by Rob Ashman
‘Indigestion, my ass,’ he muttered, and continued unwrapping the stationery.
Bassano always considered it an odd coincidence, but crime scene photos always reminded him of his marriage. He was never sure why but thought it had something to do with the remnants of guilt. Like most of the disasters in his life, his marriage had started off with so much promise. One hot afternoon, in the midst of an eye-watering series of female conquests, Bassano had met Isobel on his way home from work.
She was a stunning blonde with wide green eyes and a figure to stop traffic. They met on the subway when her heel broke on the stairs and she toppled over in the rush of busy commuters. Bassano caught her as she fell. He was used to women falling at his feet, but not literally.
It was the end of the day and she took the initiative. She bought him a thank-you drink in a nearby bar and he returned the compliment with a don’t-mention-it dinner the next night. They made a fabulous couple and were the envy of their friends. She knew about his past but was confident in her ability to tame his wilder side and within weeks they moved in together.
During their fifteen month courtship he was faithful. Despite the avalanche of female attention, he shunned it all in favour of Isobel, but this spell of monogamy didn’t survive the ordeal of the wedding ceremony and Bassano broke his vows within three months.
At first Isobel kind of knew but chose not to notice. As time went by, she lost count. Her body clock was ticking and, while she yearned for kids, she wanted them with the guy she fell in love with – not the one she married. She accepted that he was wedded to his job, but not the way he used his dick as a hobby.
She issued him with an ultimatum. After a torrent of tears and apologies, he agreed to change his ways, which held good for precisely seven days. Then the blonde in the sports bar and six bottles of beer ensured that on day eight the ultimatum was enforced.
He returned home from work in the early hours of the morning to find the apartment empty along with his closet. He didn’t have the first idea where his wife might be but knew exactly where his clothes were. His cuffs and collars had been cut from his shirts and scattered on the bedroom floor. His underwear lay in a bucket of diluted battery acid, slowly disintegrating. The bath contained his suits and shoes floating in a solution of pink fabric dye. After a frantic search, he later found that the bucket also contained his CD collection. Battery acid and digital storage media didn’t mix well.
That had been two years ago and they hadn’t spoken since. He hadn’t even tried to find her. When he looked back on the whole sorry state of his marriage, that said it all. He was divorced six months later.
There was one unexpected upside. Bassano ended up screwing his ex-wife’s lawyer. He was sure there must be a code of conduct somewhere to say that was against the rules. Of course, like all of the others, she didn’t stick around. Maybe it had something to do with the fact that Bassano was also banging her PA.
It was clear that women experienced an oestrogen-fuelled fascination for him, a fascination which could only be satisfied with a bout of incendiary sex. But this attraction was only ever based on feminine curiosity. Once this had been gratified, none of them wanted to take him home to meet the family. Isobel had made a valiant attempt to make their relationship work but since she left there had been no significant others.
Bassano snapped his thoughts back to the matter in hand, feeling guilty that crime scene photos were the only things that made him think about Isobel.
His first task was to compare fingerprints taken from the house with those of the party guests. This process of elimination should yield a small group of prints that were not accounted for. These were called ‘owner unknown’
This was a tedious job, but there were eight of them sifting through the print collection matching them to the guests’ prints and by 10.30am they had their first hit. This was taken to the records department where the print was compared to those held in the police files. Some were computerized and some were not. To speed up the process, the search was done by category of offender, in this case burglary and theft.
By 11.30am they had a match.
‘Sir, we got one!’ Bassano sounded ecstatic on the phone. ‘It’s a guy named Ambrose Wilson. He’s 28 years old and lives out near Keaton Beach. He’s served four months for burglary and has a stack of previous arrests, all theft related. His prints were found on the patio door, the coffee table and the bedroom.’
‘Good work. Let’s go pick up Mr Wilson and see what he has to say.’ Lucas punched his fist into the air.
‘Already underway, sir.’
‘Let me know when he’s here.’ Lucas hung up, returning to his paperwork much happier than when he’d left it.
