Purification

Chapter 1
Genesis

Chapter Description: Auckland police detective Scott Newcomb arrives at an all too familiar crime scene

This story is my attempt at a detective/action story complete with high speed car chases, cryptic clues, and a climactic struggle between good guy and bad guy. It is set in New Zealand and uses some local terms, most of which I have explained in previous stories. There will be a lot more AR in the coming chapters. A few new terms: coconut=ethnic slur for Samoans, pakeha=white New Zealander

A cool autumn breeze brushed across Scott Newcomb’s face as he stepped out of his car. He was glad he had pulled on the new wool jumper Tegan had bought him. The days were still warm this time of year, but at night the crisp coldness of autumn took hold. There was something wonderful about that crispness in the air, something that made Scott think of Scout camp-outs and roasting marshmallows on an open fire the way he had as a kid. The smell of wood-burning stoves was in the air tonight, adding to the memory. Scott could almost taste the warm gooey marshmallow now.

“Hey Scott, over this way!” a voice called, breaking Scott from his reverie.

“Coming Graham,” he called back, locking the car and strolling past the row of ramshackle houses towards the one he was interested in.

A group of Polynesian children eyed him suspiciously from their yard. He couldn’t blame them. He was an odd sight indeed, a Pakeha man walking thru Otara after dark. Otara, to most it was the ghetto of South Auckland, a dangerous suburb filled with drugs, gangs and bloody coconuts. To Scott though, it was a vibrant immigrant community filled with Samoans, Tongans and Niueans just looking for a better life for their children. On Saturdays Scott loved to go to the farmers’ market here, haggling and getting to know the community. Sadly most times Scott came to Otara, as was the case this night, he was on business.

Scott ducked under the yellow police tape surrounding the yard of the last of the row of council houses. The flicker of red and blue police lights reflected in the windows of the dank, shabby little house. It was a typical state house, colourless, shaped like a box, identical to all the other houses on the block. Not the kind of place he’d want to live, let alone bring kids up in. Several police officers in their blue jumpers and trousers looked up at Scott as he crossed the yard. None said a word to him, they looked deeply shaken. A large Polynesian woman appeared to be giving a statement to one of the officers. Her eyes were wide with shock and she was visibly agitated. Two primary school aged children sat on the grass nearby looking dazed and sleepy, dressed in their pyjamas.

Scott entered the house and found Graham talking to a crime scene technician. “Ah, Detective Newcomb, better late than never, eh.”

“I was in Pukekohe when I got the call.”

“Well, if you weren’t on duty what are you doing here? I could have just briefed you in the morning.”

“When I heard what kind of call this was, there was nothing that could have kept me away.”

“I’m sure Tegan was pleased,” Graham added sarcastically.

“She understands,” Scott stated with finality. “Now, where is he?”

Graham nodded, understanding that it was time to get down to the business at hand. “Upstairs in the bedroom, follow me,” he instructed, leading the way.

Scott followed his partner through the cramped house. Graham Dunn was a well-built man of thirty. He hadn’t married yet, Scott reckoned that was due to his devotion to the job. Not many women could put up with the long, strange hours a detective worked. His problem certainly wasn’t looks. Graham had a full head of jet black hair that he kept cut short and gelled. His physique reflected his regular work-out sessions at the gym. Scott could only wish he looked that good. He was three years older than Graham and he’d let himself go a bit since he’d gotten married. He wasn’t overweight, but he wasn’t as trim as his partner. At five foot ten he was a couple inches shorter than Graham as well.

The smell of Polynesian cooking that filled the house gave way to a different kind of odour as they ascended the stairs. A less experienced officer would have covered his nose, but Graham and Scott did no such thing. Graham led them down a dimly lit hallway to the last bedroom on the left, gesturing to it. Scott entered the room and went fully into detective mode, looking for anything that might lead them to a suspect.

He wasn’t alone in the room though, far from it in fact. Two St. John’s ambulance paramedics were working on the victim. Scott only gave them a cursory glance, the victim could wait. It wasn’t like he’d have anything to say after all. The room itself was filthy, the wood floor stained, covered in burn marks. A pile of empty Lion Red beer bottles lay in the corner beside the mattress. There was no bed here, just a scummy old mattress with duct tape covering where springs were poking through. A pack of tobacco and rolling papers sat discarded on the mattress. In the middle of the room a pipe for smoking P was sitting cracked on its side, a lighter dropped beside it. It was a scene Scott had seen a hundred times before. But once again, there was no evidence of the fact that what had happened here was more than a typical overdose, nothing to suggest something out of the ordinary had taken place. Nothing that is, except for the victim’s condition of course.

