The Coterie E-Book

Gary Gregor

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

Chapman Bouttell, a South Australian homicide detective, is assigned to investigate an apparently motiveless murder in suburban Adelaide. 

But this case turns out to be something different altogether, as Chapman recognizes the victim as a member of a covert action unit - to which Bouttell himself was assigned during the Vietnam War. Soon, he discovers that three of the four survivors from his unit have met their end in a similar fashion.

Drawn into a violent conspiracy that dates back to those chaotic days, Bouttell realizes that if he doesn't act fast, he will be next. But why do they want him dead, and who is behind the mysterious group only known as The Coterie?

Leseprobe

THE COTERIE

GARY S GREGOR

Contents

Acknowledgments

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Epilogue

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About the Author

Copyright (C) 2020 Gary Gregor

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2022 by Next Chapter

Published 2022 by Next Chapter

Edited by Lorna Read

Cover art by CoverMint

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author’s permission.

Acknowledgments

A number of people play a role in getting an author’s story from an initial idea to a published book. For some of them, that role is small, for others it is significant. All who contribute in some way, regardless the level of input, are important to me, and although it might be cliché, it is true that this book would never have seen the light of day without each of them.

If I must nominate just a few, I would start with my former colleagues in the Northern Territory Police Force. You wonderful folk are the inspiration for my characters and, while those characters are fictional, I occasionally draw on the personality traits of some of those I have met in the job. If you recognise yourself in any of them, please remember that you are there because you inspire me.

My beautiful wife, Lesley, who tolerates my long hours in front of the computer without complaint, I love you and I thank you, although I still insist my love of writing is not an obsession.

Last, but by no means least, I thank all at Next Chapter Publishing. The Next Chapter team took a punt on an unknown, and that’s rare in this business. I hope I can justify your gamble. I know I'll never stop trying to honour that leap of faith; thank you.

This book is respectfully dedicated to the memory of police officers everywhere who have paid the ultimate sacrifice in the service of their communities.

Prologue

Eddie Dickson knew intuitively he was about to die. From the moment his assailant stepped from the dark, shadowy recesses of the portico, suspended above the entrance to the South Australian Police Headquarters building, it was certain. The realisation that he was going to die sooner rather than later was not a conclusion he reached at that instant, but from the moment his normally ordered, structured life began to unravel just a few days earlier.

Strangely, as he waited for the inevitable, it was the compelling desire to see the faces of those sent to kill him, and not his imminent death or how he might avoid it, that occupied his thoughts. For the moment at least, the rain had eased to a light drizzle but still the road was awash with the remains of intermittent heavy showers. The dark, nondescript sedan skidded to a stop a couple of metres from where Dickson stood at the curb, sending a filthy, black wash of gutter water over the footpath, soaking his shoes and the cuffs of his trousers.

Suddenly, he felt himself propelled, forcefully, towards the car. He glimpsed only a shadowy outline of the driver, and even less of whoever it was behind him doing the propelling. This man was an anonymous force from behind. No image, no voice—just a sudden, violent shove in the middle of his back which sent him stumbling through the now open door and into the rear passenger compartment of the vehicle.

Pushed violently and uncomfortably to his elbows and knees on the floor of the back seat, the one thing Eddie Dickson did recognise was unmistakable: the cold, hard pressure of a gun barrel held firmly and steadily against the back of his head. One did not have to be a rocket scientist to know these people were not here to take him on a guided tour of the city. They were good, theywere fast, and they were efficient.

Dickson knew he wasdealing with professionals. He also knew what they had been sent here to do, and why.

Eddie Dickson might be many things, but defeatist was not one of them. Resistance, although desirable, would be futile in the circumstances in which he found himself. But, while he was still breathing, and as long as he maintained that most basic life-sustaining bodily function, there remained hope. Someone—he had long since forgotten who—once told him the secret to staying alive was to keep inhaling and exhaling. Simplistic in its logic, but well founded, he thought. At least until, and if, an opportunity to get free of his present predicament presented itself.

Eddie Dickson was not a young man anymore, but he was surprisingly fit and strong for a man of sixty-four. Unlike the majority of Australian men in his demographic, he preferred fitness to flabbiness, and he was not lacking in motivation when it came to regular exercise. As often as the prevailing weather conditions allowed, he rose early, often before dawn, and rode a pushbike. For two hours, he rode hard and fast around the many cycle paths that crisscrossed his home city. On days when the weather was not conducive to outdoor exercise, he followed a rigorous workout regime in a gym near to his home. Fitness was not so much an obsession as a desire to stay as healthy as possible, given his advancing years.

Dickson knew that in going one on one, he could handle himself with almost anyone, even someone many years younger than himself. These two characters, however, were very obviously not in the category of ‘easy-beats’. Still, he would love to try. He liked to think, given the opportunity, he was physically capable of doing considerable damage to his faceless captors before they finished what they came here to do.

Eddie Dickson had killed men before, albeit a long time ago. Some he had shot; others he had dispatched at close quarters with a knife. A couple he sent into the next life with his bare hands. Accordingly, the prospect of killing another human being, although unpleasant and not something he hoped he would ever have to do again, was not alien to him. Given his current situation, he knew that the opportunity to revive these long abandoned but not forgotten skills, was not about to present itself. At least not while he remained jammed awkwardly, face-down on the floor between the front and rear seats of the vehicle. All he wanted now was to see the face of the man sent to kill him. He was not overcome with feelings of anger or hatred, or even helplessness. This moment had been coming for some time; he just never knew exactly when. Now he did.

The car pulled away from the curb and the anonymous assailant jammed a heavy, sodden boot hard into the back of Eddie’s neck, forcing his face against the floor. A damp, musty odour flooded his nostrils. He hoped it wouldn’t happen in the car. He didn’t want to be found like that. If this is what it had come down to, he wanted his death to be, at the very least, dignified.

