by Nunn, Judy
Curry seated himself at the typewriter while Luke drew up another chair and sat opposite the prisoner, propping gently on his elbows, his body language conveying no menace.
‘Tell me, Professor Jameson …’ He spoke calmly and respectfully and, despite the bizarre circumstances, his suddenly seemed the true voice of reason. ‘If you’re being wrongfully accused, as you say you are, would you have any idea who might have killed your wife?’
The professor’s mild, grey eyes met his, and in them was a look of gratitude for the show of courtesy. ‘Oh yes, Sergeant. Yes, indeed I would.’
‘Ah.’ Luke didn’t turn to Curry but kept his full focus upon Jameson. ‘And who might that be?’
‘Bad Bradley.’ There was an of course implicit in the professor’s reply, as if Luke should have been able to come up with the answer himself. ‘It was Bad Bradley who did this terrible thing.’
‘Bad Bradley?’ Luke maintained focus, his eyes locked into Jameson’s.
‘Most certainly. Good Bradley would never commit such a crime. This is the work of Bad Bradley.’
‘I see.’ Finally allowing himself to break eye contact, Luke glanced over to his partner.
Curry nodded congratulations and resumed the reins. ‘So where did Bad Bradley bury the bones?’ he demanded.
‘I would have no idea,’ the professor replied coolly. ‘Bad Bradley would never tell Good Bradley such a thing. They rarely communicate.’
Realising congratulations had been a little premature, Curry signalled Luke to continue and returned his attention to the typewriter.
Luke paused long enough for the previous question and answer to be typed into the report. ‘Professor Jameson,’ he said, ‘do you know why Bad Bradley killed his wife?’
‘I’m afraid not, Sergeant.’ The professor seemed sincere in his apology. ‘Bad Bradley chooses not to share his personal life with others.’
‘Ah. Right.’ Luke nodded slowly as if he quite understood, then, choosing his words with care, he continued, ‘I have a favour to ask, Professor. I wonder if it might be at all possible for you to put a question or two to Bad Bradley on our behalf.’
‘Oh, good heavens above no – I couldn’t do that.’ Jameson’s blanket dismissal was so peremptory that Luke, sensing his partner’s annoyance, dived in before Curry could explode.
‘May I ask why?’
‘You certainly may, Sergeant.’ The professor seemed to be rather enjoying his exchange with the polite young policeman. ‘I avoid Bad Bradley. I don’t like him one bit. Bad Bradley and Good Bradley have nothing at all in common.’
‘Why is that?’
An expression something akin to pity crept into the professor’s eyes, as though he suspected Luke might be slightly retarded. ‘Bad Bradley is evil,’ he said, of course once again implicit in his tone. ‘Surely you must have gathered that fact. Bad Bradley is in league with the devil.’
Having spelled out the problem, Jameson sat back in his chair, indicating the conversation was over. ‘I’m sorry I can’t be of more help to you, Sergeant.’
The conversation was certainly not over as far as Curry was concerned. He stood, signalling another change in the interview. As Luke took over the typewriter, he launched into a further attack, this time choosing a different angle.
‘Listen, you smug prick, we know bloody well why you did it. Your mother-in-law’s been interviewed and she couldn’t wait to talk. We know the whole fucking story.’ Fists on the table, he leaned over Jameson and spat the words into his face. ‘Your wife was pissing off with the kids, wasn’t she? She shifted in with her mother a month ago and was planning to take the kids back to Queensland. So you asked her around for a chat, didn’t you? And then you fucking well killed her, right?’
Curry’s bullying tactics finally produced a reaction, although it was hardly the one he’d hoped for. Jameson displayed neither fear nor guilt that his motive was known to them. He just looked extremely annoyed.
The only sound was the clatter of typewriter keys as Luke recorded the shorthand version of Curry’s question.
‘Come on, you bastard, admit it,’ Curry growled. That’s why you killed her, isn’t it?’
‘I have killed no-one,’ the professor said icily. ‘Good Bradley is innocent. He has no further comment to make.’
