Big White Lies Read online

  “So according to government archives, Crooked River mission was unpopulated for six years, when all other historical accounts we’ve studied show otherwise…Is this the first time you’ve come across this in the archives?”

  “Yep, and as you said, government record keeping during the ’50s and ’60s in particular, was terrible. But when I sifted through the archives today, every mission had hundreds of pages of information, with every year covered. Except for Crooked River. Why hasn’t anyone noticed until now? Michael certainly hadn’t...”

  “No-one’s cared before now.”

  “Likely…Something’s dodgy about it.”

  “Or corrupt? Crooked River’s had the usual problems over the years, but no more than other towns and missions, considering its’ size. Definitely nothing that justifies deleting a chunk of its history…”

  “Where to from here?”

  “Let’s keep the missing records to ourselves at the moment. Michael will do what he has to, we can’t control that. But someone’s taken significant risks to tamper with AWB files relating to those six years. I intend to find out who, and why. The fewer know of our discovery, the easier it’ll be.”

  “I can ask Michael to sit on it?”

  “Good idea. But discreetly, and don’t jeopardize his position.”

  She dipped her head. “You seem quite the expert on Crooked River, considering you’ve only read a few history books…”

  “I spent a week in its’ local court last year, filling in as the Legal Aid rep. Defended a young Koori guy accused of punching a cop. Not sure why, the Koori had come off much worse.”

  “Just the norm…They’re friendly cops then?”

  “Think Yanky rednecks with thick Aussie accents...The kooris in town are barely tolerated, and definitely not accepted. When I lost the court matter, a police car followed me out of town to make sure I left. They didn’t want no black human rights lawyer sniffing around their hick town.”

  “Rednecks alright…Sounds like a horrible place.”

  “The town itself is lovely…Colonial, sandstone buildings. Couple of 19th-century churches. The pub’s okay. Ancient trees lined along bright red streets.”

  “And the river?”

  “Brown, but clean, deep and wide. Runs through town, then into hills. The mission’s set on it.”

  “What’s it like, the Koori community there?”

  Lionel made a mental note to stop calling it a ‘mission’. “It’s in a wonderful location, surrounded by hills. The residents seemed happy enough. New houses, a modern school. To be honest, Crooked River wasn’t a place I planned to investigate.”

  “But it is now?”

  He hesitated. Wendy was the only person within Legal Aid who knew of his quest for a public inquiry. The only colleague he trusted, to an extent. “Maybe, because of the missing records. Makes me wonder…” He glanced at his ringing cell phone, picked it up from the desk and answered. “Nick, excuse me for a second please...” He placed a hand over the phone. “Thanks Wendy, brilliant work today. See you tomorrow.”

  She waved and left the office.

  “Nick, I’ve got fantastic news.”

  Galios’ laugh crackled through the phone’s speaker. “Hey, I’m the one who called. You’ll want to hear mine first.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “Well, allow me to gloat. I’ve been busy making phone calls…Have you seen the papers, and TV reports?”

  “I’m impressed, Azelia’s termination dominates all media. And how’d you get your story into this morning’s paper, at such short notice?”

  “Aha…A desperate journo, hungry for a scoop, is either a politicians’ worst enemy or closest ally. Thankfully, my favorite hack was starving. Do you like the story?”

  Lionel sniggered, his admiration grew. “Couldn’t be more anti-police if you’d written it yourself…It’s exactly the coverage we need to get the right people asking questions.”

  “Must say, I love seeing that useless old prick Delaney getting caned by the press.”

  “And rightly so, his police force turned its’ back on those girls.”

  “What I really rang to tell you is this…Charles McKinlay called me, ten minutes ago…”

  “And?”

  “He was abusive at first, accused me of going over his head and straight to Rothwell. Then, from nowhere, he says Rothwell’s directed him to make an immediate decision regarding your submission.”

  Lionel’s chest heaved. He recalled his conversation with Karen Flintoff. She’d acted as instructed. “That’s fantastic news, that they’re considering its’ merits at least...”

