A Tropical Cure

by John Hollenkamp

  Constable Joel Shallowater was an immediate hit with the Indigenous boys and girls, something that would be lost on the same kids in a few years’ time. Joel briefly contemplated that thought, because they would hate him by the time they were fourteen or fifteen. He’d be labelled a traitor, working for the rich mob defending their establishment, their rules and their posh cars. The excited children were jumping and pointing at the same time, “Over here!” Wildly waving and beckoning, “Look, it’s a body. Over there.”

  Both police officers peered into the direction of the pecking and pointing fingers.

  The gruesome sight prompted Fiona to leap into action, elbowing Joel to get his attention.

  “Get these people off the bridge. Assemble them behind the cars,” Fiona ordered while pointing to the parked vehicles. She rushed back to the squad car. Her offsider stopped the traffic flow in the nearest lane. Then Joel corralled the rowdy group to noisy protests and herded them off the bridge. A second squad car arrived with a ‘whoop’ from the siren, and in well-practised form, the attending police officers assumed the control of traffic which was now building on both sides of the bridge.

  “Serious Crime and Forensics are on their way,” Fiona said coming back from her vehicle, “Let’s have a closer look.”

  Joel nodded and stepped behind his senior. “You like sticky-beaking the bodies, don’t you?”

  “That’s only because someone keeps putting them out.”

  The body lay a few metres up the muddy bank sprawled out on his back, his head facing the green-brown river and positioned awkwardly sideways, the rest of him was partly hidden by mangroves. Definitely a man judging by the mud-covered shape of the upper body, button-up shirt, and matted short hair, agreed the two coppers who were carefully trudging the slippery and smelly surface. Now, Joel was on point, only because he was less squeamish about the sludge, and knew how to use the mangroves for steadying his balance. Fiona followed at a slower pace, not as confident as her nimble and athletic offsider, grabbing the branches for support as she tried not to slip or trip over the firm mangrove shoots and roots.

  Joel could hear the blowies buzzing. Bloody bastards don’t waste time, he mused. From a distance of a few metres he caught a better look, covered his mouth and nose, and turned to Fiona closing in behind him. She immediately put her hand to her mouth and pinched her nose.

  “Smell bad?” she asked him in a nasal tone.

  Joel shook his head and went closer to examine the dead body. He kept a few paces away, but lowered himself to a high crouch, scanning the corpse from head to shoes. Office shoes, fine laces, slender design. Not much good out here, he reflected. He took note of one other disturbing feature, besides the deep and long incision to the man’s throat, which harboured a dozen little crabs scurrying around – four of the five fingers on his right hand were missing, like they were cut with secateurs. Shit, that must have hurt. Joel stood upright, turned around and beckoned Fiona to come and inspect.

  By the time the pair returned to the bridge chaotic traffic conditions had developed, both lanes at opposite sides of the bridge were growing rapidly. A third unit in a paddy wagon were leading an unmarked four-wheel drive with a pulsating blue light on its roof. A few hundred metres behind them an ambulance followed.

  It was all happening.

  ***

  Later that evening, Fiona was weary; she cast her eyes on her wristwatch, her eyelids flickered and she yawned. She pressed her head against the window of the car, closed her eyes and day-dreamed of lingering in a crystal-clear pool. A pothole in the road jarred the car, causing her head to knock the glass. Startled, she sat up straight and focussed on the road ahead.

  “Keeping you awake, Sarge?” Joel remarked with a wide smile.

  “I’m exhausted,” she answered without excuse.

  “Fair enough.” Joel was sympathetic and drove without any further comment.

  He felt a sudden rush of warm air as Fiona opened the passenger side window. Joel did the same with his, feeling the warm air flowing through the car. Night time air in the tropics, it was like a tonic, although the fresh air wasn’t cool it had a soothing quality.

  “Best time of the day,” she said. “Other than the first cup of coffee at day break.”

