Murder In The Outback

By Kevin William Barry

ALL PROCEEDS FROM THE SALE OF THIS BOOK GO TO CHARITY

In the tiny outback town of Colombo Creek, Reverend Charles Albertson makes a gruesome discovery. One of his parishioners, a quiet, reclusive man is found mutilated and murdered.

Detective Inspector Roger Dark is dispatched from the city to investigate.

As DI Dark's investigation into the vicious murder of Eduardo Ceasere proceeds, he learns that there is more to the murder than a simple crime of passion. Ceasere's past is revealed, providing vital clues to his killer's identity and the motive for the slaying.

Now DI Dark must track down the killer and bring him to justice, and he has to do it before his quarry catches up with the only witness to the crime, Ceasere's missing fourteen year old daughter.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kevin William Barry
• Release date: Jun 13, 2017
• ISBN: 9781386677710

Kevin William Barry

Kevin William Barry is the Australian author of numerous novels. He lives on the Atherton Tableands, Far North Queensland Australia with his wife Cathy

Book preview

Chapter 1

THE DEAD GUY'S NAME was Eduardo Ceasere, though for the past fifteen years he'd gone by another handle. On the eighteenth of the month, one of Colombo Creek's numerous, religious fundamental patients, a man known as the Reverend Charles Albertson, had found his body. Ceasere, or Fitzgibbon as the minister knew him, had missed his regular Saturday morning bible reading, the first time in almost a decade. That was sufficiently unusual for the Reverend Charlie to make him drive over and make sure there was nothing wrong.

The Reverend Albertson had been to Eddy's home on a number of occasions over the years, and although Ceasere would have never been considered a pillar of the community, there were very few people in the area who would say he was unlikeable. He was weird though, definitely weird. Even so, the last thing anyone would have expected, least of all the Reverend Charlie, was to find Ceasere not only dead, but badly mutilated.

Albertson had knocked on the aluminium frame of the screened door and when he received no answer, called Eddy's name a couple of times, waited a few moments, then called again. Finally, he'd let himself in. He felt uncomfortable about this indiscretion, but as the door was unlocked and his intentions were honourable, he'd felt his actions were justified. What if Eddy had fallen and broken his leg? He could be lying there, in pain, unable to move or make it to a phone to call for help. Albertson had edged his way through to Eddy's bedroom at the rear of the house, again calling his name. He'd found Ceasere lying on his back, on his bed. He was naked and his arms and legs were tied to the bed frame with lengths of plastic coated clothes line. He was deader than Beta-max.

The cause of death could have been suicide, but the clever money was on one of the sixteen stab wounds inflicted to his chest and abdomen. But then it could've also been the fact that his attacker had hacked off his genitals while his heart was still pumping and Ceasere had bled to death. They never found the murder weapon, or for that matter Eddy's wedding tackle. Though in this second instance, there was a sticky puddle of blood on the floor, and a trail of paw prints leading from it, to a contented looking Kelpie asleep on the patio.

Scattered over Ceasere's bed were eleven, Polaroid photographs. They were of a pretty little dark haired girl of around three or four years old. The child was naked and whoever had taken the photos wasn't interested in any artistic value the snaps may have held.

Reverend Albertson had found the photos even more abhorrent than Ceasere's corpse. He'd backed out of the room, ran to his car, retrieved his satellite phone from the glovebox, and dialled 000. When the emergency operator answered, he asked for the police, then provided details of the murder, gave them Edward Fitzgibbon's address and pleaded for them to hurry.

To say the town of Colombo Creek had never had a murder before, wouldn't be entirely correct. There had been a time, a couple of years back, when two old cow hands got pissed, then one beat the others brains out with a shovel. But this murder was different. Eddy's death wasn't some unfortunate, alcohol fuelled, violent attack which ended tragically in someone's demise. This was a classic case of premeditated murder.

