CHAPTER 4
Detective Sergeant Michael Stubbs headed the Homicide Squad investigation into Tony Thompson's death. The next morning, Gary called him and explained that Barbara Thompson had employed Gary to find her son's killer.
Stubbs sounded unhappy. "Is she claiming we haven't done our job properly? We've been very thorough - explored every lead."
"I'm sure you have. That's why she doesn't want me to repeat your investigation. She just wants me to find Trixie Powell, because she thinks Trixie can identify the killer."
"Oh? Then what do you want from me?"
"I want to have a brief chat so you can tell me what you've found out and what you've done to find Trixie."
"I think that would be a waste of time."
"I'm sure you're right. But I've got a job to do and I'd appreciate some help. You should see this as a public relations exercise: a chance to humour Mrs Thompson. Otherwise, she might get angry and complain about your investigation."
"She's got no grounds to complain."
"I know. But if you don't co-operate, she might think you're hiding something. Why not talk to me and keep her happy?"
A long pause. "Alright. I can spare half an hour, no more. When do you want to talk?"
"Three o'clock?"
"OK."
Police Headquarters was near the southern tip of Hyde Park, well away from the harbour at the brown-suit end of town. Just before 3 p.m., Gary told the constable on duty he had an appointment to see Stubbs. The constable phoned and announced Gary's arrival.
A few minutes later, the lift doors opened and a tall man with a large gnarled nose and receding chin emerged. He wore a tired blue suit with heavy creases and fraying cuffs, which made him a walking fashion crime scene.
A dull expression and limp handshake. "Hello, I'm Detective Sergeant Stubbs. Follow me."
They got into a lift and travelled up to the 15th floor, dead air between them.
The Homicide Squad occupied a large cubicle farm with glass-walled offices around the sides. Lots of detectives were moving about wearing .38s in shoulder-holsters.
Stubbs led Gary into an office with a white-Formica desk. Grey filing cabinets lined the walls. A pale man in his early thirties was already seated. Thinning blond hair garnished his mottled pate.
Stubbs said: "Mr Maddox, this is Detective Constable McGrath. He's been helping me with the Thompson investigation. I've asked him to sit in on this chat."
McGrath was obviously there to corroborate any version of the meeting Stubbs later wanted to propound. After giving Gary a suspicious look, he half-rose to shake hands. Gary braced for a bad cop, bad cop routine.
Stubbs sat behind his desk and Gary dropped into a chair next to McGrath.
Stubbs said: "Your name sounds familiar. You related to George Maddox?"
The question didn't surprise Gary. His father had a stellar career in the force until he retired five years ago. "Yes, my dad."
"Really? Never met him. But he had a big reputation. Everybody said he should have made Commissioner."
Gary smiled. "So did he."
No laugh. "I bet. You were a cop too, right?"
"Yes. For eleven years - last five on the Narcotics Strikeforce."
"Working UC?"
"Yes."
"Ever come across Tony Thompson?"
"No, didn't have the pleasure. What do you know about him?"
"Well, whoever killed him was just taking out the garbage: guy was a total scumbag. Our intel is that he sold lots of clubber drugs - mostly coke and speed - around the Eastern Suburbs."
"Who were his customers?"
"Barmen, bouncers, DJs, brothel-owners, rave organisers - even a few celebs."
"Any you want to name?"
"No."
"Who supplied him?"
"We don't know."
"Was he a PI?"
"Don't think so. I mean, he's not on the Register of Informants, and nobody in the Narcotics Strikeforce has claimed him."
That didn't mean much. Drug cops never put their good informants on the register. "OK. Let's talk about the day he got shot. Any idea what he was doing in Darlinghurst?"
"No. But we reckon he went there to meet someone - probably the killer."
"He was carrying a pistol right, and didn't even get it out?"
"Correct."
"So he probably knew - and trusted - the killer?"
"Looks like it."
"But nobody got a good look at the guy?"
"Correct. We've only got one eyewitness and the killer was wearing dark glasses. But one thing's clear: the killer stayed very calm; obviously a pro."
"What about the getaway car? Did you find that?"
"Yep, a couple of suburbs over. It was stolen the day before. I'm afraid the killer left no prints or DNA on it."
