The unofficial interview was over. Caldwell was right, there was nothing they could do to him, or hold him for. He stood up and gave the policemen the white supremacists’ salute.
“Open it yourself, dickhead,” said Marr, picking up his tie and shoving it in his back pocket. “Just two pieces of advice before you skulk off to join your brave neo-Nazi nancy boys.”
“What’s that?” Caldwell said, wheeling his suitcase towards the door.
“Give us that salute again and I’ll slam your fucking fingers in that door…”
“Yeah? We’ll see about that. And what’s the other advice?”
“Try not to piss your pants when the snake comes for you.”
Caldwell chuckled as he let himself out, but it didn’t take much of a detective to see that beneath his bravado, he was worried.
***
Mike waited a few moments. Turned off his iPad and repositioned the chairs before turning to Brian.
“Hmmm…that went well.”
“Yep, I think you did a very good job of poking the bear.”
“Ha! Teddy bear, more like it. We’re none the wiser though.”
“Ah well, he was never going to let us know what’s going on…at least not yet. But he will; something’s got to give.”
“Say, how did you know he was here on a recruitment drive?”
“Easy. We found 30 brand new Hawaiian shirts of various sizes in his bag.”
“Hawaiian shirts? What, they’re recruiting dads and granddads now?”
“No, Mike. They’re the neo Nazis’ new uniform of choice. Apparently, Polynesians find these aloha shirts offensive because they represent the Colonial suppression of islanders. American GI’s on leave in the Pacific used to wear them to cheese the locals off, by taking the piss out of their culture. And the Boogaloo boys have picked up on that. Much subtler branding device than a swastika or a KKK hood.”
“True that. So it’s some sort of incentive scheme? Join our band of merry white men and we’ll give you a free shirt?”
“Something like that. The guys this mob is targeting are usually young, angry, disenfranchised loners. Ask Eric, he’s written an excellent profile on them. Anyway, giving them a distinctive uniform makes them feel loved, like part of a family finally, one that really understands them, who will help them deal with all the real and imagined injustices of the world. Yada yada yada.”
Marr could see how that would work. Everybody needed their own tribe.
“Caldwell seemed surprised you knew so much about him?”
“Yeah, well he’d be even more surprised if he knew about the tracker and listening device we planted in the lining of his bag.”
Chapter 16
Fight or flight.
Meanwhile at Tullamarine International Airport in Melbourne…
“Attention passengers travelling on Virgin Airlines flight VA144 to Christchurch,” the message boomed across the PA system. “Please be advised that this flight has been unavoidably delayed…”
This message was met by a loud communal groan by all 150 passengers waiting in the Departures lounge, most notably a short, skin-headed thirty-something with sleeve tatts, wearing Doc Martins with the laces undone and a bright red Hawaiian shirt.
“…indefinitely.”
Ah fuck! David Johansen muttered under his breath, along with 149 others. I don’t wanna spend a minute longer in Australia than I have to.
Like Muir in Hobart, he knew for a fact that he was next unless he escaped.
When he had recovered from the initial shock of that black slut’s grandpa’s sickening spectacle on the boulder – “Die David Johansen” – he’d laughed it off. Eventually.
Bone-pointing only worked if you believed in bone-pointing. Sure, he’d read allegedly true stories of fit, healthy young men dying of nothing within two or three days of having a cursed bone pointed at them. But they were dumb, superstitious primitives. Hell, 65,000 years in Australia (they claimed!) and they still hadn’t discovered the wheel. Smart enough to rort the welfare system though, but that was about it. You could probably train a monkey to do that.
As for himself, he wasn’t just street smart. He’d actually matriculated from Frankston High, could even have gone to Box Hill TAFE if he wanted, studied political science or some such shit. If he wanted. He knew there was no way humanly possible that bone-pointing worked. Of course, he’d seen enough sci-fi flicks to know it was inhumanly possible, and that’s why he was making tracks. Fast.
His first thought was Ireland. There are no snakes in Ireland he told himself. Saint fucking Patrick and all that. But then someone told him that there are no snakes in New Zealand either, just a few sleepy spiders that, if provoked, could give you a nasty suck.
It was a much shorter plane trip too and, hey, he’d seen “Snakes on a Plane”. Less chance of any ‘snakes on crack’ dropping down from an overhead locker when the flight was less than three-and-a-half hours long.
So he was upping stakes and heading over to the land of the Long White Cloud. The South Island naturally. There were less fucking Maoris there, particularly where he was heading; the Canterbury region was almost exclusively European. Even better than Dublin or Belfast, and much closer to home. Not that he was ever coming home. No way, José! Not until St Paddy reincarnates himself and comes back to rid Australia of the slimy lowlife.
As he sat there contemplating his immediate future, which had been postponed –indefinitely apparently – he overheard a fellow passenger tell his captive audience: “That’ll teach me to fly Virgin…I should have known Virgins don’t go all the way!”
