Dark City Blue: A Tom Bishop Rampage (8 page)

The uniforms dropped them off at the front door of the Broadmeadows police station but they didn’t go in. Rayburn’s headlights flickered in the distance but grew stronger as they covered ground.

‘Let’s get the hell out of here,’ Bishop said, stepping off over the road and into the sprawling car park of the local shopping mall. Except for the odd vehicle that had broken down or been dumped, the place was empty.

The muscles in Patterson’s knee didn’t respond to the workout he was putting it through and he struggled to keep up. A couple of times he fell and had to be pulled to his feet by Bishop, only to fall again a few steps later.

‘Do you need a hand?’

‘No.’

He watched Patterson struggle to his feet once more and when he regained his balance, Bishop wrapped an arm around Patterson’s shoulders only to be pushed away.

‘I can do it.’

They heard a vehicle screech to a stop and looked over their shoulders to the police station across the car park and over the road. The SUV had pulled up with Rayburn and his crew pushing through the doors.

Bishop looked to Patterson. ‘You need to be strong. Just for a little while longer.’ He held out his hand. ‘Take it.’

Patterson nodded. Bishop put his arm around him and they made the shuffle across the car park. It was a slow struggle and they were making progress until they reached the row of closed shops that surrounded the mall and Patterson tripped, taking them both to the concrete.

Patterson tried to catch his breath. ‘I’m sorry, mate,’ he said. ‘This bloody leg.’

‘Hey!’ Warren yelled, his voice cutting through the car park. He was standing by the SUV with Rayburn and his whole crew, his finger aimed at Bishop and Patterson. ‘They’re over there.’

The three of them piled into the SUV, its engine roared to life and tyres squealed on the asphalt.

Bishop pulled at Patterson. ‘Get up.’

The SUV barrelled over an embankment, its high beams coming at them.

‘We won’t make it,’ Patterson said. ‘But
you
will. Find out who Justice is and bury him.’ Patterson wrapped his fingers around his service weapon. ‘I’ll hold them off for a few minutes.’

‘I don’t—’

‘Go.’

The SUV gunned through the car park. It was almost on them.

Bishop took a step back. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘GO.’

The weapon felt like a brick his hand but Patterson managed to level it up at the SUV. He looked to Bishop. ‘If you die here, they get away with it. Run!’

Bishop turned on his heels.

He heard six quick shots and never looked back.

Tom Bishop was a hero. That’s what they told him and, for a while, he even tried to believe it.

The day was about pride and honour. Dress blues, white gloves and polished shoes; Bishop hadn’t worn his since he left plainclothes, but they still fitted. He peered through the crowd at Alice sitting in the third row, camera in hand, a smile on her face.

He was tired, beat and two words played over and over in his head:

Chloe. Justice.

It had been this way for the last month. Those two words stole his appetite, his attention, forced their way into his conscience and weren’t leaving until they found peace. He hadn’t slept for more than a few hours a night in the past couple of weeks, and around the time the insomnia started, so did the sweating. It soaked through his clothes and his sheets. To the rest of the world, Chloe Richards was just another runaway prostitute lost to the streets. But she’d died for a reason, and not knowing what that was ate away at him. Why her? Why kill that one girl in a building full of girls? What did she know? Who was Justice?

To Bishop, she held the answer to all these questions and to his peace of mind.

He stood shoulder to shoulder with the other officers receiving commendations. When the ceremony started, Commissioner Mackler stepped to the podium and grinned a grin that matched the headshot they had all seen on television and in the department newsletters. Her words pulled Bishop out of himself. ‘Integrity. Bravery. Honesty. Compassion. These are the attributes every police officer aspires to, and that these officers exemplify. The world is full of violence. It’s full of doubt and it’s full of pain. But it doesn’t have to be that way. These men are the future of the department and they will make a difference.’

As far as police parties go, it wasn’t a bad effort. Streamers hung from the walls of the gym, plastic chairs littered the floor, and tables of party food were being swarmed over by hungry cops who had gotten into the habit of inhaling meals before being radioed out on a call.

Bishop navigated the crowd, greeting people he knew as he passed. Alice stuck close by his side and he enjoyed showing her off to his colleagues; it embarrassed her, but he didn’t care.

David Bowie blared from the dated speakers as children danced by the front of the stage. Bishop found himself talking with a couple of murder dicks about boxing, but couldn’t stop his mind from poring over the events of the night which had put that medal on his chest.

‘Have a look who I found.’

Bishop turned. Alice was holding Pat Wilson’s hand. He gave Bishop a hug. ‘You did good kid, I mean that.’

‘Have a look what Uncle Pat gave me.’ Alice held out her arm, a silver bracelet around her tiny wrist. ‘You like it?’

‘It’s nice,’ Bishop said. He turned to Wilson. ‘You’ll spoil her.’

