The Final Alibi

by Simon King

  “Say hello, Jude,” Steph suddenly said from behind me. I was startled, not only by her presence but also at how fast she had showered and dressed. I felt she had done both in the time it took me to take half a dozen steps or so. She whizzed past me, then whizzed back again, going to her room, as Judith whispered a ‘hello’ at me. I swear it was less than two minutes and she was back, dressed, hair up and face as pretty as a picture. I thought she had hypnotized me to finish everything so fast.

  After the usual “have her in bed by 8, call the station if you need anything, I won’t be late, behave yourself” to Judith and Mrs. Wong, we left the house.

  “Take mine,” I said as Steph headed towards her own car, parked in the driveway beside the house. She paused for a moment as if considering. “I think it’s my turn to taxi you around for a bit.” She didn’t argue, instead, walking towards my car, flashing me a grin as we climbed into the Beetle.

  5.

  Frank and Melanie Rademeyer lived out on Crescent Lane, a humble neighbourhood where an unfamiliar person could tell immediately what type of people occupied the dwellings that were dotted along the road. Every home along Crescent Lane seemed to sit on its own hill, the blocks ranging from 2 to 5 acres, and every single home was two storeys high. Most enjoyed a swimming pool in their back yards and fruit trees in the front, a couple of them even sporting rows of grape vines for amateur wine makers. A large hill, maybe 300 yards high, dominated the land on the western side of the road with Crescent Lane running north to south. The Chief’s home was the last one on the western side, the only one to have a beautiful mature palm tree growing by his driveway.

  Back when I was still a young constable, the Rademeyers still lived in one of the working-class areas of Cider Hill. The Chief would commute to the station via his bicycle on a daily basis, telling me on one occasion, that the ride to and from the station was quality thinking time and gave him the brain space he needed to unwind by the time he arrived home. It also helped with his waistline, he once chuckled.

  They had raised two children, a son called William who was born in 1926 and a daughter named Elizabeth who was born in 1930. The family seemed to be such a happy one when I first made the transfer to Cider Hill, meeting the family at a police Christmas barbeque, held behind the station. All the officers and families attended, Melanie holding little Lizzie by the hand while William had been hanging around his Dad. He was a doting father, proudly showing off his son’s ability to kick a football.

  “Play for Carlton one day, he will,” he would say. But William Rademeyer would never play for Carlton. Or any other team. Two days after Christmas Day, in 1933, while his parents slept soundly in their room, little William decided to go into his father’s study and play cops and robbers. He took the service revolver Frank always kept in the drawer of his desk, and began to pretend-shoot make believe robbers that were hiding behind the furniture. The doctors said that little William never knew what hit him, the pistol discharging as he tried to open the cylinder. The bullet pierced his forehead just above his right eye, the crash of the gun waking his parents instantly. The neighbours told a lone reporter that they heard Mrs Rademeyer’s screams from their own kitchen, her blood-curdling cries of anguish continuing until the ambulance arrived ten minutes later.

  The funeral was held at St. Johns Anglican three days later, attended by everybody in town, me included. He was buried in Hope Cemetery out on One Stump Lane, his grave next to his grandfather and grandmother. I still remember the sobbing from the heart-broken parents, the umbrellas that were held above them not enough to shield them from the prying reporters that were dotted around the small grave yard.

  From what I could gather, little Lizzie Rademeyer became one of the most shielded children in Cider Hill, Melanie almost refusing to allow the little girl out of her sight. In the years that followed, there were many confrontations when Liz wanted to live a little, like spending a night at a friend’s house or attending school camp. She eventually left home to attend the University of Melbourne. I met her once at one of my book signings. I didn’t recognize her but she told me who she was just the same, looking relaxed and happy. She told me she was studying nursing and keen to travel the world. I imagined she was happy just to travel to the local shops without being watched. We chatted for a few minutes and then I signed the book she was holding, Nightmares Unhinged. I never saw her again but hoped that she enjoyed her newfound freedom.

  6.

