Fall (25 page)

For ten minutes, in silence, Eden and I sat on my desk and looked at a huge map of Sydney. Sometimes you've got to do that – just sit and ‘be', absorb the electric potential around a crime, let the thing talk to you. It doesn't matter if it's before or after the event itself. A bank before a robbery is dripping with the ripe juices of violence. Everything smelling of the air-freshener plug-ins and unused paper, the slightly metallic scent of money. You can tell what a crime will be like with an environment that small. Vicious black boots crumpling white paper. The bank-teller ladies crying.

The potential of the Sydney streets flooded with cheering, huffing runners was accessible but the dream was faint. I could see people drinking on balconies, cheering the hordes as they shuffled through. I could see banner-bearing teens whooping on street corners, brandishing bottles of Gatorade from atop milk crates. Big fold-out tables full of paper cups of water. I'd done the City2Surf a few times as a young man so I knew how people got into it, the way they swept and let themselves be swept by the momentum of the herd. Groups of businessmen in ironic lime green tutus, faces painted, arms rocking back and forth, calves straining. Women with prams powering up Heartbreak Hill.

I knew that Eden, sitting beside me with her hands resting in her lap, was thinking along the same lines, but she'd have all the lethality I lacked powering through her killer mind as she followed the neatly marked streets and laneways with her eyes. The gaping mouth of Sydney Harbour in its peaceful, monochromatic pale blue. She'd be remembering bodies we pulled out of that harbour while I found myself thinking of my surfing days.

The four running tracks all began beside the bridge at Kirribilli, the overflow of runners stretching, exercise companies hawking merchandise and spectators waiting to cheer on friends and family all swirling around Bradfield Park, where Jill Noble's body had been found lying against one of the Harbour Bridge pylons.

Jill had been all over the news that morning, shots of the base of the pylon buried in flowers and teddies beneath maps marking the run routes, loading the pressure of finding her killer onto my shoulders like a third massive weight dropped into a pack on my back. Her family in tears. The angry public swarming around the pylon, yelling at the television cameras. The five-kilometre run started here and looped around and headed over the bridge towards the city, then turned left into the Domain. The nine-K left Kirribilli and went northeast, curling around in a question-mark shape and ending up at the park surrounding Manly Dam. The twenty-one kilometre runners would go northwest, finishing at Lane Cove National Park. The marathon runners looped and headed south through the city, along Anzac Parade towards La Perouse beach. They curved around the beach, ran up along the coast, taking in Coogee and Bondi, before finishing in Centennial Park.

There were eighty kilometres of running track to secure. Fifteen thousand people had registered for the run in the first four hours and there were plenty more to come. I couldn't help wondering if there were some people running in the hopes of catching a glimpse of the killer in action, the sick fantasy of the runner ahead suddenly disappearing off the side of the darkened road in the grip of a shadow, like an antelope snatched from a riverside by a croc. Gone in seconds, the ensuing panic of the runners nearby, the moment of delicious heroism when asked to give a police witness statement. ‘I looked up, and I saw her eyes as she was being pulled towards the roadside. I'll never forget those desperate eyes –' Cue interviews with the local papers.

Captain James was on a television set in the coffee room condemning the festival and handing out warnings about personal safety. I could hear his fatherly voice above the shouting of reporters, eventually cut over by the news anchor. The government had leaped on the opportunity to support the festival – it had all the proactive feminist angles both parties liked to appear involved in (without all the fuss of actual policies and reforms). It looked good for their stance on women's health. Domestic violence. Violent crime.

Phone companies were going to decorate the start and finish lines with ridiculous foam mascots, and fitness companies had plans to slap ball caps on potential new members as they trotted by. High fives and big smiles. There was going to be a minute's silence before the starting gun to mark the victims who had inspired the run.

Caroline Eckhart and the City of Sydney had turned three brutal killings into what would probably end up an annual
fitness wankfest with all the associated sweat, glory and plastic participation medals.

I sighed. This was going to be a nightmare.

