Dark City Blue: A Tom Bishop Rampage

by Luke Preston

  Bishop paused. He thought about everything Wilson had told him. He thought about the word of an ex-pimp, ex-con. He thought about the lack of evidence. For a moment, he even thought about his career. Then he thought about Chloe Richards and his mind was made up.

  He held out his badge. ‘I’m Detective Bishop. I need you to come with me and answer some questions, sir.’

  A smile grew in the corners of the judge’s mouth. ‘Is that so?’

  ‘Yes, sir, it is.’

  The judge leant back and turned his attention to the woman sitting across from him. At first, Bishop hadn’t recognised her out of her usual surroundings. But Commissioner Mackler looked at him with the same bemused expression as the judge.

  She said quietly, ‘I think you might want to turn around and walk out of here, detective.’

  ‘Judge Jenkins is wanted for questioning over the suspected deaths of as many as thirty under-age sex workers.’

  Mackler was mortified. Not at the charge, but that it was being made at all. ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes ma’am.’

  ‘Go home, detective.’

  ‘I can’t do that. If I’m wrong than nobody has anything to worry about.’

  ‘Nobody except you,’ Mackler said. ‘This couldn’t have waited until the morning?’

  ‘Why should it?’

  Jenkins hadn’t even broken a sweat. ‘You sure you want to start this? I’ve danced with a lot tougher than you.’

  ‘I’d prefer not to have to cuff you, Judge, but either way I need you to come with me.’

  Jenkins finished his port. ‘I hope you’ve lived a good life, sunshine, because now it’s over.’

  Just for that, Bishop walked him out of the restaurant in cuffs.

  *

  All eyes were on them.

  Word spread quickly, and cops from other departments had hurried over to watch. When they stopped at the charge desk, the judge stood tall, pushed his shoulders back and held his chin high. Bishop could hear the sound of the pen dragging across the paper as he signed in. They made it halfway to the interview rooms before the silence was broken by the slamming of a door and footsteps behind them. Bishop threw a look over his shoulder. It was Wilson.

  Bishop motioned to a uniform. ‘Put him in Interview One.’

  The uniform led Jenkins away. Wilson grabbed Bishop’s arm.

  ‘What the fuck are you doing?’ he hissed under his breath.

  ‘My job, Pat.’

  ‘You’ll have no job after this.’

  ‘He’s mine for twelve hours; after that, we’ll see.’

  Wilson glanced at the clock on the wall: 10:06 PM.

  ‘I can guarantee one thing,’ he said. ‘In twelve hours, one of you is going in a cell.’

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  10:14 PM

  The observation room was filled with uniforms and detectives, all on their toes and peering over each other’s shoulders for a glimpse at the monitor, although when Wilson walked in, the sea of blue parted to give him the best seat in the house. A cigarette was jammed into the corner of his mouth; after three or four cracks at trying to light it, he gave up and threw the lighter against the wall. A uniform whose body hadn’t yet grown into his ears offered him a light. Wilson pulled half the cigarette into his lungs and watched the monitor.

  10:24 PM

  Judge Jenkins waited quietly in the interview room. He hadn’t moved since he was seated, and stared blankly at the pale wall in front of him. The room itself was nothing special: four by eight with a tired fluorescent light, a couple of chairs and a table, the top of which was faded on one side from too many suspects leaning their elbows on it. Jenkins didn’t lean. He sat erect, his mind alert. Bishop kept him waiting for twenty minutes before he entered the room, but, when he did, Jenkins didn’t even raise a glance. Bishop sat, carefully laid his folders on the table and stared across the three feet of fake wood between them.

  He read Jenkins his rights, asked if he understood them. The judge nodded, smiled.

  ‘So, what is it you want to know, detective?’

  ‘Why did you kill Chloe Richards?’

  ‘You don’t warm up to it, do you?’

  ‘You want a lawyer?’

  ‘No, I’ve been doing this long enough.’

  ‘You have, you have.’ Bishop glanced at the outdated camera in the corner of the room. He wondered how many people were watching in the observation room. ‘I feel like a coffee; you want a coffee?’

