Vengeance List

by Gary Gregor

“Not for a second, not for a second.” He got up from the bar. “Let’s get a seat where I can have a look at this.”

  They moved to a table on the other side of the piano, away from curious eyes and ears, and a little further away from the would-be comedian and his buddies. When they were seated, Sam unfolded the document and began to read.

  While Sam read, Paddy sipped his drink and waited patiently. The guy in the white suit, red tie and sunglasses looked across at Paddy, winked in recognition, and began to play ‘Maggie.’ Paddy smiled back, raised his glass in appreciation, and returned his attention to Sam.

  “Jesus Christ!” Sam breathed aloud. “Jesus Christ! I knew it! I just knew it!”

  “You knew what?” Paddy asked, leaning forward.

  “Have you read this?” Sam waved the document at Paddy.

  “Of course,” Paddy shrugged. “We’re partners aren’t we?”

  “Well, what do you think?”

  “About what?”

  “About the bloody report of course!”

  “What about it?” Paddy shrugged again. “It seems straight forward to me. It’s what it appears to be, an autopsy report. It confirms what I already knew. John Stringer topped himself, so he did.”

  “No,” Sam said.

  “No? What do you mean, no?”

  “Jesus, Paddy, it’s right here.” Sam slapped the report onto the table. “Stringer didn’t kill himself.”

  “How long were you sitting here boozing before I arrived?” Paddy raised his eyebrows.

  “I’m not drunk, mate. It’s right here in the report. I got to know almost everything there was to know about John Stringer during the murder investigation. So did you no doubt, when you wrote those articles about him.”

  “Aye, that’s true enough, so it is,” Paddy confirmed. “Are you going to enlighten me then?”

  Sam picked up the report. “Here, on page three, it says that the body had obvious signs of advanced liver damage. The pathologist attributes that damage to years of alcohol abuse…”

  “And John Stringer never drank!” Paddy interrupted, the realisation hitting him.

  “He was a fucking teetotaller, Paddy. Unlike your good self, the bastard never touched a drop in his life!”

  “Unless they are serving wine with dinner out at Berrimah Prison these days,” Paddy joked.

  “They’re not, trust me.”

  “So,” Paddy said as he sipped at his drink. “What does this suggest?”

  “That should be obvious, even to you.”

  “Okay, let me tell you what it suggests to me,” Paddy offered.

  “Please do,” Sam invited.

  “The bloke in the car, the one who barbequed himself, was not our John Stringer. How am I doing?”

  “Great mate, you’re doing great. I never did believe all those things people say about you.”

  “Of course,” Paddy continued, “that scenario begs the obvious question. If it wasn’t Stringer in the car, who the devil was it?”

  “If I’m not mistaken, his name is, or was, Bert Ulstrom.”

  “Bert Ulstrom? And who might Bert Ulstrom be?”

  “Bert Ulstrom was a long-time resident of the same place where Stringer lived after his release from prison.”

  “And,” Paddy deduced, “he went missing around the same time as Stringer?”

  “The same day,” Sam nodded. “I went to the hostel earlier today and spoke to the head honcho there. He said soon after Stringer arrived there, he befriended Ulstrom. The two of them were joined at the hip; they went everywhere together. Two days before the body was found in the car, Stringer and Ulstrom left the hostel together, and Ulstrom has never been seen since.”

  “Now you are going to tell me that this Ulstrom fella was a big drinker, right?”

  “You’re a big drinker Paddy. Ulstrom was a hopeless drunk, an alcoholic, and had been for most of his life. It seems he would drink almost anything, as long as it was cheap and two degrees away from poison.”

  “The sort of stuff that would do to your liver what that report says the charcoal chap suffered from?”

  “You are good, Paddy, you are really good,” Sam winked.

  “So, let’s recap,” Paddy said, ignoring the jibe. “Let’s see. Stringer makes a friend of a homeless bum he meets at the hostel. Then what? Gets him pissed perhaps? Not a difficult task by all accounts. Takes him into the bush, props him behind the wheel, and torches the car?”

