Into the Night

by Sarah Bailey

  The camera reels upward to show hundreds of creatures running straight toward it. This is bizarre to watch, like an unfinished painting. Uneven features, bulging eyes, gaping wounds that ooze blood and guts. Many are masked, others sport gruesomely realistic make-up, but there is still a fakeness about it. A lot of post-production trickery is yet to be done. Like a tidal wave, the homogenous mass flows closer. Wade’s character, who has tried to make his escape by veering left, is forced back into the centre of the street as the zombies close in from every angle. There’s a feeling of inevitability as his circle of freedom grows smaller and smaller. The scene becomes more chaotic as the camera goes lower, and for a few seconds we are looking skywards, capturing the underside of the madness, limbs everywhere, deformed faces overcome by agonising groans.

  ‘No, no, please!’ cries Wade, arms out, begging.

  The camera is suddenly on the outer, and it reminds me of a football match when you lose track of the ball. Wade’s head bobs among the darkness, but flashes of other faces fill the screen, twisted and blank, an unsettling vacancy to them. I spot a gloved hand on his shoulder and there’s a moment when his head jerks up, but was that when the stabbing occurred? It’s impossible to see exactly what is happening. Hands grab him, lifting him up, the faceless army pawing and pulling at him, his face in various stages of pain.

  Until it shifts into something different, and I can tell he’s forgotten about being on camera. Survival has taken over.

  Stop, he mouths, though he has no volume. Only the symphony of moaning can be heard. He’s grabbing at his chest, an arm up toward the sky, his eyes rolling back desperately. He is partly lifted off the ground as he slumps in midair. A few of the zombies shift away, but no one is making an obvious dash for it. The dark attire makes it hard to work out where one person starts and another ends.

  The camera remains steady on Wade for around thirty seconds. And then the back of Lizzie’s head appears, blocking him from view as she fights against the flow of bodies and makes her way to him. She gestures for everyone to move; she’s screaming, veins in her neck raised, her teeth exposed as her jaw pulls against her mouth in panic. For a split-second I almost get swept away in the charged scene. Lizzie’s arm whips out, pushing people away as she cradles Wade, clutching at him when he folds to the ground. Blood appears on her hands and people fall out of character, moving off camera and exchanging worried glances.

  The magic is gone. Abruptly it’s a nightclub in the early hours after the lights have been turned on. Features twist into panic underneath the thick make-up and a strange uneven chorus is created by the words ‘stop’ and ‘no’ being repeated over and over. The scene deflates, the frenetic energy sucked away, leaving Sterling and Lizzie alone on the ground. She continues to hold him, pressing on his chest as she cries, her eyes to the sky in desperate prayer. A few zombies drop down to help, their caring gestures jarring with their monstrous faces.

  Riley Cartwright appears, yelling over his shoulder for help. Lizzie gestures at him, her hands now dark with blood. Sterling looks steadily at the camera, his clear blue eyes turning cloudy as Lizzie strokes his face with her bloody hand. I’ve watched this moment a hundred times before: a beautiful young heroine caressing her doomed lover.

  We all sit there as the tape plays on, Lizzie’s screams becoming more primal and the hopeless panic on the sad zombie faces more intense. My brain is struggling to separate the familiar fiction from what I know has happened. I half expect Wade to open his eyes and sit up, ready to do another take.

  Isaacs clears his throat as the ambulance officers reach Wade and the footage cuts to black. ‘As you can see, it’s not exactly conclusive.’ He clenches his jaw, his face particularly stern in the dim light. ‘Still, the guys haven’t started going over it properly yet, so hopefully we’ll be able to pick something up.’

  ‘It’s a bizarre way to attack someone,’ says Fleet. ‘It’s quite complicated. Surely there would have been an easier way to kill him that was less obvious?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I reply. ‘I think it’s the perfect cover. Except for leaving the knife on the scene. I don’t understand that at all.’

  ‘Maybe it was some kind of stunt,’ muses Fleet. ‘Like a postmodern art piece.’

  Isaacs grits his teeth. ‘Yes, well, whatever it ends up being, let’s just hope it doesn’t spark off a spate of copycat attacks. At this rate, we’ll need to provide security for the city’s A-listers and the homeless.’ He stands up and brushes at the lapels of his expensive suit jacket.

