by SJ Brown
“About ninety-five kilos worth.”
“Yes, Sir. On the return, lighter indentation but still observable to the naked eye. All photographed and very serviceable impressions made. Same with the tire tracks. As you suggested, I’ve released the site back to the building company. The manager was there this morning. Flash ute. There’s money in construction. Seemed relieved his crew could get on with the build.”
Mahoney cut the observation short. “That’s as maybe. Any ideas on the make of boots?”
“Well, they’re not Blunnies. One of the guys at the lab reckoned they might be Mack steel toes. He’s checking this afternoon.” Mahoney nodded. She was back on message.
“And the car? Any luck?” As she took notes, Kate was very careful to sound as an equal to a fellow female officer.
“Excellent tire tracks. Again the lab is running various makes for a match and will have details this afternoon.” A slight pause. “If I can say so, this pair were in a pretty big rush or they’re just not very good at this type of thing.”
Mahoney had been doodling on a jotter pad. “It seems so. I’m more inclined to the former but they made precious little effort to cover their tracks. What interests me is the choice of locale for the disposal of the body. Was it organized beforehand? And why there?”
Kate scanned her notes. “Well, it’s a readymade trench so no need to allow for digging time and that decreases the chances of being caught in the act. Given the distance they drove, it would seem that they already had this spot picked out. Which suggests a specific plan as opposed to randomly attacking Finch and dumping the body anywhere. Or even just leaving it at the Bowls Club. So it really gets back to what was the intention of this scheme? Why bundle the body into a bag and then take it twenty kilometers away to a building site?”
Manning chipped in. “Were they hoping for the body to be concreted over? When we were building, all the foundations were minutely inspected just before any concrete went in. Surely the body would be seen in that case.”
Mahoney brought them back. “Whether or not it was a pre-arranged dumping spot or they wanted the body to disappear is not the crucial point. We need to determine why there but we may not know that until we have found one of these people. Until then we’re just hypothesizing on the mentality of the thugs who did this. It’s all well and good acting as if we’re in an Oxford pub supping pints and being lateral-minded sleuths but we’ve got a bit sidetracked.” Realizing he’d lost both women with his last reference, Mahoney curtly moved on. “Lyn, what do we have from the Bowls Club?”
“Oh, yeah.” She shuffled the second folder to the top. “See what you mean. Good traces of bodily fluids. Also samples of his blood on the concrete curbing at the end of the rink. So he was there for sure but we knew that already.” Her eyes had skimmed ahead to the next paragraph and she immediately kicked herself for not reading the reports more thoroughly before racing back to HQ. “There’s a second blood sample from a different individual.”
The atmosphere became rather more charged. Both of the other officers were too tactful to say anything. It was not her call in which order the material was being dissected but this did look a bit like a smug conjurer pulling the rabbit out of the hat. Maybe it did not matter. She hoped so.
Thankfully, the DI was unconcerned with how the cards were falling. Made a joke of it. “Lovely, Lyn, bit of a grand finale.” Genuinely pleased. No irony at all. “I don’t suppose you can top that with an ID for the sample.”
“Not just yet. Sometime this afternoon,” a relieved Manning replied as she scanned the report. “Says here it’s definitely a different blood type from Finch. Deposited at the same time as the victim’s trace.” Her voice was slightly halting as she paraphrased the text in front of her. “Cannot be absolutely certain due to environmental considerations but very close to almost definitely the same time.”
“No matter, that’s close enough. As I’m sure Kate would agree, there’s enough probability to credibly place at least one perpetrator at the scene. Enough to closely question whoever that may be.”
Just then there was a knock on the door. Munro entered. “Good news, guys. I’ve just been speaking with a girl who was talking to Finch for a while on Thursday night at the Metz. Staff and a couple of his cobbers confirm he was there but she was the last sighting. Says they were getting along beautifully, or words to that effect, when Finch took a call on his mobile and then all of a sudden he had to scoot off. She reckoned at the time he was blowing her off. Last she saw of him he was off down Russell Crescent. From there you can duck down through the Coles car park and into the Bowls Club. Could be the call that took him to the altercation.” Despite gabbling at the rate of knots, all had heard him clearly. He was right to be excited.
