don’t know what to expect … that’s why I want you to define the law for me.’
Fuck him. He was going to have his way, so I might as well get it over with.
‘Okay Bryan, welcome to LAW 101 … what is the law? The law is society’s blueprint. It is the codification or delimitation of the myriad acceptable conducts which comprise all social, political and economic activity.’
Bryan had to think about that, like any first day student. But after a while he said, ‘So what makes people obey the law?’
Jesus Fuck!
‘I guess we’re conditioned as children to behave according to the examples we are set … and then as adults we have knowledge of the law to remind us of what is acceptable.’
Bryan was beaming with pleasure.
‘Fascinating, Morgen … it seems to me that this is where your field of expertise and mine begin to converge. Are you familiar with the theories of Sigmund Freud?’
‘Bit of a wacko wasn’t he? Like most psychiatrists?’
Bryan flashed a thin smile, and continued. ‘Freud believed that the native human creature … in its unsocialised state … is a savage and utterly selfish entity which pursues pleasure with no regard for … indeed, no concept of others.’
‘I see.’
‘Do you, Morgen?’ asked Bryan, getting a little excited. ‘Do you really see? Because there’s an important corollary to that theory.’
This was better. The more he lost his sangfroid, the more it would be his psyche under question.
‘What’s the corollary?’ I asked, flatly, trying to wind him up further.
‘The corollary of Freud’s theory is this: the savage within all of us is not tamed by socialisation. The savage remains … a black presence at the core of every soul. Every day we must maintain our socialisation to deny the subtle whisperings … the evil seduction of the savage within.’
Bryan was sitting forward in his chair, the tendons in his neck straining with conviction.
‘Subtle whisperings, Bryan? Are you telling me you hear voices?’
Bryan leaned slowly back and appeared to compose himself.
‘Are you telling me you don’t?’
4 Always Darkest Under the Lamp
Detective Sergeant Peter ‘Blacksnake’ Fowler stared in fascinated revulsion at the severed hand wrapped in the snap-shut plastic bag. It didn’t matter how often he saw this kind of thing, he never got used to it. Neither could he understand the macho mentality of some of his colleagues who would find it a big laugh. Eddie Renton, for example, would be trying to stick the hand down the shirts of the women PCs, or pick his nose with the index finger (which was extended accusingly in rigor mortis). Of course, in the presence of the grieving relatives Eddie’s professional piety would come to the fore, and he would be quietly aghast and grimly determined, leaving Mr and Mrs Victim with a powerful sense that the Forces of Righteous Vengeance had the matter completely under control.
Fucking Renton.
Fowler turned his attention to the nervous little man across the desk. He was glad the other was nervous — it made it easier for him.
‘Have you touched it?’
‘The hand?’
‘No … the plastic bag. Are your prints on the bag?’
‘Shit … probably.’
‘We’ll have to print you as well then … you got a problem with that?’
‘Why? I’m not a suspect am I?’
‘No … but we need to distinguish your prints from whatever others might show up.’
‘Fair enough. What about the letter … I can print it, right?’
The little man lost his nervousness, and was suddenly hard as nails. On the desk, between the two men, beside the blue/grey hand, was a typed piece of paper.
‘The letter is evidence,’ said Fowler, trying to make it sound like a threat. ‘But I suppose you’ve got a photocopy?’
The little man was Ed Bartini, shareholder and editor of The Northern Advertiser and Shore Gazette. Trained in the fine arts but forced to scratch a living in the impecunious press, he had the habitual scammer’s innate knowledge of his rights, and wasn’t easily daunted by a suburban detective. And he knew a goldmine when he saw one.
‘It may be evidence, but it’s also my property. The letter was sent to me, Peter … with the express intention of being published. I think that much is clear.’
‘What’s clear to me,’ said the detective, ‘is the protection of the public. This bloke has some kind of ‘Jack the Ripper’ complex … he craves publicity. If we publish the letter we’re pandering to his warped ego. That might just inspire him to go on killing … to stay in the headlines.’
‘And if we don’t publish his letter he might go on killing to make us take him seriously.’
‘Well that settles it,’ said Blacksnake. ‘If he’s gonna go on killing either way, it doesn’t matter what we do. So I’m banning it.’
‘Fuck, Peter! Do you know how often a local rag gets this kind of opportunity … to be the focus of news for the entire city?’
‘Not often, I’d reckon.’
‘Never … is how often. But for some reason, this maniac has chosen the Northern Advertiser as the pipeline to his public. The whole of Sydney … the whole of fucking Australia … will want to keep up with the story. This’ll put us on the map … we need the business.’
‘Are you telling me more murders would be good for business?’
The little man stared at the detective, contemplating a lie, then shrugged.
‘Murder is news,’ he said, with a roll of his eyes. ‘You don’t sell papers … or advertising for that matter … without news.’
Only three weeks before, Bartini had convinced a meeting of creditors to give him a little more time — three more months to trade his way out of trouble. But this morning, everything had changed. As he walked up the back steps to open the office he had come across a shoebox. Inside, was a letter addressed to him and the decomposing hand in its snap-shut plastic bag.
He sat there remembering, even now bile reaching a beachhead at the back of his throat, but he had to be strong. The letter was dynamite — a pressman’s dream. He had to convince the detective to let him publish.
Either that, or he’d just publish anyway — damn the torpedoes and double the advertising rates.
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