Stalked

by Chris Smith

  We made a fruitless start. I sat staring intently at the four monitors in front of me. My back ached from a week perched on this wretched stool as I rotated my head and massaged my own neck. My eyes were red and sore as the hour grew later and later. Not a single movement or sound. The optimism was slowly sapping out of me … until just before 1am.

  ‘Target is crossing Sydney Road, Chris,’ Hearn reported from within sight of the apartment building, Hopkins’ launching spot. Our perseverance might just pay off. Our man was in the neighbourhood and calling! He was on his way, into the trap which had been set and refined each night this week. My heart was now pumping rapidly. His arrival, signalled by flashlight, came at precisely 1am. Libby’s lounge lights were on and she was lying on the couch, having long since nodded off to sleep. The sight of his waving torch, the knowledge that this was the final chance, brought enormous nervous tension. It was absolutely black outside; cloud cover hid the quarter moon and the whole precinct looked as if it had been subject to a blackout. The now familiar torch act carried on for ten long minutes. I didn’t dare blink an eyelid. I also didn’t wish to wake Libby with news of his presence. That would give the game away completely. Her sleeping might be just what we needed to provoke him. The bait was set.

  Then the lightshow disappeared, and I was faced with the same old static shot of the back fence. Don’t you dare leave, I urged him silently. A split second after the light went out, my screen was filled with a threatening balaclava emerging from the darkness above the back fence. In one sharp movement his eyes rose above the fence, detached, floating. They held me frozen like a statue. Then, seconds later, his body appeared, scaling the fence and landing in a crouched, cat-like position in the corner of the yard. It was surreal and utterly frightening. He was now on the property.

  I had my story; the rest, wherever that was now heading, would be a bonus. A sense of great relief flushed through my body. That grainy infrared shot of those wide eyes peering starkly from his black mask, had been a terrifying sight—more terrifying than I’d ever imagined. My heart was racing in a way I’d never experienced. My breath was shortening as if I’d been winded, and while I was excited to be on the brink of a big story, one we’d waited so long to hook, I was very, very nervous of what was about to unfold in the middle of the night in this dark Balgowlah backyard. We might have been filming the truth, but there was no protection or security at all. The sight of the balaclava reminded me how alone I was. There was no back up, not for what might unfold over the next few minutes.

  Hopkins remained in this crouched position at the back fence for what seemed like several minutes. He was indeed a patient predator. Then he jumped up and began walking quickly towards the back of the house. I followed his movements through camera three, as he’d walked out of sight of the wide shot camera trained on the back fence. Hopkins walked right up to the railing of the veranda and sighted Libby through the sliding doors. He wanted a closer look. It seemed to me that in a very primitive way, he tilted his head to get a better sight of her sleeping on the couch. It was a perverse kind of leer. I could see that he was smiling; his eyes began to squint. He began to lift a foot to step up onto the landing. As he did so, one of the new sensor lights was triggered, and he instantly ran back behind the bush on the right-hand side of the yard, half-way down. He had an unusual gait, a kind of uncoordinated jog. It made him look quite vulnerable, although he clearly held the upper hand.

  He again crouched, rock steady, his head at a 45-degree angle. He stayed behind the bushes for several minutes before jumping up and heading back away from the house towards the fence, awkwardly sliding over the palings, catching his clothing on the serrated top of the wooden fence. But he was gone and I sighed so heavily, I had to tell myself to shut up. I wondered whether that was it; whether his show had an encore.

  I told the crew of what was happening and asked them to head straight to the apartment building, grab their gear and wait for Hopkins to emerge. I turned to the lounge room and tried to wake our sleeping heroine.

  ‘Hey, Libby, wake up. He’s been and gone. Libby?’ I said quietly, but enough to stir her briefly.

