by J K Nen
Right now, though, far from riding the waves of popularity, she was in the troughs of public outrage at the rising body count.
“You heard about Jonno?” she asked Logan.
“I just did,” Logan replied. “That’s why we went ahead and processed the crime scene.’
“That means you are now firmly in the hot seat,” Castle did not mince words. “We’re reclassing this as a state of emergency. I’m setting up a taskforce with you in charge. I want this wrapped up tight.”
Logan was dumbfounded. Castle had reached down past four commissioned ranks to put her in charge.
“I know you haven’t led a taskforce before but I’m thinking you may pick up some clues that everyone else seems to be missing. Will running the taskforce be a problem for you personally or for Chuck?”
Logan was stunned. How had Castle known about Chuck?
“No Madam Commissioner, no problem at all, “she replied instead. “Who will I be reporting to?”
“You report directly to the DC, SAC, AC and myself,” she replied easily.
Logan was speechless. It was not every day that one reported to the Deputy Commissioner, Senior Assistant Commissioner and the Assistant Commissioner. This could be a career highlight if she unmasked Z before another woman vanished. Her career could potentially bite the dust if Z killed again, or worse, disappeared without ever being identified.
“By midday I want a team in place ready to be introduced to the police minister, the mayor and few other stakeholders. Do you think you can get a team together by midday?” Commissioner Castle’s query placed her firmly back in the present.
“It depends, Madam Commissioner,” Logan asked. “Have they been appointed yet or do I handpick the team?”
“You pick them - just make sure bring their files to the meeting so we all agree,” she replied as she got in the car. “I trust your judgment, the others may not. So come prepared. And for heaven’s sake, put some lipstick on and run a comb through that mane.”
With that, Commissioner Castle drove off, leaving a bewildered Logan in her wake.
CHAPTER 4
Logan expected resentment from seasoned veterans. If the taskforce failed, she would be the scapegoat. She paced her office as she waited for IT to give her access to her team’s confidential files. Dr Maggie French, forensic psychologist with the Sex Crimes Squad, stopped by. The women shared a camaraderie forged in the academy.
“Hi Logan, I hear you’re in the hot seat,” she commented, leaning against the doorframe, hands clasped around a coffee mug, studying her with curious grey eyes.
“Don’t envy me,” Logan warned grimly.
“Why not? If anyone can get Z, it’s you. I don’t know why you’re knocking yourself.”
“Are you serious, Doc?” Logan exclaimed with a tinge of dismay. “He’s a phantom. He’s not exactly leaving a trail of breadcrumbs for us to follow.”
“The breadcrumbs are there, Lisa, you’ll figure it out,” French assured her. “Glickman used to say, if anyone can sniff out a scent like a seasoned blue heeler, it’s Logan.”
Glickman, retired deputy commissioner and her former boss, refused the Commissioner’s role following his wife’s death, and moved to Afghanistan to carve out a career in security consulting.
“I wish I had Glickman’s confidence in me,” Logan sighed. “I’m actually thinking of asking Castle to revoke everything.”
“And then what?” French asked, askance.
“I don’t need the drama,” Logan admitted truthfully.
“You call innocent women being slaughtered, drama?” French exclaimed. “Lisa, we’re pursuing a homicidal maniac who’s playing God with the lives of these women. You can get him and get justice for their children. Who dismantled the YuMan Triad? Lisa Logan. Who has the highest closing rate for homicides? Lisa Logan. You got this.”
Logan’s confidence rose.
“Don’t sell yourself short just because Jonno’s incompetence slowed us down,” French admonished.
French reminded her that Johnstone possessed none of her deductive skills and was avaricious with information.
“You’ll pick up clues he’d stumble over,’ French insisted. “With a good team, the pieces will fall in place.”
Logan swallowed a retort to the contrary. Instead, she informed French she would be part of the taskforce. French whooped with delight.
