by Robert Sims
He put down his glass. ‘You’d be quite wrong to question your personal psychology. I’ve no doubt whatsoever about your strength of character, not to mention your acting ability. In fact, I’m convinced your skills are wasted in a detective squad. The intelligence you gained for me is like gold dust, and as an undercover operative, you’re a natural.’
‘Is that a job offer?’ Rita asked. ‘I’ve had another of those today too, from the same brothel madam!’
They both laughed.
‘I wasn’t thinking of my unit,’ Proctor continued. ‘I wasn’t even thinking of the police.’ He bent forward, lowering his voice.
‘I was thinking more of national security. Your background as a profiler and an experienced detective would make you a perfect recruit, and it just so happens several members of this club hold senior positions with the security services. If ever you want to make the switch, let me know.’
Rita was smiling to herself.
‘What is it?’ asked Proctor.
‘I was just thinking,’ she said, picking up her drink. ‘It’s not such a bad thing to have a few father figures around.’
More than a week had passed and the investigation seemed to be getting nowhere. The hunt for Emma Schultz’s attacker had produced no breakthrough. The fingerprints had still gleaned no matches, and nor had the DNA. The car was proving a fruitless and time-consuming lead, while the questioning of known offenders, prostitutes and their clients had failed to yield any likely suspects. No links had emerged to the bondage gear, the smartcard or software producers, and tip-offs from the public about the identity of the man in the Ned Kelly T-shirt had only wasted police time. As the lines of inquiry petered out, detectives were being reassigned to other cases. The sense of urgency and the departmental pressure for a quick result had dissipated. This corresponded with a lack of coverage in the media.
The story had become last week’s news.
Rita made another visit to the crime scene in a vain attempt to get fresh insight into the offender’s mind. All it produced was a stilted conversation with her mini-disc recorder. As she crossed the lobby of the police complex, Strickland emerged from a lift, frustration creasing his face. Without breaking stride he shuffled a cigarette from a packet into his mouth and beckoned for her to come outside with him.
‘God I hate smoke-free environments,’ he said, lighting up the instant they reached the front entrance. He inhaled deeply, like a diver surfacing. ‘Used to be great when we could smoke where we liked. Fucking bureaucrats.’
They went through the thick stone pillars at the entrance and walked a little way along the front of the building. Strickland nodded at a few of the fellow smokers loitering on the steps - men from another squad, officers in shirtsleeves, holstered guns on their hips, standing with that watchful nonchalance peculiar to cops.
Eventually he stopped at a discreet distance and said, ‘Don’t suppose you’ve got anything new to add?’ When Rita shook her head he glanced at the recorder in her hand. ‘That part of your anatomy?’
‘I use it when I’m on my own at a crime scene. It’s better than trying to formulate notes. I sit quietly and record anything that comes to mind.’
‘Something you picked up from the Yanks?’
‘From a profiler at the FBI. Sometimes it helps. Today it just felt like I was talking to myself.’
‘I know the feeling.’ Strickland sighed; something seemed to be needling him. ‘I say: “We’re here to catch ratbags and lowlifes.” They say: “You’re here to maintain core values.”’
‘Ah,’ said Rita. ‘Another strategy meeting.’
‘Yeah, all bullshit, Nash presiding. It’s all “ethical objectives”,
“proactive initiatives”, “lateral thinking”.’ He took a heavy drag on his cigarette. ‘I come out wondering what the fuck I’m doing here.’
Rita couldn’t help smiling at his discomfort. ‘Welcome to the twenty-first century.’
‘Well it sucks,’ he said. ‘It’s not enough to be a good cop anymore.
You have to be aware of “sociometric factors”.’
‘Sociometric?’ she said. ‘Not a word I’d expect you to know.’
‘As a matter of fact, I don’t.’
Despite his irritation, the day itself breathed out a soporific calm.
The odd cottonwool cloud hung motionless in a sky of intense blue.
