Tallowwood Read online

  “I take it the crime scene was secured and proper evidence procedures were taken?”

  “Textbook.” Jake nodded. “Um, the file’s in the glovebox,” he said. “I thought you might like to read it, though it’s hardly complete—”

  Before Jake could finish his sentence, Shaw already had the glovebox open. Then he pulled out and opened the file. The rest of the drive into the centre of Coffs Harbour was quiet while Detective Shaw read and turned the pages quickly. Jake noticed how his brow creased, his frown deepened. He studied the photos, staring for the longest time at the photo of the remains. The victim’s shirt, although bloodstained and muddied, clearly showed the outline of the words I like boys, though the rainbow colours were now a little hard to make out.

  Jake gave him silence to process the information, the pictures.

  Fifteen minutes later, Jake had driven them into the security car park, found a spot, and shut off the engine, and Shaw hadn’t even looked up from the file. “Look familiar?” Jake asked.

  Shaw glanced over at him, his expression unreadable.

  “Well, we’re here,” Jake added, nodding out the windscreen. “Should we go in and see what they can tell us?”

  Shaw closed the file and slid it back into the glovebox. “Yeah.”

  They got out and Jake led the way to the morgue. Jake hadn’t called ahead or anything, which was probably not too professional, but Dr Schneider wouldn’t mind. Probably. She was a middle-aged, no-nonsense woman who never hesitated in telling anyone her exact thoughts, but that was what Jake liked about her. He’d worked with her on a few cases and she’d always been good to him. If she did take issue with the no-notice, early visit, Jake was sure to be told.

  The morgue was split into two sections. The front area was more for administration and reception, where the public or family members could meet without being subjected to the grisly side of the morgue.

  The back room was a long rectangular lab which looked more like a hospital ward, except for the stainless steel tables instead of beds. There was a wall of refrigeration cubicles, cabinets and drawers full of instruments, and bright fluorescent lighting. Jake thanked God for the ventilation system.

  The doors that separated the two areas were fitted with porthole windows, and when Jake looked through, he saw Dr Schneider bent over a table examining what looked like the remains they’d dropped in two days ago. “This is the ME who suggested I give you a call,” Jake told August as the doctor glanced up and waved him in.

  “Doctor Schneider,” Jake began. “I called the detective, like you suggested. He’s come up from Sydney to help—”

  “August Shaw,” she whispered.

  August’s eyes went wide. “Nina?”

  Wait, what? Nina? Jake wasn’t even sure he knew Dr Schneider’s first name. Up until this very moment he wasn’t even aware she had one. He’d never heard anyone use it. Ever.

  She put the back of her gloved hand to her mouth and was a little teary. “My God. It’s been—”

  “Eight years,” Shaw finished. Then surprising Jake, Dr Schneider crossed the floor and hugged Detective Shaw. And surprising Jake even more, Detective Shaw hugged her right back.

  Chapter Three

  August couldn’t believe his eyes. Nina Schneider, of all people. Many years ago, they’d met on a case, been associates, colleagues even, and over the years had become good friends. He hadn’t seen her since . . . well, he hadn’t seen her in eight years. “I heard you went north. Last I heard it was Gosford,” he said.

  “It’s the pull of the sun,” she answered. “Like a migrating bird. At this rate, I’ll be in Cairns by the time I retire.”

  August smiled. “You look good, Nina. Coastal life agrees with you.”

  “You look good too, August. I’m sorry I never kept in touch. Life gets busy, ya know?”

  “You don’t need to apologise. I know how it is.” And the truth was, August did know. He knew all too well how life kept going whether you wanted it to or not.

  “How’ve you been keeping?”

  “Hmm.” He shrugged, almost about to tell his old friend the truth when he remembered that Porter was in the room. He was looking between them, clearly surprised. So August explained, “Doctor Schneider and I worked together for years. Before she gave up the rat race and followed the sun.”

