He read the sign above the awning: Brown Sugar Café. Its whitewashed brick was starkly clean, and two peaked attic windows were adorned with planter boxes that brimmed with red-hearted orange dahlias. The flowers were like a rim of fire against the white brick. There was also a modest hardware store, a community hall and butcher shop, with boarded-up windows and long grass on the footpath.
‘Typical small town,’ said Taylor. ‘I guess you’re not considered a local until you’ve lived here for twenty years or more, huh?’
‘It’s a little more complex than that,’ she said. ‘There’s only a handful of true locals; people who have been here forever. The town exists purely to service the mill nowadays. Most of the population are transients.’
The tarmac road transformed to dirt again, corrugated from the regular truck traffic. Taylor squirmed as the impact vibrated up through the seat.
‘From what I’ve read,’ he said, ‘the place has had a mixed history. The riverboat trade of the eighteen hundreds, and then the logging that took its place … Devlins Reach has spent its whole existence clutching survival. I guess it says a lot about the resilience of those true locals you mentioned.’
‘History lives through people,’ Jaimie said pensively, ‘not through bricks and mortar.’ The statement had a brutal honesty. Taylor turned to her and noticed how she watched the town disappear in the rear-view mirror. ‘One day, when the forestry lease finishes, I’m sure the woods and river will just swallow the Reach whole.’
Taylor stared ahead, the sun through the windscreen wrapping him in a weary haze. As the road straightened, he recognised the clearing from the report he’d been sent, the image snapping him awake. The finger of land reached out into the river basin, its raised embankment flanked by a curtain of silver poplar trees against the blue sky. There was no mistaking the site, with the excavation mounds, the cop cars and police tape that designated each entrance.
A few bystanders lingered outside the temporary fencing along the roadside, while a red-and-white Channel Seven helicopter hovered above. It lingered a moment, then banked towards the southeast and disappeared beyond the tree line. A young female police officer wearing a bulky utility vest over her uniform seemed to recognise Jaimie and waved her past the barricades to where a Volvo station wagon was parked.
Taylor followed Jaimie from the Land Rover to where a short man leaned against the Volvo with a mobile pressed to his ear. His brow was furrowed, and he nervously pulled at his ginger beard as he muttered into the phone. Appearing frustrated, he wrapped up the call.
‘This is Professor Clayborn,’ said Jaimie. ‘He’s from the University of Sydney, custodians of the dig site.’
The professor slipped his phone into his pants pocket. ‘Hello,’ he said, offering Taylor a hand to shake. He forced a smile.
‘Taylor Bridges.’ He shook hands.
‘Taylor is here to help the police with their investigation,’ said Jaimie.
‘Oh?’ Clayborn appeared confused, focused on the Parks Victoria emblem on Taylor’s sleeve.
Taylor was about to explain his role when Jaimie broke in. ‘Ranger Bridges is a specialist in remote crime scenes.’
His eyes met hers. ‘I am?’ He had never heard the term before. Remote Crime Scene Specialist. He liked it.
‘Yes, you are,’ she said playfully.
‘I’ll do what I can,’ he offered.
‘Well, the university just wants its dig site back.’ The professor gestured to the opening. ‘Come on down. Detective Sergeant Everett is below.’
A generator hummed in the clearing. They had to step over a pulsating hose that ran from the pit to a pump outside. The professor began to descend, but Jaimie clutched Taylor’s arm to stop him.
‘I’ve seen what’s down there.’ She shook her head, her expression apologetic. ‘I can’t go back in.’
Professor Clayborn paused in the entrance. ‘Mr Bridges, are you coming?’
‘Yes,’ he said, then turned back to Jaimie. ‘I’ve got this.’
She relaxed her grip and stepped away.
The interior was better lit than Taylor’s file photo. The arc-light lenses steamed in the damp air. ‘Watch your step,’ said Clayborn. ‘Most of the water has been pumped out, but it’s still quite slippery.’ He pointed to a line of raised plastic tiles that ran in several directions. ‘I’ve been told we need to walk on these so as not to contaminate the crime scene.’
