Dark City Blue: A Tom Bishop Rampage (6 page)

The vehicle was registered to an Alison Allen.

DOB: 28/03/1986

HAIR COLOUR: Red

EYE COLOUR: Green

PARENTS: Deceased

OCCUPATION: Unknown

Her sheet told more of the story and nothing unique. Six counts of shoplifting, one count of solicitation.

Her Californian bungalow sat at the bend of a street in what used to be a fashionable suburb. Bishop parked a hundred feet away with the rear of his car facing Alison’s rented dump. Tilting the rear-view mirror so he could see the house, he climbed into the back seat and waited.

He was heading into his fifth straight hour of staring into the ten-inch mirror when there was finally some movement. A clunker of a Ford pulled into the driveway, and it was the same one from the Merc’s SD footage. Smoke pumped from the exhaust, engulfing the entire rear end. Through the haze, a petite woman in Daisy Dukes, cowboy boots, and sporting a head of bright red hair, climbed out and ran into the house. A few moments later, she bounced back out again, back into the Ford and pulled out into the street. Bishop climbed over the front seat, cranked up the engine and followed.

She was a good driver, legal. Kept to the limit. Gave way when she was meant to and never ran a light. She pulled into a fast food joint and grabbed a bite before heading over to the free clinic in St Kilda where she waltzed through the front door like a regular; given that none of the junkies that decorated the front steps bothered her, she probably was. An hour later, she left and was back on the road.

It was getting late. Shadows stretched out over the city and within a few blocks everything was black. Neon lights began to flicker on and the streets were slowly filling with those who preyed on the weak and valuable. Bishop followed the Ford down a series of streets where every other house was vacant, covered with graffiti or a burnt-out shell. Some of the street lights flickered, others didn’t work at all.

The traffic thinned. Bishop flicked off his headlights and cut his speed by half. The Ford moved farther ahead and almost disappeared. Then, its tail-lights brightened as she rolled to a stop outside an all-night service station. Climbing out, Alison ran across the road and into an alley. Bishop pulled into the station and sidled up to the bowser with a good view of the alley.

Alison Allen swung her hips from side to side as she strutted toward an idling Commodore. She climbed inside. Brushed her hair behind her ears, took the gum from her mouth and blew the guy behind the wheel.

It was Con Taylor.

He dug around in the boot and found a tape recorder and a primitive wire that Bishop latched onto the pocket of his jeans. He hit record and moved down the alley.

Con Taylor’s eyes were closed with his head aimed to the roof. Alison Allen had a face full of balls. Neither of them saw him coming. Bishop ripped open the driver’s side door, grabbed Taylor by the collar and dumped him on the concrete face first. He came up with one hand yanking at his pants and the other going for his shoulder holster.

Bishop was faster. ‘I’d think twice about that,’ he said and took aim at his skull.

A flicker of recognition flashed across Taylor’s face. ‘Jesus, Bishop. The fuck you doing?’

The passenger door opened and Alison stumbled out, her arms around her body for warmth. She avoided looking Bishop in the eye.

‘Go home, sweetheart,’ he said.

A couple of moments after her footsteps disappeared out of the alley, the echo of a busted engine faded into the night.

‘You scared the shit out of me,’ Taylor said, lighting a cigarette.

He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. Agitated and anxious. It was a different Con Taylor from the one Bishop had seen earlier today. He was drug fucked but his habit wasn’t a twenty-four-hour thing yet.

Bishop lowered his weapon, kept it close.

‘What do you want man?’ His voice sounded as if somebody had given it the once-over with a sander.

‘How about the fifteen million, for a start.’

‘What?’

‘Where were you between four and seven this morning?’

‘Fuck you,’ he spat, making an awkward attempt to get back into his car. Bishop pulled him back.

‘Where were you?’

‘At home in bed.’

‘Alone?’

‘Nah, with me wife.’

‘Will Trisha back you up after I tell her about Alison?’

They both knew the answer.

‘I know Alison’s car was a spotter.’

‘Go fucking arrest her, then.’

‘She wasn’t driving. You were too stupid or too lazy to go and steal a clean car, so you used hers.’

