I have no parents; I make the heaven and earth mother and father.
In a tower-block unit above Sydney Harbour, a party sparkled along. The apartment and balcony were packed with women and a few, mostly gay men. Abba was pumping from a speaker and many were dancing. The birthday girl, Constable “Mean” Jean Chloris joked that folk in the surrounding apartments well knew where she worked, so neighbours, however cranky, were unlikely to call the cops.
When Chloris invited Detective Sergeant Landis to her birthday bash, Landis said “yes” with alacrity. Jean was a hard-working detective constable who synched well in the team. She was a big woman with a determined face, and was great in a scrap.
One or two other cops were invited but it was obvious Jean was extremely selective. Colleagues who didn’t think twice about her sexuality got the green light. Others who’d shown a hint of disdain were right off the list. She was a blunt, confronting person anyway, and an acquired taste.
But tonight, DC Chloris, newly minted 30 year-old, bubbled with happiness.
Standing on the vertiginous balcony, Landis gripped the rail with both hands and looked down across the harbour. In her mildly pissed mind, the city lay like sparkling jewels on a black velvet pillow. Out of the corner of one eye, she saw the lights of ferries and other boats moving up the inky unknown of the harbour, with its strange midnight currents. Looking west, the sinking moon hung like an amber crescent, mirroring the bridge. Like the poem she learned in school. How did it go? Night and water/ Pour to one rip of darkness/ the Harbour floats/ In the air/ the Cross hangs upside-down in water.
“Great view, Jean,” she said. “Great apartment.”
“I’ve earned it,” said Chloris. “It’s hard yakka working with the likes of you, Pru.”
They both laughed and clicked champagne glasses.
“Actually,” said Chloris, “I bought all this with an inheritance after Dad died. And I think about him every night when I sit on the balcony and look out over the city. Then I look up, and thank my lucky stars. He was a great Dad.”
“That’s lovely,” said Landis.
“It is,” said Chloris, and she moved on to mingle. Landis botted a rare cigarette off another woman on the balcony and they got talking politics.
Landis enjoyed herself so much she stayed till almost 2am and helped Chloris and a couple of others clear glasses up and empty ashtrays. She gave Chloris a peck and said “thanks” and was about to slip out the door when Chloris touched her shoulder delicately and said: “Would you like to stay for the rest of the night? With me?”
Jean Chloris indeed was rather drunk, which helped her to make the offer to a superior officer, but she was not so inebriated she didn’t know what was being sought. Landis looked surprised, then smiled.
“No Jean. I must be going. Thanks anyway.”
Her colleague looked slightly crushed.
“Never mind. You’re a good looking woman. I’ll keep working on you!” Chloris blurted, and that was that.
As Landis took the lift to the car park downstairs she wondered if she’d misread Chloris’ intentions in inviting her. Or was it just a pissed, last minute try-on? Whatever the circs, she was annoyed. Landis was always talking about her mangled love-life to her, and the idiots she dated. Maybe Jean Chloris thought she played both sides. Maybe.
Anyway, a constable coming onto a senior officer was just not on – no matter what. The murder squad was not the place for a work crush. It wasn’t some vapid TV serial.
Landis wobbled up to Oxford Street and tried to calm down. So, they were both drunk. She liked Chloris. Chloris had been happy. But after mulling the situation, she decided she still wasn’t pleased. “A good looking woman”. Hah! She caught a cab home, thanking her own lucky stars that tomorrow was a day off.
*
Well, not really. The squad’s weekend was cancelled. An early morning call led to the strangest case of her career. But at wake up point, Landis, hungover, drastic in the head, wasn’t to know.
Landis had got a call from the night shift and emerged from a rather muffled sleep and stared for a few minutes at the ceiling which seemed to change colour from almost black to dark red. She’d upped, and taken two panadol fortes, dragged herself into the shower, dressed and caught a cab to work because she was surely still over the limit. It was very early, dawn was swathed in a dirty gauze bandage of low cloud. The station was buzzing.
Two bodies had been found behind a stables at the racecourse, badly hacked up.
As she entered DI Fyfe looked up at Landis with a face writhing with impatience. He grunted: “You’re late. Come on. We’ve got a full team down at the scene doing the preliminary work. Gotta go.”
By 6.50am the squad was at Randwick racecourse at the stabling enclosures. A series of pine trees grew behind the area where the horses were prepped for the race. A small blue tarp had covered two naked bodies which were stacked on top of one another. Both young men, both savaged by somebody with a big blade.
Landis preferred examining bodies that had died without butchery. On the other hand, Fyfe didn’t care. The forensics people were already winding up. Dr Smythe stood back while they squatted over the carnage in the pine needles. The two cops crouched on either side of the stacked corpses. Fyfe’s brows knitted tight. Landis’ stomach hit with queasy waves.
For a few moments they both held position, as still as the corpses. Landis sensed the strong smell of horse dung, and an ever so faint whiff of putrescence mingled in the early morning chill. Both detectives stood at the same time, in synch.
“Yuk,” said Landis. ”They were dumped. You can see the drag marks on the ground.”
“Yes. Exsanguination occurred elsewhere,” said Dr Smythe rubbing his unshaved chin. “Very little blood, even across the drag marks.”
DI Fyfe waved and his team gathered around him in an untidy scrum.
“Tyre marks?” queried Fyfe to no-one in particular.
“All very confused, boss,” said a thin young detective called Bunning. “Race day yesterday. We’ve got trucks, 4WD’s, floats, cars, you name it.”
“And this tarp would have been noticed if they’d been dumped yesterday?”
“Not necessarily. It’s an ordinary old tarp held down with house bricks. Could have been here a couple of days. But we’re checking with the locals.”
“Do it.”
Fyfe turned to Dr Smythe: “Time of death?”
