Davo's Little Something (30 page)

‘Won't be a sec.'

The morgue attendant vanished through the identification area and a minute or two later the familiar face of Dr Oswald Joyce appeared at the reception desk.

‘Well, well, well,' he beamed. ‘If it isn't the only two honest cops left in all of Sydney. How are you boys?'

‘Not too bad Ozzie. How's yourself?'

The bespectacled coroner held his hands slightly out from
his sides and grinned at the two detectives. ‘Wouldn't be dead for quids,' he replied.

Greg and Ray looked at each other and shook their heads; despite their mood and the morbidness of the situation they couldn't help but smile.

‘So what you brings you down here anyway? It's good to see you both again though.'

‘There were a couple of skinheads brought in here last night!' said Detective Middleton. ‘We'd like a report on them.'

‘Ah yes. The two young bovver boys from Darlinghurst,' replied the coroner. ‘I don't think they'll be bovvering anyone for a while.'

Dr Joyce went behind the counter and returned with a clipboard. He studied it for a moment or two then told the two detectives to follow him into the ID area, where he said something to the young attendant who went into the cool room and returned shortly wheeling the bodies of the two skinheads with him.

The morgue attendants had removed their clothing and cleaned up all the blood, but despite the fact that their torsos were unmarked, under the soft fluorescent lighting of the morgue, the blueish black shapeless mounds where their faces had been still made a gory unpleasant sight. Greg and Ray moved a little closer and stared curiously at the two bodies; Dr Joyce noticed the mystified looks on their faces.

‘Yes. It's a bit of a funny rort this one alright—isn't it?' he mused.

‘What makes you say that Ozzie?' said Detective Blackburn, without taking his eyes from the bodies.

‘Well, look at this.' Dr Joyce placed his left hand on one of the skin's foreheads and started probing the facial area with the gloved index finger of his right. ‘You see the extensive fracturing of the mandibles, and the massive contusions of the temporal and masseter muscles, almost forcing them into the nasal opening. And . . .'

‘Hey hold your horses Ozzie,' said Detective Middleton. ‘We don't get to watch bloody Quincy. So just give it to us in layman's talk—what happened?'

Dr Joyce smiled as he stepped back from the bodies and
looked at the two detectives. ‘Well, in a nutshell, someone used something to bash their bloody faces in,' he said shortly.

‘Someone? Used something?' repeated Detective Middleton. ‘You don't think it was a gang fight?'

Dr Joyce shrugged his shoulders. ‘That's why I said it's a funny one. You see, apart from these two losing their good looks, there's not another mark on their bodies. This one's got a bit of skin off one elbow where he could have fallen heavily and that's it. Only the faces are bashed in. And they're not just bashed in—they're almost obliterated.'

Detective Blackburn explained to Dr Joyce the position the bodies were in when they found them, the unusual amount of blood around and how they too thought it was curious compared to other assault and homicide cases they'd been involved with.

‘So how do you think it happened Ozzie?' he finally said.

The coroner stroked his chin thoughtfully and stared at the bodies for a few seconds before he spoke. ‘It's hard to say for sure. It's as if whoever did it was waiting for them in that lane with a heavy object—like a baseball bat or a house brick or a piece of pipe—yet there's no marks on the back of their heads. Why would he or she or they or whatever, take them front on? And then why methodically and brutally pound their faces in? Like I said—it's a funny one.'

‘Did you say—pound their faces in Ozzie?' askled Detective Blackburn.

‘Yeah.' The coroner made a motion with his right hand. ‘You know. Just like a butcher making minute steaks with one of those meat tenderisers.' Dr Joyce smiled at the increasingly quizzical looks on the two detectives' faces. ‘Like I just said,' he chuckled. ‘It's a funny rort.'

The two detectives stood there a while longer staring at what were once the faces of the two skinheads and were now just purple shapeless masses, discussing one or two things between them; finally they folded their arms and stood there shaking their heads in silence.

‘Well, have you seen enough?' said Dr Joyce.

Detective Middleton looked at the coroner and nodded his head slowly with grudging approval. ‘Yeah, I s'pose so,' he
shrugged. ‘Buggered if I know though.'

‘It's got me stuffed,' added Detective Blackburn.