Adam Steele, Marjorie Chee and Dr Araminta Naidu from Forensics and Kieran Shepherd and Tony Davidson from The Dog Unit had already been notified. Tess Burns from the Sex Crimes Squad, Amanda Sedgewick from IT department and Ben Spiteri from the Property Crime Squad came highly recommended. Local area commands in the state were on high alert. Aviation support, marine area command, and the counter-terrorism and special tactics units stood by to assist.
Logan worked up the slide presentation, referencing the officers’ files, for the Commissioner’s meeting. At 32, her dark-haired, handsome partner Adam Steele still lived at home with his pensioner father. Logan surmised he did so for his father’s benefit after his mother’s death five years prior. They migrated to Sydney from Christchurch when Steele was 12. His older brothers worked overseas. At 172 centimetres, with wide-set blue eyes and slightly flared nostrils, he reminded Logan of a young Paul Newman. He mostly wore lightweight suits in various shades of grey, striped pastel shirts and no tie. That he hated ties was no secret. He only ever wore them when decorum demanded it. Earlier in his career, he had been on report for conflicts with other officers. Steele was the last to admit pain or fatigue, and it worked against him. He appeared to have cleaned up his act in the last two years.
Marjorie Chee, a pretty fourth-generation Chinese Australian, was famous for her uncanny attention to detail. Those eyes missed nothing and, by the same token, gave nothing away. At 140 centimetres, the petite detective wore her straight hair in bangs. Her Greek nose seemed out of place with her Asian features. She had separated from her husband, Dr Ray Chee, a successful cosmetic surgeon. She shared custody of their two sons with him. When Logan met them, Ray was effusive and cordial, and, Marjorie reserved and guarded. Chee lived with her elderly parents in the Eastern Suburbs. Logan noted that Chee had been in therapy around the time of her separation. Logan was not concerned. Chee was an excellent detective.
Kieran Shepherd’s outdated file picture, with a bushy moustache, long, thick mahogany hair and chocolate-brown eyes, belied an intelligent detective. He grew up in rural Western Australia. On mufti days, he wore his Akubra and brought Max, his blue-heeler. Nicknamed Hulk for his towering physique, his gentle nature did nothing for the moniker. Logan noted with surprise that Kieran was a music pastor at his church. The 29-year-old workaholic loved horses, children and, of course, music. Nothing fazed the amicable giant. When he was not humming, he was whistling. Despite his perpetual cheerfulness, he was a skilled detective who cleared 85 per cent of his cases. His easy rapport with victims and perpetrators alike helped him extract forgotten or even concealed details. Logan loved his attitude to life and to work. His fiancée Candice Amorossi, of good Italian stock, taught at the local primary school. She recently moved to the city to be near him. Another surprise. They did not live together. Maybe their faith would not allow them to. Candice did not let a little thing like celibacy “till he put a ring on it” stop her. She joined the Force WAGs, an informal club for police spouses. They were instrumental in organising picnics and family days. Candice would make one helluva a police wife. Women like her propelled their men up the ladder quickly.
Araminta Naidu MD, with her Eurasian beauty queen looks and flawless butterscotch complexion was the poster girl for an integrated police force. Perfect set of pearly white teeth, full sensual lips, high cheekbones, large olive-green eyes and aquiline nose accentuated her beautiful heart-shaped face. With her razor-sharp focus and intense ambition, it came as no surprise that she had been promoted twice in the last four years. Like her parents and brothers, Naidu practised medicine for three years
, before trading her stethoscope and white coat for a gun and badge. With her medical bag stashed in the booth of her car, she readily stitched split heads, treated wounded drunks and stabilised overdosed revellers on busy weekends. Her serious disposition disguised a bawdy sense of humour. With biracial parents, of English and Indian heritage, she was often mistaken for Bollywood actress, Ashwary Rai. Logan noted with a jolt that Naidu was bi-sexual, but currently lived with rugby league star, Iain West. Despite her boyish appearance, she was surprisingly feminine, with interesting fashion choices. She could pull off a pearl choker, leather jacket, bikie boots and tweed pants. Or bootleg jeans, heels and peplum tops without looking like fashion vomit.
