Big White Lies

by Jay Darby

“Humungous? Hah, if only it would, Dan Porter,” she called out. “If only it would...”

  EIGHT

  Who murdered those two council blokes? And if the same mob have Nadia, where is she? Those were Porter’s questions to himself when he jolted awake in the passenger seat. His partner, Senior Constable Ian Betts, managed to find another pothole as he steered the sedan onto the freeway exit towards Sydney.

  Porter glanced at his watch, 1.26pm, then out the window. He’d slept for most of the trip south from Newcastle. He caught a whiff of a foul odor and turned to accuse Betts of farting, then pulled the shirt collar towards his nose. It reeked of death, of charred human flesh.

  He’d seen plenty of dead’uns in his time and forgotten the look of most, but their rancid smells stayed in his nostrils, hair, and mouth for years. He remembered the first ‘deceased person’ job he’d attended more than fifteen years ago, his nose twitched. Gas had billowed from the old lady as he scooped her body parts from a murky bathtub. They’d looked like rotten eggs floating in stale creek water, and smelled even worse.

  “Yep, you stink to high hell…” Betts said. “Welcome back to the world. Good nap by the sounds of it, were snoring like a trooper.”

  Porter yawned. “Serious? Sorry mate, I’m shattered...” He sniffed at his collar again. “Hope there’s a fresh shirt in my locker, smell like a friggin’ cremation pit. Noticed you didn’t go anywhere near that truck...”

  Betts chuckled, his neck wobbled like a turkey’s. “What, and reek like you?” He rubbed a fat cheek. At thirty-eight, a year younger than Porter, he hadn’t aged well. “Whoever roasted those gardeners did a thorough job of it.”

  “Not wrong, and they’ve left us sweet fuck all.”

  “A few tire tracks and some wind-blown boot marks…Doubt they’ll find prints or DNA.”

  “No chance, that crime scene’s as clean as two blokes inside a chargrilled Isuzu can be.”

  “Stop making me hungry. Barbequed chook for lunch?”

  “Sick bastard…What’s your take on the tire tracks?”

  “That none led out of the clearing? They torched the truck then took off out of there…”

  “Yeah, in a helicopter…And from the lack of markings on the ground, I don’t reckon it touched down.”

  “I'm guessing it wouldn’t be easy to board a copter that’s hovering like that?”

  “It’s not, which means these blokes are well trained, probably ex-military. And if Nadia was with ‘em, she could be anywhere by now…”

  Betts thumped a palm against his forehead. “Shit, I forgot to ask that Newcastle boss about their canvass.”

  “Good thing I didn’t...” Porter took a battered notebook from his breast pocket. “You were too busy flirting with that probationary constable.”

  “You’ve gotta admit, Port, she did have a sensational rack on her…”

  Porter laughed then read from the notebook. “The Forensic blokes reckon the truck was torched between 2 and 3am this morning. As you saw yourself, there was nothing but industrial estate surrounding the crime scene. A nearby service road runs past a deserted army base, then through to Newcastle’s shipping terminal. The nearest residents are three clicks away. Ones they’ve spoken to, saw and heard nothing.”

  “Any cameras on the service road? They usually keep tabs on trucks coming and going from the terminals…”

  “No cameras, or any other means of knowing who used the road during the night.”

  “What’s with the army base?”

  “It's an abandoned world war two barracks. They’re waiting on military clearance to search it later today.”

  “Good…Check your phone, it vibrated a while back.”

  Porter took his phone from the console and selected the first missed call.

  “Dan?” Claire answered. “On your way back?”

  “Be at the office in ten. What’s up?”

  “Just noticed a job that’s been allocated to you guys. Computer dispatch, not for broadcast...”

  “What is it?”

  “Deceased female at Central morgue. Thought I’d call and let you go straight there.”

  “Bloody hell, we’re just returning from a smelly friggin’ funeral pyre…”

  “I told radio that…Want me to try giving it to another crew?”

  “Nah, seems they want us to go…Cheers.” He ended the call with a frustrated sigh.

  “So?” Betts said.

  “Another deaden. Central morgue.”

  “Why us?”

