by Luke Preston
Scene photographers lit up the area in bursts of light that lasted only a fraction but left the negative of murder scorched into the memories of those who watched. When the floodlights were erected there was no escaping the scene. A Homicide dick slid on a pair of Ray-Bans while another with latex gloves took all the care in the world to pull back Taylor’s coat. His service weapon sat snug and holstered. The dick looked to his partner, shook his head, and they both looked to Bishop. Neither of them were impressed.
Anybody who shifted their weight the way Taylor had was going for a weapon. It took a lifetime of working the street for Bishop to gain that half-second drop on him. He was twenty-two the first time he’d killed someone. The commission flats in Flemington. Ecstasy lab. Bishop was first through the door. Shotgun in his face. His training had kicked in and the shooter was dead before Bishop could think about anything. It was a good kill. Clean and justified. They said it would get easier over time; it never did, and, in the years that followed, with each killing, it only got worse. He remembered their names and faces. He thought about their families, friends, girlfriends and children. Justified or not, killing was killing.
Rain fell from the sky in heavy drops taking away the evidence in small increments.
A junior hovered over Taylor’s body. ‘Hey, check this out.’
Bishop stepped forward with the murder detectives. The junior waved a light over Taylor’s wrist, illuminating the number seven. Clubs, strippers, whorehouses: it could have been the entry stamp to a hundred off-the-map joints.
From behind the floodlights, Bishop watched a figure limp toward him. Even before he saw his face, he knew the limping silhouette belonged to Jim Patterson from Ethical Standards.
‘It’s been a big day for you, hasn’t it?’ he said.
‘And to think I didn’t even put in for overtime,’ Bishop said. ‘Are you here to take me in?’
‘No. Not yet,’ he said and dipped his eyes to Taylor’s corpse. ‘Somehow I think you and I are interested in chasing up the same type of leads.’
‘Are you looking to get your face in the paper again?’
‘I’m just looking to bury dirty cops.’
‘Hey,’ a voice called from behind them. It was Rayburn. He pointed to Patterson with a stubby finger. ‘Get the fuck out of here.’
Patterson was used to it. He shifted his gaze back to Bishop. ‘We’ll talk soon.’
‘Not without his fuckin’ lawyer he won’t.’ Rayburn put a hand around Bishop’s arm. ‘Let’s take a walk.’
They headed out of the alley, into the street where Bishop could see the service station attendant being questioned by Russell, Cooper and Warren, probably chasing a surveillance tape.
They passed a couple of boarded-up shopfronts and slowed to a stop, far enough away from anyone with big ears.
Rayburn lit a cigarette. Bishop went for his. Empty. He tossed the pack.
‘Here.’ Rayburn handed him his deck and Bishop lit up. ‘What the hell happened?’
‘Taylor was in on the armoured truck job.’
Rayburn leant against some plywood in place of where a window used to be. ‘Bullshit.’
‘SD card from the Merc: it showed a spotter. After the crew left, it pulled out. The tag was registered to a piece of arse Taylor was banging on the side. Alison Allen. I followed her to him and he didn’t like it too much.’ Bishop looked up and down the street, then fixed his gaze on Rayburn. ‘Did you know?’
‘What? Fuck, no. I knew about the drinking, the whoring, but nothing like this.’ He rubbed his tired face. ‘Twelve people are dead. Thirteen, including him. You sure about this?’
Bishop dug his fingers into his jeans pocket, pulled out the tape recorder and showed it to Rayburn. For just under ten minutes Rayburn paced the footpath chain-smoking cigarettes with the tape recorder pushed to his ear. His face contorted at different moments with what he heard and when it was over he didn’t say anything for a long time.
‘You need to be taken into protective custody,’ he eventually came out with.
Bishop took the recording from Rayburn and slipped it in his pocket. ‘I don’t need protection.’