Leaves hung limp on the roadside trees. The afternoon sun gleamed on the metal tramlines running down the centre of the road as a thin line of cars moved lazily through the heat shimmer trembling above the asphalt. A queue of police vehicles was parked along the kerb where a dozen recruits were being instructed by a supervisor in the art of traffic policing. From the playing fields opposite came the resonant smack of bat on ball, accompanied by the competitive cries of schoolboys poised in their cricket whites. Behind them rose the bluestone structure of their venerable grammar school.
The peace of the day was abruptly interrupted by a screech of tyres followed by a crunch of buckling metal and shattering glass.
One car had slammed into the back of another and skewed across the road. The two drivers got out and started shouting at each other.
‘Arseholes,’ said Strickland.
The shouting died away quickly when, to the motorists’ alarm, a dozen uniformed cops surrounded them.
‘What a dumb place to have a prang.’ As the traffic began to jam up behind the collision, Strickland blew out some smoke and turned to her. ‘Okay. Let’s look at where we are on the prostitute case. More than a week on and what have we got? The DNA doesn’t help at this stage - the attacker’s profile isn’t on the database. Same with the prints. That means we’ve got a new offender.’
‘Or one who’s never been caught,’ Rita put in.
‘Yeah. And you’ve checked out all the interview tapes?’
‘That and observed interrogations. I haven’t spotted anyone who fits the crime.’
‘Same with the make of the car. All the Mazda owners we’ve checked seem to be in the clear.’
‘It bothers me we’ve been through the same exercise before with Mazda sports cars,’ said Rita. ‘The fact that it’s exactly the same model and colour, a black Mazda MX-5, strikes me as more than coincidence.’
‘So what? In dozens of other cases we’ve been looking for the same type of Holden or Falcon or Toyota. What’s your point?’
‘It wasn’t just any other case. It’s got an almost identical offender profile.’
‘Right. You’re talking as a profiler now.’ Strickland took a deep breath. ‘But the Scalper was a rapist and murderer who chopped off women’s hair. You’re not suggesting there’s a connection?’
‘No, no.’ She shook her head. ‘I haven’t got any evidence of that.
But it’s a coincidence that’s bugging me. Two psychosexual predators who mutilate their victims and drive the same car. It’s like having two parallel cases.’
‘Have you compared the DNA?’
‘Of course. Two different people.’
‘Well you’ve just shot down your own theory.’
‘Don’t rub it in.’
‘I’m not having a go at you. Maybe what you’ve stumbled on is one of the great flaws of profiling. Projecting patterns that aren’t there.’
‘Gee, thanks.’
‘Or maybe you’re scratching around for a way out of a dead-end case.’
‘That’s exactly what a profiler’s supposed to do,’ she said sharply,
‘especially when the most obvious line of investigation has been vetoed.’
He nodded uncomfortably. ‘Plato’s Cave. I must admit it would be nice to get Kavella in an interview room again. Pity we have to tiptoe around that creep.’ He finished his cigarette and flicked the butt into the ornamental shrubbery. ‘Shit happens.’
Back in her office, with no more evidence to follow and nothing new to add to the profile, Rita decided to resume her online browsing.
An
internet search for ‘Plato’s Cave’ pulled up more than twenty thousand results. Of the couple of thousand linked to Australia, she’d got through about half, much of them drawn from philosophical or political articles. But as she ploughed on through them, one caught her attention, an academic group called the Plato’s Cave Fellowship.
It was based at Melbourne University, where Rita had graduated in psychology. The fellowship was attached to the Philosophy Department, a place she’d never ventured into. But now she realised part of her education was lacking. She had a general understanding of Plato’s importance but only a vague knowledge about the significance of his cave. As a profiler, she couldn’t ignore the reference. What she needed was a brief, informed summary. Luckily there was someone she could visit, someone who might throw some light on the case by giving her a quick analysis of Platonic themes. It was the sort of thing he was good at. And he was someone who had nothing to do with case files or criminal psychology or internal police politics.
