by Chris Krupa
We drove in silence, until I directed Sergeant Green to slow down as we approached the property. As soon as the welcome sight of my trusty ute appeared, we stopped.
‘There’s a male body in a barrel in the garage,’ I said. ‘It’s George Demich.’
Sergeant Green parked the car and told me to wait, then got out. He walked down the long driveway until he became just a dark shape amongst all the other black shapes around McCaskill’s garage. A torchlight came on, then went quickly off. He stayed there for a while, no doubt making observational notes and cordoning off the area as best he could. Soon he reappeared, walking back up the driveway with a resigned look on his face. He got back into the car and looked at me.
A wave of exhaustion washed over me, and it took a lot of my resolve to stay conscious.
‘The blue crow bar in the house is mine,’ I said. ‘I’d like it back after all this is over.’
Sergeant Green shot me a despondent look and took out his mobile phone. He dialed a number and asked for the homicide commander, then called the State Crime Squad, the Forensics Services Group. After that, he made contact with a Detective Inspector Will Asher at Shoalhaven LAC.
I took the opportunity to relax my aching muscles before Sergeant Green made a final call to Nowra for support in canvassing the area.
He finally hung up and turned to me. ‘Is there anyone in the house?’
‘No, he was alone. His wife’s overseas.’
‘I’ll have to notify her of McCaskill’s condition.’ He extracted his notepad from his belt and turned to a blank page. ‘I’ll need to ask you a few things before I let you go. Are you in any condition to talk?’
I opened my eyes and nodded. ‘Yeah. Fire away.’
‘Why were you on Mr. McCaskill’s property?’
I explained the assault the previous night, how I sighted the Legacy and traced it back to McCaskill. I told him I tailed his car to the property.
Green looked at me. ‘Were you here in an act of retaliation against the suspect?’
‘You might do well to focus on the connection between McCaskill and Rob’s murder. He wasn’t acting alone.’
‘You’ll have to forgive my directness, Mr. Kowalski, but you’re in no position to be providing direction. The detectives and the homicide squad are going to have to determine, firstly, if you had cause to enter the suspect’s property. Unless there’s irrefutable evidence or eyewitnesses to the attack you allege the suspect perpetuated against you last night, it unfortunately becomes your word against his. And that’s not going to happen until the suspect is in a condition to do so, if at all.’
Well, fuck you, Jack!
Green met my eyes. ‘Did the suspect say anything to you?’
‘The usual thing. He ruminated on the fact his life was over.’
Green sighed and scribbled some notes. ‘Did he make any confession in relation to being responsible for the killing of Mr. Demich?’
I shook my head. ‘No. He didn’t directly say anything in that regard.’
‘Are you going to be okay to drive?’
I nodded.
‘Then I suggest you go back to wherever it is you’re staying, clean up, and don’t leave town. I’ll have to get a statement from you tomorrow morning, and I’m sure the homicide guys will want to have a word with you too. Let due process take precedence now. If there’s anything you can recall that Mr. McCaskill said to you, let me know. You may need to transcribe it while your memory is fresh—anything that can be used to assist in the investigation.’
I said, ‘Can I ask you something?’
He nodded.
‘Could this come back to me in a bad way?’
‘At the very worst, you might have to prove just cause in court. And unless the evidence says otherwise, you should be able to substantiate your claims, based on character references and any notes or evidence you’ve managed to compile.’
‘What about George’s father? He’s the next of kin.’
Green made a note. ‘He’ll be contacted in due course.’
‘Listen, I’ve got his number. Maybe it’ll be best coming from me.’
Green went to say something, then stopped and looked at his pad. He crossed out his last note. ‘If you’re up to it, go for it. Like I said, you need to rest tonight. You might be in for a very long day tomorrow.’
I opened the door and gingerly climbed out. My arms ached and the pain in my left shoulder felt excruciating. I very slowly walked to my car, pulled the tonneau back, retrieved the flask, and downed several large slugs. Feeling tired and dizzy, I got in the ute and rested my head against the headrest, closed my eyes, and psyched myself up for the phone call to Carmine. The silence of the cab made my ears ring.