Ambrose Wilson was extremely pissed off about the cops pulling him from his favourite bar, especially as he had money riding on a pool game that he was about to win. He didn’t complain at all about the loss of his hard-earned cash, but he gave full vent to every other social injustice he could think of as two officers led him to the police car.
When Ambrose spoke, he was incapable of keeping both feet on the ground at the same time. He ranted at the top of his voice all the way to the station. After all, as far as Ambrose Wilson was concerned, helping the police with their enquiries was another way of saying ‘You’re in the frame for it, but we can’t pin it on you just yet.’
Ambrose continued to shout his innocence all the way to the interview room. At this stage he had no idea what he was accused of but whatever it was he wasn’t guilty. He continued his tirade right up until his lawyer arrived. Then he shut up, not saying a word.
‘Ambrose,’ Bassano was well practised in coaxing the reluctant, ‘we just want to ask you a few questions.’
‘My client understands that he has not been charged and that he may leave at any time,’ the lawyer answered for him.
Jefferson Gill, defender of the guilty, was a successful circuit attorney and well known to the officers at the station. He’d defended Ambrose on numerous occasions since his first arrest seven years ago and had demonstrated an impressive record of wins for his client. Even when Ambrose was guilty, he’d always get him off on one technicality or another. That was until his last excursion outside the law when Ambrose lost big time.
Prison had shaken him up to such an extent that he’d been straight ever since. Not even a parking ticket, but then it was doubtful he actually owned a car.
‘Ambrose, where were you last night between the hours of 1 and 2am?’ Bassano was still in coaxing mode.
Ambrose said nothing. He concentrated hard on the table, not meeting the stare of either officer.
‘Ambrose, we need to know where you were. It’s important to us to establish your whereabouts.’ Bassano was used to questioning unresponsive suspects. He was calm and collected, with a slow, deliberate delivery. Bassano watched Ambrose’s face for any change of expression, increased blinking or erratic hand movements, anything that may indicate discomfort or stress. Nothing.
He continued regardless. ‘Ambrose, there was a burglary last night at a property in Keaton Beach and certain items were stolen. Do you know anything about it?’ Ambrose said nothing, still examining the table top.
‘Ambrose, your fingerprints were found inside the house. I can only draw one conclusion from this, that you were there and somehow involved. Now if you weren’t, you need to help us.’
‘That is completely unsubstantiated, Officer Bassano,’ Gill interrupted. ‘Those two facts are not necessarily connected.’
‘I understand that,’ Bassano continued, ‘but I am merely trying to establish how Ambrose’s fingerprints could have been found inside number 1316 Ridgeway Crescent.’
Ambrose Wilson flinched, his mouth dropping open. He looked straight at Bassano.
‘Which house?’ he asked, managing to regain control of his bottom jaw.
‘1316 Ridgeway Crescent.’
Ambrose turned and whispered into the ear of his attorney.
; ‘My client wishes to speak with me in private. Would you please excuse us, officers?’ Gill’s politeness grated on both of them but they switched off the tape and left the room. Lucas was in the corridor outside.
‘Well? What do we have?’
‘Bit unusual, sir. Couldn’t get a single word out of him to start with, but when I mentioned the address of the house he almost had a seizure. He’s talking to Gill now. I’m sure from his reaction he’s involved somehow.’
‘But if so, why didn’t he react when you confronted him about the burglary?’ Lucas murmured. Gill came out of the room.
‘Would you be so kind as to join us again, officers?’ He turned and went back into the interview room. Bassano glanced at Lucas and pushed two fingers into his mouth mimicking a violent bout of vomiting before following Gill into the room.
When everyone was seated, Gill said, ‘My client wishes to make a statement to help you to eliminate him from your investigation.’ Bassano loved his spirit of public service. There was a long pause, then Ambrose spoke.
‘I work at number 1316. I do a lot of houses down Keaton Beach, ’cause there’s a lot of money there.’ He paused again. ‘I sort the pools out and such, you know, doing the dips and clearing the filters. But I never turned the house over. Honest I didn’t.’ Ambrose started rambling about being straight since he’d come from jail, and how he didn’t want to go back, ’cause if he did, then ... Gill placed his hand on Ambrose’s arm.
