by Chris Krupa
I crouched behind a wild lantana at the boundary of McCaskill’s property. From my vantage point, his house appeared to be a moderate affair, with a bullnose veranda around three sides, centrally located on the land and set a good distance back from the road. The Legacy sat alongside a banged-up Kia Carnival at the end of a graveled driveway, at the front of a detached two-car carport that had a single garage at the rear. Bright, florescent light spilled from a side window, possibly a kitchen.
A scan of the surrounding area showed no movement, so I cautiously crept out from my hiding spot, vigilantly keeping my eyes on all windows, prepared to drop if someone appeared. Feeling exposed, I half crouched, half ran down the sloping land, made it to the side of the house, and pressed up alongside the wall. I crept to the rear corner and peeked into the backyard. Half an acre of scrubby land stretched back to some wire fencing. In the dimming light, I could make out a hills hoist leaning at an angle, a couple of car engines lying in various states of repair in long grass, and a disused Webber BBQ haunting a far corner. Various detritus, faded bits of plastic and old bottles littered the lawn.
I approached the garage and tried the door. It opened. A tarpaulin lay spread on the floor, and a pile of empty cement bags and a cement mixer occupied the near corner. A row of four large blue plastic barrels stood a few feet in front of me. The closest one had a black plastic lid on it.
I went to it and quietly prised the lid off, to discover a body partially covered in wet cement, and wearing clothes I recognised: a light blue-collared shirt and dark blue chinos. Someone had twisted George’s legs so they came up to his chest. His forehead had a gaping hole, and his face was a mess of brain matter and blood.
PART TWO
Chapter 17
There were twelve steps leading up to the back door. As I took each step, I thought about the risk of having the charge of murder against Stuart McCaskill being thrown out the window. I thought about the risk I was placing on my licence, having it suspended for breaking and entering, losing my livelihood, risking Alice’s future. I wanted to confront McCaskill. I wanted to hurt him. That feeling, and that feeling alone, consumed me wholly and completely.
I came to the back door and pulled open the screen, which had seen better days, and carefully rested it against my shoulder, which throbbed. Astutely aware that I’d undoubtedly broken several laws and statutes, I put my ear to the door and waited. After twenty seconds of silence, I tested the doorknob. It didn’t resist. I turned it a full rotation until the curvature of the latch completely cleared the doorjamb, gently pushed the door open, and stepped cautiously into a small laundry room littered with clothes, towels, bottles of stain remover, and an overloaded wicker laundry basket. I closed the door as quietly as I could and turned the knob back to its original position.
I stepped around the dirty linen, crept over to a closed wooden sliding door, and peered through the gap. In the adjacent room sat a small dining table adorned with two chairs, and in the middle of the table a potted African violet rested on a large doily. To the side of the dining room, light spilled out of what must be the kitchen. I couldn’t discern any movement, so I slid the door to the side and crept past the dining table. Musty odours hit my nose, and I stopped by the wall and listened. As the sounds of a TV came from a distant room, I couldn’t help but notice that the house hadn’t seen a lick of paint for decades. I peered around the corner and into the kitchen. Two small plates were neatly stacked in the dishrack, black marks and rust stained the sink, and a large wooden spoon and matching fork hung by the fridge.
I heard the familiar buzz from Family Feud and Grant Denyer having a laugh. At the end of the dining room, an arched doorway led into a dark, quiet room. I slowly, quietly walked across the brown carpet, squeezing myself between dining room chairs on my right and a large wall cabinet full of shot glasses, fishing trophies, and boxing memorabilia that ran along the wall on my left.
A figure appeared through the arch, and I barely had time to raise the crowbar before McCaskill gave a yelp and charged me. I caught the force of his shoulder and he slammed me against the edge of the cabinet. Glasses shook.
He made to charge me again, and I dug my feet in. He caught me in the shoulder and shoved me hard against the cabinet again. Glasses rattled again and framed photographs fell to the floor. He yelled and I yelled back. He had his whole weight against me.
