Scorpio's Lot

by Ray Smithies

  Death, it would appear, had not come quickly enough; there were obvious signs of torture on their exposed torsos and feet. Torn flesh on the sides of each body and the shoulder regions had all the hallmarks of a harsh flogging. To help secure the corpses on each trellis, nails had been inserted through the ankles and feet.

  I was beginning to feel lightheaded at the sight of the deplorable display of gross cruelty inflicted on these unfortunate souls. The sight of all this suffering reminded me of Jesus Christ’s, condemned to crucifixion by Pilate and left to hang on the cross until pronounced dead. Whilst these present-day victims would not lay claim to any forthcoming resurrection, the similarities, nonetheless, were shocking. Although unable to recognise the three, the one turned upside down did look familiar.

  I noticed an unusual marking. I could just make out that branded on the chest of each man was an emblem of some description that warranted closer inspection. Stepping forward, I puzzled over what the picture could be. The symbol was identical on all three men. Could it be a crab or perhaps a serpent? Four steps closer and the obscure marking began to materialise. It was a scorpion, the constellation sign of Scorpio, or in the context of things with recent events in mind, the Scorpio syndicate’s calling card. My concentration was suddenly interrupted by the distinctive voice of Alan Forbes.

  ‘That’s far enough. You’re about to enter a restricted area. My god, news travels fast, Mr Harrison.’

  ‘Yes, it does. What do you make of this tragedy, detective?’

  ‘My guess would be underworld retaliation and the resultant punishment of an informant.’

  ‘But this is the work of a sick mind!’

  ‘I don’t disagree.’ Forbes asked, ‘And who’s your friend?’

  ‘Detective Alan Forbes, meet Hamish O’Connor.’

  ‘Pleased to make your acquaintance,’ Forbes said. ‘I had hoped to catch up with you shortly, Mr O’Connor.’

  ‘Regarding what?’ enquired Hamish.

  ‘The incident at your farm, of course. We’ll discuss the matter tomorrow morning at the station. Say around ten?’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Now I must ask you both to leave. This is a crime scene and ...’

  Forbes was interrupted by a person of Middle Eastern appearance. His sudden presence caught everybody off-guard. In a highly emotional state, the young man began to scream at the horrifying sight. It was Paul Marsh who came to his assistance with the intention of calming the lad down.

  ‘What’s going on?’ called Forbes, whose string of surprises for the day had already surpassed its quota.

  ‘His name is Hassan offered Marsh, continuing to comfort the grief-stricken lad.

  But Forbes cut his subordinate short. He could no longer tolerate the presence of us meddling bystanders.

  ‘Would you all leave now, as we’re about to tape off this immediate area,’ he yelled, and then muttered, ‘Bloody inquisitive public will only hinder proceedings.’

  ~ * ~

  Following the departure of Tom Harrison and some distant spectators, Forbes recommenced his preliminaries prior to the arrival of forensics. He again chose to study the three corpses, but this time with meticulous detail and in the company of his team, who would be expected to serve his every whim. Forbes stared in deep thought, appalled by this gross display of human suffering. He contemplated the psychological punishment leading up to the eventual execution. He could only conclude it had been a particularly painful and gruesome torture, and then to exhibit their triumphant victory ... It had to be the work of some deranged psychopath. The implicit warning to stop messing with Scorpio was blatantly clear, but to go to this extreme was incomprehensible to Forbes.

  Observing the torn flesh on all three bodies, Gallagher turned to his superior for an opinion on what could possibly have caused such a harsh punishment to the skin.

  ‘It’s an ancient device called the cat o’ nine tails,’ Forbes said. ‘Our likely suspect - Brad Morgan - has a history of using this weapon in Europe. Traditionally this form of torture has nine thongs as a result of the manner in which the rope is braided. The combination of both thin and thick rope makes it a formidable flogging device, as you can see. Such is the intensity of its delivery. The cat whip fell into disuse around the year 1880.’

  They turned their attention to a view of the bodies from behind. The word ‘RAT’ had been inscribed in blood on the back of the middle corpse. The introverted Ferret was indeed a mess and possibly had fallen victim to the most violent punishment of the three. It was quite understandable why Hassan had been so frightened. On the backs of the bodies on either side, the words ‘TRAFFIK FIX’ had again been written in blood.

  Progressively circling the bodies, Forbes took some extra time to re-examine the atrocious wounds from the front. On each chest a heated branding iron had been used to inflict the feared symbolic ‘SCORPIO’ trademark. The burnt indentation of a scorpion, measuring around two hundred millimetres square, was visible in ochre-coloured dye amidst the torn flesh and dried blood. The erect tail dripping of poison left the distinct impression the message carried a fatal result.

  Looking on the face of one of the unfortunate souls, the detective could see the heavy use of mascara or perhaps a charcoal stick applied around the eyes, giving both a hideous and sinister appearance. A game of noughts and crosses had been inscribed on the man’s forearm. The bizarre sight left Forbes totally dumbfounded.

