Vengeance List

by Gary Gregor

  Foley shifted noisily in his chair, and his superior lifted his eyes from the file and peered at him over the top of his glasses. The two men locked eyes briefly, and then Story resumed his perusal of the pages he held in his lap. When he had finished, he closed the file and placed it on the desk. He fixed his subordinate with a look that radiated frustration. “Well?” he queried.

  “Well what, Sir?” Foley asked.

  “Come on Russell, don’t ‘well what?’ me. You know what I want, you know what the boss wants, what we all want. When are we going to get the bastard?”

  “I wish I could answer that, Sir.”

  “Is it the same man?”

  “I’m certain of it. The murder weapon appears to be the same in all four killings, and the connection between all four victims is now more apparent. They were all a part of our judicial system.”

  “What do you suppose that means?” Storey asked.

  Foley shrugged. “A grudge perhaps. Maybe someone with a bitch against the system. We’re looking back through old arrest and conviction records to see if there is a tangible link between the four victims.”

  “That could take weeks,” Storey observed.

  “Yes it could,” Foley agreed, “and if we don’t find any link, it could indicate the killer is choosing his victims at random; his only pre-requisite being they be a part of the legal system.” He paused. “Unfortunately, that would be the worst case scenario, because if he continues his killing spree, the next victim could be any one of us.”

  “It would also make it even harder to identify the bastard,” Storey observed.

  “Yes, I’m afraid it would. The best we can do is stay positive. This case is not the first tough case we’ve had.”

  “Tougher than most,” Storey said. “I don’t suppose we have anything from Thiele’s house?”

  “The forensic chaps are still going through the place, but I don’t think we’ll find anything other than Thiele’s prints. By all accounts, he was a quiet, un-assuming bloke; a bit of a loner. So far we’ve found nothing to suggest he had regular house guests.”

  “What about that famous gut feeling of yours?” Story asked, hopefully.

  “I’ve been thinking about it, of course.”

  “And?”

  “I think whoever is doing this is telling us this is his way of seeking justice.”

  “Justice for what?”

  “As I mentioned earlier, given the occupation of each of the victims, I suspect he believes he has been wronged by the legal system. Maybe this is his way of getting back at those responsible.”

  “An ex-con with a revenge agenda?” Story offered.

  “That’s the most likely scenario, and we have been looking into that since Carl Richter was killed. As you also know from my reports, we have spoken to a few former prison inmates who may have a motive, or enough of a grudge against authority to resort to murder; so far without any joy.”

  “I’m concerned Russell, and so is the boss. I don’t suppose I have to tell you that?”

  “We’re all concerned, Sir,” Foley responded. “I’ve got people working around the clock on this.”

  Assistant Commissioner Peter Story leaned back in his chair, crossed his legs, and once again fixed Foley with a commanding look.

  “Tell me about Sam Rose.”

  “Rose?” Foley said, obviously taken by surprise. “What about him?”

  “I heard he came here to see you, and then showed up at Thiele’s house last night. Is that correct?”

  “Word gets around,” Russell noted.

  “This is Police Headquarters, Russell. There are more leaks here than in an Indonesian refugee boat. Did Rose show up?”

  “As a matter of fact he did,” Foley confirmed, but he never got further than the opposite side of the street.”

  “What about his visit here yesterday, what’s he got to do with all this?”

  “He came in asking questions about the murders. I suspect he is working for someone. When I asked him, he said he was just curious. Needless to say, I don’t believe him.”

  “You think someone hired him to look into these murders?”

  “I think so, yes. I’m now even more convinced after he turned up at the scene last night.” Foley shifted uncomfortably in his chair.

  “Any idea who might be paying for his services?”

  “Well, it’s only a guess mind you, but he was pretty pally with Paddy O’Reily last night. I wouldn’t be surprised if the media hired him, and O’Reily is the go-between. The press has been pretty pissed off with the lack of information we’ve been giving them.”

