by Gary Gregor
He sat on the open drop-down tailgate of his vehicle, his legs dangling over the edge, and savoured the final spoonful of cold baked beans he ate straight from the can. Next to him, on a tiny single-burner gas stove, a metal pannikin filled with water began to simmer and then boil rapidly. He turned off the stove, removed the small metal cup, and spooned in a teaspoon of coffee grinds, followed by two heaped teaspoons of sugar. He stirred the concoction and took a tentative sip at the steaming black brew. Breakfast fit for a Brave Hunter. He smiled to himself, thinking of his mother’s pet name for him. Cold baked beans and hot coffee. His father might be proud of his wilderness survival skills, but his mother would shudder at the thought of her beloved boy eating such unadulterated rubbish.
He looked to the sky in the east and already the sun was a bright yellow, glowing orb on the horizon. Soon all remnants of the freezing night would be totally consumed by the rapidly rising air temperature. He needed to get moving. Staying in one place for longer than one night was dangerous. He guessed that, by now, every cop in the Territory would be looking for him and, while he had all the right paperwork in relation to tourist visas and airline tickets, etcetera, if he were stopped and they conducted a routine search of his vehicle, the gun, the silencer, and ammunition stored in the glove compartment would give him away in an instant.
He placed the hot coffee on the canopy floor beside him and slid off the tailgate, his boots kicking up small puffs of soft, dry bull-dust. He moved to the side of the vehicle, leaned forward, placed his hands against the side of the canopy and completed a set of routine stretching exercises he had disciplined himself to do every morning. Had to be a hangover from his time in the military, he thought. His sleeping quarters were cramped, and the stretching helped ease the aches and pains precipitated by the freezing night air and the compact space he had to sleep in.
When he was finished, he returned to his hot coffee, drained the last of it, and tossed the dregs onto the sandy desert floor. On one side of the space he had set aside for sleeping, there were three twenty-litre plastic bottles he used for water storage. Two were empty and the third, the one he was currently using, had perhaps one third of its contents remaining. He had to get someplace where he could re-supply both water and food supplies.
It would be a risk, he knew. He was a wanted man in the Territory now, a killer on the run. Every police officer, on duty and off, would be looking for him. The only advantage he had was that no one knew exactly who they were looking for—at least, he hoped that was the case. But he needed supplies and, besides, what was life if it never came with an inherent risk or two?
11
Designed to comfortably hold perhaps ten officers, the Major Crime incident room at Police Headquarters in Alice Springs now held double that number. The attendant cops, including numerous uniformed officers seconded from the General Duties section, stood shoulder-to-shoulder, talking amongst themselves, discussing everything from the weather to latest football results. A few even discussed the very reason they were gathered in the crowded, stuffy Incident Room. Detectives on official leave who chose to remain in Alice Springs rather than leave town for the duration of their holiday away from the job were recalled to duty. Others were ordered to suspend whatever case it was they were currently working on and concentrate only on the Desert Demon; a name the media had dubbed the random, Outback killer. It was not a name that sat well with the man heading up the investigation, Detective Superintendent Cameron Yap Yap Barker.
At one end of the room, attached to the wall, was a large whiteboard on which was displayed a number of crime-scene photos taken from the Watson family murder scene, the Chambers Pillar scene, and the Kings Canyon newlyweds scene. The photos, in colour and enlarged, presented each murder scene in graphic detail. There was something about photographs of actual murder scenes that attracted the morbid curiosity of most people, including the most hardened police officer, particularly those who had never had the opportunity to see the scene in person.
The indecipherable hum of a dozen different conversations echoing around the room quickly faded and eventually stopped altogether when Cameron Barker entered the room. He pushed his way through the crowd, made his way to the end of the room, and stood in front of the large whiteboard. He turned and faced the throng of cops, all waiting for him to speak.
“Good morning,” Barker said, perhaps a little too loudly. “Thank you all for coming in so early in the morning. Those of you who were enjoying your time off with your family, I thank you for giving up your leave to return to the job.” He smiled. “Not that you had any choice in the matter; it was an order.”
Stifled laughter cut briefly through the silence.
“I would particularly like to thank the handful of General Duties members who will be with us for the duration of this investigation.” He cast an eye over the small group of uniformed cops gathered on one side of the crowded room. “Their job while they are with us will be to answer phone calls from the public, collect and collate in chronological order all daily running sheets and statements submitted by detectives in the field. These running sheets and statements will be passed on for review and follow up by those of you who will be remaining here in the station. The rest of you will be out there on the streets, talking to your contacts, talking to strangers new in town and, most importantly, finding the arsehole responsible for this carnage.”
He turned and tapped at the whiteboard with a pointer he’d picked up from a nearby desk. “For the moment, let’s review where we are and what we have so far.” He raised the pointer and indicated the photograph of the Watson murders. “Gordon Watson, his wife Margaret, and their fourteen-year-old daughter Jacinta. Owners of the Mount Dare Hotel, ten kilometres beyond the South Australian border. They were stopped on the Old Ghan Road, just our side of the border, and the entire family was shot to death and left in their vehicle on the side of the road. This was not a robbery gone wrong. The Watsons still had their wallets and the cash they were carrying at the time. At this point, we have no motive for the killings. It appears to be a random, senseless attack on an innocent family heading off on a family holiday.”