And that was it. The stalemate had been reached. Jameson had refused to budge and, unable to detain him any longer without charges, the detectives had been forced to conclude their interrogation. Bradley John Jameson had been charged with the murder of his wife and taken to Risdon Prison where he’d been examined independently by two psychiatrists. Their reports had immediately confirmed that the man was insane and that he suffered a dual personality disorder. The news had come as little surprise to the detectives.
Then, three days later, Eileen Jameson’s red Austen Kimberley was found abandoned on the outskirts of town. Upon examination, the boot was discovered to be heavily bloodstained. And tucked into one corner, neatly stripped of all meat, was a shinbone.
‘New evidence,’ Curry had triumphantly announced to Luke. ‘We can have another go at him. We’ll nail him to the wall this time.’
They’d visited the prison and resumed their interrogation with new vigour, but Jameson had remained intransigent, despite Curry’s bullying and Luke’s cajoling. The two continued to practise their ‘good cop, bad cop’ strategy, but no longer for purely tactical reasons. Each now firmly believed that his own particular approach would bring about the breakthrough.
‘We know you transported the bones in your wife’s car, you mad bastard, so tell us where you buried them.’
Curry refused to acknowledge Jameson’s ‘Good Bradley’ alter ego. He was convinced he could wear the man down, that eventually Jameson would snap and ‘Bad Bradley’ would be goaded into existence.
Luke continued to practise patience. He avoided confrontational questions and drew the man into conversation in the hope that ‘Good Bradley’ might inadvertently let drop some vital information, or even agree to help them with their enquiries.
There was a moment when he felt on the verge of discovery.
‘Tell me about Bad Bradley, Professor. You say he’s evil …’
‘Or insane, Sergeant – there’s always that possibility, isn’t there?’ Having weathered the inspector’s aggression, Jameson appeared in the mood for a pleasant chat with the respectful young sergeant. ‘Surely, for a man to do the things Bad Bradley has done he would have to be insane, wouldn’t he?’
‘Yes. Yes, I suppose he would.’ Luke didn’t dare glance at Curry. Despite the clack of the Olivetti, the professor seemed to have forgotten that his aggressor was still in the room. Wondering whether this might be the moment of breakthrough, Luke nodded encouragingly. But no encouragement was necessary.
‘Evil and insanity can become so easily confused, can’t they,’ the professor blithely continued. ‘Perhaps it’s simply a matter of perception, or perhaps the interstice between the two is so minimal that people really can’t tell the difference.’
Luke remained silent. He didn’t dare move. The normally mild, grey eyes now gleamed with a steely and fierce intelligence. Surely Jameson was trying to tell him something, but what?
‘Sometimes they can’t see what’s staring them right in the face. But then that’s typical of human nature, isn’t it? People are blind to so much. It’s little wonder that occasionally they can’t recognise the infinitesimal difference between evil and insanity.’
The infinitesimal difference between evil and insanity, Luke wondered, or the infinitesimal difference between Bad Bradley and Good Bradley? Was that what Jameson was trying to tell him?
‘Who am I talking to?’ he asked. The steely eyes didn’t leave his, but they looked a query. ‘Am I talking to Bad Bradley?’
There was a moment’s pause. Then the professor leaned back in his chair, crossed his legs and laughed, as if Luke had just come up with the most wonderful joke.
‘Oh dear me, Sergeant, how very fanciful of you. I was merely making an observation.’
No you weren’t, Luke thought. You were teasing me, you lunatic bastard, you were playing a bloody cat and mouse game. He felt a surge of anger and for a moment, like Curry, he wished they could just belt the prick’s lights out. Then a thought occurred to him, a chilling thought. He studied the professor, who’d lost interest now and was gazing distractedly into the distance. It wasn’t possible, surely. It couldn’t be. He looked over to Curry, who met his glance with a comical roll of the eyeballs that said, ‘serves you right for trying to converse with a loony.’ He’ll howl me down, Luke thought. He’ll probably even laugh at the notion but, what the hell, I can’t keep it to myself.
‘What if there’s no Bad Bradley?’
Back at the station, over polystyrene cups of coffee, he brought up the subject.
‘Come again?’
‘What if there’s no Bad Bradley?’
