by N. R. Walker
“Or what?” August was done. He was done with the cat and mouse games. Jake had told him not to lose his job over this, but August was starting to think he’d be further ahead on this case without other cops slowing him down. “What do I have to be careful of? Is that an actual threat?”
Reinhart stood up. “You want to imply something, Shaw, then just fucking say it.”
August stood up too and squared off against his boss, the desk between them. “All right, I will. You can only be one of two things in this, and that’s incompetent or complicit. And right now, I don’t know which one’s worse. What’s it gonna be?”
Reinhart’s face went past red and well into purple. He banged his fist on the desk. “You’re done! You’re off the case. This cold-case fantasy you’ve been chasing for the last however many years is over. I’ve let it go on long enough.”
August gripped the desk so he didn’t reach across and punch him. “No. I am not.”
“It’s over, Shaw. You can report for duty tomorrow in the fucking mailroom for all I care.”
August took a step back and smiled at him. “You’re not stopping me. You want me to go through the proper channels to report misconduct and missing evidence, then I fucking will. I will bring PSC through this whole fucking department.”
“You do that,” he said with a sneer. “Turncoat on your own people?”
“You’re not my people!” August yelled at him. “Those gay men who were murdered, the victims, those are my people. And that has never been clearer to me than it is right now. And the day you separated yourself from the people you’re supposed to protect is the day you stopped being a cop.” August turned and walked to the door. Every other cop in the entire building was standing there at the glass walls watching, wide-eyed. August didn’t care. In fact, he was glad they’d heard it. August stopped and faced Reinhart. “For the last eight years, you’ve tried to railroad me on this, which means you’re either incompetent, or complicit. That’s all there is. Choose carefully.”
August stomped back to his office, rage burning in his chest, under his skin. He wanted to punch and kick the shit out of something. He wanted to scream, and he wanted to tear the whole place apart with his bare hands. Fuck Reinhart and fuck everyone who ever looked at him and thought he was crazy.
August knew he was right. And he was so close, he could almost taste it.
And he’d be damned if he was letting Reinhart take him off the case now. If he truly thought August was going to ever let this go, he’d have to pry it from August’s cold, dead fingers.
And he probably would.
August took a mental inventory of everything in his office. He already had the other files at home—an action alone which could probably see him fired—but he pulled open the filing cabinet behind his desk and started thumbing through other files, older files, more cold case files. More loved ones, gone too soon, and more murderers still walking the streets thinking they’d got away with murder.
August wanted to tear them apart with his bare hands too.
His phone rang in his pocket, startling him from his internal anger. It wasn’t a number he knew, but then he remembered the media shitstorm he’d created, so he answered anyway. “Shaw.”
“Uh, yeah. Detective Shaw. You left a message for me to call you back. My name is Harvey Lynn.”
Harvey Lynn . . .
Shit! Harvey Lynn was the friend of Perry Ahern who was with him the night he died. “Yes! Mr Lynn, thank you for calling me back.”
“Sorry it’s been a few days. I’ve been on night shift.”
“It’s fine, I appreciate you calling me now.” August pulled his desk chair around and slumped into it, exhausted. He put his hand to his forehead to try and quell the dull thump in his brain. “I’m sorry to have to tell you, we found the body of Perry Ahern,” August said softly.
There was a brief silence. “Well, I guess now we know, huh.” He sighed. “I take it Mrs Ahern’s been told?”
“Yes. I went to see her.” August scrubbed his hand over his face. “You were with Perry on the night he disappeared?”
“Yeah. And I saw who he left with.”
Wait . . . what? There was nothing of that in Perry’s file. “You saw him leave with someone?” August was trying to get his head around it when Reinhart and a man August had never seen before—wearing a suit that screamed fed or lawyer—both walked in, each looking all kinds of livid. Reinhart looked about to speak, but August held up a hand, put his phone on the desk and hit speaker. “Sorry Mr Lynn, but Perry’s file doesn’t say anything about witnesses.”
“Yeah, well. Of course it doesn’t.” Now he sounded pissed off. “Why am I not surprised?”
