The Delta Chain

by Ian Edward

  ‘From the autopsy?’

  ‘No. A case much further north. Four months ago. A young woman washed ashore, naked, and still unidentified. I thought of it the moment I saw this body last night, but I didn’t think the details were going to start stacking up the same.’

  Now that Markham mentioned it, Adam remembered the case. The corpse was referred to in police circles as “the mermaid.” It explained Markham’s earlier unease. Adam was aware that, according to the Queensland Bureau of Crime Statistics, there were just three long-term unidentified bodies at the State morgue, all either homicides or suspected homicides. “The mermaid” was one of them.

  ‘The Chief Coroner’s Office in Brisbane is handling that one,’ Markham continued. ‘The one big difference with “the mermaid” is that she’d been in the water a great deal longer. Fourteen to sixteen days, so deterioration created difficulty in establishing her appearance. Special procedures for the fingerprinting didn’t help.’

  ‘Something more about this bothered you,’ Adam guessed.

  ‘I’m coming to that. I remembered something about the hands, so I accessed the report.’

  ‘Fists?’

  ‘Yes. But the deterioration meant there was no further detail available.’

  ‘So we don’t know about bruising or the state of the veins.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Or whether there’d been medical trauma to have caused abnormal posturing.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What’s the current status?’

  ‘Facial reconstruction. The coroner brought in a university anatomist who specialises in recreating heads from skeletal remains. They’ll transmit the image internationally. Intuition tells me there’s too many similarities here, Adam.’

  ‘Can’t disagree.’

  ‘And Kirby’s back from vacation today, isn’t he?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Senior Sergeant Arthur Kirby was the Northern Rocks station chief.

  ‘And he and the mayor are buddies. Don’t be surprised if you and Kirby get a call from our illustrious political leader before the day’s out. Bingham won’t be happy to have a drowning linked to a long term missing persons case, not with both his re-election and the town’s fiftieth birthday hot on his heels.’

  Markham turned back to the body on the slab. With rigor mortis having passed it wasn’t a problem for him to unfurl the fingers out from the clenched fist position. ‘You can give a hand with the fingerprinting.’

  ‘Give me too much to do and I’ll need my own desk and phone in here.’

  ‘Not in the budget, I’m afraid. You can don some scrubs and bring over one of the pads, while I prep the fingers.’ As Adam moved to the storage units along the far wall, Markham used a hypodermic syringe to inject glycerine into the balls of the fingers. That would smooth out the unnatural wrinkles caused by immersion in the ocean.

  Adam held the pad in place as Markham took each of the fingers and rolled them across the ink. Markham said: ‘Now, about the teeth. It’ll take a while to get an accurate cast of the dentition but in the meantime you can take the fingerprint forms and get things happening on that front.’

  ‘Good.’ Adam still hoped for an early ID and a ruling of accidental drowning. But his hopes for that were fading by the minute.

  Markham paused a moment, resting his gaze on Adam. ‘I didn’t realise before how bleary eyed you’re looking.’

  ‘Yeah, well…not here for a photo shoot.’

  ‘In these days of the Britney brigade, bleary eyes are a “must” for celeb shots, aren’t they?’

  ‘Except I’m not a celebrity.’

  ‘You are to those boys on the basketball teams,’ Markham offered. ‘We’re all a celebrity to someone.’

  ‘Who’s your someone?’

  ‘My wife…well, here’s hoping.’

  Adam stifled a grin. ‘Point taken.’

  ‘You didn’t get much sleep?’

  ‘Not a lot.’

  ‘If this girl’s death has brought back painful memories for me, Adam, and it has, then I can only imagine how much more difficult it must be for you.’

  ‘I’m okay, Brian.’ Seventeen years before, when Adam’s sister drowned, Brian Markham hadn’t been the police medical examiner for the region. He’d been the senior constable who’d organised and led the search for the missing seven-year-old Alana Bennett. When the search was called off it was Markham, a good friend of Adam’s late father George, who’d come to the house with the tragic news.

