by Gary Gregor
The woman gave him a look that said, “Don’t wink at me, you sexist prick, or I’ll tear your face off!” She said instead, “How can I help you?”
“I’d like to see Russell Foley if that’s possible,” Sam said, this time offering only a half-smile, without the accompanying wink.
“Do you have an appointment?”
Sounds like Ann Curtis’s minder Margaret, Sam thought. “No, I don’t,” he confirmed. “I was hoping I wouldn’t need an appointment. We’re… um… old friends.”
“I’m sorry, but Inspector Foley is very busy. You need to make an appointment. If you’d like to leave a message, I’ll see he gets it.”
“Is your mother’s name Margaret?” Sam asked.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Nothing, forget it,” Sam said. “I appreciate he’s a busy man, so am I, but I would still like to talk to him. I’ll be just a few minutes. It is important.”
“I’m very sorry, Sir, but I’m afraid it’s impossible without an appointment.”
Sam leaned across the counter separating him from the constable.
“I’m sorry too, young lady, but I must insist.” He held her gaze and saw a hint of hesitation in her eyes. He leaned a little closer and went in for the kill.
“If you’ll just buzz him on that phone there, and tell him Sam Rose is here, I’m sure he’ll see me.” He jerked a thumb at a door behind him, across the foyer. “Now, I know that’s his office behind me. Do I have to barge in there unannounced, so it looks like you haven’t done your job?” He threw her another wink, an exaggerated one this time, and a smile way wider than the first.
A faint, pink flush rose to the policewoman’s cheeks. It might have been mild embarrassment, or it might have been the prelude to an outburst of rage and she really would tear his face off. For a moment, she held his gaze in a fruitless gesture of defiance. Sam was smiling so hard it was beginning to hurt. Finally, Constable pink cheeks lowered her eyes and reached for the telephone.
“Thank you,” Sam whispered, just loud enough for her to hear. He stepped away from the counter, and moved across the foyer to stand in the open doorway he knew led to the C.I.B. squad room.
There were at least a dozen plain-clothes officers inside, some with heads down deeply engrossed in files, some with their eyes glued to computer screens, and others talked among themselves, or spoke on telephones. Most of them drank terrible police station coffee. It was as Sam would have expected. Nothing had changed.
Lost in the importance or otherwise of their own particular devices, no one noticed him standing there, leaning casually against the doorjamb. Sam found the sounds, and the faint, stale odour of the air emanating from the squad room oddly nostalgic. Then, someone looked up and saw him. The sounds of the room faded quickly. Brief, intermittent moments of silence followed as faces turned his way in recognition.
“Hey, Sam,” a voice called from the back of the room.
“Look, it’s Rosebud,” another said.
“Long time no see,” a female voice greeted from somewhere else in the room.
“Yeah, she’s missed you, Sam,” a boisterous male voice chirped.
“Jesus, all that mess and nothing to wipe it up with,” another joked. Everyone in the room laughed.
Sam was quickly surrounded by former colleagues, jostling to shake his hand and slap him on the back. For the briefest of moments, he regretted leaving all this behind. He wasn’t permitted to luxuriate in the feeling for long.
As quickly as the welcoming din engulfed him, it descended into an awkward silence. All eyes in the room swung from him, to a point somewhere behind him.
Sam turned slowly and stood face-to-face with Russell Foley. The expression on Foley’s face left no doubt in Sam’s mind his former partner did not share the same enthusiasm as his subordinates to see Sam.
The two men stood looking at each other, both painfully aware they were standing in the very same spot where the fateful confrontation occurred a year earlier. It was the first time they had come face-to-face since that day. Sam offered his hand.
“Hello, Russ. It’s been a long time.”
Foley ignored the extended hand. “Not long enough,” he said quietly. Then, he looked beyond Sam, into the squad room. “This is not a reunion party, people!” he barked. “Let’s get back to work.” He watched and waited until his charges shuffled back to their respective desks, and the sounds of productivity began once again to fill the room. Finally, his eyes swung back to Sam. When he spoke, his tone conveyed his obvious displeasure at seeing Sam.
