Honorable Assassin

by Jason Lord Case

  The doctors patched their gunshot victim up and put him in an oxygen tent, but nobody gave a thought to the boy he had been with until another patient who was sneaking downstairs to the candy machine saw him huddling under the stairs.

  The eight-year-old Terry Kingston was in a frightful state. He had just come out of a coma 11 weeks earlier, and his inexpressible joy at finding his mother alive imploded as he witnessed the assassin blow the top of her head off. When they found him under the stairs he was catatonic. He could not speak and only gave the most rudimentary responses. The mental and emotional shock to his formative brain had overloaded his circuits and his conscious mind had retreated behind a wall, hiding from the world. They put him in a hospital bed in the long-term care ward.

  The Goulburn Community Health Center did not have a parallel to Sherry Cherry, few places in the world did. Their resident psychologist was reaching retirement age and while she was a kindly woman, she was more used to working with rape victims and wives abused by their husbands. The Health Center had a very reputable rape crisis center, but they could do little for catatonic children.

  When Inspector Barlow got the news it literally floored him. That is, he was sitting down in his chair and the casters rolled back. He actually fell on the floor with the telephone in his hand yelling about incompetence and witness protection. Then he got the news about the Constable on guard at the door, and he sobered considerably. He apologized for his demeanor and demanded that they put two men on each of the rooms. He also told them to expect him personally.

  Barlow headed for Goulburn first thing the following day, but there was little he could do when he got there. Ginger Kingston was in an oxygen tent and heavily sedated. If his condition worsened he would be put on a breathing apparatus, since his left lung had been damaged badly. The Inspector could get nothing out of Terry; he was still catatonic. The one thing the Inspector found was the matchbook that was still jammed in the lock of the Faithful Street side door. It was an advertisement for a strip club in the Kings Cross area of Sydney. It was not much of a clue but it was something. The killer had left no fingerprints, though he had left the brass casings and the bullets that had ended Marcia’s life and almost killed her brother-in-law. The inspector turned over the matchbook to forensics but it had no fingerprints on it except, oddly enough, Ginger Kingston’s. Ginger’s truck had been towed to the impound lot.

  While his uncle could not be moved, Terry Kingston was deemed to be in better hands in the Sydney Hospital. He had been treated there before, in what had to be called ‘a related matter’. In what was a serious breach of protocol, Theodore Barlow offered to transport him personally. He called Doctor Sherry Cherry and told her not to leave work until he got there with his charge. He told the Goulburn office to inform him as soon as Ginger was capable of speaking. He called the Molong office and told them of the shooting and asked if there was anyone who could watch the farm for a short while. He exceeded his authority by telling them that Ginger would pay somebody for the basic services of feeding the chickens and watering the sheep, letting them in and out of the paddock morning and night and feeding the dogs. He did not know if there was anyone who would do that but he felt he needed to try. Then he bundled his young charge into the unmarked police car and drove him back to Sydney.

  In the Saint Vincent’s Community Hospital, Terry was given a private room with two constables posted at the door. Inspector Barlow impressed upon them that there had already been two members of this family killed and another in critical condition with a gunshot wound. Then he told them a constable had been shot to death guarding their charge’s mother and that the boy was an eyewitness. It served to ensure that they were on the job.

  Terry did not respond that day, nor the next. It was five o’clock, Thursday morning, January 21st when he erupted from his self-imposed solitude and woke screaming like a banshee. Doctor Cherry was not there yet but she rushed to work as soon as she got the telephone call. One of the interns had been charged with calling her if Terry woke during the night shift. She did not bother showering or putting on her makeup so she was quite a sight when she walked through the door but Terry did not care. She was like a beacon to a drowning sailor. His beloved mother and father were dead and he was sure Uncle Ginger was going to die as well. Doctor Sherry Cherry was the closest thing he had to family except for his mad aunt. When she came through the door unwashed and disheveled he jumped from the bed and threw his arms around her, not wanting to let go.

  Sherry left to go home and get a shower and some breakfast about nine o’clock. Terry was sad to see her go but understood she needed to take care of herself. There would never be a replacement for his mother but if anyone could do it, Sherry Cherry could.

  There was no need for sedatives. Terry went to sleep after eating lunch but his dreams were horrific. He had nightmares about being chased on land and on the water. At first he could not see the monster that chased him.

  He needed to be roused for dinner and ate ravenously. The doctor visited him more as a formality than anything else; there was nothing he could do. Terry’s problems were psychological: his blood pressure was high, he was jumpy and he was having nightmares.

  Sherry visited with him after the evening meal and he told her of his dreams. She was highly solicitous and quick to tell him that it was not unusual for him to have nightmares after all he had been through. She told him that Theodore Barlow had brought him back to Sydney, which went a long way in helping his relationship with the Inspector. She asked questions about his memories and his dreams and embraced him repeatedly. She was surprised that he did not cry when he was describing his mother’s death. She could not have known that he would not shed another tear for 30 years.

