by J K Nen
“That’s a lie,” the old woman snarled. “Which slut accused my son of raping her?”
“Mrs Stevens, several witnesses saw what your son did,” Steele started to explain but she cut him off.
“That lying bitch will sell herself to somebody else and my Alfonso’s dead,” she broke down, weeping bitterly.
Logan and Steele left the room.
Even when they returned with French, the older Mrs Stevens was adamant that her son could not possibly attack any woman.
“Women loved my son,” she insisted. “He could get anyone he wanted. Not some washed up prostitute in a nightclub.”
“Mrs Stevens, the woman was his own classmate,” Steele told her. “We’re wasting time arguing when we should be looking for his killer.”
“She killed him. Are you too stupid to realise that? What kind of policeman are you?”
“Annie, please stop this,” her white-haired, ebony-complexioned husband tried to intervene. “You are not helping.”
“Mr and Mrs Stevens, we will find your son’s killer,” Logan reassured them. “His body will be released when the medical examiner’s done.”
“All he wanted was to come to school in Australia,” the old woman wailed. “I told him to go back to Jamaica but he wouldn’t listen. He came to Australia and they called him a rapist and killed him. Oh Alfonso, my boy.”
Mrs Stevens wailed as her husband held her.
French studied Alfonso’s widow. Even while seated, she maintained a regal pose. A Nubian queen in mourning, yet displaying so much grace under fire. Every so often, she would dab at the tears rolling down her face.
“Mrs Stevens, would you like some tea?” French offered gently.
“That would be lovely, thank you,” she replied in a low, husky voice.
French led the way to her office.
The young Mrs Stevens appeared more relaxed in French’s office.
“Please call me Mahalia,” she began. “Dr French, my mother-in-law is grieving for her son, don’t let any of what she’s saying get to you.”
“People grieve differently,” French agreed.
“Alfonso was many things to many people. I don’t think he was ready to get married but I was already pregnant. My family is not one anyone in Jamaica wants to mess with. He was forced to marry me to make it right.”
Mahalia Stevens told French her husband was a serial womaniser. The birth of his sons drove him further away. With his mother’s help, Stevens did his best to get away from his wife and children. He first studied in England but fled to Jamaica when a fellow student accused him of attempted rape. His mother then sent him to school in Australia. He called his wife sporadically, but only when he was drunk. Mahalia Stevens worked for a telecommunications company, and took sole responsibility for the boys and her elderly parents-in-law, despite his mother’s firm belief that she was not good enough for her son.
“Dr French, if Alfonso’s classmate says he tried to rape her, believe her,” she finished. “Contact Senior Inspector Ramsey of Westminster Police. He was the case officer for Al’s rape case.”
She scrolled through her phone and provided the email address and phone number.
“Thank you Mahalia,” French replied. “What will you do after this?”
“Well, the marriage was irretrievably broken down years ago,” she answered after a brief pause. “I’ve done the honourable thing in standing by my boys’ father until his death. I certainly don’t feel any loss. I’m free now.”
Armed with new information, Logan returned to the Stevens. The old woman looked up defiantly.
“Ms Logan, I want to return my boy home but I want that hussy to drop all charges,” she demanded. “Alfonso was loved by women.”
“Including Megan Gallagher in London?” Logan replied frostily. “Your son is wanted for questioning in England.”
Suddenly, the old woman looked uncertain.
“There’s a warrant of arrest out for Alfonso Stevens in England,” Logan continued. “This is not the first time he’s done this, Mrs Stevens. That’s a fact you failed to mention.”
Caught out, the old woman maintained her silence.
“Now stop hindering this investigation and allow us to track down your son’s murderer,” she said sternly. “We can’t do our work when you’re here with all your unreasonable demands.”
Mrs Stevens’ second line of attack startled Logan.
“You are racist, just like the English police.”
“Is that why your son ran away to Jamaica without hanging around to prove how racist and corrupt the English bobbies were?” Logan retorted. “Don’t waste any of our time. We have a killer to catch. A killer that’s killed too many times already, do you understand?”
The older woman angrily swept from the station without another word. Her husband quietly shook hands with Logan and Steele.
“I’m sorry about my wife’s behaviour. He was our oldest son and she is grieving. We’ll be at the hotel until his body is ready to be released.”
At the entrance of the police station, they met Jamie Maddox, Greta Szachs and Steven’s other classmates. Greta had already met the Stevens. She introduced them to the others.
“So who’s the hussy that lied about my boy trying to rape her?’ Mrs Stevens demanded.
The friends were dumbfounded.
“Was it you?” she asked. “Or was it you?”
She stabbed a finger at Nicole’s chest. Unable to take her friend’s humiliation any further, Jamie blurted:
“It was me, ma’am,” she confessed. “But it was the truth.”
The older woman swung a punch. Jamie instinctively ducked, Mrs Stevens flying fist missing her ear by inches.
“You worthless bitch!” the old woman moved so quickly for someone her age. “You filthy, good for nothing trash.”