He ran his fingers through his thinning hair and paced. ‘Don’t be an idiot. This is bad. Real fucking bad. Cops pulling jobs. Cops killing citizens. Cops killing cops.’ Rayburn pointed down the alley to the badges working the scene. ‘Taylor couldn’t have been alone. You think they’ll give a fuck that you’re a cop? They’re cops. You won’t last ten minutes out on the street.’ He shifted his gaze back to Bishop, nodded at his service weapon. ‘Is that it?’
‘Uh huh.’
Rayburn pulled out an evidence bag and with a flick of his wrist it opened. ‘Put it in.’ Bishop hesitated until Rayburn pulled a second piece from the waistband of his trousers and handed it over. ‘Take my backup.’
Bishop dropped his service weapon inside and palmed Rayburn’s backup. He checked the rounds: loaded.
The scene was wrapping up and the time to roll Taylor into the body bag had come. They threw him in roughly. Nobody complained.
Chapter Fifteen
Twenty minutes into the ride and nobody had said a word. Warren drove at a steady, cautious speed. Every once in a while, he’d shoot a glance in the rear-view mirror, his gaze meeting Bishop’s for a moment before shifting away as if he’d been caught doing something he shouldn’t have. Bishop was in the back seat, sandwiched between Russell and Cooper. Russell had bad breath and Cooper BO. There wasn’t anything Bishop could do about either. Rayburn sat up front in the passenger seat and stretched out.
A dog ran in front of the car, slowed in the middle of the road. His yellow eyes lit up. Warren swerved around him.
Nobody said anything.
It had been two nights since Bishop last slept and he was wide awake: his body running on adrenaline and fear. Bishop stared through the windscreen as the streets blurred past. Not too long ago, the whole area was its own city of industry, made up of rows of factories that pumped out useless products nobody needed, now it sat dormant.
Rayburn leant forward and pushed in the cigarette lighter. When it popped out and he raised it to light his cigarette, Bishop could just make out the mark on his wrist in the glowing coil. It was a stamp.
The number seven.
Rayburn sensed his mistake even as he made it, he turned, saw it all over Bishop’s face. He went for his weapon. His gut got in the way.
Bishop rammed his elbow into Russell’s throat. Head flung back. His back arched. A scream shoved into an angered moan.
Russell, weapon behind him. Struggled to reach. Gave up. Threw a jab to Bishop’s ribs. Let out a yell. Another jab. He heard a crack.
Rayburn, weapon in hand. Swung Bishop’s way. He lifted his knee to chin. Catapulted forward. Rammed Rayburn’s gun hand to the dashboard. Pushed it there. Held it.
Bishop pulled his weapon and rammed it under Russell’s chin. Pulled the trigger.
CLICK.
CLICK.
CLICK.
No firing pin.
The vehicle swerved. Warren pulled his gun. He swung it over the seat and fired.
Bishop went deaf.
He was covered in glass and the rear window was gone.
Russell jabbed Bishop’s broken ribs.
Rayburn was slipping free.
Cooper pried at Bishop’s elbow.
Warren took aim again. His eyes darted between Bishop and the road. Bishop and the road.
Warren pulled the hammer back. The blast came. A muzzle flash scorched Bishop’s leg, but the bullet buried itself in the back seat.
Bishop took a fistful of Cooper’s hair. Rammed his head through the passenger window. Broke Russell’s nose with an elbow and climbed through the shattered rear window onto the boot.
The rain, the speed and his age collided. Bishop came off the back and slapped the wet concrete.
The vehicle came to a sliding stop.
Bishop’s body screamed in pain. E
verything told him to stay down. To give up.
Car doors opened and closed.
He gasped for air. His ribs tightened. He peeled himself of the concrete and disappeared into the darkness.
*
They were out there.
Bishop could hear their footsteps and muffled whispers. He stayed in the shadows and held his breath. A thump echoed through his body with each beat of his heart. His scorched leg ached; his hands shook.
Eyes closed, Bishop took a breath, then another and another after that. Slowly his hands steadied, his mind cleared.
