Authors: Nick Place
‘That bad?’ said Georgio.
Laver shrugged. ‘What could go wrong?’
***
Deep in Melbourne’s court and finance district, a long way from police headquarters where real cops lived, the lift climbed. Laver tried to judge how he felt. Empty? Resigned? Beaten? Not his usual suite of emotions. He took a deep breath and looked at his reflection in the mirror. Lined around the eyes, shaved patchily, a little haggard overall, he wasn’t helped by the elevator’s stark fluoro light. He looked like absolute shit for somebody thirty-five years old. Going on forty-seven.
Staring at his reflection. Cheer up, Rocket? No. ‘Get it over with,’ he said to himself, his voice suddenly loud in the confined space, and took a deep breath.
A chime announced that he was at level fifteen.
Laver automatically turned left out of the lift, walked down the corridor lined with fake mahogany and partitioned glass, creatively lit by row after row of covered fluoro lights. At the very end of the corridor was a heavy wooden door, opening into the office of Neil Broadbent, Assistant Commissioner for Police (Internal Administration and Personnel). Laver opened the door, winked bravely at Broadbent’s secretary, Linda, who he noted had trouble meeting his eyes, and sauntered into Broadbent’s inner office, wearing his broadest smile.
‘G’day Neil,’ he said.
Broadbent was sitting at his desk. Silver hair, frank, no-bullshit face, expensive tie struggling to rein in a career cop who should be in uniform or a cheaper suit, working the streets. Broadbent with his hands clasped on top of an A4 notepad. Looking stern.
‘I think “Good morning, sir” might be a little more appropriate today, Detective Senior Sergeant.’
So, it was like that. Laver thought he might as well turn around and walk out now.
There were two other suits in the room. Reclining on Broadbent’s leather couch, legs crossed and one designer shoe swinging, the smart money on an Italian brand, was Warwick Brunton, Assistant Commissioner (Crime). Laver had no idea why Brunton would be in attendance. The other man Laver hadn’t met, but he immediately recognised him and knew exactly why he was there. Red hair and a thin moustache. Broadbent saw him looking and did the introductions. ‘Detective Senior Sergeant Laver, this is Mr Jeffrey Strickland from the ombudsman’s office. He has asked to be here as a government representative to see that this obviously delicate and unsavoury business is cleared up fairly and satisfactorily for all concerned.’
‘Including me?’
Broadbent looked at him. ‘Yes, Detective Senior Sergeant. Including you, as much as we can. Remember, you were the one who pulled the trigger.’
Laver knew he should just let that one pass.
But didn’t.
‘
After
being shot at. Okay, so what’s the verdict?’
Broadbent pressed the ‘record’ button on a mini tape-recorder on his desk. Laver heard the click and stared at it.
‘I’m sorry, Detective Senior Sergeant Laver, but at this stage we have no option but to demote you from your duties in the Major Crime Squad,’ Broadbent said in a voice that suggested he was either reading or remembering well-rehearsed lines. ‘Until such stage as an independent government investigation is completed into the shooting of Wesley Coleman by officer Detective Senior Sergeant Tony Laver, the said officer Laver will be re-assigned to the Mobile Public Interaction Squad, with the temporary rank of Senior Constable. His salary will remain at its current level for the duration of the aforementioned inquiry. When the inquiry is completed, Senior Constable Laver’s rank, position within the Victoria Police Force and salary will be re-assessed, as will the possibility of criminal proceedings if required. Senior Constable Laver is with me now and has listened to these judgements. Do you understand your position, Senior Constable Laver?’
Laver put a lot of weight on, ‘Only too clearly.’
‘Yes or no, please, Senior Constable.’
Laver sighed. ‘Yes. I understand my position.’
‘Mr Strickland from the ombudsman’s office is also present as a witness. Mr Strickland, are you satisfied that Senior Constable Laver’s position has been clearly and fairly represented to him?’
‘Yes,’ said Strickland, leaning in towards the tape recorder.
Broadbent turned off the recorder and Laver turned to the politician. ‘Mr Strickland, are you confident that, with these measures, the government’s media smokescreeners can now distance the political cowards up at Spring Street from the whole police shootings crisis and land it instead on the heads of poor bastards like myself, trying to survive in sometimes extreme situations?’
Strickland took a long look at Laver, smirked and said, ‘Yes, I’m very sure we can. Thank you for caring, Senior Constable.’ He put an edge on the rank as he spoke.
You prick, thought Laver. But he shut up.
‘Stay there,’ growled Broadbent in Laver’s direction, in what sounded a lot like an order. Broadbent showed Strickland out, murmuring, ‘Thank you, Jeffrey, sorry business. I’ll be in touch,’ as the pair headed towards the lifts.
