway fish and chips from Doyles on the Pier. He sat in the park opposite under a huge Moreton Bay fig tree watching the boats and ships pushing easily through the tiny green swells and white horses dotting the harbour. A very pleasant interlude indeed he thought cynically. You need to relax and spend a few quiet moments with yourself after a night out beating people to death—it helps keep your head together.
As he sat there in the clear spring sunshine Davo began to sense a feeling of great power. Not only of strength, but importance; eminence. And the people around him seemed suddenly insignificant. With those gloves on he was unstoppable: unbeatable. He was good even without the gloves but once he slipped his hands into that steel reinforced leather he was invincible. A human street cleaner and no one and nothing was going to stop him. Look at these dills. What would they have done in my position? Nothing. Shit themselves and copped it sweet. At least I had the balls to get up and do something. Five murders testify to that. Five cockroaches in big leather boots—crushed. Look at them. They look at me and think ‘oh see that poor cripple sitting all alone in the park with his walking stick.’ Hah! If only they knew. Bloody morons.
When he got home Davo trained for almost three hours; harder than usual—if that was possible.
Divisional Detective Inspector Ken Burgess looked at the two reports in front of him, scrutinised them for a few moments, put them down again then eased himself back from his desk. He thumbed through his pockets for a match to light his pipe still sitting in the ashtray next to the framed photo of his wife and three daughters. Having done so he puffed ponderously on it for a few moments before blowing a huge cloud of grey smoke towards the window behind him.
After almost forty years on the force Detective Inspector Burgess didn’t mind the quiet carpeted airconditioned office he’d worked his way up to, two floors above the general hubbub and racket of busy Darlinghurst station. He was looking forward to his retirement early the following year and in the meantime didn’t want any waves. The report that Detectives Middleton and Blackburn had placed in front of him was definitely going to create waves, large ones, and he didn’t like it one bit.
Sitting across from him the two hardworking detectives stared impassively at the big beefy red-faced Divisional Detective Inspector, with his regimental haircut and almost knew what his answer would be before he opened his mouth.
‘Now let me quickly run through this again, Greg.’ He paused and blew out another great cloud of smoke—up towards the ceiling this time. ‘You deliberately told the papers on Monday that these killings were just the results of gang fights. Now it’s Wednesday, and in your opinion—and your partner’s—you think it could possibly be the work of one person or one group of . . . persons. Is that right?’
Detective Middleton nodded his head. ‘Yes, sir. Look if I’d told the papers I thought it was just one bloke they’d have a picnic and sensationalise it all out of hand and the killer would immediately go under cover. Then they’d do their best to try and make us look bad. You know what lying, scandalmongering bastards those journalists are.’
‘Agreed.’
‘But the similarity between the five killings is too close. Same area. Almost the same injuries. Same type of victims. I’m not a hundred per cent certain sir, but . . .’
‘I have to agree with Greg, sir,’ said Detective Blackburn. ‘And we’re expecting a more detailed coroner’s report later in the week.’
‘Mmhhh.’ Detective Inspector Burgess blew another great cloud of smoke towards the ceiling as the two detectives glanced expressionlessly at each other. ‘Well I’m afraid I have to disagree with both of you.’
‘Yeah. Why’s that, sir?’
Burgess gave Detective Middleton a fatherly type of look as if he had no real right to even question his opinion.
‘They’re only gang fights. Maybe a little more vicious than usual, but they’re only kicking into each other with those big hobnail boots they wear—and their belts and chains.’
‘You think so, sir?’
‘Of course. Look, for one man to do all this.’ Burgess tapped the reports with his pipe. ‘He’d have to be bloody Superman. And there’s no Supermen around in this day and age I can assure you. Maybe years ago.’
Here we go again thought Detective Blackburn, trying not to roll his eyes with boredom. I remember back in the war years.
‘I remember we had a chap in our regiment. Big sawmill worker from Wauchope. Now he was a Superman. Bull chest, huge hands . . . but I’m getting off the subject.’ The Detective Inspector put his pipe in the ashtray and left it there. ‘No, you’ll find they’re only gang fights—and I want you to treat them as such. In fact I want you give this investigation a low priority. Alright?’
‘If you say so sir,’ said Detective Middleton.
‘In fact, if you ask me,’ the Detective Inspector leant across the desk a little closer to the two junior detectives as if he expected someone to be listening, ‘the sooner these little animals all kill each other off—the better. Just as long as no decent citizens get hurt in the process.’
Detective Middleton nodded his head wearily. ‘Very good, sir. Whatever you say, sir.’
With a quick glance at each other the two somewhat disgruntled detectives picked up the report, said goodbye to the Detective Inspector and left for their own office.
