by D. L. Hicks
And Charlotte’s personal favourite: ‘You’re the police – shouldn’t you know where he is?’
With the air-conditioning pumping, it was much more pleasant inside the vehicle than outside, where the mercury was sitting at around thirty-six degrees. The sun was beating down on the asphalt, and the locals crept from shaded area to shaded area like cockroaches.
She drove past Keane’s Bakehouse, the unmistakable smell of pastry sneaking in through the vents, doing its utmost to draw her in. Her foot was poised over the brake pedal when her phone rang, stealing her concentration and saving her from succumbing to the sugary sweet treats.
‘Callaghan,’ she said, her eyes still scanning the street as she spoke.
‘Charlotte, it’s Tom. Have you got a second?’
‘For my favourite copper? Always.’
‘Okay,’ Tom replied, a little hesitantly. ‘But I’m not sure how my number-one ranking is going to handle what I’ve got to tell you. Can we catch up somewhere? I’d prefer to do this face to face.’
‘I’m outside Keane’s at the moment – the back car park in five minutes?’
‘Deal. See you shortly.’
In the time it took Charlotte to park, enter the bakehouse, make her selection and then return to the comfort of her car, Tom’s marked patrol unit had only just pulled in. He sidled up next to her so that their windows were parallel.
Easing hers down, Charlotte felt the heat battle its way into the chilled interior of her Territory, winning the fight. ‘Wanna jump in?’ she said to Tom, nodding at her passenger seat. ‘It’s bloody hot out there.’
‘Won’t take long,’ he said, sliding his sunglasses up onto the top of his head. ‘I thought you should know about a couple of things I stumbled across recently. Just between you and me.’
Charlotte never liked it when people said that – they usually went on to reveal something the whole world should be told about. Confidentiality had its rewards, but it could also transform into your worst enemy.
‘Sure.’ She chomped down on a ham-and-cheese croissant as she spoke, crumbs flaking onto her top. ‘Go ahead.’
Tom reached out across the short distance between them, a printout in his hand. ‘This is off the record, but I managed to get it from a squad mate of mine in Westvale who owed me a favour. It’s a reprint of an IFS from a few years ago – one that went dark pretty quickly at the time, and has been offline ever since. My mate was semi-involved, so he took a copy for himself back when it first appeared – bit of insurance, you know?’
Charlotte nodded, well aware of members collating Incident Fact Sheets to protect themselves – at times, the reports had a tendency to ‘go missing’ in official circles when subsequent internal investigations occurred.
‘It involves allegations of an assault in custody,’ Tom said. ‘It went unsubstantiated of course, but that’s not the point. You’ll notice halfway down the page who the victim was – our man of the hour, Norman Bachmeier. Even back then it seems he was causing us grief. Not much has changed, huh?’
Charlotte pursed her lips, scrutinising the contents of the report as Tom continued.
‘Down the bottom, where it mentions the officers involved – the first one listed there is my squaddie, the second his partner on the shift … but notice the third?’
Sliding her finger down the report, Charlotte halted at the third name in the incident. She glanced sideways at Tom, one eyebrow raised. ‘Surely not.’
‘I’ve doubled-checked and it was definitely him. Apparently he had a set against Norman back then – had him in the gun for a series of burglaries that never got solved, including one at his brother’s hardware store. Off the record, he supposedly gave him a bit of a touch-up when the uniforms weren’t looking, threatened that if Norman ever said anything about it there’d be consequences. Did you know anything about that?’
‘Not at all – there’s been no mention of the two of them having a history whatsoever. Thanks for the head’s up, Tom – I owe you one.’
