Shot Clock

by Blair Denholm

  ‘Indeed there were two men involved in the homicide,’ said Jack. ‘Someone pushed Dale Collins into the path of the speeding vehicle. The search for that person is continuing. Mr Baumann maintains his innocence and refuses to divulge the identity of the other person involved.’ They knew in their guts it was Sandor Katz, but Baumann held his tongue like a captured guerrilla loyal to the cause. Plus there was no trace of communication between the two. At least Baumann got that part of his plan right. ‘However we’re confident the accused will eventually see sense and tell us everything he knows.’

  ‘How did you figure out who did it?’ said Gabby Fink, a seasoned journalist from the Yorkville Times.

  Taylor spoke before Jack could answer. ‘Through a combination of solid police work and forensics, we will argue that Dieter Baumann deliberately drove a stolen Camry at Dale Collins with the intention of killing him then driving off and dumping the vehicle. Unfortunately for Mr Baumann, he didn’t anticipate driving head-on into another vehicle.’

  ‘Was it that error of judgement that led to Baumann’s arrest? Did the man in the Hyundai ID him?’ Fink again.

  Taylor smiled at the woman. ‘We won’t be revealing more specific details until we have the second perpetrator in custody.’

  ‘What if Baumann refuses to tell you who he is?’

  ‘Then we’ll find him the same way we found Dieter Baumann. By using our own resources and initiative.’

  ‘Detective Lisbon.’ Maguire had her hand in the air like she was hailing a taxi. ‘What drew your attention to Baumann in the first place? Did you get a tip off?’

  Jack smiled. Better to give the press something to keep them onside, as long as he revealed nothing to jeopardise the prosecution’s case. ‘An ex-Scorpion who played with Baumann gave us information that explicitly linked the suspect to the physical evidence. Upon examining the accused’s computers and mobile phone, we were left in no doubt of his guilt.’

  ‘Who was the ex-player?’ Maguire looked like she was about to pee her pants with excitement.

  Jack stood, adjusted his tie, winked at Batista. ‘I’m sorry, ladies and gentlemen, but that’s all we have time for.’ Hopefully we’ll see some of you at tonight’s game cheering on the Scorpions.’ He turned and cast a long look at Corbyn Howard, tapping away at the back of the press room on a laptop.

  Jack’s second live NBL match. Another packed stadium. No black armbands this time. Instead, cardboard cut-out images of a smiling Dale Collins for the punters to hold up in front of their faces. Jack wondered how low marketing experts could go. And what would the fans think of Collins when the truth was revealed in court? If the Scorpions claimed the title, they’d most likely forgive his sins. If the team faltered, though, he’d be expunged from the record books. “Cancelled” as they say these days.

  ‘Everyone comfortable?’ The affable Fernando Gomez extended a hand to Taylor first, then to the Inspector, lastly to Jack. The owner’s light-grey suit was the perfect background for the vivid black-and-orange club tie to stand out against.

  ‘Yes we are. Thanks for the invitation,’ said Batista.

  ‘It’s the least I could do. I’m impressed you and your officers were able to arrest someone so soon.’

  ‘Thank you. We’re pretty sure who the accomplice is, but he’s proving elusive. Bauman’s protecting him.’

  I know how to make him talk, Jack thought, clenching his fists under the table. Pity those methods are frowned upon these days.

  ‘Have you got any plans to find the man?’ Gomez arched an eyebrow.

  ‘I’ve sent an alert to police stations nationwide as a first step.’ Batista spoke louder as the crowd noise rose.’ Batista must be ad-libbing. As far as Jack knew, no such decision had been made yet. Gomez bid his farewells, promised to catch up at a break during the match.

  Jack felt something move in his pocket. For once he’d remembered to set the thing to vibrate. Constable Wilson. ‘Yes, wot? Why are you interrupting my night out?’ He had to shout as a caterwauling pop diva launched into a mangled version of the national anthem. He pressed a forefinger into his other ear. ‘Say again? Jesus Christ.’ It turned out Batista had indeed sent out a keep-a-lookout alert. ‘Thanks, I’ll pass on the news.’ Jack hung up, shoved the phone back in his pocket, clapped his hands.

  ‘I’ve just heard something interesting. You’ll never guess.’

  ‘Don’t drag it out,’ said Taylor. ‘It’s nearly tip-off.’

