by D. L. Hicks
Charlotte got to her feet, tapping a blue pen against her chin as she paced the room. ‘Bear with me for a second,’ she said, her brain almost audibly ticking as it processed her thoughts. Something was gnawing away at the inner layer of her mind, a thin recollection, a splinter of something valuable. Then it clicked and she froze mid-step. ‘Norman Bachmeier,’ she said. ‘Check him again for me.’
J.D.’s fingers attacked the keyboard again, a flurry of motion and noise, and the database sprung up. ‘We’ve done this a million times already, Charls; I’m surprised you don’t know his criminal record by heart.’ He nodded at the screen as a photo of Norman appeared next to his expired driver’s licence details. He looked a fair bit tidier than when Charlotte had seen him in the alcove behind the library. ‘That’s your man – NFPA, No Fixed Place of Abode. What about him anyway?’
Charlotte strode back to J.D.’s work station. ‘Check his previous addresses.’
J.D. raised eyebrows. ‘He has no previous address. He’s homeless remember?’
‘Just do it,’ Charlotte said impatiently.
‘Whatever you say, Boss.’ He did as she asked, and the previous address page flicked up onto his screen. ‘Nothing to see here – NFPA, listed as right here in this fair town, like we knew it would be.’
‘Next page,’ Charlotte said, pointing at the screen. ‘That only goes back eighteen months.’
As J.D. clicked forward on the continuing list of past addresses for Norman, Charlotte leant closer to the screen, then her finger came to rest halfway down the page.
The entry was dated two years ago.
No Fixed Place of Abode, Westvale.
Charlotte bounced on the balls of her feet as the printer buzzed. This development was exactly what she had been working towards – another little thread that she could unravel to help prove her brother innocent. She snatched the printout from the tray and held it aloft. But then, poised to speak, she was interrupted by sounds of a scuffle from down the hallway, raised voices from the uniform section, arms and legs slapping into walls. Without a word, she and J.D. reacted, bolting from their office towards the cell area – where the trouble always started.
Rounding the corner, Charlotte saw three uniformed coppers splayed on the ground, wrestling and trying to control a man who was clearly putting up a decent fight. Kicking wildly, he slithered across the floor and out of their grasps.
Jumping straight in without a thought, Charlotte flopped on top of the man’s legs, rendering them useless as he bucked and writhed beneath her, and the other officers were able to gain some ascendency over the top half of his body.
‘Settle down, stop resisting!’ the sergeant yelled, driving his knee into the man’s back as J.D. and another officer forced his arms behind him to slap on the handcuffs. Charlotte heard the ratcheting of the mechanism as the male was secured.
The man calmed almost immediately, as if aware the battle had been lost, a fish reeled in now lying stationary on the boat floor.
As he was rolled up into a sitting position, everyone took the chance to catch their breath.
Only then did Charlotte see who he was.
CHAPTER 30
‘What the fuck are you doing here?’
Charlotte couldn’t believe her eyes. The restrained man, now sitting upright on the floor and gulping in mouthfuls of air, was none other than Corey Garsell. He looked up at her, his reddened, grazed face almost unrecognisable as the dynamic person they had spoken to only days earlier, totally in command of his environment, the wolf pack leader.
‘Good question,’ he grunted back at her, a thread of saliva dangling from the corner of his mouth, his right cheek compressed from its position on the floor. ‘Ask those arseholes.’ He nodded towards the two uniformed members now resting against the charge counter.
The younger more muscular one turned, eyes ablaze. Without warning, he cocked his right arm and clipped Garsell across the top of the head. ‘Watch your fucking mouth.’
‘Enough!’ Charlotte yelled, stepping between Garsell and the officer and shoving her colleague out of the way. ‘Get yourself under control or get out of here, Constable.’
The young officer glared at her, his flat-top haircut razor sharp. A condescending smile broke across his face, a look that screamed, What would you know old lady? Get back behind your desk.
But he still took her advice and wandered off down the hallway, flexing his arms behind his back as he went.
Where’s the respect? Charlotte thought, harking back to her first few years in the job. She would never have got away with treating the higher ranks like that. How things had changed.
Garsell was still wincing from the blow as J.D. stood him up, resting him against the corridor wall.
‘Sorry about that,’ Charlotte said, hands on hips, ‘but you need to watch your mouth around here – we don’t like being spoken to like crap any more than you do. Keep that up and I can’t guarantee someone else won’t give you more of the same.’
Garsell remained mute, staring ahead as if Charlotte hadn’t even spoken, his eyes glazed over. She shuffled him into the adjoining interview room and sat him down in a chair on the far side of the table. J.D. joined them, pushing the door closed with his heel to ensure their privacy. He gave Charlotte a thumbs up. ‘He’s ours for five or ten, until the boys get their shit sorted out.’
Charlotte took a seat and rested her hands on the table in front of her, her fingernails clicking together, her head angled down. She waited, testing his patience – an experiment he passed with flying colours.
After a minute, she couldn’t take any more.
