by Gary Gregor
Carefully, he lowered himself to one knee and looked beneath the desk at the sickening mess. He did not know what he was looking for; anything he supposed. Anything that might explain why a cop had been murdered. He found nothing.
A loud knock startled him. With a grunt precipitated by an arthritic twinge, he pulled himself to his feet, walked slowly across the room, and opened the door.
John Singh, a constable, attached to the Coroner’s Office, stood in the doorway. With him was a man Foley recognised as a doctor employed by the Northern Territory Government who worked out of the Pathology Unit at the Royal Darwin Hospital. As a requirement of procedural process, the doctor was there to certify death; as if Foley needed certification. Richter was dead all right; his intestines slowly congealing in a sickening heap under the desk was certification enough for him. Foley stepped aside and ushered the two men into the room.
As the doctor turned his attention to his examination, Foley stepped outside into the relatively fresh air. He fumbled in his pockets for a cigarette, lit one, and inhaled deeply, immediately glad he had failed in every attempt at quitting. Nothing disguised the taste of death in the back of the throat like the acrid taste of tobacco smoke.
An old office chair, plainly suffering from the ravages of time, weather, and the late Carl Richter’s weight, stood next to the Property Office door. During quieter moments of his shift, which was much of the time, Richter would often sit here, taking advantage of any breeze on offer. Today there was little.
Foley watched as two of his detectives sifted through the contents of a large commercial dumpster at the rear of the small car park, their body language conveying their obvious distaste at scoring the unpleasant task. His shirt, damp with perspiration, clung to his back, and an uncomfortable, foreboding feeling engulfed him. As he sat, watching his men at work, he knew this case was going to be different from others he had investigated. How he knew was a mystery to him. It was a feeling; a sense based on intuition and twenty years of experience. This case would not be easy. Generally, none of them were, but this one was different.
2
Justice Malcolm Costello, “Lou” to his close friends and associates, ran every day. It became almost a matter of ritual for him. Sometimes he ran in the morning before he went to work in his capacity as one of the Northern Territory’s six Supreme Court judges, and sometimes he ran at night. Only a typical “Top End” downpour interrupted his exercise routine. He figured he perspired enough when he ran without the rain adding to his discomfort. He started running five years ago, the day after his forty-second birthday. He started because his life was a mess.
Costello’s wife of twelve years and his nine-year-old son were killed in a traffic accident returning from a school parent/student sports day at his son’s school. He should have accompanied them, but he was too busy. It seemed he was always too busy to spend quality time with his wife and son. Indeed, his commitment to his work was often the catalyst for bitter arguments with his wife.
Mostly their arguments ended with him storming out of the house and seeking the sanctuary of his office at the Supreme Court building in the city. The day they both died his wife was not talking to him following another of their fights. When she took his young son Malcolm and left the house, she did not say goodbye.
The tragedy triggered the beginning of a downward spiral into strong booze and deep, guilt-ridden self-pity, as though someone had thrown a switch plunging his life into a darkness from which he found no way out, and it was only a matter of time before he stopped searching. In a few mad seconds of squealing brakes, tearing metal, and the screams of his dying family, Malcolm Costello slipped from the lofty heights of promising young Magistrate to self-destructive drunk.
Chief Magistrate Bernie Sullivan saved Costello. Perhaps more accurately, Bernie Sullivan’s twenty-eight-year-old daughter Melinda saved him, albeit unwittingly. To Melinda, Costello was just another conquest; another notch in her belt, or bed-head as it happened.
Back then, in his almost constantly inebriated state, Costello was not as prominent a personality on whom Melinda would normally set her sights. But, he was there, he was available, although availability was never something she put all that much stock in, and he was vulnerable. For the time being, he was a source of amusement for Melinda; at least until someone more appropriate stumbled, or was lured, into her otherwise boring life.
Costello bedded Melinda, or perhaps Melinda bedded Costello; he had long ago forgotten who instigated the relationship. Besides, the particular order of things seemed irrelevant. Either way, given the state he was in, and what he remembered about their liaison the next morning, he might just as have easily climbed into the sack with Boy George and not known the difference.
Of course, Costello knew of Melinda’s reputation, and he would be surprised if there were anyone in the judiciary who didn’t. The general gossip, at least amongst his male counterparts, was Melinda was a tigress in the bedroom. The gossip could have well been true, but he didn’t remember it.
However, fortuitously, their encounter that night was yet another catalyst, one that turned his life around. For a long time after Melinda left his house that morning, Costello sat on the end of his bed and stared at the stranger looking back at him from the floor-to-ceiling mirror on his wall; the very same mirror Melinda Sullivan seemed to find such an erotic turn-on just a few hours earlier.
He hardly recognised the pathetic creature he had become. As he sat, staring at the gaunt, haggard face in the mirror, something touched the back of his neck. It was just a touch, a feather soft touch that stirred the hair at the nape of his neck. Mesmerised, he stared into the mirror, looking beyond his reflection. He saw nothing of course, but from that moment on, Malcolm Costello believed his dead wife visited him that morning. As quickly as he lost control of his life, he began to regain it. He raged through his house, emptied every container of alcohol he found into the kitchen sink, then started running.
