Choices and Consequences
by Peter C Byrnes
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He couldn't remember when he hadn't lived on the streets. That didn't mean much really, as his brain was somewhat addled by the cheap plonk. Free Download.
No-one cares that much about the deaths of homeless guys and the matter may not have meant much except one of those deaths involves a former decorated soldier and Vietnam Veteran. Half a dozen similar deaths of homeless guys causes Detective Lind to ask why Policy and Procedures were not adhered to in involving the Murder Squad at the time of the bodies discovery.
This resulted in the Uniform ranks accusing Detective Lind of unkind and deleterious comments and facial expressions when discussing these deaths. Detective Lind indicated a dereliction of duty by the Uniforms in not obeying the Policy and Procedures Bible. The matter was forwarded to the Standards and Ethics Committee which resulted in the Murder Squad Detective being stood down on full pay during the period of The Panel's deliberations. An Appeal is organised by a faithful few of Detective Lind's allies and dependant on that appeal, the Detective's career could be at an end.
Excerpt:
He couldn't remember when he hadn't been homeless.
That didn't mean much really, as his brain was somewhat addled by the cheap plonk that was his choice of liquid. He would have preferred a decent Scotch, but finances had been a little stretched to say the least, since his long-time dive into alcoholism and homelessness.
Still, he reminded himself, these digs were about the best that he had experienced.
Cool in Summer.
Warm in Winter.
Completely out of the rain and the cold winds that could whistle cruelly passed the hidey-hole. And the pedestrians above him supplied him with a trickle of cigarette butts. Those who knew that he resided below their feet, would often leave him a half-eaten sandwich or some other morsel. Dropping it down to him as they passed overhead, walking quickly up the concrete ramp to their place of employment. Pretending that there were no such thing as homeless guys so close below them. Dirty, hungry men finding refuge living under a concrete ramp at the front of a modern, architectural office monolith. Sleeping on cardboard, even wrapping themselves in large cardboard cartons or sheaths of newspapers.
Satisfying their guilty feelings by leaving a morsel as they quickened their gait to return to the real world.
Their attendance required urgently at their desk. As though the fate of the World awaited their panicked return! Their endeavours saving the world from sinking into itself…a most important role these Office Workers would contend.
He sniggered at these cynical thoughts.
People thought that they were so important, as though their brief sojourn to the Toilet, to grab a coffee or to have a quick smoke at the front of the building would affect the equilibrium of Nature.... of the World and of all things!
People were so wasteful too!
He would often think that half his kindly donors would be lost if they found themselves in similar circumstances as he.
They wouldn't survive.
That thought pleased him.
He surviving this way on the streets for so long was proof of his resilience and street smarts.
Of his survival instincts.
A half-eaten apple dropped down beside him.
A half a sandwich in a white paper bag that someone had paid good money for, thrown in his direction.
A cigarette pack with three unlit smokes followed.
'It must be Pay Day for all the Office plebs up there', he thought to himself. 'Certainly, the eagle has shat plentifully for me to-day!' A giggled that turned to a coughing fit at the rewards dropped from Heaven. He wasn't going to knock back the sudden largesse of the crowd above!
He had a hell of job trying to decide which of his windfalls he should partake in first! The half-smoked cigarette won out!
It was one of those lucky lunch breaks that bought manna from heaven. The donors would hardly think twice of their wastefulness, tempering that guilt with the knowledge that they had been so thoughtful to the 'Alco', the 'Bum', the 'Homeless Tramp' who resided out of sight below them.
He rolled over smelling himself for the first time that morning. Like a dead dog. Perhaps a fresh turd smelled better. He would need to visit the Shelter soon otherwise they'd be looking for him. Prising him out from his hidey-hole. Making a fuss, pretending to be thoughtful. Showing concern for him. But other eyes would be watching the fracas. Waiting until he disappeared to take ownership of his little palace.
A drunken fight would result soon if he wanted to reclaim what was rightfully his if one of his fried brain 'neighbours' thought of claiming the 'camp' as theirs. That rarely happened and it would only occur when one of those near-by neighbours tried to place a claim on the 'rat's nest' out of desperation. He couldn't remember how he had come to inherit this 'hidey-hole'. He also couldn't remember how he had become homeless…tossed from a marital home…no…he wasn’t too sure on that fact. These half-baked thoughts would whizz in then out of his mind where two joined memories were hard to come by…most of his thoughts so it seemed was where to get his next drink from…the next smoke…and occasionally what he needed to eat!
He doubted that he could survive such a melee for ownership of his 'camp' though he knew that amongst his 'band', there were those who respected his proprietorship over these digs. He had yet to defend his patch though he knew that there were others who wouldn't need asking to make a claim!
-----
It was the smell that people started to complain about.
It hung heavy in the still morning air as the Office Workers scurried to their respective floors.
Another day of labour.
Of saving the World from itself!
The Manager of the nearby Homeless Shelter crawled into the void under the concrete Handicap Ramp to discover the body as the guy hadn't shown up for his habitual Sunday meal, shower, and a change of clean clothes.
