by Ray Clift
13
Detective Senior Sergeant Stephen James Ireland adjusted his new glasses. Though they had cost him a lot of money, he often absent-mindedly left them in odd places and was not able to find them when required. Eyes were an essential part of his career, he thought, as he glanced at the pile of manilla folders sitting on his right. One of his family suffered from macular degeneration and was rapidly going blind. She was an accomplished piano teacher and now faced the prospect of her beloved music vanishing. She was left on her own – her husband had moved away before the onset of the blindness. Stephen’s parents had cataracts, which also disturbed him. He had black spots and sparks in his vision at night when he drove home.
At age fifty-two his prospects of rising higher to commissioned rank with the extra paperwork involved were fading, despite the high marks he scored in all the exams which he needed to pass to improve his qualifications. And here he was shuffling through the cold case files hoping for a breakthrough – if only to satisfy the grieving. Some of the folders spoke to him because he was fond of getting inside of the head of the perpetrators as well as the poor victims. He cared for the victims, and the loved ones, and the information was frequently updated, in the hope of leads.
He took a gulp from the cup of coffee with the Hawthorn football club stickers plastered all over it and thought about his team, hoping they would do well in the finals coming up. The buff-coloured manilla folder he had opened seemed to invite him in, even though he had had no hand in the original investigation of the killing of Paul Thomson, a bikie gang member murdered in a shack in the south-east of Victoria. A large crop of drug plants was growing in the bush nearby.
He read the neatly prepared text of recent enquiries inside the file. Detective Graham Johns, a new member, bursting with an overabundance of ego and always ready to please, sat opposite, speaking only when asked. Everyone in the squad room knew Graham was going places.
The report was well constructed and easy to read either by a judicial officer or an assistant commissioner. Stephen read the summary, as he had much to deal with. Let the squad read the details, he thought
‘Graham, we all guessed it was gang-related or vengeance as you have reiterated.’ He studied the photos of the dead bikie. He reminded himself of the gory details flashed about by a press seeking high drama. ‘Jeez, shot with a crossbow - in the chest.’
‘Went straight through, skewered him to the door of the shack. The body was just swinging in the wind till it was found by hikers – who also found the crop.’
‘The bolt was scrubbed clean at the time…no DNA, you say? You believe the killer was a trained assassin?’
Graham nodded and replied, ‘Well, it’s not the usual method of gangs is it, sarge?’
‘You checked the victim’s time in gaol. Raping kids, I see.’
‘Bloody mongrel. Yes, sarge.’
‘Why do we bother, Graham, I have to ask. Justice has been done. Still it is unsolved—the law requires us to put in an effort.’
‘Payback from gaol, I reckon. I checked gaol staff but there were no reports made about attacks there.’
‘Well, that’s a blind.’
‘He had mates who were concerned where his black Labrador dog went, though he used to kick it a lot.’
‘Any suspects?’
‘No, just a clue. A former SAS man, thirty years a vet. A sniper – best in the country. Employed from time to time by friendly forces. He was released two months before Thomson. Funny, he has no record on file.’
‘What are you telling me? Where are you going with this?’
Alarm circled the air.
‘This is a man capable of planning and executing the killing. The clean record is a puzzle unless there’s some higher conspiracy beyond us.’
‘Leave that alone. No point in speculation. Right?’
‘Yes, sarge. He’s undercover, I believe, probably CIA.’
‘Why do you say that?’ Stephen was starting to get nervous.
‘Been in a lot of hot spots with the Brits in Belfast. Then I came into the no-go area and was politely told to mind my own business. Wife died after being bullied and getting cancer later. He did time for threatening the life of the bully. He pleaded guilty.’
Stephen leaned back in his chair. ‘Anything else?’
‘Got a lad in the job who applied for CIB – Shane Smith.’
‘Yes, he’s been accepted. Now I know… I met his dad – your suspect. A real-life war hero.’
Graham was anxious to get his last point in. He noted that Stephen was in a speculative mood. ‘I checked out his house and saw a black Labrador inside.’
‘How many black Labs are there?’
‘It was registered two weeks after the killing. What do you reckon, sarge?’
‘Any cellmates with this man?’
‘Yes, one. Died of lung cancer a while back. Bill Newman, a Vietnam vet.’
‘You might be stepping into a very big black hole, Graham. He would have powerful friends, I imagine. Look, bring him in for the sake of completeness.’
Smithy was interviewed about his connections and he explained that Ted had wandered in off the streets. The fruitless exercise came to an abrupt end after a phone call two hours after the interview had terminated, and the suspect was driven home.
Stephen answered the phone and the voice on the other end spoke in his usual coached manner; he was the main spokesman for federal government matters.
‘Jeff Jones, sergeant.’
‘Yes, superintendent.’
‘Well, what have you been up to, laddie?’
The condescending tone with the know-it-all voice that displeased most members of the force. Probably came down from his club where he spent most of the time hobnobbing, Stephen surmised.
‘What do you mean, sir?’ Stephen replied in an agitated voice.
‘Don’t take that tone with me, sergeant.’
Stephen calmed down.
‘I have just had the Minister of Defence breathing down my neck, enquiring on behalf of his US counterpart why you chose to interview one of our two countries’ best agents.’
‘Just routine, sir. Clearing up an old case.’
‘The bikie shot with a crossbow, right? Bloody good riddance. Unless you have any more than a wandering dog to support the allegations, put it to sleep, right.’
The sergeant did not reply.
‘No DNA, no tyre marks, no weapon. Am I making myself perfectly clear on this matter, laddie?’
‘Yes, sir’
The phone hung up and Stephen realised the case would go no further. There might be a lone vigilante about but he would make sure there would be no further enquiries. He took the file from the cabinet once again and, with a red stamp, marked broadly on the face of the first page and the folder CLOSED. But Stephen was a careful man and was taught from a young age in the police to cover his arse. He wrote in his own hand in brackets alongside the red letters ‘On order of Supt Jeff Jones’. He added day, date and time and shoved the file back in the cabinet.
He saw the doctor that night and was subjected to some tests. The flashing sparks had caused a minor stroke. Tablets were to be taken night and morning and further tests would be conducted. His career prospects had taken a dive.
14
Smithy
Smithy was meditating in his cupboard, which he still scrubbed with Jasol, his favourite disinfectant. His phone rang. He was expecting the call and let it ring four times before he picked it up.
A man with a Southern US drawl spoke. ‘Smithy, two tickets coming soon. Can you do a job for us in Boston?’
‘What’s the weather like in Boston at the moment, general? My bones are getting old.’
‘Good. Good, mate. Jack Sanderson will meet you at the airport.’
‘Good old Jack. Haven’t heard from him for a long time. Be good to catch up.’
‘He was in Iraq for a long time.’
‘Jack will fill me in on the job, I should i
magine.’
‘Yes, a terrorist is committing suicide off a high-rise.’
‘9/11 stuff?’
‘Yep. We’re picking you up at your home then taking you to a military plane. Bring that great rifle of yours. Let’s do some target stuff later. Stay with us at our beach house for a while. Sorry about Joan, mate. She was a great lady. They’re hard to find.’
‘Thanks, general.’
Smithy rang Adam and asked how Ted was.
‘Great dog, Dave. When do you go?’
‘In a few days.’
‘Take care. Oh, Loan has accepted my proposal. Are you still with me for best man…in Vietnam?’
‘Yes, sure am.’
Author’s Note
This story is fiction, although minute portions of it are taken from my life as a South Australian Police Officer for many years and my acquaintance with Army Intelligence and other service personnel.