“Is there a precipice?”
Dusty responded to my question with a quizzical look.
“You said the monk was pushed over a precipice,” I explained. “Doesn’t look like a hillside with cliff edges; it appears completely covered in bush.”
“Looks can be deceiving. According to the information Jake sent me, on one side of the summit there’s a sheer drop from the top; a rocky cutting in the side of the hill. It’s just in front of where the monk used to meditate. There’s a clearing in the middle of dense bush where he liked to sit. The only access to it is off a walking track. Other than the path leading out of Sunyarta, the same path the monk would have used, the killer could get to that track two other ways. A public access road on the west side of the hill allows vehicles to reach the Sanctuary. Visitors can drive their cars along that road up to a certain point, park their vehicle and continue the rest of the way along the walking track.”
“So the killer might have used the public access road?”
Dusty negated my suggestion with a toss of her head. “I think it would be too risky. A few houses have been built on land not owned by the monks lower down on that side of the hill. Driving up there early in the morning would definitely have attracted attention.”
I wasn’t ready to let go of my theory. “The killer might have dressed in black and walked up.”
“Yep. Less chance of being detected that way. He could stick to the edge of the road and use the trees for cover. But he would have risked setting off remote lighting the residents almost certainly have installed around their properties.”
“Right.”
“He’d be more likely to use the bush track on the other side of the hill.” Dusty pointed to the side of the hill closest to the beach. “There’s more cover there and no residences.” She cast a thoughtful glance in the direction of the Sanctuary buildings. “Unless the killer was a monk.”
I could see that as a possibility. My mother used to say convents ‘full of women with raging hormones and repressed emotions’ were ‘hotbeds of seething passions and spiteful jealousy’. A monastery full of men would be no different.
“Another monk could have even followed our victim out of the Sanctuary,” I suggested.
“Possible. Whoever the killer was and whichever path he used, once he reached the top he’d have crept along the walking track…”
“Then snuck up behind the monk through the forested area surrounding the clearing.”
Dusty nodded. “A killer who was able to walk quietly in the bush.”
Chapter 3
Glancing down at her notes, Dusty sighed. “The poor man had no family.”
Her expression reflected empathy. She might have been thinking of the similarity to her own situation. Dusty has no siblings, her father passed away when she was fourteen. Her mother, who disappeared when Dusty was five years old, has been missing for almost thirty years. The turquoise sandals she was wearing today was in memory of her mother whose favourite colour was turquoise.
“It’s been four months since the murder and with no family desperate to know why their loved one was killed, the case is only going to get colder.”
“And forgotten?”
Dusty inclined her head in agreement, dipped her little finger into her coconut milk to scoop up some of the creamy liquid, licking her finger clean with unrestrained pleasure.
“What about the other monks? Don’t they want to find out who murdered their fellow monk?”
“Apparently they’ve accepted it as a tragedy brought on by the forces of the universe. To dwell on the who and the why is not their way.”
I couldn’t help thinking that a callous attitude. “Extraordinary. What sort of monks are they?”
“Ah. An insightful question from Mr Maze Master.” Dusty often gave me this title – playfully. She considers the inside of a computer and cyber space as a complex maze to people who are not ‘maze masters’ like me. My skills as an IT professional sometimes veer off course into, well, into areas where I really shouldn’t venture. I’m not talking about serious hacking, at least not super serious. Just a little chiselling to get any information Dusty might need.
“They call themselves forest monks. They live a monastic, communal way of life in the forest and more or less follow the teachings of Buddha but don’t belong to an established order. For them, care for the earthly environment and contributing to the lay community is as important as following the Buddhist philosophy. The land was donated to them for their monastery. Funds from donations are used for construction of buildings and maintenance. Apart from that, they are self-sufficient. They grow all their own food. Following a vegetarian diet means they don’t need to keep poultry or animals. They don’t go out begging. In fact, they often donate freshly baked bread and garden produce to the local charity centres. At the Sanctuary, they offer what they call peace therapy, for people needing time out from their lives.”
“Peace therapy?”
“Yep. A place where troubled people can retreat for a week or a day or just a few hours. There’s also a peace room where a monk listens to people who want to talk about their problems. They don’t have to talk; they can just sit.”
“And the Sanctuary doesn’t charge for this?”
“Nope. No-one is required to pay them although they accept donations if offered.”
“Right.”
Dusty grinned at me. The grin broadened until she threw back her head and laughed. Had I somehow or other made a joke or committed a faux pas? That would not come as a surprise. I’d often done so in the past due to my ignorance of Australian colloquial expressions. Noticing my embarrassment, Dusty explained her mirth.
“Sorry. It just suddenly felt good to have you back.” My embarrassment morphed from discomfort to contentment. “I’ve decided you’re the best research assistant I’ve ever had.”
I relaxed and inhaled the sandy, salty outdoor smell mixed with the aroma of freshly brewed coffee.
“Here’s to you, Sean O’Kelly.” Dusty picked up her coconut shell, tilting it towards me.
“Have you had many research assistants, then?” As far as I knew she’d only had one other assistant; an Indian student who taught her how to cook Indian food.