"And the murder weapon - found that?"
"Nope. But Forensics says the bullets came from a nine-mill."
"OK. Now tell me about Thompson's girlfriend, Trixie Powell? I understand she disappeared on the same day he was killed. You looked for her?"
"Yes. But she's dropped off the face of the earth. We've logged her name into COPS. So, if she's picked up for any reason, we'll find out. Until that happens, there's nothing we can do."
"What about her family? Spoken to them?"
"Her father's dead. But we spoke to her mother. Claims she's got no idea where Trixie's gone."
"Do you believe her?"
Stubbs said: "No. I think she knows more than she's saying. But I can't prove that."
"Why do you think Trixie disappeared?"
"Isn't that obvious? She thinks she's next in line for the chop."
"You think she knows who killed her boyfriend?"
"Yep. She's no babe in the woods: she was a hooker and has a conviction for cocaine possess. She probably helped Tony sell his shit and knew who his enemies were."
"How much longer will you continue your investigation?"
"Not long. McGrath here is reviewing the file, to see if we've missed anything. Then we'll put it to bed."
Gary wasn't surprised they were wrapping it up so fast. There was no pressure from the police brass or media to solve the murder of a drug-dealer.
Gary said: "You're giving up pretty quick, aren't you?"
"Look, we've done our best. But it's damn hard to solve these sorts of murders. Drug dealers are always running into bullets and we never find out why. Maybe he ripped off the wrong guy, welched on a debt or got fingered as a snitch. We'll probably never know." Stubbs sounded surprisingly embarrassed about his lack of success.
Gary said: "OK, thanks for your help."
Stubbs leaned forward and stared hard. "You know, if your client really wants to blame someone for her son's death, she should look in the mirror."
"What do you mean?"
"Well, if there was a competition to find the World's Lousiest Mum, she'd get first prize. She told you about her other two sons?"
"No."
"The oldest, Clint, isn't too bad. He's a car mechanic and stays out of trouble. But the next oldest, Alex, is a first-class scumbag: he's twice done time for armed robbery. And Tony, of course, sold drugs for a living. So two of her kids turned out to be total dead-shits."
"So what?"
"Being a cop's taught me that arseholes beget arseholes. Always have, always will. It's that simple."
Though Gary agreed with him, he felt obliged to defend his client. After all, she was paying his bills. Stubbs was also easy to dislike. He said: "I can understand why you want to blame her for her son's death."
Stubbs looked startled. "What do you mean?"
"You haven't found the killer. So, to make yourself feel better, you blame her. Some would call that pretty cheap."
Stubbs looked like he'd been slapped. His eyes narrowed. "Fuck you."
Gary got to his feet. "Go on, poke your tongue out – it'll make you feel better."
"Piss off."
"I take it this meeting is over?"
"Yeah, get out of here."
"Thanks for your help." Gary turned to go.
"Hey Maddox, just remember this: if you find Trixie Powell, or find out anything about Tony Thompson's death, you'd better tell me, understand? You don't, I'll come down on you like a tonne of bricks."
Gary smiled. "Did you get that from a movie?"
Stubbs' face detonated. He stood and pointed at the door. "Get the hell out of here."
Gary hoped he didn't need any more help from Stubbs, because it would not be forthcoming.
As Gary drove back to his office, he got a call from Vincent Drew a.k.a. Lone Wolf.
Gary said: "Yes, Wolfie, what's cooking?"
"I've been all over the net looking for this chick. Not much luck. I got into the Metro Bank's system and looked around. She's got an account alright. Balance of $125. Hasn't been touched for months."
"No ATM withdrawals?"
"Nope."
"No Eftpos?"
"Nope."
"OK. Where else did you look?"
"Like you asked, I checked to see if she's getting any welfare payments or made any Medicare claims. Nothing doing."
"OK. Anything else?"
"Yep. I checked Facebook and MySpace. Nada. Also looked to see if she's got any credit cards."
"And?"
"Got a Mastercard with about $700 in credit, but hasn't used it for about three months. Weird, huh? This chick has really disappeared into thin air - gone right off-grid. Maybe someone's crashed her hard drive, if you know what I mean. Total shut-down."
That looked like a real possibility.
Not Dead Yet Page 5