Keystone Cop

The shop bell tinkled. The ripped flyscreen door slammed shut.

A besuited, professional woman in her mid-forties, hair pulled tightly back in a bun, scanned the ramshackle hut that masqueraded as the local store.

‘G’day Sunshine,’ the barefoot owner chuckled.

This was not a friendly, country salutation from the local shopkeeper. No, this was an appellation from a distant, but not forgotten, past.

Behind a well-worn counter stood a badly-worn body; emaciated, capped by a mass of grey whiskers and untamed, dreadlock hair. Speaking revealed more gaps than teeth. A tie-dyed T-shirt hung over tattered Levis. Local wags proffered that the aging, hippy shopkeeper was the love child of Bob Marley and Willy Nelson, hence the nickname:

‘G’day Willy,’ the woman replied.

Detective Senior Sergeant Susan Bright did not bother to correct nor enlighten.

A lifetime had passed since anyone called her Sunshine, her given name at birth. But Willy, perceptive and intuitive despite appearances, had recognised ‘Sunny’ as soon as she walked through his door. Sunshine Bright. Hardly a name that would command respect in the New South Wales Police Force, especially if your younger sister’s name is Moonbeam (Moonie).

Those names were labels reeking of marijuana smoke, north coast hippy-dippy parents, communes, and free love. Hardly the appropriate pedigree for a young, female constable who dreamed of becoming a detective. So local girl Sunshine from Grayson had become Probationary Police Constable Susan, attending the Goulburn Police Academy at age eighteen.

Everyone in the tiny hamlet of Grayson had a nickname, a nom de plume or an alias, depending on your job, looks or criminality. Even Grayson, the surname of the original landowner, was rarely used. The small commune of dilapidated farmhouses, one shop, allotments bespeckled with teepees and yurts and even some folks living rough was known to all and sundry, by its own nickname—Woodstock. Even the postman delivered Centrelink cheques addressed to Woodstock.

‘Where the fuck is Woodstock? Somewhere up the coast?’ snapped the Commander in charge of detectives at the Monday morning briefing.

           ‘It’s also known as Grayson, sir,’ Susan corrected.

           ‘You know where this bloody place is Bright? Good. Get in your car. It’s yours.’

Susan had left her name Sunshine, her family and Grayson/Woodstock behind long ago. Now, twenty-five years later, Detective Senior Sergeant Susan Bright was back. A surfer had gone missing, presumed drowned and it was DSS Bright’s job to investigate his disappearance.

GPS not required. Susan knew the way home. Funny … she had consciously erased a lot of her childhood memories and no longer thought of those lush green hills, the endless beaches and coastal creeks as ‘home’.

Kempsey and Crescent Head turnoffs flashed by. Along the dirt backroad towards Port Macquarie, past Point Plomer lay nirvana, paradise … Woodstock or Grayson, take your pick.

Dr. Archibald Thaddeus Grayson OBE, an eccentric biology professor during the 1960’s was an idealist and environmentalist ahead of his time. The doctor willed his large land holding to members of a commune he had invited onto his property to experiment with alternative and sustainable living. Archie once laughed and said ‘Woodstock’ was his Nomen novum. No-one knew what that meant, but the name Woodstock stuck.

The shop bell tinkled. The ripped flyscreen door slammed shut.

Susan turned. Taken aback, disbelieving, DSS Bright stared directly into her sister’s cobalt blue eyes. Her tussled blond hair still fell to her waist. Moonbeam was the same thirteen-year-old, unchanged, not a day older than when Susan had left Woodstock all those years ago. Her baby sister was even wearing her favourites, a pair of cutoff denim shorts.

           ‘Moonie? How can …’ Susan gasped.

‘Nah … I’m Luna. My mum’s Moonie. Do you know her? G’day Willy, how ya going?’

           ‘Great Luna, just great love. And all the better for seeing you.’ Laughter.

Willy and Luna hugged. The detective saw a genuine warmth and connection between the young girl and the old man. Grandfatherly. Susan smiled.

Gently placing his hand upon her back and turning her to face the stranger in the store, Willy began:

'Luna, I'd like you to meet someone very special. I've known this lady since she was younger than you are now. Luna, this is your aunt Sunshine, your mum's older sister. Sunshine protected and loved your mum to death when Moonie was your age.'

 ‘Sus …’, Susan began to correct before stopping. ‘Sunny, just call me Sunny.’

           ‘Aunt Sunny!’ screamed Luna. ‘Wow! Mum has told me all about you.’

The young girl flung her arms around her auntie, crying and hugging and rocking her from side to side. Stunned, overcome, DSS Bright had not expected this outpouring of love. Embarrassed, the detective felt tears streaming down her cheeks. Hugging Luna even tighter, Susan/Sunshine gazed over her niece’s shoulder. Hidden within Willy’s whiskered face two eyes stared back, assessing. DSS Susan Bright assessed back.

The walk home was a mobile, machinegun interrogation.

Luna fired a million questions at her never-seen-before aunt: ‘Why did you leave? Why haven’t you come back sooner? Did you miss Woodstock and my mum? But what surprised Sunshine the aunt and baffled Susan the detective was not what Luna did not know, but rather what she did know. Luna knew that her aunt lived in Sydney’s inner west, was unmarried, a detective and graduated top of her police class.

As aunt and niece stood holding hands before the door of the house in which Sunshine Bright was born and raised, Susan Bright was nervous.

Luna looked up at aunt Sunny.

           ‘I guess you’re here about Joel. He stayed with us you know.’

Ashen faced, Detective Senior Sergeant Susan Bright turned and looked down at Luna Bright.

