by N. R. Walker
She looked up and tried to smile. “Ah, August. Still in town?”
“Yeah.” Ignoring how Bartlett turned around and included himself in their conversation, August nodded to the man on the table. “People still dying to meet you?”
She rolled her eyes at their decade-old joke and pulled up a sheet and covered the body. “Drink driving. When will they ever learn?” She pulled off her gloves and threw them in the bin, leaned against the counter, and sighed. “I take it you’ve read my report findings on the first remains.”
“Ah, yes,” August answered.
“And you’re not happy.”
“Ah, no.” He took a deep breath and regretted the formaldehyde that filled the back of his throat. “We just got back from visiting Perry Ahern’s mother.”
Nina’s face fell. “How’d she take it?”
“Better than expected. She’s a strong woman,” August said. “For a woman who mourns her dead son every minute of every day.”
Nina mumbled something and looked to the ceiling and let out a sigh. “Did she recognise the clothes found on the remains?”
“Didn’t have to,” August answered. “She had photos of him wearing that very outfit.”
“Fuck.”
“Yeah. Had braces in high school, broke his arm when he fell out of a tree when he was seven.”
“August,” she started.
“It wasn’t suicide,” he replied as flatly as he could manage. He could feel Bartlett’s eyes on him, but he didn’t dare look at him.
“How could she know? Did she have proof?” Nina asked. “Anything?”
“She knew her son. And you can think that’s a crock of shit,” August said, looking at Bartlett then as he said it. “Perry had just graduated uni, got his dream job. Had great friends, a mother who adored him. Hell, they picked out Pride outfits together. He had no history of mental health issues, no health concerns at all. He had everything to live for.”
“You know that’s not how mental health and depression works,” Nina argued. “There’s no rhyme or reason.”
“He didn’t kill himself,” Porter said, surprising the hell out of everyone. They all turned to look at him, and Porter smiled at August before he turned his attention back to Nina. He folded his arms. “Perry Ahern did not commit suicide.”
“I’m not saying he did,” Nina countered.
“Your report suggested it, and COD was undetermined,” August said.
“All I can do is analyse what’s in front of me,” Nina said. And she did look genuinely sorry.
“You said the blood seepage was likely from a severed artery in the left wrist,” August stated. “Perry was left-handed. If he’d done it himself, it would have been on the right. He wasn’t religious at all, in fact, he was opposed to it. So he’d never carry a cross with him. And he didn’t care for poetry.” August couldn’t keep the bitterness out of his tone. “He did not choose to have those two items on his person when he was murdered.”
“I need more proof than that,” Nina said. “I need physical, tangible proof.”
“He was left-handed!” August cried. “The razor cut and blood seepage were found on the wrong side of the body.”
“It wouldn’t be enough,” Nina said weakly.
“It’s enough to list the COD as possible foul play.”
“I need more than that, August,” Nina cried. “All I have is the physical evidence you give me. That’s the only picture I can paint. Ask me off the record do I believe there’s a serial killer targeting these men, and you bet your arse I do. But on paper, I can’t say that. I don’t have the evidence. I need proof. Hard proof, not circumstantial. Not hearsay. Not ‘sorry your honour, but August had a feeling in his gut.’ I know this is personal for you—”
“Damn right it is,” August said. “And it should be personal for everyone. Because murder is personal. Telling a mother her son is dead is personal. Telling her someone wants to peg it as suicide, when it fucking wasn’t, is personal.”
“August,” she softened. “I wish I could do more. But I need proof.”
“Detective Shaw.” Bartlett put his hand up. “August.”
August glared at him. “You can shut up.”
Bartlett glowered. “Nina’s right and you know it. There has to be a chain of evidence. We cannot put conjecture on a report. We can’t offer hypotheticals for a result we want. We don’t get to decide that.”
“You don’t get to decide anything,” August replied sharply.
“No, we don’t,” Bartlett snapped back.
“I’ve given you everything there is. Every clue,” August said. “But you still won’t see it.”
