‘One or two nights a week, I think. Not sure.’
‘Did he meet with Danny those nights?’
‘Now you’re getting into the realms of fantasy. They split, end of story.’
Taylor knew with a pass-key entry system there should be a log of when people came and went. And something else. ‘I imagine you’ve got security cameras on the premises. Any chance of video footage from the day of the incident?’
‘Come back with a warrant. I’ve got the members’ privacy to consider.’
‘I only want the after-hours stuff.’ Taylor flashed a benign smile.
‘I said get a warrant. Now, if you don’t mind, I’ve got a business to run.’
‘Don’t worry. I can obtain a warrant easier than you can get a parking ticket. And don’t think about deleting or manipulating any footage. Our IT guys will know in an instant if it’s been tampered with and you’ll be right in the frame. Got it?
‘Oh, all right then.’ Meek as a mouse. ‘I’ll copy it onto a flash drive for you. But it won’t tell you much. Cameras are only mounted in the reception area and the car park.’ Masiker took a USB drive from a drawer and inserted into the digital video recorder under his TV. Two minutes later he handed the drive to Taylor. ‘Everything from that evening should be on there.’
‘Thanks. One last thing before I go.’
‘Yes?’
‘This Owen Kennedy. I’m sure my partner DS Lisbon knows all about him, but I don’t. Who trains him?’
‘A fellow called Vince Armbruster. He’s been looking after Owen since the lad was a teenager.’
‘Has he got a tragic dream-shattered past like our missing man?’
Masiker laughed. ‘Vince? No, he’s much older, nearly sixty. Top boxer in his day, didn’t quite reach the top but it doesn’t worry him. As far as training goes, he’s strictly old-school. His methods seem to be working because no one can beat Owen. He and Danny have had at least five fights. It’s been close a couple of times, but no cigar for Danny.’
‘When does Vince train Owen?’
‘Never on the same night Danny’s here, that’s for sure. The boys would tear each other to pieces.’
Taylor nodded. ‘You got a number for this Vince?’
Masiker scrolled through his phone, gave Taylor the number. ‘You know it’s funny. The old bugger’s nickname is Arm Buster, and he’s currently laid up at the Yorkville General Hospital with a broken arm. He crashed his bike about a week ago. Broke his wrist and a leg, poor bugger. Owen’s been training himself since.’
Taylor gathered her things. ‘Thanks for your time, Mr Masiker. We’ll be in touch if we need anything else.’
‘Why? I’ve told you everything you could possibly want to know.’
Taylor smiled. ‘Probably. But don’t leave town.’
Once she’d skipped through the hours of comings and goings in the gym’s foyer, Masiker’s video reached its high point. Two constables escorted Bartlett, jumping about and remonstrating, through an empty reception area and out the front door. A second camera picked up the trainer as he got into his Mazda and drove off, tyres squealing and smoking. No other persons figured in the episode. Taylor felt disappointment draw down the corners of her mouth into a frown. She clicked the mouse to close the program as Sergeant Wilson strode to her desk, eyes ablaze.
‘What is it, Ben? You look like you’ve seen a ghost?’
‘Almost. A body’s washed up in the mangroves.’
‘Where?’
‘About eight kilometres from where Bartlett’s abandoned car was found. I’ve just seen an MMS photo texted in by a witness. A bloke out checking crab pots apparently.’
‘Is it Bartlett?’
‘Hard to say.’
‘How come?’
‘The crocs didn’t leave much of his face.’
Chapter 5
The place was easier to break into than it should have been. A trainer of cage fighters in a world of troublemakers and tough guys should have better security. All it took was a hop onto a wheelie bin, a grip of the windowsill and a pull-up and in. A double-bolted window proved no match for a cop with Jack’s experience, especially since he’d left it unlocked on his last visit.
As he clambered over the sash and into Bartlett’s bedroom, Jack had one last look to make sure no one saw him enter the property. Better safe than sorry.
Clear.