During the short journey, no one spoke. Any conversation would have been superfluous. These people knew where they were going and what was required of them. It seemed like they had been driving for only a few minutes when the vehicle slowed and came to a stop. He heard the rear door open, and a sudden gust of icy wind flooded the interior of the vehicle. As he was dragged unceremoniously backwards out of the car, he tried to turn and get a look at the man behind the wheel. He saw only a glimpse of a shadowy figure in a heavy coat with the collar pulled high and his face turned away, staring out at the darkness through the driver’s side window.

Eddie Dickson had never before had a gun pressed against the back of his head. But then, he didn’t need to see it to know what it was, or know it was the instrument by which he was about to meet his premature demise.

The prospect of dying had never been something Eddie feared to any great degree. It was more a case of the timing of his death that concerned him. He was not ready to die yet. In no doubt that it was about to happen, it was an immense sense of sadness rather than fear that accompanied him on the short walk to the centre of the park. There was more he wanted to do with his life. Places he wanted to go. People he wanted to see. Now, in his last moments of life, the realisation that he was never going to do any of those things filled him with almost overwhelming regret.

He peered into the cold darkness that engulfed the park ahead of him, hesitating for just a moment, briefly considering an attempt to turn on his attacker. If he was going to do it, it had to be now. Then, he felt a tug at his collar and he knew it was time. He began to turn and face the stranger tasked with the job of killing him. In the last few seconds that remained of his life, he wanted to face the man and tell him to go fuck himself and, if he got the opportunity, spit in his eye.

Then there was nothing. No sound, no pain, no awareness. Nothing. Just blackness. He never heard the footsteps as his killer walked briskly away towards the car that was waiting for him at the edge of the park. At that moment, as if by design, the heavens opened again and he never felt the cold rain as it fell on his back and soaked through his clothes. Eddie Dickson never did see the man who killed him.

ChapterOne

The call came in the early hours of the morning, dragging Chapman Bouttell reluctantly into an unwelcome degree of alertness. Slowly, he surfaced from the shallow depths of what had been a fitful sleep. His mouth was dry and he needed the toilet. Fumbling blindly in the darkness for the telephone, something crashed noisily to the floor.

“Shit,” he mumbled sleepily.

Finally, after expending a couple more expletives he would never use in mixed company, he found the telephone, thankful to be able to stop the incessant ringing.

“Hello,” he groaned.

“Chap?” It was a female voice.

“Yeah.”

“Chap, this is Jenny Patten, from Communications. I’m sorry to disturb you, but I’m afraid I have to call you on duty.”

“Of course you do, Jenny. It’s the middle of the bloody night after all. That’s the only time anyone ever calls me,” he said, with undisguised sarcasm. “What time is it by the way? My bedside clock is on the floor somewhere.”

“It’s a few minutes after four o’clock,” she answered.

“That would be in the morning, right?”

The policewoman ignored the sarcastic jibe. “Why is your clock on the floor?”

“The display is too bright, it keeps me awake,” Bouttell lied. “What have you got?”

“It looks like homicide, Sarge. One of our patrols found the body of an adult malewith whatappears to be a single gunshot wound to the head.”

“Front of the head or back?”

“Back.”

“Then that wouldn’t just look like a homicide—it would be a homicide. It would not be a suicide, would it? Suicides don’t shoot themselves in the back of the head. None that I’ve ever seen, anyway. Where is it?”

“Heywood Park, on the southern end of Hyde Park Road. Do you know it?”

“Yeah, I know it.”

“We have officers there at the moment securing the scene. You have been assigned to take charge of the investigation.”

“Shit!” Bouttell spat. “It’s pissing down out there. Isn’t anyone working inMajor Crime tonight?”

“There’s no Senior Investigator on duty. The Watch Commander nominated you.”

“And who would that be?”

“Sergeant Turner.”

“That would be right,” Bouttell scoffed. “That prick hates me, I’m sure of it.”

“Pardon?”

“Forget it, Jenny. Tell Turner I’m on my way.”

“Your partner has already been notified. He’s on his way to pick you up. He should be there shortly,” she advised.

“Okay, thank you.”

Bouttell reached for the bedside light, switched it on and dropped the receiver onto its cradle. He yawned, swung his bare legs over the side of the bed and slowly raised himself into a sitting position. He sat for a moment, silently cursing the arthritic twinge that burned deep in his hips and shoulders. He yawned again, ran his hands through his unruly hair and picked up the fallen clock.

“Shit!” he murmured. “Shit! Shit! Shit!”

Murder was bloody inconvenient. At least that was how Chapman Bouttell perceived it. Theburden of being a Detective Sergeant, which in his case carried with it the responsibilities of Senior Investigator, did nothing to diminish this opinion. It wasn’t the first time he wondered why most murders seemed to happen at night. Statistically, the hours between six p.m. and six a.m. were those in which a person would most likely expect to die at the hand of his fellow man. By contrast, death as a result of an accident was somewhat more considerate, not so selective as to thehour of the day in whichitoccurred. Accidents had the courtesy to distribute their circumstances with some degree of impartiality with regard to day and night. Not so with murder, Bouttell mused. Murder was bloody inconvenient!

Nonetheless, murder and the investigation of it was his job, and had been since his transfer to the Major Crime Investigation Section, MCIS, tenyearsearlier.The utter senselessness associated with the killing of another human being, and the curiously bizarre novelty that murder scenes presented when he first came to his current position, had long since left him. Even after all his years in the job, he still found the whats and the whys of every homicide investigation fascinating. And, despite the unpleasantness of being roused from his bed in the middle of the night, it was his job. It was just that, to be summoned to duty at such an hour, on such an abysmally cold and wet night, was, he assumed not unreasonably, damned inconvenient.