At first, he thought the unfamiliar exercise regime he set for himself would surely kill him. However, hour by hour, day by day, week by week, it became easier. Slowly, painfully slowly, as his tired and long neglected body adapted, his fitness improved, and he increased both the distance he ran and the pace at which he covered it. Five years on, he was still sober and, while still tortured with deep regrets over the loss of his family, he made enormous inroads into mending his broken life. He still ran every day, no longer because he needed to, but because he wanted to.
Somewhere along the way, he made it to the Supreme Court as its youngest ever Judge. However, while he enjoyed the benefits that accompanied the prestigious position, he refused to allow himself the luxury of forgetting those dark days he spent in hell. Those memories still haunted him, but also kept him focused, and he never did call Melinda Sullivan as he had promised her he would.
Justice Malcolm Costello was running the day he died. In the few precious seconds of life that remained as he lay on the ground, he was conscious only of the decision he almost made not to run that day. Before he left the house, he listened to the distant rumble of thunder, and from his kitchen window, he watched as the sky grew darker with a speed that fascinated him.
He almost didn’t run. Could he cover his usual five kilometres before the heavens opened? He enjoyed running too much not to take the chance; a decision that cost him his life.
Costello ran the same route every time, following a circuit meandering through the Darwin Water Gardens and Recreation Reserve near to his home. It happened fast; so fast he was powerless to prevent it. He never saw it coming. When it arrived, he barely felt it.
For a hundred metres or so, the running track passed through a small man-made rain forest garden growing right up to the edge of the pathway, forming a leafy canopy above it. Briefly, as he entered the darkened tunnel of foliage, he was hidden from view. It happened as he progressed past the halfway point. A strong hand grabbed him from behind, pulling him off balance. He saw a glint of sunlight
on steel flash in front of his eyes, and felt an instant, pinprick of pain in his throat.
As he lay on his back, the film of death closing over his eyes, and his life’s blood flowing freely across the running track, Malcolm Costello thought about how he almost didn’t run. As he died, the first swollen drops of rain fell on his face.
Two young boys found him. As was their favourite thing to do, they were riding their bicycles around the recreation park in their very own childhood version of a motorcycle Grand Prix. The race leader almost ran over the body lying half across the back straight of their race circuit.
In a cloud of imaginary tyre smoke and screeching brakes, the young race leader and the rider he looked certain to beat for the world championship brought their B.M.X. Rough Riders to a sudden, unscheduled stop, inches from the corpse.
For a few bewildering moments, they sat astride their respective machines staring, wide-eyed, confused and speechless at the scene confronting them. The two boys looked down at the dead man. Neither had ever seen a dead person before, except on television, but television didn’t count because those people weren’t really dead; they were actors. However, they knew instinctively the man spread-eagled across their racetrack obstructing their progression, was dead. The blood covering the path, and his head lying at an awkward angle, almost separated from his body, was a dead give-away.
“Shit!” the young leader cried. That one word pretty much summed up how they both felt. There remained nothing more to be said. Both boys turned their bicycles, and sped away in the direction they came, all thoughts of world championships and lap records now far from their minds.
As they pedalled as fast as their young legs would pump, neither with so much as a centimetre advantage over the other, the skies opened, and the rain began in earnest.
Russell Foley recalled perhaps two occasions in his career when he felt like tossing it all in. Now he faced a third. Carl Richter had been dead six weeks, Malcolm Costello two weeks, and still he was no closer to solving either murder than he was at the beginning. It was not one of the high points of his career.
Seated across the desk from him was Assistant Commissioner Peter Story. The fact Story had come downstairs to Foley’s office instead of summoning him to the ivory tower, as the administration floor of the headquarters building was known, indicated his visit was a matter of urgency.
When the Assistant Commissioner arrived, and before he sat, he made a point of closing Foley’s office door, something Foley very rarely did. Now both men sat facing each other across the desk.
Finally, Story spoke, his voice clear and authoritarian.
“Where are you on the Costello murder, Russell?”
“I’m afraid I have nothing substantial to report since I last updated you, Sir.”
Story shifted in his chair and ran his hand through his close-cropped, greying hair.
“Russell, I’m copping a lot of flack from the boss about this thing. The Police Minister calls the Commissioner every day, and then the Commissioner calls me, and dines out on my rear end. It’s the chain of command, and it’s filtering down the line. Now I have to chew your arse. Give me something to keep them off my back and, by extension, me off your back.”
“I wish I had something for you,” Foley shrugged. “I’ve got a team working around the clock; you know that. As soon as we find something, you’ll be the first to know. I don’t know what else to tell you.”
“What about Richter?”
“What about him?”
“Have you found any connection between his murder and Costello’s?”
“If you’re asking me if the same person is responsible, my gut feeling is yes, but I have nothing more concrete than that. I wish I did. We could use a breakthrough."
