Carol
Wical : The Case of Friday Night Clive
Carol Wical came to these shores from the Mid-West of the United States with her parents and four older siblings at the tender age of four. Her interest in language was piqued at this early age by the broad and variant English accents of the ladies of the cafeteria at Brisbane's Wacol Immigrant Hostel. Upon starting school at Taabinga State - a small school in Kingaroy - she realised language separated her from the rest. In what she believes to still be record time she quickly developed an impenetrable Australian accent.
That same year she caused her normally calm and quiet mother to fight with the town librarian so that she could borrow books from the adult section - grown-ups books, that is, not pornography. Shortly she and her family moved to Hervey Bay and for a while she cared more for swimming and building sandcastles. Quite a few years, an Arts degree, a postgraduate diploma, a couple failed high maintenance relationships, and a separation package from her former employer later she finally buckled down to write seriously, concentrating this year on the craft of screenwriting. To her delight she recently won a copy of screenwriting software in a feature film synopsis competition (runner-up out of 497 entries).
When you’re stationed in the nation’s capital reading the newspaper isn’t as important as looking at the pictures. That’s how when I slapped the cuffs on Clive Barker I knew that I would be here today. On the carpet. Actually, I thought I’d be here tomorrow, today being Sunday but I’d obviously underestimated the Boss’ concern.
For those of you who missed it (perhaps you were dead that day, or in Adelaide) Clive Barker has recently been appointed Captain of the Australian Rugby League football team, the Kangaroos. He is the most talented of the crop of big, fast, attacking second rowers who have completely changed the way the game is played.
Celebrating with his club teammates Friday Night Clive (so named for his habit of performing to a higher level in the only game of the round telecast live in prime time) saw fit to decline an invitation to drink from a bar patron by savagely beating him. Needless to say this is not the image rugby league officialdom likes perpetuated nor is it conduct they think becoming the captain of their international side.
So they did what every sporting organisation in Australia has done since the year dot: they rang a bloke they know. And that would have been that except that Stephen Campion - the man he assaulted - is a clerk at Australian Federal Police HQ. The AFP has set up a network of Gay and Lesbian Contact Officers an all sorts bunch of volunteers trained to deal with sensitive issues relating to homosexuality. Stephen rang 11444 the next morning and asked the investigating officer attending to put him in contact with a GALCO.
This weekend, that’s me.
I go to Mr. Campion’s neat, tasteful house to take his statement. Although he is quite calm - maybe the painkillers - his lover Tom is white with rage.
I note the victim is not a small man and he’s fit. Behind the bruising and swelling he’s very handsome.
"Just forget it, Agent ... I’m sorry ..." his smile of apology made him wince with pain.
"Bauer. Finn Bauer. Are you withdrawing the allegations, Sir?"
His weak yes was obliterated by Tom’s explosive NO.
"Come back tomorrow. Can’t you see he’s not up to it today?"
Ignoring him, I remained seated looking to Stephen for instruction.
"Mr. Campion?"
"Tom’s right. He should be held accountable."
"Well, Mr. Campion, you know this is your decision. No one else’s."
I fixed Tom with my hardest stare. He remained silent but had to bite his lip to do so. Stephen came to a decision and began his story so quickly I was left fishing for my notebook and playing catch up for a moment.
What he gave me was this:
Until Barker’s fist hit him it was a typical public servant’s night out.
He and his work colleagues were celebrating some data entry triumph and were pretty far gone by the time Barker et al entered the Working Dog a good few establishments into their pub crawl.
Archie, the office wag, bet Stephen a bottle of Glenfiddich he wouldn’t have enough guts to invite the new skipper over for a drink.
At that point in his story Stephen stopped speaking and indicated his injuries.
"And why did you ask for a GALCO this morning, Stephen? I mean why didn’t you do it straight away? You’re obviously familiar with the procedure."
"Now wait a minute..."Tom’s fury burst out once more.
