by Gary Gregor
Vengeance List
Gary Gregor
Contents
Acknowledgments
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Dear Reader
About Gary S. Gregor
Copyright (C) 2016 by Gary S. Gregor
Layout design and Copyright (C) 2019 by Next Chapter
Published 2019 by Gumshoe – A Next Chapter Imprint
Cover art by Cover Mint
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author's permission.
Acknowledgments
A number of people play a role in getting an author's story from an initial idea to a published book. For some of them, that role is small, for others it is significant. All who contribute in some way, regardless the level of input, are important to me, and although it might be cliché, it is true that this book would never have seen the light of day without each of them.
If I must nominate just a few, I would start with my former colleagues in the Northern Territory Police Force. You wonderful folk are the inspiration for my characters and, while those characters are fictional, I occasionally draw on the personality traits of some of those I have met in the job. If you recognise yourself in any of them, please remember that you are there because you inspire me.
My beautiful wife, Lesley, who tolerates my long hours in front of the computer without complaint, I love you and I thank you, although I still insist my love of writing is not an obsession.
Last, but by no means least, I thank all at Next Chapter Publishing. The Next Chapter team took a punt on an unknown, and that's rare in this business. I hope I can justify your gamble. I know I'll never stop trying to honor that leap of faith; thank you.
This book is respectfully dedicated to the memory of police officers everywhere who have paid the ultimate sacrifice in the service of their communities.
1
Someone had sliced Carl Richter open. An ugly, gaping wound ran horizontally across his stomach, just above where his belt cinched tightly around his ample waist. His intestines had spilled from the obscene wound and lay half in his lap and half on the floor at his feet. A thin, transparent fog of steam rose from the warm, bloody mess, and dissipated in the tepid air of the tiny office.
Remnants of undigested, semi-fermented junk food spilled from Richter’s ruptured belly through the rip in his uniform shirt, and lay amidst the gore gathered beneath the desk where he sat. In the seconds before he succumbed to his wound, Richter had tried to push the slippery, writhing contents of his stomach back into the hideous slash dissecting his girth, and now his hands, bloodied and lifeless, hung limp at his sides. A long, thin thread of elastic-like bloody mucus dripped from one finger, connecting him to the pool of red slowly expanding beneath his chair.
The police officer who found him thought he was asleep at first. It wasn’t until she approached Richter, slumped face down at his desk, that she began to suspect he might have suffered a long overdue heart attack. Given his age, size, eating habits, and sedentary lifestyle, Richter was entrenched in the high-risk coronary category.
When he failed to respond to her calling his name, she knew he was not napping on company time. Then there was the smell; it permeated through the already stuffy property office, and seemed to envelop her like a colorless fog on a winter’s morning.
The way Richter slumped over his desk concealed the true nature of his condition from her until she moved to one side, intending to administer an exploratory nudge.
Constable Tina Jefferies screamed. Mesmerised, she stared wide-eyed at the sight that faced her.
Cops arrived from every corner of the police headquarters building. They nudged and jostled each other as they attempted to squeeze en-masse into the tight confines of the office to get a glimpse of Carl Richter’s corpse. Death, particularly violent death, had always been a source of morbid fascination, even for cops.
In the ensuing crush, Tina Jeffries found herself shuffled to the back of the room and now stood in an almost catatonic state, her back pressed hard against the wall by the swelling wave of curiosity seekers. At one point, although she couldn’t recall doing so, she had vomited, and flecks of spittle glistened on her chin. From somewhere, a strong hand seized her arm; someone called her name, and dragged her from the midst of the rapidly growing confusion.
Outside, the hot, humid air engulfed her, and she retched noisily, throwing up again. A watery stream of bile splattered the front of her uniform blouse, and soiled her highly polished shoes.
Order needed to prevail, and someone needed to control the confusion. It came in the form of detectives from the Criminal Investigation Branch, whose office windows opened onto the compact car park adjoining the Property Office. One voice, clear and commanding, rose above the din, issuing orders and directives to those crowded into the room. Soon, from the confusion, a degree of decorum was established.
Detective Inspector Russell Foley, in his often envied, inimitable style, quickly restored a measure of respectability to the throng of police officers clamouring to see for themselves the disembowelled remains of one of their own.
Carl Richter was a heart attack waiting to happen, and many of his co-workers believed it could happen at any time. His wife had been on his case for years to lose weight, but Carl resisted advice from most, especially his long, suffering wife.
