The Cadet Sergeant Major (38 page)

“Never mind what he said,” the DS interrupted. “Just give a quick description. You can tell us the details later.”

“Yes Sir.” Peter paused to gather his thoughts. “Morry: big, solid build, pot belly, black hair, tattoos on his arms. He was wearing one of those denim jackets with the sleeves torn off, and jeans. Then there was the bloke with the gun, a twenty two. He is mid-twenties to thirty years old, black hair in a pony tail, hard face, very sun-tanned or olive complexion and very fit. The third guy was a weedy little bloke they called ‘Prawn'. Thin build, pale skin, straggly fair hair with a wispy little beard on his chin. He wore a black T-shirt and jeans and had a cobra tattooed on his left forearm, here,”

Peter pointed to his own arm to indicate the location. The policeman nodded. “That sounds like our man. Are you willing to look at the body?”

Peter swallowed. “Yes sir.” He was terrified but also fascinated. ‘It can't be worse than what I saw up behind Mt Baldy,' he thought, remembering the horrific sights of dead Kosarian soldiers that he, Graham, Stephen and Roger had seen a few months earlier.

“Fine, follow me.” The detectives led the way around the side of the hospital, along a driveway to a building at the rear. Capt Conkey told Crane to wait at the Land Rover and followed. At the morgue a white-coated attendant unlocked a door and opened it for them. They went in.

Peter had never been in a morgue before and he looked around with ghoulish interest. His first reaction was disappointment. Apart from a stainless steel table in the middle of the room, a bench and sink along one wall, and some sort of trolley the place was empty. A bank of large cupboards, like filing cabinets, took up the far wall. In the harsh glare of a fluorescent light the place looked (and smelt) sterile. And it was cold!

He had expected that but he still broke out in goose bumps and began to shiver. Wishing that he had never said anything, or that he could somehow back out, he was led across to one of the ‘Filing cabinets'. The attendant pushed the trolley into position and adjusted its height, then opened the door. He hauled out a steel tray on rollers so that it rested on the trolley. On the tray was the corpse, shrouded by a sheet.

Cold air flowed down from the open compartment. Peter trembled and felt the urge to run. He could only stare in sickly fascination as the sheet was turned back to expose the face and torso.

It was grisly. The horribly mutilated face looked shrunken and wax-like, so pale that freckles seemed to float above the surface.

“Is that him?” the DS asked.

Peter looked at the body. He nodded, unable to speak, and began to shiver uncontrollably. The policeman folded the sheet further back to expose the left arm. “You are definite it is the same man?” he asked, pointing to the tattoo.

Again Peter nodded. His eyes flickered back to the face. ‘He is dead!' his mind cried in terror at the awful mystery. ‘One day I will die too! What will it be like? How will I cope? How can I?'

He felt a strong hand seize his arm and he was propelled outside. It was only when he was in the sunlight he realized Capt Conkey was holding him.

“Sit down Peter.”

Peter did so. He clasped his knees to his chest and shook.

After a minute the trembling eased. Peter looked up. The two policeman stood there beside Capt Conkey.

“Do you feel better now?” Capt Conkey asked.

“Yes sir,” Peter replied weakly. He broke into a shivering sweat and nausea churned his insides.

“I thought you were going to bring your breakfast up then.”

Peter made an attempt to grin. “So did I Sir.”

The DS grunted. “If you feel up to it let's go back to the station and we will get a few more details.”

Fifteen minutes later Peter was seated in an interview room facing the two policemen. Capt Conkey sat beside him. The DS leaned forward and asked, “OK son, tell us the story.”

Peter licked his lips. He had been mulling over what to say. He took a deep breath and began. “The unit was doing field training on Bare Ridge and a girl and I snuck away to be together,” he said. Then he paused, burning with shame and acutely conscious of Capt Conkey's presence. He turned to face him, tears blurring his eyes. “I'm sorry Sir, truly I am.”

