Into the Night Page 20

  His voice is clogged with sleep. ‘Woodstock? What is it?’

  With a start, I realise it’s only just after 8.30 am on a Sunday.

  ‘Hey,’ I stutter, suddenly feeling very foolish. I clear my throat. ‘I think I’ve got something worth going to Isaacs with.’

  There’s a pause as Fleet covers the phone to talk to someone, surely a girl, and embarrassment snakes through my insides.

  ‘Look, sorry, I didn’t realise it was so early—we can talk about this later?’ I suggest, wanting to end the conversation I’ve been desperate to have all morning.

  ‘No, no,’ he says, more awake. ‘Now is fine. Gotta get moving anyway. Who wants to sleep in on a Sunday? Not me.’

  His voice is typically wry but carries an unusual flatness. I can’t get a handle on his mood or whether he is annoyed to hear from me or not.

  ‘Okay, I’m upright now,’ he says. ‘Hit me.’

  ‘Right, well.’ I force some strength into my voice. ‘After our meeting yesterday I was here last night, just wrapping up a few things. I was talking to Ralph and I noticed the Miller case board. Something stuck in my head about it. And then last night I realised that the autopsy photos are almost identical to Wade’s. I mean the injury looks exactly the same.’

  Fleet doesn’t say anything for a few moments and I experience an excruciating twist of impatience mixed with the fear of potential ridicule.

  ‘What about the reports?’ he asks finally. ‘Do they suggest we’re looking at the same killer? What does my favourite pathologist say?’

  ‘I haven’t spoken to Mary-Anne yet,’ I admit. ‘I wanted to talk to you first. But that’s the other thing—she didn’t do Walter Miller’s post-mortem. She was away, remember?’

  Fleet makes an indecipherable sound. I hear a muffled female voice and the phone turns to white noise again before scuffling back to Fleet as he stifles a yawn.

  ‘Okay, Woodstock, let’s meet. I could use a coffee. Give me, say, half an hour and then I suggest we make like the kids and spend stupid amounts of cash on eggs and bacon, and maybe some avocado toast.’

  Fleet looks worse than I do. His hair is in desperate need of taming and thick stubble creeps across his face like a fog. His eyes are hidden behind dark glasses but I suspect they are at least as bloodshot as mine. We sit outside so he can smoke. For a few minutes, I simply watch as he rhythmically alternates between sucking on a cigarette and slurping his coffee.

  ‘Big night?’ I say sarcastically.

  ‘You betcha,’ he says, clearly not bothered by his shabby state. ‘You?’

  ‘Big enough.’

  He nods approvingly. ‘Well, us young ones can’t be all work and no play.’

  We are surrounded by perky people decked out in cosy winter workout wear and drinking wholesome smoothies from recycled jars. Instead of chairs there are milk crates and each table has a little bonsai on it. I take a tentative sip of my own coffee: the smell alone makes me gag.

  I tell him about the question marks around Paul Wade’s alibi on Wednesday.

  ‘This combined with the pub fights in Karadine are making him seem like someone we need to look into,’ I say.

  Fleet sighs, prodding his forehead with his fingers. ‘You really think Paul’s up to masterminding something like this? The guy struck me as someone who struggles with basic life tasks.’

  ‘I know, but then why lie about being in town? Maybe someone else was the mastermind and he was just the muscle.’

  Fleet stretches his arms above his head, squeezes his eyes shut and then nods again. ‘Interesting. Well, I guess we’ll see if big brother Wade has a reasonable explanation for his trip to the city. And for lying about it.’ He coughs and clears his throat. ‘God, I feel like arse,’ he mutters. ‘Alright. Show me these photos before I order some food.’

  I remove them from the envelope and lay them out in front of him, while I block prying eyes with the menu.

  ‘So, these are obviously Wade’s,’ I point at the taut, tanned chest marred by the angry dark line, ‘and these are Miller’s.’ Fleet holds them side by side. ‘They were almost the same height,’ I add, eagerly watching his face as he studies the photos. ‘It’s not just that the wounds look the same—there’s the proximity and the similar MO. The tunnel where Walter was attacked is less than a kilometre from the top of Spring Street. And both were unexpected, unprovoked attacks. Well, not heat-of-the-moment attacks anyway.’

  Fleet is nodding slowly, and I can’t tell if he is agreeing or thinks I’m nuts and is trying to work out how to tell me.

