Big White Lies

by Jay Darby

  She decided the risk of incurring Barrett’s wrath far outweighed the slim chance of finding evidence behind the locked door. Or did it? Barrett seemed confident the homeless Koori man had murdered Kathleen and was their only suspect. She didn’t agree. Bill Thompson had history as an alcoholic wife-beater, and she considered him the main suspect. She turned away from the darkroom, hoped the forensic investigation would prove her right. What was Bill’s motive? And was her boss, George Barrett, protecting a murderer?

  THIRTY FIVE

  Porter chuckled to himself, because he couldn’t remember the last time he’d exercised on a Saturday morning. He ran in the shade of river gums and watched birds bathing in Crooked River as he followed the road alongside it. He sucked crisp air into his lungs, and savored the earthy fragrances that wafted to his nose. He’d been a keen runner once and was glad he’d rediscovered it. It relaxed him and gave him time to clear his thoughts.

  At breakfast earlier, Lionel had warned him about venturing out alone. He considered it too dangerous after Rhodes’ death and the threats they’d received, and had urged him to postpone his fitness regime. But Porter felt healthier than he had in years and was prepared to take the risk.

  He reached a bridge that connected the eastern stretch of Crooked River Road to the west and slowed to check his watch. 7.55am. He felt strong and had made good time, so decided to run the full loop back home. He adjusted the iPhone holder’s strap against his bicep, pushed the earbuds in further, and listened to U2’s greatest hits.

  The phone shuffled to the next song, and he mumbled the opening bars of ‘I Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For.’ He frowned as the faces of abducted girls floated before his eyes and haunted his conscience. Would they be found alive? He pictured a wooden treasure chest, surrounded by sharks at the bottom of the sea. Would they ever find the Cumal files? In his mind, Jane eyed him sideways, suspicion souring her face. He’d already found what he wanted in a life partner, but had she?

  He ran off the bridge, down a slope, then turned right towards Bunyip Hill. He recalled last night’s phone conversation with Jane when she’d accused him of getting cold feet about marriage. She’d been spot on, because he was having doubts. She needed to hear about his past, and what she was signing up for, prior to the wedding. And she deserved to hear it face to face, not over the phone. Despite safety concerns, he decided not to cancel her upcoming trip to Crooked River. He would see her on Friday night, and tell her everything then.

  He rounded a bend where the canopy of river gum’s thinned overhead. Bunyip Hill appeared, ahead to his left. He squinted towards it, and for the first time noticed the granite boulders on top. John Rhodes had told him about the Bunyip. The mythical creature that slept on the hill by day, then descended as its’ evil spirit at night to punish those who’d angered it.

  When he reached the base of the hill, he brushed stinging sweat from his eyes, then gazed at the rock formations high above. Loud music blasted his ears, and he didn’t hear the car that sped up the road from behind. It was meters from him when he sensed the danger and glanced over his shoulder. He jumped to the left, towards a shallow ditch at the side of the road.

  The car’s front end slammed into his right ankle. He winced as he landed in the ditch, then rolled and pressed up onto his knees. The black SUV skidded to a stop, fifty meters from him. He hopped to his feet, a searing hot knife sliced his ankle. He had the steep slopes of Bunyip Hill at his back, the river in front of him. He scanned one-eighty degrees and searched for an escape route.

  The ground near his feet erupted in a puff of red dust. Then another puff, behind him. He spun left towards the black SUV, certain the shots had been fired from it. But its’ windows and doors were closed, and no-one had left it. He had to think fast but couldn’t, not while the bloody music blared in his head. He ripped the earbuds away. Another bullet whizzed past then ricocheted off granite behind him.

  He heard rocks crunch under footsteps, from the direction of the abandoned quarry. He spun to his right, towards the noise, and squinted his eyes to focus. His mouth fell open. Two men in black combat uniforms and balaclavas sprinted towards him, pistols in hand.

  He gritted his teeth and swiveled to face the hill. His natural instincts had always favored fight over flight, but he was injured, and unarmed, and being chased by men with guns. He leaped onto the dirt path that led up Bunyip Hill, then limped up the steep slope. He would climb, hide amongst rocks, then call for backup.

