by Robert Sims
35
Even though it was the middle of the night, reporter Nikki Dwyer was still busy at her computer terminal in an otherwise deserted newsroom. She had more than one scoop to work on and plenty of documentary evidence to sort through. Her confrontational phone calls had supplied additional angles and she wanted the proofs ready when the editor of the Whitley Times arrived at the office in the morning. She scrolled back through what she’d written, scanned it and stretched before bending over the keyboard to resume her labours. Only the angled light on Nikki’s desk shone amid the gloom. The newspaper office was on the edge of the industrial area, next to an abandoned glass factory, and the longer she worked the more the isolation was noticeable. Apart from a lone security guard at the front desk, Nikki was the only person in the building.
At one stage she thought she heard movement somewhere in the shadows. She looked around and called out to see if the guard was doing his rounds. No one answered. She shivered a little, hit the save key and went on typing.
The next time she heard a movement it was close behind her.
She was turning around when the nail gun was pressed into her hair and fired into the back of her head, the discharge propelling her flat onto the desk. She lay there, doubled up, no longer aware of anything, her blood spattering the computer screen and trickling over the keyboard, a nail lodged in her brain.
A hand shrouded in a surgical glove put down the nail gun and reached out, picking up Nikki’s contacts book and pocketing it. Then, with some deft keystrokes, the stories she had been working on were deleted. Her notes, cuttings and document files were tidied into a zip bag. Then her killer took out a heavy duty meat cleaver, lined up Nikki’s lifeless hands and chopped them off. These, too, went into the bag. Finally, he grasped the meat cleaver in both hands and held it aloft like an axe, then brought it down in a powerful blow that sliced cleanly through her neck, severing the head from the spine.
Once he’d put the cleaver back in the bag, he lifted the decapitated head by the hair, blood draining from the gaping wound as he dropped it into a litter bin. His job done, he collected the bag and nail gun and walked towards the back stairs, only to hear the footsteps of the security guard approaching.
The guard emerged from the stairwell and was starting to yawn as he entered the newsroom. He didn’t see what was coming. His mouth was still wide open as the nail gun was fired between his eyes, smashing through his forehead and fastening the back of his skull to the door with a thud in a spray of blood and brain tissue.
The guard’s body slumped there, still upright, pinned by the nail, eyes glassy. He was dead but he was still yawning.
36
Rita was reading the morning’s edition of the Courier-Mail while eating her breakfast on the hotel terrace, but she stopped abruptly as an item on an inside page caught her eye. It was a brief report on Steinberg’s death. A tragic accident, that was the line that had been fed to the press, and faulty wiring was to blame. The official cover-up was in place. At least the news had been released. She pushed aside the newspaper, picked up her mobile and phoned Byron to tell him, but he already knew.
‘I’ve just read about it,’ he said. ‘How bloody awful. Poor old Steinberg. He died all alone, according to the paper.’
‘Yes, I’ve been checking the details,’ Rita lied. ‘I shouldn’t have delayed calling on him.’
‘What a nasty way to go - electrocution. My God.’
‘It would have been quick. He wouldn’t have suffered much.’
‘There’s that, I suppose. But what a horrible accident.’ Byron paused. ‘It was an accident, wasn’t it?’
‘Why do you ask?’
‘Because of the things he mentioned - the atmosphere of confrontation, the thugs in uniform. Makes me wonder if he pissed them off enough to provoke them.’
‘Don’t go there,’ she said. ‘The facts are consistent with a freak accident. There’s nothing to justify an investigation. So stop wondering. Mourn your friend, that’s enough.’
‘Okay.’
‘Got to go,’ she said. ‘Someone else is trying to get through.’
The call was from Jarrett.
‘What’s up?’ she asked.
‘It’s happened again, but worse.’ His voice sounded strained.
‘Two more bodies. Both killed with a nail gun. The Whitley Times building. You should get here now.’
