Davo's Little Something Page 29

  ‘Oh God, that was Peter Glover. He said that just as a bluff. We had to do something at the time.’ Nesbitt looked from one detective to the other. ‘We certainly weren’t getting much help from the police then, if I remember right.’

  The three of them sat there, if not quite arguing, at least talking heatedly with Middleton and Blackburn taking down a few notes here and there; but after almost half an hour of fairly constant questioning they didn’t seem to be getting anywhere. Nesbitt was smooth, polite enough and co-operative; if he was holding something back it certainly didn’t seem like it. If anything, it appeared he wanted to see the killer caught himself. At first it was a bit of fun to see the skinheads getting some of their own back but now it had gone too far and was beginning to cast a bad light on the gay community and could only lead to more trouble in the future. Finally Detective Middleton snapped closed his notebook and put it back inside his coat pocket; despite the gay editor’s co-operation he still wasn’t firmly convinced.

  ‘Okay, Nesbitt,’ he said slowly and deliberately. ‘This doesn’t seem to be getting us anywhere. But I’ll just leave you with one thought.’ Both he and Detective Blackburn got to their feet and stared grimly at Nesbitt still sitting there almost expressionless. ‘When we finally find this ratbag, and if we do find he’s one of your lot and you know about it, I’m coming back here, Nesbitt. And I’m going to charge you with harbouring a fugitive. Withholding evidence. Giving false information to the police. And how about this one. Conspiracy to murder. That’s got to be worth fifteen with ten on the bottom. And I’ll tell you what—pretty boy. Those old lags out at Long Bay’d just love to get their hands on you.’

  Nesbitt stared evenly back at the two detectives and a slight flicker of a smile crinkled the corners of his eyes.

  ‘How do you know I might not love it out there myself?’

  Detective Middleton caught his partner’s eye. ‘Come on, Ray.’

  ‘Take a free copy of the latest Outrageous with you,’ smiled Nesbitt as the two detectives got to the door. ‘There’s some really good reading in this month’s issue.’

  The two detectives ignored Nesbitt’s sarcasm and headed for the stairs and the car.

  ‘Well, what do you reckon now, Ray,’ said Detective Middleton, drumming his hands a little irritably on the steering wheel before he started the car. ‘Do you think Nesbitt was holding anything back?’

  ‘Not really,’ replied Detective Blackburn. ‘If anything he seemed more co-operative.’

  ‘Yeah. And that’s what I don’t like.’

  ‘You think it mightn’t be a gay doing this after all?’

  ‘No. I still think it is. But. . .’

  ‘Yeah—but.’ Detective Blackburn cleared his throat and spat out the window. ‘You know this thing’s getting weirder as it goes along. And I’ve got this gut feeling about something.’

  Detective Middleton stared at his partner. ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘I think we know who it is already—or we’ve come across him somewhere. But we just can’t see the forest for the fuckin’ trees.’

  ‘Yeah. I think I know what you mean,’ sighed his partner. ‘I think we’d better get everything we’ve got, and anything else we can find, anything, and run it back through the computer again. Something’s got to cross reference somewhere. And I’m also going to see about setting up some heavily armed decoys.’

  Detective Blackburn nodded his head glumly, realising it was going to be a long day; and an even longer night.

  ‘In the meantime’ said Detective Middleton, starting the car, ‘No-Names is just down the road. Do you feel like spaghetti?’

  Blackburn patted his stomach. ‘The wife’s got me on a bloody diet. But I wouldn’t mind a schnitzel.’

  Detective Middleton eased the Commodore out into the traffic and they headed for Woolloomooloo.

  According to the newspaper clippings piling up in the kitchen drawer and the others in the garage Davo had now killed over twenty people; including the girl. Not a bad score he mused, as he skipped furiously away in the garage the following Wednesday morning; while in the background The Uncanny X-Men’s—How Do You Get Your Kicks thumped steadily along on the ghetto blaster in driving accompaniment to the whirling leather rope. And to think it all started off with just two skinheads in that lane behind the little hotel on a Thursday night. When would it end? Who knows he shrugged, as he spun the rope twice over his head and did ten doublers in a row. Who knows?