It was July. In Adelaide in July, it was most definitely winter, and Chapman Bouttell found little comfort against the pre-dawn icy chill as he waited on his front porch for his partner to arrive. Hoping he would not have to wait long, he tugged at the collar of his heavy overcoat, pulling it high around his neck, trying to burrow deeper into it.

The street light in front of his house emitted a hazy, indistinct glow and cast an eerie shadow over the front yard and the unkempt garden within its borders. His lawn needed mowing; he would have to do something about that, he thought. Or, maybe he should just pay someone to do it. He looked up into the dark, starless sky. It had started to rain again, and a bone-chilling wind whipped the steady downpour into all too frequent gusts of numbing spray from which his small porch offered precious little protection. He pushed back further intothe shadows of the porch and hunkeredevendeeper into his coat. Any warmth, even imagined, had to be better than none at all.

Bouttell had not had a cigarette for over three years, but, waiting here for his partner in the bitter, pre-dawn cold and dark, the desire returned. He found that odd because he had never really craved cigarettes once he had made the decision to quit. He comforted himself with the realisation that if he still smoked, he would have to take his hands out of his pockets to enjoy one.

Incongruous thoughts of a long-abandoned bad habit were interrupted by the arrival of an unmarked police sedan. As it slowed and stopped at the entrance to his driveway, he braced himself against the elements and stepped from his porch. “Time to go to work,” he muttered softly.

The car’s heating system was noisy, but at least it was working, albeit inefficiently. Tepid air from the engine compartment seeped from the vents in the dashboard and circulated weakly through the interior of the vehicle. There was a damp, musty smell to the air and, even though smoking in police vehicles had long been banned in the interests of the health and safety, the interior smelled of it.

Bouttell settled down in the passenger seat and welcomed what little warmth there was on offer, but not the familiar odour. He glanced across at his partner. At thirty-eight, Detective Senior Constable Anthony Francis was twenty-four years younger than Chapman and considerably junior to him in length of service. They’d been partners for almost a year, and there were thosewithin the jobwho considered Francis worthy of admiration for achieving that particular milestone. A long time ago, someone, Bouttell had long forgotten who, had described him as being a morose individual. At the time, he remembered being unsure of whether or not he should feel offended. Mainly because he had never heard the word ‘morose’and had absolutely no idea what it meant, other than a gut feeling that it probably wasn’t complimentary. By the time he had a chance to look it up and discover its meaning, it was too late to argue the point either for or against.

Chapman had seen many partners come and go, but none hadremained with him for longer than a few months. Perhaps deservedly, perhaps not, he had earned a reputation of being often difficult to work with. It was not a reputation he enjoyed or encouraged. Rather, he lived with it in quiet tolerance. Needless to say, he was inwardly pleased to discover, a few months into their partnership, that Francis looked upon the relationship as a valuable learning experience.

Bouttell’s preference was to work alone, much to the chagrin of his superiors, but he reluctantly and silently accepted that these past months working alongside Francis had been mildly enjoyable. Indeed, that was about excited as Sergeant Chapman Bouttell was ever going to get about working with anyone.

The two were, however, like chalk and cheese in their respective attitudes with regard to ambition. Whereas Bouttell maintained a somewhat casual detachment directly relevant to his years of service, twenty-seven in total, Francis epitomised the very definition of a career police officer. Unlike his more senior partner, Francis decided early that his destiny, like that of his father before him, lay amid the ranks of commissioned officers and it was to this end that he channelled all of his energies.Marriage had never been something he seriously considered. It wasn’t that he didn’t believemarriage and subsequent parenthood to be satisfying and rewarding. He was sure it was. Indeed, he was himself a product of just such a marriage.

For him, it was simply a matter of priorities. His job took preference in his life and he had long ago fully committed himself to it. It would be wrong, he reasoned, to have a wife and kids waiting at home wanting, perhaps even demanding, more of him than he was prepared to give. Whenever he was reminded of the high marriage mortality rate amongst members of the policeforce, and that was far too often for his liking,he always came back to the conclusion that bachelorhood was not something to be taken lightly. A perfect example of that logic sat next to him in the car.

Bouttell’s marriage had gone the way of many others within the force. A once happy union had taken a slow, bitter and decaying spiral towards inevitable breakdown and ultimately, divorce. Francis decided early that there was no room in his life, at least in the foreseeable future, for external distractions such as marriage and the commitment it demanded.

They did not have far to drive, but it was not a journey warmed by jovial small talk.Francis was far too familiar with his partner’s all too often sour disposition to expect him to engage in anything deeper and more meaningful than perfunctory conversation.

Operational procedure dictated a radio channel other than that used by General Duties units be used by members engaged in investigative roles. It was to this channel that both men directed their attention as they drove.

Chapman glanced at Francis and noticed his partner looking at him. “What?” he asked the younger man.

Francis smiled. “Good morning, boss.”

“You gonna sit there staring at me or watch the road?”

“Well, aren’t we just dripping with charm this morning?” Francis chided.

Chapman turned away, looked through the passenger window at the terrible night and, in spite of himself, smiled inwardly. “You’re gonna kill us both before we even get there if you don’t keep your bloody eyes on the road!”

ChapterTwo

Heywood Park was a small, lightly treed public recreation area located approximately fifteen minutes south of the city centre and Police Headquarters. It was a park with which Chapman Bouttell was familiar. He’d been raised and educated in an orphanage just a few streets to the west of the park, in neighbouring Goodwood. As often as he saw an opportunity, he would go to the park with a couple of confidants to escape, at least for a short while, its regimented and often cruel confines. Confidants were few and far between and often hard to get within the orphanage atmosphere. This was a place where abuse, both physical and emotional, was to be expected by the young residents almost on a daily basis.

