Reaper, p.5
Reaper, page 5
It had been many years since he’d been in the police force and could use official channels to access the kind of information he needed now. No doubt the kingpins of the drug underworld from his day were still in place, unless they’d been usurped by some younger, stronger, meaner and more ambitious piece of work. The hierarchies within the gangs could be brutal. They might seem like some large, surrogate family, making up for the lack of real family or social connection in many young men, but make the wrong move and the consequences were harsh. And then there were the turf wars, which could be deadly. The drug world had its own careful politics, with each party walking a fine line between protecting its own assets and asserting its place in the market, while at the same time ensuring that they all made money – that they all profited from other people’s misery. So generally the gangs operated in some kind of harmony – governed by an uneasy truce.
It was where and when that truce had fallen apart that interested Max. He didn’t have direct access to police information, but he did have access to the newspapers and online reporting. He was looking for articles on major drug busts, gang violence and drive-by shootings, anything that gave him a sense of which gangs were dominant in the market and, where it was reported, who was involved. Major drug offences – dealing and manufacturing – tended to attract more column inches, deserved articles of their own. In these the guilty tended to be named. It seemed that name suppression was only afforded to people who were white and privileged and could pay for the top lawyers. These were people who thought that having a conviction would tarnish their good name and limit their future job prospects, or heaven forbid might taint their parents’ reputation. That kind of consideration didn’t seem to extend as far for Māori or Pacific people, or anyone whose skin tone didn’t fall into the pale category. And the reality was the gangs were predominantly Māori or Pasifika, so their names were on full display, and more often than not, a photograph was as well. Several such articles had popped up in the time Max was searching. Some of the names he’d encountered from his days on the job. But most convictions were new faces. He wondered how many had been scapegoats, sacrificed to take one for the team?
It didn’t take Max long to realise none of this trawling through the papers and online was going to yield the kind of results he would have got from the drug squad. But it wasn’t like he could rock up there and say, hey, I’ve been commissioned by a vengeance-seeking dad to track down and wreak retribution on the head of the fucker that supplied meth to his ex-good-boy son who killed my daughter and himself in the bargain. Got any leads for me? He knew a few people still involved in the squad, but none well enough to even attempt to talk with them. This wasn’t going to be straight forward. Part of him was regretting ever agreeing to Shane McFarlane’s mission. But then another part, deep within him, needed to find that dealer, find someone who he could blame for the loss of his daughter, his family, his world. Someone living who he could punish.
He didn’t want to ask Meredith for help. He’d pushed the boundaries of her trust and friendship enough. So the only way he could see to make progress was to take a more direct approach, not look from the top down, but start hunting from the bottom up. He needed to take this to the streets.
16: Max
He had done more talking on the phone in the last week than in the last two years. He would have preferred to have these conversations in person, but the realities and practicalities of life meant the phone was the quickest means to an end. But he still loathed it. There was always that pang of anxiety as he pressed the call button, then the harboured wish that the call would go straight to voice mail and he would have the relief of not having to talk to a human. But when it didn’t there was the hope that swelled with each passing ring: three rings, four – hope growing – five – maybe? – six…
He was just about to hang up when…
‘Hi Max. What’s happening? Everything okay?’
He hadn’t been going to call Meredith, knew it was probably going to be futile, but something had made him pick up the phone regardless. She was potentially the best opportunity to get the information he needed for this mission to nowhere.
‘Yeah,’ he lied.
‘Hey look, thanks for the other day. Doing another identification must have been hard, especially coming so soon after your other friend’s death.’
‘It wasn’t good.’ That was an understatement. He could still vividly see Karina’s face, feel the coldness of her skin against his fingers. His body gave an involuntary shudder.
‘Well, I appreciate it.’
‘That’s okay. But it’s not the sort of thing I want to get into the habit of doing,’ he said. Two people in quick succession. Two pallid faces still burned into his memory. Max hoped it would be a long time before he was called on to do anything as painful as that again.
‘No,’ she said, ‘no it’s not.’
There was a pause as Meredith waited for him to speak. Now she was actually on the end of the phone he wasn’t entirely sure how to start, even though he’d rehearsed the conversation in his head.
‘Look, I wanted to ask you something.’ He hesitated. ‘Something to do with the narcotics scene and the state of play there at the moment.’ He could hear her breathing, noted the slight hold when he said the word ‘narcotics’.
‘What were you wanting to know?’ she asked.
He’d expected her first question to be ‘why?’ So the directness threw him a bit.
‘I’m doing some looking into something for someone,’ as soon as the words came out of his mouth he marvelled at how vague he’d managed to make that sentence sound. He could imagine the frown and WTF look on her face at that very moment. She would never be forthcoming based on that unmitigated piece of rubbish. He needed to be more specific. Before she took the opportunity to interject with the inevitable question he added, ‘It’s for a case I’m working on for someone.’
‘A case?’ she asked. ‘Have you gone private?’