“Couple of days by the look of the flesh. I reckon they were lying here since about Thursday or Friday, given the smell. They’ve been nibbled by cooties too. I’ll know for sure soon later today.”
“Thanks Doctor.”
Landis spotted DC Chloris talking to a stable-hand and wandered over. Jean, who was wearing dark glasses, glanced round and turned back to her interviewee.
“Thanks mate,” she said.
She turned to Landis.
“How you holding up?” Landis asked.
“The crime scene’s a bit rough on a wobbly stomach,” said Jean brusquely. “You?”
“Scratchy”.
“Mmmmm,” said Jean.
Then silence.
“I’d better check with the other strappers,” she said, and walked off.
Landis felt a decided chill in the air from the Jean direction and made a mental note to buy her a strong coffee back at the station.
They got away two hours later, after constables had walked the whole area behind the stables and fence, after the bodies were zipped up and dispatched, after the media had buggered off and after DI Fyfe had finally wrinkled up his nose and said: “We’d better find out who they were.”
The operations room had already been set up. Photos were already papering display boards, officers were already hitting the phones.
The photos had headshots of the blueing, exsanguinated corpses, one was Indonesian or Timorese. The other a blondie surfers hair. Yet another photo showed their stacked bodies with diagonal slashes of red and pink across their torsos and legs, the Caucasian man was almost eviscerated, and it had been difficult for Dr Smythe to turn him over.
After a deal of organisational work, Landis jerked her head at Chloris. Chloris nodded back imperceptibly and they headed out the door.
“Can I buy you a coffee? We’re both operating on 2 crusty cylinders.”
Chloris looked uncertain. She was not a particularly attractive person and a scowl wavered on her face.
“Okay. As long as you’re not trying to apologise or anything,” she grunted unpleasantly.
Landis was shocked, and stared at her.
“Neither of us have anything to apologise for.”
“Okay.”
At the staff caff they sat in a moody silence. Landis worked out that her refusal to stay the night was eating away at Chloris, and she felt ambivalent. The party was something they should talk about, but maybe not today, while whatever was eating Chloris was still raw – she was processing stuff in her hungover head.
To Landis things were cut and dried. She was expert at drawing a line and moving on. Chloris, who was old enough and should have also known better, hadn’t learnt the gracious art of the abandonment of embarrassments.
“I really had a great time at the party,” said Landis. “Truly Jean. You have a great place and everything was fabulous. But I’m not dealing with Sunday very well.”
“Neither am I,” said Chloris bluntly. More silence.
Landis was starting to get annoyed. She looked around the staff caff where other groups of officers were reading the paper or having a laugh.
“We need to get going with this investigation. Does it look like a gang thing do you reckon?”
“Who knows.”
“It’s a curious one. I’d hate for the gangs unit to steal the case.”
“The way I’m feeling today, they’d be welcome too it,” said Chloris, wanly.
Usually Chloris was scathing about the gangs squad.
After another minute of uncomfortable silence Landis said – “Let’s go.”
*
I have no home; awareness is my dwelling.
I have no life and death; the ebb and flow of breathing is my life and death.
I have no divine power; honesty is my divine power.
*
Much as she loathed the place, Landis ended up in the post mortem with DI Fyfe, chatting to Dr Smythe. Delicate stomach or not, DI Fyfe had insisted she’d be present. The two svelte young bodies, flat on the tables, side by side, had plastic sheets over them. The place stank of bleach, not quite blanketing the meaty tang of raw meat. Landis was just about hardened to it, but after umpteen champagnes and a still thickening headache….
“These men have been cut by a very sharp, fine blade. Its not so much hacking. Its more slicing,” said Dr Smythe. “And dicing.”
“So what was the weapon?”
“Weird tho’ its sounds, I’d reckon they’ve been thoroughly sliced up with a sword. A long bladed sword. Look.”
Smythe lifted the sheet and pointed at the partially separated ankle and also the abdomen.
“One clean slice. The one around the abdomen curves around the stomach. It’s almost surgical. This other guy has a diagonal slash from hip to opposite shoulder. It’s one clean stroke, not serrated like a series of knife cuts, or a machete hack job.”
Landis looked closely at the diagonal cut. It was deep, thin and straight. She could see what Smythe was getting at.
DI Fyfe’s chin fell into his chest, He looked bemused.
“And it’s the same for both of them?”
“The same. In fact apart from a couple of variations – a neck wound on the Caucasian, and a straight stab wound through the Asian chaps stomach, all the cuts are similar. And look here. The wrists show some vestigal bruising from rope. They were both hung from the wrists somewhere. The one with the cut diagonally across the body was hung by one arm. He has no rope marks on the opposite wrist.”
“And exsanguinated, as you say?”
“Well, they were left there to bleed out, after such massive wounds. It strongly points to a ritual killing.”
DI Fyfe, who had donned a white rubber glove poked at the skin.
“And they’ve been lying under those trees for…?”
“Probably two and a half days, given the nibbling and insect egg deposits.”
“Right,” said Fyfe. “Landis, can you stick with the Doctor here and see whether we can identify what sort of long sharp blade was responsible. I want to know quick smart. And two and a half days means early Friday morning perhaps. Before race day. If we hear anything about their identities, I want you to follow up pronto. I mean pronto. The Telegraph will love this. I don’t want some sort of serial murderer on the loose with fucking ritual killings freaking the joint out.”
In Fyfe-speak the joint was the entire Sydney basin.
“Sir,” replied Landis.
“I’m off to the deputy commissioner to give him a heads-up. Ring me if you get any further with anything.”
He left. Landis knew that when murders were out of the ordinary, Fyfe got agitated, while Landis became intrigued – Fyfe didn’t like the unfamiliar. To him, criminals were dumb creatures of habit, supposed to stick to a series of understandable templates. And mostly they did, which made him a very successful cop. But this case was creepy.
