The Long Game

by Simon Rowell

  ‘How’s your mum?’ asked Charlie.

  ‘She’s all right. Just been fussing over me for the last few months, that’s all. After everything that happened, she was hoping I’d pull the pin on police work and make use of my commerce degree. When that didn’t work, she started trying to fast forward my personal life into marriage and the maternity ward. In either order.’

  ‘That something you want?’ Charlie’s eyes were fixed on the traffic.

  ‘Marriage. Maybe? One day. Kids, probably not. Reckon I’m getting a bit old for that.’

  ‘Hardly. What are you, like thirty-five or something?’

  ‘Nice one. Thirty-eight at last count,’ said Zoe, grinning.

  ‘You’d be a good mother, I reckon,’ he said. ‘You’ve got the right balance of patience and toughness.’

  Zoe scoffed. ‘Thanks. I’ll take that as a compliment.’ She wasn’t so sure about the patience part. ‘I worked the Lamente case when I first came to Homicide.’

  Charlie glanced across at her. ‘I remember that one. I was in uniform then. Three dead kids. Must have been tough.’

  ‘It was awful, but that’s not what affected me the most. What got me was when we finally arrested the guy. He was so normal, mild-mannered, polite. Completely unremarkable. I remember thinking that if evil could lurk in plain sight like that, having kids was too risky. It was like a switch flicked off in my head and I couldn’t turn it on again.’

  Charlie nodded. ‘I can understand that.’

  Zoe wished she hadn’t mentioned the Lamente case. It was a box of memories best left closed. ‘Anyway, Mum would much prefer I was working as an investment banker.’

  ‘She was pissed off when you joined the force?’

  ‘You kidding? She told me I was throwing away a great education and the chance of a good life.’

  Charlie chuckled. ‘Yep, you’d probably have a holiday home in Portsea by now.’

  ‘And its value would have taken a hit today. Anyway, how’s Jane?’

  ‘Not sure. We separated a few months back.’

  Zoe shot him a look. ‘Shit, sorry to hear that. I had no idea.’

  ‘It happened just after you…went on leave. She said I was obsessed with the job and wasn’t putting any effort into the relationship.’ He was silent. ‘She was probably right.’

  ‘What about Alex?’

  ‘He’s okay. He stays with me every second weekend and I try to get to his cricket games every week. We chat on the phone every night before he goes to bed. It’s as good as it can be, under the circumstances.’

  It was almost dusk as they approached the Institute of Forensic Medicine in Southbank, a modern two-storey glass and concrete affair that also housed the Coroners Court. It was overlooked by a forest of apartment towers that stretched on towards the city.

  Charlie swung the car around, parking beneath the canopy of a tree on the far side of the road. ‘You want me to stay here with Harry?’ he asked.

  ‘Thanks,’ said Zoe. ‘Do you mind taking him for a walk around the block? He’ll need a wee. His lead’s in the back.’

  ‘No worries,’ Charlie said, opening the passenger door, letting a blast of heat in.

  ‘And keep him on the nature strip. The footpath’s too…’

  Charlie put up a hand. ‘Hot for his paws, yes, I’ve had a dog before. And I’ll give him some water when we get back.’

  ‘Thanks,’ grinned Zoe, as she reluctantly headed for the front door. As a waft of spice from a nearby Malaysian restaurant caught her halfway across the road, she realised she hadn’t eaten all day. By the time she reached the front door, she knew her appetite would soon be gone. Zoe still hated autopsies. At least she no longer threw up afterwards. She counted that as a win. Charlie hated them even more than she did, so walking Harry was a win for him as well.

  She showed her badge at the desk, before heading towards one of the homicide rooms. She took a breath, pushed the door open and walked into the viewing room, a long, narrow space dominated by a large window running almost the length of one side. There was a large television screen at each end. From here she could look down onto the homicide room.

  Through the window, Zoe could see Ray Carlson’s body lying on a light blue gurney. The top of his head was a metre and a half from her. A large mobile operating-theatre light was above him. The room was painted off-white and fitted out with stainless steel benches and sinks. The floor was covered in dull linoleum in a shade which Zoe guessed was called morgue green. Even without the body, the whole scene would’ve been depressing.

  Oliver Nunan was hunched over the victim, starting to cut the clothing from his body. Next to him was a tall woman Zoe didn’t recognise. They both wore matching blue hospital scrubs, masks, wrap-around clear glasses, surgical gloves and pink rubber boots.