  A sharp knocking on the door is followed by cracks of light materialising in the dark wall. Chloe’s pale face appears. Her eyes dart around the room before settling on Fleet and me. ‘Oh good, you’re here. Um,’ she bites her lip, reminding me for a second of Ben, ‘there’s a young man here to see you. About the Wade case. He’s in quite a state.’

  ‘Thanks, Chloe,’ I say, standing. ‘Who is he?’

  She winces slightly as she guides her hands across the front of her swollen belly, and I wonder if her baby is kicking. ‘His name is Brodie Kent. Says he’s Wade’s housemate. He’s crying and was pretty worked up when he came in but he demanded to speak with the detectives in charge. Ravi’s put him in one of the front rooms to try to calm him down.’

  ‘Go,’ says Isaacs to me and Fleet, his voice gravelly. ‘We’ll keep going over the footage until the case briefing.’

  ‘Do we have a list of the cast and crew yet?’ I ask him as we head to the door.

  ‘Not yet. We only have the ones who stuck around yesterday, which is about a hundred and twenty out of four hundred. Apparently, a big group of them went to the pub. The rest we assume went home.’ He frowns. ‘It was a mess.’

  ‘They went to the pub looking like that?’ says Fleet, raising his eyebrows.

  Edo snorts as he clicks the video back to the start. ‘No one would have noticed, man. Have you seen what people wear out there these days? These dudes would fit right in.’

  I bite my tongue, noting Edo’s aggressive slogan T-shirt, army pants and brick-like boots.

  Following Fleet out of the room, I feel a wave of frustration toward all those extras. Accounting for the zombie cast, let alone the crew, is going to be a nightmare.

  As Fleet and I enter the interview room, I take in the young man gripping the edges of the small table. His knuckles are white and his body is slumped forward as he cries. He looks up at us, radiating the wariness of an abused dog. He has what my dad would describe as a good head of hair, dense and dark brown. I suspect his skin is an attractive ivory when it’s not flushed and blotchy with grief. His thick brows arch gently, framing large eyes, and he moves his mouth as if he’s trying to talk to us but can’t make a sound.

  ‘Brodie, is it?’ I say, before introducing us.

  He makes an anguished sound as he thumps the table with his fists. ‘I just can’t believe he’s dead. Just can’t believe it.’

  Fleet clears his throat loudly and the slightly off-putting sound is somehow comforting in the sterile room.

  ‘They wouldn’t even let me see him,’ Brodie whispers. ‘I wanted to say goodbye.’

  ‘Do you mean at the hospital?’ I ask.

  He nods.

  ‘Well,’ I say slowly, ‘I guess it was hard for the staff to work out who actually knew Sterling. After what had happened, they needed to be careful.’

  Brodie lifts his head, his jaw shaking wildly. ‘They let Ava in.’ He scowls, his top lip curling before it lands in a pout. ‘And Lizzie.’

  ‘Okay, well, I can see that must have been very upsetting.’ I ease into a chair and give Fleet a look to sit down as well.

  ‘So why are you here, mate?’ asks Fleet.

  Brodie looks up through tear-filled eyes. ‘Um, Lizzie gave me your card.’ He nods at me. ‘She said that you’re the detectives looking after…Sterling.’

  ‘Is there something you want to tell us about yesterday?’ Fleet asks, leaning forward.

 
Brodie pulls back, his eyes wide. ‘No! I don’t know what happened if that’s what you mean. I just wanted to find out what you know. I need to know what’s going on.’ He shakes his head like he’s in a trance. ‘I haven’t slept at all. It just doesn’t make sense that he’s dead.’ His voice cracks around the last word. ‘I can’t believe it,’ he says again.

  I study him. Sometimes people who proactively speak with us feel guilty—it might be that they had a fight with the victim the day they died and somehow feel responsible for what happened. Occasionally a perpetrator is looking to flaunt their proximity to the crime under our noses. And some loved ones simply get off on the drama and feel compelled to link themselves directly to the case; oddly, there is weighty social currency in having information about a murder, in being a part of the story.

