by Gary Gregor
Something happened to John Stringer that night, something strange and seemingly totally out of character. Subsequent investigations would reveal him as a hard-working and loving family man who apparently adored his wife and children. He worked hard, and he was an unobtrusive, respected member of his neighbourhood, and the community in general. Initially, Sam was unable to find anything in his past or present to offer an explanation why he would, without warning, feel compelled to embark on the unmotivated killing spree; why he would obliterate his entire family in a few minutes of psychotic madness. Then when he looked at Stringer’s financial records, it became apparent Stringer felt tormented by the prospect of losing it all, and was unable to contain his emotions.
Kevin Thiele entered a not guilty plea on behalf of his client. He relied on a temporary insanity defence in the hope of saving his client from the mandatory life sentence accompanying murder convictions in the Northern Territory. It failed. In the fullness of time, Stringer was found guilty of murder, and sentenced to twenty years, much to the disgust of Sam Rose and everyone involved in the investigation. Twenty years! It amounted to little more than six years for each of the three victims. The bastard got twenty lousy years for butchering his entire family. The image of the two Stringer children flashed into Sam’s mind, and he shuddered with the memory.
The Crown appealed, of course, and “Grossly inadequate!” the media headlines screamed. The sentence was upheld when the appeal was eventually heard, which only served to agitate the community further. Sam had long ago ceased to be a big fan of the judicial system and the way it dispatched what it considered to be justice, and the Stringer sentence only enhanced his distaste.
Thiele was way out of his depth. Throughout the brief trial, Stringer fervently maintained his innocence. He loved his family, he insisted. He could never have committed such a hideous crime against the people he loved. How he came to be covered in the blood of his family, he was unable to satisfactorily explain. Who, other than himself might have killed his family that night, he was also unable to explain, and John William Stringer went to prison, silently vowing revenge against all those responsible for his arrest and subsequent conviction.
Sam reached out and switched on the bedside lamp, squinting at the sudden harshness of the light as it flooded the room. Revenge, was that what this was? He searched his memory. Slowly, slowly it began to come back. The pieces began to fit. It had nagged at him all night. Who was involved? Think. Think. Start from the beginning; the first murder. Carl Richter was the first victim. How did he fit?
Standing, staring absently out of his office window, Sam did not hear Paddy O’Reily enter.
“Top o’ the mornin’ to you, Sam lad,” the journalist greeted, sounding jovial and rested.
The voice startled Sam. He spun around to find Paddy seating himself.
“Hello, Paddy.”
“You seem a little pre-occupied, so you do,” O’Reily observed. “Is somethin’ botherin’ you, lad?”
“Sorry, mate. I had a bad night. I guess I’m just tired. What about you? Any luck with your contact?”
“Indeed,” Paddy smiled, obviously pleased with himself. “The murder weapon used on Thiele is almost certainly the same as the one used on all the others. I think that removes any doubt about it being the same person responsible for all the murders.”
Sam turned away and resumed his indifferent surveillance of the street and passing traffic outside the window.
“Something is bothering you, is it not?” Paddy said to his back.
Sam stepped away from the window and crossed to his desk. He sat wearily opposite his old friend. He remained pensive, and thoughtful, as though organising his thoughts into a semblance of order. Finally, he looked across the desk at Paddy.
“Do you remember a multiple murder, years ago, in a house in Nightcliff, near the beach? A bloke killed his wife and two kids…”
“John Stringer,” Paddy interrupted. “Aye, I remember it well. I followed the investigation for the paper. I did a series of articles on the bastard, so I did. Tried to find out what made him tick. I even interviewed him in prison. He was one sick puppy that one. What about him?”
“I woke up this morning thinking about him.”
“Then you need to get a girlfriend, if you haven’t one already” Paddy joked.
“No, seriously,” Sam said.
“Well, he was one to give you nightmares, true enough. Why would you be thinking of him then?”
“I’ve been trying to remember when he went to prison, and when he was due for release.”
“I can tell you that,” Paddy said. “I did a follow-up article when he became eligible for parole. He was released five months ago. Why is it important?”
