Turn A Blind Eye Read online

  However, the higher he climbed, the more political his role became. And his rancour grew. In his mind, he was no longer a cop. Just another paper-pusher. An administrative flunky.

  The streets were his true love. He could still remember his first homicide case, the Mitak case, and the thrill of the chase. Of course, it was one of the more sensational crimes of the past few decades. Threatening, for a time, to expand into a full blown civil war between Croatian and Serbian gangs on the streets of Melbourne. Five murders in all before they were able to extinguish the flames.

  ***

  Brian straightened in his seat, clutching the steering wheel to pull himself forward. Across the road, the front door of the Yarra Hotel swung open, and three patrons stepped out. Two young women stood on the kerb facing each other as one dug desperately in her purse, but Brian’s attention was elsewhere. The third, a male, turned away from the females and began walking briskly along Johnston Street.

  There he is.

  The young man wearing jeans and a black leather jacket, collar raised against the chill, quickly headed in the opposite direction away from the Jetta. A passing Silver Top Taxi momentarily blocked their view, but even from 50 metres, they were sure they had their man.

  Brian rubbed his hands together before blowing into them to generate some warmth, then slipped the gear shift into drive.

  The older man slowly arose from his trance, stretched out his neck first to the left then the right and sat forward in his seat. Now fully engaged and ready for the hunt to begin.

  Brian eased the Volkswagen Jetta out of the parking spot and merged into traffic just as the young man in the black leather jacket crossed Johnston Street 120 metres ahead.

  “Steve” rubbed both palms back and forth over his thighs.

  Looks like he’s going back to his car. Perfect. Easy now, give him some space.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Brian watched “Steve” come to life, like a bloodhound roused into duty, tracking the scent of his prey.

  ***

  Slattery turned away from the city vista to face his computer screen. He hunted and pecked his way through three password prompts before being able to stare at the inbox of his internal email system. The depressing sight of 238 new messages greeted him. He stared for a moment, sighed, then swivelled 180 degrees in his chair. He selected a CD from the stack on his credenza – Van Morrison’s Moondance – and popped it into his disc player. Anything to delay the inevitable. He paused to let Morrison begin telling his tale about a county fair before spinning back around to face the other music. An idea flashed through his mind to set up a new task force to uncover the devious bastards that, apparently, got paid per email. A vision of bureaucrats pacing to and fro at busy intersections throughout the city wearing signs that read “I’m a serial emailer” brightened his morning.

  But what was he to expect? Over 17,000 officers and civilian personnel made up the Victoria Police department. Three hundred plus stations throughout the State with an annual budget of over $2.5 billion. And, for the present, it all flowed up to his desk. He wondered, wasn’t shit supposed to flow in the other direction? Thankfully, the general public didn’t have access to his internal email address. After multiple screenings, and with the vast majority delegated out to other departments, only those requiring his attention were tagged with a priority designation and redirected to his inbox. Around 70 of these, mercifully none bearing the moniker “high priority”, now stared back at him. Which is precisely where, he mused, they would remain for another day or two.

  Among the remainder, based on the sender’s address, the majority were from internal departments. Those with requisition requests attached, he forwarded to his assistant so she could sort the chaff from the wheat. Like a salmon swimming upstream, he was slowly making progress, but even still, more than 100 remained.

  Slattery performed another sort to highlight State government addresses. He sighed deeply, the 68 emails from state parliamentarians could wait until after lunch. It wasn’t healthy to read those on an empty stomach. He reflected on how many: speeding, parking, drug possession, shoplifting, driving while intoxicated, public intoxication – you name it – cases would he be asked to “take care of” for someone’s little prince or princess this week?

  ***

  With some warmth restored to his hands, the older man pulled the Walther PPX 9mm from his pocket, screwed on the Octane 45 silencer he’d drawn from his other pocket and pulled back on the slide. His employers supplied him with the weapon earlier in the week after they’d agreed upon a price for his services. Although “agreed” was superfluous, Sean Costello – the driver needn’t know his name – wasn’t doing it for the money. Since Sean was knee-high to his granddad, this line of work was destined to be his calling. When his employers snapped their fingers, Sean, the ever-faithful, quickly came running.

  As the Jetta inched forward along Johnston Street, Sean rested the matte black weapon on his thigh and gently caressed the safety catch with his index finger.

  The young man in the leather jacket, hands thrust deep into his pockets, turned the corner, left, into Rich Street. Sean had no idea what the young man had done to piss off his employer, but it mattered little. It was enough to know an order had been issued and being the ever-obedient good soldier; Sean would see it through.

  Let me out at the corner and be ready. I’ll take him as he unlocks his door.

  Brian slowed to a crawl as he turned the corner and the older man – Steve Buscemi, yeah, that was the name of the actor. It finally popped into his mind – was out of the vehicle and stalking his target.

  The young man in the black leather jacket stopped beside the front bumper of a Holden Commodore station wagon parked under a towering elm and withdrew a set of keys from his pocket. Holding the key ring up to what little light was available, he searched for the correct key.

