‘I hope you’ve got some eyewitnesses,’ said Simon, tucking into the last of his steak. ‘Cos we got very little. Danielle, if you aren’t eating that . . .’
Danielle passed her half-eaten crumbed chicken to him.
We discussed the transfer of Melissa’s body to the John Tonge Centre in Brisbane for an autopsy to determine the cause of death. A forensic pathologist would examine samples from Melissa’s body in addition to the exhibits we found today. In a perfect world, there would be DNA from the killer on her. In a more perfect world, we would be able to match that DNA to that of an offender already known to the police. But I didn’t expect any such luck.
So far, we had no witnesses to Melissa’s death, obviously murder, and only three persons to give statements as to her behaviour and state of mind in the days leading up to her death: Robby, Georgia and Dave. Mind you, we had numerous witnesses to testify about sorcery. We ran through the minimal evidence and agreed there was no need for Danielle, Richard and Simon to remain on the island.
‘I’ve told the Air Wing pilot we’ll be heading off later this afternoon,’ said Simon.
It was mid-afternoon when Shay drove the forensics team ‘one round’ of the island, before dropping them at the ferry to return to the Horn Island airport. Once she came back, I stood at the whiteboard, while Shay, Jenny and Jack sat around the table. It was our job to get written evidence in the form of statements and weave together a larger tapestry of what happened in the lead-up to Melissa’s death to enable us to identify her killer. Mick Buckrell’s chicken scrawl, which listed the chores for what might have been his farewell party (refill gas, booze, tables, girls do salads, snags and steak), disappeared beneath the whiteboard duster. I dug out the photo of Melissa I had printed and stuck it to the board. I paused at the sight of the shy, lopsided smile of the blue-eyed, blonde-haired Melissa and was overcome with sadness. Not even a small idyllic island was immune to violent crime.
I bowed. ‘Welcome. You have the dubious honour of working on Thursday Island’s first ever murder investigation.’ There was a round of applause. ‘As you know, most murder investigations are straightforward. The murderer hatches a plan to kill, sometimes carefully orchestrated and sometimes opportunistic. Either way, they are generally caught when faced with the sophistication of forensic testing.’
‘Except, of course, when there has been heavy rain,’ said Jenny.
‘Yeah, yeah,’ I said. ‘In layman’s terms, we’re stuffed. But, here’s the plan.’
Shay would sort the transfer of Melissa’s body to Brisbane on the first flight tomorrow, Monday, and finalise paperwork in relation to the crime scene. Jack would arrange the media releases and then write the Crime Stoppers article, appealing for witnesses. Jenny would locate Bobby Arua to determine if he gave or sold the carvings to Franz and she would also make a start on Robby’s and Dave’s statements.
Jack and Jenny left at four and Shay, being on call, stayed while Sissy and I headed to the morgue. Jenny’s directions were simple: ‘Walk towards that palm tree and turn right.’
I found myself on a road the edge of which rose, no word of a lie, three metres from the sea. After two hundred metres, there were were two signs. One read, Dis wei por gor mog. The other, Morgue Access. There were three islands at a glance, stretches of white beach, sparkling ocean and rich green landscape. A view worth dying for, I thought as I made my way up to the morgue, holding the papers for Robby to sign.
I recognised Robby’s dark blue four-wheel drive. I tied Sissy to a steel post and Robby appeared from around the corner, head hanging, hands dug into the pockets of his cargo pants.
‘I don’t want to do this,’ he said.
Thankfully, before I could answer, a hospital warden, his skin so dark it was almost black, shuffled along the path, his head moving to the rhythm of whatever was playing through his earphones. He waved to us, pulled out the earphones and dug in his pants pocket for the key.
‘Sorry, bala,’ he said in an accent I’d expect to hear from a sixth-generation Anglo Australian on a farm out west. He stuck out a hand to me. ‘Amos, the wardie.’
