by Unknown
‘So what happened this time?’ Gurt asked.
‘There were no obvious anomalies with this one. No bruises, no signs of a struggle. Nothing.’
‘That’s not what Mark Finetti tells us.’
‘What does he have to say?’
‘Finetti informs us that he noticed several anomalies that he brought to your attention.’
Suddenly it all fell into place. Finetti had been interviewed over his information report on Dallas Boyd and the missed anomalies at the crime scene. He’d obviously taken the easy way out. I shook my head in disgust.
‘He also states that you specifically instructed him not to question your judgement,’ Quinlan added.
‘What?’ I snapped. ‘That’s bullshit. I absolutely refute that.’
Gurt looked at his partner and together they leant over the table, a pair of hyenas stalking injured prey. ‘Detective, your colleague alleges you deliberately covered this up. What do you have to say in response to that?’
I wanted to find Finetti and put his head through the floor. He’d recognised the victim and chosen not to say anything. He’d known Dallas Boyd was in fear of his life and had done nothing except write a half-arsed information report. And now everyone was covering their own arse. Maybe it was time I did the same, admit I felt pressured into calling it an accident. Maybe report right then and there that Eckles had ordered me to leave it up to the pathologist to find forensic anomalies, to ignore the missing syringe lid and the other evidence at the scene. But what would any of this achieve? Eckles would deny it and the ESD would believe him. And blaming Finetti held no weight. It would only cement everyone’s view that I shouldn’t be on the team.
In the end there was only one card left.
‘It’s total bullshit. Like I said, the scene looked clean to me. There were no obvious anomalies. As far as I knew it was just another OD.’
Gurt let a false smile play across his face. ‘What about your list?’ He unfolded a page from inside his daybook. ‘The list you gave the pathologist?’
I swallowed. They had me.
‘Ah, well, none of that was clear until later in the investigation,’ I said. ‘Jesus, I wrote that when I got home. But what’s the point anyway? You’ve obviously made up your mind. Why don’t you just hit me with a PJ now and we can all get on with it?’
‘Relax, McCauley,’ Quinlan said. ‘We’re not interested in charging you with perverting the course of justice. Right now I’m just curious about what you want me to believe. Either you knew this was something other than a simple overdose and deliberately ignored your suspicions, or you missed what I regard as telltale signs of foul play.’
They were all silent then, waiting for me to acknowledge I was in a corner. The punches would land no matter which way I turned.
‘In other words, even if you didn’t cover this up,’ Gurt finally said, ‘you still fucked it up. That leaves us with only one conclusion, McCauley. You’re not fit for duty.’
‘That’s not your call to make.’
Gurt just nodded. There was no need for him to add anything. He and Quinlan would put their report in, together with the allegation from Finetti. Add to that a vote of no confidence from Eckles and I was down for the count. I’d be lucky even to land a slot in the primary school liaison team.
I closed my eyes, ashamed it had come to this. Like Dallas Boyd, I’d dropped my guard and allowed my opponent to land a deadly blow. I was falling, the canvas fast approaching, the referee calling the round a knockout.
‘Let’s go, McCauley,’ Eckles said. ‘It’s time you went home.’
‘What, you’re suspending me?’
Eckles took a moment while Gurt and Quinlan packed up their folders.
‘I wouldn’t call it suspension,’ he said when they were gone.
‘What then?’
‘You have a sick mother, don’t you? Alzheimer’s or something?’
‘Stroke,’ I said, knowing what was coming.
‘Well, maybe you need some time off. Maybe her condition is affecting your judgement, which is understandable. Family matters like this are important. I’ve checked your leave balance and I think it’d be wise for you to take some carer’s leave to look after her, sort things out a bit.’
I stared out the window, not really seeing anything. It was an old trick, an underhanded one. Suspending someone meant inquiries and due process, union involvement and all sorts of headaches for everyone. For an acting OIC, it wasn’t ideal to have a suspended detective on your list. Better to do it quietly, find a convenient excuse to shuffle someone off.