“So he is out?” Sam mused. “Jesus, I wonder…”
“You wonder what?”
“A moment ago I was thinking about Carl Richter, the first victim, and where he might be tied in with the others. Do you think Stringer could be our man?”
Paddy looked surprised. “Of course not, it’s impossible.”
“Impossible? Why?”
“Because Stringer’s dead, so he is.”
“Dead, are you sure?”
“Of course I’m sure. I thought you would have known that. It was a big case for you, remember?”
“How would I have known that?” Sam asked. “Until today I haven’t given him a moment’s thought. How did he die?”
“He committed suicide,” Paddy answered. “Must be three months ago. The bastard incinerated himself in his car. It was in the paper. I wrote the article myself. Don’t you read the paper?”
“Incinerated himself?”
“Aye. He emptied twenty litres of petrol onto the floor of his car, sat behind the wheel, and calm as you like, dropped a match. Must have went off like a bomb. Burnt a couple of acres of bush before they found him. I spoke to the coppers who attended; they said there was nothing much left to identify. Cooked to a crisp, so he was, like an over-done leg of pork at Christmas.”
“Shit!” Sam cursed. “Three months ago! That blows my theory about him being responsible for these murders. There was no doubt the body was Stringer?”
“No, no doubt. It was his car and extensive dental records that finally confirmed it. Sorry to disappoint you, but John Stringer is not our man.”
“Jesus Paddy, don’t be sorry. I’m glad the bastard’s dead. It couldn’t happen to a nicer guy. Strange though, I got to know him pretty well during the initial investigation, and I would never have picked him for the suicide type. Did he leave a note?”
“No nothing, he went to live at that refuge place at Stuart Park after his release. Apparently he left just a couple of days before he topped himself.”
“I know the place,” Sam said. “It’s a Salvation Army half-way house for men.”
“That’s it,” Paddy nodded.”
“I can’t believe it,” Sam said, almost to himself. “The feeling was strong. I would have bet he was our killer.”
“Not unless he figured a way to come back from the grave,” Paddy offered. “But then, knowing Stringer as I did, he could probably do that.”
Sam remained silent. He was looking at Paddy, but his eyes were vacant. His mind was elsewhere. Something about this didn’t sound right, didn’t fit. An uncomfortable silence passed.
“What is it?” Paddy probed finally.
“I don’t know, mate. I just don’t know. Something's not right."
“What's 'not right' about it?”
“Stringer, and suicide, it just doesn’t fit.”
“Why?" Paddy shrugged. "People top themselves every day, and those they leave behind refuse to believe they were capable of doing such a thing.”
“Yeah, I know,” Sam agreed. “But, as much as I hate to admit it, Stringer was a strong person. I never for a moment accepted he was mentally unstable when he killed his family, neither did the jury when they convicted him. The thought of him killing himself after f
inally being released doesn’t sit right with me. I mean, if he was going to do away with himself, why not do it in prison? It happens all the time; it’s not difficult. Why wait until you are finally free and then do it? It doesn’t make any sense.”
“Aye, I agree, but then he had a lot of years to think about what he did to his family. Prison can change a person. Maybe he was inside long enough for him to feel the pain of what he did. People do strange things when consumed by guilt and remorse, they're powerful emotions.”
“Some people do strange things, Paddy… some people, but not John Stringer. That prick never had a remorseful bone in his body.”
“Come on, Sam, don’t tell me you’re thinking Stringer might still be alive?”
“Oh, God,” Sam shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe I’m grasping at straws. I woke up thinking about the bastard. I had myself convinced he was our man.”
“Well, it’s impossible,” Paddy said with conviction.
“I wonder,” Sam pondered aloud.
“What? What do you wonder?”
“You said it would be impossible for Stringer to have committed these murders unless…” he paused, “unless he came back from the grave.”
“You sure you haven’t been tippling at the whiskey bottle?” Paddy laughed.
“No, Paddy, I haven’t been drinking. How’s your cash holding out?”