‘Joel Richard Turner? The missing surfer? You knew him?

Before Luna could reply, the door began to swing open.

           ‘Luna, who are you talking to? Oh, hello, I’m Moo … ‘

Silence.

The following two hours flowed as naturally and smoothly between the reunited sisters and young niece as any of the creeks that criss-crossed Woodstock. Luna was a cork, happily bouncing along, asking questions, giggling, simply experiencing the bonds of family. Sunny and Moonie had a connection that was unbroken and everlasting. Moonie had known that all along, but DSS Susan Bright had not. For Susan, it was a joyous discovery.

‘Moonie, how is it that Luna knows I’m a detective, where I live and so much other information? There’s no mobile reception or internet out here. I didn’t know you had a daughter, or even that our mother had died. It’s been twenty-five years. I never made contact. I’m … I’m sorry … so sorry.’

‘There’s a very good library in Kempsey and the staff there are always helpful with us technology-challenged hippies. (Laughs) Yes, it has been a while, but Sunny, you never need to apologise to me. You couldn’t stay here and you couldn’t come back. I understand. I remember you saying you wanted to join the Police. I can play detective too, you know. It wasn’t hard to find ‘DSS Bright’. After all, there aren’t a lot of ‘Bright’ police, are there?

It was the oldest of family jokes, but both sisters laughed. They were thirteen and eighteen again.

Sunshine had reconnected with her Moonbeam, but for DSS Susan Bright there was still the job.

‘Moonie, I’m here to investigate Joel Turner’s drowning. Some loose ends need to be tidied up—paperwork really. I understand that he stayed here, and we need to talk about that. For now, I’m off to The Point to inspect his car.’

The Point is a prime surfing spot, an isolated, rocky headland that juts out into the Pacific Ocean. Better still, it is unnamed. i.e. fewer surfers, but greater dangers.

The sole vehicle parked in an open, grassy field was Joel Turner’s 2016 white Subaru Forester, licence plate number … well, the number plates had disappeared, so having the registration numbers was useless. Broken blue and white striped police tape lay strewn about. Wheels gone. There were so many footprints surrounding the vehicle it was impossible to locate a non-disturbed area. Doors were wide open, including the tailgate. The glove box and every storage compartment had been ransacked. The spare and jack had vanished, windows smashed.

DSS Bright’s Commander was a taciturn man, and similarly with prose. He was insistent his officers be succinct and unambiguous when completing a crime scene pro forma. Accordingly, within the box titled CONDITION OF CRIME SCENE, DSS Bright inspected the wreckage that lay around her and simply wrote in neat capitals—CCF. For the uninitiated: ‘Complete Cluster Fuck’—useless in terms of aiding any investigation.

Joel Richard Turner had gone for a surf and drowned. His body and belongings were likely never to be recovered. His personal effects: towel, wetsuit, hat, car keys, clothing had either been lost with him, or stolen if they had been left in the vehicle or on the beach. After all, it was not the first time this had occurred. A 1967 Holden HR panel van had been found at the exact same location twenty-five years ago—the driver never found. The Point was a dangerous break and it had claimed another victim. It was an open and shut case.

DSS Bright began taking photos of the vehicle and surrounding area for the record. She kicked her shin on the towbar, or rather something attached under it. Crouching, she spied a closed metal box, secured by a padlock with a four-digit code pad. This was a Surflock—a device to safely store car keys when surfing. Susan retrieved a wheel brace from her police car. After a few minutes struggle—snap. The lock popped and the box opened. No keys.

“CAUSE OF DEATH: Misadventure whilst surfing,” now seemed an unlikely scenario.

DSS Susan Bright would not know where to search next, but Sunshine Bright did.

Returning home, the detective parked the police sedan well-short of the house and snuck around to the rear. Surprisingly, it was still there—a free-standing, four metre high, sandstone block arch. Remnants of an old church or a grand building from early settlement? No-one knew. Sunny and Moonie played under and around that archway as toddlers. Huddled together, it had always been their ‘safe’ place.

‘How does it stand up daddy? Why doesn’t that stone in the middle at the top just fall down?’

           ‘That’s called the keystone.’

           ‘Keystone? Is that where all the keys go when they are lost, daddy?’

‘Yep, that’s right girls.’ daddy laughed. ‘Be careful. Never place any keys on top, they’ll be lost forever’.

Detective Senior Sergeant Susan Bright climbed the rickety, makeshift ladder that lay conveniently nearby in the grass. Peering down at the top of the keystone, Susan was looking at a car fob embossed with the six stars of the Pleiades—the symbol for Subaru. Alongside the fob was a much older, rust encrusted key from a 1967 Holden HR panel van, Sunshine Bright’s father’s car.

A voice from behind startled DSS Bright. There stood Moonie, Luna and Willy.

Moonie sobbed, ‘Joel Turner was doing to Luna what daddy did to me. I knew what I had to do. I learnt from you Sunny. You protected me and I protected my daughter.’

‘Us … what daddy did to us Moonie.’ Sunny cried.

The little sister never knew.

Willy: ‘What ya gunna do Sunshine, or should I say detective? Remember, if you disturb a keystone the whole lot comes tumbling down on top of all of us.’

Willy’s words of advice, or threat, would not sway DSS Susan Bright’s decision. Nor would Moonie’s plea or even the desire to continue concealing her own crime. DSS Bright was a sworn NSW police officer. She would do what was right.

The detective gazed thoughtfully into Luna’s tear-filled eyes. DSS Susan Bright, or probably it was Sunshine, reached into her pocket.

A Surflock is now lost alongside a Subaru fob and a ’67 panel van key.

THE END

Words:  1,992