by Ron Elliott
John gave a polite smile.
Iris said, ‘Or is this a standard interrogation technique? Humiliate. Take away dignity. Decentre core values.’
It didn’t get a laugh.
Clara leaned forward, opened up the file to the first inkblot image.
Iris recalled there were ten cards in total. She said, ‘I don’t want to turn them around. I know how it works. This looks like two seahorses. They’re not talking.’
John took out a notebook, jotted something. Iris could hear Clara scribbling in her file.
Iris said, ‘Wow, got you going right off the bat.’
Clara said, ‘The next one?’
Iris said, ‘Two Cossacks dancing. Together. Their knees are bent. They’re clapping hands in the middle.’
Iris flipped to the next image. Said, ‘Two women. See their boobs. They are lifting up a basket.’
She regarded the next. ‘A woolly mammoth. See his trunk. I think he’s smiling. He’s a bit of a scallywag. Not an adult woolly mammoth.’
‘A butterfly.’ Iris flicked over the cards at her own pace, ignoring the frantic scribbling around her. She mostly tried to tell them the truth of what she saw. ‘I have to give you some background about this one. I know it’s the sex card or one of the sex inkblots and I’m pretty sure I did not see female genitalia here until I was told, so now I can’t help seeing a woman’s pudenda. I’m afraid I can’t go back to my Rorschach virginity on this one. It’s the shading along here where the labia would be curled. Which would make the angel standing on top a kind of wonderful metaphor for either her clitoris, or is it an orgasm?’ Iris glanced to catch John smiling, as he wrote something in his notebook.
Iris turned to the next one. She recalled this as the mother card. She said, ‘Two girls dancing. So much fun. Their ponytails are bobbing.’ Iris started to turn the page, but stopped, went back. ‘I fibbed. What I first saw was a girl looking in the mirror. She’s not happy with what she sees.’
Iris went to the next page. ‘This card is colour. I’m not sure where to look. I see a trophy maybe. Hang on, I also see two panthers climbing up a boat. Those are the sails. The panthers are sailing the boat. I’ve seen the film Pi, which might be suggestive of influence.’
Iris dealt the next. ‘Two swans. It’s a ballet.’ Iris didn’t say what she’d really seen. She turned the page. What Iris had first seen were two witches fighting as they stood in flames. It surprised and frightened her.
‘And this ink spot?’ prompted Clara.
‘Caterpillars, chrysalis and those might be butterflies, already born. They won’t be gone long those poor little critters down at the zoo – rebirth, regeneration.’ Iris turned to John, ‘So Doc, what’s the prognosis?’
John smiled but checked to Clara. She must have signalled because he said, ‘What is in the ladies’ basket, do you suppose?’
‘Washing. They were bringing in the washing.’
‘Would you mind turning back to that one?’
Iris found it. ‘Will I have to keep going until I guess the right answers?’
‘Some people see blood in those red splotches.’
‘Oh, I didn’t. I didn’t really notice the red. Clothes, still on the line? Did you want blood?’
‘Card number seven. I realise you are familiar with the popular responses and categories. Why did you feel you needed to lie?’
‘I’m in a hostile environment. I felt the first response might weaken my position further. Oh, she has self-image issues! Oh, she has an unreconciled duality. Maybe we need to explore her relationship with her mother. My professional instinct suggested I not raise these as possibilities.’
‘Yet you corrected it. You didn’t stay with the lie.’
‘I am innocent, so I thought I shouldn’t hide anything. Let the chips fall where they may. Having parent problems is not yet a prosecutable offence … in police stations anyway.’
‘You saw lots of butterflies.’
‘Doesn’t everyone?’
‘Yes, but you saw butterflies where participants see other things and no butterflies where many people do.’
Iris didn’t answer immediately. It was not a matter of right or wrong answers, even if there were common clusters of what people saw. Context and other information were more important. The whole picture. The story constructed about it. The time taken to decipher or process or mediate. ‘I like butterflies. I saw lots get fried,’ she offered.
John thought about it. Clara kept scribbling, the scratching behind Iris like rats in the ceiling.
