Davo's Little Something (32 page)

His chest heaving slightly, his hands still subconsciously clenched by his side Davo stood there in the sickly half light of the alley smiling with satisfaction at the slaughter he'd left lying around him. There'd been hardly any noise, no one had come around or seen a thing and the whole dreadful business had taken less than two minutes. Luck was with him again.

Cautiously he moved down to the end of the alley, stopped in the shadows and had a swift glance up and down the street; there was still no one around. Quickly he walked back up towards the noise and traffic of Oxford Street, stopping under a thick, shadowy grove of maple trees to remove the gloves and run a handkerchief over his face to wipe away any bloodstains. There were a few spots and a bit on his clothes but they were almost invisible against the dark cotton. After another quick look around he began walking smartly up another alley that ran into Crown Street, up into Oxford, past the Supreme Court and back to his car. In less than half an hour he was back home in his loungeroom laughing like a drain over a cup of coffee while he cleaned the blood and pieces of flesh from the gloves; in the background the radio was playing and Davo was almost dancing around the room at his success.

‘Two on Thursday and three on Sunday,' he said out loud. ‘Not bad for a cripple.' A Michael Jackson song came on the stereo-radio and Davo started moonwalking around the flat. ‘Yeah baby. That makes five and that ain't no jive.' He fell back on the lounge and roared with laughter.

‘I don't believe this. I dead set, fair dinkum don't bloody well believe it.' Detective Middleton spat bitterly out the window of the Ford Falcon as he and Detective Blackburn pulled up
at the small narrow lane running off Riley Street.

Up until then it had been a fairly easy night for a change with only fifteen minutes to go before they could knock off, when the call came over the VKG that someone had found three bodies in a lane near Oxford Street. The caller however had obviously decided to remain anonymous because there was no one there when the two tired detectives arrived. Detective Middleton nosed the unmarked police car into the lane where the headlights picked up the three crumpled figures sprawled at the other end.

‘There they are,' said Detective Blackburn, as his partner switched off the engine.

They got out of the car and in the soft glow of the parking lights slowly walked towards the three bodies dumped haphazardly on one side of the alley.

‘Jesus don't tell me it's another three bloody skinheads,' said Detective Blackburn as they got closer.

Detective Middleton didn't say anything at first as he and his partner let their torch beams play over the grisly sight at their feet. ‘Yeah—it sure looks like it. Doesn't seem to be as much blood around this time though.'

‘Christ, Greg, there's enough. How much do you want?'

The two grim-faced detectives stood there in silence for a few moments shining their torches over the bodies and around the alley trying to figure out what they'd found. They were used to finding the bodies of gays or straights but never skinheads; and this was the second lot in four days. Both detectives began to get the same uneasy feeling in the pit of their stomachs.

‘Shit, have a look at this bloke's neck, Ray.'

‘Yeah, I noticed. What about this guy's head. It looks like it's been jammed in a vice.' Detective Blackburn let his torch play over the dead skinhead as he peered at what was left of his forehead. ‘Jesus Christ. I can see his brains.'

Detective Middleton straightened up, sucked a deep breath in through his teeth and let it out through his nose. ‘Greg. Are you thinking what I'm thinking?'

‘I don't know what to think,' replied his partner shaking his head. ‘I don't even want to think.'

‘It reminds me too much of Thursday night, Greg.'

‘Jesus, don't say that.'

‘Yeah I know. It looks like we might have a nut on our hands.' Detective Middleton stared at the bodies scattered around them for a few seconds, slowly shaking his head. ‘Anyway, Ozzie'll be able to tell us a bit more tomorrow. I'll radio the lab boys and get a meat wagon. They're gonna love this one too.'

The taller of the two detectives walked back to the car leaving his baffled partner shining his torch over the broken bodies while he gingerly avoided stepping in the pools of blood shining softly in the dull amber glow of the solitary streetlight. The same as Greg, Ray didn't like the similarity between these murders and the ones on Thursday night and he also didn't like Greg's implication that they could have a maniac on their hands. Either way, it looked like being a long shitty night.

