Foley & Rose Collection

Chapter 17

Sam struggled restlessly through the foggy, confusing plateau that existed somewhere between sleep and consciousness. Uninvited, unwelcome, disjointed images came and went like the flickering frames of an old silent movie. Finally, thankfully, he surfaced from that place, bathed in perspiration. The digital display from the bedside clock glowed four-thirty a.m. For a long while, he lay in the dampness of his bedding, not wanting to acknowledge the truth of what woke him. It wasn’t a dream, and the name strobing with the intensity of neon behind his eyes would not leave his mind.

Stringer! John Stringer. Could it possibly be? No, surely not? Stringer was still in prison. Wasn’t he? It couldn’t be Stringer. He had to be mistaken.

As the darkness of night gently ebbed, conceding ground to the dawn peeping around the edge of his curtains, his mind drifted back to another time.

He found them in their respective bedrooms. They were just children. The little girl, Sarah, was in her bed. A tiny, pale arm hugged a scruffy, obviously well-loved teddy. Sam was surprised that so much blood could have come from such a small body. Sarah Stringer was only five years old.

Her big brother Jamie was seven. Sam found Jamie half in and half out of his bed. He must have woken up just as his attacker struck, and tried to get out and run, perhaps to the safe, protective arms of his mother sleeping in the next room. Jamie lay on his back, his upper torso hanging limp over the edge of the bed. His body had emptied itself of blood, most of which had spilled onto the plush, expensive carpet.

Both children were helpless against the suddenness and the ferocity of the attack that almost severed their heads from their tiny bodies; their young lives snuffed out in an instant. Robbed of the opportunity to play, to grow, to learn, to fall in love, and to one day have children of their own.

Their mother was also in her bed when she died. Like her children, Morgan Stringer was given no warning of her impending death. Her throat was also cut, and a subsequent autopsy would discover another twenty-seven stab wounds to various parts of her body, all determined to have been inflicted post-mortem. The attack was frenzied and relentless.

John William Stringer, supposed, loving, doting husband and father, was found by the first uniformed officers to arrive at the scene. He was sitting at the kitchen table calmly drinking a cup of coffee, his hands and his clothes still damp with the blood of his family. What would later be determined as the murder weapon, a long, thin blade boning knife, lay on the table next to the sugar bowl.

How long ago was that? Sam Rose asked himself. Was it twelve, or thirteen years? Could he be out of prison already? No, surely not? He remembered the sentence and the ensuing outrage in the community, not to mention the police, when Stringer only received one life sentence. He should have been handed three life sentences, and ordered to serve them consecutively; then he would die in prison.

It was Rose’s first murder investigation after transferring to CIB. A good one to get to kick off your detective career, some of his colleagues suggested. Three victims murdered in their sleep, the suspect sitting at the kitchen table covered with blood, and the murder weapon at his fingertips. A “walk up start”, those same colleagues teased.

It always seemed incongruous to Sam that, given Stringer’s perceived affluence, he would accept a court-appointed defence lawyer to represent him at his trial. It was surely just for his initial court appearance that came later on the day of his arrest because he hadn’t had the time to seek more appropriate representation, Sam assumed. But Stringer’s perceived affluence was just that - perceived. Ongoing investigations would reveal he was, in fact, broke. Hundreds of thousands of dollars in debt! No bank would look at re-financing his business, and he was unable to service his rapidly mounting debts. He was about to be declared insolvent and lose everything he ever worked to attain.

Something happened to John Stringer that night, something strange and seemingly totally out of character. Subsequent investigations would reveal him as a hard-working and loving family man who apparently adored his wife and children. He worked hard, and he was an unobtrusive, respected member of his neighbourhood, and the community in general. Initially, Sam was unable to find anything in his past or present to offer an explanation why he would, without warning, feel compelled to embark on the unmotivated killing spree; why he would obliterate his entire family in a few minutes of psychotic madness. Then when he looked at Stringer’s financial records, it became apparent Stringer felt tormented by the prospect of losing it all, and was unable to contain his emotions.

Kevin Thiele entered a not guilty plea on behalf of his client. He relied on a temporary insanity defence in the hope of saving his client from the mandatory life sentence accompanying murder convictions in the Northern Territory. It failed. In the fullness of time, Stringer was found guilty of murder, and sentenced to twenty years, much to the disgust of Sam Rose and everyone involved in the investigation. Twenty years! It amounted to little more than six years for each of the three victims. The bastard got twenty lousy years for butchering his entire family. The image of the two Stringer children flashed into Sam’s mind, and he shuddered with the memory.