Rita sidestepped the shoppers darting along the narrow city lane of Little Collins Street and turned into a pedestrian alleyway lined with coffee shops and salad bars doing a brisk afternoon trade. She picked her way through customers sitting under awnings and walked into an old arcade.
It was like stepping into a bygone era. The tall, arched passageway with its tiled floor and gilt decorations had been built in the late 1800s and retained a quaintness at odds with the overblown malls that were its near neighbours. Its rows of boutiques included old-fashioned toyshops, family jewellers and tearooms. Rita’s heels tapped the tiles as she walked past the display windows until she reached the cramped, dusty premises of an antiquarian bookseller. The tinkle of a bell sounded as she opened the door and went inside.
The first time she’d come here had been on one of her earliest assignments in the Sexual Crimes Squad. A member of the public had made a formal complaint about the bookshop, claiming it had hard-core pornography in its window. Rita had been dispatched to investigate, and discovered that the offending material was a shelf of nineteenth-century erotic art, with explicit engravings on show.
She’d also found that the alleged pornographer, Dirk Hendriks, was an urbane and intelligent Dutchman in his seventies. Instead of cautioning him she’d simply suggested he remove the books and pictures from the window. He’d done so immediately, albeit with a risque twinkle in his eye, before inviting her to share some herbal tea. Her acceptance had marked the beginning of a friendship.
Though his hair was white and his face was lined with the wrinkles of experience, Hendriks seemed younger than his years. Along with a refined maturity, there was a sprightliness about him, characteristic of a man who enjoyed life, even if he’d witnessed its worst aspects.
One of the reasons Rita enjoyed his company was their shared birthplace. Hendriks had grown up in Amsterdam during the Nazi occupation, emigrating to Australia in the 1950s. Rita often dropped in on him to drink tea, listen to his observations on European culture, and hear his stories set around the canals of de Walletjes -
Amsterdam’s historic red light district. Hendriks was more than a good conversationalist; he was a link to Rita’s lost heritage.
The musty smell of the old books closed in on her as she shut the door. For once Hendriks didn’t emerge at the sound of the bell.
The place seemed deserted.
‘Mr Hendriks,’ she called out, but there was no answer.
Although just yards away from busy city streets, the shop had a hush to it. With its stock of ageing publications, manuscripts, scrolls and parchments it seemed to belong to history rather than the present. The layout was also disorientating, the interior a miniature labyrinth stretching through three levels with a cast-iron spiral staircase running from the upper floor down to the basement.
Everywhere were shelves stacked with thousands and thousands of old books. The most valuable and rare were locked away in glass cases. The rest, many of them leather-bound and the worse for wear, lined a maze of narrow aisles wide enough only for one person to pass at a time.
Rita poked her head into the oversized cupboard where Hendriks catalogued his stock and brewed his tea, but there was no one there.
While she waited for his reappearance, she climbed the spiral stairs to the next level. Up here was where the antique erotica resided, along with volumes of lithographs depicting legends and the super-natural, and a section containing the classics. She often browsed here, feeling the bindings, sniffing the vellum. Rita loved books and these had a strange, evocative appeal - the remnants of past mindsets, lost cultures. She ran her fingers along the spines of textbooks from the Victorian era until she saw the one she wanted - an illustrated copy of Plato’s Republic. Opening it, she leafed through the pages until she found what she was looking for, an engraved print of the cave. It was stark and sinister, a monochrome vision of hell, with a graphic scene of prisoners chained underground amid flames and grotesque shadows, their limbs and necks shackled.
The image jolted her. With a flash of recognition, Rita realised she was looking at a duplicate of the Emma Schultz crime scene.
Now it all fell into place - the offender’s remarks about role-playing and the rules of the cave, the way he called Emma a prisoner, even the bronze mask. The ancient symbol of Plato’s Cave was the template for Emma’s attack. It was a staggering insight into the crime, but what did it mean for the investigation? She needed time to think about it, although one subtle difference struck her immediately.
Emma had been manacled, whereas the cave figures wore leg-irons.
Too much of an encumbrance perhaps? Plato’s prisoners weren’t targeted for rape, after all.