Curry gazed at him blankly. ‘Sorry, mate, you’ve lost me.’
‘What if the whole “Good Bradley versus Bad Bradley” scenario’s a set-up? What if there’s no split personality?’
‘What the fuck would it matter?’ Curry remained puzzled. ‘Of course he’s schizo, but even if he isn’t, who gives a shit? He murdered his wife, that’s all that counts.’
‘No, you’re missing my point. What if the man’s sane?’
There was a second or so of incredulous silence before Curry let out a hoot of laughter. ‘Jesus, Luke, give us a break. You reckon a sane bloke’d bone out his wife and flush her down the bog?’
It was the reaction Luke had expected, but he refused to be daunted. ‘That’s more or less what Jameson said.’
‘Eh?’
‘You were the one at the typewriter, don’t you remember? “For a man to do the things Bad Bradley has done he would have to be insane, wouldn’t he?” That’s what Jameson said.’
‘Well, he’s bloody right there, isn’t he? I mean what sane person would commit a murder as grotesque as that in the first place? And what sane person would hang around at the scene of the crime surrounded by murder weapons and bits of his wife?’
‘Perhaps a sane person who wants to be considered insane,’ Luke replied dogmatically.
Curry dropped the scornful tone but remained dismissive. ‘No way, mate,’ he said. ‘I can’t buy that, not for one second. Besides, you’re forgetting – the shrinks said he’s schizo.’
‘Yes, but they couldn’t come up with Bad Bradley, could they?’
During his psychiatric examinations, Jameson had regularly referred to himself in the third person, just as he had with the police, but neither psychiatrist had been able to make direct contact with the alter ego known as ‘Bad Bradley’.
How typical of Luke, Curry thought, to over-analyse something that was basically simple. And now, like a dog with a bone, he wouldn’t let it go. But you had to give him points for trying. He was a bloody good cop who cared about his job. You had to respect him for that.
‘I’ll grant you Jameson’s a smart bastard, Luke, but the truly whacko ones often are. I’ve come across criminally insane killers with massive IQs.’ Curry downed the dregs of his coffee before clinching the argument. ‘But I tell you what, even if Jameson is playing a game with us – and you might well be right – it doesn’t mean he’s sane. A crime like his isn’t the act of a sane person. It couldn’t be.’
Luke studied his partner thoughtfully. ‘So it’s beyond all human comprehension that one of our own kind could commit such a crime without being insane. Is that what you’re saying?’
‘That’s precisely what I’m saying. And so are the shrinks.’ Curry had had enough now; it was time for the pub. ‘Besides, when it all comes down to it, who gives a shit? Get the bastard behind bars and get the crime off the books. That’s what we’re here for.’
‘Yeah, I suppose you’re right. I mean, yeah, of course you’re right. Heck,’ Luke shrugged, ‘it was just an idea.’ An idea that, despite Curry’s eminently sound reasoning, Luke knew he could not altogether dismiss.
‘Knock-off time.’ Tossing his polystyrene cup into the wastepaper basket in the corner, Curry stood. ‘Let’s grab a beer.’
The following morning’s breakthrough came as a huge surprise to them both. There had appeared no particular defining moment the previous day that may have led to Jameson’s overnight change of heart. Luke later concluded that the professor had merely become bored with the proceedings.
‘Right, let’s start from the top, shall we?’ Curry launched into his customary attack. ‘Your wife was about to piss off with the kids, so you murdered her, right?’
The professor responded with his customary silence.
‘You chopped her up, put her head in the oven and fed pieces of her down the bog, correct?’
Silence, except for the chatter of the typewriter.
‘We have the head, we have most of the meat, but we’re lacking the rest of her. Where did you bury the bones?’
Still nothing but the Olivetti.
‘Did you hear me, arsehole? Where are the fucking bones?’
‘Cornelian Bay Cemetery.’
This time the silence was absolute as Luke’s fingers froze above the typewriter’s keys. The detectives exchanged a look. Was the man joking? A cemetery? Was this another game?
‘One of the older plots. One of the ones covered with pebbles, or so he told me.’
‘Who told you?’
