by D. L. Hicks
Charlotte shook her head. ‘I guess not?’ It was more of a question than a statement.
‘Really?’ Dash said, bristling. ‘Any chance you were going to tell me our prime suspect in these murders is your fucking brother?’
‘Half-brother,’ Charlotte said sheepishly, feeling her already flushed face burn. ‘And I—’
‘Brother, half-brother … do you really think that’s going to matter when – or if – this case ever gets to trial? Thanks to you, this investigation has been compromised to a level I can’t even begin to fathom, let alone try to restore. We’re pretty much fucked, you know that right? You’re aware, being the clever little detective you are, that they’ll say you did this on purpose, right? A deliberate act by you, designed to keep your brother a free man. What the hell were you thinking, Charlotte?’
She sat still, her head bowed. ‘I don’t think he did it, if that means anything,’ she said, her voice shaky.
‘No, quite frankly, it doesn’t. But you better hope for your sake the real killer emerges soon. Look, as disappointed as I am, the reality is I can’t do anything about it now – you’re in too deep, so we’ll all have to keep swimming against the tide of shit and hope we somehow come out the other end without drowning. You know I back you guys to the hilt as much as I can, but you’re on your own with this one.’
‘Yes, Boss,’ Charlotte said, chastised. ‘I know it doesn’t help, but—’
‘Shut it.’ Dash shook his head. ‘I don’t want to hear it, okay? It’s now officially your problem, not mine. But there’s actually something else I need to talk to you about …’
Charlotte looked up, questioning.
‘Look, this is a bit … more personal,’ Dash said, leaning in towards her, his voice lowered, ‘and there is no easy way to ask this. I don’t want you to think we’ve been prying but … I need to know. Were you just vomiting in the toilet?’
Charlotte’s heart sank. ‘Dash, I can explain—’
‘Look, Charlotte, I get that you’re feeling exposed right now, but there are things we – as senior management – are obliged to put in place when an employee is pregnant, and you—’
‘Woah, woah, woah!’ Charlotte was thrown so much she almost laughed. ‘Hang on a minute. Pregnant? Are you serious?’
‘I’m just trying to look after your welfare, Charlotte. I’m not here to judge; none of us are.’
Even though she wasn’t pregnant, Charlotte still felt indignant. ‘Not here to judge? You’re kidding me, that’s exactly what you’re doing, and whichever lagger in here has been telling stories about me.’
‘So you weren’t ill in the toilets just now? And these aren’t yours?’ Dash tossed an empty blister pack of Charlotte’s anti-nausea tablets into her lap, the foil glistening. The smoking gun.
‘So you’re going through my stuff now? Are you fucking serious?’ Charlotte was somehow managing to contain her rage – and her embarrassment – and keep her voice to a whisper. Bringing her hands to her face she felt the heat of her skin, the evidence of her shame. Dash rested his hand on her shoulder awkwardly, a poor attempt at consoling her.
‘I’m worried, Charlotte. You’re my best detective, and not only that, a good friend. I care about you, as I do everyone in this office. Inside and outside work, if I can help you out, I will. But it’s a two-way street – you have to keep me informed of what’s going on. Our personal lives can have a huge effect on our work, and I need to be sure you can maintain your workload. If not, it’s an easy fix, and no black mark against your name.’
Charlotte sat back, staring up at the ceiling as she gathered herself, conscious of reeling in the anger that seethed inside her before she unleashed a barrage she would later regret. ‘Firstly, I am disgusted that you would go through my bin like the fucking paparazzi.’
‘It was sitting on the top, I would never—’
‘It’s my turn to talk!’ Charlotte hissed, cutting him off. ‘Whether you did it out of genuine concern or not, it’s unacceptable. Secondly, not that it’s anyone’s business but mine, but I am not pregnant, so you can scrap that rumour before it spreads – if it hasn’t already. And thirdly, yes, as your little informer told you, I did vomit in the toilets. I’ve got a virus, okay? You should know better than putting two and two together and coming up with forty-six. This right here is anti-nausea medication, which clearly isn’t working that well. End of story.’
