Tallowwood

by N. R. Walker

  Jake nodded. Yep. He knew. “Better get up there then. I just need to grab my gear.” He walked past the front desk to his office and August followed him. He collected a few things out of his desk drawer and lifted a camera bag onto his desk. When he looked up, he saw August staring at his office. “Your office is four times the size of mine.”

  Jake grinned. “One of the perks of working on the set of The Sullivans.”

  August half rolled his eyes, and he almost smiled. “I should probably apologise for that comment.”

  Jake snorted. “It’s fine. This town got left behind in the 1950s, but that’s what I love about it.”

  August nodded to the title descriptors on Jake’s door. “The town might have been left behind, but you haven’t. Believe me, those are two things that didn’t exist back then.”

  The nameplate was nothing fancy, but its meaning was.

  Jacob Porter, Leading Senior Constable.

  Aboriginal Liaison Officer

  LGBTQIA+ Liaison Officer

  Jake smiled with pride. “No, they didn’t exist back then. Could you imagine the look on the faces of cops from the 1950s if they saw that?” He laughed just thinking about it.

  August kind of smiled, but his brows narrowed for just a second before he met Jake’s gaze. “We ready?”

  Jake nodded, all back to business. “Yes, sir.” He collected his bag and walked back out to the reception room. Deans was on the phone again, typing at a keyboard, so Jake went to the whiteboard and marked off phone and radio and what time he expected to return. Deans gave him a thumbs up, and Jake led the way back out to the Patrol. He put his gear in the back and climbed in behind the steering wheel. August sat beside him and already had the case file in his hand again. Jake assumed he should stay silent while the detective read over everything once more, but as Jake took the road over the bridge and upward, higher into the mountains, August spoke. “It really is pretty up here.”

  Jake grinned. “Sure is. Tallowwood was settled by white fellas as a logging town about two hundred years ago. They’d bullock the logs out of the mountains and stop here. The hotel’s called Bullock’s Rest Inn.”

  “Two hundred years? Is that when they built the police station?”

  Jake laughed at that. My God, August Shaw did actually have a sense of humour. “Yep. The station residence used to be the whole station back then. It’s actually kind of cool. The old holding cell is the laundry now. I’ve only been in the Sarge’s house a few times, back when I started.”

  “What’s he like? The constable said he was pissed.”

  “Sergeant Hirsch is always pissed. Like Deans said, he likes his town just like it is.”

  “And Deans?”

  “She’s good. Young but switched on. She’ll make a real good detective one day. Wanted her first station to be in the city, but she got sent here instead. Wasn’t too happy at first, but she’s settled in now.”

  “And you?”

  “I was born and bred here. Grew up in Tallowwood. Mum and Dad still live here. Our mob is the Gumbaynggirr people. Always wanted to be a copper, and when I got through the academy, I was offered the Aboriginal Liaison role in my hometown. There’d been some young local kids getting into trouble, so they thought it’d be good to have one of their own here.”

  “Did it work?”

  Jake nodded. “Yep. I’d like to think so. I run some local groups for the kids in town. Not just the Indigenous kids. Anyone who wants to come along. In summer, we do camps and I take them whitewater rafting on the Nymboida River. We go fishing and hiking. During the school year, we do stuff. Like, I might take a bunch of them to the movies or learning-to-surf classes. Footy, cricket. Netball. Whatever. Just to let ’em know I see them, I hear ’em, ya know? I drag my grandad and my mum and dad and my uncle in sometimes, and we teach them some local culture stuff. I want them to know who they are and where they come from and be proud of that.”

  August stared at Jake, a slow smile spreading across his lips.

  “What?” Jake countered. “Am I too stereotypical a small-town cop for you? Because being a part of this community is the best part of my job.”

  August raised a hand, somewhat in surrender. “No, I was going to say I was impressed.”

  Jake did a double take. “Are you taking the piss?”

