by J. M. Peace
He took his hand away from where it rested on the door of the pod. It swung slowly towards where John was sitting. Mort stopped it again. "The car was pretty much parked here," he said. "Though I remember the door swinging a little more quickly." He again let the door swing through a half of its arc, stopping it as it gathered speed.
"At the same moment I've gone to grab the door, Angus has given a little shuffle and leaned forward to jump out of the pod."
John did this, leaning his body weight forward so he could slip out of the pod and land on his feet.
"But he stumbled forwarded and crashed to the ground. I was too slow to try to grab him to try to break his fall.
"So how did he fall?" the detective asked.
"He fell forward. Because he couldn't catch himself on his hands, it looked like he dipped his head so that he took the brunt of the force on his forehead instead of his face."
"Show me," the detective instructed.
Coops and Simon both grabbed an arm each and started lowering John forward slowly as if he was falling.
"He took one, no two, steps forward to try to catch himself but he'd lost his balance already."
They continued to lower John to the ground. His shoulders curled forward in a reflex action as he tried to put his hands out.
"He must have tucked his chin," Mort said. “He didn't hit his face." John pointed his forehead at the ground. His knees touched the ground and the front of his head a second later. Simon and Coops laid him prone on the ground. Mort moved in.
"I said, 'you alright?'. Then I grabbed him by the shoulder levered him backwards onto his knees, like this. He groaned but I couldn't see any blood in his face or head, so I thought he was okay. I was pulling him to his feet when Constable Danaher returned with the keys."
"How long do you think Constable Danaher was in the station for?" the detective asked.
"Not long. Maybe a minute. She just got the keys and came back. I pretty much only just had enough time to open the pod door."
****
"How long do you think you were gone for?" the inspector asked as soon as Krista had returned from inside the station.
She hesitated. It was all so surreal, like everything was happening in slow motion. The pressure to remember it all, and remember it correctly.
"A minute?" she said. “Maybe you can time it if I run through it again?”
The inspector shook his head. "Sounds about right. And what did you see when you came back out?"
"Angus was on his knees." John dropped to the mats obligingly. "And Mort had him by the arm. He was trying to pull him onto his feet. I ran and grabbed his other arm."
"Did you say anything?"
"I said, 'what happened?' Mort said, 'he's so pissed, he can't even stand up by himself'. We then walked him towards the watch house. He was having trouble walking. We were pretty much taking all his weight. Then he made a funny noise and threw up. He had his head turned slightly towards Mort and the vomit went all down Mort's leg. We took Angus straight through to the first cell so we could put him down somewhere."
They reached the watch house door and Krista pulled the keys out from where she had tucked them in her belt. She unlocked the door with one hand, keeping the other under John's elbow.
"The watch house was empty, so the other doors were open, and we just walked him through."
****
Mort shook his leg, mimicking having a boot full of vomit.
"We put him straight into the first cell and knelt him on the floor, with his body leaning onto the mattress. I unlocked the cuffs.
"I said, 'there's a tap and a toilet there, if you're going to be sick again, Angus'. He groaned so I thought he'd heard me. We then went out of the cell. Krista still had the keys so she locked the cell door and also the watch house door."
They moved back out into the loading bay again.
"I said, 'I'm going for a shower.' I don't remember Krista replying. I just walked off because the smell of the vomit was getting to me and starting to make me feel sick too.” Mort looked expectantly at the inspector.
"Continue," the inspector said, gesturing towards the barracks. "I want to get an idea of how long you were gone for.” He glanced at his watch and made a note. They walked across to the barracks.
"I took my boots off here, also my pants because there was no one around. I took my gun and vest into the barracks with me. I then went and had a shower."
"How long do you think you were under the shower for?"
"It was a long shower," Mort admitted. "I was concerned about the saliva going in my eyes earlier so I kept rinsing them. I would have been under for maybe ten minutes. And then I got a clean uniform and dug out some old boots. I put my kit back on again. It wasn't until I walked back around and saw the external door to the watch house open that I realised something was wrong."
"So how long were you gone?"
"Fifteen minutes. 'Round about. I'm guessing."
****
Krista gestured to an area on the floor of the loading dock.
"There was vomit all around there. It smelt disgusting. I saw a hose on the wall of the barracks so I thought I should clean up."
"So just show us what you did," the detective instructed. He checked his watch again.
Krista went to the hose, unrolled, pretended to wash the area down then packed the hose away. She checked the back of the pod, then went into the cab of the car.
"I got his wallet and phone," she explained, pretending to hold something. She returned to the watch house, unlocked it again, lodged his items in the tub and exited again.
"I went to the station to put the custody index on."
"Carry on," the inspector said.
They all trooped into the station. Krista switched on the monitors for the watch house. "This was when I realised something might be wrong," she said. "He hadn't moved from where we'd laid him across the bed. He looked kind of, I don't know, wrong."
She led the way back out to the watch house again, unlocked it, and went to cell one.
She stopped and swallowed hard. An image of vacant eyes and a slack-jawed mouth flashed through her mind. The feel of the stubble on his jaw as she tilted his jaw. This part. This was the worst. She put one hand to her face and shook her head.