Dash nodded slowly, appearing suitably chastised. ‘You sure?’
Charlotte glared at him, a look more effective than words.
‘Okay, okay. I take your point, and accept your explanation.’ He slid off her desk, glancing around the room to ensure their conversation had remained private. ‘You need me, you know where I am, right?’
Charlotte gave a curt nod.
‘You’re all good with this case then? I don’t need to contact Westvale and hand it over? You know it’s—’
‘I’m fine. Stop harassing me and I might be able to get some bloody work done.’
Raising his hands in surrender, Dash walked away, whistling to himself, another problem solved.
Dickhead, Charlotte thought, sliding her chair back in. She watched the police crest bounce around on her monitor before she entered her password, her fingers still trembling as she unlocked the system. Questions fought for space in her head.
Was she really all right? Could she actually pull off this case? Maybe she should just tell the truth.
No.
Only she knew how determined she was, how strong her self-belief could be.
She could do it, and she would do it – even if it killed her.
CHAPTER 28
In the semi-lit beach box, he sat alone, the muted tones of Michael Stipe echoing off the bare and splintering wooden walls. The golden stretch of beach outside was deserted, so he was confident that he wasn’t about to be disturbed.
Chewing at his fingernails, he could feel the sting of those he had already gnawed too severely, his fingers left throbbing. Somehow he enjoyed the pain – well, if not enjoyed it then deserved it, at the very least.
Eleven empty stubbies littered the worn blue carpet that surrounded him like a pitiful lake, his foot now and then nudging one bottle into another, the clink reminding him of the nights when, as a young boy, he had been forced to drink with Father, toasting with gusto before every gulp.
As disgusting as those memories were, the recollection still made him smile – even now, at this very moment, through the gloom and the guilt. His mobile phone sat on his left leg, its glow lighting up his weary face. With each mouthful of beer, he prodded the play button again.
‘… My name is Father Joseph Callaghan. I have made a decision today …’
Over and over he played it, the false confession searing into his mind. Rubbing at his eyes, he felt his chest heave, the alcohol kicking in, his mind fuzzing over, the ability to think ebbing from his being like the tears that slid down his face.
Draped across his right leg was a thick, camel-coloured rope, the end of which he fidgeted with between drinks. Never having tied a noose before, he was unsure how to take the first step – or indeed, if he even could.
His mind was fighting the battle. Yes or no? Would it hurt? What if he didn’t do it right? Was it possible that he could fail even at that, and be forced to live out the remainder of his pitiful days as some sort of embarrassing vegetable? That was his worst nightmare. Though in his darker times, he believed he probably deserved that too.
When he had started this journey of retribution, he had known it would be difficult – after all, he was a normal person at heart, and what normal person wouldn’t find what he had done challenging? It had been almost too much for him to bear.
His bottom lip quivered – from sadness or rage, he couldn’t tell – and he forced himself to regain control. The alcohol fed the guilt that ate him away from the inside, dragging him down deeper and deeper into the quagmire.
He tossed another empty s
tubby onto the floor with a clatter, then lifted up the rope, running it snake-like through his shaking hands.
Of course this was the answer – what did he have to live for? Did he really deserve to live when those innocent girls had been forced to die?
In the cool interior of the wooden beach box, he considered the disgrace his life to this point had been – how his innocence had been stolen by those he now sought to bring the hammer of justice down upon. ‘But I’ve got you now, you sick bastard,’ he muttered. He had the recording at his disposal – a confession that, when added to the evidence in Father Callaghan’s car, would surely be enough to put him away for a long time. A long, long time. Would his death – his life taken by his own hand – mean that they had finally defeated him in the end?
He was torn. Was it more important for him to stay and watch the carnage, or should he take the road less travelled and let go of his pain? Didn’t he deserve some peace, on his own terms?
They had created this monster – it was they who had driven him to this point, robbed him of his childhood and left him a husk of a man. After what he had done – what he had been forced to do – taking his own life should be a walk in the park.
Spooling the rope on his leg, he tied a clumsy slipknot in its length. He opened up the circle it created and slid the knot up and down, a tailor measuring up. His work was complete. Well, good enough anyway. It was far from textbook, but he was sure it would do the trick.