  August laughed. He actually laughed. “No, I mean it. I wish I had your enthusiasm.” He looked at the file in his hand, then looked out the window as the Patrol turned off the road and into the Tallowwood Reserve. The road in was dirt, full of potholes and bumps, narrow and lined with impressively tall trees. They rounded a bend and they could see police cars up ahead and some officers walking about. August looked to Jake. “And the LGBT liaison role?”

  “LGBTQIA+.” Jake grinned as he corrected him. “If you’re asking if I’m gay or bi, then yes. Gay as a unicorn on a rainbow with confetti and sparkles, dancing to a soundtrack of Cher and Kylie Minogue.”

  “That’s, um . . .”

  Jake snorted out a laugh. “That’s pretty fucking gay, that’s what that is.”

  August laughed, and Jake was struck by how handsome he was when his whole face lit up like that. He shook that thought from his head as he pulled the Patrol up beside his boss’s car. There was a bit of a clearing which had become a car park for police and forensic vehicles. Jake could see two familiar men talking at the edge of the clearing before the wall of trees. “Big dogs are here. Tall guy is my boss, Senior Sergeant Don Hirsch. Guy he’s talking to is the Local Area Commander from Coffs, Allan Kenny.”

  August opened his door. “Thanks for the heads up.”

  They got out of the Patrol, and Jake met Hirsch’s glare with an introduction. “Detective Shaw from Sydney Police Headquarters, Cold Case Division.”

  The title might have been a little overkill, but Jake didn’t want Shaw’s role in this case to be diminished, and he wanted the other two men to know that the detective had weight here.

  The three men shook hands, and while August made small talk with Allan Kenny, Hirsch gave Jake an unappreciative glare. “Any reports back on evidence yet?” he asked. “Deans said you were going to the lab this morning.”

  “Nothing as of yet,” Jake replied. “Doctor Schneider gave us a preliminary, but she won’t confirm anything until the specialist gets there. All she said was the remains were that of a white male, between eighteen and twenty-two, approximately five foot ten.”

  “Cause of death?” Allan Kenny pressed.

  Jake shook his head. “Nothing yet. No skeletal trauma, anyway. She’ll know more in a few hours.”

  Jake was very well aware that he’d omitted some details. Nothing major and nothing Dr Schneider wouldn’t confirm officially anyway. Everything she’d told them was conjecture and professional guess work. And if Jake knew, then so did August, but he said nothing.

  “And you’re Cold Case?” Hirsch asked him. “A little early for you, isn’t it? Given we don’t have any information yet?”

  August held his gaze for a beat. His expression was neutral but confident and really intense, and Jake was sure he’d have folded like a pack of cards under that stare. He was almost tempted to answer on August’s behalf, just to fill that awkward silence, but August spoke. “HQ wants boxes ticked. Commissioner Reinhart wants this put to bed.”

  Allan nodded and his gaze narrowed. “Know him well?”

  “Well enough.” August smiled. “He’s still a hard-arse, but apparently he’s playing off five now, so he’s not too unbearable.”

  “Never understood golf,” Allan said, and he and August continued their small talk, effectively leaving Jake and Hirsch out of the conversation. Not that Jake cared one bit. He was actually glad to be out of the spotlight with the bigwigs, though Hirsch didn’t look too happy.

  No doubt Jake would get his arse chewed off for that too.

  When the conversation slowed, August looked to Jake. “The Senior Constable here was going to show me where the remains were
found. If I want to get back home any time soon, I should probably get on with it.”

  “Very well,” Hirsch replied. They all shook hands again and mumbled amicable goodbyes. “Porter, I expect you’ll keep me up to date.”

  “Yes, sir,” he replied.

  Just then, some of the forensic team walked out of the forest, wearing overalls and shoe covers, gloves and hairnets. They held toolboxes, and Jake couldn’t help the thrill he got. It was exciting stuff in his neck of the woods. In all his years on the force, he’d never led an investigation.

  Of course, they saw August and made their way toward him. He met them halfway, and although Jake couldn’t hear their whole conversation, it was clear they knew each other from Sydney and had worked on cases together before.

