it.
âPeter Woodford is a pedophile. Do something before we do.â was printed in neat capitals across the page. Sammi recognised the same neat handwriting from the last note.
Bob pulled a large clip-seal bag out from under the counter.
âWeâll see what Forensics can do with this,â he said grimly, bagging the noose and envelope for examination. âThis is taking it too far. You canât string up a man, even if he is scum.â
âThe boss already asked me to try to identify a victim today. Iâll get onto it,â Sammi said.
âAny ideas?â Bob asked.
âIâll make some phone calls,â Sammi said. âSee if I can find the source of the whispers.â
âMy wife was asking me whether itâs true or not,â Bob said. âThe rumours have ripped through town like wildfire. Someoneâs got to know where it all started.â
âIâm pretty sure Wendy knows the victim. But sheâs made it clear sheâs not telling. Theyâre demanding action but wonât give us the info we need to take that action.â
âSee what you can find out,â Bob said. âMake it a priority.â He took the bag and headed up towards the bossâs office.
17
There was absolutely no justice to it. Theyâd done nothing to deserve this. And yet they would be the ones punished. She had spent the last few nights wrestling with the notion that sheâd somehow asked for it. That, by some act or omission, sheâd invited this tragedy into their lives. She thought back over small events punctuating the past. Was there a clue, something she should have noticed but didnât? Could she identify that âsliding doorsâ moment when she could have made a choice that would have prevented all of this happening?
And there was worse to come. Their secrets would come out. It was not a question of âifâ, but âwhenâ.
She wanted to lash out. They were the victims. Theirs were the lives being impacted. They were the ones who would eventually have to leave town, change jobs and schools, move away from friends. It would be the only way to leave the whole nasty mess behind.
Heâd had the nerve to pretend nothing had happened the first time, even to protest his innocence. He would do it again. There was no remorse. He was a predator. Jail would be too good for him. He would be put in with the other protected prisoners. They would hang out in their air-conditioned cells, with their government-funded video games, talking about their conquests, comparing their methods and learning new tricks. That was no punishment.
The rumours had reached saturation point and still there was no action. The police were ineffective; indifferent, despite the prodding. The law favoured the guilty liars. By making things as difficult as possible for the victim, it made things easier for the offender. It wasnât right.
How could they possibly keep living here? How could they stay and see him around the town? How? Why should he not suffer for what he had done? That was the question now. How could this be made right?
18
Today was one of those days that made officers try to avoid working at the front counter. Sammi spent most of her shift attempting to sort out a neighbourhood dispute over the phone. It had started with noisy music and had escalated to pushing and shoving on the nature strip. By the time she had finished, Sammi had spoken to two real estate agents and the neighbours across the road before she felt she had resolved the situation. She could have simply given the first man some advice and sent him on his way, but she hoped by doing the job thoroughly it might stop further complaints. And prevent another officer having to start from the beginning. So it was almost lunchtime before she had a chance to try to work out who, if anyone, was Peter Woodfordâs latest victim.
She started by ringing the local primary school. She was
âPeter Woodford is a pedophile. Do something before we do.â was printed in neat capitals across the page. Sammi recognised the same neat handwriting from the last note.
Bob pulled a large clip-seal bag out from under the counter.
âWeâll see what Forensics can do with this,â he said grimly, bagging the noose and envelope for examination. âThis is taking it too far. You canât string up a man, even if he is scum.â
âThe boss already asked me to try to identify a victim today. Iâll get onto it,â Sammi said.
âAny ideas?â Bob asked.
âIâll make some phone calls,â Sammi said. âSee if I can find the source of the whispers.â
âMy wife was asking me whether itâs true or not,â Bob said. âThe rumours have ripped through town like wildfire. Someoneâs got to know where it all started.â
âIâm pretty sure Wendy knows the victim. But sheâs made it clear sheâs not telling. Theyâre demanding action but wonât give us the info we need to take that action.â
âSee what you can find out,â Bob said. âMake it a priority.â He took the bag and headed up towards the bossâs office.
17
There was absolutely no justice to it. Theyâd done nothing to deserve this. And yet they would be the ones punished. She had spent the last few nights wrestling with the notion that sheâd somehow asked for it. That, by some act or omission, sheâd invited this tragedy into their lives. She thought back over small events punctuating the past. Was there a clue, something she should have noticed but didnât? Could she identify that âsliding doorsâ moment when she could have made a choice that would have prevented all of this happening?
And there was worse to come. Their secrets would come out. It was not a question of âifâ, but âwhenâ.
She wanted to lash out. They were the victims. Theirs were the lives being impacted. They were the ones who would eventually have to leave town, change jobs and schools, move away from friends. It would be the only way to leave the whole nasty mess behind.
Heâd had the nerve to pretend nothing had happened the first time, even to protest his innocence. He would do it again. There was no remorse. He was a predator. Jail would be too good for him. He would be put in with the other protected prisoners. They would hang out in their air-conditioned cells, with their government-funded video games, talking about their conquests, comparing their methods and learning new tricks. That was no punishment.
The rumours had reached saturation point and still there was no action. The police were ineffective; indifferent, despite the prodding. The law favoured the guilty liars. By making things as difficult as possible for the victim, it made things easier for the offender. It wasnât right.
How could they possibly keep living here? How could they stay and see him around the town? How? Why should he not suffer for what he had done? That was the question now. How could this be made right?
18
Today was one of those days that made officers try to avoid working at the front counter. Sammi spent most of her shift attempting to sort out a neighbourhood dispute over the phone. It had started with noisy music and had escalated to pushing and shoving on the nature strip. By the time she had finished, Sammi had spoken to two real estate agents and the neighbours across the road before she felt she had resolved the situation. She could have simply given the first man some advice and sent him on his way, but she hoped by doing the job thoroughly it might stop further complaints. And prevent another officer having to start from the beginning. So it was almost lunchtime before she had a chance to try to work out who, if anyone, was Peter Woodfordâs latest victim.
She started by ringing the local primary school. She was
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