Taylor trod carefully on each piece. The walls and ceiling dripped constantly with water from the river, which he could imagine pressing at the earth beyond the ribbed confines of the site. The deeper they descended, the more muted the sound of the generator became. Taylor paused a moment when he heard something else. Music.
He followed Clayborn into the second chamber, where the music grew progressively louder. It was rap – primal, a throbbing baseline mostly; so out of place.
But more disturbing was the smell, which was immediate, confronting and unmistakable. A man in blue coveralls sat cross-legged on the damp floor with his back to them. There was no doubting what he was staring at – the three bodies against the wall. Their faces, like withered leather masks, appeared to be pleading, frozen at the time of their deaths, sunken eye sockets gazing back at him.
Clayborn placed his handkerchief to his face, lifting it briefly to speak. ‘I don’t know how you can volunteer for something like this.’
Taylor didn’t reply. Most people believe that the discovery of a body is the beginning of a murder case. But Taylor knew better. This was the middle of the story; the second act. He stared at the three contorted, leathery faces. It was the victims’ lives that brought each party – the cop, the academic and the ranger – here today. At some point, these men chose a path that led them to their deaths and this place. Only they could say what happened; only they could lead this investigation to its final act.
The music suddenly stopped. The man in blue coveralls stood and turned, careful to stay on the floor tiles, his phone in hand. Taylor’s first thought was how young he looked.
‘Oh, hi,’ he said. He slipped the elasticised hood from his head and scratched vigorously at his russet hair. His eyes, a faded denim blue, were compelling; his complexion boyish. The short haircut gave him away as a cop. ‘These things make me sweat,’ he said, pulling at the neck of the coveralls. His gaze fell on Taylor’s shoulder patch. ‘Oh, Bridges … The ranger from Victoria.’ He beamed, his smile genuine. ‘Thanks for coming so quickly. I’m Detective Sergeant Everett … Ryan Everett.’
Looking closer, seeing the beginning of crow’s-feet in the corners of Everett’s eyes and the tan on his skin, Taylor thought that maybe the detective was older than he looked. He extended his hand. ‘Thanks for the invitation,’ he said. ‘And call me Taylor.’
Everett shook his hand, his sleeve riding up to reveal two wristwatches. Odd, thought Taylor. The detective then scanned the room, again scratching his scalp. ‘I sure could use the manpower.’
Taylor followed his gaze. He’d expected the place to be crawling with detectives and a forensic team by now. ‘Is this it?’
‘For now. I’m just the vanguard for Local Area Command, here to prep the crime scene for the SCC circus tomorrow.’
‘SCC?’ Taylor asked.
‘State Crime Command. They’ll be handling this one. Come tomorrow, you won’t be able to move down here.’
‘There could be a problem,’ Taylor said.
‘Problem?’ Everett sobered in a heartbeat, and Taylor had an inkling of his inexperience.
‘There is a considerable storm event on the way.’ He felt apologetic, even though he had no say over the weather. ‘I checked again this morning. I’m afraid the predictions are right on track.’
‘Event?’ Everett repeated. ‘I checked the forecast this morning. The area is expecting several days of high winds, and possible rain.’ He shrugged. ‘I noticed a low-pressure system hanging around in the northwest, but none of that should affect the i
nvestigation.’
‘The weather isn’t static,’ Taylor said. ‘The main rain event has occurred upriver. There’s a storm surge – a wall of water – heading downriver that will threaten this dig site, possibly even stop the ferry running.’
Everett looked staggered. ‘When?’
‘Hours away … tonight some time, at the current modelling.’
‘Jesus Christ,’ said Everett. ‘The SCC team are wrapping up a crime scene out west. It’s unlikely they can make it here before then.’
It was evident the young detective didn’t like the idea of going this case alone, even for a short time. Taylor knew that feeling; knew what it was like to be in over your head and isolated.
‘I’m sure you’ll manage,’ said Taylor. It was the best he could offer.
Everett paused, staring down at the bodies. He pursed his lips momentarily, his gaze leaping from Clayborn to Taylor. ‘Okay, I have no control over the weather,’ he said to Taylor. ‘But is it something you can monitor for me?’