  Despite his injured ankle, he moved at a good pace. Another bullet whizzed past his head, he turned to watch the attackers. One stood at the base of the hill. He held a pistol in one hand and shielded his eyes with the other.

  The second man held a portable radio to his mouth. He lowered it, then raised his pistol and fired. A bullet whizzed past Porter’s head. The men ran toward him.

  He limped upwards, using clumps of mulga bush for cover and anchor points to pull himself forward. Bullets thudded into red earth, closer and closer each time. His ankle felt numb, his body ran on autopilot. His lungs should’ve ached, and his legs should’ve tired from the climb, but they didn’t. He was a hunted animal, fuelled by adrenaline, and a powerful will to survive drove him on.

  The path leveled when he reached the top. His attackers fired, and he ducked behind a granite outcrop. He glanced at the iPhone strapped to his arm. Should he phone for help? He peeked around the rock, saw the men had gained on him and were now only thirty meters behind. He didn’t have time for phone calls...

  He looked to the sheer cliff face on his right. No escape route there…A giant boulder blocked the path behind him, so he limped to his left. He came to a rock ledge that ran across the cliff face and led to the other side of the hill. He looked down and saw the quarry below. A bullet slammed into rock beside his head. He scampered across the narrow ledge, stumbled when he reached the other side and fell to his knees. He stood and followed the dirt path, pulled himself over a boulder, then dived into a thick clump of mulga bush.

  He fought his way through the bush until he came out into a gorge with high rock walls on both sides. He peered down to his left, where slits in the rock face formed entrances to dark caves. He contemplated sliding down and hiding in one, but doubted he’d squeeze through the narrow slits.

  Boots pounded on dirt behind him, just beyond the mulga bush. He hobbled towards an opening at the end of the gorge. If he could reach it, there might be a place to hide? But could he make it fifty meters, before the men entered the gorge behind him? Would he be stuck in the middle with nowhere to go?

  His attackers swore. Loud. They were close. He peered along the gorge. Visions of being shot in the back froze him with terror, this wasn’t how he wanted to die. Jane’s face flashed before him, her gorgeous smile. It willed him on, and he vowed to survive.

  He glanced back and saw balaclava covered heads bobbing through the bush. The men would emerge from it within seconds. He sucked a breath, turned and braced himself, ready to run.

  THIRTY SIX

  Inspector George Barrett arrived at Crooked River mission close to 8.15am on Saturday. He stepped from the Ford sedan and yawned. He stretched his back, used both hands to straighten his uniform, then bent to brush red dust from his shoes. There’d been another ‘suspicious death.’ Of who?

  He’d avoided the mission for years and had hoped to never return. But Lyn Foster was at the Carinya residence regarding a fire, Jim Thompson mourned his mother, and all other detectives were away hunting for the weekend. He had no choice but to investigate the death himself.

  Smoke from cooking fires spiraled into the air as he trudged towards the houses. The smell of burnt kangaroo meat assaulted his nostrils. A baby’s distressed cries churned his stomach. He came to a group of elders huddled around a body on the riverbank. Younger ones watched from the safety of front porches.

  Aunty Mel told him she’d found Tommy Davis at sunrise. He’d floated face down in the river. Everyone thought it strange
because Tommy had been a strong swimmer. One elder said Tommy had been drinking till late, and another had heard splashes. Those gathered around his water-logged body shuddered.

  “Have to be rollin’ drunk or mad to swim at night,” Aunty Mel said. “It’s when that evil Bunyip comes out, even idiots know it…”

  The Crime Scene Unit girls arrived and performed a swift examination. Tommy had vomited before entering the water, then choked and drowned. Even in death, he reeked of gin.

  Barrett took a notebook statement from Aunty Mel and told the elders to take care of the corpse by usual means. The investigation was over within fifteen minutes. Death by drowning while intoxicated. Simple.

  He scurried up the path to leave when it came to him, a sense of being followed. He quickened pace and scanned his surroundings. No-one behind, to the sides, or in front of him. Something, someone, urged him towards the river. He stepped onto dry mud near the edge and gazed into the water, then jumped back when the serpent spirit from his nightmares hissed. Its’ copper toned body coiled, it reared up and bared fangs.

