Foley & Rose Collection

Chapter 20

Though it would have been easy to do so, Sam did not stay late at the casino. When he left, Paddy was making short work of his fourth whiskey, and openly contemplating a change of career from journalist to Irish balladeer. Already he had deposited ten dollars into the brandy balloon on top of the piano, and was deep in discussion with the attending musician concerning the lyrics to yet another traditional Irish tune. Paddy was, Sam observed, decidedly generous with Judge Hackett’s money.

Sam had people to see. If John Stringer was alive, he had to be stopped before he killed again. It all remained nothing more than speculation on his part, however. For his theory to have any credibility, John Stringer had to be among the living, and this was a concept Sam still found difficult to accept. The very thought of Stringer still being alive filled him with doubt. It sounded so improbable. Killing Bert Ulstrom and hoping no one would ever know was so audaciously ambitious that it might just work. If Stringer had, in fact, sent the list to him, he knew it was intended as a message indicating Stringer also wanted him dead. Sam never wanted to be wrong about anything in his life as much as he wanted to be wrong about this.

Was Stringer still alive? The feeling was powerful, and what terrified him most about the possibility of Stringer being alive was the prospect, indeed the certainty, that others would surely die unless he was stopped, and soon. Still, the possibility nagged at him, and Sam knew now more than ever that this madman was more than capable of carrying out the bloody revenge he set for himself.

Where would it end? If Sam was to salvage any satisfaction from all this insanity, it was that he would, one day soon, he hoped, come face to face once again with John Stringer. There were two names missing from Stringer’s list. His was one of them; he guessed that much given his direct involvement in the original arrest. As for the last name, that was anyone’s guess.

Sam had never killed anyone. There were times, albeit very few, during his police career when he had been compelled by circumstances, to draw his weapon. Thankfully, he had never been pressed to the point of discharging it. On such occasions, he often wondered if he could, in fact, kill another person. Until now, he had hoped he would never face the question. Now he found himself pondering on the prospect, and the answer was immediate. Now it was different. Stringer, if it was Stringer he was looking for, had made it different. Now Sam knew, without a shadow of a doubt, he could kill John Stringer. What concerned him most, more than the thought of pulling the trigger, was the belief he might enjoy it.

Russell Foley was not drunk, not yet, but he was well along the road to that ultimate destination. When he did drink, and that was not often, he never drank anything other than beer, and it was, coincidentally, the rarity of indulgence that contributed to the speed he headed towards intoxication. His metabolism was not familiar with alcohol in any great quantity, certainly not in the quantity he was knocking them back tonight, and accordingly, he was well on the way to inebriation.

The television was on, but he had long ago turned the sound down, and he sat staring absently at the flickering images of an anonymous sit-com. He wore only a pair of shorts as a defence against the hot, humid night slowly suffocating the city. His thoughts, disjointed by the effects of too many beers, lingered on his children. He missed them, and wondered when he might see them again. He drank deeply from the beer he clasped in his hand, and some of the liquid spilled down his chin and dropped onto his bare chest. He cursed softly, and wiped at the spillage with the back of his free hand. On the floor at his feet lay the letter from his wife asking for, no - demanding, more money. More money! s**t, did she think he was a f*****g bank? He was already paying her a large chunk of his pay packet every fortnight. Every f*****g fortnight! Jesus, when was it going to stop? When she had it all, and his soul as well? He might just as well get the Pay Office to send her his pay cheque. She f*****g near had it all now. Christ, he missed his kids. She wanted the money, but wasn’t going to let him see his kids. s**t! He couldn’t afford the damn airfares to fly them up here because she took so much from him. If he couldn’t afford the airfares, she said, he could bloody well walk to Queensland if he wanted to see the kids.

demanding“f*****g b***h!” he said aloud to the television screen, burped loudly, and drained the last of the beer.