Richter should never have joined the police force. After thirty years on the job, he had rarely proved himself anything other than lazy and lacking enthusiasm for his job. Now, almost fifty, he was overweight to the point of obesity and, if general fitness indicated career longevity, he would have been long gone from the ranks of the Northern Territory Police Force.
To most of those who knew him, his very presence in a place like Darwin seemed incongruous. He often appeared uncomfortable in the tropical heat so much a part of everyday life in the “Top End”. His uniform shirt, ill-fitting and stretched to accommodate his enormous stomach, was constantly soaked with perspiration and, with an old, frayed hand-towel he carried everywhere, he was forever dabbing at rivulets of perspiration running down his face, threatening to drip from his nose and chin, onto his already damp shirt.
It was a common, albeit false, belief in the corridors of Police Headquarters that Carl Richter planned to retire when he reached fifty-five, and it was a damning indictment of his popularity that most, if not all of his colleagues, held fanciful hopes the appropriate authorities might soon see the advantages of offering him the opportunity of invalidity retirement before he reached that age.
It would be to understate the obvious to say Carl Richter was unpopular with his fellow officers; particularly in light of his disgusting habit of breaking wind at the most inappropriate moments. To most people, the expulsion of accumulated
body gasses was as natural and necessary a bodily function as breathing. Richter however, had managed to turn it into an obscene art form, a practice seeming to be a never-ending source of enjoyment for him. Not because of the obvious relief it provided, but for the thrill he felt from the reaction of those poor souls unfortunate enough to be in his vicinity when he felt the urge to expunge the waste gasses percolating away inside his substantial body for God only knew how long.
Encouraged by a rating system a colleague, whose name he had long since forgotten, once bestowed upon him, Richter appeared to be constantly striving to improve on previous efforts. It was an amusing contest for him. Like the scale used to measure the magnitude of earthquakes, the disturbing habit became known as the Richter scale.
A minor protest from those unfortunate enough to be around him at the time of one of his eruptions rated a “Two” on the Richter scale, a “Four” if he caused those people to move from his proximity, and a “Seven” in the event he managed to clear the entire room. In a seemingly bizarre quest to achieve constant “Sevens” Carl continuously fuelled his expanding bulk with spicy junk food, in various nauseating combinations.
Three years previously, Carl Richter was appointed Officer in Charge of the Police Property Office, a small, compact, room attached to the rear of the police headquarters building, and sited at the rear of a small car park reserved for police vehicles only.
Here, evidence collected from crime scenes was collated, tagged, and stored, awaiting presentation at any related, forthcoming court case. Richter’s position was a one-man, nine-to-five job, where he seemed comfortable, if not overly enthusiastic.
Although it was an appointment he could not seriously consider a promotion, he was okay with that. Richter had never aspired to progress through the ranks, and besides, he spent most of his days sitting behind a desk. He knew his appointment to the Property Office was more a calculated move by the hierarchy to isolate him from the general police population, and he was fine with that as well.
The truth was, no one wanted to be sitting close to Richter, enclosed in a hot, stuffy patrol car for eight hours of their shift. He had become an embarrassment, and discreetly applied pressure by a number of the rank and file membership saw him eventually attached permanently to the position he now held.
In the fullness of time, Carl would not be missed by most of his colleagues, but the gruesome manner of his demise would ensure he would be talked about long after stories of his disgusting personal habits paled in comparison.
His murder did, however, invoke anger within the department, the likes of which only a handful of currently serving members could recall. It was a festering, cancerous anger, leaving no officer untouched by its reach, and it had nothing to do with his popularity, or lack of it, among his colleagues. When it was all said and done, Richter was one of their own; he was a cop.
Detective Inspector Russell Foley bit down hard on his bottom lip and clenched his hands to still the fury induced trembling. Foley was not exempt from the feelings of outrage blazing through the department with the ferocity of an unchecked forest fire. Indeed, he found himself drawing on elements of self-control he never thought he possessed. He needed to remain in control. He had to stay focused. As the officer in charge of the investigation, he needed to put aside his emotions, regardless of how difficult it might be, and maintain a degree of objectivity; not an easy proposition.
Anger and outrage at the loss of a friend didn’t overwhelm Foley and his fellow officers; Richter was, after all, underprivileged when it came to close friends within the department. A cop was killed, and that fact alone created sentiments within the ranks in spite of Carl Richter the personality.
His distinct unpopularity notwithstanding, Richter was still a cop, and cop killing transcended any popularity polls. In these days of enlightenment, civil liberties, and intense public scrutiny, it was commonplace for law enforcement agencies to close ranks in times of internal crisis. Cops were cops. They were not taxi drivers, motor mechanics, or housewives. Camaraderie, a brotherhood, a mateship existed, far and away eclipsing individual personalities. When the lacklustre exterior was wiped away, Richter was one of them, and in the heat of their fury, it mattered not that most of his colleagues openly despised this poor excuse for a cop.
