Gross Unethical Conduct

Gross Unethical Conduct

Copyright © JOHN MESKELL i i 2012

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CHAPTER ONE

Erica Magellan Looked At the well-developed profile of her body in the bathroom mirror. ‘Well I’m not going too-bad for 36 years of age’, she mused to herself and briskly drying herself off — she put on a loose fitting dressing gown. Humming a tune, she walked back down a stairway to the lounge room.

The television receiver was tuned into the national station with the news of the day’s events just commencing. It was nine P.M. and Geraldine, her 12 year-old-daughter was due home any time now after attending her dancing lessons.

Erica was a widow, her husband Ben was killed in a traffic accident three years beforehand. It had been difficult going as Ben had not left her anything —fortunately the bank had been very sympathetic and she was able to keep up the repayments on the house. It had been a battle for her with Geraldine attending school and absolutely infatuated with ballet dancing.

She sighed to herself as she reflected over those tumultuous years of anguish. Things had changed for the better now and she had a good job with a large motor car-distributing outlet. She said a silent prayer of thanks to her mother for talking her into attending a school of Office Procedures and Short Hand Typing.

The wisdom of her mother — paid dividends and she now had a permanent job with excellent weekly wages together with advancement opportunities.

Erica lived in a modest, split-level, three-bedroom brick veneer home in Mount Gravatt, a suburb of Brisbane. There was a double garage beneath the high part of home with cement tracks leading to the front double gate constructed of wrought iron.

Similarly, another cement path led from a small front gate to the front of the home. The lawns were well cut by a man who called in to do the job twice a month. Garden beds of flowers decorated the front yard of the home, edging up to the front brick fence. Access was gained to the home by front stairs, which led onto a patio and there were stairs at the rear of her home.

She lay back on her lounge watching Tuesday night's television to pass time while waiting for her daughter to come home, and hearing a noise at the rear of the house she thought to herself, 'Ah, Geraldine's arrived home'. She heard footsteps leading from the rear unlocked back door.

Is that you honey? she called out sleepily. She yawned and stretched her arms languorously above her head. She took a deep breath to yawn for a second time with her mouth wide open, when a chloroform soaked rag was spread hard over her face. She tried to scream and to do so—she took another deep breath. Erica almost choked — her arms flaying helplessly in the air as she grasped behind at her assailant.

By now her attacker pinioned her arms to the side of her body with the rag held over her mouth and nose. She was not fully unconscious and in her desperate struggle she managed to pull off the balaclava mask worn by her assailant — at the same time scratching the side of his neck.

You fucking bitch, she heard him exclaim as a blow from his closed fist struck the side of her head. The blow caused blood to seep from a small cut near the corner of her and Erica faded into unconsciousness.

She vaguely regained her senses while being carried up the steps into her bedroom where she was thrown onto the bed — her assailant minus his balaclava was grunting and breathing heavily with excitement. He ripped off her dressing gown and let his trousers fall to his ankles and it was then Erica saw he had an erection.

He said nothing and fell upon her body with his left hand holding her down by the throat. Feeling with his right hand he cruelly thrusting his penis into her dry unyielding vagina, pumping up and down on her a few times before withdrawing from her and grabbing her by the throat; he tightly squeezed her larynx, blocking her breathing.

Becoming weaker and weaker Erica clutched desperately at the white surgical gloved hands around her throat, before fading into deep oblivion and her heart ceased to beat. Satisfied she was dead her assailant commenced to silently cry — he had not been able unable to spend his semen and his penis was very sore from her dry vagina. He quickly pulled up his trousers fastening them with his belt.

Silently he walked back into the lounge room and re-gathered the balaclava Erica had pulled from his head. He looked into a mirror and saw the faint scratch mark on his neck, congealed blood was faintly visible on the scratch mark otherwise; it did not seem to be of any significance to him. He turned around and walked towards the rear door when suddenly it opened. Geraldine Magellan stood in the doorway, pretty, and blue eyed, looking directly at him.

Where's mummy? she asked.

He was aghast at the sight of her — like her mother, she had seen his face and could identify him. His mind raced uncontrollably with his heart thudding heavily in his chest. He struck Geraldine with a sweeping rabbit killer to the side of her neck and she fell to the floor. Snatching an ironing cord nearby he quickly wrapped it around her small neck and kneeling on her back choked her life away.