  When Jake turned back to say goodbye to Allan and Hirsch, he found Allan walking away and Hirsch staring at him. “Christ, Porter. When I said call whoever you needed to, I wasn’t expecting the entire forensic division.”

  “Gathering the evidence when there’s only skeletal remains is specialist work, boss,” Jake said, not that he needed to explain that. Hirsch just hated that his town was crawling with cops, and no doubt every local resident had seen every marked and unmarked vehicle. The gossip at the pub tonight would be epic. Hell, they’d be talking about this for the next ten years. “The sooner they come, boss, the sooner they’ll leave.”

  “Good,” Hirsch grumbled.

  Jake resisted rolling his eyes. Barely. He caught up with August, who was just saying goodbye to the two forensics, and together they headed toward the line of trees where all the action was.

  “It’s about thirty metres in,” Jake said, though he had no doubt August could clearly see the blue tarp cover protecting the site and two remaining forensic technicians. One was crouched down and the other one was photographing something, and they looked up as Jake and August approached.

  They recognised August, and the one who’d been crouching down, a woman Jake could see now, stood up. “Hey, Shaw. I wondered who’d claim this one.”

  “Celia,” he greeted with a polite nod. “Senior Constable Porter here”—August motioned toward him—“called me, said I could be interested. What can you tell me?”

  “Not much,” she replied. “The site was excavated properly, which is surprising.”

  Jake wasn’t sure whether to be impressed or insulted by that compliment. “Uh, thanks?”

  “Was it you?” she asked.

  Jake gave a nod. “I called it in. I supervised the removal of the remains and instructed the soil removal. Bagged and tagged at ten-centimetre increments.”

  She smiled. “Textbook. I’m surprised and impressed. Can’t tell you how many scenes have been screwed up by badges who don’t know what they’re doing.”

  That rankled Jake a bit, but August found something amusing, so Jake let it go.

  Celia continued, speaking to August. “Anyway, we’ll know more when the layers of soil have been tested, but the body was exposed for too long. Though they’re still canvasing the surrounding ground cover, so they might get lucky.” Jake looked out into the forest, and he could see teams of uniformed officers, from Coffs Harbour, most likely, scouring the dense and relentless forest undergrowth. There were rises and gullies, massive tree roots, vines, moss, leaves. If there had been something left at the time of the murder, it wasn’t likely they’d find it now.

  Celia sighed. “It’ll be a tough one to break, Shaw. Sorry, but I think we’re done here. I hope the bones tell you something.”

  “Me too,” August replied.

  “I can send you a copy of the report if you like?” she asked. She took out her phone and scrolled for a bit. “Porter, I take it that’s you?” she asked, looking to Jake. “You’re lead, but I can cc you in, Shaw.”

  August gave a nod. “That’d be great, thanks.”

  They packed up their gear and removed the tent cover above the makeshift grave, and Jake watched as August surveyed the site.

  He looked at the surrounds—the trees, the soil, the path they’d walked in on—then he crouched down, much like the woman had done, and studied the excavated resting place of Jake’s first official John Doe.

  When the others had gone and after August had looked over the site—looking for what, Jake wasn’t too sure—Jake stood beside August at the gravesite. “What happens if we don’t get an ID?” Jake had never dealt firsthand with that possibility, so while he could guess, he wasn’t certain. “I mean, what’s the procedure from this point forward?”

  “We wait until forensics analyses all samples, finalise their reports. We can narrow the missing person search with what little information we have, then we can filter through that information as we get it.” August sighed. “A positive identification might not be likely. And in that case, it stays open.”

  “We have his clothes. We can put together a re-creation. Surely someone remembers him,” Jake said quietly. “Surely someone misses him. If not family, then friends. A boyfriend. A co-worker. Someone on the fucking bus. Someone.”

  August met his gaze, his eyes searching, imploring. He swallowed hard and nodded. “Someone.”

  Chapter Five

  August hated this part. He hated going to the grave sites. He hated standing where someone took their last breath. His mind always got away from him, leading him down the path of dark thoughts. What were they thinking before they died? What was the last thing they saw? Were their last moments filled with panic, or was it peaceful? Did they fight back? Did they beg for their lives? Or did they meet their maker free from the pain they carried with them in this life?