This lower section of the void barricaded from the view of the constant flow of pedestrian traffic above by the dense Camellia Hedge on the open, public side while the small gap between the ramp and the façade of the building on the other side served as the ingress and egress point. You had to sidled in and when the 'gap' got a little smaller, you had to wiggle your body to fall onto your bum to then crawl into the cavity…a little difficult for persons who had regular meals or an afternoon habit of a couple of beers before catching the train home. The ingress and egress a darn sight easier for those who did not have a regular meal in any three days.
The white flowers now coming into bloom dotted the darker, shiny green of the leaves. These pure white blooms exuded their subtle perfume. Bees buzzed from flower to flower, ignorant of the ghastly deathbed within spitting distance of their honest endeavour.
Old Man Arthur 'Artie' Goodman had made the area his home for nigh on five years. A harmless old bloke who didn't bother a soul, even when he was off his face dead drunk.
An occasional slurred expletive but nothing above a murmur. A series of words that may have meant something to the old bloke but was gibberish to those who may have overheard as they walked up or down the 'Handicap' ramp.
'Wouldn't hurt a fly' the consensus of all whom my partner and I interviewed that morning.
The old bloke poisoned, we quickly surmised. The offending apple still clutched in his hand.
The smell of his rotting flesh putrid within the confines of the void.
I had started to crawl under the dense Camelia hedge to gain entry to his last resting place.
gave up as soon as I got a nose full.
Marjory Hendricks, Detective Two of the NSW Murder Squad, my partner, and the brains of the team for the past five years, informed me that there was an easier way to gain entry from the other side of the concrete ramp. I backed out and stood, brushing the damp dirt from my trousers as I did so.
"Detective Lind! You are compromising the crime scene. Bloody hell, get yourself away from there until we give you permission to walk roughshod over our area. Out! You hear me?"
"That's not the acerbic, educated tones of one born in The Manor. How goes you, 'Muscles'? I heard that you were back. Staying long? How was your lazy sojourn on the Continent? Cold?"
"Joe.... it's good to be home. That's not to say that I didn't enjoy myself over there. It was an interesting time. I'm still on call with the Defence Department and the Commonwealth War Graves Commission.... though my services are not needed again so said someone of power.... hopefully, that is… We managed to identify ninety-nine percent of the remains.... mostly Australian and British. Two Canadians. It was a very interesting sabbatical, to say the least. Now, if you want a closer look, then come in as we all had crawled in! Through the fucking front door!"
I ignored the instruction angrily given though I heard Marge's girlish giggle.
"Did you catch up with the old bloke. He's still alive and kicking, I hope? Near to where you were digging to your heart's content, so I understand".
"Very much so. It'll take something extraordinary to pole-axe Professor Bernie Ford. In fact, he came down from Brussels to help with the dig a couple of times. According to the old bloke, the UN International Crimes Commission is, at the moment, a little light on 'body farms' and Crimes against Humanity. The ongoing war zones still festering in certain areas of the World do not permit the finding of more mass graves until cease-fires or a general truce is agreed upon…and remain in place so that his team's presence can be assured of safe conduct. He'll have to wait until the conflict peters out.... who's to know! The inactivity bores the crap out of our Bernie. After we finished at the Fromelles dig, I joined Bernie for almost twelve months on the Forensic Medicine Tutelage Courses Trail through The Netherlands, Belgium, France, and Britain.... he had that much free time on his hands... you know how he hates standing around... he's held in extremely high regards over there, though his tenure may be coming to a close. He hinted several times that he missed home... and he wanted to wind back his activities. Said he'd had enough. He's approaching seventy-five... next year…. and it is starting to show, unfortunately. His mind has lost a little of its sharpness..."
"It would still be sharper than ninety-nine percent of the entire population... you staying here? Replacing that pompous arse English Professor. Hopefully?"
"Huh, don't know if I want that top job, Joe. More a headache than a satisfaction. We must have a night out soon, with Marge here, now that I'm back. The Professor, Albert Newnes fits the hole of that position very well. Very capably and a lovely man to boot. It's got me beat how he wasn't considered good enough by the Interviewing Committee when they appointed that pompous arse English Professor over him. He or the pert Dominique Sherbaverst. Politics, one suspects. He's now got the job, but if I were him, I think I would know where they could stick it! They wanted rid of that pompous ass from London, I reckon. I heard whispers on the guy while I was in London with Bernie. I think that I'll remain the 2IC of the Forensic Pathology Section. These outdoor sojourns agree with me more than all my time spent indoors. Except of course, those long days in the Autopsy Room..." He smiled at his rider. Brian Sarvich crawled out from beneath the concrete ramp and wormed out of his scrubs. Lit a cigarette. Between hungry inhales of cigarette smoke, he indicated that yes, his wandering days were over.... unless the CWGC wanted more of his time, which he very much doubted.
You should know better, Muscles. When did you take that ghastly habit up?"
He shook his head, more out of embarrassment, I thought.