The coroner turned to the attendant standing patiently near the door in his green rubber apron. ‘Righto Ronnie. Move 'em up and head 'em out.'

The attendant smiled and wheeled the two corpses back into the cool room as the others took their time walking back out to the reception desk.

‘Well thanks anyway Ozzie,' said Detective Blackburn after they'd both taken a drink of water from one of the ample bubblers scattered around the walls.

‘That's alright,' replied the coroner. ‘Next time you're coming down get here a bit earlier. We always have a smorgasboard lunch in the cool room. We had black pudding today. It was delicious.'

‘Ohh piss off, Ozzie' said Detective Middleton, turning away. ‘That's not bloody funny.'

Dr Joyce roared with laughter at his crude joke then when he'd settled down they stood there a while longer discussing a few more essential things: like getting copies of reports and other paperwork. Eventually the two detectives thanked him once more, said goodbye, and got back in their car and drove off.

‘Well what do you want to do now?' asked Detective Blackburn.

‘I dunno,' replied his partner. ‘I don't feel much like eating.'

‘Neither do I.'

‘I s'pose we might as well go back up around Oxford Street and ask a few questions.'

Detective Blackburn nodded his head and stared out the passenger window.

With a huge steak dinner sitting in his stomach after training, and feeling pretty good all round, Davo decided he might celebrate his first kill with a little drink. It would be his first taste of alcohol since he'd got out of hospital. He'd been a little apprehensive about having a drink because of his headaches, but tonight was definitely worth a small celebration so bugger it. Besides, after smashing those two skinheads, his headaches, diminishing as they were, seemed to have cleared
up altogether. Maybe that's all I've got to do, he smiled to himself, instead of taking digesics for the pain, just go out and kill a couple of skinheads.

Rubbing his hands together, Davo got the bottle of Old Grandad out of the liquor cabinet, poured a healthy nip into a tall glass over ice, added a tiny dash of bitters then topped it up with ginger ale and a slice of lemon. He stood in the kitchen looking out the window, raised the glass to no one in particular and took a long pull. The bubbles caressed his throat lovingly as the glow from the bourbon settled in the pit of his stomach and began to spread gently through his body.

‘Mmhh! Bloody beautiful,' he said out loud. He closed his eyes with delight for a moment then took another sip. ‘Ohh yeah.' Licking the taste off his lips Davo swirled the drink gently making the ice cubes tinkle softly against the frosted sides of the glass and moved into the loungeroom yawning as he sat down. Oddly enough he felt incredibly tired; one bit of a late night and he was just about knackered. A glance at his watch said it was getting on for 8.30 so he put his drink on the coffee table and picked up the
TV Week
. He was just looking to see what Bill Collins had to offer for his Friday night movie when unexpectedly the phone rang.

Apprehensively, Davo watched it ringing in the kitchen for a while without answering it. I wonder who the bloody hell this is? He let it ring for another second or two then reluctantly heaved himself up off the lounge, picked up his drink and walked across to pick up the receiver.

‘Hello?' he said suspiciously.

‘G'day mate, how are you goin'. It's Colin.'

‘Colin—oh hello, mate. How's things?'

‘Alright. I ah . . . I was gonna ring you before but I didn't know whether to or not. How's things anyway. What are you doing? I didn't wake you up or anything did I?'

‘No. No I was just sitting here getting ready to go to bed.' Davo smiled as he took a sip on his bourbon and dry. ‘The specialist gave me some new medicine for my nerves and it makes me a bit drowsy.'

‘Ohh. Anyway how are you feeling? Your ah . . . headaches getting any better?'

‘A little bit.'

‘Yeah? Oh that's good.' Colin's voice brightened up a little as he crossed his fingers on the other end of the line. ‘I was ah . . . wondering if you might want to go out for a drink tomorrow night. You know—Saturday night. I mean . . . like only if you felt up to it. It might even do you good to get out for a change.'

He'd pulled some scrubber in a pub at Paddington the previous weekend and had to take her back to her place and just as they were about to get into it the boyfriend arrived there drunk and put on a drama. So Colin had to clip him on the chin then the girlfriend attacked him with a frying pan so Colin clipped her too and she rang the police. Three other dogs he'd gotten onto and dragged back to motels at $50 a night turned out to be the worst screws he'd ever had in his life and he was almost certain one had the jack. Jesus Christ, it'd been over three months now. Surely Davo was starting to come good.