Chapman Bouttell had long forgotten the name of the Catholic order charged with running the orphanage, but it had the word ‘Mercy’ in it, he remembered; an oxymoron if ever there was one, he thought. Mercy of any degree following an indiscretion, regardless of severity, was rarely shown by those in charge.

New kids, wide-eyed and terrified, arrived regularly. Others, those who had reached the mandatory age where they were required to leave and make a life for themselves on the outside, were equally as terrified at what they might face beyond the orphanage walls. These young adults left through the huge front doors with their humble possessions clutched tightly in trembling fingers and an uncertain future ahead of them. Others were adopted, taken from the only home most of them ever knew to face an equally uncertain future as part of a family of strangers.

As a young lad, Chapman believed the adoptees were the lucky ones. They were the chosen ones; chosen to go to happy homes and to the arms of loving families to start their lives over with new-found parents who would care for them, nurture them, and love them. It was a nice thing to believe, even if it was nothing more than the wistful, albeit naïve musings of youth.

Conversely, the new arrivals were the sad, miserable souls who had suffered for most of their short lives and it was difficult for Chapman or any of the young, confused, scared residents to cement lasting friendships. However, on occasions, he was able to convince a co-conspirator that it was worth the risk to join him and slip away unnoticed for an hour or so. Inevitably, such illicit excursions into the glorious but scary freedom of the world outside the orphanage walls almost always resulted in discovery, punishable by a flogging with a well-worn razor strop: an implement of punishment with which most of the young residents of the orphanage were well acquainted, Chapman Bouttell more so than most.

Notwithstanding the oft-applied strop to his rear end, Chapman considered himself one of the luckier ones. He, for reasons he was never able to fathom, never suffered the sexual abuse that many of his fellow residents did. Punishment, regardless of its severity or how often it was applied, was never a deterrent for the young Chapman Bouttell. He learned the art of nonconformity from a very early age. It was an education that would stay with him for the rest of his life.

These days, progress in the form of ever expanding urban sprawl had swallowed much of what Chapman remembered of Heywood Park. Today, the park was slightly less than half its original size. It was not childhood memories, however, that brought him back to this place after all these years; it was murder.

A sole flickering amber street light, the earliness of the hour and the cold, stormy conditions cast a sinister ambience over the park. Bouttell looked up at the dark, leaden sky and rapidly building needles of rain stung his face. Away to the east, slender fingers of dawn’s early light struggled to introduce another day upon the still sleeping state capital, as they probed tentatively above the crest of the hills fringing the eastern side of the city.

From somewhere even further away, he heard the long, low rumble of thunder. This was one of those times when he would have liked to summon those escapist skills which served him so well in his youth, slip quietly away and go back home to his bed.

Forcing himself to focus, his eyes began to adapt slowly to the dark, shadowy recesses of the park. Gone were the sounds of laughing, playing children who filled these grounds during daylight hours. Gone, too, were the proud mothers pushing contented, gurgling babies in strollers as they watched their older children, and their neighbours’ children, run, jump, climb and scrape their knees. Life’s innocence was still tucked snugly into warm beds.

The bullet had entered the victim’s head at a point slightly below and behind the right ear, exiting in the hairline above the left eye. The absence of any trace of blood, long since washed away by intermittent showers of rain, left an ugly purple hole where the projectile had entered and plowed its deadly course through the brain, splintering bone and rendering tissue, before exploding out of the forehead.

Death would have been instantaneous. The victim had crashed face-down onto a cobbled walkway that wound its way through the park from Hyde Park Road on the northern side, to an easement access lane on the south side. Rivulets of rain dammed momentarily against the dead man’s head, before finding the path of least resistance and continuing on their meandering way over the patchwork pattern of cobblestones.

If there was any positive aspect to the scene confronting the investigators, it was both the hour and the weather conditions acting in concert to ensure the curious remained soundly ensconced inside their homes. The negative, and there were always negatives, was that these same two conditions would guarantee that there would be no witnesses to events as they unfolded earlier.

This was murder, and walk-up-starts in murder cases were much too much to hope for. The easy ones came along from time to time throughout a homicide investigator’s career, but not often enough for Chapman Bouttell’s liking. Perhaps they would get lucky. Luck sometimes played a role in murder investigations; circumstances coupled with facts, unfolding neatly, leading to a conclusion with little more than routine effort by the investigators. As he looked down at the soggy, lifeless form at his feet, Chapman knew instinctively this was not one such occasion.

Sergeant Peter Turner, General Duties Watch Commander and thirty-three-year veteran in the job, was one of the first to arrive at the scene. A big, balding man, with a waistline rapidly approaching obesity, Turner was not one of Chapman Bouttell’s favorite people.

In the context of his long career, Turner was a good cop, right up there with the best. Twice commended for his actions in the line of duty, he had more than adequately proved himself on the streets and, for the most part, he enjoyed the respect of hiscolleagues. It was not, however, Turner’s ability as a police officer which Chapman took exception to. Indeed, he was one of those who respected Turner’s competency as an officer of the law. It was more the attitude Turner seemed to have adopted towards the job now, thirty-three-years later, as he approached the end of his career; that ‘been there, done that, don’t give a shit’ attitude.

Unfortunately, it was not an attitude unique to Turner. Chapman had seen it before in other cops close to retirement. He guessed it was a subconscious thing and he doubted any of them were even aware of their somewhat blasé approach. Perhaps his fellow officers thought of him the same way. After all, he had twenty-seven-years in, and was getting close to the time in the job where he considered all cops should seriously consider retirement.

No one should stay around longer than thirty years, Chapman believed. Not unless you were a commissioned officer and spent your days polishing the seat of your trousers while firmly entrenched in the ivory tower, as the administration section was known. Then you could stay forty years if you wanted to. No one ever saw much of you, anyway, and many of the front-line officers who had been around a while soon forgot you were actually still in the job.