  “That’s interesting,” Story mused. “You might be right. I know people in the media. Perhaps I should have a chat with one or two of them.”

  “You don’t expect them to admit to hiring a P.I. do you?” Foley asked.

  “Perhaps not,” Story shrugged. “But, it’s got to be worth a try. How much does Rose know?”

  “Nothing, he’s just fishing.” Foley insisted. “Paddy O’Reily was here, in the station, when the call came in. You know what he is like; I’m sure he called Rose.”

  “Who called it into the station?”

  “We’re checking the tape,” Foley answered. “We think the killer called it in himself, from Thiele’s phone.”

  “Rose was a damn good investigator, Russell,” Story reminded. “Don’t sell him short. If he’s looking into this, he might not know anything yet, but he soon will.”

  “Well he won’t get it from us,” Foley said, somewhat miffed. “We have a whole team of good investigators right here. If Rose wants to poke his nose around, he’s free to do so as long as he doesn’t interfere with our investigation. I read him the riot act yesterday. He’ll get no help from us, and he knows the consequences of getting in our way.”

  “I don’t suppose you have ever considered burying the hatchet with Rose,” Story speculated. “There are times when I would like to see Sam back on the job. We really can’t afford to lose blokes like that.”

  “I’d like to bury the hatchet in his thick head,” Foley stopped short of saying. “Rose left the job of his own free will, Sir. I for one don’t give a flying fuck what he chooses to do with his life, as long as it doesn’t involve me.”

  “Well,” Story conceded, getting up. “It’s a matter for you two, of course. I just think it’s a shame to lose investigators of his calibre. I apologise if I was out of line.”

  “Forget about it, Sir, and forget about Sam Rose. I have.”

  “Keep me up to speed, Russell. The boss is on my back. We want this arsehole off the street.” Story turned his back on Foley, and without waiting for a reply, marched briskly from the room.

  Russell Foley stared at the chair vacated by his superior. “We all want him off the street,” he murmured aloud.

  12

  As caravans go, this one was small, equipped with the very basic of facilities. At one end, just inside the door, there was a tiny club lounge with a table, easily converted to form a single bunk should it ever be necessary to accommodate more than two people. In the centre, opposite the lounge and built against the wall, a barely adequate, two-burner stove, a small, dual gas/electric refrigerator, and a tiny stainless steel sink with shallow cupboards above completed the kitchen layout. At the opposite end, in the rear of the compact unit, sat a double bed more suited to one average size person than two of smaller build.

  To the man seated at the table-come-bunk, it was of little consequence his home might be considered to be a little on the claustrophobic side. He never intended for it to be anything other than a temporary abode. Rather, it was the plain, unpretentiousness of it that attracted him when he was looking for a base while he went about the business he had set for himself.

  He had a much bigger home once; a real home. Five bedrooms, two bathrooms, a huge swimming pool, all surrounded by beautiful tropical gardens, and just a short walk from the ocean where his children often played. But, that was before the
y locked him away, and the bank grabbed it all because he couldn’t make the mortgage payments while incarcerated in that godforsaken place.

  There were those who had to pay for what they did to him. Most of them had already paid. There were two left still to atone, and their time was fast approaching.

  There would be no belly wounds, however, like the one he inflicted on Richter. He grimaced and shuddered with the memory of it. He enjoyed killing that bastard. He enjoyed watching him fiddling and fretting, trying to stuff his insides back into his belly. Jesus the fucking fat pig stank! Pig, yeah! How appropriate. He chuckled softly. The fucking fat pig was too fat, and too slow to get out of his chair. Jesus, it was easy! Just walked up to him and – slash, slash – you’re dead, you fat pig! Shit he stank! Almost fucking gagged. Fat bastard smelt like he had been eating shit sandwiches.

  The others, the ones who followed Richter, were throat jobs. No more gut jobs for him, he couldn’t stand that stink again. The last two would be throat jobs also. Not that it really mattered; he was quick and deadly efficient whichever method he chose. However, he remembered the stink from Richter’s guts, and that convinced him to go for the throat for the rest of them.