Barker moved the pointer to the Susan Chambers murder scene. “The very next morning, just before dawn at the Chambers Pillar viewing area, Susan Chambers, twenty-five-years-old from Adelaide, became victim number four. Just like each of the Watson family, Chambers was shot once in the head. We have since learned that the victim is, or I should say was, a distant relative of the man the pillar was named after, although this revelation seems to have no relevance in regards to a motive. Like the Watsons, Susan Chambers’ murder appears to be a motiveless, random act.”
Barker paused for a moment and looked at the faces of his team of investigators. “Before I move on to the next murder scene, let me expand somewhat on the Watson and the Chambers killings. Most of you will know Moose McKenzie, the OIC down the track at Kulgera. Moose is one of the best. Sadly, we don’t have many in the job who operate the way he does. Moose, along with his off-sider, Colin Palmer, together with Russell Foley and Sam Rose, attended both the Watson and the Chambers scenes. Our uniform chaps working with us have their reports and investigation running sheets. You are encouraged to read them and familiarise yourselves with both murders. What I can tell you in advance is that there were no witnesses to either of the murders; no one saw anything, and no one heard anything. There were a number of tourists camped in the designated camping ground, located a short distance from Chambers Pillar and, given that no one heard a gunshot, which you would expect to be very loud in the pre-dawn silence, suggests to us that the killer may have used a silencer. We are hoping to get more details on this when we have a thorough ballistics report.”
He tapped the pointer against the Kings Canyon photograph. “Yesterday. John and Kierra Hanson. Newlyweds. Apparently married less than a week. An initial, preliminary autopsy indicates the husband, John Hanson, was shot once in the head. A full autopsy is being conducted as we speak,
but early indications are that the wife, Kierra, has no obvious gunshot wounds. They were standing on the edge of the highest part of the canyon wall. John was shot and it appears his wife grabbed him as he fell backwards, and he pulled her over the edge with him. Obviously, the injuries sustained by both, as a result of falling almost five hundred feet to the canyon floor, are substantial and only a complete and thorough autopsy will reveal anything we don’t already know.”
A senior detective in the Major Crime Squad, Lionel James, raised his hand.
“Lionel,” Barker invited him to speak.
“Thank you, sir. If it is established that the wife was not shot and she died as a result of the fall, are we to consider her death a murder or an accident?”
“Bloody good question, Lionel. Probably a bit too early in the morning for complicated questions, but let’s have a look at it. Anyone got any thoughts on Lionel’s question?” Barker regarded the faces of his investigation team.
No one was willing to attempt to answer the question.
After a moment, he continued. “Firstly, the death of Kierra Hanson poses a legal dilemma, one that may provide for a spirited argument between prosecutor and defence attorneys. Given the murder of her husband, along with the Chambers girl and the Watson family, we have enough to send the perp to prison for the rest of his life. However, personally, I would like to see the arsehole charged with Kierra’s death also. We know that ‘intent to kill’ is an important element of proof in upholding a charge of murder. We know that the ‘intent’ was there in the killing of the husband and I am willing to bet that the perp also intended to shoot the wife, but she went over the edge with her husband before the perp could get off his second shot. We would need to prove that he intended to kill Kierra as well as her husband. If we can’t, then I suppose manslaughter is the next best thing. I would be more than happy to charge the prick with her murder and let the legal boffins sort it out.” Barker paused as he scanned the room. “The important thing here is that we find the bastard and charge him with everything from jaywalking to murder.”
“Now, let’s address this Desert Demon bullshit. Bloody media doing what they do best. ‘A demon who haunts lonely desert roads’, I read just this morning. What a load of BS! My advice to you all is to ignore the media reports. We all know what they are like—if they don’t know the facts, they make it up and dramatize the fuck out of it because they believe it makes good reading. Let’s not forget—this killer is no desert phantom! He is not a ghost, a spirit, a spectre, or any other ridiculous name the media wants to attach to him. He is real. He exists. There are currently six bodies at the morgue to attest to that, and he is still out there, somewhere! Your job is to find him, and quickly would be good.”
“Do we know what type of weapon he is using?” someone in the middle of the group asked.
“Preliminary ballistics reports suggest the same weapon was used in each case. We have only bullet fragments taken from each of the deceased to work with at this stage. It appears that he is using a .45 handgun, probably a semi-automatic, and almost certainly silenced. We hope to know more following more detailed ballistics examination.”
“Where would someone get his hands on a .45 semi-automatic?” someone else asked.
“I am hoping some of you chaps might be able to come up with an answer to that question,” Barker said with a dry smile. “Ask around. Check with the gun shops here in Alice Springs. We already have our people checking in Darwin and in the other major centres. As you all know, we have very strict gun laws in Australia, introduced following the Port Arthur massacre way back in ‘96. However, we also know that despite the gun laws, if you want a gun, and you’ve got the money, they are not that hard to come by. Importantly, never forget that this prick is armed. It is my belief that if he is cornered, he will not hesitate to use the weapon to evade capture.”