Landis turned to Dr Smythe.
“Let’s take a punt on this,” said Smythe, wiggling his bushy eyebrows at Landis, “scientist tho’ I am.”
Smythe unfurled butchers paper on a third PM table. He produced a tape and asked Landis to hold one end, and then measured some of the bigger cuts. He stuck a metal ruler into the deep diagional and abdominal cuts. Hunched over the paper on the table, propped by an elbow, Smythe started drawing lines and measurements. He sketched quickly.
“Butchers paper? Where’s your groovy CSI 3D wound image computer program?” Landis asked with a laugh.
Smythe snorted.
“This is fun,” he said. “It’s usually shotgun wounds or drownings. Look here Pru, this wound is snicked slightly at the very edge. And the stab wound on the Asian chap is 3 centimetres wide, a smaller blade. Two blades were involved here.”
Smythe was getting more animated as he went through the measuring and drawing.
“I could almost swear the blade is slightly curved. Gut feeling.”
He measured and sketched. Landis picked up the pencil and added the thin black tubular hilt.
“I’ve seen these at the Asian rooms at the NSW art gallery. It’s a samurai sword. That’s what a samurai sword looks like. Single sided, slim, and slightly curved.”
“You are so right,” said Dr Smythe, impressed.
Landis looked sadly at the two bodies.
“I hate the post mortem room,” she confessed.
“I only like it when there’s a real mystery,” said Smythe. “Otherwise it’s another boring day at the office.” He leant over to Landis. “I’d rather be screewing down my new spotted gum deck.”
He wiggled his bushy eyebrows again. They really need clipping, thought Landis wearily.
On top of the strong Panadol, Landis took some neurofen from Dr Smythe’s medical kit, and while other officers were hitting phones and revisiting strappers down at the race course, she drove up through Surrey Hills and into town to the NSW art gallery to meet the curator of the Asian Gallery, a Dr Greg How.
A neat Chinese-Australian, Dr How had abandoned Sunday lunch with the family and ducked into work to see her. They met at the stolid sandstone entrance with it’s 19th Century gravity and statues. They compared notes on their Asian ancestries, him first generation “three years old, off the boat from Shanghai”, and her, second “mum was a Vietnam war bride” – and then they walked the long entrance hall filled with tourists and art lovers, to the under-populated Asian galleries.
Surrounded by magnificent Japanese hand painted screens, Landis and Dr How examined the samurai sword case with the blades and sheaths.
“I did an evening tour with an Asian art appreciation class a couple of years ago and remembered these,” Landis said. “You have quite a few swords.”
“They are mostly Katanas. Several mid millennium, 17th century Katanas and earlier. This one was made by the master Morimasa in the 1380s. And that short one is a tegai dagger. Very nice. Samurais kitted themselves out with the sword and dagger a duo known as tanto,” he said.
“So are there many samurai swords in Australia?”
“Lots and lots,” said How. “Australian service men brought them home as trophies after the second world war. Most just machined swords made in the 20’s and 30’s, but some very fine examples of earlier handmade blades arrived that way. Japanese officers of senior rank who surrendered their sword formally, often owned antique samurai swords. They were very popular in the higher ranking military classes. They were mad collectors as well. These two”, Dr How pointed at two middle swords on the stand, “came via returned servicemen. The Americans wanted to melt them all down during the occupation, in a symbolic strike against militarism, but were prevailed upon by Japanese collectors to let the masterpieces survive. Good ones are competitively collected all over the world.”
In front of the rack of fierce blades, DS Landis showed Dr How photos of the wounds.
“Oh my goodness, he said. Tameshigiri.”
“What’s that?” asked Landis
“Oh, these are ritual test cuts when a samurai tests the blade of a new sword. A good sword slices through the body. Normally nowadays its done on straw, or bamboo rolls, but in the old days they used corpses of enemies. Sometimes they just captured their enemies, dragged them to the swordmakers precinct and used the prisoners as test dummies.”
“While they were still alive?”
“Yes.”
“We think the victims were dead before it happened. These men were killed and hung up by a rope, we assume, before they were sliced open.”
“A good blade could do this as long as the killer was strong enough. These things go through bone.”
“According to our forensic pathologist Dr Smythe, the blade sliced through the ribcage of this chap. And they’ve gone through the cartilege of the ankles easily enough.”
“Just like butter,” said Dr How mournfully.
*
I have no means; understanding is my means.
I have no magic secrets; only character.
I have no body; only endurance.
I have no eyes; the flash of lightning is my eyes.
*
In an unmarked car, DC Chloris and DS Landis headed for Tempe in Sydney’s inner south. One corpse, the Caucasian youth, had been identified through fingerprints as Joe Mullins, who had form for small scale drug offences. His address on file. Fyfe ordered that they arrive unannounced, and if no-one was home, bust in and look around. He was desperate for a lead to the killer.
Landis filled the silence with a short seminar on samurai swords, how the hot steel was folded, beaten and refolded and tempered again and again. And how the art of making the really old swords made in the 11th century, had been lost in the mists of memory. Chloris listened impassively.
When Landis finished, Chloris grunted: “Cutting edge stuff.”
Landis smiled.
“Apparently in 11th century Japan it was. Literally.”
“Like what’s-her-face in Kill Bill.”
“Uma?”
“Uma.”
Joe Mullins had lived in a dowdy set of blonde brick units – an old 50’s six pack with tiny balconies and a shit central stairwell. They knocked on the 2nd floor door and there was movement. A thin and pimply girl poked her head around. She had green eyes and hadn’t brushed her hair.
“Hi. Is this Joe Mullins place?” asked Landis.