I blocked his right arm and pushed it against his body.
His left hand gripped my right wrist. He had a few years on me but surprised me with his strength. We were caught in a tight space, twisted like a pretzel against each other.
I took a few steps back, hoping the gap would give me leeway or force McCaskill to fall on his face, but he moved with me. We squeezed through the chairs and he backed me into the kitchen. I scanned for a knife rack but didn’t see one.
He pushed me back against the counter that ran around the kitchen, slamming the back of my head against the handle of an overhead cupboard. His red pockmarked face was too close.
I smelled wine on his breath and spat in his face.
He let go of my wrist, backed away a step, and wiped his face.
After I gave him two quick hits in the torso with the bar, he fell back against the fridge. Then I lined up his knee and cracked it good.
He howled and fell to the floor.
We locked eyes and he appeared to shrink into himself. I raised the crow bar threateningly and stepped forward.
‘Get out of my fucking house!’ he yelled.
I recognised his voice from the warehouse. It had the familiar slur that made my skin crawl.
I stepped closer and gave him the Kowalski stare.
He blinked once.
I said, ‘Why didn’t you ask who I am?’
He squinted. ‘What?’
I talked more slowly, as if he were a small child. ‘Well, normally if someone is confronted by a stranger in their home, they say, ‘Who are you?’ or ‘What do you want?’ or ‘Please don’t hurt me.’ You didn’t say any of that. You said, ‘Get out of my fucking house’, as if we’ve met before, but I’ve never met you. Not without your balaclava on.’
He swallowed and tried to catch his breath.
‘I don’t want to have to bury this into your skull,’ I said. ‘But if you give me a reason, I will.’
He remained motionless.
I said, ‘Are you Stuart McCaskill?’
He nodded.
‘Did you call me Tuesday night and ask to meet at a warehouse in Tom Thumb Close?’
‘Yeah.’
I pointed to my face. ‘Did you do this?’
He nodded once, like a schoolboy in trouble, a boy who knew pain was coming.
‘Where are your tea towels?’
He gave me a quizzical look.
I said, more clearly, ‘Where do you keep your tea towels?’
He pointed to the bottom drawer behind my left knee. ‘Down there.’
‘Get one out.’
He shuffled sideways on his buttocks to the drawer, opened it, and pulled out a red plaid tea towel. He then closed the drawer and shuffled back to his prior position against the fridge.
I said, ‘Get up.’
He slowly clambered to his feet and hobbled a little on his left knee. He stood like a man defeated, shoulders drooped, his face slack, resigned to the fact of impending and unavoidable events.
I lined him up, leaned back, and drove my fist hard into his face.
The back of his head hit the fridge and he fell to his knees. Blood gushed from his nostrils and he put the towel to his face. ‘You fucking cunt!’ he sputtered from behind the cloth.
I said, ‘You alone?’
He nodded.
‘Bullshit.’ I indicated the dining table with the crow bar. ‘You into doilies and African violets? Call your wife in here.’
‘She’s overseas with her mother.’
‘You better not be fucking me around.’
‘I’m not. I’m alone.�
�� He took a breath and looked up. ‘You better get the fuck out of here or I’ll fucking smash you.’ He pretended tough but his words didn’t carry.
I swung the bar and hit the bench by his head. He flinched, and I immediately lifted the crow bar high. ‘Answer me, yes or no. Do you understand?’
McCaskill glared at me over the tea towel, now sodden with blood, and nodded.
I said, ‘Did you say you’d split my daughter open with your fat cock?’
His eyes flitted between me and the bar.
I hit his shin. The metal made a nice ping sound against the bone.
He screamed, bent forward, and clutched his leg.
‘You came at me with a fucking baseball bat,’ I said. ‘I want to know why.’
His breathing became heavy as he fought tears out of his eyes. He swore, gradually straightened up and looked up at me, seeming to regain some courage. ‘My lawyer will be all over you like flies on shit, you scum sucking prick. I’ll have you for trespassing on private property, and fucking home invasion. You’ve fucked yourself up royally, mate.’