In contrast to the chilly atmosphere of the morgue, Dr Joyce's smile was warm and bright when he greeted the two slightly weary detectives the following afternoon. He had a good idea what they were after and before long the three bodies were brought out into the ID area. Detective Middleton was still studying the coroner's report, with Detective Blackburn looking over his shoulder, when the morgue attendant wheeled the last one in. The two detectives continued studying the report for another moment or two then shifted their gaze to the blueish white corpses laid out in front of them.

‘I can understand about half of what you've got down here, Ozzie,' said Detective Middleton, flicking the cover back over the clipboard and placing it on a stainless steel bench next to a set of scales. ‘How about giving it to us straight. What happened?'

‘Okay,' smiled the morgue doctor. ‘No worries.' He adjusted his glasses as he moved closer to the bodies, pausing behind the closest one and placing his gloved hands on either side of its head.

‘Right. Well you see this one?' The two detectives nodded in unison. ‘He got kicked in the stomach and had one side of his head bashed in: with what, I don't know. But,' the coroner poked his index finger up in the air, ‘like they say in the TV commercials—that's not all. Before this happened his neck had been broken—which was actually what killed him.'

‘You mean whoever did it broke his neck first, then bashed his head in as well?' said Detective Blackburn.

‘That's right,' smiled the coroner. ‘Efficient little blighter wasn't he? Now this one,' he continued, ‘died from a massive blow to the throat.' Dr Joyce tilted his head back and tapped his Adam's apple with the side of his hand. ‘You know—the old unarmed combat trick. A chop across the Adam's apple. Crush the windpipe etcetera etcetera. Only this bloke looks almost like he's been hit with an axe. His throat isn't just crushed. It's almost severed.' The coroner smiled at the po-faced expressions on the faces of the two detectives, pausing for a moment before moving on to the last body.

‘And this one—with the flattened frontal cranium area. He looks like whoever did it tried to knock down the nearest wall with his head: and almost succeeded. I found traces of brick and mortar jammed into the wound as far up as the brain cavity.'

‘Shit!' Detective Middleton glanced across at his partner standing there shaking his head.

‘Of course these are only the blows that killed them. There's other contusions and lacerations. Fractured jaw. Fractured nose. . .'

‘Ozzie. Do you think there's any connection between these killings and the ones on Thursday night?' asked Detective Middleton.

‘Possibly.'

‘What sort of weapon's being used Oz?' asked Detective Blackburn. ‘You any idea?'

The coroner pushed his cap forward, folded his arms and cupped his chin in his hand. ‘Now that's the thing that's got me absolutely buggered,' he said, taking a deep breath. ‘It looks like they or he or whatever used a housebrick or a club. Yet there's no lacerations consistent with that and there's no wood splinters or marks consistent with a wooden club, like say a baseball bat or something. And that one with the crushed larynx. I'm buggered if I know quite what to make of that.'

‘You any ideas at all?' asked Detective Blackburn again.

‘Not really.' Dr Joyce shook his head slowly, deep in thought. ‘But I did see something like this once a long time ago. I just
can't think what it was though.' There was silence for a few moments as the two detectives looked expectantly at the pensive coroner. ‘Anyway, I'm going to take some more X-rays and do some tests this afternoon. Might even go through my old files.' He gave his shoulders a slight shrug. ‘You never know. Something might turn up.'

The two detectives looked at each other, then at the three bodies and finally back at Dr Joyce who was now smiling at them.

‘Like I told you on Friday,' he grinned. ‘It's a funny rort this one . . . isn't it?'

The two detectives looked a little wanly at the smiling coroner failing to see the joke, but realising that Dr Joyce's general attitude of black humour, incongruous as it seemed at times towards all the death, mutilation and horror he must see every working day, was probably the only way he kept his sanity in a place like this.

‘Yeah,' agreed Detective Middleton finally. ‘You're right, Oz. It is a funny rort alright.'

They stood there talking for a few more minutes while the attendant wheeled the bodies back into the cool room. Then they took some more notes, got a xerox of the coroner's report and after a lengthy drink of water near the office, thanked Dr Joyce again and said goodbye, saying they'd give him a ring towards the end of the week in case he'd come across something.

