by Ian Edward
‘Yep,’ Reardon said. ‘Long range satellite signals linked to a high-end laptop, made economical for general business.’
‘It tracks via a micro sized pin that’s transparent and undetectable,’ Kate said. ‘It can block anti-GPS devices, and it transmits its signal hundreds of thousands of kilometres from anywhere world-wide. …’
‘What’s this about-?’
‘That transmitter can attach to any surface, fired from a purpose-built mini-gun. Get me one of those prototypes, on loan.’
‘Whew! When you ask you sure ask big.’
‘James, if ever I needed help, then this is it.’
‘And you want to make this available to the police and the park rangers up there, instruct them-’
‘Yes. If they can locate the bastards just once, as Greg did, and mark them with a micro transmitter they could follow their movements, hunt them down.’
‘You’ll need more than one.’
‘One will do for starters.’
‘And you’d leave this manhunt to the experts,’ Reardon said with a clear tone of misgiving.
‘Of course, James. I’m not stupid.’
‘No, but sometimes I think you may be the most stubborn and determined woman I’ve ever come across.’
‘If it brings about the capture of these hunters,’ Kate pressed, ‘it will be an incredible selling point for Rensen’s unit.’
‘I don’t believe I’m saying this but let me see what I can do.’
‘Thanks, James. I appreciate it.’ She hung up the phone and, closing her eyes, she mouthed a silent prayer that her request would be met. In her mind’s eye she saw herself as an eight year old – skinny, gap toothed, hair drawn back in a ponytail. As though looking through a time window into the past, she watched as she played hide and seek with her slightly older brother. They’d always been close, and she’d missed him since his transfer to the Territory.
For the first time since the ordeal began, she burst into tears.
CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN
The observer watched the approaching death with a morbid curiosity.
The face of the victim was no more than a few metres away from him and on two, brief, eerie moments their eyes locked on one another. In each instance the watcher felt his pulse quicken, the old, familiar sense of excitement exploding deep inside.
The sensation caused a giddiness and to offset it, he sucked in short, sharp mouthfuls of air. Then breathed in and out slowly. That was how he’d been taught him to deal with the sensation in this particular situation.
It felt strange to be so close to this victim but at the same time so…removed.
He need do little at this stage but sit and watch – and wait – and yet he exerted total control over the fate of the one he watched. It occurred to him that he was, in a manner of speaking, an assassin, albeit a passive one. He was part of a team; he was taking orders; he was performing a specific function; and, ultimately, there would be a death.
As the final moment approached, he felt his heart beating faster.
Now the very final minutes – the victim thrashed about wildly, limbs flailing, the face contorted by unimaginable fear. Eyes pleading.
The observer quivered with a spasm of his own. He checked his watch; the timing was extraordinary. And it meant this wasn’t yet the right time for the final moments. Not yet. Not today.
Instead, it was time to effect a reversal.
CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT
The Brisbane Chief of Police, Fred Stanton, had the lived-in face and knowing eyes of a career policeman who’d seen it all during his thirty-four years on the Force.
‘You wanted to talk to me about this Mermaid case?’ Stanton said as O’Malley seated himself in the spacious office.
‘Yes. And thanks for seeing me on such short notice, Fred.’
‘Well, I guess it’s true what they say, it’s not what you know…’
Both men laughed. They had known each other for more decades than they cared to admit.
Stanton gestured to the bulky file on the corner of his desk. ‘I’m afraid I haven’t got around to reviewing the material you sent.’
‘I can fill in the gaps pretty quickly.’ O’Malley pulled the file toward him, opened it up and passed across a picture of the reconstruction of the ‘Mermaid’s’ face. ‘Police agencies internationally have had this for several days. Our follow-up shows that no matches have been made anywhere.’
‘It’s rare, I admit, but sometimes we just don’t ever learn their identities.’
‘But there are other cases now, Fred, almost identical, in Northern Rocks and down on the mid New South Wales coast.’
‘I’m aware of that…’
‘There are still more.’
Stanton stroked his chin. ‘Go on.’
‘I placed requests through Interpol and with the FBI for case histories on any John or Jane Doe cases where ID was never made…’
‘Okay - and?’
‘What I didn’t expect to find were cases of exact similarity.’ O’Malley passed across the reports emailed by the FBI. ‘Two years ago the FBI took on these cases. Two unidentifiable drowning victims washed ashore on beaches in southern Florida, different ends of the coastline. And a year earlier, a naked John Doe scooped up by a fishing trawler off the Florida coastline.
‘Here and in the U.S, six in all, identities untraceable, all young, all naked, confined to two specific seaboards. There haven’t been any other reported cases anything like these anywhere else in the world as far back as records exist. This has gone beyond coincidence, Fred.’
‘Yes…’
‘And I believe there must be more.’
‘Your reason?’
‘However these people got into the ocean, the chances of their bodies turning up were small. You would expect the tides or rips to sweep them out, or the sharks to take them. If, by mere chance, six of these floaters turned up, then think about it – mere specks in the great, vast ocean – it stands to reason there could be more like these that will never be found.’
‘Where do you think this is headed, Ron?’