  Jenkins shook his heavy head.

  ‘Suit yourself.’ Tipping back in his chair, Bishop banged on the door and called for a coffee. Then he let himself fall forward, the front legs of the chair slamming onto the concrete floor.

  Bishop leant in close and spoke as if he didn’t want anybody to hear. ‘The way I see it, you’re already in a cell. This and everything that’s going to follow, it’s all just protocol. You know how I know?’

  ‘Dazzle me.’

  ‘I’m talking about Chloe Richards and you haven’t even asked who she is.’

  After a couple of knocks, the door swung open. A uniform placed a cup of coffee on the table and left.

  Bishop raised the cup to his lips. ‘You sure you don’t want one?’

  He took a sip and enjoyed it.

  12:40 AM

  ‘Justice.’

  Jenkins didn’t budge. Not even a muscle.

  ‘That’s what they call you, isn’t it? Justice?’ Bishop let the word hang for a moment. ‘I know about you poaching girls.’

  Jenkins smiled. ‘Alright,’ he said as if now understanding the game they were playing.

  ‘I get it. Trust me, I get it. You keep them out of jail, give them a second chance and, time and time again, what do they do? Run straight back to the streets. They’re doing it anyway; why shouldn’t you make some coin off it? What I don’t understand is, why kill Chloe Richards?’ Bishop stared at the wall, at nothing in particular. ‘It just doesn’t make sense: why did she have to die?’ Then he focused his stare on Jenkins. ‘It plays on my mind, you know.’

  ‘I really couldn’t say. But I can tell you why you want to know.’

  ‘Please.’

  ‘You want to know why because you haven’t any evidence. Without motive, there’s no case at all.’

  ‘You were there the night of the bust. You killed Chloe Richards.’ Bishop pointed to the door. ‘And some scumbag cop smuggled you out. I know that much.’

  ‘You don’t know anything, son.’

  ‘It’s Detective.’

  ‘Not after this.’

  Bishop smiled, lit a cigarette, hoping his frustration didn’t show. He held out the pack to the judge.

  ‘No, thank you,’ Jenkins said. ‘I’m more than happy just to sit here and watch you fuck yourself.’

  3:34 AM

  ‘She was your client back when you were a lawyer.’

  ‘I don’t remember the poor girl, and I don’t know how anyone could entertain the idea that I’m involved in running a brothel.’

  ‘It’s not as entertaining as the idea of you in a jail cell, but we’ll get to that. How do you explain it? All the girls were represented by you.’

  ‘What of it? I’ve represented a lot of criminals, and a lot more have stood before me.’

  When Bishop leant forward his shirt stuck to him with a layer of sweat in between. ‘Stand before you?’ he said. ‘Justice. Justice. Justice. That’s how you like to see yourself, isn’t it? Justice of the Peace. The keeper of the peace. But there’s a world of difference between justice and the law, isn’t there?’

  ‘Not in my eyes.’

  ‘No. They’re two different things. Sometimes something lawful isn’t just. Laws change all the time but justice stays the same. The law doesn’t always work.’

  ‘It works well enough.’

  ‘But not good enough.’ Bishop said. ‘What happened to your daughter?’

  ‘You’ve got the file.’

  ‘I just want to hear y
our version of it.’

  ‘Same as the file.’

  Bishop opened the folder in front of him. ‘She ran away when she was fourteen. A year later she was found dead in a gutter: dumped, raped, stabbed. Ds couldn’t find shit. Said it was probably a john, and the photos, fuck.’ Bishop dumped photographs of a beaten and bloody mess onto the table.

  Jenkins looked away. ‘I’ve seen them.’

  ‘Stabbed here, here and here,’ Bishop said, thumping his chest in three different spots. ‘Same as Chloe Richards.’

  There was a knock at the door; a moment later, a uniform poked his head through.

  ‘What?’

  By the look on the uniform’s face, it was important. Bishop stepped out into the hall and waited for the door to close before either of them spoke.

  Bishop got in first. ‘What?’

