by Nick Place
The Starbucks invasion had been underwhelming, but it opened a door – and now there was a Gloria Jean’s dominating the eastern side of Queen Street, near Little Bourke. A Hudson’s Coffee offered yet more leather couches and mediocre lattes on Bourke Street’s south side.
Watching the mid-morning coffee crowd thin, Tony Laver sat in Nick’s, a coffee shop and restaurant that dated back to the early 1950s, as proven by décor that hadn’t changed since its opening. It was home to a loyal clientele, spectacular and cheap pasta, and a series of black-and-white photos on the wall showing the owners with a lot more hair.
Laver pushed aside the local tabloid with the front-page headline ‘COWBOY COP’ and sighed.
He was refusing to admit the possibility of a hangover. He hadn’t planned to drink last night. But then he’d arrived home to find a dead pigeon inexplicably in his apartment, like a demented gift in the middle of the lounge room – nothing obviously wrong with the apparently sleeping bird, although it was stiff as a board. Laver had been forced to remove it. He briefly considered a burial in the communal yard, but finally dumped it in the green waste bin, stopping only to check that the self-appointed ruler of the flats, Mrs Macleod, wasn’t watching from behind her blinds.
It had unsettled him enough that he’d immediately felt the need for a drink. Plus Marcia was due at any time.
Things hadn’t been great with his fiancée of two years before the shooting, but now he could feel his life unravelling. Or maybe he was just being paranoid.
Either way, last night he’d known he probably shouldn’t be drinking in his state of mind, but then, post-bird, thought, ‘Fuck it,’ and poured himself a whisky while he waited for her to arrive. He was thinking about her first response when he’d phoned her and told her he’d shot a man: ‘Oh for God’s sake, Tony.’ The same note of disdain she might have used if she’d caught him farting in a supermarket aisle. Not once in the call asking if he was okay.
Pondering that, he had another whisky as he got ready to watch the nightly news. And then he’d simply had to go a third, and a large one, when, second item, the police minister was shown giving the media a lecture about police ethics and trigger-happy cowboys who needed to be weeded out of the force. A man with red hair and a thin moustache stood by his right shoulder, looking stern and smug at the same time.
Another whisky got him through the sports segment – an under-performing Australian cricket team was the only target in the country facing more media heat than he was – before Marcia finally turned up, wanting to head straight out to catch the eight o’clock session at the cinema. Walking down the stairs to the car park, Laver, not completely ready to throw his career away on a drink-driving charge, suggested she drive, but regretted it immediately when she said, ‘You’ve been drinking. You’re pissed before we even go out.’ She sniffed the air, as though he reeked of alcohol.
‘A bird died. I had a whisky,’ he said.
‘Meaning six,’ she wearily replied, brushing past him.
And he knew already how the night was going to go.
As she drove, Marcia didn’t ask if he was okay or show any concern for her future husband’s psyche after such a traumatic event, instead saying, in a wondering voice, ‘Tony, are you for real? You sound surprised that this happened, that you killed somebody. Since when wasn’t your entire life leading up to this?’
‘What?’
‘It’s all about the job. It’s all about you versus them.’ Marcia taking on the persona of a movie preview announcer: ‘Rocket and Flipper and the boys against the bad guys, armed to the teeth, in their own little dangerous world on the edges of society.’ It would have been funny if there weren’t such bitterness in her tone. Now back to her normal voice as she stared at him hard. ‘How was somebody not going to die? You’ve had friends die.’
‘You mean Richie? That was in Afghanistan, and he was in the army.’
Marcia looked sad as she pulled into the cinema car park. ‘It’s all big boys with big guns, Tony. I’m honestly surprised you’re not smugger that you’re finally in the killer club.’
Her mobile phone chirped. She hit her code to unlock it, smirked as she read and then started tapping out a text. Discussion over. Laver was speechless.
Did she honestly think he was proud to have killed somebody? Shit, be honest. Was he proud? He didn’t feel guilt. He’d followed his training. He kept thinking about Coleman, lying there, oozing life. But Laver had been shooting back, not starting something. He’d waited longer than he was supposed to. Had almost been shot because of that pause. No way had he been trigger happy, or thrilled to shoot. Was that how Marcia really saw him?
