Tropic of Death (8 page)

From the window’s base came the wheeze and rattle of an air-conditioning unit, one of the few modern accessories in the room. Others were a computer desk, swivel chair, a seminar table where Rita laid out the case notes and a whiteboard to which she blu-tacked photos of the victims. As she stood in front of them, trying to draw some insight into the killer’s mind, she began to see something contrived among the graphic images. The crime signature was plain to see: death by nail gun followed by decapitation. But one series of shots was more compelling than the rest. Rachel Macarthur’s head on a spike, placed there for maximum attention, appeared to be an emphatic statement as much as a psychotic gesture. So what exactly was the killer’s message, and why did the impaled head seem oddly recognisable? The notion bothered her, though she couldn’t quite grasp an association.

With a sigh Rita strolled back to the display cases, gazing distractedly at the collection of vintage handbills and broadsheets.

As she stood there, arms folded, her eyes fell on a front page from 1867. It carried a report on justice meted out to a bushranger under the headline: homicidal outlaw executed
.
Somehow it was apposite. And then it clicked. The killing of Rachel Macarthur bore the hallmarks of an execution. Even the positioning of the head, transfixed and elevated for public show, reflected the traditional fate reserved for traitors.

Such a possibility was consistent with a political theme or motive for the murder. It would make the setting - the confrontation between protesters and defence officials - extremely relevant.

More ominously, it could also explain why such a line of inquiry was obstructed by officers at Whitley Sands. And there was something else. Rita was privy to additional information that justified investigating the research base - the warning delivered to Byron by Konrad Steinberg. If Dr Steinberg was right about ‘fascist thugs’ in charge of security, the implication was deeply disturbing.

It gave Rachel’s death a clear context and made identifying the first anonymous victim, the man in the mud, even more imperative.

The next move was obvious. Rita strode over to her desk, picked up her mobile and called the number Byron had given her.

It was answered with a curt, ‘Yes?’

‘Dr Steinberg?’ Rita asked.

‘Who’s this?’

‘My name’s Rita Van Hassel,’ she replied. ‘Detective Sergeant Van Hassel. I’m a criminal profiler with the Victoria Police but I’ve been seconded to Whitley for the investigation into the beheadings.’

‘How did you get my number?’ he demanded.

‘From Professor Byron Huxley.’

‘Byron?’

‘He and I are -‘ she searched for the appropriate words - ‘very close. We’ve been together for some time now. Before I came up here he repeated your comments about the research base.’

‘That’s regrettable,’ said Steinberg. ‘When did you arrive in Whitley?’

‘Today.’

‘Then I’ve got some advice for you. Make your excuses and go. Leave as soon as you can.’

‘Why?’

‘Because of what I told Byron - it’s worse than I thought.’

‘Even so, I’ve got a job to do, questions to ask.’

‘Well, don’t believe anything you hear from the military and don’t trust the local police. They’re all in it together.’

‘The police? With all due respect, that sounds extreme.’

‘So is the war on terror and its contempt for the law. You’re investigating the results.’

‘If I understand you correctly,’ she said slowly, ‘you’re talking about two murders.’

‘There’s a prevailing force here that’s extremely dangerous.’

‘Can you be more specific?’

‘Not over the phone, no.’

‘Fine. Let’s meet.’

‘That’s unwise - for both of us.’

‘Dr Steinberg, I intend to talk to you and I’d rather do it discreetly.’

‘In other words, with or without my cooperation.’ He sighed.

‘Are you at Whitley Sands right now?’

‘Yes, but I’ll be in town mid afternoon. Dental appointment.’

‘Nothing serious, I hope.’

‘Minor repair work, since you ask. I lost a gold filling. The appointment’s at three thirty. I can meet you at three.’

‘Tell me where.’

‘It’ll have to be somewhere noisy and public. Surveillance here is total.’ He paused for a moment. ‘There’s a pub, the Steamboat, in the centre of town. Find a table near the brass bell. If you’re not there I’ll wait no more than ten minutes.’

‘How will I recognise you?’

‘Check my website. And you?’

‘Okay: I’m thirty, medium height, fair hair, blue eyes.’ That sounded too much like a police description so she added, ‘And for what it’s worth, Byron calls me his blonde Nederlander.’

‘Lucky Byron.’