Foley wanted to be a good cop again. No, damn it, he already was a good cop! He wanted to be recognised as a good cop again. Yes, that was it. He wanted his peers, his bosses, his subordinates all to believe in him again. He had slipped lately; couldn’t bloody concentrate. Thinking too much about his kids and that b***h he married. Jesus, she was bleeding him dry! He wanted to forget about her and get on with the job. Bloody serial killer! s**t! Why does this prick have to do this now? We should have caught the bastard by now. Christ, he was a better cop than that!

Foley knew his handling of the case was attracting attention from upstairs. They were watching him, watching and evaluating his performance. He was handling it badly. s**t, why did Jennifer choose now to walk out on him? They could have worked it out. No, that was bullshit. They could never have worked it out. f*****g slut was screwing every cop she could. Jesus, he hated her for that! It had been over a year for Christ’s sake, why couldn’t he just put her out of his mind and get on with the job of finding this killer?

He got up, walked unsteadily to the small kitchenette, and helped himself to another beer from the fridge. He twisted the cap off the bottle, tossed it aside, and watched it roll under the small kitchen table. He lifted the bottle to his lips, and drained half the contents in one long, noisy swallow.

The front and back doors to his small, one-bedroom unit were open, taking advantage of what little breeze filtered through the security doors. He sensed rather than saw someone at his front door; a form, a shadow, outside on his narrow porch. The darkness of the night behind the figure made it difficult for him to distinguish who it was. He walked to the door.

“Who’s that, who the f**k is out there?”

“It’s me, Russell, Sam.”

“Rose? Is that you?” He squinted at the shape in the darkness.

“Yeah, Russell it’s me. I need to talk to you.”

Foley switched on the outside light.

Sam Rose was once welcome in his home anytime; but not these days. He made no attempt to invite his old partner inside.

“What the f**k you want, Rose? Why don’t you piss off and leave me alone?”

“I need to talk to you.”

“Yeah? Well, that’s too bad "cause I don’t need to talk to you. Why don’t you go screw someone’s wife?”

“Are you drunk?”

“Not yet, but it’s early.”

“Can I come in, mate?”

“Why?”

“I told you; I need to talk to you.”

“And I told you we’ve got nothing to say to each other.”

“This is not about us, Russell.”

“Then, what’s it about?”

“It’s about the murders.”

“That’s none of your business. It’s a police matter, or have you forgotten you’re not a policeman anymore?”

“Jesus, Russell, the bloody mosquitos are taking f*****g great pieces of flesh out of me. They’re going to carry me away!”

“I wish someone would.”

“Open the door, for Christ’s sake!”

“f**k off!”

“Come on, mate, it’s important.”

“So is my privacy. Piss off!”

“You told me not to withhold anything from you.”

“Wadda you mean?” Foley slurred.

“I have something I think you should know.”

“About the murders?”

“Yes.”

Foley hesitated, stared into the darkness at Sam momentarily, then unlatched the screen door and stepped back into the room. “You’ve got five minutes, don’t waste ‘em.”

Sam let himself in, and looked at the bottle in Foley’s hand. “You got another one of those?”

“In the fridge,” Foley said, nodding towards the kitchen and seating himself in the chair he just vacated.

Sam returned, looked at his old partner, and lifted the drink to his lips. “Cheers,” he smiled.

“Cheers, your f*****g self,” Russell snarled. “Get on with it. What is this about?”

“I think I know who the killer is,” Sam said, matter-of-factly.

“Jesus!” Russell said, exasperated. “Give me a break. Why don’t you stick to the insurance stuff? Leave the police work to us professionals.”

“You are drunk, aren’t you?” Sam queried.

“Last I heard it’s not against the law,” Russell answered.

“I’ve known you a long time, Russell. I’ve never seen you drink this much. Look at yourself. You’re as pissed as a fart. Something must be bothering you to get yourself into this state. Is everything all right?”

With obvious effort, Foley leaned down and scooped up the discarded letter from his wife. He crumpled it up and shoved it into the pocket of his shorts. “Everything’s fine, not that it’s any of your business, but thanks for asking,” he added sarcastically. “Your concern is touching.”

“You’re welcome,” Sam said.