  For instead of getting satisfaction out of all the mayhem and death he’d caused all it seemed to do was increase his bloodlust and all he seemed to live for now was going out and killing people. Not just anybody though. But those things hanging around the Cross and Oxford Street. The skins and the punks and the rude-boys and any members of any other Sydney tribes he might happen to come across in a darkened alley one night. Maybe, when he finally found a certain gingerhaired skin with little red and white swastikas painted all over his boots he might possibly stop. But in the meantime—he’d give them bloody Oi. And he did just that, the following Friday and Saturday night.

  Friday night’s effort wasn’t so much a hunt or a kill as a straight out pitiful slaughter. They weren’t even really skinheads, just a couple of eighteen-year-old half-baked rude boys in little pork-pie hats coming back to the Cross to score a bit of speed, after a Strange Tennants gig at the Vulcan Hotel. The two unfortunate youths didn’t know what hit them and they didn’t stand a chance when Davo jumped them from behind in a laneway off Kellett Street and methodically pounded both their heads in. Davo might have managed to salvage some satisfaction out of it but it was nothing more than a brutal sickening shame; the two kids meant no one any harm at all. Saturday night’s killings however, made headlines in almost every State in Australia and put the Midnight Rambler Murders into yet another whole new perspective.

  Davo parked his car in Forbes Street, just off William and not far down from the centre of Kings Cross, deciding to walk up from there. It had been raining a little earlier, which was probably why there weren’t all that many people around, and there was still an inky sheen on the streets reflecting the gaudy neon lights of the Cross and the headlights of the passing cars as Davo strode briskly up towards Victoria Street. He stopped briefly outside the Kings Cross Hotel on the corner from where further down the street he could see the Piccadilly Hotel and Arthurs; there still didn’t appear to be a great deal of people around so he crossed over, deciding to walk a bit further along on the opposite side. As he passed the Victoria Street entrance to Kings Cross Railway Station he found another narrow laneway—Earl Street—it was dingy, appeared to be deserted and full of shadows to hide in; this looks promising he thought and began to follow it.

  The lane was nothing more than the rear entrances to the shops and buildings in Darlinghurst Road, surrounded by a backdrop of hotels and blocks of units. Further in, something did strike Davo as curious. The faded blue paint above a garbage-tin surrounded doorway, had peeled away to reveal an old sign saying Kings Cross Theatrette—Cinemascope. It even had the old phone number. FA 2888. Christ, how long has that been there he mused, as he stood there idly checking it out in the gloom while he slipped his hands into the deadly metal-studded gloves. He stared at it for a few more moments then proceeded a bit further to where the lane split into a Y shape, with Earl Street on the left and Earl Place off to the right. Earl Place seemed to lead back into the Cross with its bright lights and too many people. Earl Street was darker, lonelier, and looked a much better place to jump someone. He sauntered casually along, past some huge rubber tree plants gently rustling in the rather steamy night breeze, under which someone had daubed Sex-Pistols, I Shit In Your Gravy and several swastikas. He continued on a little further but it appeared to be absolutely deserted; he squinted into the shadowy distance and decided to turn back and try elsewhere. However, even though the area seemed devoid of people, all the time Davo had this curious feeling that even if he wasn’t being followed someon
e was at least watching him. He slowed down a couple of times, looked up at the windows in the buildings and behir d but couldn’t see anything so he continued on.

  As he got to where the lane formed the Y shape two figures suddenly materialised out of the shadows and came towards him. They were men and both fairly solid and in the gloom Davo could see they were wearing Levi jackets, jeans and sneakers. They weren’t skinheads and they weren’t punks: they could have been mods. But Davo knew what they were, sneaking around that alleyway at that time of night. Muggers.

  With the gloves secure on his fists and hidden in the front of his black cotton jacket, Davo advanced slowly towards but slightly away from the two men now coming almost straight at him. As they got closer one of them called out in a rough deep voice.

  ‘Hey you. We’d like to have a word with you for a second.’

  ‘Yeah sure,’ replied Davo easily. ‘Anything you like.’