O’Malley shrugged. ‘That’s just it. I’ve no idea. There’s simply no obvious reason, no links, and absolutely no other cases that give us an indication. These kids seem to have never existed. And to have died in the same way, in two specific regions and in two specific time frames-’
‘Strongly suggests foul play,’ Stanton confirmed the thought.
‘Yes.’
‘And you’re advocating a special task force.’
O’Malley nodded. He gleaned from the expression on Stanton’s face that the Police Chief agreed. ‘You’ll need at least a couple of good homicide men,’ Stanton stated, ‘one with a strong grounding in forensics, one with major missing persons experience, a command room, a specially designated P.A. to man a direct line and compile computer data on the investigation…’
‘I’d also want at least one of the locally involved detectives, as a pair of legs, preferably close to the most recent case. The detective in Northern Rocks, who initially brought this to our attention, shows a great deal of potential. I’d like to see how he works out.’
‘Good idea. I’ll arrange for him to be seconded to the unit.’
‘We’ll need to visit the Florida FBI and bring in the Feds here…’
‘In other words you need a big budget.’ Stanton allowed a half grin to crack his otherwise granite-like countenance. ‘Fair enough, but let me be straight about one thing up front, Ron. I won’t allow ongoing use of taxpayers’ money on an investigation that hits a brick wall. So there’ll be a time restraint and I want you keeping a tight lid and low profile on the whole thing.’
‘No problem.’ After O’Malley left, Stanton called in his secretary to brief her on instigating the necessary paperwork for the task force, which he’d code named ORIGIN. Samantha Harris was an efficient young woman with maturity beyond her years. ‘I don’t believe I’ve ever seen anything like this one
,’ Stanton confided. ‘Six people who don’t appear to have ever existed. Who in the name of God were they?
Arriving back at the Northern Rocks police centre, Adam went straight to his office and called in John Harrison for an update. Adam knew the best way to take his mind off Kate and her grief was to plunge headlong into work. That suited him fine. He wanted to make up for lost time.
‘How did we go checking on water craft?’
‘Firstly,’ said Harrison, ‘the region specified is not on any fishing or shipping routes, nor does it attract much passer-by craft. At the time in question there were two craft on the fringes of the area, both leisure boaters and they both proved clean. However, there was a plane that passed over that area at the estimated time. A private commercial flyer, hired would you believe by the local arm of the Department of Meteorology…’
As he listened, Adam glanced over the phone messages left on his desk by the station receptionist. Two of them were from Dr. Terry Donaldson at the Brisbane Meteorology Department.
‘…and we might have something to work with. A photograph.’
‘Taken from the plane?’ Adam asked.
‘Yes. It seems those Meteorology boys are working on some kind of new visual training material. They’re shooting shoreline and ocean and then applying visuals, CGI-like, to their simulations.’
‘Good timing for us,’ Adam said.
‘On the day in question there’s a boat in their pictures, and it’s not one of the craft listed on the Ports Authority records.’
‘It’s within the designated co-ordinates?’
‘Spot on.’
‘I can hardly believe our luck.’
‘That’s what Brian Markham said, joked that good luck is the cornerstone of good police work.’ Harrison chuckled. ‘The Sarge did not appreciate it.’ Adam could imagine Arthur Kirby’s irritation.
‘That sounds just like Brian,’ Adam said. ‘Where are the pictures now?’
‘On their way by special messenger. Due here about five.’
Adam phoned Terry Donaldson to thank him for his assistance. The news about the aerial shots was the reason Donaldson had left messages.
Brian Markham walked in as Adam finished the call.
There were three large photographic prints delivered shortly after. ‘A twelve foot cabin cruiser, 180 horsepower by the look of it,’ Markham commented. While the long shot gave a clear impression of the boat’s shape and size, it was the two close-ups that were of the main interest. One of these showed a corner of the stern only, with two men in the shot. One had his face turned down and mostly obscured. The other man’s face was clear enough and unremarkable. He was young, clean- shaven, almost bland looking. The two men were at the entrance to the deck cabin and were pulling something from the cabin – a distorted shape, only partly visible. The picture here was grainy, unclear, but the shape could have been the upper part of a body.
The second close-up, picking up just a middle portion of the boat’s flanks, showed the lettering of the boat’s name. ‘Can’t make out all these letters…’ Harrison said, leaning in closer and squinting.
‘But I think we will if we blow it up,’ said Adam.
‘The imaging lab over in Farnsworth’s your best bet for that,’ Markham said.
‘We don’t know this boat is involved, but it’s our best lead so far. In fact, it’s the only bloody lead. Brian, do you want to get your imaging buddies on the line, set up an appointment for first thing.’
‘I’m on it.’
‘And John, get that face into the network, all agencies, let’s see if there’s a matching mug shot anywhere.’
Bruce Macoboy was a lanky, longish haired thirtysomething with a laconic grin and a beard that would have done a bikie proud. He owned and ran the Hi-Tech Graphic Imaging Centre in Farnsworth, south of Northern Rocks. As an enthusiast, he loved it when any of the police services called on him for photographic assistance.
