by A N Drew
My shoulder twitched and my head wobbled. As my eyes slowly opened, I realised I wasn't in Sherbrooke Forest. The smell of whiskey didn't belong in a forest. Yet another alcohol-fuelled nightmare. The clock ticked, and I didn't bother looking at the time, the gloom telling me amnesia had taken hold for a few merciful hours. But no matter what, I kept coming back to the same old armchair in the lounge room, with empty bottles littering the living room floor.
I didn't realise Abbie was up until her slippers shuffled behind me. She appeared at the left side of the chair, her hair tousled and her shabby frayed pink dressing gown tied tightly at the waist.
"Jack, what the hell? Did you even sleep at all? Drinking again? This is ridiculous; you need help. You're pulling yourself away from life, from living, from us. Stop! This has to stop!” She gestured wildly and shook me roughly by the shoulder to get my attention and I turned my head.
She sighed and shuffled off. Her disgust of my behaviour was I thought a fair assumption.
The event leading up to my eventual collapse in the armchair still pushed inward, jagged edges that pierced my oblivion.
After leaving Will Holmes, I’d driven back to the office and attempted to read through the records for the two other murders, before I’d given up and decided to go home. I’d put on some music, the guitar riffs of Muse easing me into another bender of drinking and pacing until I gave up pondering and sank into my old faithful chair.
Somehow, I still held a deluded belief that the memory of Jessica Holmes’ s crime scene would leave me once I got some sleep. They say insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result, but based on my lack of evidence, self-deception was all I had.
I'd begun drinking again over the last week, and now the floodgates were opened, there was nothing else for it but to continue. Unfortunately, now I’d regained my taste for it, it seemed it had lost its full anaesthetic effect, although it took the edges off the memories.
Sometimes.
"This is unbelievable, Jack; your kids need you. I need you. I thought your drinking days were over a long time ago?" Abbie had obviously headed back to bed, thought better of it and returned for round two.
"Look. Give me a break. I'm investigating the torture, rape and murder of a seven-year-old girl.” I said. I didn't expect sympathy, but at the very least I hoped she would cut me a break and leave me to my own devices for a while.
"Your kids need you, Jack; they are still young. You'll never get this time back."
"So they say."
She blew out air from between her teeth. "They say it for a reason. The girls won't be this age for long Jack, enjoy this time with them while you can. You’re ignoring your own kids for the sake of one who’s dead. I know you're committed to the job, but you made a commitment to us too, remember?"
I didn't have an answer for her, or, not one that she'd be satisfied with, so I said nothing.
"I understand this is a horrible case. I can't imagine what that's like but the drinking is just making it all worse, including the nightmares. I heard you scream again last night.” I vaguely recalled her hand on my arm when I’d sat bolt upright, my breath coming hard and fast, although I didn't recall screaming until the exact moment the screams woke me too. Instead, I'd padded downstairs, back to the music, and my old bottle of familiar comfort.
"Look, I just need some time. I'll solve it soon. I have to; just bear with me for a bit longer. For better or worse, remember?” I said, grabbing a bottle and pushing myself up to sit in the chair a little higher.
"It’s more worse than better, at this moment in time." Abbie's gaze didn't falter. "And for God’s sake, have a shower. You don't smell good,”
I needed to get up. There was nothing else for it but a trip to the bathroom which meant maybe I could wash off the stain of this job. I leaned forward in the chair, and she stormed off in disgust.
I would never admit it to Abbie, but I knew I was on a slippery slope. I had been kidding myself that I could stop drinking anytime, and it was a pretty lie—pure and simple.
If I was having a tough time of it now, I wasn't sure how I would go as the investigation progressed. Things would only get worse from here, with it ramping up in intensity the more it unravelled. I had told Abbie to back off and give me some breathing space, but as the nightmares and the far-too-frequent returns to armchair drinking continued, I wondered if I'd solve it. Instead—at least for now—
I was just collecting cobwebs and pondering on the evidence, the lot of an embittered detective.