  Fiona took a deep breath and closed her eyes, leaning against the head rest she relished the outside air hitting her face. Her brief respite was interrupted by the car slowing abruptly followed by a rough bump. “When are they going to fix this fucking curb?” She was jolted in her seat.

  Joel winced.

  “Horrible to be tortured, have your throat cut and be left to have an un-ceremonial funeral on a stinky, muddy bank of the Ross River,” Joel commented as he drove the patrol car into the fenced-off compound.

  “Yeah, not nice. Just remember, a lot of these bodies got there because they were doing things they shouldn’t have. I’m not saying that this bloke deserved his dessert dished out like this, but we do not know what he’s been up to, and more importantly, who with,” Fiona said impassively. “In my experience, most of these bodies are just part of the circle of life in crime. Find a body in a drain, nine times out of ten, it’s crime related. It’s not random.”

  “He might have a family. You know, kids,” Joel said.

  “Well he should have thought about that before getting himself into shit!” she snapped.

  “Steady. This bloke might be a random victim.”

  Joel switched off the engine, grabbed his wallet and phone, and slammed the door behind him. He was angry about the generalisation. In his world if everyone was tarred with the same brush, half of his community would be in jail.

  Aren’t we a bit touchy! Fiona mused. She got out and followed him into the building. “Hey, don’t forget to lock the car!” She yelled out.

  Joel swung his arm back, clicking the button on the keyless entry.

  “Do you think a random killer chopped off this bloke’s fingers because he was hungry, or thought it would be a fun trophy?” She said loudly as she marched behind him.

  “Well? Out with it, Mister I-have-an-answer-for-everything.” Fiona taunted further.

  Joel opened the glass door to the cop-shop, and held it shut behind him, leaving a fuming Fiona Gibbs on the other side.

  CHAPTER 15

  ROOKIE ON THE LOOSE

  “Who are you?” The stumpy man with a large belly asked as he stood in the doorway to his office. His visitor stood tall and had a dark skin colour, a broad nose, and brown, friendly eyes.

  “Probationary Constable Joel Shallowater, sir.”

  “Hmm. I like the ‘sir’ bit. There’s not many in this department that spruik that title. Come in.” The rotund man left the door open and returned to his station, a desk with a mountain of paperwork on it. “What can I do for you, Shallowater?”

  “Joel will do. Sir.” He stepped into the detective’s office.

  “Dick Wilder. But call me Wilder. Grab a seat. What can I do for you, young fella?”

  Senior Sergeant Detective Richard M. Wilder was a rogue in the department, the rumour was that he could not be trusted. Not a crook, and certainly not on the take. If you crossed paths with him, and you fucked up, your world in the cop-shop could be hell. Dick Wilder ignored what others thought, balked at rules and was a champion of the underdog. Colleagues and other personnel avoided him like the plague, but Joel Shallowater was immediately drawn to see for himself.

  “Sir, I am new to the Service. I have been assigned to General Duties. I’m here on my own initiative.” Joel stood straight as an ironing board.

  “The token Aboriginal,” Wilder responded.

  A smile appeared on Joel’s face. “Call a spade, a spade. Sir.”

  “Sorry. Just to be clear. I am all for inclusive employment opportunities. As long as…”

  “I can do the job,” Joel interrupted him.

  A look of annoyance by the interruption clouded Wilder’s face.

  “Who’s your superior?”
He appraised the new recruit.

  “Fiona Gibbs. Sergeant Gibbs, I mean. She’d kick my arse, if she knew I was here.”

  “Because you’re in the wrong department? Or because … my reputation precedes me?”

  Joel took a moment. “I’d say it’s both. Sir.”

  Wilder made his way around the desk and started, “Do you know how long I’ve been in this job? Let me answer. About twenty-one years, give or take. I’ve solved more crime in this town than anyone in this building. But I’m still only a Senior Sergeant Detective, not an Inspector or head of any department. My troops are out there in the real world. The going-behind other people’s backs that I’m famous for hasn’t made me a lot of friends.” Wilder was leaning back with his arms folded behind his head.