I screamed into his face. ‘Tell me what the fuck is going on or I do the other leg!’
He shook his head and dropped the tea towel. Blood from his nose left a trail down his face and dripped off his chin. ‘I’m just the hired muscle, okay? I’m nothing. I’m just a fucking gnat.’
Hired muscle? Maybe he was the best you could get in a small town where the median age was fifty-nine.
‘He made me do this,’ he said.
‘Who?’
‘I’m dead, I’m fucking dead.’ Spittle mixed with the blood around his mouth. ‘It’s fucking over.’
‘McCaskill, listen to me. Did you kill Rob Demich? Did you kill George?’
He shook his head. ‘No....’
‘Who the fuck did?’
‘...I didn’t kill anyone...’
‘Your car was seen leaving the crime scene.’
‘I didn’t do anything!’ He sobbed openly, his head bent low, his shoulders shaking. ‘Oh God. I didn’t do anything.’
‘Tell me what you know.’
I was losing him. His crying worsened.
‘Tell me what you know, Stuart.’
He wiped his mouth and buried his face in his hands. ‘I can’t.’
‘Can’t what?’
‘I can’t do it anymore.’
‘What are you talking about, Stuart?’
His head drooped and he sniffed loudly.
‘Get up,’ I said. When he didn’t move, I hit him in the shoulder with the bar. ‘Get up, Stuart.’
He moaned and slowly rolled onto his side. He gripped the counter and pulled himself to his feet, and seemed to have shrunk a foot.
‘I know what’s in the fucking garage.’
He charged me and pushed me into the dining room.
I hit a chair, lost balance, and by the time I’d righted myself, McCaskill had a Glock in my face.
‘Put the crow bar down, cunt.’
I dropped it.
‘Turn around. Hands behind your fucking back.’
I turned and did as he asked. I heard him opening and closing drawers, then felt a strap tighten around my wrists.
‘Outside. Get in the Kia.’
He gripped the Glock so hard, his fingers were white. His forehead glistened with sweat and blood dripped over his mouth and down his chin.
I slowly walked through the laundry and out the back door.
He followed me down the stairs.
I went to the passenger side, and heard McCaskill fumbling keys. The alarm chirruped and the doors unlocked.
He opened the passenger door, and I fell backwards into the passenger seat, clenched my abdominals, and swung my legs into the car.
He slammed the door closed.
I quickly inspected the interior of the car but saw nothing sharp, just old cigarette packets and plastic wrapping. Suddenly, I felt claustrophobic.
McCaskill slid in behind the wheel, grunted when he lifted his knee into the cabin, and closed the door. He didn’t put his seat belt on. Instead, he started the car and revved the engine. He looked at me and placed the pistol out of sight into a small console in the driver’s side door, then he held the tea towel to his nose and gunned the car up the driveway and out onto the road, heading west away from town.
I strained to see the Glock but couldn’t distinguish its shape in the darkness of the cabin. As we headed west, I considered my options. McCaskill could have been taking me somewhere isolated, rural, where he’d most likely shoot me. Or he might make contact with his silent accomplice, someone I felt more and more confident to be the brains behind the outfit.
As we passed rural properties, I recalled the advice of a ‘situation kidnap’ expert, something I read in preparation for my PI licence. He said people almost allow themselves to be kidnapped. A guy gets a girl in a car, and she thinks there’s no option but to go along with his every word, even though in most cases the kidnapper wasn’t even armed. Such is the power of persuasion, combined with the sense that all is lost.
However, there are options when one is kidnapped by car, and those options centred around the idea of crashing the car when it slows. They involve either kicking the driver, or grabbing the wheel, if those options are open to you. A driver is more likely to stop the car and avoid a crash if you attack them in some way. The SUV, with its tall body and top-heavy frame, had more of a chance at flipping than your garden-variety sedan.