Colombo Creek's one and only copper, Constable Eric Miller, was champing at the bit to get stuck into the investigation. This was what he had joined the force for. To investigate a 'proper' crime. For the past three years, the closest he'd gotten to actual police work, was kicking the arses of a group of teenagers who'd taken their unregistered trailbikes out onto a public road. Now here was something he could really get his teeth into. Not only had a man been mutilated and killed, his fourteen year old daughter was missing.

By four that afternoon, Miller had the crime scene cordoned off. There was a group of volunteers scouring the area surrounding the farm house looking for clues, and another group searching the town and surrounding district for Ceasere's daughter. Miller took dozens of photos with the station's new digital camera, dusted the house for prints, took measurements of things like blood splatter and the stab wounds, and bagged and tagged enough evidence to fill a large cardboard box.

At six that evening, he was still hard at it. He'd carted everything he'd collected at the crime scene into the Police Station and had set up the office next door to his as an incident room. He'd already typed up his initial report and printed all the crime scene photos on his colour printer at home. They were only low resolution images, printed on standard A4 office paper, but they would suffice for the time being. He'd get better, glossy, high resolution copies made tomorrow when the shop opened. The shop had a better, commercial quality machine, and proper photographic quality paper available. Much better than the stuff the Police Station had to offer. He'd pinned the snaps onto a corkboard he'd nailed to one of the walls, arranging them along the top, so they showed a complete, 360 degree view of Fitzgibbon's bedroom. Other photos, the ones showing things he felt might be significant, he'd fixed in the centre of the board, around a hand drawn floor plan. Then he'd attached bits of string from each of the photos, and ran them to the plan, indicating where they had been taken.

After he'd logged all the evidence and locked it away in the store room, he returned to his desk and fired up his computer. He logged into the Queensland Police Service database and did a search on the victim. He was looking for any criminal history for Fitzgibbon, plus any known associates. Perversely, there was nothing, not even a parking ticket. In fact, there wasn't any record of the man at all. Next Miller logged into the Department of Transport and entered Eddy's driver's licence details. To Eric's surprise the number on the licence was allocated to someone called Cheryl Caruthers from Toowoomba, a town two thousand kilometres away, and in the south east corner of the state. Next he checked the registration of Eddy's truck and got ostensibly the same result. The truck was registered to someone else.

What the hells going on? he asked the computer screen.

That night Eric barely slept. He tossed and turned, his mind ceaselessly churning over the facts and information he had amassed. He felt sure he understood the motive behind the killing. Fitzgibbon had messed about with somebody's little girl, that somebody had found out about it, and extracted a terrible revenge. Not that Miller could have blamed him. He didn't have a daughter himself, but if he had, and if someone had done the things to his child that Fitzgibbon had done to the little girl in the Polaroids, Eric would have killed him himself.

Having such a clear motive made Miller's next move obvious. He would scan one of the child's photos, blow it up and crop it so that only the girls face showed. Then he'd take it to the school and find out who the poor little tyke was. Find the victim, and there was a better than even chance the kid's Dad was the killer. Of course the child may have come from out of town. Maybe she, like a lot of the farm kids in the area, was home schooled. That would make identifying her a bit harder. In fact, because Eric didn't recognise the girl himself, that scenario seemed quite likely.

However, the entire area under his jurisdiction -an area of nearly eight hundred square kilometres- was home to less than one thousand people and half of those were Aboriginal, so he was confident it wouldn't take too long before he made an arrest. So why couldn't he sleep? There was something wrong, something he was missing. Why had he been unable to find any record of Edward Fitzgibbon on any official Queensland Police Service database?

At five am he gave up trying to sleep. He got up, staggered to the bathroom, showered, shaved and dragged on a fresh uniform. He combed his hair, shovelled a bowl of cereal into his gob and then hopped over the fence to his office.

For the next two and a half hours, he once again reviewed the evidence pertaining to the case. Then at seven thirty five, he picked up the phone and began calling anyone he could think of who might know the whereabouts of Eddy's daughter. The principal at the school told him the girl wasn't enrolled.