“Are youse two cops?” asked the girl.
“Just answer the question luv,” said Chloris.
“Yeah. He lives here. Why do you want to know? Has he done something wrong?”
“I’m Detective Sergeant Landis. This is Detective Constable Chloris. Are you Joe’s girlfriend?”
“Yeah. I’m Rayleen his fiancée.”
She was all of 19. Landis instantly switched from curt and inquisitive, to care and consideration.
“I’ve got some bad news. Can we come in?”
“Oh? What bad news?”
Landis almost said: “your boyfriend was used to test the sharpness of a samurai blade” but refrained.
*
I have no ears; only sensibility.
I have no limbs; only action.
*
Three quarters of an hour later they left the blubbering Rayleen with her mum. Both policewomen had looked around the flat, taking turns with the tea and condolences. They’d found nothing that pointed to Japanese pursuits, but had a list of best mates and their addresses to follow up. One mate, an Indonesian guy named Rai, had them hurtling down the road to Rockdale. To Landis’ surprise Chloris was still stiff and formal. She tried turning the conversation to their discreet house search.
“Nothing much in the bedroom,” said Landis, instantly regretting it.
“Nope,” said Chloris, letting the plosive P resonate at the end of the word.
Maybe, thought Landis, she should be more empathic to Jean’s disappointment, but she was just too tired to think it through.
Rai’s house was closed up. It was a small bungalow affair in one of the long streets that pointed towards the west. Landis went round the back and found a key under the mat. She entered and let Chloris in the front door. They searched the whole place looking for anything that would give a clue but found only CDs, LP’s and a DJ turntable set in the living room, along with a keyboard and guitar case.
“Here,” said Chloris waving a framed photo of Rai and two older Indonesian women – Mum and Aunt?
A picture of the second corpse, alive, book-ended by two tiny matriarchs, looking happy and proud. They found some bills with his full name. He appeared to live alone.
“That’s him alright. We might shoot back to the station and let some uniformed people inform the family because …. Well because I’m stuffed,” said Landis.
“Wimp,” said Chloris with a slightly sullen tone.
The monosyllabic responses were starting to get to tired Landis and thought of empathy disappeared. She turned and faced Chloris in the little back garden with its unmown grass.
“Look, cheer up Jean,” said Landis with a sharp tone to her voice. “We can’t always get what we want. I’ve moved on, often enough. Look at that mutt as you called him – Leo. Leo the mutt.”
“He was a mutt.”
“I kinda liked him for a while before I found out he was a mutt. Good dancer. We all look for it one way and another, and sometimes it just doesn’t pan out. I’m not Bi, Jean.”
“I’ve worked it out,” said Chloris.
“Good. Let’s move on and be mates like we were before 2am this morning. That’s an order.” Oh Gawd, she thought. An order. Where did that come from?
“I’ll give it a go.”
Silence. Chloris looked down at the grass and shook her head imperceptibly. Landis thought she’s fallen in love with me and can’t extract herself.
Suddenly a car turned into the driveway at such speed it almost hit the two women. A red haired man was driving. He started wrenching the car into reverse but not before Chloris had leant across and ripped open the driver’s door in one flash.
“Hold it,” she yelled.
The car sputtered backwards in bunny hops, with Chloris holding the driver round the neck. She hopped backwards with the car, then reached in and slipped the driver’s seat-belt off and pulled him out onto the ground with the car’s rear bumper banging the side of the house. It was messy but effective. Landis restrained the struggling man’s other arm. He was screaming. Chloris, in some frustration, started drilling her knee into the struggling man’s chest.
“Police,” yelled Chloris in the man’s face. “We’re police officers.”
This frightened him even more.
“Get offa me, you lezzos!” Shouted the man.
“Lezzo singular,” muttered Chloris, cuffing him.
*
DI Fyfe was delighted. Two positive ID’s and a live lead in the interview room.
“Get into him!” Fyfe said, and ordered Landis and Chloris to carry out the interview.
Inside, both women groaned. They’d had enough of one another’s company in the last 24 hours.
*
Gaz was steaming angry behind the interview table. He eyeballed the two tired, hungover cops.
“I want a lawyer.”
“You’re not under arrest Gaz,” said Landis tapping her pencil.
“Well, what was the rough stuff for?”
“You may be a material witness. You’re our only lead. You can certainly help us with our inquiries.”
“No-ones told me about the inquiries. What inquiries?”
“You were at Rai Soeroso’s place this afternoon. You have also been named by Rayleen Hancock, Joe Mullins fiancé, as a friend of Joes.”
“So?”
“Well, the bad news is both Mr Soeroso and Mr Mullins are dead. They were found murdered at the back of Randwick racecourse this morning by groundstaff.”
Gaz deflated as the news sank in.
“Shit”.
“Both men were sliced to pieces.”
Gaz blinked in amazement, and then his eyelids started to collide with tears.
“No?”
“Now this happened on Friday at some time. Did either men collect or practice with samurai swords? Go to kendo classes, that sort of thing?”
Joe composed himself and concentrated. It took a couple of minutes. Landis let him find his balance and repeated the question.
“Nope. They’re into music, they’re not tossers. They are The DJ Zambini. They DJ at parties. I help them with gear and lights.”
(And pills, thought Landis)
“And on Friday there was a party?”
“Thursday. Thursday night. Some private party in a guy’s garage in Bellia Street Randwick. We were trying to do the Melbourne thing – you know, random dance parties in back lanes. It’s a cool thing down in Melbourne. The garage emptied out into a back lane and everyone from the street and aroundabouts came. It was big. You guys came too, and closed it down because some old cunt sorry – some old guy complained – A bit after one.”
Landis nodded and noted the fact down.
“Do you remember the street number?”
