Blood Sunset

5



THE DRIVE BACK TO ST KILDA took me through Albert Park where the Formula One race would be held in less than a month’s time. The normally lush lawn that surrounded the lake was brown and patchy. Even the lake itself looked like a dam on a barren farm left to dry out and die.
I plugged the earpiece into my mobile phone and dialled the St Kilda watch-house, asking to be put through to Cassie Withers. Because she’d left early last night, she’d agreed to pull the quick changeover, meaning today she would be back on duty for the afternoon shift. I slowed for a red light as she came on the line.
‘Cass, it’s Rubes. How’d you go at the hospital?’
‘Imagine spending six hours in a cheap plastic chair, then you’ve got it.’
She left it at that and I figured she didn’t want to talk about it over the phone. Eckles was probably somewhere in the squad room watching her. A Salvation Army volunteer approached my window shaking a donation can but I let him walk by.
‘What’s up?’ Cassie asked.
‘I need a favour. Can you check who made the ID this morning on the overdose and let me know if we’ve got a current address? Kid’s name was Dallas Boyd. I also need a date of birth.’
‘Ah, okay. Why?’
‘Never mind, I’m just filling in the boxes.’
I heard keys tapping and figured she was checking the system. The light went green but the car in front didn’t move. I blew the horn until it did.
‘The kid was sixteen,’ she said. ‘Born 1 November 1992.’
I looked around for somewhere to write it down but my daybook was on the back seat, so instead I scribbled it on the back of my hand.
‘Still there?’ Cassie asked.
‘Yeah, sorry. The ID. Can you check the incident fact sheet and tell me who made the ID?’
‘I don’t need an IFS to tell you that. Eckles took someone down to make the ID after lunch. Let me check his name.’
I changed lanes at the St Kilda junction and headed south towards the beach. Two hookers stood on the corner of Alma Road, hands on hips, gaunt faces hidden behind oversized sunglasses. Recognising one of them, I flashed my headlights. She lifted her skirt and flashed her leg back in sarcasm as Cassie picked up the phone.
‘A social worker,’ she said. ‘Works at the crisis centre on Carlisle.’
‘Will Novak?’ I asked.
‘Good memory.’
‘I’m still a detective, Cass,’ I said, then wondered aloud why the kid’s parents hadn’t made the ID.
‘Nobody’s saying any different,’ she replied, adding, ‘The address I have for the parents is a commission flat in Collingwood. The high-rise complex on Hoddle Street.’
‘Yep, I know it.’
‘What are you playing at, Rubes?’ Cassie prodded. ‘We’re done on this. I’ve got your inquest brief in front me. Nil suspicious circs, it says, right here in your own handwriting. Why all the questions?’
‘I’m back on deck tomorrow morning. I’ll fill you in then. Thanks.’
I ended the call before she had a chance to ask anything else and an uneasy feeling settled on me. She was my partner and friend and I’d broken the pact: in us we trust. But then for all I knew, she probably didn’t think I was ready to be back at work either.
I parked outside a corner property bordered by a six-foot-high brick fence. A sign on a gate read ‘Carlisle Accommodation & Recovery Service’. CARS operated out of an old mansion donated by its late owner, an elderly woman whose children had drowned in a boating accident in the 1950s. Her bequest had caused a shitfight among the remaining family members when she passed away in 1982, but her wish held up and CARS had been providing support to the street people of St Kilda ever since. As far as I knew, Will Novak had worked there since the organisation first opened its doors.
I walked through the front gate with my daybook under my arm, up a gravel path to a front porch that stretched the entire length of the three-storey house. Beautiful bay windows with ornate leadlight lined either side of a double-fronted door wide enough to fit a car through. A teenager in a striped tracksuit sat on the steps leading to the porch, rolling a cigarette. He made me as a cop even before I walked past.
‘How are ya, sarge?’ he drawled.
‘Not bad,’ I replied, noting the deep shadows under the boy’s eyes and the shrunken cheekbones that were the telltale signs of addiction. His eyes were mere slits, he hadn’t shaved in a few days and his hair needed a wash. Probably only fifteen or sixteen, but he looked so much older. Heroin does that. It beats the kids down, steals their youth.
‘Will Novak in?’
‘Dunno. What’s it to you?’ he said, not even looking up from his cigarette.
‘Just want to talk to him.’
I opened the front door but stopped as the boy mumbled something.
‘What’s that?’
‘Said he’s out back,’ the kid said. ‘Last I seen he was pretty upset. We all are.’
‘Upset?’
‘About Dall. That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?’
‘You knew Dallas Boyd?’
‘Yeah, course.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Right.’
‘May I help you?’ a voice said from the doorway.
The first thing I noticed about Will Novak was that he’d shaved his head and grown a neat goatee beard. Last time I’d seen him, more than a year ago, he’d had long hair and was dressed in a T-shirt and boardies, standard youth-worker attire. Now he wore a white business shirt tucked into a pair of beige slacks with brown boat shoes. I wondered if he’d worn the outfit to look professional at the ID or if this was now his usual get-up. I was about to produce my badge when he recognised me.