When he was satisfied she too was dead he looked around to ensure there was nothing to implicate him and fled down the rear stairway. His heart raced — perspiration seeped through his clothing as he carefully made his way down the side of the house to the dimly lit street, his body odour prominent in the still night air.

He had one thing on his mind, to distance himself from the scene of this savage confrontation — something which had came about totally unexpected and for which he was totally unprepared — however always possible under the circumstances. He had never killed before and it played heavily on his mind, now he was a murderer and the ramifications of his actions became all too clear to him.

The police would really flatten out to find him when the murders were discovered and he tried to justify his repugnant, horrifying actions — telling himself if his face had not been seen this would never have happened. It was simply self-preservation and nothing else which caused him to do what he did. He found his car parked a few streets away and in his panic failed to detect his balaclava mask falling into the gutter near the Magellan's home.

Still panic stricken, he drove furiously away from Citrus Street intending to drive south along Logan Road to the Gold Coast Freeway, when suddenly, out of nowhere he struck a car on his right. In his state of consternation he had driven through a ‘Give Way’ sign, failing to see the oncoming vehicle — the impact swung his car around in a complete circle with the tyres screeching and smoking on the bitumen surface. His car was damaged on the front driver's side fender with the headlight smashed beyond repair, and the front bumper bar tilting right at an angle.

When he realized he had gone through the `Give Way' sign at the intersection, he plunged his foot hard on the accelerator and the rear wheels spun uncontrollably, smoking and screeching in an effort to answer this new command. Suddenly they gripped and he was speeding away down a back street where he found access to the Freeway heading off to the Gold Coast. He was still shaking and perspiring profusely from his ordeal when he arrived home, parking in his garage at 10pm.

Still trembling he examined his car and realized he would not be driving it to Brisbane the next morning. It would have to go to the panel beaters but decided to let that go for a while because the police would be looking for a hit and run driver.

He did not know how badly damaged the other car was but it had stopped and he had a fleeting glance of the driver standing beside his car and shaking a clenched fist in the air. He shuddered when he thought, ‘It could have been a pedestrian he hit in his moment of panic’.

His wife had not gone to bed and was waiting for him, with the television receiver turned down low in the lounge room.

Hi darling, you're home late. Did you have some extra work at the office? She politely inquired.

Yeah, he answered. Christ I'm tired, I'm ready for bed I've got a heavy day on tomorrow.

She sensed something was ailing her husband, Is something wrong dear, you look all worn out?

No, I'm all right just very tired, that's all. Some bloody fool smashed into my car where I had it parked. I don't know who it was but I've been forced to drive all the way home with only one headlight and that's not good you know. Thank goodness I was mainly on the freeway."

He sighed and ran his fingers through his hair, I'll have to take your car to work tomorrow and arrange to get a bit of panel beating done to my car later on in the week. Would that inconvenience you too much? he asked, the tiredness etched in his voice.

No not at all, I'm not going anywhere for a while, and I won't need it. Would you like some toasted sandwiches and a cup of tea dear?

No thanks love, I'll take a rain check on that I just want to get to bed.

After making sure the place was securely locked they both retired to bed where he fell into a troubled sleep. The next morning he rose early and showered. Looking into the mirror and saw the scratch mark on his neck was scarcely visible, except for a small portion below his collar line. Satisfied he would have no trouble concealing it; he shaved and went downstairs to where his wife had prepared breakfast.

His two teenage daughters were already seated at the breakfast table and his only son Stan, staggered into the breakfast room with sleep puffed eyes.

Hi dad, he said, Don't forget we're going fishing tonight when you get home.

He looked at his fifteen-year-old son, Sure a promise is a promise. I'll be home early tonight and we'll get stuck into the bream, make sure you have everything ready for us by the time I get home.

The usual chatter went on at the breakfast table, which probably went on with most families at that time of the day. He looked at the youngest of his daughters who was getting close to thirteen years and a wave of remorse swept over him.

His daughter was about the same age as the girl the previous night — so young — so full of life and vitality. He shook himself from his dilemma and hurriedly finished his breakfast, excusing himself he readied for work.