“My office, now!” Foley demanded. He turned away and walked back across the foyer to his office. Having left her desk, the uniformed constable from reception hovered nearby, wearing a smirk that suggested she had just single-handedly captured Australia’s most wanted.
Sam turned to her and flashed another of his killer smiles. “See, I told you we were old friends.”
Russell Foley’s office was conspicuous in its typical government blandness. One well aged, grey metal filing cabinet and an “L” shaped, green vinyl topped desk. The last time Sam was in this office was to present his resignation to Foley’s predecessor. Back then, there were more plaques and certificates on the walls; even a couple of moderately expensive prints portraying examples of the Territories finest attractions hung on the wall behind the desk. Now, as Sam glanced around the room, he decided it was an office reflecting the practical simplicity, no frills approach of its current occupant. Sam closed the door behind him and moved to one of the two chairs on the visitor’s side of the desk.
“Don’t bother sitting,” Foley said. “You won’t be here long enough to warm the seat.”
“Would I be right in assuming you’re still angry?”
“You’re not in the job anymore Rose. Those people in there have a lot of work to do," he waved a finger in the general direction of the squad room "You spent enough years here bitching about the excessive work load to know that better than most. It hasn’t gotten any easier. If you want to catch up with old friends, do it in their off-duty hours. The squad room is off limits to non-police personnel, or have you forgotten that as well?”
“Jesus, lighten up Russ, I was just saying hello to the troops.”
“In the future,” Foley said, “do it somewhere else. Now, if that’s all you came for, I’m busy too. You'll excuse me if I don't show you out."
“That’s not why I’m here, Russell. I came to talk to you.”
“We have nothing to say to each other!” Foley said dismissively.”
“Come on, Russell,” Sam coaxed. “It’s been twelve months. Can’t we move on from this? We were a bloody good team once, not to mention best friends, for Christ’s sake.”
“That was before you broke the police force golden rule and screwed another copper’s wife… mine!”
“Jesus mate, we’ve been through this a hundred times! You knew she was playing around. How many night shifts did we spend together with me listening to you complaining about her hour after hour? How many times did we cruise past your house in the early hours of the morning looking for cars that didn’t belong there?”
“That’s right,” Foley fumed, “and all the time you were back-dooring me.”
“I’ve told you before, and I’ll tell you again. It happened once, and I never went after her. She came on to me.”
“And I’m getting sick of you offering me that crap as lame justification for your actions.”
“It happens to be the truth. That doesn’t make it right, I know. What I did was wrong, and I know what I lost because of it. If I could undo it, I would, but I can’t. No one can. It’s done. Jenny betrayed you many times, with many others, before I did that one time. We both know that. And, we both know her infidelity was mostly with other coppers. She told you herself. My problem is I’m the only one she ever named, and she only did that because she knew how it would damage our friendship. We’ve both had to live with the fallout, mate. I don’t expect your understa
nding or forgiveness. We both know a standing prick has no conscience. Shit, I know you were never the shining example of fidelity.”
“I never screwed another copper’s wife,” Foley interjected.
“Perhaps not, but it was usually someone’s wife.”
“Is this what you came to talk about,” Foley asked dismissively. “If it is, then we did this a year ago, remember?”
“Yes, I remember. Would it make you feel any better if we go out into the foyer, and you can punch my lights out again?”
“As tempting as that is, don’t push it. You’re a civilian now. It would give me a great deal of pleasure to toss your arse in the slammer, so I suggest you piss off before I take you up on your offer.”
“Jesus Christ, Foley, she left you! She grabbed the kids, cleaned out the bank account, and bolted to Queensland! Last I heard, you had to sell the house to give her more money. Now you’re housed in a cockroach infested shit hole, living from payday to payday. When are you going to accept what is done is done, and put this behind you?”
“Get the fuck out of here, Rose!”
