A Murder Is Denounced

by Cenarth Fox

  She waited for him to open the door. It was embarrassing for both. She came for advice not sex. He got his wires crossed. The sooner she escaped the better for both of them.

  He opened the door and stood back. She almost hurried to step forward and kiss his cheek. In that instant they were siblings. He was dancing with his sister. She left, he closed the door, and slapped himself hard.

  Chapter 27

  THE PERSON WAS UPSET, SCREAMING, their voice muffled. ‘He’s killed her, he’s stabbed her. She’s not moving. She’s dead.’

  ‘Calm down, where are you?’ asked the Triple O operator.

  ‘Get an ambulance. Get the cops. Help! Help me!’

  Another calm response came from the operator. ‘Where are you?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘What is your address?’

  ‘Oh shit, he’s coming back. Hurry.’

  The operator felt a touch of panic. ‘Please tell me your address.’

  ‘I’m in the gardens. Come quickly.’

  ‘Which gardens? What is their name?’

  The terrified woman spoke to someone else. ‘Where are we?’

  Another muffled voice was heard this time in the background. ‘Fitzroy Gardens near the Pullman. Come on, let’s go.’

  ‘The Fitzroy Gardens,’ screamed the distressed woman, ‘near the Pullman,’ and the line went dead.

  The experienced operator roused the emergency services. Police and ambulance officers headed to the 26 hectare East Melbourne site.

  A senior police officer looked at a screen. ‘Is that a homicide?’

  ‘She said the woman was stabbed and dead,’ replied a colleague.

  ‘Better give Homicide a heads up. I’ll do it.’ He rang the number.

  ‘DS Hughes, Homicide.’

  ‘Senior Constable Gooch from HQ, ma’am. There’s a Triple O call about a possible homicide in the Fitzroy Gardens.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Unconfirmed but we have officers en route. Just giving you a heads up, ma’am.’

  ‘Thanks, Senior, I’ll send someone.’

  Billy scratched her head. It was a long drive from her Doncaster home but DI Richelieu lived near the murder scene. She rang him.

  A drowsy DI answered. ‘Bonjour Detective Sergeant. I was of the belief you are the officer on duty.’

  ‘Sorry, sir, but there’s a report of a homicide in the Fitzroy Gardens and I thought …’

  ‘Oh oui, I am next door. I can be there in ‘ow you say, “two shakes of a lamb’s tail”?’

  ‘You’re a star, sir, my favourite DI.’

  ‘Mon dieu, flattery in the wee small ‘ours.’ Billy laughed. ‘I will let you know. Au revoir.’

  He pulled a track suit over his silk pyjamas, slipped on his upmarket slip-ons, grabbed his clutch bag with keys and ID, and left his apartment. He jogged along Hotham Street. It was dark, dead quiet with the gardens at peace. The whole suburb was at peace. The murder may have happened in such a tranquil setting, but the usual lights, action and camera hubbub was yet to begin. He slowed to a brisk walk. Fifty yards to go. Thirty. The gardens loomed large.

  He approached the laneway, Trinity Place, at the back of the church, when a car’s engine roared, tyres squealed and Richelieu looked to his left. No headlights.

  It happened in a flash. When people say an accident happens in slow motion, presumably they can see events unfold. Richelieu didn’t have time to ponder the possibilities. He was smashed, run over and the vehicle was gone before any neighbour even got out of bed.

  It was not much later when Assistant Commissioner John Crowley’s phone rang. Crime was his portfolio and it needed to be more than a stolen bicycle or a scuffle outside a nightclub to wake the senior cop.

  ‘Crowley,’ he said trying not to wake his wife.

  ‘Senior Sergeant Paul McIntyre, Traffic, sir. Apologies for the time but we’ve been called to an RTA which you may wish to know about.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Hit and run with the person taken to St Vincent’s in a critical condition, sir. The victim is a member of Homicide.’

  ‘Who?’ demanded Crowley now wide awake and out of bed.

  ‘Detective Inspector Pierre Richelieu,’ said the senior sergeant.

  ‘Where did it happen?’

  Ah, corner of Hotham and Clarendon Streets, sir, in East Melbourne, close to his home address.’

  ‘Who else have you told?’