“You’ll have to give us more,” Bartlett said.
August stared at him. “I gave you my word. I told you the truth.”
They weren’t talking about Perry Ahern’s case anymore.
Bartlett shook his head and all but threw his hands up in defeat. “And that was good enough for me back then, and it is now, but it would never have been good enough in a court of law. And if a lawyer can dismiss one finding, it jeopardises that entire case and every single thing we ever do after that. Every case, every report. I’m sorry it wasn’t the answer you were looking for. I’m sorry about Christopher—”
August pointed his finger at him. “Don’t you dare even speak his name.”
Bartlett sighed. “I’m sorry he lost his life—”
August was so close to punching him in the mouth. “He didn’t lose anything. To lose something implies carelessness and error on their behalf. He didn’t lose his life. It was taken from him. It was stolen from him, ripped away like it meant nothing. He is the victim here. He did nothing wrong.” August waved his hand toward the skeletal remains. “Perry didn’t do anything wrong either. None of them did.”
“August,” Nina said gently. She paused for a moment, giving everyone a second to calm down. “We will do everything, everything we can to help you. But you have to give us all the pieces of the puzzle first. Something’s missing. Find it. There has to be something. Look harder, please . . .”
Fucking hell, he hated that she was right.
“Perry Ahern didn’t commit suicide,” he said quietly. “None of them did. They were targeted because they were gay, singled out, and murdered. And there are now ten bodies that we know of. That makes this Australia’s worst serial killer, ever. But no one gives a fuck.”
“That’s not true,” Nina said. “I do care.”
But the truth was, she didn’t. Not really. Hers was a superficial concern. Not like August’s. His concern was embedded in him, in the marrow of his bones, personal and haunting.
“How many more bodies will it take? How many more remains?” August asked, the fight in him gone. “What’s the magic number we have to reach before someone will take me seriously? Clearly the quota for dead gay men is a lot higher than dead straights.”
Neither of them replied.
“Perry Ahern did not commit suicide,” he said for good measure. “Neither did David Milsec, Filipe Bissett, Mustafa Holzieg, or Simon Potter, or Miles Bell, or Jason Sayer, or Mark Krauth, and I can tell you, without any doubt, neither did Christopher—” August’s voice broke, and he fought tears. “None of them did. They fought against prejudice in life, and it followed them in death. Well, they can’t fight anymore, but I can. Nina, I know I’m right.”
She was teary now too. “Find me the missing piece. There has to be something we’re missing. Bring it in, and we’ll nail them to the wall. I promise, August. I promise.”
August was too emotional to respond. He needed to leave. He lifted his hand like he was dismissing every-fucking-thing and walked out. He was so fucking angry, and he was upset—because how fucking dare Bartlett bring Christopher into this—and he was pissed that he got upset. He was pissed that Bartlett had seen him upset, and he was frustrated that all he met was dead end after dead end.
He put his hands on the bullbar on the Patrol and hung his hea
d, deep breathing and slow counting, trying to get his emotions in check. He hadn’t meant to get teary . . .
“You okay?” Porter asked.
August stood up tall and let out a breath through puffed cheeks. “Yeah.”
“But not really,” Porter added.
“I want to punch the piss out of something,” August admitted. He clenched and unclenched his fists and let out another breath.
“If you wanna come to footy training with me, I can line up Gibbo for you if you want,” Porter said. “He’s mad as a cut snake, hard as a rock, and can crack skulls all day long. Not literally. I just mean on the footy field. If you’re itching for a bit of biff, you can have a crack at him. He won’t mind.”
August looked at him and couldn’t tell if he was being serious or not. A bit of biff? Christ. A smile won out. “I think I’ll pass.”
Porter sighed. “Probably just as well. He tackled me once and hit me so hard I came to at the pub about an hour later.”
“Ouch.”
“Yep. It’s what the boys call ‘getting your shit clapped’.”
Now August laughed despite his tears, despite his mood. It had clearly been Porter’s ploy, because he grinned and patted August on the shoulder. “Come on, get in. I know exactly what you need.”