‘Is he a boring old fart, or is he a boring old fart?’ said Detective Blackburn as they started down the stairs.
‘He’s unbelievable isn’t he,’ replied Detective Middleton, shaking his head. ‘I’ll bet he didn’t even read those bloody reports.’
‘They’re still not conclusive evidence that it’s one bloke though.’
‘No, I agree. But Jesus, doesn’t it look like it to you?’
‘Yeah, fair enough,’ nodded Detective Blackburn.
They’d no sooner walked into the detectives’ room when a smiling curly haired detective over by a window called out to them.
‘Hey, Greg, Ozzie Joyce rang from the Coroner’s Court while you were upstairs with Burgess.’
Immediately the two detectives stopped and turned expectantly in that direction. ‘Yeah? What’d he say?’ said Detective Middleton.
‘He just said to ring him tomorrow afternoon. He said he might have something for you.’
‘Fair dinkum? Thanks, Col.’ Detective Middleton smiled at his partner and gave him a light punch on the arm.
There was a good documentary on Channel 2 about the war in Afghanistan that Davo wouldn’t have minded watching the following Thursday night, but Colin had rung earlier to say he was coming over and Davo, still a little reluctantly, had agreed to see him. Besides, he thought to himself, I can’t keep myself bottled up like this all the time. I’ve got to start talking to people sooner or later; people could start to get a little suspicious. The less the bastards see of you the more curious they get. Colin’s alright anyway.
As usual Davo had trained hard all week and by now had reached a peak of fitness that was nothing short of amazing; even he couldn’t believe how he felt. Convincing Dr Connely he was still half crippled wasn’t getting any easier either. Especially when he told him his blood pressure was the lowest he’d ever seen on anyone and that he had the pulse rate of an athlete; Davo said it must be all the rest he was getting. He’d put the third strand back on the chest expander and was now doing 250 twice a day. His arms didn’t appear to be getting that much bigger—his chest maybe a little—but the strength he was developing across his shoulders and in his forearms was mind boggling. He noticed it when he worked out on the heavy bag; especially when he threw back-fists, the bag jerked and buckled in the middle like it was going to snap in half. The more he trained however, the more fidgety and irritable he became when cooped up in the unit. Long walks around the cliffs away from people helped but there was only one thing now that could really ease the vexation and virulent hatred running through Davo: he had to get out and kill as often as possible.
But unfortunately part of his mind realised he was going to have to cool it—tonight Colin was coming around and he would have to look tired, sick and a bit hangdog when he walked in the door. So right now he was sitting around in an old pair of flannelette pyjamas, buttoned up to the chin, and a loose-fitting dressing gown, with the walking stick positioned promi
nently in the loungeroom so Colin couldn’t miss it. Just after eight o’clock he heard his knock on the door.
The goodlooking truck driver was dressed pretty smartly, in a dark blue mohair cardigan, matching shirt and slacks and looked as if he was half expecting that Davo would want to step out for a few drinks. He couldn’t hide the look of disappointment that momentarily flashed across his face when he saw Davo standing there in his pyjamas and dressing gown looking like someone’s sick uncle. Nonetheless, he soon started smiling again and shook Davo’s hand warmly as he came in the door.
‘G’day, mate,’ he said brightly and sincerely. ‘Shit it’s good to see you.’
‘Yeah. You too, Colin,’ replied Davo, making sure he didn’t grip Colin’s hand too tightly and give away his newfound strength.
They went into the loungeroom and sat down—a slightly uncomfortable silence followed. Davo deliberately made it that way, preferring Colin to think he was still a bit slow from the beating.
‘Well how are you anyway mate? Jesus you don’t look too bad.’ Colin studied Davo for a moment then made an attempt to rephrase what he’d just said. ‘I mean . . . you look like you’re getting a bit of a tan-up, and all that.’
‘Yeah. I’ve been getting out on the sundeck a fair bit,’ replied Davo, his cheeks colouring slightly. ‘Sometimes I go over to the park and read a book.’
‘You can get around alright?’
‘Ohh yeah. I still have to use the walking stick though.’
‘Yeah, I noticed that when I came in.’ Colin’s eyes shifted to where it was positioned near the doorway. ‘You need that do you?’
Davo nodded his head. ‘For the moment yeah.’
Colin shook his head slowly and looked a little concerned but didn’t say anything.
‘You feel like a beer?’ said Davo.
‘Yeah, I wouldn’t mind,’ replied Colin as Davo made an elaborate effort to get up. ‘Hey stay there,’ he said quickly, rising to his feet. ‘I’ll get ’em. You gonna have one?’
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