I hadn’t met Malcom yet, but I wondered how anyone could scare the pants off Linda Coleman without fearing for his life first. One smack with that king-sized fist of hers, and the result would be major facial reconstruction and on-going psychological counselling for the next twenty-five years.
She went on, ‘I’m telling you, this young man is up to no good. Hell, she was only a little baby. What are you guys doing anyway? He should be behind bars by now. Aren’t you going to arrest him? The whole street knows he did it. It’s immoral to let him come and go as he pleases.’
I spilled some of my tea on the floor, but she didn’t seem to notice. Her assertive tone took me by surprise. Not only did she seem certain the young man killed Tracy Noland, but she was even willing to instruct me on investigative procedures and my moral duties to the world.
‘Did you know Tracy well?’ I asked.
‘Me? As well as anyone else in the neighbourhood. I work eight to ten hours a day, so I guess some people got to see her more often than I did. But, hell, you had to be blind not to see what was going on.’
‘What was going on?’
She gave me a sheepish smile. ‘You’re not playing games with me?’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘You know about the photos Malcom took?’
I raised one brow and replied, ‘Someone mentioned he took pictures, yes, but I haven’t had a chance to look at them to date.’
She gulped the contents of her cup in one go and said, ‘Well, I suggest you get your arse over there ASAP and check out the evidence. There’s enough shit in his room to bring back the death penalty.’
‘Have you ever been to his room?’
‘What the hell would I be doing in his room?’
‘Then how do you know about all the photos?’
She puzzled for a few seconds and said, ‘The same way as you do. People talk.’
People did talk, indeed.
Maybe too much.
There was a pause.
‘And who told you about the photos?’ I probed. I could tell by the look on her face I’d asked a question she wanted to avoid answering.
‘Well, now, there are things which are better kept between friends.’
‘I respect your integrity, but when it comes to investigating the death of a twelve-year-old child, secrets have to come out of the closet.’
‘I don’t see how the identity of who told me about Malcom’s photos would help in any way. Would you like to be known as a snoop around the neighbourhood?’
I placed my empty cup of tea on the coffee table, amidst the magazines, and swallowed hard. ‘I think you’re missing the point here. If you’re so forward and certain about Malcom’s guilt, why don’t you help me and point me in the right direction?’
‘I’ve already done that. Go and knock on his door. He’s as guilty as hell.’
‘Well, I don’t know that for a fact. I like to work out things for myself —’
‘Long enough for someone else to get killed?’ she interrupted. ‘You cops are all the same. You talk and talk, and take so much time to work out the ifs and whys and hows, nothing ever gets done. It’s like the other day, some dickhead in the street threatens me, says he’s going to chop my head off and kill all the Asians. I go to the police station to report it, and you know what they tell me?’
I looked at her, puzzled.
‘Come back when he’s done something. So, I say, should I fill in a report? And they go no, there’s no need to, the guy hasn’t done anything. And I say, well, what am I supposed to do? Wait until I’m dead before you do something? And they look at me like if I’m some kind of moron. I tell you, the way things are becoming around here, nothing surprises me any more.’
I was left speechless.
I thanked her for her time and made my way to Jason Harvey’s home.
Jason Harvey made ham, cheese and salad sandwiches for lunch. I chewed on my white sliced bread with little enthusiasm, but without the nerve to tell him what I really thought of white bread sandwiches. The last time I ate white sliced bread sandwiches was at high school. The agonising daily routine of finding the same thing inside my lunch day-in, day-out put me off white sliced bread forever.
A chunk of bread stuck to my palate. I struggled to open my mouth.
‘I visited one of your neighbours this morning, and she told me about Malcom’s photographs as well.’
Jason took one big bite of his sandwich, his eyes gleaming, and said, ‘I told you. I knew he was up to no good.’
‘But I haven’t seen the pictures yet.’
‘Yes, but trust me, when he took these pictures, he had something in mind. I’m telling you, from where you’re standing, it might look like an innocent pastime, but I know what goes on in his head. I’ve seen young men like him all my life. Fired up on the inside with a burning desire to appease his burning lust. Believe me, it wasn’t just pictures he had in mind.’
‘What was it then?’ I finished my sandwich and immediately emptied my glass of water.
‘What do you think? You’re the cop, Dr Melina. You tell me. What do you think it means?’
I wasn’t a cop, but I didn’t feel like explaining my job again, so I let it go.
Jason stood from his chair, pacing angrily from one side of the kitchen to the other, his hands buried deep inside the pockets of his beige chinos.
I put my empty glass down on the kitchen table and said, ‘I know what you’re getting at. And I know that the pictures might indicate that Malcom could have killed Tracy Noland. But—’
He interrupted me. ‘Get him arrested! Throw him in the slammer before he kills someone else. You want evidence? Find the evidence afterwards. In the meantime, lock him up!’ He removed a coin from his pocket and began rolling it between his thumb and forefinger. He seemed agitated, almost angry.
I stood from my chair. ‘Mr Harvey...’
‘Call me Jason.’
