Big White Lies

by Jay Darby

  She glowered at him, mouth open. “Look...” She knelt behind Rhodes and pointed at his sunken skull. “That’s not been caused by a single blow on landing. He’s been hit with a rock or something…” She bent closer to the ground. “Blood splatter patterns, in different sizes.” She stood and scanned the red dirt. She ran ten meters then stopped, and pointed to a blood-covered rock on the ground. “Look at this…Head was bashed in, then they threw this rock over here…”

  He gave her a quizzical frown and continued writing. “I saw that…The blood could’ve come from anywhere. Dingo chewin’ on his dinner. Who knows…?”

  She huffed, strode to the plastic bag next to the body and picked it up to study its’ contents. Rhodes’ wallet, police ID, iPhone, and Landcruiser keys…She fished out the battered phone.

  Jim grunted. “Leave it. Don’t want your grubby prints.”

  She noticed the phone’s open sim card holder. “No sim card.” She glanced at him. “Did you take it out already?”

  He didn’t look at her. “Must’ve come out on impact. Look for it…”

  She placed the bag down. Nothing could be recovered from the mangled iPhone, but if she could find the sim card, any data stored on it might explain why Rhodes had climbed Bunyip Hill. She stepped with caution and moved outwards in circles while she searched the ground. Five meters from the corpse she stopped and bent down. A boot mark in the dirt? From a large boot with a serrated sole, the type found on police or military issued boots.

  Her eyes followed the direction of the boot marks. Three more led to the road. She stood to full height and saw scuff marks in the dirt. Had more boot marks been kicked away? By the killer, killers, or someone else? She piled rocks next to the marks to help crime scene staff find them, then walked back to Jim.

  “Can’t find the sim card…This is a crime scene, it requires a thorough examination. Now.”

  He sighed, as though bored by her. “Crime scene girls left town on another job twenty minutes ago. They can come out tomorrow…”

  She marched up to him, hoped anger would mask her fear. “That’s bullshit! There won’t be a crime scene tomorrow…We can’t leave his body overnight.”

  “You’re right, dingos will get to him. I’ll call the contractors out, have him taken to the morgue this arvo…”

  “No, you need to get the crime scene unit here…What are you hiding?” Hot blood flushed her face as she shouted. “A cop’s dead, and you don’t give a fuck.”

  “I’m the Detective Sergeant in charge. Don’t have to explain myself to you, Senior Constable.”

  “And as the designated homicide detective for Crooked River, I’m saying it’s murder.”

  “What you think, aint worth shit. I’m your boss, you’ll do as you’re told…”

  “I’ll go to Barrett, over your head,” she yelled. “I’m bringing the crime scene girls back from whatever bullshit job they’re at, and giving this the investigation John deserves.” She stormed towards the car, then turned back. “I’m calling Barrett now…Will put you on the phone, let him tell you what a useless wanker you are…”

  “Wasting your time, sweet lips…Already told George how I’m dealing with this. He agrees with my decision, says there’s no need to waste resources on an obvious accident.” He strolled toward her.

  Her jaw quivered as she looked up at him to meet the glare of his grey eyes. The glint in them seemed a mixture of lust and rage. She backed away, unsure if he’d kiss or punch her. “It’s pathetic what you’re doing. This is no accident...”

  “Best get your sexy arse out of here and tell a fella who cares. I’ve said it is, and that’s what matters.”

  She ran to the car, opened the door and turned back to him. “We’ll see…”

  A fiendish grin spread across his face. “Foster, be careful spending too much time with those city cops. I’d hate to see their clumsiness rub off on you…”

  THIRTY

  The Friday morning flight from Crooked River got delayed, and it was just past 2pm when Lionel Roberts knocked on the front door of a miserable miner’s cottage on the outskirts of Broken Hill. Could the man who lived there answer the many questions that puzzled him? Could he help find the missing records for Crooked River mission? Or, did he have them?