Jameson ignored Curry and looked over to Luke. ‘Good Bradley would rather talk to the sergeant.’
The detectives quickly changed places.
‘I made some enquiries as you requested, Sergeant,’ the professor said as Luke pulled up a chair and sat opposite.
‘You spoke to Bad Bradley?’
‘Yes, just last night. It was not a pleasant experience. Bad Bradley can be very rude. He doesn’t like Good Bradley. But then the feeling’s mutual. Good Bradley doesn’t like him either …’
‘And you asked him where he’d buried the rest of the body?’ Luke gently steered the professor back on track.
‘I did indeed. He told me in great detail. Would you believe, he actually boasted about it. “A cemetery,” he said, “isn’t that apt? Where else should one bury the dead?” Those were his exact words and that was his exact tone. He was extraordinarily arrogant. Apparently the pebbles made it easy to disguise the fact that the plot had recently been dug up. At least that’s what he told me. “They won’t find her in a million years,” he said. He was very boastful, very proud of himself.’ The professor gave a moue of disapproval. ‘Evil, you see. Evil or insane, either or, take your pick. Or perhaps both, or perhaps even neither, all a matter of perception …’
Curry had stopped typing and the look in his eyes was murderous. Any moment he’d roar where are the fucking bones, Luke thought. He interrupted the professor’s rambling as delicately as he could.
‘Was Bad Bradley in any way specific about the location, Professor? We wouldn’t want to find ourselves digging up every one of the older plots in the cemetery, would we?’
‘Oh good heavens above no, Sergeant, there’ll be no need for that. Bad Bradley was most precise.’ Producing a neatly folded sheet of notepaper from the breast pocket of his shirt, the professor laid it out with great care on the table. ‘He drew me a map. There, you see. Fourth plot from the end, second last row, X marks the spot.’
Luke gazed down at the pencil-drawn map. It was meticulous in every detail, even to the name on the tombstone, which was clearly printed beside the circled ‘X’.
‘I presume that more or less concludes these interviews,’ the professor said, folding the map up and handing it to him. ‘There really isn’t much purpose in their continuance, is there? I shall miss our chats, Sergeant.’
As their eyes met, Luke found himself unable to look away.
‘You’re a very bright young man. Oh yes, yes. A very bright young man indeed.’
He’s congratulating me, Luke thought. Why?
‘Perhaps in another place, another time, you and I could have become friends.’
The approval in the grey eyes suddenly changed to mockery. Or perhaps it was triumph. Luke couldn’t be sure.
‘Good Bradley would have liked that,’ the professor said.
Three months later, Bradley John Jameson was found not guilty of murder on the grounds of insanity. The findings were read out to the court. He was to be remanded in custody under psychiatric observation at the Governor’s pleasure until such time as he was deemed mentally fit to rejoin society.
As the findings were read out, the professor looked across the sea of faces to Luke. Then, just as he was about to be led from the dock, he winked.
AUTHOR’S FOOTNOTE:
This short story is fictional, but was inspired by the true story of Rory Jack Thompson who murdered and dismembered his wife in Hobart in 1983 and was found not guilty on the grounds of insanity.
Bonus Sample Chapter
Tiger Men by Judy Nunn
Van Diemen’s Land was a place of profound contradiction. The sheer beauty of the island could stir a man’s soul, yet the savagery of life on its shores could rob him of all faith. This alarming paradox continued to disturb Silas Stanford, even after ten long years in the colony. He did not doubt that many a poor creature had lost sight of God in the midst of this glorious wilderness where His hand was so evident. Fifty years on, the history of Van Diemen’s Land remained, to Silas, a shocking condemnation.
The British had decided, in 1803, to extend their occupation of the Australian continent to include Van Diemen’s Land, roughly 150 miles off the south-east coast, and they had done so purely in order to prevent the French laying claim to it. A penal colony had quickly been established for the provision of labour, and a thriving new port had been created at Sullivan’s Cove, a picturesque bay on the west bank of the River Derwent. Convict settlers had been transported from Norfolk Island and Port Jackson to people the township and develop the land, and a new society had been born in the wilderness.