Kill Shot

by Blair Denholm

  ‘Jack’s on his way to Sharpe’s apartment right now, sir. He’s not responded to any calls, so fingers crossed the DS can catch him at home.’

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘May I leave now sir?’ Taylor glanced at the clock on the wall behind Batista. ‘It’s already past the end of my shift.’

  ‘I need you to do one more thing before you go.’

  ‘Yes?’ A sigh. She had a hot date tonight, with reality TV, chardonnay and a large packet of potato chips.

  ‘I’ve just received an email news alert from Channel 3. Come have a look at this.’ The Inspector pointed at his computer screen.

  ‘Holy shit. It’s a response to my media release. That was quick.’

  The Channel 3 website banner headline proclaimed: Cops claim of homicide a total croc! Underneath the headline was a blurry photo of Owen Kennedy’s body lying in the mangrove forest before the police had arrived. Below that, a staged outdoor photo of a deeply tanned middle-aged man in cargo shorts and a blue singlet sitting in a rocking chair on a veranda. Beside him, his grey-muzzled kelpie and an empty crab pot. The man, Bruce Walker, claimed he saw the crocodile attack the man on the river bank. I seen the poor bloke, heard him screamin’ for help, so I chucked a big rock and the croc swam away. If only I’d got there earlier, I might have saved him. I’ll be having nightmares about this for the rest of me days.’

  ‘He’s taken the photo on his phone, sir. Sold it to the highest bidder. He’s living in cloud cuckoo land, though. The pathologist said Kennedy had been dead for at least two days, maybe a week.’

  ‘Ring that moron and tell him to pull his head in, no more interviews, or we’ll have him for…I dunno, obstruction of justice.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Let’s see what the other pricks have posted.’ The Inspector toggled around the media outlets’ websites and respective Facebook pages. Channel 11 was yet to respond, the Yorkville Times simply reposted Taylor’s press release without comment. ‘All clear’.

  ‘There’s going to be a shitload of fallout from the croc story,’ said Taylor.

  ‘Exactly. Call the media officer and set up a press conference for tomorrow morning. Ask them to post denials of Channel 3’s irresponsible reporting. You, me and Lisbon will front the jackals tomorrow. Get a good night’s sleep.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Chapter 10

  The song faded to silence. Jack knew his own voice was rubbish, but it never stopped him screaming his lungs out in accompaniment to a rock anthem. He grabbed a plastic bottle of cold water from the console, chugged some down to sooth a throat sore after mangling Led Zeppelin’s “Black Dog”. Other drivers in the late afternoon traffic stared at him with twisted faces as he head-banged along to the tune, but he didn’t care. His car, his space, his rules. The six-gong radio news alert focused Jack’s attention. A breathlessly dramatic male announcer read the police statement.

  Now to breaking news. Yorkville CIB have confirmed the body of missing sporting identity Owen Kennedy was recovered from mangroves near the mouth of the Boustead River two days ago. Mr Kennedy was a champion welterweight mixed martial arts exponent. Crocodile attack has been ruled out as a cause of death and the police are treating the matter as a homicide. Anyone with information that may assist with investigations is urged to contact the Yorkville Police Station. More details will be made available as they come to hand. In other news…

  Thank God they didn’t come at the story from the crocodile angle. He had to hand it to the local radio station, they played by the rules most of the time. TV and newspapers were another matter.

  His phone buzzed. Inspector Joe Batista. Finally getting involved in the case. Jack hit the button on his mounted phone to talk hands-free.

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Did you hear the news?’

  ‘Yes. Short and to the point.’

  ‘Our hand was forced. Channel 3 posted some bullshit about a croc mauling so we had to issue an urgent press release to clarify.’

  ‘Wait till tomorrow when the papers come out.’ Jack observed more thunderclouds as he idled at a set of lights. ‘Grisly murder is almost equal to a croc attack to the scandal sheets. We’ll need to outsource to a call centre when Joe and Jane Public start bombarding us with wacky leads.’

  ‘Nice one, Jack.’ His boss at Yorkville CIB was a pleasure to work under compared to the despot Keogh at the London Met. Mainly because he laughed at all of Jack’s quips, sometimes when they weren’t meant to be funny. ‘DC Taylor tells me you’re on the way to Danny Sharpe’s place. I can’t stress the urgency of getting him to co-operate.’

  ‘I’m pulling up outside his apartment complex now.’