  I rush to keep talking. ‘I mean really, there are a lot of similarities.’ Fleet coughs again, a nasty guttural sound that’s fleshy with smoke. ‘Yeah. Except that one victim was a mega-star and one was a complete nobody.’

  ‘I admit that part doesn’t seem to make sense. Unless there is something linking them that we can’t see yet.’

  ‘Come on, Woodstock, as much as we both want an HBO thriller to land on our lap, it’s pretty unlikely.’

  I roll my eyes. ‘I’m not looking for drama, I’m just saying that there might be a link.’

  A petite waitress with striking green eyes and serpent tattoos on both hands appears at his side. I swiftly gather up the photos and shove them back into the envelope as he orders.

  ‘You think they knew each other?’ he asks.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I say. ‘It doesn’t seem likely. But maybe the killer knew them both?’

  ‘The homeless man’s murder could be completely random,’ says Fleet. ‘I obviously haven’t been across it since that first night but that’s where I thought it was headed. Just some opportunistic nut getting his jollies, or a psych case. Or maybe someone who had a problem with homeless people and thought he was doing society a favour. But Wade’s murder can’t be random.’

  ‘I know,’ I say, trying to work through the possibilities in my mind.

  ‘I think you’re right about the wounds though,’ Fleet says, peering at the photos again. ‘They definitely look similar and the attacks were, what, less than two days apart? How did this not get picked up?’

  ‘Two different pathologists, for a start. And I guess Sterling’s death just eclipsed everything else. I mean, you’re right, there’s no obvious link from a profile perspective.’

  ‘I guess it’s lucky you were snooping around in Ralph’s case room.’ Fleet smirks.

  ‘I wasn’t snooping,’ I say defensively, but the banter between us feels good. ‘Anyway, imagine if there really is a link.’

  ‘Game changer,’ Fleet declares as his breakfast arrives. A steaming mountain of bacon and eggs on a square wooden board. ‘Want anything?’ he asks as he shakes a generous snowstorm of salt onto his meal.

  ‘No thanks.’

  I feel worse now than when I woke up but I’m grateful that Fleet is taking me seriously.

  ‘Why don’t you call Isaacs while I eat?’ He spears a piece of bacon with his fork and waves it at me. ‘Let’s get some meat on the bones of your theory.’

  Monday, 20 August

  8.05 am

  ‘So what do we think we’re looking at here?’ Isaacs is the only one in the room not seated, and he looks as wired today as he did when he came into the station at lunchtime yesterday to hear my theory. ‘Well?’ He places his hands on the back of a chair and drops his shoulders, settling his gaze on each of us in turn.

  Based on the pointed looks that Ralph and Billy give me, they clearly think I’m the one who should respond.

  I open my mouth but Fleet swoops in before I can say anything. ‘We spoke to Mary-Anne. She thinks it’s possible that Woodstock is right, that the two crimes were committed by the same person.’

  I look at him, surprised by this public backing. ‘Yes,’ I continue, ‘Mary-Anne thinks that the Wade murder weapon could have been the same as the one used on Walter Miller. The wounds match but we’re still waiting on the bloods. As to what it means if it was the same guy, we don’t know yet
.’

  Isaacs lifts his shoulders up and down as if they are sore. ‘And we can’t get the bloods any earlier?’

  ‘We’ve asked. Hopefully we’ll get the report in the next few days,’ Fleet replies.

  Isaacs closes his eyes briefly and makes a polite grunting sound. ‘Okay, but in the meantime, there’s no hard evidence to suggest that the crimes are linked, is there?’

  I realise that my heart is racing. My skin blooms with sweat, there isn’t enough oxygen in the room, and everyone’s eyes fix on me, making it hard for me to find the right words. I sit up straight and visualise pushing my nerves away. ‘No, sir, no hard evidence, just the things we spoke about yesterday. The proximity and timing, mainly. And the brazen, unprovoked nature of the crimes.’ Isaacs draws a breath, about to interrupt, so I continue quickly, my voice strong. ‘I appreciate that the Wade case is different, but both crimes were carried out in very public places. The victims were caught off guard. Almost like executions. Maybe there is commonality in that.’

  I am desperate for my theory to be true, for us to make some significant progress. I hope no one else can hear the mild pleading in my voice.