  “Works for me,” Sam nodded.

  “But,” Paddy observed. “There’s one small problem, so there is.”

  “What might that be,” Sam asked.

  “It’s in the very same report you’re holding there. We both know the good folk at the mortuary, so we do. They are very efficient are they not?”

  “Of course,” Sam agreed. “What’s your point?”

  “The dental records, lad. They are just like fingerprints. There can be no mistake. The dental records confirmed the body in the car was Stringer’s.”

  “Paddy, my old friend,” Sam said. “Indulge me for just a moment, if you will.”

  “Are you about to speculate now?” Paddy asked.

  “Of course,” Sam confirmed. “Speculation is a good investigative tool.”

  “I hope it’s better than your singing. Sorry, I digress. Please, continue.”

  Sam paused, and sipped his whiskey. Deep furrows lined his brow. “What if,” he began, “what if they both had false teeth? What if Stringer put his dentures in Ulstrom’s mouth? He got Ulstrom so drunk he passed out. He removes Bert’s choppers and replaces them with a set of his own. Most people have two sets, in case they lose one, or break one, why not Stringer? Then he torches his car with poor old Bert sitting behind the wheel. He uses twenty litres of petrol because he wanted the body burned beyond recognition. He wanted the fingerprints burned off. The face burned off. He wanted to be sure the body could not be identified by the usual methods. He was relying on dental records to identify the body as his own.”

  “What about D.N.A?”

  “I’m willing to bet that there is no D.N.A. for Stringer on record, and what are the chances of there being any for a homeless drunk?”

  “If you’re not drunk,” Paddy commented, “then I think you’ve been smoking something strange.”

  “Think about it for a minute. It would work. Stringer had plenty of time in prison to plan this.”

  “Oh no!” Paddy exclaimed. “You mean that Stringer is alive, walking around with a drunk’s false teeth in his mouth? That’s disgusting.”

  “No… No… As I said, he has two sets. Most people do."

  “Or in case they need to put a set in someone else’s gob before killing them.”

  “That’s it, mate, you’ve got it at last,” Sam smiled.

  “‘Tis a wild story if ever I’ve heard one,” Paddy smiled back.

  “Can you give me a better one?”

  “Okay, try this,” Paddy offered. “What if the body in the car was Stringer and this Bert chap just moved on?”

  “That’s not a better one.”

  “Do you want to know what I think we should do now,” Paddy asked, draining his glass.

  “Tell me, what do you think we should do now?”

  “I think we should have another of these fine whiskeys, so I do.”

  “At these prices? I don’t think so,” Sam said.

  “Because it’s your turn to buy you mean don’t you? You don’t have to pay, remember? We can use more of the good judge’s advance. You can claim it on your expenses.”

  “You are always thinking Paddy. That’s why I admire you so much.”

  16

  Though it would have been easy to do so, Sam did not stay late at the casino. When he left, Paddy was making short work of his fourth whiskey, and openly contemplating a change of career from journalist to Irish balladeer. Already he had deposited ten dollars into the brandy balloon on top of the piano, and was deep in discussion with the attending musi
cian concerning the lyrics to yet another traditional Irish tune. Paddy was, Sam observed, decidedly generous with Judge Hackett’s money.

  Sam had people to see. If John Stringer was alive, he had to be stopped before he killed again. It all remained nothing more than speculation on his part, however. For his theory to have any credibility, John Stringer had to be among the living, and this was a concept Sam still found difficult to accept. The very thought of Stringer still being alive filled him with doubt. It sounded so improbable. Killing Bert Ulstrom and hoping no one would ever know was so audaciously ambitious that it might just work. If Stringer had, in fact, sent the list to him, he knew it was intended as a message indicating Stringer also wanted him dead. Sam never wanted to be wrong about anything in his life as much as he wanted to be wrong about this.

  Was Stringer still alive? The feeling was powerful, and what terrified him most about the possibility of Stringer being alive was the prospect, indeed the certainty, that others would surely die unless he was stopped, and soon. Still, the possibility nagged at him, and Sam knew now more than ever that this madman was more than capable of carrying out the bloody revenge he set for himself.