Athletic and intelligent Tony ‘Davo’ Davidson spoke with an upper class British accent. Like the hounds he worked with, once he picked up a ‘scent’, he refused to shake it off. The 32 year old migrated to Australia from England when he was 18. When his aristocrat mother and Australian farmer father’s marriage dissolved at 10, his mother raised him until he returned Down Under for school. Logan figured his mother’s breeding influenced his impeccable manners. Dark blonde hair, violet eyes and chiselled features added to his appeal. With his disarming smile and friendly demeanour, Davidson was genuinely nice. Despite the ugliness encountered in policing, he believed people were generally good. His listening skills were legendary. He had a rare knack for picking up vocal nuances in suspects, then asking pointed questions to elicit confessions. He picked apart carefully constructed alibis, without offending suspects. His girlfriend, Stella Ebb, rising fashion designer, owned a cutting-edge online fashion label, now making waves across Asia, Europe and very recently, the US. Stella was a party girl on the Sydney club circuit. When Logan first met the wafer-thin fashionista at a picnic, she sensed that Stella was a headstrong woman used to getting her way. She was right, it seemed. In the last twelve months, there had been three domestic callouts related to Stella being drunk, disorderly and violent.
‘You need Jesus, woman,” Logan muttered disgustedly and shook her head.
Ben ‘Spitzer’ Spiteri, renowned for his burglary detection skills, could recognise the hallmarks of professional burglars. His hunches often proved correct. Logan needed his expertise. At 47, he was the oldest in the team. His large, ungainly appearance and slight stutter belied a razor-sharp mind. He combed his sparse red hair to one side. Even his eyebrows and lashes were so red, his kids nicknamed him “Horatio,” after the lead character of the TV show, CSI Miami. On open days, he brought all his children- three daughters and two sons – with his wife. Several officers noted that unlike other teenagers, Spiteri’s kids did not mind turning up with their parents for a day they could spend with their friends. Logan had asked his wife Judy what their secret was.
“Since they were little, we did everything together. There was never any ‘me time’ with us. So they are comfortable going places with us, as opposed to if we had left them alone to be babysat by the TV and PlayStations.”
Judy would know. She was a schoolteacher. Spiteri’s childhood had been an unhappy one. Born out of wedlock to a teen mother, he was passed around several foster homes. Being slow and honest, he had difficulty ingratiating himself into the good graces of his foster parents. His painful childhood compelled him to maintain the closeness of his family. Spiteri stuttered when his emotions got the better of him. Like Davidson, Spiteri was patient and did not mind the drudgery of paperwork. He saw the world in black and white. He sometimes dismayed colleagues, especially when they were so close to breaking a suspect, with his penchant for honesty and playing by the rules. It cost him a few promotions. Yet, despite the professional price he paid, his family and friends appreciated his candour. Judy had learned long ago that asking, “Does my bum look big in this?” did not render him helpless like most men. Instead, he would pat his thinning hair and ask, “Does this shirt make me look bald?”
Petite, auburn-haired widow Tess Burns, with her coppery complexion and jade green eyes, was a knockout. Her gift for listening and picking up cues others missed were invaluable in catching breaks in cases countless times. Her bubbly character made people think she was upset when she was serious or in deep thought. Most days, her tinkling laughter could be heard in the corridors. One idiosyncrasy was her compulsion to organise. Her filing was colour coded and her workstation immaculate. Logan was not surprised to learn that Burns ran an organising business part-time.
Her ready smile and easy manner were deceptive. If her early life was any indication, Burns should have been a certifiable basket case. Her abusive, alcoholic father came home one day and beat her twelve-year-old brother into a coma. When he started on her mother, she decided fifteen years of torment was enough. She shot him with a twelve- gauge shotgun, killing him instantly. Nine-year-old Tess watched it all through a peephole in the hallway closet. Her brother died in Emergency two hours later. Burns would have shared her brother’s fate had her father found her. Her testimony helped acquit her mother, much to the dismay of her father’s family. She was ostracized as a result. Her mother did not last though. In the small country town, her father’s family was part of the establishment. The stigma proved too much that one day, while a teenaged Burns was in school, her mother overdosed on barbiturates. Tess got shuffled around a few foster homes before working her way through university. On graduating with a social works degree, she enrolled at the police academy. She graduated at the top of her class. At age 30, a drunk driver ploughed into her husband’s SUV, sending her into widowhood. Major Harry Burns had just returned from active duty in Iraq. Her daughters were beautiful redheads like their mother, but inherited their late father’s grey eyes and finely chiselled features. Burns remained a devoted single mum.