  In some instances, parents or partners become obsessed with having contact with the case detectives. Talking to us can be one of the few things that make them feel like they’re doing something. Showing they care. Not forgetting.

  And there’s also a small chance that a loved one has something useful to tell us. This is what we’re always hoping for. It’s why we spend so much time with them, going over and over the same things, looking for an anomaly, a tiny clue in the blandness of a life.

  As I take in the bewildered young man in front of us, I struggle to work out which category he belongs to. He doesn’t seem to be a natural fit in any of them.

  Starting work on a case is always like beginning a jigsaw puzzle without having looked at the picture on the box. We begin with finding the corners, then get the border locked down. The fuzz in the middle can remain unclear forever if you can’t confirm some key pieces pretty quick. Ending up with a piece missing is every detective’s worst nightmare. Those are the cases that wreck your brain. We’ve all got one: it’s like a rite of passage, makes you legit, hardens your heart and sets your jaw. But you don’t want to be in the habit of collecting them. I know that’s what Nan worries about with the Jacoby case; I can see it in her eyes.

  Fleet leans back and cracks his knuckles. Brodie flinches.

  ‘Well, Brodie, it sounds like you were very close to Sterling,’ Fleet says. ‘We’re really sorry, we know it’s a huge shock. We’re doing everything we can to find out what happened yesterday but we’re not able to share too much at this point. Everything’s still pretty sensitive and there’s a lot that isn’t clear. But even if you don’t think you know anything, you might be able to help us. Can we ask you a few questions?’

  Brodie nods slowly, as if his latest outburst of grief has left him completely deflated.

  I flick on the tape and settle back in my chair, studying him. The room fills with the sound of his sniffing.

  I reel off the formalities and then say, ‘Let’s start with your full name and date of birth, please.’

  ‘Brodie John Kosmopolous. But I go by Brodie Kent. Fifth of February 1997.’ I can hear the slightest twist of an accent as he says his name.

  ‘And what do you do for a living?’ asks Fleet.

  ‘I’m an actor,’ he says quietly. ‘And a dancer.’

  ‘You’re not part of the cast from Sterling’s film though, are you?’ I ask him.

  ‘No, no. I act in stage plays, mainly. Mostly in TV ads, really. Not film. I’m also in a dance troupe.’ His speech wavers and I sense another wave of sorrow building.

  I talk quickly, trying to keep him focused on our questions. ‘And how long have you known Sterling?’

  He shudders through a deep breath. ‘About two years.’

  ‘Where were you yesterday afternoon?’ I ask.

  ‘I spent the day in the city,’ says Brodie. ‘I was working on a new creative project so I was having some thinking time.’

  ‘By yourself?’ I say and he nods.

  I tuck that information away for later—we’ll need to look into his whereabouts more, but now clearly isn’t the right time.

  ‘When did you last see Sterling?’ asks Fleet.

  ‘Yesterday morning. He came into my room to say goodbye when Lizzie was in the shower. Early, like maybe 6 am. They both needed to be on set at seven.’

  ‘Right,’ says Fleet, sounding slightly puzzled. ‘So how long have you been housemates for?’ He flips open his notebook to where he’s written down Wade’s address.

  ‘I moved in with him and Lizzie about two months ago,’ says Brodie. ‘I’ve been struggling to get work lately and Sterling said it would be fine if I stayed with them for a while. We’d talked about living together before.’

  ‘He sounds like a good mate,’ says Fleet.

  Brodie looks up at each of us in turn, his black eyes huge. ‘Yes. He was my best friend. But he was also my lover.’

  Thursday, 16 August

  9.41 am

  I feel such pity for those in the orbit of the recently murdered. Out of nowhere, bam, not only is their loved one gone but their own carefully kept secrets are suddenly everyone’s business. Their face is all over the internet for every old classmate and ex-lover to see, and every emotion they have is scrutinised, every action analysed. Although it’s statistically likely that a loved one pulled the trigger or twisted the knife, that the husband strangled the wife or the son beat his mother, I feel sorry for the ones who are unwillingly along for the ride. It’s a brutal journey.

