Tell Me Why

by Sandi Wallace

  Franklin choked on biscuit crumbs.

  'I've had letters from this creep. He wrapped one around the rock today too.'

  Christina placed Bailey on his play mat and disappeared. She returned with a bundle of crumpled notes, the topmost dirt- and blood-stained and more wrinkled than the rest.

  Before Franklin read the letter, she said, 'I wanted to tell you on Saturday. When he wrote on my car bonnet "Atone Whore" with lipstick and then broke all the windows. And he wrecked Bailey's capsule. Why would he do that?'

  She waited for Franklin's reply. He shrugged, for lack of a good answer.

  'But then I got scared and all mixed up,' she continued. 'What if going to the cops made him even angrier and he did something worse? So I rang to tell you to back off. But at the same time, I kinda didn't want you to listen. I wanted you to keep going and catch the creep. But I didn't think he'd go further than smashing up my car. I never expected he'd do this. You know, actually attack me or Bailey. Dazza's jack of it. He reckons I'm too much of a liability with a sicko stalking me and Bails.'

  She broke off, crying. Franklin scanned the letter.

  Whore, you are evil. You sicken good Christians, are a home-wrecker and besmirch our Society. You are not a clean or worthy woman and you do not live virtuously. Every day you live is in Sin. I am ANGRY that you have not responded to my letters. You have not changed your ways. I told you to Atone, Whore, but you have ignored me. Adulterous women shall be punished. You will pay for your Sins. You and your bastard.

  Solomon

  'Some Christian.' Christina sniffed. 'This guy must live in the dark ages.'

  'How's that?'

  'I'm only doing what most women would.'

  Franklin forced his brows not to rise.

  'So I like men -'

  'And don't mind if they're married.'

  'So? Dazza's wife doesn't satisfy him and I can. No strings.'

  'Perfect relationship,' Franklin said dryly. Even as he said it, he acknowledged he had no right to judge Christina. Not for being an unwed mother, promiscuous or sleeping with a married man. Not for anything at all, unless she broke the law.

  Pity Solomon's worldview was so skewed that he didn't realise the same thing. As such a devout Christian, why didn't he leave it to God to sort Christina out? Why target the baby? And, more importantly, did the rock miss Bailey's cot by luck or design?

  Solomon had raised the stakes. Why? What had pushed him beyond his nasty little letters? And how close was he to the edge of the abyss?

  What would he do next? Would he kill?

  Worries and pieces of the riddle preoccupied Franklin after he and Slam left the van Hoeckel residence, even while they interviewed the few neighbours who were home.

  'Well, are you going to tell me what else is going on?' Slam asked.

  'Huh?'

  'Don't act the innocent, mate. There's more to this story than a random rock through the window, isn't there?'

  'Hmm.' Franklin dodged with, 'Bloody typical that nobody saw or heard a thing. It always amazes me.'

  'Hear no evil. See no evil. Speak to no cops, except about what's common knowledge.'

  'Oh well, that means less to write up.'

  'Yeah, that's true.' Slam brightened, then reverted to his earlier train of thought. 'What were you scribbling in that daybook of yours?'

  Franklin ignored his buddy. He tuned out the police radio. Trees flicked by, their leaves browning and dropping. He thought they were symbolic.

  He had too many questions and too few answers; meanwhile Solomon's actions had taken an ominous twist.

  Franklin had hoped for a break in the case. A tie between the women other than the Ballarat Base Hospital and that they were single mums in Daylesford. As yet to run it by three of the mums, he only had a fifty per cent strike rate on Art Hammer so far. Cathy had never met the bloke; Christina had been harassed by him at various pubs but thought he was all talk and no action. As to Earl Blue and his odd-bod behaviour at the Daylesford Community Church, Christina didn't recognise him from the photo and she had no connection with the church. The bugger hadn't phoned him back either. He needed to follow up with Blue and check back with the other mums on both local wackos soon.

  OK, so what did he have right now?

  Bailey van Hoeckel: aged five months, born at the Trentham Bush Nursing Hospital.

