"Detective Jenkins," Sergeant Claiborne called out as I walked by his office door. "A word in my office, please."
As I approached Sergeant Claiborne's office, my steps slowed, a mix of reluctance and apprehension knotting in my stomach. "Detective Jenkins," he called out crisply, his voice slicing through the bustling noise of the station. The mention of my name, coupled with the unexpected summons, set off an alarm in my mind. This was uncharted territory for me, having never been called into the Sergeant's office since earning the stripes of a senior detective. My mind raced, conjuring up every possible reason for this sudden request.
My heart, which had been beating steadily, now thumped erratically against my chest. I paused for a second outside his door, gathering my composure. There was an unwritten rule in our line of work: being called into the Sergeant's office was seldom a harbinger of good news. With each tick of the clock, my anxiety spiked. Could he know something about last night? The thought was a jolt of electricity, sending a surge of panic through me. It was implausible, I reassured myself. I had already scoured the morning reports with meticulous care. There was no mention of any incidents at the house of Luke Smith and Jamie Greyson, let alone a whisper of a potential homicide.
I bit my lip, hard enough to feel the sting, chastising myself. Leaving the body hidden under the stairs was a reckless move, one that I couldn’t afford to ignore for much longer. Yet, there was this nagging feeling, an intuitive whisper, suggesting that the incident might remain undiscovered for now.
Trying to quell the storm of thoughts, I considered more benign possibilities for this meeting. Maybe Sergeant Claiborne simply wanted an update on the current case's progress. It wasn’t uncommon for him to seek briefings, albeit usually in a less formal setting. Or perhaps, he had stumbled upon some new piece of information. My mind drifted to the crumpled piece of paper I had lost - Jamie's scrawled note from years ago. At the time, I wasn’t too concerned about losing it. The words on that paper were etched in my memory, clear and unyielding. Without context, I had convinced myself, it was just a scrap of paper, meaningless to anyone else.
Taking a deep breath, I squared my shoulders, an attempt to brace myself for whatever lay ahead. I stepped into Sergeant Claiborne's office, a space that felt more like a realm of judgement than a part of the precinct. "Yes, Sergeant. What would you like to see me about?" I asked, my voice steady despite the storm of apprehension swirling inside me.
Sergeant Claiborne, seated behind his desk cluttered with case files and paperwork, looked up at me. His expression was unreadable, a poker face perfected over years of service. "It appears there has been a break-in at Luke Smith's house," he stated, his voice as even as the surface of a still lake.
"A break-in?” I echoed, my mind racing. The words hit me like a shockwave, jolting through my body. "When did that happen?" I managed to ask, trying to mask the sudden surge of panic that threatened to overwhelm me. Inside, a whirlwind of questions raged. Had Luke found the body? Was he reporting the broken window? But then, why would he?
Sergeant Claiborne's eyes, sharp and assessing, met mine. "Not sure yet. It was reported very early this morning," he replied, his tone suggesting there was more to the story than he was letting on.
I caught myself just in time, stopping the question that almost slipped out: really? My mind was a tumult of confusion and suspicion. I was sure I would have seen any report about this when I checked earlier. Unless, a thought whispered treacherously, someone had requested it be kept off the records. But that made little sense. Why report a break-in and then want it hidden?
The weight of Sergeant Claiborne's gaze felt like an anvil pressing down on me, his eyes dissecting my every flicker of emotion for signs of guilt or deceit. I struggled to maintain a facade of calm professionalism, but inside, my mind was a whirlwind of chaos and fear. The room seemed to close in around me, the walls inching nearer, as if they were conspiring to trap me in this moment of reckoning. The air was thick, laden with unspoken accusations and the heavy burden of suspicion. I knew I had to navigate this conversation with utmost caution; any misstep could spell disaster.
"I'll grab Detective Lahey and we’ll go and check it out immediately," I said quickly, eager to escape the intensity of the room and, more importantly, to steer clear of any further scrutiny that might unveil my deeply buried secret.
"No, Karl," Sergeant Claiborne interjected, his voice firm.
I froze, then turned back to face him, a sense of dread coiling in my stomach. "What do you mean, no?" I asked, my voice laced with a mix of confusion and a creeping sense of alarm.
"The caller wanted to remain anonymous," he explained, his tone measured but unyielding.
I stared at him, my confusion deepening. What was he implying? The next words from Sergeant Claiborne struck me like a lightning bolt.
"They said they saw you running from the property late last night," he revealed, his eyes locked onto mine, searching for a reaction.
"What made them think it was me?" I asked, my voice tinged with skepticism. This was absurd. How could anyone have seen me, let alone identified me?
Sergeant Claiborne sighed, a sound heavy with regret. "They gave your name, Karl. I have to put you on desk duty until further notice," he said, his voice betraying the reluctance in delivering this verdict.