“She’s telling the truth, you old bag,” Nicole shouted.
Mrs Stevens rushed at Nicole and sent her sprawling to the ground. Officers rushed in restrain her.
“Why am I being charged?” Mrs Stevens sputtered as officers led her away. “They’re the ones who should be charged for making up false stories.”
“Your son was a sleazoid,” Nicole shouted at her. “He wanted to screw anything in a skirt. And here’s the thing; nobody wanted him because he was too pathetic.”
Jamie could not believe how Nicole stood up for her.
“Gosh, what a dumb old tigress!” Nicole raged. “No wonder her son thought the sun shone out of his arse.”
It took some effort to calm Nicole down. They had come to offer their condolences to the family and instead got into a fight with the bereaved.
“Let’s go to St Patrick’s for lunch,” Greta suggested. “My treat.”
Although none of them were particularly hungry, no one wanted to be alone. Jamie calmed down sufficiently enough to finish the burger, chips and salad in front of her. The others picked at their food. Jamie drank more cocktails than she anticipated. She bought a pack of cigarettes and stepped out to the sidewalk to smoke. She joined Nicole at the smoking area across the road.
“Hey Nic, thanks for sticking up for me today,” Jamie began as they settled on the bench.
“Nah, that old crone had it coming to her,” Nicole shrugged. “So did her son, if I may speak ill of the dead.”
Then Jamie heard it. The toipo’o bird called. Not again, she thought and blocked her ears with her hands.
“Jamie, what’s wrong?” Nicole asked.
“Nothing, just an earache,” she replied.
“Blocking your ears will only make it worse,” Nicole advised.
The second call came. Jamie panicked.
“That’s a strange sound,” Nicole’s interest was piqued. “I don’t think I’ve heard it before.”
“I didn’t hear it,” Jamie desperately wanted to get away. “Let’s go back inside.”
“But we haven’t even finished our cigarettes,” Nicole protested.
Wh
en the bird called again, realisation dawned on Nicole.
“Oh my God, Jamie,” she looked at Jamie with widened eyes. “It’s that bird again, isn’t it?”
“No, it wasn’t,” Jamie answered quickly, determined not want to be linked to anyone else’s death.
Jamie convinced herself that someone in the village would die. It was highly unlikely anyone in her group was likely to die tonight. She would enjoy her drink.
“Guys, even if Alfonso was a sleaze, he did have some great pickup lines,” Nicole declared.
“He asked me once, ‘Is that a ladder in your stocking or the stairway to heaven?” Greta’s recollection elicited laughter from the group.
“How did he react when he found out you were shacked up with Suzette?” Grant asked.
“He told me I hadn’t been touched by the Fonz religion, because if I had, I would’ve turned.”
The soiree ended at eight in the evening. Jamie was quite drunk when she staggered out. At this rate, no one was going to drive. Most had called their partners to pick them up. Jamie went to flag a taxi but Greta offered her a lift. Jamie relented, not wanting to disappoint Greta.
“Suzette’s gone to Melbourne,” Greta told her as she settled in the car. “Stay the night with me, Jamie.”
Jamie was shocked. Greta’s proposition sobered her fast.
“I’m not lesbian,’ she stammered.
“Neither was I until I met Suzette,” Greta answered, her eyes boring into Jamie’s.
“No Greta, what I mean is, the thought has never crossed my mind,’ she replied.
“Come on Jamie, I’ve liked you for a really long time,” she answered.
Jamie had heard enough. Disgusted, she got out of the car. Greta also got out.
“What’s wrong Jamie?” she challenged. “You’ve been giving me all these signals.”
“My God, Greta, you are sick,’ Jamie replied, desperately flagging a passing cab. “Taxi!”
“Look, I liked you enough to get you to be a part of this crowd,’ she continued.
“And I am supposed to be grateful by getting into bed with you?” Jamie was drunk enough to be bold. “Try some loyalty to Suzette for a change.”
Jamie was aware that they were so loud, pedestrians and other patrons could hear every word of the exchange, including their friends.
“You’re such an ungrateful bitch, Jamie,” Greta spat and slapped her across the face.
Jamie was too shocked to react. Burning with humiliation, Jamie caught a taxi home. Greta had only been nice because she wanted to get Jamie into bed.
“You’re gonna be sorry,” Greta’s parting shot rang in her ears. “No one ever says no to Greta Szachs, you worthless coon.”
CHAPTER 18
The house was strangely dark when Logan got home. She switched on the lights.
“Babe, I’m home,” she called, hoping to soften him after this morning’s fight.
Silence greeted her. Then she saw the envelope addressed to her in Chuck’s familiar scrawl on the kitchen bench. Dread gnawed at her. She dropped her laptop bag on the table, thinking
Bad news can wait, she thought.