  When they were almost up to him the one on his left went for something in the inside of his jacket. Yeah smiled Davo. A bloody knife. Well you’re not going to blade me you arsehole.

  Like a snake striking, Davo lashed out with a short right that caught the mugger going for the knife straight under the nose. He let out an oath and a shocked grunt of pain and slumped down on the wet roadway, one hand holding his shattered mouth, the other hand trying to break his fall. The other one went into a slight crouch and reached for something at his waist—another knife thought Davo—but his hand had hardly got inside his jacket when Davo slammed a left hook into his jaw. He too let out a cursing yelp of pain and went down on one knee as Davo stood, fists raised, over the top of him.

  ‘You’re making a big mistake pal,’ he rasped. ‘We’re . . .’

  The agonised words had hardly left his blood-filled mouth when a sledgehammer-like right slammed his brain violently from one side of his skull to the other, spun him around and dumped him face down in the gutter almost dead.

  The two separate actions had been lightning fast and there had hardly been any noise. Nevertheless, Davo instinctively had a quick glance up and down the lane before he sprang panther-like back onto his first victim, who was sitting on his backside with his head between his knees his hands over his face. Blood was bubbling through his fingers as his stunned mind tried to figure out what had hit him and stop from slipping into unconsciousness.

  If the first punch shocked him Davo’s second uppercut, thrown from a crouch right in front of him, almost killed him on the spot. It flipped him straight over on his back, his arms sprawled out alongside him as the back of his head hit the road with a dull crunch. Davo took another quick look up and down the lane then up at the windows of the surrounding units. Still no one around and no one called out.

  Opposite where they were, he noticed a large double entrance to one of the buildings blocked off at the rear so it was almost like a big open room. Like they were nothing more than a couple of bags of onions, Davo took the two unconscious muggers by the scruffs of their Levi jackets and dragged them into the alcove of the building where he alternately punched and slammed their heads into the walls till they were nothing more than limp lifeless lumps of meat and the walls were spattered with blood and pieces of scalp and hair. Then a fiendish thought struck Davo as in his blood-maddened state he stared down at the two unrecognisable muggers. Why not get their knives and leave them sticking out of their chests? It would add a certain pizzaz to the killings and also give the papers a little something to play around with and elaborate on.

  He flipped the nearest body over and ran his hand around its waist where the mugger had gone for his knife. But instead of finding a knife in a sheath, he found a .38 revolver in a leather holster. Another quick feel around the back found a pair of handcuffs in another small leather holster.

  ‘Shit!’ said Davo out loud, scarcely believing what he’d discovered.

  A quick rummage through the back pockets of the corpse’s jeans revealed a wallet. Davo flipped it open and even in the dull light of the alley he could easily make out the blue and white badge and the words NSW Police Force with the victim’s photo on the other side.

  ‘Jesus Christ,’ he said again, and dropped the wallet back next to the body. Davo hadn’t killed two muggers. He’d just battered to a pulp two detectives sent out as decoys to find him.

  ‘Shit!’ he cursed out loud again through clenched teeth.

  His first instinct was to run but he didn’t. After another quick look around he took a hanky from the front of his jacket and ran it across his face to wipe away any bloodstains. Fortunately there were again only a few, then quickly and calmly he retraced his steps back to Victoria Street; even though it was quite an effort to stop from springing as fast and as far from this particular murder scene as possible. Once again luck was with him. No one saw him leave the alley and there were no passing cop cars or taxis; in a few seconds he had stealthily slipped in amongst the knots of people walking up and down William Street. The only person to speak to him was a vacant-eyed mini-skirted young prostitute near Brougham Street asking him if he needed a girl; he quickly brought his hand up to his face as he quietly answered no. Before long he was in his car and heading home.

  Davo was extremely tense and his hands were shaking noticeably when he walked into his unit and got changed out of his sweat-dampened, blood-spattered clothing. But about fifteen minutes later, sitting in the loungeroom over a cup of hot coffee while Sade crooned into Hang on to Your Love on 2D AY FM, he started to calm down a bit. Nevertheless, the realisation and dread at what he’d just done weighed heavily on him. He’d actually killed two cops—brutally and in cold blood. This would absolutely and positively change the whole scene. It not only proved the police were out in semi-disguise trying to find him, but now the search for the so called Midnight Rambler would intensify twenty-fold. And not only that. The police wouldn’t rest now until they’d found him; even if it took fifty years. He took a sip of coffee, walked back into the kitchen and stared morosely out at the lonely flickering yellow lights on Waverley Oval.

