He regained his seat as Harlow, exhausted by the effort expended, collapsed back onto his pillow. Taylor’s eyes bulged. ‘You OK, Claudia?’
‘Yeah. I think we should call it a day.’
‘Like hell.’ Jack produced a pair of handcuffs, snapped one around Harlow’s right left wrist, the other to the metal rail running around the bed.
‘One more chance to get it off your chest, Andy. Where’s Terry?’
‘I dunno what you’re talkin’ about.’ The voice was weak.
‘Yes you do. You shot Danny when he was about to tell us what you’d done.’
‘Kid was delusional.’
‘Then why’d you kill him, huh?’
Harlow closed his eyes, kept them shut, began to breathe deeply.
‘Don’t play possum with me! I know you’re faking it.’
‘Come on, Jack.’ Taylor gathered her handbag and phone and stood. ‘He’s clearly not interested in a deal.’
Harlow’s eyes sprang open. ‘I am interested in a deal. I want immunity in return for information. I can tell you about the entire HGH and steroid network in North Queensland. It’s huge.’
‘Tell us where Bartlett is, goddam it!’ Jack roared.
‘Get me the deal – immunity – and I’ll tell you everything.’
‘You’re going to need a lawyer to negotiate with us and the DPP. Do you have one?’
‘Get me that woman Danny used.’
‘Denise Hutchinson?’ Jack blew a puff of air through tight lips. ‘I’m not sure she’ll want to represent the killer of her former client.’
‘Alleged.’
‘Are you fucking serious? I saw you pull the trigger. DC Taylor saw you pull the trigger. Ballistics will determine the bullet in Sharpe’s head matches your gun exactly. What fantasy land are you living in?’
‘Alleged until the final verdict.’
Jack sucked in a deep breath and pressed the buzzer to summon a nurse. A chubby redhead in her forties appeared at the door. ‘Organise proper care and treatment for this man. I’m appalled that so-called Dr Chesson hasn’t patched him up properly yet.’
‘Yes, sir.’
In the car, Taylor said: ‘Are you serious about that offer?’
‘Like you said, people want closure. Harlow’s the toughest nut I’ve ever tried to crack. No threats I make are going to make him tell the truth. Only a deal of freedom or a massively reduced sentence will work.’
‘No way the DPP’s going to agree, Jack. Surely you know that.’
He nodded. ‘We’ve at least got to try, hey?’
Chapter 28
The media liaison unit alerted the press at 8:00am. Andrew Harlow has been arrested and charged with the murders of Owen Kennedy, Daniel Sharpe and Terrence Bartlett, and a string of other offences. News websites were updated, morning TV bulletins hammered the story for all it was worth and social media, as they say, went into meltdown. Jack’s phone ran hot with messages and texts from all media outlets. Holly Maguire was the most insistent: three phone calls and five texts. As instructed, Jack let them all go. The time for answering questions would be at the press conference called for 2:00pm.
A representative of the prosecutor’s office called the Inspector at 11:32am. A minute later Batista forwarded the DPP’s email elaborating the decision to the investigation team’s respective inboxes. No plea deal.
‘I reckon there’s only one way Harlow’ll admit where he put Bartlett’s body,’ said Jack as he clicked the email closed. ‘A prosecuting lawyer from a Grisham novel appears and tricks the bastard into spilling his guts.’
‘So that was a no, I take it?’
‘You’ve been cc’d the message, but I’ll summarise it for you. Harlow’s appeal to the DPP was rejected out of hand.’
‘So, my bold prediction has come true.’
‘Blind Freddy could have picked that one.’
‘Was there an official reason given?’
‘Turns out murdering three fellow human beings doesn’t predispose the DPP towards offering deals. Especially when two of the bodies were recorded on camera and one killing was carried out in the presence of two police officers. Plus there’s no public interest served in a plea deal.’
Wilson appeared with take-away coffees for Jack and Taylor. ‘Wanna know what Harlow just admitted to me from his hospital bed?’
Jack sat bolt upright in his chair. ‘What?’