  Adam would never forget the evening when Markham sat with him on the back porch of the old house, telling him how it took a special kind of strength to deal with the loss of a loved one; how Adam would need to be brave and strong, like a policeman, and help his parents as much as possible. Markham had stayed in touch with Adam ever since – later, coaching him at the basketball stadium – and he’d become something of a role model to the young, impressionable boy.

  Markham was a country boy himself, raised on a farm with little chance for advanced education. He’d joined the police force at age eighteen. His main interest, however, had always been forensic pathology. As a young policeman he’d gone to university part-time to obtain a medical degree, later transferring to the regional coroner’s office.

  ‘Nevertheless,’ Markham replied, ‘if this girl isn’t identified quickly, if it is going to drag on like the “mermaid” case, then take some advice: you don’t have to personally handle every local investigation. Request that it be handled by Johnson over at Castlemaine.’

  ‘It was a long time ago, Brian. I admit it’s brought back memories. But I’m fine. If anything, I’m determined to find out who this girl was and how and why she drowned.

  Adam was no sooner back in his office when his phone rang.

  ‘It’s Barbara Cail, Detective. I’m so sorry to disturb you this early…’

  ‘It’s okay, Barbara. What’s up?’

  She told him about the state in which she’d found Costas the night before; how she hadn’t been able to raise her local doctor and how Costas had refused to go the hospital. ‘I think he’s suffering shock. He threw up again this morning. I thought that maybe you’d seen this sort of thing before. Could you suggest something?’

  ‘I need to interview Costas today about last night’s events,’ Adam said. ‘That will give me a chance to suggest some help. Will he be at the house this morning?’

  ‘Silly man says he’s going into his shop.’

  ‘Tell him I phoned and asked if he could wait for me at your place. And don’t worry, Barbara. He’ll be fine. I’ll try and persuade him to see a counsellor who can help him through this.’

  ‘That would be terrific, Detective…oh, hold on.’ She was away from the phone for just a moment. ‘It’s Joey, wants to say a quick hello.’ She sounded flustered.

  ‘That’s fine, Barbara. Put him on.’

  There was a rustling sound as the phone was exchanged at the other end. ‘Hi, Adam.’

  ‘Hi, Joey.’

  ‘Guess you’re really busy now, with that dead body and all.’

  Adam could detect the hint of awe in the boy’s inflection.

  ‘Pretty busy, Joey. Are you being as much help as you can to your Mum right now?’

  ‘Oh yeah. Sure am.’

  ‘Good man.’

  ‘Well, I just wanted to touch base. You be at practice Thursday night, Adam?’

  ‘Sure will. I’ll see you then.’

  ‘Okay. ‘Bye.’

  Adam smiled to himself as he hung up the phone. He remembered how, at a similar age, he’d worshipped Brian Markham for a while. He wondered whether he’d been as obvious as Joey was being with him. But his thoughts turned quickly to Barbara’s boyfriend, a warm, friendly, shaggy bear of a man who sometimes accompanied Barbara to watch Joey’s basketball game. He felt concern for Costas, and cursed himself for not anticipating that the man might suffer a reaction to the shock.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Walter ha
d heard them, somewhere close under the cloak of night. He had hidden, remaining deathly still and holding his breath for long periods at a time, listening to the sounds of the hunters as they passed nearby. He could tell from the rhythm of the movement that there were several men, and that something was being dragged.

  He waited until they were well clear and then, with the stealth of a wraith he returned to the campsite near the Adelaide River. No sign of Greg. No rifle left behind. No signs of a struggle. But there was a trail of broken twigs and footfalls in the grasses.

  The sun was on the crest of the horizon, bringing colour to the landscape. The jabbering noises of the birds carried on the warm breeze. Walter felt a pang of fear for his friend and began following the path taken by the hunters. He heard the squeals of a pack of wild pigs somewhere along the nearby riverbank and then, a little later on, the cry of his own name.

  Greg Kovacs was screaming out for him.