The DS grunted. Capt Conkey nodded and replied. “Thank you, but we will talk about it later. Tell the story.”

Peter sniffed and fought back the tears. He breathed deeply several times before continuing. “We went down a gully, the one behind the old rifle range, to the river bank. We...we had a.. a swim and then we.. er..lay on the grass under the trees.”

A flicker of amusement showed on the DS's face and the other detective tried to hide a grin. Peter did not dare glance at Capt Conkey. ‘He won't be amused!' he thought bitterly. He went on, “Three men came walking along an animal pad on the river bank. They came from the highway bridge and went on towards Canning Junction.”

Capt Conkey placed a photocopied map on the table and murmured, “Show us where.”

“Here Sir,” Peter said, pointing at the map. Capt Conkey marked the spot with a pencil. The detectives leaned forward to study it. The DS nodded

“What then?”

As well as he could Peter described the incident, what the three men had said and done. He felt very nervous and wiped sweaty palms on his trousers. The memories were very painful. When he was finished he lowered his eyes and sat back. The other detective, who had been taking notes, leaned forward.

“The girl you were with, did she see the men?”

Peter felt panic and shame rise. Before he realized what he was saying he replied. “Yes, but not very well. She was lying on her back...” He dried up and bit his lip. Beads of sweat broke out on Peter's forehead. His mouth went dry. Was Kate 16? She was only in Year 10 so he doubted it. He visualized the prison doors clanging shut.

This time both policemen grinned openly. The detective composed his face and asked. “What is her name?”

Peter shook his head. “I promised not to say.”

“Don't be silly boy! We need to know,” the man grated.

Peter felt a wave of fear but again shook his head.

“No.”

The DS interrupted. “That'll do Frank. If he's promised then he's promised.”

Capt Conkey grunted with what Peter thought might be approval but that only made Peter writhe with guilt. ‘I promised the OC too!' He did not know that misery had such depths.

The DS met his eye. “Can you take us to where this was?” he asked.

“Yes sir.”

“Good. Let's go.”

Forty minutes later the Land Rover pulled up beside the butts of the old rifle range. A police car joined them and the detectives climbed out. Peter led the way down the dry creek. He was in a lather of perspiration. The OC had not spoken a word to him other than curt instructions the whole time.

As they approached the scene of his tryst (‘crime' Peter now called it) he felt dizzy and began to tremble again. He led the way down under the trees.

“This is the place.”

“Nice spot,” said the detective approvingly. “I must keep it in mind.”

Peter blushed. He pointed at the grass in the shade.

“We were lying there, facing....facing that way. The men came along that cattle pad and stopped just there. Then they went on that way.”

The two policemen asked several more questions to clarify Peter's story, then began to search around the area. Peter stood engulfed by erotic memories, misery and shame. He looked up and met Capt Conkey's eyes.

“Sorry sir,” he croaked, emotion constricting his throat. Tears misted his vision.

Capt Conkey compressed his lips. “Yes- well. Thank you for that.” He turned and called to the DS, who was studying a boot print in the sand. “Do you need us anymore? We've got to drive to Cairns and I want to be there before the company is dismissed.”

“No Captain, you can go,” the DS replied. “And thank you. Particularly you son. If you hadn't come forward with this information I don't think we would have had a hope of solving this one. As it is I reckon we can count on a quick arrest.”

Peter shrugged and mumbled: “I thought I should.”

Capt Conkey led the way back to the vehicle. Peter followed with a heavy heart. He had survived that but knew there was worse to come: his fate as a sergeant to be decided and his parents to face over his misbehaviour.

It was just after 1000hrs when Capt Conkey started the Rover. Peter sat beside him in dejected silence. Crane sat in the back. They drove first to the army camp where Capt Conkey checked what time the coaches had arrived to take the unit home. The caretaker informed him that they had only departed about half an hour earlier.

“Thank you,” Capt Conkey replied. “That means they are on time.” He turned the Rover around and drove back out to the highway. This time they turned right, towards Townsville.