‘I’ll be wearing a white top and denim skirt.’

‘Now it’s essential,’ said Steinberg, ‘that you tell your colleagues nothing about me. I can’t overemphasise the risk. Remember what I said.’

‘Yes, I get the message. Don’t trust the military or the local cops.’

As she ended the call a voice came from behind her.

‘That sounds seditious.’

She turned abruptly to find herself being observed by a senior police officer in uniform. He was standing in the open doorway, an equivocal smile on his face.

‘So you’re the profiler,’ he said, walking into the room and closing the door behind him with a proprietary flick. ‘I’m the man in charge of the “local cops”, Inspector Derek Bryce. Who were you speaking to?’

Rita had to think quickly, wondering just how much Bryce had overheard.

‘Someone my partner wanted me to look up, a local academic,’

she responded with a half-truth, deciding to respect Steinberg’s request for secrecy. ‘You can ignore my comments - I’m just humouring them both.’

‘Your partner’s name is Byron?’

‘Yes. He’s a computer scientist. And I won’t let any social calls distract me from the investigation, which from a profiling point of view is intriguing. Though I must admit this room has distracted me a bit.’

Her swift change of subject seemed to have worked.

‘I hope it’s suitable for you,’ said Bryce.

‘It’s excellent,’ she said. ‘And I’ve got much more space here than in my office in Melbourne.’

‘Good,’ said Bryce, moving forward and shaking her hand at last. ‘I’m glad we’ve got you on deck, Van Hassel. Any light you can shed will be welcome.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

She wasn’t sure if Steinberg’s warning had alerted her to an undertone in Bryce’s manner, or if she was simply imagining it.

But there was something that made her wary. Bryce was broad-faced and smooth-skinned with wavy hair and an expression that was hard to read. While a smile played around his lips, there was something less friendly in his eyes.

‘Has Jarrett told you anything about the history of the old watch-house?’ he asked.

‘Not really, other than that people think it’s haunted.’

‘I don’t mean to spook you,’ Bryce went on, strolling across to peer at the crime photos she’d arranged, ‘but it’s supposed to be this very room, in fact.’

‘So who’s the ghost?’

‘A predecessor of ours,’ he said with a low chuckle. ‘A law officer with an unenviable reputation - Sergeant Kenneth Logan. He was in charge of half a dozen mounted and foot troopers here about a hundred and forty years ago. This room was his office.’

Rita glanced around with renewed interest.

‘Why unenviable?’ she asked.

‘It’s all here. Have a browse when you’ve got time to kill,’

answered Bryce. ‘Reports, documents, even Sergeant Logan’s journal. Fascinating stuff. Of course it’s easy to condemn him now, but I’ve often wondered how I would have acted in his circumstances.’

‘What circumstances?’

‘The “war on savages”.’ Bryce moved across to the seminar table, scanning the case material she’d placed in neat rows. ‘You may not know much about the early history of Queensland - a lot of people don’t. It was written in blood.’

‘You’re referring to the time of the first white settlers.’

‘Yes, and the violence in the nineteenth century was worse here than in any other state.’ Bryce turned to her, arms folded.

‘The Indigenous people resisted what they saw as an invasion of their land by perpetrating the occasional massacre. The colonists responded on a scale that we’d now consider genocide. Around two thousand whites were killed in the frontier wars and at least ten thousand Aborigines.’

‘And Sergeant Logan’s role?’

‘After a dozen Europeans were killed upriver, the big landowner here, Squatter Brodie, demanded mass reprisals. Under his leadership, Sergeant Logan helped organise and inflict indiscriminate killings. And over here,’ continued Bryce, moving across the room, ‘you can see both men in their pose of retribution, accompanied by their armed henchmen.’ Rita followed him to where he was pointing at the oil painting above the fireplace. ‘The bearded man in the centre is Squatter Josiah Brodie, the man to his right is Sergeant Logan.’

‘So the hunting party hunted people?’ said Rita.

‘Exactly. And they killed as many as three hundred members of one tribe - men, women and children - all in the name of civilisation.’

‘What happened to Logan?’

‘He was eventually ambushed while riding back alone from a homestead. He was bashed, tied up and left to die on an ants’ nest.

But there was no comeuppance for Squatter Brodie. He prospered and established a family dynasty. Mind you, his descendants weren’t keen on the painting. Brodie had commissioned it at the height of the war on savages, but his heirs were happy to bequeath it for display here.’

