by J K Nen
French appeared tongue-tied around potential love interests. With her peach complexion, deep dimples and a cleft chin that complemented a button nose and wide-set grey eyes, she was attractive. Whispers were rife about her sexual orientation.
At age eleven, she lost both parents to gang-related violence at a truck stop restaurant. She was in the restroom when rival bikie gangs opened fire on each other. Her parents and five-year-old sister perished in the shootout. Her older brothers had gone fishing with their grandparents that weekend. Logan did a double take when she recognised the parents’ names. French used her mother’s maiden name. Her father was Simon Weldon of the Weldon empire. They were in the same league as the Winters. Her brother Stewart “Spike” Weldon was CEO and Tyler chief financial officer. Both men raced celebrity grand prix when they were not making headlines about the models and actresses they bedded. To highlight her as a potential kidnap risk, the footnote estimated her value at $100 million. To Logan, it seemed that she was trying to atone for being alive when her parents and sister did not make it.
Logan herself was no better than her team. Her father drowned in Papua New Guinea when she was nine. The promising young district administrator was just 34 when he met his demise during a routine patrol. She returned with her mother and brother to Australia. A week after Logan’s graduation from the academy, her mother died. Logan became sole custodian to her younger brother, Joshua. The demands of the job meant little time with him. Josh turned to drugs. One morning, two years ago, he died from an overdose. A routine patrol found him. With her entire family dead and gone, Logan was all alone. Though she loved Chuck, she could not see him as family. He moved to Australia after meeting her online a year previously. She called him her “Mail Order Man.” Logan’s grandmother had left her a modest inheritance that helped her purchase her house and keep her mother’s farm as her holiday home.
Logan only visited the salon for haircuts, and gave little thought to her wardrobe. Beauty was pursued by those who had nothing better to do. She played touch footy in high school and university but rarely did sports these days. Logan never outgrew her childhood tomboy tendencies, preferring dark suits and minimal makeup when she remembered. That would have to change now, what with all the constant media appearances and Castle’s warning.
She often wondered why Chuck was still with her. They were the proverbial ‘chalk and cheese’ couple. She was fastidious about routines, loved working with her hands and her attitude to food appalled Chuck. Logan loved her footy and beer. In her downtime, she enjoyed woodwork and carpentry, funnelling her energy into renovating and refurbishing spaces in their home. She had even built a tool shed in the backyard. The garage became the game room, with a small stage built into the corner, a bar fridge, dartboard and pool table. She soundproofed the room with egg cartons so Chuck and his band could practice. Chuck paid for a backyard pool and he was the only one who ever used it. She thought the pool was an eyesore. When the case was over, she would build a timber deck around the pool, rejig the gazebo, thrown in a spot of landscaping and child-proof the pool with plexiglass.
Chuck was a passionate foodie and musician. Logan enjoyed Sundays because he made brunch. Friends joked that Logan’s specialty was burnt water and Chuck was skilled in hammering screws. Even he could not explain the attraction. Opposites really did attract.
‘This is it,’ Logan thought to herself. ‘My very own dysfunctional team to catch a very dysfunctional killer.’
CHAPTER 5
Commissioner Castle swept into the conference room ahead of Logan. The command leads were waiting for them. Castle promptly introduced Logan then began the briefing. The meeting ended after two in the afternoon. Even when lunch arrived, no one seemed to notice.
Logan’s confidence quailed, but with the brass warming to her strategy, her apprehension evaporated. They respected her work ethic and record. She left the meeting, the six-week deadline ringing in her ears. If the massive manhunt failed, ASIO would take over. Z obviously worked alone. The taskforce had to revisit all cases.
The energy at the Command Centre was electrifying. A spot on the taskforce was highly coveted.
“Wow, good news travels fast,” Logan joked, taking her place at the head of the table.
Sedgwick distributed access cards for the Command Centre, radios and other essential tools of trade. No one outside the taskforce could get in except Castle and her deputies. It would mean crazy hours, but they were on fire.
‘Team, we’re revisiting the cases in pairs,” Logan began. “If you need extra help, flag it right away.”
Sedgewick put up the cases on gigantic screens.
“Steele and I will work the Evelyn Winters case. Spiteri and Burns, you take Joan Stacks.”
Even as she spoke, Logan did a double take when she saw Spiteri and Steele in identical Hawaiian shirts. She paused. Both men studiously avoided eye contact.
“Really, tropical shirts in the middle of winter?” she directed the question at both men.
Steele handed her a twenty-dollar bill. She raised a quizzical brow.
“You were the first to notice,” Steele replied. “Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Super-Sleuth Logan.”
Others protested, saying they had noticed but said nothing. Logan allowed the distraction for a moment, and then reverted to the discussion.
“If I can recall correctly, we had questions about Janine Maher’s ex-husband initially. Naidu and Davo, you will take this please. Revisit the crime scene photos and witness statements. And pay him a visit.”
Araminta Naidu was a vision in black blazer, black jeans and purple silk shirt. Her ears sported the largest hoop earrings Logan had ever seen. Naidu still managed to look elegant. Tony Davidson was his usual impeccably groomed self in a single-breasted grey suit, a sky-blue shirt and a patterned red necktie.