It took him forty-five minutes to travel three blocks. He was almost within sight of the main street. Service stations, pubs, bars, people.
Then he heard the hammer pull back.
*
Russell should have put him down right there. Scared, dumb, who knew, but he hesitated when he rose up from behind a skip with his weapon on Bishop.
‘Turn around,’ he said.
Bishop did.
‘Walk.’
Bishop did.
Russell trailed behind. Every so often, their steps would fall out of sync and the barrel of his Beretta would push into the back of Bishop’s spine.
They reached the end of the block.
‘Hang a left’.
Their sedan idled in the middle of the empty road. No sign of the rest of the crew.
Russell pulled out his phone, dialled. ‘I got him … I’ll chuck him in the boot.’ He hung up.
Bishop came to a stop at the rear. The boot popped open. Keyless entry.
Russell jabbed the back of Bishop’s head with his gun and said, ‘Get in.’
*
The sedan pulled around and half a block later came to a stop. Exhaust fumes blew a steady stream of white from the rear. For a brief moment everything was quiet.
The footsteps came.
Out of the darkness surfaced a shotgun followed by its owner, Rayburn, then Warren behind him with his own weapon in hand. They moved to the boot. Warren threw a glance to Rayburn as if he was asking permission. With his heavy chin almost touching his chest, Rayburn nodded the okay and the pair of them unleashed hell.
Shotgun blasts shattered the silence. Muzzle flashes lit up the street. The metal of the boot tore and contorted under the double aught buck pounding in. A tire deflated. The sedan dipped back and to the left.
They made Bonnie and Clyde look like pussies.
Eighteen shells later the thunder ceased but it took a couple of seconds longer for the echoes to fade. Gun smoke lingered in the air. Warren jammed a finger in his ear and tried to shake loose the deafness. Rayburn checked the breech of his weapon. They both relaxed. A job well done.
‘Russell,’ Rayburn called. ‘Come check this out.’
They heard nothing.
The driver’s side door was wide open and still swinging from the impact the sedan had taken. A step or two later, Warren peeked inside.
Empty.
After a look to Rayburn they both found their attention drawn to the boot. Rayburn drew his sidearm and took aim. Warren did the same and swung his foot up under the lock and kicked the boot open.
They found the bloody corpse of Russell.
Rayburn tightened his fist. He wanted to punch. ‘Shit,’ he mumbled. ‘He’s got the recording.’
Chapter Sixteen
Bishop ran until his legs gave out. He slowed and put his hands on his knees. Sweat poured down his face and dripped onto the concrete between his shoes.
He had reached the beginning of the Hume Highway and could make out the First and Last Hotel farther down the road. Bishop pushed through the doors. The joint was country and western themed with wagon wheels pushed up against the pokie machines and murals of horsedrawn carts on the walls. Bishop crossed the gambling floor and made for the pay phone by the toilets. He dropped a couple of coins and dialled.
Jim Patterson answered on the second ring.
Bishop waited with a pot of Vic Bitter at a table by the rear wall. The gamblers paid him no attention and the staff were busy reading magazines and watching late-night television.
Headlights entered the car park and dimmed. The front door opened and closed and Patterson limped around the hotel until he found Bishop.
He pulled up a seat and stared at Bishop from across the table. ‘Can I listen to it?’
Bishop placed the tape recorder on the table. ‘Just press play.’ Bishop sipped at his beer and watched Patterson as he listened to the confession and killing of Con Taylor.
When it was finished, he pressed stop and gently placed the tape recorder on the table. ‘And Rayburn is in on this as well?’ he asked.
‘And his whole crew.’
Patterson sighed. ‘Shit.’
Bishop finished his beer and leant forward. ‘So what are you going to do about it?’
Patterson’s eyes hardened and Bishop saw a glimpse of the cop he used to be before his leg was blasted away and his balls were cut off in ES. ‘I’m going to bury them.’
Bishop drove. Patterson got on the telephone and had his rookie, Arden, organise a safe house.