The Crown appealed, of course, and “Grossly inadequate!” the media headlines screamed. The sentence was upheld when the appeal was eventually heard, which only served to agitate the community further. Sam had long ago ceased to be a big fan of the judicial system and the way it dispatched what it considered to be justice, and the Stringer sentence only enhanced his distaste.

“Grossly inadequate!”Thiele was way out of his depth. Throughout the brief trial, Stringer fervently maintained his innocence. He loved his family, he insisted. He could never have committed such a hideous crime against the people he loved. How he came to be covered in the blood of his family, he was unable to satisfactorily explain. Who, other than himself might have killed his family that night, he was also unable to explain, and John William Stringer went to prison, silently vowing revenge against all those responsible for his arrest and subsequent conviction.

Sam reached out and switched on the bedside lamp, squinting at the sudden harshness of the light as it flooded the room. Revenge, was that what this was? He searched his memory. Slowly, slowly it began to come back. The pieces began to fit. It had nagged at him all night. Who was involved? Think. Think. Start from the beginning; the first murder. Carl Richter was the first victim. How did he fit?

Standing, staring absently out of his office window, Sam did not hear Paddy O’Reily enter.

“Top o’ the mornin’ to you, Sam lad,” the journalist greeted, sounding jovial and rested.

The voice startled Sam. He spun around to find Paddy seating himself.

“Hello, Paddy.”

“You seem a little pre-occupied, so you do,” O’Reily observed. “Is somethin’ botherin’ you, lad?”

“Sorry, mate. I had a bad night. I guess I’m just tired. What about you? Any luck with your contact?”

“Indeed,” Paddy smiled, obviously pleased with himself. “The murder weapon used on Thiele is almost certainly the same as the one used on all the others. I think that removes any doubt about it being the same person responsible for all the murders.”

Sam turned away and resumed his indifferent surveillance of the street and passing traffic outside the window.

“Something is bothering you, is it not?” Paddy said to his back.

isSam stepped away from the window and crossed to his desk. He sat wearily opposite his old friend. He remained pensive, and thoughtful, as though organising his thoughts into a semblance of order. Finally, he looked across the desk at Paddy.

“Do you remember a multiple murder, years ago, in a house in Nightcliff, near the beach? A bloke killed his wife and two kids…”

“John Stringer,” Paddy interrupted. “Aye, I remember it well. I followed the investigation for the paper. I did a series of articles on the bastard, so I did. Tried to find out what made him tick. I even interviewed him in prison. He was one sick puppy that one. What about him?”

“I woke up this morning thinking about him.”

“Then you need to get a girlfriend, if you haven’t one already” Paddy joked.

“No, seriously,” Sam said.

“Well, he was one to give you nightmares, true enough. Why would you be thinking of him then?”

“I’ve been trying to remember when he went to prison, and when he was due for release.”

“I can tell you that,” Paddy said. “I did a follow-up article when he became eligible for parole. He was released five months ago. Why is it important?”

“So he is out?” Sam mused. “Jesus, I wonder…”

“You wonder what?”

“A moment ago I was thinking about Carl Richter, the first victim, and where he might be tied in with the others. Do you think Stringer could be our man?”

Paddy looked surprised. “Of course not, it’s impossible.”

“Impossible? Why?”

“Because Stringer’s dead, so he is.”

“Dead, are you sure?”

“Of course I’m sure. I thought you would have known that. It was a big case for you, remember?”

“How would I have known that?” Sam asked. “Until today I haven’t given him a moment’s thought. How did he die?”

“He committed suicide,” Paddy answered. “Must be three months ago. The bastard incinerated himself in his car. It was in the paper. I wrote the article myself. Don’t you read the paper?”

“Incinerated himself?”

“Aye. He emptied twenty l****s of petrol onto the floor of his car, sat behind the wheel, and calm as you like, dropped a match. Must have went off like a bomb. Burnt a couple of acres of bush before they found him. I spoke to the coppers who attended; they said there was nothing much left to identify. Cooked to a crisp, so he was, like an over-done leg of pork at Christmas.”

“s**t!” Sam cursed. “Three months ago! That blows my theory about him being responsible for these murders. There was no doubt the body was Stringer?”

