there.” Whitelaw gestured toward the makeshift camp stove he had set up on the bench.
“Glass of water would be fine, thanks.”
“I’ve got it,” Reed replied, rising to the sink.
“When you’re done, give us a few minutes?”
“Of course, no problem.”
Miller paused for a moment, buying time while Reed finished up.
“The property name – Allambie – what does it mean? I saw it on the post out front.”
Whitelaw let out a muffled laugh.
“A peaceful place to stay a while. At least it used to be.” He coughed as he finished.
Miller gestured with his head; Reed handed him the glass and returned to the sink to fill a second. He placed it on the table and headed out of the room, closing the screen door with a clang.
Miller pulled out his notebook.
“Mr. Whitelaw, I have a few questions about Mrs. Whitelaw’s last hours for the Coroner’s report. Do you understand?”
“Do we have to do this now, after what’s happened? My boys will be here soon; can’t it wait until I’ve spoken with them?”
“No, I’m sorry. I need you to take me through last night. Let’s start with when you first became aware of the bushfire.”
Whitelaw sighed. “Fine. We saw it on the news. They said they were all over the Shire, and we should pack up and head out.”
“Okay, good. Who was here?”
“Me and the missus. The stockman shot through with the horses when the SES broadcast the evacuation order.”
“Why didn’t you leave?”
Whitelaw looked down at the picture of his wife.
“Hundred and twenty-six years. It’s how long the Whitelaw’s have run cattle on this land – five generations. My father passed it down to me. It’s my job to look after the place.”
“What time did the fire reach your property?”
“From the start. You need to understand; Allambie is close to 100,000 acres. We run around five, and up to ten thousand head, depending on the season. Fires were burning out west a few days back, but didn’t reach the house till yesterday, just before tea.”
“What happened then?”
“We wet down the roofs with the hose; used most of the water in the tanks, and came inside. That’s what you do. It’s not the first fire we’ve had through the property and I’m betting it won’t be the last.”
“Right. Where I am not clear is how Mrs. Whitelaw ended up in the ruins outside?”
“I already told you. She chased the bloody dog when it got out. Fire had jumped here faster than we expected. The heat triggered the shutters and they dropped before she made it back. I tried to find her but I couldn’t.” He paused. “Bloody regulations are what killed her.”
Miller considered Whitelaw’s last comment. The pieces of the puzzle were starting to come together.
“Where did she go?”
“Looks to me as though she was heading for the stockman’s quarters, but only made it as far as the tack sheds. They don’t have the same protection as the homestead. She didn’t stand a chance.” Whitelaw pressed his lips together and looked as if he was holding his breath.
Miller nodded and gave Whitelaw a chance to gather himself, as he fidgeted with a picture of his wife.
“Tell me, Mr. Whitelaw, how is the station doing?”
“I never discuss family business with outsiders.”
Miller sat silent, after the almost hostile response, trying to read the old man’s demeanor.
Whitelaw shook his head, and placed the picture on the table, covering his wife’s face with the ends of his fingers.
“Hasn’t been so good lately, has it?”
After a drawn-out silence, Whitelaw replied. “What do you expect?”
“You tell me.”
“The bloody live export ban, it ruined us. Those bastards in Canberra oughta be shot!” He took a breath. “Decisions are made with no idea of the impact it has on us lot up here. It’s evil beyond words. To top it off, the fire last night bushed our last mob of cattle. We can’t afford the fuel bills or pay for a muster helicopter – not to mention the overdraft.”
“Sounds like you’re doing it tough.”
“The whole district’s doing it tough.”
Miller sensed the adrenaline kick in. Whitelaw was a broken man. He changed gears in the conversation.
“Is that why you let the dog out?”
“What are you saying?”
“You knew she would chase it. All you had to do was get the timing right and lock the doors. You knew damn well she wouldn’t make it back. I’m betting you have an insurance policy somewhere, which would save this place. Enough to get you back on your feet, right?”
Whitelaw stared back with dead eyes. “Now you hold on. She was my mate. We’ve been through thick and thin.”
Miller upped the tempo.
“We found evidence of a fire shadow on the stone base of the building. Are you familiar with the term?”
Whitelaw shook his head.
“It’s when one object masks another object from the intense heat of a fire. It leaves a behind a faint shadow on the surface, like a fingerprint. It’s easy to miss.”
“Where?”
“Out the back where you began to tidy up.”
“I wasn’t tidying up; I was searching for my wife. It’s where I found what’s left of the dog.”
Something didn’t sit true; the dog would have run clear of the fire.
“No way, I don’t buy it.” Miller replied.
“Well, that’s what happened.”
“It’s where you discovered her body, isn’t it? Before you moved it.”
Whitelaw shuffled in his chair as the focus shifted back to him. “Nonsense. You dunno what you’re talking about.”
“Do you want to know how she died?”
“What difference does it make?”
Miller rubbed his forehead as he sat back in his chair.
“Mr. Whitelaw. Forensics will show the most probable cause of death was carbon monoxide poisoning.”
Whitelaw slumped forward with his head down.
