Cop Tales an Anthology for a Cause

by T. R. Cupak

  I’m thirty-eight years old, reasonably fit, and in charge of a police station that consists of myself, two brand new constables and a senior constable. It’s a small country town and it’s standard practice for all new recruits to do a tour in the country; I’m just lucky Senior Constable Jordan decided to stay on. Normally, they do their probation out west and then apply for a job somewhere else closer to where they grew up or want to settle.

  A tap at my window has me looking at our newest constable, Grace Wickie. She grew up here so, for her, being posted here wasn’t a burden but a relief. Frowning, I push the button to wind the window down and in the process am hit with the heat of the day.

  “Wickie.”

  “Good morning, Sergeant. Are you ready to start the day?” Grace asks cheerfully.

  “Yeah,” I say as I turn off the car. Grace is young, pretty, and fresh out of the academy. I was like her once, but in my twenty years as a copper, I’ve seen it all—the good, the bad and the ugly. This small town of five thousand people is my last post. I’m not looking for a promotion; I’m looking for a place to call home and this picturesque town is as good as any.

  “It’s going to be hot today, hey?”

  I open the car door and get out.

  “Sure is, in the fifties. Too hot for work, that’s for sure.” I cast a glance at the carpark and see two unfamiliar cars parked. “We got company?”

  Grace nods.

  “Are they happy or pissed off?” I ask.

  “The heat’s getting to everyone. One old guy is complaining about his hose, another complaining that someone is draining his tanks.”

  I shut the car door and walk inside. It’s cool and the air conditioning feels like walking into moisture. People go a little nutty in the summer and we haven’t even reached peak season. This town is filled with farmers, most of whom the drought is killing slowly. It’s a hardship for all of us. If the farmers fail so does the town.

  Sitting on the bench in front of the desk are two men, one I recognise as Peter Kemp, a local farmer. They both look annoyed.

  “Gentlemen, who was first?” I ask with a smile.

  “I was,” replies the man closest to me as he stands.

  “I’m Sergeant Adam Shaw. Please come with me.”

  The older man falls in behind me as we make our way through the station. I open my door and look toward my normally cluttered desk. I’m thankful to see it has been tidied, probably by Constable Wickie.

  “Please take a seat, Mr…?”

  “Graham, Steve Graham.”

  I sit down behind my desk and Mr. Graham sits opposite me.

  “How can I help you today?”

  “Someone’s stealing bits of my hose.” Mr. Graham leans forward and continues. “It’s not the first time either! I’m sick of it! Bloody vandals!” His face is all screwed up and his voice has risen. “Can you put someone on my house?”

  “Where do you live, Mr. Graham?”

  “I’m out of town. My garden has won best garden in the district three years in a row! I can’t do that if someone is sabotaging me.”

  “So you think this is a fellow competitor?”

  “Who else would steal my hose?”

  “Okay, Mr. Graham, I’ll look into. Do you think it could be teenagers having a go?”

  “Why would they care if I win or not?”

  The old guy is so consumed in his need to win that he doesn’t understand what I’m saying to him.

  “No sir, I don’t think they would care but teenagers can be…annoying in their pursuits of fun.”

  “You think someone is doing this for fun? My roses need attention, as do most of the flowers I have growing, and I can’t afford to keep buying new hoses! So, is this a widespread thing in the community? Not something isolated to me?”

  This conversation has taken a turn for the worst. Now I have the old guy thinking we have a community-wide hose stealing problem.

  “No, sir, I was just thinking that some local kids are trying to get under your skin, that’s all.”

  “Well, they’ve done that!”

  “I can assure you, I’ll look into it.”

  “That’s it? You’ll look into it?”

  “Yes, sir. Now if you don’t mind, I need to see the other gentleman in the waiting room. If you could leave your details with Constable Wickie, I would appreciate it.”

  With a stern look and huff, Mr. Graham stands and walks out of my office leaving the door open. I’m fairly sure it’s the bored teenagers in this town with nothing better to do than irritate him but I’ll look into it.