‘Bugger all.’ The constable flashed a “gotcha” grin as he set the styrofoam cups down. ‘He’s clammed up tighter than a…’
‘A clam?’ said Taylor.
Wilson nodded. ‘I was thinking of a fish’s whatsit.’
The three sipped their coffees in silence, Jack reclining in his swivel chair while the others stood. They watched Batista finish a phone call in his office and stride across the squad room. ‘Let’s not drop our heads over this,’ said the Inspector. ‘Even if we never find Terry Bartlett, there are air-tight cases against Andrew Harlow for three homicides. Not to mention drug dealing, kidnapping, deprivation of liberty and threatening a police officer. Not even a John Grisham lawyer could get him acquitted.’
Jack gently lobbed a pen across his desk. ‘Have you planted listening devices around my desk, sir?’
‘No, why?’
‘Never mind.’
Batista straightened his back like a father about to give a speech at his daughter’s wedding. ‘Claudia, type up a press release to go out an hour before the press conference. Make sure you accentuate all the positive work our team has done to bring the suspect to justice, to allay fears in the community, all that warm fuzzy stuff. Your own efforts haven’t gone unnoticed, by the way. Jack’s recommended you for special acknowledgment.’
‘Come on, sir. It’s my job.’
‘Rubbish. You showed exemplary courage under extreme circumstances. You saved DS Lisbon’s life.’
‘Am I supposed to put that in the press release? I don’t think I can write about myself as some kind of hero.’
‘Fine. Get the constable here to write that bit.’
‘Consider it done,’ said Wilson. ‘I can sing her praises without going overboard.’
‘Jack,’ continued Batista. ‘Get around to Charlie Bartlett’s barbershop, stress to him we haven’t give up on finding his father.’
Jack nodded. ‘Yes, sir.’
‘Have either of you contacted Carl Masiker or Louise Harlow?’
‘I rang Carl’s home number first thing this morning,’ Jack tore open a packet of nicotine gum, flicked a pellet into his mouth. ‘His missus told me he’s arranged for someone to run the gym for him while he recuperates. They’re going to be OK.’
‘Louise Harlow feigned calm when I rang her,’ said Taylor. ‘Her business is teetering on the brink, and now Harlow’s not bringing in income, she reckons she’ll have to sell the mansion, all their assets.’
‘Poor lovey,’ said Jack.
‘On the plus side, she’s prepared to testify against her husband in terms of the illicit substances.’
‘That’s damn hypocritical of her when it was his dirty money keeping her dirty business afloat.’
‘I get the feeling the shame of having a mass murderer for a husband is a motivating factor for her to turn on him. She built her company up on her own without his input. She definitely made mistakes with the labour hiring side of things.’
‘That’s an understatement,’ Jack observed. ‘My experience with exploiters like her is they don’t change. If she’s clever enough to survive, she’ll move her operations to another third-world country, whatever it takes to turn a dollar.’
‘Maybe. My feeling is she won’t chuck the towel in.’
Batista turned to Jack. ‘Will Masiker testify, do you think?’
‘Does it matter? Even if no one was prepared to speak against Harlow except me and Claudia, the prick’s gonna be wearing prison-issue clothes till the day he dies. There’s enough physical evidence to convict with zero witnesse
s. My guess, a quick trial with a unanimous guilty verdict.’
‘Would you stake your life on it?’ said Batista.
‘Absolutely.’
At 2:00pm the station’s dedicated press room was a squall of noise. Local reporters were joined by big stars of the small screen for the special event. The major TV stations in Brisbane chartered flights to get their top performers to Yorkville. This was the biggest crime story in Queensland since the Baden-Clay case in 2012 and no one wanted to miss out.
Batista spoke for ten minutes, outlined the status of the case. ‘We’re asking for an expeditious trial and the swift delivery of justice. It’s what our community wants and what it needs. Hopefully, our court system can accommodate that desire.’