‘Well, what do you reckon, Greg?' said Detective Blackburn, as they turned left at Ross Street into Broadway. ‘Do you think it was the same bloke or whatever killed all five?'

‘It sure looks like it, doesn't it,' replied his partner.

‘Yeah. It's certainly shaping up that way. Skinheads. Deserted alleys. Same area. Same injuries—more or less.'

‘We'll know for sure if there's another one.'

‘You reckon there'll be more?'

‘Dunno for sure. But I'm more or less expecting it.'

‘Shit! You got any ideas?'

‘Yeah. A couple.'

‘Like what?'

Detective Middleton gave his partner an odd smile as he
drove through the traffic. ‘It's a bit early yet. I'll have a yarn to you back at the station, over a cup of coffee.'

‘Fair enough.'

While all this was going on, Davo was relaxing in his loungeroom having a nice cup of coffee himself and staring absently out the sliding glass windows at the light nor'wester gently blowing a few clouds over Waverley Oval. He was feeling quite pleased with himself; more than that, he felt great, almost enlightened. Thursday night's killings were sensational, but last night's were even better. His face broke into a grin as he recalled the tall skinhead's last words. ‘We don't want any poofters around here.' Pity Wayne wasn't around to hear that he chuckled, gazing up at the sky. Then again you never know. That cheeky little hairdresser might just be out there somewhere laughing his bloody head off. He took another sip of coffee and smiled out the window. Yeah. You just never know.

He'd had a great night's sleep almost leaping out of bed in the morning to go training, which he absolutely tore into, after which he got the morning papers and gloated over them while he ate breakfast.

He'd managed to make the front page this time in both the
Herald
and the
Telegraph
; though it was only a few paragraphs in the corner as both papers were beating up a possible petrol strike. He almost cracked up when he saw the same two detectives mentioned and loved the bit where they denied there was any connection between the two separate killings. Davo roared when he read that.

‘Well you should know Middleton,' he cried out loud. ‘I mean, twenty years in the force and all that . . . you long skinny dope.'

He carefully cut the clippings out, wrote the dates on the back and put them in the drawer with the others. The way things are going I might have to get myself a scrapbook before long he chuckled.

After breakfast he cleaned the flat up, then, seeing it was such a nice day, drove over to Watson's Bay where he got some takeaway fish and chips from Doyles on the Pier. He sat in the park opposite under a huge Moreton Bay fig tree watching the boats and ships pushing easily through the tiny
green swells and white horses dotting the harbour. A very pleasant interlude indeed he thought cynically. You need to relax and spend a few quiet moments with yourself after a night out beating people to death—it helps keep your head together.

As he sat there in the clear spring sunshine Davo began to sense a feeling of great power. Not only of strength, but importance; eminence. And the people around him seemed suddenly insignificant. With those gloves on he was unstoppable: unbeatable. He was good even without the gloves but once he slipped his hands into that steel reinforced leather he was invincible. A human street cleaner and no one and nothing was going to stop him. Look at these dills. What would they have done in my position? Nothing. Shit themselves and copped it sweet. At least I had the balls to get up and do something. Five murders testify to that. Five cockroaches in big leather boots—crushed. Look at them. They look at me and think ‘oh see that poor cripple sitting all alone in the park with his walking stick.' Hah! If only they knew. Bloody morons.

A jogger in matching blue shorts, top and sweat band and brand new expensive Nike running shoes trotted leisurely past; Davo gave him a look of utter contempt. Yeah that's it. Skip daintily by—you nerd. What are you training for. So you can fit into your designer jeans and look cool at the disco on Saturday night—you flip. At least when I train, I train for a purpose; and I train bloody hard. Not like you, you prancing bloody fairy. He rested back on his elbows and watched the jogger disappear in the direction of South Head Army Barracks. Before long Davo was drumming his fingers nervously on the grass and irritably kicking the toes of his sneakers together. Already he was starting to get restless and fidgety. A nice crewcut head to bash in would have gone down well right then and there. Davo couldn't wait for the weekend to roll around and the neon lights of Oxford Street to bring some fresh victims out.