  “McKinlay will speak to Sinclair and Flintoff tonight and ask them to vote on the matter. You’ve got a meeting with him tomorrow at nine, at his office in Martin Place. He’ll give you the panel’s decision then.”

  Lionel realized he had a sleepless night of worry ahead. “With only him?”

  “Yes, it’s very unusual, and these things rarely move this quickly. Someone’s watching over you, Lionel, you’re blessed.”

  Wise men who often visited Lionel, spirits of his ancestors, hovered in front of him. “Not blessed…Someone watching over me? Maybe...”

  A long pause.

  “You know, I had to refrain from laughing,” Galios said. “Charles seemed genuinely bewildered that Rothwell expects Flintoff and Sinclair to cast a vote without even reading your submission.”

  “I can imagine the look on his face when Rothwell told him…”

  Galios chuckled. “Indeed…Well, my work’s done. What did you want to tell me? Have you worked a miracle with Karen Flintoff?”

  Silence for five seconds while Lionel considered telling him about ‘Shirley.’ “Yes, I managed to speak with her this morning, and explained the situation in the far west.”

  “Great. What was her response?”

  “I’m confident she’ll vote in my favor.”

  “Really? How could you be, after one conversation?”

  “Sure you want to know?”

  Galios snorted a laugh, as though enjoying the game. “Considering the sudden directive from Rothwell, and McKinlay’s backflip, I don’t know if I do.”

  “Yes, perhaps it’s best you don’t...”

  He must’ve been worried by the mischief in Lionel’s voice because he continued in a serious tone. “Lionel, be very careful how you handle this situation.”

  Lionel pulled his head away from the phone, wide-eyed. Why the sudden concern for his welfare? What did Fred Klose and Nick Galios know, that he didn’t? “Appreciate your advice, but I know what I’m doing.”

  “I hope you do, because there’ll be serious consequences if you get it wrong.”

  FOURTEEN

  Four hours after he’d passed out in a Redfern laneway, Porter stopped behind Superintendent Steve Williams outside an interview room in City Central police station. He peered over William’s shoulder. Two Internal Affairs investigators sat at a table in the middle of the room. One, close to sixty, had a round head and jowls like Jabba the Hut. The other, in his mid-forties, had the face of a ferret. They wore identical suits, with identical hair styles. Black with pin stripe, slicked back and parted at the side.

  Williams stepped into the room. “Gents, we’ve just returned from the hospital. Doctor said Dan’s been badly concussed and isn’t fit for interview. But he wants to do it now and get it over with.”

  Jabba the Hut peered up at Williams. “We’ve finished with Betts. He’s having a quick debrief with the psych then going home.”

  “Excellent…Any point asking how it went?”

  “No, but I worked fraud squad with him a few years back. He’s a good fella, a good cop. It’ll sort itself out.”

  Williams stepped aside to let Porter into the room. “Blood samples were taken, they shouldn’t be a problem. Port’s only a rotten drunk off duty, right mate?”

  Porter didn’t reply and watched Williams leave the room. He stumbled on an electr
ical cord and fell into a chair opposite the investigators, then adjusted the plaster strip across his nose. They ignored him, heads down. An electronic recording machine with a built-in video camera stared at him from the table.

  Jabba the Hut straightened in the chair. “Don’t think we’ve met? Detective Inspector Ron Jacobs from Internal Affairs, heading this critical incident investigation.” He turned to ferret face. “This is Detective Senior Sergeant Brian Little, assisting. Our contact details...” Jacobs pushed two business cards across the table.

  Porter noted the registered service numbers listed on their cards. He’d been in the cops four years longer than Little and tried to ignore the fact, but couldn’t contain himself. “Nothing like a job at IA to hurl you up the corporate ladder, eh Sarge?” He smirked at Little.

  Little jerked his nose.

  “Do you have an Association rep to sit in with you?” Jacobs said.

  “Don’t reckon I need one?” Porter wiped sweat from his neck and rolled the shirt’s sleeves to elbow length. The business shirt Williams had lent him hung loose at the shoulders. Strange, because he’d always been broader than him. He tightened the bandage around his head.