  ‘That was Constable Wilson. Surfers Paradise police called the station. They’ve found Sandor Katz. Dead.’

  ‘Holy shit, where did they find him?’ said Batista.

  ‘Under the front wheels of a Sydney-bound semitrailer. There were two sets of ID in his wallet. One of them legit. It’s our man.’

  ‘You think Baumann will finger a dead man?’ said Taylor.

  Jack frowned. ‘Not without admitting his own guilt.’

  Batista smiled warmly. ‘You know, this is a good result all round. One less to prosecute and best of all, no embarrassing reward to make us look silly.’ He raised a glass. ‘Cheers!’

  ‘Baumann’s not been convicted yet, sir.’ Taylor sipped a white wine.

  ‘I’m sure the prosecutor will nail him to the wall.’

  ‘I like your confidence,’ said Jack, eyeing off a stack of steaming hors d’oeuvres that just landed on their table.

  ‘If Jordan can land pre-season training with the Scorpions, I’ve no doubt this one’s in the bag.’ Batista wiped beer froth from his lips with a starched white napkin. ‘Enough talk, the game’s about to start.’

  * * *

  Two hours later, Jack wondered if the noise shaking the stadium to its foundations would cause the structure to collapse. Screaming, foot-stomping and thunderous clapping must have nudged the decibels to the level of a jet taking off. It was at least as loud as the crowd calling for the encore at the Oasis concert he attended in Earls Court in 1995. After losing the opening playoff game in Darwin, the Scorpions dug deep and held off a resurgent Dragons outfit to win by a convincing margin of 15 points. Leroy Costa scored a game high 41 points, with daylight second. No wonder people were climbing over each other to acquire his services.

  ‘Looks like your mate Wayne Cooper knows what he’s talking about,’ said Batista. He and Taylor were riding home in the Hilux with Jack, tonight’s teetotal designated patsy. All three had declined Rod Parata’s kind invitation to join the after-party at a downtown bar. Jack begged off with the excuse he wanted to watch the highlights at home, the chief claimed he was too exhausted from all the excitement, Taylor said “no thanks” and left it at that. Jack briefly contemplated asking her back to his apartment to watch the replay but changed his mind. Somehow it felt wrong.

  ‘Wayne said they’d win by more than their losing margin in Darwin,’ said Jack. ‘He must be a clairvoyant.’ And Jack had listened to the advice, pocketing a couple of hundred.

  ‘I’m no expert,’ said Taylor, tugging her ponytail through the hole in her newly purchased Scorpions cap. ‘But 15 points seems like a big win. They should be pumped for the next one.’

  ‘If they win that, they’re into the grand final playoffs. Yorkville will go off its effing head,’ said Jack. ‘We’ll need to second extra resources from other stations for an event like that.’

  ‘Quite possibly. But hey, did you see Jordan mixing with the players at the end of the match?’ said Batista, his face still flushed. ‘He looks right at home.’

  ‘Yeah, I saw him,’ said Jack. You couldn’t miss the grinning goof. ‘He was like a kid in a candy shop.’ The Inspector was suddenly embarrassingly proud of his son. A couple of days ago he couldn’t wait to turf the useless lug out of the family home. But fair call, getting to train with a team in the big league with a chance of scoring a jersey was something to be chuffed about. Pity the mood would come crashing down when Jordan went no further.

  ‘He’ll be lining up in next year’s starting five, I can feel it i
n my bones.’

  ‘I’m sure he will.’ Dream on, Inspector. ‘Good luck to the lad.’ Jack stopped at a busy intersection, traffic slow with vehicles exiting the stadium being funnelled through narrow streets before hitting the freedom of the highway. ‘Now, which one of you do I drop home first?’

  Chapter 33

  ‘Your accomplice is dead.’

  A flicker, no more. The man was ice cold. ‘What the hell are you talking about?’

  Dieter Bauman, his face bruised every colour of the rainbow, was flanked to his left by Lionel Kimler, legal advocate for the worst criminal offenders in Yorkville. His clients comprised bikers, armed robbers and drug dealers. Lately though, he’d been trying to improve his image by taking on white collar crooks. Win or lose, defending Baumann would rocket him into legal folklore. Jack guessed lawyer and client knew each other fairly well: the men sat closer than most suspects and their representatives, heads almost touched during their whispered exchanges. Across the table, armed with a battery of evidence, sat Detectives Lisbon and Taylor.

