Game Changer

by J K Nen

  “But did she really belong to your inner circle?” Chee persisted. “I mean, your board’s essentially an old boy’s club.”

  “We have shareholders on the board whose families have owned the business for generations,” he acknowledged. “Adele was a diplomat who knew how to make friends and keep them.”

  Brilliant sidestep, Shepherd thought. Aloud, he asked if she had ever received any threat.

  “Yes, a lot. But it was the same nut jobs threatening me and every other board member.”

  Adele was a perfectionist, leading a high-performing core team, who in turn, led excellence-oriented satellite teams. Poor performers got the sack. Advertising was a complex industry requiring a constant stream of creativity and the drive to sell. Adele’s zeal got them a large slice of the Chinese market, with big name investors showing an interest, resulting in two global mergers.

  Other co-workers they interviewed affirmed Crane’s view. Last stop was Raquel Nguyen, Adele’s PA. The attractive woman in her late thirties was dressed like a corporate executive in her grey pencil-slim charcoal suit and crisp white shirt.

  “Adele was likeable until someone’s incompetence slowed things down,” she explained. “Then she became a monster. She took work personally, never hesitated in sacking people.”

  A new recruit had six months to learn the ropes. If not, they were not hungry enough to remain at HSC.

  “Surely that’s a fair dinkum approach,” Shepherd observed.

  “Only if you’re brilliant with bucket loads of confidence oozing from your pores,” Raquel countered. “Many of the young people she kicked out moved on to become stars in the advertising world.”

  “You sound like you didn’t like your boss,” Chee observed.

  “I liked her enough but sometimes she seemed cold and calculating. To her, it was just business. I thought she was playing God with people’s livelihoods.”

  However, she did not get threats from those she sacked. She was an excellent coach. The team understood the expectations. The core group had to keep a dozen balls up in the air.

  “One ball gets dropped, and the account manager goes,” Raquel finished.

  ‘Sound fairly cut and dried,” Shepherd noted.

  “She had a bird’s eye view of HSC’s goals but also nutted out the details to make sure that goals were achieved. You couldn’t fault her leadership style,” Raquel agreed.

  “Can you remember anything odd that may have happened in the lead up to her abduction?”

  Raquel did. Six months before her death, Adele’s intense focus on a campaign for an Italian luxury brand for the Chinese market left her with little time for anything else, including social media. The breather calls started then.

  “Now when I think about it, someone was trying to verify her location because she wasn’t posting updates on Facebook.

  Tamara Taylor, Adele’s 19-year-old daughter, studied law at Sydney University and worked part-time as a receptionist at the Marriot Hotel. The girl was beautiful, with thick mass of reddish-brown curls and tawny skin tone. Her high forehead and full lips gave away her African heritage. Everything else about her screamed “white teen from the ’burbs.” Shepherd held out her chair. She thanked him and slid in. Her eyes were amber with flecks of green.

  Like the eyes of a tiger cub, Chee thought.

  When Shepherd thanked her for her time, she responded with a smile, “It’s weird you’re here. It’s mum’s birthday today. Anyway, what’s the latest?”

  Chee explained their reason for the visit.

  “I’ve told the police everything I know, but I’m happy to help,” Tamara volunteered. “And my brother’s on his way.”

  “Thank you Miss Taylor. Do you know if your mother was dating anyone?”

  “Sure, casually, but nothing serious,” she told them.

  “Do you know their names?”

  “I can’t recall but I can check her diary,” she offered. “Mum was a fanatical note-taker.”

  Adele found online dating repulsive and social media platforms a waste of time. Tammy recalled setting up her mother’s Facebook account to link her up with other art hobbyists. Adele loved it. Her artwork netted her 4275 friends on Facebook. No one interesting tried to DM her.

  “How sure are you?” Chee quizzed.

  “Mum told us everything. Like, my friends tell hilarious stories about how their parents tried the ‘birds and bees talk’. Mum got the models, diagrams, videos and everything else she could throw at us. It didn’t matter that Russ was younger. We both got educated. So yeah, she treated us like adults.”

  Of her parents, Tamara thought her father was more demonstrative while Adele the master trainer of life skills.

  “I can’t believe I’m nineteen years old and orphaned,” her voice breaking. “Most of my family in South Africa are orphaned so I guess I’m not alone. But no one should have to lose both parents in a short space of time in Australia. Are you any closer to getting the guy who did this?”

  “We are confident we will,” Shepherd assured her, despite feeling the opposite.

  He handed her his card.

  “Call me anytime you remember anything, and I will help,” he promised.

  Russel Taylor inherited his father’s Caucasian features, save his mocha complexion and full lips. He was a strapping lad for a 17 year old. When he spoke of his mother, Chee wanted hug him for the pain in his voice.

  “Mum wasn’t interested in replacing Dad with anyone,” he said adamantly.

  “Did she say anything about being followed or watched?” Chee asked.

  “No, she would said so if she was. Mum was pretty agro, she’d have put up a good fight.”