  “Your nose must be sore?” Jacobs said.

  “Clean fracture. Not the first, won’t be the last.” Porter heard his own voice. His usual baritone sounded nasal and mid-pitched. “Drugs have worn off, got a prick of a headache. We getting on with this?”

  Jacobs flicked the electronic recording machine on. Three green lights flashed, followed by a beep. He pointed to Little, who readied pen to paper.

  Jacobs cleared his throat. “This is an electronically recorded interview betwee--.”

  Porter rocked forward on the seat. “I haven’t agreed to this. Won’t…”

  Jacobs sat back, brow furrowed.

  Porter out-stared him.

  Jacobs flicked the machine off. “Didn’t want to tell me that, prior, to commencing the interview?”

  “You didn’t ask...”

  “What’s your reason for declining?” Little said.

  “Won’t sit here like a two-bob crook and talk into a machine. Done nothing wrong, and I’ll prove that…And is this a criminal or internal interview?”

  “Nothing wrong? That’s yet to be determined…” Little mumbled as he wrote.

  Porter began a reply then stopped, mouth half open. He massaged the back of his head, felt warm blood oozing from stitches. A dull ache at the hospital had become a chisel chipping away his skull.

  “You alright, Porter?” Jacobs said.

  Porter stooped towards the table, tried to focus on the stained carpet.

  “It’s an internal interview only at this stage,” Jacobs said. “We need your version of events…Two Koori kids have been shot by cops, and the world’s asking our bosses why. Our job’s to supply them answers.”

  Little sniffled. “If you’re innocent, it’s best to co-operate...”

  Porter straightened. “I’m here aren’t I? Crook as a dog…Co-op-er-ating…Hah, you need my version of events…For what, to load bullets for the firing squad?”

  Jacobs frowned. “No-one likes a smartass, Constable, and I don’t like your tone.”

  “Well, excuse the cynic in me you blokes, but we’re talking about the fucking police force here.” Pressure built at his temples, Porter winced. “This might be internal for now, but we all know anything said can come back to haunt me...Guaran, fucking, teed.”

  “You’re obliged to answer our questions,” Little said. “You’ll face disciplinary action if you don’t.”

  “Two kids are dead, ‘cos I chased ‘em. You reckon the threat of disciplinary action worries me? Fucking drongo…”

  Jacobs raised an open hand. “Calm down, Dan. Brian’s trying to help.”

  “Like fuck he is...I’m not new to critical incidents, unlike some who spend careers hiding behind desks…” Porter glared at Little. “I know my obligations...To provide a statement. Or you blokes can write q’s and a’s in your notebooks like real cops do.” He folded arms and licked the blood trickling from his nose.

  Jacobs squinted at him. “Betts shot Neilsen, to save your life. Tindall was a dangerous, fleeing felon.”

  “That’s not how I remember it…”

  “Listen, corroborating’s easier for both of you. If you don’t support Betts, he’ll be charged, and probably do time.” Jacobs leaned forward. “He’s your partner, Porter. A good man, with a wife and kids to support.”

  Porter heard Betts say it again. ‘A bullet’s what he needs…Do us all a favor.’

  “Betts is a good bloke sometimes, but not always,” Porter said. “I joined this job to put killers away, not protect ‘em.”

  “Look, maybe Betts did fuck up,” Jacobs said. “He’ll have to deal with the consequences. But so will you...”

  “Sounds like a threat...Thought it’s your job to protect the honest blokes?”

  “Simply advice, from someone who’s seen it all before…You’ll be treated like a leper, no-one’s got time for a cop who rolls on his mates. What’ll people think? He saves your life, then you put him in it...”

  “Deep in it...” Little said. “And why the sympathy for shitbag junkies? They would’ve killed you.”

  Porter covered his eyes with hands, tried to dismiss images of Nadia’s mutilated corpse and Debbie Tindall’s distraught face. He sighed and took his hands away. What was the point of trying to explain?