  ‘Sandor Katz.’

  ‘I told you clowns already, I never heard of him.’

  Tayler shot Jack a questioning look. He gave a tiny head shake. Not yet.

  ‘OK, let’s try another approach.’ Time to shift the furniture. ‘Are you a particularly fast runner, Mr Baumann?’

  ‘Excuse me? What nonsense!’ said Kimler. ‘He’s a former elite athlete who keeps in shape. Of course he’s a fast runner.’

  ‘My colleague was asking Mr Baumann, not you.’ Claudia’s smile could have curdled butter. She offered Dieter a more pleasant expression. ‘Are you a fast runner?’

  ‘No more than other athletes. I’m 6’8” and heavily built, not conducive to sprinting. My playing position was forward or centre. The guards are the fastest players. Quicker than me.’

  ‘You know,’ said Jack with a hint of wistfulness. ‘I saw this replay of you in an old game. At the Pelican Pub, it was. Do you go there, Dieter? Wonderful bar it is…’

  ‘No, I do not! Where the hell are you going with this?’

  ‘I do apologise for my digression. Anyway, there was this play where you motored from one end of the court to the other and no one seemed to be able to catch you. But then I saw another play, and you struggled to keep up. And then it dawned on me. The first time you’d just come off the bench and had fresh legs while all the other players were tired.’

  ‘I fail to see what relevance this has,’ Kimler scowled.

  ‘It’s very relevant. Here, check this out, Dieter. You too, Mr Kimler.’ Jack opened a laptop and fired it up, clicked a few links, spun the device around.

  ‘What’s this all about?’

  ‘Watch closely.’ Jack had the IT boys splice together a video. A highlight reel of Dieter Baumann’s career with the Scorpions.

  ‘Much as I enjoy reliving the glory days, Detective Lisbon, I fail to see what you’re trying to achieve.’

  ‘Would you say you have a distinctive way of moving?’

  ‘Not particularly.’

  ‘Look closer.’

  The accused and his representatives edged forward in their seats. ‘Nope. Don’t see it,’ said Kimler.

  ‘You may not, but our star witness can. In fact, we showed him videos of other very tall players running. How many was it Claudia?’

  She consulted a Spirax notepad, read from the page. ‘Footage of twenty-five basketball players running in NBL matches was compiled at random and merged into a half-hour video. It was shown to the witness who pursued the accused on a scooter the day of the hit-and-run homicide. The witness asserted the man he chased was dressed entirely in black and he could not discern facial or other physiological features that would enable accurate identification. With no prompting, out of the twenty-five players he watched running, the witness confidently identified the accused, Dieter Baumann, as the person he was chasing.’

  ‘We will play this video in court and the witness will testify before a jury.’ Jack spun a Bic biro on the table. ‘There’s no getting out of this one, sunshine. Even I can see it. You’ve got your right elbow sticking out slightly to the side, and this unique loping style. Subtle, but it’s there.’

  No words of protest from the accused and his brief. Only hard stares. ‘Like to sign a confession, Deets?’

  ‘Fuck you,’ Baumann said almost casually.

  ‘My sentiments exactly,’ said Kimler, tapping the screen of the laptop. ‘This is all theatrics. Give me time and I’ll dig up clips of other players with the same gait as Mr Baumann.’

  ‘If that fails to impress you, we’ve got plenty more. Show Mr Kimler the digital forensics report, please Claudia.’

  ‘You already looked at my phone and found nothing,’ said Baumann. ‘My tablets and other devices are also clean as a whistle.’ He sat back, folded his arms.

  ‘I haven’t got time to go through that now.’ Kimler waved fingers like he was shooing mosquitoes. ‘Provide me with a copy I can study properly at my leisure, not skim over in an interview situation.’

  ‘Let me save you the time, Mr Kimler.’ Taylor tugged at her black scrunchie. ‘The level of encryption embedded by Dieter is impressive. Indeed, it took our experts over a week to crack it, but they did.’

  ‘Bullshit,’ spat Baumann. ‘There’s only factory settings on that iPhone.’