  ‘You’re the first, sir.’

  ‘Thank you. I’ll contact Homicide. You find the driver.’

  ‘Yes sir.’

  ‘And how critical is critical?’

  ‘It looked pretty bad, sir.’

  ‘Okay. Thanks. Goodnight.’

  Nothing stirs a police officer like hearing about a colleague being injured or killed. It might not be the same as with members of the military in a war zone but if not, then pretty darn close.

  Crowley went to his study and rang DI Elly Rose. Upon hearing the news, she felt a sharp pain in her chest. When she spoke, the AC felt pleased. She remained calm while acting decisively. Nevertheless, she asked for his advice, and that pleased him too.

  ‘What do you recommend, sir?’

  ‘Well it’s not a case for Homicide, at least not now. I would tell your team, then get someone to the scene and to the hospital. Offer counselling if necessary. Is anyone close to the DI?’ Rose hesitated. One name sprung to mind. ‘Apart from Senior Constable Best, of course.’

  ‘Leave it with me, sir, and I’ll keep you abreast of any news.’

  ‘Thank you, Elly, but make it good news.’

  Rose felt sick. Her last interaction with DI Richelieu was to call him to her office and quiz him, or did she reprimand him, on his behaviour? She knew the dangers and possible consequences when work colleagues developed an intimate relationship. Now one half of the so-called “loving couple” was fighting for his life and all the “hidden” romance details would come out in any investigation. As worried for Richelieu as she was, the thought of her career being damaged, even ruined, haunted her.

  Lacking any religious faith, despite a Presbyterian girls’ school education, she thought of a prayer for the injured officer then began phoning.

  ‘Ma’am,’ said Billy Hughes wondering why her boss was ringing. ‘I was about to call you.’

  ‘You’ve heard?’

  ‘About twenty minutes ago. Because DI Richelieu lives so close, I asked him to look and report.’

  ‘Look at what?’

  ‘Possible homicide in the Fitzroy Gardens, ma’am.’

  ‘Forget it. DI Richelieu’s been hit by a car and taken to St Vincent’s in a critical condition.’

  The silence lingered. Hughes was in shock. ‘When?’

  ‘Just now. AC Cowley rang me. He was rung by Traffic. The car and driver disappeared.’

  ‘Jesus,’ whispered Billy. ‘I sent him there and wondered why he didn’t call me.’

  ‘Tell all squad members. Not Jo Best, I’ll tell her. You go and talk to Traffic. Send Justin and Charlie Baldwin to the hospital. Everyone else to HQ as soon as possible.’

  ‘Ma’am,’ said Hughes, and as she hit End, she noticed her hands were shaking.

  Jo struggled to sleep. Bad dreams and bad thoughts kept her restless. She grabbed snatches of sleep but even one of those was interrupted when DI Rose called.

  ‘Ma’am?’ said a croaky Senior Constable.

  ‘I’ve bad news, Jo. Are you okay?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am. What’s happened?’

  ‘Di Richelieu was in a hit and run and has been taken to St V’s in a critical condition.’ Jo froze. ‘Jo? Are you there?’

  ‘Yes ma’am.’

  ‘Of course I want you to know but I don’t want you involved.’

  Jo was a mix of panic and anger. ‘Ma’am?’

  ‘I know you and the DI are close and I can’t have you running around wearing your heart on your sleeve. Stay home and I’ll call you as soon as we
have any news. Understood?’

  Jo was struggling to compute the facts. ‘Ah, yes ma’am. Did you say he was critical?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘A hit and run? What was he doing at that time?’

  ‘Checking a reported homicide in the Fitzroy Gardens.’

  ‘Which hospital is he in?’

  ‘St V’s but I don’t want you going there. Understood?’

  ‘Ma’am.’

  ‘I’ll call you as soon as I know any more. Okay?’

  Jo seemed vague. ‘Yes ma’am.’

  ‘And Jo, that’s an order.’

  The call ended and Jo fell back on her bed and felt the same emotions as when she heard about her grandmother. Grief, sadness, despair, with a pain in her chest. She wanted to scream but couldn’t. Her mind buzzed with horrible thoughts. She couldn’t remember everything DI Rose told her.