  “Reckon it’s related to the missing girls…” Porter’s gut knotted as he said it. He turned and grabbed a blue folder from the rear seat. It contained profiles and photos of forty-three missing girls. Would he find one of them at the morgue?

  “Fair enough. Will grab a bite to eat after it, I’m starving...”

  “Yeah…” Porter said, distracted by a message Jane had sent at 10.15am. ‘Call me, soon as you can.’ He saw she’d called his phone eight times. Strange, because she rarely contacted him at work. He cursed the missed calls. He’d been too busy yacking to Betts or other cops when Jane had needed him.

  Worry punched him in the guts. He pictured Amber giggling into a cereal bowl, and Nadia blushing as she handed him biscuits. He heard Jane howl. In pain, or in mourning?

  His hands trembled as he called Jane’s cell phone. It rang five times then diverted to voicemail. He tried the home phone. No answer. He gazed outside. Visions of Jane and Amber flashed through his head faster than the concrete jungle flew past the window. Jane’s busy and can’t answer, he tried to convince himself. Amber’s safe at school, there’s no need to worry.

  Betts glanced at him. “You alright?”

  “Yeah…” Porter lied. “I was just thinking, have a stack of paperwork to get done. The Neilsen brief is due next week and haven’t started it.” He rubbed an itchy armpit. Sweating, in the middle of winter? He closed his eyes and stretched his forehead with index fingers.

  “Neilsen…Armed robs?”

  Porter opened his eyes. “Yeah, him and Eddy Tindall.”

  “I heard Eddy lost the plot at boxing yesterday. You should’ve belted the cheeky prick...”

  “Bit harsh isn’t it? He’d just found out about Nadia…”

  “Ah, got no time for those kids. Off their heads on ice and running around like they own the town.”

  “Was gunna take him off the program, but I'm not sure. First his old man, and now Nadia…”

  “You’re too fucking soft sometimes, Port. That kid was a waste of space long before his dad shot through.”

  “Eddy’s not a bad kid, just needs a bit of direction.”

  “A bullet’s what he needs.” Betts sniggered. “Do us all a favor...”

  Knots in Porter’s gut tightened the closer they got to the morgue. Convinced the deceased female would be one of the missing girls, he whispered their names as each innocent face flashed through his mind. He tried Jane’s phone again. No answer. Tight knots became a stabbing pain.

  “Bloody hell, can’t stand it, hurry up,” he blurted.

  Betts eyed him sideways and frowned. “Chill, mate, we’re here…”

  A few minutes later, Porter pressed an intercom button outside Central Morgue’s rear entry.

  “Hello?” A lifeless female voice crackled.

  Porter announced them in his most serious baritone, opened the glass door after it buzzed and unlocked, then led Betts down a grey corridor. They entered an office, its’ furnishings as dull as the lights were bright. A middle-aged woman approached, face frozen in a frown. She wore a white surgical gown and dark hair bundled under a net.

  Porter presented his silver police badge.

  She turned her nose up at it. “Diane Smith, morgue attendant on duty. You guys took your time as usual...Here for the deceased female?”

  “We’re not here for a live one….” Porter matched her icy tone. He prided himself on being civil whenever possible but knew a bitch when he met on
e. “And it's not like she's got somehere else to be...”

  Smith scoffed, unlocked another door and beckoned them to follow.

  Betts prodded Porter’s ribs then pointed at her. “We’ve already found the stiff.”

  “I reckon you’re right…”

  Porter rubbed his scrunched nose as they followed her into a narrow room. It reeked of disinfectant, as pleasant as death could be. Two rows of refrigerated steel cabinets hummed. Lined along opposite walls, they rose to the ceiling and were divided by a concrete walkway. Morgue drawers filled each cabinet. Ten drawers across, three drawers high.

  Smith stopped in front of drawer number eleven, placed a gloved hand on the handle and turned to Porter. “I don’t know a lot about his one…”

  He noticed the name tag on the drawer. His chest heaved, his heart fell to the floor. Mind numb, he opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out.

  Betts read the name tag aloud. “Unidentified black female...”