‘So what do you reckon, mate. Do you ah . . . feel like slippin' out for a bit of a quiet drink or what?'

Davo was grinning like a Cheshire cat as he took another sip on his bourbon. He knew exactly what was going through Colin's mind.

‘Well—I wouldn't sort of mind, Colin. But the doctors have told me not to drink.'

‘Just have a couple of lemon squashes.'

‘Yeah, but it's the smoke and the noise, mate, it'd only make my headaches worse. A late night'd probably kill me.'

‘Just come up for a couple of hours. It'd probably do you good to get out of the flat for a while.'

Davo could sense the pleading, almost desperate tone in Colin's voice. Just come up for a couple of hours eh. That's about sixty minutes more than you need to find some scrubber in The Junction and get her back here and into the spare bedroom via the liquor cabinet. He smiled into his bourbon as he took another sip.

‘Yeah I wouldn't mind I suppose, Colin. I'll tell you what. How about waiting another couple of weeks and see how I feel.'

Colin stared mournfully across the loungeroom as his mother
came out of the ktichen and, just to be a nark, told him to hurry up and get off the phone as she was expecting a call from her sister in Newcastle. Jesus Christ he thought, as he stuck his fingers up at his mother behind her back. Another two bloody weeks.

‘Yeah alright. You reckon another two weeks for sure.'

‘Well I don't know for sure.' Davo was enjoying this little bit of cat and mouse with his old mate. ‘I'll see what the doctor says.'

‘Righto.'

They talked for a little while longer with Davo doing his best not to laugh and Colin finally saying he'd call round and see him one night early next week. Feeling a little mellow from the bourbon, Davo hesitantly agreed then they both hung up.

Bloody Colin thought Davo, smiling at the receiver. He's a hard case alright. You can't help but like him though. He picked up his drink, moved back into the loungeroom and switched on the TV, just as Bill Collins introduced—of all things—an old Ronald Reagan movie. As he watched it, Davo couldn't believe that the president of the United States could feature in such a turd of a film: it wasn't even good for a laugh. By half past nine he was starting to nod off on the lounge. By ten o'clock he'd switched the TV off and wearily climbed into bed; he was asleep almost the minute his head hit the pillow.

The mild spring weather had turned cloudy overnight and it was drizzling rain with a cool southerly blowing when Davo got up around 6.30 the following morning. He had a mug of hot Ovaltine then went down to the garage, where, probably because it was such a miserable cold day, he trained extra long and extra hard. It was getting on for lunchtime by the time he'd finished and got cleaned up so rather than bother with breakfast he decided, despite the rain, to walk up to Bondi Junction and have a Chinese meal. Now that he was so fit Davo was finding it hard to sit around the flat in the daytime; he was also finding it increasingy hard to keep shuffling around on his walking stick. But he knew that was one element of
subterfuge he was going to have to force himself to keep up—especially in the coming months.

With an ample serve of Mongolian lamb and fried rice sitting in his stomach he strolled over to his usual place in the Plaza for coffee and donuts. He sat there watching the people walking past in their jackets and plastic raincoats, trying to keep their groceries dry and wipe raindrops from their clothes at the same time. As he absently chewed on a donut a couple of thoughts occurred to him. One, was how long was he going to keep the killings up and how often was he going to go out and kill? Although Thursday night was probably the most enjoyable experience and greatest thrill he'd ever had in his life he knew he couldn't go making it too willing. He chuckled to himself as he took a sip of coffee. Then, on the other hand, if a couple of skinheads had walked past him now he wouldn't have minded jumping up and battering them to a pulp then and there. No. About once, maybe twice a month would be enough. It was no good making it too willing: he'd only finish up bringing himself undone. The other thing he'd noticed was how all that weightlifting was starting to make him a little too big and bulky and it was getting increasingly hard to disguise. Even Dr Connely was becoming curious as to why Davo was reluctant to take his top off when he wanted to give him a checkup. He still needed something to give him strength but something else besides weights. He sat there finishing his coffee and donuts, listening to some music coming from a record shop behind him while he thought about it. After about an hour or so he got up to leave.