“41, I think. Look does Rayleen know?”
“She’s been informed. Her mum’s with her.”
DC Chloris piped in. Anyone got a grudge against Mr Soereso or Mr Mullins?
“No way. They are lovely blokes… were lovely blokes,” said Gaz correcting himself.
He started to cry without any self-control. To sob.
“Thanks Gaz, you’ve been very helpful.”
The DJ Zambini were asked to desist at 11.40am early Friday morning by a squad car that answered a complaint call from a Mr Harrison, 76, of 30 Bellia Street Randwick. Mr Harrison was a wizened old man, incapable of slicing a man in half with one blow.
“Those morons were bloody loud,” he said.
The uniformed police inspected every garage along the lane. DI Fyfe said: “don’t muck around. Check every single one”. He strode up and down the lane waiting for information leading to the door of the “exsanguinatorium” as Fyfe had labeled it. Doors were knocked, and people asked to open their sheds and car ports. The police were anxious and cautious, prewarned at the briefing that the killer was strong and armed with a sword.
The sky darkened as the operation bustled methodically through the suburb. They widened the search to other streets. TV vans appeared because of insider tip-offs. Something was up. Strong lights pierced the gloaming. Cars nosed past as live crosses went to news bulletins. A bristling business-like search of Randwick. The search finally spilled into Alexandra Parade and the teams began to check empty premises and storage areas.
“There’ll be some trace of blood scent given the butchery. I’ve ordered the cadaver dogs,” said Fyfe.
“Good name for a heavy metal band, boss.”
Landis and Fyfe were standing on a street corner talking about the operation when Fyfe asked: “What’s up with you and Chloris? Why the grief?”
“We’re both severely hungover boss. She had her 30th birthday party last night on the assumption that today was a day off.”
“Why wasn’t I invited?” asked Fyfe, unnerved.
“You’re a bloke,” replied Landis.
“Oh.”
Fyfe looked genuinely shocked for the first time that day.
“I didn’t get home until 3,” added Landis.
“She seems grumpier than usual.”
“She’s not usually grumpy. Just brisk.”
“Suppose. This search isn’t getting us anywhere, is it? Sounds like a localized thing tho’. Party in Randwick, death in Randwick, dumping in Randwick.”
“Randwick’s a dodgy place, Boss,” said Landis.
They both chuckled.
“You did well to talk the commissioner into providing this many units,” she said.
“Can’t take chances with this loony-tune. If he kills again, el shit will hit el fan.”
The media had finally twigged to the “samurai” slayings after talking to passing cops. A couple of journos approached Fyfe who gave them a business-like sound bite. “Moved swiftly. Acting on information.” He turned to Landis.
“Lets get out of here before the rest of the meeeja finds us.”
They headed around behind the main drag where police were checking larger sheds attached to shops, sometimes just pushing doors open, or rustling up the owners with their keys.
“Anything yet?” asked Fyfe
“No sir,” said one of the uniformed blokes. He kept touching his holstered gun. After the grim briefing, he was nervous about the swordsman. “We’ve still got half this laneway to go, tho. It stinks.”
Halfway down the lane a cadaver dog started to go off. Woofing and scraping the garage door. The dog’s handler and another cop had put their box torches down facing the garage door and were forcing it up. The lock had been broken previously and they just pushed hard and the door flew in. There was nothing in the space except a stained cement floor and a few cardboard boxes stacked along one side. Fyfe and Landis leant in.
“Smells bad. This could be it,” said Fyfe.
The torch picked up a crusty brown patch on the floor. And bloody bootprints. The roof was peaked and raftered.
“Enough headroom for a long downward slice the Kesa, or an upward diagonal the kiri-age,” said Landis.
She’s been checking the Japanese art of blade testing, tamishigiri, on the net, getting to know the lingo. There were even slow motion demonstrations of samurai sword cuts to eggs and water balloons on YouTube. It was pathetic.
“Good enough for me,” said Fyfe. “Get a team round the front door to find out who lives here and get forensics. Now.”
*
I have no strategy; I am unshadowed by thought
I have no designs; I seize opportunity by the forelock.
I have no miracles; only righteous action.
*
DS Landis and DC Chloris stared at one another across a laminex table in a café in Alexandra Parade. It was 10pm. There were dark rings under their eyes. Landis touched her greasy hair.
“You’re not a bad looking chick,” said Chloris finally.
“You’re a liar. I look as old as my mum at the moment.”
“Well she’s not a bad looking old chick.”
They both laughed. First for the day.
The coffee arrived, steaming hot, molassesy. Then the burgers. A couple of uniforms joined them.
“Hey Pru, how badly were those bodies sliced up?” one asked.
“Wasn’t nice,” said Landis, leaning back.
In ten minutes there was a bit of a cop party going on, as the night shift refuelled and headed out to their normal beats.
*
The klatch of tv cameras and their spotlights was held at the end of the lane by crime tape, as forensics went through the bloodstained garage. Fyfe was pacing in front of the crime scene looking stressed.
“I hope you both had strong coffee,” he said. “There’s a bit to do. The owner of the garage is a business guy who’s overseas, lives local, no sign of a sword fetish inside the house. The use of this space was opportunistic but we’ll check for any connections. Somehow the killer lured the two men, killed them, brought them here and did his business.”
“That’s my reading of it,” said Landis. “It rained a bit early on Friday morning too. Mudprints maybe?”
A man in a white paper suit emerged with a plastic bag containing a rope. He showed it to Fyfe and then took it to the van. Another more senior forensic detective emerged.
“Fair number of bloody footprints. Looks like a very common brand runner. And only one operator. Early snap of the scene – one guy killed or at least dismembered one or two people in this garage. No definitive evidence here though, but we’ll do DNA traces on the rope, handles etc.”