  In Porter’s mind he saw Jane smile. He shivered, and turned to Smith. “Someone brought her in with no idea of a name?” His voice croaked. “Doesn’t make sense…How old is she?”

  Betts put a hand on his shoulder.

  Smith frowned at Porter. “You’re shaking. Can’t cope with the sight of a cold little corpse by now?”

  Betts glared at her. “Listen you patronizing moron, he’s seen more blood and gore than you ever will.” He waved a hand around the room. “Think it’s all clean and tidy like this when we find these bodies? When they’re mangled in cars, drowned in rivers, hanging from fucking trees…”

  She shrugged, wide-eyed.

  “He’s got other things going on, so wipe that smug look off your face and open the fucking drawer...”

  She recoiled, then searched through a set of keys. Betts stood over her and breathed loud. She inserted the key into drawer eleven and turned it. The drawer rolled out.

  “Wait!” Porter lunged forward and pushed it back inside the cabinet. “I need to make a phone call first.”

  She opened her mouth to protest. Betts held a finger to pursed lips, and she backed away.

  Porter stared at his phone and tried to focus the blurred images in his head. Jane kissed him. Amber jumped on the bed in her favorite pink pyjamas. Nadia Tindall cheered when Eddy knocked another opponent to the canvas. More than forty other faces flashed through his mind, of the missing girls whose photos filled the folder clutched to his chest.

  He called Jane’s phone, her voicemail message greeted him. He tried their home phone and let it ring for two minutes. He glanced at Betts, felt more crook in the guts with each passing second. It rang out, and he called her cell phone again. He rammed a shaking finger onto the ‘end call’ button when he heard her voicemail message, then turned back to Smith.

  She placed a hand on the drawer. “Now? I have other things to do you know?”

  He moved opposite her. “What you mean, you don’t have much on this one?”

  She pointed to the name tag.

  “That’s it? No paperwork from body handlers?” Betts said. “They brought her in from…?”

  She shrugged, grabbed the handle and pulled. The drawer rolled out to reveal a black plastic bag.

  Porter clamped a hand on her wrist and stopped the drawer from rolling further. He leaned closer, eyes fixed on hers. “Bullshit, where’d she come in from?”

  She shook her wrist free. “I answered the rear buzzer at eleven-thirty this morning. This bag’s on the driveway, outside the delivery door. No paperwork, tags, nothing. Spoke to my supervisor, body handlers, security guys. No-one knew anything about it.”

  Porter checked his watch. “It’s nearly two…When did you report it?”

  Smith sighed. “Straight away, knew it wasn’t the average stiff in a bag. Woman on the phone told me to leave it there until police and forensics arrived.”

  “Why didn’t you?” Betts said.

  “Members of the public could see it, and we keep the back door clear for deliveries. She said to secure the body and not touch it. I haven’t…Well, except for a quick peek to determine gender. Wish I hadn’t really, it’s quite disturbing, even for me…”

  “How’d you move her?”

  “Guards helped me...The woman on the phone said special police would come to check it out, said it related to a missing girls’ case or something.” She looked them up and down. “Guess standards have slipped?”

  Betts grunted. “What’s disturbing about it?”

  “You’ll see, if I can open the damn bag?”

  He glanced at Porter. “Leave us mate, I’ll do this alone...”

  Porter swallowed, bile burned his throat, his pulse quickened. “Nah, I’m okay, open it.”

  Smith pulled the handle, and the whole drawer rolled from the cabinet.

  Porter studied the bag. Two meters in length, half a meter wide. Crumpled, with a hump near the middle. Which end was the head at? He bent closer, and his eyes traced an imaginary outline of the body inside. Too short for both Jane and Amber, he tried to convince himself. And maybe Nadia as well…

  “Wrong end, the head’s up here.” Smith sniggered then pointed. “Or do you have pictures of feet in your folder there?”

  Porter flashed his best ‘fuck you’ glare and stepped to the other end of the drawer.

  Smith ripped the zipper sideways. The bag fell open.