The new clean lifestyle was paying dividends. Back in London a mate would have had to give Jack a boost; now his arms were strong, his body lighter. He could take on the world, like in the old days. He checked his watch. 12:30pm. He’d give it an hour, if he found nothing, back to questioning people, door knocking, phone calls, old fashioned slog. Bartlett could pop up like a daisy, recovered from temporary amnesia caused by too many punches to the head when he was a young fighter. Christ knew it used to happen to Jack. But his instincts were screaming, this isn’t right.
A quick sweep of the upstairs rooms and cupboards revealed nothing new. The first police search was thorough in a superficial kind of way. That made perfect sense to Jack, although it might not to the average punter. Dig deeper, son. Look where others don’t think to.
The freezer. Bags of peas. Nope, just peas, He tried all the old “favourites” – vacuum cleaner tubes, compartments behind false bathroom tiles, wall clock, paintings, the works. There was a lined, enclosed area under the main part of the house. The forensics team, Taylor and Jack had checked it out already, but maybe they’d missed something. Bartlett would spend a lot of time down there, so worth one more sweep.
Bartlett was an orderly man. Everything in the home gym was neatly arranged, stacked, placed just so. Like an army private prepared for inspection. A classic York adjustable weight bench and press stood in the middle of the space. Everything you need to work virtually all parts of the body. Like a perverse house breaker with an exercise fetish, Jack dropped the York’s back rest, slid under the barbell and gripped the textured surface of the silver steel bar. He easily lifted the light load already on the barbell, did twelve quick reps. The contraction of his pecs with each lift felt good. Sweat ran down his brow and pooled in the armpits of his light blue shirt. The temptation was too much. Let’s see how much you can pump, sunshine. Then back to the office. He unbuttoned his shirt, folded it and placed it on the floor. A rack of black cast-iron plates sat against a wall, marked with numbers from 1.25 to 25 kg. He grabbed one of the heaviest, strained under the weight, loaded it on one side of the barbell, turned the fastener to lock it into place. He fetched the second, took a deep breath. The plate was hollow, weighed almost nothing. Clever, Bartlett, very clever.
Jack located a tiny mechanism on the edge of the plate. He twisted it left, nothing. Right, and it opened with a light popping sound. The plate separated into two identical halves.
Inside, dozens of unlabelled yellow pill bottles packed in tight with cotton wool.
He wasn’t sure how this discovery would progress enquiries but he’d hand them over to the lab and they could run tests. Another team would come and investigate the rest of the gym, grunt work Jack wasn’t keen on. This time the place would be turned upside down. He dropped the fake plate in the boot and closed it with a thunk.
Back on the main road to the CBD, a biker wearing illegal gang colours whizzed past on a gleaming Harley Davidson at least 40kms over the limit. Lab work could wait, there were schools around here. Jack jumped on the accelerator and darted into the afternoon traffic. With one hand he slapped the portable blues and twos on the roof; cars parted to let him through. The Who’s thunderous guitar intro to Baba O’Riley came on the radio, perfect pursuit music. He set his mouth hard and gripped the steering wheel, knuckles white. The motorcycle was getting away with ease, weaving between traffic calmers that had little effect on motorbikes. The rear-wheel-drive, turbo-six Kia Stinger, despite torque to die for and a top speed of 270 kph, couldn’t keep up. The culprit disappeared to a speck between rows of lookalike town houses. The
dashcam should have got the fucker’s rego. Jack resolved to track him down and pay a visit.
As he felt his heartrate return to normal, London Calling erupted from his phone. He snatched at it. ‘Yeah, wot?’
‘You seriously need to find a new greeting. You sound like a cockney Neanderthal.’
‘Oi! That’s not politically correct.’
‘Stick it, Jack. Listen, I’ve got an urgent update on the Bartlett matter.’
‘It better be good, I’m itching to collar an irresponsible biker.’
Taylor relayed what Sergeant Wilson had just told her. ‘Doesn’t mean it’s him.’
‘That’s what Wilson said. But I think it could be our missing man.’
‘Why?’
‘Apparently there’s the remains of a Mortal Kombat tattoo on his back.’
Chapter 6
A shredded torso, the well-chewed head barely hanging on by sinew and skin, lay disembowelled, stomach down. Mangrove tree roots stuck out of the ground around it like a gnarled pencil fence. A fluorescent green-and-black birdwing butterfly landed on one of the roots, languidly brought its wings together to form one vertical plane. Exquisite natural beauty that took your breath away. The dead body did the same, but in a different way.
