The photo image had seared into her retinas, though, and as she cleaned, she scanned it mentally. Even with that much damage, she knew it was a male. She wondered when it had been taken. And why it was given to her? Was this a warning or a clue? Was it a sick joke? She thought of the crude penis inked onto her locker and knew it could be a prank by another cop – a photo of an accident victim maybe. It could be Elvis-style humour.
Regardless, she had things to do today. She couldn't let this rattle her. She closed the cover of the folder and walked back inside her unit, sliding shut both glass doors as she did so. The sun struggled through the mist outside now, and light washed into the orderliness of her living space, which was in sharp contrast to the mess that still floated in her field of vision. She blinked it away and clicked her TV on, listening to the morning news program as she made herself some toast and Vegemite. She fixed a fresh cup of coffee and took it, black, into her living room, curling up on one of her sofas to eat her breakfast.
The giggling of the announcers on the morning program always annoyed her. She didn't mind the human interest stories and sports reviews that filled the spaces between the half-hourly news broadcasts, but she had no patience for the self-indulgent prattle of the presenters, giving their opinion on every topic. She was relieved to see the 7 a.m. broadcast was about to start.
'Police are today considering the establishment of a special taskforce to investigate a series of brutal deaths that have taken place in Sydney, following the discovery of the fatal stabbing of a man in Leichhardt. The victim has been identified as Wayne Crabbe, a 43-year-old single man, whose body was discovered by neighbours late yesterday afternoon. Mr Horace Green and his wife, Ida, made the gruesome discovery when they went to investigate a terrible smell in the unit next door.'
Jill watched, transfixed, as an elderly man spoke directly at the camera, his arm around his pale and teary wife.
'Haven't seen anything like that since Vietnam. This country is going to hell. If it's not the Triads, it's the Middle Eastern gangs. We're not safe here any more, I tell you. My wife and I have lived on this road for thirty-seven years, but we won't be staying. Australians are going to have to bear arms in their own houses if police don't take back the streets.'
The attractive female broadcaster, serious now, nodding her head to punctuate her remarks, went on to say that the victim's face was so badly beaten that he was unrecognisable and he had been identified by his fingerprints.
For once Jill didn't heed the toast crumbs falling from her shirt when she stood. Another victim, bashed beyond recognition, most likely with a criminal sheet, given that he'd been identified by fingerprint analysis. Jill was ready to bet she knew what this man had been arrested for in the past, and she figured she also knew what had so shaken the elderly couple who'd discovered him.
She grabbed her keys, bag and the folder, and headed out the door.
36
'So what'd you get?'
Jill and Scotty sat at their desks, murder book out. Scotty wiped egg from a breakfast McMuffin from the side of his mouth.
'You first,' Jill replied.
'The Range Rover at The Wall belongs to Graham Rivers, a fifty-eight-year-old architect from Lane Cove. Divorced. Lives alone. Was picked up at The Wall a year ago by the guys at the Cross. He had a boy in the car, but they both claimed he was getting directions. They charged him anyway, but his barrister got it thrown out of court. No conviction recorded. I'm going to his workplace after lunch to ruin his day. He works at Milsons Point, on the harbour. It's nice out; wanna come?'
'Pass. What'd you get on Sebastian?'
'Well, he inherited his wealth. His father grew a huge transport firm from nothing, and his mother's parents made millions in retail. He lives in a penthouse in the Rocks, but he's got residential property in Auburn, Parramatta and Westmead. The family mansion overlooks the harbour in Hunters Hill, and he owns eight shopping centres in the Western Suburbs and Queensland. Far as I can tell, he has someone manage his transport company, although he's scaled it down a lot since his father died in the early nineties. His mother's in a nursing home on the North Shore. He's never married, no kids that we know about.'
'Thank God.'
'Mmm. Hasn't stopped him helping himself to other people's, though, has it?'
'Has he got a sheet?'
'Juvenile only. Must've been a real blessing to his parents. Their only child. At age twelve, he got done for cruelty to animals. Tortured six swans to death in Centennial Park. There was evidence they'd been sexually assaulted. Sick fuck. It was in the papers for a week. Locals wanted the offender gaoled, but his parents got it all covered up and sent him to a boarding school in Bowral. After that, there were other charges, but his parents stopped every conviction. Unlimited money for lawyers. They couldn't keep him in schools though. The parents of the other kids united to have him kicked out of three schools. There was a big lawsuit settled following the sexual torture of two juniors at a school in Bathurst.'
'That kind of violence from someone so young… No adult relationships… A paedophile…' Jill stared down at Scotty's notes. 'We've gotta take this guy off the streets, Scott. His pattern fits that of a true psychopath. Not the impulsive, antisocial dickheads we deal with every day in here, but a calculating sadist. He's got to be regularly finding a way to meet the urges he's had since he was a kid.'
'Well, put me in, coach. You know I'm ready to go see this guy whenever you are.'
'I know, Scott, but first it's my turn to tell you what I've been doing.' Jill rubbed at the aching muscles in her neck. 'I've been out to the drop-in centre in Wooloomooloo. Don't worry, he wasn't there,' she said when she noticed the look on Scotty's face. 'I knew he wouldn't be. Just wanted to check it out. Turns out Jamaal Mahmoud's been a visitor.'
'He's linked to Sebastian a lot, huh? We should find him this afternoon.'
'But you've got to see this too.' She reached down into her bag and pulled out the manila folder she'd found under her towel.
'Shit, Jackson, do you know what this is?' Scotty stared down at the mess in the photo.
'Yep. Been into Andreessen's office already. I haven't shown him the photo yet though. I just wanted to see if this was the same guy they found in Leichhardt yesterday.'
'Well it is, and they're talking about setting up a taskforce, Jill. We gotta go in with what we know about these deaths. Harris and Jardine look like they're going to head up a squad to investigate all three murders.'
'Four. And Andreessen told me this morning. I was just waiting till you got in before we went in there and told him together.'
'Chickenshit,' said Scotty, but Jill knew he'd have been pissed if she'd made the move without him.
They gathered up their paperwork and walked over to their boss's office. His door was open and he was sitting down with someone.
Great, thought Jill, peering in around Scotty. Elvis.
Scotty turned to talk to her, intending to wait until Andreessen was free, but the inspector saw them waiting and motioned them in.
'Hutchinson, Jackson. You're needed at a sit-down at Central at 1 p.m. Your case – Carter – is being wrapped up in a taskforce with some other cases. The civilians are shitting about these recent bashings.'
'Yeah, well, we wanted to see you about that, sir,' Jill said, looking pointedly at Elvis and then back at Andreessen.
'Well, fire away. Calabrese here is going with you to the lunch meeting. Looks like he'll being taking the Carter case off your hands and working on it with two boys from Central.'
Jill moaned, barely audibly. Scotty shot her a warning look.
'The thing is, boss,' he began, 'we've been working on a suspected connection between the three deaths for a few days now.'