‘Card nine,’ John said, as though reading her mind. ‘What upset you about card nine?’
‘None of your business,’ said Iris with a disarming smile.
‘So you lied about the second last card?’
‘I didn’t lie. I saw lots of different pictures in the card. I chose which one to tell you.’
‘Do you often do that?’
‘Modify my response in relation to who I am talking to? Yes, like anyone over three years old.’
‘Have you ever been in trouble with the law?’
‘I used to work for them. I thought I was working with them now.’
‘I’m sorry, Mrs Foster. You’re quite right. And, for what it is worth, you are showing an appropriate amount of anger about this process, yet you’re still trying to cooperate to a degree, I think. I’m sure Clara’s notes will be far more comprehensive, however I would have expected a greater degree of … hyper-vigilance. Seeing what you’ve been through today … over the last year, this week.’ He looked at her with particular attention.
Iris said, ‘Hmm. Agreed. Not what you’d expect.’
‘Do you ever feel like you’re watching yourself do things?’
‘Yes, sometimes, I do feel slightly detached.’
‘Ever fall asleep and wake up elsewhere?’
‘No,’ said Iris. Where was he going now?
‘Ever have time seem to jump, like fast forward or bits are missing?’
‘No. Well, I wouldn’t know, would I?’
‘Sorry?’
‘Well, it would be missing, wouldn’t it?’
‘So no blackouts.’
‘Not as I am aware.’
John looked to Clara again.
Clara shuffled her chair forward. ‘What do you think of the government, Mrs Foster?’
‘They’re crap. I voted for the other mob. I vote. I don’t blow up.’
‘Do you ever get depressed?’
‘About the government. Yes.’
‘About life.’
‘Yes. I do.’
‘Occasionally does life feel like it’s all too much?’
‘No, never.’ Iris met Clara’s gaze.
Clara said, ‘Thanks, Mrs Foster. Thank you for your cooperation.’
John stood. ‘We have to report to people.’
‘Yes,’ said Iris.
‘Yes,’ said John.
Iris said to Clara, ‘I don’t suppose I can get … presentable clothes?’
Clara said, ‘We will ask.’
They didn’t bring her any clothes but an older constable bought her a collection of runners to pick from. Iris imagined him rifling through his colleagues’ sports lockers. She was escorted to a nearby toilet by a different policewoman when she asked. They finally brought her a bottle of water, lukewarm machine coffee, a sandwich in a wrapper. It appeared to be grated cheese and carrot with lettuce on white bread. Iris wasn’t hungry. She asked for more coffee and Panadol. She asked again for clothes. She also asked for Frank. They said they’d see.
Two detectives whom Iris did not recognise came in with Detective Pavlovic.
‘How are you getting on, Mrs Foster?’
‘As you can see, Detective Pavlovic, I’m dressed for a marathon. And, if you’d like your spleen removed, I can scrub up. Be a pleasure.’
He actually smiled. ‘This is Detective Scanlon and Detective Minchin. Federal police agency.’ They were in their forties. Scanl
on was thin, dark-haired, Minchin portly, bald. Their suits were wrinkled, their ties probably unfashionable when they were purchased.
‘Thanks for helping us, Mrs Foster. Can I call you Iris?’
Iris nodded. Scanlon was going to be her friend.
‘I’d like to pick your brain about the school.’
‘Pick away.’
‘Downstairs, under the stage … that’s a pretty elaborate setup, don’t you think?’
‘Um, yes. By all accounts. I’ve seen photographs.’
‘Where?’ asked Minchin gruffly.
‘At the Department of Fire and Emergency Services incident room.’
‘What were you doing in that room?’
‘I was looking for the arson investigator, Charles Koch. He’d asked for feedback on a theory he’s formulated concerning a possible suspect nicknamed Zorro, so named after the distinctive burn patterns he had found at a number of suspicious fires. He found similar zed-shaped accelerant spill patterns under the stage at Barnard’s. Koch also told me of a particular kind of soft-drink can at the school which also matched the modus operandi of a serial firelighter he had detected.’
Scanlon said, ‘Relax, Iris. We’re not in court.’