Detective John Clarke raised his hand.
“Yes, Johnno?”
“If we are fortunate, or perhaps unfortunate, to find ourselves face-to-face with the perp are we authorised to take him out?”
“Standard procedure applies, Johnno,” Barker answered. “Our preference is, and always will be, to apprehend the offender and bring him here to the station … and alive would be good. The ultimate goal is to put him before the court so justice can be done. However, if you fear for your life, or you fear for the life of an innocent, you do what you have to do to neutralise the situation.”
“Bring him back alive, Johnno,” a voice from the midst of the throng declared. “Or you will be desk-bound for a fuckin’ month, buried up to your neck in paperwork.”
“There is that, Johnno,” Barker grinned. “Okay, if there are no more questions, get out there and find this arsehole. Check every accommodation option from the luxury of the casino to the worst of the backpacker hostels. Caravan parks and camping areas. This dude has to be staying somewhere. Talk to people. Stop and question all four-wheel-drive vehicle drivers, particularly if they have only one occupant. You are going to piss a few drivers off, but if you are diplomatic, and explain what you are doing, I’m sure they will understand.”
Russell Foley raised a hand.
“Russell? You have something to add?”
Foley moved to the front of the room and stood next to Yap Yap Barker. “Thanks, boss.” He faced the attending cops, paused for a second, as if gathering his thoughts, and then began. “Good morning everyone. As we know, the perp has been operating in areas south of here. Down close to the South Australian border. We don’t know where he goes following each murder. Perhaps he slips over the border into South Australia, or maybe he camps out in the bush somewhere. There is a lot of nothing once you get away from the tourist hotspots. He could lay low anywhere and we would never find him. He is moving around, probably sleeping rough in a different place each night. We have the South Australian police at Marla on alert, but their patrol area covers millions of acres of nothing but desert country, which we believe is currently under water due to very heavy, unseasonal rains down that way.
“Personally, given the weather south of the border, I think he is still here in the Territory, and I also think that if we don’t find him soon, he will kill again. He seems to be getting bolder with every murder. As the boss alluded to, the murders at both Chambers Pillar and Kings Canyon were committed in the vicinity of many tourists yet no one saw or heard a thing. He is obviously not afraid to kill when there are other people around. We don’t know for sure, but I think he is working alone. Some of the country he has been in is rough four-wheel-drive country so he could leave the main track and hide in the desert bush somewhere to sleep and perhaps plan his next kill.
“Where did he go after Kings Canyon, that’s the question? Did he go south, towards Uluru and the SA border? Or did he head north, along the Mereenie Loop Road, towards the West MacDonnell Ranges? We are in the middle of the peak tourist season and there are rubbernecking tourists all over the territory—thousands of them. Whatever his plans might be, wherever he is headed next, you can be sure he is out there. We can only hope we don’t have to wait until he kills again to find out exactly where he is. Thank you and, for Christ’s sake, be careful.” Foley stepped back into the midst of the throng.
Cameron Barker retook his place in front of the large whiteboard. “Thanks, Russell.” He raised his voice and addressed the gathering. “Okay everyone, consider yourselves updated. When you get a chance, please read through the statements and running sheets from the Watson and the Chambers murders. Remember, this dude is armed and should be considered extremely dangerous. There is no doubt in my mind that if cornered, he will not hesitate to attempt to shoot his way out. Take care, all of you. Thank you again for your attendance and go find this prick!”
He turned to face Foley and Rose. “Russell, Sam, hang back for a moment, I want to talk to you before you leave.”
12
Foley and Rose moved to the front of the room, stood next to Yap Yap Barker, and waited for t
he room to clear. A few minutes later, when the room had been vacated by all but himself and Foley and Rose, Barker eyed the desks and chairs no longer laying neat and orderly around the room. Empty and partially empty paper drinking cups littered desktops, chairs lay at strange angles to the front of the room and one or two were laying on the floor.
“Look at this place,” Barker said with a shake of the head. “Looks like someone threw a grenade in here. I’m in charge of a team of pigs!”
“They’re all good cops, boss,” Foley reminded him.
“Good cops but bloody lazy housekeepers. Now I’ve got to get someone to clean up this place.” He looked at Foley and Rose.
“Would you like Russell to do that, sir?” Sam asked.
“Damn fine idea, Sam. But be a lot quicker if you helped him.”
Foley glared at his partner. “That’s an even better idea.”
“Where are you two planning on going?” Barker asked, glancing from one to the other.
“We thought we should head back south,” Foley answered. He moved slowly forward, picked up a small rubbish bin, and started discarding used drinking cups. “Sam and I have discussed it at length,” he said over his shoulder as he worked. “The perp is down there somewhere; we are sure of it.”
“Tourists who visit Kings Canyon usually go to Uluru either before or after the Canyon.” Sam followed Foley, straightening desks and picking up chairs as he went. “Uluru and Kata Tjuta are on the way … Ayres Rock and the Olgas, two of the most visited places in the Territory. If the perp is on the hunt for his next victim, there are hundreds to choose from.”