  His chair creaked like a twenty-year-old mattress.

  “I’m not really interested in making friends, or office politics. In my world, politics and politicians help push my people further into an abyss of misery,” Joel said.

  “Ah, you’re a crusader for the Indigenous community.”

  “No. I don’t think injustices are confined to the Indigenous community. The establishment does a good job of fucking its own kind over pretty well. But again, that’s not why I’m here.”

  “So, what is your angle? Because by going behind your boss’ back you are setting yourself up for a lonely ride. Look at you, you’re a probationary constable, a rookie. You are supposed to be sucking cock.”

  Joel cleared his throat, “I’m well aware that I might compromise my job, but I am keen to learn more about investigation work.”

  Joel felt Wilder’s gaze, it was sharp.

  “Deterring a person from learning is a crime in itself. What is it exactly that you want from me?”

  “A chance. An opportunity to be of use.”

  “You’re already spoken for. General Duties is your opportunity.”

  “I wasn’t asking for a transfer. I could be your ears, and eyes … on the ground. Sir.”

  “You’ve been watching too many American movies,” Wilder responded.

  “My auntie didn’t own a television.”

  “Come back when your shift is over, and don’t wear your colours.”

  “I haven’t clocked in yet, sir. It might be a long day,” Joel said.

  “Don’t worry. I will be here. I’ve nothing better to do.” Wilder reached for the mouse, and focussed his attention on the screen.

  ***

  It was the first time Joel took notice, making his way through the hallways of the precinct he glanced at the others as they went past him. Being a very black blackfella made you hard to miss. Sometimes, he felt invisible, people would pretend he wasn’t even there. Some folk would give him a wide berth. He preferred the ones that gave him the clear message.

  Joel didn’t know where his place in this new life would be. He reciprocated with a smile as he passed a few nods from fleeting eye-contact. There’s a good boy.

  Was it any different back home?

  At the age of thirteen, Joel and his mate, Hughie, copped a kicking from some local boys in the neighbourhood. Hughie was a white kid, blond and pale. Joel got a beating for not sticking to his Aboriginal culture, although the culture his brothers practised was far removed from tradition.

  What if the roles were reversed? A question he pondered often. What if the Aboriginal people would be the ruling mob? Would they embrace the whitefella just the same?

  ***

  Back to his real job…

  Fiona was already waiting for him in the car. Joel noticed her tired eyes and weary face from several metres away, steeling himself for a possible early morning roasting.

  “Morning, Sarge. Sorry to keep you waiting,” he said.

  “Let’s get on with it,” Fiona mumbled.

  Joel started the Commodore and reversed the car out. Fiona directed him to drive to the North Shore. Conversation was limited to discussing her level of exhaustion and her yearning for a holiday. Mistakenly, he made a joke about her love life.

  “You think I’m some sort of self-appointed man-hater, don’t you? Well, let me tell you Mister smart-arse, I-know-everything-since-I’ve-been-a-copper-for-three-days, I have learnt some lessons in cavorting with colleagues.” She described her earlier days in Rockhampton as a young lass, a naïve police constable who got roped into having an affair with her superior, who also happened to be married. Obviously, it was always going to go pear-shaped, Joel quietly thought. By the time she’d finished recanting the unhappy ending she was wound up like a spring.

  “Did you expose the two-timing bastard?”

  “That’s the part I hated most. I knew it would be instant dismissal. After spending many nights feeling sorry for myself, I decided I wouldn’t commit career suicide. I put in for a transfer; they couldn’t wait to get rid of me,” Fiona recounted.

  Cruising towards the northern suburbs on Woolcock Road, Joel spotted a car pulled up on the shoulder of the highway. The occupant was talking on a phone, the silhouette was clear through the back screen. Joel passed the older model Falcon glancing the rear-view mirror as they drove by. He was wondering what year model the Falcon was. His uncle used to own one. An XC, four-door family sedan.

  “Do a U-turn, will you?” Fiona suddenly ordered.

