In the past I had always admired the spindly, owl-like bird mural at the entrance to the alleyway. It perked up the area, gave it some intrigue. Dunedin was blessed with some incredible street art, including a lot hidden down the recesses and odd thoroughfares of the inner city. It was well worth the effort to hunt them down. Today the bird’s long scaly legs and hooked beak felt sinister, the look it was giving its rat companion in the palm of its hand predatory.
Having talked with Timi, I felt the need to finally come and check out the scene of the crime with my own eyes. Police photographs were all well and good, but there was something about being there in the flesh, experiencing the sounds, the smells, feeling the temperature, the mood of a place … Part of me had been putting it off though. The thought of getting that physically close to where the woman had been murdered – a young woman not unlike me – gave me the heebie-jeebies. But it needed doing. Work was finished for the day so I decided to set aside my misgivings and take a detour on the way home.
The alleyway had been re-opened to the public for the benefit of the two bars whose premises hid down there, although I didn’t think its recent notoriety would be good for business. Then again, there were always the morbidly curious – those that got a kick out of being in close proximity to a murder scene. Hell, in some cities in the world murder tourism was a thriving business. Jack the Ripper was a name that came to mind, but as soon as it did I tried to shove it straight back where it came from. Too close to this case for comfort. There was also the possibility that this murderer was the special kind of sicko who liked to observe others marvelling at their handy work, needed that kind of perverse glorification, so a part of me considered the value of continuing to monitor the surveillance video footage or even set up better coverage, in case the killer came back for a little visit. It was something to raise with the team.
Last time I’d been down this particular Victorian alleyway it was for a boozy night out with the girls to celebrate Maggie’s birthday. That was back in the days I could enjoy a boozy night out, before I had a passenger on board. On that occasion I’d tottered down on spindly heels, half cut, on the arms of my gal pals, concentrating hard on not going arse over kite. This time I waddled down stone-cold sober, in sensible shoes, still concentrating on not slipping, which was made all the more challenging by the fact I couldn’t see my feet. It was a steep incline to what was a less than aesthetically pleasing destination at the best of times. Today’s glum, overcast skies did nothing to alleviate the sense of foreboding. Goosebumps erupted on my skin, and not just from the drop in air temperature as I descended from the street. The ceiling of the tunnel had an unusual stepped structure that accommodated multiple levels of the building above and what looked like the angled underside of a set of stairs.
Once down the dark tunnel section I emerged into the red-brick surrounds of the open courtyard. I wandered a little further down the slope and once at the centre turned around and looked back up towards the street. Cars whizzed past the entranceway as they made their way around Moray Place, pausing when the traffic backed up due to the lights at the intersection with Princes Street. The occasional pedestrian walked past, but none looked down this way. Despite the street itself being busy, it felt like a sequestered world down here, the sound of traffic muffled all the more as I worked my way around the edges of the courtyard area. There were half a dozen cars parked here now it was opened up to the public again. The only remaining crime-scene tape was further around, in the area where Aleisha Newman had been found.
There was something fascinating about the steadfastness of the industrial architecture, its snaking coils of pipes and ducts. It was hard to tell how many buildings backed onto this enclosed yard with its odd angles and overlaps. There was only one way in and out, unless you had access to one of the buildings, and although it felt isolated and out of sight of the street, without a secondary escape route it seemed a very risky place to undertake even a petty crime like tagging, let alone something as monumental as murder.
My eyes took in the black, gaping yaw of the entrance to the private underground carpark on my left. Even in daylight it was creepy. No wonder Timi and his friends had avoided it. My gaze then moved around, clockwise, to the wall that Timi and his friends had decided to upgrade. The boys had succeeded in tracing out the basic outline of their moniker before they were interrupted by other, more deadly events. I stepped up close to the wall, getting a sense of their proximity to it, imagined the sound of their hissing cans, and overlaid it with the kind of noise someone stricken, someone fighting for life, would make. Like a wounded animal, was how Timi had described it – low, primal. My shudder was entirely involuntary. It transformed into a tightening under my belly that took my breath away, buckled my knees and forced me to reach out, hand steadying me against the cold, smooth brick. It passed almost as soon as it came. Bloody Braxton Hicks contractions. My body was practising for its big moment, so I was getting quite a few of those now. If that was a little taster of things to come, I wasn’t looking forward to the main course.
Once I had regained my composure I walked further along the wall to the corner. From this vantage point I could see in multiple directions. To my left was an off-shoot of the alleyway, lined with that modern accessory no respectable alleyway seemed to be without – a regiment of wheelie bins, and also some blue plastic barrels that I guessed contained waste oil from the surrounding restaurant’s vats, or were for organising refuse of some kind. Directly across from me was the entrance to the Pequeño Lounge Bar, the quaint and boutique establishment that was a favourite of mine. The white painted-brick exterior offset the glossy black of the doors that enclosed a rich and warm interior that reminded me of those speak-easy bars from prohibition days. The effect was smart and oddly welcoming within these grungy surrounds. Just down from the bar was the other, smaller bird mural Timi had been talking about, the one that marked the entrance to the out-of-sight recess where he had found the tragic source of the noises. But you didn’t need detective skills to figure out where the murder had taken place – a bank of floral tributes adorned the ground.