“Your time’s running out. What is it you really want?”

really“I told you, I think I know who the killer is.”

“Okay,” Russell shrugged. “I’ll play the game. Who do you think the killer is?”

“John Stringer.”

“Good night,” Russell scoffed. “Thanks for coming. Don’t forget to write.”

“I’m serious, Russell.”

“No, you’re not, piss off!”

“I am serious. s**t, surely you’ve considered it?”

“Yes, I’ve considered it,” Russell mocked. “For about a millisecond which, by the way, is about how much time you have left, so either get serious or get out! Stringer’s dead, you moron.”

“What if he’s not?”

“Pardon?”

“What if he’s not dead? What if he staged his suicide? People do that sometimes you know.”

“Have you been smoking something?”

“No, I haven’t been smoking anything. Think about it. Stringer swore revenge on everyone responsible for his arrest and subsequent conviction, and each of the victims had an involvement in the case. Think about it. What if he isn’t dead?”

“He’s dead, trust me. There was a positive identification, for Christ’s sake!”

“Only by dental records,” Sam pointed out.

“They’re as good as fingerprints, you know that.”

“I think I can explain that,” Sam answered.

“No, you can’t, Sam!” Foley was getting angrier. “Stringer is dead, dead and buried!”

“I want you to dig him up.”

“What?”

“I want you to exhume the body, or at least what there is left of it. I don’t think it is Stringer in that coffin.”

“You’ve got to be kidding! Are you sure you’re not the one who’s pissed?”

“Listen, Russell, just for a minute. I think Stringer killed a homeless guy he met at the Salvo’s hostel where he was living after his release. I think he killed the guy and burned his body so it couldn’t be recognised. I think he chose the guy because he had false teeth…”

“False teeth! Russell exclaimed. “False fuckin’ teeth, Jesus you have been smokin’ something!”

have“Yes damn it, false teeth!” Sam exclaimed. “I haven’t checked, but I think you’ll find Stringer had false teeth; a full set of upper, and lower dentures. I think he got the homeless guy pissed, then put a set of his own dentures in his mouth while he was out to it, and then burned him to death in his car. He wants us to think he’s dead, so he is free to pursue his promise to get all those responsible for the time he served in the slammer.”

Russell Foley burped loudly. “You’re crazy!”

“Maybe, mate, maybe, but humour me for a moment. Assume I am right.”

am“You’re not right. Stringer is dead.”

“How many suspects have you got?”

“That’s none of your business.”

“Let me guess. None! That’s how many you’ve got. You’ve got stuff all, mate! Face it! You’re no closer to catching this mongrel than you were after Richter was killed, and he was the first. How many more bodies do you want? Dig him up Russell. What have you got to lose?”

“My sanity if I listen to this s**t any longer. Jesus, what’s wrong with you? It takes a court order to authorise an exhumation, and then only on very strong evidence. Do you really expect me to ask for such an order on nothing more than this hypothetical claptrap you’ve just given me? You’re dreaming!”

reallySam made a move towards the door. “I must be to expect you to take me seriously, especially in the condition you’re in at the moment. Thanks for the beer.”

“You’re welcome,” Foley spat, “go ahead, chase your ghosts. At least while you’re looking for dead men, you’re out of my hair.”

Judge Gordon Hackett lived in an opulent two-storied residence overlooking the sea, a perfect example of the self-indulgence he long ago accepted as a by-product of his position, rather than a privilege.

These days, only his wife of thirty-two years shared the home with him, his children having flown the nest years ago. The house was far too big for the two of them, but the Hacketts loved to entertain, and this house was built for entertaining.

Sam strolled cautiously up the long, sloping driveway bordered by lavish, tropical gardens, spectacularly illuminated by outdoor lights discreetly concealed amidst the foliage, and casting a soft, green hue over the beautifully kept grounds. Professionally manicured, Sam thought, as he made his way to the house at the top of the drive. These gardens were not something the good judge would attend to on weekends. He would employ a gardener for that.