  She read from the file: “Initial analysis of the suspect’s iPhone carried out in Yorkville confirmed the device was located 9.6 kms from Trinity Beach, in other words 160 kms from the crime scene, ten minutes after the hit-and-run accident. We conducted a deeper analysis and discovered a unique non-proprietary application had been installed on the device. The program is designed to switch on at a predetermined time and interact with telecommunications towers. Decrypted data logs revealed the app had activated the phone 10 minutes after the murder. The most likely scenario was the phone had been planted at the site ahead of the commission of the crime to conceal the perpetrator’s actual whereabouts.”

  ‘I’ll need time to digest this information,’ Kimler’s voice trembled. ‘The detail is way too technical for me.’

  ‘I want to read it too,’ said Baumann, the cockiness now gone.

  Jack stared hard, sizing up the opponent. Yes, he’s on the ropes now. One more punch. ‘Claudia, can you please show the accused the photograph.’

  The large glossy photo looked like someone had taken an artsy shot of fruit salad thrown against the tyres of a truck. Taylor fixed her gaze at the ceiling. She nearly threw up when she first saw the splattered remains of Sandor Katz. The torso had burst like a grape under the weight of the huge truck, yet somehow the head remained intact, horror etched into the wide open eyes.

  ‘What the fuck are you people playing at?’ The lawyer’s nostrils flared.

  ‘It’s OK, Lionel. I’m done.’ Baumann stretched his long arms across the table, placed his head between them. Jack couldn’t credit that a man the size of Baumann would weep like a child.

  Jack should have let that be the end of proceedings. Baumann was all primed to officially confess, he could feel it. But he couldn’t resist. ‘Crashing that stolen Camry wasn’t the dumbest thing you did, sunshine. Wanna know what it was?’

  Baumann slowly raised his head, eyes blank. His mouth moved but nothing came out.

  ‘It was changing the radio station in the Camry. I rang Mrs McNamee. Lovely lady she is. Only problem is, she’s the only person who drove the car and guess what? She absolutely hates classical music, sunshine.’

  Chapter 34

  A glance at the bottom right corner of the screen of his HP computer. 8:00pm. Morning in London. 10:00am. With a solid run and a weights workout behind him and Dieter Baumann convicted and sentenced to forty years no parole, only one thing would make this day better. Well, two things, but he was yet to win Claudia’s heart.

  One heart that did belong to Daddy was Skye’s.

  And there she was, head in her hands, elbows resting on
the table, waiting for Jack’s camera to connect. Then the beaming smile. ‘Daddy, I can see you!’

  ‘I can see you, too, sweetheart. Did you have a nice Christmas?’

  ‘Uh huh.’ She nodded her head as only small children do, with overenthusiastic rapidity. Skye’s head rocked back and forth so hard Jack thought her neck would snap.

  ‘Calm down and tell me all about it. And don’t hurry, we’ve got plenty of time.’

  The girl spoke almost without drawing breath for the next six minutes. Mum had bought her a guinea pig but it died. She’s got two new friends at school but dropped three old ones because they were stupid. School was great and she loved all her teachers except Mr Griffiths because he smells funny. All the while Jack’s ex-wife Sarah hovered in and out of shot. Pretending to be doing her own thing but monitoring the call.

  ‘Did you get the present I sent you?’

  ‘Yes. I’m wearing it now, can you see?’ She stood and pointed at her chest. Over a white t-shirt was the Scorpions jersey, Costa, Number 6. ‘I watched the last game when they became the champions, too. I don’t understand basketball very much, so me and Mummy fast-forwarded to the end where you and the Inspector and the other detective lady got special medals for solving that crime.’

  ‘You should have watched the whole match. It was very exciting.’

  ‘Hmm. Maybe later I will. Daddy?’

  ‘What, darling?’

  ‘Why did that man kill the coach?’

  Baumann admitted his motive was nothing more than pure revenge. He felt no pangs of remorse because Collins had broken the code. The man was a cheat who lacked honour and integrity, values Baumann rated above all else. Except for loyalty. Which was the reason he refused to acknowledge Sandor Katz’s role in the crime. Even on the witness stand, he was like Judas denying Christ. It only took a day of Constables Semmens and Trevarthen asking around the social basketball leagues of Yorkville to find out the men had been friends for years. No one could recall how they’d originally met, just that they were thick as thieves. Baumann and Katz were often seen playing pick-up scratch matches on outdoor courts around town, giving wannabes lessons in humility. Skye didn’t need to know all that. She needed a simple answer. ‘He did it because he was a bad man.’