Dragonfly Illusion - 1,000 words (or so)

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Prologue – An Unheard Silence 1996

The peculiar silence of a car after it crashes can be disturbing. Only the ticking of metal settling into its new form, or perhaps the dripping of unconfined fluid intrudes. Emergency vehicles’ sirens eventually mask that silence, so it reigns only briefly. First responders never know it. Such was the case when a nondescript sedan skidded sideways off a wet Hampden Road and slammed into a large River Red Gum tree.

The first police officer on the scene quickly assessed the situation and mentally added two to the tally of car crash deaths he’d witnessed. He knew lifeless bodies when he saw them, but thought better of telling the medics not to bother hurrying. It wouldn’t look good. More interested in the peculiar device hanging from the car’s petrol tank, he pressed the call button on his radio.

‘443 to base,’ there was a momentary pause, ‘get someone from E Section here, fast. Junction Victoria and Hampden. And backup. Area needs to be cordoned off.’

E Section had no permanent staff, but any officer with explosives training could be assigned to that group, and two were always on call. Officer 443 had correctly surmised that the curious apparatus was what they called a vehicle-borne explosive device. Regular officers would secure the area to keep curious onlookers, already gathering, at a safe distance.

Before the car crash that killed them, Roger and Jan Sugarman appeared to be a regular, middle-class couple. Comfortably installed in their conventional home in an ordinary suburb, even their friends matched the public persona that Roger wanted to project.

After the crash, those friends in particular, and the public more widely, weren’t sure what to make of it. A local newspaper published a report in which a police spokesman made the mistake of calling the accident ‘bizarre’. He revealed that had the impact with the tree not taken their lives instantly, the explosive charge fixed to the petrol tank of their 20-year-old Ford Cortina would have done the job only four minutes later. At least, it would have if the collision hadn’t jammed the timer. A nameless bureaucrat reprimanded the public relations officer for releasing this information.

There was much speculation as to why two ‘ordinary citizens’ should be targeted in such a way. By the time the joint funeral was held, many were convinced that the Sugarmans were Russian spies or homegrown revolutionaries. Others insisted they were master criminals. The Victorian Police issued a press release saying that the Australian Federal Police, ASIO and the Department of Immigration and Ethnic Affairs had confirmed that Roger and Jan Sugarman were not persons of interest. No editor chose to publish that statement.

Newspaper interest eventually died away with the lack of new material. The press replaced the story with the softer subject of what would happen to the Sugarmans’ eight-year-old son and only child, Jack. A close family friend organised a series of fundraising events. Jack’s godparents adopted the young boy as soon as they could arrange it, but Jim and Angela Walker were not in a solid financial position. The community rallied around them, and within weeks – they were told public sympathy wouldn’t have lasted much longer – a trust fund boasted a balance sufficient to ensure Jack’s safe upbringing until he was 18.

The police determined the accident was just that, an accident. They ruled out suicide, putting it down to inattention, poor judgment or just plain bad luck. Official conjecture faded when an investigation into the explosive charge led offshore. An explosives specialist identified the material as RDX, also known as cyclonite. The expert reported that the Australian Army used a version known as RS-RDX, the prefix indicating, perversely, reduced sensitivity. When analysed, a sample of residue from the Sugarmans’ car displayed a different chemical profile and ‘wasn’t manufactured in Australia.’ To pad out the report, he added that Germany had patented RDX in 1898. Britain, the USA and Germany used it with striking effect during the Second World War.

The police found it difficult to find background material on Roger Sugarman. They could compile a picture of his work only with high-level clearance and assurance of strict secrecy. Roger himself had maintained confidentiality within the bureaucracy and in his private life. His official biography was a short one.

To anyone who asked, he worked in administration, which, for most, was sufficiently vague and dull to avert any further enquiry. If anyone persisted, he was a conflict archaeologist and ‘you don’t want to know’ ended the conversation. Roger worked in a shady world of government investigation, answered to no minister and worked in no particular department. A committee directed his activities, or more accurately, the committee’s chair. They rarely met, which suited Roger. He hated meetings. Written reports and the occasional phone call were his preference.

Officially, he was a special events coordinator with a team put together by a task force jointly managed by the offices of the Premier and the Governor. Occasionally, genuine events were attributed to his management skills. Roger insisted that such attribution was verbal only. He didn’t want to steal other people’s thunder.

His latest investigation was into what started as a routine cross-jurisdictional irregularity. His targets were often described as irregularities. It always meant illegal. This one involved four departments, three ministers, two government business enterprises and several contracts. Roger had identified 14 contracts having been awarded well outside Treasury directions. Many millions of dollars were involved, much of which the accountants couldn’t trace. He had already delivered an executive summary of his findings but wanted a few more days to complete the full report. On the draft of that report, he’d scribbled ‘Tears before bedtime.’

[More to follow. Maybe tomorrow.]