The drive was an unpleasant one. Capt Conkey pushed the Rover along at 100kph, at which speed the various vehicle noises made conversation difficult. Not that Peter felt like talking. Capt Conkey said nothing and his face was stony. Peter could guess at his thoughts. His own were black. He sat in silent despair, regretting bitterly his impulsive foolishness and imagining the humiliations and hurts to come. Nor did he attempt to make conversation with Crane. The journey became monotonous and boring. The Flinders Highway runs through vast tracts of savannah with only an occasional bend or hill.

They reached Townsville at 1145. Capt Conkey turned into Lavarack Barracks to refuel the Rover. Ordinarily Peter would have been extremely interested at this opportunity to see the largest army base in tropical Australia but as it was he hardly noticed. By 1215 they were on the road again.

Their route went through Townsville, then north along the main coast road: the Bruce Highway. They passed scattered houses, went through more savannah woodland, a few pine plantations, the settlement of Rollingstone, then some sugar cane fields, a few hills, more sugar country. Capt Conkey just drove in silence. Peter sat and stared out the window, writhing in emotional agony.

They passed through Ingham at 1330 without stopping. There were more cane fields. The road went up over the seaward end of the Cardwell Range, giving a magnificent vista of Hinchinbrook Island and the numerous mangrove channels between it and the mainland. The view registered in Peter's mind only as a landmark. They travelled through more dry, open bush and pine plantations.

At 1415 they reached the small coastal town of Cardwell. As they drove along the main street, with shops on the left and the sea on their right Capt Conkey gave a grunt of satisfaction. Peter looked and saw cadets in uniform outside the shops.

“Good. We've caught them up,” Capt Conkey said. “We will stop and grab some lunch.”

At an intersection he turned left. Two army coaches, the truck, Rover and staff car were parked there in the centre of the wide side street. The first people Peter recognized as they pulled up were the other suspended cadets. They were sitting or standing in two groups at the Rover and truck. Lt Maclaren was with them.

Capt Conkey parked the Rover and switched off the engine then said, “OK Sgt Bronsky, Sgt Crane, you can buy yourself some lunch at that cafe. Then come back here.”

“Yes sir,” Peter replied. His heart sank further. It really burned to be placed in the same category as White and Crane. He hopped out of the vehicle and walked across the road to the cafe, very conscious of all the curious stares from the cadets who were clustered there eating or talking.

Graham stood on the footpath, CSM's cane under his left arm, boots polished, talking to Lt Standish. He met Peter's eye and raised one eyebrow. Peter shrugged and looked away. He didn't feel like talking at that moment. Nor did he want to stand in a queue of cadets at the counter of a shop, the object of their curiosity.

Peter spied a toilet just at the side of the cafe so he detoured over to it. For the last hour so he had been busting to go but had not been willing to tell the OC. He walked inside and found with relief that he was the only person there. It was a typical ‘Gents' with a row of three cubicles along one side and a trough type urinal along the other wall. He stepped up on the low concrete step of the urinal and unbuttoned his fly. Because he had been holding back so long it took a few moments to get started, but once it did it seemed to go on and on.

Someone else came in and stood beside him and unzipped his fly. Ordinarily Peter was self-conscious in public toilets and he made a point of not looking at what others were doing, but this fellow made such a fuss he glanced at him. After pulling out his penis the man began to urinate, making loud grunts and sighs.

Peter glanced sideways and noted that the man had a winged dragon tattooed on his left bicep.

A winged dragon!

Peter turned to look- and froze with shock.

‘It's him!' his mind shrieked. ‘It's Morry, the murderer!'

The man sensed he was being observed and turned his head. Peter found himself staring into hard, black eyes which seemed to glitter.

“What ya starin' at kid? Are you a pervert?” Morry snarled.

Peter felt icy fear wash over him: from his face, down his neck, out over his shoulders and down his back. He was still urinating and couldn't stop. For a second he felt dizzy and thought he was going to collapse. He mumbled a stunned reply and looked down.