I climbed the stairs and headed for the bathroom.
I thought about the crime scene photos and the timeline I’d constructed so far, as well as the other two murders I'd discovered which instinct had told me was related to this one. I didn't have the evidence yet but knew deep in my bones this was the work of a serial killer. The files I’d begun reading for the two other murders, claimed Taylor Wentworth and Bianca Baker were most likely murdered by Dean Brown, convicted for rape and murder, later killed by a drug dealer a few weeks earlier. A now-retired homicide detective David Wilson had noted his conclusions but stated that due to lack of evidence, (including no DNA match and a reluctance on the part of the prosecutor to gain a conviction) the jobs were both to be shifted to open and unsolved until further evidence became available.
I’d tried getting in touch with David Wilson, but apparently, he was overseas.
I turned on the shower, the warmth spreading through my skin, and I groaned, beginning to relax. I wondered if DS Rae Swanson would call me back.
There weren't that many murders in the Knox area, especially not of young children. But in the last few months, there'd been two earlier murders of young children, girls of similar age with the same haunting blonde hair. No way was it pure coincidence.
I turned off the shower taps and dried myself with a bright red towel. I yanked my bathrobe off the hook, wrapped it around myself and headed back downstairs. As I had expected, Abbie had given up on me and retreated upstairs to check on the girls, conceding defeat and probably collapsing into our bed to try and sleep.
I headed back to what had become my late-night cave, grabbing the remote and turning the TV on. I pushed the button down hard to turn the volume of the late show down low. and decided that rather than listen to the host’s drivel, I’d go hunting in the kitchen and find something to eat.
As I rummaged through the contents of the refrigerator, my phone buzzed and vibrated across the kitchen table. I raced over to it to see who called me at this late hour. I smiled. DS Rae Swanson had finally decided to return my call.
I pressed the green button and pulled the phone to my ear.
"Jack Fletcher,” I said. Although I guessed it was near midnight, I decided to answer with my standard greeting.
"Jack? I thought I'd get voice mail. Sorry it's taken a while to get back to you, I've been busy. You know how that goes."
"Yeah,” I said, wishing she'd get to the point and give me the information I needed.
"My name is DS Rae Swanson. You left a message about possible similar jobs to two I referred to you guys?” she said. Her voice sounded husky; maybe she too had enjoyed one too many whiskeys in her time.
"Thanks for calling me back. Yes, I'm interested in your impressions in the murders of Taylor Wentworth and Bianca Baker, two little girls. There’s been another murder of a child, a young girl, and I’m wondering if the murders are linked. Same hair colour, age… Let's be honest, there aren’t that many children of a similar age in this area.” I said.
"Possibly,” she said, although she didn't sound convinced. “Another girl is missing, currently with missing persons.” I needed a meeting with her. It would be hell of a lot easier to convince her face-to-face than over the telephone.
"Could we meet?” I said. "I wanted to run through the similarities, and it would be better face to face than over the phone.”
I paused, daring her to respond and hardly daring to breathe. If
Swanson wasn't convinced, it would prove that much more difficult to wrap up the Jessica Holmes case.
"I'm over on the other side of the city at the moment,” she said. "Can you give me a call in the morning? I'm pretty sure I'm coming out that way tomorrow."
Detective Swanson seemed fairly genuine, but if she was putting me off, she wouldn't get far. I could be like a dog with a bone when I wanted to.
"Okay will do,” I said. I really didn't care if I sounded desperate, I just needed an end to the spiral of drinking, wishing, pondering and all too real nightmares.
I hung up. I went hunting for another bottle of whiskey, padded back to my brown worn armchair, made myself comfortable, and leaned back in it. I was all out of whiskey.
I turned up the sound on the late-night show, but it barely dented my melancholia.
My phone pinged to alert me to a text message.
It was the Team Leader, Selena, probably to remind me of my press duties the following day. Like most cops, this was one of those duties I'd rather be tossed off a cliff than agree to do, but then most of us had a love/hate, primarily annoying relationship with the press, a necessary evil.
