Abacus

Randall said.
    “Yeah, mate, shoot,” Jesse said.
    “You know the other night you did the security patrol for me?”
    “Yeah, mate.”
    “Did you see anyt hing strange at the crematorium? I mean, was anyone working there late?”
    “No, no, I just did the perimeter patrol once , like we normally do. I spent most of the time at the hospitals, but I didn’t see any movement at all at the crematorium. Why?”
    “Oh , just an offhanded comment by one of the staff there. The furnace was still really warm in the morning and they only used it in the arvo the day before, so they couldn’t work out why it wasn’t cold, that’s all. There is probably nothing to it, probably just a breakdown in communication.”
    “Jesse , you’re not toasting bloody marshmallows on the job, are you?” Randall asked.
    Jesse’s face contorted. “Couldn’t toast them where stiffs are burnt, that would be really bad taste in more ways than one.”
    Sheik patted Jesse’s back. “No worries, then. I guess with this homicide there won’t be spare time for anyone to do the security run for me in the coming weeks.”
    “Looks that way , Sheik, this will probably take some time to solve I would say.”
    * * *
    It had quickly turned to night as Randall stared out of the Fishbowl into the empty, darkened detectives’ office. Staring in a trance at the task force room he thought about how crucial it was they got a quick identification. Perhaps I should have taken my own advice and gone home for a sleep, he thought, stretching his arms out and yawning.
    Just as he put the finishing touches on a report, he felt the vibration of the silver phone on his thigh. Reaching into his pocket, he flipped open the phone and read the screen. Set the bait. You have the tackle .
    G rabbing his jacket and briefcase, he rushed out the door. Speeding through the inner suburbs in his Merc, he had little regard for the road rules. He had made the journey to his private postbox at Drummoyne Post Office countless times, and knew the quickest route to take.
    He liked to get the assignment information quickly for two reasons. Firstly, he liked to release the bait as soon as possible, and secondly, he wanted to minimise the risk of after-hours postal staff locating the content of the envelopes. Even though he had felt dead tired, he was now energized, feeling almost a sense of euphoria. Pulling into the street of the post office, he slowed to a walking pace and surveyed the large bank of post office boxes. He continued down the street for a further three blocks, where he turned and parked in a darkened lane.
    Walking back towards the post office, he fumbled through his bunch of keys to ensure he had the right one. He knew exactly what he was going to find in the box, it was always the same. An envelope which contained a piece of paper with the details of the next target, including name, age, date of birth, address, cars owned, and a small passport-sized photo attached.
    The second envelope contained what he referred to as the “gift”. The gift consisted of about ten grams of a hundred percent pure heroin. This grade was sometimes referred to as a “hot shot”, and was not generally available on the street. Its purity ensured it would kill the average drug addict stone-dead in minutes. Randall and his various baits had had a hundred percent success rate with the gift. The kill rate was so high, that at times Randall wondered if there were any other sinister ingredients aside from the heroin. It did not make a difference anyway, as the brief was to kill the target, and there were no rules as to how this was to be achieved.
    Once he was within two hundred metres of the post office, he veered across the road and sat on a bus stop bench diagonally opposite. Eagerly tapping his feet, he looked up and down the street for any movement. Being a quiet street this late at night, he was confident he would see anything out of the ordinary.
    He was always excited about a new assignment. He got a chance to kill killers. Kill them before they struck. Before they could murder or injure innocent people, like his parents. Whenever he collected the “tackle” he couldn’t help but think about his parents’ demise. The memories of their death were still raw and vivid, even after all these years. Whenever he thought about what happened, his fists would tighten and his jaw would clench. Frustration would overcome him. As a little boy he couldn’t do anything to help them