  Significance: Solomon's games dated back to at least October and the hospital link was demoted to tenuous at best, unless a staffer worked at both Ballarat and Trentham. The person could be an agency nurse or aide.

  Shit, that could mean more hospitals and more victims.

  Franklin jotted a reminder to check the agency angle.

  The letter-wrapped rock was the work of a psycho who'd scrutinised Christina subsequent to sending his initial letters. Who'd witnessed her relationship with a married father of two, along with, as the latest gossip had it, another couple of local blokes. That someone apparently blended in so well that no one on West Street noticed him that morning, either before or after hurling the rock.

  Presumably a local, could even be a neighbour. Franklin added the idea to his book and rechecked his interview notes.

  Christina negated correlation to a mothers' group or specific medical clinic, whereas the maternal health centre and a number of local businesses were solid connectors between the women.

  But what if Solomon lacked official association with any of these? How would Franklin narrow in on him?

  And what if Solomon was a woman? Not much would surprise him in this perplexing case.

  He debated whether it was time to get the suits involved or share his inquiries with the Daylesford team. Franklin was loath to do either. Christina begged him not to divulge the Solomon-stalker aspect of the case. Brazen she may be but she didn't fancy being dubbed 'the whore who copped a rock through the window' particularly as she hoped to talk Darren back into her bed.

  Franklin ticked off a mental list to justify keeping quiet. He couldn't care less about Christina and even wasn't too concerned about Tayla and Lauren but he'd protect Cathy Jones's privacy wherever possible. Besides, the CI boys were perpetually busy and under-resourced, so they would handball it back to the local uniforms. This would mean more meaningless paperwork and delays as they battled interdepartmental, bureaucratic bullshit. What could the detectives or his workmates do that he wasn't already onto? It wasn't serious enough - yet - to necessitate upscaling the investigation. He and Sprague went through the usual motions in a criminal damage case. They hadn't done any less than required due to Franklin's omission. And he still had Blue and Hammer to chase.

  On a personal level, the case was big and exciting. Chilling. But exciting. Franklin resolved to hang onto it a little longer and see if he could crack it. Then he'd establish if he possessed aptitude for CIU work. And if he did, what then? Well, it might not be too late to apply for the suits in his forties, when Kat grew more independent or left home.

  The certainties in life were death and taxes. And change. You always needed to be ready for change. Donna taught him that one early on. Maybe he should give her a call and thank her. One day.

  Jenny McGuire resembled a horse. She wore a chestnut ponytail drawn back from a long face. Her laugh was a bray crossed with a neigh and seemed more to do with a nervous disposition than a happy one. She'd pulled up outside the Hepburn Shire Advocate in an older model Ford Telstar sedan, its gold-brown duco faded and patchy. That Georgie had waited outside her office at 9.00am had visibly thrown the journalist; she'd probably anticipated an uneventful Thursday morning in sleepy Daylesford.

  Georgie considered Daylesford anything but sleepy and uneventful. She didn't personally know people in Melbourne with underworld connections, yet they were behind every fence post here.

  'You want to see our archives?' McGuire repeated, incredulous.

  'Aren't they computerised?'

  The journo's mouth twitched. 'Depends. These days, yes. A few years back, not so much.
What period are you looking at?'

  'Five years ago.'

  McGuire gave a shrug.

  'Paper archives then.' Georgie added, 'Unless you have a copy of the "local hero" article you wrote on Roland Pentecoste handy?'

  A blush spread over McGuire's face and neck in ugly blotches. It resembled red ink diffusing on tissue and fascinated Georgie.

  But when she didn't answer, Georgie acted off-handed. 'Doesn't matter. I'll have a peek at the copy around that time and find it. I guess the Pentecostes cropped up in the paper a lot back then.'

  'What do you expect to find?'

  Georgie blew a raspberry. 'I'll know when I see it.'

  'What's it to you? Are you doing a story on it?' McGuire fingered Georgie's business card. She reread: freelance writer and editor.

  'Not sure.' Georgie again replied candidly. There could be a story in it. Perhaps she'd toss out the novel-in-progress taking up her bottom drawer and adapt this real-life drama.