‘Oh,’ said Iris, looking at the microphone, then to the mirror. ‘This is where you ask, “What kind of soft drink, Mrs Foster?” and you Detective Pavlovic, you should possibly say, “Hearsay,” and then Detective Scanlon might offer, “Reported conversation to an expert witness, Your Honour.”’
‘You think this is a joke?’ said Minchin, reddening. The bad cop.
‘It’s humorous in the silly sense because of a kind of circularity and repetition. For that reason, I want to make it clear I have held many conversations with Detective Pavlovic, for instance, and Charles Koch and others about the crime scene and other crime scenes and I have seen evidence relating to the crime. So, there are things I have been told and things I have surmised … I was never under the stage, Detective Scanlon. I have formed an image of the important elements of what was down there. I have a pretty good schematic picture of the whole thing including how the truck worked. I also have a pretty strong image of a fireman being vaporised which I’d like to forget one day.’
‘You sound pretty callous to me,’ said Minchin.
‘For a woman?’
Scanlon waved his hand in front of his partner, either in a gesture of rescue or calming. He said, ‘Want to lay out what you’ve got?’
Minchin wasn’t so sure. Iris noticed Pavlovic stiffen before folding his arms to feign boredom.
Iris leaned towards the microphone, said, ‘I repeat, I’ve had a variety of sources in obtaining this information. Most of the conclusions are not mine, they have been shared with me.’ Iris took a sip from the cold coffee. Her bottle of water was empty. ‘You can tell me how I’m doing.’
The detectives did not.
‘He or they steal diethyl ether, a chemical I still know nothing about. They do this by telephone and order forms. Apparently you can. And courier companies. They have it delivered to a temporary storage space. No one sees anyone.’ Iris kept watching their faces, looking for the tells of confirmation. ‘Gym mats are also delivered. The diethyl ether is put in the gym mat covers and is delivered to the school gymnasium.
‘Oh, he’s already made it in a week in which the person most likely to question this odd delivery is away. Again, no one is sighted. It’s another delivery company. Some time on the weekend immediately prior to the bombing, he arrives – with a number of materials. Quite a bit I imagine. There’s the urn and pipes to attach to the gym mats, flammable liquid to spread on the floor, chains and glue. Witnesses?’
Iris scanned their eyes. Got nothing.
Scanlon said, ‘You’re telling the story, Iris.’
‘The truck! A week or so before this, he steals a landscaper’s truck one night from the school. So when it reappears, no one really sees it as odd. Was the gym open over the weekend, for sport or anything?’
They were uniformly closed, which gave away the answer.
‘It wasn’t open. Okay. He does it Saturday. Another workman or workers unloading stuff. Do you have CCTV footage? I would love to see it.’
They paused. They were tempted. Pavlovic stepped up, said, ‘Not now, Mrs Foster.’
‘He goes in and shifts the gym mats.’ Iris thought back to the stage in the school. ‘It comes apart at the front. I’m guessing he could make a bigger opening to get the gym mats down. To stuff them in under the gymnasium’s wooden floor. Even if we’re dealing with more than one person, it would have taken time.
‘He doesn’t mind. He’s methodical. He loves the precision of doing it. It’s part of his pleasure. His foreplay. This, then this. This urn will lead to this burn pattern. This line will erupt at this temperature. This glue will prevent this door. This chain will not be noticed. Everything he does over the weekend is giving him a charge of pleasure. He’s building the physical bomb, imagining how each part of it will deliver its grief. It’s a sculpture. He plans and prepares over a long time. He loves the anticipation. His pleasure is in working it out as well as carrying it out. He’s not impulsive. Maybe he’s anal like Detective Pavlovic.’
No smiles.
Iris gulped the last of the cold coffee. Yes, she silently agreed with herself, this is how Zorro works.
Iris said, ‘You know, it’s not two. No way. This fellow works alone. It’s his – all of it. It’s one person, definitely. He signs it. Charles is right. If Charles is also right about the other crimes, it is worth considering his other claim. This fire got out of hand. Zorro got the mix wrong or the timing. And not just because the young lovers stumbled on the fire.’