  The uniform looked sheepish. ‘Your daughter called. She’s going into labour.’

  ‘Is she alright?’

  ‘I think so. I mean, I don’t know …’

  Bishop leant against the wall and rubbed his tired face. The sweat had soaked through his shirt and was turning cold. He was tired, spent and the uniform could see he was trying to adjust to life outside the box and away from Jenkins, Chloe Richards and other horrible things.

  ‘She sounded okay,’ the uniform offered helpfully. ‘She’s on her way to the hospital.’

  ‘How’s she getting there?’

  ‘Driving, I think she said.’

  ‘Herself?’

  ‘My sister, when she had her kid, she drove herself.’ From the look on his face, the uniform could tell that Bishop didn’t give a shit about his sister. ‘You want me to call a car?’

  Bishop looked at his watch, at the door to the interview room. Having already made his decision, he just couldn’t bring himself to look the uniform in the eye.

  ‘No,’ he said quietly. ‘It doesn’t matter.’

  7:59 AM

  The room was stale. Even the walls were sweating.

  Bishop was beat. He sat on the floor in a corner of the room and watched the judge; the only movement he had made in the past ten minutes was to sit up straighter. But now all the weight of his heavy head seemed to lie in his face, and his eyes had a look in them, bleak.

  Bishop dragged his body off the concrete and stretched. His back cracked in six places. ‘You tried to help them. I get that,’ he said. ‘You’d rep them in court. Get them into foster homes, counselling. But what always happened? The same old shit. Inside ten minutes, they’d be back out on the street selling off their little pussies for next to nothing.’ Bishop paced around the room, trying to get his blood flowing again. ‘It was pointless, wasn’t it? They all headed down the same path as your daughter. They were all going to end up just like Sam.’ He softened his tone. Leaned over Jenkins’ shoulder. ‘So you gave them somewhere safe to go. Somewhere they could work and stay and not get hurt. Everyone else had failed them: their families, the system, everybody. Everybody except you.’

  Jenkins’ head fell forward. He was almost there.

  ‘You did a noble thing,’ Bishop lied. ‘And Chloe, she was a good girl, wasn’t she? Why did she have to be punished?’

  ‘I didn’t … I don’t remember who you mean …’

  Bishop rearranged the photos spread over the table, selecting one in particular and placing it on top: Chloe’s last school photograph. It had an immense effect on the judge. It was as if the image itself was a memory, a doorway into a mess of emotions. All his pride and composure fell away, leaving only what appeared to be a frail old man.

  Bishop placed a hand gently on his shoulder. ‘How could you forget?’ he asked quietly. ‘She was stunning. All you have to do is look at this photo to see that.’

  ‘She …’ Jenkins struggled for his voice. ‘She came through the system like all the others. Arrested for solicitation. Fourteen years old. Sweet girl. Even under the bruises, I could tell she had something special.’

  Bishop nodded kindly.

  ‘Such soft, pretty eyes,’ he agreed. ‘And I bet there was a way she’d look at you, a look she never gave anyone else.’

  Jenkins glanced up at him, surprised. ‘How could you know that?’

  ‘Because you were the only one who’d ever cared enough to take an interest in her. You kept in touch. With no wife, no daughter anymore, your evenings were your own. How did it begin? Coffee? Drinks? Did she come back to your place? Sit on your desk while you wrote her a cheque? Just a little something to keep her going. Her soft little legs dangling over the edge. Her thighs slightly parted. She’d do that just for you. Sometimes you’d see her underwear and she’d let out a giggle.’

  Jenkins’ breathing had become shallow. Sweat ran down his cheeks. ‘I didn’t kill her,’ he said.

  ‘You must have been lonely after your wife died. Why did your daughter leave?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Why did she leave?’

  Jenkins was exhausted, confused. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Yes you do.’

  ‘I don’t.’

  ‘That’s bullshit.’

  ‘She ... just left.’

  ‘You’re a liar.’

  ‘I—’

  ‘She left because of you.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You fucked her?’

