A Karratha man has once again found himself scratching around the dark recesses of the human mind, unable to shake the thought NW Coastal HWY would be a great spot to dump a body.
As he crossed several times over the horizon along a particularly desolate stretch of the crimson-dusted road, 29-year-old sparky Michael Dutton (no relation) couldn’t shake the same recurring morbid thought that’s hit him every time he’s done the Port Hedland run.
This would be a great place to dump a body.
Hypothetically, of course.
But seriously. You could drop somebody anywhere out here and it would never be found. Never. It’s the perfect place for it.
Hypothetically though.
“Just pull up somewhere, walk out 50 metres and drop it there,” he said with a level of casual enthusiasm that made the Bugle reporter riding shotgun chuckle uncomfortably.
“You wouldn’t even need to bury it — maybe just a bit of shrub over the top to be safe,” Michael continued.
“Probably couldn’t dig out here anyway – cunt would be as tough as concrete.”
Unnerving as it was, Michael’s thought is not unique. It’s said every motorist who drives Pilbara’s lonely, stretching highways can’t stop themselves from thinking about one of the most base human curiosities – could I do it? And, more importantly, could I get away with it?
This question is at the heart of 19th century Russian author Fyodor Dostoevsky’s acclaimed novel Crime and Punishment: what compels us to commit the ultimate violation of our social code, and are all of us capable of it?
Michael, of course, has not read Crime and Punishment. In fact he hasn’t read a book since he was forced to flick through Deadly Unna in Year 12 English back at Karratha Senior High School.
Didn’t finish it. Didn’t reckon it was very good.
Anyway, back to the road.
After detailing his oddly well-rehearsed proposal for how to hide a murder in the Pilbara outback, Michael went quiet as he imagined in greater detail who he’d kill and how he’d do it — now that the final piece of the puzzle was set: roughly where along NW Coastal the victim would end up.
“You wouldn’t want it to be somebody too close to you,” he said.
“Nobody you’ve had beef with, at least not for a while.
“Dickhead who called me back the other week to rewire a shorting dimmer switch I installed? It’d be sweet revenge giving him a knife through the eyeball and an eternal sleep in the Pilbara dirt but the cops would be right onto me.
“But Jason the school bully 11 years ago? Bingo. Mother-in-law? Tougher, but I don’t reckon they’d suspect me.”
After a series of supportive nods and “Yeah, ha-ha” replies from our reporter next to him who only wanted to move onto a new conversation, Michael went quiet again for most of the remainder of the drive – except to point out what he thought would be particularly good dumping grounds.
“You’ve got to get somewhere nowhere near any landmarks. Not near a tree, or an outcrop,” he said.
“Just somewhere like everywhere else,” he added with an unsettling look at his passenger.
The Bugle correspondent became increasingly anxious as he noticed a blue tarp and the couple of rolls of duct tape sitting on the back seat.
He decided to try send a precautionary message to his editor, who was at the time likely enjoying a late lunch at the Dampier Mermaid.
It wouldn’t send. No reception.
“No bars, aye? It’s like that out here,” Michael told the reporter deadpan.
“Milat would cream himself just thinking about it.”