Marjorie Chee and Kieran Shepherd high-fived each other when they were assigned the Dr Adele Rose investigation. Chee looked spectacular in a pale orange work shirt tucked into black pants. She had taken a little extra care with her appearance this morning. Shepherd wore a baby blue shirt, a striped grey tie with a pin that read, ’Mission 3:16, a scriptural reference to John 3:16.
“From my recollection, Adele’s daughter says she mentioned clues that were never followed up,” Logan continued. “Please check that out.”
“Sedgewick and French, you’re manning the Command Centre until we wrap this up,” Logan told them.
Sedgewick looked spectacular, with her coloured locks of bright red, yellow, blue and green shades resembling the plumes of a tropical parrot. Her lips were painted a two-toned ombre shade of blood-red and burgundy. Dark eye make-up accentuated her large, alluring eyes with her multiple piercings on chin, cheeks, nose and ears complemented by leather jacket over black T-shirt and jeans.
French looked like she had jogged straight into the meeting. With the arms of her hoodie tied around her waist, she wore a faded grey Nike T-shirt and black yoga pants. Her bright yellow and orange high performance running shoes caught Logan’s attention. That chat about wardrobe choices needed to happen.
“If we don’t wrap this up in six weeks, ASIO and Interpol will take over,” Logan pronounced, pausing to let the gravity of her announcement sink in.
Her statement was not lost on the team. Failure was not an option. The taskforce had eight tactical units on standby.
With just enough time to grab an espresso, Logan joined the press conference minutes before it began. Castle motioned her to the seat beside her. Unsurprisingly, word of her appointment had already gone out. Reporters cultivated sources within the force, and in moments like this, cashed in their goodwill chips. Although no one hurled hard questions at her, she knew that would come later. The thought did little to ease her nerves.
Castle skillfully sidestepped questions about Evelyn Winters. Her announcement of Logan’s appointment caused a stir.
“Madam Commissioner, has the police department run out of experienced detec
tives that you’ve appointed a rookie as the taskforce leader?” asked hatchet-faced Brenda Hawkins from ABC.
Castle did not disappoint.
“Detective Senior Sergeant Logan is a ten-year veteran. For the past five years, she’s been second in command of the Homicide Unit. She’s closed homicides at a ninety percent conviction rate. She’s one of our best detectives and she’s leading a team of highly competent law enforcement officers.”
“But these are serial murders,” Hawkins persisted.
Castle snorted derisively.
“DSS Logan has a taskforce of the finest police officers in this state, with eight units to support her, all experts in their fields. They will catch this sick predator.”
“But aren’t you taking a huge risk in appointing a woman who has had no experience?” Peter Tipton of Channel 2 demanded. “She hasn’t even worked serial killings before.”
Castle’s laser-like stare zeroed in on him.
“Does the ninety percent conviction rate mean anything to you?” the commissioner let that hang in the air for a moment, before continuing. “We’re well aware of what’s at stake here. The taskforce has experienced and competent veterans supporting DSS Logan. Our best experts are on it. We could sit around, talking about qualifications and experience all day long, or we can stop this cold-blooded killer.”
“You implied that he targets every woman, but isn’t it true that he only targets single mothers of two children?” another called.
“That appears to be the pattern, but it pays for all women to be vigilant about their personal safety.”
Logan walked away, confidence shaken. Z was intelligent, cunning and showed no signs of slowing down or stopping. To be bitter and cynical looked attractive right now. The first sign of rejection or doubt always had her back peddling.
“Well, not today,” she told herself as she squared her shoulders and returned to Command Centre.
A serial killer was on the loose on her watch. She would get him, even if it was the last thing she did.
Logan and Steele heard loud wailing from the street outside Evelyn Winters’ parents’ upper middle-class suburban home. Before retirement, the Maldivian immigrants owned a successful chain of specialist stores selling Middle Eastern delicacies. Logan and Steele entered the gate.
The Winters’ marriage lasted twelve years, after seven years of dating. Numerous websites alluded to her fights with other women over her husband. Despite rife speculation, neither Evelyn nor Ted talked. Tabloid gossip attributed stories to ‘a close friend who chose to remain anonymous’ with editors stopping short of naming the source.
The scene in the Farris home was chaotic. A large marquee in the backyard housed tables of coffee machines, water dispensers and food warmers. As women in hijabs served hungry mourners, people packed the house and spilled over to the backyard. Steele watched with a sense of loss, not sure why. He envied the dead with a wider circle of loved ones.
“Man, these people can really cry,” he murmured. “Have you ever seen anything like it?”
“Yes, it reminds me of funerals in PNG,” Logan answered. “They call them house cry over there. The whole tribe can weep for days. But you’re right, this is the first time I’ve seen this in Australia.”