‘Not officially. Well, not yet. I don’t have a licence, of course. But some people know my background, and they ask my advice, or for me to check something out for them, like this person has. I’m not getting paid for it or anything – it’s a bit of an apprenticeship and getting my name out there.’ Many a former policeman or detective had gone down the private-investigator route. It made sense to use the skill set and experience if they had it. God knows enough colleagues had. Max had no intention of following that path though, but it didn’t hurt to give Meredith that impression, give some sort of legitimacy to what he was asking for and why.
‘I take it this has to do with your visit from Shane McFarlane?’
Fuck. He had known the woman would probably make the connection. Could he lie to her? Or would she see straight through him?
‘It does.’ There was no point hiding it. The result would be the same.
‘Jesus, Max.’ He could hear the exasperation. ‘What was the last thing I said to you when you were asking me about that man the other day?’
He sighed. Those words he could clearly remember.
‘You warned me to take care.’
‘Yes, I did, and for good reason. Firstly, as I said, he is as shady as fuck. Secondly, given your shared history, and that narcotics were very much involved in the deaths of both your children, the very fact that you’re even asking about anything to do with the drugs scene in Auckland raises red flags everywhere. This makes me very nervous and very suspicious.’ Her voice had risen significantly. ‘What were you thinking even asking me that question in the first place? You know full bloody well I can’t share that intel with you. And even if I could, I wouldn’t, because I don’t know that I could trust you with that kind of information, and God only knows what you’d do with it if I did. Look what happened last time.’
Silence blared down the phone line. Charged silence. What the hell was he going to say to that? There was absolutely nothing to say. He should have known it would be a hiding to nothing. All he had achieved was to piss her off. And she was the last person in the world he wanted to do that to. When he had so few advocates in his life, people who knew what he had been through and tried to understand it, he couldn’t afford to lose her trust.
‘Sorry,’ he said, not with disappointment, or sarcasm, or any hint of pique. Just quietly, an apology he meant. ‘I’m sorry I asked,’ he said, and hung up.
17: Reaper
He has been discreetly tailing the man for three blocks now, and finally the old geezer has stopped his painfully slow amble and is leaning against the doorway of the dingy vacant shop front next to the kebab house. This falls into his plans perfectly. He rubs his hands together, pleased his target has stopped here, in full view of the public, rather than heading to his usual isolated spot for the night. If the man does hide himself away, he will just have to deal with that problem, but this way is much better. Up here on K-Road there is a lower chance of someone noticing a pattern, realising the victims have all died where they sleep, seeing what they have in common, and working out that all is not as it seems, which might lead them to do some digging, start asking questions. It’s inevitable this will happen at some point, but at this stage he still wants the deaths to seem unrelated – the unhealthy and vulnerable simply falling victim to the current vicious cold snap, an unfortunate result of their living on the streets. Once people put two and two together and realise someone is killing the homeless of Auckland, his job will get harder, the police will get involved, and the prey will be wary. Which means his task will become more of a challenge. He’ll have to be even more careful.
His eyes scan the surroundings ahead. There are only a few other pedestrians on this side of the road, and they mostly have their heads down against the icy wind, or are intent on their cellphones rather than what is going on around them. The vacant shop front is far enough away from the lights on the Pitt Street corner to be out of range of any traffic CCTV, and won’t have operational security cameras. His face slides into a large grin. It couldn’t be more perfect.
With leather-gloved hands he pulls a single cigarette from his right pocket and a packet from the other.
This is going to be all about the timing.
He is getting close to his quarry now.
He coughs loudly and slowly raises the cigarette to his lips.
The noise works: he sees the old geezer turn, take him in, eye the cigarette between his lips, and then the packet in his hand.
‘Hey.’ The old man gives a head flick. ‘You got a spare?’
‘Pardon?’ he asks.
‘Cigarette. Got a spare ciggy, mate?’ He points to the packet.
He slows down, pretends to hesitate, acts like he’s uncomfortable with such a brazen request.
‘Come on,’ the old geezer says. ‘You won’t miss one. Make an old fella’s day.’
‘Well, I guess.’ Again, he feigns hesitation.
He flips the packet open and extends it to the bum, supressing his snigger at the irony of the anti-smoking health warning – ‘Tobacco smoke contains many poisonous chemicals…’
He watches as the man pulls one out of the half-full pack with his dirt-encrusted fingers, and flips the lid back down before he can grab another. He slides the pack back into the pocket.
‘Thanks, mate. You gonna light us up?’
‘Sure.’ He reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out the disposable Bic lighter. He isn’t going to risk his vintage Ronson. This time he’s swapped the duffel coat for a black puffer jacket – the standard uniform of the city’s workers. They are cheap, mass-produced and don’t stand out in a crowd. Commuter camouflage.
He rolls the lighter wheel three times before the spark finally catches into flame, cups it in his hands to protect from the wind, and raises it to his own cigarette first, lights it and sucks in a deep, calming breath. That feels so good. He then moves closer to Skeet, who leans in and with a strong draw, lights his own.
‘Cheers, mate.’