The history lesson gave Rita an insight into Bryce’s personality.

He seemed to relish both the sound of his own voice and the gruesome details he related.

‘I’d be interested to hear your take on it,’ said Bryce.

‘In terms of forensic psychology?’

‘No, on the position of Sergeant Logan and whether you’d be sympathetic at all with his response.’

‘Somehow I doubt it.’

‘Think about it. You’re responsible for enforcing the law in an outpost of empire. It’s a remote region seen as a frontline in the battle between civilised values and barbarism. People under your protection - the families of white settlers - are slaughtered by what are seen as bestial primitives for doing nothing more than peacefully cultivating the land.’

‘Hardly the way the Aborigines would see it.’

‘Of course not. From their perspective, the Europeans were a cruel occupying force with alien customs that were anathema to their own. If you look at it that way, acts of terror are justified.

You commit murder as a form of resistance, the more horrific, the better. You’ll do anything to repel invaders from your tribal land and sacred earth. Viewed objectively you have a clash of cultures, not to mention religions. In effect, one side launches a holy war while the other wages a war on terror. Sound familiar?’

Rita wasn’t sure how to answer. The point he was making seemed too pertinent to be a coincidence. Was Bryce testing her?

Had he overheard enough to make him suspicious and was he indeed involved in an official cover-up? Or was Steinberg’s paranoia catching, causing her to misinterpret Bryce’s loquacious welcome?

To find out she needed to do some probing of her own.

‘From what I hear about this town,’ she said, ‘the war on terror is pretty close to home.’

Bryce sniffed and strolled over to the window, casting his gaze down into the grubby alley.

‘And what does that mean?’

‘The war games in the military reserve. I saw the US carrier offshore and the sailors in the town so I checked the web,’ she explained. ‘Twelve thousand American troops on manoeuvres with Australian soldiers ahead of deployment to Iraq and Afghanistan.

That’s a heavy presence. A reminder of global conflict on your doorstep.’

‘To be honest,’ said Bryce, ‘I try not to think about it. And as long as the GIs behave on leave, I don’t have to.’

‘And what about the Whitley Sands research base?’

‘What about it?’

‘Do you have a hands-off policy there too?’

‘Ah, surprise, surprise.’ Bryce turned to her with a sour smile.

‘Jarrett has been grumbling to you.’

‘You don’t think he’s got a point?’ Rita queried. ‘From my initial assessment it’s clear that people on the base could provide material help to the investigation.’

‘I’ll repeat to you what I told him,’ said Bryce, straightening up. ‘The base and its personnel are none of our business. It’s a highly sensitive establishment run jointly by the government of the United States and the Commonwealth of Australia. Whoever and whatever are deployed there fall under national security restrictions.

In other words, we have to consider it out of bounds.’

‘Like foreign territory.’

‘Exactly. All the military land south of the town, including the war games reserve and the research base, comes under the jurisdiction of the defence department.’

‘A modern occupation force.’

‘That’s how the land rights activists see it, not to mention the greens and the anti-war demonstrators. But these issues don’t fall within your remit as a criminal profiler.’ Bryce tapped the display of crime photos. ‘We’ve got a serial killer on the loose.

That’s the issue to focus on. That’s why you’re here, Van Hassel.

I don’t want you getting sidetracked by peripheral controversies.

Understood?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Good. I’ll let you get on with it.’ Bryce opened the door to leave. ‘Though I must admit I’m a bit mystified as to what profilers actually do.’

‘We think a lot, sir.’

Bryce looked at her askance, as if not sure whether that was a good or bad thing, nodding dubiously as he went out.

He was right to worry because what Rita was thinking was the very opposite of his advice. She was now even more convinced that what went on behind the gates of Whitley Sands was worthy of scrutiny.

13
At quarter to three Rita walked into the saloon bar of the Steamboat, an old-fashioned pub decorated with a jumble of maritime antiques. The brass bell that Steinberg had mentioned was mounted on an end wall between sepia photos of paddle-steamers. An assortment of lanterns, anchors and ensigns continued the theme throughout. A TV tuned to the Discovery Channel prattled above the bar. Rita ordered a lime and soda and sat at a table near the ship’s bell to wait.