  “I might have given up the rat race, but it hasn’t given up on me,” she said, turning to the remains on the table. “And if you’re here August, I can only assume we have connected cases.”

  August gave her a nod. “It’s a possibility, yeah.” He gestured to the man beside him. “Senior Constable Porter phoned me yesterday. Said there was a note and a silver cross.”

  Nina gave a hard nod and went to a display of photos on the table. “Found in his right front pocket. The original’s being tested, but you can see the writing in the photo clear enough.” She paused and sighed. “August, it’s . . . familiar.”

  “Can I see it?”

  Frowning, she handed a photograph to August. The photo, with all the correct case information and evidence numbers, showed a piece of paper, creased with a centre fold, yellowed with age, and smeared with something that August supposed was likely blood. And printed, in handwritten blue ink, was a line he knew by heart.

  I’m sorry I can’t be what you want.

  Nothing gold can stay.

  Even though he’d been expecting it—Porter had told him about this already—seeing it made August’s knees almost buckle.

  “You okay?” Nina asked.

  August nodded, even though he wasn’t okay at all.

  Nina handed him a second photo. August didn’t need to look at that for too long either. The silver cross was tarnished. The silver chain it hung from was knotted and caked with brownish residue, possibly human remains, blood, mud, or a mix of all three.

  “And the box cutter?” August asked, his voice flat.

  “It’s been sent in for testing,” Jake replied. “It was rusted and caked with God knows what. Not sure we’ll get much. Maybe blood to say it was the weapon used, but prints or usable DNA are unlikely. Hoping for a miracle though.”

  Nina and Jake both watched August as he turned his attention to the remains on the table. “What can you tell me?” he asked Nina.

  “I’m not a forensic anthropologist,” she said.

  August almost scoffed. “You’ve been doing this long enough to know enough.”

  “I’ll ignore the dig about my age,” Nina said, then she sighed and frowned. “Off the record. Deceased was male, Caucasian, aged between eighteen and twenty-two. Approximately five foot ten. Shoe size ten. Hair was blond, but at first glance under the scope, it appeared to be bleached so I’ve sent it away to confirm. No apparent signs of perimortem injury. I still have a fair bit to go over but if I had to guess, given the blood on his clothes, I’d say he bled out. Bloodstains are predominantly over the lower left side of his clothing so if I had to bet on it, I’d say the ulnar or radial artery was cut. Or both.” Nina smiled sadly and straightened one of the finger bones, just a fraction. Then she pointed to the arm bone. “Had a broken right radius when he was about eight years old; it healed well. Perfect teeth, so I assumed he’d had braces, and yes, before you ask, I’ve already requested dentals. I could guess and say he was well-cared for as a child.”

  August looked over the remains. There were only bones left, laid out on the table, and from the photos of the crime scene he’d had a quick look at in the car, August knew they’d been exposed to the elements for years. “Care to guess at a date of death?”

  “Now that I am guessing. First glance I’d say five to seven years. Maybe more. Ten?”

  August shot her a look. “It’s not like you to be so broad.”

  She smiled at him and walked around the table to collect another bag. “Bodies I usually examine have flesh and wounds. Not to mention this one was found partially exposed in a temperate rainforest, not in the city, August. Decomp varies accor
ding to the elements and circumstances. There is a different entomological and bacterial activity, plant growth and fungi. PH levels, sunlight, clothing . . . He didn’t appear to be wearing much, and that can fast track decomposition, but if it’s too wet, maggots can’t do their thing and that slows decomp down. But the bacterial levels in rainforests make quick work of a body, August. I can’t even really guess.”

  August scrunched his nose up at the thought.

  Nina continued, “Skeleton is incomplete too. Missing two ribs and several phalanges on the right hand and metacarpals. I’m guessing scavengers or birds. There’s no perimortem trauma to the skeleton to suggest otherwise, that I can see anyway.”