  An elderly man opened the door and greeted he and Porter with an angry grunt. Lionel introduced them and resisted a triumphant smile as he recognized the man from the photo Claire had sent. At 6’2 and wafer thin, the man matched the description of the corrupt Aboriginal Welfare Board worker the elders had spoken of. The one who’d stolen girls from Crooked River during the 1960s. Alec Ferguson, Lionel said under his breath, your atonement is nigh…

  Ferguson led them to a dining room at the rear of the house. The Carinya men sat opposite him at a square table that was bare except for three glasses of water. A silver clock with rusted edges hung on an otherwise empty wall. Its’ tick-tock cadence sounded like a bass drum in the awkward silence.

  Lionel laid his briefcase flat on the table and waited for Ferguson to speak. Ferguson said nothing, so he took out a notepad and pen. He saw Porter had done the same and exchanged a glance that said, ‘this’ll be fun’.

  “Thank you for seeing us, Mr Ferguson,” Lionel said.

  “Did I have a choice? Sergeant Boulton parked out front said yar be coming if I liked it or not,” Ferguson said with a faint Scottish accent. He ran a hand through white hair, sat back and stared at Lionel with pale-blue eyes. He had a pink face sprinkled with liver spots, and a fat nose covered in purple veins.

  “Let’s get started…” Lionel said. “Mr Ferguson, is it correct you once worked for the AWB?”

  “Aye, from ’63 to ’69…” Ferguson scowled. “What’s this about?”

  “Please explain your role with them.”

  “Was a record keeper under the Aboriginal Protection Act. Recorded populations and names of those living on missions. Identified children at risk, and reported back to the Welfare Board.”

  “Children at risk?” Porter said. “In what way?”

  “Not getting proper nourishment, suffering physical and sexual abuse from Aboriginal men.” Ferguson glanced from Porter to Lionel. “Things like that...”

  Lionel leaned forward. “What would happen to these children?”

  “Were fostered out to white families, who took much better care of them.” Ferguson gave an exaggerated sigh. “Listen, Roberts, I’m sure yar know what happened to those Koori kids in the 60’s. Half the world knows of the ‘stolen generations’…So why the hell yar harassing me with stuff the government’s already dealt with?”

  Lionel took a copy of the receipt Shirley had provided from the briefcase. He handed it to Ferguson. “Therein lies the problem, Mr Ferguson. The government hasn’t dealt with the, stuff.”

  Fergusons’ face lost all color while he read the receipt. His trembling hands dropped it onto the table.

  “Tell us about the receipt,” Porter said.

  Ferguson said nothing.

  “It’s your signature on that receipt, Mr Ferguson, isn’t it?” Lionel fought to keep his tone calm, despite the fire inside him. “A receipt you wrote to Bleeker, for the purchase of Cathy Inglis. Eleven-year-old, Cathy, who you forcibly removed from her family at Crooked River mission.”

  Ferguson laughed like a wicked Headmaster. “Look at yar.” He glared at Lionel with bloodshot eyes. “Think yar scare me? Yar just a rich Koori kid in a suit, pretending to care ‘cos yar guilty about having money. And yar…” He turned to Porter, his voice grew louder. “Yar shoot black kids for a livin’ and turn on yar workmates…The hide of yar both, coming into my home and accusing me of things I know nothing about!”

  Lionel wanted to applaud the performance but gave him a dubious smile instead. “You deny it’s your signature?”

  “Not saying another word to yar…”

  “I can arrest your wrinkly arse and drag it to the station,” Porter said. “If you prefer?”

>   “Arrest me?” Ferguson folded his arms. “For what? A signature on a receipt yar can’t prove I wrote? Give me a farkin’ break…”

  Porter glared at him. “Want a break? Arm, or a leg?” He winked, then pulled a thick file from his briefcase and thumbed through pages.

  “What’s this?” Ferguson said with sarcastic defiance. “More dodgy receipts?”

  Porter smirked. “Police intelligence reports detailing your inappropriate behavior with children in the park, and your love of surfing kiddy-porn sites. What will your daughters think? Doubt you’ll be allowed near the grandchildren ever again.” He swiveled in his seat to look down the hallway. “Where’s your computer? Might check out your hard drive...”

  Ferguson’s cheeks turned red. “Yar can’t touch it, don’t have a warrant.”

  “Ah, but I’m already inside…You invited me in, remember?”