In Turner’s case, Bouttell believed he had become way too complacent. He had got tired, fat, and lazy, and had overstayed his appointment by at least three years.

Chapman watched the big man approach, his massive shape looming out of the darkness. Turner positioned himself between the two detectives.

“What’s your take on this?” Tony Francis asked the uniformed sergeant.

Turner removed his hat and ran a huge, pudgy hand across his hairless pate. “Well,” he offered, “at first glance it looks like an execution-style hit.”

“Or a drug deal gone sour,” Francis suggested.

“Could be, mate, could be.” Turner shrugged. “Two of my blokes on routine patrol came past here about…” he squinted in the poor light at his watch… “forty minutes ago. They found the body when they shone their spotlight over the grounds.”

“Is the area secure?” Chapman asked.

“I’ve seen to that,” Turner confirmed. “My chaps have just finished placing a cordon around the park, and I have stationed a car at each end of this walkway. Don’t want any fitness freaks stumbling through here on their early morning jog.”

Chapman looked at Turner and then up into the black sky. It was raining more heavily now. “You’re kidding, right?” he said.

“Yeah, right,” Turner chuffed.

Chapman turned to his partner. “Tony, get a statement from the two officers who found the body. You know the procedure. Don’t forget to ask about any vehicles or people in the area at the time.” He watched Francis walk away towards the park entrance and then he turned back to Turner. “Have Forensics been notified?”

“They should be on their way as we speak. The Coroner’s Constable also, and the duty medical officer to verify death.”

The man, face down on the ground at their feet, was certainly dead; Chapman hardly needed verification of the obvious. However, procedure was procedure. That was the way things were done. There could be no gaping holes which a half-smart defence lawyer could drive a truck through if, and when, the case came before the courts.

“Have you looked around? Found anything that might interest us?”

“Yeah, I had a quick look around when I arrived.” Turner nodded. “There is a wallet, over there in that garden bed.” He pointed to a small patch of low, well maintained shrubbery a few metres from where they stood. “I haven’t examined it, nobody has. Thought I’d leave that to you blokes. I assumed you’d want it photographed in situ. It may not even belong to this poor bastard.” He nodded at the body. “I’m willing to bet itdoes, though. It may provide some identification. If it’s empty, it could suggest robbery as a motive.”

“I doubt it,” Chapman said. “Unfortunately, it’s never that easy.” He gestured at the corpse. “What was this bloke doing here, anyway? Look at him—clean-cut, nice clothes. I don’t think he was out for a leisurely stroll in the park on a night like this. And what self-respecting mugger would have the balls to ply his trade in this shitty weather? Most street thugs are pussies, they’re tucked up all cute and snugly in their beds.” He dropped to one knee on the wet cobblestones. “Shine your light here,” he said. “Let’s get a closer look at our friend.”

Turner held the torch steady, focusing the light on the upper half of the body. The dead man was face-down on the walkway, his facial features partly obscured. As Chapman studied what he could see of the man’s features, he suddenly felt something; something strangely familiar. He moved his face closer to the corpse.

“Hand me the torch,” he said, reaching behind him.

“What’s the problem?” Turner asked.

Chapman took the torch from Turner’s outstretched hand and directed the beam into the lifeless face. “I’m not sure,” he murmured, “but I think I’ve seen this guy somewhere before. How long before we get some floodlights here?”

“I requested a lighting plant, including a tent, as soon as I got here. It has to come from Star Force, and you know those girls, they’re scared of the dark!” He chuckled at his own joke.

A feeling of uneasiness confused and unsettled Chapman Bouttell. He had always considered himself fortunate to possess an excellent memory when it came to faces, but there was something about the dead man that bothered him. He was certain he was not a recent acquaintance, but he had met him somewhere. Somewhere in his past. Where? His recollection was vague and strangely disturbing. What was it about the crumpled, saturated body at his feet that he found familiar?

ChapterThree

The media began descending on the park before dawn. Chapman never ceased to be amazed at how the press hounds found out about such events, almost, it seemed, before the police did. There were plenty of theories within the department as to how news, good or bad, managed to find its way to the various arms of the media as quickly as it did, and none of them had anything to do with efficiency. Not the least fancied of these was the offering of incentives by the media to a select few police officers in return for a discreet, timely telephone call.

It was a scenario that angered Chapman, and many other cops like him. However, wisdom born of experience had taught him that his opinions on the matter were never going to change the way things were. Personal profit was, and always would be, a powerful motivator. He considered the often-used term ‘media circus’ to be apt as he watched the rapidly building frenzy of activity just beyond the newly erected crime scene cordon.

Cameramen, reporters, sound crews and assorted media gophers jostled for the best vantage point, all vying for that exclusive interview or that classically gruesome front-pagephotograph. Over his years in the job, Chapman had known of more than one forensic photographer to be offered inducement to part with graphic photos taken in the process of evidence-gathering. Journalism, and the accompanying ratings which determined its worth, was stimulated by aggressive competition, and while there were always going to be a couple of bad eggs in the basket, he could only hope the vast majority of his fellow officers maintained a healthy strength of character and integrity when dealing with the media.

Detective Constables Grahame Smith and Bob Sanderson, the other half of Chapman’s four-man investigation team, arrived with a portable lighting plant and a portable tent shelter which they had collected from the Star Force offices themselves. Apparently, unless there posed an immediate threat to life or property, Star Force was staying in bed.

Smith and Sanderson began the business of erecting the tent over the scene and firing up the lighting plant. Soon, the hum of the generator was just audible above the noise of the wind, which seemed to have intensified in the last few minutes. The immediate area around the body was instantly bathed in an artificial glow, adding a carnival-like hue to the macabre scene.