  We had our pictures, we had our story and experienced overwhelming relief. I looked at the four blank screens I’d been focused on all week, and pondered as I had done many times the lunacy of his actions. Why would he comb the streets, navigate backyards, risk spiders and injury and don a balaclava in the middle of the night? I sat still, mesmerised, waiting for word from Hearn or the crew. It didn’t come. What was happening?

  In one terrifying flash, Hopkins burst into view on camera two, which was trained on the side lane of the house, its range extending to the long-leafed tree above the fence. He stood, a frightening colossus on top of the fence, hanging on to the tree like an ape, moving his head to try and see into the slat windows. The sensors did not trigger. He had found another detection shadow by entering the lane from above the fence, not below it. The shock rattled me. My heart was pumping frantically again, having calmed only moments earlier. I was petrified. He was now as close as he’d ever been. Although I’d spoken his name, imagined his character and geared myself up to catch him for so long, he was at that moment, simply an intruder. He could have been any violent armed robber breaking into my own house. It was truly horrifying.

  It took me another few seconds to register an even more gruesome reality—Hopkins was standing on the fence, in his intimidating stance, directly outside Libby’s bedroom, trying to look into the very room I was now sitting in. This violent lunatic was only three metres from me, if that, and there was no crew outside or on their way. Libby had fallen back to sleep and the realisation of what might be required of me sucked the air from my lungs. I simply could not take the next breath. It was a feeling I’d never experienced before. I crouched, out of his sight I hoped, and turned to look for Libby, but down here, I couldn’t see her at all. It didn’t really matter because I didn’t have the lung capacity to say a single word to her. My heart was now beating louder than any other noise around me. The humming of video machines became a din.

  At the very least, I was expecting to be seen and, at worst, Hopkins, within arm’s reach of the slat windows at the top of the wall, would attempt to break into the room. It was clear what he intended: to gain entry and scare the living daylights out of his victim. I would have to confront this madman face to face. I was part of the story now, not simply recording it.

  I was struggling with my physical state but quickly realised that I had to get further out of sight to avoid being detected. I grabbed for the bed covers and attempted to smother the brightly lit monitors in front of me. They were a dead giveaway. At the same time I rolled partially under the bed and out of sight.

  From under the bed, I wriggled myself into position to see the monitor that was capturing Hopkins outside the room. I saw him stretching his neck to get a better view and see whether someone was actually in the room. Then he leaned across the lane to grab for the window slats. His shoulder supported his weight against the external wall of the house while he loosened the slat windows open. It was the first sound of the stalker’s movements I had actually heard and it sent a shiver down my spine.

  It was now obvious that Hopkins wanted to get inside fast. He was battling to obtain a decent grip on the windows and I thought that his shoes on the fence were slipping. He couldn’t keep this up much longer. I prayed that the intruder would be unable to get into this room.

  I attempted to warn Libby with a muffled, breathless voice. I was becoming worried about what would happen to her. I could at least put up some kind of resistance. But it was no good. Libby was dead to the world and for once feeling secure enough to fall into a deep sleep. Without yelling, I couldn’t do anything about it. Who knew how aggressive Hopkins might become if he knew another male was inside the house? All I could do was send a muffled message to the camera crew. It was perfect timing for them to hit the backyard, camera and lights blazing. The crew picked up the call cle
arly and signalled that they were on their way.

  Hopkins couldn’t get in and was about to lose his balance from a dangerous height. It was time to get out of there. He pushed his body against the wall to regain a vertical position with his arms locked onto the tree overhanging the fence. He waited several seconds before jumping down into the yard next door. He was off. I came out from under the bed. I threw the covers off the monitors, and watched the screens to see if Hopkins had gone to another location in the yard. I began breathing heavily as if I’d been in a chase. There was no sign of him at all.

  Sixty seconds later the television crew burst down the side of the house from the front, with Hearn in tow. The glare of the camera light shone down the alley and I went out the back doors to greet them.