  ‘No …’

  ‘You fucked her. You killed her? Sam couldn’t take you anymore. She had enough of you. Sleeping in the gutter was better then sleeping with you. She left because of you. Then along comes Chloe. Poor lost Chloe. You tried making her into Sam but she wasn’t Sam and she tried to get away from you. You wouldn’t have that, not again. So you stabbed her in the chest, three times. You made sure she wasn’t going anywhere.’

  ‘I loved her,’ Jenkins sobbed. ‘I loved her.’ He tried catching his breath, but it was as if all the air had been sucked out of the room.

  ‘Did you kill her?’

  ‘I loved her.’

  ‘Did you kill her?’

  ‘I loved her.’

  ‘I …’

  The door swung open and it was all over. Commissioner Mackler barged through with Wilson in her wake.

  ‘This interview’s over,’ she hissed.

  Sunlight and fresh air flooded into the room, washing away any chance of a confession. Jenkins was beaten, guilty and safe.

  Mackler helped the judge to his feet. He had a difficult time peeling his gaze away from the image of Chloe Richards that stared up at him from the table.

  Bishop let out a sigh and dry-rubbed his face to wake himself. He had aged a lifetime in the past twelve hours.

  ‘He’s not Justice. He killed that poor girl, there’s no doubt about that, but he’s not the mastermind. It was too emotional for him.’ Bishop turned his tired eyes toward Wilson. ‘You going to let me have it now?’ he asked.

  Wilson shook his head. ‘It doesn’t matter.’

  ‘I gotta get to the hospital,’ Bishop said. He was halfway out the door when Wilson finally mustered up the strength to stop him.

  ‘Tom,’ he said. ‘Alice never made it to the hospital.’

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Aches plagued Bishop’s body. His nerves were on edge and he couldn’t remember the last time he had anything to eat, so he parked in the first spot he could find and walked to the Union Hotel. It was a shit hole. Its floor was nothing more than a concrete slab covered with beer stains and dried blood. Titty pictures of women bent over Harleys covered the walls and a handful of bikers in leather and tattoos seemed more interested in the football spewing from the television in the corner of the room than Bishop or the naked women on the walls.

  He took a seat at the bar, ordered a beer, drank it and ordered another. All they had to eat was potato chips, so he had two packs of salt and vinegar and was halfway through his third beer when the football broadcast broke to a newsreader with fake hair and a fake smile.

  The bikers abused the television. Bishop paid neither
one any particular attention until the words ‘armoured truck’ bled from the speakers. Then the beer in his gut began to churn.

  ‘… that left twelve people dead and fifteen million dollars stolen. Police have been working around the clock and are currently searching for this man …’

  A photograph flashed up on the screen. It was black and white and grainy.

  It was Tom Bishop.

  ‘Ex-VPD detective Tom Bishop is believed to be the mastermind behind the daytime assault and robbery that left the community stunned two days ago. In an unprecedented move, the police department is offering a twenty-five-thousand-dollar reward for any information leading to his arrest.’

  And in case some poor, money-hungry bastards missed it, they flashed his mug back up on screen a second time.

  Bishop felt a tap on his shoulder, but didn’t look around. A useless gesture: the four bikers had already surrounded him, their eyes filled with dollar signs.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Doesn’t matter who you are, everybody second-guesses their life decisions with the barrel of a .45 buried in the back of their skull. The piece-of-shit biker Bishop had by the scruff of the neck was having just those kinds of thoughts as they barged out of the bar and onto the footpath.

  Pedestrians averted their eyes, some crossed the street, others hurried past. None of them wanted any part of any of this.

  Bishop turned the biker around. Buried metal into his dirty hair and used him as a shield against his three buddies, who piled out of the bar armed with pool cues and drunken thoughts.

  ‘Walk away and he lives,’ Bishop said. ‘You want your friend to live, don’t you?’

  The bartender’s cue shook in his hand. He was going to make a move.

  Bishop cracked his hostage out cold with the butt of his gun, then turned it on the others.

  They each took a step forward, their faces twisted in frustration.