Free Dark City Blue: A Tom Bishop Rampage by Luke Preston Page A

tape at either end and stood as silhouetted guards. Homicide detectives walked the scene: primary information; chain of events; what the fuck happened. To them, Bishop didn’t exist. He couldn’t be spoken to, questioned without a rep or lawyer present. As it was, Bishop wasn’t feeling too chatty.
    Scene photographers lit up the area in bursts of light that lasted only a fraction but left the negative of murder scorched into the memories of those who watched. When the floodlights were erected there was no escaping the scene. A Homicide dick slid on a pair of Ray-Bans while another with latex gloves took all the care in the world to pull back Taylor’s coat. His service weapon sat snug and holstered. The dick looked to his partner, shook his head, and they both looked to Bishop. Neither of them were impressed.
    Anybody who shifted their weight the way Taylor had was going for a weapon. It took a lifetime of working the street for Bishop to gain that half-second drop on him. He was twenty-two the first time he’d killed someone. The commission flats in Flemington. Ecstasy lab. Bishop was first through the door. Shotgun in his face. His training had kicked in and the shooter was dead before Bishop could think about anything. It was a good kill. Clean and justified. They said it would get easier over time; it never did, and, in the years that followed, with each killing, it only got worse. He remembered their names and faces. He thought about their families, friends, girlfriends and children. Justified or not, killing was killing.
    Rain fell from the sky in heavy drops taking away the evidence in small increments.
    A junior hovered over Taylor’s body. ‘Hey, check this out.’
    Bishop stepped forward with the murder detectives. The junior waved a light over Taylor’s wrist, illuminating the number seven. Clubs, strippers, whorehouses: it could have been the entry stamp to a hundred off-the-map joints.
    From behind the floodlights, Bishop watched a figure limp toward him. Even before he saw his face, he knew the limping silhouette belonged to Jim Patterson from Ethical Standards.
    ‘It’s been a big day for you, hasn’t it?’ he said.
    ‘And to think I didn’t even put in for overtime,’ Bishop said. ‘Are you here to take me in?’
    ‘No. Not yet,’ he said and dipped his eyes to Taylor’s corpse. ‘Somehow I think you and I are interested in chasing up the same type of leads.’
    ‘Are you looking to get your face in the paper again?’
    ‘I’m just looking to bury dirty cops.’
    ‘Hey,’ a voice called from behind them. It was Rayburn. He pointed to Patterson with a stubby finger. ‘Get the fuck out of here.’
    Patterson was used to it. He shifted his gaze back to Bishop. ‘We’ll talk soon.’
    ‘Not without his fuckin’ lawyer he won’t.’ Rayburn put a hand around Bishop’s arm. ‘Let’s take a walk.’
    They headed out of the alley, into the street where Bishop could see the service station attendant being questioned by Russell, Cooper and Warren, probably chasing a surveillance tape.
    They passed a couple of boarded-up shopfronts and slowed to a stop, far enough away from anyone with big ears.
    Rayburn lit a cigarette. Bishop went for his. Empty. He tossed the pack.
    ‘Here.’ Rayburn handed him his deck and Bishop lit up. ‘What the hell happened?’
    ‘Taylor was in on the armoured truck job.’
    Rayburn leant against some plywood in place of where a window used to be. ‘Bullshit.’
    ‘SD card from the Merc: it showed a spotter. After the crew left, it pulled out. The tag was registered to a piece of arse Taylor was banging on the side. Alison Allen. I followed her to him and he didn’t like it too much.’ Bishop looked up and down the street, then fixed his gaze on Rayburn. ‘Did you know?’
    ‘What? Fuck, no. I knew about the drinking, the whoring, but nothing like this.’ He rubbed his tired face. ‘Twelve people are dead. Thirteen, including him. You sure about