The Family Cleaner, page 13
“Brownsill, have we had dogs at the Bendigo site?”
Brownsill shifted in his seat and looked at Johnson. “No sir, forensics went over the house and there was nothing to suggest there might be bodies at the site.”
Johnson opened his mouth to speak, then stopped.
“Do you have something to add, Detective?” Kleinberg said.
“No, sir, nothing from me.”
“Anyone else want to add anything?”
A series of “No, sirs” echoed over the call.
“Let’s get some dogs up from Melbourne asap,” Kleinberg said, “Brownsill, you need to get back up there and have another look around. People, we need to start tying up all these loose ends. I want every document or thought you have placed on the document server. We will solve this with data, so let’s make sure we have everything captured. No state firewalls, agreed?”
Two days later cadaver dogs arrived at the Bendigo farm.
Chisholm Family Farm, Bendigo, 20th September 2018
Brownsill strode around the outlying buildings, ending up in the farmhouse. Johnson shuffled along behind as the DS, hands clasped behind his back, moved through the musty rooms.
“Pretty miserable this place, obviously not doing too well,” Brownsill said as he picked up and discarded a couple of cushions that exploded dust particles in the light.
“The whole set-up, the outbuildings, this house, all look pretty run down. It doesn’t look like a successful operation,” Johnson said.
Brownsill surveyed the kitchen and scratched his chin. “Something happened in this house. Something’s not right.”
“Now you mention it,” Johnson said and left the kitchen. “I’m just going to check something.” He returned five minutes later.
Brownsill said, “What?”
“Sir, I read in Carter’s psych files that he was made to sleep in a cellar.”
“So what are you thinking?”
“Where’s the cellar? I can’t find a door or any way to get down. There’s nothing outside, either.”
Brownsill, who had been leaning on the old Formica kitchen table stood, suddenly alert.
“Logically, there would be an inside access, somewhere off a corridor,” he said.
They walked down the hallway, tapping on walls, till they came to a cupboard at the end. They pulled and dragged it away from the wall.
“Well look at that,” Brownsill said as he tapped on the wall behind the cupboard. “Is it just me or does this wall look new to you? Get out to that shed and grab something to rip this out. Pronto.”
Using a long-handled jemmy, Johnson smashed a hole in the plasterboard and insulation. Behind was another layer of plaster.
Johnson turned to Brownsill. “That’s a very thorough way to line an inside wall,” he said and swung the jemmy at the second layer of plaster. A large section fell away and he pushed his head close to the hole to look in.
“Jesus, the smell,” he said, reeling back and gagging, he rushed for the back door.
Brownsill leaned towards the hole. “I don’t think we’re going to need those cadaver dogs. Get on the blower and get a forensic team up here, and I mean, like, yesterday.”
Brownsill went to the kitchen and returned with a towel. He placed it over his nose and mouth shone a torch into the darkness and peered through the hole.
“Can’t see anything. We’re going to have to wait for forensics. Bugger, I have to see what’s down there.” He turned around. “Johnson, where are you?”
Johnson returned wiping his chin and looking pale, he said, “Sorry, just lost my breakfast.”
“Happens to the best of us.”
“Did you hear what I said about forensics?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good work on thinking this through, though I still don’t condone how you came across the information. You may have just given us the breakthrough we needed. Once we have bodies, we’re moving, so secure that hole. No one, repeat, no one goes down there till the forensic team arrives. I don’t want any contamination.”
Chisholm Family Farm, Bendigo, 21st September 2018
Brownsill and Johnson waited at the top of the staircase. “Mary-Anne?” Brownhill called down.
Mary-Anne Thomson was a veteran forensic investigator, well known for her brutal feedback to anyone, of any rank, who messed up her crime scene. Dressed in white sterile coveralls and a cap, a halo of bright red hair, which refused to be tucked under, circled her face. She looked a bit like an enormous cotton bud as she emerged from the doorway to the cellar, removing her mask and gloves.
“What have we got, Mary-Anne?” Brownsill asked.
“I’ve seen some scenes in my time, but this is up there. If what went on down there isn’t about payback of some sort, I’ll bare my arse in Bourke St.”
“Let’s hope for everyone’s sake that doesn’t come to pass,” Brownsill said.
Mary-Anne said, “You should be so lucky, Detective Sergeant. I’d prefer that nobody goes down the cellar but, if you must, I recommend only if you have a strong stomach.”
“I guess that counts you out, Johnson,” Brownsill said. “Poor bastard was a bit crook after he copped a whiff yesterday.”
“I can imagine. Eight months in a moist, sealed space means the stench has impregnated everything. I’ll get some initial video out to you asap before we start a detailed look.”
“So what, or rather, who is down there?” Brownsill asked.
“Two males, one older, one younger, and an older female. They’re all tied to chairs with what looks like plastic ties, hands and feet. All naked. I suspect their clothing was cut away while they were seated. The males have had their genitals removed which were then stuffed into their mouths, and what looks like the words “Suck this” has been carved across their chests. The female has had her throat slit and has bled out slowly from what I can tell. I think it’s safe to assume we have the missing family. I better get back down, that site isn’t going to process itself. I’ll let you know when we have something more.”