‘There’s still a body missing.’ An angular-faced woman waved a microphone like she was shooing flies. Jack recognised her from advertising signs around town. Viktoria Mellor, seasoned journalist from a nationally syndicated current affairs show. It covered stories in more detail than regular news. She’d somehow gotten hold of Jack’s mobile number and texted him with a request for an interview. He’d ignored the text but seeing her in the flesh, he had second thoughts. She was confident and forceful with a husky bedroom voice. If Batista sanctioned it, maybe… ‘Detective Lisbon, you’re the lead investigator. How close are you to finding Terry Bartlett?’
He leaned in, took his time. ‘Ms Mellor, is it? I’ve seen you around town.’
‘I’ve only just arrived.’
‘On the billboards, I mean.’
The crowd of journalists and camera operators laughed.
‘Yes,’ she replied unfazed by Jack’s sideshow. ‘Why don’t we know where Mr Bartlett is? His family must be at their wits end.’
‘Our suspect is co-operating and we hope to…’
Batista’s phone lit up on the desk beside Jack. The Inspector picked it up, put a hand over his mouth to speak into the receiver.
‘Detective Lisbon?’ Mellor repeated.
‘Yes, sorry,’ said Jack. ‘As I was saying, we have faith our suspect will reveal the whereabouts of Mr Bartlett after more targeted questioning.’
‘But so far your questioning has been unsuccessful, am I right?’
Turn it around Jack. She’ll embarrass you.
‘To be fair,’ Taylor took up the gauntlet. ‘The suspect has sustained head injuries in a botched escape bid and his mind has been, ah, affected by substance abuse. Give it another few days, and I’m sure Andrew Harlow will tell us what we are all desperate to find out.’
‘A few days? Is that good enough?’ Holly Maguire called from the back of the throng.
‘OK ladies and gentlemen,’ Batista pocketed his mobile. ‘I think that will be enough for today. Once the court appoints a trial date, I’m sure we’ll all meet again.’
As they hustled out the back door, Batista whispered to Jack. ‘Get your skates on, Detective.’
‘What is it?’
‘A body’s been found at Jensen’s Creek. It could be Terry Bartlett.’
‘I’m sure it’s him, sir.’ A warm feeling surged through Jack’s bloodstream. Not of joy, but of relief. Time to put a lid on this thing.
The Yorkville court system wasn’t like those in the capital cities. Unburdened by a backlog of unprocessed cases, it was able to operate quickly and efficiently. Jack had seen nothing like it. In London, justice moved at a glacial pace, sometimes over 100 days between the completion of the offence and the start of the trial. Occasionally, that amount of time or more could pass between a crime being committed and someone even being charged. Brisbane was similar. Up here in the tropics, though, the system ticked along like a production line. Terry’s body was found on the afternoon of Tuesday, 10 November. Today was Friday, 20 November, and, Jack hoped, the last day of the trial’s evidentiary phase.
At 1:17pm on day three of proceedings, Jack smiled as Dr Proctor answered the prosecution’s technical questions with aplomb. The old dear had been testifying as a forensics scientist longer than Jack had been alive. Proctor was robotlike in the witness box. Unflinching and stern, it would be a brave or stupid person to call her expertise into question. On days one and two, she provided a battery of solid testimony to send Harlow to jail for the abduction and murder of Owen Kennedy. Now it was time to close the lid on the Sharpe case.
‘So you have no doubt the bullet came from the same gun found at the scene?’ said the DPP’s wunderkind, slick, black-suited Quentin Coen, conveniently nicknamed “The QC”.
‘None.’ Proctor held up an enlarged photograph showing the markings to prove her assertion. ‘The 9×19mm parabellum cartridge definitely came from the accused’s gun, a Heckler and Koch USP.’
Coen shuffled papers, looked up at the judge. ‘That’s all in relation to the murder of Daniel Sharpe, Your Honour.’
‘Thank you, Mr Coen.’ The judge addressed defense counsel, Jared Farnsworth. ‘Does the defense wish to question the expert witness in relation to this matter?’
