Shot Clock

by Blair Denholm

  ‘Oh, no sir. Of course not. I was just wondering, maybe there are some guys out there who might have had trials under Collins and got nowhere. Perhaps they thought they were ready for the big time, got rejected and, I dunno, bore a grudge.’

  ‘Excellent.’ Batista turned to Taylor. ‘Did Parata provide you with names of any failed aspirants?’

  ‘No, sir.’ Taylor beamed encouragingly at Smith. ‘I’ll get onto him ASAP.’

  ‘It’s a long shot, but worthy of following up. Lisbon and Taylor, get onto this German fellow. Wilson and Smith, take a drive over to that diner and question, what’s his name Claudia?’

  ‘Corbyn Howard.’

  ‘Yes, him. Trevarthen and Semmens, ring anyone on the list of ex-players who failed to answer the first time, wherever they are. I don’t care if they live in fucking Alaska and it’s the middle of the night. Pump them for information. See if they can think of anyone they met in Yorkville who’d want to kill Dale Collins. The first semi-final playoff’s tonight, dammit. Which means the grand-final series could start in as little as two weeks. I want this matter put to bed before Gomez officially posts his fucking reward. Move!’ Batista hammer-fisted one of the whiteboards so hard the magnets popped off and the pictures behind them fluttered forlornly to the floor.

  Chapter 21

  The spacious and sterile brass-and-glass elevator took Detectives Lisbon and Taylor to the top floor of the Vautin Building, Yorkville’s tallest structure at twelve stories. The doors opened onto a large foyer with corridors splitting in four directions. Directly in front of them sat a neatly groomed receptionist representing Warren Data Services. She smiled warmly, revealing a near perfect set of teeth marred only by a slight chip to her left central incisor. ‘Good afternoon? How can I help you?’

  Jack slid his ID under a Perspex partition. ‘We’re here to see your IT manager.’

  She looked at him blankly. ‘Do you have an appointment?’

  ‘No. We thought we’d surprise him. Does he like surprises?’

  She screwed up her lips, picked up a telephone. ‘There’s a couple of police officers here to see you, Deets.’ She listened for a moment before gently placing the receiver in its cradle. ‘He’ll see you now.’

  The faint strains of sweet violin music drifted down from ceiling-mounted speakers. Almost muzak to Jack’s tin ear. Baumann’s office was decorated in a starkly utilitarian fashion and smelled of expensive cologne and Teutonic efficiency. He must be an important cog in the company’s wheel – he had the place all to himself. His attire veered wide of what Jack would have expected for a geeky IT guru. Instead of jeans and a t-shirt, Baumann was a hundred-percent executive, resplendent in a dark blue suit, red-and-black tie done up with a double Windsor knot, gold cufflinks set with sparkling opals. The wavy straw-blonde hair was slicked down close to his smallish ears. Deep-set brown eyes, full lips, prominent nose and a dimpled chin. He gave off an air of supreme confidence.

  No elements of personalisation of the workspace apparent on his glass-topped desk: no picture frames on his desk, no knickknacks of any kind. A clinical environment where work was the only priority. If he got tired of his job, he could always spin around in his chair and stare out of the floor-to-ceiling windows at the broad expanses of the limitless Pacific Ocean and the verdant tropical hills overlooking Yorkville’s CBD.

  Baumann stood to his impressive full height of 6’8”, gestured amiably for the detectives to take a seat in a pair of office chairs. ‘Good afternoon. Olivia tells me you’re from the police. I take it this has to do with the horrible tragedy involving Dale Collins, correct? Coffee?’

  The accent was slight. It reminded Jack of a Swiss man he’d once met who sounded like a well-educated Englishman but had never set foot in Britain.

  ‘Yes and yes,’ said Jack.

  Baumann quickly ordered refreshments over the phone.

  ‘How exactly can I help you?’

  ‘Where were you at 10:15 last Wednesday morning?’ said Taylor. Good girl, thought Jack. Put him on the back foot right from the start.

  ‘You don’t waste time, do you? As it happens, I was heading for the Daintree National Park on my bike. I’d been riding since about 8:00am, so I would’ve been somewhere near…let me look on Google maps.’ Baumann clicked his mouse a few times. ‘Yes, Trinity Beach. Beautiful morning it was, out in the fresh air. A bit hot and muggy, but sometimes harsh nature is better than a comfortable office.’