Next to arrive was a forensic specialist, a young man Chapman had seen around the corridors of Headquarters but had never actually met. He was new to the forensic unit and had, up until tonight, never worked on any of the same cases as Chapman. Both men nodded a greeting to each other and Chapman watched with interest as the younger man huddled under the tent and assembled his photographic equipment. Shortly after, he emerged from the tent and began photographing the area in the immediate vicinity, shielding his expensive camera equipment as best he could from the rain.

Eventually, he re-entered the tent and took more photos of the body from a number of different angles and aspects. Some would be enlarged and all of them would be studied in minute detail over and over again by Chapman and his team during the ensuing investigation. None of the photographs would find their way into the hands of the media without his express authority; not on his watch, of that Chapman was certain.

As Chapman waited for the photographer to finish his work, Tony Francis returned, together with Smith and Sanderson. They had managed to obtain two umbrellas and the four detectives huddled together under the barely adequate shelter. They made a pitiful-looking group, all of them soaked to the skin, and all of them hunkering down against the elements. This was one of the downsides to police work and, as they waited for the completion of the forensic formalities, Chapman massaged at an arthritic shoulder andwondered silently if, at sixty-two years of age, he might be too old to consider the merits of alternative employment.

Dr. Keith Rogers was one of five medicos employed by the state government and attached on a rotating roster system to the police department. Being called out to perform preliminary examinations and to certify death at scenes such as this, was just one of the duties that fell within his job description. His name had rotated to the top of the list and he did not look particularly pleased to be there.

With practiced experience, the doctor conducted a preliminary examination of the body, certified death, and, with extreme difficulty in the prevailing conditions, completed the obligatory paperwork. With a flourish, he signed the form and handed it to Chapman, who glanced at it briefly in the awkward light before placing it into a plastic evidence bag and tucking it away inside his very wet coat.

Rogers was not prepared to speculate as to time of death, due to the temperature of the body being so affected by the cold. Chapman would have to wait until an autopsy could be performed under controlled, clinical conditions.

As quickly as he’d arrived, Dr. Rogers left. Soon, the Coroner’s Constable would arrive to take possession of the body and supervise its dispatch and transportation to the morgue. As the officer in charge of the investigation, only Chapman could grant such possession, and he was not about to do so until he was satisfied that a complete and thorough search of the area had been carried out and all possible evidence had been collected, bagged and tagged, and recorded on the crime scene running sheet.

Despite his moody disposition, and regardless of the difficult weather conditions, he would not cutcorners or in any way compromise the thoroughness with which he conducted the investigation. He knew his general demeanor was not his most admired character trait and was considered by some to be arrogance. He was also aware that he was guilty at times of somewhat unorthodox methods, but what he was not, was casual in his approach to the wayhe went abouthis work. Although he had never really cared much about what others thought of him, the term ‘arrogant’was not one that sat comfortably with him. ‘Doggedly determined’ would be a more apt description of his attitude to his work, he would have said if anyone ever asked. No one ever asked.

His task completed, the young forensic team member approached and waited at the edge of the light.“Great morning for it, fellas!” He smiled.

“Bloody beautiful,” Francis answered. “Are you done here?”

“I am, unless there is anything specific you want photographed.” He carefully began packing his camera and flash equipment into a specially constructed aluminum, foam-lined carry case.

Chapman indicated the nearby shrubbery. “Did you get some shots of the wallet over there?”

“Yes, several. I will get started on developing them first thing.”

Chapman glanced at his partner. Francis glanced at Chapman, shrugged, and gave a knowing wink. Chapman transfixed the photographer with a withering glare. “What’s your name, son?”

“Davis, Sarge. Paul Davis,” the photographer answered, offering his hand.

Chapman ignored the gesture, stepped up to the young man and put one arm around his shoulder. “Well, Paul,” he began. “You and I have never worked together before and this seems to be as good a time as any for you to start learning a little about the way I do things. I want those photographs on my desk by the time I return to the office. We owe it – you owe it – to that poor bugger lying on the wet grass in there.” He thrust a thumb towards the tent. “Do we understand each other, Paul?”

Clearly intimidated, the young man lowered his eyes and fiddled nervously with the catches on the camera case. “Yes, of course,” he said eventually. “I’ll get started immediately.” He turned and walked away into the slowly fading darkness.

“A bit hard on the lad, don’t you think?” Francis asked.

“He’s new. He has to learn,” Chapman said dismissively. “Better he learns now, on his first job with me, than later.” He moved to where the wallet lay open, upside-down in the garden bed. Carefully, he picked it up and turned it over. It was empty. There was no money, no credit cards, no driver’s license, nothing. Not even the obligatory snapshot of a loving wife or girlfriend, or smiling children; nothing that would offer any clue as to the identity of the dead man. He handed the wallet to Francis. “I think we can eliminate robbery as a motive.”

Francis examined the wallet. “Why? It is empty,” he observed.

“Yes, but all traces of ID have been removed,” Chapman continued. “Some effort has been made to make a quick identification difficult. Why would a thief intent on grabbing some fast cash go to the trouble of removing all traces of ID? Shit, we don’t even know if the wallet belongs to this guy.” He hesitated. “Although, I’m with Turner. I’d bet my left nut it does.”

“You’ve bet your left nut on things before,” Francis smiled. “You should be careful, you might end up sounding like Tiny Tim.”

“I’d still have the right one,” Chapman said casually.

Francis turned the wallet over in his hands. “It could be a drug thing,” he suggested. “Hiding the identity of a drug hit victim is often consistent with drug-related murders.”

Chapman did not agree. The dead man was not the victim of a drug hit. Nor was this a mugging. His sixth sense, if such a thing existed, told him this was far more complicated than that. He ducked his head, stepped into the tent and looked down at the body. His partner stepped in behind him.