"What!" I cried out, disbelief and anger coursing through my veins. My mind raced through a list of potential informants, trying to pinpoint who could have betrayed me. "Do you know whether it was a male or female that called it in?" I asked desperately. I was supposed to be the investigator, the one piecing the puzzle together, not the suspect cornered by unforeseen circumstances. The events of the previous night had twisted my role, turning me into a desperate man, eager to keep anyone from discovering the body hidden beneath the stairs.
The Sergeant's frown deepened. "You know I can't tell you that," he said, his voice firm, brooking no argument.
"This is bullshit!" I exclaimed, a mix of frustration and helplessness overwhelming me. Reluctantly, I handed over my gun to the Sergeant, each movement feeling like an admission of guilt, a surrender of my authority and integrity. My badge, once a symbol of pride and responsibility, now felt like a burden too heavy to bear. As I placed my gun into his waiting hand, a part of me couldn't help but wonder if this was the beginning of the end of my career, the unraveling of everything I had worked so hard to build.
The moment I threw my jacket onto the empty seat in the corner of the bullpen, I could feel the weight of every eye in the room on me. The fabric landed with a soft thud, a stark contrast to the turmoil raging inside me. I slumped down at my desk, a fortress of paperwork and cold coffee mugs, feeling a huff of frustration escape my lips. It was a physical manifestation of the storm that was brewing inside.
I've royally screwed myself over this time, I chastised myself silently. The thought echoed in my mind, a relentless reminder of my precarious situation. I knew coming into work today had been a mistake, but I couldn't have predicted it would turn out like this.
My attempts to reach Sarah since last night had been futile, each call going straight to voicemail, each text left unanswered. It has to be her that called it in, the thought circled in my head like a vulture. She knew I was at the Smith property; she was the only one who did. But the why of it all eluded me, creating a chasm of confusion and betrayal. How did she even know I was there? And how, in a twist of fate, did she know to call Jamie's phone, the very phone that I was clutching in my hands at that critical moment?
The possibility that Sarah might be involved in the disappearances sent a shiver down my spine. It was a thought so chilling, so out of sync with everything I believed, that it made me physically recoil. We argue constantly, I reflected, our arguments a strange, twisted dance that, in some bizarre way, I thought brought us closer. But this, this was a betrayal of a magnitude I couldn't fathom. The trust that I thought was the foundation of our relationship, however tumultuous it might be, now seemed like a facade, a house of cards ready to tumble down at the slightest nudge.
I stared blankly at the clutter on my desk, each object a reminder of the normalcy that had been my life until this moment. My thoughts were a whirlpool, sucking me deeper into a vortex of doubt and suspicion. The room around me, usually buzzing with the energy of active cases and clattering keyboards, now seemed distant, as if I were observing it through a fogged lens. I was there, but not quite present, lost in the labyrinth of my own troubled thoughts, trying to piece together a puzzle that seemed to grow more complex by the second.
The bitterness that lingered in my mouth, a physical reminder of my current predicament, was still potent as I answered the desk phone. "Detective Jenkins," I said, trying to sound as composed as possible under the circumstances.
"Detective," a man's voice came through, clear and professional. "This is Detective Jeremy Harding from the Broken Hill Police Station," he introduced himself.
"Broken Hill?" I echoed, my surprise evident in my tone. My eyebrows arched involuntarily. Broken Hill - a name that conjured images of dusty roads and sun-scorched landscapes. "Isn't that the tiny mining town in the middle of nowhere?" I asked, picturing the remote, arid location in my mind.
"It's called the outback," Detective Harding replied with a chuckle, a hint of good-natured ribbing in his voice.
Despite the gravity of my situation, I found myself smiling briefly at his remark. Humour, even in these dire circumstances, seemed to be a universal trait among detectives. "You've got my curiosity piqued. What can I do for you, Detective?" I inquired, genuinely intrigued. What could possibly link Hobart, a city nestled at the edge of the world, with Broken Hill, one of Australia’s oldest mining towns, over a thousand kilometres away near the border of South Australia and New South Wales?
"I'm investigating the disappearance of a young man who is believed to have travelled from Broken Hill over a week ago after getting into an argument with his wife, and he has not been heard from since," Detective Harding began. "According to our investigation, we understand his brother bought him a plane ticket to fly from Adelaide to Hobart. Security footage has confirmed that Paul boarded the flight, but we've been unable to contact the brother," he explained.
I sighed silently, my gaze drifting to the mounds of paperwork that adorned my desk. Each file, each document, represented a unique tangle of mysteries and human drama. It felt almost overwhelming. What's the deal with all these missing men lately? The thought churned in my mind, a constant reminder of the grim reality of my profession. Another case, another missing person - it was beginning to feel like a relentless tide, each wave crashing over me just as I managed to catch my breath.
"And what is the brother's name?" I asked into the phone, pen poised over a notepad, ready to scribble down any pertinent details. Despite the chaos swirling around my own situation, the detective in me couldn't help but latch onto a new puzzle, a welcome albeit temporary diversion from my own troubles.