  ‘That’s one hell of a ride.’

  ‘It sure is, but I’m fit. I ride every day. I took my time on the trip up, spent the night at an Airbnb apartment, then rode back Thursday morning.’

  ‘Can anyone vouch for you?’ Taylor wasn’t taking his word for it.

  ‘I’ve got receipts for my accommodation and meals purchased along the way. Oh, and I can show you pictures on my Instagram account. Look.’ He palmed his phone, found the page and extended the device for the detectives to see. ‘There’s a selfie of me having lunch at a Port Douglas pub on my way there. Mud crab with some garlic bread. Sensational, I can recommend it highly.’

  ‘It’s date stamped December 8,’ said Taylor looking sideways at Jack. ‘That’s last Wednesday, the day Collins was killed.’

  ‘Of course it is!’ Baumann threw his hands up in the air. ‘If you think I somehow faked that, take a drive up to the Bushwacker Hotel and ask around. I spoke to lots of people there. They’ll all remember me, especially the staff. I mean, look at me. I stick out like, how do you Aussies say it, dog’s balls.’

  Jack chuckled. ‘That’s a new one on me. You heard it, Claudia?’

  Taylor nodded. ‘My dad used to say it all the time. But back to the matter at hand. Why did you take a day off in the middle of the week? Especially with Christmas around the corner. Most businesses would be flat out at this time of year, gearing up for the holidays.’

  He turned his palms up. ‘What can I say? I needed the break. My role here at Warren Data is stressful. I sometimes take unscheduled time off to clear my mind. I’m virtually my own boss here, and there are competent staff I can delegate to who will get the job done in my absence. ’

  ‘Very convenient, wouldn’t you say?’ Taylor smiled as the receptionist brought in a tray.

  ‘Can I help it if my planned getaway coincided with the accident?’

  Jack made a mental note of the dual meaning of “getaway”. Was the man playing mind games? He had the IQ to engage in them, no doubt.

  ‘Very, very suspicious in my book,’ said Jack. ‘With no one to give you an iron-clad alibi. Yeah, you might have been at the pub for lunch, but that’s two or more hours after the accident. You could have driven.’

  ‘What nonsense. I saw the news. The car that hit poor Dale was a write-off. How could I have driven it? You do have an amazing imagination, Detective Lisbon.’ Baumann frowned. ‘Surely you don’t think I’m involved in this despicable business, do you? It’s preposterous.’

  Jack tasted the strong coffee and smiled inwardly. ‘Until we can rule you out completely, you are a person of interest, along with several others.’

  ‘On what basis? Why would I possibly want to kill Dale Collins? He and I got along famously. Never once did we argue or have any kind of falling out. Ask around. All the current and past players, the training staff. They’ll confirm what I’m telling you.’

  ‘He dropped you from the team.’ Taylor smacked her lips, appreciating the coffee as much as Jack. ‘Maybe you resented that enough to kill him.’

  ‘In the world of professional sports, people are treated like commodities. If everyone who got upset over being axed went on killing sprees, the jails would be wall-to-wall athletes. In my particular case, I was grateful to be offered a spot in Melbourne at the end of my career. I had a good run.’

  ‘It still looks awfully suspicious,’ Jack pressed on. ‘You being on your bicycle at the time of–’

  ‘With respect, Detective. What kind of an idiot do you take me for? I’ll g
ladly give you my phone. Your digital forensics people will see exactly where I was at 10:15 Wednesday morning. On Highway 1 heading for the Daintree. If you can obtain a warrant, I’ll hand over the phone, plus my laptop and anything else you want.’

  ‘We may well do that,’ said Jack. ‘And we’re not saying you’re an idiot.’ Far from it, the guy’s smart as a whip. ‘However you getting all defensive like this makes me wonder…’

  ‘Of course I’m fucking defensive, pardon my language. You come in here, start making all kinds of baseless insinuations, what do you expect?’

  ‘Calm down, Mr Baumann. We’re just exploring possibilities at this stage. Nothing personal.’ Jack took a handful of trail mix from a silver bowl that reminded him of the dishes restaurants serve curry in. ‘OK, let’s back it up a bit. Do you have any idea who would want to see Dale Collins dead?’