I looked at Eckles. ‘And if I don’t want to go on leave?’
‘We both know you don’t have a choice.’
‘Righto. So how long then?’
He shrugged.
‘What, you want me off indefinitely?’
‘Let’s call it three weeks to start with. We’ll see how you’re travelling after that.’
I stood up and pushed my chair hard into the table. ‘This isn’t about my welfare,’ I said. ‘And it’s not about my mum either, so don’t insult me. You’re pissed because I backed you into a corner.’
‘Don’t push me, McCauley. This is a gift.’
‘It’s a fucking farce, that’s what it is.’
I went to walk by him but he stopped me at the door. ‘Remember, I’ve got friends,’ he said, nodding to where Gurt and Quinlan had been sitting. ‘Today was just a warning, McCauley. You only get one. So do yourself a favour – go back to your desk, pack up your shit and leave quietly.’
As I held his stare, his words from this morning replayed in my mind. Careers in this organisation are built on the scalps of rogues like you. To men like Eckles, ambition was everything. The only thing better than flushing someone else’s career down the shitter for a promotion was to stand back and watch them do it to themselves. No way was I that foolish.
‘Fair enough, boss,’ I said. ‘Thank you for your understanding. I’ll just clear a few things from my desk before I go.’
14
DESPITE WHAT I’D SAID TO ECKLES, I had no intention of clearing my desk. Everything of value was in my daybook and briefcase. The only thing I wanted to take was a photo of me on crutches, cuddling Prince at the welcome home dinner my parents threw for me when I came out of hospital. They’d made the trip to Melbourne to take me home and I remembered being helped up the stairs to the apartment, my shoulder heavily bandaged, body thin and weak. When they opened the door, Ella was there, holding Prince. It was the turning point in my recovery and in our relationship.
Mum had given me the picture later on, told me to keep it as a reminder of what I’d overcome. Throughout my rehabilitation it had stayed with me. Any time I felt the odds piling up, I looked at the photo.
I looked at it now as I put it into my briefcase, questioning my ability to forge ahead. For a Saturday the squad room was busy, everyone preparing for the St Kilda Festival tomorrow. All four computers were occupied, detectives two-finger-typing briefs and operation plans. Cassie leant back in her chair, ear held to a telephone, a pained look on her face. More news about her father, I wondered. As usual, Eckles had his door closed and the printer whined, spewing out endless LEAP reports. Another burglary. Stick-up at the TAB. Rapist prowling the parks. Dealers selling pills out of a hotel room. Like a finely tuned theatre production, the whole crazy show would go on without me.
Glancing at my in-tray, I saw that the Divisional Intelligence Unit had left an envelope for me. Inside were the two mug shots I’d requested of Stuart Parks and Derek Jardine, Dallas Boyd’s co-accused in the 2004 armed robbery case. There was also the call charge record on Dallas Boyd’s phone, which listed all calls made to and from his mobile in the hours prior to and after his death. For the moment, I focused on the mug shots, which included details about the offenders alongside each picture. The first shot, of Jardine, had been taken more than two years before. It depicted a pimple-faced adolescent. Fourteen years old. I sa
t back down and studied the face but nothing jolted. Jardine had the innocent look of a schoolboy, his hair styled into a spike. But the eyes told a different story. Like Boyd’s little sister in the flat, they projected fear and hopelessness. It was a look I knew would be replaced by one of defiance and anger in years to come.
The shot of Stuart Parks was more recent, and I immediately recognised the gaunt face and stringy hair. Even the tracksuit was the same. Stuart Parks was the kid I’d spoken to outside the youth service yesterday. I stowed the pictures in my briefcase and locked it.
My mobile phone rang. The ID screen read ‘private number’.
‘Ah, I’m looking for Detective Sergeant Rubens McCauley,’ said a female voice.
‘Speaking.’
‘Right. This is Sarah Harrigan from the Department of Human Services.’