“Was it a man? Did he leave with a man?”
“Yes. God, yes, he did. Why—”
“Did you see his face? Can you describe him?” August looked up at the two men watching, pointed to the phone and whispered, “He saw the killer.”
“Sure I can,” Harvey replied. “But I don’t know what good it’ll do. I told ’em last time and it went nowhere. Now you’re saying it wasn’t even in his file? You lot always protect your own. I know how that is. I get it.”
“Our own?”
“Yeah. Why do you think it got shoved under the carpet? Why do you think it went nowhere and no one gave a shit? Perry was a good guy. He didn’t deserve any of this.”
“Mr Lynn, what are you saying?”
“Perry got into a car with him. That night, around the corner from the club. A black Holden ute, top of the range back then. I’d never seen the guy before, and I didn’t recognise him at first, but two days later he came to Mrs Ahern’s house to ask questions.”
“He questioned her?”
“Yeah,” he answered impatiently. “Christ, what don’t you get?”
And realisation dawned at the same time Harvey spoke. You lot always protect your own. He didn’t mean gay guys. That’s not what he meant at all. August felt like someone had knocked the air out of him. Every fear, everything he already knew but didn’t want to admit was true. August felt cold all over, his stomach turned.
“He’s a cop. The guy Perry left with was a fucking cop.”
August was very well aware of the two men in his tiny office in that second as he wrote down a brief description. Tall, skinny, brown hair, Caucasian.
Cop.
When the conversation drew to a close, August looked up at Reinhart and the man with him. “Mr Lynn, thank you for returning my call. And I know it probably doesn’t mean much to you, but I want you to know I’m going to get the piece of shit who murdered Perry.”
“Even if he’s a cop?” Harvey said disbelievingly. “Yeah, right.”
“No, Mr Lynn,” August raised his chin, staring right at Reinhart. “Especially because he’s a cop.”
He ended the call and stared at his boss and the suit alongside him. “You heard what he said,” August said coolly. “Just out of curiosity, do you guys know what the odds are that the person to be last seen with a murder victim alive is the actual killer? I think it’s something like eighty-seven per cent. Which makes it pretty likely, right? And now, we have a witness who saw the likely serial killer, who has been identified to be a cop. And we have missing evidence and falsified police records, and oh wait, police reports and witness statements that have just magically disappeared, too. And we have a murdered police officer. So tell me, what the fuck is it going to take before someone in this goddamn office starts to listen to me?”
“Shaw, that’s enough!” Reinhart barked.
“You’re damn right it is. I’ve had enough!” Shaw snapped back at him.
Reinhart’s nostrils flared and he seethed, but he inhaled sharply and after a few deep breaths, he motioned to the suit. “This is Special Agent Eather. He’s with the Australian Federal Police.”
“Good,” August said, a little too brightly. “Finally, I might actually get somewhere.”
Reinhart put his hands up. “Detect
ive, I think—”
“I don’t give a flying fuck what you think,” August said over him. He stood up, his hands on his desk. “You haven’t done one thing to help me in eight years, so don’t even start with me now.”
“You’re out of line, Shaw,” Reinhart snapped. “And you’re headed for a suspension. One more word, I dare you.”
August had a whole lot of words he wanted to share, not just one, when a small voice came from behind them. A young constable, looking as though she’d rather be anywhere else on earth. “Uh, excuse me, sirs,” she said meekly. “I didn’t want to interrupt, but my supervisor told me it was important.”
“Spit it out,” Reinhart snapped.
The young woman looked around him to August. “Detective Shaw, there’s a call for you. We’ve been screening a lot of calls about the serial killer and the supposed poem and the silver cross, but this one is different, sir. She says she knows who the killer is.”
August’s brain was about to explode, though he tried to be patient. It certainly wasn’t this young officer’s fault their boss was an arsehole. “How is this one different?”
“She quoted a Robert Frost poem, sir. The name of the poet wasn’t given out. She said if it’s Robert Frost, then she knows who it is.”
August’s heart skidded to a stop.