Story drummed his fingers on the desk. “I can’t go back to the boss with nothing more positive than your gut feelings.”
“I know that, Sir, but we are doing everything we can.”
Story sighed loudly. “I’m sorry Russell,” he said. “I know you are. This damn thing is getting to us. The media is talking about a serial killer loose in the community; that’s all we need. Mass hysteria stirred up by the media doesn't help us one bit.”
“The media is in the business of selling newspapers and getting ratings,” Foley noted. “This is just another example of the kind of irresponsible journalism we’ve come to expect from them.”
“Could they be right?”
“About the serial killer stuff?”
"No Russell, about there not being a Santa Claus! Of course about the serial killer stuff, could the press be right?”
“With respect, Sir,” Foley answered, his frustration beginning to show. “We are not in a position to either confirm or deny that suggestion." He shrugged. "But, anything’s possible. I can assure you the media has no more knowledge on either of the murders than we have. Any suggestion of a serial killer at work is nothing more than speculation on their part, designed for no other purpose than to lift ratings and sell more papers.”
“I agree, but do you think the same person is responsible for both?”
“Murder convictions don’t eventuate from what an investigator might think," Foley continued. "I’ve had gut feelings before. Some proved to be accurate; others proved to be way off the mark. The truth is, we have no hard evidence that would stand up either way. We have no murder weapon or apparent motive in either case. However, to answer your question, my feeling in this case is the murder weapon will turn out to be the same one used in both killings.”
“Why?”
“The autopsy reports suggest the wounds on both victims were inflicted with an extremely sharp knife, a long, thin-bladed, razor sharp knife. They also suggest, in both cases, the victims died as a result of one, strong stroke with such a knife.”
“That’s not proof positive,” Story added.
“No, unfortunately, it’s not. Although both autopsies were conducted by the same pathologist, they were obviously treated as separate, unrelated examinations. Despite the fact he found similarities in the nature of the injuries causing both deaths, he has not yet arrived at a definite conclusion in any respect. Indeed, he goes to great pains to make that very point in his report.”
“Yes, I know, I’ve read his report.”
“Then you’ll know, while any testimony he might give should be considered as expert evidence, his opinions on the murder weapon being possibly similar in both cases is nothing more than that, his opinion.”
“So we’re back at square one. We have one hundred percent of sweet fuck all,” Story stated rather than questioned.
“I’m afraid so. But, we continue to do what we do and, for the most part, we are good at it. Eventually, we will get this bloke.”
“And in the meantime,” Story shrugged, “the media continues to make us look like a bunch of incompetent fools.”
Foley leaned forward in his chair. “Sir, you carry clout with the various media outlets, dating back to your days as Media Liaison Officer. Isn’t there someone you can talk to; an editor perhaps, or television station manager? Maybe you can convince them to ease up on the serial killer stuff.”
Story shook his head. “Been there, tried that,” he said. “All I got for my trouble was a lecture on the freedom of the press, and the public’s right to know. I’ve called a press conference for three o’clock this afternoon. I’ll have another shot at it, but don’t hold your breath waiting for the media to do as we ask.”
“Should I be there?” Foley asked.
“Normally, in your capacity as lead investigator, that would be the case, but not this time. One way or another, I’m going to put a lid on this thing. I’ll tell them the investigation has reached a sensitive stage, and any further comment on our progress may jeopardise ongoing enquiries.”
“If the media is true to form, they won’t buy it.”
“Maybe, maybe not, but it has to be better than admitting we have zilch.”
“You could tell them
we have a team of dedicated investigators working twenty-four hours a day, and we expect a breakthrough at any moment,” Foley suggested with no small degree of sarcasm.
Story rose from his chair and prepared to leave. “We’ve been waiting for six weeks for a breakthrough. Both the media and the public know that. Leave the press to me. In the meantime, find me something. A motive, a weapon, something, any bloody thing.”
“A killer?” Foley suggested.
“A killer would do nicely.”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
Assistant Commissioner Story crossed to the door, opened it, and turned to face Foley. “Find me something, Russell,” he ordered. Then he was gone.
There it was, that old feeling again; that want to toss it all in, feeling. He found it hard to believe six weeks had passed since the murder of Carl Richter sent shock waves through the police force, and indeed the whole community. Then, as if the brutal slaying of one of the Territory’s finest wasn’t enough, what is on offer as an encore? Here you go folks, here is the prominent Supreme Court Judge, Justice Malcolm Costello, the youngest ever appointed to the Supreme Court. Here he is, lying in a pool of blood; his head almost severed from his shoulders.
There were times when a particular case seemed to engulf investigators in countless dead ends and brick walls. Such times were not frequent, but when they did occur, they generated feelings of frustration and failure. For Russell Foley, this was one of those times. If leaving the job were seen as a fitting end to a distinguished career, he might have seriously considered that option. But, he knew it would never be seen that way; it would be seen as quitting, and Foley was no quitter.
On the desk in front of him, the two murder files lay, inviting him to continue. He scooped them up, pushed away from his desk and made his way to the homicide incident room adjacent to his office.