An awkward silence fell around the two men. Sam made no move to leave the office. Foley glared at his former partner, fully prepared to exercise his authority if Sam refused to leave. He warmed inwardly at the thought of incarcerating Rose, if only for a few hours.
Sam returned Foley’s gaze, hoping the situation would not develop.
“I didn’t come here to revisit old grievances, or to bang heads with you, Russell,” he said, quieter now.
“Why did you come?” Foley asked.
“I want to talk about the recent murders.”
“You’re kidding of course!” Foley chuffed. “Surely you didn’t come here believing I would discuss police business with you, did you?”
“I guess I knew that would be your initial reaction,” Sam said.
“Initial, and final,” Foley confirmed. “What the fuck did you expect? This is an official investigation. Did someone forget to tell you, you’re not in the job anymore? If so, let me remind you, you’re not in the job anymore!”
“I had hoped we might be able to co-operate, you know, an exchange of ideas, that sort of thing.”
“Co-operate! What the fuck do you mean co-operate? What’s your interest in this case?”
“I’m a private investigator. Investigating privately is what I do. I’m taking a look at things; that’s all.”
“Oh, really, on whose behalf?” Foley’s interest piqued.
“Why would you assume I’m working for anyone? The community is concerned there is a serial killer out there somewhere, wandering around systematically depleting the ranks of the legal fraternity; unchecked it would seem. I was a good investigator, Russell. I still am, if you’ll forgive the self-promotion. And, if I’m not mistaken, there will be more than a few souls in this very building concerned this scumbag is still out there. I just thought I might poke around a bit on my own behalf. Obviously it would help if you could see your way clear to bring be up to speed on your enquiries. I guess I should have known better.”
“You got that right,” Foley agreed. “And, here’s something you can take with you on the way out, and let there be absolutely no misunderstanding. Unfortunately, I can’t stop you from snooping around, but know this, if you in any way impede my investigation by withholding information, or by doing anything at all that hinders or obstructs my team from doing their job, I’ll lock you up so fast it’ll make your head spin. You break any laws in the process, even littering, and I’ll be all over you like a rash. Is that perfectly clear? Should I write it down for you?”
“That won’t be necessary,” Sam answered. “I think I understand. I suppose this means I’m still off your Christmas mailing list?”
“You were never on it,” Foley confirmed.
“Then I guess I’ll be going.” Sam turned and walked from the room. He stood in the foyer for a few moments, gathering his composure. He should have known it would be this way. Why did he even bother? Russell Foley was never going to forgive. In all honesty, Sam wondered if he would feel the same way if he had ever married, and the situation had involved his wife and his best friend. He expected he probably would.
Sam had long ago moved beyond the stage of self-condemnation, and he believed he had managed to put the whole ugly business into its appropriate perspective. Today, however, had unfortunately stirred the sediment of those best-forgotten times.
Over a year ago, in this very foyer, his regrettable indiscretion with Jennifer Foley came back to bite him in the arse. It started in the squad room a few feet away, and spilled into the public area of the foyer. Sam had never before seen such venom and hatred in the eyes of his partner. Foley was spitefully informed by his wife of twelve years and the mother of his two children, that she was leaving him. As a farewell gesture, she found great pleasure in informing him that his partner and best friend, the dependable, trustworthy Detective Sergeant Samuel Rose was a lousy lay, but still streets better than him. Unfortunately, Jennifer, never the epitome of discretion, chose to break the news to her husband at full cry, while standing in the doorway of the C.I.B. squad room. She really wanted to stay and witness the fall-out she knew her outburst would inevitably cause, but as she was also lacking in intestinal fortitude, she chose not to hang around any longer than to briefly enjoy the stony silence that descended on the squad room. The stunned, devastated expression on her husband’s face was more than worth it. It only remained therefore, for her husband to administer his own personal brand of summary justice, which he exacted immediately, without offering his partner an opportunity to respond to the allegations.