“No, no doubt. It was his car and extensive dental records that finally confirmed it. Sorry to disappoint you, but John Stringer is not our man.”

“Jesus Paddy, don’t be sorry. I’m glad the bastard’s dead. It couldn’t happen to a nicer guy. Strange though, I got to know him pretty well during the initial investigation, and I would never have picked him for the suicide type. Did he leave a note?”

“No nothing, he went to live at that refuge place at Stuart Park after his release. Apparently he left just a couple of days before he topped himself.”

“I know the place,” Sam said. “It’s a Salvation Army half-way house for men.”

“That’s it,” Paddy nodded.”

“I can’t believe it,” Sam said, almost to himself. “The feeling was strong. I would have bet he was our killer.”

“Not unless he figured a way to come back from the grave,” Paddy offered. “But then, knowing Stringer as I did, he could probably do that.”

Sam remained silent. He was looking at Paddy, but his eyes were vacant. His mind was elsewhere. Something about this didn’t sound right, didn’t fit. An uncomfortable silence passed.

“What is it?” Paddy probed finally.

“I don’t know, mate. I just don’t know. Something"s not right."

“What"s "not right" about it?”

“Stringer, and suicide, it just doesn’t fit.”

“Why?" Paddy shrugged. "People top themselves every day, and those they leave behind refuse to believe they were capable of doing such a thing.”

“Yeah, I know,” Sam agreed. “But, as much as I hate to admit it, Stringer was a strong person. I never for a moment accepted he was mentally unstable when he killed his family, neither did the jury when they convicted him. The thought of him killing himself after finally being released doesn’t sit right with me. I mean, if he was going to do away with himself, why not do it in prison? It happens all the time; it’s not difficult. Why wait until you are finally free and then do it? It doesn’t make any sense.”

“Aye, I agree, but then he had a lot of years to think about what he did to his family. Prison can change a person. Maybe he was inside long enough for him to feel the pain of what he did. People do strange things when consumed by guilt and remorse, they"re powerful emotions.”

“Some people do strange things, Paddy… some people, but not John Stringer. That prick never had a remorseful bone in his body.”

“Come on, Sam, don’t tell me you’re thinking Stringer might still be alive?”

“Oh, God,” Sam shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe I’m grasping at straws. I woke up thinking about the bastard. I had myself convinced he was our man.”

“Well, it’s impossible,” Paddy said with conviction.

“I wonder,” Sam pondered aloud.

“What? What do you wonder?”

“You said it would be impossible for Stringer to have committed these murders unless…” he paused, “unless he came back from the grave.”

“You sure you haven’t been tippling at the whiskey bottle?” Paddy laughed.

“No, Paddy, I haven’t been drinking. How’s your cash holding out?”

“It’s getting low, now that you ask. Why?”

Sam reached into a drawer in his desk and removed the envelope of cash. He peeled off another five hundred dollars and handed it to Paddy. “Here,” he said. “Take this. I want you to make one more trip to the morgue.”

“What for this time?” Paddy asked as he stuffed the money inside his jacket.

“I want to see the autopsy report on John Stringer,” Sam said, seriously.

“You are joking, of course?”

“No, I’m not joking.”

“The man’s dead, so he is. What in the devil’s name are you looking for?”

“I don’t know that either. I wish I did. It’s just a hunch.”

“No, Sam,” Paddy argued. “It’s not a hunch; it’s a fookin" wild-goose chase, that’s what it is.”

“You’re probably right, mate, but I need to do this. The feeling’s too strong to simply ignore.”

“Okay,” Paddy shrugged. “You’re the boss. I’m away then. I’ll be in touch.” He got up, and with a dismissive wave, hurried from the room.

Sam sat alone in his office for a long time after Paddy left. Thoughts filled his mind in a confusing mish-mash of half-baked scenarios, "what ifs", and "how coulds." All were of John William Stringer, and of Stringer"s family, his wife Morgan, and his two beautiful children, Sarah and Jamie. Was Stringer dead? It must be true. He could not possibly still be alive, could he? Could he have spent his time in prison, scheming and planning revenge? How did he do it? No, Paddy was right, Stringer was dead. Sam wanted to believe he was dead, but something wouldn’t let him; something, but what? What was it? It was more than a feeling, more than intuition, more than a hunch or a gut feeling. Whatever it was, it was stronger than any of those things; something almost tangible.