I worked my way around to the area still surrounded by crime-scene tape. The forensic crew had done their work, but we still wanted the area cordoned off. An opportunity for final examinations, and also a mark of respect for the woman who had lost her life there. Several of the bunches of flowers placed around the perimeter had cards, and there were two small teddy bears standing guard. They were looking a little the worse for the weather. I squatted down and worked my way along, reading the messages within each card. I also took a shot of each with my phone camera. You never knew what could be useful.
From my down-low angle I also scanned around, seeing what was visible and what wasn’t. The angle was such that the tunnel way and Moray Place were obscured. I noted the spray-painted corner outlines of Aleisha’s vehicle, which had served as an additional visual barrier between the crime scene and entrance to the street.
The door to the Pequeño was clearly visible from this corner but would have been partially obscured by the vehicle. It was interesting that the crime had taken place on a Monday night, the one day of the week the Pequeño was closed. Coincidence or design? Somehow I suspected the latter. No one in their right mind would chance being discovered in the middle of what was essentially a surgical procedure by some merrily drunk patron staggering out of the bar door. Not that anyone who would perform such an act could be considered in their right mind. I hauled myself to my feet, pausing halfway for the savage headrush to pass.
I lifted the tape and walked a little further down the side shoot so I had an unimpeded view of the scene. Basement-level windows and a door faced out onto the area. Red fire-escape stairs zig-zagged their way down from the top storey to the ground. Other than outdoor heat-pump units, there didn’t appear to be any obvious electrical fittings in this area – lights, security cameras. Breathing in deeply all I could smell was the hint of damp, mossy brick. It screamed lonely. Finally I turned my attention to the ground. Ground that had until very recently been soaked in blood. My mind threw up the mental image of Timi, kneeling there next to Aleisha, desperate, and I had to turn and walk off the wave of chill and emotion that threatened to engulf me. I walked down past the wheelie bins, concentrating on the red solidity of the wall, rather than the tragic scene at my back. Writing caught my attention, and I paused before a curious message, traced my fingertips along someone’s poetry, scrawled out one white word per brick:
Many solemn nights
Blonde moon, we stand and marvel
Sleeping our noons away
A hedonistic haiku? Had a few beers or whiskeys brought out someone’s inner philosopher? With its intimate scale yet earnest outpouring it was a far cry from the grand gesture that Timi and his friends were set on creating. What message were they trying to express? I hadn’t paid attention to the actual wording of their tag. Most of the bold, graphic tags I had seen on the sides of railway carriages and on unsuspecting walls were all about identity – this is who we are, take note, world. I was guessing Timi and his crew’s would be the same. Curious now, but also actively avoiding a return to the emotional trap that was the crime scene, I walked back around the corner to where the boys had started their work. It was impossible to make out any pattern from right in front, so I backed up as far as the mouth of the tunnel. The experts always said it was better to appreciate art from the centre of the room.
One of the first things I contemplated was their choice of place to tag. The paintable surface was a tapered segment between the slope of the hill the building was on and the straight line of the first row of windows above it. It was low to the ground, and there wasn’t that much space. I guessed it was chosen because these kids were young, and none of them were that tall. They didn’t have to dangle precariously and risk life and limb, and didn’t have to bring along something to climb up on. It made life simple.
Even standing from a distance the extremely stylised letters were difficult to string together. The first was definitely a B, and there was another B further along. There were two Os. My inner crossword geek was able to fill in the rest.
BloodBroz.
Blood brothers.
Cute. I knew they weren’t literally brothers, but I wondered if they were related in some way? Cousins? Was the blood literal, or figurative, expressive of a common bond?
I frowned. Something in my consciousness told me this was important. I’d learned over the years to trust my radar.
A common bond?
In the time I had been playing desk jockey, searching for anything in common between the region’s few related incidents of baby snatching and … well, however you’d describe the current events, I hadn’t looked into familial relationships. Were victim and perpetrator related in any way? Blood brothers. Blood sisters in this case. And why would that matter?
I did one last scan of the courtyard, then turned around and gladly started to ascend the tunnel. Coming down here may have stirred up some emotion that was a bit too close to home, but it felt like the scene had been trying to tell me something, and I now had another angle to look into. Who knew if it would lead anywhere, but it least it felt like I was doing something.
Coming here had been more confronting than I had thought. It was hard to fathom the indescribable horror that Aleisha Newman went through that night. My hands reached underneath my own, gravid belly, and I prayed she was unconscious in the moment she was cut open. I fervently hoped that her baby was out there somewhere, safe and sound, and I thanked God that in those final moments she hadn’t been alone. That someone had cared enough to stay.