Tallowwood

by N. R. Walker

  August hadn’t joked with anyone in a long time.

  In fact, he hadn’t spoken to anyone in a long time, outside of work conversations and small talk. He tended to avoid people, so why was Porter different?

  August was pretty sure it was the freckles.

  Those goddamn freckles across Porter’s nose, his dark eyes, and wide smile . . .

  “Did you have enough toast or want another slice?”

  August started at Porter’s sudden appearance. “Oh, plenty, thank you.” It was then August noticed what Porter was wearing . . . well, actually more to the point of how he was wearing what he was wearing. It was the standard New South Wales police uniform: long navy cargo pants, sky-blue shirt with the police badge on the chest and sleeve, standard issue black lace-up boots. That was nothing out of the ordinary, but the way he filled out that uniform was nothing short of spectacular.

  He was clearly fit, given how his shirtsleeves hugged his biceps; the fabric stretched across his chest and shoulders. His standard police belt sat comfortably around his thin waist, showing off his perfectly rounded arse. He’d worn the same uniform yesterday, but his coat had hidden the beauty of his body in that shirt . . .

  Christ. He could be in a Men In Uniform calendar.

  Thankfully oblivious to August’s inappropriate scrutiny, Porter went about making more coffee, this time filling a Thermos. “So,” he began as he busied himself. “I was thinking about these two new cases and how they relate to yours.”

  “Me too,” August lied. It wasn’t that he hadn’t given it any thought. It was more that he’d been thinking about Porter, and how he was noticing him, and why he was noticing him. August hadn’t noticed anybody in years. And this new awakening was taking up most of the room in his thinking space.

  Why now? Why him?

  “Why?” Porter said.

  August did a double take. Fuck. Had he said that out loud? “Why what?”

  “Why here?” Porter said. “Why were those two bodies found here? Why a different location from the others?”

  August shook his head, switching gears and getting his head in the game. “I won’t know until we get some confirmed information on these two new cases.” He filled the sink with hot water and detergent, then quickly washed up everything.

  “The other cases were in Sydney, right?” Porter screwed the lid on the Thermos and turned to the fridge.

  “Uh, yeah.”

  “It’ll be interesting to get the dates of death. To determine which murders were first, yeah? Did the killer start in Sydney or end up there? And why here? Did he drive through here often? Did he holiday here in the summers? Was he a truck driver and drove the highway between Sydney and Brisbane three times a week?”

  August sighed and let the water out of the sink as he finished up. “It changes everything. The profile I’d gathered on these cases just got blown apart.”

  “Or,” Porter countered. “It could be the missing piece that puts the whole puzzle together. When we get Doctor Schneider’s findings, we’ll know more. More information, more clues. Maybe these two bodies were the first and he was still learning, or maybe they’re later in his killing career and he got sloppy.”

  August appreciated his optimism and managed a smile. “I hope so.”

  “And, it raises another question,” Porter added. “If you’ve got seven cases in Sydney and I’ve got two up here, there’s seven hundred kilometres between them. Makes you wonder how many we don’t know about that are possibly dotted along the highway between here and there.”

  August groaned and scrubbed his face with his hand. “That is something I don’t want to think about.”

  Porter gave him a smile. “It’s a lot of missing persons reports to go through.”

  “It is.”

  He grinned. “Lucky there’s two of us on the case now.”

  “Two of us?”

  “Yeah, you and me. You’ve got seven cases, I’ve got two. Same pattern, same MO, same killer. Which means same case.”

  August frowned. “Well, I don’t work with anyone . . .”

  Porter grinned again. “Is that an old white-man thing?” August’s mouth fell open, and Porter laughed. “Just kidding. That was for the ‘Is that an Aboriginal-knowledge thing?’ comment in the forest yesterday.”

  August groaned and felt his cheeks warm. “I really am sorry for that.”

  “Oh, I know. The look on your face was hilarious. A mix of shocked and horrified.”

  “It was a stupid thing to say. It was ignorant, and I do apologise for that. I don’t even know why . . . I have no excuse. But I am sorry.”