“It’s getting low, now that you ask. Why?”
Sam reached into a drawer in his desk and removed the envelope of cash. He peeled off another five hundred dollars and handed it to Paddy. “Here,” he said. “Take this. I want you to make one more trip to the morgue.”
“What for this time?” Paddy asked as he stuffed the money inside his jacket.
“I want to see the autopsy report on John Stringer,” Sam said, seriously.
“You are joking, of course?”
“No, I’m not joking.”
“The man’s dead, so he is. What in the devil’s name are you looking for?”
“I don’t know that either. I wish I did. It’s just a hunch.”
“No, Sam,” Paddy argued. “It’s not a hunch; it’s a fookin' wild-goose chase, that’s what it is.”
“You’re probably right, mate, but I need to do this. The feeling’s too strong to simply ignore.”
“Okay,” Paddy shrugged. “You’re the boss. I’m away then. I’ll be in touch.” He got up, and with a dismissive wave, hurried from the room.
Sam sat alone in his office for a long time after Paddy left. Thoughts filled his mind in a confusing mish-mash of half-baked scenarios, "what ifs', and "how coulds." All were of John William Stringer, and of Stringer's family, his wife Morgan, and his two beautiful children, Sarah and Jamie. Was Stringer dead? It must be true. He could not possibly still be alive, could he? Could he have spent his time in prison, scheming and planning revenge? How did he do it? No, Paddy was right, Stringer was dead. Sam wanted to believe he was dead, but something wouldn’t let him; something, but what? What was it? It was more than a feeling, more than intuition, more than a hunch or a gut feeling. Whatever it was, it was stronger than any of those things; something almost tangible.
14
As one would place the pieces into a jigsaw puzzle, Sam found himself placing each of the victims into a hypothetical case against John Stringer. Common sense dictated he should be concentrating on, and pursuing alternative avenues of inquiry, because there simply couldn’t be a case against Stringer. Stringer was dead, and dead men can't commit murder, not unless medical science had advanced into the area of miracles, and no one had informed him.
There were no miracles at work here however, and he silently cursed his stubbornness at not being able to accept unconditionally that which he knew to be true. Paddy could not have been mistaken. If he said Stringer was dead, then Stringer was dead. Sam had known Paddy O’Reily for a long time, and if there was one thing the tough old scribe was not, it was casual with the facts when it came to any written word attributed to him. Still, Sam could not rid himself of the apprehension that embraced him. Something disturbingly alien and alarming held his thoughts, and focused them inexplicably on each of the victims.
He grabbed up a pen and began to write their names on a pad. At the top of the page, in the centre, he wrote, in bold capital letters, the name "John Stringer". Below Stringer's name he wrote "Carl Richter".
Richter was the first to die. Sam knew only too well of a connection between Richter and Stringer. Sam and Richter were partners, way back then, and they were together when they attended the Stringer house the night of the murders. Alongside Richter’s name, he wrote “Arresting Officer”.
The next victim was Judge Malcolm Costello. Sam jotted the name underneath Richter’s. He stared at the names, willing a connection to jump from the page. Suddenly, there it was. He ran a line through the word “Judge” in front of Costello’s name. Back then, Costello was not a judge. He was a prosecutor; a Crown Prosecutor.
Through the shroud of confusion, there it was. Malcolm Costello was the Crown’s solicitor who prosecuted John Stringer. Sam looked at the pad in front of him. Under Costello’s name, he began to write the names of the remaining victims. The connection was immediate.
Judge Roland Henderson was the presiding judge at Stringer’s trial. The last to die, Kevin Thiele, was the court appointed solicitor acting as Stringer’s defence attorney. Stringer had no money. He could not afford a high priced defence team, so in accordance with his legal rights, he was granted representation by a defence attorney appointed by the court.
Sam shifted uncomfortably in his chair. Ann Curtis was right. A common bond existed between the victims. Slowly, deliberately, Sam allowed his eyes to scan the list, pausing at each name, reinforcing the existence of a connection between victim and victim; victim and killer. He searched for anything that might prove he was mistaken. He wanted to be mistaken. He found nothing.