  ‘Evening, Zoe,’ he said through the intercom, without looking up.

  ‘Hi Oliver. Sorry I’m late.’

  ‘No worries. I was just getting started. This is Anna, Dr Anna Sorgstrom.’

  Zoe smiled, nodding hello. Anna was slim and tanned, her shoulder-length blonde hair pulled into a ponytail.

  ‘Nice to meet you, Zoe,’ said Anna, smiling. Her accent was Australian with a splash of Swedish. Zoe decided that Charlie might become less reluctant about attending autopsies in the future.

  ‘Anna’s my retirement plan. Succession planning, they call it.’

  ‘But you’re so young,’ teased Zoe.

  Oliver gave a short laugh. ‘Flattery will get you a long way,’ he said.

  He continued to cut away Ray’s clothes, placing them into large bags. Anna took several photos of the knife, still stuck into Ray’s body just below the ribcage, before Oliver pulled it out with a pair of forceps and put it on a tray Anna held out for him. ‘DNA and latents,’ he said automatically.

  Anna put the tray down, leaning in to stare at the knife from different angles.

  ‘What is it?’ asked Zoe.

  Oliver looked up at Zoe, and then at Anna.

  ‘Looks like gauze to me,’ said Anna. ‘Tiny piece of it came out with the knife.’

  ‘What, like a bandage?’ asked Zoe. She knew that the paramedics hadn’t bothered trying to revive Carlson. ‘There were no bandages at the scene.’

  ‘I know,’ said Oliver, straightening.

  Zoe shut her eyes.

  ‘Thoughts?’ asked Oliver, noticing.

  ‘The killer wore a bandage on their hand so as not to leave prints on the knife. In the stabbing, the knife caught on the bandage and tore some threads away.’

  ‘Why not just wear gloves?’ asked Anna.

  ‘If you answered the front door to someone wearing latex gloves on a hot summer’s day, your guard would go up. But a bandage wouldn’t cause concern. I think the killer was invited in, and attacked the victim at the back of the house.’

  Oliver turned to Anna. ‘See, I told you she was good.’

  Zoe felt herself blush. She watched as Oliver made a small incision above and below the wound, and then hunched over to peer inside. ‘Have a look at this,’ he said to Zoe. He picked up a device the shape and size of a pen. He pushed a button on the side and one of the screens in the viewing room came to life.

  Zoe hated it when he did this.

  Oliver used a pair of forceps to hold the wound open and pointed the camera into it. He was looking up at the screen. ‘See how far up and down the wound runs inside the body?’

  She nodded, squeamish.

  Oliver moved the camera back and forth, illuminating the gash. ‘You okay?’ he asked.

  ‘Yeah,’ she said. ‘What do you reckon?’

  Oliver stood back from the table. ‘Okay, the knife went into the torso in an upward motion,’ he said, sweeping his clenched fist in an arc, ‘and the attacker then pulled the handle sharply upwards, causing the blade to go down. The attacker would’ve been standing close to the victim for at least a few seconds. They would’ve got sprayed with blood. That blade will be ra
zor sharp, mark my words.’

  ‘So the attacker was at least as tall as the victim, yes?’

  Oliver paused. ‘Based on the point of incision and the leverage required to pull the knife handle upwards—yes. The victim is around five eleven in the old scale.’

  ‘About 180 centimetres,’ translated Anna from the end of the examination table.

  ‘It looks calculated to me,’ said Zoe. ‘It wasn’t a frenzied event, with multiple stab wounds. This was meant to kill the victim, but not instantly. Not like shooting someone in the head. Somebody wanted Ray Carlson to know he was going to die.’ Zoe looked down at Ray’s ashen face.

  Oliver broke the silence. ‘We checked under his nails. Definitely scrubbed clean with a nail brush or something similar. There’s bleach residue up to his wrists, consistent with his hands being dipped in a bucket of the stuff. Did Forensics find a brush at the scene?’

  ‘No, nothing,’ said Zoe.

  ‘The only other trauma to the body is the gash in the back of his head.’

  ‘From the mirror,’ said Zoe.

  Oliver picked up the electric saw. ‘Yes, that’s the one.’