Instantly, Taylor sobered up. He planted his feet and locked onto Bishop with a hard stare.

‘Prove it.’

‘I can.’

‘With your little SD footage?’ He patted himself down. ‘Yeah, I’m not too sure where I left that. You know how it is: evidence gets lost all the time.’

Bishop felt the hum of the tape recorder against his leg. ‘That’s not all I’ve got.’

‘We’ve all got some dirt, mate.’ Taylor lit another cigarette off the butt of his last. ‘What do they expect? I can’t even pay my bills; none of us fucking can.’ Spit flew from his mouth. ‘Tell me you don’t have something going on the side.’ Bishop shook his head and Taylor dismissed him with a wave of his hand. ‘Well, you’re fucked in the head, then.’

It was starting to drizzle. The rain formed a wall of mist between them.

Taylor squinted. His face pulled to the side. ‘What do you think you’re going to do now?’

‘We go in. You come clean.’

‘Fuck you. I ain’t going anywhere.’

Bishop tightened his grip on his weapon. ‘Yeah, you are.’

Taylor paced one way, then another. Like he was already in a cell. ‘We’re everywhere, you idiot. We’re junior constables. We’re senior badges. We’re inspectors and we’re in every department. We run this department and who are you? Who the fuck are you?’

‘I’m the guy who does his job.’

Taylor sized him up. ‘You take me in and Justice will bury you.’

‘With your thumb and finger, take out your weapon,’ Bishop said.

‘You don’t have the balls.’

‘Maybe,’ he said, ‘maybe not.’

Taylor shifted his weight, dropped his shoulder.

Bishop shot him twice.

Smoke drifted from the barrel, past Bishop’s scratched badge and faded into night. Sirens in the distance bounced off empty buildings and echoed for miles around. Then came the prowlers and the uniforms; they cordoned off the alley with tape at either end and stood as silhouetted guards. Homicide detectives walked the scene: primary information; chain of events; what the fuck happened. To them, Bishop didn’t exist. He couldn’t be spoken to, questioned without a rep or lawyer present. As it was, Bishop wasn’t feeling too chatty.

Scene photographers lit up the area in bursts of light that lasted only a fraction but left the negative of murder scorched into the memories of those who watched. When the floodlights were erected there was no escaping the scene. A Homicide dick slid on a pair of Ray-Bans while another with latex gloves took all the care in the world to pull back Taylor’s coat. His service weapon sat snug and holstered. The dick looked to his partner, shook his head, and they both looked to Bishop. Neither of them were impressed.

Anybody who shifted their weight the way Taylor had was going for a weapon. It took a lifetime of working the street for Bishop to gain that half-second drop on him. He was twenty-two the first time he’d killed someone. The commission flats in Flemington. Ecstasy lab. Bishop was first through the door. Shotgun in his face. His training had kicked in and the shooter was dead before Bishop could think about anything. It was a good kill. Clean and justified. They said it would get easier over time; it never did, and, in the years that followed, with each killing, it only got worse. He remembered their names and faces. He thought about their families, friends, girlfriends and children. Justified or not, killing was killing.

Rain fell from the sky in heavy drops taking away the evidence in small increments.

A junior hovered over Taylor’s body. ‘Hey, check this out.’

Bishop stepped forward with the murder detectives. The junior waved a light over Taylor’s wrist, illuminating the number seven. Clubs, strippers, whorehouses: it could have been the entry stamp to a hundred off-the-map joints.

From behind the floodlights, Bishop watched a figure limp toward him. Even before he saw his face, he knew the limping silhouette belonged to Jim Patterson from Ethical Standards.

‘It’s been a big day for you, hasn’t it?’ he said.

‘And to think I didn’t even put in for overtime,’ Bishop said. ‘Are you here to take me in?’

‘No. Not yet,’ he said and dipped his eyes to Taylor’s corpse. ‘Somehow I think you and I are interested in chasing up the same type of leads.’

‘Are you looking to get your face in the paper again?’

‘I’m just looking to bury dirty cops.’

‘Hey,’ a voice called from behind them. It was Rayburn. He pointed to Patterson with a stubby finger. ‘Get the fuck out of here.’