‘Rubens? Rubens McCauley?’
‘Yeah, hello, Will.’
We shook hands and I saw that his eyes were bloodshot, his face pale and drained.
‘This is . . .’ he stammered. ‘I’m sorry, it’s been a bad day.’
‘Yeah, I know. Is there somewhere we can talk?’
‘Sure, follow me.’
He led me down a hall towards the rear of the building, past a reception desk and another hallway. Posters advertising different welfare services hung on the walls. The building was old and musty, and eerily quiet. Floorboards creaked under our feet. Stopping, Novak gestured for me to enter an office that overlooked a courtyard surrounded by bench seats and a garden with people standing in the shade, smoking cigarettes.
He eased into a chair behind a desk stained with coffee and old age and offered me a seat in a chair opposite.
‘What a day,’ he said, staring out the window, looking slightly dazed. ‘Good to see you again. Shame it’s not a happier occasion.’
I nodded. I’d first met Will Novak while working a case in which a parolee was wanted for the rape of a local prostitute. Novak knew where the offender was hiding and tipped me off, and we arrested the guy without much delay. Around the same time I’d moved into my flat and was in the process of pulling down a wall between the entrance and the lounge. I ended up hiring Will’s brother – a carpenter – to do the job. The wall turned out to be load bearing and required a few hands on deck, so Novak – who was himself quite handy and often laboured for his brother – helped. A year or so later Ella hired them both to remodel the ensuite in her own apartment.
‘How’re you holding up?’ I asked him.
‘Well, as I’m sure you’ll appreciate, I’ve been through this several times over the years, but never with somebody like Dallas.’
‘He was a client of yours, I take it?’
A weary nod. ‘I guess there’s no harm in discussing him now, is there? I mean, it’s different when they’re . . . when they’re still with us.’
‘Wanna tell me about him?’
Novak nodded and clasped his hands together. ‘Dallas was one of my success stories. I first began seeing him when he was eight. He came to live here at the age of ten. For the first few years he was a great example of what can be achieved with positive care and the right support structures. I made some genuine inroads, but it wasn’t easy. We tried placing him with foster parents a few times, but he rebelled. Later on, he went through bouts of early drug use, including heroin at the age of fourteen, before ending up in Malmsbury for an armed rob.’
I made a note to contact Juvenile Justice about Dallas Boyd’s stint in kiddie prison.
‘What happened when he got out?’ I asked.
‘He was referred back to me by one of the outreach programs we’re affiliated with in the juvenile centres. Anyway, he came back here and got clean. I helped him find his own accommodation and, as far as I knew, things were going well for him. He hadn’t used in over a year and . . .’ Novak tore a tissue from a box on his desk and wiped his eyes. ‘I’m sorry. It’s just you work so hard to help these kids, and just when you think they’re in the clear, they relapse and in a second it’s all over. It’s a bloody tragedy.’
I looked out the window, giving him time to compose himself. Outside, a young woman squashed a cigarette in an ashtray and walked towards a doorway on the other side of the courtyard. She wore pyjamas so I figured she was a live-in client and the doorway led to the accommodation rooms.
‘Why were you asked to formally identify the body?’ I said when Novak was finished with the tissue. ‘Why not his family?’
‘Family?’
‘His parents live in Collingwood. In the commission flats.’
‘Well, Dallas might have had a biological mother and a stepfather, but I wouldn’t call it a family.’
I waited, suspecting there was more.
‘Like most of my clients, Dallas was also a client of the Department of Human Services, you understand? Child Protection, to be precise. I can still remember the first time I saw him, just a little kid covered in bruises. He could hardly walk.’
‘Did he have any recent contact with his parents? Visiting arrangements?’
Novak let out a long breath, fished through a file on his desk and handed me a folded-up piece of paper. I unfolded the page and recognised it as a pathology report on a urine specimen. The patient’s name was Rachel Boyd.
‘Dallas was worried about his little sister,’ Novak explained. ‘Rachel was crying every time she went to the toilet, said it hurt to pee. So just last December, we brought her in here and had a nurse take a urine sample.’ He took the pathology report back and folded it into the file. ‘Rachel had chlamydia. As far as I’m concerned, there’s only one reason why a five-year-old girl gets chlamydia.’
My stomach tensed.
‘Who was it?’
‘The stepfather. Complete scum of the earth.’ Novak clenched his jaw. ‘Being a social worker, I don’t say that about many people.’
‘Does the girl still live with them?’
He eased back in his chair, shooting me a look of suspicion. ‘Pardon my cynicism, but like I said before, I’ve been through this with other clients who’ve passed away in similar circumstances. I don’t recall there being this level of depth in the investigation.’
‘Depth?’
‘The questions you’re asking. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I appreciate the interest. I’m just not used to seeing this level of inquiry from cops regarding a heroin overdose. You wanna level with me here?’
He was right to be curious. Mostly ODs were written off quickly, so it was no wonder he found my questions peculiar.