  The detectives knew that was true. When they found her car, it was clear Adele fought back. Papers strewn all over the floor, her laptop screen cracked and mobile in pieces.

  “I don’t know if it will help, but I know mum’s password to her Facebook page. I can log in if you like,” Russ offered.

  Chee and Shepherd watched anxiously as Russel worked his i-Phone. Within seconds, he was in. Adele’s cover photo was of herself in her teens on a visit to Africa. Swathed in a tribal garment with a matching head wrap, calabash in hand and surrounded by other young women from her family. Though all were uniformly dressed, her lighter complexion and hair set her apart. The caption read: “My coming of age ceremony in dad’s kraal. My cousin sisters went through this with me. This photo is the only memento I have of them. I’ve lost many of them to AIDS and other preventable diseases. #thirdworldproblems”

  “Russ, may we have her password?” Chee requested. “We want our IT team to check.”

  “Sure, if it will help you get the guy that killed her,” he acquiesced.

  It would take Sedgewick hours of scrolling. Condolence messages were still being posted on Adele’s wall, telling her how they missed her.

  Chee remained silent on the drive back. Russ reminded her of Malone, her younger son. Early on, he had learned to mask his feelings. He happily talked about his life but refused to discuss his parents’ separation. He tolerated his father and seemed to enjoy her company. Chee wondered if her sons would have the strength to carry on if she died. Like her, all the victims were single mothers, leaving their children to pick up the pieces and go on as best as they could. Her sons were ill-prepared for life without her. They could not do laundry, cook or fend for themselves. Her death would set them adrift. She made a promise to herself. As soon as this case was over, she would train her boys. A date per month with each boy to learn a life skill, whether cooking, laundry, fishing, gardening, sailing or painting with her undivided attention.

  Sedgwick and French read Adele Rose’s Facebook messages. Sedgwick extracted promising entries for the large screen. Just then, Shepherd’s mobile rang. A hysterical Tammy Taylor screamed at the other end.

  “He sent me flowers and a card,” she cried. “The sicko knows today’s her birthday.”

  “Don’t touch anything,” Shepherd
ordered. “I’ll be right there.”

  Steele and Logan pulled up at the scene just as Shepherd and Chee ran up the path to the house Tammy Taylor shared with two other girls. The tech team also followed closely, ready to process the scene. Shepherd and Chee inspected the flowers and card that had been left on the veranda. The wrapping paper was generic, with no florist tag. Like the flowers, the card was standard Hallmark. Its message, though, was chilling:

  Mama’s stood by His side when the Council communed;

  Women’s Lib kissed Hades as Daddy’s head bore her

  With the owl on her arm and olive branch

  As she wove her web around His throne

  The same ode found on Adele’s body, details that had never released. Z had indeed been here.

  “He knows where I live,” Tammy wailed, clinging to Shepherd.

  “Is there somewhere safe you want to go to?” he asked when she was all cried out.

  “Home, with my Nanna and my brother. At least I’ll feel safe there.”

  Logan approached her to reassure her there would be a patrol car outside their home.

  Back at the Command Centre, a debate raged. French believed Z was watching the taskforce. It was no accident that on the day police interviewed Tammy, she received flowers and the note.

  “I really believe the note is somehow connected to the way he staged the crime scene,” French said. “There’s a link between all the victims we’re not seeing.”

  Sedgewick pulled up a blank page on the screen and typed away furiously.

  “He mentions the olive tree, and her body was lathered with olive oil,” Logan noted. “Council could be the board room setting.”

  “This note seems to have some sort of religious undertone,” Shepherd pointed out. “I mean look at the words like Father, His throne, the capital letters he used.”

  “I think it gives us clues as to why he chose her as a victim,” French added. “Each of these represents qualities or characteristics that he believed she had. If we can figure these out, we will get somewhere.”

  French insisted the toy soldiers, tanks and maps were code for a message Z wanted to communicate.

  “More religious undertones,” Chee enunciated. “Because of the way he talks about the sun and the moon, maybe it’s a pagan religion.”

  Mandy’s laptop pinged. The lab results came back. The card, the envelopes and wrapping paper were clean.

  Shepherd struggled during music practice that night. Twice he played the wrong chord on the acoustic guitar. Z was taunting the police and Adele’s family. He could not shake the image of the pain in Tammy’s eyes. He tried to concentrate.

  Shepherd shook himself mentally, picked up the mike and sang.

  For the God on the mountain, He’s still God in the valley

  When things go wrong, He’ll make it right

  And the God in the good times, He’s still God in the bad times

  The God of the day, He’s still God in the night

  “Penny for them?” Tom, his best friend asked, laying his bass guitar down. “You forgot to sing verse two.”

  “It’s the case I’m working on,” he sighed.

  “You mean the Z case?” Kurt, their youngest member, played the piano. “Man, that’s rough.”

  Shepherd remained silent, although he ached to get it off his chest. At least Catholics went to the confessional booth, and then forgot their troubles.