The dinging of the doorbell told her Hendriks had returned.
She took the book with her as she climbed back down the stairs to greet him.
‘Ah, what a pleasant surprise,’ he said, kissing her on both cheeks.
‘I didn’t see you arrive. Too busy chatting with the lady who runs the witchcraft shop. Are you here for tea?’
‘Actually, I’m here to buy this book.’
He put on his glasses and peered at it. ‘Not in your usual range.’
‘It’s to do with a case I’m working on.’
‘You’re investigating Plato?’
She smiled at his dry humour. ‘In a way, yes. I’m here to pick your brain as well.’
‘Sounds serious. We’ll definitely need a herbal infusion. What’s your choice today, my dear? Camomile? Ginger and lemon?’
‘Jasmine, if you’ve got some.’
‘Of course.’
Hendriks brought her a canvas chair to sit on and Rita waited between bookcases pungent with the scent of archival dust. He emerged with china cups, handed her one, and sat opposite her.
‘So?’ he asked. ‘Why Plato?’
‘He may be relevant to a crime I’m working on,’ she said, stirring her tea. ‘And I need you to put him in context.’
‘Surely you studied some philosophy at university,’ said Hendriks.
‘Not really - apart from an idiot’s guide for psych students. We covered Plato in about ten minutes.’
‘That’s a crime in itself,’ Hendriks observed.
‘Remind me, how significant is he?’ Rita asked.
The bookseller sipped his drink as he collected his thoughts.
‘How significant? A true hero of humanity. A superstar in the golden age of the ancient world.’
‘Good,’ she said. ‘I knew I’d come to the right man.’
‘Anyone today who values knowledge over ignorance, or seeks excellence, or strives for political justice, owes something to Plato.
In cultural terms he was arguably the greatest of the classical Greeks.’
He paused and placed his cup carefully on a shelf beside a set of obsolete almanacs. ‘What’s interesting, from your perspective, was his starting point, which was one of the worst crimes in the history of civilisation. We’re talking about the year 399 bc. That’s when
the authorities in Athens ordered the execution of Socrates, the wisest man of his time. Plato was appalled. Like a courtroom reporter, he wrote an account of the arrest, trial, imprisonment and death.’
‘And went on to write dozens of books.’
‘Yes, prose dialogues. He was a writer and thinker ahead of his time,’ said Hendriks. ‘He also founded the world’s first university
- the Academy. Not the least of his achievements. His most famous pupil was Aristotle. Among his other feats he conducted political experiments, laid down principles for Utopian governments, wrote the first account of the legend of Atlantis and handed down a body of work whose key questions still challenge us today. The British academic Alfred North Whitehead described the entire tradition of western philosophy as a series of footnotes to Plato.’
‘And you obviously agree.’
‘Of course - and he gave us so much more. Our language of ideas, our concepts of mind, body and soul, our pursuit of the good, the beautiful and the true; all these were inspired by Plato. He was an intellectual genius.’
Rita placed her cup on the floor, picked up the copy of The Republic and patted the worn cover. ‘I know this is considered his masterpiece,’ she said, opening it to the picture she’d found and passing it to Hendriks. ‘But this is the particular bit I need to know about.’
He adjusted his glasses and stared at the page. ‘His most famous image,’ he nodded. ‘The myth of the cave.’
‘Tell me what it means.’
‘Plato is relating a dark allegory. It tells of people trapped in an underground chamber where nothing is real but echoes and shadows.’
‘Like a parable?’ asked Rita.
‘Yes. It illustrates our common plight. Prisoners from birth. Deep underground, chained in a rigid position, seeing only the wall in front of us but not the fire at our backs. Mistaking shadows -
appearances - for reality.’
‘But where is it?’ asked Rita.
‘You’re in it right now.’
She looked around uncomfortably. ‘This bookshop?’
Hendriks smiled at her confusion. ‘No, I think of it more as an occult chamber from the past. The cave is everywhere.’ He tapped the picture in the book. ‘What you’re looking at is the human condition.’