Relieved to be out of the rain, albeit temporarily, the two detectives stood together, their shoulders almost touching in the confines of the tent. The artificial lighting created by the small generator humming a short distance away filled the tent with warmth, more perceived than actual, and a thin fog of steam rose from the victim’s wet clothes and quickly dissipated in the cramped space.

The victim was neatly dressed in aconservative suitunder an equally modest yet fashionable overcoat. In life, this had been a man of neat, clean-cut looks. His shoes, although now sodden, appeared to be highly polished. It could easily have been the body of a businessman, a doctor or, dare he think, a cop. Maybe a husband, or father, or perhaps both. Whoever he was, Chapman Bouttell could not rid himself of the strange feeling of familiarity. He knelt again on the wet grass, close to the dead man.

“Who are you? Who the bloody hell are you?” he muttered softly to the body.

ChapterFour

There were a few police officers, perhaps more than were willing to admit, who found a morbid fascination with morgues and the procedures which took place within their walls. Chapman Bouttell was not one of them. Death in itself did not bother him unduly. He had seen more than his fair share of it and he had, he believed, become inured to it and thereby somewhat detached from the emotions it can, and often did, evoke in others.

The dissection of a corpse, however, was an entirely different matter. Post mortems were procedures that did bother him. It was not the body so much that unsettled him. The body was, after all, dead; an unthinking, unfeeling mass of flesh and bone and it was never going to do anyone any harm. The difficulty for Chapman was in maintaining that perspective, and he often found himself in awe of those who were charged with this unenviable task. To these folk, it was all so clinical, and so impersonal, to be almost matter-of-fact. To perform this kind of work every day took a certain type of character and he wondered if it was easy to switch off after spending all day slicing and dicing, up to their armpits in the blood and gore of what were once living, breathing, feeling human beings. He was certain he would never be able to mentally detach himself from the grisly task.

Mostly, it was the combination of the sickly, sweet smell of formaldehyde and body fluids which accompanied a dissection that got to him. It was a smell he had never become accustomed to and, after all his years on the job, he doubted he ever would. As a homicide investigator, his attendance at autopsies was a requirement of the job, and one which he undertook with no small amount of reluctance. Today was no exception. In truth, today was as bad as any of those he could remember.He was uncomfortable. His clothes were still damp, and he was tired.

He arrived at the city morgue directly from the crime scene, where he had left his team combing the grounds of Heywood Park in search of evidence. Morgues always seemed to be located in basements or lower ground floors of the buildings that housed them. Chapman often wondered about that—underground, but not quite underground, buried, but not quite buried. There were, he assumed, a number of perfectly logical reasons for them being situated where they were, accessibility and privacy being only two. Those morgues he ever had occasion to visit all had vehicle access ramps leading down to a discreet entrance, away from public scrutiny. It simply wouldn’t do to wheel the hapless deceased through the corridors of the building, in full view of unsuspecting members of the public and staff alike.

And then, perhaps an oddity, perhaps not, morgues were all white; white ceilings, white walls tiled up to two thirds of their height, and white tiled floors. The only apparent concession to this starkness was the stainless-steel benches and gurneys comprising the sparse furnishings.

If it were possible forone to enter a morgue while oblivious tothe procedures which occurred within, the combination of sterile surroundings and the odour permeating the air would, Chapman was sure, soon stimulate one’s awareness. He guessed there were things which could be done about the smell; improved ventilation for one. But, surely the appropriate authorities could improve the sombre and depressing ambience by introducing a more appealing decor? Appealing to whom, he wondered? White was cheap, and easy to clean, he supposed. And then, all things considered, those poor souls who unknowingly took up temporary residence in this place were in no position to complain about either the smell or the decor.

There were two separate sections to the city morgue, a department within the state’s Forensic Science Centre. Both were located below street level and had separate entrances. There was a general section where victims of non-crime-associated death were brought, those who had died as a result of an accident, for example, and then there was a police section which accommodated the victims of crime.

The two sections were separated by administration offices and two comfort rooms where next of kin could wait and prepare themselves for the unenviable task of identifying the remains of a loved one. An internal access door led from the comfort room to the viewing room; a tiny airlock space with a glass window in one wall, beyond which lay the autopsy room. The viewing room and, to a lesser degree, the comfort room, were cold, clinical, impersonal places, and being there always made Chapman wish he was somewhere else. He hesitated in the airlock space between the two rooms and looked through the window into the autopsy room beyond.

Forensic Pathologist, Dr. Lee Richardson stood hunched over a bench on which lay the naked body of the man found in the park some ten hours earlier. On the far side of the room, beyond where the doctor worked, was yet another room; an ante-room whichhoused a wall of refrigerated drawers, twelve in all, resembling a huge filing cabinet. These drawers contained the remains of victims who had met a premature death as a result of a criminal offence.

Chapman could recall a time or two in his career when all twelve drawers were empty, but such occasions were rare and he found no solace in the fact that he had never seen all twelve occupied at the same time. Given the times in which he lived and worked, he rather thought he stood a better than even chance of seeing them all occupied before he ever saw them all empty again. The apprehensive familiarity with the victim which he had felt at the crime scene accompanied him as he pushed through the door leading to the autopsy room.

Dr. Richardson turned from his work and offered a smile and a nod of recognition as Chapman entered. A generally good-natured and pleasant individual, Richardson’s smiling demeanor seemed incongruent here in this depressing place. He cast his eyes over Chap’s damp and ruffled attire.

“Good morning, Chapman. You look like shit.”

Very few people ever addressed Bouttell as “Chapman”.His name was a combination of his mother’s maiden name, Chapman, and his father’s surname, Bouttell. As is the case with most names which, by their very structure, lend themselves to an abbreviated form, “Chap” or “Chappy” had long ago become the names by which he was more commonly known among his colleagues and friends.