Kissing his wife goodbye he threw his brief case into the rear of her Ford Falcon sedan and drove off to Brisbane. It was a daily routine for him, leaving at the same time each day and generally arrived in Brisbane within a few minutes of his scheduled arrival.

He turned the radio on but there was nothing about the killings at Mount Gravatt and obviously the bodies had not been discovered. Incredibly, it was a week before the news hit the headlines.

The bodies had been discovered by a worried boy friend of Erica's who went to the household seeking her. He now felt much safer — time was on his side and the police had it all in front of them with the trail now so cold.

Previously, and before the murders there had been seventeen other incidents reported throughout Brisbane's populated area where a balaclava-masked intruder attacked women in their homes. In each instance the offender used a chloroformed soaked rag to render his victim unconscious.

On each of these occasions, the intruder had penetrated the women's vaginas but no semen could be found. Their genitalia and the surrounding areas had been badly bruised with the force exerted to complete penetration.

The Post Mortem conducted on Erica revealed a similar modus operandi however there was nothing to indicate her daughter's body had been defiled.

Details of the murders made the evening television news and were splashed prominently in the newspaper headlines. There was no doubt in the minds of the media who was responsible for the brutal murder of a mother and her daughter. 'Rapist Strikes and Again Kills', screamed the headlines. 'A police source revealed the modus operandi was identical with other household rapes several years ago and warned women living on their own to securely lockup at night.’

The investigating machinery swung into action, scientific men swarmed inside and outside the premises, photographers armed with video cameras and flash light cameras filmed inside the house — fingerprint men were busily engaged dusting the household for any latent prints and detectives commenced their street house-to-house door knocking inquiries seeking any information, which may assist.

Detective Sergeant Errol Banks, along with his partner, Detective Elizabeth Fennel were the local detectives placed in charge of inquiries. They could only surmise at that stage the murders — were connected to the same modus operandi used by a serial rapist, active in other Brisbane Suburbs several years previously — who had never been apprehended. Post mortem examinations showed although Erica Magellan had been sexually attacked and defiled before her death with a similar M.O (Modus Operandi) as previous victims her daughter Geraldine had not. Why, it may be asked? The detectives could only assume the murderer had not desired her sexually because of her tender years — or that she could identify him. Scientific investigations revealed that neither was a chloroform mask used to render her unconsciousness prior to her death.

They concentrated their efforts in this regard going over correspondence and computer floppy disk records relating to these different offences. It was going to be a hard and difficult investigation and all they had was a description of the offender from hysterical women.

A male person, about 175cm tall, weighing somewhere near 200lbs. He wore a black woollen balaclava over his head, a white shirt, black trousers, and shoes. On each occasion he used a chloroformed soaked rag to render them senseless before raping them. Police door knocking inquiries did not come up with anything concrete to assist them.

The murders were given plenty of publicity by the media and with police fully co-operating with journalists the resultant promulgation became excellent in so far as a reference for their own ends. The Hierarchy called a meeting to discuss the murders and what progress being made. After lengthy dialogue it was decided to bring in the Homicide Squad to assist in the investigations.

Detective Sergeant Matthew Falls and three homicide investigators were made available to assist the local Detectives in their field of inquiries.

Matthew Robert Falls, named after his father, was born on 2 February 1970, at the Maryborough Base Hospital in Queensland. He was the only child, and consequently he received all the attention he could ever hope for. He was spoilt to the extreme and something he learned to capitalise on in his early stage of life.

His father worked for the Queensland Railway Department as an engine driver, which kept him away from home for long periods on shift work, he and his wife rented a modest home on the banks of the Mary River.

Falls attended the Maryborough Public School and soon showed he was a student with exceptional talents in the field of learning. His father had similar interests with men who were members of the police force and who all belonged to the same fishing club. It was common for them to be going to Hervey Bay nearby, to do a spot of fishing.

On these excursions, Matthew junior would tag along and listen to the talk between these men and his dad. These fishing trips were some of the fondest memories he could recall.