Jared Farnsworth shook his head. Three years out of university, he was the only lawyer in town willing to defend Andy Harlow. The fact Harlow had no money was no deterrent for Farnsworth, who was rumoured to have taken the case pro bono for the exposure. He began with unbridled enthusiasm. At the start of the trial he stunned the court when he questioned the fact his client was being tried for so many crimes at the same time. He claimed a combined hearing would be a denial of justice for his client and requested it be split into separate trials. The judge, His Honour Geoffrey Byrne, slammed Farnsworth mercilessly.
‘I cannot believe the audacity of such a request. Have you any idea of the resources required were I to acquiesce to your proposal, Mr Farnsworth? The cost? Not to mention the time wasted empanelling separate juries. Your request is denied.’
When all the prosecution’s evidence had been presented for the Owen Kennedy murder, Farnsworth made a huge mistake. He placed Harlow on the stand.
‘Mr Harlow, what is your explanation for the victim’s blood being in your car?’
‘Not my car, you moron.’
‘What?’
‘It was Terry Bartlett’s car. Fuck me, Your Honour, is it too late to get another lawyer?’
‘Yes it is too late!’ The judge roared. ‘Any more use of language like that and I’ll add contempt of court to your already long list of charges.’
Harlow shrugged and stared daggers at his mouthpiece.
‘I’m sorry,’ Farnsworth stammered. ‘Why was the victim’s blood in the boot of the car?’
‘He was an MMA fighter. They bleed a lot. Could be a hundred reasons why. Nothing to say it was me.’
‘That’s all for now.’ Farnsworth resumed his seat.
‘What? You were going to ask me more stuff, remember?’ said Harlow, gripping the edge of the witness box.
‘I think that’s enough for now.’ The defense lawyer collapsed back into his chair.
‘Would you like to question the accused while he’s on the stand, Mr Coen?’ The beak peered over his spectacles.
‘No, Your Honour. The physical evidence will be more than enough to secure a conviction.’
Judge Byrne nodded sagely while Farnsworth cradled his head in his hands.
Now it was day three and Farnsworth’s eyes twitched and his hands fidgeted as each of his objections was overturned and each successive witness delivered their evidence. At least he’ll have the notoriety to dine out on when the trial’s over, Jack thought to himself.
‘Mr Coen, anything further for Doctor Proctor before we adjourn?’ Judge Byrne asked.
‘Yes, Your Honour. I’d like to question the expert witness about the last crime, the murder of Terrence Bartlett. It won’t take long.’
‘Proceed.’
‘Thank you, Your Honour.’
During a rapid fire question and answer session, the pathologist confirmed that, like Owen Kennedy, Terry Bartlett was killed by blunt force trauma to the head. His body was disposed of in a
tributary of Jensen’s Creek rarely frequented by freshwater crocodiles and never by salties. Which meant the body was more intact than Kennedy’s had been. Decomposition was well advanced by the time of discovery, however tissue and entomological analyses showed the murder occurred at the roughly the same time as that of Owen Kennedy.
‘But the bag around the head?’ said Coen.
‘I’d say it was to prevent blood flow rather than to suffocate the victim.’
‘Speaking of blood, did you find Mr Bartlett’s blood in the boot of his abandoned car?’
‘No.’
‘I’m sorry?’ Coen was flustered for the first time in the trial. He consulted his notes. ‘But I thought…’
‘The detectives found it. I analysed it.’ Proctor smiled smugly as the gallery chuckled. ‘And yes, Mr Bartlett’s blood was detected in the vehicle.’
‘My mistake. Much obliged to you, Doctor. You may step down.’ QC fiddled with his glasses for a moment. ‘That about wraps it up for us, Your Honour. The defense rests for all three homicides.’
Once the murders were dealt with, the judge directed the hearing towards the lesser counts of deprivation of liberty and other crimes perpetrated at the mango farm in Kilroy. A half-hour of Steven Masiker on the stand, weeping as he detailed being tortured by Harlow and Sharpe, was enough on its own for any jury in the world to convict. In reality, it was icing on the cake.
Kill Shot Page 20