In the bedroom, she discovered she did not need to read the letter to understand what was in it. All of Chuck’s belongings were gone. He had left her. Logan sank on the bed and stared at the ceiling. She was devastated. She knew they had problems, but never once did it occur to her that Chuck might leave. Feeling empty and alone, she returned to the kitchen to read Chuck’s note.
Babe,
I’ve tried my best to make us work, but you keep shutting me out. I love you but I can’t bear to watch you self-destruct like this.
I’m giving you space until you decide you want to communicate and build a relationship with me. I will always love you, nothing will ever change that.
Your Mail Order Man
Logan fought the descending despair. She recalled the last angry phone exchanged between them that afternoon. She had gotten in the last word, telling him the 4.7 million Sydneysiders needed her to catch Z. She did not need an insecure partner breathing down her neck when she had a more important job to do. Logan sank to the floor, thinking how pompous she must have sounded. She turned the television on and eventually fell asleep.
She slept fitfully, waking up each time the familiar nightmare begin. Then she would remember Chuck and the familiar blanket of anguish would descend. She tossed and turned all night.
By four in the morning, she gave up. There was no way she would call Chuck. He had made the decision to leave. He should be the one to come back. She made breakfast and got ready for work.
She had just finished applying her makeup when Sedgewick called.
“Greta Szachs is dead. She was found by her car at Brumby Park near her home.”
“The lesbian?”
“The one and only.”
“Okay, send me the address.”
Logan’s mind raced as she drove to the crime scene. So far, two victims connected to Jamie Maddox had turned up dead. What was she missing?
The metallic smell of fresh human blood never failed to turn Logan’s stomach. Fortunately, she had taken the last root ginger out of the fridge as she was leaving home. Now she crushed the it between her molars, releasing the bitter juice to stopper the flow of bile into her mouth.
Greta’s neatly parked car was in the carpark. Her naked body lay in the sandpit beneath the swing. Singh and the photographer were at work. The cordoned off crime scene and the harsh lights used to illuminate the crime scene made the barely recognisable Greta appeared garish. The first thing Logan noticed was the “Z” carved into her forehead. Both her eyes were swollen shut from vicious punches and her right ear severed. However, Logan almost lost her breakfast when she recognised the object half-protruding from her mouth. A purplish-black human penis had been stuffed into her mouth. It would not surprise her if it belonged to Alfonso Stevens. Her nose was broken and she had been badly beaten, judging from the multiple bruises all over her body. A broken bottle had been used to mutilate her private parts, and her body was covered with stab wounds. This was personal. If this was Z, he must have been very angry with Greta.
Jamie Maddox was not surprised to see them when they knocked on her door.
“Someone died again,” she sighed as she let them in.
“And you know this how?” Steele growled.
Taken aback, she studied him for a long moment.
“What Detective Steele means is how did you know someone is dead?” Logan interjected.
“Because this is too early to be asking routine questions,” she pointed out.
“Okay, you got me there,” Steele replied. “You’re right, there’s been another death and we have reason to believe it is the same person that killed Alfonso Stevens.”
“Greta Szachs was found dead this morning,” Logan told her, noting Jamie pale in horror.
Jamie stumbled to her bathroom. They heard the sound of vomiting, then the toilet flushing. When she returned to the room, it appeared she had washed her face and cleaned herself up.
“After you left the police station yesterday, where did you go?” Logan asked.
Jamie related all the events of the day before, omitting the part about the toipo’o warning and Greta’s advances.
Just as it appeared there were no leads they could get from Jamie, Logan’s mobile trilled. Naidu was calling from Nicole Daddovich’s place.
“Nicole did not appear too surprised that someone died because she and Jamie heard the same bird last night,” she said. “She says this happened last night around six.”
Is that so?” Logan murmured and turned to look at Jamie, catching her frightened eyes. “I’m here at Mrs Maddox’s place and somehow she forgot to tell us that.”
“Jamie, you lied to me,” Logan told her. “You didn’t tell me about the bird.”
“I..I thought it’s just a silly superstition I shouldn’t bother you with,” Jamie stammered.
&nb
sp; “Two people you knew are dead and in both cases, you heard the bird,” Logan continued, peeved that Jamie had not been forthcoming. “Is there anything else that you are not telling me?”
“I knew you would draw the same conclusion,” Jamie was distressed. “That’s why I didn’t say anything.”
She had never been in trouble with the law before.
“For your own sake, you’d better tell me everything you know,” Logan said. “Concealing information is criminal, you can be charged with obstructing a criminal investigation.”
“That alone entitles us to slap the cuffs on you,” Steele added. “Now is there anything else you want to tell us? “
Jamie hesitated, then shook her head.
Noting her hesitation, Logan pressed, “Are you sure?”
“I am sure,” she replied after a long silence.
The detectives were frustrated. Jamie knew more than she was telling. Logan decided not to end the interview quickly but to give Jamie time.
“Jamie, would you mind if we looked around?” she asked.
Jamie nodded her consent. She sat stiffly in her chair while the detectives looked around. A call from Burns pushed Jamie further into trouble.