‘Another one, you mean,’ he said, winding up his window and giving Charlotte a mock salute. His vehicle began to roll away before it stopped again, and the window eased back down. ‘I forgot, there’s one other thing I had to mention to you. Dash came to the readout this morning, wanting to pick our brains. They’re looking for someone – maybe a crook, maybe a bloke who’s a snag short of a barbie, or maybe just a regular guy – first name Johnny. They were a bit vague about it – not even a description of him – but they were keen on getting the details of anyone with that name who we may have dealt with in any capacity here in town. Apparently this ‘Johnny’ is a possible victim of a historic sexual assault, somehow tied in with that priest who died a couple of years ago in Westvale, and he could be connected to everything that’s going on with these current murders and your brother. Suspect or victim, who knows anymore; we’re just the minions, kept in the dark. Anyway, you’d already left the office, so I told Dash I’d let you know when I spoke to you, keep you in the loop. Have I just wasted another thirty seconds of my shift, or didn’t you know about it?’
Hiding her unease at not being told, Charlotte nodded. ‘Yeah, I got the message earlier, but thanks. All good, mate.’
Charlotte remained in place as Tom drove away. She shoved the last mouthful of pastry into her mouth against the wishes of her now-swirling stomach as questions bounced around her mind. How the hell was she going to handle this? And why was it kept from her in the first place? It didn’t make sense.
Either way, she needed to find out. Soon.
She tossed the report down on the seat next to her, the name popping out from the page like a jack-in-the-box.
John Darken.
Shifting the transmission into drive, Charlotte was disturbed. The pieces were falling into place where she’d rather they didn’t. Though she’d never referred to him as Johnny, it seemed her partner had some explaining to do.
CHAPTER 35
Alcohol was the last thing on Charlotte’s mind given the cocktail of medications that were churning around her system, so she settled for a lemon, lime and bitters. It arrived in a tall, perspiring glass, the dark-orange liquid becoming pale as it travelled down the highball, the bottom third of the drink crystal clear. She took a nervous sip, feeling the fizz burn against the back of her throat.
They had agreed to meet at The Marlin Spike, one of only three pubs in town. Recently renovated, it now sat at the top of the pecking order according to the locals, the view from the small balcony across the expansive beachfront probably the main factor. That was where they were now perched, seated at a classic wooden planked table, seagulls squawking around them keen for a dropped chip or fumbled cracker. The large red-and-white Stella Artois umbrella provided adequate shade, its edges flapping in the soft breeze.
J.D. sat opposite her. He sent off a text message with one hand as he sculled the remains of his second beer with the other, letting out a loud ‘Ahh’ as he finished. He clunked his glass down on the table alongside the first empty, lines of froth sliding down its walls like sea foam in the shallows. ‘Thanks for coming, Charlotte,’ he mumbled as he popped a small handful of peanuts into his mouth. ‘We’ve had a bit of a breakthrough in the case and I thought it would be better if we—’
‘Me first,’ Charlotte interrupted. She was anxious to confront him with her news. It had been troubling her all afternoon, the apprehension made worse by the fact she couldn’t tell a soul.
‘I think what I’ve got to say trumps anything you—’
‘No, I think not.’ Her tone was sharper than she intended.
J.D. closed his mouth and sat back in his seat, his eyebrows raised in surprise.
Charlotte took another swig of her drink, the cool liquid doing little to quell the fire inside. She stared at her partner – the man she had trusted without hesitation for so many years, the man who had lived through an ordeal that no parent should ever have to experience, a nightmare that had almost destroyed his life. Had he fin
ally cracked?
She took a deep breath. ‘Tell me about Norman Bachmeier.’ She watched his face for any signs of guilt.
‘What about him?’ J.D. said, looking away from her. ‘He’s a dirty, stinking, homeless bastard. What more is there to say?’
‘I know what happened,’ Charlotte said. ‘With Norman and the assault in Westvale. Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘Tell you what exactly?’ J.D. exclaimed, his face reddening with each passing second. ‘That a stupid drunk made an unsubstantiated accusation that was never proven? Are you kidding me? Just because I had a run-in with him before … Not that it matters, but it was around the time Isaac …’ J.D. paused mid-sentence, his face screwed up in pain at even the mention of his son’s name. ‘Look, what are you inferring anyway?’