She downed the rest of her coffee and drove straight to the crime scene. When she arrived in the taped-off newsroom the pathologist was already busy at work, along with detectives taking photos, dusting for prints and bagging items as evidence. Jarrett, notebook in hand, had just questioned the stunned editor of the Whitley Times when Rita walked over. The man looked drained and pale. He walked shakily from the newsroom to join the rest of his staff in a frightened huddle outside the building.
‘Not the sort of news they’re used to,’ sighed Jarrett.
‘When it’s this close to home it’s not news,’ said Rita. ‘It’s real life and real death. Big difference.’
‘The media will go ape-shit over this.’
Rita nodded. ‘We’ll have our work cut out keeping it in perspective.’
‘At least we’re excused from the research base today.’
‘Thank God for that.’
‘No, thank Bryce. He’s going solo. He says a double murder takes precedence over a security review, and of course he’s right.’
Jarrett shoved his notebook into his pocket. ‘Okay. Our nail-gunner’s had a busy night. Take a look.’
Rita followed Jarrett inside the crime-scene tape to the decapitated body on the news desk. Next to it was a litter bin containing the severed head, the sightless eyes staring upwards.
‘Reporter Nikki Dwyer,’ he said. ‘She must have been the intended victim of the attack.’
Rita bent over the body. The bloodied stumps of the woman’s forearms were resting on the desk. In the bin, the point of the nail could be seen protruding from the front of her skull.
‘Time of death, after midnight,’ added Jarrett. ‘Maybe around one a.m.’
‘Working late,’ said Rita.
‘But the work’s all gone. Articles deleted, notes and files stolen.
Story killed, along with the reporter.’
‘And the man on the door?’
They walked over to the stairwell entrance.
‘Security guard,’ answered Jarrett. ‘Collateral damage. He must have wandered in at the wrong time. Nailed between the eyes.’
Rita nodded. ‘Killed without compunction or hesitation. Like you’d swat a fly.’
‘Yeah. Your idea about professional hits might not be far off the mark.’ Jarrett drew her aside and lowered his voice. ‘The editor’s just told me what story the reporter was working on last night when she was murdered. She was writing an expose of Billy Bowers.
Somehow she’d got hold of that bestiality angle and had the balls to phone him up and put it to him. Bowers went ballistic.’
‘Well, well. He may face justice at last.’
‘That’s not all - wait till you hear this: Nikki claimed a secret contact told her Bowers had threatened to kill Rachel Macarthur for launching the campaign against his resort development. We need to haul him in for a chat.’
Rita gripped Jarrett’s arm. ‘You realise what this means?’
‘I’m not forgetting the beer mat in a dead man’s boot,’ said Jarrett. ‘It means we can now link Billy to four murders.’
37
Billy Bowers walked through the front entrance of the police station flanked by his lawyers. He looked cool and assertive, every inch a former world champion in his designer sunglasses and neat safari suit. A gold pendant, in the shape of a pair of boxing gloves, hung on a heavy gold chain around his neck. One of his solicitors accompanied him as he was ushered from the reception area through an adjoining doorway to be questioned. Billy’s physical bulk, tall and broad-shouldered, dominated the confines of the intervie
w room as he stretched out his hand to Jarrett.
‘Hi, Steve.’
‘G’day, Billy,’ responded Jarrett. To Rita’s disgust they shook hands.
Billy’s expression soured as his eyes fell on Rita.
‘It’s been a few years, Van Hassel,’ he said. ‘I’d like to say it’s a pleasure to see you again, but I can’t. It isn’t.’
‘Why, Billy?’ asked Rita calmly. ‘Afraid your past will catch up with you?’
Billy grinned. ‘Be careful of this woman, Steve. She’s got fangs.
Venomous as a tiger snake.’
‘I’ll keep that in mind,’ said Jarrett, suppressing a smile. ‘Take a seat, Billy.’
The ex-champion made himself comfortable across the table from Jarrett. The solicitor sat opposite Rita.
With the interview tape rolling, Jarrett began.
‘We need to ask you questions in connection with some serious crimes, including this morning’s double homicide at the Whitley Times building.’