  August looked over the remains. “Nina, I think we should get a forensic anthropologist. I’m not second guessing your—”

  “I’ve already put a call in,” she said. “I knew it wasn’t my area of expertise the second they brought him in. I can do preliminary, but I’m not cleaning or doing any micros on the bones.”

  He gave her a grateful smile. He knew Nina well enough to know she’d never jeopardise a case because of her ego. “Thank you.”

  She held up a large brown bag with EVIDENCE clearly marked on the side. “His clothes. I’ve sent away all the samples I could. No jewellery, nothing discernible. He was wearing high-top Converse, short denim shorts, and a tank top, so maybe it was summer.”

  “Or maybe he was from way down south, or from a different country, and our winter was the same as his summer,” Porter added. Then he shot Nina a panicked look. “Not that I’m contradicting you at all, Doctor Schneider. It just stands to reason that there could be other possibilities. Once, we took a family trip to Tasmania in summer, and I froze my arse off. While everyone else in the state wore shorts and T-shirts, I was in jeans and a jumper.” Then because he obviously didn’t know when to quit, he added, “Or maybe the vic was from up north where it was hot and he hitchhiked down here and found it cold. Or maybe he was wearing a coat but wasn’t buried with it. Or maybe he hooked out of the truck stop and that was his preferred uniform.”

  Nina and August both stared at him. Nina smiled. “Those scenarios could be true. The Senior Constable makes a valid point.”

  August found his lips quirking up a little. “Yes, he does.”

  Porter’s cheeks tinged pink and August could see a sprinkle of freckles. Porter cleared his throat. “So, Detective,” he said. “What do you think? Look familiar?”

  August looked over the photographs he was holding and sighed. “Uh, yeah.”

  Nina’s expression grew grim. “How many?”

  “With the note and the cross, this would be eight. Seven official cases.”

  “Seven . . . ” Nina whispered.

  August nodded, and Porter let out a quiet, “Fucking hell.” Then he gave Nina another panicked look. “Sorry.”

  She shook her head. “It’s okay, Porter. The use of fucking hell is appropriate.”

  “All with the same note; all with a cross of some kind,” August murmured. “All posed to look like suicides.”

  Nina’s face softened, saddened. “August . . .”

  He wasn’t about to have that conversation with her, especially not in front of Porter. “The timeline is questionable, and the location. The other bodies were found in Sydney.” His brow furrowed as he thought aloud. “This could change everything.” Fuck. A fresh wave of grief and anger welled inside August, and he did his best to tamp it down. He turned to Porter. “How close are we to getting an ID on this guy?”

  Porter floundered for half a second before he collected himself. “I was hoping Doctor Schneider would have something we could use as a lead. There was no wallet, no ID.”

  “Missing persons bring up anything?”

  “About a thousand hits,” Porter replied. “Without the specifics, the search was too wide. If Doctor Schneider says he had braces at some point, that’ll narrow it down. We can photograph the clothes. Someone might remember seeing him.”

  Nina gave him a nod. “And the broken arm. But there’s no other discerning marks on the skeleton, sorry.” She gave August an apologetic smile. “I’ll call you when I’ve spoken to the forensic anthropologist.”

  “Bartlett?” August asked.

  Nina nodded. “I know he’s an arse, but he’s good at what he does.”

  August nodded. Bartlett had a superiority complex that August had zero time for, and considering Bartlett had been the resident expert on all the skeletal remains of August’s cold cases, he’d worked with him a lot. “You’re right. He is an arse, and he’s good at being an arse.”

  Nina grinned. “How long are you in town for? We should do dinner or coffee.”

  “I’d like that,” August admitted. “But I’m not sure. I’ll probably be leaving tomorrow. I want to go to the site where the body was found and collate some data and cross reference. I think this is going to change my entire investigation.”

  “I should have lab results for the DNA, box cutter, and soil back in a few hours,” Nina said. “Hopefully I can give you a better estimate on time of death.” Their meeting had run its course, so she walked them out to the front reception area, fetched a business card, and gave it to August. “My number.”