  Ferguson faked a laugh.

  “Look, I’ve got more than enough cause to drag you and your hard drive outta here…” Porter’s eyes bulged as he growled at him. “If you answer our questions, I’ll let other cops deal with these intelligence reports, and we’ll ignore your corrupt practices of the past. Dick us around, and I’ll be forced to show your wife, kids, family and friends what a grubby man you’ve been…”

  Ferguson sunk in the seat, like a drunken gambler who’d lost his last bet. His face crumpled as though he would cry, but he broke into laughter instead. “Still don’t get it, do yar? I don’t give a damn for reputation…If I tell yar anything, the repercussions will be far worse than any courts’ punishment.”

  Lionel frowned. “Repercussions from who?”

  Ferguson sighed. “Look, they forced my resignation in ‘69 cos I knew too much. Men who threatened my family back then are the same I fear now. My family’s alive because I never spoke of things I did and saw.” His eyes pleaded with Lionel. “Must protect them. Talk to yar, they die…”

  Porter reached across the table and grabbed Ferguson by the throat. “You vile piece of shit, wanna talk about death? We found out ten minutes ago that a mate of ours died this morning. A champion bloke, who I reckon was murdered by people ‘you’ know of. To protect secrets, ‘you’ know about...” He threw him back in the chair. “Don’t expect sympathy ‘cos you’re worried innocents will get hurt. It’s too fucking late for that...”

  Lionel resisted the urge to laugh, amused by Porter’s ability to switch between ‘normal’ cop and ‘feral’ cop. He waited for calm. “Alec, here’s your chance to make amends. Name the people we’re looking for, then we’ll leave you alone. You’ll be protected and not named as an informant.”

  Ferguson rubbed his neck, then scoffed. “They’ve eyes and ears all over, they’d already know yar here talking to me. I’m good as de…” He stopped, as though his predicament had punched him in the face. “I’m dead already...”

  Porter huffed. “Then do an ounce of good in your life, if only once...”

  Ferguson twirled the receipt in his fingers. “Aye, it’s my signature. What about it?”

  Lionel told him the story of Cathy Inglis being sold for ten pounds to Bleeker. Ferguson gave them a long-winded explanation of the processes he had to follow for every girl sold.

  “Don’t understand…” Lionel said. “The Protection Act gave you the power to take the girls and give them to white families for free. Why’d they pay if they didn’t have to? Cheap labor?”

  “Hardly…Those girls had never worked a farm in their lives.”

  “Then why pay? Ten pounds was a fair sum back then…Why’d they want them?”

  Ferguson’s eyes sparkled. “Some white men had acquired a taste for the pretty ones. Well developed, lighter skin, straight teeth…Why yar think they wanted them?”

  Lionel knew the answer but still grimaced. Cathy’s letter to Shirley told what men like Bleeker had done to the girls, but he wanted to hear Ferguson confirm it. “How could you do it, knowing those girls would be raped?”

  “Ah, I didn’t say that…”

  “Let’s pretend you didn’t…How did you convince parents to let their daughters go, when they knew they’d probably never see them again?”

  Ferguson shrugged. “Like yar said, ten pounds was good money in those days…Though they rarely got that much, and there was my cut as well. Besides, they knew the power I had, and didn’t really have a choice. Some payment, a few little white lies here and there…They wanted to believe their girls were getting a better life.”

  Lionel cringed. “More like, big white lies? That were told often?” He inhaled to compose himself, his anger couldn’t hamper the interview. “Your job involved recording population data of Crooked River mission... But between ’63 and ’69, you didn’t. Because you took girls you weren’t authorized to, didn’t you, and sold them for a substantial profit?”

  “I got told not to keep records for Crooked River. But I did keep two, separate sets of files for the girls we removed…One for the girls taken under the Protection Act, who were integrated into white families. And a second set, for the girls we sold. I tried submitting the first set of files to State Archives, but again, the bosses told me not to.”

  “Did you ask why?” Porter said.

  “Wasn’t my place to…Orders not to file records came from high up in government. AWB Chairman maybe. Who knows?”