Patterson was used to it. He shifted his gaze back to Bishop. ‘We’ll talk soon.’

‘Not without his fuckin’ lawyer he won’t.’ Rayburn put a hand around Bishop’s arm. ‘Let’s take a walk.’

They headed out of the alley, into the street where Bishop could see the service station attendant being questioned by Russell, Cooper and Warren, probably chasing a surveillance tape.

They passed a couple of boarded-up shopfronts and slowed to a stop, far enough away from anyone with big ears.

Rayburn lit a cigarette. Bishop went for his. Empty. He tossed the pack.

‘Here.’ Rayburn handed him his deck and Bishop lit up. ‘What the hell happened?’

‘Taylor was in on the armoured truck job.’

Rayburn leant against some plywood in place of where a window used to be. ‘Bullshit.’

‘SD card from the Merc: it showed a spotter. After the crew left, it pulled out. The tag was registered to a piece of arse Taylor was banging on the side. Alison Allen. I followed her to him and he didn’t like it too much.’ Bishop looked up and down the street, then fixed his gaze on Rayburn. ‘Did you know?’

‘What? Fuck, no. I knew about the drinking, the whoring, but nothing like this.’ He rubbed his tired face. ‘Twelve people are dead. Thirteen, including him. You sure about this?’

Bishop dug his fingers into his jeans pocket, pulled out the tape recorder and showed it to Rayburn. For just under ten minutes Rayburn paced the footpath chain-smoking cigarettes with the tape recorder pushed to his ear. His face contorted at different moments with what he heard and when it was over he didn’t say anything for a long time.

‘You need to be taken into protective custody,’ he eventually came out with.

Bishop took the recording from Rayburn and slipped it in his pocket. ‘I don’t need protection.’

He ran his fingers through his thinning hair and paced. ‘Don’t be an idiot. This is bad. Real fucking bad. Cops pulling jobs. Cops killing citizens. Cops killing cops.’ Rayburn pointed down the alley to the badges working the scene. ‘Taylor couldn’t have been alone. You think they’ll give a fuck that you’re a cop?
They’re
cops. You won’t last ten minutes out on the street.’ He shifted his gaze back to Bishop, nodded at his service weapon. ‘Is that it?’

‘Uh huh.’

Rayburn pulled out an evidence bag and with a flick of his wrist it opened. ‘Put it in.’ Bishop hesitated until Rayburn pulled a second piece from the waistband of his trousers and handed it over. ‘Take my backup.’

Bishop dropped his service weapon inside and palmed Rayburn’s backup. He checked the rounds: loaded.

The scene was wrapping up and the time to roll Taylor into the body bag had come. They threw him in roughly. Nobody complained.

Twenty minutes into the ride and nobody had said a word. Warren drove at a steady, cautious speed. Every once in a while, he’d shoot a glance in the rear-view mirror, his gaze meeting Bishop’s for a moment before shifting away as if he’d been caught doing something he shouldn’t have. Bishop was in the back seat, sandwiched between Russell and Cooper. Russell had bad breath and Cooper BO. There wasn’t anything Bishop could do about either. Rayburn sat up front in the passenger seat and stretched out.

A dog ran in front of the car, slowed in the middle of the road. His yellow eyes lit up. Warren swerved around him.

Nobody said anything.

It had been two nights since Bishop last slept and he was wide awake: his body running on adrenaline and fear. Bishop stared through the windscreen as the streets blurred past. Not too long ago, the whole area was its own city of industry, made up of rows of factories that pumped out useless products nobody needed, now it sat dormant.

Rayburn leant forward and pushed in the cigarette lighter. When it popped out and he raised it to light his cigarette, Bishop could just make out the mark on his wrist in the glowing coil. It was a stamp.

The number seven.

Rayburn sensed his mistake even as he made it, he turned, saw it all over Bishop’s face. He went for his weapon. His gut got in the way.

Bishop rammed his elbow into Russell’s throat. Head flung back. His back arched. A scream shoved into an angered moan.