Not that Selena cared much; she just needed the job done and it was my case, irrespective of whether I liked it or not. I needed to be up early the next morning. No more scotch for me that night.
She wanted me to speak at a press conference the next day and the media unit would arrive to brief me on my story beforehand. Great.
Press conferences were always a double-edged sword. None of the cops I spoke to liked being the centre of attention, but they did the trick as far as tips and calls from the public were concerned. It meant we got calls pestering us for a sound bite, a slick sounding quote, but we deflected as required and worked with the Media Unit as needed. They'd be pushing me to prepare a smooth briefing for the public. Maybe it would do the trick. The high percentage of calls from Crimestoppers usually went nowhere, but just sometimes, a tip became a real lead, and at the moment, I was information-hungry.
I sighed and sat back in the chair. I closed my eyes, a vain attempt to get some sleep. A press conference first thing Wednesday. Great.
CHAPTER SEVEN
I parked my car and arrived at the office just after 8 o'clock the next morning. I’d decided eventually to call it a night, finished with the whiskey by 1 a.m. and managed a few hours’ sleep compared to zero the night before.
Jerry Wallace called out as I hung my jacket over the back of my chair, dropped my wallet and keys on the desk and sighed as I sat down.
"Hey, superstar. Looking forward to your press conference today?" Wallace said with a grin.
"Funny guy,” I said. “Is the boss around?"
"She was here a couple minutes ago. Check the kitchen, she's probably setting up her IV to the coffee machine." Wallace turned back to his screen.
Hicks had demanded I lead the press conference, but the twist in my gut told me she'd done so only because of the rough time I’d had lately, and she’d taken pity on me. And if there was one thing I didn't need or want, it was sympathy—sweet and warm until you woke up cold and wet. Never the top of my list as far as emotions went.
I figured I'd need to make the obligatory rumblings about not wanting to do it, but the media unit would arrive soon, and my chances of backing out were slim to none. What I didn't understand was why she chose this job to shove me into the spotlight? Was it my run-in with the journalist at the crime scene? Had someone told her I'd thrown up in the bathroom?
Heat rose in my face. I sure as hell hoped not; the squad room had been empty when I'd checked, although I’d been in a hurry, so Garrett or Jerry Wallace might have been obscured behind a short cubicle wall, but then they didn't seem the type to squeal.
A door slammed behind me, and I turned. Hicks gestured with her chin, mid-stride on the way to her office, and I followed. Hicks sat down, leaned back and lifted her head. Her office contained an old spider plant, brown at the end of the leaves, an old filing cabinet heaving with the burden of piles of paperwork, and her desk that gave only the occasional glimmer of a surface underneath. A picture of her teenage daughter was propped against a pen holder underneath her screen.
"Fletcher, you grace us with your presence,” she said. Although her hair hung across her face, I thought I saw the ghost of a wry smile.
I didn't take up her snarky comment, as the lack of sleep and pile of empty bottles forming beside my old armchair at home hadn't exactly lifted my mood, and any reply would only lead to a fast road to nowhere. It was a verbal jousting I was in no mood for.
"I came about the press conference,” I said quietly, shoving both hands into the pockets of my pants.
Boss lady turned in her chair. "Oh, yeah. Looking forward to your media mentor? Tracey should be here in about—” She lifted her silver, gentleman’s Seiko watch far too close to her eyes—"ten minutes…. Early start, she said."
God damn it, she loved to rub it in.
"Come on, Selena,” I said pulling my hands out of my jean’s pockets. “You know I'm hands-on. I get out and knock on doors, press isn't exactly my specialty,”
Hicks rubbed at her chin. "No shit. I'm feeling generous, Jack. I've decided to put the press conference on hold, for now, keep it up our sleeve. What we really need now are leads, so I've had Crimestoppers put out a bulletin on the news last night, based on Gemma's description of the suspect. I gave your details as the lead investigator."