I introduced myself as he unlocked the door to the morgue’s waiting room. He moved slowly, like he had all the time in the world. Inside, the air was icy. Amos opened the door to the mortuary on the far side of the waiting room and disappeared inside. He came out wheeling a gurney on which rested a body covered in a pale green sheet.
He pulled back the sheet. ‘Come, bala, come look.’
Robby’s eyes trailed the length of Melissa. ‘It’s her. Can I leave now?’
‘I need to go through a few things with you.’ I gestured to a coffee table and handed him the deceased identification document to sign.
Amos covered Melissa with the sheet and wheeled her back into the mortuary. After a moment he locked the door.
‘Do you mind if we have a moment?’ I asked him.
‘Yeah, yeah, take your time,’ he said. ‘Just make sure you press the buzzer when you finish and I’ll come back. And don’t steal anything.’ He winked at me as he refitted his earphones and lumbered off, head bopping to the beat.
‘I didn’t know about the affair. So not only have I lost my wife, but I’ve found out she was unfaithful too. I couldn’t sleep last night, thinking about her and Dave and how she didn’t know what she was getting into.’
‘What do you mean?’ I pulled out my notebook. An hour and a half later, with an acute case of RSI in my right hand and a competent grasp of the Education Queensland departmental vernacular, I reckoned we had our man. Melissa’s matter had taken 24 hours longer to solve than I originally expected. I attributed that to TI Time. Fancy getting my knickers in a knot about solving Melissa’s murder.
Chapter 16
According to Robby, Billy Billa, a local teacher aide, contacted him before this school year commenced, claiming violence was authorised by the principal, David Garland, AKA Mr Dave, to control student behaviour. He also told Robby that Mr Dave made the teachers and aides, including Billy, help students in the annual NAPLAN testing. These positive results were reflected on the My School website and earned Dave Garland a high profile.
‘Dave’s salary doubled, by the way, at the primary school when he transferred from the high school two years ago under a new program called No Child Left Behind, to address poor educational outcomes. My cousin works in the business unit so it’s easy to get that information.’ Robby raised his eyebrows. ‘His salary has two components. The first part is standard, a band 8 principal’s salary determined by the student enrolment. The second part is Dave supplementing his salary from a sub-account established to hold money transferred from the budgets of other programs like the special education unit, curriculum, professional development, travel and so on. He skimmed off ten per cent of those budgets, which is substantial, and illegal. And he also took ten per cent from any additional funding he sourced, again illegal.
‘Within two years of Dave’s appointment, academic outcomes were on a par with non-Indigenous schools. And funds poured in, both federal and state.’
‘Those results are commendable,’ I said. ‘Is this why Dave was awarded an Order of Australia Medal?’
‘Of course.’ He gave me a dubious look. ‘You’ve got to understand that Islander children have English as a second or third language, and Broken English and the traditional languages are oral. You would know that literacy levels are low. For Dave to achieve those results in such a short time was, for me, suspicious. So when Billy Billa came to see me, terrified as he was, I approached some teachers. They were happy to confide in me and corroborate Billy’s allegations. But they refused to make a complaint. One common thread was that Dave had pressured them to record favourable results in literacy and numeracy even though there were no actual improvements.’
‘How can that happen? Surely there are guidelines for testing?’
‘
Exactly. You would have seen in the media about last year’s NAPLAN testing and how teachers across the country were being investigated for cheating.’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, it’s simple to engineer positive outcomes in standardised testing like NAPLAN. If a teacher helps students produce near perfect answers by coaching during the test or giving the questions the night before, it’s called cheating. The four teachers I spoke to said students were being coached. Three other teachers refused to talk to me other than saying they had come to TI to get permanent employment with Education Queensland and they weren’t going to jeopardise their careers by exposing Dave’s wrongdoing.’
‘It sounds like the whole process is flawed if it can be manipulated so easily.’
‘There were others involved. Interestingly, Dave’s DP—’
‘DP?’
‘Sorry, deputy principal. Dave’s DP was appointed at the same time as him. He’s a mate of Dave’s who worked on TI in the late nineties. As was the guidance officer, the GO. Incidentally, the DP and GO both receive higher salaries than the standard. I suspect this goes higher, way up to management.