  ‘Keep me updated. If there’s anything I can do to help, yell out.’

  ‘Will do, sir.’

  ‘If he says he heard Owen Kennedy was killed in a crocodile attack, make sure you disabuse him of the idea.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Holly Maguire’s been up to her tricks again.’

  Jack rubbed a palm across his brow before rapping three times on Danny Sharpe’s front door. The man lived in a complex of villa units slightly out of Jack’s price bracket, but not by much. Which begged the question: how does a journeyman brawler like Sharpe, who’s fighting in a regional league with low purses, afford it? He had to be supplementing his income somehow. As far as Jack knew, Sharpe had no daytime job, his total focus was MMA. In the UFC, the big time, fighters earned a small base salary, here it was only what you could earn by winning fights or sponsorship. Danny hadn’t won too many recently and sponsors wouldn’t touch a drug cheat with a barge pole.

  Lumbering footsteps, a stifled yawn. ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Detective Sergeant Jack Lisbon, Yorkville CIB. Let me in please, Danny.’

  The door opened slowly, as far as the safety chain would allow. Droopy eyes stared at Jack from the gloom inside. ‘Show me your ID.’ The voice was tired, almost timid.

  Jack raised his badge, turned side on so Sharpe couldn’t miss the .40 calibre Glock 22 sitting on his hip.

  ‘Follow me.’ Sharpe slapped at a hallway light switch, led the way. He walked with a weary gait, in silence. Board shorts and a white singlet highlighted broad shoulders and a narrow waist which formed the classic V-shaped body. The occupant possessed thick arms and well-muscled legs that could kick down a steel door. Strong enough to be a champion, apparently not smart enough. Perhaps the drugs had addled his brain.

  The apartment was tastefully furnished: ivory white walls, broad marble tiles on the floor resembling blue-vein cheese, muted beige lounge suite, scatter cushions in light pastel green with a bamboo pattern. In the sparsely equipped kitchen, Sharpe gestured for Jack to take a seat. ‘What’s this to do with? I was having a nap.’ The scratch under the armpit and the yawn looked like bad acting. The aroma of recently made hot chocolate told Jack the man was lying.

  A huge TV dominated the far wall of the living area. The fact it was on was more proof of Sharpe’s untruthfulness. An ad announced the early edition 5:00pm news was starting soon on Channel 3. ‘Have you been listening to the news on the radio today, seen any social media updates in the last hour?’ Jack asked.

  ‘Nuh. Been sleeping. Dead tired after working out for three hours solid. Why, what’s happened?’

  Leave Owen Kennedy up your sleeve for now. ‘Who’ve you been training with the last week? Terry Bartlett?’

  A confused look passed across Sharpe’s misaligned face, nostrils flared. Jack wondered what sort of methods Bartlett had been teaching his charge. How to block punches with his face? Sharpe looked older than his 29 years, closer to 40. Scars ran riot across his forehead and chin, cauliflower ears a rugby forward would be proud of stuck out almost at right angles to his box-shaped head. His bulbous nose would’ve been broken and reset many times. Despite his record as perpetual contender, there was something fearsome about him. Perhaps the fact he could take so many punches and kicks and keep going. It was
a strange fact of life in the fighting world: supreme technicians like Ali who were so good at not getting hit looked a lot less scary than the human punching bags.

  ‘What do you mean? I haven’t seen Tezza for a while, as it happens.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Carl told me Tezza’s been lying low for a bit.’

  ‘Is that so?’

  ‘Yeah. So I’ve been training meself. Tezza cut me, but he’ll have me back once he’s had time to think. I was fitted up!’

  Jack ignored Sharpe’s protestations of innocence. ‘Has Terry ever “laid low”, as you put it, before?’

  ‘Ah, not sure.’

  ‘Funny thing is, Danny. We can’t find your ex-trainer for love nor money. Carl knows nothing, Bartlett’s son Charlie knows nothing and you, his former favourite fighter, know nothing. Something doesn’t feel right about this, sunshine.’ Jack tapped a forefinger on the table top.

  If Danny had aspirations to be a poker player, Jack thought, he could forget about it. Fear, confusion, perhaps a trace of guilt, bunched his face muscles together like he was bracing for a right cross.

  ‘What are you trying to say? I don’t get it.’ Words tumbled out. ‘Isn’t a man entitled to take a break from everything now and again? Tezza’s worked non-stop for years. Perhaps he just hit the wall, decided to have a rest.’