She must be home schooled. I've seen her around of course, but not very often. She and her Dad very rarely bother coming into town, except on their weekly shopping trip. Perhaps you should try Beryl, maybe she's seen her.

Eric phoned the shop. There was only two shops in the whole town. One was a fast food outlet attached to Dan's service station, the other an ancient weatherboard and sheet iron hovel which stocked everything from fencing wire to yoghurt. It was owned and run by an old dear, known to the district simply as Beryl. No one could remember her last name, no one was even sure she had one. Miller asked his question, but Beryl hadn't seen the girl in nearly a week.

Next Miller called the Reverend Charlie Albertson. He answered on the fifth ring, puffing and panting as if he had been away from the phone and had run to answer it.

No Constable, I haven't seen Miss Fitzgibbon since a week ago Saturday. She was here with her father for our prayer meeting. They both left around four, I think.

"Do you have any idea about where she might be? Does she have any special friends she hangs about with? Any particular places she likes to go? A favourite swimming hole down at the creek for example.'

Again the Reverend answered in the negative.

To be honest with you Constable, Eddy wasn't what you'd call a sociable person. He kept very much to himself most of the time, and he encouraged, or maybe even expected, the girl do the same.

Miller asked Albertson a few more questions, mostly pertaining to his discovery of Fitzgibbon's body, then thanked him for his time and hung up.

There was one other line of inquiry Miller wanted to try before he got stuck into the general business of upholding the law in the tiny town of Colombo Creek. He climbed into his patrol car, and drove over to Dan's service station. It was situated out near the feed lot, on the outskirts of town, about two kilometres west of the Police station. It was the only place for over two hundred kilometres in any direction, were a person could buy either petrol or diesel fuel for a vehicle. This meant that any person travelling through the area was almost certain to stop there to fill up. There was a good chance that whoever had murdered Eddy Fitzgibbon had pulled in sometime during the day. It was also the local Greyhound bus depot. The bus was due in around eleven each evening and Miller hoped to get the driver's name from Dan so he could find out if he'd given a lift to Isabelle Fitzgibbon.

By the time Eric got back from the depot it was almost midday. The trip had been a massive exercise in futility, a total waste of time.

His day was about to get much worse.

Chapter 2

AS WITH MOST COUNTRIES which boast a well established, professional law enforcement agency, Australia's cops generally operate in pairs. There are some very good reasons for following this procedure. Two heads are better than one, a second pair of eyes frequently picks up things which the first cops, blinkered, myopic pair may have missed, and partners can watch each other's back when the inevitable happens and a bust goes pear shaped.

But there is also another reason why cops almost always operate in pairs, one which the brass upstairs don't like to talk about unless they have to. The reason is, it's hard to get away with taking bribes or turning a blind eye, when there's another boy in blue looking over your shoulder. Of course there's always the possibility that both cops are bent, which is why partnerships are regularly dissolved and new teams set up.

My ex partner, Detective Sergeant Terrence Sandringam was as bent as a hairpin. For the last eight months he'd been accepting a fairly large, monthly stipend from one of the state's more dedicated criminal activists. In return, DS Sandringam always somehow made sure, no law enforcement agents were anywhere near wharf 36C when Customs 'randomly' checked shipping containers for drugs.

Eventually though, the inevitable happened. Three weeks ago, DS Sandringam 'accidentally' shredded a piece of documentary evidence, something crucial to the case against the leader one of Brisbane's major drug cartels. Unfortunately for Sandringam the document he shredded was only a photocopy. The real evidence was at my home, locked in my briefcase for safe keeping. As the result of some covert CCTV footage I'd collected of him disposing of the evidence, Sandringam was arrested and is currently out on parole pending a miracle. Fat chance. Which meant I didn't currently have a partner.

In addition, the dreaded Queensland Police Service's performance reviews were due at the end of the month, and as long as we had those to look forward to, no Superintendent in his right mind was going to authorise any transfers or reallocation of personnel.