Maybe it wasn’t a hangover he was nursing. It was just a Life Headache. Who could blame him?
‘Hey, Rocket,’ said the barista from behind the counter. Laver looked up from his flat white. ‘Some chick called Simone says they’ve phoned. It’s time.’
Laver nodded. ‘Thanks, Georgio. I was hoping if I kept my mobile turned off, they wouldn’t know where to find me.’
‘You’re getting predictable in your old age, mate,’ Georgio’s partner, Nick, called from the kitchen.
‘Gotta have some certainties in this crazy mixed-up world, mate,’ Laver said as he stood up. ‘Your coffee being drinkable is one of them.’
He threw ten dollars on the counter and headed for the door.
‘You’re too kind,’ Georgio said. ‘Everything all right, Rocket?’
Laver stopped at the door and looked back at Georgio and Nick, in their matching white Bonds T-shirts, at ease behind their counter, their lives uncomplicated by fatal shootings – at least, as far as he knew. ‘I shot a bloke and now the assistant commissioner, no doubt accompanied by a few pollies, wants to have a chat. How do you think that’s going to go?’
‘Tony,’ said Nick seriously. ‘The coffees are on us.’
Laver smiled and took back the ten-dollar note, then shoved it in a charity tin for the Royal Children’s Hospital. ‘Thanks, guys. I’m sure they’ll all recognise that they’ve never been in a crisis situation and will trust my professional instincts at the time.’
‘That bad?’ said Georgio.
Laver shrugged. ‘What could go wrong?’
***
Deep in Melbourne’s court and finance district, a long way from police headquarters where real cops lived, the lift climbed. Laver tried to judge how he felt. Empty? Resigned? Beaten? Not his usual suite of emotions. He took a deep breath and looked at his reflection in the mirror. Lined around the eyes, shaved patchily, a little haggard overall, he wasn’t helped by the elevator’s stark fluoro light. He looked like absolute shit for somebody thirty-five years old. Going on forty-seven.
Staring at his reflection. Cheer up, Rocket? No. ‘Get it over with,’ he said to himself, his voice suddenly loud in the confined space, and took a deep breath.
A chime announced that he was at level fifteen.
Laver automatically turned left out of the lift, walked down the corridor lined with fake mahogany and partitioned glass, creatively lit by row after row of covered fluoro lights. At the very end of the corridor was a heavy wooden door, opening into the office of Neil Broadbent, Assistant Commissioner for Police (Internal Administration and Personnel). Laver opened the door, winked bravely at Broadbent’s secretary, Linda, who he noted had trouble meeting his eyes, and sauntered into Broadbent’s inner office, wearing his broadest smile.
‘G’day Neil,’ he said.
Broadbent was sitting at his desk. Silver hair, frank, no-bullshit face, expensive tie struggling to rein in a career cop who should be in uniform or a cheaper suit, working the streets. Broadbent with his hands clasped on top of an A4 notepad. Looking stern.
‘I think “Good morning, sir” might be a little more appropriate today, Detective Senior Sergeant.’
So, it was like that. Laver thought he might as well turn around and walk out now.
There were two other suits in the room. Reclinin
g on Broadbent’s leather couch, legs crossed and one designer shoe swinging, the smart money on an Italian brand, was Warwick Brunton, Assistant Commissioner (Crime). Laver had no idea why Brunton would be in attendance. The other man Laver hadn’t met, but he immediately recognised him and knew exactly why he was there. Red hair and a thin moustache. Broadbent saw him looking and did the introductions. ‘Detective Senior Sergeant Laver, this is Mr Jeffrey Strickland from the ombudsman’s office. He has asked to be here as a government representative to see that this obviously delicate and unsavoury business is cleared up fairly and satisfactorily for all concerned.’
‘Including me?’
Broadbent looked at him. ‘Yes, Detective Senior Sergeant. Including you, as much as we can. Remember, you were the one who pulled the trigger.’
Laver knew he should just let that one pass.
But didn’t.
‘After being shot at. Okay, so what’s the verdict?’
