The Delta Chain (16 page)

‘I’d like to see him.’

‘I don’t advise that, Kate. Perhaps you could
get together with the medical examiner, have a chat with him.’

‘I’ll want to see him regardless.’

Letterfield nodded, his eyes betraying his
knowledge of something darker. He knew Kate had spoken with the
police on the telephone, before her flight, and she’d been made
aware Greg died as a result of a crocodile attack. The full
details, of course, had not yet been revealed.

‘The man that was with Greg…is he here?’

‘Walter Coolawirra. The hospital kept him
under observation overnight, but I understand he’s home now.’

‘I’d like to talk to him.’

‘That won’t be a problem. Walter and Greg
were close friends, he’ll want to meet with you.’

They arranged to see the medical examiner
later in the day, and with Kate’s parents not due for a few hours,
Trish took Kate and Adam out to see Walter.

The tracker lived in a modest timber cottage
on the outer rim of the township. Like a large number of Aboriginal
men in these parts, Walter was a man of many talents: professional
ranger and gifted bush tracker; doting husband to Ethel, his wife
of twenty three years, and a strong and caring father to his four
children. He was also a skilled craftsman of wood figurines, which
adorned the shelves of his home and which he sometimes exhibited
and sold at local fairs.

Returning from the hospital, shaken and
grieving the death of his friend, Walter had retreated to the
enormous back yard. Ethel Coolawirra guided Kate, Adam and Trish
through the small house and out the back. They found Walter in the
shade of a large, gnarly tree, beside the all-purpose
storage/work-place tin shed. He was focused on one of his intricate
wood carvings and did not notice them until they were right on top
of him. Ethel made the introductions. Walter rose to his feet,
embraced Kate, and then sat again, squatting on the patchwork
carpet of yellowed grass. He motioned for the others to do the
same.

‘Greg spoke of you often,’ Walter said to
Kate. ‘I know he had a good childhood and that you were his best
friend. At a time like this we need to cling to such good
thoughts.’

Kate nodded her agreement, tears stinging her
eyes. ‘Can you tell me what happened out there, Walter?’

He shot her a puzzled expression, glancing
also toward Trish. ‘They would’ve filled you in at the Commission
offices…the police haven’t also spoken with you…?’

‘I wanted to hear from you. About his last
days…about…’

Walter’s shoulders hunched into a sorrowful
shrug. ‘I don’t know how those hunters knew we were out there,
Kate. They couldn’t have seen us, and yet…’ He took a moment to
compose himself. ‘They must’ve crept up on Greg from behind.’ His
eyes avoided hers. ‘What can I tell you…? Murderers…’

An ugly thought had been alive in Kate’s mind
since she’d received Letterfield’s call. The way he’d explained the
death. ‘…killed by the crocodile hunters we’ve been tracking…his
remains being brought back today…’

Kate’s eyes bore into Walter’s. ‘He wasn’t
dead, was he…they left him for the crocodiles, didn’t they?’

Walter cleared his throat, looking back at
her now with watery eyes. ‘Yes.’ His voice was a croak.

Kate’s head dropped. She began to massage her
temples vigorously. ‘Oh my dear God.’ And then – ‘What is left of
him…to see?’

Walter simply shook his head.

They were back at the airfield when Kate’s
parents and younger sister arrived. Adam stood awkwardly to the
side as the four of them hugged each other, crying freely. There
followed another get-together in Letterfield’s office, where the
arrangements to have Greg’s remains flown to Sydney for burial were
discussed. Then came the discussion with the medical examiner. Adam
noted Kate said much less than he expected. Her parents nodded
their heads in shock at the horrific details.

That evening they had a sombre meal in the
local hotel’s dining room and then an early night, Adam taking a
room on his own, Kate sharing a large family room with her parents
and sister.

The following morning they flew to Sydney.
The funeral was to be just two days away. On a couple of occasions
on the journey that day, Adam reflected on how he felt like a new
member of this family group. It made him realise how close he and
Kate had become in the short time they’d known each other. And how
much a personal tragedy like this could cause a sudden, closer leap
in a new relationship.

Kevin Farrow’s widow, Amy and her new
husband, lived in a split-level home in one of Miami’s beachside
suburbs.