He was a young Polynesian man, large and rotund as many Samoan men were. He was close to 6 feet tall, and at least 100 kilos. The man was seated on the floor wearing nothing but a baggy pair of board shorts. A dark stain discoloured the whole front of his shorts, leaving no doubt what he had done. From the stench it was clear he’d soiled himself as well. The man paid no attention to Scott, his eyes wandering the ceiling of the room. They had that glazed over blankness to them that told Scott questioning the man would be of no use. He had his big stubby fingers jammed in his mouth, a line of spittle dribbling down his chin and dripping to his chest. He was moving his legs about on the floor, wiggling his toes and bobbing his head left and right, seemingly lost in his own little world. The paramedics were doing their best to keep him comfortable while they waited for a stretcher to take him out on.

Graham approached Scott, holding a driver’s licence. “Meet Valea Puloku, twenty-four years old,” Graham read. “Found his wallet on the mattress,” he explained.

“Well, he isn’t twenty-four any more, not even in months,” Scott observed.

“Bababoo...gaagee!” the man suddenly babbled to no one in particular, removing his drool soaked fingers from his mouth.

Scott sighed, shaking his head. “How many more of these are we gonna see Graham?”

“They always fuck up sooner or later mate. We’ll get the bastard,” Graham assured him.

“He was here Graham, I know he was.”

Another two paramedics arrived with the stretcher. “Okay, let’s get these shorts off of him and clean him up first,” one directed.

Scott prepared to leave while they cut the man’s shorts off, but then something stopped him.

“What the hell is this?” one of the paramedics called out.

Scott turned around and went to see what they were looking at. His eyes widened as he saw what they’d discovered. It was a small plastic bag that had been stuck down the front of the man’s pants. The bag didn’t have drugs in it though, it had a folded up piece of paper within. “Don’t touch it!” Scott commanded, quickly reaching over and pulling the baggy out with his gloved hand.

For a moment Scott was eye-level with the infantized man. The man gaped at him and blew a spit bubble, giggling when it popped. Scott tried not to get emotionally involved in his cases, but seeing a grown man reduced to this always made him angry.

Focusing on the task at hand, Scott left the babbling, slobbering man-baby to the paramedics and pried open the baggy, withdrawing the paper from inside it. Graham stepped close so he could see as well. As Scott unfolded it, he saw that it was a hand-written letter.

Dear cops,

Ka Kite Ano

Graham sighed audibly and turned to his partner. “Well Scott, at least we know one thing for sure now. You were right, he was here.”

“God damn it!” Scott cursed, thrusting the letter into an evidence bag and walking to the bedroom window. “He could still be here Graham. He could be right there in that crowd right now, watching us.”

Scott scanned the group of people waiting just behind the yellow tape, their faces obscured in the darkness. “I would doubt that mate. I don’t think our guy would fit in with this crowd, I think he’d look a bit pale.”

“You don’t think he’s Maori then?” Scott inquired. “You think the letter is a ruse?”

Graham nodded. “Look he calls New Zealand by its Maori name, Aotearoa and he signs it Ka Kite Ano, Maori for farewell. It’s too much, too in your face.”

“You think he’s screwing with us then,” Scott stated.

“I think he’s trying to confuse us. You know all those nut-job Maori sovereignty guys they found out on that compound in the Ureweras awhile back?”

Scott nodded.

“Maybe this guy has a racial angle. Maybe he wants us investigating the Maori. Most of the victims thus far have been brown, y’know.”

“It is possible, but I don’t get that vibe about this guy. I think all the Maori bullshit is just to throw us off.”

Scott and Graham paused while the young man was finally taken out of the room on the stretcher, still babbling nonsense around the fingers he was chewing. Scott shook his head at the sadly reduced victim and resolved to catch this guy, whoever he was, whatever his motivation, and to do it before more promising young men were being hauled away playing with their own fingers and toes.