  Where would it end? If Sam was to salvage any satisfaction from all this insanity, it was that he would, one day soon, he hoped, come face to face once again with John Stringer. There were two names missing from Stringer’s list. His was one of them; he guessed that much given his direct involvement in the original arrest. As for the last name, that was anyone’s guess.

  Sam had never killed anyone. There were times, albeit very few, during his police career when he had been compelled by circumstances, to draw his weapon. Thankfully, he had never been pressed to the point of discharging it. On such occasions, he often wondered if he could, in fact, kill another person. Until now, he had hoped he would never face the question. Now he found himself pondering on the prospect, and the answer was immediate. Now it was different. Stringer, if it was Stringer he was looking for, had made it different. Now Sam knew, without a shadow of a doubt, he could kill John Stringer. What concerned him most, more than the thought of pulling the trigger, was the belief he might enjoy it.

  Russell Foley was not drunk, not yet, but he was well along the road to that ultimate destination. When he did drink, and that was not often, he never drank anything other than beer, and it was, coincidentally, the rarity of indulgence that contributed to the speed he headed towards intoxication. His metabolism was not familiar with alcohol in any great quantity, certainly not in the quantity he was knocking them back tonight, and accordingly, he was well on the way to inebriation.

  The television was on, but he had long ago turned the sound down, and he sat staring absently at the flickering images of an anonymous sit-com. He wore only a pair of shorts as a defence against the hot, humid night slowly suffocating the city. His thoughts, disjointed by the effects of too many beers, lingered on his children. He missed them, and wondered when he might see them again. He drank deeply from the beer he clasped in his hand, and some of the liquid spilled down his chin and dropped onto his bare chest. He cursed softly, and wiped at the spillage with the back of his free hand. On the floor at his feet lay the letter from his wife asking for, no - demanding, more money. More money! Shit, did she think he was a fucking bank? He was already paying her a large chunk of his pay packet every fortnight. Every fucking fortnight! Jesus, when was it going to stop? When she had it all, and his soul as well? He might just as well get the Pay Office to send her his pay cheque. She fucking near had it all now. Christ, he missed his kids. She wanted the money, but wasn’t going to let him see his kids. Shit! He couldn’t afford the damn airfares to fly them up here because she took so much from him. If he couldn’t afford the airfares, she said, he could bloody well walk to Queensland if he wanted to see the kids.

  “Fucking bitch!” he said aloud to the television screen, burped loudly, and drained the last of the beer.

  Foley wanted to be a good cop again. No, damn it, he already was a good cop! He wanted to be recognised as a good cop again. Yes, that was it. He wanted his peers, his bosses, his subordinates all to believe in him again. He had slipped lately; couldn’t bloody concentrate. Thinking too much about his kids and that bitch he married. Jesus, she was bleeding him dry! He wanted to forget about her and get on with the job. Bloody serial killer! Shit! Why does this prick have to do this now? We should have caught the bastard by now. Christ, he was a better cop than that!

  Foley knew his handling of the case was attracting attention from upstairs. They were watching him, watching and evaluating his performance. He was handling it badly. Shit, why did Jennifer choose now to walk out on him? They could have worked it out. No, that was bullshit. They could never have worked it out. Fucking slut was screwing every cop she could. Jesus, he hated her for that! It had been over a year for Christ’s sake, why couldn’t he just put her out of his mind and get on with the job of finding this killer?

  He got up, walked unsteadily to the small kitchenette, and helped himself to another beer from the fridge. He twisted the cap off the bottle, tossed it aside, and watched it roll under the small kitchen table. He lifted the bottle to his lips, and drained half the contents in one long, noisy swallow.

  The front and back doors to his small, one-bedroom unit were open, taking advantage of what little breeze filtered through the security doors. He sensed rather than saw someone at his front door; a form, a shadow, outside on his narrow porch. The darkness of the night behind the figure made it difficult for him to distinguish who it was. He walked to the door.