  ***

  Slattery was very careful to whom he gave his internal email address, so the @auscom.net.au address stuck out amongst the remaining messages like the proverbial sore thumb.

  [email protected]

  The name rang a bell. Where had he heard that name before? Slattery opened the email looking for another clue to jog his memory.

  Chief Slattery,

  I’m hoping you will remember me. We met recently at La Trobe University when you spoke before the graduating class of Finance majors. I introduced myself after your presentation and mentioned that we shared a mutual friend/relative. Years ago, you were good friends with my great-uncle, Bert Walters.

  Bert Walters.

  For Slattery, the memories came flooding back. As a rookie detective, he’d resided at a small one-bedroom flat in Northcote where Bert was his neighbour and, over time, became a close friend. Bert, as he recalled, had also been close with one of the victims in the Mitak case. Slattery reflected, what a strange coincidence, and what a good bloke. He fondly remembered Bert as being quite the character.

  Bert passed away in ‘94 or ’95, if his memory served correctly, and he met Bert’s brother, Les, at the funeral. Les and his wife only just moving back to Melbourne after spending eight years in Brisbane. He and Les continued to meet occasionally for a beer but having little in common other than the deceased Bert, eventually lost contact. On the day of Bert’s funeral, he vaguely recalled being introduced to Les’ son and daughter-in-law. Attached to her hip was a young two-year-old named Craig.

  This past December he’d spoken to one of the graduating classes at La Trobe. Afterward, a tall, shy, kid approached and introduced himself. When he discovered it was Les’ grandson, Bert’s great-nephew, he was only too happy to sit down for a chat. Over scones and a latte, he heard how Craig’s grandfather, Les, passed away in 2000. Les’ son – Craig’s father – died in a car crash the same year. And, more recently, his mother had been hospitalised with a terminal illness. The poor kid had had it rough, he mused, so he left him his business card and an assurance that if he could ever help to get in
contact.

  ***

  Sean Costello closed to within 20 metres and released the safety. The pathway remained deserted. Street lights overhead, diffused by the elm’s thick canopy, barely penetrated the deep shadows.

  As the young man paused to select a key, Sean stepped up behind him and from less than five metres squeezed the trigger. Two nine-millimetre slugs found their mark at the base of the young man’s skull; his lifeless body crumpled to the ground with barely a sound. Blood and skull fragments splattered the side of the Holden and the trunk of an elm tree. A small trail of blood seeped from beneath the man’s head and filled the cracks between the bluestones lining the gutter.

  Sean had not even needed to break stride.

  ***

  Slattery continued reading.

  I hate to impose, but I don’t know where else to turn. I thought of going directly to the local police station, but I was afraid of not being taken seriously.

  I’ve uncovered a conspiracy rising to the highest levels of power in the State, and I’ve attached documents to this email to prove I am not crazy. I trust you will take this matter seriously. The attachments will reveal all.

  Sincerely,

  Craig Walters

  P.S. I know that I’m in imminent danger. I’m being followed and need protection. They’ve already killed one man. If you’re unable to contact me over the coming days, then I will have suffered the same fate.

  Slattery re-read the message before clicking on the first attachment. He briefly scanned the first document before opening the next. His eyes glued to the screen, all peripheral vision extinguished, finding it hard to believe what he was reading. Despite the air-conditioning in his office, he felt a cold sweat prickling his scalp.

  ***

  Brian heard the faint report of two pistol shots from three car lengths away, the sound similar to the firing of a nail gun on a distant building site. He pumped the accelerator and sped forward. The older man with the wild eyes stepped out into the street from between two parked cars. He slowed just enough for the man – who looked uncannily like Steve Buscemi – to climb in the passenger side. Before the passenger door swung shut, Brian had turned left into Turner Street and was picking up speed.

  As they sped past the gutted shell of the Victoria Park football ground, Brian marvelled at the simplicity of the job. Beside him, “Steve” spoke not a word as he retrieved the envelope from the glove compartment and slipped it into his coat pocket. Inside, a photo of their now deceased target; a young man by the name of Craig Walters.

  ***

  Slattery’s hand trembled as he clicked the mouse to open the next document. The final lines of the email still ringing in his head.

  … If you’re unable to contact me over the coming days, then I will have suffered the same fate.

  The shaking showed no signs of abating as he reached for the phone. Slattery called the contact number for Craig Walters listed in the email. An automated voice told him the number was out of service. He disconnected the line and tried again; the same result.

  A ceiling tile in the middle of his office sat slightly askew. Slattery began to process the ramifications of the email as his eyes bored into the offset tile. The final strains of Into the Mystic faded from the speakers as the embryonic beginnings of a plan began to form.

  He paused a moment to take a deep breath. It had the desired effect of quelling the tremor in his voice but did nothing to restore his sense of calm. He lifted the handset a third time.

  Margaret, please hold all my calls. And please get me Commissioner Colvin with the Federal Police on the phone. After that, I’ll need to speak with the Premier. Thank you.

  Yes, sir. And, sir, were you aware of the murder in Abbotsford last night?