‘Why not? She’ll have her own soon and then who’ll spoil her?’

‘She’ll manage.’ Bishop pointed though the crowd to Wilson’s wife. ‘Why don’t you go and talk to Auntie Mona for a couple of minutes? I need to have a word with Pat.’

Alice gave them each a peck on the cheek and disappeared into the crowd. They waited until she was gone.

‘What’s up?’ Wilson asked.

‘Come for a walk.’

They headed down a sterile hall and into a kitchen filled with cops’ wives preparing and packaging trays of food. At the far end, they were alone. Bishop took a quick look around. Nobody could hear them.

‘Can you spare a couple of extra guys?’ he asked.

‘For what?’

He lit a cigarette in short and edgy moves. ‘For Chloe Richards.’

Wilson let out a sigh.

‘I just need a couple of guys for a couple of days.’

‘What you need is rest.’

‘For God’s sake,’ he yelled before lowering his voice. ‘It’s just a couple of guys.’

‘Have a look at yourself. Your hands are shaking, your eyes are bloodshot, you look like shit.’ He took a breath. ‘Let it go, will you? The case is closed. There’s nothing more to do.’

‘Why did she have to die? Why that girl in a building full of girls? And who did the killing? I took out the four guys in the lobby and the one upstairs. And then Chloe Richards was murdered. Who did that?’

‘Don’t start with this Justice talk again.’

‘All those girls that were there that night, the runaways, they’re all gone. There was someone else, don’t you see? There had to be.’

‘Justice?’

‘Yes.’

‘You sound like a crazy person. The case is closed.’

‘Something doesn’t sit right.’

‘Yeah,
you
, goddamn it.’ Wilson looked set to burst, then he sighed. ‘Fine. You want to run with it? I’ll give you three weeks. Look into it again, chase loose ends, put your mind at ease. But I can’t give you any manpower; I just can’t spare it,’ he said. ‘Get it out of your system. You’re a father now, you’re about to be grandfather. Think about them.’

They headed back to the party and Tom Bishop tried to forget about prostitution rings, murder and anything else that kept him awake most nights. But when Bishop looked at Alice he was reminded of Chloe and when that happened he was dragged back to a place of bad thoughts, unanswered questions and the meaning of the word justice.

Bishop put his hand on the door: it was warm. There was someone inside. He pushed his key into the lock, slowly, one groove at a time.

Turned it.

Wilson sat at his kitchen table, a cigarette between his fingers. It stayed there as he picked up a cup of coffee and wet his lips with it. ‘I see you still have your key.’

‘Is there any more coffee?’

Wilson dragged himself to his feet, moved to the bench and switched on the kettle. It didn’t take long to boil. He made two coffees and placed one in front of Bishop. ‘We’re out of milk.’

‘Got anything stronger?’

From his dressing gown pocket came a hip flask. He poured a generous shot into each mug.

‘The telephone rang before.’

‘What did it say?’

‘That you and Taylor pulled the armoured truck job yesterday morning. Later on, you had a falling out and you shot him dead. Rayburn arrested you, and to escape you shot Scott Russell.’

‘What happened to me destroying a house in Broadmeadows?’

‘I didn’t hear about that.’

‘You will,’ Bishop said. ‘Sounds like I had a busy day.’

Wilson nodded. ‘It does.’ He lit another cigarette.

‘What did you say?’

‘That we need to bring you in. One way or another.’

‘And here I am.’

‘And here you are.’

‘What are my options?’

‘Well.’ He smiled. ‘There’s fucked, and then there’s fucked. I can rustle up ten, maybe twelve grand.’

‘For what?’

‘It won’t get you far, but it’ll get you far enough.’

It took a moment for Bishop to realise what he was getting at. ‘I’m not the running kind, Pat.’

‘I can’t protect you, not against this. You shot a cop, a dirty cop. If Rayburn and his crew are dirty, then who knows who else is. It’s not safe here anymore.’

Bishop slumped over the laminex table, his head in his hands. His mind was tired from racing and his body aching from the past two days and forty years. He closed his eyes.

‘You’ve had a bad trot, haven’t you?’

‘You saying I brought this on myself?’

Wilson held up his hands. ‘No. No, I’m not saying that at all. I just meant that Alice was only a couple of weeks ago, and now this.’

‘That wasn’t my fault, Pat.’

‘I know.’

‘It was just an accident. Accidents happen.’

‘I know they do, mate. I was just saying.’

‘I didn’t … I didn’t know.’ Bishop’s voice was barely a murmur. ‘They drive themselves to the hospital all the time.’

‘Of course they do.’ Wilson poured another shot into Bishop’s mug. ‘It was an accident, and it’s in the past. You need to focus on now.’

On the door frame, Bishop noticed the grey lead pencil markings: the evidence of the changing height of a growing child. He rubbed his finger gently over them.