Our colleagues swirled around us, distant birds fluttering, trying to stay out of Eden's orbit as they worked through the panic of police planning over the festival. She'd always frightened them. They didn't know why. Her brother had been the real terror in the hearts of the Drug Squad cops and beat cops and forensics experts in the office, but they still endured real nerves around Eden even when the shark in the tank was well dead. They weren't sure what kind of creature Eden was, but they didn't like the look of her spikes. Only I knew how poisonous she really was.

‘So,' I said eventually, gesturing to the map. Eden looked at me for a moment.

‘Yes?'

‘You're the one with the killer instincts. How would you do it?'

‘I wouldn't,' she said flatly.

‘Are you still upset with me over the Trumper Park thing?'

‘No,' she said.

‘Yes,' I corrected.

‘I have no emotions about the Trumper Park thing. Emotion right now would be a hindrance to our planning.'

‘You're upset with me about the Trumper Park thing,' I nodded. ‘You're upset that for a moment I suggested that you might be one type of killer, while really you're another. You've actually got your sook on about the variety of serial killer you are.'

She closed her eyes and chewed her lips. Seemed to be restraining herself from reaching over and strangling me that
very second. Strangely, I didn't get the flushed cheeks and clenching stomach I usually felt when I tiptoed into dangerous territory with Eden. Maybe I was finally getting over my fear of her. Or more likely, I was being lulled into a false sense of security. I knew mixed into it somewhere was a real anger at her, an anger that was growing, a reaction to the physical and mental barrier she presented in my journey to wellness.

Jesus. I rubbed my eyes. I was being seduced by the support group bullshit.

‘You'll get over this,' Eden said, still scanning the map. ‘Anger is a part of grief.'

‘I'm not angry You're angry!'

‘You're angry. Why else would you be taking pathetic pot shots at me about my night-time activities?'

‘Oh, I don't know. Because your night-time activities are what I have devoted my life to putting a stop to?'

‘Devoted your life. Please. It was cop or council worker, Frank. Let's be realistic.'

‘You're right. I'll just get over it.'

‘If you had any idea what kind of killer I am, you'd be well over it,' she snapped suddenly, turning her blank, snake eyes on me. ‘It's killers like me who keep the predator count down, you absolutely clueless fool of a man.'

I felt my cheeks flush. Ah, there it was. The old terror.

‘You want to know why the Glebe morgue isn't stuffed full of more Martinas?' she asked, eyes wide. ‘Because of killers like me.'

Eden tapped her chest violently, left white dots beneath her collarbone that faded before my eyes. I'd touched her. It was kind of cathartic, getting her all worked up. Sharing the ache and the upset.

‘I don't understand what you're talking about,' I said.

‘That's because you're an idiot,' she seethed. She yanked her cap straight. ‘People like you see the world through a … a pinhole. You have no idea that there are so very many different types of evil. You're blind. Blind.'

‘Those four up in Byron. Were they …? I mean you're saying you hunt … evil people.'

‘I'm done talking about this.'

‘Were they bad people? The young couple, too? Is that why you do it? Did Benjamin Annous and his crew do someth–'

I realised that I was holding Eden's arm, trying to pin her, to force her to answer my questions. She wrenched herself free. I became aware that people were assembling all around us.

Eden slipped off the table and walked to the map. Our colleagues were reluctant to meet eyes with her. They stared at the ceiling, the map, their shoes. Eden took a blue marker from the edge of the partition on which the map was pinned.

‘People will be safe in big groups.' She rolled her shoulders, shrugging off our argument, and started marking the four running paths on the map with savage gestures. ‘So at the start of each run, when they're all together, there's little chance anyone will get snatched.'

She took a pink marker and coloured in the four paths running from the start line. The first few kilometres north, before the paths split. The bridge south.

‘They'll also be under the watchful gaze of spectators at each finish line,' Eden continued. ‘The parks will be flooded with people. They'll all be on the lookout for a white van. So we can assume the risk there is low too.'

Eden drew a big pink circle around all four parks. I felt the
tightness in my chest easing as she stood back and revealed the four paths, each now slashed by pink marks.