  Why was Pierre investigating a murder alone at 3.30 am? Why wasn’t I called? Was it anything to do with me dumping him? Did I cause him to have this accident? Was it an accident?

  Her flat was pitch black except for her fit-bit and clock radio. But in the darkness she could see Pierre. He was smiling, his eyes were laughing and worse, his voice was as clear as a bell.

  ‘But you will need to do much more than that to stop me from falling in love with you. Even now, it is probably far too late.’

  Jo needed to swallow but couldn’t. The lump in her throat kept growing. Tears appeared without being asked. She heard Pierre speak again. ‘Sleep well, my favourite detective. Au revoir.’

  Then she tried to speak but could only bawl. She wanted to say sorry and ask why. Nobody listened. Nobody replied.

  Her misery lasted for about ten minutes before she sprang out of bed, got dressed, washed her face, tied her hair and headed to her car. She knew the order from her boss. Stay home. She knew it was wrong to get involved but couldn’t wait around and do nothing.

  I have to get to the accident scene and the hospital. I have to try and help Pierre.

  Chapter 28

  IF YOU WORK IN A HOSPITAL’S Emergency department, you get to see horrible sights. Motor vehicles are brilliant for transporting people but horrible when harming them. The results can be devastating.

  DI Richelieu had no chance to avoid the accelerating vehicle. Within a few metres, it got up a head of steam, hit his left thigh, knocked him forward, and then ran over him as it continued to accelerate. This was no accident.

  Several good East Melbourne burghers, roused from their slumber, did what they could for the moaning detective before help arrived. The ambos were old hands at RTAs. They treated DI Richelieu as he lay on the footpath in an unnatural position.

  If the Anglican Archbishop of Melbourne had been home, he could have walked across the road and given succour to the wounded French Catholic.

  The trip from the accident scene to the hospital took all of 140 seconds and while the closeness of the hospital was a bonus, the real issue involved the number and extent of Pierre’s many injuries. His ruptured spleen was life-threatening. The car smashed his left femur, and when he fell and was run over, his spleen copped the equivalent of repeated heavy blows from a heavyweight boxing champion.

  Straight to theatre went the inspector with various professionals assessing his condition while others worked to keep him alive and reduce his pain and suffering.

  A CT scan was deemed too time consuming and as Pierre’s blood pressure plummeted, surgeons decide to remove the spleen. This was potentially a life-saving operation but with no guarantee of success.

  Homicide squad members willingly headed into work, not to work but to see what could be done to help their colleague. All the conversation was about Pierre.

  Rose arrived and was bombarded with questions. She held up her hands, told them what she knew which prompted more questions. Billy Hughes arrived and gave the squad the background.

  ‘I was told about an unconfirmed homicide in the Fitzroy Gardens. Because DI Richelieu lives a block away, I rang him and he offered to check it out and let me know.’

  A murmur sounded. ‘Not good,’ said someone.

  ‘Yes, I know,’ said Rose,’ it sounds like a set-up.’

  ‘It is a set-up, ma’am,’ said Billy. ‘No sign of any body in the Gardens—it was a hoax call.’ The murmur grew louder.

  Fletcher and Baldwin arrived and everyone turned to them. The DS addressed the group. ‘It’s not good. Multiple fractures, concussion and he’s in surgery to remove a ruptured spleen.’ This time the murmur became a groan. ‘Recovery from that alone is up to six months.’

  The mood was bleak. Silence took over.

  ‘What do we know about the incident?’ asked Baldwin.

  Billy Hughes reported on her meeting with Traffic. ‘No witnesses. The vehicle was in a small lane facing Hotham Street just east of Clarendon. The DI was on foot heading to the Gardens when the car flew out of the lane and hit him.’

  ‘Joyrider or crims fleeing a break-in?’ asked Stephen Payne. ‘Was he in the wrong place at the wrong time?’

  Billy shook her head. ‘Traffic reckons the vehicle was stationary and only travelled about ten metres before hitting the DI. The impact they reckon was on the driver’s side as he would have been halfway across the lane when hit.’

  ‘And the vehicle?’ asked Justin Fletcher.

  More head shakes from Billy. ‘No witnesses, no skid marks, and so far no paint or vehicle parts. They’re hoping to get the DI’s clothes to Forensics.’