The upshot of these two unrelated events, was that I was sitting at my desk contemplating my rapidly shrinking workload when news of Edwardo Ceasere's murder and DIY sex change reached Commissioner Newsome's ears.

Who do we have available? asked Newsome.

The only one not snowed under at present is DI Roger Dark, answered my Superintendent.

Oh Lucky Me.

Nine hours later found me on the midnight red eye from the state capital Brisbane, to Cairns, Queensland's northern most city, situated some two thousand kilometres to the north. From there I was to travel in a small plane which QPS had chartered, to Colombo Creek. The town was situated in the middle of nowhere, geographically half way between Cairns and the waters of The Gulf of Carpentaria. In other words, the town of Shit Hole in the locality of Fucknowswhere Regional Council.

The first leg of my journey took about two and a bit hours, giving me plenty of time to acquaint myself with the history surrounding the late, now gender non-specific Eduardo Ceasere. According to the copious file Commissioner Newsome had provided, Ceasere had once been a bookkeeper for the notorious crime boss, Morgan Carelli. In fact, it was Ceasere's testimony which had led to Carelli's arrest and conviction. His recent murder, and more importantly his daughter's apparent abduction, was ringing some pretty substantial alarm bells with the boys in blue from the upper levels. There was no way they were going to let anyone sit on their hands until things got sorted. Unfortunately for me, I drew the shortest of short straws and the gig was dumped in my lap.

I quite like Cairns, I'd been there a couple of times before. Once on business and once when I took Kate and the kids north, for a winter visit to the Great Barrier Reef. Cairns is a small sized city, tiny I suppose by international standards, with a population of around a hundred and fifty thousand. This number varies wildly during the winter tourist season, and I've been told that in a good year, the head count can almost double. It's an old fashioned sort of place, with the city spreading out rather than up. Of course there are a few buildings along the waterfront which, with a bit of imagination, could be considered high-rise. But like many Australian cities, it's an eclectic combination of ultra modern swank, mixed in with tacky, tired and unkempt. It's a holiday town pure and simple, which caters for all breeds of tourists, from backpacker to the international jet setter.

Having said all that, when my flight finally arrived in Cairns at two eighteen am, I didn't give a flying fig what the city was like, as long as it had a motel with a vacant bed in it.

Choosing it for no other reason than it was close to the airport, I booked into one of the Golden Chain group. It's locality made it ideal for connecting with my charter flight which was due to leave just five hours later. The room was typical motel fare. It was clean, tidy, had a comfortable bed and heavy drapes which cut out almost all the noise from the road outside. Best of all, it had a shower from which some kind soul had already prized out the stupid little water restricting insert. I stood under the piping hot cascade for at least ten minutes, happy to trade the relief it afforded my weary muscles, against the expense of a few extra minutes of shut eye. Then I hit the sack.

I woke a few seconds before my alarm went off, and hit the shower once again. I shaved, brushed my teeth, dressed in a light grey pinstripe suit, pale blue shirt and yellow and silver tie. Then I had reception call me a cab.

Twenty minutes later I was sitting next to the world's youngest pilot, in the world's smallest aircraft, not featuring balsa wood as its primary construction material. It had one motor, with I assumed, a rubber band back up in case of engine failure. There were four seats and storage space in the hold for a packet of tic tacs. Luckily, as I was the only passenger, I could put my overnight bag and briefcase on the two spare seats behind me. Unlike most modern aircraft, the wing sat on top of the plane and I wondered fleetingly if there had once been a second wing underneath which had been shot off during the first world war. The undercarriage consisted of three tiny, non retractable wheels with an even smaller shopping trolley type castor bolted below the tail. I assumed it had been put there to stop the tail dragging on the ground during take off. There was a legend embossed in the centre of the aircraft's steering wheel, and I swear to God it said 'Airfix'. However, even though it was cramped, I found it quite comfortable. At least I did once my arse had fallen asleep.