‘I’m not inferring anything, I’m—’
‘Can I get you another—’ The barman stopped when he realised he’d interrupted something, a plastic tray laden with serviettes balanced on his left hand, his eyes glued to the confrontation before him. Bending down, he picked up J.D.’s discarded glass. ‘Is there anything else I can—’
‘We’re fine, thank you.’ Charlotte flipped her ID out of her pocket and flashed it at him. The badge always worked miracles – the instant shut-up.
The barman apologised and spun on his heel, scampering back inside.
‘What the fuck is this, Charlotte?’ J.D. said, his voice strained. ‘You’ve lost the plot, seriously.’
‘Even if you are telling the truth, why keep it from me?’ Charlotte countered. ‘Why hide the fact that you’ve had dealings with Norman in the past? I had to find this out from someone other than you, so of course that’s made me suspicious.’
J.D. glowered at her. Charlotte had never seen him this irate before and it frightened her. Silence filled the air between them, as each waited for the other to make the next move – one paused in expectation, the other disgust.
‘It’s not what you think,’ J.D. finally said.
The last thing Charlotte needed was a scene, so she spoke as calmly as she could, despite the swirling in her stomach. ‘The evidence took me to Joseph and to Norman – I dealt with them both, and at this stage they still remain suspects. Even when it gets personal, I follow what I find, and if you were me right now I know you’d be doing exactly the same thing.’
J.D. shook his head and pushed himself up from the table, gathering his phone and keys. He gazed at her from beneath hooded eyes. ‘I suppose I’m still free to leave,’ he said, acid in his voice. ‘Not under arrest, am I?’
‘Of course not,’ Charlotte answered, her shoulders slumped, disappointed. ‘It wasn’t meant to go like this, J.D., I just wanted to talk.’ Reaching out, she tried to grasp his hand, but he wrenched it away. ‘Please don’t go, we still need to talk about—’
‘I’ve got nothing to say to you. Nothing.’ He took off through the foyer of the pub, almost colliding with the glass sliding doors at the front before they slid open, making way for his escape. Charlotte sat still, stunned. Perhaps she was naive, but she’d never considered the meeting would end like this – not only were they colleagues, they were friends. Maybe she had underestimated the depth of her accusations – or maybe she was right on the money.
Either way, she couldn’t let him leave. The whole ‘Johnny’ scenario still played on her mind – if J.D. had kept the incident with Norman from her, what other aspects of his past was he hiding? Wasn’t there a very real chance he was the Johnny they were searching for – the victim of horrendous abuse as a child? Could that have even been his motivation to become a police officer?
Tossing her phone into her small red clutch, Charlotte hurried through the foyer in pursuit, dodging past three young guys on their way in, all dressed in tight, ripped jeans and printed T-shirts, with the standard messy hair and pencil-thin moustaches. The barman kept watch, a glass and tea towel frozen in his hands. With no time to explain, she dashed through the front doors.
She was too late.
J.D.’s car sped out of the car park, tyres screeching as he turned and accelerated away. Charlotte snatched her phone back out of her bag, and tried to call him, desperate to calm the waters before things got any more out of control. J.D. had overreacted, but she had been the cause of it.
His voicemail was the only answer.
Hanging up, she slumped down on a nearby bench, a seagull taking flight in panic. She gazed up the now empty road. But with each passing minute, she knew he wasn’t coming back.
His reaction left her with two possible scenarios.
The first was that her false allegations had driven him away, their relationship possibly beyond repair. He had a thick skin, she knew that, but maybe the fact that all of this was coming from her – the person he trusted with his life on a daily basis – had tipped him over the edge. Hopefully time could deal with that.
The second scenario wasn’t quite so easy to diffuse.
In that one, the claims she made were true, and J.D. was indeed responsible for everything that had taken place, right back to the first killing of Father Watson two years ago. And if that were true, she may have just thrown fuel onto his already lit and burning fuse.
Was her partner about to go bang?
Her thoughts were interrupted by the shrill ringing of her phone, still clutched in her hand. She held it up, hopeful that J.D. had decided to reach out.
Private Caller flashed back at her. She brought the phone to her ear hesitantly.