  “I think you’re lying,” Lionel said. “You and Crooked River police had a terrific money spinner going, and filing the records would’ve led to discrepancies, to questions being asked by the AWB...”

  Porter growled. “Answer Lionel’s question…You took girls you weren’t authorized to, didn’t you?”

  “No, yar wrong. Had approval from the bosses to take whoever I wanted. Who yar think the money went to? Look at this shitty house. Wasn’t me...”

  “If you didn’t file the records with the AWB, and they’re not in the State Archives, where are they?” Lionel said.

  “I destroyed the first set of files relating to girls removed under the Protection Act, years ago…The second set of files, the records of girls sold, I gave to the bosses. They’re stored in a safe place with the rest of the…” Ferguson blurted the last two words, “Cumal files.”

  “You keep saying, ‘bosses,’” Porter said. “Government bosses?”

  Ferguson hesitated, as though he’d come to a fork and was unsure which path to take. “The organization’s bosses…”

  “Wait.” Lionel held up a hand. “I’m confused…You worked for a separate organization, that wasn’t a government department? And the, Cumal files…What are they? What are you trying to tell us?”

  “Damn you, Roberts, I’ve said too much already...”

  “No doubt,” Porter said. “But being a dead man talking, why not tell it all?”

  Lionel covered his mouth to muffle a laugh. Then he frowned at Porter and hoped he’d realize Ferguson might reveal more with some ‘gentle’ encouragement. “Go on, Alec...”

  Ferguson sighed. “Two dangerous groups of men will want me dead after this…Those in government, for numerous reasons. But the men I fear most, as you should, run the ‘organization’. They’re powerful and mysterious, and even the richest and most influential dare not oppose them.”

  “Mysterious?” Porter laughed, loud and cynical. “But somehow, you know all about ‘em?”

  Ferguson inclined his head. “They recruited me, then got me inside the AWB. I was one of them once…”

  Lionel pulled his goatee. “Were they an organisation of business men?”

  “Not exactly, from what I saw…Junior members like me weren’t allowed at meetings. It was said they had another name, some even said they were linked to a political party, but I only ever knew it as ‘the organisation.’”

  “What was your role within it?”

  “I acted as a broker between them and the government. Bosses saw the Protection Act as a cash cow to be exploited.”

  “And the government turned a blind eye?” Porter
said.

  “Aye, that’s where yar lack of record keeping comes in, and why nothing got filed in State Archives…Was a lucrative business, for politicians and the organization both.”

  “Yet you gave records of girls sold to the organizations’ bosses…” Lionel said. “Why keep such records when the paper trail leaves them open to scrutiny?” He pointed to the receipt for Cathy Inglis. “There’s proof...”

  “Yar have to understand, these men have strange ways and customs they’ve followed for centuries. Religiously, like a cult... Retaining the Cumal files in hardcopy is one of those customs. Traditions they hold sacred, demand it.”

  Porter frowned. “You’ve said, Cumal, a couple of times…Gunna explain?”

  “Cumal’s an ancient Celtic word for a female slave. The Cumal files are effectively ledgers, they list the names, dates of birth, receipts and bills of sale for girls sold by the organization. Their traditions also demand that hardcopy lists of all members, associates, financial records and assets are kept within the files.”

  Lionel wobbled his head, his thoughts muddled by intrigue. “Kept and maintained by who? Who did you hand your records over to?”

  “The Secretary, part of the organizations’ high council, the bosses if you like. He was, is, keeper of the files. I took them to a house north of Sydney.”

  “Where exactly?” Porter said.

  “Don’t remember…” Ferguson rubbed his forehead. “Only that I gave them to the Secretary.”

  “Who was he?”

  “No idea…Had his face hidden, didn’t say a word, and put the files inside a massive wooden chest. It got rolled away, and I never saw them again.”

  Porter scoffed. “You must reckon we’re idiots? Incriminating documents like those you refer to, wouldn’t be kept in a wooden box. They’d be stored in a secure location, like a bank vault...”

  “No, these men don’t trust bankers. Only each other.”

  “Fair enough, I don’t trust bankers either…But reckon you’re full of shit, if you’re saying you don’t know who these blokes are…”