“Can I have a look?” Brownsill. “We’ve been waiting on a break for eight months. I want to see what we’re dealing with.”
“Well, don’t tell me I didn’t warn you,” Mary-Anne said.
“I’ll be okay.”
“Here, wipe some of this under your nose, you’ll need it,” she said and handed Brownsill a tub of Vicks.
They headed down the stairs after pulling on gloves, masks, and fresh coveralls.
Even under the glare of the forensic lights the cellar looked foreboding, with dull grey walls and a rammed earth floor partly covered by a mouldy piece of carpet. It was no more than three metres square. Along the wall opposite the stairs were two chairs, a third chair faced them. Brownsill stood in the middle of the triangle of chairs.
“And that’s ...”, Brownsill said, pointing at the older male’s decayed mouth.
“That would be his penis and what’s left of the scrotum, Detective Sergeant, like I said upstairs.”
“Fuck, that’s brutal,” Brownsill said.
“Brutal but in terms of sending a message, it’s extremely effective,” Mary-Anne said.
“Sending a message to who? They’ve been buried in a cellar. Nobody might have ever got a chance to read the bloody message.”
Three minutes later he emerged from the cellar, his face the colour of parchment.
“How was it?” Johnson asked.
“I’ve seen it all now. Whoever did this was incredibly angry. Someone hated these people. And the smell, you can almost chew on it. The victims’ bits were cut off and stuck in their mouths ... Mary-Anne will be down there for ages, let’s go to the kitchen and call Kleinberg,” Brownsill said.
They sat at the table, where the Chisholm family had shared their last meal.
“You need some water, boss?” Johnson said.
Brownsill nodded as he dialled.
“Inspector, this is Brownsill. I have Johnson with me. You got my message, I take it. Let me put you on speaker.”
“Morning gentlemen, so what have we got?” Kleinberg said.
Brownsill provided a summary of the scene.
“You said Johnson read about the cellar, where?”
“Perhaps Johnson might like to share,” Brownsill said.
Johnson began to redden from his neck up and stuck his finger down between his neck and his collar.
After the briefest of explanations, Kleinberg said. “Ah, so when you said the psychologist was your ex I take it she found out about your access of the file?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Ignoring just, for now, the fact that what you did was unethical and indeed illegal, I take it you had a good look at the file,” Kleinberg said.
“Yes, sir. I know it was stupid, but I was just getting nowhere and...”
“It was, but nevertheless, give me the highlights, and don’t put any of this on paper. We’re just having a chat, okay?” Kleinberg said.
“As a six-year-old, David Carter witnessed his mother kill his father, a drunken wife-beater. She died of a heroin overdose a while later and he was sent to live with his uncle and aunt, the Chisholm’s’. After an altercation with one of his cousins, they made him live in the cellar. At fifteen he went to work on a station in the West. Came back three years later and after a time got into the army. Two tours in Afghanistan. Discharged under a cloud.”
“Why was he seeing Siobhan?” Brownsill asked.
“Court ordered treatment when he was about twelve years old, ’cause he stabbed a classmate with a pen after some dispute.”
“Congrats on the memory. That sounds like an upbringing that would make you a little bent out of shape,” Kleinberg said. “I think our time now will be best spent planning how to approach Carter.”
“We’ll need to reinterview him,” Brownsill said. “Going forward someone else will have to assist me given the file access business.”
“But boss...” Johnson said.
“Think about. It’s risky enough that we’ve relied on confidential information to get this far. No sorry, you’ll have to sit on the sidelines.”
“Right,” Kleinberg said, “both of you, no mention of the bodies to anyone. In particular, Carter. Question him about the timelines and get specific times and places. I want him to feel the pressure. I want him to know that we think he’s in the frame, without us having to say it. And I’ll make a bet with you.”
“What’s that, sir?”
“He’ll bring a lawyer this time.”
Chapter 15
Café Greek, Geelong, 22nd September 2018
“Monahan,” David said, after calling the lawyer. “The Bendigo cops want to interview me again. They’re coming down to Geelong and want me to put aside an afternoon. Should you come along?”
“Have you heard if anything new has bobbed up?”
“All I know is they want to talk again.”
“Let me make a couple of calls and see what I can find out. Meantime, just make some notes so you can explain where you’ve been and when. I’ll call you back.”
The theme song from Zorba the Greek started again and David said, “Don’t you get sick of that?’ as the waiter slid his second coffee across the table.
“Nah, we don’t even hear it now, it’s just noise.”
Monahan called back. “Something’s shifted. My source said there’s been a significant development, but he had no idea what. They’ve put some inspector over the case, so something’s up. My concern is that if you turn up with me, they’ll wonder what you’re hiding. You don’t have anything to hide, do you, David?”
David hesitated. “I’m more concerned about them accidentally tumbling onto other elements of my life.”
“That didn’t answer my question. Maybe I better come along. We can say you’re just being prudent.”