I pulled out my phone and dialed the number.
When he answered, Carmine sounded muffled and husky, as if I’d woken him.
I told him I’d found George, and could almost feel his slow-dawning devastation through the phone. I consoled him the best way I could, only giving him the barest of information, and allowed him some time to absorb the news. When I sensed he’d regained some semblance of composure, I told him the police would require him to identify the body at the Shoalhaven Memorial hospital, as a matter of procedure, and said I’d pick him up and drive him there.
I drove, slower than a little old lady, to Carmine’s house and pulled into the driveway.
Within a minute of my arrival, Carmine emerged from the front door wearing loafers, tracksuit pants, and a sloppy joe, appearing smaller and frailer than on Monday. He collapsed into the passenger seat, removed tissues from his sleeve, blew his nose, and wiped his eyes.
As I reversed out of the driveway, I caught him looking at me worryingly, and realised that, as with Constable Hunter, he hadn’t seen what happened to my face. I explained the incident from Tuesday, and he nodded sombrely. Our lack of intimacy stymied my ability to console him, which produced an even more awkward car ride.
I allowed him to grieve in silence for the majority of the journey, until we parked at the hospital. We followed the signs to the morgue in the western wing.
The coroner, a short Sri Lankan man named Deets, met us and went through the procedure in a soft calming voice he’d obviously perfected over the years. He said there was a delay in transporting the body, and asked us to kindly wait.
I got us both a black coffee from a dispenser, and gave Carmine the events that led up to the discovery, leaving out the details.
My phone said 2:15 AM by the time the forensic pathologist, a man in his fifties with a stooped back, approached us, explained that he had completed the preliminary examination, and motioned to us to enter the morgue.
Carmine asked if I could accompany him, and together we silently entered. The instant he saw the body, a gulping sob escaped Carmine. He fell onto the body and his head shook as he struggled to suppress his crying. He looked so small and alone.
His rawness cut through me like razor wire. I leaned over and gripped his shoulder. ‘I’m so sorry, Zio.’
Chapter 19
Once we signed the required paperwork, I dropped Carmine back home.
He made coffee, and we sat in silence for a while—nothing to say, really.
I made sure he had my number if he needed me for anything, and he reassured me he would be fine alone.
I drove to the hotel in a fugue.
I woke up the next morning feeling as if I hadn’t slept. I didn’t remember climbing the stairs to my room, or going in, or collapsing onto the bed. I remembered a dream about McCaskill, about the police taking him in.
He was taken in, wasn’t he? He was. I got him. He killed George.
I saw the head and the familiar wavy hairline, sticking out of the wet concrete.
What did George do to McCaskill?
I couldn’t make a connection. I flicked through useless, illegible mental notes.
I still wore the stained clothes from the day before, and smelled terrible. I staggered into the
bathroom, peeled my clothes off, ran the shower, and looked in the mirror. Tiny cuts and scratches decorated my face at crazy angles. Dirt stained the bandage over my nose and the tape unfurled at the edges. I started to shake and feel anxious. I was alive, and lucky to be so—probably shock catching up with me. I stepped into the shower, let the water wash over my head, and tried to wake up, jolting when the water turned cold.
Outside the shower, I peeled off the gauze over my nose, gingerly shaved around the cuts, and applied new gauze with fresh tape. Once completed, a wave of exhaustion washed over me, and I had to lie down.
When I awoke, the motel clock said 11:17 AM. I called Zio Fausto and told him everything that had happened the previous night.
He sounded suitably upset, his voice croaking. He may have been drinking.
I told him I couldn’t be certain McCaskill was responsible for his sons’ murders, but the homicide squad were investigating his property. I promised to still look into things too.
He told me to be safe, and he hoped everything went well with the police. He coughed thickly as he hung up.
I needed to run a few things past Constable Hunter, and I needed some air, so I walked to the station. Clouds had taken the warmth away, and a hard wind had picked up, dropping the temperature a few degrees. It was a few minutes shy of 2:00 by the time I strode into the police station.