It took me a second before I remembered she was Dallas Boyd’s contact at the Child Protection Unit.
‘Yes, I’ve been expecting your call. Thank you.’
‘Well, this is most unusual,’ she said. ‘Will Novak from the Carlisle Accommodation & Recovery Service told me you’re looking into the death of one of our clients, and that I should call you.’
‘Yes. Dallas Boyd. I was told he was liaising with you regarding his stepfather, Vincent Rowe. Is that true?’
‘Well, I’m not sure what Mr Novak thought I might be able to tell you. As I’m sure you’re aware, it’s strictly against the policy of DHS to give out information on our clients informally. There are privacy principles and interdepartmental guidelines I’m required to follow. If you wish, I can email you a coversheet requesting a transfer of information and we can proceed from there.’
‘How long will that take?’ I asked.
She made a clicking sound with her tongue that forced me to hold the phone away. ‘Maybe a week.’
‘A week? Can’t you just talk to me over the phone? I don’t want any files or anything, just a few pointers. I mean, the kid’s dead, so what difference does it make now?’
‘He’s still a client, detective, dead or alive. We can’t just discuss details of our work without formal arrangements. It would be like us asking you to tell us the ins and outs of a case you’re working on. Surely you understand that.’
No, all I understand is that you’re a typical bureaucrat, I thought.
‘Look, if you’re prepared to wait until Monday, I might be able to meet with you.’
‘Meet me?’
She lowered her voice and now I needed to block my other ear. ‘I can’t give you anything specific, no reports or anything, but I’m happy to meet with you in person.’
‘On Monday?’ I said, puzzled.
‘It’s the best I can do. I need to pull the files and read up on them. Will said you’d be discreet with the information.’
‘Of course.’
‘Then I’ll get back to you.’
Looking down at the pictures of Dallas Boyd’s two co-offenders, I realised this was as much help as I would get without a subpoena. I sensed she was about to end the call so I stopped her.
‘Can you also check if you’ve got any information on two boys named Derek Jardine and Stuart Parks?’
‘Ah, now you’re pushing it. What I’m doing is highly –’
‘Just check your info on Boyd then,’ I said, short-circuiting the chance of another lecture. ‘I think the three of them were friends. It would help if I could talk to them. If you just check in Boyd’s file, maybe there’ll be something in it.’
I spent the next hour photocopying the reports I had on the Boyd case, then arranged a courier to have it all delivered to the Homicide Squad. When I was done, I waved goodbye to Cassie – who was still on the phone – and took the stairs down to the men’s change room. A clock above the door read 3.15 p.m. Changeover time. I stood by the lockers and listened to the male voices and laughter echoing from the shower room.
When the taps turned off and Finetti came out, I walked up behind him and slammed his head against the locker, crashing it against the wall. He let out a grunt of pain, one hand clutching my elbow, the other struggling to keep the towel around his waist.
‘You sold me out,’ I hissed in his ear. ‘You told them I covered up the OD, wrote it off as accidental. Why?’
Finetti’s skin was wet and slippery and he managed to twist his head around though I maintained pressure on his windpipe. Two cops looked around from the end of the lockers, both in underwear.
‘What the hell’s going on?’ one of them said. ‘Let him go!’
‘Not until he admits it.’
‘Admits what?’
I turned back to Finetti. ‘What did they offer you? A slot on the CI? A rush through on the next board?’
‘What is this, McCauley?’ said the other cop, stepping close to me.
‘Between me and Finetti,’ I snarled. ‘Get out of here.’
‘Get out of here?’ he repeated. ‘This is our locker room, McCauley. You get out.’
I looked at Finetti. ‘Tell them to disappear, mate, or they hear it all.’
‘Hear what?’
‘All right,’ Finetti spluttered. ‘Guys, give us a minute here, will ya?’ When they didn’t move he shouted, ‘Just go!’
‘Okay, man, you got it.’
When they were gone, I let go of Finetti, who collapsed on a wooden bench, gasping for breath. I pushed a pile of towels out of the way and sat on the bench opposite him. ‘Why’d you do it?’
