“What the hell have I done?” Maria screamed at the wall, her fingers running down the front of her bloodied top.
Mick is dead. The realisation hit her and she sank down on her small bed and fought back the tears. Had he actually come for her last night? Did he really care that much…? She did not think so. All he was interested in was the bottom line. He was always playing everyone off against the other, who made more money for the show, who did not. Comparing the Clowns with the artists like her and Ant…, Jesus, even a bearded lady would be funnier than those dreary mime artists. No one found Clowns funny anymore. It was danger and excitement they craved, and that was what she and Ant provided.
Ant… he would be taking it hard, she thought about going too him, he would need comfort, but then again it might be a bit difficult… A knocking on the thin metal door made her jump.
“Who’s there?” She did not want any more well meaning Carnies offering her comfort or sympathy.
“Police”
Shit, she looked down at her costume with the specks of blood clearly visible against the white of the material. An unnerving feeling of guilt washed over her… bloody pills messing with her emotions again. Grabbing her silk gown from the side of her bed, she covered herself before opening the door.
“Can I help you?”
“Police, can I have a word Miss…?”
The police officer in front of her was wearing plain clothes; he was holding his identification out in front of him. It looked like he had not slept recently and there was a dark growth starting on his cheeks. It made him look quite sexy; she liked that sort of thing, even though he may have been a little older than she was. Standing aside, Maria tried to breathe in his essence as he stepped inside the door. He felt fatherly, strong, and confident. She liked this man, she felt safe. Wrapping the gown tighter around herself, she tried for a smile.
Chapter Five
Detective Sergeant Mike Bridger stood in front of the restless group; he was dressed in the cleanest shirt and tie he could find in his fast depleting clothing closet. Living alone for the last few months had taken a toll on his appearance, and with last night’s interruption, it looked like it may stay that way for the near future. Looking at the young and snappily dressed gaggle of reporters, he realised he hated this part of the job. The vultures in front of him were just waiting to pick at any dead piece of information he tripped over, bugger the facts, and just make the Police look incompetent. They had all been at the scene this morning as well, when he had returned in the cold light. Thankfully, the night shift Constables had put the cordon in the right place, obscuring any view of even the longest telephoto lenses. Press photographers had a habit of taking the most gruesome photos they could these days. They fed on the worst of human endeavour, mashing it up and reproducing it in an even more gruesome light. They fed this concoction to the public, but instead of nourishing them with informative life and death stories, they only created more anaesthetic for the perverse that needed a harder and harder fix of the gruesome. It was a vicious circle.
At the scene, the deceased was still dead and had looked even worse than the night before. The blood had become even more thick and sticky, and Bridger had noticed a couple of brave flies hanging around, waiting for a free meal. He had needed to get things moving before there was any unwanted contamination of the body. Becky Wright had replaced Grant at the scene and so he nominated her officer in charge of the body. She would have to oversee its removal, and any evidence found under or around it. Then she would have to make herself available for the subsequent autopsy and again collect any relevant evidence. Not a pleasant job, one that Bridger was glad to delegate. The rules of evidence dictated that there is a clear chain of evidence between locating it and presenting it in court. It was always easier if there were less people involved in that process. Looking at his wristwatch, he noted the time. The scene should almost be clear by now, hopefully cleansed of the bloody remnants of the unfortunate victim. In the last 12 hours, they would have taken more photographs of that one particular area of the alleyway than any time in its history, a bloody snapshot in time.
It was time to get on with things. Taking a deep breath, he faced the microphone on the lectern in front of him. “The deceased’s name is Michael James Wilson; he is fifty seven years old and is part owner of Wilson’s circus, which is currently in occupation at the Oval in Princess Street. He was found dead in the alleyway behind the Hercus building in Great King Street at about eleven thirty last night. The reason for the deceased’s presence in this location has not yet been established. At this stage, the police are treating this as a suspicious death and will be following all possible avenues of enquiry. That is all I have for you at the moment.” Bridger did not want to let on anything about the injuries received by the victim just yet. There was no need to cause any undue panic until they ascertained whether this was a random attack or something more intimate. He turned to leave and the vultures swooped.
“What about the girl that was injured on the trapeze last night, is that connected somehow…?”
“How was he killed…?”
“Do you have any suspects…?”
“What are the police doing about the growing violence in the north end…?”
“Was Michael Wilson gay? Is this a homophobic attack…?
The last question gave him pause as he went to close the door on the squawking wake. Was Michael Wilson gay? He had not considered that angle. Then what difference did that make anyway. Looking back, he saw the question had come from an attractive blonde reporter, dressed very businesslike. She had a serious look on her face and was staring in his direction, she actually expected him to answer. Not likely, it was always best not to tie yourself to one piece of speculation. He closed the door and filed the thought away just in case. Any piece of information, no matter how small, could be the key to finding the killer.
“My office…” The order barked from the end of the hallway. Bridger cringed and raised his head in the direction of the call, just in time to see Acting Detective Inspector Amanda Allison disappearing into the elevator without waiting for him.