‘Of course.’ Taylor examined the subterranean pocket, each saturated board and beam suddenly seeming very fragile, then turned to Clayborn. ‘As I said, Professor, the amount of water on its way is considerable. The probability of flooding your dig site is high, I’m afraid.’
Clayborn’s shoulders slumped as he bit at his thumbnail in contemplation. ‘There is nothing I can do about that.’ He appeared sheepish, then flustered. ‘The university won’t allow me to remain during the flood.’ He shrugged. ‘It’s a safety thing. I’ve been instructed to secure the site as best I can and take the last ferry out.’ He smiled half-heartedly at Everett. ‘But I must stress, Detective, this is history you are dealing with. So I hope you remain sensitive to that fact while managing your case.’
Everett scanned the scene before him. ‘I understand, Professor, but I’m afraid the crime scene takes precedence over the archaeological site now. That said, it’s in my best interests to disturb it as little as possible.’ He looked Taylor in the eyes with the kind of stare that demanded attention. ‘If I need to move our evidence out of here, I’ll require at least two hours’ notice.’ He pointed skyward. ‘Keep an eye on that event, for me, okay?’
Taylor nodded, turning his attention to Clayborn. The man’s disquiet was evident in his pallid face and restless feet. ‘If you’d be more comfortable topside, feel free to leave, Professor.’
‘Thank you.’ He didn’t hesitate to clamber out towards the fresh air.
‘To work,’ said Everett. He partially unzipped his coveralls and took a pen from his shirt pocket, then crouched in front of the bodies. ‘These corpses have been very well preserved down here but, based on the varying degrees of deterioration between them, my best guess is that the victims were killed several months apart.’ He frowned, looked around at their tomb. ‘I couldn’t tell you when they were placed down here, though.’
‘Any ID?’ Taylor asked.
‘I can’t locate anything without disturbing the scene, and the forensic team would string me up if I did that.’ He used the pen as a pointer. ‘Facial hair and clothing confirm male. There are a number of puncture wounds; perhaps from a knife. One had his eyes cut or gouged out. Another, his ears sliced off; that’s them cupped in his hands.’
Those curled ears look like dried apricots, Taylor thought.
‘The third guy fared a little better; there doesn’t appear to be anything missing. I believe the lacerations were pre-mortem. The amount of dried blood around each entry wound suggests that the heart was still pumping when the flesh was pierced.’
Taylor turned up his nose. The smell seemed worse after the detailed briefing. He noticed each of the men was barefoot, and saw what looked like a laceration behind the middle corpse’s ankle. He frowned, drawing on a memory, as he stepped closer and kneeled at the foot.
Everett jumped to his side. ‘Whoa there, Taylor.’ He thrust his hand between Taylor and the body. ‘I can’t let you touch anything.’
Taylor stifled his frustration and paused to look at Everett. ‘Not my first rodeo,’ he said, keeping his expression measured as he pointed to the cut on the body. ‘This looks like something.’
Everett squatted beside him and leaned closer. ‘It’s a laceration, not a puncture.’
‘Is it on the others?’
‘I don’t want to move them yet.’ ‘Do you have a mirror?’
‘Next best thing,’ Everett said, seeming pleased with himself as he switched his phone to selfie mode and slipped it in behind each desiccated ankle. The image on the screen drifted in and out of focus before becoming sharp. ‘All the same,’ Everett said. ‘Sliced right across the Achilles tendon.’
Taylor stood with a soft groan. ‘That’s where I’ve seen it before.’
‘How’s that?’
‘I used to find deer carcasses in the park with the same mutilations. Poachers would wound the animals, cut their tendons and move on.’
‘What the hell for?’
‘It keeps the game alive, the meat fresh, while they continue the hunt. The poachers would return, dispatch the animal, and take what meat they wanted. Usually just a hind quarter and the backstraps.’ He took a step away to consider the picture before him. ‘It’s old-school hunting, but worth considering when you look at profiling.’