Chap’s overcoat was unbuttoned. He held it open and looked down at himself. The doctor was right. He looked like shit and felt much the same.“Thanks, Doc,” he responded. “I’ve been on the job since four o’clock this morning. I’m wet, I’m cold, I’m tired, and I could use a stiff scotch about now, not to mention some good news from you.”

“I’m afraid I haven’t got much for you yet.” Richardson shrugged. “As you can see, I’m still in the process of dissection.”

Chap approached the table and looked down at the remains of the murder victim. The smell, almost overpowering, invaded his senses, and he fought against the urge to throw up all over the shiny white floor.

The pathologist had opened the chest cavity from a point just above the sternum to just below the navel. The skin and flesh had been peeled back, exposing the rib cage which he had subsequently sawed through and lifted clear of the body, thus giving him unrestricted access to the internal organs. Most of these organs had been removed for closer clinical examination, and Chapman recognised a human liver resting on a set of scales sitting on an implement trolley next to the dissection table. He swallowed hard, unable to drag his eyes from the grotesque display.

An incision had been made just below the hairline at the back of the man’s head and continued around the skull, ending just in front of each temple. Like the tough outer husk of a coconut, the scalp had been peeled forward over the skull and now lay across the top half of the man’s face. It was an ugly, stomach-churning, surreal thing to see, but something Chapman also found hard to drag his eyes away from.

Like a lid to the cranium cavity, a circular piece in the uppermost section of the skull had been sawed through and removed. The brain now lay in a thin pool of clear, cranial fluid in a stainless-steel dish on the table alongside the man’s head. If Chapman didn’t know better, this could easily be a scene from some hideous ‘B’ rated horror film.

As his eyes wandered over the remains before him, he was even more convinced that, although necessary, autopsies were obscene, highly impersonal procedures.

“When Dr. Rogers returned from the scene,” Richardson said, “he left some notes for me. When I discovered this was your case, I gave it priority. Had to pass a couple of cases on to others, who bitched and moaned they already have too much on their plate. But, I am the boss, and I guess that has its advantages.”

“Is there anything at all you can tell me yet?” Chap asked.

“Not a lot, it’s too early. He is about sixty years old, maybe a little older. Obviously very fit for his age. There is very little excess fat around the abdomen or the chest areaand hehas excellent muscle tone. This guy kept himself in pretty good nick. I’ve taken fingerprints, dental impressions, and samples to determine DNA. But, unless you’ve come up with any identification, we will have to wait for the system to run its course before we find out who this bloke is, or was.”

“I’ve got diddly squat.” Chap shrugged. “We found a wallet at the scene, near the body. We think it belonged to him, but it was empty, and there was no ID on the body. What about the bullet?”

“Also too early to tell,” Richardson said. “I recovered a number of small fragments which I have already sent to ballistics for testing. Basically, the bulk of the round went straight through.” He paused. “The caliber is for the folk in ballistics to determine but, if I were to hazard a guess, I would think a .38 or .357. I lean slightly towards the latter because it has the extra velocity required to send the projectile right through the back of the skull and out the front. The adult human skull is very hard, capable of withstanding considerable force. It has to—it’s the only protection the brain has from external forces. It was almost certainly a very close-range shot. More than likely the muzzle was held up hard against the victim’s head.”

He leaned forward and turned the dead man’s head to one side. With a gloved finger, he indicated the entry woundbehind the right ear. “There are powder burns herethat would support that.”

“You know, Doc,” Chap said, “it’s strange. As I said, we found a wallet at the scene, presumably this fellow’s, with all traces of identification removed. Up until an hour ago, there were no new missing person reports in the system which might have given us some idea who he is. And he was too well dressed and clean-cut-looking to be a homeless John Doe.”

“Perhaps he just hasn’t been missed by anyone yet,” offered the pathologist.

“Maybe.” Chap nodded. “Somehow, though, I feel as if I should know him.”

“I’ve known you a long time, Chapman. You’ve got an excellent memory for names and faces. If you think you know this guy, you probably do.” Richardson hesitated. “There is something I found which may be of interest to you. I don’t know if it will help, but it struck me as unusual.”

“I could use all the help I can get, unusual or otherwise,” Chap said with interest.

Richardson turned back to the body, took a firm grip on the right arm at the wrist, lifted it clear of the table and turned it inwards.

“Here,” he indicated. “Just above the elbow, at the back of the arm. What do you make of it?”

Chap took an involuntary step backwards, away from the table, and stared wide-eyed at the tattoo. In the shape of a diamond, it was small enough to be almost insignificant, but not to him. “Oh shit!” he heard himself murmur. “Oh shit!”

“Christ, Chapman, what’s the matter?” Richardson appeared genuinely concerned. “You’re as white as a ghost. What is it? Does that tattoo mean something to you?”

Chap steeled himself and took a pace forward, regaining his position closer to the table. He paused momentarily and then stooped to take a closer look at the strange little tattoo. “Show me his face, Doc.”

Richardson dropped the man’s arm and it slapped on the cold, steel table. He reached for the bloody scalp, gripped it tightly, and lifted it up and away from the upper face. He laid it back to its original position over the skull, exposing the dead man’s features.

Immediately, Chap knew who it was and the recognition stunned him. “Eddie,” he said, almost inaudibly.

“Jesus, you look terrible, Chap. Who is this guy?”

“Dickson, Eddie Dickson,” Chap answered. “I’ve had a gut feeling, right from when I first saw him in the park, that I knew him from somewhere. The tattoo rang all the right bells. It’s been a long time, but that’s Eddie Dickson.”

Chap turned away from the table, his mind racing, his stomach fluttering. He needed to get out of there. Suddenly, the fluttering turned to something more ominous and he fought against the urge to be sick. “I need your report as soon as possible, Doc.”

Before Richardson could respond, Chap turned and walked quickly, head bowed, from the room.

ChapterFive

F