‘Start again, Ambrose, just like you told me. Just tell the officers, nice and slow.’
‘Well it’s like I said, I clean and do the pool and decking areas ...’
An hour and a half later, back in Lucas’s office, Bassano sat at the table and went through the Ambrose Wilson interview in his head.
‘Fuck it,’ he said to no one in particular. ‘I thought it was too good to be true.’
‘Has he been released?’ Lucas asked.
‘Yes,’ replied Bassano. ‘And the cheeky shit asked for one of our patrol cars to drop him off at the same bar we picked him up from.’
Lucas smiled. The irony of the situation appealed to him, bringing a little gentle humour into an otherwise crap day. ‘Do you have anything else to go on?’
‘A couple of owner-unknowns, but no match yet.’ The phone rang. Lucas answered it. ‘Yeah.’
‘Sir, Congresswoman Somerville is at the front desk and is demanding to see you.’
‘Oh good, send her up.’ Lucas’s smile broadened. Replacing the receiver, he turned to Bassano. ‘Our beloved congresswoman is on her way. Would you like to stay for the fireworks?’ Bassano got up and walked out without saying another word. Within a matter of seconds there was a sharp rap at the door and in marched Judith Somerville, looking as if that pit bull had taken another bite out of her ass.
‘What the hell is going on, Lieutenant? I’m told you arrested a man with a rap sheet as long as my arm and with his fingerprints all over the inside of the house. And for some inexplicable reason you’ve seen fit to let him go.’ Her face glowed an attractive shade of pink.
Lucas ignored the question and ushered her to a seat at the large conference table.
‘Congresswoman, thank you for making a personal call.’ He was beginning to enjoy himself. ‘You are correct. We did bring a man in for questioning who is a known felon and who has his fingerprints all over the inside of your daughter’s house. And yes, we have let him go on the basis of a technicality.’
‘What damn technicality?’ The pink was escalating into red.
‘A small matter of innocence, Congresswoman …’
‘Lucas, the guy was the pool man. He had his prints all over the inside of the house, but he works outside. It’s obvious, any fool can figure it out.’ She paused to regain her composure. ‘Do I need to remind you of our previous conversation? I thought I made myself perfectly clear regarding the consequences that would follow if—’
‘That’s true, Congresswoman, you did,’ Lucas interrupted. ‘It is also true that Wilson worked at your daughter’s home cleaning and maintaining the pool, and that, despite working outside, his prints were found inside the house. But Wilson did not rob your house.’ For Lucas this had been a long time coming. Somerville was fizzing with rage.
‘It would appear that when Ambrose went to 1316 Ridgeway Crescent his job was not just to dip the pool.’ Lucas fixed his eyes on his prey, waiting for the penny to drop. There was no reaction so he continued. ‘Ambrose Wilson serviced more than the pool at your daughter’s house.’
‘That idiot of a girl.’ Judith Somerville flushed angry red. She snapped and sprang from the table, shouting at Lucas, ‘Celia was screwing this Ambrose character?’
‘I think you’re being a little hard on your daughter there, Congresswoman, as well as being a little misdirected.’ Lucas was revelling in his victory.
Her face contorted into an unattractive and confused expression.
Lucas continued, ‘No, it was your son-in-law who was the attraction for Ambrose Wilson, not Celia.’
Lucas sat back and watched Somerville crumble before him. Her mouth gaped open and her face turned grey.
‘We will, of course, keep this in the strictest confidence, but if the release of Wilson comes under any scrutiny, we would be duty-bound to release the tapes. Now, ma’am, I’m sure you have more pressing matters to attend to, so I won’t keep you. Shall I show you out?’
Somerville slumped into her seat and said nothing. Lucas felt it unnecessary to contribute further to the conversation and she wasn’t capable of comment anyway. After a while she rose to her feet and, without turning her head, said, ‘Thank you, Lieutenant, I’ll see myself out.’ She closed the door behind her.