‘Hello, Charlotte speaking.’
‘Detective Callaghan, it’s Katelyn McBride. We need to talk.’
Charlotte almost dropped the phone – not only had Katelyn contacted her, but she’d actually said two sentences in a row. ‘Now’s not really a good time Katelyn, I—’
‘I know your secret.’
Charlotte baulked. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘Look, that’s not why I rang, honestly – I just needed to get your attention. Don’t stress, your illness is safe with me. I’m a journo, but I’m not that much of a low-life. Besides, my mum is a breast-cancer survivor, so I have some idea of what you’re going through, and to be still working while undergoing treatment, and keep it all hidden? Well, I’m in awe, to be quite honest. Anyway, I figured I should do something to help you out. I want you to solve this thing; the whole town does. Girl power and all that, you know?’
Charlotte could barely comprehend what she was hearing; the words were coming so far from left field they were way up in the bleachers. And how the hell did Katelyn know about her illness, anyway? ‘Um … yeah, I guess,’ she said. ‘What have you got?’
‘It’s about your suspect, Norman Bachmeier.’
‘What about him? You know where he is?’
‘I do, but you’re not going to like it. I’ve got a contact at Westvale Hospital who works in the psych facility there. Norman was admitted overnight after he turned up at emergency ranting and raving. He’s out of his mind, Detective. You won’t get anything sensible from him for a while, if ever. You didn’t hear this from me, but I have it on good authority that his treating psychiatrist believes there’s no way he’d have the mental capacity to commit these crimes – especially without leaving any forensic evidence behind. He’s a dirty, drunk hobo who wouldn’t know a shower if he slipped over in one. The bag-of-shit trick on the church steps, that seems more like his style. It’s just my opinion, Detective, but I think it might be time you focused on a new suspect.’
Charlotte hung up the phone. She had to talk to J.D. – now.
CHAPTER 36
Driving back to the station in the hopes of finding J.D. there, Charlotte was astounded by the turns this case had taken. Joseph, Norman, J.D., Garsell, the mysterious Johnny … The list had grown way beyond what she was comfortable with. If she were good at her job, shouldn’t the number of potential suspects be shrinking? Where the hell was this all going to end? She’d already messed up her relationship with her bro
ther, she couldn’t lose J.D. too.
She parked her car and climbed from the driver’s seat under the soft haze of a lone streetlight. Not a soul was present, not even a uniform out the back choking back a durry, although she could still smell the vague whiff of tobacco as her pass activated the rear doors.
Inside, the building was silent apart from the occasional buzz of radio transmission warbling out from the station’s intercom. Charlotte made her way along the well-worn beige-carpeted hallway, as she had done a million times, taking the right turn towards the detectives’ domain. Shouldering the door to the CIU muster room, she burst through. Taking in the empty desks, Charlotte knew her trip had been wasted – J.D. was way too smart to head back to work; it was always going to be the first place she would check.
As she stood alone, contemplating her next move, her gaze flowed from one screensaver to the next, the department logo bouncing around like a lonesome game of Pong. That thought brought a smile to her face, memories of playing for hours against Joseph at their grandparents’ house when they were little dancing in her mind, the competition fierce even at a young age.
Now look at us.
Charlotte turned for the door. Poised, about to push back through, she was distracted by a sudden noise.
It was a voice – a female voice, she was almost certain – barely audible, snatching back a giggle. Charlotte eased the door closed and turned.
There it was again. Another giggle; a lilting, suggestive murmur, the kind of which she hadn’t heard within these walls before. The bedroom maybe, but the office?
She crept in the direction of the sound. It was coming from the offices at the end of the room. Edging past the side window in the semi-darkness, she heard the laugh a third time.
Surely it wasn’t the cleaner?
Charlotte kept moving until she was poised outside Dash’s office, the door closed. Through the frosted-glass window, she could just make out the fuzzy outline of something or someone.
Grasping the handle, she rotated it quietly. Then she shoved her body against the door and burst into the room.