He pretended to smile, just as everyone else pretended to laugh, at this tired old dad joke. It wasn’t half as funny as the one Caldwell had told him yesterday when he informed him he was leaving for New Zealand. “What do you get if you cross a Maori with an abo? Someone who’s too lazy to steal!” Ha! Good one, Col. My new favourite gag.
But the darkies weren’t too lazy to kill obviously.
You could get in your expensive car and take off like a scalded cat down the motorway. Or lock yourself in a secure room high up in a big city hotel.
Hire a crack team of professional bodyguards (he’d sacked his guys when he heard about Marco and Matty; what was the point?) or even hide in a fucking church. Didn’t make any difference what you did or where you went in this country, once that crazy old coon and his nest of vipers were after you, you were history. That’s why he was getting out of this country.
He was miles away, perving on a hot young brunette in a miniskirt bending over to get something out of her carryon over near the window, and thinking about his carefree new life in NZ, wondering if there’d be any rootable women or kindred white souls in Waipara, his new home town when…
“David Johansen? Seat 24C?”
He reluctantly dragged his eyes away from the girl’s fine arse, looked up and to his shock saw a young aboriginal policeman standing in front of him. No hang on, not a cop…Australian Customs & Border Protection. Mengdeni it said on his name tag, just below the Border Force insignia. How did someone like him with his fat lips and flat nose get this job. Probably handed to him on a plate, just to make up the quota of blacks. Fucking government!
“Is this your luggage, sir?” Mengdeni asked, indicating a large US army style duffle bag on a wheeled carrier beside him. All his worldly possessions were in it. Johansen had checked it in an hour-and-a-half ago and he’d assumed it was safely on the plane. Ah crap! They’ve found those four cartons of Winnie Blues and the three bottles of Bundy Rum I stashed away.
“Er…look, I can explain everything. I didn’t know if they even have Bundy over there, and as for the smokes…”
“You don’t need to explain anything to me,” the Junior Customs Officer said. “However my superior, Border Force Supervisor Brown, would like to have a quick chat.”
“But my plane…”Johansen began.
“…has been delayed,” Mengdeni finished. “Don’t w
orry, sir I guarantee you won’t miss it. This way please. Don’t forget your bag.”
With the young officer leading the way, and the wheels on the carrier squeaking annoyingly, they walked past the super-crowded cafés, bars and overpriced tourist traps, and the plethora of duty-free shops, down to a much less crowded section of the airport. They were only a few people around. Tradies doing some noisy renos, wearing ear protection.
Stepping around yellow and black striped bunting with a sign that said ‘Closed for Renovations. No Public Entry’, they came to a closed white door. It was designated “Operations” and featured a shiny bronze plaque: A. Brown, Supervisor.
Mengdini rapped firmly on the door twice.
“Who is it?” came a voice from within.
“Mengdini, sir. I’ve brought passenger David Johansen to see you, as instructed.”
There was a slight pause before they heard the sound of a chair being slid back.
“Bring him in Meng and sit him down, I’ll go fetch some paperwork. Be right back.”
That voice, thought Johansen as he was escorted into the room, just in time to see an adjoining side door close, sounds just like Caldwell. Only a little croakier. Is this a stitch-up? No, Col surely wouldn’t go to this much trouble, just for a prank. Would he?
The pale green room was minimal to say the least with just a large, unusually uncluttered desk, a filing cabinet, a map of Oceania and a print of a large tree with blood red leaves on the wall, plus a couple of cheap Bunnings chairs. An air con unit vibrated noisily on the far wall and a fluoro buzzed overhead.
“Please place your bag on the desk and take a seat,” Mengdini ordered. “I also have to go, however Mr Brown will be with you in a minute.”
And with that he walked out, firmly closed the office door behind him and left Johansen on his Pat Malone, awaiting the return of the customs officer. He was no doubt in for a bollocking and probably a fine or two when the boss got back. Great! Just what I need. Nice going away present that’ll be. Buy hey, I am going away. I just won’t pay them.
As he waited, he had a good look around the room, although there really wasn’t much to see. Talk about spartan. Just your basic office. Real basic. No family photos, no press clippings, articles, phone numbers or anything stuck to the corkboard. No nik-nacs on the desk. Nothing in the waste paper basket. And wasn’t the desk dusty, as was the top of the filing cabinet… Brown must hardly ever use his office.
He waited and waited, still no sign of the official. The guy was just going to get some papers he said. Where? From bloody Geelong? To kill some time, he dragged out his phone and Googled “Brown” but there were just too many of them. About 11,430,000,000 results it said, and he couldn’t be arsed trying to narrow it down. How about Mengdini? Can’t be too many of th..?
All colour drained from his face as he stared at the screen.
WESTERN BROWN ~
pseudonaja mengdini
And there was photo after photo of his worst nightmare…one of Australia’s and the world’s most venomous snakes.