He paused outside the large, double entrance doors, and turned to look out across the water. The view was breathtaking, even at night. He turned back and studied the imposing façade of the home. The bold, pretentious display of wealth left him feeling strangely uncomfortable. He brushed absently at his shirt as if this inane gesture might iron out the wrinkles accumulated throughout the day. A small, illuminated button beside the door invited him to reach out and press it.

From somewhere deep inside the house, he heard a soft, tuneful chiming, and he suddenly wished he had chosen another time to come. As he waited, he wondered if the judge might be able to smell the beer he consumed at Foley’s home on his breath.

Sam didn’t know why, but he half expected an immaculately dressed, elderly gentleman with a refined and cultured English accent to answer the door. Perhaps he would be ushered into the drawing room where he would be kept waiting just long enough to admire priceless artworks adorning the walls. He did not expect Judge Gordon Hackett to answer the door personally.

An overhead light blinked on, the heavy double doors swung inwards, and Judge Hackett stood framed in the glow of dimmed hall lighting. Startled at the judge’s appearance, Sam could not disguise his surprise. This pillar of the Supreme Court judiciary wore an old, paint stained tee shirt over baggy, somewhat tatty shorts below which two, very white, knobbly knees peeked. On his feet, the fashion ensemble was completed with a pair of common, rubber thongs.

Gordon Hackett did not appear in the least fazed by Sam’s surprise. “Can I help you?” he asked casually.

“Judge Hackett,” Sam began. “I’m sorry to disturb you at home sir, but there is something I must talk to you about.”

The judge lifted his eyebrows. “Sam Rose, isn’t it?”

“I’m sorry, sir, yes, it is.”

Hackett looked passed Sam, down the curved driveway towards the street.

“I’m alone,” Sam confirmed the unanswered question.

“I suppose you better come in,” Hackett said, standing aside.

Sam stepped into the entrance hall. “Thank you.”

Hackett indicated that Sam should follow him. He turned and led him into a large, elaborate study on the ground floor towards the rear of the house. Sam noticed it was at least ten degrees cooler inside.

Hackett seated himself behind a huge, highly polished, ornate desk and invited Sam to sit on an obviously expensive, deep, red leather Chesterfield wing chair opposite. When Sam was seated, Hackett cleared his throat noisily.

“I’m surprised to see you here, Mister Rose. I thought I made it clear to Paddy O’Reily that you were not to make contact with me.”

“You did Your Honour, and again I apologise. Paddy doesn’t know I’m here, and I wouldn’t be if it weren’t a matter of considerable importance.”

“Very well, I accept your apology. However, I must stress again, the importance of discretion in this matter.”

Sam nodded. “Understood, sir.”

“What can I do for you?” Hackett asked, his tone softening just a little.

“I have a special request of you,” Sam said.

“Really?”

“Yes, I think I know who the killer is. In fact, I’m almost certain.”

Hackett raised his eyebrows, looking suitably surprised. “So soon? I’m impressed.”

“When it came right down to it,” Sam continued, “it was not all that difficult. Not when I looked at the connection between each of the victims.”

“Connection?”

“Yes. Each of the victims had a common connection with the killer. They were all involved in some way with his arrest and subsequent conviction.”

“He’s a criminal?” Hackett asked.

“Yes, he murdered his family, years ago.”

Hackett sat upright in his chair. “Who?”

“I believe the killer is a man named John Stringer.”

“Stringer? That name is familiar.”

“He murdered his wife and two young children. He went down for murder, vowing revenge on all those responsible. He was released on parole a few months ago.”

“Ah, yes,” Hackett nodded. “Now I remember. John Stringer?” He paused. “But, wait a minute! Didn’t he commit suicide recently?”

“That’s the common belief, yes,” Sam nodded. “However, I think he is still alive.”

“Really? Are you sure?”

“I’m reasonably certain, yes.”

“Do the police share your belief?”

“I’ve spoken to Russell Foley earlier this evening. I came here from his place. I’m afraid he doesn’t accept Stringer is still alive.”