  Baumann leaned back in his chair, his features brightening after the figurative blowtorch was taken away. ‘I’d say his wife, Fil.’

  ‘Why?’ said Taylor, following Jack’s lead and helping herself to the snacks.

  ‘Most murders are domestic disputes that escalate, aren’t they? I mean, statistically.’

  ‘I’d say yes to that, only it’s usually a violent husband doing in the wife.’

  ‘But the other way around is not unheard of, is it?’ Baumann dropped his tone. ‘Rumours were running rife about either Dale or Fil playing away from home. The age gap was too great. Lots of temptations around for her, fit, younger men. And for him, on the road. We didn’t know what he got up to after games. Maybe he visited hookers or they came to his hotel room? Anything’s possible.’

  ‘Did you see yourself as one of those men Fil may have been attracted to, Dieter?’

  Taylor’s switch to using his first name didn’t seem to register with Baumann. He smiled broadly. ‘Sometimes, sure. Lots of us flirted with her. It was fun and she liked to play along. If any of the lads ever took her up on the offer, they never said. Most rumours centred around Steve Sarsby, so you might want to check him out a bit more closely. If Fil had wanted to murder Dale, she and Steve could have set it up. I’m only speculating, of course. It’s an extreme step to take. I mean, she could have just taken Dale for half his money and set up house with Steve.’

  ‘What about Steve’s wife? We’ve interviewed the Sarsbys and they seem a couple very much in love, even after being married for some years.’

  ‘Give me a break. He would’ve ditched Helen for a newly rich Fil, surely?’

  ‘Perhaps,’ said Jack. He’s ignorant of Helen and Fil. But Maybe both Sarsbys and Fil were in on it together?

  ‘Thanks for the tip,’ Taylor doodled circles on her notepad. ‘We’ve already heard similar things from other people, so it’s good to get the same information from another source.’

  ‘There were two guys involved,’ said Jack. ‘If Steve Sarsby was one, who was the other?’

  ‘I’ve heard Steve took to playing in some social competition. Perhaps he got to know somebody willing to help him out. If I remember rightly, he makes friends easily.’

  Such a scenario was indeed plausible and worth following, Jack decided.

  ‘I notice you’ve got no family pictures on your desk. No wife or girlfriend, no kids. What’s the story there?’ said Taylor in a voice that reminded Jack of a mother desperate for her son to start a family.

  Baumann interlaced fingers behind the head and offered an arrogant half smile that tipped up a corner of his lips. ‘Let’s just say I’m fussy.’

  ‘So you never pursued Mrs Collins or any of the other players’ wives or girlfriends?’ Jack scooped up another handful of the morish spicy snack.

  ‘Never. I have a moral code as far as that goes. Like I said, I’m fussy.’

  Jack stood, beckoned for Taylor to get up. ‘Thanks for your time, Mr Baumann. One more thing. Would you consent to providing some DNA swabs down at the station?’

  Baumann nodded. ‘Of course. When do you want me to do that?’

  Jack looked at his watch. ‘How about now?’

  ‘Suits me.’ Baumann was already on his feet. ‘And while we’re there, you can examine my phone and verify what I told you before. That way you can concentrate on finding out who really did this.’

  Chapter 22

  He glanced out the window, attracted involuntarily by a glint of light off a windscreen. The carpark was crowded with semitrailers, 4x4s and cars towing caravans or jet-skis on trailers. All heading south in the direction of the state’s capital Brisbane or further north to the Daintree Forest and beyond. There were no other fuel or food stops for another 200 kms in either direction, and that’s why this little gas station on the main highway out of town was a gold mine for Mr and Mrs Howard. The Hacienda had been a family business for twenty years. Corbyn had worked here as a teenager, helping his parents get the place up and running. Now he was back to lend a hand. Basketball career over.

