Anyway, I thought I would post a short story about the time when Steve and I first started working together. I hope you will like it:
DS Breccia case file – The phantom
I
The
case of the Phantom was my first case that involved a serial killer.
When the call first came-in, I had no idea of the work and commitment
that would be necessary to resolve it.
It was
about five minutes to six on a Friday morning and I had worked all
night, mostly writing reports. I was tired from sitting too much, but
I was feeling pretty happy with myself for not catching a case before
the weekend. I had just packed up my briefcase; I was ready to go
home. I had a long trip ahead of me - from the city all the way to
Dural, where I still liked to spend most weekends at home with my
brothers and my parents. A whole two days off, eating my mum's great
food and spending time with my dad and brothers. I was really looking
forward to it.
But
'it' was not to be.
Doug,
the desk Sargent on duty, called me on the internal line and told me
that there was a patrolman on the radio reporting that a body had
been found on Maroubra beach.
“Damn
it Doug! Can't it keep till Rosco comes in?” I asked him,
hopefully.
“Come
on Louie, you know what Rosco is like. He is always late, who knows
when he'll be in. Anyway you still have five minutes of your shift to
go. This body is definitely yours, mate.” He said like he just told
me to clean up my room.
“Shit!”
I took a deep breath, dropped my briefcase on my desk, and resigned
myself to the new 'it'. “OK, where is it and who's on the scene?”
“On
the beach at Maroubra, right next to the car-park. Just two
patrolmen, the techs and the Doc will be along soon as they finish up
elsewhere. DC Lucas is on his way over there...I had to get him out
of bed.”
“Well,
there's always a silver lining...” I said cheering up somewhat, “If
I'm not going to bed; why should he sleep in!”
“Right
Louie, you are a sweet friend.” Doug said, but I reckoned that he
was being sarcastic. “Better get going before the sea gulls and
crabs leave you nothin' to look at, don't you think?”
“Yeah,
yeah you're worse than a nagging wife, you know that, Doug?...I hope
you get bad dreams.” I knew he was three minutes from going home to
a nice soft bed.
“Not
me Louie,” he reassured me,” I sleep like a baby.”
“So,
you haven't stopped wetting the bed, uh?” And with that parting
comment I felt that I had won a minor skirmish and quickly departed
for the car park.
I eased
Doris out of her spot. It was a beautiful summer's morning, still,
cool - the air was all enveloping like tepid bath. The sun was not
quite over the horizon. The birds were singing themselves awake. I
let Doris's top down and actually felt refreshed and happy to be
alive. I took my time driving from the City to Maroubra, it wasn't
very far, not much traffic – straight down Anzac Parade all the
way. I got there way before Steve.
PC
Steve Lucas had come up from somewhere in the bush about a year
earlier, he had been assigned to me as my 'partner' while he trained
to be a DC. I had not liked him at first but his magnetic personality
had taken no time at all to break down my natural xenophobia, and now
we were pretty close colleagues, even friends. I had invited him to
stay with me in my small flat in Woolloomooloo: the couch was a night
n' day and not too bad. At first it had been just a friendly gesture
as he had no where to stay and knew no one in Sydney. But to our
mutual surprise, it had worked out fine and we still shared my flat –
all three of us. I did not mention that Steve had a dog – Roger.
The less is said about Roger, the better.
The
Patrolmen on the scene had cordoned off a large area around the
victim and were leaning on their patrol car sipping from a take away
cups and having a smoke. They straightened once they saw me getting
out of my car, but I waved to them to relax. I had heard of these
two: two tough Highway Constables with the unhappy nick names of Jack
n' Jill, although both were males. We nodded our chins at each other
and the greeting bit was over.
“What
have we got?” I asked either one.
“The
vic. is a male, 35 to 45 years old, no ID of any kind on him that we
could see without touching him...”
“You
didn't fuck up my crime scene, right?” I barked.