  Examining a series of needle puncture marks, so prevalent on each torso and set of feet, Gallagher again questioned his superior’s opinion regarding the choice of device.

  ‘Initially I contemplated something similar to an ancient torture device called an iron maiden but have since ruled this out given the location of insertions on each body,’ Forbes said.

  ‘What’s an iron maiden?’ asked Gallagher.

  ‘It was an iron cabinet built some centuries ago to torture or perhaps even kill a man by piercing his body with sharp objects like spikes, knives or nails. It was a tomb-like enclosure with two doors which, when opened, provided enough space to accommodate an adult male. When the doors were shut these spikes skewered the victim and were cleverly positioned to miss the vital organs, allowing the person to remain alive by instead piercing the likes of eyes, genitals, legs, arms, et cetera. The victim bled profusely and was weakened gradually to the point of death brought on by blood loss, shock or even suffocation as a result of being imprisoned in the extremely confined space.’

  ‘Charming, but surely these devices are not still in use today.’

  ‘They were outlawed long ago. I suspect only a few remain in circulation today, which are probably either on display in some museum, or else in a private collection preserved by some eccentric accumulating his bizarre relics.’

  ‘Then what instrument do you believe was used?’

  ‘There was no instrument involved, for these are puncture marks created by a hammer and nail.’

  ‘Bloody hell, is there no end to their madness?’ said Marsh.

  ‘The sheer magnitude of this deplorable act worries me immensely. This sort of behaviour is a bit out of my league. I daresay some expert advice will be sought, primarily to advise on exactly what it is we’re dealing with and how this case should now be handled.’ Forbes looked across at Hassan, who still appeared to be in a traumatised state. The poor man will probably need counseling, thought the detective.

  ~ * ~

  That afternoon, back in the confines of his office, Forbes decided to phone Graeme Bailey. His intention was to not only discuss the hill incident, but more importantly to seek advice on where he could turn for support in this bizarre development. He had freely admitted to his Pedley colleagues that some expert guidance was now required. This was new territory for the detective, who despite his many years in the force had never witnessed such gross abuse on a fellow human being before. Certainly there were some competent candidates he was aware of, but he also knew a recommendation from his colleague ensured t
hat a leading expert would be appointed.

  Following a detailed briefing of the morning’s atrocity, Bailey’s initial reaction was one of shock. ‘A gangland reprisal of this magnitude was not something I expected to hear. News has been filtering through but it was a bit sketchy until now.’

  ‘This is the main reason for my call, Graeme. In all my years I’ve never encountered this level of violence before. Tortured corpses on public display are something totally foreign to me. Nobody anticipated this disturbing crisis and I’m not ashamed to admit we are all in a bit of a dilemma on how to address the matter,’ Forbes admitted.

  ‘That’s perfectly understandable. Your team’s in need of specialised advice and direction.’

  ‘But why the need to go to such extremes?’

  ‘To the sane person it defies logic, but from a professional point of view we need to analyse purpose or motive and then take appropriate action. We don’t pretend to know all the answers, which is why we seek the opinion of experts. I’m not surprised to hear this is the work of the infamous Brad Morgan, who has led our European counterparts on a merry chase over the years. His record for similar torture styles is enough to make your hair stand on end. The guy’s a serious psychopath and therefore a different approach may now be required. Understandably this is new ground and further reason why we’ll seek expert help.’

  ‘Who do you have in mind?’

  ‘Angus Martin is reputedly one of the force’s finest psychologists. I don’t know him personally but his reputation is second to none. Apparently his services have been requested to assist with similar cases overseas.’

  ‘The guy’s in high demand from the sound of things. How soon could he make his way to Pedley?’ Forbes asked.

  ‘I’ll see what can be done to arrange his visit for tomorrow. Understandably this case will take precedence, so I believe our chances are good. I’ll give you a call once there’s confirmation.’

  ‘Excellent, the sooner we’re briefed the better.’

  ‘How did your men handle the scene this morning?’ asked Bailey, expressing some compassion about their ordeal.

  ‘A bit squeamish, to say the least. A couple of the men didn’t handle it well, claiming they felt a bit lightheaded. I guess they can be excused given the magnitude of the atrocity.’

  ‘On a lighter note I have some good news. We conducted simultaneous raids on the five listed Traffik addresses and were able to nab four syndicate members. Whether by tip-off or good fortune, their fifth person eluded the police. Anyway, his apprehension is of less significance since his role in the operation is of minor importance.’

  ‘Bloody hell, I forgot about that list! I’ll put it down to all what’s happened over the past twenty-four hours,’ Forbes said.

  ‘Fortunately there was no confrontation at any one address, possibly helped by the sheer numbers we directed to each scene. They surrendered without struggle, much to my relief, since blood was the last thing I wanted on my conscience.’