  Joel quickly scanned the mirrors and threw the Commodore into a tight turn over the wide, grassy median strip. He started to switch on the siren and lights, Fiona put her hand on his, “Don’t worry about them. Just pull up behind him.”

  Darren heard the car and looked in the rear-view mirror. “Sorry, but I might have to call you back, I’ve got some company.” The caller didn’t stop talking. “I understand it’s serious, but I really do have to go now.” Darren ended the call, chucked the phone on the floor and waited for the police officer to come closer.

  “We seem to meet in the oddest places,” Darren smiled.

  “You of all people should know that this is a bad place to park.” She did her utmost to be officious.

  “You’re kidding?”

  “No. But I can’t really book you for anything. There is no law against parking in a stupid place talking on the phone,” she said with a little sarcasm.

  “Look, I have to go to a funeral. Maybe we can talk another time.” Darren’s tone was conciliatory.

  “Noticed you were a bit dressy for work,” she replied. ”Sorry, about your funeral.”

  “Not my funeral. Unless you’ve got other plans,” Darren chuckled.

  “You’re a bit of a smart-arse, aren’t you?” she looked at him blankly.

  “Do you always behave like you’ve got a carrot stuck up your arse?” Darren should have regretted that remark, but he didn’t. Someday she would make him pay for that choice of words. He was sure of that.

  She didn’t flinch.

  “Your contact number, please.” And readied her pen.

  “What for?” Darren quizzed.

  “In case I decide to charge you with lewd conduct against an officer of the law.”

  “Okay, I’ll write it down for you, in case you make a mistake.” Darren tore a page out of his notebook and scribbled the number. “Here.” He handed her the note.

  Fiona rolled her eyes, “Another comedian.”

  “Finished?”

  She turned without a word.

  Darren replied, “He was a mate from school. Found him on the banks of the Ross. Throat cut.”

  “Yeah, heard about that one,” Fiona replied. “Have a good day.”

  Fiona was relieved to be going back to an air-conditioned car. Blue skies with threatening dark clouds, a scorching sun was boiling off the moisture from the ground.

  Maybe, one day she could get a transfer to the Sunshine Coast.

  “What’s the story with all that?” Joel asked.

  “Nothing. A poor choice of spot to make phone calls,” she answered. ”He’s off to a funeral. A mate’s funeral. Same bloke we found on the river bank a few weeks ago.” She sl
ammed the door shut. “A small world, isn’t it?”

  Joel’s mind ticked over. After a few seconds, he realised that someone had thrown him a bone. “Did you get his phone number by any chance?”

  “Why? What do you need it for?”

  “Just love his car. My uncle used to have one like it. It’s either a seventy-six or seventy-seven Ford Falcon. I’d like to see if he’s willing to part with it.”

  Fiona looked at him quizzically, “Why would you buy a piece of shit like that?”

  “It’s a classic, they don’t make cars like that anymore.” Joel was amazed at her ignorance.

  “Well, thank fuck for that,” Fiona said. “Put your foot down, we have stuff to follow up on. Head to Dover Plains. We need to find those delinquents.”

  “Last I heard, Billy and his mate are still walkabout.”

  “What else is new,” she commented. “Let’s see what will turn up when we kick a few cans, make some noise.”

  “Walking around swinging a big stick is not going to help, Fiona.”

  “We have to be seen to be doing our job.”

  “Yes. I am sure you know what you’re doing,” Joel relented.

  He had other things on his mind, reflecting on what Fiona had revealed. This Darren bloke was mates with the murdered bank manager. Joel had his own opportunity now, and was not sure about sharing with Wilder. Not just yet anyway, not until he got to know him a little better.

  CHAPTER 16

  PHONE’S RINGING

  Simon wasn’t Darren’s best mate, or even a good mate for that matter, nevertheless, Darren was unsettled: a bloke he’d known for a long time had been murdered, the same bloke was his bank manager who had orchestrated a dodgy mortgage. He was probably the last person to have seen him alive other than the killer.