A deathly quiet permeated the small office, and a young probationary constable I hadn’t seen before sat at the front desk typing away at the PC. He looked up briefly and returned to his work. ‘I’ll be with you in just a moment, sir.’
I didn’t wait.
***
Constable Sue Hunter was waiting at the café when I arrived. She wore gym wear, black tights and a pink tank top, her hair tied in a relaxed ponytail. When she saw me, I nodded and joined her at the table.
‘It’s supposed to be my RDO tomorrow,’ she said, ‘but thanks to you it looks like I’ll be filing papers all day. The sergeant called in some reinforcements last night from Nowra to help us out.’
I adopted a humbled expression and shrugged. ‘Thanks for taking my call. I really appreciate it after the night you had last night. I was wondering if we could go over things.’
She looked at me evenly as her jaw went to work. ‘I was at that crash scene until one in the morning,’ she said. ‘I have a stack of incident reports to file, and Sergeant Green is with the homicide detectives. I’m beat, Matt.’
‘Is McCaskill conscious? Did he talk?’
‘He’s in a coma.’
I slammed my hand on the table and the cups shook. ‘Sorry, I’m a bit wired. I thought I had this.’
A waitress appeared, and we ordered coffee. Sue requested an extra shot in hers.
Once the waitress left, Sue continued. ‘I’ve just come off seven days straight, and I need a pick me up. I struggled at the gym this morning. Oh, by the way, homicide found your business card in George’s wallet. As you’ve only been in town three days, and local eyewitnesses saw you with George at the RSL the day before he was killed, the Chief Inspector is going to want to talk to you.’
‘Thanks for the heads up. I’ll anticipate his call.’
‘I don’t necessarily agree with your methods. This cavalier, cowboy crap is so outdated. And before you say it gets results—’
‘It gets results.’
She clenched her mouth and chewed the inside of her cheek. ‘You always have to take the piss, don’t you?’
‘It’s the Kowalski sense of humour. I can’t take authority too seriously.’
‘Obviously.’
The waitress appeared with our coffees.
Sue stirred her cappuccino and licked the spoon. ‘Do you think McCaskill’s responsible?’
‘Everything points to him at the moment, but I can’t draw a direct line between him and Rob or George. And McCaskill doesn’t come across as someone methodical and well organised. I also think the killer knew of George’s activities and place of work, and was very opportunistic. McCaskill seems more like a thug than someone with any patience or any real fortitude.’
‘Hopefully with McCaskill out of the picture, his silent partner might weasel his way out of the wood work.’
‘Depends where his head is.’
Sue sipped her coffee. ‘I was thinking about what you said the other night, about your assault at the warehouse. Sounds like a couple of cowboys I know.’
‘What do you mean?’
She took another sip of her coffee, and I did the same.
She said, ‘Going over some testimonies from some of the people we bring in, they claim they’d been set upon at one time or another by two unidentified males in balaclavas who beat up and target the so called ‘riff raff’ in the community. I’ve had, at a guess, a hundred reports of these cowboys who intimidate and assault low-level criminals, scare them off. There are men in this town who take it upon themselves to make sure the riff raff stay far away. Drug dealers.’
‘This place has a group of vigilantes?’
‘Not ‘groups’. I said ‘two’.’
‘Any suspects?’
She shrugged. ‘I have theories, nothing substantial. Not every assault is reported to the police, for one reason or another. I think it’s a pair of nihilistic arseholes suffering major mid-life crises. They get off on instilling fear. They’re organised and are able to stay under the radar, which means they know the area very well. That leads me to think they’re local. They keep to themselves, and no one’s brave enough to talk about them, to expose them. They’ve ingrained themselves into the consciousness of this community. If the over-sixties used to feel scared, they don’t anymore with these guys taking care of things.’
‘Have you interviewed anybody new?’