  Barrett stared and trembled. “What do you want?”

  “You know what I want,” the serpent answered, it’s voice rich with the wisdom of time. “You must deliver...”

  Barrett gulped. “What?”

  “Redemption…For your crimes against this sacred land and its’ people. You continue to ignore me, at your peril.”

  “I’m trying…I’ll do it soon.”

  The serpents’ blood-red eyes glared. “You have a week. Take the lives of ten evil men as penance, or…I take your loved ones.”

  Barrett’s grandchildren sang nursery rhymes. He squirmed. “I will, but I’m not to bl--.”

  “Oh, Inspector...” The serpent gave a mocking laugh. “Are you still in denial, after all this time? As a young cadet you swore to protect the innocent, but you’ve failed miserably.”

  Barrett slowed his breathing, tried to still his shaking hands. “I’ll do it.”

  The serpent sprang up from the water and hissed, inches from his face. “Yes you will, or I’ll be eating your grandkids for dinner.” It hissed again, then curled downwards into the river.

  Barrett fell to his knees, mouth open as he watched the serpent disappear. He staggered to stand, then spun in all directions. No-one. Had a lack of sleep made his imagination run wild? Or had the serpent spirit, his conscience, haunted him again?

  “You alright fella?” A female said.

  He faced the path.

  Aunty Mel watched him. She scratched her head, a bemused smirk on her face.

  “Yes, I’m fine...” He fumbled keys as he hurried towards his car, then turned to her when he reached it. “Didn’t you see it too?”

  “See what?”

  “That giant snake in the river just now. It spoke to me…” He pleaded. “You must’ve seen it?”

  Aunty Mel shook her head. “Saw nothin’, ‘cos weren’t nothin’ there…Evil spirits talkin’ to ya, Mr Barrett?” She laughed as she walked away. “And you white fellas reckon us Kooris imagine stuff…”

  THIRTY SEVEN

  Porter’s attackers would emerge from the mulga bush in a matter of seconds and shoot him dead. As he pushed off his left foot to run towards the end of the gorge, strong hands covered his mouth and pulled him to the ground. He slid on his back, downwards. The same hands cushioned his landing against a rock wall, then hauled him into a pitch-black cave.

  He gasped in the cold, stale air. He sensed there was someone close to him, but resisted the urge to speak. Daylight beamed into the cave through a small hole in the rock. He put his eye against the hole and peered towards the gorge.

  His attackers stepped from the mulga bush, panting and grunting, and stopped above the cave. With the upward angle, Porter could only see the lower half of their bodies. They wore black GP boots, black cargo pants, and black utility belts. Black gloved hands gripped pistols.

  One of them swore. Was the voice familiar? Porter strained to hear their conversation. Their voices faded as boots disappeared from view. He slumped with his back against rock. His lungs burned, his ankle throbbed.

  He opened his eyes wider to adjust to the light. Was that a person, sitting in the opposite corner of the cave? He unstrapped his iPhone and pressed the ‘home’ button. The backlight caste an eerie glow over the area. He saw nothing, no-one.

  “Hello?” he whispered.

  Nothing but a quiet echo.

  “Where are you?”

  “Shhh…” came a reply from the dark. “Aint safe yet, them bad fellas still about…”

  The man’s voice sounded like that of a Koori elder. Porter was about to ask where he came from when he heard footsteps in the gorge above. He peered through the eyehole, saw black boots, and listened.

  “Shit, we’ve lost him,” one of the men said. He sounded young but cruel.

  “Lost him how?” The second man said, his voice a high-pitched squeal. “There’s one way up and down, with a fucking cliff on the other side. He’s hiding, keep looking.”

  One of them squatted, less than three meters away, and looked towards the cave. Porter jerked his head away and pressed his back against the wall. He sucked in a breath and held it, then moved slowly back to the eyehole. Dull brown eyes stared at him through slits in a black balaclava.