  He was particularly looking forward to getting Sam Rose. Rose! Rose! What sort of Nancy-boy name was that? A fucking fairy name, that’s what that was. Well, he’d fix Mister Sam-fucking-Rose! He would be the last. Yeah, save the best ‘til last. Rose would be the finale, the coup de grace. The prick would already be shitting his pants. He would have the list by now. He would be one worried, shit scared, ex-fucking copper. He might even take more time with Rose, carve him up slowly. Let the bastard see himself dying. Yeah! That’s what he would do, carve him up slowly. Listen to the bastard scream and beg for it to be over! He shivered with delight at the anticipation. Justice they called it when they locked him away. Justice! He would show the bastards justice. Then it would be over.

  It wouldn’t be much longer before he would be on his way, away from this place. His work was almost finished. Not that he would have minded staying longer if necessary. He had gotten used to his “home” over the last few months. It was small but adequate for his purposes, and reasonably comfortable. Besides, he was accustomed to living alone in a confined space. Prison will do that to you. It was a bloody palace compared to Berrimah Prison.

  He was on his own, had been for a long time now, and would be for a long time to come, perhaps for the rest of his life. It would not be wise, he supposed, to get too close to anyone again. Don’t want to slip up and raise anyone’s suspicions. Being alone was a price he was prepared to pay for the things he had done, and still had to do.

  He had no immediate need for anything more elaborate than the caravan. Not yet. It was inconspicuous, and that was an advantage. It wouldn’t do to have a residence so audacious as to attract unwelcome attention. He couldn’t afford one anyhow; prison wages don’t allow for huge mortgages. Fortunately, the road that ran past his property carried little traffic most of the time, except for the weekends. Then the stupid rubbernecks cruised past all day.

  Berry Springs was a rapidly expanding, semi-rural area forty minutes south of Darwin, a place where wishful, would be property owners flocked at weekends in a quest to find their little piece of paradise away from the rat race of the city. Developers also cruised the area in their flashy four-wheel-drives, touting for potential customers by offering acreages at prices relative to their distance from Darwin.

  The caravan, located towards the back of the twenty-acre block, was obscured from the distant main road by a moderately dense stand of trees. The access road through the land to the caravan was rough. He deliberately left it that way as a deterrent against intrusion by curiosity seekers. Not that it was his land, exactly. The truth was, he had no idea who owned it. Nor did he care. He knew it was not part of the development land on offer because it was not listed for sale in any of the brochures readily available from the makeshift sales office ten-minutes-drive away. He suspected it was Crown land and he was, in all probability, a squatter. However, the legalities of his being there were of little concern to him. If, by chance, anyone should question his presence, he would simply plead ignorance and move on. There were plenty of places he could set up camp. To the unknowing, he was just another of the many unemployed drifters who seemed to gravitate to the Top End like so much of life’s discarded flotsam. He had few belongings, and was prepared to leave at short notice with no fuss should the need arise. The last thing he wanted was to attract attention any greater than passing curiosity. He had let his appearance deteriorate to the point where even the closest inspection would never reveal that he was, in fact, university educated, and had an IQ of one-hundred-and-fifty; just short of genius.

  It would not be for much longer. He had escaped scrutiny for this long. He was sure he could continue to do so until he had finished what he set out to do. Then he would leave the Territory forever. Everything was going just as he had planned. He was pleased with himself. His plan was perfect. The police were chasing phantoms as well as their tails. Stupid, dumb bastards! Stupid, dumb bastards! They were running around in circles with their stupid heads up their stupid fat arses! He chuckled softly again.