‘Call it the new face of community policing.’
‘Hey, I’ve never held out on you, man. I’ve always played ball.’
‘I know that, Will. I’m just being thorough. You said you helped Dallas find his own accommodation. Was that through the Ministry of Housing?’
‘No. Part of my role is to source government grants for my clients. The grants pay for all sorts of things like accommodation, food, travel, study, even gym membership. With Dallas, I was able to help him rent and furnish a one-bedroom unit off Barkly Street. Nothing flash, but he was learning to survive on his own.’
‘What’s the address?’
‘Of Dall’s apartment?’
‘Yeah, I’d like to have a look. Help polish off my report.’
Novak leant across his desk. ‘Hey, if something’s going on here, I have a right to know. I basically raised that kid as if he were my own.’
I felt the human element of Boyd’s death weigh heavily upon me. Workers like Novak weren’t unlike many of the dedicated detectives I’d met on the job. They worked long hours for little pay and were relentless in supporting their clients. That the clients were often the scourge of society was inconsequential to them. They saw beyond that and dedicated their lives to helping these people. And I admired that.
‘There’s some things that don’t add up, that’s all. But don’t go shooting your mouth off. I’m keeping it close to my chest until I get a better picture.’
‘You think he was murdered?’ he said.
I looked over my shoulder, as if the office had ears. I wasn’t expecting the question, and wasn’t sure I knew the answer.
‘Like I said, there are some anomalies. I can’t go into it yet, but if it turns out something untoward did happen, I’ll let you know as soon as I can. How does that sound?’
He gave me a conspiratorial nod. ‘Sure, and I’ll do what I can to help.’
‘Can you tell me the address?’ I asked.
‘I can do better than that.’ Opening a drawer in his desk, he searched around and fished out a key with a yellow tag on it. ‘As part of my agreement with the government, I go on the record for these kids when I get them a place to live,’ he explained, tossing the key over. ‘The government requires that I have a key to access the property if need be. More often than not, they’re just useful for when they lock themselves out.’
Novak read out the address and I wrote it down. On the page I saw a notation about the mobile phone and it reminded me to ask whether he could confirm if Dallas Boyd had one.
‘Sure. Everyone has a mobile these days, don’t they?’ he said.
‘You have the number?’
‘Of course.’ He got up and opened a drawer in a filing cabinet, then removed a folder. ‘Forgive my inquisitiveness,’ he said, looking genuinely puzzled, ‘but what benefit will having his number be?’
I looked up from my notes and considered the question.
‘Well, he didn’t have a phone on him when he . . . when we found him. He probably left it in his flat. I’m sure it’ll turn up.’
‘Fair enough.’
He opened the folder, read out the number and I copied it down next to the address.
‘One final thing,’ I said. ‘I’m trying to trace Boyd’s final steps. When did you last see him?’
‘A couple of days ago. We had lunch, actually.’
‘And how was he?’
‘Fine. I mean, he was a bit worked up.’
‘How do you mean?’ I asked.
‘Well, he was in contact with Child Protection again, trying to have his sister removed so that she could live with him. The Child Protection Unit assigned to the case had been out to the flat. They were investigating the stepfather, but, as I’m sure you’re aware, the removal of a child from the family unit is a last resort. They don’t make those decisions lightly and the wait was causing him a bit of stress.’
‘Okay, so that was the last time you spoke to him?’
‘Yes.’
I thought about how removing the girl might have resulted in charges against the stepfather, possibly even prison time. It would be enough to make anyone angry.
‘The stepfather, what’s his name?’
‘Vincent Rowe. Look him up on your system. I’m sure he’ll have a thousand hits.’
I scrawled the name down and underlined it as Novak slid two business cards across the desk, one his own and the other belonging to a woman named Sarah Harrigan from the Department of Human Services.
‘It’s past five on a Friday,’ Novak said, ‘so you won’t get any joy at DHS now, but she’s the Child Protection Unit manager for the southern metro region. I’ll tell her you’re a good guy, get her to call you.’
I thanked him and passed my own card over. ‘Just for the record, where were you around midnight last night?’
‘Ah, you’re asking me for an alibi?’
‘For elimination.’
Novak looked out the window and exhaled slowly. ‘I was helping out at the soup kitchen on Fitzroy Street.’
‘At midnight?’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Shit, I went into the 7-Eleven on the corner of Grey Street at one point and bought a packet of smokes to give out to the homeless. That’s the only time I was away from the van.’
Glad the awkward moment was out of the way, I held out my hand. ‘Sorry, Will. Part of the process.’
‘Just let me know if you hear anything,’ he said as we shook hands. ‘Dall was a popular kid. If something happened to him, you’ll have a lot of angry people around here. Could get ugly.’
I thought of the boy I’d seen outside and knew Novak wasn’t exaggerating. Street kids were a tight bunch.
‘Thanks, Will,’ I said, sliding the keys to Dallas Boyd’s apartment into my pocket. ‘I’ll be in touch.’