When he received the call from Markham, Macoboy asked him to bring the photo straight round. He was prepared to put his other work aside and stay back that evening to work on it.
At 6.30 PM Adam and Brian pulled up chairs alongside Macoboy. He scanned the photo into the system. Adam and Brian watched as he slid the mouse across its pad. On screen a small white arrow moved simultaneously across the image until Macoboy brought it to rest on the area containing the letters. ‘Okay, let’s blow these babies up.’ Macoboy was enjoying himself. Another time that might have annoyed Adam but on this occasion he found himself responding favourably to the photo man’s enthusiasm.
A click of the mouse and a grid appeared on the screen over the designated area. Macoboy’s eyes never left the screen as he worked. ‘Images are made up of thousands of tiny pixels, and what this software does is to focus on every single pixel in the area specified. It enlarges each pixel by the chosen percentage.’ His fingers flew across the keyboard and a small box, indicating 25%, appeared momentarily on the upper right of the screen. The area in the grid magnified right before their eyes, the letters instantly more recognisable. ‘Of course, the more each pixel enlarges the less sharp its edges, there are more breaks, and the picture our eye sees becomes grainier.’
‘We knew we had a H and an A,’ Markham said, ‘and now it’s obvious there’s an I on the second word and an M in the third.’ He looked to the others. ‘Agree?’
‘Yes.’ Adam addressed Macoboy. ‘Just a little larger ought to do it.’
‘Another 15,’ Macoboy suggested. This time the letters, though extremely blurry, were legible throughout.
‘Hoang Thi Mai.’ Adam was puzzled. ‘Sounds Vietnamese.’
It wasn’t remotely what he expected.
Meredith Seals walked into her Sydney apartment, kicked off her high heels and fell back onto the plush three-seater lounge. It always felt good to be back home after a business trip. But this time she felt uneasy. Restless. This had been a particularly interesting investment to study. And her fling with the charismatic William Westmeyer had been a sexual adventure unlike anything she’d experienced before. Despite her growing unhappiness she’d never had an affair until now.
It wasn’t that she wanted to see Westmeyer again. She didn’t. But her appetite for adventure had been whetted. She lay her head back against the headrest and listened to the voicemail messages from the past few days. ‘Meredith…’ it was the sombre voice of her husband, Morris, ‘…sorry, but a last minute development has come up. Been called away to an inter-company heads’ conference in Hobart of all places. Back Saturday. See you then.’
Meredith closed her eyes. Morris, a design engineer for a manufacturing consortium, was rarely home these days. It had been clear to her for some time he was pursuing interests that were personal as well as business. The message was no surprise.
Despite being no longer close to her husband, she’d wanted to ask his opinion of the conversation she’d overheard. She’d been thinking all afternoon about reporting it to the police, anonymously. She wondered whether Morris would’ve agreed.
It was late so she decided she’d make the call in the morning.
In the meantime she tried to put the incident out of her mind. But, with her eyes closed, she found herself back at the top of those stairs in her imagination, feeling sexy, and the sudden sense of unease that overtook her as she listened to those words: ‘…This blasted floater…that’s three now…’
And William’s voice, cold, confident: ‘There’s no trail to follow.’
Barbara Cail picked up the newspaper from the front lawn. She walked back in to the house, opening the paper as she went, eyes drawn to the item on page three. She bit her lip as she realised her sister had used a family photo of Costas, which now accompanied Melanie’s report. It detailed how the local deli owner was suffering shock after his discovery of the drowning victim. The article quoted Detective Bennett as saying ‘No comment’ when questioned over the similarity of the drowning to another case in Morrissey.
What Barbara didn’t know was how much Eddie Cochrane had already toned down the content.
Costas came in and placed his hand on her shoulder from behind. ‘She wrote what she could, which wasn’t much anyhow, and now that should be an end to it – for us, anyway.’
‘She had no right to use that picture, without permission…’
‘It’s one of the pictures she took of me last Christmas.’
‘That doesn’t matter! We should sue her…’
‘No. We forget about it, and we move on. Okay?’
Begrudgingly, Barbara sighed and said, ‘Okay.’ Their fingers entwined and Barbara experienced the warm sensation of his strength. ‘She’s so manipulative. Sometimes I can’t believe she’s my sister.’
‘She hasn’t made as much of this as you feared she might.’
‘Not yet, her editor’s probably keeping a reign on that. I mean it’s irresponsible to go stirring up paranoia, surely. But she will if she gets half the chance.’
Costas picked up a glossy brochure that had fallen out of the paper. It was a preview of the events planned for the town’s 50th birthday celebrations. ‘Let’s hope she doesn’t get the chance.’
From his office in the Australian capital city of Canberra, the Managing Director of Rensens, Christopher Ryan, listened with interest to the telephone spiel from James Reardon. Ryan had a great deal of time and respect for Reardon.
Portly and bespectacled, Ryan toyed with the bridge of his glasses as he repeated Reardon’s words back to him, ‘You want the Landscan III prototype for a field exercise. Something that will show its value in wilderness operations?’
‘You got it, Chris.’
‘And this search project, as you call it, is by A.B.C.S. in conjunction with the N.T. police?’