  “Who’s that, who the fuck is out there?”

  “It’s me, Russell, Sam.”

  “Rose? Is that you?” He squinted at the shape in the darkness.

  “Yeah, Russell it’s me. I need to talk to you.”

  Foley switched on the outside light.

  Sam Rose was once welcome in his home anytime; but not these days. He made no attempt to invite his old partner inside.

  “What the fuck you want, Rose? Why don’t you piss off and leave me alone?”

  “I need to talk to you.”

  “Yeah? Well, that’s too bad 'cause I don’t need to talk to you. Why don’t you go screw someone’s wife?”

  “Are you drunk?”

  “Not yet, but it’s early.”

  “Can I come in, mate?”

  “Why?”

  “I told you; I need to talk to you.”

  “And I told you we’ve got nothing to say to each other.”

  “This is not about us, Russell.”

  “Then, what’s it about?”

  “It’s about the murders.”

  “That’s none of your business. It’s a police matter, or have you forgotten you’re not a policeman anymore?”

  “Jesus, Russell, the bloody mosquitos are taking fucking great pieces of flesh out of me. They’re going to carry me away!”

  “I wish someone would.”

  “Open the door, for Christ’s sake!”

  “Fuck off!”

  “Come on, mate, it’s important.”

  “So is my privacy. Piss off!”

  “You told me not to withhold anything from you.”

  “Wadda you mean?” Foley slurred.

  “I have something I think you should know.”

  “About the murders?”

  “Yes.”

  Foley hesitated, stared into the darkness at Sam momentarily, then unlatched the screen door and stepped back into the room. “You’ve got five minutes, don’t waste ‘em.”

  Sam let himself in, and looked at the bottle in Foley’s hand. “You got another one of those?”

  “In the fridge,” Foley said, nodding towards the kitchen and seating himself in the chair he just vacated.

  Sam returned, looked at his old partner, and lifted the drink to his lips. “Cheers,” he smiled.

  “Cheers, your fucking self,” Russell snarled. “Get on with it. What is this about?”

  “I thi
nk I know who the killer is,” Sam said, matter-of-factly.

  “Jesus!” Russell said, exasperated. “Give me a break. Why don’t you stick to the insurance stuff? Leave the police work to us professionals.”

  “You are drunk, aren’t you?” Sam queried.

  “Last I heard it’s not against the law,” Russell answered.

  “I’ve known you a long time, Russell. I’ve never seen you drink this much. Look at yourself. You’re as pissed as a fart. Something must be bothering you to get yourself into this state. Is everything all right?”

  With obvious effort, Foley leaned down and scooped up the discarded letter from his wife. He crumpled it up and shoved it into the pocket of his shorts. “Everything’s fine, not that it’s any of your business, but thanks for asking,” he added sarcastically. “Your concern is touching.”

  “You’re welcome,” Sam said.

  “Your time’s running out. What is it you really want?”

  “I told you, I think I know who the killer is.”

  “Okay,” Russell shrugged. “I’ll play the game. Who do you think the killer is?”

  “John Stringer.”

  “Good night,” Russell scoffed. “Thanks for coming. Don’t forget to write.”

  “I’m serious, Russell.”

  “No, you’re not, piss off!”

  “I am serious. Shit, surely you’ve considered it?”

  “Yes, I’ve considered it,” Russell mocked. “For about a millisecond which, by the way, is about how much time you have left, so either get serious or get out! Stringer’s dead, you moron.”

  “What if he’s not?”

  “Pardon?”

  “What if he’s not dead? What if he staged his suicide? People do that sometimes you know.”

  “Have you been smoking something?”

  “No, I haven’t been smoking anything. Think about it. Stringer swore revenge on everyone responsible for his arrest and subsequent conviction, and each of the victims had an involvement in the case. Think about it. What if he isn’t dead?”

  “He’s dead, trust me. There was a positive identification, for Christ’s sake!”

  “Only by dental records,” Sam pointed out.