“Thanks, said Fyfe gloomily.
One guy only. The fewer the moving parts, the harder it was to track the killer.
As the two detectives walked up the lane, Fyfe’s phone rang. A Professor Marbecht had seen the 7 pm news and had reported to Crime Stoppers that someone had recently broken into his house and stolen a katana sword, 13th century, manufactured in the dark ages by one of the great masters of Japanese sword-smithing. In other words, a magic sword.
“Let’s get round there,” snapped Fyfe, finally with a gleam in his eyes.
*
“I didn’t report it previously, because I think I know who took it, said the Professor. “A young student of mine. We had a faculty soiree here last week and he was transfixed by the katana.”
”So let’s start there,” said Fyfe.
The three cops were sitting in Professor Marbecht’s comfortable but fussy lounge room in a rambling terrace in Paddington. The Professor sat on the arm of a large chair. Mid-fifties, with sandy grey hair, he had a soft-face and looked a lot younger than his years. He wore chinos and an open necked shirt and cradled a whiskey on ice. Behind him was a huge bookcase filled with books in English, Chinese and Japanese.
“Well, I was watching the ABC news and I saw the story of the murders. I cast my mind back to the get-together. Some of my second year tutorial group – I take one tutorial to keep in touch with the undergrads – they came over for drinks. One fellow, John Shaw an Australian boy with a Japanese mum, saw one of my swords in the case over there. He said: “‘That looks like a Masamune,’ that’s the legendary 13th century sword maker. The boy knew his stuff. There’s a lot of nonsense about these swords in Japanese popular culture in manga comics and anime films. Old swords were supposedly imbued with magic powers. I told him, it’s more likely a Kinju, a descendant of the Masamune style. But a lovely sword. Totally unattributed however – just looks like it, tho’. I’ve taken it to Tokyo for analysis. But honestly have never been able to authenticate it as the real deal, so to speak. There’s not much written on the blade….”
“And what did Shaw do?” Asked Fyfe.
“Kept looking at it. You see, it was definitely old. One of the old period swords. I bought it many, many years ago in San Francesco from a US soldier who had served in the occupation in Japan when the locals were flogging anything for food. Mindyou, I paid thousands to the US Serviceman for it. It has a beautiful hilt and dressed sheath. More than half a metre long. And very, very sharp. John stood up and checked it out three times that evening. Engaged me again in the swords provenance.”
“And what is Shaw like as a student?”
“Quite forceful in his views, knows a lot about Japanese culture and tradition, quite fluent – one of those bilingual kids that coasts through the first couple of years. It will get trickier for him next year.”
“Does he get into martial arts.”
“Yes. Unfortunately. Including kendo. He takes it very, very seriously. You think this is the blade that killed those boys, don’t you?”
“We don’t have evidence yet, but we want to follow this lead. Anyway, tell me about the theft?” said Fyfe.
“My wife and I were out on Thursday night, at a concert. We came home, the display case was forced open. Broken latch. The sword was the only thing missing and I immediately thought “John”. I was going to chase him down tomorrow morning and demand the sword back or go to the police.”
“It probably would have been a life threatening thing to do, Professor,” said DI Fyfe.
“Hmm. He doesn’t seem a violent or maniacal boy, but I have his address here. I wrote it out for you.”
Chippendale, next to the university.
*
In the car Fyfe said: “I’ve never seen anything more maniacal than what was done to those two young blokes.”
DC Chloris was driving, Landis slumped sideways in the back. It was now around 11.30pm on Sunday, the streets were emptying of cars and people as they prepared for a work week.
“How are you two going?” asked Fyfe.
“The coffees have helped,” said Landis.
“Just,” said Chloris.
“Shall I call back up to Shaw’s place?” Landis asked
“There’s the three of us. Call in a couple of squad cars. Tell them to be quiet and park up the street,” said Fyfe
By the time they’d got to the street, two squad cars sat idling at the nearest corner. Landis told the officers to walk round the back, draw their weapons and wait at the rear of the terrace. Officers accompanied them with a two-man steel doorfucker for the door lock. The house was inky dark.
Fyfe, Landis and Chloris approached the front door.
“Mr Shaw. Open up, this is the police.”
Nothing happened.
“Go for it,” said Fyfe, and the lock was smashed in one sharp blast.
The three cops performed the ritual search, guns drawn. Landis flicked the light on and slipped into the living area a long, empty room, except for a huge flat screen tv on a low table at the end and cane floor matting and a couple of big pillows.
Kitchen was clear as well, neat and clean. A remarkably uncluttered and undecorated house. She and Chloris headed up the stairs as Fyfe let the other officers through the back door. Nothing. Empty house. Bare walls. Futon on which lay a few Japanese texts. Very little food in the fridge, but lived-in.
After a thorough search they headed into the street and let the fingerprint people get to work.
Chloris and Landis started walking back to the car, bone weary, the last of the adrenaline in their bodies withering away. A car drew up further up the street and a man in a black corduroy jacket emerged. He pulled out a medium sized black backpack, slammed the car door sharply and slung the bag over his right shoulder. He then started walking towards the two policewomen. Professor Marbecht had provided a sketchy description of John Shaw but sketchy or not, this neat, dark headed eurasian boy fitted the ID. Chloris nudged Landis but she was alert to the oncoming figure.
“Mr Shaw,” said Chloris pleasantly.
The man, in the dark of the street, walked towards them. At about eight metres his right hand crossed over to his left shoulder. Chloris felt Landis stiffen, and inhale hard and suddenly she was holding her gun, ramrod straight, pointed at the man’s head.
“Stop.” Landis screamed. She found herself shaking, calmed down a notch. “Just stop where you are. Now. Police.”
The boy stopped on the first scream, and put his hands up, he started to tremble.