‘Word gets around fast down here but, despite that, no. No one has come forward with anything. I did manage to look into that warehouse on Tom Thumb close. It’s part owned by Sin Lum Nguyen, otherwise known as Rosie McCaskill, Stuart McCaskill’s wife. Looks like attorneys became involved when the finances went haywire, until some Vietnamese money revitalised it. Do you have a description, or do you recall any identifying features of these assailants of yours?’
‘One of them was McCaskill. The other guy was average height and medium build, blue eyes. They’re the only discernible things I can go on. It can’t be a coincidence that I find George’s body on McCaskill’s property. They must be linked, but I don’t know how. I’d just be making assumptions.’
Sue shook her head. ‘You look like shit. Take some time off. Let the professionals take over. Spend some time with your lady friend.’
I looked at her. ‘I can’t let it go.’
She shook her head again.
As we finished up, she told me she’d be on the night shift covering for Sergeant Green. She waved from the door of the café on the way out, and I gave a nod.
I needed to shake the feeling of loose ends, and a bit of time to turn my attention to something else. I’d been thinking about Rob almost every minute of every day, and needed a distraction. I called Annette to see if she’d like to meet for a coffee, and lucky for me she did.
She suggested a place called Piccolos, a coffee house in Nowra, and we agreed to meet in half an hour.
I found it easily—a plain stucco building with basic chairs and tables, and little pictures of the leaning tower of Pisa and the Roman Colosseum on the walls. They seemed to be going for a European minimalist approach.
Annette showed up wearing a black dress, linen jacket, and medium heels. When she saw my face, she stopped mid stride and stared.
I coaxed her over with a nonchalant wave.
She sat in the chair opposite and put a hand on my elbow. ‘I thought you just spied on people—you know, from a distance, no contact, that sort of thing.’
‘I do... most of the time.’
‘But sometimes it gets physical?’
‘From time to time.’
I assured her the scratches a
nd cuts would heal, and the nose should reset just fine. After a few minutes, she relaxed, and we talked about the events from the previous night.
I kept things sketchy so as not to worry her too much, and looked around. ‘Nice place.’
She laughed. ‘No, it’s not, but they make the best coffee in Nowra.’
We ordered two short blacks, a plate of biscotti, and a slice of cheesecake each. When it all arrived, I tried the coffee and nodded my appreciation. It was the best I’d tasted so far in the area.
Annette stirred the froth from her latte and added two sachets of Equal.
I spotted a painting on the wall that showed the southern part of Italy, with Calabria highlighted with a red dot. I pointed to it. ‘My mum’s family is from there—Calabria.’
She swiveled in her seat to look at the painting. ‘Ca-la-bria,’ she said. ‘Sounds beautiful. I love Italy. And Italians.’
She stroked the inside of my hand with her fingernail, and the charge took me back to our night together.
‘My grandfather came to Australia in 1955, got a job at the steel works near The Gong. They employed a lot of immigrants then. He made enough to buy a small house, then brought my grandmother, my mum, and her four sisters over here. He did all that without speaking a word of English.’
Annette scooped up a fork full of cheesecake. ‘That’s amazing. We give refugees so much shit these days, and they’re trying to do the same thing.’ She shook her head. ‘Mmm, this is good.’
I scooped up a morsel of the cake and let its richness coat my mouth. ‘My Nonno was a very proud man, and as you know, the fifties were a prosperous time and for Italians, the more children the better.’
Annette smiled and sipped her coffee. ‘And so, who’s Rob to you?’
‘My cousin by marriage. My uncle, Zio Fausto, has a younger brother, Carmine. Rob was his son. George too. They were barely tweens when I clocked twenty, and we moved in different social circles. I saw them at a cousin’s wedding hanging around the foyer in this function centre, with other tweens, trying to bum smokes off adults. They were always polite to me, but Rob possessed a dangerous energy, a restlessness. The only other time I remembered Rob being mentioned was at a dinner at my Zia Valeria’s house. They were stressed to the eyeballs about Rob’s behaviour. He was fourteen and already into girls and pot, and his parents had had enough. Soon after that, his mum dropped dead from an aneurism.’