“No,
Louie...er...sir. Jack ...er...only felt the vic.'s throat to make
sure he was dead.” The one on the right said pointing to his
partner, and since he'd referred to him as Jack, I figured that he
must be Jill.
“Yeah, as Jack
says I only felt for his pulse. He was sure dead....sir” The other
agreed nodding, so now I had no idea of who was whom.
“Right” I said,
“thanks Jack.” and they both smiled.
I walked under the
crime scene tape that they had strung from the four corners of a
rough 15 metre sided square with star posts at each apex. The vic.
Was located toward the bottom of the square. I stopped a metre inside
the square. I took a careful look at the crime scene. I find that
first impressions are always crucial, for me at least. One thing that
stood out right away, and that neither Jack nor Jill had mentioned,
is that the vic had been shot in the head. They must have figured
that I would work that bit out for myself – half of the back of his
head was missing as part of a large exit wound. There were bits of
skull and brain and blood fanned out behind the victim's head. But
not directly behind it, about twenty centimetres to the side of the
head. The wound was encrusted with sand.
“You guys did not
move him?” I called out to Jack n' Jill.
“As we said we did
not move him an inch...sir” one of them answered. I nodded to
myself and then I looked toward the beach. I could see that the
overnight high tide had washed the beach flat. There was just one set
of tracks coming from the water line, stopping about 3 metres from
where the vic must have stood. They were the tracks of someone just
walking, not running, not rushing. They were bare-feet tracks, they
stopped and then they continued to the side of the victim and stopped
again, where they got fractionally deeper. Then there was another set
of tracks moving parallel to the first set , going the other way,
unhurried, to disappear into the waterline.
The killer had
walked toward our victim, had shot him, turned him over and then
walked away just as calmly. It was an execution; not an ounce of
passion, fear, hesitation was evident. The kill had been calculated,
cold and unhurried and probably pre-planned to the second. I waved to
one of the patrolmen to come over.
“Jack, see those
tracks coming and going to the waterline?”
“Yes
Louie..er...sir, I see them.”
“From the way they
curve, I reckon that the killer must have been walking in the water
for a spell and coming from the south. Walk along the beach and see
if you can find out where he came out of the water and where he went
after that...can you do that?”
“Sure, sir.”
“And constable...”
“Yes sir?”
“Take your boots
and socks off first”
“Sir?”
“Bare feet please.
We don’t want you ruin your nice boots.” I lied.
“Oh yes sir.” He
quickly took his police issued boots and socks off. Skirting the
crime scene tape perimeter, he re-joined with the tracks on the
other side of the square and then continued parallel to them down the
beach. I watched him go, watched his tracks and then waved to his
mate.
“You guys heard
from the Techs and ME units yet?”
“Yes, sir. They
are on their way. They would have been here sooner but had to finish
up with an earlier scene at the Cross.”
“Right, thanks.”
“No worries...and
here comes your partner,sir. Looks tired don't he?”
“Yes, he sure
does” I agreed with a big smile.
The lanky form of
Steve in T-shirt and jeans flowed toward me. “Hei.” He said
“Hei.” I said
back.
“What's up?”
“You tell me,” I
said. After all, I was supposed to be training him.
“Right.” he said
and swung a long leg over the tape and came over next to me to
inspect the crime scene. I waited. I could almost hear his sleep
dampened mental clogs warm up and get up to speed. His eyes
brightened like someone had turned on a switch. He did not say
anything. But continued to survey the crime scene, the tracks going
and coming. I noticed that he focused on the now distant form of the
patrolman and a faint smile brushed his face.
“Well?” I said,
“I'm growing old here.”
“You are old.”
He said. “OK. This is definitely where it happened. The perp walked
up to the vic. Stopped and shot him from about ten feet away. He then
came over and turned him over. Probably searched him. Might have
taken his wallet or something. Then walked back the way he had come,
cool as a cucumber.”
“How big is he?”
I asked.
“Who the vic.?”