“Does he have someone else in mind?”

“I don’t think so, no.”

“I trust he doesn’t know you are working for me?”

“He’s curious, of course, but he has no idea at this stage who hired me.”

“Good,” Hackett nodded, “it’s important it remains that way.”

“Yes, sir,” Sam agreed.

“So, what is it exactly you want from me?”

“I want a court order to exhume Stringer’s body.”

“s**t!” Hackett exclaimed. “Nothing like getting straight to the point."

“I have no other choice, sir. I tried to convince Foley that Stringer was still alive, but he is not interested in what I think.”

“Russell Foley is a good police officer,” Hackett reminded Sam.

“I agree, Your Honour. However, he and I have personal issues between us dating back a year or so, and I believe those issues are clouding his judgement.”

“That’s a pretty serious allegation, Mister Rose,” Hackett said formally.

“It’s what I feel,” Sam countered.

“Personality clashes aside,” Hackett continued, “if you can’t convince Foley Stringer is alive, what makes you think you can convince me?”

“I was hoping you could look at the overall picture with an open mind, taking into consideration all the factors that point to him still being alive.”

“Don’t you really mean only a judge can authorise an exhumation order?” Hackett said with unmasked sarcasm. “Exhumation orders are serious things. The courts do not look upon them lightly. You will need strong evidence to back up your theory. Do you have such evidence?”

really“Nothing more than a hunch,” Sam shrugged.

“That’s all?”

“It’s a strong hunch.”

“You know,” Hackett paused. “I have the greatest confidence in our medical profession here in the Territory. The Chief Pathologist is a good friend of mine. I can only assume an autopsy at the time indicated the body was John Stringer"s, and I have no doubt the autopsy would have been thorough. Are you telling me you think the pathologist made a mistake?”

“No, sir. I believe the pathologist reported exactly what he found. I also think what he found was what Stringer wanted him to find. I think what he found led him to the inevitable conclusion the body was Stringer.”

“But you think the experts are wrong, and all you have to back you up is a hunch?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“How was identification made?”

“Dental records.”

“Dental records are accepted by the courts as conclusive proof of identification. If I were to agree to your request, what can you offer to discredit those records?”

“At the moment, sir, nothing. But if we proceed, and seek identification on the assumption the body is not Stringer, I think we’ll find something. I’m certain of it.”

not“I’m familiar, of course, with your reputation. That’s why I hired you for this job in the first place. It’s for that reason, and that reason alone, I’m going to hear you out. But, I should warn you, on the face of what you’ve told me so far, I don’t like your chances. You’ll find me even harder to convince than Russell Foley.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Don’t thank me yet. I’ve only agreed to listen, and this better be good.”

Gordon Hackett listened attentively to Sam’s hypothesis, remaining noncommittal throughout on how he perceived the credibility of the story. When he had heard it all, he offered nothing more encouraging than an undertaking to consider Sam’s scenario and get back to him in due course.

In a long and distinguished career, Judge Hackett had every right to believe he had seen just about everything there was to see in regards to evidence of the commission of a crime. Now, all this business about false teeth, a missing homeless drunk, a corpse with a pickled liver, teetotallers and alcoholics, as well as roughly compiled and incomplete lists shoved under doors was, collectively, as confusing and as hypothetical as any evidence he had ever seen. Despite Rose’s obvious urgency and enthusiasm, he was not going to be pushed or cajoled into making such an important decision without first giving due consideration to the implications.

If he were to grant the request, how would the exhumation be handled? The police would have to be informed, in which case it was a certainty his involvement, and that of his colleagues, with Rose would be exposed. Consequently, his lack of faith in the current police investigation could well become a matter of public knowledge. He wondered briefly about making such an order without the knowledge of the police. Such a course would be risky. It could be done, but keeping it quiet would be difficult. Either way, he was going to take as much time as was necessary to consider his decision. Rose’s explanation amounted to, at best, circumstantial evidence, at worst, nothing more than wild, imaginative speculation. Hackett’s initial reaction was to refuse an exhumation order, based on evidence that appeared to be not much stronger than the latter of the two. However, Sam Rose was, or more accurately used to be, a good cop, and as extreme and fanciful as his speculation seemed to be, Judge Hackett was tempted to trust him.

