The Bullcatcher Read online

 The Bullcatcher

  A Detective Jack Miller Short Story

  By Stephen Johnson

  Copyright 2014 Stephen Johnson

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental

  Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Sharp bursts of sporadic chatter and static from the police vehicle’s two-way radio disturbed the eerie all-consuming silence.

  Detective Jack Miller adjusted the volume and, sensing his partner’s concern, turned to look at her slumped in the passenger seat.

  “Hey, we’re safe here. The fire front’s heading east. Teams ahead are back burning to starve it of fuel and slow its advance.”

  He gazed out through the thick smoky haze, which hung over the desolate landscape, and surveyed the blackened eucalyptus and ironwood trunks as they rose from the smouldering earth like matchsticks.

  “It’s consumed everything…”

  “Except us,” she replied.

  He exhaled. “I get it. You’re not used to working this way. It’s been eighteen hours; we’re both exhausted. Let’s get through this one; when we’re done, we’ll get some rest. Okay?”

  Forensics Technician Kate Bowen nodded, as she flicked through the menus on the digital screen mounted to the dashboard of the four-wheel drive.

  “Here it is. Grazier’s wife. Caucasian, late sixties. Husband Charles Whitelaw called triple-zero after she went missing during the fire.”

  Miller glanced at the rear vision mirror, as the squeal of brakes from another vehicle grabbed his attention. It ground to a halt behind them.

  “Come on, they’re here.”

  He left the comfort of the air-conditioned cabin and could taste the previous night’s fire as he stepped into a wall of hot, dry air. He made his way to the rear of the vehicle and joined firefighter Edward Ludowici and paramedic Lachlan Reed.

  “Quarter of a million hectares in under a week,” Reed remarked, as the team shook hands. “ABC Emergency is reporting several other fronts which are threatening Darwin. They may need you both back up there earlier than we planned.”

  “Let’s hope not,” Miller replied as he stretched. “Is everyone ready?”

  Taking point, he led the team toward the homestead, weaving a trail of footprints in the blanket of light-grey ash. Despite the firebreak separating the building from the surrounding bush, the once-lush gardens and row of Carpentaria palms lining the driveway had been all but destroyed.

  Nearing the ruins, he made eye contact with an elderly man who was crouched by the twisted pile of blackened timber and buckled iron sheets. His soot-stained face and white disheveled hair gave him a hopeless, desperate appearance. The man stood with a grunt, braced himself on a charred post, and took off his battered Akubra.

  “You the Police?”

  “That’s right,” Miller replied. “Mr. Whitelaw?”

  “Yep.” The old man paused for an uncomfortable beat, allowing the silence to overpower the scene. Before he could speak, Whitelaw went on.

  “My wife – Lillian - she’s—”

  “I understand,” Miller replied. Seemed no point in making the old man say it.

  Trying to ignore the acrid smell, he approached, crouched down and studied the charred corpse. Her body lay on the dirt floor covered in rubble. It had retracted into a pugilistic position. Her legs were drawn up, knees flexed and back arched forward. Her arms were folded with her fists near her chin, and her mouth open, as if she were screaming out for help. The fighter's posture was ironic; it was clear she had hung on to the bitter end.

  “She was looking for that bloody Kelpie; she loved the damn thing,” Whitelaw said, interrupting Miller’s train of thought. “It was the best working dog we’ve ever had. The missus let it off the chain and brought it inside the house, but the damn thing kept scratching at the door and carrying on. Somehow it got out when the fires came through.” He dabbed his reddened eyes with a blackened handkerchief.

  Miller looked up, acknowledging him. The old man was in shock.

  Sensing the tension, Reed stepped forward. “Mr. Whitelaw, is there somewhere we can sit while Detective Miller and Officer Bowen work? I’ll examine you; make sure everything’s normal.”

  Whitelaw closed his eyes and nodded. “Follow me. There’s enough of the kitchen left. I can still boil the billy.”

  Noticing Miller’s change in demeanor, Bowen moved forward and knelt beside him.

  “The intense heat evaporates the water from the muscles. They contract as they dry out and contort the body.”

  He let out a long-drawn breath. “Got to hand it to him, he’s a tough old bugger…”

  They both said nothing for a moment, before she spoke.

  “Let me get my kit. I’ll document the scene while you speak with Whitelaw. I need twenty-five minutes. I’ll have to make some calls and locate the local undertaker to collect the body.”

  “Good. Do it,” he replied.

  He stood and rubbed his tired eyes with the palms of his hands. With nothing more to add, he traced the ashen footprints back toward the homestead. Ludowici followed close behind, shaking his head at the miserable scene.

  A gravel path led to a clearing, where they passed a modified four-wheel drive parked away from the buildings. Rusted crash bars and an adjustable steel arm had been welded to the front bumper. Miller stopped, as he tried to make sense of the vehicle.

  “It’s a bull catcher,” Ludowici said. He laughed under his breath. “You’re a city boy through and through, aren’t you, mate? They use ‘em to catch scrubbers – wild bulls - in the bush. The bloody things are dangerous as buggery though.”

  “The bulls?”

  “Both mate,” he replied, as he slapped Miller on the back.

  Miller ran his hands through his sweaty hair and looked back toward the building. How many years would it take to get used to these scorching summers?

  One end of the stone and stucco Georgian homestead lay in ruin, after the fire had jumped from the neighboring tree line in the strong wind.

  “Surprising there’s so little damage to the rest of the building.”

  “RFS was here last night and extinguished the fire. It’s lucky; it would have burnt to the ground otherwise.”

  “Those shutters normal?” Miller asked, pointing to the solid metal blinds covering the windows. “They make the place look like a fortress.”

  “Yeah. A few years back the Northern Territory government enacted the Bushfire Act. The owners of all these stations are required to make sure there’s no flammable material near their properties. The shutters are an extra measure. It’s rough, dry country, mate. Once a fire starts, all you can do is control it till it runs its course.”

  Both men made their way to the rear door. Tyre tracks ran across the lawn toward an ad-hoc pile of burnt material stacked in a heap.

  “Must be where he was looking for his wife,” Ludowici said. “You know Whitelaw is a big name in the dist—”

  He stopped and stared down at the pile of corrugated iron that had formed part of the roof.

  Miller looked across. “What? There something I need to know about?”

  “Maybe. Here, help me move this iron sheet.”

  The two men lifted the mangled metal and moved it away. As Miller stood and looked down, he could make out the patch of scorched earth and smoky shadow where flames had licked up the stone wall.

  “What the hell - is that…?”

  “Looks like it.”

  “Come on mate, we need to speak to Bowen.”

  It took a minute f
or both men to make their way back to where Kate Bowen was busy photographing the body, now in full view.

  “Kate, I want you to check something. Can you roll her over?”

  “Sure. Are we looking for anything in particular?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  She knelt and, with both hands, rolled the body on its side. Standing over her, Miller looked down at the bare patch of earth. They were both silent for a few moments, but Kate saw the cause for suspicion as clearly as he did.

  “This makes these sheds the secondary scene.” As she reached for her camera, Miller spun on his heel and headed straight for the homestead.

  As he entered the kitchen, Miller caught a wooden chair in one hand and placed it with a thump between Whitelaw and Reed. Whitelaw held a framed photograph of his wife in his shaking hands.

  “Mr. Whitelaw, do you have family we can contact, let them know what has happened?”

  “My boys are on their way. I called them before all you lot arrived.” He scratched at the grey stubble on his chin.

  Miller nodded and looked down at Whitelaw’s empty cup.

  The ingrained hospitality of the bush cut in. “If you’d like a cup of tea, the kettle’s over