Through it all, Brunton hadn’t said a word – just sat there, swinging his foot.
‘Why exactly are you here?’ Laver finally asked him.
‘
Sir
,’ corrected Brunton. ‘Remember your rank, Constable.’
‘
Senior
Constable, sir. Why are you here?’
‘Just taking an interest.’
Brunton got to his feet, looked steadily at Laver and left the room.
Broadbent came back, closed the door and sat behind his desk. He opened the top drawer and placed the recorder in it.
‘Merry Christmas, Rocket.’
‘Shit, Neil. I can’t even begin to tell you how fucked up this is.’
‘What else could I do?’ Broadbent replied wearily. ‘It was a major win to keep you on full pay. The premier’s office wanted you on bread and water. Maybe.’
‘Fucking politicians.’
‘One thing about Spring Street: when they decide to find a scapegoat, they don’t muck around.’
‘Who’s that slimy Strickland guy?’ Rocket asked, jerking his head towards the door.
‘A cop, believe it or not.’
‘Shut the fucking door. No way.’ Rocket sat up straighter.
‘Yeah, he was pushing for assistant commissioner status in Perth but then jumped sideways to play with the pollies over here. Never explained why he moved states all of a sudden. Must think he has a future in Canberra.’
‘That explains a lot.’ Laver stood and walked to the window. ‘When’s the inquiry?’
‘Six weeks maybe … depending on when people are available. The Christmas holidays will hold it back once the schools break up. Whatever the finding, the timing of the announcement will be vital too, given the other inquiries already running.’
‘Whatever the finding?’
Broadbent didn’t say anything. Laver turned back from the window.
‘Neil, that sounded a lot like there was the possibility of more than one finding. The fucker fired at me first, remember?’
Broadbent rubbed his neck, exposing a sweat-patch fanning from under the armpit of his shirt.
‘Yeah, yeah, I know.’
Laver gave him a long look. ‘This is going to be okay, isn’t it, boss?’
‘Look Rocket, it should be, all right? What else can I say but that? Yes, all the evidence suggests you acted properly and in accordance with police regulations regarding handguns and self-defence. Every cop there swore you were probably too slow to fire, if anything. But the fact is you were the sixth Victorian cop to shoot someone stone motherless dead within a fourmonth period. One of whom was a fifteen-year-old kid with a kitchen knife, if you cast your mind back. You know and I know that the police force exists within a depressingly political world, especially here in Victoria where we have a reputation for being trigger happy – rightly or wrongly.’
Laver opened his mouth, but Broadbent’s phone buzzed. He picked it up, said, ‘When? Okay. Media Liaison in ten minutes. Thanks Linda,’ and hung up. ‘The seagulls are on their way already, looking for morsels. Strickland is fast on a mobile phone.’
‘Or Brunton,’ said Laver, sitting back down. ‘What was he doing here?’
‘Happened to stop by just beforehand and said he might as well stay for the show. Us assistant commissioners like to keep an eye on the Stricklands of the world as much as you do. Rocket, you spoken to the police union yet?’
‘Tried to. Nobody’s bothered to ring me back.’
‘Nice to know you can rely on them when you need them, huh?’ Broadbent stood and reached for his coat. ‘I wouldn’t watch the news tonight if I were you, Rocket.’
Laver stared past Broadbent, out the window to the wall of the next office building, and didn’t say a word.
Broadbent was playing with his tie now. ‘Rocket, I’m not going to lie to you. The pollies might win this. But I will do everything I can to protect you along the way.’
Laver still didn’t speak. Broadbent walked around the desk and faced him.
‘I know this sounds stupid, but just ride it out, mate. There’s nothing you can do about the inquiry. You’ve made your statement, the coroner has made his, everybody from here to bloody Darwin has been or will be interviewed. It’s out of your hands. It’s not entirely out of my hands and you know I’ll do whatever I can, so just relax.’
‘Relax …’
‘Yeah.’ Broadbent sounded almost surprised. ‘Enjoy not having the responsibilities and stress of Major Crime for a while. Piss off at 5 pm and enjoy being home in time for dinner and a regular root for a change.’
Laver sighed and got to his feet. ‘Yeah, you’re right. Thanks for saving my pay packet, Neil. I do appreciate that and what you’re doing. I’m just so fucking snaky about this whole process. It’s got nothing to do with the fact the bastard was coming at me, firing, and I had to shoot. How are the other inquiries going? Will Shifter get off?’
Broadbent shrugged and grimaced. ‘It’s hard to say. It doesn’t help him that the imitation gun was made of rubber. My kid’s got one that looks more realistic.’