Kate spoke first. “That last number received would be very handy. I’ll try and hurry up the phone company. Get them to stop dragging the chain and see the urgency. It’s far more vital now. May be able to circumvent the warrant.” Left for her desk.
Manning stood as well. “I’ll chase Graves at the lab for our match. Excuse me.”
“Right, good. Report back as soon as either of you have any news.” The two detectives were alone in the space. “Sergeant Munro. Good man. You’ve just reversed your own goal. Need I ask how you tracked her down so quickly?”
“Bit of rat cunning, Sir.” Almost a grin. “And a fair dose of luck to be fair. She’s a bit of a stand-out. Did some promo work for the bar last year so the number was dead easy to get. A lot of people want whoever did it found. And, needless to say, strung up. Anyway, sorry about earlier. Won’t happen again. I’ve got the scent now.”
“And if it goes cold?”
“No problem. I’m selected whether I can train Thursday or not. All good.” The full 100 watts. “What needs doing now?”
“Speak to the Council and the construction company.” Mahoney waved to the incident room. “Kate can bring you up to speed.” A theatrical projection. “And if Constable Manning could get that DNA match.”
A raised voice called back. “Got it but I don’t think you’re going to believe it.”
* * *
An hour later Mahoney and Kendall entered the interview room. Seated on the far side at the wooden table was a wiry male with a classic mullet hairstyle. Behind him was a uniformed constable whom Mahoney excused from the room prior to acknowledging the subject. As the door closed, Mahoney addressed the man.
“Thank you for making yourself available, Mr. Knapp.”
“Didn’t have much choice. Smartarse in the suit reckoned it was this way or an arrest. Don’t need that.”
“No, that would be inconvenient.” Mahoney said. “Anyway, at this stage you are helping us with our investigation, so informal is best.”
“What bloody investigation? I’ve been out of trouble for yonks so why drag me in.”
“Well, fairer to say you’ve been operating under our radar, Matty. Unlike your brother, eh?”
“Yeah, stupid bugger. Those Godfrey pricks dropped him right in it.”
Mahoney leaned forward on his elbows. “No more drive away work for a fair while for Troy. Have to re-sit his license after a few years at Risdon. Still, his mates might show a bit of gratitude for copping it all by himself and not giving them up. Thieves’ code of honor and all that.”
Knapp shifted in his chair. “More shit scared, like. Hey, got a burner for me?”
“Sorry Matty, you know the new rules. Can’t have smoking in a government building. Enough crime as there is. Get you a drink of the house dishwater if you like.”
“Nah, let’s just get this over. I ain’t done any newsagents or nothing so why am I here?” He leaned back in his chair and clasped his hands behind his head. As he was wearing a blue work singlet, this afforded Kate not only a whiff of his rancid armpits but a glimpse of tattoos on either underarm that invited her to move away
or words to that effect. Charming in all respects. It was her turn to speak.
“Have you heard about the Devils’ forward who got bumped off?”
“So Miss Prim can talk.” Cockiness was often the opening stance of suspects who wanted to avoid something. “Yeah, I heard about it. That’ll stuff ’em up for the season I reckon.” Knapp smirked, not an appealing sight. It made him look even more like a weasel.
“Well, we’re more concerned with the fact he was murdered than the finals prospects of his club. There have been some interesting forensic developments and you may be able to help us with some of the discoveries.”
“Whatever.” Knapp had now crossed his arms and was staring at the ceiling. It was a master class in acting the unconcerned innocent citizen. Kate wondered how long he could maintain it.
“You see, Mr. Knapp, the person who bludgeoned the victim seems to have left some forensic evidence at the scene. Have you by any chance been down to the Sandy Bay Bowls Club lately?” The first strand of the web.