  ‘Of the four arrested, was there anyone of importance?’

  ‘Yes. We captured their number two and three highest-ranking members.’

  ‘So where does this now place Traffik in the context of things? And do they still remain a threat?’

  ‘Their operation is all but finished. My one remaining concern is that their leader Indigo is still at large. When taking into consideration the police raids, together with Scorpio’s tip-off and their soon to be highly publicised atrocity, the Traffik leader will be seeking revenge in a big way. How, when and where is anyone’s guess and quite possibly his vengeance could even be attempted single-handedly. Unfortunately there’s still a great deal of unrest and I daresay his retaliation will surface in due course, unless we take steps to prevent it.’

  ‘Of course.’

  Bailey added as an afterthought, ‘You do realise head office will send further reinforcements given this continual violence? Don’t be surprised if you’re to coordinate quite a large constituency from their ranks. So expect a call from the hierarchy.’

  ~ * ~

  I

  was still affected by the atrocity from the previous day. Having just completed lunch with Emily, it was now approaching one pm and although deprived of sleep I was in a surprisingly restless mood. The events from yesterday had played on my mind throughout the night, as I lay in bed reliving the sight of those tortured men.

  It was imperative that I take my mind off things. I needed to find an alternative line of thought, preferably something mentally stimulating and not just the manually intensive work that park duties would bring. I then realised that opportunity was indeed begging. I would grab Hamish and meet with Arthur Simpson at the Pedley Advertiser to commence our research into the underground network. After all, these two had volunteered to participate in this archive pursuit.

  Fortunately Ashley Collins, the reporter responsible for publishing the drug syndicate articles, happened to be in his office as I phoned to make an appointment. Willing to assist us with our underground research, he suggested we call by in around one hour’s time. Always the eager beaver, Hamish didn’t hesitate to come along for the ride, thinking we would uncover this two-hundred-year-old secret in the space of minutes. Forever the optimist, I tried to explain to deaf ears that delving through archives would be similar to that of watching paint dry. Patience was a prerequisite and I knew Hamish failed miserably in this area.

  After parking the car in front of the publishers, I noticed Arthur Simpson standing alone by the entrance eagerly awaiting our arrival.

  ‘Gentlemen, what a great day to be dabbling through the documents,’ he called enthusiastically.

  ‘Yeah, I feel a tunnel coming on!’ Hamish gave the impression we were all on some sort of conquest.

  ‘For Christ’s sake, can you two cut it out! It’s only the bloody archives.’

  We were shown through to Ashley Collins’s office. He wore a silly welcoming grin as we entered the room. In the reporter’s world it wasn’t every day that three people stepped forth to probe into the fabled subterranean passageways. Collins was undoubtedly intrigued and perhaps could see the editor agreeing on the umpteenth article being rewritten about this mythical network. After all, the carnage from yesterday’s bloodshed had thrown more fuel into the fire.

  ‘Shocking business on the hill yesterday morning,’ Collins began.

  ‘Absolutely. The sooner these bastards are caught the better for all concerned,’ I said.

  ‘It’s created a field day for us guys in the media. There’s already an influx from the city tabloids meddling around town, so it’ll be open warfare as to who can deliver the best story.’

  ‘I guess with something this big it can no longer be monopolised by the Advertiser.’ Collins looked surprised at the bluntness of my remark.

  ‘We can’t keep up with the public’s demand at the moment. It’s a bit like the old saying - bad news sells,’ claimed the reporter.

  ‘Anyway, thanks for allowing us this opportunity,’ I said as a subtle hint to start proceedings.

  ‘Our archives are at your disposal, but I warn you, it’ll be a painstaking exercise to go through all that material.’

  ‘Do you keep the early editions on site?’ asked Arthur.

  ‘Yes, but with the absence of three consecutive years.’

  ‘Oh, why’s that?’ I questioned.

  ‘I believe fire was responsible. It destroyed the papers dated 1924 through to 1926,’ informed the reporter.

  ‘What sort of condition are the early records in?’ Arthur seemed especially interested in that period.

  ‘Let me explain,’ said Collins. ‘Our archive records are held in two formats, one being newspapers and the other microfiche. As you can appreciate, a number of the earlier editions are micro-photographed in order to preserve them. These prints have deteriorated over the years, and as a result are stored off-limits to the general public. Microfiche has been used progressively through the years, but it does exc
lude certain periods. The system is somewhat outdated by today’s standards, but it serves the purpose. I should add, though, that it hasn’t been so much the public damaging the newspapers but rather our own people flicking over pages for some past event or lost story.’

  ‘So no computer records?’

  ‘Good god, no. We’re only a regional publisher. You’d need to go to the city for a digital archive system. We’re not big enough to justify that sort of expense. The city tabloids are also accessible via a website, but these sources have limitations, unlike the comprehensive material kept in their archive vaults.’