‘I’m advising my client not to answer …’ the solicitor began before Billy cut him short, holding up a hand.
‘I’m here to be frank and open with the police,’ he said. ‘I understand why you want to talk to me, Steve, and I’ve got nothing to hide. I’ll answer all your questions. In fact, the only reason I’ve brought my lawyers is because I heard Van Hassel was working the case.’
‘She’s profiling the murders.’
‘Whatever. I want to state clearly for the record that Detective Sergeant Van Hassel has harassed me before. There was no substance to her wild allegations and no charges were laid. I can only assume she embarked on a vendetta against me for personal reasons.
It ended in complete failure, including, I understand, internal disciplinary action.’
‘That’s garbage and you know it,’ said Rita.
Jarrett laid a hand on her arm. ‘You’ve made your point, Billy.’
‘Well, you can appreciate why having her in this room gets my hackles up. It makes me wonder if she’s on a revenge mission.’
‘I invited her,’ said Jarrett. ‘And I want to say, for the record, that her work is insightful and objective. But let’s put profiling aside. Let’s talk evidence. According to the editor of the Whitley Times you threatened his reporter, Nikki Dwyer, last night and within hours she was dead.’
‘I advise you not to …’
Billy waved his solicitor into silence again.
‘I reacted, maybe overreacted, to the way she spoke to me.
But that’s all.’
‘She was writing an investigative piece on you. A report about other threats and criminal violence.’
‘Lies!’ Billy’s fist thumped the table. ‘Lies and defamation!’
‘We see how angry you are,’ observed Jarrett. ‘Angry enough to kill her?’
‘No!’
‘And kill her story too - delete all trace of it?’
‘Absolutely not! I didn’t leave my club till after dawn and my staff will vouch for that. Go ask them.’
‘We will.’
Billy gestured with open hands. ‘For God’s sake, Steve, I’ve got lawyers to stop the story - which, by the way, came from an anonymous source.’ He turned to glare at Rita. ‘And I’ve got a damn good idea who she is.’
Rita frowned. ‘You think I’m the source?’
‘Who else?’
‘Interesting question,’ she said. ‘Do you plan to come after me next? Threaten to rip my head off the way you did Rachel Macarthur?’
‘Like I told the reporter last night, it was just a figure of speech! For Christ’s sake, use your loaf, Van Hassel. Even if you believe I’m capable of it, do you think I’d be stupid enough to snuff somebody on my own doorstep? Get real.’
‘I don’t for a moment think you’re stupid,’ she answered. ‘Quite the opposite. You’re a highly intelligent sociopath.’
‘Huh, you sound less like a cop than a wannabe shrink.’
‘You don’t lack brains,’ she persisted. ‘You lack a conscience.
And if you’re asking me if you’re capable of psychotic violence, I know you are. Especially against women.’
‘My client doesn’t have to listen to this abuse,’ the lawyer interjected.
‘That’s okay,’ sighed Billy. ‘It proves she’s got a hard-on for me.’
‘I admit seeing you prosecuted for your crimes would be satisfying.’
‘Well, keep your pants on, Van Hassel. It ain’t going to happen.’
Jarrett almost seemed to be enjoying the confrontation, as if he was watching a bout between seasoned sparring partners, but so far Billy’s defences were solid. It was time for a different approach.
‘Rachel Macarthur could have cost you millions if she’d blocked the resort development,’ Jarrett pointed out. ‘That gives you a strong motive.’
‘She wouldn’t have succeeded,’ Billy asserted.
‘You mean she didn’t. The legal challenge was in her name.
That’s fallen through now.’
‘My lawyers had the court action beaten. Besides, I’ve got the council onside and the protesters would’ve been ignored. I just didn’t need the headache.’ Billy was sounding peeved. ‘But let’s get to the point. Apart from some heat-of-the-moment comments, which I admit were ill-advised though provoked, you’ve got nothing that has any bearing at all on either woman’s death. That’s why I’m here, Steve, why I came in of my own accord. I knew I’d have to clear the air because of a whispering campaign against me.’