  ‘You’ve missed him, he’s taken off … but it doesn’t matter, we’ve got our story,’ I told the out-of-breath trio. ‘He almost made it inside, but he couldn’t jemmy the windows in her room. But we’ve got him; we’ve got a story and a half, fellas.’

  Libby emerged onto the the veranda, looking totally confused. The four of us turned to her and smiled. She looked totally bewildered, but she had so much to be happy about.

  ‘You’re about to get rid of this bastard, Libby,’ I said, shaking. ‘We’ve got him and the cops will be falling over themselves to get onboard now. He took the bait, the whole bloody lot.’

  As well as being thrilled for Libby, I was incredibly relieved that the waiting was over, that our time, energy and fight for resources had been worth it. So much for being busted by one beam of light! Hopkins had no idea what kind of extravagant trap had been set for him.

  We returned inside to view the recorded tapes. A few beers were passed around among the troops, and, while it wasn’t a boisterous celebration at that time of the morning, we had every reason to celebrate. The startling images backed Libby’s story to the hilt. It was evidence that would finally eradicate any inkling of doubt in the minds of her parents, who would later see the images for themselves. Any idea that their daughter had lost her marbles because of her traumatic break-up was now utterly quashed.

  With the evidence obtained under the house, Libby’s lengthy interview and the frighteningly dramatic images collected over the week, the show had a very powerful story to tell its national audience. Libby was about to be vindicated in the most public way possible. The full impact of her story would turn out to be nothing short of colossal—and not entirely to the script.

  ‘Sensational,’ said the executive in charge of special projects at A Current Affair. ‘Hang onto it. It’s a weekend promo. We’ll ramp it up big time. Can you film the cops arresting him as a follow-up? That’d be bloody brilliant.’

  After living and breathing the commercial news and current affairs genre for almost fifteen years, there was no need to ask for a translation. The story was to be held back from broadcast until the station was able to promote it through their top-rating weekend programs, and run it on the biggest audience night: Monday. This gave us time to get reporter Jane Hansen heavily involved on camera again, both at the scene and one-on-one with Libby, and for us to have one more go at surveillance with police on site.

  Depending on how our negotiations went with the local detectives, there was a good chance we could hold them back from arresting Hopkins for now, no matter what happened on the additional night of surveillance. The story was good enough to go as it was. Any further legal activity might stifle what could be reported, weakening a powerful story. The reaction back at the office had been applause, and the whole place was buzzing with what was to come.

  There was still work to be done, however. Researchers had to search and mark all the relevant and interesting aspects of the story on tape. Editors began compiling and editing sequences using Libby’s interview and the recorded episodes of stalking. Jane began filming segments with Libby at locations where she’d witnessed Hopkins’ predatory behaviour and went to work on scripting the story. I started working the phones.

  Detective Sergeant Ray Peattie ran the Manly Detectives Unit for more than five years. He was an institution in the area, although I’d heard some quite suspect stories concerning his behaviour—such as favouring some associates and arresting others, who would often lodge complaints against him.

  Lines can become blurred in crime-fighting, but how much of what I’d heard was true, I wasn’t certain. A friend of mine in the media had experienced a run-in with Peattie first hand, which confirmed to me that Peattie could be used, but not trusted.

  I made several phone calls to Peattie, offering him an invitation to join the team for two final surveillance operations. I explained that, unless the police agreed to hold off any arrest until at least the following week, after our first story was likely to air, there’d be no cooperation and, as I intimated, no favourable assessment of police involvement either. Some might call it media blackmail; I was simply protecting what we’d all worked so hard to achieve. It was in Peattie’s interests to cooperate; we were handing the opportunity to gather further evidence to him on a plate.

  The night after our victory, the television crews and ten plain-clothed officers attached to the Manly Detectives joined forces at Libby’s home to see Hopkins in action first hand. If it didn’t come off, there was no harm done, but it would provide Peattie with a drill of how our evidence was obtained. Who could tell, Hopkins might have rostered himself on for the night.