  “Are you praying about it?” Alain, drummer and the oldest band member, asked.

  “Man, I can’t even pray,” he exclaimed. “This guy is depraved.”

  “Remember God’s grace,” Alain reminded him. “It’s all you can do.”

  “That’s why I think it is so unfair,” Shepherd, though ashamed of his thoughts, needed to be honest.

  “Well mate, if doing God’s job for Him is going to get you some peace, go for your life,” Tom shrugged.

  Tears filled Shepherd’s eyes. These men were his band of brothers.

  “I think we should pray,” Alain suggested.

  The men knelt around Shepherd, heads bowed, eyes closed and hands joined in prayer.

  CHAPTER 8

  Tess Burns and Ben Spiteri waited outside Bill Stacks’ office. His customs clearance agency on the third floor overlooked the entire dock. Men and machines worked ceaselessly. The building’s plain appearance belied a surprisingly modern interior. A glassed-in noticeboard held posters offering a reward for information that would lead to the arrest of Joan Stacks’ killer. Joan, mocha-complexioned, even teeth, smile lighting up her face, had been beautiful. She smiled into the camera, the corners of her brown eyes crinkling. Her jet-black curly hair tumbled about her shoulders. Her high forehead and full lips a throwback to her Jamaican mother’s heritage. Her family migrated to Australia from England when Joan, her younger sister and two older brothers were little.

  Spiteri studied the large flat screens suspended from the ceiling, each listing shipping information and loading data.

  “Looks no different from an airport terminal,” Spiteri observed.

  “Feels that way most days,” Bill Stacks interposed from the doorway of his office.

  He was brawny with a belly running to fat, had friendly blue eyes and a thick mop of curly coppery-red hair. His freckle-specked skin announced his working class roots. He radiated warmth and honesty. It was difficult to equate the hardened union negotiator of a past life with this affable man. He invited them into his office.

  “You’re revisiting the case?” he began, once they were seated.

  “Yes, Mr Stacks,” Burns began.

  “Call me Bill please,” he offered. “I’m just a working class boy from Woywoy.”

  “Thank you Bill,” she conceded. “We believe the same person who murdered Joan also murdered three other women.”

  “So I’ve seen on the news,” he replied. “And you have absolutely no leads? I mean, after four murders, there has to be some kind of clue.”

  “The killer we’re dealing with unique,” Spiteri explained. “He covers up his tracks so well, we haven’t been able to extract a single clue so far.”

  “So how can I help you?” Bill wanted to know. “How will anything I tell you make a difference?”

  “We believe all the victims share a common characteristic,” Burns replied. “That is what triggers the killer’s interest in them. We’ve eliminated all the physical ones, such as geographic location, career or even common places they all frequented.”

  “You mean biracial single mothers with two children,” Bill said. “I’ve seen those consultants on TV. But forget them, I’ll answer any questions you have.”

  “Do you know if Joan was dating anyone?”

  “I didn’t keep tabs on her love life. We divorced eight years ago and I moved on. Joan was solitary - she enjoyed seclusion. She wasn’t keen on having company around.”

  Burns raised an eyebrow. Bill did not miss it either and explained. Joan initiated the divorce. She enjoyed her own company, and loved nothing more than housekeeping, meditation and yoga. With a home so pristine it looked like a show home, their children could not run amok through the house. Even with her business management degree, home craft was her passion. She enjoyed decorating and spent hours in thrift shops, exploring new decorating ideas. She was even particular about the type of food she fed her family. She planned wholesome, healthy meals and enforced a fine dining lifestyle into the family’s dinners. Joan dressed up for dinner every evening, setting the table for every meal with the best china, cutlery and glassware.

  “Our friends laughed at our contradictions. I love my steak and beer. My idea of entertainment is a backyard barbie. Joan loved dinner parties that bored me to death, so we compromised. We did both, her way. Called it the barbie with class.”

  Bill’s fond smile at the memory failed to mask the pain in his eyes. As he spoke, it became clear he had been a practical man with a spiritual wife. She experimented with all kinds of religions, although h
er parents were Presbyterians. When she was younger, she explored the Rastafarian movement while visiting her grandparents in Jamaica, much to the bemusement of her church deacon father. Before her divorce, she experimented with various forms of yoga. At the time of her death, she was deep into Namaste yoga.

  “Would you say she was introverted?” Burns quizzed.

  “Not quite,” Bill answered. “She mingled and carried intelligent conversation. She was better educated than I was. Graduated with honours from Newcastle uni. I dropped out in second year and never bothered to return.”

  “What did she like to do most?” Burns asked

  “I’d say cleaning and decorating. Ever watch that TV series, Cleanholics? Joan was just like those weirdos, very addicted to her cleaning. Can you imagine getting kicked out of the house just so your wife can clean? The kids weren’t even allowed to get dirty.”

  He said it without rancour, a fond smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. The kids had to change into indoor shoes before they came in. Joan made them clean their boots outside.

  “Do you know why?” Burns pressed.