  NINE

  Lionel Roberts gazed down from his office to the wondrous expanse of emerald-green water that sparkled as sunshine burst through cotton-like clouds. The view from the Circular Quay skyscraper left him with tingling skin every time he saw it. His previous workplace, an oven in far-west Galargonville, had a faded picture of the Opera House on its’ wall. Now he worked in a modern office block in the city, with air-conditioning and a view of the real thing.

  He watched the green and yellow passenger ferries rumble to all corners of Sydney harbor. Faster vessels skimmed past them. Catamarans glided. Luxurious yachts held anchor in calm bays. Years away from the city had given him a greater appreciation of its’ beauty and contrasts. From the busy yet tranquil harbor, to the CBD’s concrete chaos far below him.

  He’d always called Sydney home, in a physical sense at least, the place he’d lived most his life. But in his heart and deep within his soul, he sensed home was in a far-away place. Ghosts of his spiritual ancestors visited his dreams and urged him to follow them there, then quickly disappeared. It troubled him, not knowing who they were and where they wanted to take him.

  The daydream ended when his phone’s ringtone blared the chorus of ‘Treaty’ by Yothu Yindi. He checked the time before answering. 2.02pm. “Lionel Roberts speaking…”

  “Lionel, it’s Nick Galios…Calling in relation to our conversation last night.”

  “Mr Galios, thanks for getting back to me so soon.”

  “But not with what you want to hear I’m afraid…”

  Lionel frowned. “In what way?”

  “I rang Judge McKinlay first thing this morning. His response when I explained the increased abuse in the far-west, and your proposed inquiry into it, was icy, to say the least…”

  “You presented the full facts?”

  “Of course, those I knew.” Galios scoffed. “He said to come back with concrete evidence, and not, in his words, pie in the sky rubbish.”

  “Ouch.”

  “Yes, his disdainfully dismissive nature is unique, even for a retired Judge.”

  “Did he give reasons for rejecting it?”

  “None, but apparently, you and I are a disgrace to society with purely selfish agendas.”

  “Wow, he didn’t hold back, and strange that he commented on my motives. I know all about him, have followed his career, but he knows nothing of me…”

  “Don’t bet on it, that old fox knows everything.”

  “His opposition is no surprise. Every state’s Police Commissioner supported his nomination for Chair of the Human Rights Commission. They can
’t afford another inquiry into police neglect, and have entrusted him to ensure it never happens.”

  “And then there’s his well-documented contempt for terrorists...We’re wasting our time on him…” Galios’ tone became despondent. “In fact, have I made a mistake contacting you about this issue?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Last night I was angry. And in truth, it was a result of the increased focus on terrorism more than anything else…I’ve been asking myself…What will yet another parliamentary inquiry into police neglect actually achieve?”

  Lionel huffed. “Accountability and transparency, for a start.”

  “I have my doubts…”

  “Yet you didn’t have any regarding the inquiry in ’96...Have you stopped caring?”

  “Everything was in our favor back then, Lionel. International pressure, a nation with a growing conscience, the national reconciliation convention being held the next year…We were always going to get what we wanted.”

  “Okay, fair enough... But what’s changed since then? Not a lot…My ultimate goal, Mr Galios, is to achieve constitutional recognition.”

  “A noble pursuit, but one far removed from the inquiry you’re after, isn’t it?”

  “I don’t agree, it’s all related. I must seize the opportunity that the abuse and missing girls’ case presents, terrible and sad as it is, and bring to the front what is continually being pushed to the rear. Out of sight and out of mind…”

  “Look, Judge Mills made fifty-four recommendations in his ‘Bringing them Home’ report. As far as the Human Rights Commission and international observers are concerned, the government has met every requirement. Australia’s past wrongs have been righted, whether we agree or not.”

  “On paper, Mr Galios, yes. But not in practice…I’ve been out in the far-west, seen the neglect and abuse first hand. The government, and the police continue to ignore it.”

  Galios sighed. “I’m sorry Lionel, I must withdraw my support…”

  Lionel tugged at his curls. How could he make Galios change his mind? He smiled to himself when he found the answer. “You do realize, that if I get my inquiry and force the government to resume Azelia, they’ll have to take staff from Matilda…Which means there’ll be less police to harass members of the minority groups you represent.”