  If Libby felt her home had been invaded on the nights we’d been there so far, she’d seen it all now. Apart from herself and her parents, there were now a reporter, a producer, two television crew, a private investigator and ten coppers! It was mayhem in the house, despite everyone’s attempts to lie low and remain quiet.

  Hearn did not sight Hopkins at his usual launching spot, but sure enough, early in the night, there was his torch flashing centimetres above the fence. The previous night’s tension-filled atmosphere, when we’d had everything to lose, was replaced by a sense of adventure. With so many mountain-sized men in the house, Libby had absolutely nothing to be scared of. She was actually enjoying all the attention and was intrigued by how the police would react to his appearance. She recognised one of the detectives from an earlier visit. On that occasion he had tut-tutted his way back to the car, questioning Libby’s sanity.

  Now here was the light. Everyone huddled around the monitors and could see it plainly. The police were impressed with the technology, turning night into day. But the only other sighting came a few minutes after the first flash of the torch. His big round eyes, framed by the balaclava, peered up over the fence. Whether he heard or sensed something or not, he was not entering the property that night. What we did record, however, was a portion of half-eaten pizza that he dropped over the fence into Libby’s back yard. It was a macabre calling card.

  He was gone in a flash—but where? The call went out to the mobile chasers, but he had vanished into thin air; no launching spot detected, no torch—no stalker. They lay in wait for several more hours, but the night was a fizz. Although the sighting of a mystery torch was enough to bring back the crew one last time. The police bagged the pizza, in case forensic officers could match his bite down the track.

  To have a squad of police working on a Friday night was a rare achievement. Hearn was now in his surveillance van, two plain-clothed police officers were circling the block in an unmarked car and the television crew, reporter onboard, were also ducking in and out of nearby streets, all waiting to see where Hopkins would emerge, where he would position his vehicle. Hearn had long suspected that the stalker had been rotating his launching spots; it made sense. Tonight his hunch paid off.

  ‘Got target in sight, he’s just run across Sydney Road and over a back fence,’ blared the report from the police radio.

  They didn’t know where he’d parked his car, but they knew where he’d probably return to. The crews, however, were told to hang off and wait until he’d actually reached Libby’s house and come back, but they’d given the pol
ice at the house excellent forewarning. Within just two minutes the torch appeared in the backyard and he didn’t waste any time jumping the fence.

  As the four officers positioned in the house began unlocking the back doors to arrest Hopkins, the stalker did an about-turn, and like a panther, sprang from the ground and cleared the back fence in one movement. Before the officers could even contemplate climbing over the top themselves Hopkins was two properties away, slipping between trees in the pitch dark. To him it was a well-worn track that didn’t require illumination. Peattie and his crew were quite impressed. But the chase was on at the other end.

  Three chase cars were waiting at Sydney Road, where Hopkins had first been sighted. Several minutes passed and there was still no exit from the point where he’d entered the row of backyards. The officers were becoming edgy. Suddenly Hopkins’ red Laser roared down the hill behind them.

  He’d emerged elsewhere and had reached his car without interception. He had about a 120-metre start and it was going to be difficult to keep pace once he got beyond Sydney Road. And so it proved; his car seemed to just disappear. The squad of detectives following the chase in Libby’s lounge room yelled directions on the police radio, but no one knew where he’d gone. The camera crew had given chase as well, but he’d evaded the net. There was little point in going to his apartment, although he’d have to return home sometime. It was still possible Hopkins hadn’t been aware that it was the police on his tail. Maybe he merely suspected the PI was back.

  We packed up for the night, baffled, and took the last piece of equipment from the house. Libby closed the front door and went back inside. She said goodnight to her parents from the hallway and returned to her bedroom, totally exhausted. She slumped on the bed, on top of a television cable, too tired to care. Minutes later, her eyes sprung open to a flashing light out of the side window. Hopkins was back, in utter defiance.