"Luke," the voice on the other end replied, a tone of experience in his voice. "Luke Smith."
"Luke Smith?" I echoed, my hand freezing mid-sentence. The name echoed in my head, reverberating like a bell tolling a grim portent.
"Yes. That's correct," the detective confirmed.
"Shit!" The exclamation slipped out before I could catch it, a visceral response to the connection that was rapidly forming in my mind.
"You know him then?" Detective Harding's voice crackled with curiosity through the phone.
I rubbed my forehead, feeling a headache beginning to form, the edges of concern gnawing at my thoughts. How many bodies would we find at the end of all of this? The question haunted me, a spectre lurking in the recesses of my mind.
"Yeah," I finally responded, my voice a mix of resignation and grim determination. "We've been investigating him for the last week. We suspect he is responsible for the disappearance of at least five other people. I wasn't aware that his brother was in the state."
"We were hoping you might be able to check and confirm for us where Paul went after leaving the Hobart airport. Assuming he actually left the airport," Detective Harding said, a hint of hope in his tone.
"Sure," I agreed, feeling the familiar surge of determination that always came with a new lead. The detective part of me, honed over years of experience, automatically kicked into gear, offering a brief respite from the personal turmoil that threatened to consume me. "Email me through the flight details and I'll look into it straight away." My hand moved almost of its own accord, scribbling a note on the pad in front of me. The simple, mundane act of writing felt strangely comforting, like a lifeline anchoring me in the midst of a storm of spiralling thoughts.
"The rest of Luke's family live in Adelaide. Do you think they might be in danger?" Detective Harding's question pierced through the phone, bringing a new dimension to the case that I hadn't fully considered.
"Hmm," I mused aloud, buying a moment to gather my thoughts. "We're monitoring all airports and ports out of Tasmania. I think it's unlikely he'd slip past and make it to the mainland. But I'll let you know the moment I find anything," I promised, even as a nagging sense of unease started to settle in my stomach. The possibility of Luke's family being in danger added another layer of urgency to an already complicated situation.
"Thank you, Detective Jenkins," Harding said, his voice conveying a sense of gratitude mixed with the shared burden of responsibility that all detectives carry. Then he hung up the phone.
In a moment of frustration, I threw a pen at the wall in front of me, watching as it clattered against the surface and fell to the floor. The sound echoed in the quiet of the office, a stark reminder of my growing agitation. I'd been so laser-focused on Jamie and the intricacies of his disappearance that I hadn't even considered reaching out to Luke's family. It was an oversight, a rookie error that gnawed at me. I should have known better. Maybe the Sergeant was right, maybe I was too close to this case, too entangled in its web to see the bigger picture.
I leaned back in my chair, feeling the weight of every decision, every missed opportunity pressing down on me. The realisation that I might be losing my grip on the case was a bitter pill to swallow. I had always prided myself on my ability to stay detached, to view each case with a clear, objective eye. But this time, it felt different. The lines were blurring, and I was caught in the middle, struggling to find my footing.
The dark screen of my phone suddenly lit up, piercing the gloom of my office. A new message popped up, a beacon of potential in the midst of my growing despair. My eyes immediately focused on the text, a surge of adrenaline coursing through me. It was from one of the junior officers I had assigned to monitor the airport for any sign of Luke, Jamie, or Kain. Their diligence in this task was one of the few things I could rely on in this ever-twisting case.
Officer: Detective Jenkins - Luke caught first flight from Hobart this morning, bound for Adelaide. Flight would have landed by now.
This is perfect, I thought, a plan rapidly forming in my mind. If I play my cards right, I may just be able to pin last night's… accident… on Luke. The logic was clear and cold in my head. If the information was accurate, Luke's hasty departure from the state, especially so early in the morning, would cast a heavy shadow of guilt over him. I was growing more certain by the minute that this wouldn't be the only body we'd find connected to him.
With a sense of urgency, I dialled the Adelaide CIB, my voice steady as I relayed the information. I made sure to emphasise that we had just received intel about Luke Smith, suspected of being behind the disappearance of at least half a dozen people, including his partner and brother. He had landed in Adelaide earlier today. I suggested, with a sense of grim necessity, that they send a patrol to Luke Smith's parents' house immediately. If Luke was indeed in the throes of a psychotic breakdown, I argued, then the rest of his family could be in serious danger.
Once the call ended, I slumped back into my chair, a sense of emptiness washing over me. I had expected to feel a sense of relief, perhaps even satisfaction, in steering the suspicion towards Luke, thereby diverting attention from my own actions. But instead, a heavy wave of nausea and paranoia hit me. The screen of my computer stared back at me, its blackness mirroring the dark turn my thoughts had taken. Planting the seeds of suspicion against Luke had not eased my conscience; it had only added to the turmoil. My head felt like it was sinking below the surface, drowning in a sea of sickness and guilt, as my stomach churned with the realisation of what I had just set in motion.
