Davo's Little Something (38 page)

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 someone 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 DEATH 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.

‘Know him? I went through bloody Goulburn with him, Ray. Played football with him. My kids know his three bloody kids. He was a terrific bloke George. Jesus.' Detective Blackburn thumped at the dashboard. ‘Thank Christ I didn't have to tell his bloody missus. They reckon it was unbelievable down here this morning when they wouldn't let the wives see the bodies.'

‘Yeah—I can just imagine.'

‘Greg,' Blackburn stared fiercely at his partner for a moment. ‘I'm fair dinkum about this. I'm gonna get this bastard even if it takes me the rest of my life. And even if I've got to shoot the cunt myself.'

‘I know just how you feel, mate.' Middleton ran a tired hand across his eyes. ‘Anyway, let's work out what we know. We know the killer knew they were cops because Bernie Ewart's wallet was lying next to his body. And this is the first time the killer's gone through the victim's clothing. And there were no fingerprints, only smudges, so we know he wears gloves.'

‘Gloves eh.'

‘Yeah. But Jesus this guy must be unbelievably quick. Bernie and George didn't even get a chance to draw their guns. And they obviously stopped him in the middle of Earl Place because there were drag marks going into that building from the street.'

‘And neither of those two were slouches either.' Blackburn made an expansive gesture with his hands. ‘George was a good six feet, and Bernie was a hard man too.'

‘You know, I don't think he knew they were cops until he dragged them into that building and pulled out Bernie's wallet. But why bother to pull it out at all. And why not take any money—or his gun for that matter, he just . . .' Detective Middleton's voice trailed off as his eyes turned back towards the morgue. ‘Well you saw what was inside. It even nearly turned Ozzie's stomach. I dunno, Ray. This thing's just getting crazier and crazier.'

‘The guy's obviously nuttier than a fruitcake and the sooner we nail the bastard the better.'

‘No argument there,' replied Middleton, nodding seriously. ‘Anyway, let's get straight back to headquarters. I want to call a meeting of everyone involved on this case. I'm even going to try and figure out a way of using the TRG boys if I can.' Middleton was quiet for a moment then he stared angrily at his partner. ‘Ray, I want this bludger that bad now, it's almost getting that I can taste it.'