‘Jason, you’re getting all worked up for nothing. So, maybe the young man did kill Tracy Noland, and then maybe he didn’t. There is no clear indication here. All we’ve got is assumption, certainly no grounds to get a warrant for his arrest. This young man has as much right as you have.’
He shook his head. ‘I don’t believe you people. You always wait until the last minute before you do something. And most of the time it’s too late, and someone else has to die. What is it going to take for you to open your eyes?’
It was difficult to argue with him because I felt his anger and frustration were well-grounded. Over and over, the police seldom listened to complaints from the average citizen with any seriousness. Details were written in reports and filed away, and by the time some tangible proof came along, it was too late. On the other hand, having worked as a banker and now a small-time entertainer did nothing to increase his awareness of police and legal procedures. He was letting fear cloud his judgement, and I sympathised with him. When a murder takes place, it’s often difficult to react rationally.
‘Jason, I know you’re angry. But making blind accusations is not going to solve anything. If I was as certain as you are that Malcom killed the young girl, I would have had him into custody and got a warrant to search his home. It’s not that I believe Malcom is innocent, but I don’t believe he is guilty yet. Certainly, there seems to be a lot of clues pointing in his direction, but nothing concrete at this stage. We have to take our time on this.’
‘Sure, and then someone else dies. What will it take?’
I gave up and stared at the coin he was still rolling between his thumb and forefinger.
‘What’s this?’
He smiled, looked at the coin and held it up. ‘It’s my lucky coin. I believe in luck.’
I wish I did too, but so far the only luck I had was the one I had made for myself.
He tossed the coin from one hand to the other. ‘This coin has brought me more luck than anything else. Everyone should have one. There’s too much bad luck going around in this world. And eve
ryone thought Albert Park was a safe place to live. Not in my worst nightmare would I have imagined something so horrible could have happened in this neighbourhood.’ He jabbed his forefinger in the air. ‘There’s no justice left in this world. No justice. Too much bad luck going around.’
I never thought of the world as a place filled with unlucky events. To my mind the world was what you made it. But if carrying a coin made Jason Harvey believe he was in control of his life, he should have carried a pocket full of them.
‘Well, maybe you’re right,’ I said. ‘Maybe this world needs more luck. I wish I had some to find out what the hell really happened to Tracy Noland.’
He settled down a bit after that and asked if I wanted another sandwich.
‘That’s enough for me.’
We talked shop for a good hour, and I found myself liking the old man more by the minute. He could carry a good conversation, reminding me of my friend Ken from Terry Bennetts’ gymnasium on High Street. He also had that interesting aura around him. He had an opinion about everything and seemed so alive and interested in the world around him. Even young people I met weren’t so full of life.
‘I’ve got to go to the RSL this afternoon,’ he said, while rinsing glasses in the kitchen sink. ‘Why don’t you come and join me. I’m a hell of an entertainer. I’m sure you’ll enjoy the show.’
‘I’d love to, but I’ve got a son to go home to.’
‘Bring him along. I’m sure he’d like to see a magician, I bet he’s never seen one.’
‘I’ll ask him. If he’s interested, we’ll turn up.’ I doubted because the only magic Michael wanted to know about was Sony Playstation and the Internet.
‘I’d love to have you come along. I can introduce you to a few of my friends. Hey, who knows, maybe someone will be able to give you some information on Tracy Noland.’
He got me on alert for a few seconds, realising this might be a good idea. ‘Sure, I’ll see what I can do, but I can’t promise anything. If I don’t turn up, you’ll know why.’
He walked me to the front door, his hand on my right shoulder. ‘I do hope you get moving quickly on that Malcom boy. I don’t have kids of my own, but I’m sure other parents in the neighbourhood will be really angry when they find out the police haven’t done anything to date. You saw it yourself. There are other kids playing in the streets. Why take a chance?’
There was fear in his eyes.
I promised to do everything in my power to get the investigation rolling.
As soon as I jumped in the car, I dialled Frank on his mobile.
‘Me busy?’ he asked. ‘Well, you know I don’t have a family to go home to.’
‘So, can you make it to my place this afternoon, yes or no?’
‘Sure. What’s it about?’
‘Tracy Noland. I need your opinion on something, plus I’m thinking of interrogating the Malcom kid this afternoon. Maybe It would be a good idea if you came with me.’
We agreed to meet at two-thirty.
Michael was out when I arrived at the apartment. I threw my bag on the floral couch in the living room and went straight to his bedroom. I saw little of him these days, and it was tearing me apart. He was the only person who truly mattered in my life, and yet, we always managed to rank each other as second priority in our ever-busy schedules.
The door of his room had been left ajar, but before I even stepped in, I could see the mess. I pushed the door open, my eyes circling the room. Clothes were thrown all over the bed and floor. Posters of various pop and movie stars, whose names I could not recall, hung on every bit of wall space available. Compact discs, music and cd-rom varieties, were scattered on his desk and side table. Two recent copies of Sports Illustrated, with bikini-clad girls on the covers, were thrown on top of his bed, reminding me that every day he grew more into a man and less into a boy.