“When are you seeing them?”
“Couple of hours, at three.”
“I’m coming down, where will we meet?”
David was surprised when an hour and a half later, a slender, bespectacled, redhead came through the door of the café. David held up his hand and called out “Monahan.”
Everything about Monahan said, ‘lawyer.’ From his dark-blue pinstripe suit, red tie and blazingly white shirt to the beaten-up old brown leather brief case under his arm. He shuffled when he moved and had a slight stoop. David thought he needed to spend time in the sun. He instinctively didn’t like him; something was off about him.
“How did you know it was me?” Monahan said.
“Have you looked at yourself?”
Monahan held out his hand. “David, it’s good to put a face to a name,” then sat opposite David. He opened his briefcase and took out a notepad and pen, lining them up neatly on the table. “What have you told them to this point?”
David held up his hand to get the attention of the waiter. “Coffee?”
Monahan looked at David as if it was a trick question. “No thanks, I grabbed one on the way down.”
“I’ve been interviewed by uniformed cops at my place and an old detective in Geelong. They asked where I was at certain times. I think they’ve followed me a couple of times, although I’ve been very careful. They asked me countless questions about the family; I just repeat that they are not my family, I am not interested in their welfare and I don’t know where they are.”
“They’ve never said anything that suggests they think these disappearances have anything to do with you?”
David shrugged. “Not right out and said, no.”
“Can you explain your whereabouts for each of the times these people disappeared?”
“They don’t know exact times; they only have windows. I don’t think they can say exactly when any of them went AWOL.”
Monahan who had been scribbling notes as he asked his questions stopped and placed his pen neatly along the top of his notepad. “Let me ask that another way. Can you categorically prove that you were somewhere else during the smallest window they have? Let’s say, the cousin who was near Canberra.”
“I was in Perth and somewhere down south when Jake went missing.”
“And you can prove that? As in, someone can say, ‘I saw David Carter in Perth or wherever on such-and-such a date.’”
“Well, maybe at a pinch.”
Monahan looked at his watch. “We need to get over to the station, it’s nearly time.”
Geelong Police Station
“May I ask why you are interviewing my client for what I believe is the third or fourth time?” Monahan said.
“We need to establish exactly where David was when his relatives—” Brownsill nodded to David “—disappeared. If only to rule him out.”
“Rule him out! Do you think he’s involved in their disappearance?”
Prosser opened his hands. “We’re just being thorough. And frankly, David has not been forthcoming.”
“I disagree, detective. He put up no objections to the search of his home. And if we’re talking frankly, I still don’t know how you got a magistrate to okay that based on what I saw. But that aside, I’m sure if you provide us with specific dates then we can get back to you with something firm. You need to appreciate, though, that my client leads, what shall I say, a loose lifestyle. He doesn’t live by the calendar like the rest of us.”
Brownsill slid a piece of paper across the desk. “These are the dates we need to know where David was.”
Monahan stood. “We’ll get back to you tomorrow with the best answers we can provide.”
“David,” Monahan said when they were back at the café, “they have something. I have no idea what, though. Look at these dates. This one is from eight months ago. From this date to this, your movements aren’t accounted for, but you confirmed you were in Bendigo when you saw your shrink, right?”
David nodded.
“You were within a short drive when Freddy disappeared, and somebody matching your description bailed up Jake.”
“But I was in Perth then!”
“They know someone was in Perth, David, but you have no one who can say for sure.”
“And I guess where there is doubt ...”
“It seems to me they have no one else in their sights. I don’t think they can prove yet that this has something to do with you, but they think something isn’t right.”
“I see.”
“What about this other cousin, Jessica? She doesn’t seem to be in the picture anywhere. Do you know what her story is?”
“Nup, nothing,” David said.
Monahan looked up from his note-taking.
“You’re sure? You haven’t spoken to her about what’s been happening?”
David shook his head.
Police Video Conference, 25th September 2018
“How did the interview go?” Kleinberg asked when he logged onto the call.
“I would have lost that bet, Inspector,” Brownsill said when he joined the weekly video call.
“So, who was with him?” Kleinberg said.
“A Melbourne lawyer called Monahan. Skinny little redhead, but I think he knows his stuff.”
“I know Monahan by reputation, he’s a top criminal lawyer. He’s represented some of the worst bastards going around. If your man Carter knows him, he’s got connections somewhere,” Kleinberg said.
“I knew that he had something rotten about him,” Prosser said.
“What do you mean, DS?” Kleinberg said.
“I’ve spoken to him a fair bit, been to where he lives. His lifestyle doesn’t fit with a pensioned-off soldier who does a bit of gardening. And I have a gut feeling that somehow he’s connected to my dead bikies and dealer. They were executed, not a random shooting. Someone trained and controlled.”
“Let’s focus on the one investigation, but share your file, Prosser, out of interest,” Kleinberg said.
“Smyth,” Prosser continued, “you mentioned that your witness in Blackwater said your perp shot twice into the ground to scare him off. Were you able to recover anything?”