"Tommy," Stephen called, motioning him closer. "Maybe Finn would like a cup of tea?" He took his lover’s hand, looked to me pleadingly.
"That would be lovely thanks Tom," I responded. "Just white."
Reluctantly Tom withdrew to the kitchen.
"Archie came over this morning to apologise - with a whole case of Glenfiddich. He’s the one who told me about the guy screaming abuse at me. I don’t remember very clearly."
"Homophobic abuse?"
Stephen nodded.
I handed him my notebook and pen.
"I’ll need to speak to Archie."
As he wrote the name and address Tom returned with the tea.
"You the gardener, Tom? I see you have some beautiful Mr. Lincolns."
"You know roses?"
"A little."
"Typical AFP answer. No information exchanged."
I finished my tea off quickly not wanting to linger with them long enough to let personal opinion cloud my professional judgement. Plus I needed to catch Archie who Stephen suspected would be leaving home shortly to fulfill an obligation as linesman for the local league comp.
Indeed, Archie was locking his front door as I pulled into his driveway.
"That bloody Tom," he responded oddly when I identified my purpose and myself. "All drama with those guys."
He started walking towards his car, heavy sports bag over his shoulder.
"So you don’t think the attack on Mr. Campion had anything to do with his homosexuality?"
He unlocked his car and threw his bag over to the passenger seat before turning to answer.
"Why would it? Stephen doesn’t look like a fag. He doesn’t flaunt it."
"This morning you told Mr. Campion that Mr. Barker was screaming homophobic abuse at him as he beat him."
I made it a statement but he chose to answer it like a question.
"No. He misunderstood. He’s crook, he’s being over-sensitive. It was just a couple words in amongst all the usual others."
"Usual?"
"You know: bastard, asshole that sort of stuff. Look I have to get going."
He got in his car and cranked it over.
The engine and his over bassed stereo competed with each other in a testosterone cacophony.
He smiled at me so smugly that I didn’t warn him as he threw his plastic crap heap into reverse.
When he hit my heavy AFP-issue six-cylinder sedan parked across his driveway entrance that smile disappeared pretty quickly. It was worth withstanding the outburst I knew I’d get from Garage Gary when he saw the damage.
I tapped on his window. He wound it down and started screaming. I shrugged and walked to my car.
I got behind the wheel praying it would start first go and not ruin my exit. When it did with only minor signs of distress I backed down into the street tearing off his bumper.
I left him shaking staring after me with impotent rage.
..............
That was where the Boss started this morning.
"Tore off his bumper! An AFP colleague! By Crikey Bauer you’ve taken the biscuit this time. I got every rugby league name in the country ringing me. Now you trash some poor little bastard’s car in a fit of pique."
"He ran into me, Sir. And he lied."
"He’s been scared off, you half wit."
"Mr. Campion hasn’t."
"Who the hell’s Mr. Campion?"
"The victim of the assault, sir."
I said this as quietly and respectfully as I could manage and he had the good grace to be ashamed he hadn’t known. But he was only warming up. I’d had a big day Saturday.
..............
As I drove away from Archie ABC Grandstand told me that Mr. Barker had taken the field and was thus momentarily beyond my reach so I headed over to the Working Dog to see what they had to say.
The Working Dog is a brand new upper middle class bar with working class pretensions and a management mindset that confuses tat with tradition. I plopped my lower middle class ass next to a University Professor showing a fair percentage of his moneybox on a barstool that purportedly came from Old Parliament House. I resisted the temptation to give his belt a heave upwards and ordered a soda water. The Professor turned and eyed me suspiciously.
Seeming to ignore him I dug in my bag, produced my badge, flashing it in his direction. He swiveled away quickly and became engrossed by a replay of a tackle by Mr. Barker the likes of which had earned him the nickname Ring. In slo-mo the huge arms engulfed the torso of the ball carrier pinning his arms to him. Mr. Barker then drove upward and forward with his massively muscled thighs causing his captive to rise momentarily then fall to earth with a sickening thud.