  “Would you prefer we do this tomorrow?” Jacobs said. “You’ve been concussed, you’re tired and not thinking straight…Go home and sleep on it.”

  “Nah, I’ll make a statement. Now.”

  Little huffed as he wrote.

  Jacobs’s face soured, like a homeless drunk who’d spilled the last drop of wine. “If you provide a conflicting statement, public prosecutors get involved. Which means there’ll be one hell of a media circus, and Kooris baying for blood. Are you prepared for the worst scenario?”

  Visions of Nadia, her distraught mother, and Eddy’s desperate last stare swirled in front of Porter. After the past few days, what could be worse? He shrugged.

  Jacobs sighed, then pointed to the computer and printer on the desk in the corner. “Set those up, Sergeant, for the Constable to write his statement.”

  Five minutes later, Porter sat alone in the interview room. A burning sensation rose from chest to throat. He cursed himself, for initiating the pursuit. Then Betts, for needlessly taking two young lives.

  What had Betts said in his statement? He would’ve had to admit to shooting them, ballistics would prove it...But how had he explained the, ‘why’? Why did he shoot Eddy in the back? An unarmed boy, with no chance of escape…

  He’d typed two lines when Jacobs entered the room, placed a copy of Betts’ statement on the desk, and left without saying a word. He stopped typing and shook his head at the audacity. They’d want him to support Betts’ version of events, no matter how fabricated, and leave the Police Force faultless in all legal and procedural aspects of the shooting. They’d pretend to care for them both, but only protected the Force.

  He started typing again, then glanced at Betts’ statement and stopped. He heard Betts chuckle, watched him devour a Big Mac. Ian Betts, his partner, the bloke who’d saved his arse on countless occasions. Who made him laugh when he needed to. Who tolerated his foul moods. The bloke who’d given him strength, like recently at the morgue, when he’d felt weak.

  He fingered the keyboard. Make the right decision, Porter. It’s the most important of your life...

  He could tell the truth and became an internal witness, worlds would turn upside down. Life, both private and professional, would never be the same again. And would guilt forever haunt him if he destroyed another cops’ career?

  Or he could lie and support Bett’s version, turn the nightmare into a dream. Life would go on, as though the shooting had never happened…But could he ever look in a mirror again?

  An hour later he�
�d printed and signed a four-page statement. He handed it to Jacobs when they returned to the room.

  Jacobs read the statement, blank-faced. He slid it across the table to Little, then studied Porter. “Are you happy to stick with that?”

  Porter said nothing, took his copy from the table and left.

  Steve Williams waited for him in the adjoining briefing room. He suggested Porter take a seat, then went to speak with the IA men. He returned to the briefing room when they’d left, smiled at the attractive woman who hurried into the interview room, then sat next to Porter. “How’d it go?”

  “Mate, don’t wanna talk about it. You’ll find out soon enough.”

  “Whatever happens, you have my support. Okay?”

  Porter shrugged.

  Williams inclined his head towards the interview room. “That was Deidre Sharpe who just walked past, our top psychiatrist. She wants a chat…”

  “Nah, not gunna happen.” Porter stood. “Can hardly keep my eyes open, head’s fucking killing me, and haven’t spoken to Jane. Heading home…”

  “Told you already, Jane knows you’re okay. I called her from the hospital.”

  Porter inhaled, then blew air at the ceiling. “Don’t need a chat...I’m all good.”

  Williams rose to lock eyes with him. “You don’t look it…I’m worried as your mate, not your boss.”

  “I’ve just had enough bullshit for one day…”

  “Told Deidre to be quick. It’s critical incident protocol, mandatory.”

  “Yeah, the Force covering its’ arse, for later when I’ve blown my brains out…” Porter clenched his jaw. “Bloody hell, mate, why you pushing this? You know I hate talking to these people.”

  “Understood…But this shooting, and with what’s happened in your past…Things catch up. Won’t hurt to tal--.”

  Porter eyed him sideways. “My past? Fuck, don’t go there…” He headed for the fire stairs.