‘Can she be trusted?’ Bishop asked.
‘She’s my wife’s niece.’
Bishop shrugged. ‘If she can’t, that’s going to make for an awkward Christmas.’
Arden called back with an address to a safe house in Broadmeadows. It was a shitty part of town, where the residents knew how to mind their own business and keep their mouths shut.
Bishop pulled the car into the driveway and climbed out. Patterson told him it had been seized from a twenty-two-year-old meth dealer who three weeks earlier had been sentenced to a decade of maximum security.
What was left of the front yard was ground to dirt and filled with pot holes from cars repeatedly bouncing up the gutter to park on it. The windows were covered with bars, the walls on the inside with amateur graffiti. The VPD had furnished the place with a couch, a table, some chairs and mattresses in the two rooms: all of it was second-hand.
Despite opening all the windows, the house still smelt like three-week-old crystal meth. Patterson made tea while they waited; the milk was off so they drank it black while sitting at the table that looked onto the street.
‘Most cops I know would turn a blind eye to something like this,’ Patterson said. ‘Most would think it was too dangerous.’
‘I just don’t want anyone else to get hurt.’
Headlights in the street. A vehicle pulled over to the kerb and Arden climbed out. She wore Ugg boots, tracksuit pants and Bishop could see her pyjamas poking out of her sleeves. She carried everything Patterson had requested in a shopping bag from Kmart and as soon as she was through the door, Patterson locked it behind her.
Arden laid the contents of the bag on the table. There was a video camera, tripod, a laptop computer and various batteries and power cables. Patterson gave her a sideways glance as he set up the video camera and booted the laptop. She hadn’t said anything since she stepped through the door and was now leaning against the wall with her attention elsewhere.
‘Is everything alright?’ he asked.
‘Levi’s been sick the last couple of nights. I haven’t been getting much sleep.’
Patterson gave Bishop the explanation: ‘Five-year-old.’ Then back to Arden. ‘At that age they have nightmares all the time.’
‘Yeah,’ Arden said as she checked her phone absently.
Once the video camera was set up and aimed at Bishop, Patterson took a chair across from him. ‘You’re probably familiar with this process, but to reiterate, we’re going to record this conversation on video and immediately back it up by uploading it to our secure server. After that, Arden will stay here with you while I seek warrants based on the evidence we capture tonight and your recording of Con Taylor. Are we understood?’
‘I understand,’ Bishop said.
‘Let’s get started.’ Patterson hit record on the video camera and cleared his throat. He went through the p
reamble of time, date, interview subject and the full names and ranks of those present. ‘Detective Bishop, would you please tell us about what you know in regards to the Armaguard robbery in St Kilda Road early yesterday morning?’
Bishop told him everything.
The hints and whispers he had heard for months about a network of crooked cops led by a high-ranking member of the department that goes by the name Justice. He told him about the lead he got from the two-bit piece of shit Roach. About how he was too late to stop the robbery in time and how he found the SD footage at the crime scene. Bishop told him about how he traced it to Con Taylor and finally how Rayburn tried to take him out over the whole thing. He spoke quietly, was very specific over the details and times and when he was finished he was covered in sweat and exhausted.
Patterson ended the interview and stopped the recording. He took his glasses off, rubbed his eyes and stretched out his leg. They all heard it crack, then he settled his attention back across the table at Bishop. It took a moment for him to phrase the words he wanted to say, but Bishop knew in a roundabout manner what they were going to be before Patterson spoke a word.
‘Don’t get me wrong,’ Patterson said quietly. ‘What you’re doing, I wish every member of the department would do it. These bastards need to be stopped but I’ve just sat through you telling me how you’ve spent the past couple of days, and I know your were doing it to stop the robbery and apprehend Taylor but, mate, Jesus.’ He glanced at his notes. ‘There’s breaking and entering, withholding evidence, intimidation … The bosses are going to come down on everyone, including you. You’re looking at a suspension at least.’