  7.55 AM, MONDAY 3 FEBRUARY

  The squad room was already buzzing as Zoe and Harry made their way through the open-plan office towards her desk. Zoe carried Harry’s dog bed rolled up under one arm. Some colleagues smiled and waved, while others gave her the thumbs-up. One or two she didn’t recognise, testament to the burn-out rate of the squad, looked her up and down, before their gaze fell on the golden retriever at her side.

  Harry looked up at each person’s face as they passed by. The Homicide office took up a large floor of the Spencer Street police complex, only a few years old. It hadn’t taken long for the place to look like an updated version of the old squad’s office though, with the usual open-plan desks, low partition walls and constant aroma of coffee and mildly burnt toast.

  Along one wall were a couple of offices for senior staff, and conference rooms. Behind another wall near the lift were interview rooms, as well as monitoring rooms with banks of TVs and recording equipment. This office felt like home to Zoe and she was happy to be back.

  ‘So, this is really happening then, is it?’ mumbled Iain Gillies, peering down his nose at the dog walking beside Zoe. In his mid-forties, Iain was a large man, over six foot three with a jowly face and greying hair, whose permanent grimace was appropriate to his personality. Zoe often wondered if he came out of his mother scowling.

  ‘Good to see you too, Iain,’ Zoe said. ‘You’re looking well.’

  ‘Yeah, welcome back, Mayer.’ Iain grunted as he slumped back into his chair, his belly bulging against his shirt buttons.

  Hannah Nguyen walked over and stroked Harry’s head. A detective sergeant like Zoe, Hannah was a tough character, unwilling to take a backward step whenever challenged. Although shorter than the rest of the squad, Hannah was lean and strong, with dark wavy, shoulder-length hair. She wore dark pants and a sleeveless white blouse that showed off her toned arms.

  ‘Hey gorgeous,’ she said as Harry pulled his mouth back into a smile, his tongue rolling out to the side. ‘Hi Zoe, sorry. Got distracted by your handsome new partner. I didn’t get a chance to meet him properly yesterday.’

  ‘His name’s Harry,’ said Zoe.

  ‘Suits him. He’s a sweetie. Good to have a handsome man about the squad for once.’

  Charlie rolled his chair back. ‘Thanks,’ he said, in mock offence.

  ‘Someone’s not happy about a little competition,’ teased Hannah.

  ‘You and Angus good for an update?’ asked Zoe.

  ‘Yeah, for sure. I’ll grab him.’

  Zoe unrolled the dog bed under her desk. Harry lay down on it like it had always been there. Zoe sat and leaned back to speak to Charlie around the partition. ‘Where’s the floater who was covering for me?’

  ‘Gone,’ said Charlie. ‘She headed back to Armed Crime last Friday when it was confirmed you were coming back. She couldn’t get out of here fast enough.’ He chuckled. ‘Said she’d transferred out of Homicide years ago for a reason and the reason was still valid.’

  ‘What about the case load?’ asked Zoe.

  ‘Manageable,’ said Charlie. ‘I’ve got two other jobs open, plus the Portsea job we picked up yesterday.’

  ‘You’ll have to catch me up on the other two.’

  ‘Both under control. I’ve got a guy in custody for a meth-rage killing and I’m wrapping up witness statements and paperwork. The other one’s a suspected DV homicide in Toorak. Wife found dead at the base of the stairs in a mansion. The husband reckons his wife tripped. I’m trying to locate a possible witness who is apparently skiing in Canada somewhere and won’t be back for a week or so. I’m working both cases with Hannah. The boss said to let you ease your way back in.’

  Zoe raised an eyebrow. What the fuck?

  Hannah and Angus walked over, wheeling chairs behind them, and sat down. A foot taller than Hannah, Angus Batch had a chiselled jawline and a buzz cut. The first few buttons of his shirt always seemed to be open, allowing the world a glimpse of his hairless chest.

  ‘Learn anything from canvassing the neighbours?’ asked Zoe.

  ‘Not much,’ said Hannah. ‘We interviewed all the gawkers at the scene, plus the other houses in the street that you and Charlie didn’t cover, as well as the neighbours over the victim’s back fence. No one noticed anything strange yesterday or even knew the victim at all, beyond a wave if they crossed paths. Only two people knew his first name. Consensus was that Ray Carlson kept long hours, usually leaving home around seven every morning and often not getting home until after eleven. They said he lived quietly. No loud music or parties. No domestics or disturbances. Anything to add, Angus?’