‘I didn’t know crocodiles could read.’ Jack sucked noisily on a nicotine lolly, pointed at the grisly remains.
Taylor could barely look at the corpse, glanced away every few seconds. ‘What do you mean by that?’ She turned her attention back to the victim. Jack saw her swallow hard, heard the sound of a dry gulp blending with frog croaks, lorikeet squawks and the loud clicks of pistol shrimps on the edge of the mangrove forest. His stomach was stronger than hers, forged like steel in the blood-bathed boxing rings of his youth. He could have been a pathologist in another lifetime. Or a butcher.
‘Come here, look. Don’t be queasy. It’s not your job to be queasy.’ He beckoned with a crooked finger as he clambered down a muddy embankment. Taylor followed close behind, grabbing his trouser belt for support. One of his feet slid out from underneath him, she tugged hard on the belt to keep him from falling face first in the mire. He turned with a smile. ‘Thanks. I reckon you saved me a trip to the dry cleaners.’
They ducked under blue and white police tape marking off a 3x3 metre square, the body bang in the middle of it. Half a dozen scientists in white Tyvek suits, blue gloves and massive rubber boots fussed about the scene, painstakingly searched the surrounding sludge for evidence. The going underfoot was so sticky it looked like they were working in slow motion. Body language of slouched shoulders and the lack of chatter told Jack the boffins weren’t finding much. Either that or they were concentrating on not falling over and getting trapped. The muddy water reeked of the rich, earthy muskiness of tropical wetlands.
Taylor saw what Jack was talking about. Amongst the rips and shreds of saltwater crocodile bite marks she could make out a stylised black dragon in a circle and most of the letters. Finish him. The famous phrase from the video game Mortal Kombat.
‘See.’ Jack pointed. ‘The crocodile’s read that and thought it was an invitation to lunch.’
‘Your dark humour defies belief. Have you no respect?’
‘Tide’s coming in.’ A woman from forensics called from a few metres away. She wasn’t going to tread further into the squelch than she needed to. ‘You’ve got about ten minutes before we’re going to have to move him away from there. Have a good look while you’ve got the opportunity.’
Jack waved his thanks, fished out his mobile and took a photo from the head and feet, left and right sides of the body. He saw a centimetre of water lapping at the edges of Bartlett’s torso. Gnarled trees and roots further out from shore disappeared, bit by bit, under the oncoming flow of water. Tiny hermit crabs scurried to and fro before ducking into the mud to wait for the tide’s next retreat.
‘Be careful there, drop your mobile in that muck and you can say good-bye to it.’ Jack warned. Taylor was copying him, taking photos on her own phone. She gripped the device like her life depended on it. The iPhone was the latest model, barely a week old. Jack could imagine the howls if it tumbled out of her grasp.
‘Would you call pictures of croc bites snaps?’ Jack inquired flatly.
‘Seriously, you need help.’ She shook her head but there was no reproach in her words. Like most police officers, Jack used the mechanism of macabre observations as a coping mechanism. A career path where mangled and decomposing humans were a regular occurrence meant sick jokes were accepted between colleagues.
The two detectives bent low and inspected the human wreckage. No lifting or touching anything, that would be left to the geeks. What appeared to be shreds of denim around the tibia of the right leg, no other clothing visible in the taped-off zone. Left tibia was missing, most likely being digested by the acid in a crocodile’s stomach. Ribs, red muscles and shredded veins, ripped skin. The head was tilted to one side on the ground, face gone, the mouth a toothy grimace of horror. The last time Jack saw carnage like this was a dead motorcyclist who’d driven head-on into a brick wall at 150 kph.
‘Do these remains tell you anything?’ said Taylor.
‘Only that he had a pair of jeans on at some point. Apart from that, nada.’ Jack stood, took a deep breath of cloying rainforest air. He and Taylor disentangled themselves from the mangrove’s seductive grip, approached the leading forensic scientist, Margaret Proctor. A pair of sparkly grey eyes to match the soggy ground underfoot peered out from above her white mask. Light touches of jade green eye makeup. She pulled the mask under her chin. ‘You guys finished? We need to hurry, high tide’s on its way.’