The constable continued. “She thinks the killer is her son.”
The hair stood up on the back of August’s neck.
“She’s on line eight, sir.”
August stared at his desk phone. Every button was blinking, but he picked up the receiver, hit line eight, and answered on speaker phone. “Detective Shaw speaking.”
“Hello, Detective.” It was an older woman, possibly in her seventies or eighties, gauging by the timbre of her voice. “I don’t mean to be a bother.”
“You’re no bother at all, Mrs . . .”
“Sorry, Mrs Roth. But please call me Dulcie.”
“Thank you for calling, Dulcie,” August said. He ignored Reinhart and Agent Eather standing there, watching him. “You believe you have some information that may help us?”
“Well,” she drew out slowly. “Yes. I wasn’t going to call. I mean, I could be wrong, but I . . .”
“You mentioned a poem?” August prompted.
“Yes. But you see, I didn’t know it was a poem at first. It wasn’t until after . . . It wasn’t until afterwards that I learned it was from a poem. I always knew it to be from a book. I never cared for it too much, but it was my son’s favourite.”
“And that poem is, Dulcie?”
“Nothing Gold Can Stay,” she said, her voice wistful. August’s blood ran cold and he needed to sit. He slowly went to his chair. “It was from my son’s favourite book. The Outsiders.”
Oh, fucking hell. Of course!
“Excuse me, Mrs Roth, Dulcie. Where is your son now?”
“Rookwood Cemetery. He died in 1978.”
Wait . . . what? That would make his death before the others.
“Detective,” Dulcie continued, “can I ask if the victims were . . . homosexual? Were they gay?”
August could feel the blood drain from his face, his head spun, and he had to stop and breathe. “Um, they were, yes.” He swallowed hard. “Mrs Roth, would you allow me to visit? I believe you could have some vital information that would assist this case.”
“I think you should,” she said. Her voice sounded so frail. “Because if you say these gay men were all found with a note and a silver cross, posed as a suicide, then Detective, I know who murdered them.”
Chapter Twenty
Jacob knew it wasn’t good. He knew from the look on Hirsch’s face and he knew from the look in Kenny’s eyes as he walked into the station that whatever was about to happen wasn’t going to be good.
Kenny didn’t bother with niceties. He simply looked right at Hirsch and said, “A moment before we leave?”
Hirsch gave a nod and waved toward the hall and his office. Kenny obliged, stepping around the reception counter. “Oh, and Porter. I was impressed with your finding that lemon tree. Quite the detective work.”
“Oh, um, thanks,” Jake replied.
Kenny stopped. “Actually, Hirsch and I are going back to the park in a moment. We want to assess the crime scene where McNeill was found. It’s supposed to rain tonight, and it might compromise the scene. I’d like for you to join us. We could use your keen eye.”
Jake’s gaze went straight to Hirsch, but he was staring at Kenny, then without a word, Hirsch quietly disappeared down the hall. Kenny followed, leaving Jake and Deans both rooted to the spot.
She turned to look up to him and whispered, “What the fuck? You can’t go. Hirsch is acting weird.”
“I can’t disobey a direct order from the Commander,” Jake whispered back. “And what’s he gonna do with me and the commander there? Plus, if I say I can’t go, they’ll ask you. And that’s not gonna happen.”
She swallowed hard. “I don’t like it. Jake, you can’t go.”
His gut felt hollowed out. “I don’t have much choice.”
She narrowed her gaze, a plan forming behind her eyes. “Get your camera bag.”
Jake nodded and set off to his office. He could see Hirsch and Kenny standing beside Hirsch’s desk, talking in hushed tones, but he grabbed his camera bag and went back to the front desk. Deans shoved the satellite phone and a spare can of pepper spray into the bag, and Jake zipped it up just as Hirsch and Kenny came back out.
Kenny looked at the bag Jake was holding. “What’s that for?”
“Camera.” Jake gave him his best bright-eyed expression. “I have the forensic filters. That way I can always study the photos when I get back into the office and find anything I might miss on-site.”
Kenny gave him a smile. “Hirsch always said you were a boy scout.”