  By the time Steph and I turned the Beetle into 29 Crescent Lane, dusk had turned into night, as all traces of the fiery red sunset were erased with the dark sapphire glow of night. The house stood large on its wooden stilts, towering above the surrounding landscape. The driveway was flanked by petite lights that were suspended from little poles, leading the driver towards a large circular driveway that had another palm in the middle of a round garden bed. The Chief’s own FX was parked in a car space that sat underneath the home and a patrol car was parked off to one side of the driveway. There was a large balcony above it and I could see table and chairs sitting on one side of it as well as a telescope in one of the large windows that looked out over the land. There were lights switched on in what looked like the living room, its timber ceiling beams visible from where we now sat.

  I parked the Beetle behind the FX, climbed out and made my way around to Steph’s side. She climbed out and I closed the door for her. We stood looking at each other, both taking deep breaths.

  “Ready for this?” I asked. She took another deep breath, exhaled, then nodded.

  “Let’s do this.”

  7.

  When no-one opened the door after the third knock, I looked at Steph with a surprised expression.

  “Do you think he forgot?” I said, getting ready to knock again. She put her ear to the door, listening for approaching footsteps. The house was made from timber and sat on stilts and I knew that any movement inside the building would be heard from here. The house sat deathly quiet, the only sound a distant dog barking at some night-time critter. When we heard no sounds, she pulled away and looked at me.

  “Are they home?” she asked.

  “The cars are here,” I answered, pointing below us, “and I’m pretty certain that Melanie doesn’t drive.”

  “A walk maybe?”

  “Now? With guests coming? No way.” I thumped on the door again, harder this time, the echoes reverberating through the house. “CHIEF? MEL? ANYBODY HOME?” But after a few seconds of no reply started feeling that sinking feeling. Either he had forgotten, or something was wrong. I tried the door knob and wasn’t surprised when it turned, the door opening a little. It was, after all, 1954 and people hardly ever locked their doors, especially country folk. I peered in, sticking my head through the crack, still holding it closed somewhat. “Chief? Mel?” No sounds, just that same, eerie silence.

  I could smell cooking though, some sort of meat, its aroma strong and pleasant. Steph held the back of my shirt as I opened the door fully and stepped inside. The only sound I could hear was my own breathing as we tiptoed towards the light that was coming from the living room. As we peered around the corner, it looked too big to be just a living room, a massive open space comprising the lounge-room with a huge dining table in one corner, a billiard table in the other corner and one entire wall of glass. The floor to ceiling windows looked out over the driveway and the land beyond, now unseen except for the night-lights that dotted the area.

  “Chief Rademeyer?” Steph said. I listened again, hoping for a reply but deep down knew none would come. We walked slowly back out into the hallway and headed toward the only other light that was on. It was a room further down the hallway, its door almost shut except for a small wedge, where the light emanating through was settling on the opposite wall. I held the doorhandle for a moment and looked at Steph hesitatingly, seeing something in her eyes. I knew that look because it was telling me that she knew what I knew. It was the smell. She could smell it, too. That overwhelming coppery smell that m
ost police officers were only too familiar with. It was the unmistakable smell of blood. Lots of blood.

  8.

  As I slowly swung the door open, the horror that the room contained exploded before us in all its evil. Melanie was hanging to the right of us, suspended from the rafter in front of her dressing table facing the bed, her arms tied above her head. She was completely naked and her throat had been torn out, the spray of blood hitting the facing wall. Her eyes weren’t gone completely, the gelatinous weeping from both sockets turning her cheeks into shiny mirrors. It looked like someone had pierced them, popping them with something sharp. Her mid-section had also been torn open and her insides hung askew in a twisted tangle of intestines and organs, the blood, vomit and faecal matter pooled together in a pile beneath her. The bedroom had floorboards so most of the body fluids had nowhere to go, instead congealing where it fell. There were bite wounds on her breasts, arms and shoulders, blood leaving long trails as it coursed down her body. My stomach heaved and for a brief moment, I thought my lunch was about to reappear before me. I swallowed hard and tried to limit my nasal breathing, trying to shut that part of me off and instead breathe through my open mouth. A thick aroma of blood and shit hung heavy in the air and as I sucked in deep breaths, I was horrified to think that I had the faintest taste of the stench in my mouth.