Finding out where Ann Curtis lived was more a case of good friends in the police force than it was good detective work. A quick phone call to one such friend on duty soon produced an address. Ten minutes later, Sam found himself outside her door.

It was late, he was tired, and he knew he should not be here. He hesitated momentarily on her doorstep, and considered getting back in his car and driving away. Instead, he reached out and knocked lightly, with no response. He knocked again, louder this time, and after waiting what seemed like an inordinate length of time, he turned to leave. Suddenly, a light came on from inside, and he heard the door being unlocked.

Ann opened the door, and Sam almost gasped aloud. She wore the briefest, sheerest, sexiest silk nightie he had ever seen. His eyes were drawn instantly to the shape of her body, tauntingly obvious beneath the shimmering material.

Ann smiled seductively. “Are you going to come in, or are you going to stand there all night drooling all over my door mat?”

“You know,” Sam answered, lifting his eyes to meet hers. “You should never answer the door at this hour of the night unless you know who is on the other side, especially dressed like that,” he added as he gave her the once over again.

“One of the reasons I had windows put in when they built this place was so I could see who is at the door before I open it,” she countered.

“And do you always greet your callers dressed in your pj’s?”

Ann looked down at her attire and said, “Only the gentlemen callers. And then only the ones I think I’m falling for. And, I might add, these are not exactly your run of the mill pj’s.”

Sam allowed his eyes another slow turn over her body. “No, they’re not… you’re falling for me?”

“I’m not sure, I think so.”

“Is it my body or my mind?”

“I’ve seen your body, so I suppose it must be your mind.”

“Do you have a lot of gentlemen callers?”

“None that I think I’m falling for.”

“Should I be encouraged by that?”

“I certainly hope so.”

“You look beautiful,” Sam said.

“It took you long enough,” she smiled. “And, standing in the doorway like this with the light behind me, I’m sure the neighbourhood agrees with you.”

“Trust me, on behalf of the neighbourhood, you look beautiful.”

“And you look tired,” she said, showing genuine concern.

“I am tired. I’m also incredibly turned on, and getting even more so every minute I stand here looking at you.”

“I have a cure for that.”

“For what, the tiredness, or the turn on?”

“Both.”

“I’m intrigued. Which affliction do you suggest we take care of first?”

“Why, the most life threatening one, of course.”

“How can you tell which one that is?”

Ann looked into his eyes, held them for a second, and then lowered her gaze considerably. Sam’s anticipation was obvious. “Both conditions appear to be in need of urgent attention,” she smiled at him. “I would have to conduct a much closer, more detailed examination to tell for sure. Would you care to step into my clinic?”

“Do you bulk bill?” Sam joked.

“I have a special rate for broken down, ex-police officers,” Ann answered, stepping aside to allow Sam into the foyer.

Sam heard the door close behind him. Ann moved into his embrace, and he kissed her hungrily. His hand found the small of her back, and he pulled her closer to him, feeling the erotic silkiness of her negligee beneath his touch. She moaned softly into his mouth, and her fingers fumbled with his belt.

Soon, they were both naked, and Sam saw a longing in her eyes matched only by his own. She moved again into his arms, and guided him down onto the carpeted floor. For a long time, they lay in each other’s arms, and as their lips lingered together softly whispering, expert hands touched, and moved, gently exploring, anticipating.

When Paddy O’Reily left the casino piano bar, it was late, and he was very drunk. He stood, unsteadily, outside the main entrance doors, fumbling clumsily in his pockets for a cigarette. He was too drunk to notice the man who stood covertly watching him from the shadows of the dark tropical foliage flourishing in the surrounding gardens a few steps away. He was too drunk to realise, as the man stepped from the shadows to offer him a light, it was someone he should know.