“No not the vic. I
can see how big he is. The killer, how big is he?”
“No idea.” he
said.
“Right. Did you
notice the tracks?”
“Yes; coming and
going”
“Do you see Jack's
or Jill's tracks?”
“Yes...oh, I see
where you what you mean.” He said, his face brightening, “Jack or
Jill is about six feet two inches tall and about 200 pounds...the
killer's tracks are smaller and less indented...probably five foot
ten inches and 160 pound...I'd guess”
“Good enough.” I
nodded, “but you need to join the rest of us in the 21st
century, mate – we use metres and kilograms in the big city.”
“Whatever...”
“What else can you
tell me...” I asked. I wasn't going to let him off that easy. He
looked puzzled and then turned to the crime scene once more. I could
see his mind ticking off all the points in his head. The list rotated
in his mind a couple of times and then he gave up. “Nothing much.”
He said shaking his head. “What do you reckon?”
“OK.” I said, “I
won't say anything about the vic. As forensics will be here soon as
well as the doc. They can tell us more about that part. I will say
that the vic. Is fully dressed, shoes still on...he did not come here
for a swim. He was meeting someone.”
“I knew that.”
Steve said. I grimaced and mentally warned my self 'here we go again'
I continued and
pointed to the tracks in the wet sand, where they were more defined.
“If you look carefully you'll notice that the right and left tracks
are different. The perp has a club foot or something similar” I
concluded.
“I knew that”
Steve nodded. I continued undaunted. “From the width of the foot
imprints I would guess that the perp is probably Caucasian, but it's
just a guess.” He broke with the 'I knew that' habit and asked,
“How old is his grandmother?”
“She's probably
dead, smart ass.” I said and turned around. A racket behind us had
alerted me of the arrival of the Techs and the ME truck. “Come on
Steve lets leave this to the A-Team” I said and made my way to
Patrolman Jack or Jill. “Jack you want to go get us a cup of coffee
and some breakfast? Get yourself and your partner something
too...it's on me” I handed him a fifty dollar note.
“Sure, no
worries...sir” He said and got out his little book to write down
what we wanted. Then he got in his patrol car and took off.
Steve was busily
writing in his book a careful, accurate, and condensed account of the
crime scene. I loved his notes – it was like reading a short story
by Hemingway. I leaned on Doris's mudguard, lit up a smoke and
wondered where the other Jack had got to; I could no longer see him
on the beach. Then I heard him coming up behind me at a run.
“Where did you get
to?” I asked when I heard his huffing and puffing close to me.
“Sir, the tracks
came out of the water after about half a kilometer and went straight
through a small walkway that cuts through that scrub over there...”
he caught his breath and he pointed, “it leads to a smaller car
park, which is presently empty.” he stopped, tried to control his
puffing, and looked around in some alarm.'Where's Jack gone?” he
exhaled.
“Relax...er...Jack...
I sent him to get us some breakfast. Anything else?” Reassured that
his partner had not deserted him, he continued, “...er...yes sir.
The car park is not surfaced like the main one. It's only hard dirt
but some parts are still moist from the dew. I reckon I saw one of
the perp's funny footprints next to a car tire's prints...er..it
might be the perp's car, sir”
“Good work Jack!
Will you be able to find it again?”
“Oh yes sir I left
my cap covering the foot print, and then ran all the way back here
sir”
“Top work. Get
that tech standing around over there trying to look busy and drag her
down there. Tell her I want pics and casts of everything. OK?”
“...er..yes
sir...” but he looked a little hesitant.
“Don't worry, I'll
send Jack down to you with your breakfast as soon as he gets back,
Jack” I reassured him.
“Yes sir, thank
you sir” I watched him grab the tech by the arm and in a few
sentences explain what was needed. The tech looked my way. Uncertain.
I moved my head in the direction she was meant to go and they took
off, Jack helping her with a bunch of 21st
century equipment.