Hank surprised Jean when he’d asked if he
could speak with Amy.

Amy had agreed when Jean phoned to ask and
so, on her day off, Jean took Hank from Everglades City to Miami
for the visit.

Amy Watts, as she was now known, was a woman
with a strong physical presence – a firm nose and chin, as though
finely chiselled from smooth porcelain; vibrant eyes; a tall,
athletic physique. By contrast, she had a soft manner, a quiet
voice. She was genuinely thrilled to see her ex-mother-in-law and
the two women embraced heartily. ‘I don’t want it to go so long for
us between visits.’

‘Life gets in the way,’ Jean said.

‘Then we have to do something about that.
Agreed?’

‘Agreed.’ Jean then handled the
introductions. ‘Hank was in the news game too. Retired now. But…’
and Jean cocked a crafty eyebrow in Hank’s direction, ‘...it seems
he wants to do some writing about Kevin and the issues Kevin was
passionate about.’

‘I believe Kevin kept diaries and that you
have them stored somewhere,’ Hank said.

‘That’s right. And you’re more than welcome
to look them over, Mr. Mendelsohn-’

‘Hank, please.’

‘…
Hank.’ She smiled. ‘And I appreciate
your interest. But the police poured over those diaries for clues,
leads, whatever, and they didn’t find anything useful. Except,
perhaps, Kevin’s mention of the photo. But that didn’t lead
anywhere…’ Amy glanced at Jean and the two of them shared a
frustrating memory.

‘Photo…?’

‘You’ll find all this in the police reports.’
Jean took up the story. ‘Kevin made references in his diary to a
roll of film he shot while flying over the ‘Glades with one of the
local charter services. They saw a boat out there. Kevin thought it
was similar to the reports about the poachers’ vessel. He had a
zoom and he snapped off a bunch of shots, developed them, and one
in particular was a clear shot of at least one of the crew on the
boat’s deck. Kevin wrote that he intended to have the picture
enlarged, to get a clearer view of the man’s face and to try and
make out the name on the side of the boat. It was less than a day
later that Kevin headed off alone.

‘Not because he expected to take on these
killers single handed, you understand. Kevin was neither a fool
nor, for that matter, a hero. Just persistent. His intention
would’ve been to sight the hunters, and snap off some better
pictures that could’ve helped the police.’

‘And if that failed,’ said Amy, ‘he still had
the aerial shot for enlargement.’

‘The police searched and searched but they
never could find any sign of that blasted photo.’ Even after all
this time, Jean Farrow’s voice dripped with her frustration.

‘Normal procedure,’ said Hank, ‘would be to
send the pic in to the paper’s photo editor for the
enlargement.’

‘The police checked that, of course, ’said
Amy, ‘but the photo editor never received any such picture from
Kevin.'

Jean said: ‘I always thought perhaps Kevin
still had the photograph on him, but when the rangers found his
backpack later, it wasn’t among his possessions. Nor was it in his
car.’

‘I’ll get you the diary,’ Amy said in a small
voice. Seeing the hurt in her eyes, Hank regretted digging up old
wounds. He knew how hard it was to deal with grief when the past
kept parading itself before you. He began to apologise but Amy,
heading out of the room, waved him off. ‘No, it’s all right. I’m
glad you want to write about Kevin.’ Equally as true but left
unspoken was that she’d noted the way her ex mother-in-law looked
at Hank. Amy hoped, really hoped, for Jean Farrow to find some
happiness in her life. It was the least she deserved.

Hank read through the relevant diary entries
as Jean and Amy prepared a light snack. He decided he wanted to
talk with the Miami newspaper’s photo editor, with the Everglades
City detectives who’d worked the case, and with the helicopter
pilot who’d flown Kevin over the region just days before the
tragedy.

Hank wasn’t sure why, but he felt compelled
to investigate this story. Perhaps it was due to the attraction he
felt towards Jean, or perhaps he believed he might stumble upon new
information. Whatever the reason, his compulsion was very real and
growing stronger by the hour.

Chuck Jensen had been flying helicopters for
thirty years. At fifty, he had the fitness of a man half his age
and with his rugged features, closely shaved head and greying
stubble he was every bit the outdoors everyman.