  “Actually, it was more racist than ignorant,” Porter added simply. “I mean, it was both racist and ignorant, but like sixty-forty.”

  “Ouch.” August flinched as though Porter’s words were somehow physical. “I deserve that though. Again, I’m sorry.”

  Porter smiled, and his eyes shone with humour. “It’s okay. Apology accepted.”

  “And I’m not old,” August added lamely.

  Porter laughed again. “Sorry about that. It was just too easy.”

  August could tell from Porter’s smile he wasn’t sorry one bit. He decided to change subjects. “You have a really nice home.”

  He looked around. “Thanks! It’s taken a bit of work. The laundry still needs redoing,” he answered. “It’s an old house, so the laundry was kind of out the back. I’ll get around to that in the summer.”

  “You did all the work yourself?”

  “Mostly. Had to get tradies in for some things, like plumbing and electrical. But my cousin’s a builder, so he helped me a bit. Or a lot actually.”

  “You own your own house?”

  Porter laughed again. “This is Tallowwood, not Sydney. And this house is seventy years old and was in need of a lot of TLC. It wasn’t exactly expensive. Well, not compared to what you’d be used to. What would this cost you in Sydney?”

  August puffed out a breath. “Jeez, I dunno. Depends where. A million, maybe.”

  “Shit. Yeah well, it didn’t cost me even a quarter of that.”

  August sighed and shook his head. “Well, it’s a beautiful home. You should be proud.”

  His smile was back. “I am, thanks.” He refilled Scarlett’s dish with biscuits, then slipped on the navy-blue coat that hid his body. August was a little disappointed . . .

  Which was utterly ridiculous.

  “You ready?” Porter asked as he pocketed his phone and grabbed his keys. He collected the Thermos and two travel mugs. “I wanna beat Hirsch to the office.”

  “He lives next door to the station.”

  “I know. That’s why we need to leave now.”

  August laughed, grabbed his carry-on bag, and they left. Porter lived exactly one minute’s drive from the station. They could have walked, but there was a good chance they’d be driving out to the crime scene first thing and they’d need a car for that. They got to the station at a quarter past seven in the morning. Porter opened everything up, flipped on all the lights, and turned the heater on. He booted up the computer system just as Hirsch came in. The sergeant looked tired and had a coffee mug to his mouth as he eyed both Porter and August.

  “You’re in early,” Hirsch grumped. “What time did you end up leaving the site last night?”

  “About three,” Porter answered.

  Hirsch frowned into his coffee. “The remains taken into town?”

  Porter nodded. “Yeah. Schneider and Bartlett took them when they left.”

  “Did they find anything at the scene?”

  Porter hesitated for half a second. “They’re not sure. Looks like it could be connected to the other remains and to Detective Shaw’s case. But they won’t know until they have a proper look today.”

  “Shit,” Hirsch whispered.

  “We’re heading back out there now,” Porter said. “I want to take another look at the gravesite. The other teams will be canvassing again today, yes?”
>
  Hirsch grumbled again, something in the affirmative, and promised he’d head up there as soon as Deans arrived at the office.

  Porter made their excuses, and he and August were back in the Patrol in no time. Tallowwood was a sleepy little village, picturesque with the morning sun filtering through the forest and fog. There were street names like Red Cedar Road, Blackwood Street, and Coachwood Lane. Houses had smoke billowing from chimneys, people wearing coats walked dogs, and one lady waved to Porter, who smiled and waved back.

  Tallowwood was a weird paradox. Idyllic and peaceful on one hand, sleepy and quiet. But it was also home to some gruesome murders and unimaginable horror. The killer had driven this very street, had gone past these houses, and was probably waved at by an unsuspecting local who was out walking their dog . . .

  August hated that this town was subjected to the murders. In the cold and apathetic streets of Sydney, it was understandable, or logical. But here, it seemed cruel. Like stealing innocence or being spiteful in the face of kindness.

  It didn’t seem fair.

  Then again, when was murder ever fair?