  Angus shook his head. ‘Nothing much. One of the houses had CCTV pointed down their driveway. Picked up three passing cars around the time of the murder. Two of them we confirmed as belonging to elderly neighbours. We spoke to them and they’re out of the picture. And the third…’

  ‘Yes, the image you emailed us last night,’ said Zoe. ‘You got that printout, Charlie?’

  He passed it to her. ‘The dark blue Toyota Camry.’ In the photo, the driver was a blurry figure in a hat. They couldn’t see the number plate. ‘Charlie, any luck getting this enhanced?’

  ‘That is the enhanced version. Not much use, I’m afraid.’

  ‘What time was this?’ Zoe said, looking at Angus.

  ‘Ten-forty am.’

  ‘Did you get footage of the Camry leaving?’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Angus, consulting his folder. ‘It was 11.20 am.’ He pulled out another photograph.

  Zoe stared at the image. ‘Thing is, though, I reckon this car was parked down the street when we were there. Wasn’t there when we arrived, but I saw it before we spoke to Dwayne Harley, the guy who found the victim. Not the type of car you usually see parked in a Portsea street.’

  ‘So, what? He killed the guy and came back later to watch?’ asked Charlie.

  ‘Yes, it happens sometimes,’ said Hannah. ‘The cocky ones who think they’re smarter than us.’

  In her peripheral vision, Zoe noticed the squad’s detective inspector, Rob Loretti, walk over and lean against a desk behind where Charlie sat. Rob was Zoe’s former partner, who had been promoted to detective inspector in charge of Homicide the year before. In his mid-fifties, Rob was a smart, instinctual detective with a high strike rate for solving cases quickly. He was also the only openly gay head of department that Zoe knew of in the whole of the force. Zoe gave him a nod and turned back to Charlie. ‘What time did we arrive there yesterday, Charlie?’

  ‘Quarter after one, or thereabouts.’

  Zoe looked across at Angus. ‘Can you revisit the CCTV footage and see if our Camry reappears? Check after 1 pm. If the same person came back we might get a better shot of them.’

  ‘Will do.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Zoe, ‘here’s what we know. Victim
is Ray Carlson. Thirty-nine. Has lived at the pointy end of the Peninsula his whole life. Separated. No kids. Found by his lifelong friend, Dwayne Harley. One knife wound only. Knife still in the deceased when we arrived. No sign of a frenzied attack. Clinical.’

  ‘Anything distinctive about the weapon?’ asked Hannah.

  ‘Large kitchen knife,’ answered Zoe. ‘Brand is Shabon. Higher-end, but common enough. I’ve got one at home. We’re not sure if the weapon came from the house or was brought to the scene. I assume the killer brought it, as it looks planned. Autopsy showed that the attacker thrust the knife upwards into the body and then sliced down inside.’ Zoe mimicked the action for effect.

  ‘Yikes. Sounds personal,’ said Rob in the background.

  ‘We thought the same thing,’ said Zoe. ‘There were no prints on the knife, but they found a piece of gauze caught in the base of the blade. I suspect that the killer wore a bandage on his hand to stop leaving prints.’

  ‘Any DNA traces?’ asked Angus.

  Zoe shook her head. ‘Still waiting to hear about the knife, but it looks like the victim’s hands were dunked in bleach after he died and the fingernails were scrubbed clean. The bathroom reeks of bleach and there was an empty mop and bucket sitting by the toilet.’

  ‘Professional job. Flushed the evidence away,’ said Hannah, almost to herself.

  ‘Yeah,’ said Zoe. ‘Perhaps the killer wanted to change clothes. The bathroom’s spotless. Not a fingerprint anywhere. Whoever it was had time to clean up.’

  ‘Any attempt to clean up around the body?’ asked Rob.

  ‘No, just in the bathroom,’ said Zoe. ‘Nothing seems to be missing from the house. Wallet and phone were on the side table next to the front door, and his car is in the garage with the keys inside. Last night’s autopsy confirmed he was killed between 10.45 and 11.15 am. We’ve interviewed Dwayne, and spoken to neighbours, the ex-wife, his parents, his boss and some of his friends. No one apparently knows anything. Carlson had no police record and no big debts or drug issues. He was a moderate gambler. Twenty bucks here or there. According to Dwayne Harley he wasn’t in any sort of relationship. Real estate agent said that he direct deposited his rent on time every month.’