“Do I look like I’m retired? Never been there. Don’t go in for all that malarkey. Waste of bloody time, if you ask me.”
Kendall pressed on. “You’re entitled to your opinion. Regardless, at the crime scene there was some puzzling material. Someone had left a beautiful deposit of bodily fluids right near where we calculate the actual homicide to have occurred. Whoever it was must have had a bit of a summer cold because he must have gobbed up a very hearty scallop of mucus. An absolute ripper, you might say.” Knapp was no longer fixated on the ceiling. “Oh, and some blood. The forensic boys were very pleased until they tried to find a match. They couldn’t find a suitable one.”
Knapp let his shoulders relax. Decided to hazard a remark. “Bit of a bummer for youse then?”
“Close, Matty, but no cigar. As Detective Kendall said, they were flummoxed. Having DNA at a crime scene is only any good to you in the short term if it correlated with a person we have on the database already.” Knapp may have been unsure of one of the verbs but he still felt secure. He’d never even been fingerprinted, so what were these galahs up to?
“But we did find an almost identical match as it turns out. Trouble is the person identified has been behind bars for six months.” The interviewee smiled: the teeth needed a lot of work.
“The spooky thing, Matty, is that the match was with your brother, Troy.” Knapp was silent. Perhaps he was now aware of the web. Kate concentrated on maintaining a bland stare even though she knew the coming sting in the tail.
“And the marvelous thing about DNA is that siblings have such similar strands. As Troy is highly unlikely to have been at the bowls club we have to assume it was you, Matty.” The grin was well and truly gone. “Would you care to reconsider your earlier assertion about your whereabouts last Thursday?”
“I’ve got nothing to say.”
CHAPTER 25
Tuesday 16th March 8am
Mahoney had already been at his desk for over an hour when the summons came. The local press had the story of the investigation plastered across the front page and the editorial asserted that ‘not nearly enough was being done to discover who has committed this loathsome crime’. As he pored over witness statements, he experienced a nagging feeling that the powers-that-be would want to exert their authority. This would most likely manifest itself in the form of Assistant Commissioner Newman demanding a briefing – “just so as I can be across all the issues, you understand” – on the current investigation. And so, at 8.40am, the desk phone trilled. “Mahoney here.”
“Detective Inspector, it’s Bridget Scanlon. The Assistant Commissioner wishes to see you in his office at your earliest convenience.” Her voice was almost a parody of formality as if this businesslike tone was her way of staying sane while the bullshit poured past her.
“Which means I’m immediately required on the Footy Show set.” A cheap shot but who cared.
“Yes, that’s correct, Detective Inspector.” A stifled giggle. Newman was not exactly well liked by his immediate staff.
Mahoney pressed on. “Will the Mirror be there?”
“No, the Commissioner is in meetings with the Attorney-General this morning.”
“Thank you, BS. I’ll be right there.”
He slipped on his jacket and took the lift six floors up to the Executive Level. Rare air. Adjusting his tie, he strode past the PA into his superior’s office. “Shut the door, John.” The clipped tone of a man who just loved giving orders.
“Yes, Sir.” Maintain a level pitch and do not let the charlatan rattle you. Get this over and done with, with minimum hassle and get on with the real work. He could feel himself on edge.
“Sit down, John.” Newman indicated the chairs at his round table. Camelot. Only it had been Newman who had cast himself as Sir Galahad years before and it had been Mahoney who felt the loss. He was grateful he rarely saw the loathsome Lothario. Sitting down, he declined the offer of coffee. Why prolong the encounter? His superior joined him at the table. Adopted his stern we-are-in-something-of-a-crisis face and proclaimed, “John, we are in something of a crisis. The media are eating us alive on this one.”
Mahoney momentarily thought he had tuned into a television soap opera before registering that it was merely Newman displaying a customary predilection for dramatic cliché. It was bandied around downstairs that he prepared for the rigors of the working day in a hyperbolic chamber.
Mahoney could not let that pass unchallenged. “Sir, with respect, we are making strong progress on the Finch case. The press can feast as much as they like. My detectives are flogging their guts out on this one.”
