“And you’re 100% sure this won’t be traced back to me?”, the sweaty man asked a little nervously. “I mean, my wife Mandyleen thought I shouldn’t meet you, but tonight’s her Krav Maga club night. Yeah, if you came at her with a knife, you’d get a broken wrist [he snapped his fingers proudly] like that.”
I laughed. “I’ll just pretend it’s fiction. We never really met, did we? And especially not just around the corner from SAPOL? Of course not! That would be far too… fantastical.”
Previously I’d had to endure forty minutes of relentless Ashes sledging from this Les Patterson-styled forensic sararyman, until I finally ‘admitted’ that, yes, the 2025 Aussie bowlers had left me as sad as Joe Root’s mum. And then after that, he’d told me about how he always wanted a son called Hurtle, but had ended up with twins (Hayley and Dayley) at medical school, and that they had creepy-looking doppelganger Japanese boyfriends, both called Ken. He’d shown me the WhatsApps. Which was nice.
To be honest, I had more than a fleeting suspicion that my nervous insider had downed a couple in the arvo before we met up. But I didn’t mind, because the drunker he got, the more it felt as though he was preparing to spill his filthy guts. The floodgates were trembling: I signalled for two more schooners.
“And I expect you want to know all about the Somerton Man? Now, what a shitshow and a half that was.”
The floodgates had opened.
= = = = = = = = = = = =
“Me, I like West Terrace, I’ve got a couple of great-aunts resting eternally there. But the whole exhumation thing? I didn’t care for it, it seemed like a giant barbie for a tiny prawn. But once that Professor guy got politicians on-side, they all wanted a bit of our cold case DNA magic.”
“So, did you do the familial DNA for the Suzanne Poll cold case? And for the North Adelaide rapist?”
“My team did”, he crowed. “Clever buggers, I love ’em all. But…” – he looked down at his empty glass – “that was before ‘Summy M’ came along, and wrecked the show. Wrecked my bloody show.”
I passed him his next schooner of Coopers Pale. “So, what happened? I mean, the exhumation was in May 2021, that seems a long time ago.”
“It was! Everyone else in the office thought it would be a stroll in the park: swab ‘im, stick it in the machines, bonza job, off to the Power at the weekend. I wasn’t so confident, but even I was surprised when nothing – and I mean nothing – went to plan. We’d have had more luck sequencing a Fritz Bung.”
“So what was the problem?”
He took a healthy glug, nearly draining the oddly small glass, and sat back with a wry smile. “It took me a while – probably longer than it should have – to figure it all out, but I reckon you might know already.”
“Nope, no idea.”
He looked across the table, narrowing his eyes. “So tell me: what’s the difference between an onion and a pickled onion?”
I again shook my head.
“One stings your eyes, the other stings your arse.” He laughed, then quickly looked uncomfortable. “Only in this case, the joke was on us. We were the arse. And jeez, it stung like hell.”
= = = = = = = = = = = =
“I’m sorry, I still don’t get it.”
“Look: what do you taste when you bite into a pickled onion?”
“Regret?”
He rolled his eyes. “I wasn’t asking for a punchline. You taste pickle – vinegar. And that not only masks pretty much all the funky sulfury onion-tasting stuff, it also denatures all the proteins. It’s a lot less of an onion after it’s been pickled.”
I frowned. “So, the formaldehyde SAPOL injected into the Somerton Man’s veins, that pickled him too?”
“Actually, formaldehyde fragments DNA, it cross‑links to it and it degrades it. What starts as DNA ends up as nasty, sticky goo. We all knew about this beforehand, but thought: yeah, yeah, we’ll find a way around it. But we never did. The poor bugger was worse than pickled. His closest DNA match was to a gherkin.”
“And that was basically your DNA report that took two years to do?”
“Yup”. He shook his head glumly. “So our bosses now think we’re a bunch of idiots.”
“But what about hair analysis? Nail analysis? Teeth enamel analysis? All that clever stuff you promised at the start?”
“Mate, this is South Australia, not M.I.T. The money was for DNA, and that’s where it went. In the end, we had a bit of cash left over for a forensic odontology report, but that was basically how it all panned out.”
“Hmmm”, I said. “Not heaps good”.
“Yeah”, he said. “Heaps not good at all. Another schooner? I could murder a pickled onion.”
I always learn something new from a ciphermysteries post.
Never heard of an Australian called Mandyleen – g/gle says it was inflicted in America on a woman born n 1915.
Ditto “Krav Maga” – a form of self-defence developed in Istrael.
I didn’t know who Joe Root was either, but of course he’s an English cricketer.
Fritz Bung – apparently it is “an iconic South Australian sausage” – which will helpful for people to know who aren’t in South Australia..
Also surprised to learn there are still people who say ‘Bonza’. Have to admit I’ve only heard it from movies of the 1930s and ’40s. But there you go.
Much fascinating trivia as well as interesting science. We can be glad pre-modern bodies’ dna isn’t affected by formaldehyde.
Diane: “bonza” was just my little joke. But glad you enjoyed my purely fictional account of a meeting that definitely didn’t happen. At all.
Nick, I appreciate the effort behind your photo – really is a brand to be found in Australia. Of course, having so many people with ties to Asia, India and Europe, you’ll find the average supermarket is likely to stock everything from Nori-goma-shio to asafoedida and Fray Bentos steak and kidney pie… or indeed. Branston PIckles if you prefer.
I don’t think it is fritz bung I think you will find it’s just fritz.
But “his closest DNA match was to a gerkin “ – the belly laugh of the silly season, and comic genius
Bob Burgess: Fritz is indeed the normal form, but I thought Fritz Bung just sounded funnier. Glad you enjoyed it, even if (*checks contract*) it was entirely fictional.
Hello Nick,
I also wish you all the best for the holidays.
I must apologise. Not because I’m late.
Actually, you were supposed to get a tin of peppermint tea from me. But it looks like you now have the Fribator.
PS: All the best for the holidays, and my grandmother is delighted with the tea.
Fabulous post Nick! You’re getting the gist of the lingo, y’old dingo!
Jo: I’m very touched to be an honorary dingo, thanks!