A grunt of sympathy rose from the barflies.
I tapped the Prof on the shoulder. As if fighting an unbeatable force he turned slowly towards me.
"See the fight in here Wednesday night?"
"Wasn’t here I’m afraid, Dear."
I heard someone snort derisively confirming my suspicion that this was unlikely.
"Is this some sort of National Liar’s Day?"
The barmaid who had served me came sidling over eyeing me - I flattered myself - in an interested way.
"They giving you trouble, Darling?"
"Yes," I replied. "Maybe you can help?"
I showed her my badge. The interest in her eyes faded to a pinpoint of curiosity. She withdrew to the other end of the bar. This was getting me nowhere. I hoisted myself up onto the bar and stood. I’m a tall woman and that got their attention.
"Get it off!" came the immediate cry followed, of course, by: "Show us yer tits."
I trotted out my badge again.
"Wednesday night. A fight. Mr. Barker and another gentleman. Anyone see it?"
Into the silence that followed the TV commentator began the hysterical wind up that can only mean a try is imminent. Even I felt compelled to watch as Mr. Barker ran through four smaller and two bigger men to score as the halftime hooter fought to be heard over the roar of the crowd.
As the telecast broke for an ad I became aware that all eyes were now on me. I wasn’t getting anything from these wannabe tough guys. They thought. I shook my head with theatrical regret. I took out my notebook, a pen.
"Professor Stark, University History Department," I said as I wrote. "Mr. Curtis, Department of Defense; Dr. Chesterfield, Sports Institute."
I paused pretending to catch up on my note taking hoping someone would cave soon. I was running out of faces I recognised.
I almost missed it he was so hidden in the shadows but something caught my attention and I turned just in time to see the back door close.
"Gotta fly," I called over my shoulder with cheerful regret but the first half analysis had started and I was old news.
I slipped cautiously out the back door. Making a calculated guess, I headed towards the shorter corner to my left. With a metre to go I stopped to listen. I smelt him before I heard his rasping breath. His sweat must have been 80% Bundaberg Rum. For a moment a wave of nausea threatened to do me in as the stench of it overpowered me and dragged me back into my childhood. I shook it off in time to block the heavy blow aimed at my head. Pain shot up my arm as the rough wood connected with my forearm. He raised the 2 by 2 again. Angry and hurt I drew my gun.
..............
Reclaiming the high moral ground, the Boss started on me again.
"Then you pop over to the Working Dog and pull a gun on the Prime Minister’s driver."
"He hit me with a dirty great piece of wood."
I held out my bandaged forearm as Exhibit One.
"He was drunk on duty. He was just trying to give you a fright."
"He was trying to give me concussion."
"He’s the Prime Minister’s favourite, Agent Bauer."
" So he can hit a member of the Federal Police on the scone with a twobee and get away with it?"
"Of course not. He’s suspended without pay."
"Permission to speak freely, Sir?"
"Not granted, Agent Bauer. Not granted."
He poured a Scotch from the bottle at his elbow then much to my surprise poured a second. A deep sigh escaped him as he sat back in his chair.
"Agent Bauer, do you know the significance of the 19th October 1979?"
I tried to stop my eyes rolling back in my head. Here it was. The History Lesson. In the past I had answered first yes then no to this question. This time I tried staying quiet. To my dismay this didn’t stop him either.
"For most Australians the 19th of October 1979 was like any other day. How old were you at ‘The Beginning’ Bauer?"
"When the Firm started Sir? Seven."
"Seven. They used to call us Plastics - not real coppers, see. Then Perspex. Old Boss thought that was a step up until someone pointed out that perspex was thicker than plastic. Most people outside Canberra barely know we exist. Which I suppose means they don’t make fun of us like poor old ASIO. Sorry. Forgot."
I waved his apology away. Not his fault I tried the spooks first. At least with the Feds there’s a half chance at a normal life.
.............