He chose to do so right there, in the squad room. The ensuing chaotic coming together of fists, feet, elbows, and heads brought with it a mayhem and madness to the room, the likes of which was never seen before between colleagues, and most likely would never be seen again. Desks, computers, telephones, files, and curious detectives flew in all directions. Sam, on the back foot from the beginning, expended much of his energy trying to negotiate with, and pacify his partner, instead of defending himself. As the physical dispute continued, it gained momentum, and in light of the number and quality of blows that found their mark, intended or otherwise, defending himself was beginning to seem an option worthy of serious consideration. Soon, the combatants were in the foyer, duking it out in front of a handful of extremely bemused members of the public. Foley’s arms flayed wildly, like an out of control windmill, and Rose back-pedalled as fast as he could while trying to remain on his feet and avoid the flaying arms.
The fracas finally ended when several of Foley’s detectives stepped in and separated the two combatants. They escorted Foley into the squad room and closed the door behind them. Bemused members of the public who were there from the start now quickly and quietly departed the building; they would come back another day and conclude their business.
Sam Rose found himself standing alone in the middle of the foyer, blood trickling from a cut lip and another above his left eye. He looked across the room and noticed the policewoman behind the counter slumped low in her chair, pretending to read from a file on the desk. He wiped at the blood oozing from his lip, breathed deeply, and glanced around the foyer. His attention turned to a public notice board on the wall opposite the reception counter. In particular, he was drawn to a page pinned there, almost hidden amongst the “Wanted” and “Missing Person” posters.
WARNING
Medical authorities advise that Aids
can be contracted through the ears by
listening to arseholes!
Use extreme caution in this area.
Sam attempted to smile, but it hurt, so he abandoned the effort. He wondered how long the notice would be there before a prudent, career obsessed officer who had long ago lost his sense of humour spotted it and removed it. He turned back to the constable behind the counter. She was now watching him, and he’d be damned if she wasn’t exhibiting a smug, self-sat
isfied look. He thrust a thumb at the notice board and said, “That’s appropriate, don’t you think?” He turned his back before she could respond, pushed through the glass doors, and stepped into the hot, humid street beyond.
Upon reflection, in the aftermath of battle, when he had tended to his wounds and soothed his damaged pride somewhat with a couple of cold beers, Sam could not decide what had hurt more; Foley’s flying fists slamming into various parts of his undefended anatomy, or Jennifer Foley’s stinging, albeit unfair, very public assessment of his sexual prowess.
Two things followed. First, in the interests of maintaining ongoing peace and harmony within the squad, those who made such decisions determined eliminating Sam Rose from the equation was the most appropriate course of action. It was achieved by removing him from the proximity of Russell Foley, and by extension, from any hostile intent the latter may still harbour. To that end, Rose was offered, and urged by his superiors to accept a position as the second man in a remote two-man Bush station, far removed from the bright lights and relative comforts he had become used to in Darwin. Secondly, and this was the deal breaker for Sam, it was decided by those very same people, Russell Foley had earned a change of portfolio, and so was awarded a promotion to Inspector, and handed the role of Officer in Charge of C.I.B.
Sam found the imbalance of equality there bewildering. So, with a twenty-year, squeaky-clean service record behind him, he made a decision of his own. He was not prepared to suffer the indignity brought about by banishment to a fly infested dustbowl in the middle of nowhere, where the greatest challenges would be mediating tribal disputes, and hosing the blood and vomit from the station cells each morning. Sam Rose tendered his resignation.
8
Why, Sam mused, did police officers of both genders, but predominately male police officers, seem to be pre-occupied with sex? Not the scientific, or biological aspects of sex, but how to get as much as possible, as often as possible. Indeed, in a few cases that sprung immediately to mind, he suspected it wasn’t of paramount importance that both participants were of the opposite gender. He supposed the pre-occupation was not exclusive to members of the police force, it was just he saw more examples of it here. It had to be a power thing, he guessed. There were any number of psychologists specialising in such matters who would confirm the adage - power is the ultimate aphrodisiac.