II
Well, that's how the
Phantom case got started for us. Feeding the data of our case into
the police database for the whole of Australia brought up a number of
similar cases: in almost every major city and some country centres as
well. Not all the cases could be attributed to the Phantom, who got
dobbed with that moniker because he appeared out of nowhere,
assassinated his target and then disappeared back into nowhere...till
the next job. We could not find any relationship between any of the
victims, locations, times, nothing seemed to be connected to anything
else.
Except for one
thing.
I noticed it at the
autopsy of our first victim. Later, with the photos from the
autopsies of other victims we were able to assign at least fifteen
hits to our Phantom. It was like a signature, and it was a mistake. I
guessed that his self indulgence had got the better of him and it
finally led to his downfall and capture. He shot every victim in the
face, but that was not his mistake. His mistake was in showing off
his skill – each shot was always located right between the
eyebrows; just in that small hollow above the bridge of the nose. It
was a signature. It was a mistake.
It took us six
months to correlate all the hits and all the air-travelers to and
from each murder scene. And then we knew that he lived in Sydney.
Hours,days,weeks were spent looking at surveillance tapes from
airports, from pay booths on toll-ways and from anywhere we could get
some footage. Finally, we narrowed his location to the Castle Hill
area. It wasn't very hard from then on. Steve joined the local gun
club and once again the Phantom's pride let him down - he could not
help showing off his shooting skill. The extreme care with which he
picked up all his spent shell casings was also a bit of a give away.
His club foot was not obvious when he was wearing shoes, but one day
I had a patrolman in civies call on him at his home trying to sell
him a cheaper power and gas deal. The Phantom answered the knock and
there he was at the front door in a singlet, shorts and thongs –
the club foot was confirmed.
Soon we knew all
about him and followed him for weeks, without a result. Without 100%
certainty that this was our man, we could not move on him. There was
talk of suspending the investigation – it was costing too much.
Most of my team was withdrawn from me to go on with other duties. But
Steve and I stuck with it. We alternated shifts so that one of us was
always observing the Phantom. We hardly got any sleep, week in - week
out.
One day, out of the
blue The Phantom aka John Wilmer got in his car and headed toward the
city. It looked like he that he might be heading toward the airport.
I was able to twist my commander’s arm to let us scramble a team.
Soon we were rushing to the airport sirens screaming. We used a
different route to the one Wilmer was using, with Steve on his tail.
We did get there
before him and I had a plainclothes observer at every possible
airline counter. When Wilmer booked onto a flight for Adelaide using
a different name, we knew we had him in our sights. But, where was
his gun? Later, we found out that he had mailed his gun in pieces to
private Post Office boxes, mixed in with toys and other stuff.
He never got to kill
his next victim - I was able to shoot his gun hand just before he
completed his kill. We arrested him and extradited him to NSW. His
gun was matched to be the murder gun used on a couple of his victims.
Further forensic examination of his home revealed more guns and other
evidence, which sealed the case against him.
Realising his
position, he confessed, as I knew he would. His pride compelled him
to show how smart he had been to elude us for so long. In my last
interview with the very ordinary looking man we had known as the
Phantom, he asked me how we had got onto him at all, just as I was
leaving. I turned. Leaned on the table and looked straight into his
lifeless eyes, “There is always a mistake, John. That's what
policing is all about. We, the fumbling flat-footed cops, can make a
hundred mistakes and in the long run, they wont matter much. But you
and others of your kind cannot afford to make a single one. When you
do, we've got you!” I answered, “Your mistake? You, John, let
your ego do the thinking.”
John Wilmer, the
phantom, was convicted for three of his many murders, and sentenced
to life. But He died in jail after only one year - one of his fellow
convicts did not like his 'high and mighty' attitude and promptly
knifed him in the back. You just can't teach old dogs new tricks!
Looking forward to the next Louie Breccia case file!
ReplyDeleteThank you Alex, I'll get on the case pronto!
ReplyDelete