Everett paused, clearly a little taken aback. ‘Thanks. I will.’ He waved his pen around the scene and continued. ‘Look at the floor … walls … There are no blood-splatter stains, and no pooling marks where they lay. I know it’s damp down here, but there would be some evidence of splatter somewhere. I think we can safely assume this is a secondary crime scene. These men were killed elsewhere.’
‘Okay,’ said Taylor.
Everett cupped his hand under his chin in contemplation. ‘That’s where you come in.’ He slipped the pen back in his pocket. ‘Based on your experience in similar cases, you seem to have a sense for this kind of thing. You know … that link between a killer’s solitude and what they do, the motivation that draws them to such a place as this.’
‘I’m flattered,’ said Taylor, ‘but wouldn’t a local ranger like Jaimie be better suited for that?’
‘Perhaps, but it wasn’t my call. Someone at headquarters suggested you.’ He smiled. ‘Either way, I’m glad you’re on board, Taylor. You come highly recommended and, for what it’s worth, I think your experience with wilderness murders might give us the edge here.’
‘I assume they’ll search for botanical evidence,’ said Taylor. ‘Pollen, leaf matter, larvae. That will help locate the primary murder scene.’
‘I’ll make a note, but I’m sure that’s a part of their routine.’
Taylor gestured to the bodies. ‘Do you think one person did this?’
Everett stood. ‘It’s possible, but look at the size of those guys. It would take someone with plenty of muscle.’
‘Or several people.’
‘Yeah, that’s possible too.’
The placement looked staged. They certainly weren’t dumped down here in a rush, thought Taylor. ‘Do you think they were meant to be found, Everett?’
The detective scratched at his scalp again, his face in a mild grimace. ‘I wasn’t sure at first …’ He brushed past Taylor to the open cabin door behind him. ‘Then I found this.’ The door hung on wide, tarnished hinges, and protested with a squeal as Everett forced it closed to reveal a symbol brushed in white paint on the back.
It looked clean and recent, and covered most of the door. ‘It looks like a capital A,’ said Taylor.
‘Yeah, it does.’
‘So what’s the message?’
Everett shrugged and shook his head. ‘A calling card, perhaps. It’s rare for something like this to be left after a random killing. It’s either a clue that has a deep and meaningful association with the perpetrator, or it’s a smokescreen; something left to lead us off the trail. Either way, a great deal of thought has gone into it.’
‘Have you seen anything like it b
efore?’ asked Taylor.
Everett laughed. ‘No. This is all theory, mostly. To tell you the truth, I’m in over my head here, Taylor.’ He clutched his hands nervously. ‘And if that task force can’t make it here before the storm surges, then that depth is gonna get a whole lot deeper.’
Taylor patted Everett’s shoulder. ‘I think you’re doing okay.’
Everett groaned under his breath, but Taylor noticed a half-smile of pride surfacing.
‘I made detective sergeant two weeks ago,’ Everett said, ‘ just after my twenty-seventh birthday. This is my first major case, and all I’ve been asked to do is secure the area for the task force.’ He shook his head. ‘I don’t want to stuff that up.’
‘Someone once told me that there’s only one thing to do when you’ve bitten off more than you can chew.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Chew harder.’
Everett looked down at his hands and smiled again, then turned towards the bodies. ‘I guess the most pressing question right now is who are these three men? If this is some kind of revenge killing, then maybe their profiles have a common history.’
‘That’s a start,’ said Taylor. ‘The other question is, who has access to this place?’
The detective pointed to a second hatch at the far end of the cabin. ‘There’s a breach in the next cabin: a recent sinkhole where a couple of local kids led in that Herald photographer who broke the story. But these bodies were brought down here over a staggered period of time; maybe even years before the sinkhole presented itself.’ He considered the petrified wooden walls. ‘Prior to that, only the university and Parks and Wildlife had access. Jaimie told me there are keys at both gatehouses, but the locks are common Lockwoods. It wouldn’t be hard to have duplicate keys made.’
Taylor nodded contemplatively.
‘I’ve arranged a room for you above the café in town,’ Everett said. ‘Tomorrow, we’ll start with clear heads.’
The Reach Page 4