Five years from now, Michael would be eighteen. I felt nervous about this fact. I still hadn’t got used to the idea that he wasn’t five-years old, and soon I’d have a grown man living in my home, someone whom I’d know little about unless I kept our communication channels fully open. Male hormones were frightening. All I wished was that he’d grow into a healthy young man, not someone filled with neurosis and overwhelming sexual impulses. But nature had to take its course, and I knew that my job as a mother was to learn to love him no matter who he became.
I closed the door to his room and made my way to the kitchen where I poured myself an icy-cold Dr Pepper in a large tumbler filled with ice. In the lounge room I played my Los Angeles Jazz Quartet album at half-volume.
I walked up to the balcony, opened the windows and breathed in the fresh smell of seawater. The sky was clear. It was just another sunny day in St Kilda, where people came from all over Melbourne to experience the holiday-atmosphere of Acland Street, experience its exquisite cake shops, street entertainers, flocks of in-line skaters and the enchanting sight of Luna Park. Despite the druggies, prostitutes and bums, this was the best Melbourne had to offer, if you could afford a nice house in a cul-de-sac, walking distance from all the main attractions.
Living on Chapel Street, where trams travelled almost around the clock, and the traffic was never-ending, I began to feel an increasing urge for quietness, to find a place where I could sit outside, and all I would hear would be the sounds of birds singing and the wind blowing in the trees. The need for peace was proof that I was becoming older without realising it. When I moved to St Kilda eight years ago, I wanted my environment to be vivid and full of life. At thirty-nine, entertainment consisted of sharing a nice glass of Chardonnay with Phillip and watching a video in the comfort of my own home. The irony of life is that you laugh at everything your parents did when you were younger, and a few years on, you end up enjoying the same things.
The door bell interrupted my stream of thoughts.
I paced down the hallway and unlocked the door.
Frank stood there. He wore denims, a white cotton shirt and brown-leather shoes. I got so used to seeing him in a business shirt and tie, it was strange to see him dressed casually. The effect was the same as if he’d shaved his eyebrows, or something similarly drastic.
He smiled as he walked in. ‘I hope I’m not coming to hear you whining about Goosh again,’ he said in a non-provocative manner.
‘Not a chance. I’ve got better things to do with my time than worry about him.’
He followed me to the kitchen.
‘Do you want anything to drink?’ I asked, already pouring pure filtered water from a five-litre cask in a large glass.
He moved forward and grabbed the glass. ‘Thanks.’
We sat in the lounge room, making small talk for the first five minutes. Then we changed gears and moved on to the Tracy Noland case.
‘I’ve been putting some thought into it,’ he said, ‘and I can’t helping thinking that the mother has something to do with it.’ He emptied his glass and placed it on the pine coffee table in front of him.
‘I’m not saying anything yet’ I said. ‘There’s always the possibility she did it. But you have to look at all the other leads.’ I ran through my encounter with Linda Coleman, and how she also mentioned the name Malcom.
His brow creased and he said, ‘Well, that does change the perspective.’
‘How do you think we should interrogate this guy?’ I asked, still wondering whether Malcom’s home would be the best place to conduct an interview.
He massaged his chin, puzzled over my question and suggested, ‘I think you should just go in there by yourself, ask him the usual routine questions, you know, where he was the night prior to Tracy Noland’s death, and then mention something about the photos he’s taken.’
‘Sure, and then what?’
‘That would depend on what you get out of him. Whether he did take photos or not. And so on.’
‘So if the photos do reveal an unusual pre-occupation with children, can we get him in for questioning? Do you think that would be enough?’
I knew what Frank was getting at. By conducting the initial interview at the suspect’s home, the accused might say something off-guard. I also knew that if we took him in for questioning, he would feel more pressure and maybe crack up and admit to his crime. The only problem is that to conduct a proper interrogation, we would have to advise him that he had the right to talk to a solicitor. That would delay things, and his solicitor might refuse to have Malcom answer any questions on the grounds that his client would only incriminate himself.
‘Okay,’ I said, ‘so I go in there, get all friendly, find out what he’s all about, you know like I’m on his side kind-of-thing. And then on what basis do we get the search warrant?’
‘The photos he’ll show you and the testimony of Linda Coleman and Jason Harvey. They both saw him hanging around the girl.’
‘And so did her mother and the other kids in the neighbourhood.’
‘Okay, so that makes more than two. I think if he did it, we can corner him pretty quickly. Maybe you will have this whole thing wrapped up in less than two weeks. Do you think Goosh would still want your cock on the block?’
We both laughed at his joke, which I didn’t find particularly funny. It was the idea of wrapping up the case in less than two weeks, and the face Goosh would make when I’d succeed in finding the killer, that sent me into stitches.
Frank wiped a tear from his face and added, ‘You know, after all this time we’ve been working together, I’ve never understood something.’
‘What’s that?’ I asked, between two chuckles.
‘Well, you know, we work well together as a team, and, you know, we kind of get on pretty well too, and like, you know, we’re good friends...’
‘When we’re not fighting,’ I added. The seriousness of his tone wiped the smile from my face.
‘Yes, well, everybody fights now and then. But, you know, what I meant to say is that, well... we make a pretty good pair.’
The Kristina Melina Omnibus: First Kill, Second Cut, Third Victim Page 31