Broadbent looked at his watch and headed for the door but Laver stopped him. ‘Hey Neil, I’ve got one more question. What exactly is the Mobile Public Interaction Squad?’
Broadbent couldn’t help himself. He smiled. ‘That’s the best part. You’re going to love this. You’re joining the mountain bike police.’
‘Huh?’
‘Your job, as of now, is to ride around the city, tell tourists how to get from Bourke Street to Elizabeth Street, and occasionally give tickets to haphazard drivers.’
‘You’re joking. You’re not serious.’
‘Happy pedalling. And remember: try to relax.’
***
The Victorian Police Force being like any other government department, gossip travelled faster than a taxi between Lonsdale Street and St Kilda Road. By the time Laver stood at the squad room door, his squad was ready for him.
Steve Duncan was on the phone, saying ‘What? WHAT?? Oh my God! Incredible!’
He spun around and put a hand over the receiver. ‘Everybody, on your feet. There’s a major pursuit taking place involving the Mobile Public Interaction Squad!’
‘Seriously? Not those heavies from the mountain bike patrol?’ gasped ‘Spider’ Funnal, who’d dropped by from the Soggies for the occasion.
‘Apparently they’re chasing some eleven-year-old kid on a dragster. The chase started at Flinders Street Station twenty minutes ago and they’ve made it all the way to the Arts Centre!’
‘But that’s gotta be two hundred metres!’ gasped Mark Campbell.
Evelyn Calomoulous tore a sheet off the fax machine. ‘It’s coming in over the wire now! “Witnesses said the pursuit reached speeds of up to
thirteen
kilometres per hour!”’
Laver adopted a pose: arms folded, an eyebrow raised, scowling.
Duncan pretended to listen to the phone again, then slumped back in his chair in relief. ‘It’s over! It’s all over! Apparently the cops had to call it off in case somebody collided with a lollipop lady at a school crossing or something.’
‘Oh hi, Rocket. Didn’t see you there,’ said Funnel.
‘Fucking hilarious,’ Laver told the room, gathering his wallet, keys, and other stuff small enough to carry on a mountain bike.
Playtime over, a couple of squad members wandered over to commiserate. Duncan even slung a big arm over Laver’s shoulder. ‘You’ll be right, mate. The inquiry will be a formality and you’ll be back, hating the job as much as ever.’
‘Maybe,’ Laver replied.
He finished packing. Simone, the department PA, appeared at his desk. ‘I’m really sorry, Rocket. But look at the bright side, you’ll have plenty of time to do your Christmas shopping.’
Laver stared at her, then decided she was serious; she was sincerely trying to lighten his mood. ‘Thanks, Simone. Pity a bike doesn’t have anywhere to carry the parcels, eh?’
She played with one of his now-defunct Major Crime business cards, lying near a coffee mug full of pens. ‘Well, I’ll miss you, anyway, Rocket. I hope you’re back here soon.’
Laver winked. ‘She’ll be right. Just don’t let the bastards give away my desk.’ He turned to the room. ‘I’ll see you bunch of low-life desk-bound no-hopers when I’ve got a better suntan.’
***
Jake slumped in his swivel chair. He was sure it could win some sort of prize for a lack of ergonomics if he ever got around to submitting it to the United Nations’ Physics Institute or whoever it was that was in charge of RSI and that sort of thing. He pondered whether they would hand out anti–Nobel Prizes for design.
The office was gloomy, a crooked but effective white blind warding off the bright sunshine from outside. Jake’s left leg was stretched and splayed to the front and side of his old oak desk. His right leg was bent underneath, twisting his hips so that his weight was balanced heavily on his right shoulder against the back of the ludicrously uncomfortable chair. An electric fan hummed and spun on top of the filing cabinet, listlessly shuffling the warm air around the tiny office.
Four small black-and-white TV monitors silently beamed out the findings of surveillance cameras placed unobtrusively around the supermarket’s entrance and aisles, flicking occasionally from one camera to another. One screen showed a young woman pushing a trolley past the ice-cream fridge; next it switched to an old lady with a set jaw scrutinising the fine print on the back of a can of baked beans; now to a mother trying desperately to control two rampant toddlers. She finally got a hand on both of them just as an even younger child, riding in the trolley basket, reached out and swiped three packets of cornflakes to the floor. In aisle five, a shoplifter may as well have been loading up a wheelbarrow for all the notice Jake was paying to security. Jake didn’t see a thing. He was staring at nothing in particular, his empty gaze landing somewhere about halfway across the blotter pad on his desk. The only movement came from his right hand, twisting and turning a ballpoint in clockwise and anti-clockwise circles.