Sucked In by Shane Maloney

I’ve just picked up an interesting bit of static from a mate at the Peaheads.’ The Peaheads were the PEA, the Public Employees Association, the government sector super-union. Originally the Public Service Association, it had become the PEA after absorbing the Public Employees Federation subsequent to the PEF’s amalgamation with the FUME.
    â€˜Couple of days ago, they had a call from the constabulary wanting to know if they’ve still got the Municipals’ old records.’
    â€˜Something in particular?’
    â€˜Membership rolls, payroll, financial accounts, that sort of thing,’ he said. ‘Circa 1978.’
    â€˜You reckon it’s got anything to do with Merv Cutlett’s bones turning up?’
    â€˜No names mentioned. A routine enquiry, whatever that means. Nobody at the Peaheads seems to have joined the dots. The Municipals were three amalgamations ago and corporate memory doesn’t exactly run deep at the PEA. Lucky if they can remember as far back as breakfast.’
    â€˜They give the cops the records?’ I said.
    â€˜In my experience, unions are reluctant to hand over their internal documents,’ said Inky. ‘But being a helpful lot, the Peaheads said they’d have a poke around, see what they can find. Which will be exactly zip. The old FUME records were definitely BC. Before Computers. Nobody’s got the faintest idea where they ended up. Long gone, probably.’
    â€˜How can twenty-year-old financial records help identify an old skeleton?’ I said.
    â€˜You tell me, Murray,’ said Inky. ‘You tell me.’

Not much was happening in the Parliament House library.
    A pair of dust motes were dancing a slow waltz in the air beneath the crystal chandelier. A century of Hansard was snoozing on the shelves, silent in its calf-leather covers. A scatter of documents and a writing pad lay unattended on the big octagonal reading table beneath the cupola.
    The duty librarian, a studious-looking, carrot-haired young man in a boxy suit and tiny diamond ear-stud, was languidly staring into a monitor, occasionally tapping a key.
    â€˜G’day, Pat,’ I said. ‘Busy?’
    â€˜Frantic,’ he said, deadpan, then tore his attention away from the screen. ‘How may I assist you today, Mr Whelan?’
    The parliamentary library prided itself on its ability to hunt down and capture almost any publication in the global vastness of the public domain. And do so with absolute confidentiality. I could have asked for the Olympia first edition of Swedish Stewardesses on Heat and Pat wouldn’t have batted a pale-pink eyelid.
    â€˜I’m after the findings of a coronial inquest,’ I said.
    â€˜That shouldn’t be a problem.’ He was clearly disappointed that it was not something more professionally challenging. ‘Recent?’
    â€˜1978,’ I said. ‘Sorry.’
    On my way back from lunch, it’d occurred to me that I might be able to rustle up a tad more information on the circumstances of Merv Cutlett’s drowning than the sketchy outline provided by the newspaper reports.
    At its last meeting, the Scrutiny of Acts and Regulations Committee had considered a slate of recommendations from the State Coroner regarding the mandatory wearing of life-jackets. Too many teenagers were dying in canoeing accidents and the rules on mucking around in boats needed tightening. Supporting documentation had included inquest summaries pertaining to accidental deaths on inland waterways, some going back twenty years. The proposed legislative amendments were uncontentious, so I hadn’t bothered wading through the files.
    â€˜It might even still be here,’ I said. ‘Pending return to the Coroner’s office.’ I gave Pat the details and he jotted them down.
    â€˜I’ll get right onto it.’ His attention was drifting back to the monitor.
    â€˜ASAP will be fine,’ I said.
    By then it