Jarrett glanced at Rita. They both knew Billy was right, that the evidence was circumstantial at best. They also realised his performance in the interview room was impressive. Nothing had fazed him so far. He’d made all the right noises for a responsible citizen who was innocent but aggrieved.
‘You gonna be available if we want to talk to you some more?’
asked Jarrett.
‘Of course.’ Billy reached inside his jacket pocket and pulled out a business card. ‘Here’s my mobile number. Right now I’m on my way to the airport. Bucks night on Hamilton Island. I’m not going anywhere else.’
‘Okay.’
‘I know I’m seen as something of a volatile character,’ Billy added. ‘Name a boxing champ who isn’t. But I can’t be blamed for unfounded rumours and gossip that circulate. Every celebrity cops that. I may be colourful but I’m straight.’
Rita knew he was as straight as the flashy gold jewellery looped around his neck.
‘Who’s the man in the mud?’ she asked aggressively.
Billy scowled at her. ‘How the fuck should I know?’
‘We’ve got evidence that links him to you.’
‘What evidence?’
‘It’s confidential to the investigation.’
‘More crap. You’re full of it, Van Hassel.’
His reaction seemed genuine and so was his annoyance, but she had no intention of backing off.
‘What’s your connection with Whitley Sands?’
‘The research base?’ He seemed puzzled, though hesitant. ‘My only connection is social. Civic receptions and the like. What the hell has that got to do with anything?’
Was there a hint of uncertainty in his response? Rita sensed something of the sort so she blurted out, ‘What’s your relationship with Captain Roy Maddox?’
It was a rash question but so was Billy’s reaction. He just stared at her, as if he didn’t know how to answer. For a moment he said nothing, apparently trying to second guess the basis of Rita’s query and nervous about which way to commit himself.
‘That’s it!’ insisted the solicitor, pushing back his chair and standing up. ‘This is nothing but a fishing expedition.
Billy, I’m instructing you to say nothing more. We’re leaving immediately.’
This time Billy didn’t argue with his lawyer. He complied instantly, rising to his feet, still looking unsure of himself. He left the room with nothing more than a farewell grunt to Jarr
ett, who looked at Rita, amazed.
‘Bugger me,’ he said. ‘What the hell is going on between Bowers and Maddox? What’s their common interest?’
‘Something Billy can’t risk talking about. One thing’s for sure
- it’s not his boxing prowess.’
‘And I thought he was handling himself well,’ conceded Jarrett.
‘I had him ahead on points till you landed that sucker punch.
What made you ask the question?’
‘Maddox was seen at the Diamond and it occurred to me Rachel’s death was mutually convenient to both of them.’
‘If they’re acting in tandem, what does it mean?’
‘Nothing good.’ Rita frowned. ‘Looks like the war on terror’s produced an unholy alliance.’
Rita was thinking hard but no matter which way she looked at it she couldn’t decipher the meaning of a relationship between Billy Bowers and Captain Roy Maddox. Nor did she know how to factor it into the series of murders, other than through an unlikely set of coincidences, something she quickly ruled out. Although Billy hadn’t confirmed any dealings with the base security director, his stunned reaction was indicative of something he couldn’t deny and his silence spoke of something he couldn’t reveal.
After pasting the latest crime-scene photos to her whiteboard she paced up and down the exhibit room, going through a mental list of possibilities without gaining a glimmer of clarity. The decapitations appeared to be symbolic and the continued use of the nail gun remained a highly significant element, unless it was a deliberate misdirection. And the severed hands - what did the killer want with them? Were they trophies for a psychotic personality, or were they being souvenired for a practical purpose?
If so, the reason escaped her. She stopped and stood, hands on hips, contemplating the nineteenth-century oil painting with the sinister history, The Hunting Party, and admitted to herself that she was baffled.
Her mobile rang. It was Jarrett.
‘Thought I should warn you,’ he said. ‘Bryce has sent me to the airport to welcome back the Homicide Squad. This time they’re coming mob-handed. They’re setting up a taskforce.’