  Ironically though, Davo was convinced he’d done the right thing in killing the two cops. It was just plain rotten bad luck, more than anything else, that they happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. But now that he looked back on it he knew he was better off with them dead. If he had stopped and they’d had a chance to ask him who he was and what he was doing up there, then put their report into Middleton and Blackburn, now in charge of the case according to the papers, it wouldn’t have taken them long to trace the incident with Wayne back to him. And at the very least they would have come around and started asking a few questions: him and the neighbours. It certainly would have blown his cripple cover. And what if they’d searched him in that alley? And found those gloves. Jesus. No, in retrospect he did the right thing killing those two cops. It was just bad luck it had to happen—that’s all.

  He took a packet of shredded wheatmeal biscuits out of the cupboard, spread some butter on a couple and made a fresh mug of coffee. Yeah, bad luck his two latest victims had to be cops and now it was time to cool it for a while. Not that he was going to give up killing. No way. It was too much fun. But his own common sense said cool it for a couple of weeks at least. I might even give Colin a ring through the week he thought. Go out and chase a few scrubbers with him. Probably do me good anyway, a few drinks and a laugh and maybe a bit of screwing.

  He looked at his reflection in the darkened kitchen window. I wonder what the afternoon papers will have to say about the Midnight Rambler on Monday. Should be interesting anyway he grinned, as he took a large bite of buttered biscuit and a mouthful of coffee.

  Friday night’s killings got a fairly good run in the Sunday papers, having to share the front pages with an Australian freighter getting shelled by the Iranian Navy, and there was the usual stuff about the previous Midnight Rambler murders. But on Monday morning the headlines almost jumped off the newsstands.

  TWO POLICEMEN BRUTALLY BEATEN TO DEAT
H IN KINGS CROSS ALLEY screamed the Herald. MIDNIGHT RAMBLER SLAYINGS CONTINUE. TWO DETECTIVES LATEST VICTIMS howled the Telegraph. The conservative Melbourne Age said TWO SYDNEY DETECTIVES SLAIN IN HUNT FOR MANIAC KILLER and the parochial Brisbane Courier-Mail went for TWO SOUTHERN DETECTIVES SLAIN BY DRUG CRAZED SYDNEY KILLER. CITY IN GRIP OF TERROR.

  Davo had made a special early trip to Kings Cross just to get the interstate papers and after seeing all the police cars around he should have been, if not nervous, at least a little apprehensive as he sat in his kitchen reading them over a cup of coffee; instead, he was almost laughing like a drain. It’s hard to tell which one’s the best he thought, as he started cutting them out with a pair of scissors. I think the Courier-Mail’s got my vote somehow. Jesus, you can’t help but like those Queenslanders’ style. He took a sip of coffee and then looked at them again a little more seriously. I think I’ll wait till this afternoon’s papers come out though before I make a final judgement. He finished cutting them out, put them in the drawer with the others and looked at his watch. Oh well, better go down and start training. I’m running late this morning. He finished his coffee, got changed and whistling cheerfully to himself went down to the garage.

  If Davo was in a light-hearted mood that morning, Detectives Middleton and Blackburn were far from it. Before, the killings had revolved mainly around skinheads and punks, but the slaughter of the two detectives had changed everything. Now it was personal. Detectives Middleton and Blackburn were sitting grim-faced in their car outside the morgue after viewing the bodies of their fellow officers and talking to Dr Joyce. Both were in a state of near-rage, only their professionalism and self-control prevented them from flying off into fits of temper, but they were seething nonetheless.

  ‘Did you see what was left of George Maroney’s face?’ spat Detective Blackburn, shaking his head as if he still couldn’t quite believe what he’d just seen.

  ‘Did you know him well, did you, Greg?’ replied Detective Middleton, also shaking his head morosely.