Broadbent pressed the ‘record’ button on a mini tape-recorder on his desk. Laver heard the click and stared at it.
‘I’m sorry, Detective Senior Sergeant Laver, but at this stage we have no option but to demote you from your duties in the Major Crime Squad,’ Broadbent said in a voice that suggested he was either reading or remembering well-rehearsed lines. ‘Until such stage as an independent government investigation is completed into the shooting of Wesley Coleman by officer Detective Senior Sergeant Tony Laver, the said officer Laver will be re-assigned to the Mobile Public Interaction Squad, with the temporary rank of Senior Constable. His salary will remain at its current level for the duration of the aforementioned inquiry. When the inquiry is completed, Senior Constable Laver’s rank, position within the Victoria Police Force and salary will be re-assessed, as will the possibility of criminal proceedings if required. Senior Constable Laver is with me now and has listened to these judgements. Do you understand your position, Senior Constable Laver?’
Laver put a lot of weight on, ‘Only too clearly.’
‘Yes or no, please, Senior Constable.’
Laver sighed. ‘Yes. I understand my position.’
‘Mr Strickland from the ombudsman’s office is also present as a witness. Mr Strickland, are you satisfied that Senior Constable Laver’s position has been clearly and fairly represented to him?’
‘Yes,’ said Strickland, leaning in towards the tape recorder.
Broadbent turned off the recorder and Laver turned to the politician. ‘Mr Strickland, are you confident that, with these measures, the government’s media smokescreeners can now distance the political cowards up at Spring Street from the whole police shootings crisis and land it instead on the heads of poor bastards like myself, trying to survive in sometimes extreme situations?’
Strickland took a long look at Laver, smirked and said, ‘Yes, I’m very sure we can. Thank you for caring, Senior Constable.’ He put an edge on the rank as he spoke.
You prick, thought Laver. But he shut up.
‘Stay there,’ growled Broadbent in Laver’s direction, in what sounded a lot like an order. Broadbent showed Strickland out, murmuring, ‘Thank you, Jeffrey, sorry business. I’ll be in touch,’ as the pair headed towards the lifts.
Through it all, Brunton hadn’t said a word – just sat there, swinging his foot.
‘Why exactly are you here?’ Laver finally asked him.
‘Sir,’ corrected Brunton. ‘Remember your rank, Constable.’
‘Senior Constable, sir. Why are you here?’
‘Just taking an interest.’
Brunton got to his feet, looked steadily at Laver and left the room.
Broadbent came back, closed the door and sat behind his desk. He opened the top drawer and placed the recorder in it.
‘Merry Christmas, Rocket.’
‘Shit, Neil. I can’t even begin to tell you how fucked up this is.’
‘What else could I do?’ Broadbent replied wearily. ‘It was a major win to keep you on full pay. The premier’s office wanted you on bread and water. Maybe.’
‘Fucking politicians.’
‘One thing about Spring Street: when they decide to find a scapegoat, they don’t muck around.’
‘Who’s that slimy Strickland guy?’ Rocket asked, jerking his head towards the door.
‘A cop, believe it or not.’
‘Shut the fucking door. No way.’ Rocket sat up straighter.
‘Yeah, he was pushing for assistant commissioner status in Perth but then jumped sideways to play with the pollies over here. Never explained why he moved states all of a sudden. Must think he has a future in Canberra.’
‘That explains a lot.’ Laver stood and walked to the window. ‘When’s the inquiry?’
‘Six weeks maybe … depending on when people are available. The Christmas holidays will hold it back once the schools break up. Whatever the finding, the timing of the announcement will be vital too, given the other inquiries already running.’
‘Whatever the finding?’
Broadbent didn’t say anything. Laver turned back from the window.
‘Neil, that sounded a lot like there was the possibility of more than one finding. The fucker fired at me first, remember?’
Broadbent rubbed his neck, exposing a sweat-patch fanning from under the armpit of his shirt.
‘Yeah, yeah, I know.’
Laver gave him a long look. ‘This is going to be okay, isn’t it, boss?’