  Resigned, McGuire grabbed a set of keys and jerked her thumb. Georgie tracked behind down a corridor and into a dungeon-like room that smelled musty despite the newness of the Advocate building. McGuire indicated the approximate starting point and stomped away.

  Georgie faced an array of boxes and sighed. Then she set to work. Several of the boxes were incompletely labelled, which made a tedious task torturous. But she eventually located the relevant carton and carried it to the tiny laminate-topped desk on metal legs flanked by a low-backed, hard plastic chair.

  Rather than jumping to D-day, Georgie selected a pile of papers within a three-month period - from one month before the fire at Abergeldie - in order to picture the township. No mean feat as she had to arrange the papers chronologically first.

  Finally, the newspapers were organised, yet she procrastinated. She considered McGuire's question. She asked herself what she expected to find. Her honest answer was nothing. Stuff all. But she needed to go through the motions and hoped to stumble across a clue that would piece the jigsaw together. It appeared that stumbling on information could be her forte.

  For a non-local, the contents ranged between unremarkable to laughable with a few in the 'totally cringeworthy' category. A substantial percentage of each weekly edition comprised real estate adverts and trade classifieds. Tourism matters rated of crucial importance and often covered opening pages. A host of local organisations advised on events, issues and projects. The police reported crime statistics, prevention and other community topics. Hot news tended to be the wins of local identities - from record sales at the stockyards to a debutante making good at the trots. The local births, deaths and marriages section contained unflattering photographs, humdrum stories and complex pedigrees. Free legal advice, a television guide and gardening column were regulars towards the back. Public notices outnumbered the negligible employment opportunities. Predominantly male sport commandeered the rear spread.

  The personal ads engrossed her the most. Seeking same sex, swingers and a Sagittarius. Whatever turns you on.

  Among the drivel, Georgie discovered various mentions of the Pentecostes in context to their farming and community involvement. No hint of entanglement in scandal, controversy or legal dispute.

  She reached for the edition around the date of Roly Pentecoste's disappearance and coincidently his interview with McGuire. Her temples ached and she massaged them. Maybe her eyesight was affected because she had to scan the paper thrice.

  Franklin beat a tattoo with his fingers. Each ring made him more certain he'd be unlucky yet again. But as he was about to hang up, he heard, 'Blue residence. Hello?'

  He identified himself and asked for Earl Blue.

  The woman hesitated. 'What's this in relation to?'

  'I'd like to speak with Earl - he's your son, yes?'

  'Yes.' She sounded even cagier now.

  'So I'd like to speak with your son about some incidents in town -'

  'Have those radicals from the Community Church stirred up new trouble for him?'

  'This is not in relation to the Community Church. Why would you think it might be?'

  'They caused him trouble last year.'

  Other way around, as Pastor Danni told it. And he knew who he trusted.

  'But whatever they're saying about him now, it isn't true.'

  'How can you be certain until you know what it's about?' He felt baffled.

  'Has this got anything to do with White Lake, Wisconsin?'

  What the fuck is she on about? 'Wisconsin in America?'

  Franklin didn't have control of this conversation. And he reckoned that Earl Blue inherited his nutter genes from his mother.

  Mrs Blue laughed; a brittle, high chortle. 'My Earl is at a Christian camp in Wisconsin in the good ol' US of A. And before that, he was at a conference retreat in Ohio and before that he was doing some schooling over there.'

  Is she setting up her son's alibi here?

  Casually, he asked, 'When was he at home last?'

  He crossed his fingers, kind of wanted Earl Blue to be his crook at this stage.

  'Just after that pastor' - she spat the word - 'from the so-called Community Church kicked him out.' She paused, then added, 'End of September last year.'

  Franklin screwed up his mouth. If Mrs Blue's claims were corroborated, Earl Blue could not be Solomon.

  He could not have tossed the rock through Christina van Hoeckel's window or trashed her car from America and the letters were postmarked locally, so he couldn't have sent them either.

  Earl Blue might be off the hook. But at least he still had his prime suspect: Art Hammer.