  “He might be down in these caves…?” The brown-eyed man pointed towards Porter. “Got a torch?”

  The other man scoffed. “It’s daylight…Why would I have a fuckin’ torch?”

  “I’m going down for a look,” the brown-eyed man said. He unclipped the portable radio from his belt. As he handed it to his partner, it beeped twice. He spoke into it. “Yeah?”

  “What’s taking you so long?” A gruff male voice crackled through the radio.

  “G’day boss.” The brown-eyed man stood. “We can’t find him…”

  “Fucking useless wankers,” the boss said. “Listen, there’s a detective car at the mission, just across the river…Get down off the hill! Now!”

  “Shit!” The brown-eyed man clipped the radio onto his belt and ran towards the mulga bush.

  His partner growled and followed. Out of sight…

  Porter sat still for a minute, then checked his phone. The battery was low, but the signal was almost strong enough to make a call. He sent a silent thank you to Lyn Foster, grateful he’d followed her advice and had switched to Optus mobile.

  He whispered to the Koori man. No answer. He waved his phone’s torch from left to right. Nothing, no-one. He waited ten minutes then left the cave.

  He climbed up the rock face and pulled himself into the gorge. He saw the signal on his phone was stronger, and called the ‘000’ emergency number. He told the operator to broadcast an alert for a black SUV and cursed himself for forgetting its’ registration number. He then called Lionel and told him what happened. He said he’d come immediately and bring Lyn and Klose with him.

  Curiosity led Porter to the end of the gorge, to the opening he’d run for earlier. He stood in the middle of a natural amphitheater and shook his head at what he saw on the rock walls. Tens of colorful murals portrayed goannas, kangaroos, eagles, and emu. And other animals, mythical and not. In some pictures, the animals were drawn whole. In others, as half man-half beast. He’d seen Aboriginal art before, cave drawings that depicted the Dreamtime, but nothing like this. He scanned the walls. One section caught his attention and drew him closer.

  He scratched the rock face, paint, then stepped back to see the complete story. It had larger, detailed figures in bright colors. The first picture showed the main character – a fat, white policeman with red horns jutting from the sides of his head. He wore a navy-blue tunic and trousers. His black eyes were wide, he snarled and wielded a baton above his head.

  The next picture showed a row of white houses and six Koori children swimming in the river. Happy, smiling faces. In the next picture, the policeman lay on top of a girl. Blood, fear, violence…In the final one,
five children sat by the river. There were tears.

  He studied the picture of the red-horned policeman and remembered that elders on the mission said the ‘White Devil’ had raped their girls. Had John Rhodes discovered these same paintings? Had he taken photos, or sent messages with his phone? Would that explain its’ missing sim card?

  Porter took photos, wandered from the amphitheater, then stopped at a series of pictures he’d missed on the way in. The colors were thick and vibrant, as though recently painted. He gasped as he realised...The pictures were very recent. They told the story of John Rhodes’ murder.

  He took more photos then limped back along the gorge. He stopped above the cave where he’d hidden and shouted towards it. “Hello? Tell me about your paintings…Who are you?”

  “Don’t matter,” the man said from the cave. “Don’t know meself no more.”

  Porter squatted and peered down. “Mate, who’s that fat policeman you’ve painted? Who’s the bloke hurting the girl?”

  “We called ‘im the white devil. He’s the fella ya want…”

  Porter’s pulse quickened. “Can you remember his name?”

  “No, wiped it from memory long ago…Now piss off.”

  The man in the cave had knowledge of Rhode’s murder and other terrible crimes, and Porter had no intention of leaving. “Mate, help me to punish these bad men. Come to the town, let me write your story on paper. We’ll get justice for those girls…”

  “From a white fellas court? Hah, be dead before I said me first words...”

  “I’ll bring Koori blokes to speak with you. Up here, where you feel safe.”

  “Don’t feel safe up ‘ere no more…Not since last night, when you fellas sent ya dogs and tried ta sniff me out.”

  “Please, tell me what you’ve seen, and I promise to put these blokes away. They’ll never hurt Koori girls again…”

  “No!” The man’s voice trailed away. “Told ya too much already...”