  He lifted the knife from the sharpening stone, and wiped a thin film of oil from the blade. He examined the edge. It was sharp, very sharp. Carefully, he tested the edge with his thumb and a tiny droplet of blood formed. Yes, it was sharp, but he could make it even sharper. Why not? There was nothing else he would rather do. He lowered the knife and placed the blade against the stone once more. Slowly, deliberately, with practiced expertise, he dragged the blade towards him across the surface of the sharpening stone. He listened to the “swish, swish”, of steel on stone. Soon, he once again fell victim to the mesmerising sound it made as he prepared his instrument of justice for the task that lay ahead. He closed his eyes, lifted his head, and began to rock back and forth slowly to the rhythm of the “swish, swish”. He smiled.

  13

  Sam struggled restlessly through the foggy, confusing plateau that existed somewhere between sleep and consciousness. Uninvited, unwelcome, disjointed images came and went like the flickering frames of an old silent movie. Finally, thankfully, he surfaced from that place, bathed in perspiration. The digital display from the bedside clock glowed four-thirty a.m. For a long while, he lay in the dampness of his bedding, not wanting to acknowledge the truth of what woke him. It wasn’t a dream, and the name strobing with the intensity of neon behind his eyes would not leave his mind.

  Stringer! John Stringer. Could it possibly be? No, surely not? Stringer was still in prison. Wasn’t he? It couldn’t be Stringer. He had to be mistaken.

  As the darkness of night gently ebbed, conceding ground to the dawn peeping around the edge of his curtains, his mind drifted back to another time.

  He found them in their respective bedrooms. They were just children. The little girl, Sarah, was in her bed. A tiny, pale arm hugged a scruffy, obviously well-loved teddy. Sam was surprised that so much blood could have come from such a small body. Sarah Stringer was only five years old.

  Her big brother Jamie was seven. Sam found Jamie half in and half out of his bed. He must have woken up just as his attacker struck, and tried to get out and run, perhaps to the safe, protective arms of his mother sleeping in the next room. Jamie lay on his back, his upper torso hanging limp over the edge of the bed. His body had emptied itself of blood, most of which had spilled onto the plush, expensive carpet.

  Both children were helpless against the suddenness and the ferocity of the attack that almost severed their heads from their tiny bodies; their young lives snuffed out in an instant. Robbed of the opportunity to play, to grow, to learn, to fall in love, and to one day have children of their own.

  Their mother was also in her bed when she died. Like her children, Morgan Stringer was given no warning of her impending death. Her throat was also cut, and a subsequent autopsy would discover another twenty-seven stab w
ounds to various parts of her body, all determined to have been inflicted post-mortem. The attack was frenzied and relentless.

  John William Stringer, supposed, loving, doting husband and father, was found by the first uniformed officers to arrive at the scene. He was sitting at the kitchen table calmly drinking a cup of coffee, his hands and his clothes still damp with the blood of his family. What would later be determined as the murder weapon, a long, thin blade boning knife, lay on the table next to the sugar bowl.

  How long ago was that? Sam Rose asked himself. Was it twelve, or thirteen years? Could he be out of prison already? No, surely not? He remembered the sentence and the ensuing outrage in the community, not to mention the police, when Stringer only received one life sentence. He should have been handed three life sentences, and ordered to serve them consecutively; then he would die in prison.

  It was Rose’s first murder investigation after transferring to CIB. A good one to get to kick off your detective career, some of his colleagues suggested. Three victims murdered in their sleep, the suspect sitting at the kitchen table covered with blood, and the murder weapon at his fingertips. A “walk up start”, those same colleagues teased.

  It always seemed incongruous to Sam that, given Stringer’s perceived affluence, he would accept a court-appointed defence lawyer to represent him at his trial. It was surely just for his initial court appearance that came later on the day of his arrest because he hadn’t had the time to seek more appropriate representation, Sam assumed. But Stringer’s perceived affluence was just that - perceived. Ongoing investigations would reveal he was, in fact, broke. Hundreds of thousands of dollars in debt! No bank would look at re-financing his business, and he was unable to service his rapidly mounting debts. He was about to be declared insolvent and lose everything he ever worked to attain.