  Three checks confirmed her eyesight wasn't faulty.

  Although the Advocate went to print on Mondays, the team had managed a considerable reshuffle to feature the fire at Abergeldie on page one. An image of frantic efforts to contain the blaze covered three quarters of the page, while the editor's text embellished the scanty details available.

  Ironically, a short article on page three reported the huge success of a Rotary Club meeting and dinner on the Saturday night before the fire. An accompanying photograph depicted Roland Pentecoste, his arms slung around the shoulders of Lewis Davis and a Bill Noonan. Doug Macdougall linked to the human chain via his mate Davis.

  Georgie noticed the 'second and final week' dinner package at Windows on Vincent that Susan and Roly took up on the fateful Sunday evening.

  What was omitted interested her more. McGuire's local hero piece on Roly had presumably been postponed in the reshuffle.

  One other article caught her attention. It had McGuire's byline.

  LOCAL MAN KILLED IN HIT AND RUN

  A young local man died on his way to hospital on Saturday evening following a hit and run incident on lower Raglan Street, Daylesford.

  The pedestrian was struck by a vehicle at approximately 9.40pm on Saturday.

  A male witness attended to the victim while waiting for the ambulance; however, the 28-year-old man lost his life before reaching hospital.

  Police are appealing to the driver to come forward or for anyone with information to contact officers at the Daylesford station or telephone Crime Stoppers.

  Callers can remain anonymous.

  The man who arrived at the scene shortly after the accident is not currently available for further questioning.

  Georgie heard an echo of Pam Stewart's words: that Roly had 'gone to the aid of an accident' the evening before the fire. She supposed he was the unnamed witness.

  Vexed at time wasted on reading instead of action, she flipped through the successive editions. She found articles Susan had clipped; and a follow-up piece on the hit and run that named the victim as Joseph Bigagli of no fixed address, whose mother lived in nearby Creswick.

  After re-filing the papers, she exited the dungeon. A surly youth with numerous piercings manned the reception desk. Georgie interpreted through hand signals and shoulder shrugs that McGuire was on a mission, probably avoiding the question: Why did the Advocate dump her feat
ure on Roly Pentecoste? Such a story would have been timely while debate about the local personality thrived.

  But more urgent questions screwed Georgie's brain. Why the journalist didn't name the accident witness. What she knew about Joseph Bigagli. Whether the culpable driver was ever arrested. And what she thought of the allegations against John Schlicht, aka the Iceman, in particular about his part in Roly's supposed murder.

  She planned to interrogate McGuire face-to-face. Her fiery blush and body language were liable to reveal more than she articulated.

  Georgie leaned against the Advocate's exterior and noticed a police wagon whiz past.

  She speed-dialled a number and lit a cigarette.

  First, they exchanged greetings. Next, she put her request to Matt Gunnerson. 'Matty, I need a favour.'

  'Burst my bubble, why don't you? I thought you longed to hear my sexy voice.'

  She visualised his eyebrow wiggle.

  'Oh, if I didn't live with your brother. Anyway, much as it's always fun to talk to you, this is serious.'

  'Fire away, Gee. What you got?'

  'Something right up the alley of an intrepid crime reporter.'

  Georgie gave details of the hit and run. Although it could prove irrelevant, the timing and vagueness of the Advocate's report intrigued her.

  She could almost hear Matty's back crack as he sat taller, hooked. He promised to research the tabloids.

  'What else can I do?'

  Down, boy. Just a little too eager there. It would be a race to see who wrote the story first at this rate.

  After thinking on it, Georgie also solicited whatever he could rake up on Jenny McGuire. The local journo made her antennae twitch.

  'Fucking hell. What's she up to now?'

  Franklin pulled a U-turn at the roundabout and headed to the Coles car park. He zoomed into an empty space near the Advocate and slammed his door before Sprague closed his folder.

  'Hoy, Harvey. I've got a bone to pick with you.'

  The writer dropped her cigarette and ground it with a sandalled heel. Her eyes bored into Franklin's. They were deep brown pools that may as well have been steel shutters. He couldn't fathom her thoughts.