With my weapon pointed at his right eyeball the PM’s driver’s attitude and memory had improved. Yes, there had been a fight. He believed that Mr. Barker’s fury appeared to escalate at the time Mr. Campion began to cry. In fact, this unmanly behaviour seemed to incense Mr. Barker. Certainly he called Mr. Campion a poofta and some worse things that the driver was too much of a gentleman to say in front of me. He wrote them on a page of my notebook and asked me not to look until he was gone. Such delicacy from the man who nearly stove my head in moments before.
By the time I drag the little toe rag down to the lock up and get him processed for assaulting an officer, change cars then get to the sick bay for a quick X-ray my arm is swollen up like a balloon. When I politely decline her offer to kiss it better, the Doc wraps it up and gives me some painkillers and an acronym to speed my recovery. Although I try I’ve forgotten what the "I" in R.I.C.E. stands for before I get to the car park. I don’t have time for Rest but it’s definitely compressed. I attempt Elevation in the car on the way to see Mr. Barker but it hurts so I stop.
"Mr. Barker?"
I call over the heads of a bevy of adoring maidens. He turns and looks me up and down.
"No interviews today, love. I’m busy."
"Not journo, Mr. Barker. Federal Police."
"He said he was busy, babe."
This from some form of life that had appeared at my elbow. He was like a combination of my worst of the worst list: the defense lawyer in my worst case, the guy I bought my first car from, the journalist who reported my second case and a bloke who tried to sell me an apartment once.
"And you are?"
"Steve McNally. Clive’s manager."
He flicked a business card at me.
"And it would be good for your client you think if I make a fuss here and drag him in for questioning?"
"Questioning? For what?"
"The Wednesday night assault on Stephen Campion."
"No, no, no. That’s all been taken care of. A misunderstanding. You mustn’t have got the memo."
I walked away from him before he finished. I fished in my bag amongst what the manual endearingly referred to as my Accoutrements (Firearm, Handcuffs, Identification Badge, Cards) wishing I could pull out the first but instead going for one of the latter.
I returned and stuffed the card in the pocket of McNally’s tailor made sports coat.
"Just so you know who’s got your boy. Mr. Barker, if you’d be so kind."
McNally was still cursing into his mobile phone and screaming "wait bitch" as I cuffed his client into the back seat of the Magna.
Barker said nothing. At all. Not at the club. Not in the car. Not at the station.
His lawyer came and got him and we all went home.
...........
Finished with his trip down memory lane the Boss finally got to Mr. Barker.
"You know he’s to captain the tour to England at the end of the season?"
"Yes Boss."
"You know how the PM is with sport?"
"Yes Boss."
"Do you think this was a gay bashing, Bauer?"
"Not initially but inevitably, yes Boss."
"Can you make a case?"
"I doubt it."
He wasn’t expecting it and he shot upright in his chair grasping at it like a drowning man.
"You’re recommending not proceeding?"
"I need to speak to Mr. Campion again Sir. I don’t think he knows what happened. I don’t think Accident Archie will testify against Mr. Barker. I don’t think the PM’s driver will either. Thank you for the drink, Sir. Have a pleasant evening."
I hate the part where you tell people you can’t take their case to trial. I hate it because of the immense courage it takes for them to come forward in the first place. I hate the waste of that courage. I try to explain this to Stephen.
He stops a moment in the process of pouring us a drop of Glenfiddich.
"Oh, no Finn. Not a waste. I didn’t know I had it before, you see."
"Courage."
We both raise our glasses too high for our injuries and wince in unison.
Tom laughs, and proposes his own toast.
"To wounded warriors everywhere."
Outside I see his Mr. Lincolns nod their approval on the chill evening breeze.
You want to know what I reckon? I reckon Clive was beating himself.
Some wounds are on the inside.
Please note that permission to publish stories from the Scarlet Stiletto Awards 2001 online has been expressly granted to Sisters in Crime Australia Inc. You may not republish, reproduce electronically or in paper form, or otherwise make use of these stories without the permission of the author.