‘Ma’am’, as he was told she insisted on being called even though she had not been officially promoted, was three years younger than he was, and had graced them with her presence from Christchurch where she was on the fast track too greatness. He had no issues with females in the police service normally, everyone was equal in his eyes, promote on ability alone, no matter what gender. What got him upset was using her gender to further her career. He had not known her long, so her work ethic was untested, but what he did know was she had very little experience as a Detective before shooting up the ranks, giving rise to his doubts. However, that would not be an issue hopefully; she was just plugging a hole until Inspector Gregg Matthews returned to work, when she would then hopefully slither back too Christchurch for another promotion.
Bridger yawned and rubbed his eyes; he was dog-tired, only having had a couple of hours sleep before returning to work. He knew it was unfair for him too think this way, and was overly grumpy due to the unwanted interruption to his love life last night; maybe he was just jealous of her ambitious nature, he did not really have one himself. The old saying he had heard somewhere just kept popping into his head every time he saw her though, ‘Never trust a person with two first names’. He smiled at his little joke as he stepped into the elevator and pressed the button for the third floor.
“Now, as you know I have been charged with overseeing Inspector Matthews’s workload while he is on gardening leave, and as part of that I am in turn responsible for his staff and their welfare.” Inspector Allyson’s voice was soft and non-judgemental.
Bridger stood on the opposite side of the desk in the small stuffy office that used to belong to his former boss. It smelt better than it used too, with a subtle scent of flowers instead of musty and stale cigarette smoke. He did not quite know where this was going, so remained silent.
“Sit down Sergeant,
I don’t normally defer to formalities.”
What about the Ma’am thing then - Bridger sat on the chair opposite and saw a slight smile on his boss’s lips, and her body language seemed to relax slightly. He did not think he was that sort of person to make someone feel uncomfortable in his presence, especially not a senior officer, but felt better about the interaction now he had the upper hand.
“I have been going through the Inspectors files and I came across this one…” She laid the file out on the table in front of him. “It was buried in the bottom of the filing cabinet.”
The name on the brown cardboard folder containing various papers was clearly marked in large red letters. Jonas Clifton. Shit. The name hit him like a sledgehammer. He knew where this was going now and he no longer had the upper hand.
“Do you recognise the name Sergeant?”
“Yes Ma’am.”
“Then you know what this file relates to…”
“Yes Ma’am.”
“Stop calling me Ma’am, you make me sound like my mother, Amanda will do.”
“Yes Ma’… Amanda.”
Bridger had lost all train of thought, was she playing with him? He knew this skeleton would come back to haunt him one day, but had managed to push it to the back of his mind, the longer nothing had been done about it. Now he knew why. Matthews had buried it, literally, in the bottom of the filing cabinet.
“I thought that had been dealt with”
The inspector shook her head in reply. “I have read through the file, from what I see there is not a lot too it. But it does need to be dealt with Mike.” She was using his first name now. “You cannot just assault someone in your custody and not expect it to come back on you in some way. And from what I read, it does not look like just a slap either, by the way”
Bridger just nodded, slightly embarrassed that she had uncovered some of his dirty washing. He was also slightly thankful that this was the only thing she had dug up.
“I have spoken with Jonas, and he has reiterated that he does not want it taken any further, as he told us at the time. The circumstances surrounding that incident speak for themselves though. You were under a lot of pressure to recover Marion Watson, which you did manage to do. There is also the fact that Jonas had a sizable indoor cannabis operation in his warehouse when you arrested him… Overall, you are probably going to get away with a note on your personal file. However, that is not my decision… I have arranged for you to be interviewed by the Independent Police Conduct Authority. We have to air this Mike, just so we are transparent about it. If this came out any other way, it would be another piece of ammunition for our detractors sitting comfortably at home with their pens, or computer keyboards at the ready, to take another shot at us.”
“I understand.”
“I knew you would Mike…, you have a lot of support in Dunedin from what I can see, I have been told you are a good Detective. I will put in a recommendation before the interview; hopefully it will not be too drawn out. You do have another murder too solve unfortunately. Speaking of which, let’s hear where you are at with that enquiry…”
Bridger left the Inspectors office with a little bit of guilt at his earlier thoughts about her lack of experience. After putting his mind at rest in relation to the Jonas Clifton incident, ‘Ma’am’ or Amanda as he was now aloud to call her, had been quite open to a civilised discussion on the progress of their inquiry, a marked improvement on the dictatorial style of Gregg Matthews. He was surprised at some of the suggestions she had put forward and found himself slightly impressed with her interpersonal skills, making him feel relaxed in her presence was never going to be an easy task after the Jonas Clifton thing. Although he was now expecting a call from the IPCA, he actually felt quite upbeat as he entered the small office area housing his team.
Jo Williamson looked up from her desk and smiled as he entered the room. Although she was on light-duties, and office bound, she still managed to keep up the impression of being engaged in her work, and that impressed him. Jo was on an attachment too his squad from the uniform branch, but one he was reluctant to let go of, even in her fragile state. The reasons were very sharp in his mind. It had been an ugly run in with some local gang members and no one really spoke about what had happened, preferring not too relive those moments, but he knew it would be going through Jo’s mind every day.