Iris checked their reactions for confirmation or affirmation but this was not the room.
‘The school,’ said Minchin. He had a boil on the side of his neck where his collar rubbed.
‘He waits. His plan is for ten past eight or whatever, when all the kids are in and the assembly is running. He’s set the timer on the urn to start sparking like a malfunction, he’s going to back the truck up to the front doors to block them. Like he did at the zoo, possibly. I find it strange he should try to disguise the urn malfunction though. He had the truck. I think he followed his usual way of doing things even if not essential. Sticks to the rite. Maybe he’s superstitious. He’s fastidious. I suppose if the truck was where it was supposed to be it would have been blown up with everything else and no one’s the wiser. His plan got changed. I think it got changed by the kids under the stage. I don’t think they just came across the fire. I think they knocked something or started it early. Maybe.’
‘The assembly started late.’ It was Pavlovic, searching for a reaction to his information, still probing at her.
Iris said, ‘Really? Ha. The unforseen.’
‘The headmistress missed her flight from a weekend conference. The deputy delayed while he got her talking points emailed and printed. The kids were milling outside when the fire started.’
‘He would have been livid. Fuming. He’s beside himself, nearby. He sees the students running out of the gym, or he hears the sirens from the approaching fire appliances. He’s off. Dumb luck, he’s thinking. How can you plan for … no, he’s livid. Not sanguine. He can’t abide this. It’s not over, is it?’ Iris whirled to Pavlovic. ‘You said you still have ether unaccounted for. Was it at the zoo?’
Pavlovic blanched. The two detectives spun to him, aghast. A banging noise came from the mirror. He shouldn’t have told her.
She said, ‘Do I have it? Was it at the zoo?’
‘You tell us,’ said Minchin leaning forward.
The door opened and Iris watched a senior policeman whisper to Pavlovic.
Iris called, ‘I have more!’
Scanlon said, ‘He’ll hear. Don’t worry. Is there diethyl at the zoo? We haven’t found it.’
Iris thought.
Minchin said, ‘Where would he put it?’
‘Can I see the CCTV footage please?’
‘We’ll ask.’
‘I didn’t know I was going to the zoo until I went. A whim I shared with no one. He’s followed me and improvised. He has no time to get the ether, unless he’s driving around with it. It’s big, isn’t it? All those gym mats and … it’s in big containers. It’s not a gel? I’m sorry I don’t know my explosives.’
‘It’s big,’ said Minchin, deadpan again.
Iris glared at the mirror. ‘I don’t think it is at the zoo. Ninety percent sure.’ She refocused to those in the room. They did not believe her. They did not believe her because they conceived another alternative.
‘What time did James the Martian escape from Fieldhaven?’
Closed. Not telling.
‘Would he have time to stash the ether at the zoo? How would he get it in unnoticed? How would I? I suppose in any number of ways, if you consider the school. Under hay. In a water tanker I suppose. Do they have them? Anyway, this only works if I am in collusion. If I was working with Zorro and the plan was to blow up parts of the zoo … and I went to the zoo to set it off and it went wrong.’
Bingo. Their lips were set but their eyes were bulging to not give anything away. Not a victim; Iris was a failed bomber.
‘Why?’ said Iris.
They didn’t answer. No one answers because you’re mad. If you’re mad, logic is not a problem to be respected. You did it because you decided to or your voices told you. That’s the only motive they needed, madness.
Iris said, ‘It’s not at the zoo.’
*
They left the room. A constable with red hair and pimples brought Iris her cup of coffee in a takeaway container, this one hot. There was a biscuit in sealed plastic, dark brown with a peanut on top. Iris ate it, sipped the coffee. He brought her Panadol, a cup of water, took away her rubbish.
She considered James again. She tried to cast him in the role of Zorro, imagining him performing each of the procedures necessary to create the school bomb. He certainly possessed the breaking and entering skills. He knew the science. It was plausible that in his Martian psychosis he believed he was building a new spaceship, the ether his fuel supply. Perhaps he thought he would meet his new spaceship out in the desert where he claimed his old one had crashed. These things were possible. And yet …