  Inspector Barlow visited him the following day and asked many of the same questions Doctor Cherry had. He wanted to know everything about the man who had shot Marcia Kingston. He was pleasantly surprised to find that Terry’s memory of the day his father had been shot was returning. The only thing Terry could not tell Inspector Barlow was the name of the boat that had chased them.

  On Saturday, Inspector Barlow brought another man with him, a police sketch artist, who fabricated a credible likeness of the man Terry had seen in the hospital room. On Monday, February 14th, the police got a very similar sketch from Ginger, in Goulburn. An examination of the slugs from the two weapons exonerated him of any charges in the double homicide. If the killer had been using hollow points, the evidence would still have been there since the constable did not use them, but it would have been a dead issue since Ginger would no longer be there.

  The newspapers had already run the story of Marcia Kingston’s murder. The reporters were on that like a cane toad on a snail and were spotted for weeks, sneaking around, looking for further tidbits.

  As bold as he was, Bradley wanted nothing more to do with the Goulburn Medical Center. His primary objective had been accomplished and while he would have been much happier seeing Ginger’s obituary, he was relatively sure that he could not be identified. Truthfully, the boy bothered him more than the adult; he had gotten a better look at his face. He finally made the connection and realized that the boy was the same one that was on the Agamemnon. He would have bet good money that the boy had drowned that day. The police would have liked to keep the names out of the news but it was impossible. Bradley knew his enemies’ names and knew they could not stay under protection forever.