‘So … you okay?’
He nodded, a barely perceptible movement.
‘Good. Now, let me ask you again: What are you doing here?’
Garsell went to speak but stopped. Charlotte knew he was contemplating whether it was better to put his trust in the devil he knew. ‘Can I get these cuffs off first?’ he muttered, all pretence of superiority gone. ‘My wrists are killing me.’
Charlotte nodded at J.D., who unshackled Garsell, playing the cuffs back through their ratchet several times before sliding them back into his pocket. Garsell flexed his wrists, red welts visible on his skin.
‘Okay, now talk.’
‘Fine,’ he said, leaning back into his chair, creating distance. ‘It’s all bullshit though, I’ll give you that much for free.’
‘You’ll give me everything for free. What’s all bullshit?’
‘All the stuff about that girl at the gym. I tried to tell them, but they wouldn’t listen. They said something about a statement, that they were “compelled to act”. Compelled to act, my arse.’
Charlotte sat up a little straighter, her interest jolted. ‘What girl?’
‘One of the regulars; I think her name is Sarah. She’s a Kiwi, reckons she’s pretty special. Apparently, she told the coppers I’ve been stalking her, which is absolute rubbish – she’s fucking delusional, that’s what she is. I wouldn’t stalk that fat bitch if you paid me.’
A tingle of recognition eased its way up Charlotte’s spine. In every investigation there came a pivotal moment, where the clouds dispersed and everything became crystal clear. She wasn’t at that point yet, but she couldn’t help but notice a darker, more aggressive side to the man before her forcing its way out of hiding – perhaps the true Corey Garsell was finally making an appearance.
‘Stalking? That’s a nasty accusation, Corey,’ she said, her tone even. ‘That sort of thing is frowned upon, haven’t you seen the ads on telly? We’re meant to treat women better than that these days. What is she saying you did?’
‘Those pricks who brought me in wouldn’t tell me much – something about me touching her during her workouts, my car being parked out the front of her place and some text messages I sent. But I can explain everything – I help everyone who joins the gym through their first few workouts, familiarise them with the equipment. Do I touch them? Of course I do – the guys a
nd the girls. I’m a personal trainer, for God’s sake. And the text messages are automated ones sent to everyone about new deals and special offers; they come from my phone, but it’s all part of the service. She needs to get a grip. Truth is, she tried to crack on to me, and I turned her down. I’m happily married, why would I risk that on her? She’s just out to get revenge, a woman scorned and all that. What a fucking joke. Why aren’t you out catching real criminals instead of stitching up innocent people like me?’
Charlotte let him rant. She noticed he’d conveniently left out the little problem of his car being parked out the front of the woman’s house. J.D. gave her a knowing look, obviously thinking the same thing.
‘What’s with the attitude, Corey?’ she asked calmly, monitoring his expression. ‘We’re just doing our job, same as the fellas who arrested you. If someone makes a complaint, we investigate it. If you have nothing to hide, nothing can be found.’ She enjoyed tightening the screws, especially on a suspect like Garsell who they had nothing on but suspicion. Sometimes the pressure got too much and crooks capitulated, breaking down in a snotty heap and confessing to everything but kidnapping the Beaumont children.
‘Yeah, right, whatever. Well, I’ll be saying “no comment”. I’ve watched Law & Order you know; I’ve seen the way you lot twist people’s words in those interviews. Not me.’
Charlotte shrugged, collected her day book and rose from her chair, beckoning for J.D. to do the same. She eased open the interview-room door before hesitating, running her fingers through her hair as she allowed J.D. to lead the way out.
‘Keep that up,’ she said, turning back to Garsell, eyes suddenly lit, ‘and we might be seeing a little more of each other. Enjoy your stay, Corey.’
Just over an hour later, Charlotte stood at her office window, playing listlessly with the blind cord as she watched Corey Garsell leave the building, a copy of his intervention order paperwork flapping in his hand. There was an embarrassed shuffle to his gait, his eyes darting.
People loved getting out of a police station almost as much as the dentist.
She kept her eye on him as he disappeared from sight, his silhouette blurring into the heat haze of the late afternoon. As it did, the reporter Katelyn McBride appeared like a mirage, a cockroach that had scuttled out from under a fridge, in hot pursuit.
Charlotte yanked the cord, closing the revolving blinds and severing herself off from the outside world.
Something about Corey Garsell wasn’t right, she could feel it. Time would reveal if her suspicions were legitimate, but could she – and more importantly, the women of the town she was paid to protect – take that risk?
CHAPTER 31
As the final embers of a blazing sunset fizzled out on the horizon, his anticipation built.
Reaching up, he caressed the underside of his jaw, the tender bruising angled all the way around to the base of his earlobe; an indigo lopsided grin.
It had been a long day.
He had regained consciousness on the floor of the beach box, his legs twisted beneath him, the coiled noose still tight around his neck. His face had been resting in a crimson pool of blood and saliva, his left cheek damp from the mix, skin wrinkled. His tongue, bitten and swollen, had lolled from his mouth, resting on his parched lower lip. As his blurred vision had cleared, his eyes had taken in the frayed end of the rope, only inches from his face.
