Foley & Rose Collection

Chapter 18

As one would place the pieces into a jigsaw puzzle, Sam found himself placing each of the victims into a hypothetical case against John Stringer. Common sense dictated he should be concentrating on, and pursuing alternative avenues of inquiry, because there simply couldn’t be a case against Stringer. Stringer was dead, and dead men can"t commit murder, not unless medical science had advanced into the area of miracles, and no one had informed him.

There were no miracles at work here however, and he silently cursed his stubbornness at not being able to accept unconditionally that which he knew to be true. Paddy could not have been mistaken. If he said Stringer was dead, then Stringer was dead. Sam had known Paddy O’Reily for a long time, and if there was one thing the tough old scribe was not, it was casual with the facts when it came to any written word attributed to him. Still, Sam could not rid himself of the apprehension that embraced him. Something disturbingly alien and alarming held his thoughts, and focused them inexplicably on each of the victims.

He grabbed up a pen and began to write their names on a pad. At the top of the page, in the centre, he wrote, in bold capital letters, the name "John Stringer". Below Stringer"s name he wrote "Carl Richter".

Richter was the first to die. Sam knew only too well of a connection between Richter and Stringer. Sam and Richter were partners, way back then, and they were together when they attended the Stringer house the night of the murders. Alongside Richter’s name, he wrote “Arresting Officer”.

The next victim was Judge Malcolm Costello. Sam jotted the name underneath Richter’s. He stared at the names, willing a connection to jump from the page. Suddenly, there it was. He ran a line through the word “Judge” in front of Costello’s name. Back then, Costello was not a judge. He was a prosecutor; a Crown Prosecutor.

Through the shroud of confusion, there it was. Malcolm Costello was the Crown’s solicitor who prosecuted John Stringer. Sam looked at the pad in front of him. Under Costello’s name, he began to write the names of the remaining victims. The connection was immediate.

Judge Roland Henderson was the presiding judge at Stringer’s trial. The last to die, Kevin Thiele, was the court appointed solicitor acting as Stringer’s defence attorney. Stringer had no money. He could not afford a high priced defence team, so in accordance with his legal rights, he was granted representation by a defence attorney appointed by the court.

Sam shifted uncomfortably in his chair. Ann Curtis was right. A common bond existed between the victims. Slowly, deliberately, Sam allowed his eyes to scan the list, pausing at each name, reinforcing the existence of a connection between victim and victim; victim and killer. He searched for anything that might prove he was mistaken. He wanted to be mistaken. He found nothing.

How was it possible? Stringer was dead. Was this the work of a forgotten relative, acting out vengeance on behalf of the late John Stringer? Sam struggled to reconcile the facts as he now knew them. He wanted to believe it was all a strange coincidence; one of those strange, quirks of fate that happened from time to time, always seeming to defy logical explanation. He looked again at Carl Richter’s name at the top of his list and then, suddenly, he knew why he was sent the list.

It concerned Sam that he was partnered with Carl Richter, a man whose reputation and unpopularity were widely known. Back then, Sam was new to homicide investigations, and although under any stretch of the imagination it was not an ideal paring, he was able, with tolerance and no small amount of self-discipline, to put aside his personal feelings. For the most part, he was able to disregard the character flaws of his partner.

Sam was as much the arresting officer as Richter that night, more so in fact. Sam was the one who interviewed Stringer and subsequently charged him with the murder of his wife and children. If this was a revenge thing, was Stringer, or whoever the killer was, after him as well? Was the name Sam Rose one of the last two names yet to be added to his list?

He pushed away from his desk and stood. With the list of names clutched in his hand, he began to pace back and forth across the tiny office. Occasionally he stopped, looked down at the list and shook his head. No, it was not possible. Stringer was dead.

Darwin’s geographical isolation, in relation to Australia’s other major cities, did not, unfortunately, segregate it from the social and welfare perils associated with modern community development. Homelessness was as much alive and well in this rapidly expanding city as it was in any other large metropolis. Indeed, given the large multicultural diversity of the population, Darwin was arguably more susceptible to welfare problems of this nature than most cities.

A large itinerate population ebbed and flowed from Darwin all year through. The young, and the not so young, unemployment benefits being their only source of income, drifted to-and-fro like so much human flotsam, in search of sunshine and cheap fun.

An unfortunate and unavoidable consequence of this never-ending flow of humanity was the burden it ultimately placed on the various government welfare agencies and charitable organisations. Such establishments seemed to spring up all over the city with alarming regularity as accountability struggled to maintain pace with progress.

As a cop with twenty-years service behind him, Sam had dealings with such institutions on many occasions. He knew far too many cases of genuine need developed due to people’s inability to cope with the pace of modern living. Although he was never one to condemn the genuinely needy, he knew the number of establishments that existed for the purpose of providing free, no questions asked, assistance to those who held a hand out, was directly proportional to the number of shitheads, drifters, losers, and professional dole bludgers who seemed to take immense pleasure in leeching off the hard working, tax paying members of society.