It had to.
Standing, he felt himself wobble, the haze in his head refusing to clear. There was a pulsing behind his eyes, his vision clouding around the edges. Images of the women he had killed flashed in his mind, the intimate noises of their deaths echoing in his thoughts, every sound another nail in his coffin.
It was now or never.
He grunted as he tossed the rope high, watching it arc over one of the thick exposed beams that crisscrossed the roof of the structure. His hand on the back of the chair, he stepped up onto it, his trembling legs barely able to hold him up. Finding his balance, he reached up and grasped the end of the rope in his shaking hand, pulling it down towards him until it reached the right height. Pausing, he looked around, taking in the view from the position he was now in – the last view he would ever see in this life. Three boogie boards – dull red, fluorescent green and egg-yolk yellow – gathered dust in one corner, long forgotten. Two folding beach chairs were propped against the side wall, a crusting of sand sprinkled on their metal legs like icing sugar on a sponge cake. Two towels, still damp, hung over a set of cricket stumps, the plastic bat leaning against the wall nearby, its rubber ball camped at its feet. A dog-eared book was wedged upside down between the wooden palings. Elements of a seaside life frozen in time.
He hopped off the chair and stumbled over to the wall, where he fastened the rope to a central beam, winding it around and around until the slack was taken up, before securing it firmly, taut.
‘Here’s to nothing.’ He barely recognised his own voice as it rebounded back at him in the stale air. He slopped down the dregs from the last bottle, then tossed it at the back wall, taking some pleasure from the splintered emerald glass that showered down onto the floor.
With one foot raised on the chair, he fought back tears. Really, what would he miss from this pathetic life? This could be one of the few productive things he had done in his lifetime.
Maybe the only one.
Even his relationships with women had been virtually non-existent in his miserable journey. They had thought he was weak, that he wasn’t normal. But how could he expect to be normal after that? ‘Normal’ to him had changed so much – maybe he had never really known what it was in the first place.
Rising up to his full height on the chair, he sniffed loudly like a child, and eased the noose around his neck. With his right hand, he manoeuvred the small bundle of knots downward until he felt them nudge into the hollow where his jawline and ear met. His legs began to tremble violently.
‘Fuck!’ he yelled, almost losing his balance as the chair quivered beneath him. His whole body shook, the terror of what he was about to do mingling with the unsteadiness the alcohol had brought on.
This was his choice, his decision. He wasn’t about to let that be snatched away from him as well.
As he regained his balance, the rough texture of the rope rubbed into the skin of his throat. Tears flowed down his face, dripping off his chin and splashing onto the chair at his feet.
Lord of his own domain for what felt like the first time in his life, he took in his surrounds for the final time.
A deep breath, and he stepped off.
CHAPTER 29
‘Father Alan Watson … Usual spelling I s’pose.’
Sleeves rolled up, J.D. sat before the computer, a half-eaten green apple rocking back and forth on the desk every time he typed. He keyed the letters like a man possessed, slamming his fingers down with precision, the noise reverberating around the empty room. The rest of the squad had already knocked off for the day, most likely reconvened at Irish Magee’s downing a cold one or three.
‘And … got him,’ J.D. said, as Charlotte hovered behind him, peering over his shoulder like a pirate’s parrot. ‘Okay – well, that’s interesting. I don’t think the good Father is going to be able to help us much – unless Joseph has a direct line of course.’ J.D. pointed at the screen, his index finger next to the flashing red notification – Date of Death.
‘That’s almost two years ago to the day,’ Charlotte said, her brow knitted as she chewed on her bottom lip. ‘I spoke to the cardinal who controls this area. He couldn’t tell me a whole lot because of what he termed ‘confidentiality issues’, but he was able to confirm that this Father Watson and my brother worked together at a parish on the other side of the state years ago, back in the eighties. But I can’t see how that relates to what’s going on at the moment.’ She paused, waiting for inspiration to strike. ‘What about his death – anything related to that?’