  Part 1

  ***

  Melbourne, Australia

  January 13, 2016

  (11 Weeks Earlier)

  A howling wind rattled the window beside my bed, and an unearthly shrieking noise rose above the wind. Inside, I was bound up tight and on the verge of suffocating. No matter how I struggled, I could not break my binds. Trapped, sweating profusely, unable to free my arms or legs. My breathing constricted by a thin fabric covering my head. Finally, I was able to break free and sat bolt upright.

  I blinked several times to clear my head then surveyed my surroundings. Across the room, Neil Young, also sweating and with his inseparable black Gibson slung low, stared back. Rather, a framed poster of Neil Young hanging from the wall of my bedroom. A souvenir from a show he’d played at Rod Laver Arena a few years back. The ticket stub from the show, signed, “To Craig, Happy B’Day, Mum” wedged between glass and frame.

  Pillows lay scattered near and far – collateral damage – the sheets a tangled mess at my feet. The detritus from another rough night affording little in the way of rest. Warning signs of a harried mind.

  I rose from the bed, stretched, then shuffled to the window and peered out through the Venetian blinds. The wind was blowing a gale and the dilapidated clothes hoist in the backyard was spinning around as if either preparing for take-off or bent on qualifying for one of the field events at the Rio Olympics. The shrieking sound it emitted was enough to wake the dead, well, at least me.

  The one-bedroom, brick veneer, unit in Alphington I’d leased backed onto the Darebin Parklands. Two other units adjoined mine. One lay empty. In the other, a nocturnal neighbour I’d yet to meet. A copse of blue gums sprouted skyward behind the back fence. On a calm day, it was a most idyllic setting. Today, the scraggly gums swayed precariously. The screeching flock of cockatoos calling the parklands home having fled to safer climes. It was just after seven in the morning and my bedroom window was already warm to the touch. Predicting the weather in Melbourne could be a hit or miss affair, but last night’s forecast on the evening news nailed it. A high of 40 degrees Celsius with winds hitting 50 kph. The gale force winds had already arrived, and the high of 40 wouldn’t be too far behind.

  I grabbed my iPod and earbuds from the end-table beside my bed, threw on a pair of running shorts, T-shirt and a pair of socks I dragged from the bottom of my closet, and made my way to the kitchen. Inside the fridge, two bottles of Powerade, a carton of milk, a half-eaten block of cheddar cheese and a bowl of grapes stared back at me. An old cartoon sprung to mind, “when milk goes bad”, and I smiled at the prospect of the milk carton holding a gun trained on an obviously nervous block of cheese, the grapes cowering behind. Mine hadn’t reached that stage, but the warning signs were there. The sparseness of the shelves also reminded me I needed to buy groceries. I grabbed a Powerade and closed the door, leaving the milk to its own devices.

  My running shoes sat by the back door, like a faithful dog, waiting patiently to be exercised. On the back step, I sat and slipped them on. I took a long pull from the Powerade bottle, stretched, drank some more, stretched a little further and before the desire to head back to bed became too compelling, headed towards the Parklands Trail.

  This part was always the hardest, taking those first few paces. Your legs are raring to go, but your head is full of questions. We’re going to do what? Are you crazy? What in the bloody hell are you thinking? Ignoring the voices, I screwed the earbuds into my ears, set my iPod to shuffle and pressed play. The voice of Bernard Fanning filled my senses singing about a private man, and I fell into a comfortable rhythm with the song’s bass line.

  I headed north, into the wind, hoping to make the second half of the run back home easier. Five kilometres along the trail would take me up to and past John Cain Park where I’d turn and head back. Within 500 metres I was a bounding ball of sweat and concluding it’ll be closer to eight kilometres – if I’m lucky – rather than ten today.

  After settling into a nice controlled pace, I relaxed and began to enjoy my surroundings. This section of the trail follows the winding banks of the Darebin Creek which flows southward for another four kilometres before emptying into the Yarra River. Willow trees line the banks, and the occasional wat
tle provides colour. The scent of eucalyptus is strong and thankfully keeps my sweat infused body odour at bay. A small gecko scurries across my path and away to the safety of the thick scrub. It’s barely mid-summer, yet the creek has already been reduced to a mere trickle a few metres wide. But it only takes a day’s heavy rain for it to become a raging torrent threatening its banks. Living so close, I wonder if my flat is in danger of flooding. It never occurred to me to ask the landlord when I moved in at the start of the month. I signed a 12-month lease but, for now, that was far beyond the outer limits of my life plans. I make a mental note to call him later. It slides in behind the dozens of other more important notes stored away in the far recesses of my mind. Wrapped up tight, out of sight, out of mind, where they cause the least amount of pain.

  Discarded takeaway cups and wrappers blow past, scurrying by as if in full retreat from an oncoming threat. The blustery wind overnight has littered the trail with broken limbs and long strips of bark, thin like parchment, from the eucalypts. I slow my pace, carefully picking my way through the debris. Twenty minutes into the run, roughly four kilometres from home, the trail crosses Murray Road. The wind has slowed my progress, but I’m long past the days where I care about my pace. No longer in training, a has-been at 23. A hypnotic beat and the smooth falsetto of Dan Kelly courses through my earbuds as I turn for home.