  “Thank you, Nina,” August said. “It’s been so good to see you again.”

  “You too.” She eyed Porter, then gave August an apologetic look. “We’ll talk later.”

  Despite his general avoidance of human interaction over the last eight years, he actually looked forward to catching up with her. He didn’t have to explain anything because she already knew. She was there when his life went to hell; she understood. “We will.”

  When they were alone, Porter finally turned to August. He thought for one horrifying moment he was going to want more details of how he knew Nina, but he was pleasantly surprised when Porter nodded his chin toward the car park. “Want me to take you to the crime scene?”

  “Yes please.”

  Chapter Four

  Jake didn’t need to draw from his fifteen years as a cop to know there was a whole lot left unsaid between August and Dr Schneider. It was pretty obvious. There was a heaviness to August, in his energy, like he carried the weight of the world on his shoulders. Like he carried the heaviest burden. He was dark and brooding, even grumpy, and that suited his tough detective demeanour. But he’d smiled a few times to Dr Schneider, and for the briefest moments, Jake thought he got to see a different side to August. A side he didn’t show too many people. A side he didn’t show too often. A side that had been marred by a career of death and murder.

  The drive up through the mountains to Tallowwood went by in silence. Jake didn’t mind though; he loved driving through the forest. August spent the half hour studying the file from the glovebox, poring over photos and descriptions. The file was mostly incomplete—they didn’t have results for any evidence back yet—and August only looked up as they drove into the small, sleepy town.

  Tallowwood had a population of about three thousand people, including the surrounding districts, farmland and forests. The township itself was small, consisting of one pub, a primary school, a church, a small grocery shop, and a petrol station. There was a sporting field by the small creek, a twenty-five-metre public swimming pool, an old playground with old climbing frames and an even older town hall. Oh, and a three-person police station.

  Jake loved it here. He’d grown up here, gone to school here, and still chatted with Mrs Barber, his old fourth grade teacher, when he saw her at the shop. He loved the way the rainforests framed his town, and how it seemed a million miles away from the hustle and bustle of tourism central on the coast.

  He pulled the Patrol up at the front of the police station. It was a brick building, built in the 1930s. It was charming, old and rustic, which meant cold in winter and hot in summer. The police residence was a small weatherboard house, painted yellow, with wisteria growing over the bullnose veranda that completed the charming aesthetic. Jake’s boss l
ived in the house that adjoined the station. A perk of being the ranking officer.

  Jake got out of the Patrol, and the first thing he noticed was the sound of the birds. The rainforest was always a symphony of chirps, whirrs, and calls. Apparently the first thing August noticed was the station house. “Did you drive through a time vortex back there? Or are we on the set of The Sullivans?”

  Jake laughed. So August did have a sense of humour. “Looks like it, but no. I just need to grab a few things, so if you want, I’ll introduce you.” He opened the gate and went through the front door of the station.

  Constable Deans looked up from the front desk. “Morning,” she said. Then she mumbled, “Nice of you to show up. I’ve been utterly swamped. The phone hasn’t stopped, and there are a thousand reports to file.”

  “It’s not even nine, and I’ve already been to the airport and the examiner’s office in Coffs,” Jake replied. Not that he had to justify himself, but he did feel bad for leaving the paperwork to her.

  “I told the Sarge that when he asked where you were,” she said. “He took forensics to the scene.”

  Great.

  Jake stood aside and motioned to the man behind him. “Uh, Detective August Shaw, this is Constable Kaycee Deans.”

  Kaycee shot to her feet, her hand extended. “Pleasure to meet you, sir.”

  “Likewise,” August replied as they shook hands.

  “So, the Sarge was pissed?” Jake asked.

  Kaycee stared at him. “Uh, yes.”

  “At me?”

  “At this whole mess mostly, but you weren’t here, so yes, you. He hates that someone died in his town, and he hates that there’s police from Sydney and Coffs all over too.” She rolled her eyes. “You know what he’s like.”