  When they arrived at the scene, the clearing where they’d parked the Patrol, which yesterday had been a hive of activity, was now eerily empty. The road continued on ahead, but August hadn’t paid too much attention to what was up there. If memory served him right, he thought Porter had mentioned a dam.

  “Is there a dam up there?” August asked.

  “Yeah, about another five hundred metres or so, round that bend. I can show it to you after, if you like?”

  “Yeah, thanks.”

  Porter handed the Thermos and two mugs to August, then grabbed his backpack, and they took the path to the second gravesite. Where they’d stood just a few short hours before.

  Jacob set off doing his photographing-the-site thing, taking close-ups of the dirt and the roots of the tree. But August watched the forest. The trees were still, like they were still sleeping. The morning sun barely filtered through the canopy, and it gave a mottled, muted light. There was mist, and it was cold and damp. Wildlife lurked, hidden, watching. It smelled of rotting leaves and mildew.

  “What are you looking at?” Porter asked, suddenly beside him. “See something odd?”

  “No, just thinking,” August mumbled.

  “Well, with that frown, I’m guessing it’s not good.”

  “I just can’t help but think,” August said quietly, “what a horrible place to die. I mean, it’s pretty and peaceful, but it’s isolated and . . . Did they know they were going to take their last breath here? I’m pretty sure they’d have known. They must have been terrified. Did they scream? Did they fight? Beg? Did they try and run?”

  Porter stared at him for a long second, then glanced out to the forest where August was still staring, then he looked back to August. His expression was grim.

  “I never used to think of that shit,” August added quietly. “Now I do. I wish I didn’t.”

  He opened his mouth to say something, but then a sound of a car door shutting and voices grabbed his attention. A second later, a whole crew of cops wearing overalls with POLICE across the chest started to gather in the clearing. They’d be meeting in the car park to await further instructions, no doubt.

  “Great. The cavalry’s here,” August grumbled. He wasn’t in the mood for people today.

  Porter put his hand to August’s arm and met his gaze. He had concern in his dark brown eyes; his smile from earlier was gone. He didn’t say anything, just the gentle touch, the concerned look, and he walked down toward the clearing. Maybe words weren’t necessary. Maybe he didn’t know what to say.

  August didn’t know what made him say that stuff out loud. He’d never admitted those thoughts to anyone else. If August was truly honest with himself, that was probably because he never really spoke to anyone else. But he couldn’t bring himself to regret it.

  For some strange reason, August wanted Porter to know.

  And he watched as Porter ran lead on the investigation. More police in white overalls turned up, more of the forest floor was searched, more soil samples were taken from the gravesite. Porter took the Thermos and poured two coffees while August held the cups. He tucked the Thermos into his camera bag, took one cup, and sipped it. “Want me to show you the dam up the road?” Porter asked. “It won’t take long, and these guys have this covered.”

  “Sure,” August answered. It was midmorning by this stage, and August felt stagnant. He knew all too well that most of this job was spent waiting, but maybe he could be back at his office in Sydney, going through the other cases, looking for something he might have missed.

  He didn’t know what that could be. He knew every word of every file, every photo, every evidence report. August even thought for one fleeting moment that maybe Porter could look over the files. Fresh eyes often caught things that might have been missed by tired minds. If August kept rereading the same mistake, he’d never see the missing truth.

  Yet something made him hesitant to offer. Those cases were his own. Not in a selfish ‘mine’ way, but in a responsibility August felt in his bones. He owed it to those victims to find justice. He didn’t want to shirk that off onto anyone else.

  When they walked into the clearing, which was now lined with police vehicles, Porter’s phone rang. He eyed the number and stopped walking, waving his coffee at August.

  “Porter,” he answered. Whoever had called him spoke for a second or two, and Porter grinned. “We’re on our way.” He ended the call and quickened his pace to the Patrol. “That was the lab,” he explained, getting in behind the wheel. “They’ve got something for us.”

  August climbed into the passenger seat. “Did they specify?”