Deans went to her logbook. “Speaking of getting back to the office,” she said, aiming her smile at Hirsch. “When can I expect you back? No doubt ninety of the one hundred people who call will ask.”
Hirsch frowned. “Not sure. An hour or two, maybe . . .” He did up his coat.
“And just to confirm, boss,” Deans added. “The reserve is still closed, yes?” She hid her nerves well by searching for a pen. She found one under her logbook and held it at the ready, waiting Hirsch’s reply. “You know, in case the media call.”
“Yes, yes,” he grumbled. “Until you’re told otherwise. And tell the media nothing,” he barked. “I don’t want any news vans here, Jesus Christ.”
“Right then,” Kenny said brightly. “We better get out there while we still have daylight.”
Jake checked his watch. It was 1:42 pm. They had three hours of solid daylight. “Yeah, I’ve got footy training on tonight. If I’m late, the boys’ll kill me.” Deans’ eyes almost popped out of her head, then Jake realised how what he’d said sounded. “Not literally, of course. Because that’d be, well, not favourable.”
Without a word, Hirsch walked out the front door and Kenny chuckled and clapped Jake on the back as he followed Hirsch to the door, holding it open for Jake. “What kind of footy do you play?”
“Rugby,” Jake said. He felt off kilter. Like something was very wrong, as though he was about to walk off a cliff. He stopped at the door and gave Deans a nod. She looked pale and scared, and Jake knew she felt it too. “Hey, can you do me a favour?” he asked her. Kenny was right next to him, but Jake didn’t care. He had to say something. “Call Shaw and tell him where I’m going. He’ll want to know. Tell him I’ll be in touch when the McNeill toxicology results come in, or he can call me if he hears anything about the evidence retesting.”
She gave a nod, and Jake smiled. She got it, but also letting Kenny know that other people knew his whereabouts and who he was with didn’t hurt either. Jake was impressed with Deans though. She’d thought of the satellite phone, because there was no mobile coverage up the top of the mountain, and the pepper spray. And she asked Hirsch how long the
y’d be and told him a hundred people would no doubt be calling to ask. And she verified the reserve was still closed and gave a reminder that in all likelihood the media would be here.
She was smart and could think on her feet.
Unlike Jake, who felt as though he was floundering, getting willingly, stupidly into a car with two men he didn’t trust. Kenny was perhaps the more personable out of the two. Hirsch was prickly and dry. He’d never shown any sense of humour, never mentioned family or friends, and for a cop, he sure seemed to hate people. Kenny had dark eyes and a harsh set to his jaw, but at least he smiled sometimes, unlike Hirsch.
Jake got into the backseat and tried to remember what he knew of Hirsch. He’d been in his house a time or two years ago. He couldn’t recall seeing any photograph frames or any personal trinkets or anything to suggest the man had any kind of life.
He’d never married, had no children, no pets, not even any houseplants. He was in his fifties, at least, and from what Jake could tell, the man was alone. Married to the job, maybe. If being a cop in the small town of Tallowwood could ever be called a marriage.
Hirsch had the personality of a wet mop, and given Jake had worked with him for years, he knew very little about him. And as for Kenny . . . he knew nothing.
“So, Porter,” Kenny said, breaking the silence. “Always been in Tallowwood?”
“I was born and raised in Tallowwood, sir,” Jake replied. “Went through the academy and came straight back.”
“Ah, local boy,” Kenny said.
Jake could see his eyes in the rear-vision mirror. “Yes, sir. What about you? Where are you from?”
“Me? I’m a Sydney boy. Strathfield originally,” Kenny answered.
“You didn’t want to stay close to home?”
“Ah, I did my time in the big smoke, son. I walked the Bondi beat more times than I could ever count. But that gets real old.” He grinned in the mirror. “Or maybe it was me who got old, I dunno.”
Jake almost smiled. “Suppose you headed north, chasing the sun too, huh?”
“Yeah,” he drawled out. “Like the birds. Did a few years in Wyong, then Coffs. Been here now probably since before you were born.”