“It doesn’t matter how many I’ve had. You’re still the best. The tallest too.”
Compared to Dusty, who was only five foot two, I was noticeably tall at six foot.
Two young children in bathers raced past our table executing a giddy circuit around the dining area giggling and calling to each other. Their parents, smiling indulgently, followed at a more leisurely pace. Our table was at the edge of the general dining section, slightly separate from the other tables. Dusty had chosen it for that reason. In fact, we’d moved the table further away than it was originally positioned to reduce the risk of others overhearing our discussion of the case. When the children’s parents, a tanned couple in their late twenties, had passed by, Dusty resumed talking.
“Anyway, back to our case. I haven’t seen the police files yet so I don’t know everything. Jake mentioned a couple of unusual things about the murder. Things which haven’t been released to the public.”
“Nor to Dusty Kent.”
“Not yet. In time all will be revealed.” Her eyes sparkled. “For now, I’ll share what I do know.” Turning to a page in her notebook, she scanned it quickly. Dusty had not acquired the habit of using electronic media to the extent I had, preferring to carry a paper notebook in her handbag. She nodded as if her notes had confirmed what she’d already been thinking and leant back in her chair.
“The dead monk was discovered by one of the other monks who saw his yellow robe caught on a shrub about halfway down the cliff. The monk’s body was lying at the bottom of the ravine; naked except for a pair of underpants. Police believe the killer stripped him of his robe before pushing him over the edge.”
“A strange thing to do. Strip him of his robe, I mean.”
“Very strange. It was
probably meant as some sort of statement.”
“Right. You mean a protest against monks?”
“That’s the theory. Their community is on a significant piece of land. Some locals resent the fact the monks acquired this prime piece of real estate, which is probably worth several million dollars, for zilch.”
“Jaysis! Millions of dollars? How’d they manage to get it for free?”
“For one thing, the land was bought for under its value. It had been in the Mulligan family for generations. Jim Mulligan and his wife Fiona owned it as well as several businesses in the area. They planned to develop the hill with residential and tourist accommodation. Unfortunately, the family ended up heavily in debt. Jim Mulligan didn’t know how to handle money. He spent more than he should. The Mulligans had a lavish lifestyle; an opulent mansion in Brisbane as well as the family home here in Port, a 33 metre luxury yacht complete with helipad and a private jet. In 2000, Jim Mulligan had pretty much lost the family fortune and was facing bankruptcy. It was too much for him; he took his own life. His widow and adult son Mike tried to fight the bankruptcy but it was too late. Everything the family owned was sold and the money went towards paying the family’s debts. An overseas buyer bought the hill land and later donated it to the forest monks.”
“Right. I can see how the locals might have their noses out of joint but that was years ago.”
“Yep. The Sanctuary started out as a handful of Burmese monks who had arrived in the 1970s when Port was a sleepy little fishing village with a couple of hundred residents. The monks established their community in a couple of wooden shacks on a small forested block some distance away from the town centre. Then they got Mulligan’s land.”
“Surely animosity toward the monks has simmered down by now.”
“To a certain extent. However, the flames are regularly fanned by Jim Mulligan’s son, Mike. His mother never recovered from the double tragedy of losing her husband and the family home. She fell ill and died three years later. Mike never got over losing his parents and his inheritance. You can imagine how he felt when the monks acquired the property free of charge; a property that had been home to generations of his family. All his anger was directed at the monks.”
“Making him a suspect for the murder?”
“The police’s number one suspect. Their only suspect. Talking of the police; here comes Jake now.”
Chapter 4
Striding confidently toward our table and smiling broadly, was a man close to my height wearing a wide brimmed bush hat known locally as an Akubra. For a brief moment I visualised him astride a stallion, reins in his hands, thundering across the red earth of Australia’s outback.
Dusty jumped up to greet him. She had only taken a few steps toward Jake when they both stopped and simply looked into each other’s eyes.
I instantly recognised what was happening. This was one of those occasions when time stops for the people involved. Their suspended moment lasted long enough for me to start feeling as though my presence was an intrusion. Knowing they were both oblivious to anything and anyone outside their personal euphoria did not alleviate my discomfort.
I knew then that Jake was the reason Dusty had never been able to commit to a relationship. She had once told me she tended to ignore the strong men she was attracted to and choose men who were weak which eventually resulted in her losing respect for them. That was the conclusion she’d drawn as to why she had ‘given up on love affairs’. Although she probably believed that to be the reason, I now realised she was fooling herself. I had no doubt this ruggedly handsome detective was the reason Dusty Kent, at age thirty three, had never made the commitment to a long-term intimate relationship.
During one discussion, I’d advised her to open her heart to a strong man since that was the sort of male companion she believed she needed. Naturally, I was thinking of myself when I made the suggestion. What I didn’t know was that Dusty had already lost her heart to a man who met her criteria. Jake’s advancement in the police force was evidence enough he had strength of character. His appearance and body language confirmed it. Although it was probably subconscious, I was sure Dusty compared every man she met to Jake Feilberg and found them wanting.