The Salvation Army was one of the charities Sam admired most. It represented a dedicated, caring band of men and women who operated several premises in and around Darwin. One of these was a hostel for homeless men at Stuart Park, a suburb on the edge of the city. According to Paddy O’Reily, it was where John Stringer lived following his release from prison. Men whose future held no promise other than misery, poverty, alcoholism, and destitution could find a bed and a half-decent meal.

Sometimes they came on an occasional basis, or in the case of John Stringer, on a more permanent basis. Here they could get a meal, clean, dry, clothes, and a bed that, although far from five-star standard, was considerably more comfortable than that offered in any of the numerous parks dotted in and around the city area. Here they were treated with more dignity and respect than most of them had ever known. Also, their luckless circumstances were never brought into question; behave, bathe regularly, and no booze on the premises, were the only requisites they had to abide by.

There were, of course, those who fell into a category Sam liked to call “Drop Kicks and Arseholes”. These were those who bludged off the system and abused the charitable generosity of the ‘Salvos’ and like institutions. As he pulled up in front of the hostel, he watched two perfect examples from this category saunter cockily from the entrance. Their expressions indicated they were obviously pleased with themselves for having conned a free meal, thereby saving a portion of their dole money for purchases much more important than food; like m*******a, of which there was no shortage in Darwin. He watched as they staggered haughtily away from the hostel, laughing and jostling each other. Life was simply wonderful.

Sam studied the taller one of the two, a skinny, gaunt-looking lad of indeterminate age. He had orange hair. Not red, or ginger, as one might expect as a legacy of genes inherited at birth, but orange, as if it had been sprayed from an aerosol can. Sam struggled to understand the logic behind what might motivate anyone to want to look like that. Surely he didn’t believe it made him more attractive to the opposite s*x? Perhaps, as a peacock would display its plumage to a nearby hen as part of a strange mating ritual, this societal reject believed his orange locks made him somehow more appealing to the female gender.

Sam found himself thinking of the lad’s parents, and feeling a modicum of sympathy for them. Did they even know where their moronic child was; let alone how he looked? Then, he wondered what kind of girls might find themselves attracted to two of life’s blowflies such as these two characters. The skinny lad’s mate, a pot-bellied rocket scientist obviously on loan from NASA, tugged at a ring he wore pierced through one nostril. Between tugs, he spat a glob of mucus onto the footpath.

Sam shook his head. “Jesus, the things you see when you haven’t got a gun.”

Major Chris Thomas need not wear the uniform of a senior officer of the Salvation Army to demonstrate he was a man of considerable compassion. As soon as Sam saw him approach, he knew his benevolence would be apparent even if he chose to wear a swimming costume as a uniform.

He was a jolly looking man, with a build that made Sam think immediately of Santa Claus. Although Thomas did not sport the thick white beard or the luxuriant white mane of hair one associates with Santa, he did have Santa’s rosy cheeks.

He offered Sam a smile that seemed as natural and genuine as though it had been placed there at birth and remained with him ever since. Sam liked the man from the moment he shook his hand and felt the firm, welcoming grip.

“I’m very pleased to meet you, Mister Rose,” the Major said with undisguised sincerity. “Can I get you something to drink, tea or coffee? I’m afraid we have nothing stronger here, many of our guests are dealing with problems in that area.”

“Coffee will be fine, thank you,” Sam smiled. “And please, call me Sam.”

“Of course,” Thomas said. “Let’s sit over here.” He ushered Sam across a cracked and faded linoleum covered foyer to a large area that obviously served as a day room. Here, the hostel residents could play pool on an ageing table, watch television, play darts, or just sit about listlessly on the well-worn chairs dotted around the room, and stare into oblivion, pondering life’s cruelty while they waited for the next meal. There were half a dozen men in the room, and as Sam cast his eyes over each of them, he saw pain and emptiness, conveying resigned hopelessness.

Against one wall, a scratched and stained table carried a large urn of boiling water, and the makings for tea and coffee. Thomas busied himself preparing coffee for himself and Sam. “How do you have it?” he asked.

“Standard, please,” Sam answered, “white, two sugars.”

Thomas handed the drink to Sam. “Sorry about the plastic cups,” he smiled, “I’m afraid our budget won"t stretch to fine china.”

“This is fine,” Sam said, sipping the hot drink.

The Major indicated two vinyl chairs, and they settled themselves.

“Now, Sam, how can I help you?” he asked. “I must admit I was intrigued when you telephoned.”

“To be honest,” Sam shrugged, “I’m not sure you can help me. I’m curious about a former resident of yours.”

“I’ll help if I can, of course. What is his name?”

“Stringer,” Sam said.

“John Stringer?” Thomas asked.

“Yes,” Sam confirmed. “I was hoping you could tell me something about him.”

“John Stringer,” Thomas mused. “Yes, I remember John. I understand he died a while ago.” It was an observation rather than a question.

“Yes he did,” Sam said.

“John’s was a sad story. What would you like to know?”

“How long was he here?”

“Just a few months, as I recall. I would have to check our records to tell you exactly how long. He came here directly from prison. He lost his family home, of course, and it was a condition of his parole that he reside here on his release. Are you familiar with his background?”