‘Look Rocket, it should be, all right? What else can I say but that? Yes, all the evidence suggests you acted properly and in accordance with police regulations regarding handguns and self-defence. Every cop there swore you were probably too slow to fire, if anything. But the fact is you were the sixth Victorian cop to shoot someone stone motherless dead within a fourmonth period. One of whom was a fifteen-year-old kid with a kitchen knife, if you cast your mind back. You know and I know that the police force exists within a depressingly political world, especially here in Victoria where we have a reputation for being trigger happy – rightly or wrongly.’
Laver opened his mouth, but Broadbent’s phone buzzed. He picked it up, said, ‘When? Okay. Media Liaison in ten minutes. Thanks Linda,’ and hung up. ‘The seagulls are on their way already, looking for morsels. Strickland is fast on a mobile phone.’
‘Or Brunton,’ said Laver, sitting back down. ‘What was he doing here?’
‘Happened to stop by just beforehand and said he might as well stay for the show. Us assistant commissioners like to keep an eye on the Stricklands of the world as much as you do. Rocket, you spoken to the police union yet?’
‘Tried to. Nobody’s bothered to ring me back.’
‘Nice to know you can rely on them when you need them, huh?’ Broadbent stood and reached for his coat. ‘I wouldn’t watch the news tonight if I were you, Rocket.’
Laver stared past Broadbent, out the window to the wall of the next office building, and didn’t say a word.
Broadbent was playing with his tie now. ‘Rocket, I’m not going to lie to you. The pollies might win this. But I will do everything I can to protect you along the way.’
Laver still didn’t speak. Broadbent walked around the desk and faced him.
‘I know this sounds stupid, but just ride it out, mate. There’s nothing you can do about the inquiry. You’ve made your statement, the coroner has made his, everybody from here to bloody Darwin has been or will be interviewed. It’s out of your hands. It’s not entirely out of my hands and you know I’ll do whatever I can, so just relax.’
‘Relax …’
‘Yeah.’ Broadbent sounded almost surprised. ‘Enjoy not having the responsibilities and stress of Major Crime for a while. Piss off at 5 pm and enjoy being home in time for dinner and a regular root for a change.’
Laver sighed and got to his feet. ‘Yeah, you’re right. Thanks for saving my pay packet, Neil. I do appreciate that and what you’re doing. I’m just so fucking snaky about this whole process. It’s got nothing to do with th
e fact the bastard was coming at me, firing, and I had to shoot. How are the other inquiries going? Will Shifter get off?’
Broadbent shrugged and grimaced. ‘It’s hard to say. It doesn’t help him that the imitation gun was made of rubber. My kid’s got one that looks more realistic.’
Broadbent looked at his watch and headed for the door but Laver stopped him. ‘Hey Neil, I’ve got one more question. What exactly is the Mobile Public Interaction Squad?’
Broadbent couldn’t help himself. He smiled. ‘That’s the best part. You’re going to love this. You’re joining the mountain bike police.’
‘Huh?’
‘Your job, as of now, is to ride around the city, tell tourists how to get from Bourke Street to Elizabeth Street, and occasionally give tickets to haphazard drivers.’
‘You’re joking. You’re not serious.’
‘Happy pedalling. And remember: try to relax.’
***
The Victorian Police Force being like any other government department, gossip travelled faster than a taxi between Lonsdale Street and St Kilda Road. By the time Laver stood at the squad room door, his squad was ready for him.
Steve Duncan was on the phone, saying ‘What? WHAT?? Oh my God! Incredible!’
He spun around and put a hand over the receiver. ‘Everybody, on your feet. There’s a major pursuit taking place involving the Mobile Public Interaction Squad!’
‘Seriously? Not those heavies from the mountain bike patrol?’ gasped ‘Spider’ Funnal, who’d dropped by from the Soggies for the occasion.
‘Apparently they’re chasing some eleven-year-old kid on a dragster. The chase started at Flinders Street Station twenty minutes ago and they’ve made it all the way to the Arts Centre!’
‘But that’s gotta be two hundred metres!’ gasped Mark Campbell.
Evelyn Calomoulous tore a sheet off the fax machine. ‘It’s coming in over the wire now! “Witnesses said the pursuit reached speeds of up to thirteen kilometres per hour!”’