Amanda “Sedgie” Sedgwick, IT guru in leather, thought on her feet, knew her way around the ASIO system and could get information very quickly. She even hacked into other systems when she needed to. The 26 year old talked a strange language only teenagers and IT geeks understood. Sedgewick was anything but the typical IT nerd. The “Tech Vampire” owed her nickname to her ivory complexion, fluorescent-coloured hair, multiple tattoos and body piercings and Gothic makeup. She arrived at work on a Harley, hair wrapped in a bandana and aviator sunglasses, leather jacket casually slung over her shoulder. Yet the biker chick appearance masked a genius level IQ of 162 and a photographic memory. Her incredible party trick to cite the exact day that fell on any date in any year amazed people. She shunned relationships and thrived on one-night stands, often blurring lines in sleeping with suspects and witnesses. Sedgie seemed averse to fellow officers. Logan often wondered why she had not been utilised. She would make a great under-cover cop. Chuck thought Sedgie oozed “cool” out of her pores.
“She’s a lesbian’s dream and a wild chick fantasy for guys who dig that sort of thing,” he observed. Sedgewick was the “queen of cool” during school excursions. On her days off, she rode her Harley, head to toe in leather with heavy Gothic makeup, heading out to the highways. She had a private collection of all the latest tech gadgets that she showed off.
Sedgewick’s upbringing had been unconventional. Her father, cruise ship captain, raised her aboard the luxury liner, Queen Victoria. When they first divorced, her free-spirited and wealthy American mother got custody, and took her to live in a commune. When her no-nonsense father found her working 12-hour days on the farm, he got sole custody. Even he ended up offering a nomadic lifestyle. Sedgewick was home-schooled and became a self-taught IT whiz kid. The world became her playground, with cruises throughout the Pacific, Europe and the Americas. One day, the precocious child created a virus that jammed the ship’s radar systems and GPS. Although she contained it before it could do any real damage, it was an omen for Captain James Sedgewick to find his land legs again.
They settled on Hamilton Island in the Whitsundays and enrolled his daughter in school. Logan remembered a Business Sunday feature about the power of word of mouth advertising, featuring Captain Sedgwick. During his time
on Queen Victoria, he kept in touch with his passengers through letters, Christmas cards, emails and later on, social media. He bought himself a yacht and ferried tourists around the Great Whitsunday Islands in luxury. His friends happily sampled what his small business had to offer with glowing recommendations to their friends. Soon he had a fleet of luxury yachts ferrying tourists all over the South Pacific.
Sedgewick thrived in school socially but she was bored. After graduating uni aged 20, she joined the police force. To her dismay, the Force had outdated equipment and she was stuck in Despatch, overqualified and underutilised. For a high achiever who had developed and sold three popular apps before graduating university, she hounded the brass for opportunities. Though financially independent, she chose to carve out a career in the police force. When the cybercrime unit was formed, she found her niche.
Like Sedgie, Dr Maggie French was overqualified and underutilised, resented by the cops she tried to help. However, her ability to predict behaviour patterns were spot-on as the Sexual Crimes Unit discovered last spring. A violent serial rapist terrorising women along the southern coast was caught within weeks of French issuing a new profile. He now lounged in Long Bay jail, awaiting his day in court.
At five foot seven, French’s broad upper body was disproportionate to her smaller waist and hips. An Iron Woman who excelled in extreme sports, running marathons, rock-climbing, swimming and cycling, she wore her sandy hair close-cropped sandy hair, no makeup and wore jeans, T-shirts and vests to work. French was well-known in her field. Logan wondered how much her deceptive appearance had cost her in research grants.