The pilot's name was Mick, no surname offered or required. He was a munchkin in size, at least vertically, with pale brown, closely cropped hair, which was plastered with gel. He wore a crisp white shirt, stretched tight across his paunch, and sporting epaulettes featuring a stylised wing on each shoulder. Blue dress shorts with long white socks and highly polished black shoes completed his uniform. He was polite but surly. No need to ask why, a lot of people treat me that way. The plane had been chartered by the Queensland Police Service, so even though I wasn't in a cops uniform, I wasn't wearing shackles and a modified baseball mask either, so he knew I was. a cop. A pig. Someone to be despised. At least, that is until some one stole his DVD player or nicked his car. Then he'd ring triple 0 and fully expect me to be on his doorstep just seconds later returning his stolen property. Yea right.

The flight from Cairns to Colombo Creek took a little over an hour and a half. Pilot Mick wound up the rubber band, and while it warmed up, went through his check list making sure everything was in order. When he was satisfied that we 'probably' wouldn't be falling out of the sky for a while, he radioed Cairns Air Traffic Control and asked for permission to take off. A woman called Franny came back, told him he was cleared for take off and wished him a pleasant flight. Minutes later we were in the air and powering our way northward. Following the coast, we passed Port Douglas to starboard a few minutes after take-off, and then turned north west. The little plane climbed valiantly to clear the densely forested mountains ahead of us, and soon we were scything our way over the mountains, skimming just metres above the canopy. At least that's how it felt to me. This was my first flight in a small plane, but I hope it won't be my last. I ride a motorcycle, a 2008 Ducati 749 no less, so I'm used to things that bank and swoop, growl like a tiger and go like a cheetah with a rocket up its arse. The little plane gave me a similar thrill to the one I get from a bike.

The rainforest spread out before us, seemingly as far as the horizon in every direction. For the first time visitor to the area, the 'Wet Tropics' is always a remarkable experience. Most travellers, especially those from overseas, expect what they have been led to believe is typical, Australian countryside. In other words the outback, flat, arid, dusty and infested with kangaroos. Here, nothing could be further from the truth. The rainforest below us is a lush, dense, impenetrable carpet of vegetation. The canopy is so thick, if we crash there is a good possibility no one would ever find the wreckage. Or at least that's what my laugh a minute pilot tells me.

After about half an hour, I notice the forest is beginning to thin slightly. In fact there seems to be a definite point, a few kilometres away, were the rainforest ends completely. A few moments later, everything becomes clear. Suddenly the mountain over which we are flying ends, abruptly dropping off in a high, almost vertical cliff. To the west the ground plummets down a few hundred metres and then opens out onto a series of rolling foothills. The mountains to the east act as a windbreak blocking off the south easterly, rain laden, trade winds, so the lush vegetation suddenly gives way to a more open forest. It's still a long way from desert, but now the trees are a more common Eucalyptus and Banksia and scrubby saltbush. The grasses between the clumps of trees are grey rather than green, and I can see that the ground where it has been denuded of vegetation, is stony and hard.

Mick pushes the yoke forward, and the plane dives like a Banshee. My guess is he's trying to put the wind up me, attempting to frighten me. But he's doesn't know I ride a bike, and it's going to take a bit more than that to cause me concern. He pulls up fifty metres or so above the tree tops and banks around to the north west. For the next twenty minutes we howl along, with Mick swerving and banking radically with every manoeuvre. Soon we're flying over much more arid country. Through the windscreen and the spinning prop in front of us I could see a series of buildings. Some larger structures look new and well cared for. Other, smaller dwellings, look like they should have been condemned years ago. There's a group of newer buildings which radiate around a grassy playing field. There's a swimming pool to its north, and as we get closer, I can see a whole pile of little Aboriginal kids splashing around in the water.

Is that Colombo Creek? I ask.

Nuh. Djaranpundi, replies Mick. It's an Aboriginal settlement. 'The Creek's' about another ten minutes away.