His office and helipad were crammed into the
corner of a tiny airfield on the outskirts of Everglades City. He
shook hands with Hank and leaned back in his chair, hands behind
his head. He had both a cheeky grin and a down-to-earth manner.
‘So. Did you say you were in the news game, Hank?’

‘Used to be. Retired now.’

‘Ah. Writing a book?’

‘Not a bad idea, but right now I’m working on
a freelance article, maybe even a series of articles. A few years
back there were reports of a gang hunting ‘gators.’

‘Oh yeah.’ Jensen popped a piece of gum into
his mouth and began chewing furiously. ‘Have to excuse me, Hank.
Trying to give up the fags and the gum’s the only thing keeping me
sane. I remember the stories about those hunters. Quite a few
reports, then they seemed to disappear. But it’s not that unusual
in Florida – from time to time there’s poachers about, and then
they’re gone. Absolute bastards, all of them.’

‘You flew a photojournalist over the Glades
about two years back. He was looking for the boat that belonged to
those hunters.’

Jensen nodded. ‘The guy that got taken by the
‘Gators…’ Jensen’s memory of the flight and of Kevin Farrow was
vague. ‘He took quite a few pics…’ Jensen recalled being questioned
by the police after the death, but there hadn’t been anything
special he’d remembered.

Hank wasn’t sure why he’d bothered meeting
Jensen. Then he reminded himself, as he had at various times
throughout his career, that doing the legwork was part and parcel
of investigative journalism. Following the trail, no matter how
cold, looking under every rock and into every nook and cranny –
somewhere there was a piece of the story that had been missed. He’d
already talked with the detectives and read the case files. Maybe
the warmth he sought along this cold trail didn’t rely on finding
the missing photo – maybe it lay with what had become of the
alligator gang.

‘What do you think happened to those
hunters?’

‘Well, truth is this is a popular place. It’s
become increasingly well travelled and visited. You can’t go
hunting ‘gators, or anything else for that matter, without
attracting attention sooner or later. No matter how organised you
are.’

‘So you think, once the search escalated,
these hunters decided to move on?’

‘Yeah. Once they’d killed that reporter the
park was swarming with cops. They sent out fleets of choppers, and
those dudes have sophisticated binoculars, heat seeking equipment,
all sorts of shit.’ Jensen was chewing furiously on the gum and
Hank found it distracting. He made a mental effort to look Jensen
straight in the eyes to avoid the rolling jaw. ‘So I figure if
they’re still in business they’ve moved somewhere more remote.’

If they’re still in business, Hank
thought.

‘It’s not something you hear a lot about,’
said Hank, ‘this illegal alligator hunting. Do you know what kind
of black market there is for these ‘gator skins?’

Chuck Jensen’s cheeks reddened. ‘Don’t get me
started on that. Over in the third world countries there’s a
roaring trade for our reptile skins, for all kinds of animal hide
actually.’

Hank thanked Jensen for his time and got up
to leave. ‘I read in the reports that you believed Kevin Farrow
intended to send his roll of film straight into the newspaper.’

‘Did I? Don’t remember any details now, but
yeah, he probably said something like that. I seem to recall he was
a talkative type, very passionate about what he was doing. I liked
that. I had no idea, though, he intended to go off backpackin’ to
try and spot that boat.’

Jensen stood up and ambled, with Hank, to the
door of his cluttered office.

‘Many of your clients take photos from the
air?’

‘Sure.’

‘I know it’s unlikely these days, but do you
get many who still use the old pre-digital cameras?’

‘Not many now. Why?’

‘Who would they use locally to develop
film?’

‘There’s still a few places left in the city.
Carroll and McMasters are good.’

A late thought occurred to Hank. ‘Did Kevin
ask you who was good for enlargements, cropping, that kind of
thing?’ Hank hadn’t seen anything in the police reports about
investigating local photographic services firms.

‘Not that I recall.’

‘But it could have come up?’

‘I guess it could’ve. You thinking the boy
sent his photo somewhere local?’

‘Just a thought,’ said Hank.

Jensen shrugged. ‘Why would he do that? He
had his own photo mob back at his paper to handle enlargements and
all that crap.’