“No...no.. I'm not. Sorry.”

At that moment another person came into the toilet. Peter glanced then blanched in terror. It was Larry; the hard-faced man who had been carrying the gun. He didn't have one now, Peter noted, realizing how foolish the idea had been. Larry stepped up on Peter's other side and began fumbling with his trousers. Peter was almost paralysed by fear. ‘What if they recognize me?' he thought in panic. ‘They might murder me too!'

With a conscious effort Peter stopped peeing and began to fumble at the zip of his trousers. He stepped down to leave, acutely conscious Morry was still eyeing him with hostility.

Larry began to pee. “What's up Morry?” Larry asked as Peter walked behind him towards the door.

Morry was finished now. “Little queer was peekin' at me,” he growled, jerking his head towards Peter.

Larry snorted and laughed. “Can't imagine what at. The sight of that repulsive thing of yours is enough to make a man ill.”

“Bite yer arse!” Morry snarled. His eyes had followed Peter to the door and a puzzled frown crossed his face. As Peter went out he heard him say: “I've seen that kid before. I wonder...”

Peter didn't linger. He stepped out into the sunlight with relief and instantly started to shake.

“What should I do?” he asked himself. He looked around. There were no officers in sight but Graham still stood on the footpath supervising the throng of cadets. Peter strode over to him.

Graham turned and said, “Hi Pete. What's the matter? You look like you've seen a ghost.”

“I have!” Peter gasped. He swallowed, seized Graham's sleeve and looked urgently around. “Quick Graham, get the OC. Get the officers- no get the police!”

“Wh...What! Why?”

“The murderers! The men who murdered the body Doyle found. They are there, in the toilet.”

Peter pointed. As he did Morry appeared in the door and looked straight at him. A flash of annoyance which instantly changed to alarm crossed Morry's face. He called something back into the toilet. Their eyes met and Peter detected a gleam of recognition.

“Quick Graham! That's one of them. Get the police!” Peter cried, still staring at Morry. The man chewed his lip and looked very savage. For a moment Peter thought he was going to walk over and confront him but instead he called angrily into the toilet,

“Hurry up Larry. I was right. It was that kid we seen on the river bank, an' he's pointin' at me.”

By now half a dozen cadets had joined Peter and Graham, all looking curiously in Morry's direction. He looked embarrassed as well as worried.

“What are you bloody kids starin' at?” Morry snarled.

None of them answered. Peter stood, trembling in every limb and unsure whether to flee or stand his ground. Graham shook his arm.

“Peter, are you sure?”

“Yes. Yes I am. It's them,” Peter replied. “Go and get the police.”

At that moment Larry came out of the toilet. He joined Morry and stared at the cadets. He saw Peter and a look of alarm crossed his face. With a jerk of his head he turned and began walking across the street. Morry glared and followed him. As they walked they cast glances over their shoulders and muttered to each other.

Peter turned to Graham. “Quick Graham! You must believe me. It is the murderers. I've just seen the body of the third man in the morgue in Charters Towers, then I described those two men to the police and we went to the river bank where I saw them that day. I know it's them!”

Roger was now beside Graham. Stephen had also appeared. Peter kept watching the men. They were headed for a battered old blue panel van parked across the street. ‘The car's registration number,' he thought. ‘I must get it.' He turned to his friends.

“Graham, phone the police, there, in that public phone box, quick! Roger, go and find the officers. I will get their vehicle number.”

Before he fully realized what he was doing Peter was half-way across the street. By then the men had reached the blue panel van and were opening its doors. Larry saw him coming and said something to Morry, who stopped and looked. The men exchanged glances.

Peter realized he wasn't being either smart or subtle. He changed course slightly to pass behind the car close enough to see its number plate, only to find it was so covered in mud as to be all but illegible. Morry's eyes followed Peter's gaze and he became obviously agitated.

“Hey kid! Whatcha doin'?” he snarled.

Peter ignored him and turned to walk back around to get a view of the front of the van.