  ‘It could be a serial,’ says Chloe, the light catching her hair as she shifts in her chair.

  Isaacs seems annoyed by her comment. ‘We have nothing to suggest that,’ he says firmly.

  ‘I do wonder about the stark differences between Walter Miller and Sterling Wade,’ I say to the group. ‘I mean, they seem about as unlike each other as you can get. I don’t really have an explanation for that unless the killer somehow knew them both.’

  ‘Maybe we have a collector killer,’ says Calvin. ‘Maybe it’s a deranged challenge to attack different kinds of people. Could be an internet thing.’ He looks around the room for approval. ‘You know—homeless person, celebrity, priest, kid.’ He swallows. ‘The randomness could be the strategy?’

  Even though I don’t buy Calvin’s theory, I had briefly pondered a similar scenario. But I catch Ralph swallowing a smirk, and I decide not to say anything.

  ‘Are we sure there’s no link between Wade and Miller?’ asks Nan. ‘Wade didn’t do charity work with the homeless at some point or something like that?’

  ‘We need to look further into it,’ I reply, ‘but nothing has turned up so far. Of course, it’s possible they met at some point and there’s no trail.’

  ‘Forgetting all this for a minute,’ says Isaacs, waving my inconvenient theory away, ‘where are we at on everything else?’

  All eyes shift back to me. ‘We’re working through a huge amount of information. Alibis, mainly. Admittedly, we don’t know if the perpetrator is on our radar but in terms of known persons of interest we still can’t confirm the exact whereabouts of Brodie Kent or Paul Wade at the time of the attack. Fleet and I think Paul is worth looking into more seriously even though we have doubts about him as a suspect. We’d like to interview him formally and go at him pretty hard to see what falls out. Even some of the people who were present can’t be completely crossed off the list. Ava James, for example, claims to have been alone in her nearby trailer. And we’re still considering the possibility that Wade was being followed weeks before his death.’ I pause and look around the room. ‘There’s also the argument Wade had with Riley Cartwright on the Sunday. We’re unsure if that’s relevant.’

  Fleet chimes in. ‘We’re getting nowhere with the broader cast and crew. Based on the interviews it does look like there was an extra unidentifiable person in Wade’s proximity but we can’t ID them from the video footage. We’ve got a shitload of witness statements that tell us absolutely zilch. The security company maintains that there were no breaches that afternoon—but then, they would say that. Everyone did scan in and out so it would have been difficult but not impossible. And the background checks have only turned up minor past offences. If our guy had an insider helping him, it’s not going to be obvious.’

  I sigh inwardly, thinking about the mountain of data we still need to work through.

  ‘Alright, alright,’ says Isaacs, holding up a hand as if to block out our incompetence. He cups the lower half of his face with his hand, pulling the skin downwards. ‘Ralph and Billy, keep working the Miller case as you were. I know you’ve got limited bodies on it now anyway and I don’t want to lose focus. If nothing else comes of this new theory, then we’ll need to reduce your team next week.’ His eyes settle on me before shifting across to the other side of the room. ‘Nan, Calvin, I want you to look into this possible link. Give Woodstock and Fleet the headspace to work other angles on the Wade case without any distractions. Chloe, you continue to support on Wade.’

  My head jerks before I’ve fully processed what Isaacs said.

  ‘We’re still pretty deep in the Jacoby mess,’ says Nan darkly. ‘Sasha Cryer’s family has joined forces with the Frosts, and they’re pushing for an inquest—which we think they’ll get, following her suicide.’

  ‘Well, I want you to juggle both,’ retorts Isaacs. ‘We’re tight for resources and I’ve been told from above in no uncertain terms to make what we have work.’

  Nan nods briskly, her expression indicating that she is resigned to the general hopelessness of the force, its poor funding and our gloomy lives.

  ‘Right,’ says Isaacs. ‘You should all keep me updated on new information that comes in. And not a word of this to the media—I do not want to see any more news reports questioning the safety of the city.’

  The others get up and I quickly rise too, my fists curling in frustration. Fleet’s hand is on my shoulder, guiding me out of the room away from the others. He shepherds me all the way to the car park. The cold air is like a blast from a hose. It grabs my rib cage, forcing the warm air out in a burst.

  ‘What?’ I hiss. ‘Why are we out here?’