"That's fine. We know what happened then, Constable. We'll finish up there." It was a surprising show of compassion from the Detective Inspector from Ethical Standards.
48.
"Hey, Uncle Roy."
Roy was watching the footy when Mick. Stan and Mick were staying with them until they sorted this whole mess with the police out.
"Yeah Mick," Roy answered without looking away from the game.
Mick paused. "That's shit about Angus, hey?" he said eventually.
"Fucking shit, boy." Roy continued to watch the footy.
"You believe me, hey?” Mick said. “That Uncle Angus didn't hit his head while he was scrapping with me."
"Yep. I do. I reckon the coppers know more than they're saying."
"They haven't said what's going on?" Mick asked.
The tone of his nephew’s voice made him look across at him. "What do you mean?" Roy asked.
"You know. The cops and their investigation or whatever. Is it over yet?"
"Nup. They'll probably stretch it out as long as they can. That's the way these things work."
Roy watched as Mick took a deep breath, like a man drowning. He sensed trouble coming.
"Did they do, like, blood tests or something?” Mick asked. “On Uncle Angus, I mean."
"Why's that, boy?" he asked softly.
"Can they do tests after he, you know, died?"
"The copper said something about waiting for blood test results," Roy said, his eyes boring into Mick's. "Why do you want to know?"
"Um. Angus wasn't just drunk that night," Mick said, his voice cracking on the last word.
Roy kept staring at him. "Keep talking." His voice was quieter than usual.
"I gave him some Kronic."
"Some what?"
"Kronic. It's like pot but it's not. It's legal. Kind of. It used to be, anyway."
"What are you talking about?"
"It's synthetic cannabis. It makes me mellow out. I thought it would do the same to Uncle Angus."
"So you gave him some weird shit to smoke that night he died?"
Mick averted his gaze and nodded his head. "Uncle Angus was really down that night. I didn't realise it was the anniversary of Aunty Leanne's death. I thought the Kronic would just help him chill. But it kind of did the opposite."
"Well that explains a bit," Roy said. "I knew something wasn't right when everyone said what he'd done at the pub. Never knew him to be a fighter." He was surprised that he didn’t feel angrier at Mick. He’d filled in a blank spot in the story anyway. Roy reached onto the coffee table for his tobacco pouch. He rolled a smoke and lit it before he impaled Mick on his gaze again.
"I'm glad you told me, Mick. But giving Angus that synthetic shit - that's the most fucked decision you've ever made." His voice was soft and low. "Fuck, Mick. How do you think things would have turned out if Angus had only been drunk? He could handle his grog. Fuck." He shook his head, put his face in his hands.
Mick bit his lip and tasted blood. "I know," he said. "I wanted to tell you because I thought the cops would find out about it. It will be in his blood, won't it? Isn't that how it works?"
Roy was staring at him again. "Yep. They'll know. I don't know what they'll try to turn that into. They might try to make it seem like he was some druggie. Shit, Mick. They might even raid us."
"There's nothing left," Mick said quickly. "I got rid of it all after you... after I found out about Uncle Angus."
Roy, still shaking his head, rose to his feet. Mick shrank back but knew better than to try to run. Roy grabbed him by the front of his shirt, twisting it up under his chin forcing it up, making Mick look in his face.
"Never ever bring drugs to my house again," Roy said quietly. Mick had braced himself for yelling and shouting but this was somehow worse.
"I'm sorry," Mick whispered. "I'm so so sorry. For everything. I didn't mean anything by it. I wanted to make him feel better." They locked eyes. "I loved Unky too."
Roy released him. "Tell no one else about this. Not your dad, not Skeeter. No one. We know nothing about any drugs."
"Thank you," Mick croaked.
Roy waved his cigarette at him dismissively and sat down with his back turned to him.
49.
Detective Inspector Pat Mulroy and Detective Senior Sergeant Jerry Tippett sat together in the interview room with the door closed. Pat had his laptop open and was spooling through the footage of their first interview with Morten.
"Here it is," Pat said. He pushed play and Morten's voice came through tinny on the small laptop speaker.
"...he kind of lurched forward and fell..."
"I could have sworn he didn't mention it at all initially," Pat said.
Jerry nodded. "I didn't remember it either, Pat."
"So we can't imply he was trying to hide it if he has actually mentioned it in the initial interview. He can just say he didn't realise the extent of the injury caused by the fall." Pat tapped one finger against his cheek. He rewound and played a longer section of the tape.
"That's the fatal head wound," Jerry said. "Losing his balance coming out of the pod. That's the only blow to the front of his head. Not one person in all of the witness interviews of the fight saw a blow to the front of the head. He's hit his head at least twice during the night, but that one at the back of the station, that's the only one that matches up with the injury. He’s handcuffed, he dipped his head."
"Without a doubt," Pat agreed. "So he received the injury in custody, whilst handcuffed, with only one officer present and no footage." He shook his head. “When the media get this…”
"It's completely plausible the way Morten's explained it though," Jerry replied. "The door was swinging shut, he’s turned towards the door at the same time as old Hegarty has launched himself forward. Couldn't grab him in time. Hegarty was still cuffed so he couldn't break his own fall. Morten didn't realise how bad it was. The swelling was hidden under his hair."