Russell, weapon behind him. Struggled to reach. Gave up. Threw a jab to Bishop’s ribs. Let out a yell. Another jab. He heard a crack.

Rayburn, weapon in hand. Swung Bishop’s way. He lifted his knee to chin. Catapulted forward. Rammed Rayburn’s gun hand to the dashboard. Pushed it there. Held it.

Bishop pulled his weapon and rammed it under Russell’s chin. Pulled the trigger.

CLICK.

CLICK.

CLICK.

No firing pin.

The vehicle swerved. Warren pulled his gun. He swung it over the seat and fired.

Bishop went deaf.

He was covered in glass and the rear window was gone.

Russell jabbed Bishop’s broken ribs.

Rayburn was slipping free.

Cooper pried at Bishop’s elbow.

Warren took aim again. His eyes darted between Bishop and the road. Bishop and the road.

Warren pulled the hammer back. The blast came. A muzzle flash scorched Bishop’s leg, but the bullet buried itself in the back seat.

Bishop took a fistful of Cooper’s hair. Rammed his head through the passenger window. Broke Russell’s nose with an elbow and climbed through the shattered rear window onto the boot.

The rain, the speed and his age collided. Bishop came off the back and slapped the wet concrete.

The vehicle came to a sliding stop.

Bishop’s body screamed in pain. Everything told him to stay down. To give up.

Car doors opened and closed.

He gasped for air. His ribs tightened. He peeled himself of the concrete and disappeared into the darkness.

They were out there.

Bishop could hear their footsteps and muffled whispers. He stayed in the shadows and held his breath. A thump echoed through his body with each beat of his heart. His scorched leg ached; his hands shook.

Eyes closed, Bishop took a breath, then another and another after that. Slowly his hands steadied, his mind cleared.

It took him forty-five minutes to travel three blocks. He was almost within sight of the main street. Service stations, pubs, bars, people.

Then he heard the hammer pull back.

Russell should have put him down right there. Scared, dumb, who knew, but he hesitated when he rose up from behind a skip with his weapon on Bishop.

‘Turn around,’ he said.

Bishop did.

‘Walk.’

Bishop did.

Russell trailed behind. Every so often, their steps would fall out of sync and the barrel of his Beretta would push into the back of Bishop’s spine.

They reached the end of the block.

‘Hang a left’.

Their sedan idled in the middle of the empty road. No sign of the rest of the crew.

Russell pulled out his phone, dialled. ‘I got him … I’ll chuck him in the boot.’ He hung up.

Bishop came to a stop at the rear. The boot popped open. Keyless entry.

Russell jabbed the back of Bishop’s head with his gun and said, ‘Get in.’

The sedan pulled around and half a block later came to a stop. Exhaust fumes blew a steady stream of white from the rear. For a brief moment everything was quiet.

The footsteps came.

Out of the darkness surfaced a shotgun followed by its owner, Rayburn, then Warren behind him with his own weapon in hand. They moved to the boot. Warren threw a glance to Rayburn as if he was asking permission. With his heavy chin almost touching his chest, Rayburn nodded the
okay
and the pair of them unleashed hell.

Shotgun blasts shattered the silence. Muzzle flashes lit up the street. The metal of the boot tore and contorted under the double aught buck pounding in. A tire deflated. The sedan dipped back and to the left.

They made Bonnie and Clyde look like pussies.

Eighteen shells later the thunder ceased but it took a couple of seconds longer for the echoes to fade. Gun smoke lingered in the air. Warren jammed a finger in his ear and tried to shake loose the deafness. Rayburn checked the breech of his weapon. They both relaxed. A job well done.

‘Russell,’ Rayburn called. ‘Come check this out.’

They heard nothing.

The driver’s side door was wide open and still swinging from the impact the sedan had taken. A step or two later, Warren peeked inside.

Empty.

After a look to Rayburn they both found their attention drawn to the boot. Rayburn drew his sidearm and took aim. Warren did the same and swung his foot up under the lock and kicked the boot open.

They found the bloody corpse of Russell.

Rayburn tightened his fist. He wanted to punch. ‘Shit,’ he mumbled. ‘He’s got the recording.’