  Jack helped himself to a green grape from a crystal bowl. ‘Yes, he’s entitled to do whatever he wants. Free country. Only problem is, he’s a creature of habit. For him to go AWOL without telling anyone, well, that’s hard for me to believe.’

  ‘Believe what you want. I don’t know nothing about it.’

  Another grape down the gullet. ‘Have you been worried about him?’

  ‘Yeah.’ The response was too eager. ‘Of course. We’re like that.’ Sharpe crossed gnarled middle finger over crooked forefinger. ‘Least we used to be.’

  ‘So if we check phone records, we’ll see you’ve tried to call him to see what’s up, yeah?’

  ‘I’m not a big phone user. If you check you’ll see I hardly make any calls. Once a month to me mum down in Brisbane, if that.’ Sharpe stood, shoved his chair back under the table. ‘Now, if you’re finished, I’d like to go for a run.’

  In his peripheral vision, Jack noticed a bright graphic pop up on the TV screen. ‘Wait a second. You’re going to want to see this.’ This will shake the bastard up. ‘Where’s your remote control?’

  Sharpe nodded at a coffee table covered in men’s health magazines, DVDs of UFC highlight packages, and a chunky universal remote. Jack picked it up, boosted the sound almost to cinema volume.

  ‘This’ll save me some explaining, although I may have to clarify.’

  What followed on the screen was a laughably corny and factually inaccurate interview between Holly Maguire and the sell-out opportunist, Bruce Walker. As it progressed, Jack watched Sharpe’s expression shift more often than his ex-wife changed her mind. When the image of the mangled body flashed for a moment on the screen, Sharpe flinched, then seemed to make a conscious effort to look calm. The story came to an end. Police will be giving a press conference tomorrow with further details. Next up… When Jack looked away from the TV and back to Sharpe, the man sat slumped in a chair, face buried in his hands.

  ‘This is…fuck…I can’t believe it.’ Sharpe spoke behind his hands.

  ‘Isn’t it awful. Fancy the champ being murdered like that.’

  ‘Hang on. They said it was a crocodile attack. The witness…’

  ‘He’s telling porkies, Danny. Owen Kennedy was murdered, as you’ll learn if you check other news sources that tell the truth. Plus, I’m telling you. And I’m the one running the investigation, so there’s that.’

  ‘Oh my God! Who could have killed him? This is fucking terrible!’ The shock was contrived, Jack felt it in his gut.

  ‘But you gotta admit, the croc version’s more interesting to the viewers, right?’

  ‘If you say so.’ Sharpe laid his hands flat on the table, his eyes darted about like a cocaine addict who can’t remember where the stash is.

  Now was the time to mention what Jack observed within the first minute of meeting Sharpe.

  ‘Danny, I notice you’re wearing a chunky bit of bling there.’ Jack gestured with his head.

  The hands slid away slowly, disappeared under the table. Sharpe’s eyes bulged like a cornered possum with hyperthyroidism. ‘What?’

  ‘I’ve been doing a bit of research. The ring. Where’d you get it?’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘Maybe it’s me, but it looks exactly like one the late Owen Kennedy won for knocking you the fuck out when you unsuccessfully challenged him for the title last year.’

  ‘It’s a replica. I…’

  Jack was on his feet in a flash, cable tie handcuffs at the ready. ‘Stand up and put your hands behind your back, please.’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘You heard me.’

  Sharpe leapt to his feet, shaped up with fists bunched. ‘You know I could knock you out cold!’ Spit flew from his lips.

  Jack grabbed the Glock from his belt, pointed it directly at Sharpe’s top lip. ‘Don’t push me, dickhead. Drop to your knees and slowly lie face down on the floor. That’s a good boy. Now put your hands behind your back.’ Jack slipped the gun back in its holster. The soft click of the plastic cuffs snapping shut sounded sweet to Jack’s ears. This was the most fun he’d had since transferring to Yorkville.

  ‘What’s happening?’ Hauled back to his feet, Sharpe now looked like a frightened little boy in an overgrown body.

  ‘I’m arresting you on suspicion of the murder of Owen Kennedy, you have the right to…stand still dammit.’ Sharpe wriggled hard, momentarily loosened himself from Jack’s behind-the-back grip.