  There was a fork in the riverbank where it turned to follow the side stream. It was from this point that Walter first caught sight of Greg, much further along the bank by the fast running water.

  It was a sight branded forever into the dark places of his mind.

  The crocodile, an enormous seven footer, had clamped its jaws down around the ranger’s right leg. In order to break its prey free from the restraining ropes, the creature began to jack knife its body in a series of rolls. High pitched shrieks of terror filled the air, then suddenly stopped, as the reptile tore the torso of its victim from the restrained limbs.

  Walter raced forward, his rifle firing at the creature despite the obvious fact it was far too late.

  Blood thickened the water, bubbling furiously with the current. The creature, the remains of its prey held firmly between clenched jaws, glided back into the main sweep of the river. Then dived.

  It had happened so quickly. Walter lowered his rifle and stood on the bank, a forlorn figure, watching the swirling river as the red stain quickly dispersed. From somewhere deep inside the voice of survival prodded him out of his shock: the hunters would still be searching for him and their monstrous intention was clear.

  He ran into the cover of the surrounding swamplands. It would be too dangerous to return to the camp. Instead he would travel without rest back along the river to the point, clear of the swamps, where he and Greg had left the four-wheel drive. It was close to two days away on foot but he planned to reach it sooner, without stopping, without sleeping.

  At some stage during the hours that followed, as he moved silently through the brush, he realised that the torn limbs of his friend still hung from those ropes, and that by then the scavengers of the Outback would be feeding on them. He continued to run as night fell but he didn’t hear the sounds of the wilderness or the cacophony of the birds. His ears still rang with Greg Kovacs’ screams and Walter was sure that he would continue to hear them, constantly and endlessly, for the rest of his life.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Kate Kovacs loved the twenty-minute drive along the coast road to the Westmeyer Research Institute. She wouldn’t have minded if the drive were longer. Since her arrival in Northern Rocks she’d enjoyed travelling to and from work, all because of that marvellous road. There was nothing quite like the broad, blue strip of the Pacific on one side, the lush, green hills and forest on the other. And the pelicans, the glorious pelicans.

  Flashback: sitting with office manager Betty at A.B.C.S. HQ, Betty having accessed local data on Northern Rocks, telling Kate: ‘This is the kind of assignment you IT nomads dream of. Picturesque, old style township with lots of outdoor cafes, and a beachside promenade. A long history of fishing and farming. Two decades ago a hotel chain opened a resort there, tourism boomed, lots of money moved in. Noted for its pelicans, they love the rocky islets there, it’s a major nesting place.’

  Kate didn’t know a great deal about William Westmeyer, but he certainly knew how to choose his locations. He couldn’t have chosen a more peaceful spot when he’d arrived here, eighteen months earlier to establish his scientific research facility. The compound was nestled in a small valley, surrounded by a healthy grove of trees and backed onto an expanse of natural forest. It was walking distance from the ocean foreshore.

  Years ago it had been a food processing plant. That business went bust in the late ‘90’s and it had stood, deserted, until Westmeyer’s team bought it over ten years later. They’d moved from their previous locale in the United States and rebuilt in a modern chrome and glass design, adding the latest of technology. There was nothing cold and clinical, though, about this building. Open floor plan entry, skylights and the creative landscaping of the grounds made sure of that.

  At the time, Westmeyer had been widely quoted in the Queensland press. ‘If Hollywood can build studios here and come over to film international movie productions,’ he had said, ‘then I don’t see why other specialised industries, scientific research for one, shouldn’t do the same and make use of the wonderful resources here.’

  ‘Morning, Tony.’ Kate breezed past reception, calling out to Tony Collosimo, chief of Westmeyer’s small, in-house security team. Collosimo was standing just outside the door to his office, which was set back and to the corner of the entry lobby. He was a middle aged, powerful looking man with dark eyes and a gruff but polite manner.

  Kate took the lift to the first floor and moments later, a hot cup of cocoa in one hand, she was seated at her PC in the small office, or glorified work cubicle as she thought of it, on the west wing of the floor.