‘It’s hard to believe you were ever that small.’

‘I’m not running, Pat.’

Downing his drink, Wilson shifted his weight on the uncomfortable chair. ‘There may be another way.’

It was a twenty-four-hour eatery in North Melbourne. Six-hour-old fried dim sims and potato cakes were in one bain-marie and an assortment of congealing Indian curries were in the other. Despite the hour, the place was packed with cab drivers starting early or finishing late, their yellow vehicles littering the small car park and street outside. They were loud and sweaty and unsure of Bishop and Wilson sitting in the rear corner booth.

Commissioner Mackler pushed through the finger-smudged glass doors. She was out of her truth suit and dressed in civvies of denim and leather. She sat next to Wilson, across the table from Bishop.

‘Sorry to get you out of bed so early, commissioner,’ Wilson said.

‘Fourteen dead bodies, Patrick: do you really think I was asleep? Now, for fuck’s sake, tell me what this is all about.’

Wilson shot Bishop a look that said, ‘good luck’, then motioned with his hand for him to begin.

‘Rayburn, Cooper, Russell, Warren and Taylor, of Major Crimes:
they
pulled the armoured truck job yesterday morning. Then turned up to investigate it. They had everyone chasing bullshit and put the whole thing on a couple of poor nobodies with half a history.’

‘They’re dead,’ Mackler said. ‘Tore up their shirts and hanged themselves.’

‘That’s convenient.’

‘That’s sixteen people dead is what it is. Alright, say I believe you; how did you come to this?’

‘At the scene, I pulled an SD card from a Merc. It got tapped with a bullet and its alarm went off, which in turn activated the reverse camera. It captured everything from the first shots fired.’

‘How many shooters?’

‘Four. And a spotter in a backup vehicle parked across the road.’

‘Stolen?’

‘No. Taylor got lazy. It was registered to an Alison Allen. I followed her and found
him
. Told him what I just told you and he didn’t like the sound of it. He went for a weapon. I was faster.’

‘The girl? Was she there?’

‘No.’

‘And then you called it in.’

‘Uh huh. Rayburn turned up just after the murder dicks. I told him what was what, he played dumb and I bought it. We were on our way to see you when he made his move.’

‘Which is when you shot Russell.’

Bishop shook his head. ‘Wasn’t me. They shot Russell.’

‘Why?’

‘It’s a long story.’

‘And the SD footage?’

‘Gone.’

Mackler stared, tried to figure him out. She could fall either way, and Bishop didn’t know her well enough to gauge her reaction. Her leather jacket creaked as she leant forward. ‘I don’t know,’ she said quietly. ‘I just don’t know. Where’s your evidence?’

‘You have my word.’

‘I don’t know what that’s worth.’

‘With all due respect commissioner, ask around.’

‘This is not my first time around the block with you. You’re still waiting to answer for Judge Jenkins, and I only kept you on active duty as a personal favour to Patrick. He seemed to think that you would be good at this type of work.’

Bishop bit his tongue, spoke though clenched teeth. ‘You have dirty cops pulling armed robberies.’

‘I don’t know what I have yet. For a start, why would one of our elite units do something like this?’

Wilson scoffed, ‘Really? This is the lowest paid department in the country. I’ve got guys who have to take out personal loans to pay their electricity bill, while half the crims they pinch drive Lamborghinis and get let off with not much more than a slap on the wrist. The only surprise is that it’s taken this long to happen.’

She let it slide and focused her attention on Bishop. ‘I’m not saying I don’t believe you, detective. I’m not saying that at all. Everything you’ve told me could be one hundred per cent true. Or everything you’ve told me could be for some other reason. All I know is that somehow you’re involved.’

Bishop couldn’t believe his ears. ‘This was a waste of fucking time.’

‘Watch your mouth,’ Wilson warned him. He turned to Mackler. ‘The question is: where do we go from here?’

‘Into custody.’

Bishop let the air leak slowly out of his lungs. He stared out the window and said nothing.

‘It’s the only way,’ she continued. ‘Until this can be cleaned up.’

‘What about Rayburn?’ Wilson asked.

‘He’ll be questioned.’

‘Questioned?’

‘I can’t go and arrest the hero of the day on his word alone. I can’t do that. It needs to be by the book.’

‘An inquiry.’

She nodded. ‘That’s most likely what will happen, yes.’

‘By the time it takes to run a full investigation,’ Bishop said, ‘the cash will be gone. They’ll be gone, and everybody will be looking for me.’

Mackler turned to Wilson. ‘Can you give us a minute?’

He nodded, climbed up and moved through the cabbies toward the toilets.

When he was out of earshot, Mackler turned to Bishop. ‘I don’t like you. You think your gut instinct is law and it isn’t. What you did at the Oak Park Apartments was reckless; it could have just as easily gone the other way. If what you are saying is true, then yes, you need protection. If it’s not true, then you need to be in jail. Either way, you are going into custody.’