  ‘Let me go,’ Sharpe cried. ‘I’m fucking innocent.’ The suspect dipped his right shoulder and drove hard into Jack’s side. The DS stumbled for a second, regained his footing, karate chopped Sharpe in the throat.

  ‘Sorry, sunshine.’ Jack leaned over the writhing and gagging figure on the floor. ‘Behave yourself and I won’t have to do that again. Let’s go.’

  Chapter 11

  In the stark-white interview room, Jack sat directly opposite the suspect. Steel table and chairs, one door with a small square window at eye level. Taylor took up position in a corner, legs crossed and a spiral notebook perched on her lap. Danny Sharpe’s laboured breathing blended with the relentless ticking of the wall clock. The man was more out of puff than he’d be at the end of a ten-round fight. Then again, being arrested does mess with a person’s vital signs. The red face and sweat pouring off Sharpe told Jack the detainee’s blood pressure and body temperature would be abnormal too. Perfect for a grilling.

  Jack pressed a button on the desk that activated a camera recording the interview. ‘Tuesday, November 3. Yorkville CIB, Detective Sergeant Jack Lisbon and Detective Constable Claudia Taylor in attendance with Danny Sharpe, time 19:45. The suspect is being questioned in relation to the murder of Owen Kennedy.’ He recited more standard palaver, then asked the suspect to confirm he’d been read his rights.

  ‘Not properly.’ Sharpe’s burly arms were folded across his chest, head angled back. ‘As it happens, I was subjected to police brutality and I’d like to make an official complaint.’

  ‘Don’t make me laugh. DC Taylor, does Mr Sharpe here, a professional cage fighter, look like he’s capable of defending himself against me, a middle aged man who spends most of his day behind a desk?’

  ‘Is this a trick question?’ Taylor arched an eyebrow. ‘Of course he does.’

  ‘He pulled a gun on me.’ Sharpe snarled.

  ‘Did I shoot you?’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘I’ll repeat the question for the benefit of the recording.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Oh dear, I think you’ve taken too many knocks to the head, sunshine. I said, did I shoot you? DC Taylor, does the suspect appear to have
been shot?’

  ‘I’m no expert, but I’d say no.’

  ‘He hit me in the throat while I was handcuffed.’

  ‘DC Taylor, do you see any marks on Mr Sharpe’s neck, apart from some tattoos of questionable artistic merit? Is he experiencing breathing or speech problems?’

  ‘Not that I can see or hear.’

  ‘Do you want me to call you a doctor? If you want to make a complaint about your arrest, be my guest.’ Jack knew the tap on the throat he gave Sharpe would have no lasting effects, no bruising.

  ‘No, but I want a lawyer. I ain’t answering any more questions until I get one.’

  ‘What’s your lawyer’s name?’ Jack pulled out his mobile. ‘I’ll give them a call now.’

  ‘I haven’t got one. Youse have to give me one. It’s my right.’

  Jack laughed. ‘Sunshine, it’s not that simple. You have to qualify financially for legal aide. By the looks of your comfortable flat, you’d be ineligible. What kind of car do you drive?’

  ‘A BMW.’

  ‘Yeah, no legal aid for you.’

  ‘It’s 10 years old, not a new one. What’s that got to do with it anyway?’

  ‘Limited resources. Only poor folk get free legal representation. You can call a lawyer from the yellow pages if you like, but it’s a Forrest Gump proposition, you never know what you’re gonna get. You might pay a packet to a mouthpiece and still go to prison. In my opinion, that’s the likely outcome anyway.’

  ‘Shit, shit, shit. Tezza usually handles all this stuff for me.’ Sharpe’s distress reminded Jack of a road accident victim about to go into shock. ‘What am I gonna do?’

  ‘Your best option is to answer our questions honestly,’ said Taylor, jotting something down. ‘If you’re innocent and you tell us the truth, why do you need a lawyer?’

  ‘To make sure youse don’t pull any tricks. I don’t trust either of you fuckers.’

  ‘Language, Danny, please.’ Jack rubbed a hand through his bristly hair. Sharpe wasn’t going to put his hand up for the murder without some fancy detective footwork. Jack sometimes yearned for the good old days when there were no cameras, when you could work over a villain’s stomach with a sledge hammer and a pillow until they confessed. A bit of physical persuasion saved hours of useless investigations. These days, sadly, the bad guys had more rights than the victims. ‘And that’s another wrinkle in the story, innit? A question we’d all like the answer to. Where the hell is Terry Bartlett?’