  She logged on to the PC and first up on the screen was her daily calendar/reminders.

  GOOD MORNING, KATE.

  YOUR REMINDERS FOR TODAY ARE-

  BUY AND SEND A CARD FOR GREG’S BIRTHDAY. ONLY SEVEN DAYS TO GO.

  Oh yes, yes. She mustn’t forget her brother’s thirtieth. She’d drive into town at lunchtime and buy the card. She wondered whether she’d ever remember any birthdays if it wasn’t for her PC. The calendar software, like most of the systems she worked with, had been designed by her employer, James Reardon, CEO of Australian Business Computer Solutions, (A.B.C.S.) or Abcess as it was cynically referred to by some.

  After Westmeyer set up his research centre in Australia he’d contracted A.B.C.S. to create a unique and totally secure internal computer network. Part of the package was that once the system was up and running, one of Reardon’s consultants would spend six months at the centre, training staff on the system’s special features, and ironing out any bugs.

  The second reminder, which she’d entered just the day before, was a prompt to phone Betty Joel at Abcess’ HQ in Fortitude Valley, a business sector in the city of Brisbane. Kate dialled the number and a moment later Betty’s warm motherly tones sounded over the line.

  ‘Hiya, Billy,’ Kate opened with the same running gag she’d used for years with Betty, ‘written any good songs lately?’

  ‘Just finished one. Very up-tempo. Called “I didn’t start the fire, Kate did.” Betty Joel prided herself on having as quick a wit as the legendary singer/songwriter who almost shared her name.

  ‘I’m still having trouble with the network here, Betty. Two more program crashes yesterday.’

  ‘But you ran the anti-viral program through the network last week. Said it was all hunky dory.’

  ‘So it appeared for three won-derful days. The legendary Mr. Westmeyer was over the moon, treated me like teacher’s pet. But now it’s happening again and things are getting more than tense.’

  ‘That anti-viral program is state-of-the-art,’ Betty said, mystified, ‘we bought it in from the U.S., adapted it…’

  Kate cut in. ‘I know its pedigree. And I can’t understand why it appeared to have done its job – almost a full week clear – but now the virus is attacking again. At least I didn’t understand it…but now…’

  ‘You know why the virus is still crashing the systems out there?’

  ‘I have a theory, and it’s just a theory,’ Kate said. ‘I don’t think this is jus
t some variation on a common computer virus that cyber jerks send out to cause mayhem. I think it was specially designed, so that it wouldn’t be nuked by our A-V program. Designed to have specific defences against our program because someone knew exactly what our A-V program was.’

  Betty was quick to respond. ; ‘But that can’t be…’

  ‘Unless someone from Abcess created this virus and inserted it into the network here.’ There, Kate thought, I’ve said it.

  ‘But surely that could only have been Rhonda.’

  ‘Rhonda,’ Kate agreed.

  Rhonda Lagan was the systems analyst first sent to the research centre by A.B.C.S. She was in her fifth month when she’d died unexpectedly in a car accident. A.B.C.S. didn’t have another consultant available to fill in for the last four weeks of the six-month stint, but soon after, the Institute began having system crashes. Westmeyer’s own IT guys managed to keeps things running, but they couldn’t locate the problem. This went on for two months. It was then that Kate, having completed another assignment, was sent in by James Reardon.

  It didn’t take her long to establish there was a random virus in the network, scrambling data and crashing individual files, like a mischievous gremlin that kept evading capture. No sooner had Kate fixed one of the damaged sections of the network than another part went down. It was like plastering one crack in a wall only for another to appear.

  The moment it was available, Abcess had sent in the newly adapted anti-viral program.

  After a pause, Betty said, ‘I think you’d better explain.’

  ‘Who else,’ said Kate, ‘could have designed a virus that knew how to recognise and work around our A-V program? Who else was in a position to set it up so perfectly within the network?’

  ‘Okay. But you and I both know, kid, it’s not enough.’