The other glaring reminder of that time was the obvious empty desk at which Detective John Mouller used to sit. He had not been so lucky that day, as a result he had not been able to return to work yet due to some debilitating injuries. During a visit too John’s flat recently he had let it slip too Bridger that he was thinking of getting out of the job and trying something new. John had confessed that he felt like he had let Jo down by putting her in a bad situation and then not protecting her. He had told him he could not help questioning his ability as a police officer and even a man. Bridger did not blame him for thinking this way but told him that his job was waiting for him when he felt ready to return; he just had to heal first. In the mean time the rest of the team had begun to use his desk as a file tray and it was littered with paperwork and other assorted items. The sight of his empty desk reminded Bridger that Inspector Allyson had asked him to visit John this evening and nail down a more definite timeline for his return to work. He was sure the answer would still be the same, but he had to follow procedure. He was also a little worried about John’s state of mind; it was more of what he did not say when he spoke to him last that had he was worried. Males, by nature, needed to feel effective, to be in control, the hunter and provider. John’s confidence was at an all time low, he was questioning himself and his ability. It was a dark path to tread for anyone, let alone an injured police officer, who blames himself for his and his colleague’s injuries. Bridger got his cellphone out sand sent a quick text too Johns mobile letting him know he would call in on the way home.
Pocketing his cellphone he looked up again, Brian Johnson and Grant Wylie were standing beside the whiteboard attached to the rear wall. It contained a collage of pictures and scribble, the sum total of the murder inquiry after twelve hours. It did not look like much more than a child’s picture of an abstract octopus, but it would start too spread its tentacles once they had completed more enquiries using the information already on that board. It was an old-fashioned method and seemed outdated in the modern computer era, but there was nothing like a visual indication of the crime you were dealing with, to help the thought process.
“Sorry about last night Mike, I was out with Mrs Johnson for our anniversary and had my phone switched off.” Brian was the oldest Detective on the squad and a hard worker. Bridger also thought of him as a bit of a mentor, there was no need to apologise, but he knew Brian would still feel the need.
“Not to worry, we managed to borrow a couple of uniforms to help us with the enquiries at the Circus, but we need to revisit most of them this morning as just about everybody was too intoxicated to be of much use last night.” Brian just nodded as Bridger spoke.
“They are a pretty hard living crew, the stories about Carnies and their ‘lifestyle’ certainly rang true last night.” Grant added. “Speaking of last night Mike, you did not tell me how your date went with your wife…”
Bridger looked at Grant, he had asked the question with no agenda attached, and he genuinely cared about the answer. “It looks like Laura and I will be back to square one after last night. I had to walk out on her in the middle of our date to come back to work. Never ‘being there’ was one of the reasons she left me in the first place.” That and the heavy drinking, he thought, with a sense of regret. At least he had sorted the drinking out, but he could not do anything about his work. It was always going to be an uphill battle.
Brian looked at the whiteboard intently as if he did not expect such an honest answer to Grants question. “We don’t have much, Mike. I have sent someone downstairs in search of Gillian and Steve. They attended the job at the Circus a few hours before the body was foun
d, something about an accident on the Trapeze. They spoke with our victim last night, so they may be able to add something.”
“Thanks Brian…Grant” Bridger looked at them both in turn, and then down at his wristwatch “Briefing in ten minutes.”
Bridger’s cell phone beeped in his pocket indicating a call and he excused himself, the number on the screen was withheld.
“Detective Sergeant Mike Bridger…” formalities were a work thing, even though he thought it was John Mouller returning his message.
“Sergeant Bridger, this is Keith Joyce from the independent police conduct authority, have you got a minute?”
That was quick, his admiration for his new inspector diminished slightly. He had hoped she would give him a couple of days at least to progress the current enquiry before throwing him to the wolves.
“I’ll give you two…” He could not help himself. He did not like the sound of the man with two first names on the other end of the line. What was it about those name combinations and positions of power?
“Right… Well Sergeant, we have received a file from Inspector Allison regarding an historical incident involving yourself and a detainee. I would appreciate a meeting at your earliest convenience to discuss this matter. You may contact your association representative for advice and he or she may be present at any subsequent meetings.”
It sounded like he was reading from a cue card, typical bureaucracy; no one could afford to put a foot wrong these days and Keith Joyce had the added difficulty of dealing with a Detective who knew the rules. Bridger decided to play for time.
“I’m a little tied up at the moment on a homicide investigation, it’s hard to tell how long it will take, or when I will have a spare moment. Can I get back to you?”
Keith Joyce was not playing the game. “I’ll be in Dunedin for three days this week from tomorrow. Shall we say eighteen hundred hours the day after tomorrow, which should give you enough time to speak to someone… if you want to that is?”
Send in the Clowns, a Detective Mike Bridger novel Page 3