I had two problems: no seatbelt, and no hands. I could kick, though, and if I seriously planned on crashing the car, it’d be better to have the driver’s side impact something, which meant I needed a sharp, left-hand-sweeping bend. I racked my brains and recalled one in particular; I’d spotted a pothole and some gravel on the road, signs of an impromptu road repair job, over a kilometre along Sussex Inlet Road.
We travelled for what seemed like five minutes, but might have only been one, and traversed a few right-hand bends. For a sickening moment, I thought I’d fantasised the left-hand bend. Finally, thank Christ, it appeared out of the darkness.
McCaskill drove with one arm while he pressed the towel against his nose with the other.
I kept my eye on the speedo, and moved my legs to the side in preparation. The speedo dropped to sixty-five, and McCaskill started to turn into the bend. As the car leaned to the right, I reared my legs up to my chest, squared off, and smashed my heels against his ear. He grunted as the car fishtailed and listed hard right, and inertia pushed me towards him. The car left the road and we sailed in the cabin, weightless.
I was thrown against McCaskill’s body. Glass hit my face, and as the landscape rotated wildly, grass and dirt sprayed into my mouth.
Then everything went black.
Chapter 18
I opened my eyes and looked around. I was upside down. My neck ached, and the whole left side of my torso burned. I heard the ticking of the engine as it cooled in the night air, and smelled oil and burnt rubber.
McCaskill’s body rested halfway out of the driver’s side window.
I looked carefully and noticed his chest rising and falling. Good. I wanted him to hear the clang of the gaol cell door closing... with him inside it.
My legs were twisted awkwardly under me. I held for breath as I slowly turned myself around, anticipating agony as I stretched my legs, but nothing hurt. I pushed my door open, gingerly clambered out, lay on my back on the grass, and carefully checked my joints and bones for fractures. I felt nothing out of the ordinary, and thanked God for that. Pain slowly ebbed and flowed across my entire torso.
I slowly lifted my legs and brought my tied hands around and under so they came out in front of me again. It took me a few goes. I grabbed my pockets, felt the familiar bulge of my phone, took it out and dialed triple zero. Then I lay on my back looking at the stars, waiting, until red flashers caught my eye.
A female ambulance officer with a face that seemed too young for the job leaned over m
e and introduced herself as Steph. She asked my name and the date, checked my pulse, gave me a cautionary all clear, and helped me sit up. She used a multipurpose tool to cut the nylon hand restraint, helped me to the ambulance, and gave me oxygen.
I looked over and saw a male ambo inspecting McCaskill.
‘Mr. Kowalski,’ Steph said. ‘We might need to take you to hospital for observation and make sure nothing’s seriously wrong.’
‘I’m okay.’
‘You could have internal bleeding.’
I indicated McCaskill’s prone form. ‘Make sure he doesn’t kark it. He killed my cousin.’
She glanced at the body, looked back at me worryingly, then tipped what smelled like antiseptic onto a cotton swab and applied it to cuts on my face. ‘The police will be here soon to take a statement. In the meantime, we really should take you to hospital for observation.’
‘You have good intentions, Steph. You’re well-meaning and you work a thankless job, but I’m not going to the hospital. Not tonight.’
‘You’re a very stubborn individual.’
‘I know. I’m also a right bastard, but my cousin’s body’s half buried in concrete in a barrel in that bastard’s garage, and I need to get back there and assist the police.’
As if on cue, a squad car appeared, and Constable Hunter and Sergeant Green emerged.
Constable Hunter stared at my face. ‘Jesus Christ, Matt.’
I realised she hadn’t seen me since my nose alteration, and held up a hand. ‘It’s been a long week.’
She cast her eyes over the carnage, and gave me a look as if I’d shat in her breakfast.
I gave them the back-story as best I could recall it, given the thumping I’d endured in the crash, whilst the male ambo prepped a gurney for the transportation of Stewart McCaskill’s broken body.
Couldn’t have happened to a nicer bloke.
Sergeant Green elected to drive me back along the road towards Sussex to McCaskill’s property, where we’d meet the crime squad guys, and advised Constable Hunter to remain at the crash site.