  Sitting opposite to his beloved Melanie and tied to the headboard of their bed, was Frank Rademeyer. He was also naked, his throat slashed wide open, the windpipe jutting out at a precarious angle. The blood had been extensive, pooling beneath him, then seeping into the mattress. His penis and scrotum had been sliced off and the coroner would find them during the autopsy, lodged in his wife’s windpipe, forced to swallow them as she was fighting blindly for breath. His eyelids had been cut off, preventing him from shutting out the horrific scene playing out before him; forced to watch the horrific torture of his wife as his own demise now faced him.

  I heard Steph hyperventilating beside me and pulled her from the room. She was a strong girl but not even her strength saved her from the horror she saw, a low scream escaping her before she doubled over and vomited into the hallway. I left her and ran back into the living room, finding the phone on a coffee table beside the couch. I called the police station, Pete answering after half a dozen rings. He didn’t understand me at first, repeating my words several times, then when I enunciated the chief’s name, he finally understood.

  I went back to Steph and found her sitting in the hallway crying, shaking like a leaf. I knelt down and put my arm around her, trying to get her to her feet. When she didn’t, I bent down and picked her up then carried her back outside, sitting her carefully on the steps. She felt cold and I wish I had my jacket to give her. I remembered that I always kept one in the back seat of my car and went to retrieve it. By the time I returned, the lights and sirens were turning into the driveway.

  9.

  We had missed the killer or killers by sheer minutes, the coroner putting time of death for both parties at between 6 and 6.30. Several patrol cars turned into the driveway, as well as the local ambulance and one from Daylesford a short while later. Chief Edward Richards from Daylesford Police arrived just before 8 and took over command, directing half a dozen officers to immediately door knock the surrounding homes and the rest to walk the surrounding countryside by torchlight, looking for anything. The ambulance officers gave Steph the once over and advised her to go home and rest, noting that the shock she was suffering would subside in a few hours.

  One of the officers offered to drive her home, but she refused, as I knew she would. She wanted to catch this arsehole as badly as I did and there was no way she would sit this one out. Once she had herself under control again, we both went to see Richards. He was trying to coordinate some road blocks around town to try and catch anyone attempting to flee the area by car. A number of officers from Ballarat arrived and were given the assignment.

  “You two have any ideas who could’ve done this?” he asked, but we shook our heads. I couldn’t think of anyone that would want to hurt this family. “No one?”

  “There’s no one that stands out, Chief,” Steph said.

  “It’s going to be a long night so try and get yourselves sorted. Put your heads together and come up with names. Any names. The Commissioner is already on his way and he’s going to want some answers.” He didn’t wait for our reply, turning toward another group of officers that had arrived. Steph grabbed my arm and pulled me away, leading me back to my car. It was boxed in and I could see it was going nowhere fast.

  “Wait here a sec,” she said and went off somewhere, back toward the group of officers. She returned a few minutes later, shaking a car key in front of her. I followed her to one of the patrol cars and she climbed in. As we drove back out onto the road, she lit a cigarette, then wound down the window.

  “Who the hell did that, Jim?” she asked. I didn’t know. But there was something that struck me as odd about the whole thing.

  “Don’t you think it’s a strange time to go and commit such a planned execution?” I said. She looked at me.

  “What do you mean?”

  “If you were going to kill a man and his wife in such a horrendous manner, would you do it in the early evening or wait until later in the night? You know, when there were less people around, less chance of getting caught.”

  “Not if it was a spur of the moment killing.”

  “Steph, you think that was a spur of the moment?”

  “No.” She puffed on her cigarette.

  “That was planned. Whoever did that, knew that they would be home, knew that they would be alone. And whoever did that to them had a major fucken issue with them.” I looked at the passing houses, their lights burning behind closed curtains; lives shielded from the outside world by thin sheets of cotton.

  “Do you think they knew?” I suddenly said.

  “Knew?”

  “Knew we were coming.”