Suddenly his world came crashing down around him. At ten years of age, his father and mother were killed in a traffic accident. However, all was not completely lost and due to the generosity and kindness of one of the police officers Bert Samuels, took him in as one of his own children. They were kind country people who gave Falls the love and understanding he needed to get him through his crisis.

At eighteen years of age Falls applied to become a police cadet with the Queensland Police Department, and Bert Samuels was delighted with the decision. Falls had made up his mind what he wanted to do a long time before he took the plunge he embarked upon. He had listened intently to the conversations between Bert Samuels and his counterparts.

The tales he heard excited him and he knew what he wanted to do with his life. He listened to the talks about change now creeping into the police force — about the new Commissioner they now served under who favoured academics up in the top echelon of the force to direct — how the job should be correctly administrated.

One of the chores Falls was obliged to perform as a police cadet, besides classes which taught him law, touch typing and other associated skills, was to work in the various clerical departments of the police department. After he had worked in the C.I.B. offices on a number of occasions he decided it was this particular avenue, which suited his ambitions.

Again he listened to the talk about how those with academic qualification would be the ones to get on under the new regime creeping into the force, and in his immediate spare time he enrolled in the Queensland University and subsequently gained his Bachelor of Arts Degree.

Falls also attended the Queensland Institute of Technology where he was successful in obtaining several management degrees and he then set his sights on obtaining a diploma in Business Administration. Study was easy for him — but he had a bad disposition of scorning those who did not think like he did.

After he had been sworn into the Police Force as a constable Falls continued with his studies in his spare time — never at any time considering that what he was doing may have been detrimental for his system. He considered all of his work was justified when he applied for, and was appointed to the Brisbane Criminal Investigation Branch as a Plain Clothes Constable at the age of twenty-one years.

He was delighted with his appointment, ‘the way I’m going, I’ll soon outrank Bert and his silly old cronies back there in Maryborough’.

To get up the ladder of success was a burning ambition Falls possessed and he did not care whose toes he stepped on to get there — obsessed with the veracity of his ambitions nobody had ever put held out the hand of friendship to help him. ‘Up ‘em all’, he thought, ‘here I am, a B.A. with several managerial degrees behind me and enrolled in the University for my diploma. Not bad for a twenty-one year old.’

When he went home on leave to Maryborough, Bert Samuels and his mates noticed a difference in the way Falls carried on. It was as if he was contemptuous of them, and he did not seem to be the same old fishing mate they once knew. It all surfaced several evenings in the back yard of Bert Samuel’s home, after they had been fishing and were having a few cans of beer around a bar-b-que.

There were five of them altogether, lying back on the lawn drinking in good spirits. Bert finished his can of beer and went to ice container to get out another one.

What’s your idea on the study being introduced into the job? voiced Matt.

Well there’s no way in the world I’m going to start and do it, said Bill Mortimer as he wiped the froth from his mouth and reached for another can of beer, I’ve been in the job too long now to start with these new fancy ideas.

Man I feel sorry for you, said Matt. Those who rubbish these ideas will surely perish along the way if they continue to do so.

Well Matt, whatever makes you think that will happen? The Police Union will never stand for any of that shit being tipped over us with all this academic crap they’re going on with.

You jokers are going to have to face up to it Bill, Falls retorted indigently, The union will end up being a toothless tiger and if you’re not prepared to knuckle down and do a bit of study to help yourself then forget it — you’re gunna get left behind. The Department is now only interested in those with an education and they’re going to weed out the dills within our job, Falls scoffed.

What are you saying Matt? Are you saying we’re a pack of dills because we don’t have any education qualifications behind us, replied an indignant Rolf Hanes, I joined this job twenty years ago and I passed the education qualifications that were applicable then, I can spell and write good English and pray tell me why should I at my stage of life suddenly have to change. I can’t see where it’s going to make me a better police Officer.

The argument began to get a bit heated and Bert Samuels decided to put a stop to it. It was a very dangerous bone of contention which seemed to be dividing good friends in their important peace keeping business.

Probably because he had practically raised him, Samuels singled out Falls, Hey Matthew, don’t talk to your friends like this, what the hell’s come over you boy?

He was not ready for the ferocious reply, which spat out of Falls’ mouth, "Don’t call me boy, I’m not your boy and I never have been. Okay, maybe you did take me into