A. Brown was coming for him all right.
He shivered uncontrollably and goosebumps raced across his tattooed arms below the aloha shirt sleeves. Had it suddenly got 10 degrees cooler in here, or was that him quaking in fear? No, it must be the cold. Strange, now that he knew he was totally screwed, he wasn’t as afraid as he thought he would have been. In fact, he was almost calm. Not so much a fatalist as a realist.
Still, never say die and all that.
Slowly he got up and walked to the office door, even though he knew full well that it would be locked. Sure enough, it was.
He strolled over to the interconnecting door, keeping one eye on his duffle bag as he crossed the room. Yes, that door was also locked. And yes, something was moving in his bag, something big, pushing up against the top, forcing the zipper to open a little further with every squirm.
Resigned, he flopped down into the nearest chair.
He thought about screaming for help – his last chance – but had a closer look at the walls, ceiling and floor and saw that they were made of insulated, cold room-type panels. It wasn’t just in space that no one could hear you scream. Besides apart from those earmuff-wearing tradies, there was no one around in this part of the airport to hear him if you could.
He started to really shake as he watched the zipper rip open further. Maybe he wasn’t so calm after all.
The Western Brown, actually more a burnt orange than brown with a cream underbelly and a darkish head, was out of the bag now and sliding towards him.
He fought the primal urge to stand up and run around the room, prolonging the inevitable. Instead, he remembered a sepia-coloured photograph he’d seen as a teen that had stuck with him. It was of a Mexican bandito facing a gringo firing squad, 12 rifles pointed at his heart. You’d think he’d be begging and pleading and cowering away, but no, this hombre was standing there in a ‘fuck you’ stance, no cowardly blindfold, chest puffed out, hands behind his back, actually leaning into the upcoming hail of bullets that were seconds away from ripping him apart.
Now that was the way a real man faced death. So as the snake drew nearer, jaws opening wider and wider to reveal long curved fangs, dark eyes glowering, ready to attack with a vengeance, Johansen spat at it, then scowled and said: “You know something, grandpa? She wasn’t even a very good root.”
Chapter 17
News from home.
Mike and Ronda were rushing out their hotel room on the 27th floor of The Sydney Hilton, finishing getting dressed on the run when his mobile rang. He didn’t recognise the number.
“Michael Marr.”
“G’day Mike,” came a voice he did recognise, “it’s Gordon McPhee ’ere from the Uluru station. Ya got a minute?”
Mike looked at his watch and mouthed ‘You go on’ to Ronda before answering.
“Hey Gordo. Yeah, a minute or two is all I’ve got though. We’re late for a meeting with the Feds, downstairs.”
“We, eh?”
“Never mind that,” he said, ignoring the smile in the Sarge’s voice. “One minute fifty. I’ll walk, you talk.”
“Right. Well, you may or may not remember this, but when you were last down ’ere investigatin’ that snake bite death, there were reports of two missin’ locals?”
Mike strode straight past the open lift, not even daring to look inside, and headed for the familiar stairwell. (Boy! Hadn’t Ronda given him shit about his phobia!) He cast his mind back 10 months to Uluru. Outside Room 1008. Gordo talking to Dave.
“Er, only vaguely mate. I was a bit focused on Stomann back then”, he said as he shouldered the door open and took the steps two at a time.
“Yeah, well Billy Guttuk, the 77-year old grandfather of Cassandra, 17, both went missin’ around that time. Failed to return home one evenin’. Their family was dead set worried. Cassie’s 20-year old brother Joe hassled young Dave and me round the clock to find ’em, ’e was so upset…”
Mike looked at his watch again.
“Gordo, I really gotta…”
McPhee just plowed on.
“…and then nothin’. ‘Oh, that’s right. I just remembered,’ Joe said. ‘They’ve pissed orf down to Coober Pedy to visit their cousin and I’m gunna go join ’em’, he said, before clammin’ up. Yair, sure. As if ’e hadn’t twigged to somethin’. Blind Freddy could see ’e wasn’t gunna be helpin’ us with our enquiries no more.”
Mike bolted out of the stairwell door on the 2nd floor, and headed straight for the meeting room halfway down the hallway.
“Sounds like it mate, but hey, I’m almost in the meeting. Is there a point to all this? Have the missing Guttuks turned up? Twenty seconds.”
“Yes and no, Mike. Billy’s simply vanished. So ’as Joe for that matter. However, hunters cullin’ dingoes out near Kata Tjuta have just stumbled onta the remains of what appears to be a young adult female out near where Billy and Cassie were last seen. Not sure if it’s relevant to ya
case. Just thought you orta know.”
Chapter 18
One mystery after another…
It was the biggest whiteboard Mike had ever seen and it needed to be; eight deaths and a stack of information about each one… dates, estimated times of death, forensic evidence, activities prior, possible scenarios, photos of the victims pre and post death, shots of the crime scenes, and more. Everything but the most important piece of this massive jigsaw…motive.
Overkill : Pure Venom Page 11