  Corbyn dreamed of being a sports commentator. He knew the stats of every player on the NBL backwards. Every player over the last ten seasons. Not only that, he was all over the rugby league, soccer and Australian Rules Football stars. Cricketers in the summer. Sadly, an incurable stutter held Corbyn back from fulfilling his dream. It was a mild affliction, but enough to rule him out as a TV or radio journalist. As a second-best option, he’d started writing a blog at night. If he couldn’t talk about sports, he could always write about what he loved the most. He had a small but growing audience, however the project was still a work in progress. While he worked at perfecting his craft, Corbyn was content to fry onions, flip meat patties and serve hungry customers for mum and dad. Any day now a major newspaper or magazine would realise his talent and come knocking. And there was so much to write about at the moment with the murder of coach Collins, the play-offs starting…

  Two uniformed cops stepped up to the counter. A man and a woman. Wanting a discount, probably. He smiled, knowing he’d shave off a dollar or two if they asked.

  ‘You got a spare minute, Corbyn?’ The small female was friendly enough.

  ‘You’re n-not here f-for our f-famous burgers?’

  The cops exchanged a glance. ‘No. We’d like to ask you a few questions about–’

  ‘About Dale Collins, right?’

  Two nodding, smiling heads. These were uber polite cops, not the usual rude types who frequented the diner, demanding this and that. ‘Yes,’ said the man.

  ‘I knew you’d be asking m-me questions eventually.’

  ‘How about we slide on over to that booth over there. Can someone cover for you?’ said the female.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Can you get us a couple of teas? White with two sugars for both of us.’

  ‘Want a couple of donuts to go with that? On the house.’

  ‘Sure, why not?’ said the male, delighted to get a freebie without asking.

  ‘Gimme a second to organise it.’ He turned his head to the left and yelled out the name Jimmy. A fussy awkward teenager in a white cloth cap dashed over to the till and took the order. The two amicable cops ushered Corbyn into a booth with two red benches bookending a chipped Formica table that had seen better days.

  ‘We’re going to start with the obvious, Mr Howard,’ said the beaming female constable. ‘Where were you at 10:15am on Wednesday last week?’

  ‘Four hours and f-fifteen minutes into my shift. I work from 6:30am to 2:30pm, Monday to Friday. I’m used to the discipline after sixteen y-years playing b-ball.’

  ‘Can anyone confirm that?’ she asked, still smiling

  ‘Only about f-fifty truck drivers, my parents and Jimmy over there at the c-counter.’ Corbyn chuckled through gapped front teeth. ‘The routine’s the same, day in, day out.’

  ‘Got any idea who’d want to murder Dale Collins?’ said the male cop. He looked intelligent but inexperienced. For a big case like this, Corbyn would’ve expected top detectives, not uniforms.

  ‘None at all. I’m sure eve
ryone you’ve spoken to has said the s-same thing. Everyone loved Dale. The f-funeral on Sunday coming will be the biggest event in Yorkville since Prince Harry d-dropped into town a few years ago.’

  ‘Think harder, Corbyn,’ said the woman. ‘Someone must have thought differently about Dale. In fact they did, I mean, he’s dead, right?’

  ‘I g-guess.’

  ‘Some players got dropped before their contracts were up.’ Her smile was now replaced by a serious blankness of expression.

  ‘And?’

  ‘Wouldn’t that make a player mad?’

  He shook his head. ‘Not as mad as a ref making a wrong c-call in a tight match. Nah, we accept that’s gonna happen.’

  For ten minutes, the constables asked Corbyn Howard what he knew about the principal suspects: Leroy Costa, Fernando Gomez, Fil Collins, Steve Sarsby, and the cavalcade of players he’d had the good fortune to line up with on the pine. Could any of them have harboured ill-will towards the great Dale Collins? No, not one of them.

  The female cop whispered to the male. He nodded, snapped his head around, hope in his eyes. ‘What about players from local leagues who tried out unsuccessfully?’

  ‘You mean, like, not through the normal recruitment p-pathways?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I can only remember one guy. He never amounted to anything as f-far as I know. I’m sure most have forgotten him. I guess I remember because of my…f-freakish…memory.’ Corbyn proudly described his almost savant-like sports knowledge and his plans for a journalism career.

  The two constables leaned forward, rested their wrists on the table. ‘Who was that?’ said the female, licking the end of a pencil as she prepared to take notes.

  ‘His name was Sandor K-Katz. He played one pre-season trial game with the Scorpions four years ago. Pretty good outside shooter, big b-body, a ton of potential. He didn’t get p-picked up and went back to playing the lower grades. He would have been a great asset f-for the team except for one thing.’