“Turn round.”
The boy turned around in a funny little shuffle. Chloris walked up and pushed him against a house wall as Landis covered her. There was no sword on the boy’s back. Only the bag which Chloris pulled off and inspected. Landis asked “What’s your name son?”
“Harry. Harry Fong. I am a Chinese student at Sydney University. I don’t do drugs! No drugs!”
“Harry, we’re not looking for drugs. We are looking for weapons in relation to a death. Do you know a man called John Shaw?”
“Never heard of him. No. Honest, I haven’t.”
*
I have no principles; adapt to all circumstances.
I have no tactics; only emptiness and fullness.
I have no friends; my own mind is my only friend.
*
Later, in the car Landis admitted to Chloris that she’d almost popped the boy between the eyes. She thought it was Shaw, thought he’d been reaching for the sword and was about to take a swing.
“I just felt a cold terror, she said. I almost pulled the trigger. It’s those disembodied bodies in the morgue. Maniacal is right – and it’s getting to me.”
“You’re tired. Your judgment isn’t 20/20 at the moment.”
“Judgment? Judgment is beyond me. I was disembodied for a moment there too.”
*
She’d just got home in a taxi, walking wearily up the stairs to her first floor apartment, every step an effort for her calves and thighs, when her phone rang.
“There’s been another killing,” said Fyfe gruffly. “It’s John Shaw. He’s dead.”
Reluctantly Landis spun on her heel and walked down the steps to the underground car park.
*
The body had been covered over by another blue tarp. This time at the back of a vacant lot in Chippendale, close to Shaw’s house. The man had been decapitated and the head had been shoved beside the torso. Landis, in her exhaustion found it surreal, like a hallucination. The boy had been handsome, but his face was grey blue in the portable halogen light – the body putrescent.
“Dead for a few days, said Fyfe. “Left to rot. Killer’s got a good supply of blue tarps.”
“This is just crap, boss. What’s going on?” Landis’s voice quavered.
“Calm down, Landis,” snapped Fyfe. “Let’s just keep rational. Shaw sees a fantastic sword. He is excited. No doubt he’s discussed the find with others, who get excited about such swords. Another goes round to Marbecht’s place…”
“Or Shaw and another…”
“True. And “the other” eliminates both Shaw and the two blokes he tested the blade on. He’s excited about this blade.”
“But there’s been no reports of fresh killings this weekend.”
“Last weekend. It’s Monday, mate.”
“Where’s Chloris. If I have to keep going, she should as well,” Landis said petulantly.
“She’s at Marbecht’s place. I’m concerned for his safety.”
“Good call. As usual,” said Landis.
“We’re waiting on fingerprint results from the theft of the sword. She’s going to ring in.”
At the back of the vacant lot, they rang Marbecht on the speaker function on the mobile phone. The phone was perched on a low wall, and Fyfe and Landis crouched close to it.
“These kids. Where do they practice kendo or whatever you call it?” Fyfe said.
“Kendo is correct.” A tinny academic accent out of the speaker.
“Is there a university club? Or a Sydney association in the area? Who runs it?”
“I believe so. I’ll check the student handbook on my iPad …. (delay. Fyfe looked at Landis and rolled his eyes in a gesture of frustration) … A Mr Masuda, here’s his phone number …”
“Another question Professor Marbecht – it’s DS Landis here. Was anyone else with Shaw that night at your party? Did he arrive with anyone?”
“No. He’s friendly with a few kids in that class. Young Richard Poole who is an A1 student – really good. He latched on to Shaw to practice his language early on in the piece.”
“Is he interested in swords?”
“Not…not that I know of,” said Marbecht hesitantly. “But you never know with boys.”
“Do you have a number?”
Marbecht supplied it and an address. They asked for Chloris.
“Nothing suspicious in the street? Any prints?” asked Fyfe.
“Undefined prints. They’re being checked. And no. Nothing. All dark outside, no traffic, no bystanders.”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing.”
Fyfe paused.
“Landis and I will go via Richard Poole’s place and then pick you up. Can you get further contact details for this Masuda person, but do not ring him. Get the address. I’ll get Bunning and co round to stake his front door from a discreet distance. He’s not to do anything except sit tight. We need to knock on the front door with tactical response people. I’m not taking any chances.”
“Okay.”
“And get Marbecht to make you another cup of coffee. Seeya. “
He turned the phone off and turned to Landis. “Let’s go.”
At 1.50am they were banging on Richard Poole’s door in a unit near the airport, guns drawn. His pop-eyed girlfriend wearing only a long pink t-shirt opened the door on the chain then let them in shouting for Richard to come down the stairs. Richard Poole descended wrapped in a sheet.
“You’ve time to get some daks on mate,” said Fyfe.
“Dunwurry,” said Poole sleepily. “Is’is ‘bout the park tickets? Il’payem.”
“What? At 1.30 in the morning? You’re kidding.”
Fyfe explained and Poole and girlfriend woke up.
“Oh, John was crazy about Japanese sword stuff,” said Poole. “Couldn’t stop talking about the one in Marbecht’s place. But Prof’s crazy about them as well. There’s a certain class of Japanese scholar who get into it.”
“But Shaw was an exponent,” said Landis.
“Yes. Masuda’s classes. There’s a lot of folk that go for training though, from all over Sydney. Japanese and Aussies. It’s a bit of a craze what with movies and that. Masuda was more than kendo. He believes in the live blade. The shinken – so they practise with that along with sticks.”
“Is Masuda a fanatic?”
“Dunno. Never met him. But John was. Lived the Buddhist simplicity. His house was martial arts central. His living room was his dojo – he bought the house for the big front room. John was celibate, focussed.”
*
“Not him,” said Landis as they drove to get Chloris. “Too sleepy.”