I was momentarily swamped by a sense of loss. I didn’t stand a chance against Jake. I had to put aside my foolish fantasies of telling Dusty how I felt about her. The very thought of doing it had caused my heart to quicken and my hands to shake. Nevertheless, I had determined to follow through during this trip to Port Douglas. I’d held back for so long. The time had come for me to know if I stood any chance at all with this audacious, unpredictable, irritating and frustratingly captivating woman. Now I knew. In that instant I made a decision.
The standstill moment between Jake and Dusty passed and they came together in an embrace. I noticed Jake held Dusty’s hand when they separated, as though he wanted to keep her close. He turned toward me, his smile spreading to his deep blue eyes. Although he greeted me warmly, I sensed he’d instantly dismissed me as no competition for Dusty’s affections. That irked me. I straightened my body and inflated my chest. A fleeting smile in Jake’s eyes simultaneously acknowledged my posturing and its futility. Despite this, I couldn’t help but like him.
When he held out her chair, Dusty smiled up at Jake in thanks, her cheeks tinged with pink. Feeling awkwardly redundant, I decided it was a good time to order coffee. After Dusty indicated she was content with her coconut milk, I took Jake’s order and headed to the counter.
When I came back, Dusty and Jake were absorbed in an animated conversation peppered with laughter, their heads almost touching. I announced my return with a noisy scraping of my chair before sitting down.
“So,” said Jake, leaning away from Dusty and assuming a business-like manner. He tilted his hat back from his forehead revealing strands of chestnut coloured hair. “Thanks for agreeing to take on this case.” He spoke in a slow drawl, sharpened almost imperceptibly by the severity of an experienced police officer.
“Just so you know.” He glanced at each of us in turn. “Apart from a couple of people on my team, no-one in Queensland Police knows I’ve asked you to investigate the monk’s murder. Naturally, I’ll acknowledge your work if…” Jake paused and grinned at Dusty… “when you get a result.” He pulled on the lobe of his left ear. “But I don’t want my superiors to find out just yet.”
“No worries,” said Dusty. “We’ll be discreet about your involvement.”
Jake turned to me. “I was taken off the case and transferred to another big homicide. I can still work on the monk’s murder. I just don’t have time.”
He was probably sincere about his expressed reason for inviting Dusty to take on the case, but I wondered if the thought of seeing her again had been a contributing factor. I also suspected Dusty’s acceptance, despite having several other cases on her waiting list, was due to a similar motivation.
Jake raised his hands in a gesture of helplessness. “I wish I did have time to work on it. It seems wrong to me – the poor monk dying a lonely death at the bottom of a ravine and then his murder going unsolved. We weren’t even able to locate his next of kin. It was like he’d been abandoned.” Jake lowered his eyes and cleared his throat. The tough Queensland detective seemed abashed that he’d exposed his softer side. I felt sure he would never have revealed such feelings to his police colleagues.
He looked up, smiling sheepishly. “To be honest with you, I felt I had abandoned him when I left his case. Especially as I was sure I knew who the killer was.” The sharp edge returned to his voice as he uttered the last sentence.
Dusty’s hand reached out toward Jake’s in an expression of empathy. “You had no control over the circumstances, Jake. You have to do what the bosses tell you.”
Jake inclined his head toward her, smiling his thanks. “I know. But still. Ah… I dunno.” He sighed in resignation. “The monk had no-one else in his corner. The other monks were fond of him and expressed sadness at his passing but they
viewed his murder as a tragic fact of life, no different to an unfortunate accident or a heart attack. As far as I’m concerned, murder is different.”
“Murder means someone thinks they have the right to take another human being’s life,” said Dusty.
“Yup. I know that’s always made you angry, Dus.” Dusty cast a sideways glance at me at Jake’s use of what was clearly an intimate nickname. Jake didn’t seem to notice; the name was obviously so familiar to him from their past association he hadn’t given a thought to whether its use was still appropriate. “The arrogance behind the act of murder. That’s always bothered you, hasn’t it?”
Dusty pressed her lips together in a determined line as she nodded her agreement.
Jake took out his phone. “I keep my notes on this thing,” he said as he tapped the screen and opened the folder he wanted. “I’ll give you more details on the murder of Brody Johnson – that’s the monk’s name.”
“Brody Johnson? Didn’t I read something in the notes you sent me about another name?” said Dusty, idly watching a waitress serving drinks at a nearby table.
“Yup. He was known locally by his monk name.”
Dusty raised her eyebrows. Jake enlightened her.
“When someone enters Sunyarta they choose what is known as a monk name; a name that reflects who they are or something significant about them. Johnson chose Ram.”
Dusty challenged his pronunciation.
“Isn’t it pronounced Rarm?”
Jake shook his head. “Johnson insisted his name was Ram not Rarm.”
“Unusual name. Ram. A male sheep.” She turned to me and grinned. “Or something to do with computers.”
I was surprised Dusty had made the connection. Although random-access memory was the first thing I had thought of, Dusty was the last person I would expect to make the association with computer technology.
“Was he like, a computer nerd?” I asked. “I mean before becoming a monk.”
Disguising Demons Page 2