Neighbourhood Of Widower Dogs

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“Sixty-eight point three per cent of all murder victims that have been found dead more than two days after death are found by citizens walking their dog.”

The lecturer had excellent chalkboard technique. I ought to know, I did two years of Teacher’s College before I signed up. During those two years, we did one fifteen-minute session, and I remember learning how to hold chalk so that it didn’t make that excruciating squeaking noise. “Makes you look like you know what you are doing.” 

Our instructor, freshly escaped from the classroom, knew that we didn’t — know what we were doing, that is, and he was trying to minimise our ‘knownothingness’ in the only way he knew how. 

A futile but kind gesture.

“How many of the dog walkers wear jumpers, Sarge?” The smartarse with a death wish was just as bored as the rest of us, and he foolishly chose to show it.

“Roughly the same percentage as you got on your last evaluation detective Wilson from Broadmeadows. Considering the suburb you are stationed at, detective, I would have thought that your arrest record would be higher. You pretty much only have to be the unfortunate bastard who opens the front doors in the morning, and five nefarious characters come tumbling in.”

The ‘smartarse’ detective indeed got a bit of a giggle out of us, but it has to be remembered that if ‘two or more of you are gathered together there will be mirth’ applies to any gathering of knuckle-dragging police officers — it’s infectious. Laughter kills the boredom and at least a bit of the terror — terror that you might get maimed for no good reason and then get pensioned off, and terror from the thought that you are wasting your life. My terror falls into the latter category.

Our instructor got a bigger laugh. 

The sound of one of the many smartarses in our life being brought down to earth is satisfying and mirthful.

He kept on writing. 

Never turned around.

Eyes in the back of his head. 

I could easily be back at school again.

It helped that we were in an old school room in an old school building. Now called The Baker Institute, anyone who went to school during my decade knew the unmistakable architecture. I was tempted to hang my coat on the hooks outside the sliding door. The walls are painted a modern colour, and there have been other attempts to hide the room’s original purpose.

The chairs are comfortable, but my arse was not interested in testing their long term durability.

At a glance, I’d say that there are about twenty-two of us. Mostly males, a variety of ages, but I’m probably the only one over forty. A quick scan of body language clues tells me that most inhabitants of this standard-sized room are just as pissed off as I am. One or two still think that this one-day course is part of their growth as a police officer. 

“What about the bodies what never get found?” The smartarse was making one final attempt to redeem his flagging status as the funniest bloke in the room.

Without missing a beat, our instructor (I’ve forgotten his name – on the job I write stuff down, or someone else does, but here and now, who gives a fuck what this bozo’s name is) writes one point zero nine per cent on the board. Somehow he has changed the chalk colour — impressive.

“Somewhere in the region of your chances of promotion,” says our instructor. He speaks the words so softly that we lean in to catch them. Those in the front row snigger before the rest of us.

“Can we have a window open sir?” says an attractive brunette sitting a few rows forward of me.

“Yes, we can and don’t call me sir. I’m a sergeant. I work for a living.” He shot a look at the bloke sitting on the end of the row who sprang out of his seat and opened a window with the skill of someone who had done it many times.

The brunette who had been one of the few people in the room taking notes said, “Thank you, Sargent.”

There were a few moments of silence. 

The board was covered in colourful statistics and a wellborn piece of chalk dangled between the instructor’s fingers. 

He was thinking. 

I doubted that he had lost his place. 

This bloke came prepared. 

I made a mental note to remember his name the next time I heard it. 

Why was he here in this room with us percentage losers?

Our instructor raised a chalk dusted finger and pointed at his handiwork.

“This shit is just numbers. We’ve got a few minutes before we break for lunch (I hadn’t thought much about food until now. A raging hunger rolled over me) I want to hear a human story. Without humans, you don’t have the raw ingredients for murder. The causes are simple — sex and money.”

“And religion,” said someone behind me.

“Okay,” conceded our instructor, “but mostly sex and money. Causes might tell you why, but my job is to give you an insight into why people do what they do after the fact. Fuck why they did it, where do they dump the body? And how does that affect your investigation? Can anyone share a story about a citizen finding a body.”

He was now pointing at me and inexplicably, my hand was in the air — no idea how it got there.

“Yes. You. Leather jacket.” At least he didn’t know my name.

“Got yourself into a spot of bother with a highly ranked officer’s wife, if I remember rightly. Back of a Bentley? A patrol car shined a light in your direction. Took you a few minutes to retrieve your warrant card. Firm buttocks were unnecessarily added to the report? Was that you?”

I didn’t need to answer.

“I’ve been involved in a few cases where a body was found by a punter — before my buttocks became famous.” 

The laughter was generous. The kind of laughter that says ‘glad it isn’t me that’s in the sergeant’s spotlight, you’ll be just as generous when it’s my turn, won’t you?’

“I was stationed at Preston. Most dog walkers wandered up and down the footpaths or headed to Bell State School after hours to exercise their dogs. Still, a group calling themselves The Widower Dogs Society walked their dogs up behind the old cinema off Oakover road. Merri Creek runs through there and in those days it was rough and ready. No shortage of old fridges and car tyres. These days it’s all gentrified.”

“So, what happened?”

“The Widower Dogs Society were three members strong. All of the dogs had lost a female partner. The owners banded together to brighten up their lonely dogs. Grief hits dogs as hard as it does us.”

I could see the brunette looking at me, listening intently.

I finished my story, and the instructor looked at his watch.

“Close enough,” he said, and we filed out of the room in search of food and a beer. We’d earned it.

“These things are usually a bit more salubrious. This one isn’t even catered,” said a mellifluous female voice.

“Mel Carter,” said the brunette.

“Catastrophy Jones,” I said with a straight face. “This is punishment. Catering might have spoilt the effect.”

She looked a bit surprised at my words, which could have been taken one of two ways.

“Punishment?”

“Everyone in that room, with the possible exception of you and the bloke next to you, were there because they had pissed someone off — a way of wasting our very precious Saturday.”

She thought about my words, dismissed them. They didn’t apply to her. She was young (younger than me) and on her way up.

“Your story — the Widower Dogs Club. How did you know that was what they called themselves?”

“Back then. I listened to people. When you listen, people tell a uniform all sorts of things. They were shocked. Trying to understand why someone would do such a thing. They understood stealing cars, ‘we used to nick cars when we were kids, but this!’ No-one was yelling at me to get on with it, so I listened — let them talk. They felt better because someone appeared to care about them.”

“You interest me. leather jacket.”

“You interest me, open window.”

Open Window looked at my left hand — no ring.

“Can I buy you lunch?” she said.

“Lunch with a liberated woman. Very Jane Tennison.”

“Jane, who?”

“Don’t tell me you have never watched Prime Suspect? I can see that I’ll have to take your education in hand. By the way, there isn’t a ‘Mr Tennison’ floating around, is there? I don’t want to get thumped by some hulking constable who believes he has branded you.”

“There are no brands on me sunshine.”

“I look forward to proving that statement,” I said, and she didn’t slap my face.

I took that as an encouraging sign.

 

Photo Credit:

https://jivesuckablogs.wordpress.com/

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