The doors busted open. Gunmen, two of them. Balaclavas and shotguns. Cabbies tried to scatter, they made it a couple of steps before a shotgun blast to the roof froze the shit out of them.

‘Everybody just stay calm and you’ll live through this. We want your wallets and your night’s takings.’

‘You,’ the second gunman yelled at the waitress behind the counter. ‘Get that cash register open.’

The first gunman paced the length of the eatery. Wallets, rings and watches clattered into his open garbage bag. The other thug reached over the counter, snatching up the night's takings. They moved fast, but were sloppy, letting some of the loot fall on the floor.

The first gunman passed Bishop and stopped. ‘What the fuck did you just say?’

Mackler looked at Bishop. Everybody did.

He moved closer, got up in Bishop’s face. ‘What the fuck did you just say?’

‘Don’t be an idiot,’ a cabbie yelled.

‘Looks like we got a smart prick here,’ he yelled to his mate. ‘Can’t keep his mouth shut.’

‘He didn’t say anything,’ Mackler said.

‘Shut up, bitch.’ He pressed the muzzle of his shotgun into Bishop’s temple. ‘I don’t like mouthy pricks.’

Bishop’s eyes dipped low. The gunman’s shoes: black, basic, rubber soled. Police issue. He cast a glance at Mackler. She was thinking the same thing. This wasn’t a robbery; it was a hit.

The second gunman was getting anxious. ‘Do the mongrel and let’s go.’

Mackler shifted her eyes to the other side of the room, Bishop followed. Wilson had come out of the bathroom, his weapon in hand. He pulled it up onto the second gunman, back of the head, and squeezed off a round.

Pink mist.

Bishop shifted from the shooter’s barrel and slammed his gun hand into the table, breaking his wrist. He relieved him of his weapon.

‘He’s got another,’ Mackler yelled.

He pulled a snub out from God knew where. Mackler tried to get hold but slipped. A round fired into the floor, another into the wall and before he could get off a third, Bishop buried the piece into his chest and pulled back on the trigger.

Blood sprayed Mackler’s face from the exit wound.

The corpse slumped onto the table.

Cabbies cleaned out of the joint. The yellow in the street disappeared.

Mackler sucked in a breath. Blood dripped from her chin onto the table. ‘Give. Me. The. Gun,’ she said.

Bishop unloaded the weapon, left it on the table for her. Wilson holstered his piece. ‘Are you two okay?’

Mackler couldn’t muster up the words, so Bishop spoke for the both of them. ‘We’re fine.’

Wilson pulled the balaclava off the gunman’s head. He took one look at the face and stepped back. ‘Christ.’

Bishop recognised him.

‘What?’ Mackler whispered.

‘He’s a cop,’ Bishop said. ‘Do you believe me now?’

Bishop pushed through the doors and into the street.

‘Where do you think you’re going?’ Mackler said.

‘Tom, stop and think about what you’re doing,’ Wilson said.

Bishop slowed by the footpath. The street empty, the sky breaking in shards of chrome grey and white. ‘What do you want from me?’

‘Do this the right way,’ Wilson said.

The commissioner tried to light a cigarette. Her hands too shaky. Threw it to the concrete. ‘You need to come with us, now.’

‘Commissioner, your department’s gone bad. How do you think they found us?’

She shrugged. ‘I don’t know?’

‘Did you sign out your address before you came here?’

‘Yes.’

‘I go into custody and I’m dead. You don’t know who to trust and I’m not going to be the way you find out. A long, drawn-out investigation isn’t going to get this done. The only way out of this mess is to find out who Justice is and to do that I need to follow the money. I need to find that fifteen million dollars.’

‘Careful what you’re saying here, Tom. What you’re talking about is not being a cop. You need to stick to the system. You need to stick to the rules. It’s what makes us better than them.’

‘The world doesn’t work that way, not anymore.’

‘This is vigilantism.’

‘Our rules don’t work anymore. People are getting hurt.’

‘You walk and you’re on your own,’ Mackler said.

‘I stay and it’s no different.’

Pat rubbed his tired face. ‘Where you’re going, what you’re doing, I can’t be a part of.’

‘I’m not asking you to.’

Wilson took Bishop by the arm and they stepped out of earshot of Mackler. ‘If you’re going to do this thing,’ he said, ‘you have to go all in. You have to be as bad as they are.’

‘I know.’

He tapped Bishop’s chest with the back of his knuckle. ‘That feeling you have inside sometimes, the one you try to keep in line and buried deep? It’s time to let it out,’ Wilson said. ‘Do you have a weapon?’

‘No.’

He pulled the pearl-handled .45 his father had used in World War II and slapped it into Bishop’s palm. ‘You’re going to need it.’