  I stand and go to my door. Peter Kemp is staring at me, so I motion for him to come in. As I’ve done a hundred times before, I take a seat at my desk and wait for him to enter.

  When he does, I stand and hold out my hand.

  “Peter, how are you?”

  “Adam,” replies the older man as he shakes my hand. “I’ve had better months. With the clouds on the horizon, we all need to pray it rains. You know I live out of town?”

  I nod. Peter is one of the biggest landowners in the area.

  “Someone has stolen water out of two of my tanks. Both times I was away on business. Sergeant, you know water is expensive. I can’t afford to be buying water all the time.”

  “Please, have a seat,” I say, gesturing to the empty chair.

  “Can’t, got to get back to the farm.” He points over his shoulder. “I filled out some paper work with the girl.” Mr. Kemp pauses and looks me in the eye. “I know this might not mean much to you, but that water sets me back a bit, son. I have cows and crops that all need it. Water is life and someone is stealing it from me.”

  “I’ll come out and take a look personally.”

  Mr. Kemp nods. “Appreciate it.”

  Chapter Two

  I wait until I hear the front door to the station close before I walk out of my office. Constable Wickie is staring after Mr. Kemp as he gets into his car.

  “Thoughts?” I ask her.

  “He’s really doing it tough.”

  “Not about him personally, but about his predicament.”

  She shakes her head.

  “I’m going to go for a ride out to Mr. Graham’s and later to Mr. Kemp’s. You can come with me.”

  Grace nods her head vigorously, reminding me of one of the bobblehead dolls you stick on the dashboard in your car.

  I frown at her and walk back to my office. She’s so bloody eager. Don’t they teach them anything at the academy these days? Grace grew up around here, where nothing much happens—we have the occasional murder, domestic violence, and the normal petty theft that happens in all towns—yet she’s always looking for the happy ever after and, let’s face it, sometimes it doesn’t exist.

  I flop down into my chair and go over the messages on my desk. Opening my top drawer, I take out my hay fever meds and pop two into my mouth and swallow. The local publican wants to talk to me face-to-face, the high school has a career day they’d like me to participate in, and the fire station has been graffitied again and the chief want to talk to me about it.

  “Grace!” I yell.

  Her quick footsteps pound on the floorboards before she appears in my doorway.

  “Yes, boss?”

  “Who rang from the fire station?”

  “Tommy.”

  “Have they cleaned it up yet?” I ask.

  “Tommy said they were leaving it for you so you could take your—and I quote—‘bloody photos.’ But he didn’t sound that pissed off.”

  “Well, at least they’ve left it alone this time. Makes it harder for us to build a file if they paint over it before we get the pictures. If we manage to catch the little fuckers in the act, I want to nail them for every one they’ve done.”

  “I know, boss.”

  “Right. I’m off to see them. Tell me Harry isn’t on today.”

  Harry is the station officer on call most days. He’s a hard arse and he doesn’t like me, as I dated his dau
ghter for all of five minutes a year ago. Melinda was looking for the ring, but as much as I liked her, she wasn’t the one for me.

  “No, boss. He’s out of town teaching at a rural community.”

  I grin at her. “There is a God.”

  Grace smiles. “I think it’s Rodney who’s station officer while he’s away.”

  I stand. “Good. I have my phone and you can get me on the radio if anything happens. I’m thinking it’ll go one of two ways over the next few days: the towns folk will all be so hot that nothing happens, or the heat will drive them mad. When Senior Constable Jordan starts his shift, we’ll head out to Mr. Graham’s and see what we can see.”

  Grace nods as I move past her. “You take something for your hay fever?”

  I give her a thumbs up and continue outside. Everything looks dusty and the wind feels like it’s picked up. Great. I look up at the sky and see dark clouds on the horizon. Looks like rain but doesn’t feel like rain.