  “Why do you think that?” she said, crushing her cigarette in the ashtray.

  “Don’t you think it’s a little too brazen for it to be some random killing? I mean, whoever did that wanted to do what they did, yet managed to finish just in the nick of time, right before another police officer knocked on the door.” I was running it through my own head more than telling Steph. It was like I was following my own trail in my mind.

  “How would they know? Think the Chief told someone we were dropping by for dinner? Wouldn’t have thought it was that important.” But I had another thought entirely.

  “Can you swing past the cop shop?”

  “Sure. You got an idea?” She sounded hopeful but I didn’t want to raise her hopes too much.

  “More of a hunch. Curiosity. I just want to check something out.”

  10.

  Steph pulled the patrol car into the station car park and I climbed out. She jumped out and began to run toward the front door. I didn’t follow her, instead walking around the side of the building, looking for something.

  “Jim?” She called out, but I rounded the corner. “Where are you going?” I heard her call out. As I rounded the next corner, she came up behind me.

  “This is what I’m looking for,” I said, pointing at the gum tree that grew behind the station. It was quite tall, one branch growing out over the roof of the building. I shone a torch up into its branches, then at the building. I turned to look behind us and saw a vacant block, itself flanked by one abandoned building and another vacant block. Behind those was a paddock which I knew had several cows living in it.

  I shone the torch up at the branches again then handed the torch to Steph.

  “Here,” I said, holding it out to her,” hold it for me?” She grabbed it and watched as I grabbed the lowest branch and swung myself up.

  “You looking for possums?” she asked.

  “I don’t think it was a possum at all. I think someone was listening.” Realization dawned on her face as I continued to climb. When I pulled myself onto
the roof, I motioned for her to throw the torch up to me. She did and I caught it easily, shining it from one side of the roof to the other. There was nothing out of the ordinary, just a standard tin roof. I was about to climb to the other side when I saw what I was hoping for.

  It would be almost impossible to be aware of it during the day, given the similar colour of the two. But light from the torch focusing on specific points of the roof made the roofing nail stick out like the proverbial. About a quarter of the way up one roofing incline, the four roofing nails that held that particular sheet down, were missing. I could see slight indents in the waves of the tin about half way up the sheets as if they had been slightly bent. Lying on the roof, beneath that sheet, lay a single nail. I walked gingerly toward the holes, carefully following the nail line with my feet to save myself a nasty fall.

  “What did you find?” Steph called out from below.

  “One sec,” I called back and bent down to feel the tin. I grabbed the edge and wasn’t surprised when it lifted easily. I peered beneath it and saw the roof space, dark with cobwebs. I shone the light around, looking at the floor and shuddered, dread hitting me like a brick.

  “Steph?” I called, “can you climb up-” but she was already stepping on to the roof behind me. I waved her over then shone the light at something on the floor. She knelt down beside me, then reached forward, picking up a tiny piece of foil. She looked at me, held it up, its unmistakable w-shape highlighted by the torches’ beam. She slowly began to uncurl it, carefully trying not to tear it. When she finished and the shiny piece of wrapping was flat and open, she held it up. It was a juicy fruit wrapper. When I smelt it, the distinct aroma filled my nostrils.

  “This possum catcher,” I began but Steph was shaking her head.

  “Bushy Bill is the pest man around here, Jim, and Bushy Bill has no teeth.” I shone the torch around some more, looking deeper into the cavity. We could see drag marks in the dust, like someone dragging themselves through the space. I climbed into the roof, asked Steph to wait and she sat, holding the tin up far enough to watch me. There wasn’t a lot of space in there so lying on your belly was the only possible way to move around. I also noted it was the quietest. I shone the torch before me and followed the drag marks. They stopped directly ahead of me and I noted some vents in the ceiling, scattered around the space, light seeping through some of them. When I reached the spot where the drag marks ceased, I saw a vent directly beneath me. I didn’t need to look through to know which room sat below me. As I peered through the grating, the Chief’s desk now clearly visible, I slammed my fist into one of the timber beams, the pain shooting up my arm.