I let out a breath. Hicks loved playing games, part of the years we'd worked together on and off. For now, I could do what I did best, and investigate the job. "Thanks,” I said and turned towards the doorway to head back to my desk.
As I took a step forward and reached the doorway, she called out and I leaned my left hand against the frame, turning to look at her.
"Before you go, Jack,” I didn't like the quiet warning tone in her voice. "Don't get too cocky; you're not off the hook yet."
"Cocky? Me?"
She deliberately ignored me. "At some point, you'll need to learn to play nice with the media unit; they'll be in contact today to help you form a story. When I do call a press conference, you'll be speaking. It'll be good for you to field questions. The media's not exactly at the top of my Christmas card list either, but we need them, and it'd pay for you to remember that.” She picked up her pen and resumed underlining some important point in her paperwork.
I walked back down the corridor towards my desk, sat down, slumped forward and gazed at the monitor for some kind of epiphany. All I needed was one morsel, a frayed piece of string to pick at and unravel, an inkling of the monster’s face, the worm that brutalised beautiful, blonde-haired Jessica Holmes.
I checked my email program, and two emails were highlighted. I clicked on the first one from the Forensics Lab.
DNA analysis for another job, I forwarded it to Wallace for now.
I clicked on the second one from Crimestoppers, which was pretty damn fast. Usually, the crazies rang up first, but the contents of the email indicated that this caller might be relatively sane and helpful rather than desperate for attention.
His name was Kevin Barnes. He claimed to recognise the man based on the description of the suspect, along with the vehicle details provided. Barnes had also listed his address and phone number; he lived only ten minutes away from the station.
My pulse picked up pace a little. I picked up the phone and dialled the number.
"Hello?" the voice sounded gravelly, possibly an older man.
"Kevin Barnes?” I said. "This is Detective Sergeant Jack Fletcher, of Melbourne Crime Command. You contacted Crimestoppers about the child murder case."
A pause. "A terrible business,” he muttered. "I've seen that idiot at the park, and had my suspicions, so when I saw the description on the telly..."
"Mr. Barnes, do you mind if I drop by to talk to you? It's important. You're at home at the moment?"
"Yes, yes I am."
"I'll be there in ab
out fifteen minutes,” I said. Spurred on by the prospect of a possible lead in the case, I grabbed my jacket from the back of the chair, swiped my keys and wallet from the desk and headed out to the car park.
Unlocking the car, I plugged the address into the GPS, and reversed out.
My route would take me down the main four-lane freeway out of the central business district of Melbourne, the principal thoroughfare of Burwood Highway. Then, it would pass down Ferntree Gully Road, past the bustling shopping centre, and onto Ashton Road. The home of Kevin Barnes was situated on Blaise Court, a quiet no-through road in the middle-class suburbia of Ferntree Gully.
Surrounded by large trees, it looked like not a soul stirred at the brick veneer, double-fronted home. I parked my unmarked Ford Falcon on the narrow street out front, pushed down on the key remote and walked down the short driveway to the concrete front porch. Someone loved the house, obviously. The front porch was decked out with a quaint white painted bench, surrounded by tree ferns and many other plants.
The sturdy wooden front door opened as I reached out to press the doorbell. I couldn't see Kevin Barnes’ face through the security door, but with the click of a lock, he had it open.
As I'd guessed from his voice, Kevin Barnes looked to be in his sixties, grey and balding, dressed smartly in navy dress pants and a dark pullover.
"Detective Fletcher, come in please.” He gestured with one hand for me to enter the hallway, opening the door wide.
"Thank you." My shoes clicked on the shiny polished floorboards. I sat down on an armchair in a neat living room, with overstuffed couches and lace doilies perched underneath ornate ceramic figurines. The living room was the first on the right off a long hallway.
Sitting on an armchair directly opposite, he took a deep breath before speaking. "I almost wasn't going to call again, but I have grandchildren, and visit that park fairly regularly.” He dropped his hands between his legs and stared at the floor for a moment. "Sorry, I didn't offer you anything. Can I get you a tea or coffee?"