They got back in the Patrol and a few minutes later were heading on the road up to Tallowwood. August wasn’t sure if he should apologise for his outburst at Nina and Bartlett or thank Porter for backing him up. Which he had. But August wasn’t really ready for the whole ‘Who is Christopher?’ conversation, so he opted for a subject change. He remembered Porter mentioning footy a few times.
“So you play a bit of footy, huh?” August asked. “League or union?”
“Union.” Porter grinned. “Tallowwood Warriors.”
“How do you fit it all in? Football, kids’ camps in the school holidays, local heritage days . . . Don’t get me wrong, it’s great. I just don’t know how you fit it all in.”
“Well, I’m very single so there’s no boyfriend to take up my time. And normally Tallowwood doesn’t have dead bodies and serial killers lurking around. Actually, the most exciting thing to happen in Tallowwood in the last couple of months was the Country Women’s Association cake stall in the town hall.”
“Sounds riveting,” August said flatly.
“Well, it wasn’t. Until Beverly McDowell turned up with a sponge cake when she knew Margaret Upton was making the sponge. And she did it out of spite, apparently, and Beverly’s was better, because Beverly’s is always better, but this year was Margaret’s turn.”
August stared at him. “Are you serious?”
“Yes, Beverly’s is much better. Every year, hands down. But the real kicker was that Beverly makes her cakes from the recipe Margaret’s mother gave her. Have you ever seen eighty-year-old women fight over cakes and the recipes of their mothers?” He let out a whistle. “They. Are. Savage.”
August wasn’t sure if Porter was pulling his leg. “You’re not joking, are you?”
“Nope. By the time I got there, the town hall was covered in thrown lamingtons and fairy cakes, a table and chairs were knocked over, Margaret’s hair was a mess, and Beverly’s cardigan was torn. Then Leslie Cartwright had to be taken to hospital because she’d laughed herself into an angina attack. She was still laughing as they were wheeling her into the ambulance. Said she hadn’t had that much fun since that pack of bitches tried to sabotage each other’s wedding back in 1952.”
August blinked, then he cracked a smile. “Holy shit.”
“Yep. Tallowwood’s where it all happens.”
August laughed and his earlier foul mood was gone. “Jeez. Makes being a cop in Sydney sound lame.”
“Being a cop in Sydney would be lame,” he said, his infectious grin aimed right at August.
“Never considered it?”
“Never. You can take your big smoke city and kindly shove it. I’ll take the small-town folks and the small-town dramas any day.” Then the corner of his mouth drew down. “Well, not the bodies in the park. I’d have been quite happy to never have those.”
“Same.”
“What do you think it means?” Porter asked. “That we have two bodies so far away from where the other bodies were? And where is the killer now? I mean, why the gaps in time? Was he travelling? Was he in jail? Sick? God, there are so many questions.”
“I think it means we need to go over every other file. I think we need to call every area command and ask them for their missing persons list. I think we need to start from scratch.”
Porter looked from the road to August. “What do you mean?”
“Every case. Every witness, every scrap of evidence. Someone somewhere saw something. If Nina and Bartlett want the missing piece, then I say we find it.”
Porter’s grin was wide, and August decided, right then and there, that he liked it. “We?” Porter asked. “As in me as well?”
August smiled right back at him. “Well, yeah. If you have time between footy training and old lady cake fights.”
Porter laughed. “I’m sure I can fit it in.”
“I was going to ask you before,” August admitted. “I figured a set of fresh eyes on my older cases couldn’t hurt. If you don’t mind, that is.”
Porter just about beamed, and he practically buzzed in the driver’s seat. “Are you kidding? I would be honoured to help.”
August liked how happy that made Porter. How happy he was to be helping August. “Where did you say we were going? You said you knew exactly what I needed.”
Porter’s grin was back. “Just you wait. You can thank me after.”