‘Not in our system – but that’s understandable,’ J.D, replied, scanning the page. ‘Let’s see what Dr Google says.’ He opened the browser, plugged the name into the search engine and smashed enter. As they waited for the internet to work its magic, Charlotte saw her face reflected in the screen, thinner than it once had been, anxious, her eyes watching, waiting for answers.
The page flickered to life, the search results pooling down the screen in rapid succession.
‘Oh fuck.’
They both muttered the words at the same time. J.D. clicked on the first article and was taken to the front page of a newspaper website. The headline blazed: Mystery surrounds horrific death of local Westvale priest.
Beneath it was a large picture of Father Alan Watson, draped in his ceremonial robes and standing on the steps of his church, arms held above him, gesturing to the heavens. A smile was spread across his face like butter; this was a man at peace with himself and his place in the world.
Scanning the article, Charlotte read the important bits out loud.
‘Intrigue surrounds the death of prominent Westvale priest Alan Watson … Found in his burnt-out Volvo station wagon … seated behind the wheel with his seatbelt still on … In what has been described as a questionable area of parkland, near a secluded toilet block … Police refused to comment or speculate but are treating his death as suspicious … An investigation is underway to determine the exact cause of death … A crime scene has been set up, and the entire area is being forensically examined for any evidence that may lead to a possible suspect … Police are urging anyone with information to call blah, blah, blah …’
‘Well, fuck me,’ J.D. said, looking up at her in surprise. ‘Can’t say I was expecting that.’
‘You and me both,’ Charlotte said. ‘Let’s see what else we’ve got here …’
Returning to the search screen, she scrolled down the list of articles and selected one that had been published only six months ago. Opening it up, she found it had the same picture
of Father Watson, alongside a three-paragraph piece.
Investigators have posted a $250,000 reward to the public for any information that can lead to an arrest in the brutal Westvale murder of local priest Father Alan Watson. Eighteen months ago, Father Watson was found deceased in his vehicle, in what police believe was a targeted attack. Seasoned police officers have described the attack as ‘vicious’, and believe Father Watson was drugged before being placed in his car, which was then set alight.
‘Somebody out there knows who did this,’ lead investigator Senior Sergeant Rob Langer said in a media conference yesterday. ‘We implore that person or persons to come forward – you will be protected and you will be eligible for this substantial reward if the information you provide leads to a conviction. This was an abhorrent attack on an upstanding member of our community, and something we as a society simply cannot tolerate.’
When questioned about a possible motive for the attack, Senior Sergeant Langer refused to comment. When further pressed on whether the police have any suspects in mind, he stated there are several persons of interest who have come to the attention of the investigators, however no charges have been laid at this point.
Charlotte leant back from the screen. ‘What on earth has Joseph got himself into here? He’s obviously got some history with this priest, and the fact that he mentioned his name to me probably means that someone mentioned it to him – I’m guessing the man who assaulted him, whoever he is. And if that man is also responsible for what happened to Father Watson in Westvale, then … maybe Joe is in more danger than we anticipated.’
J.D. reached for his half-eaten apple then sank back into his chair. Charlotte watched as he spun the apple in his fingers, the shiny green skin bright in the muted light of the office, before he chomped down on it like a Hungry Hippo. ‘Let’s not forget one thing,’ he said, as he munched. ‘And I know he’s your brother, but Joseph himself is still a suspect in the murders of these three girls. He may end up being charged, and if we were to follow the evidence we’ve collected so far, that would probably be the case. If it were anyone else, Charlotte, you know as well as I do that we’d be all over them like a cheap suit. I’m not saying he’s had special treatment, but up to this point, the fact that he’s your brother has helped rather than hindered him.’ Knowing there was truth in what J.D. was saying, Charlotte gave a resigned nod as he continued. ‘There were no witnesses to Joseph’s alleged assault at the church. And I know he got some minor injuries, but apart from that, his version of what happened is completely unsubstantiated. We need to exercise caution, that’s all – same as we would with any other victim. Joseph knew Father Watson and would’ve known where he worked, so until the killer is caught, we treat everyone with the same level of suspicion.’