Mark 1

"He didn't seem to have a killer instinct about him," Claire said. They hadn't worked together long. She was a country girl, fresh out of the academy.

Mark flicked his indicator and turned a corner. He'd been doing this beat for most of his career. He knew the area well, good and bad. His old partner went into retirement. Now he had a kid for a partner. Thirty years on the force had taught him a lot about people. She had a long way to go. "You saw the mess he made of that lady."

"She attacked that man," she said.

"Did that look like self defence to you? Crime is in their genes, you'll see after you've been dealing with them as long as I have."

"Come on, that's not fair."

"You know what they say. Not all abos are bad, it's the 99% that give the rest a bad name." he said, and laughed.

He waited for her laugh, but it didn't come.

"What?" he said, with heat in his voice. "Don't tell me you're one of those politically correct types, it's just a joke." Mark missed his old partner.

"He called it in. He could have run and chances are he'd never be caught. It's strange is all I'm saying," she said.

He hadn't decided whether he was impressed by the kid owning up, or the sheer stupidity of it.

"Is there any information on military presence tonight?" The radio buzzed. "We're seeing a lot of them out here."

"At least it's been an interesting night." He said. She didn't respond.

"That car is going way too fast," she said, motioning to the car that passed them.

He flipped on the sirens.

They stood by the side of the car. An elderly man sat behind the wheel. He had a friendly look about him.

"You take the lead on this one," he said.

She nodded and waited for the man to roll down the window. "I'm constable Claire Jones. Do you know why we stopped you?"

"No, sorry officer," The elderly man said. He looked like he'd been crying.

"Are you aware of how fast you were going?" she said.

The man shook his head. "I was distracted."

"You were going 60 in a 50 zone, License and address, please."

"Sorry officer," he said, as he handed over his licence.

"You're far from home. What are you here for?" Claire asked as she read his licence.

"I was just sent home from the hospital, I think my wife is... dying." He stumbled over the last word.

They took the license back to the car and ran it. Harry Thompson, he came up clean, no driving offences in the last ten years. "Do we need to fine him now?" Claire asked.

"What do you think?" he asked.

"Can we give him a warning?" she asked.

"Yeah I reckon," he said, "poor bugger's having a hard enough night."

They drove around for an uneventful half hour. The traffic stop broke the tension that had built. He needed to be careful with his jokes around her. The force was changing, and it was for the worse.

"Any unit near Ascot Vale clear for a CODE 10," the radio buzzed.

"Well, that's us," he said, "shit, I hate domestics."

Mark cruised along a suburban street. The street had seen better days. He pulled up in front of an old commission home, its weatherboards flaked with paint. The garden, an overgrown mess. The windows were dark, no lights on inside. An old woman paced in front of the house. She looked nervous.

"You were the person who reported the incident?" Mark asked, as he got out of the car.

"Yes, they're druggies and I usually ignore them, but he's gone too far this time," she said.

He couldn't hear or see any signs of trouble. "What led you to believe there was a domestic dispute."

"She was screaming, he was hurting her, but she's stopped now, it was so awful."

Mark walked up the old cement path that cut through the overgrown front lawn. He knocked on the door, a practised loud, firm knock. There was no answer. He knocked again.

"There's blood on the floor," Claire said, as she shone her torch through the front window. "A lot of it."

"We need to get in there." He lined up the door. Right next to the handle was the sweet spot. He kicked with as much force as he could. The door swung open violently. He'd never gotten to do that before. He bet it looked cool. "Police, don't move," he yelled into the gapping darkness. His torch out, he moved through the cramped entrance hall into the lounge room. Mark found the splatters of blood, someone had been severely wounded. He followed the blood into the next room.

Mark scanned the room with his torch, A man huddled over a woman on the floor of a small kitchen. Blood covered the tiles. The man pulled innards from a gaping wound in her stomach, a wet ripping noise. He pulled ropey intestines to his mouth and ripped at them with his teeth. The woman's pale face stained with tears, her eyes blank.

"Police. Don't move," he said, his voice firm and calm.

The man slowly turned his head, the viscera he chewed forgotten in his slack jaw. He stumbled to his feet, his movements jerky. Blood dribbled from his mouth, gore covered his front. His dull eyes stared in their direction, no emotion as blank as his victims. This guy was on a whole cocktail of contraband.

"Hands up," he yelled.

The words triggered something in him. He ran at them.

"Get back," Claire yelled. She drew her taser and fired. The man's muscles seized. He didn't fall. He barely reacted as his muscles spasmed. The stuff he was on really had him warped. Five seconds and the taser stopped pulsing. He came at them.

Claire dropped her used taser and drew her gun.

"No, we take him in," Mark said. He ran at the man and slammed into him, knocking him to the ground. "This bastard deserves to rot."

Mark put his knee in the man's back as he struggled to pin the flailing man. Claire was there a second later. She put weight on his shoulders. He squirmed underneath them. Mark beat at the man's arm with his fist as he forced the hands together. Claire screamed in pain. "The bastard bit me," she said. Mark gave the man a few heavy knees into his side. He slammed cuffs on to the man's wrists, closing them harder than necessary.

"I've got him," Mark said, breathing heavy. "You check the woman."

She got up and Mark moved his weight to pin the man. He heard Claire gag. A splatter of vomit hit the tiles. "She's dead."

Mark readied his radio. "Reporting Code 69 at Ascot Vale job, suspect apprehended. Send an ambulance," he said. The man writhed and moaned. Mark gave him a swift kick to the gut. He searched the man, no weapons, but he found a wallet.

"How you doing, kiddo?" he said, and noticed her leg, the wound deep and bleeding. "How's the bite?"

"Nah, it's nothing," she said. She grabbed a dishcloth off the kitchen bench and put pressure on the wound.

"Get the ambos to check it when they get here," he said, "bites are nasty, they get infected."

The man moaned, hoarse and low. He sounded like an injured animal. He thrashed against his bonds. The man didn't tire. "Would you shut the fuck up," Mark yelled at the man.

Mark checked the wallet. Daniel Wilson.

"Mr Wilson, you're under arrest for murder. Anything you say can and will be used against you in court. Do you understand?" Mark said. The man snarled and snapped his teeth at Mark's leg. "We need to stop this fucker biting. Take over here for a sec"

Claire took position, pinning the man. Mark checked the kitchen draws. Some electrical tape, that would do.

"What do you think he's on?" she asked.

"It might be that bath salts shit." Mark said, as he taped the man's mouth up.

Sirens blared not far off as they took him out the front door. Mark had the feral man controlled and kept him moving. He put the man into the bar seat of the police car. Mark gave a quick push to knock the man's head as he forced him in. Lights lit the street in red and blue as the Ambulance pulled up.