He clearly wasn’t getting an actual answer out of him, so for the rest of the drive, August made notes in his small notepad of all the things they needed to do. He only looked up when Porter pulled the Patrol to a stop and found they were in the main street of Tallowwood and, more specifically, parked in front of the pub.
The Bullock’s Rest Inn was a double-storey building, federation-style, with a bullnose veranda. Well over a hundred years old, it was a testament to the architecture of its time, and if it wasn’t so hidden away from the rest of the world, it probably would’ve had a heritage listing. Porter gave August a smile and held the door open. “After you.”
August found himself in the public bar. It ran lengthways down the long room; there were TVs along the far wall: two showed horse races, one showed a daytime movie. There were rows of spirits behind the bar and fonts of beer tabs along the counter. It smelt like all bars smelt: stale beer and a hint of disinfectant, but it was mostly pleasant. It was bright, warm and welcoming, clean, and the interior was much newer than August would have imagined, given the old-fashioned exterior.
There were two older gentlemen sitting at the corner of the bar, nursing half-empty schooners, and they both smiled at Porter. “Jacob,” one of them said.
“Hey, Bluey,” Porter said, offering the older man a wide smile and a handshake. “How’s that bloody dog of yours going?”
“Still digging up tomatoes,” Bluey replied.
Porter laughed. “Just so long as they’re your tomatoes this time and not your neighbours’.” Bluey laughed and rolled his eyes. Then Porter looked down the empty bar. “Where’s the boss?” A woman walked out behind the bar with a box in her hand. “Ah, here she is!”
“Oh, hey, love,” she said, smiling warmly at him. She was an Aboriginal woman, maybe five foot four. Her dark brown hair was in a soft twist; she had rosy cheeks, her eyes and smile were warm. And somehow familiar.
Porter put his hands on the bar and leveraged himself up and over to plant a kiss on her cheek. August didn’t notice how that move gave him a great view of Porter’s arse.
He didn’t notice that at all.
In fact, he was so busy not noticing that he missed the beginning of their conversation.
“Oh, this is Detective August Shaw. He’s come up from Sydney to help me with a few details,” Porter sa
id, smiling at August. “August, this is Bernadette Porter, licensee of this establishment. And my mum.”
“That explains the familiar eyes and smile,” August said, then couldn’t believe he’d said that out loud. “It’s nice to meet you.”
Porter laughed, probably at August, but he soon turned back to his mother. “We’re here for a lunch special. It’s been a bit of day, Ma.”
She frowned. “Is it about all the police cars heading through town and why the reserve’s closed?”
The older two men had turned to listen, but Porter shook his head. “You know I can’t talk about it, Mum.”
“But it’s not good, is it?” she pressed. “I mean, given the increased police presence, which I’m sure Hirsch is just tickled pink about.”
“I’d rather not picture my boss being tickled any colour, thanks.”
Mrs Porter grinned. “Two pies, love?”
“Yes, please.”
“And two Diet Cokes.” Then Porter shot August a look. “Diet Coke okay?”
Too bad if it wasn’t. Apparently Porter was ordering food and drinks for them both without any input from August. “Yeah, it’s fine.”
Porter led the way out toward a dining area. It was cosy and all rather charming. There was a wood fire with a steel grille keeping the place warm, and August liked the atmosphere. He hadn’t been in a pub or a club in a long time, and he wondered what kind of hospitality revolution he’d missed in the absence.
“It’s a great little hotel,” August said as they took a table at the back.
“Yeah, I grew up in this pub,” he said. He put his drink down, then proceeded to take off his coat, and August didn’t notice or appreciate that either. Not at all. “Mum and Dad have worked real hard getting it to what it is today.”
“You didn’t want to run the family business?” August asked. He sipped his drink and deliberately didn’t look at how Porter filled out that police shirt. Across the chest, the biceps . . .
“And what? Miss the paperwork and shit hours of being a cop?” Porter chuckled. “Nah. I always wanted to be a policeman. And this is Mum and Dad’s dream. Not mine. They have this place covered anyway. In case you haven’t noticed, it’s not exactly a busy town.”