But Newman had a message to deliver whatever his DI wanted to say. “I do not care if they are sweating blood. This department can ill afford any negative media treatment in the run-up to the Budget discussions. Commissioner Phillips is at the Executive Building as we speak, desperately trying to gain us the resources we need to properly police this state. His efforts, and mine dare I say, do not need to be handicapped by the ineptitude of a task force that can only turn up one suspect, and a pretty spurious one at that. So, with respect John, do not go on to me about excruciating effort when we are not getting any results.” The Saint had meted out his judgment.
The indecorous idea that extra resources probably amounted to government drivers for top brass was shunted aside by another thought that steamrolled over the edit button on Mahoney’s tongue. “You’re right, Sir. My use of language was inaccurate.” Pause. “I don’t respect you in the slightest so I won’t pretend I do when speaking to you.”
A distinct rise in volume. “You’re a lizard – not a snake because they can pose a threat – but a gormless lizard. A pompous fool who bathes in the sunlight of success afforded by your subordinates and doesn’t have the gumption or courage to stick up for his officers when the breeze of public opinion wafts the other way. You slid behind my back into Lisa’s bed years ago and you’ve slimed your way to the top. I have gotten over your white-anting long ago and I’ve learned to operate under your ineffectual leadership but I cannot, and will not, listen to you spout unjustifiable rubbish about this homicide case when sound officers are giving their all. You couldn’t solve a child’s riddle, let alone a halfway decent crime, so how about you stick to monitoring traffic flow and let us do the real work.”
Newman’s ears were practically smoking: the jaw had slid open but nothing came out. He knew from his network of stooges in the department that Mahoney barely showed emotion let alone raised his voice so to witness a tirade was as much of a shock as the venom of the attack was fearsome. Mahoney upped and departed leaving the AC slumped in his chair, bewildered and hangdog. He had been told.
* * *
DC David Gibson wasn’t sure if he was doing the right thing or not. In one sense he was: taking the weekend offer to move into CIB for this case was a gilt-edged opportunity. He’d had no hesitation w
hen the Duty Sergeant confirmed on Monday that he was temporarily out of uniform and ‘working with Columbo’. “No need to get too many ideas, son. They’re short staffed, that’s all. My granny’s on the short list too. Don’t stuff it up.” That counted as encouragement. In another sense he felt clueless. At 9am he had reported for duty and no one seemed to know who he was. The boss wasn’t in his office when he made it up to the incident room. When he re-appeared about 9.30, he didn’t look in the mood for an induction. Fortunately, he had recognized DC Kendall and he gravitated to her desk. She looked up just as he approached. Clocked him instantly. “Good morning, Detective.”
Gibson smiled. “Well, actually I stay as a constable for the duration. I’m not even acting, I’ve been told.”
“But you get to ditch the blue cap so it’s not all bad.” She looked him up and down. “Sound choice. Not too flashy. Plain tie. Very wise.”
“Thank you. There’s nothing in the manual about that sort of stuff.”
“KISS. Best policy.”
Gibson was blank-faced. “Not the band?”
A fitful memory of Rex’s taste in music flashed through Kate’s mind. If they were going anywhere as a couple, she’d need to address that. When he told her he got dressed up in all the kit (boots, leather, make-up) to go to a concert in Melbourne, she’d laughed loudly. A bit too loudly. He was serious.
“No, certainly not. Keep It Simple Stupid. Low key. Same for your first few days here. Head down. Do whatever you’re allocated. As well as you can.” She paused. “Oh don’t worry. You’ll get it.”
“Have I been allocated anything?”
“Don’t think so. Boss looks a bit pre-occupied just now so you can help me. Grab a chair.”
He pulled a spare one over to her workstation. “Right, read this.”
She passed over a neatly stacked sheaf of paper. “It’s my equivalent of a murder book. A summary of incidents and developments in this case. I update it on the computer and add to this hard copy each day. That should bring you up to speed.”