‘Along these paths, the danger zones will be unlit areas with discreet vehicle access. The runners will spread out as they go up hills and around corners. We can cross off these denser areas, where the killer won't want to be caught on CCTV in shopfronts and petrol stations. There are also the traffic cameras and bridges where spectators will assemble to watch the runners. So considering all that, these are the primary zones we should man heavily.'

Eden coloured in eight blocks of roadway, three of them on the path belonging to the marathoners.

‘The marathon runners are the bulk of our concern, obviously,' she said, following the path with the butt of her pen as she looped around the beach at La Perouse. ‘They've got the farthest to go. There are fewer of them. They'll be under a lot more physical strain than the other runners, so they'll be an easier target for an abduction.

‘A lot of these areas out here on the marathon route, especially near the prison, are bushy. There are side roads down through Port Botany where a van could easily be lost. All this, here, behind Hillsdale, this is all industrial. Perfect place to stop and get the job done, dump the body and keep moving. The runners should be safe again by the time they head back up the coast. The backpackers in Coogee and Bondi will be out in force to cheer them on. So we'll have to have a heavy police presence all the way from Kingsford to Chifley.'

Gina from the front desk appeared in my peripheral vision, a welcome mirage in an emerald green dress ending right above her spotless knees and immaculate calves. She stood beckoning
me with a single finger beside a short, scruffy Italian-looking guy. The young man was holding sheets of photocopied paper. I went over while Eden continued directing the station staff.

‘Another tip for you.' Gina did a little flourish, gesturing to the Italian kid. Gina was sick of the tips – every crackpot and conspiracy theorist from Milperra to Madrid had called or visited the station to voice their thoughts on the killer, and Gina was the one cataloguing them all. Some of them genuinely offered useless tidbits – overheard boasts at the local pub, neighbours acting strangely, white vans by the handful – and some of them were just the ramblings of lonely old men who spent too much time Googling in public libraries. Gina was holding it together but her eyes were tired and her jaw muscles twitched.

I put my hand out for the Italian kid and he shuffled his papers to one hand, pumped with a callused palm. Backpacker. Fingers hardened from fruit picking, scraping scum off pots in the back of kitchens, cleaning houses. He hadn't shaved in a while and when he had it had been a half-effort. The sunglasses hanging off his neck were a three-dollar job.

‘I am Ruben Esposito.'

‘How you going, Mr Esposito?'

Gina left us, and the young man handed me a flier for the running festival, printed from the internet on a dodgy printer. Caroline Eckhart smiled up at me, arms folded, brandishing those carved stone biceps. I felt flabby and angry at the sight of her.

‘This … woman,' Ruben struggled. Looked at the ceiling, licked his lips, carefully remembered what was probably dozens of boring English language lessons. ‘The festival-e. My boss is …
ossessionato
. Errr. My boss is ob-sess.'

‘This is your boss?' I pointed at the picture of Caroline, stabbed her face with my finger a little too hard so that the paper crumpled.

‘No. No. No. My boss,' he spread his hands on his chest, ‘is ob-sess with this woman.' He stabbed her face as well.

‘Your boss is obsessed with Caroline Eckhart?'

‘Yes.'

‘Well, that's nice.' I shrugged sharply, looked back at the gathering around Eden, wondering what I was missing. ‘I've kind of got a big serial killer case going on here though.'

‘I think,' Ruben struggled, ‘my boss … is … serial killer.'

I looked at the young man's eyes. Wondered if he was stoned. He looked worn. He'd snatched my words ‘serial killer' right out of the air. It didn't sound to me like he knew what they meant, but that he was parroting them back to me to hold my attention. ‘My boss is … eh, I am afraid. The girls. The running girls?'

He pointed at Caroline. I glanced at the other sheets of paper. There was a news story on the Sydney Parks Strangler and another older clipping about a high-profile surgical bungle, something right out of the gossip columns. Plastic surgery. Caroline Eckhart. Obsessions. I didn't have time for this.