  Fleet is tapping a cigarette from a packet. ‘Because I need a smoke after our special pep talk. And you need to cool down.’

  My arms fold involuntarily. I’m freezing out here without a jacket. The wind has found entry points through my clothes and is needling into my pores.

  ‘I’m fine,’ I tell him, stamping my feet on the spot.

  ‘Sure you are,’ says Fleet, disappearing behind a cloud of smoke. ‘You’re absolutely thrilled that Isaacs has thrown your lead to Nan and her obedient labrador to follow up.’

  ‘Why doesn’t he trust us?’ I say, hating the whine in my voice.

  ‘Maybe because we haven’t given him a reason to yet,’ says Fleet bluntly, but with a kind smile. After a moment, a smile tugs at the corners of my own mouth and I roll my eyes at my own childishness.

  Fleet winks at me. ‘Come on, Woodstock, you’re new here and the jury is out on me, so we’ve got everything to prove.’ He squints as he sucks the last of the smoke out of the cigarette butt. ‘On the upside, we haven’t got much to lose.’

  ‘We’re going to work the Miller angle anyway, right?’ I say tentatively.

  ‘Sure. It can be our side hustle,’ he says with a laugh.

  ‘Can I have one of those?’ I ask, after a moment.

  He nods, not quite hiding a smile when he hands it over. ‘By the way,’ he says as I light it, ‘don’t you think it’s weird that the Wades want to have the funeral here?’

  ‘Yeah, I would have thought they’d want to farewell their son in their home town, but I guess his whole life was in Melbourne. Plus, they must want to get this over and done with and then go back to Karadine in peace. They probably don’t want this shitstorm following them home.’

  Fleet scratches his guts through his shirt. ‘I guess. I wonder how they’ll deal with his foster family being there.’

  ‘It can’t be easy sharing your kids,’ I say. My heart twists as I think about Ben replacing me, which is entirely possible based on the situation I’ve created.

  ‘No, I guess not,’ Fleet says and looks at his phone. ‘Jesus, thirty-one calls to the hotline since yesterday!’

  ‘It’s crazy, isn’t it?’ I rep
ly, shifting my weight to ward off the cold.

  ‘Sure is,’ he says. ‘Did you see the boxes in the case room?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘The techs printed out all of Sterling’s social media feeds from the past six months. And all his private messages. And all the emails that were sent to Wendy. Plus the physical letters sent by snail mail. I’ve never seen so much shit in my life.’

  I picture all those people sitting in bedrooms or offices, on trams or in classrooms declaring their love, hate and everything in between for a man they’ve never met.

  ‘Full on,’ I mutter.

  ‘Yeah,’ says Fleet. ‘And I didn’t even get one Christmas card last year.’ He clears his throat and spits neatly onto the ground. ‘Sorry,’ he says, shrugging unapologetically as he heads back inside.

  I fall into step behind him, conscious of keeping pace with his long strides and noticing the way his hair curls naughtily into the top of his shirt collar. The Wade case might be all over the place, but for the first time in a long time I feel like I have an ally.

  Monday, 20 August

  2.01 pm

  Paul Wade toys with his watchband. Through the wall of the small conference room the hotel has loaned us, I hear the tinkling of the water feature in the lobby. It’s making me feel on edge.

  ‘So,’ I say, leaning forward across the table to eyeball him. ‘How about you tell us what you were really doing last Wednesday afternoon?’

  Paul lifts his head sullenly. A large pimple is brewing over his left eyebrow.

  ‘My family will want to know why you needed to talk to me today,’ he says, sounding like a little kid.

  ‘Feel free to tell them,’ I say, without sympathy.

  ‘I was in Castlemaine,’ he says.

  ‘Try again,’ I say. ‘We know you were in Melbourne.’

  He looks at the ground. ‘I didn’t do anything,’ he offers lamely.

  When Fleet and I arrived at the hotel, the Wades were talking to a puckered-looking funeral director and his attractive young assistant about Sterling’s funeral service. Lizzie and Wendy Ferla were there too, but from what I could tell it had fallen on Melissa to make most of the decisions. April and Matthew sat on either side of her, looking defeated. Apologising for interrupting, we asked to speak with Paul, which seemed to rouse only mild concern from his broken parents. Lizzie, on the other hand, watched wide-eyed as Paul left the room and I wondered what she was thinking.