Russell Foley breathed deeply, slowly bringing his emotions under control. He stood several paces back from where Richter’s body sat slumped at his desk, and absorbed the carnage before him. Tina Jefferies must have missed the killer by only minutes he reasoned. He also knew instinctively that the killer was gone. He, or she, although he suspected the killer was male, probably ran into West Lane, a narrow, one-way thoroughfare behind the headquarters building carrying traffic from Bennett Street through to Knuckey Street.
More than for any other purpose, West Lane was used by city shoppers when accessing a multi-story, public car park facility, rising above and behind Police Headquarters. From here, it was a short walk to the Smith Street Mall, and obscurity amidst the throng of city shoppers. Richter’s assailant would blend into insignificance among the casual mass of people, locals and tourists alike, ambling through the Mall. He may even have left the area altogether, and could be, at this very moment, putting valuable distance between himself and the scene of his macabre handiwork.
Foley was a career cop, joining the Northern Territory Police Force at twenty-three years of age. Now, twenty years later, he earned the position he currently enjoyed by serving a ten-year apprenticeship on the streets of Darwin. He was a tough, no-nonsense cop who achieved results with seemingly little effort on his part. It was an illusion of course; it was just that he had the ability to make it look easy. Murders were never easy, regardless of how clear cut a case might appear, and Russell Foley knew that better than anyone.
Foley worked his butt off for ten years as a uniformed General Duties patrol officer before earning a transfer to the Criminal Investigation Branch as a Detective Senior Constable and subsequently working his way up through the ranks to Detective Sergeant, and eventually to his current position of Detective Inspector.
He was not without his faults, and had made mistakes along the way. For the most part, however, he was a good cop with an enviable case clearance rate, respected by both his peers and his superiors. A strict disciplinarian and “by the book” investigator, he seemed adept at restoring order and sensibility from chaos with apparent ease; a trait he knew caused envy among others.
Russell Foley stood with his back against the far wall, and watched closely as a Forensics member clad in blue, disposable coveralls and over-shoes, moved around the desk taking photographs of the crime scene. He also wore a small, white, facemask over his nose and mouth, which offered only a thinly veiled shield of protection from the sickening odour still hanging heavy in the air.
Foley rarely wore such a mask at crime scenes involving death, except those involving advanced stages of decomposition. He believed the lingering smell would continue to motivate him to catch the killer. One whiff of the stench of death would hang in his throat and sinuses for several days.
Flies began to gather. Foley lowered his eyes and looked at the congealing pool of blood, and the attendant swarm settling on the gore at Richter’s feet.
Outside, detectives now coordinated, disciplined, and unfortunately well practiced, moved about doing what they do at crime scenes such as this; things they were well trained for.
Blue and white reflective tape bearing the words “Crime Scene – Do Not Cross” was strung across the entrance driveway, cordoning off the small police car park from intrusion by foot or by vehicle; in particular from representatives of various media organisations and the gaggle of rubbernecking members of the general public who began to gather.
Foley had a habit of standing back and study a crime scene for a while before taking definitive action. It offered a chance to observe and absorb the scene before gathering evidence. He waited patiently for the photographer to finish his work, occasionally sug
gesting shots from angles the forensic specialist hadn’t considered. When both finally felt satisfied, the photographer left, and Foley closed the door behind him, leaving him alone in the room with Carl Richter's corpse.
Returning to his position against the wall, he stared at Richter’s body slumped at his desk. His anger had subsided, overridden by a sense of disbelief. How could this happen here? At police headquarters of all places! He reckoned it was a sad reflection of the gross lack of security in and around the building many of his colleagues complained about over many years. He knew, at almost any time of the day or night, anyone could simply walk into the building, access virtually any section they chose, and never be challenged. It was a damning indictment of the existing security measures, and a concern he had raised to his superiors, albeit to no avail, on more than one occasion Now, he felt oddly but unashamedly vindicated. Perhaps now that their domain was seriously breached, and one of their own was dead, the powers that be might find a small measure of motivation to do something about both internal and external security.
Foley moved across the room, stood in front of the desk, and looked down at the back of Carl Richter’s neck. Overhead, a dusty ceiling fan, yellowed with age and years of accumulated cigarette smoke, turned idly with an intrinsic wobble accompanied by an audible rattle, gently stirring the humid air.