  “They got a match on the DNA. Our first vic has a name.”

  Chapter Eight

  “Perry James Ahern, twenty-two years old. Lived in Coffs Harbour, so he’s a local boy. His mother reported him missing eight years ago when he failed to come home. He went out with friends, was last seen leaving a gay bar. Witness reports were taken, led to nothing. No body was ever found, so he became a missing person.” Jake scrolled through the report. “His mum still lives in Coffs. Wanna go see her?”

  August gave a nod. “Absolutely. She might be able to confirm a few things.” He frowned. “Have you got the report from Bartlett?”

  From the way August said Bartlett’s name, he couldn’t really hide the fact he didn’t like the man. They must have had a run-in over another case, and it must have been some time ago because the animosity appeared to be ingrained. Though Jake was curious, he wasn’t stupid enough to ask outright. So he clicked a few buttons and glanced at the printer as it spat out pages. “You can read it to me on the way. Just give me one second, and I’ll call ahead to see if Mrs Ahern’s at home.”

  A few minutes later, Jake told Constable Deans where they were going and to let Hirsch know. He’d gone back out to the crime scene, and Jacob was pleased to be out from under his boss’s scrutiny. And Jake liked having a partner, no matter how temporary. He enjoyed his time with August, who wasn’t as grumpy as his reputation made him out to be. Sure, he scowled a lot and his resting bitch face was more of a don’t-fucking-speak-to-me face, but Jacob saw through that. There was more to August Shaw than met the eye.

  Soon enough they were driving out of Tallowwood, along the winding forest road, down the mountain toward Coffs Harbour. Jacob concentrated on the road while August read the report.

  “Victim aged between eighteen and twenty-two. Ethnicity Caucasian. Blood type B positive. Antemortem break injury to right ulna, healed well. Age victim sustained injury, approximately eight years old.”

  “That’s pretty much everything Doctor Schneider told us.”

  August nodded. “Yeah. Nothing new there.” He turned the page. “No perimortem damage to phalanges and the hyoid is intact. No perimortem fractures to skull, jaw, or teeth.”

  “No defensive markers to the hands,” Jake confirmed, mo
re to himself than for August’s benefit. “Wasn’t strangled. No head injury.”

  August turned another page. “Reports from the crime lab. Soil samples were inconclusive for contaminants. Tested positive for blood, type B positive. Box cutter found at scene had considerable rust damage and could not produce any fingerprints, however the blade tested positive for blood of the victim. Victim’s clothing positive for victim’s blood only. The paper note found with the remains produced no fingerprints, the paper too deteriorated. The necklace and chain also produced no other trace elements, no particulates.”

  “Fuck,” Jake mumbled.

  August turned another page. “Medical examiner’s findings,” he said quietly. There was a lot of doubling up in reports, but August read it all out loud anyway. “Human remains, time of death, age at time of death, accurate to the DNA match finding the victim as Perry James Ahern of Coffs Harbour. No fatal trauma evident to skeletal remains. Blood found on clothing and the depth to which blood had seeped into the surrounding soil, depth greater than twenty centimetres suggests massive blood loss, possibly fatal. Given the dispersal of blood seepage at the left hand, suggests possible severing of radial or ulna artery at the wrist/inner forearm.

  “Given the length of time and exposure to elements and increased microbial activity in the gravesite, exact determination date of death is difficult. The possibility of self-inflicted injury cannot be confirmed. Cause of death undetermined.”

  August took a deep breath and he closed the file. His knuckles were white, his jaw clenched.

  “You okay?” Jake asked.

  August took a second to answer. “Yes. But I’d like to see Nina Schneider before we leave.”

  “Okay.” Jake didn’t particularly like the hard edge in August’s voice. “Were you hopeful for a different outcome?”

  “Hmm,” August replied. “I was hopeful that Nina wouldn’t do a Bartlett on me.”

  “I got the impression you didn’t like him,” Jake noted. He wanted to know the history but didn’t want to be too invasive, so he went with a spin on work. “You’ve worked cases with him before?”