‘Billy suggested I talk with Amanda Small, the HOD, that’s the head of department, of the special education unit. She is quite outspoken and I am hoping she will make a formal complaint. She believes Dave was in cahoots with the GO to falsely verify kids as being intellectually impaired or as having some disability to attract additional funding. But the point is, the special education budget never received the additional funds. It was paid to some teacher aides as bonuses if they made sure students attended school and stayed out of trouble, usually by threatening them with a flogging.’
‘So, it wasn’t a case of No Child Left Behind. It was All Children Left Behind?’
‘Exactly.’
‘How did this involve Melissa?’
‘She was a teacher aide in the special ed unit. She told me last year she was suspicious about students being falsely verified with special needs. When I had enough evidence about Dave’s fraud, I told Melissa. That was Wednesday evening, before she left for the CWA meeting. I think she confronted Dave about it.’ He held out his hands in surrender. ‘Look, Melissa and I were having a hard time. But don’t you see? She confronts Dave about what I told her because it backs her suspicions and he kills her.’
‘So, you’re saying Dave stood to lose big time if he was exposed by Melissa?’
‘His career, his Order of Australia Medal, his position in the community, his huge salary. He’d sacrifice anyone in his way.’
‘Do you have written evidence from Billy?’
‘Oh, yes and two other aides. I’ll also email you a copy of my report to the Minister of Education. You can talk to the aides and the other teachers might speak up if you’re involved.’ He stood up. ‘I have to get back to Alby.’
At the station I found Jenny reading, her legs up on her desk. ‘Thank God you’re here. Dave wants to talk to you.’
‘Where’s Shay?’
‘She was so exhausted she begged me to cover for her so she could go home and sleep. I did see the handsome Isaac come and pick her up in that hotted-up Commodore. He’s bad news, that boy. He’ll break her heart.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘That fella goes from white girl to white girl. He uses them and tosses them.’
‘Do you know him?’
‘Isaac is Fred’s nephew.’ She paused. ‘I guess it’s in his blood. In their blood. They’re all the same, these island men.’
‘It’s not just island men. It’s all men. It’s in their genes,’ I said. ‘Speaking of men, I’ve just finished meeting with Robby. We’ve got fraud and possibly aggravated assault against children at the primary school . . . allegedly.’
‘Well, Dave is in more than one pickle. He broke the news to his wife and she’s wild. He’s at the school while she calms down. Give him a call.’
I told her about Robby’s allegations but that we couldn’t confront Dave till Robby made a formal complaint.
‘Shit, man. This is starting to sound like an episode of island-style CSI,’ said Jenny. She grabbed a pen and held it like a microphone. ‘We’ve got the hot chick cut up, the handsome lover, the jilted husband and fraud. We don’t have millions of corporate bucks embezzled for flashy cars, but we do have taxpayers’ money for disabled kids disappearing. Don’t miss it. Every Sunday night, 8.30pm.’
I was doubled over laughing before I had told my joke. ‘Talk about sex, lies and bureaucratic tape.’
‘That is not bad, Thea.’
I phoned Dave, who answered on the first ring. ‘What happened? You’ve found her, haven’t you?’
‘Yes. On Millman Hill. Her body will be sent to Brisbane tomorrow for an autopsy.’
‘Oh, my God. Are you sure? I mean, of course, you are. God. I’ll help you with your investigation in any way possible.’
‘I’ll be in touch.’ I replaced the handset.
‘I just can’t imagine Dave killing someone,’ said Jenny, shaking her head. ‘Even if he is into all that shit at the school and was about to be busted. I think underneath it all, he’s a genuinely good bloke.’
‘Just because he’s a good bloke who catches fish and gives them to less fortunate souls, doesn’t mean he can’t orchestrate a scam and kill someone who threatens to expose him.’