  The mood dropped further. DI Rose made decisions. ‘This is not our case.’ Immediately people protested. Rose held up her hands. ‘I know; it’s an attempt on the life of one of our colleagues.’ They settled. ‘It’s an attempt murder and if it becomes a homicide, you know the situation about police investigating their own.’

  ‘Bugger the situation,’ said Baldwin. Others agreed. But the mood changed dramatically when DI Callum Blunt asked a question.

  ‘Where is Detective Senior Constable Best?’

  At that moment she was defying her boss, driving to East Melbourne. Jo knew the area well and had parked in Hotham and surrounding streets when visiting her friend, the now hospitalized DI Richelieu. Here they kissed in what a novelist of bodice-ripping sagas would describe as a maelstrom of lips and tongues. Now alone, Jo ached.

  In Paris, she and Pierre strolled at night near the Eiffel Tower, kissed, and were minutes from consummating their love. The media invasion killed the moment and now, having discovered Pierre was married, Jo sort of dumped him, felt bad, but never imagined their relationship would end because Pierre would be killed in a tragic way.

  She dared not ring the hospital. She did not want to hear the news—his injuries were likely fatal. She drove as an automaton, and parked illegally, close to the police van in Clarendon Street.

  In the dark and quiet Fitzroy Gardens, possums carried on as if nothing happened across the road. Nothing homicidal did happen in the gardens. Jo approached the police van. The sticky-beaks were gone. Jo looked at the vacant crime scene—no vehicle, no body, no ambulance.

  Senior Sergeant Paul McIntyre headed to the van. ‘Excuse me,’ said Jo. He stopped. She held up her ID. ‘Detective Senior Constable Best, Homicide,’ she said. He moved closer.

  ‘Sorry. I guess he was your colleague.’

  Jo nodded. ‘Have you heard how he is?’

  He shook his head. ‘Sorry again. He was in a bad way and taken to St Vincent’s.’

  ‘And there was no sign of the car?’

  ‘It was long gone when we got here. We can estimate size, and hopefully forensics will give us colour, even make and model.’

  Jo pointed across the road. ‘And it happened over there?’ he nodded. ‘May I take a look?’

  ‘Sure but you know about the tapes.’

  She muttered her thanks and walked to the crime scene. There was nothing to see and the street lighting gave no help for a detailed search. She imagined Pierre being smashed by the
car and then lying on the bitumen, barely alive. Her chest pain hurt; her throat ached.

  She looked east along Hotham Street and could make out Pierre’s home. She knew his lounge-room intimately; the carpet, furniture and furnishings. She wished she could go there now, knock on his door and once more enjoy his company, coffee and kisses. She hated the thought of him dying.

  Why did this happen?

  There was nothing she could do and nothing to heal her pain. She headed to Pierre’s place then stopped knowing how futile it would be once there. She headed back to her car, unlocked it in a daze, and hopped in. A friend would have stopped her from driving. She was in no fit state to be behind the wheel.

  Revving her engine too much because of stress, she pulled out but slammed on the brakes as Senior Sergeant McIntyre strode towards her holding up his hand. She lowered her window.

  ‘Switch off your engine.’ Jo struggled to understand why he said those words. He raised his voice. ‘Switch off your engine, now.’

  Jo killed the engine and got out. The officer stood in front of her car. She joined him. ‘Is there a problem?’ she asked.

  He shone his torch on her front driver’s side headlight. ‘What’s this?’ Jo looked, surprised. Her car was damaged. Not in a major way but certainly enough to notice.

  ‘I’ve no idea,’ said Jo. ‘I’ve not been in an accident.’

  ‘Who else drives this vehicle?’

  ‘No one.’ Jo felt worse which was saying something. On top of all her pain of late, now she discovered her car was damaged, something she knew nothing about. The Traffic officer played it by the book.

  ‘You need to be breathalysed,’ he said taking out the device.

  ‘But I haven’t been drinking.’ Jo spoke without thinking. It was as if she was on automatic pilot.

  ‘Are you refusing to take the test?’ The officer couldn’t believe a fellow cop would refuse. She must know refusal is a serious offence.

  ‘No,’ said Jo shaking her head. She blew into the device. The pressure was building.