Larry snapped at Morry, “Hey Morry, that kid's tryin' ter get our rego number. Get in and let's get outa here.”

Morry swore and stepped forward to intercept Peter. “Piss orf kid! Mind yer own business or I'll pulp yer!” He began flexing his large hands.

Peter swerved and broke into a run, circling to get to the front of the vehicle. Morry swore again and broke into a lumbering trot. Larry screamed at him to ‘get in the bloody car!'

Peter reached the footpath in front of the vehicle and he tried to dodge Morry and read the number plate at the same time.

‘O..A..T.. Is that a 1 or a 7?' Peter puzzled. He swerved and jumped back as Morry lunged at him. Peter's haste was his undoing. His foot caught the concrete gutter and he fell heavily on his back. Morry pounced, seizing him by the shirt front with both hands. Peter realized he had made a potentially fatal blunder. As terror swamped his consciousness he yelled in fear, “Help! Help! Stop him! Leave me alone.”

Morry hauled Peter to his feet and shook him, ripping his uniform in the process.

“What gives kid? What's this all about? Are you the kid we seen on the river bank?” he snarled. Peter could smell his breath and see the yellow of his teeth. Black eyes glittered only centimetres from his own. He struggled and looked frantically around for help.

It was coming. Cadets were running across the road and others were jumping out of the back of the truck.

“Help!” Peter screamed. “These are the murderers! Get the police!”

There was a moment's stunned silence then Morry went berserk. He shook Peter, let go with his right hand and first slapped Peter's face very hard, then back-handed him, then punched him; all so fast it was just a stunning blur. Peter's senses reeled. He struggled to defend himself and was punched twice more. His vision went red and black and he sagged at the knees.

At that moment someone sprang onto Morry's back and tried to haul him off: Stephen! As Peter fell he saw Morry grab Stephen. He hauled him around and back-handed him so that Stephen's glasses went flying. Stephen kicked and punched at him. Morry struck him again, then swung him around and struck him very hard in the face. Stephen crumpled at the knees and was only held up by Morry's grip. Blood began streaming down Stephen's face.

“Morry! Hold him! We need a hostage. These kids are onto us,” Larry yelled. He ducked into the car and emerged holding the rifle.

Peter lay on the footpath half-stunned. Next to him stood Morry, now holding Stephen by one arm in a ‘Half Nelson', and by the throat with his other hand. A few paces away, with his back to him, was Larry. He was holding the rifle on his hip, pointing it towards about fifty cadets who stood in a horrified semi-circle across the road and footpath.

“Back off you kids or someone will get shot!” Larry threatened. He cocked the rifle to give emphasis to his words.

“Move back cadets,” That was Graham's voice. Peter turned his head and blinked to clear the dancing black dots from his vision. Graham stood ten metres off, feet apart, hands on hips, his cane gripped in his right hand. He kept his eyes on Larry but addressed the cadets in his best ‘parade ground' voice.

“Move back cadets; right back to the other side of the street. Sergeants! Move them back.”

The cadets began to shuffle back. Gwen Copeland's voice rang out clear urging them to move. She pushed to the front. Larry fidgeted and swivelled the rifle threateningly. Peter looked. There were more cadets and some civilians coming from all directions so that the crowd was growing larger by the minute, even as it edged back. He saw the OC running from half way along the block, followed by the other officers and CUOs.

Larry made a threatening gesture with the rifle. “Back off or I will shoot someone!” he screamed. “Morry, get him in the car.”

Graham did not back away but turned and pointed with his cane and roared, “All you cadets, move back inside the shops. Move! Now! That includes you people near the truck. Sergeants, help me.”

Peter rolled his eyes as a wave of nausea engulfed him. He had trouble breathing as blood clogged his nose and trickled into his throat. When he tried to get up he only managed to roll on his front. He got a series of flashes: Barbara's angry face as red as her hair, Margaret looking anxious, Kate gaping, CUO White and Staff Costigan walking away.