  God, August hated this part.

  He’d seen so much death in his life it was hard to separate himself from it. Professionally, he had to remove himself and any emotional attachment so he could assess each case individually. He had to look at the facts; he had to compartmentalise and look at each victim objectively. And he struggled to separate that part of him, each and every time.

  Because there was a part of August in every case. A part of his identity, a part of who he was, was in every LGBT cold case that landed on his desk. In the beginning, he’d often wondered how long he could do it for, how much of his soul he could give to his job before he had none left to give.

  Now he wondered how much of his soul he would lose if he stopped.

  And he had gone to work each and every day, even when on some days he could hardly get out of bed, because there was a part of his soul in each and every case. Because surely someone, somewhere had a broken heart just like him. Someone, somewhere had lost a loved one, just like him. And if he could ease their burden, if he could give them closure, then that’s what he would do.

  And in the middle of the rainforest, surrounded by birds and bugs and so much life, while standing at the very spot that had borne witness to death, Jacob Porter said something that struck at August’s very heart.

  “Surely someone misses him. If not family, then friends. A boyfriend. A co-worker. Someone on the fucking bus. Someone.”

  Because that someone, more often than not in August’s cases, was August. He’d wanted to say “me” but heard himself say “someone” instead.

  “Because these people existed. They had lives. They had dreams and they laughed and they loved, and I hate that they’re forgotten.” Porter shook his head, a little emotional. “I hate that someone stole their life from them. They murdered another human being, and they think they got away with it.” He stared at August, his eyes fierce. “Whoever did this, threw this man away like he was garbage. He wasn’t garbage. He was a human being, and whoever did this to him had no right.”

  August nodded. It was about all he could do. Every single thing Porter just said could have come from August. That was exactly how he felt. When he finally could speak, he said, “They’re not forgotten. I remember them. I remember them all. Every name, every face. Their parents’ names, friends, boyfriends, lovers. All of them. They won’t ever be forgotten.”
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  Porter’s nostrils flared. “I want to find whoever did this.”

  That drew a smile from August. “Me too.”

  August didn’t know what it was about Jacob Porter, but he liked him. There was something about him . . . Sure, he was good looking. Not that August noticed that much anymore, but he could admit that Porter was handsome. He was probably five foot ten, had short dark hair, warm russet skin, dark brown eyes, and a wide smile. But he wasn’t smiling now. The wind was cold and the tip of his nose was a little pink, and those few freckles stood out again.

  The thing was, August hadn’t noticed any guys in so long, the fact that he noticed Porter kind of surprised him. It didn’t mean anything. At all. The few hours he had spent with Jacob Porter was the longest he’d spent with any one person in the last eight years.

  Christ. Maybe he did need to get out more . . .

  Jacob opened his backpack, which, as it turned out, wasn’t a backpack at all. It was a camera bag, and he took out his camera. It was a pretty fancy set-up, and if August had wondered about the quality of the crime scene and evidence photos, now he knew. “Photography, huh?”

  Jacob smiled from behind his camera. He didn’t look up, though, as he took photographs of the grave and the surrounding ground. “Some.”

  “Tell me something,” August began. “How did you know to call me?”

  Jacob paused taking photos but didn’t stop what he was doing. “Doctor Schneider saw the note and suggested I give you a call.”

  “You said you knew who I was. On the phone, you told me you knew who I was and that I was the best.”

  Jacob paused, lowered the camera, and stood to face him. He looked August right in the eye. “I’ve followed your work for a while. Actually, since the academy.”

  August raised an eyebrow at him.

  “It sounds kind of creepy.” He made a face. “There was a photo of you in the annual gala magazine.”

  And realisation struck August; a blow, hard and right in the heart. The photo of him and Christopher . . . August licked his lips, his mouth suddenly dry. He tried to swallow but couldn’t. “Right,” he managed.