Lucas remained seated for a full fifteen minutes savouring his success. Screw the outcome of the investigation – now that Somerville was off his back he couldn’t fail. If his team caught someone, then fine. If not, at least he could demonstrate due diligence in handling such a high profile case. Anyway, Somerville wasn’t going to be a force to be reckoned with now that Lucas held this over her. Today’s triumph was sweet indeed.
As he soaked up his moments of satisfaction, he glanced at his watch.
‘Damn.’ It had stopped again. ‘I need to get this seen to.’ He twisted the tiny gold crown between his thumb and finger, shaking his wrist and holding the watch to his ear. Tick, tick, tick.
Lucas froze, staring at the watch. His mind forced an image into his consciousness. It was the picture of the Masons’ living room. He held his breath and tried to recall what it was that he’d seen. Then it hit him.
‘Damn it,’ he exploded, jumping from his chair. As he strode along the corridor from his office, he cursed himself for being so blind, for not seeing what was right in front of his face. He burst through the doors of the incident room and stood in front of the picture board, scanning the images. Bassano was eyeing him with suspicion but knew better than to intervene.
‘Get me the inventory of what was stolen.’ Bassano retrieved the file and handed it over. Lucas looked at the photographs, then at the list, and back again. ‘Shit,’ he said, tossing the papers onto the nearest desk.
Bassano looked at the pictures, then at his boss, and back again.
‘Someone is taking us for a ride,’ Lucas said.
‘In what way?’
‘This is what we’re meant to believe. Someone breaks into an expensive beachfront property with the sole intention of relieving its occupants of their worldly goods. From the list of what’s missing, he manages to bag a little over two thousand dollars.’ Lucas turned and looked Bassano in the face. ‘So why leave a three-thousand-dollar carriage clock on the fucking mantelpiece?’ Lucas stabbed a chubby finger at the snapshot showing the clock.
Lucas continued to let off steam. ‘It’s not big and it’s not heavy. It’s easily fenced and looks expensive.’
‘Maybe he didn’t see it?’ Bassano ventured an ill-considered opinion.
‘Did
n’t see it? It’s gold with revolving crystals at the bottom. It screams, “Take me, I’m expensive.” And you could hardly miss the damn thing, it’s at eye level. No, if you went into that house to steal one thing, you’d walk away with that.’
‘Why would anyone go to the trouble of breaking in and not help themselves to the best stuff?’
‘Because it wasn’t a burglary,’ replied Lucas. ‘I just don’t buy it. It’s been bugging me all day. It’s just been engineered to look like one. Whatever the motive for the forced entry, it wasn’t robbery. Someone just wants us to think it was.’
Neither of them spoke. Their thoughts were interrupted by the head of the forensics team charging into the room. His name was Curtis.
‘Sir, I think you’d better come and see this.’ He was breathless and agitated.
‘What is it?’ Bassano asked.
‘I’ll explain down at records.’
The two men followed with the same degree of urgency. They arrived at records to find the place empty, the normal hubbub and chatter replaced with the hum of the air conditioning unit.
Curtis spoke first. ‘Sir, I’ve sent everyone on break. I wasn’t sure how to handle this.’
‘Spit it out, Curtis. What is it?’
‘We didn’t turn up anything from the prints, so I asked the guys to run the MO through the burglary records – the cut netting, the patio door prised out of its runners – and we came up with a couple of possibilities.’
‘That’s good then,’ said Bassano. But Curtis shook his head, looking less enthusiastic.
‘The thing is, sir, we got a new guy on the team who mistakenly ran the data though the homicide files and we got a match there too.’ Curtis was being very deliberate in his briefing.
‘But this isn’t a homicide. It’s a burglary, and, anyway, the slit netting and lifted doors is commonplace, I’d have thought,’ Lucas said.
‘Yeah, I figured that too, but there was something about the homicide match which alarmed me.’
‘What was that?’ asked Bassano.
‘It was a precise match. The others had slight deviations, but this one was a one hundred percent positive match, right down to the details about fixing the netting back in place with black insulating tape.’