‘Sure,’ he says. ‘No problem.’
He steps back, pockets the lighter and heads off up the street. He doesn’t know how long it will take to have an effect on the bum. The internet didn’t provide that level of detail. Still, he can’t resist a comment, so he turns back around.
‘You should be careful you know,’ he says, points his own cigarette towards Skeet’s. ‘Those things can kill you.’
18: Max
Rivulets of water tracked down the white-plastic-wrapped scaffolding smothering the half-completed building on Queen Street and channelled diagonally across the sloped footpath and into the gutter. The amplified sound of the raindrops hitting the taut membrane was a continuous drum roll with a lightning show and thunder accompaniment. Some great new edifice was being erected on almost every block, each one bursting out of the carcass of some demolished remnant of the past. Some people called it progress, some called it architectural vandalism, deconstructing the history of the city and killing its spirit. And no amount of hoardings with school-kid-created murals could hide the ugliness of construction. At least at this hour he didn’t have to contend with the relentless noise. The only constant in this metropolis seemed to be change. And the Sky Tower. To Max the Sky Tower stood sentinel, a touchstone in the centre of the city, and on this evening, with the rain-filtered, pulsating blue-and-purple light illuminating its heights, it felt like its heart. His eyes always sought it out through the canyons of the streets, seeking home.
The constant rain had forced a number of the homeless to shelter together under the overhead verandas of the main street, nodes of chaotic energy that Max could see intimidated the people walking by, many giving them a wide berth, or even crossing the road to avoid them. He could understand why. People had the perception that all homeless were dangerous, or druggies and alcoholics. Or that they had mental-health issues, were ticking time bombs of trouble just waiting to detonate. And to be fair, some were. But for the most part, they were simply people who had found themselves in dire straits, living a life far removed from the idyllic dreams of their childhood.
Max didn’t cross the road. On this occasion these were the very people Max wanted to see. As he approached the group he was oddly touched to see smiles grace their faces as they spotted him.
‘Max, what’s up bro?’
‘Hey.’
‘Dude, you need to get yourself a meal – you look like a stick man.’
‘Yo, shithead.’
He came alongside them, took the cigarette that was offered, took a drag and handed it back.
‘What’s happening?’ he asked.
The group were sitting on a large shop-front window ledge, various possessions strewn around them. Max suspected public seating was not the intended purpose of the ledge and it surprised him the building owners hadn’t embedded spikes in the concrete to keep unwanted pests away. Many had.
The replies came at him in all manner of accents and intonations:
‘Just trying to stay dry – and alive.’
‘Better chance of staying dry than staying alive.’
‘I hear you, man, they dropping like flies.’
But there was no mistaking the underlying concern. He felt a wet nudge at his hand and reached around to pat the head of the ugly-as-sin dog demanding his attention.
‘What do you mean?’ Max asked.
Again, there was a flurry of simultaneous responses from the group:
‘First The Ferret, then Karina. Who’s next, man? Who’s next?’
‘There’s a reaper out to get us – you know that, right?’
‘Who told you that garbage, bro? The only thing that got those two was the cold. You shouldn’t listen to that arsehole.’
‘Whoa, back it up a bit. What arsehole?’ Max asked.
He was used to listening to them bicker and banter among themselves, and in some ways hearing them at it brought back some of the fonder memories he had of his time on the streets, knowing that he was part of a community – a deeply fucked-up community, but a community nonetheless.
‘Skeet,’ Tiny said.
‘Skeet,’ Roddie echoed.
‘You don’t listen to Skeet; he’s not right in the head,’ Artie’s voice of sanity chipped in.
‘Like you are?’
‘I’m more right in the head than he is. The old geezer was talking about ghosts and the Grim Reaper coming to get you.’
‘Oooooh, look out,’ one of them said in an eerie, creepy voice. ‘The Reaper is coming, he’s going to get you.’ The dramatic comment from Tiny came with flamboyant arm gestures that made Max smile.
They all started laughing – all except Old George, who looked deadly serious.
‘You laugh, you laugh all you want, but I tell you he’s real; the ghosts are real. I’ve seen them, I’ve felt them. Dead souls walk our streets. Don’t you go near the park, especially after dark. That’s where are, waiting. They’ll get you, they will.’
‘What was in that cigarette, old man?’ Artie asked. ‘You need to cut back on the whacky baccy. There ain’t no ghosts in Auckland.’
‘Of course there’s ghosts in Auckland,’ Old George said, his voice loaded with indignation. ‘There’s the ghosts of all those sad bastards who jumped off Grafton Bridge for a start, let alone the ghosts of all the fuckers buried under it.’ He paused for a moment, then lowered his voice. ‘And I’ve felt them myself, felt them in the park, in Myers Park.’ His tone silenced the naysayers; everyone waited for his next words. ‘You joke, but one of those evil bastards tried to push me down the stairs. I felt a hand right in my back, right between my shoulder blades. Lucky I didn’t fall and break my neck. But when I turned around to give them what for, there was nobody there.’