“Yes,” Sam nodded. “I was with the police when he was arrested for killing his family.”

“What a terrible thing that was,” Thomas said. “I suppose, in the end, it all got too much for him. A young fellow from the Coroner’s office came here after they found his body, and asked a few routine questions. May I ask what your interest is? I understand you are no longer with the police?”

“No, I left the force about a year ago. I’m a private investigator these days. I’m following an inquiry from an insurance company in regards to a life insurance policy he apparently purchased years ago,” Sam lied. “Did he, in the time he was here, give you any indication that he might be suicidal?”

“No more so than any of our people here. The gentlemen who come to us are at the bottom of the heap, so to speak. Most of them feel life has dealt them a bad hand, and the future offers only more of the same. I don’t recall John Stringer being any more depressed than anyone else here. He kept pretty much to himself most of the time. He did make one friend though, who he seemed to spend a bit of time with.”

“Really?” Sam said; his interested rising.

“Yes,” Thomas said. “Bert Ulstrom.”

“Did they meet here?” Sam probed.

“Oh, yes. Bert was a long-time resident. I took over here four years ago, and he was here when I arrived. His was another sad case. Bert had a lifelong battle with the bottle. He was never able to stay off the booze for more than a few days at a time. His alcoholism cost him everything, including his family.”

“Do you think Stringer might have taken Ulstrom into his confidence?”

“It’s possible I suppose. Bert did seem to attach himself to John. They were almost always together.”

“Is Mister Ulstrom here now? I would like to talk to him.”

“The Coroner’s Constable asked the same thing following Stringer’s death. Unfortunately, Bert hasn’t been seen since he left here with John two days before they found John’s body.”

“They left together?”

“Yes, they often went out of the hostel together, usually just for a few hours, and then they always came back together. John was required to be in the hostel every night by six p.m. as a condition of his parole.”

“And you haven’t seen Bert since?”

“That’s right. Bert was under no such curfew obligations. He could come and go as he pleased. This is a charitable institution, and while everyone in need is welcome, no one is compelled to remain; with the exception of John Stringer, who had to live here as a condition of his parole. We made all the standard inquiries with other like institutions around town to no avail, I’m afraid. We were never able to locate any family, and we have no idea what might have become of him. Like John, Bert was a loner, and had no real friends other than the people who came and went through the hostel, and he was distant from most of them.”

“Except for John Stringer,” Sam interrupted.

“Yes, except for John.”

“Is there anyone here now who might have any idea where he might be?”

“I very much doubt it,” Thomas shrugged. “We asked around at the time. When these people are not here, they tend to gravitate to the same places. You will be familiar with them from your days with the police force. You know, the fringe camps and the hovels that have almost become a part of the landscape in Darwin, more’s the pity. Most of the fellows here have frequented them at one time or another. We did the rounds of them at the time, as did the police. Everyone knows Bert, of course, he’s been around the place for more years than most of us can remember, but no one’s seen him since the day he left here with John.”

“Did either of them take any belongings with them?”

“Not Bert. He didn’t have anything of value. Everything he needed we provided, you know, bedding, toiletries, that sort of thing.”

“What about Stringer?”

“Much the same. He had a couple of insignificant possessions, nothing special. What he did have he took away with him.”

“He took his belongings?”

“Yes, such as they were. It seems he had no intention of coming back.”

“Why would he do that?” Sam asked.

“I’m afraid I don’t understand,” Thomas said.

“Well,” Sam began, “if he planned on killing himself, why bother to take a few worthless possessions with him?”

“I don’t know,” Thomas shrugged. “I never really thought about it. Perhaps when he left, he wasn’t planning on killing himself. Maybe he came to that decision later.”

“Did he have a car?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact he did. I understand he bought it on his release from prison. It wasn’t much of a thing, a smoke-belching rust-bucket, I considered. Most of the time he couldn’t afford to run it, but when he did use it, Bert was usually with him.”

“Where did they go?”

“I have no idea, I never asked. As long as John was back by six, how they spent their days was their business. I did speak to John about it once because I was concerned about the condition Bert was usually in when they came back. More often than not he was so drunk he had a job to stand.”

“What did Stringer say?”

“Usually very little, the truth is, it is none of my business what our people do when they are not here. My concerns for Bert were of a health nature rather than of a disciplinary one.”

“Of course,” Sam said. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to sound critical.”

“No offence taken, Sam, I’m only sorry I can"t be of much help to you. It would appear the only person who might be able to shed any light on John’s state of mind at the time is Bert, and he’s disappeared.”

“As a matter of fact,” Sam smiled, “you’ve been a great help.” He got up to leave, dropping his empty cup into a bin between the chairs. “Thank you for the coffee.”

“My pleasure, any time,” Thomas said, sincerely. “It was nice to meet you. Good luck.”

“Thank you.”

The two men shook hands, and Sam walked from the room. As he left, he felt, despite the pleasant disposition of Major Chris Thomas, the hostel was a place that would easily, and quickly, depress him should he stay longer than was necessary.