He wouldn’t look up, and when he sniffed I wondered if he was trying not to cry. The job is like that sometimes. It takes away your armour, makes you weak and brittle.
‘You and I both know how it went down,’ I persisted. ‘Sure, I was off the mark. I let the kid’s age put me off. I let you put me off. In the end I called it an accidental OD, like you wanted, but none of that gives you the right to stitch me up.’
‘I know,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t fuck with me, Finetti. Why did you do it?’
‘Because I knew they’d go me for neglecting duty of care,’ he said, finally looking at me. ‘Jesus, I took a statement from the kid just after Christmas. He told me his old man was gonna kill him and all I did was write a fucking report. Six weeks later he’s dead with a needle hanging out his arm. Of course I wanted it to be accidental.’
I shook my head, unhappy with the explanation. ‘That’s not what I want to know. Why did you tell them I pressured you into agreeing it was accidental? You were the one pressuring me. Why did you turn it around? Why did you tell them I covered it up?’
His mouth dropped open but no words came out. He pressed his fingers into his eye sockets. ‘I can’t,’ he finally said.
‘What do you mean, you can’t?’
I raised my fist, wanting to punch him. Violent charges of adrenaline pulsed through my system and my arms tensed, muscles stiff and rigid, like wet rope.
When Finetti finally looked up at me, fear glinted in his eyes and immediately I knew.
‘Eckles, wasn’t it?’ I said.
He didn’t answer, didn’t have to.
‘Eckles pressured you into making the allegation, didn’t he?’
He covered his face. ‘I had no choice. Shit, Freckles said to go along with it or I could take a holiday with you.’
It figured. The ingeniousness of the scam lay in its simplicity. By urging Finetti to say I’d pressured him into going along with an accidental ruling, Eckles effectively created a smokescreen and cleared himself of any wrongdoing. Even if the cover-up scenario wasn’t believable, two cops apparently agreed the death wasn’t suspicious. Eckles had no reason not to sign the incident report and so couldn’t be held accountable for doing so. No matter which way it went, everyone would blame me.
Finetti stared up at the ceiling. ‘I’m sorry, Rubes.’
‘Sorry doesn’t help me, Finetti. You put me in the ring and I wore a lot of punches up there. I need you to fix this.’
‘I can’t
. I mean, I can’t tangle with these guys like you can. There’s nothing I can do now. ESD are running with it. I’m sorry.’
I slapped him. ‘Not good enough. I fucked up at the crime scene but I never covered anything up. That was your move. So don’t sit there saying you can’t help me. Either you make good on this or I go out there and let your little dance with Eckles go public. Every cop in Melbourne will know your form.’
‘What was I supposed to do, man? Freckles had the clamps on and I had to fold. You should go and speak to him.’
‘Fuck that. I took a fall for you, pal. Now you owe me.’
I could see him doing the maths, weighing the options. It was a decision every one of us feared: either follow an unethical order or watch your own career go down the drain. Finetti had taken the easy way out to save his own skin and he’d been caught out. Whatever choice he made now would define him, not only as a cop but also as a man. The emotional strain of it was alive and crushing. It left his cheeks slick wet, his lower lip trembling. I could almost hear the blocks falling into place as he realised he didn’t have a choice at all.
After a long moment he blew out his breath and let his head fall back against the locker. ‘Okay, McCauley. You win. What do you want me to do?’
15
THE WATER WAS MURKY, a mixture of green and brown. I could only see a few feet ahead, but the taste of salt and the rhythmic movements kept my mind off Eckles, Finetti and the ESD. Nice even strokes, a breath after every third. At the southern end, I turned and began the return leg. Today there were about twenty others with me, a steady stream of bodies gliding through the water. I knew people who swam every day, even in the winter. Brighton Beach Icebergs. Some were aged in their eighties, even older. As much as the exercise, I reckoned it was the isolation and mental escape of it all that was the real secret.