  The fire station is only a few blocks down, but I still drive. When I get there, I pop the boot of my car and get out the camera. I’m taking pictures of what I think is a woman giving a blowjob to a fire truck. It’s done in a multitude of colours and the artist isn’t the best in the world, but I’ve seen worse.

  “Hey, Adam!”

  I turn around and find Tommy lumbering toward me. I give him a wave and take a couple more pictures then head toward him.

  “Thanks for not painting over it,” I say.

  “You’re lucky Harry is away. He’d be pissed I left it up as long as I did.”

  “Yeah, well if Harry keeps painting over them before I’ve seen them, how am I supposed to arrest someone for it?”

  “I know, I know,” replies Tommy holding up his hands.

  “Feel free to paint over it now.”

  “Any idea who’s doing it?”

  “No, but we’ll catch whoever it is. I have my ways.”

  Tommy grins. “Harry will want to tar and feather them if he catches them. You know that, right?”

  “Harry will have to stand down on that one. Anyway, I’m off.”

  Tommy shakes my hand and I go back to my car.

  The local hardware store is at the far end of town on the main street. I drive to it, waving at the locals along the way, and go inside. There are no customers in the store, only the casual sales assistant sitting on his arse watching TV. As I get closer to him, he glances my way then straightens up and turns off the TV.

  “Sergeant,” he offers by way of a greeting.

  “G’day. I was wondering who was working yesterday?”

  “I was.”

  Putting on my best police face and voice, I ask, “And you are?”

  “John Carpenter.”

  “You worked here long, John?” I ask, even though I know the answer. He’s the owner's nephew.

  “Three years, on and off.”

  I nod and purse my lips. “You sell any spray paint yesterday?”

  “Yesterday?” John repeats, his voice going up an octave.

  “Who’d you sell the paint to, John?”

  John looks at the floor and shakes his head. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Right. You’ll have to come with me then.”

  “What?” John squeaks.

  “You heard me. It’s called aiding and abetting, and it’s a crime.” For effect, I place one hand on my gun and the other on my handcuffs. John’s eyes bulge out of his head.

  “I sold some paint to some high school kids. I don’t know their names. One of them had a homemade tattoo of a cross on his hand,” replies John in a rush.

  “That’s more like it. No more selling them paint, you hear me?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  I nod but don’t smile, then walk out of the hardware store and back to my car, where I get on the radio to Grace.

  “This is Sergeant Shaw.”

  “Copy that, Sergeant,” says Grace

  “I’m on my way to the high school.”

  “Copy.”

  The high school consists of three 2-storey buildings and two demountables. The administration building is at the front of the school, red bricks with white trim. I walk up the path and into it. I’ve been here numerous times as part of community awareness. The receptionist, Mary, greets me as I enter. She’s been here for as long as anyone can remember. Mary’s in her late seventies but looks like she’s in her forties. She’s always very well groomed and I’m sure the school would fall apart without her.

  “Mary, you’re looking as lovely as ever,” I say genuinely.

  “Oh, Adam, you smooth talker, you,” replies Mary as she fusses with her hair. “What can I do for you today?”

  “I’m looking for a student, male, with a cross tattooed on his hand.”

  “Oh, that’s one of the O’Brien boys—Gareth, I think. Hang on, let me check.” Mary begins tapping on her computer keyboard, her brow creasing as she frowns. “Yes, that’s him. He’s in the Hawke building, room fifteen. The teacher is Gretel Dark.”

  “Thanks, Mary. I owe you.”

  Mary grins and blushes. “Nonsense! The O’Briens are bad stock. That father of theirs…” Mary shakes her head.

  I wave to her then walk toward the Hawke building.

  I open the door to the classroom and every pair of eyes comes to me.

  “Miss Dark?”

  “Yes?”

  “May I speak to you for a moment?”

  Gretel Dark is in her late thirties wears thick glasses and, from the frown her face, she’s not happy that I’m interrupting her class.

  “Class, continue on with chapter five and no talking,” she says firmly.