Ahmed Farris, senior barrister and Evelyn Winters’ older brother, emerged from the house to meet them. Swarthy, tall and handsome, he was the male version of his sister. They knew him well, from his time as a crown prosecutor on many of their cases. His frail mother had been sedated and was resting His father sat amongst a group of elderly men. The older Mr Farris looked ready to collapse from the sheer pain of losing his only daughter. He rocked himself and crooned softly, tugging at his beard as tears ran rivulets down his leathery cheeks.
“I hadn’t seen Adeena since Ramadan,” Ahmed began. “But Amaka Ndobo, her best friend, spoke to her every other day.”
On noticing their quizzical looks, he explained that Evelyn’s birth name was Adeena, but she changed it by deed poll
African-born Amaka Ndobo had to be the tallest woman with the blackest complexion Logan had ever seen, besides the glossy, black-skinned Bougainvilleans of PNG. The woman was well over six feet tall, her coal-black skin a sharp contrast to whites of her eyes and teeth. She had been Evelyn’s best friends since kindergarten. A circle of elderly women comforted her while she wept bitterly. Seeing the Imam alone, Steele and Logan approached him first.
“Adeena Farris was a true daughter of Islam,” Mohammed al Saheed told them. “Despite her wealth and status, she supported the mosque and our faith from her own money.”
“Even while married to Ted Winters?” Logan quizzed.
He explained that the 9-11 aftermath had tarred all Muslims with the same brush.
“Many people were suspicious of our faith, like we’re suicide bombers and terrorists. It was a terrible time for many of us, including Adeena. She converted to Catholicism in obedience to her husband and his family. She even changed her name. Allah wills his daughters to submit to their husbands.”
“You mentioned she was independently wealthy,” Steele prompted.
“In her own right, yes, she made a lot of money,” he answered. “She designed software for the government and various banks to protect them from hackers. However, she paid alms well. She built the youth centre for the mosque and gave much to the poor.”
A year ago, Evelyn requested al Shaheed and his wife to help her with counselling and prayer. In the recent months though, the visits became less frequent. Logan watched Ahmed Farris approach Amaka, and for the first time, she noticed the detectives. She entered the house and returned, more composed.
“Ted Winters is such an arsehole,” she stated empathically after she introduced herself to the detectives. “None of this would have happened had he kept his dick in his pants.”
“You don’t think he had anything to do with the murder?” Logan probed.
She snorted. “Please, the guy’s a fucking sissy. He’d probably pay someone to do it, although I doubt his connections to the underworld would stretch that far.”
“So why do you think he had anything to do with her death?” Steele queried.
”She only moved out because the man was a lying cheat,” she claimed. “If he had taken his vows seriously, Evelyn wouldn’t have had to move out of her home.”
Evelyn met Ted in university. After the first semester, she shed her squeaky-clean, Muslim good girl image and learned to drink alcohol and party. Although her exotic beauty attracted several admirers, Ted Winters, a geeky nerd caught her attention. He was quiet, studious and more interested in computers than in girls.
Eve got to know him better during a group project. Mutual admiration and friendship blossomed into love. Ted’s work ethic, ambition and drive attracted Eve. Even though she was brilliant in her own right, she played second-fiddle to his aspirations.
When word got out about that Ted was Edward Winters Junior, the jet-set pack that never gave him a second glance before, fawned over him. Invitations to the hottest bashes poured in. Suddenly Ted and Evelyn were popular. However, like all groups with trivial traits like good looks, wealth and societal status as prerequisites for membership, the bonds formed were fickle.
“Eve milked it for all it was worth. She saw them as stepping stones to the elite world of the uber-rich.”
“And they accepted her despite her being Muslim girl from the suburbs?” Steele enjoined.
“Eve’s strong-willed,” Amaka unconsciously reverted to the present. “No lollipop bimbo could dictate her place to her. She knew what Ted needed and made sure he got what he wanted.”
“Why wasn’t Ted a part of that world originally?” Steele wanted to know.
“His mother wanted him to have a normal life. He attended public schools, worked at his dad’s companies during the holidays as driver, courier - just menial jobs. He had a very down-to-earth childhood.”
After university, Evelyn got a job with the First Nation
al Bank and Ted worked for his father. They married three years later. By then, Ted had taken the reins of the empire from his father. Ted Winters Senior and his second wife Marion were uncomfortable with Eve’s religion. Ted’s mother had died while he was still in university. Evelyn changed her name and converted to Catholicism. The birth of their son, Byron, changed the old man. He fell in love with the little boy and finally accepted Eve. She often joked that she could not see why, since Byron looked like Ahmed.
When Ted Winters Senior died, a much-publicised court battle ensued between Marion’s daughters and Ted. As stepdaughters, they eventually relinquished their rights to the estate. Ted was fair. He gave his stepmother and her daughters a generous allowance each year.
His downfall was the brat pack from uni he still hung with - spoilt, privileged men who took mistresses as a status symbol. Evelyn called the clique the Peter Pan Club. She humiliated those unfortunate enough to be caught with Ted and his lovers. They avoided her like the plague.
Evelyn got the first inkling of trouble when pictures of Ted and his mates hard at play in Las Vegas emerged on Instagram. A drunken Ted, embracing a bevy of beautiful, scantily clad women at a pool party.