"The fact that he died of a brain injury is common knowledge by now, but the location of blow to the skull was withheld. Morten himself probably still isn't entirely sure that it was this blow that killed him," said Pat.
"I'd say he has an inkling after that re-enactment. He made sure he covered himself that time," Jerry observed. "What do you make of him, Pat?"
"He's a bit of a mystery. When I saw him, with that skinhead haircut, I thought he'd be one of these cocky arrogant coppers. But he seems to be well-liked and respected by the people here."
Jerry nodded. "If he's lying, he's very good. What about Danaher?"
"I don't think she knows anything about the injury. She’s very green. I think she's used to people, well blokes anyway, being overly helpful and friendly to her. She doesn't have the life experience to see through any bullshit. She's an open book. The only part of her version that didn't ring true to me was her going into that cell by herself while Morten was under the shower. I wouldn't have thought she had the nerve. Or the nouse. But Cornell backed up that part of her story. He's got no reason to lie."
They both fell into silent contemplation. They had worked together often enough to have these long quiet pauses.
"We're about done here, aren't we?" Jerry said, eventually.
"Yep, time to head back to Headquarters and work through all this information," Pat replied.
"It's almost been like a bit of a holiday," Jerry said, leaning back and smiling. "Very pretty little town. I got a swim at the beach in every morning. The weather's warmer. I'd almost consider coming back here with the family."
"Not me," Pat said. "Too small. Not enough going on. Give me a city any day."
50.
It had been a while since Mick had seen his cousin. Their families used to hang out a lot when they all lived in Ipswich, but Skeeter had only been a kid when they'd left to move to Tannin Bay. Mick hadn't seen him much after that. He'd been in town about a week before Uncle Angus died and he'd spent a lot of time with Skeeter since then.
Things were either sad or tense in the house, so he often escaped out to the caravan where Skeeter lived. He had set it up far enough from the house that his music wouldn't disturb. And now, at the age of sixteen, he was more man than boy. Mick found they had a bit in common.
"I can't believe he's dead. I just doesn't seem real." Mick couldn't remember how many times Skeeter had said something along these lines.
"You die when you get old. Or you have a car crash or something. You don't die from just hitting your head. If you died from banging your head, I'd be dead a hundred times over."
Mick had brought over a six pack of rum mixers. He started to notice a pattern – when Skeeter drank he became completely pre-occupied with their uncle's death, and couldn't seem to talk about anything else.
"Our dads are both one hundred percent convinced that the coppers did something to Unky at the watch house. Gave him a touch up or something."
"Well, I swear that he didn't bang his head while I was rassling with him. I've said that a hundred times too, I reckon," Mick said.
"Yeah, everyone believes you," Skeeter replied. "It happened at the watch house. Everyone knows that now. Those dogs killed him."
"I was surprised that Angus spat at Mort. But I bet that really really pissed him off, getting spat on. I bet he wanted revenge."
"Do you know him, that copper... Mort?" Mick asked.
"Yeah. He's an arsehole. They all are. Give 'em a uniform and they think their shit doesn't stink."
"What about the other one, the chick?"
"No one knows her. She's new to town. But they're all as bad as each other."
"She was going to spray me with her pepper spray but I was too fast for her," Mick said.
> "I reckon she was scared of you anyway. Maybe she smashed Angus's head against the cell door or something. While he was hand cuffed. May have got the shits with you getting away and thought – here’s a fight I can finally win with a bloke in handcuffs who can't touch me."
"Or Unky’s said something they didn't like and they just kicked his legs out from underneath him. There would have been nothing he could do. Nothing. Hands fucking locked behind his back."
They sipped on their rums while they thought up new scenarios.
"They're going to get away with it," Skeeter said eventually. "I bet nothing happens to either one of them."
"Aren't they investigating or something." Mick used air quotes around the word 'investigating'.
"Yeah. But it's coppers investigating coppers, isn't it? They're only ever going to side with their mates, aren't they?"
"You reckon nothing will happen?" Mick asked.
"Of course nothing will happen." Skeeter pulled another can out of the carton. "I'll bet you a six-pack."
"But it was on the news. They know about it too."
"Yeah, but what are they going to do? They would have lost interest already. They'll only report on it if something exciting's happening."
Mick shook his head. "It's not fair. Somebody's got to be able to do something."
"Somebody can do something," Skeeter said softly. Mick stared at him, waiting for him to go on.
"Us. We can do something. We can get a little justice for Unky. Just a little."
"I've got to be careful," Mick said. "I'm already in the middle of the shit storm."
"We've both got to be careful," Skeeter said. "But it will be worth it."
His eyes were shining as he leant closer to Mick and started talking.
51.
Krista was laying on her bed scrolling through her Instagram feed. It was the closest she came to having a social life. It had been another boring shift where she felt not just superfluous to the station but also an imposition. Once the investigation was over, she kept telling herself, then things will settle down.