Now that his unsavoury, humiliating task of conveying a cop is almost over, he's being a bit more friendly. Though not much. Maybe it's because he's been to 'The Creek' before, and knows that once he's dropped me off and leaves, I'll be stuck there. That'll be his revenge for whatever imagined wrong I might have done to him.

A few minutes later he swings around in a wide arc, and lines the little aircraft up with a dirt track which runs for about a kilometre parallel to the road.

You've got to be kidding, I mumble under my breath. Thankfully Mick doesn't hear me over the din of the engine. Seconds later we're down, sort of. We bounce and pitch and wobble all the way along the airstrip, until Mick finally gets the little plane under control. He reverses the pitch of the prop, and pulls out the throttle against the stop. The aircraft nearly stands on its nose in its hurry to stop. He eases back on the gas and taxis over to a tiny, three sided shed in the far, south-eastern corner of the airfield. Some wit has painted the words 'Departure Lounge' on the side of the shed in yellow paint. Mick kills the engine and throws open the door. He jumps out and begins unloading my suitcase and briefcase from the back seat. Apart from the 'Departure Lounge' there doesn't appear to be any other buildings. Colombo Creek airport is obviously not in the centre of town.

How far are we away from town? I inquire.

Bout three k's

I check my phone for a signal, knowing even as I do, there isn't a snowballs chance in hell. It's a stupid question, but I have to ask. Is there a phone around where I can call the local cop?

No sorry. Didn't you let Miller know you were coming?

No. It's sort of a surprise visit.

Oh! He smiles.

I shrug. It's only three kilometres and my suitcase has wheels and an extendable handle.

I guess I'll have to walk.

It's barely eight, and already the temperature is in the high twenties. If I'm going to survive my first day in Colombo Creek, I'm going to have to lose the suit coat. I snap open the suitcase, fold up my jacket and tuck it inside. In a pocket, in the lid of the case, Kate has stuffed one of my old, floppy, fishing hats. She's an angel and I'd be lost with out her. Lost and suffering from heat stroke. The entrance to the airstrip has a sign indicating that if I turn right, I will soon be rewarded with my first sight of Colombo Creek township. The day started out okay, but apparently it's going to go down hill rapidly from here.

The road itself is dry, dusty gravel. A typical country road which seems to meander aimlessly in a vaguely southerly direction. As I make my way towards the town, I'm watched closely on either side of the road by a smattering of huge, scrawny, hump backed cattle with long, vicious, cop impaling horns. This is cattle country. Out here cattle stations are measured in hundreds, if not thousands, of square kilometres rather than acres or hectares, and herds are counted in the tens of thousands.

I could never live in the outback. For a start I'm pretty sure anymore than five bars of 'Achy Breaky Heart' will put me in an anaphylactic coma, and Eau de Bovine is certainly not my favourite perfume. But of course there are people who love the country life. They love the wide open spaces, the slower, more relaxed pace, the endless horizons and the young, nubile, unsuspecting livestock.

Just as well. All our food comes from the country, and somebody has to milk the chickens.

I can't say for sure that God exists, but if he does, one glimpse at Colombo Creek will tell you he's got a wicked sense of humour. It took me almost forty minutes to reach the town and a further four seconds to find the Police Station. It's in the centre of the street, (yes that's right, there's only one) nestled between the shop, and the police residence. It's a small timber structure, set up about a metre off the ground to make the most of any cooling breeze wafting under the floorboards. The walls are painted in a sort of creamy yellow and there are stout iron bars on all the windows. It has a silver, corrugated iron roof, and a wide verandah at the front of the building. The verandah has been put there to provide shelter for any visitor who may come to report a crime when the OIC (Officer In Charge) is not in residence. Currently, the OIC is in residence, and when he sees me his face drops. He knows his day is about to get a lot worse.