Head thumping from the alcohol and dehydration, he had pushed himself up to a seated position and promptly vomited, a torrent of liquid waste exiting his mouth like a waterfall, splashing onto his clothing as it hit the carpeted floor. His tears had flowed just as freely.
He had been given a second chance. God – or whatever entity was out there – had interceded and snapped the rope, allowing him to survive.
To him that was a sign – an indication that his work was not yet finished.
There was punishment still to be metered out, and he was the one to do it.
He had cleaned up the mess, returning the structure to the state it had been in when he’d found it, and left, the glaring sunlight almost piercing his fragile skull. His mind had throbbed, the pain unbearable, his eyelids like coarse sandpaper every time they fluttered. Somehow, he had made it home and – after a scalding shower – slept for the entire afternoon, his wounded body and soul desperate for slumber.
Now though, he had recovered. Revitalised and re-energised, he was ready, and the time had come once again.
After the altercation with the priest, he had kept a bit of a low profile, unsure whether he had been seen in the area around the church or not. Up until now, there had been nothing about the incident in the media, but he had heard an advertisement on the radio for the nightly news which had mentioned an exclusive interview with Father Callaghan. The program was starting in a few minutes, and he was more than a little concerned.
His apartment was sparse – chic, cool, but bare. He’d read in magazines that they called it minimalism. The reality was, he couldn’t find anything he liked enough to have in his home. The walls and furniture were all white – sterile almost – which was how he preferred it. Splashes of colour from little trinkets here and there were enough for him.
People made places homely, not things.
He switched on the fifty-five-inch plasma TV, hearing it buzz softly before the crystal-clear picture sprang to life. Sipping his scotch on the rocks to dull the pain in his neck, he turned up the volume, and sat through several mundane stories before Father Callaghan’s ugly head appeared in the top right corner under the headline, Priest Prays for Calm. He pumped up the volume even more, feeling his pulse quicken. A reporter with dark hair cut into a severe bob began speaking.
‘… Local priest Father Joseph Callaghan, who had been assisting police with their enquiries into the recent Gull Bay murders, has himself been assaulted by an unidentified assailant. Police say Father Callaghan – a long-standing member of the Catholic Church and local priest for several years – was hit from behind, knocking him unconscious for a short period of time, during which the male offender escaped. When spoken to earlier today, a clearly affected Father Callaghan had this to say about the incident.’
The footage cut to an image of Father Callaghan standing on the steps of the church dressed in full religious garb, his hands clasped in front of him like a choir boy. He looked every bit his age, his wrinkled face strained and weary, his bald head glistening in the sunlight. ‘As I told the police, I have no idea why it happened. We were going through the usual rights of confession when things got a little heated and he stormed out – I came out to see if he was all right, and that’s the last I remember. It’s all come as a bit of a shock that someone would do such a thing. Given the recent climate of violence, I would call on this man to hand himself in to the authorities. If the church can’t help him, perhaps the police can.’ The priest stared directly into the camera lens as he spoke this last sentence, and the message wasn’t lost.
The reporter continued. ‘Police have asked anyone who may have seen a man approximately six feet tall, solid build and dressed in dark clothing leaving the church area around 8 pm last night to contact them immediately. They have also asked anyone who may have any information regarding this incident, or the recent tragedies in the area, to ring Crime Stoppers on—’
He hit the mute button. He’d heard enough crap for one night. What a pity the old prick didn’t tell them the truth – the whole truth and nothing but the truth. Now that would’ve made for some interesting viewing.
He couldn’t help but smile though; the bastard had looked as if he had the weight of the world on his shoulders.
He had endured that weight for more than twenty years – any piece of payback was better than none. They had taken everything from him – stolen it, yielded to their own depravities without a second thought for him.
He sculled the rest of his drink, then grabbed his bag and headed out the door, a monster on the prowl once again.
It was time t
o show that stupid, arrogant, God-fearing motherfucker who was boss.
CHAPTER 32
1987
‘Just leave me alone!’
I swung my right hand as hard as I could and slapped Jacinta across the face. It made a really loud noise and I saw her reach up and grab her cheek, but I didn’t hang around to see if she was okay – I just pulled my shorts back up and ran as fast as I could across the oval.
As I crouched behind the toilet block alongside the wire fence that bordered the school, my whole body shook. Covering my face with my hands, I hid from the world – if I couldn’t see them, they couldn’t see me. Tears trickled down my face and I wiped them away as best I could, but that only made me sadder.
I was still crying – struggling a little bit to breathe – when Mr Carthage came around the corner and knelt down next to me. I screwed myself up into a ball to protect myself against the lecture I knew I was about to get.
‘Are you okay?’ he asked softly. He reached out a hand and rested it on my grubby knee. I flinched at his touch, an unexpected whimper leaving my mouth.