Jenny was keen for another walk, but I said I’d done enough exercise on Millman Hill this morning. I told her I was going to hang out at the far end of Back Beach to watch the sun set and take photos for my mother while Sissy played. What I didn’t tell her was that it was all part of my clever plan to catch another glimpse of the mysterious fisherman. I convinced myself I would be bold enough to strike up a conversation and impress him as an intelligent, interesting and irresistible woman.
As I walked home, I thought about how Mum had asked me to take some photos of the sunset from Back Beach for her. In the month before my departure, she told me about a friend, Lily, whom she’d worked with at the hospital’s kitchen. After they married and had children, they used to meet at Back Beach and fish while their children splashed in the water. I wish I’d heard about her stories growing up.
Chapter 17
When Sissy jumped up on me, I was still thinking about the handsome seafarer. I wanted to change into something attractive, not plain, and certainly not advertising Simpsons Sandblasting, established 1973, or Harmony Day 2008, the shirts on top of the two piles. I put on a grey singlet, which was the most attractive thing I could find. At least it went well with my new red sarong. With my camera, I headed off with Sissy to the sandy cove of Battery Point, which was marked by slanted wooden posts, ghostly grey and pitted with age. Mum had said there used to be a net strung between those old posts so nurses or army personnel could swim in safety, from crocodiles, she thought. Now kids paddled in the shallows and two women in floral island dresses fished with small handlines. There were dinghies anchored further out, one of which was half-submerged with only the bow above water.
I nestled my backside into the soft powdery sand and relaxed against a massive log. It didn’t take long for me to be overcome by a delicious lethargy as the build-up of tension drained away. The sun was falling behind the dark hills on Friday Island and, in minutes, the sky faded from blue to pale cream. Like a revolving kaleidoscope, the pale cream was absorbed into the frothy magenta clouds, a stunning contrast to the gold that glowed on the glassy surface of the sea. I took enough sunset shots to supply a travel magazine for a year. The derelict swimming posts provided a haunting silhouette from an era past. Some images included the profiles of swimming children and fisherwomen, though nearly all contained my manic dog, splashing in the water, digging up sand or running in circles. Sissy was exhausted by the end of the shoot and flopped down next to me. Once the lingering rays of the sun vanished, I sat beneath the first stars and listene
d to the lap-lap-lap of the rising tide. The quiet was broken only by the hum of a passing car or the occasional mosquito.
With no sign of the ponytailed man, I heaved myself up to head home. Sissy opened one eye as if to say, ‘I am not moving’, and returned to sleep. Her ear twitched as the putter of an outboard engine grew louder and cut out. The dull clink of gathered chain sounded before the splash of an anchor, the links grating against the aluminium hull. My heart went from relaxed to a hundred miles an hour when, in the glow of a streetlight, I spotted the ponytailed man in the dinghy. He jumped out and lifted the fat dog onto the sand.
I chickened out and started to slink away to the safety of my unit, but Sissy bolted towards his dog. They sniffed each other’s backsides while turning in a slow circle, their tails stiff. Without meaning to, I held my breath and was rocked by my thudding heart. On a positive note, the dogs were now wagging their tails so a violent attack was out, as was my breath, finally.
‘Ah, you been find one friend, bala,’ said the man, as he leaned down to pat Sissy. ‘Nice one, Buzarr.’
As soon as he spoke, the dogs took off, chasing each other and rolling in the sand. The man squinted in my direction. I moved towards him, trying to think of something witty and clever to say.
‘Sergeant,’ he said.
How did he know I was a sergeant, and why was I sucking in my stomach?
‘Hi,’ I said and held out my hand.
‘Ebithea,’ he said. I blushed when he took my hand.
‘How do you know my name? I mean my island name?’
‘Well, my mother, who lives in that house across the road . . .’ he pointed to the house I’d watched him walk into, ‘. . . she knows your mother from young days.’
‘Really? But how does your mother know that my mother is my mother . . . I mean . . . how does your mother know I am my mother’s daughter . . .?’
My Island Homicide Page 11