Let me tell you, there isn't a law enforcement agent in the country, who does this job for the pittance the Government pays us. Every single one of us became a cop because we wanted to make a difference. We wanted to make the world a better, safer place. We need to get, at least some of the scum infesting this wonderful country off the streets and behind bars where they belong. Sure, I'll admit some of us lose our way, and some of us become jaded and disheartened by a system that does more to support the culprit than the victim. But I sincerely believe, that even the bad ones, originally joined the force to do good. Sadly for Constable Miller, I'm about to take his reason for getting up in the morning away from him.

I suspect he knows who I am, more or less, and why I'm there. Even before I introduce myself, he scowls as I show him my identification and hand him a copy of my orders from Headquarters.

You didn't have to bother you know, he informs me. I've already established a motive and begun to make some inquires. I'm confident I'll have Mr Fitzgibbon's murderer behind bars before the end of the week.

He's pissed off and trying hard not lose his cool. He's only a lowly Constable and I'm a Detective Inspector. He knows he has to be careful not to appear insubordinate. Personally, I regard him as a fellow cop, one who is perfectly justified in being angry. I've been in his shoes myself, and even if he ranted and raved and threatened to punch my lights out, I'd understand, and it would take a lot for me to pull rank under these circumstances.

I'm glad to hear it Eric, because I'm going to need your help to get a local perspective on the crime, I say, trying not to sound too patronising. But I should explain that the man you know as Edward Fitzgibbon doesn't exist. His real name is Eduardo Ceasere and he was placed here under the Witness Protection Scheme. It was before my time of course, but fifteen years ago Ceasere's evidence was responsible for putting away a particularly nasty piece of work called Morgan Carelli. Ceasere worked for him as a bookkeeper. Carelli was into everything, extortion, prostitution, armed robbery, drugs, there was even talk of a couple of murders. We knew he was the worst type of criminal, but we could never get anything to stick. We'd charge him, drag him off to court and then witnesses would disappear or suddenly change their story. Evidence would go missing, jurors would be threatened or bought off, and Carelli would walk. But then, out of the blue, Ceasere turned up at Roma Street Police Station and gave us enough hard evidence to send Morgan Carelli away for the rest of his life.

Miller nodded. Eric was about my age, thirty four, maybe thirty five, so there was very little chance he was familiar with the Carelli case specifically, but he knew what had happened next. In return for his assistance, we'd set Ceasere up with a new identity, a new home, and a new life.

And when I did a search for Edward Fitzgibbon on the QPS database, it set some alarm bells ringing at HQ, and here you are, he concluded.

I nodded.

But that was fifteen years ago, Miller snapped. I can't see what that has to do with anything. Fitzgibbon's or Ceasere's or whoever the fuck he was, wasn't killed because of something he did fifteen years ago, I'm sure of it. I have some pretty damming evidence he was killed because he was messing around with somebody's little girl. It has nothing to do with this Carelli bloke.

I shrugged. Okay, show me what you've got. If you can convince me you're right, I'll contact Commissioner Newsome and ask him to turn the case back over to you.

Miller led the way into the back room. I must admit, considering he didn't know all the facts, he'd done a pretty good job of working out a motive. There was only two things wrong with his hypothesis.

Okay Eric, what can you tell me about the photos of the little girl? I asked when he'd finished showing me his stash of evidence.

They're disgusting. How could anyone do that sort of thing to a child Roger?

Yea, I agree. As far as I'm concerned, whoever abused that poor child in that way, and took those photos, should be put up against a wall and shot. But I'm talking about the type of photo. They're Polaroids, right?

Miller nodded.

So what's wrong with Polaroid photos in 2014?

He thought for a second or two before answering. Shit! Nobody uses Polaroids anymore. Digital cameras are everywhere. Every mobile phone in the world comes with one. I'll bet Polaroid film hasn't even been available for ten years.

Which means?

The photos are a plant. They've been put there to throw us off the track, make it look like the girl's father is the murderer.

"Yep. If you think about it Eric, it's obvious the photos were put there to throw us off the scent. For a start, no decent man is going to leave pictures like that of his daughter lying around. But in