  Of course, I also feel sorry for the dead. Regardless of the manner in which they died—gentle, painful, public, private, quick or prolonged—very few escape intense judgement in the aftermath of their passing. They are fair game, and if their loved ones, enemies and my guys don’t pick over their remains thoroughly enough, the media will always be happy to finish the job.

  For all these reasons, I worry for the softly-spoken, pale-faced Brodie Kent.

  ‘Well, that was an unexpected bit of gossip,’ says Fleet.

  A complicated-looking conference phone with a cracked screen sits on the table between us. Fleet’s pupils are huge and his face is flushed. I know I look exactly the same. We’ve just summoned Isaacs to join us in here so we can update him privately on Brodie’s revelation before the case briefing.

  After his bombshell, Brodie sobbed his way through the tale of an eighteen-month secret romance with Sterling Wade. It was clear he was looking for validation—he wanted someone to give him permission to grieve as a lover—but all he got from us was a stack of questions. It’s not that I necessarily think he was lying, but it always pays to be measured when secrets are revealed and it seems the only person who can verify or deny them is ice cold and horizontal in a morgue.

  ‘So why keep it quiet?’ Fleet asked Brodie bluntly.

  The young man lifted his head, eyes brimming, and shrugged hopelessly. ‘Because the truth would have cost him everything.’

  ‘Being gay, you mean?’ said Fleet.

  ‘Do you really think that would have mattered these days?’ I added more gently, trying to buffer Fleet’s tone.

  ‘Yeah,’ Fleet chimed in, ‘isn’t everyone gay these days? Or at least bisexual.’

  Brodie sat up straight and shook his head. ‘No way. I mean, sure, some people have managed to make a career out of it, make it their thing, but for Sterling, the teenage girl’s dream…well, it might have been a disaster. Wendy even said so. She’s Sterling’s agent.’

  ‘Did she know he was gay?’ I asked.

  ‘I don’t think so. He was close to her but I doubt he would have spoken to her about it. She just always talks about stuff like that, how important his image is. She’s pretty conservative and always has lots of opinions on what Sterling should and shouldn’t do. He listened to her a lot.’

  ‘Okay,’ I said, ‘so you were together but you both agreed to keep it a secret. I can see how that might have seemed important. But what about his relationship with Lizzie? Are you saying that the two of them weren’t really together?’

  Brodie’s body language shifted and he set his gaze on the corner of the table. ‘They were together, sure. Maybe even
in love at some point. But then I think maybe Sterling just didn’t know how to end it. He cares about Lizzie,’ his lip wobbled, ‘cared. So do I. He didn’t want to hurt her. He was pretty confused.’

  ‘Did anyone else know about your relationship? Surely Lizzie suspected?’

  Brodie shrugged. ‘She didn’t want to see it. She’s not a confrontational person and Sterling had all the power in their relationship. I’m sure she worried he was slipping away but I think she just figured they were both busy.’ He rubbed at his red eyes. ‘And they were busy. Especially Sterling. I barely got to see him these past few weeks, between his work, his PR stuff and time he had to spend with Lizzie.’

  ‘Why move in with them like that?’ I asked gently. ‘It must have been torture seeing them together.’

  ‘I loved him,’ declared Brodie, in the earnest way I’d expected he would. ‘I just wanted to be close to him. I know it sounds kind of pathetic, but I did. And I didn’t have anywhere else to go. Sterling wanted to help.’ His whole body started to shake again as he smacked his fist on the table. ‘Oh god, I just can’t believe this. It’s like my brain won’t accept it.’

  ‘Can you think of anyone who would want to hurt Sterling, Brodie?’ I probed.

  ‘A lot of people were jealous of him,’ he said, his voice still thick with grief, ‘but I can’t imagine anyone who would do something like this.’

  ‘So he seemed completely normal lately?’ asked Fleet. ‘Nothing struck you as odd?’

  Brodie looked bewildered. ‘He was busy. Stressed about the film. I thought he seemed distracted earlier this week so I asked him if everything was okay, but he said he was fine. Just tired.’

  ‘Did you believe him?’ I asked.

  Brodie twisted his fingers together. ‘I thought he had something on his mind. Figured it was just the stress of having to work with Riley Cartwright. Sterling thought he was completely crazy.’