“Look at me!” Miller burst to his feet and slammed both hands on the table. “The ground where you dumped her body had been protected from the fire, yet her back was charred. That’s impossible if it’s where she died!”
Whitelaw remained unmoved.
“Ludowici found traces of accelerant where you set those buildings on fire after the fact. Do you want to know my favorite part?”
“Why not.”
“The Bull Catcher.” Miller shifted his weight. “I couldn’t figure it out, then it clicked.”
“What clicked?”
“You left.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Don’t play me for a fool. You know damn well what I mean. You weren’t here when the fire front passed through. The tracks in the ash prove it. You locked the house and drove off. You left your wife here to die.”
“Whitelaw shook his head. “No…”
“When you returned, you used it to move her body across to the tack sheds before you set them alight, waited a couple of hours, then called it in.”
“Enough!” Whitelaw said as he waved his hand at Miller, tears pooling. “She was my best mate and after forty years she was leaving me - forty bloody years! She picked that day to break the news.”
The room fell silent for what seemed an age, before Miller spoke.
“Charles Whitelaw. I am now cautioning you that you are the prime suspect in the death of Lillian Whitelaw. You are not obliged to say or do anything unless you wish to do so, but whatever you say or do may be used in evidence. Do you understand?”
Whitelaw gave a single nod.
“I’m sixty-seven years old and I’ve lost damn near everything I ever worked for, everything my family worked for. What? I was supposed to stand by and let her walk away with half of what’s left? It would have finished us off for good. I’d
have nothing to pass down.”
Voice failing, he reached into his top pocket and pulled out a container of pills.
“And I’ve got a bad ticker.”
With a shaking hand, he leaned forward, took a couple of the pills and swallowed them with a sip of water. He placed the glass back on the table and the picture in his shirt pocket, buttoning it closed. Tears streaming, he looked up at Miller.
“You tell my boys, the place is theirs now. I’ll be damned if I’ll spend what’s left of my life locked up like a dog.”
Before Miller could move, he let out a low groan and gasped for air. His body fell off the chair, thumping on the floor, where he lay contorted and broke into a seizure.
Miller leapt to his feet, ran to the door and called out in desperation for Reed and Bowen. By the time they raced through the door, Whitelaw was unconscious.
“Symptoms indicate cyanide poisoning,” Bowen said, looking up from her crouched position. She checked his top pocket, found a plastic container and removed the top.
“Looks like he concealed possum baiting pellets in with his heart medication. The post-mortem will confirm it.” She screwed the lid on and placed it in a clear evidence bag.
Miller nodded as he headed out of the room, and a minute later slid into the driver’s side of his vehicle. He took a deep breath before calling the station on the two-way radio for support.
As he listened to the background chatter, and waited for a reply, he watched as the undertaker’s vehicle pulled to a stop. He exhaled, once again studying the bleak, burnt landscape.
Whitelaw had taken the easy way out and the harsh reality of outback life had just claimed another victim.
***
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***
Here is a sample from my next short story
Bodega
A Detective Sarah Renner Short Story
By Stephen Johnson
The move seemed choreographed as the uniformed officer lifted the yellow tape and Detective Sarah Renner stooped and stepped into the crime scene.
“Evening, Detective. Your partner’s inside.”
She took a beat and purposefully scanned the stucco bodega, set to the pavement on the corner site. A decrepit, timber low-set bookended one side of the building, whilst in the opposite direction, a row of semi-detached houses ran away into the darkness.
“Walk and talk.” She started to move off. “You the responding - first on scene?”
“That’s right. Dispatch called us on the thirty. We made it in under three minutes.”
Renner nodded, acknowledging the New Orleans Police dispatch code for a shooting-related homicide. She continued to scan the street and neighboring buildings. The odd blast of a siren or someone yelling profanities at the officers forming the perimeter to the scene intermittently disturbed the low rumble created by their conversation. She knew it wouldn’t be long before numbers would reach an uncomfortable level.
For Renner, today marked ten years with NOPD Homicide. She knew the city and sensed the underlying racial divide that fuelled the frustration on the streets. For some it had become a case of survival and any remnants of common sense or decency had long since washed away with the floods. Scenes like she was now encountering had become business as usual. As the adrenaline began to flow, instinctively she reached down and adjusted her badge, fixed over her belt, and felt for her service piece tight on her right hip.
“Who was here when you arrived?”
“No one. Street was empty.”
“No witnesses at all?”
“None that’ll talk.”
“Who called it in?”
“9-1-1 came in from one of the residents down the street.”
“What about this lot? Someone must have seen something.”
“People round here got short memories.”
Renner made her way toward the entrance of the store, not waiting for a response. As she approached, Gabriel Lucas stepped out through the door. He had ten years on her, and it was beginning to show in his eyes.
“How they doin’ Renner?”
“Red Sox by one. Holt and Pedroia got home in the eighth. That’s when I got the call. You know, you’re still in with a chance.”
“Too much confidence is unhealthy.”
“Maybe,” she replied, “We’ll see. Tell me about our scene?”
***
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