  Bradley was drinking a pint of bitters when he thought that the man he had shot knew he was in the room, and knew why he was there. That meant the man had either seen him enter or been in the hospital when he did. He had been cautious when he slipped in and had not seen the pair, so they must have seen him enter and came in behind him. A smile crossed his face as he went to a pay phone and dialed a number. He knew a woman who worked in the Roads and Traffic Authority. She was older and very appreciative of a good meal and a roll in the hay. He would take her out a couple of times first and then ask her to get him the in
formation he needed. Whoever this Ginger Kingston was, he was sure to have a driver’s license and a registration. That would give Bradley an address. It was all a cakewalk from there.

  ~~~

  Chapter Three: Dead Man Walking

  Terry had been forced to spend a couple of weeks in the orphanage while Ginger continued to heal in Goulburn. It was unpleasant but not cripplingly so. He had been depressed and introspective, as could be imagined. He did discover that he was not alone in his tragic world; many children lost their parents. Most of the orphans had lost their parents to auto accidents.

  Doctor Cherry visited Terry every third day, trying to keep his spirits up. It worked to some extent. Inspector Barlow also visited him once and asked a lot of questions that the young boy could not answer. The questions were mostly about his father’s affairs and protracted periods when George had gone away on business. The elder Kingston had not made any of his additional business known to his son and so the boy had no answers.

  The day Ginger was released from the hospital was a Monday, February 22nd. The sun was hot and the residents of Goulburn were trying to get things done before the full midday sun roasted the streets.

  The police took their charge to the impound lot to get Ginger’s truck, but they were not authorized to provide him with an escort any further than the county line. The Australian Protective Services had only been created three years earlier when 420 constables transferred over from the Australian Federal Police. Nonetheless, when Ginger reached the county line, they were on the job. Protective Services was obviously paramilitary from their uniforms. They did not look like anyone to be taken lightly. Their orders ended with returning Ginger Kingston to his home, however. He was not going to get long-standing protection. They were unhappy about it, but there was nothing they could do when Ginger told them he was unable to drive the entire trip that day. None of them complained loudly, after all, they knew he had taken a .40 caliber slug in the chest and they respected that.

  Tuesday came and saw the arrival at the Kingston farm of both residents, delivered separately by Protective Services. Ginger arrived first and was greeted by two of the local constables.

  “It’s good to see you, mate. We thought maybe you’d picked one too many fights this time.” The shorter, brown-haired constable, Billy, had arrested Ginger several times for fighting and public drunkenness.

  “Billy, James, I don’t mean to be rude but I suffered a serious setback and had to drive a long way. I hope you’ll forgive me if I don’t offer you a pint.”

  “Hah, we’re on duty, mate, can’t be tippin’ it now. Anyway, you look like you been dragged halfway here. You should probably get some rest.”

  “I probably need to check the farm.”

  “No need for that. Jerry Cuthbert and his boys been seein’ to it.”

  At that point the Protective Services team said their goodbyes and headed back toward Orange.

  “Dangerous looking blokes, eh?” Ginger asked.

  “Not if you’re on their side. As I was saying, Jerry and his boys took care of the place while you were gone. Me and Jimmy, here, we’ll be stoppin’ back from time to time, just to see if you’re all right. You know they ran your name in the paper, don’t you?”

  “Yeah. That was right sharp of ‘em.”

  “So you may be in more danger than you know.”

  “I can handle myself. Anybody comes around here lookin’ for trouble, they’ll find it, by God.”

  “Right, then. If there’s anything we can do…”

  “There is. I need a dog. I need a dog that hates everybody and everything and will wake up the dead if anyone comes in the driveway. Is there any chance you can get me one? I know there must be something in the pound that fits that description.”

  James laughed and pulled up his sleeve. There was a pair of small bandages on his forearm. “I got the perfect thing. One of them German dogs, Doberman. This thing eats raw meat and anything else it can. They say they’re smart dogs but this thing almost got popped. I was too afraid of blowing me own arm off, so I didn’t shoot it, but that’s the only reason. We’ll check it for you. It’s got all its shots but it’s just as mean as… Crikey, Ginger, it’s as mean as you with a belly full of booze.”

  “Capital. Bring ‘im by soon as you can. You know I got a boy here now. I need to protect him.”

  “How you plan on keeping the dog from eating the boy?” Billy was laughing.

  “I’ll chain it to the porch with tow chain.”

  “I think this thing will tear the porch off the house. You better be careful yourself.”

  “I can take care of myself. Thank you for stopping by and feel free to come around any time. Ah, here’s Jerry and his boys. I’ll need to be thanking them.”

  “Ah, right… We, ah… We told him you’d pay him for his help.”

  “No worries. Thank you again. Jerry, how are you, mate? Come on over here and fill me in on it all.” Ginger was moving toward the porch, he could not stand any longer.

  The Protective Services team that brought Terry Kingston home had never seen a little boy as interested in armaments as he was. He also seemed quite knowledgeable, considering his age. He told them that he was allowed to shoot targets and they asked why he was not hunting yet. He explained that he had lived in the city most of his life and just moved to the farm a little while back.

  When they dropped Terry off, the team talked with Ginger for a while. Terry went out to check on the chickens and sheep. He found the animals to be well cared for by the neighbors who had even done some fence repairs. When he returned to the house, Ginger was sleeping, knocked out by the pain medication. Terry quietly took his uncle’s .32 revolver and a box of shells and headed for the woods on the other side of the meadows. Today would be the first time he shot a living thing. It was far from the last.

  Inspector Barlow had not been one to hang out in the red light district of Kings Cross. It was not that Barlow was a prude, or even that he was all that monogamous, but he was there for a different reason now. He had occasion to be there officially from time to time, investigating the occasional biker murder. The biker gangs were divided into two camps; hard core and wannabes. The killings usually involved the hard core bikers taking offense at the wannabes and starting a fight. It would not be long before the wannabes stopped bothering.

  The Plucked Rose was a strip club with rooms upstairs for additional income. The beer flowed freely and the ladies were pretty. The matchbook Inspector Barlow had found in the lock of the hospital’s side door was from The Plucked Rose.

  It would have been a mistake to come on too strong in this area. The police were respected but not loved in the Kings Cross area. They were never assisted without a cash flow back and even then it was likely that the information gathered was old or incorrect. The best information gleaned in that area of town was by keeping your ears open and your mouth shut. If he had flashed the composite drawings and started asking questions, Barlow would have gotten nowhere. As it was, he never spotted his objective. He tried hanging out in some of the other local clubs as well, drinking lightly and remaining unobtrusive, but he got nowhere. They knew he was a cop, the management of these establishments could smell a cop when one walked in the door. They did not know what he wanted, but they knew he was there on business since it was not the women and he was not looking for drugs. One by one they noticed his presence and then noticed his absence.

  Bradley had seen the old farm truck in the lockup, and had even entered the office expecting to inquire about recent impoundments, but he had gotten spooked when he saw a man in the office that did not look like he belonged there. Sitting in a chair, reading the newspaper with no obvious function pegged the man as an officer of some sort. The assassin left quickly, without making eye contact.

  The hotel room was within surveillance range of the impound lot and the underpaid nurse alerted Bradley when Ginger was released. A sniper rifle was trained on Kingston when he drove his truck from the l
ot but the two local constables were enough to keep Bradley from taking his shot. He would get a better shot later.

  When the Protective Services men took over at the county line, Bradley gave up for a while. He wanted a quick, clean operation; one in the head of the man, one in the head of the boy, and go. He was in no mood for a shoot out with killers. He headed off in a different direction and spent some time in Canberra before heading to Melbourne in Victoria. He felt safe being out of New South Wales and thought he would go back to eliminate the two Kingstons in a while. A while turned into ‘some time later’ and then to ‘when I get around to it.’

  The assassin decided he liked Melbourne a lot and rented a small house on the Yarra River with access for watercraft. He took a train back north and piloted his boat down the coast. He spent a good deal of time on the Ellsinore. He thought that recent events in Melbourne would serve to keep attention off the less flamboyant members of society. The previous year had seen the Hoddle Street Massacre in August, where 7 died and 19 were injured, and the Queen Street Post Office Massacre in December.

  It was not that Bradley intended to stop working; he just moved his operations south for a while. His disguise as a computer systems repair and analyst was vague enough to allow him to tell anyone who asked that they would not understand.

  It was August 17, 1991, when the Strathfield Massacre occurred, that Ginger Kingston saw the writing on the wall. The government was already making noises about gun control. It was obvious to anyone who paid attention to the news that they would be registering everyone’s firearms before long, so Ginger began to acquire more guns. It was not that he needed them; he was just upset that he might be denied access to them in the future.