‘Yeah. We’ve got our seaside holiday photos to enjoy while you lot do your stuff.’ Jack longed for a cigarette. Despite his bluff, the ragged corpse had left him feeling empty. A horrible way for any life to end. ‘Any early conclusions?’
She shook her head. ‘The croc ate a lot of him. I’m surprised it didn’t consume the entire body. Maybe something spooked it, although once they’re eating usually nothing will stop ‘em. Only a thorough autopsy will tell us anything. We should have detailed results back to you tomorrow, maybe even something tonight.’
‘No bullet holes?’ said Taylor.
‘No. No neat stab wounds, not hacked with a machete either. The man could have been stabbed with something serrated but it’s simply too hard to tell among all the tissue damage. Looks like he’s been through a meat grinder, to tell you the truth. I can tell you a frenzied attack took place. If the man was alive or dead when that happened, I can’t hazard a guess.’ Proctor looked off into the distance, perhaps trying to divine wisdom from gathering storm clouds and the oncoming delta tide. ‘The multiple crushed bones were most probably caused by the animal’s jaws. The victim could have been murdered elsewhere, perhaps even suicided. Two things I can say with some certainty. The shreds of clothing clinging to his body tell me he wasn’t out for an innocent swim, and the lack of bullets or exit wounds strongly suggests he wasn’t shot. But we can only be definitive once we’ve gone over him in the lab.’
‘Any suspicious foot prints about, signs of a struggle or the body being dragged along the mud?’ said Jack. There were, of course, plenty of prints about, the police couldn’t get to the body without leaving their own.
‘The old fella who found the remains was pulling in some crab pots when he spotted the body.’ Proctor handed Jack a piece of paper with the witness’s details on it. ‘So there’s his shoe prints, plus his kelpie’s paw prints. Marks and scratches where all kinds of native wildlife’s been scurrying about. Apart from that, nothing suss. Prima facie evidence points to the crocodile finding the body elsewhere. It would have been chomping away merrily as it drifted along beside the shore until something made it stop feasting.’
‘What about ID?’
‘The croc?’ said Proctor, deadpan.
Taylor burst out laughing despite the gravitas of the scene.
‘Touché,’ sai
d Jack, suppressing a smirk. ‘I like that one. Wanna work with us?’
‘No thanks. I prefer not to deal with the living if at all possible. As for the victim, there were no documents on him.’
Jack nodded.
‘I’m not sure any relatives would be keen on seeing him like this,’ said Taylor. ‘I’m thinking of when it comes to getting an official ID.’
‘We might have to resort to dental records unless someone can identify him by the tattoos,’ said Proctor.
‘I think I can say it’s most likely him.’ Taylor stared at her mobile screen.
‘You can?’ said Jack, eyebrows arched.
‘Here. I found these.’ She held up her mobile for Proctor and Jack to see. An image on Bartlett’s Facebook page showed a man, back to the camera, flexing his biceps. On the wall facing him, a framed drawing of the Mortal Kombat dragon that looked remarkably like what was left of the design on the victim’s back.
‘It looks like Bartlett in the shot.’
‘Of course it’s him.’ Taylor said impatiently. ‘Same hair, height, build. Besides, it’s his bloody Facebook page.’
‘But there’s no back tattoo on the guy in the photo like there is on the victim.’ Jack gently tapped the mobile screen. ‘When was that taken?’
‘Lemme see. The post is from six months ago. Text says: Tattoo design. What do you think?’ Then a bunch of comments from people, mostly telling him to go for it.’
‘Looks like we might be able to spare Bartlett’s family the grief of identifying him,’ said Jack.
As they headed back to their cars through the mangrove forest, growing thinner as they went, Jack pressed Taylor about her interview with Masiker.
‘He’s an interesting individual, to say the least. The man’s covering up something.’
Jack sniffed. ‘I don’t like him one bit. I’ve dealt with gym owners before and most of them are scum.’
‘That’s a big call. I’m sure lots of them are nice people.’
Kill Shot Page 5