  I take a few steps away from the room and Miss Dark joins me.

  “Yes?” she asks impatiently.

  “I’m looking for Gareth O’Brien. Could you please ask him to come out here?”

  “Why?”

  “Police business,” I state.

  Gretel Dark frowns and gives me a look of distaste but walks back inside her classroom.

  “Gareth, please come here.”

  A young man of about fourteen comes out. One side of his head is shaved and his dislike of me is emanating off him like a forcefield. Miss Dark closes the door and leaves us alone in the corridor.

  “What?” asks Gareth.

  “Gareth, I’m Sergeant Adam Shaw. I’m here to talk to you about the graffiti at the fire station.”

  Gareth puts his hands behind his back and shrugs. It’s an obvious giveaway that he’s hiding something.

  “Want to show me your hands?”

  Gareth shrugs.

  “Show me your hands,” I repeat forcefully.

  Gareth slowly brings them to the front and they are covered in overspray.

  “Something you want to tell me, Gareth?”

  “No.”

  I grab him by the upper arm and walk him back to the office. Mary looks up from her desk and frowns at him, shaking her head.

  “What have you done now?” asks Mary.

  “Nothin’,” replies Gareth.

  Mary looks at me. “Are you taking him, Sergeant?”

  “Yes, Mary. Can you please give me his parents’ details?”

  “No point. They never answer their phones.”

  “I still need it,” I reply.

  Mary hands me a slip of paper, having already found the information for me. It’s obvious she dislikes the O’Briens and has little regard for them.

  “Thanks, Mary.” I smile at her and escort Gareth to my car.

  Opening the back door, I gesture for him to get in.

  “Don’t you want to cuff me?”

  “I think I can risk it,” I reply with a smirk.

  Gareth says nothing on the trip back to the station. When we pull up out front, Constable Wickie is waiting outside.

  As I get out of the car, she opens the back door. “What do we have here?” she asks in a stern voice.

  “I believe youn
g Gareth O’Brien here is our graffiti artist.”

  “To the cells with him then?” Wickie asks sternly.

  “To the interrogation room,” I reply.

  Wickie smiles knowingly at me. “A much better idea, Sergeant.”

  Gareth looks so nervous that I think he’s about to vomit. I roughly grab him by the arm and escort him inside. Once we get into the room, I shove him toward a chair and he sits down.

  “Did I tell you, you could sit down?” I yell.

  Gareth immediately stands.

  “Did I tell you to stand?” I yell louder and Gareth jumps, knocking over the chair.

  “Empty your pockets!”

  Gareth fumbles but eventually empties all of his pockets. As he does, a joint falls out onto the table. His face goes white as he looks at it, his eyes wide, he locks gazes with me.

  “Where did you get that from?” I ask.

  Gareth shrugs and looks at the floor.

  In a softer tone, I say, “Gareth, cooperate with me and I can make sure the magistrate goes easy on you.”

  Gareth glances up at me. “Don’t you have to call my parents?”

  “I can. I will. But let's get this deal done before I do. Did you graffiti the fire station?” Because he’s a minor, it’s procedure to call either his parents or welfare, but it’s a small town and sometimes I bend the rules.

  “Can I sit down, please?”

  “Yes, son, take a seat.”

  Gareth rights the chair and sits down. I raise my eyebrows at him and he looks at the table top in front of him.

  “Yeah, it was me that did the fire station.”

  “And the marijuana?”

  “What about it?”

  “Don’t be coy, son. Where’d you get it?”

  When Gareth doesn’t respond I pound on the table and he jumps.

  “Where!” I shout.

  “There’s a new fella in town, sir. We buy off him at the back of the Royal Hotel. He’s there most Wednesdays. Calls himself Robbo.”

  I stand and walk out of the room.

  Constable Wickie has been watching our little exchange in the next room.

  “I know who he’s talking about. I’ve seen him at the pub; thinks of himself as a bit of a looker. Cracks onto anything in a skirt,” Wickie says.