“And clearly not celibate,” grunted Fyfe to himself.
*
Marbecht was awake and chatting with Chloris when they arrived. The aroma of coffee hung around the house like a web of pure joy, but after a quick word to the uniformed cops at the door, Fyfe hustled his deputies out. Landis found herself whimpering.
“He makes great coffee,” whispered Chloris. “He’s got one of those $2000 expresso machines and he blends his own beans. And uses spice dust on the froth!”
“Shut-up bitch,” said Landis as they climbed in the car.
Things were getting back to normal.
Masuda had to be the one. Japanese born. Sword fanatic. Guru. The three detectives drove in silence, but all were wincing inside, thinking of the dismembered bodies they’d seen that day. Fyfe put it down solely to the depravity and madness of one human mind in a single human body that had to be captured and locked in a cell forever. He railed at what he called “fundo fanatics”, whatever the object of worship, whatever the cult.
Chloris found it so sorrowful that young men, two of them musicians, had died.
Landis remained 10% unbelieving and 10% convinced she was in some weird dream. Her other 80% writhed in revulsion.
The road was empty. Wheely bins squatted in warrior phalanxes outside houses. So delirious was Landis, it looked like they wore sashes round their green waists and carried swords on their backs. Street lights bathed everything, walls, cars and plane trees, in yellow. The sky was an orange milk cloud.
They recalled Marbecht’s sorrowful voice at the news of John Shaw on the make-do phone hookup from the vacant lot in Chippendale. They also rewound his words in their minds.
“The person you are chasing thinks he is a samurai warrior. You don’t have to be dead for 200 years to be one. He could believe his sword has a soul and he is invincible. The person you are looking for is very, very skilled, and very strong. The cuts to those corpses are horrendous but they are artful too. He will come out fighting, and if captured he may try to kill himself.”
Marbecht then read the anonymous samurai creed written in the 14th century. Apart from “magic” and “eyes of lightning” the last 5 lines resonated. They were scariest.
Or as DI Fyfe said: “all very ‘may the force be with you’.”
*
I have no enemy; only carelessness is my enemy.
I have no armor; only benevolence and righteousness.
I have no castle; but my mind is immovable.
I have no sword; only absence of self
*
It was a house. Not far from the bungalow of the late Indonesian DJ, Rai Soeroso. A light was on in the hall window. Two streets away was the Maroubra beach.
“How are we going to approach this, boss?” asked the Tactical response guy.
Fyfe responded with alacrity.
“With vigour mate! Out the back, out the front. That big shed will be his practice room. If he’s in there, he’ll already have clocked us – the van and the cars. But we’ve just got to move in. If Masuda is the killer, he’s a maniac. He thinks he’s some sort of Shogun, won’t listen to reason and he’ll be swinging a very sharp blade.”
“I suggest we move simultaneously on both structures. We use stun grenades into the windows and we just charge in.”
“Fair enough,” said Fyfe. “Do it.”
The black night which had haunted and invaded Landis with its slow nocturnal intent, ended abruptly with bangs, flashes and sudden massive spotlights lighting the house and garden.
The tactical guys swarmed into the house. A small dark figure swirled in the halogen white, out the back door, and ran past one policeman. A silvery blade burst like a white hot flame, reflecting the spotlights, knifing the dark, and a policeman keeled back, and then there were shots. One, two, three … five. The figure leapt the back fence with alacrity followed by two armed cops.
“Shit, go, go, go,” shouted Fyfe as he and Landis charged down the side street into the neighbour’s yard. Two officers were already there. One was Chloris, writhing on the ground holding her calf. The other cop was frozen over the slumped figure, gun raised.
“Fuuuuck,” said Chloris. “Fuucking Fuuuuck, ouch.”
Landis removed her jacket and tied it around the slash. “What’s he done to you?”
“He snicked me with his stupid sword. He was wounded and I approached too fast. Bunning had him covered with the gun. Masuda just fell against the wall, then slashed his own guts open.”
Bunning, shocked and freaked, but intact, hadn’t moved. Fyfe walked up to the unconscious samurai and grabbed the sword hilt and slid it out of the prone man’s belly, shouting “Call the ambulance.” He noted that the blade hadn’t gone in too far.
“Not too fundo, eh?” he snarled.
By then, the yard and pavement was crowded with cops. Neighbours were starting to spill out of their houses at the sound of the bangs, shots, and the blue and red flashes. Fyfe borrowed a towel from the neighbour tried to stop the gush of blood from Masuda’s belly and the bullet wound in his left shoulder.
When the ambulance arrived moments later, Fyfe moved out of the way for the paramedic.
“Be buggered,” he said in the ambo’s ear. “I want this bastard stabilized, taken to the hospital and stitched up so I can charge him personally. I don’t care how long it takes to fix him, I want Mr Fucking Hari Kiri alive.”
*
Landis accompanied Chloris in the ambulance, and the other badly injured cop who’s neck had been partially slashed when Masuda flew from the back door. Colours were sharp, like a dream. The ambo’s worked on both cops as the van chased through the night with the keening siren, to St Vincents. Tired as she was, staying with Chloris was the least Landis could do. In the last thirty hours she’d got rolling drunk with her, rejected her naughty proposal, jollied her along all day, and in between, drank twenty litres of coffee. Both were wrung out. And Chloris was hurt. Quite seriously, with the blade slicing through muscle.
The ambulance kept hurtling up the expressway, through a tunnel of lights.
Maybe she’d wake up in her bed. Maybe it was a dream after all. Landis felt suspended in a mist of tiredness.
She looked down at her colleague. Chloris’ face was relaxed, her lips at peace for once. Pumped with sedative and painkillers, she’d finally passed out.
Lucky her, thought Landis.
______________________________