How was it possible? Stringer was dead. Was this the work of a forgotten relative, acting out vengeance on behalf of the late John Stringer? Sam struggled to reconcile the facts as he now knew them. He wanted to believe it was all a strange coincidence; one of those strange, quirks of fate that happened from time to time, always seeming to defy logical explanation. He looked again at Carl Richter’s name at the top of his list and then, suddenly, he knew why he was sent the list.
It concerned Sam that he was partnered with Carl Richter, a man whose reputation and unpopularity were widely known. Back then, Sam was new to homicide investigations, and although under any stretch of the imagination it was not an ideal paring, he was able, with tolerance and no small amount of self-discipline, to put aside his personal feelings. For the most part, he was able to disregard the character flaws of his partner.
Sam was as much the arresting officer as Richter that night, more so in fact. Sam was the one who interviewed Stringer and subsequently charged him with the murder of his wife and children. If this was a revenge thing, was Stringer, or whoever the killer was, after him as well? Was the name Sam Rose one of the last two names yet to be added to his list?
He pushed away from his desk and stood. With the list of names clutched in his hand, he began to pace back and forth across the tiny office. Occasionally he stopped, looked down at the list and shook his head. No, it was not possible. Stringer was dead.
Darwin’s geographical isolation, in relation to Australia’s other major cities, did not, unfortunately, segregate it from the social and welfare perils associated with modern community development. Homelessness was as much alive and well in this rapidly expanding city as it was in any other large metropolis. Indeed, given the large multicultural diversity of the population, Darwin was arguably more susceptible to welfare problems of this nature than most cities.
A large itinerate population ebbed and flowed from Darwin all year through. The young, and the not so young, unemployment benefits being their only source of income, drifted to-and-fro like so much human flotsam, in search of sunshine a
nd cheap fun.
An unfortunate and unavoidable consequence of this never-ending flow of humanity was the burden it ultimately placed on the various government welfare agencies and charitable organisations. Such establishments seemed to spring up all over the city with alarming regularity as accountability struggled to maintain pace with progress.
As a cop with twenty-years service behind him, Sam had dealings with such institutions on many occasions. He knew far too many cases of genuine need developed due to people’s inability to cope with the pace of modern living. Although he was never one to condemn the genuinely needy, he knew the number of establishments that existed for the purpose of providing free, no questions asked, assistance to those who held a hand out, was directly proportional to the number of shitheads, drifters, losers, and professional dole bludgers who seemed to take immense pleasure in leeching off the hard working, tax paying members of society.
The Salvation Army was one of the charities Sam admired most. It represented a dedicated, caring band of men and women who operated several premises in and around Darwin. One of these was a hostel for homeless men at Stuart Park, a suburb on the edge of the city. According to Paddy O’Reily, it was where John Stringer lived following his release from prison. Men whose future held no promise other than misery, poverty, alcoholism, and destitution could find a bed and a half-decent meal.
Sometimes they came on an occasional basis, or in the case of John Stringer, on a more permanent basis. Here they could get a meal, clean, dry, clothes, and a bed that, although far from five-star standard, was considerably more comfortable than that offered in any of the numerous parks dotted in and around the city area. Here they were treated with more dignity and respect than most of them had ever known. Also, their luckless circumstances were never brought into question; behave, bathe regularly, and no booze on the premises, were the only requisites they had to abide by.
There were, of course, those who fell into a category Sam liked to call “Drop Kicks and Arseholes”. These were those who bludged off the system and abused the charitable generosity of the ‘Salvos’ and like institutions. As he pulled up in front of the hostel, he watched two perfect examples from this category saunter cockily from the entrance. Their expressions indicated they were obviously pleased with themselves for having conned a free meal, thereby saving a portion of their dole money for purchases much more important than food; like marijuana, of which there was no shortage in Darwin. He watched as they staggered haughtily away from the hostel, laughing and jostling each other. Life was simply wonderful.
