Shot Clock

by Blair Denholm

  Jack shook his head. ‘Barely. We’ve got a list of suspects as long as your arm but no hard evidence. I’ve got my suspicions, but we need warrants to act on them and without what they call “sufficient grounds” I can’t get said warrant.’

  ‘Who are you suspicious of?’

  ‘Ha! Everyone, sunshine.’ Jack looked up at the TV. ‘Is that a recent game?’

  ‘No, it’s from four seasons ago. We’ve got old Scorpions matches on a loop every night. I’m sick of seeing them, but management insists. I’d be happier watching bloody Neighbours.’

  Jack opened his packet of barbecue flavoured crisps, selected a large one and crunched. He was well acquainted with the Australian soap opera Dave mentioned. Sarah was addicted to it. ‘We used to get that shite shown twice a day back in the UK. The same episode in the morning and then at night. Fucking sad.’ He looked up to the screen. Some familiar faces in the Scorpion’s line-up. Welsh, Sarsby, Jim Rosen. And one handsome fellow he’d spoken to only yesterday evening.

  ‘Who’s that bloke taking the free throws?’ A rhetorical question, he’d recognised him, but Jack wanted to play it neutral.

  ‘Dieter Baumann. He was a minor celebrity here for a while, even when the team was at the bottom of the ladder.’

  ‘How come?’

  ‘He did a huge charity marathon run in the off season. Maybe five years ago, now. Ran from Cairns to Brisbane to raise money. His sister in Germany was dying from some disease or other.’

  ‘Very noble. Jesus!’

  ‘What?’ Dave spun around to look at the big screen mounted above the shelves of liquor.

  ‘Did you see that?’

  ‘No, what?’

  ‘Baumann. He just intercepted the ball at one end, dribbled to the other and dunked it before anyone could bat an eyelid. The bloke’s effing quick!’ He recalled Zach Hyman’s statement at the crash scene. Jack started mumbling to himself, like a homeless man on the street who’d lost his mind. Could it be him? He said the driver was fast, like Usain Bolt.

  ‘Are you talking to me?’ said Dave.

  Jack realised he’d been rambling, gave a cocky smirk. Recover the situation. ‘Do I look like Robert fucking de Niro?’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘Never mind.’ Must be too young to get the reference. Jack stuffed a handful of crisps in his mouth, washed them down. ‘What do you know about Dieter Baumann apart from his charity work?’

  Dave sucked his lips into his mouth, pondering the question. ‘He had a long NBL career. Played for the German national team a couple of times as I recall.’

  They both paused as Baumann threw a loose pass that bounced off his teammate’s shoulder. One of the opposing players scooped it up and scooted away with Baumann in hot pursuit. The German was left panting in his wake. Or he wasn’t trying and gave up. Maybe he just seemed extra speedy the first time. Dammit, maybe Baumann wasn’t the guy Zach chased.

  ‘Not involved in any scandals?’

  Dave shook his head. ‘The Scorpions don’t get much negative press. In fact they haven’t had much coverage at all for years. It’s only now everyone’s sitting up and taking notice.’

  Batista wanted a possible gambling angle pursued. ‘What about betting? One of the players’ fathers was jailed for illegal gambling, tanking. Maybe it’s in the lad’s blood.’

  A blank look.

  ‘Calvin Strummer?’ Jack prompted hopefully.

  A shake of the head.

  ‘His son’s Ramble Strummer.’

  ‘Oh, yeah. A second-stringer. Comes off the bench when the game’s won, doesn’t get many minutes on the court. Never heard of his dad going to jail.’

  ‘I guess it was way back in the 80’s.’

  The game on the screen ended up to be a lopsided affair. With little time left on the clock, the Scorpions had a handy lead of 15 points over the Victorian Vultures. ‘Look at the score.’ Dave pointed. ‘Whoever put this package of games together made sure not to include any the Scorpions lost. And there’ve been plenty of those over the years, let me tell you.’

  ‘So, back to the gambling thing. You’ve not heard any whispers about funny business with the odds on NBL games?’

  Dave’s eyes lit up like one of the poker machines in the Pelican Pub’s gaming room, waggled his index finger. ‘I did hear a story about a guy sitting in this very bar the night of Steve Sarsby’s last game.’

  ‘He didn’t play well, I hear.’

  ‘Yeah, his worst ever. Plus Yorkville was expected to win, the opposition was a team at the bottom of the table. Seems the bloke turned purple with rage at the end of the game, tore up a betting ticket and stormed off swearing he’d kill someone.’

  ‘Collins?’

  ‘No. Steve Sarsby.’

  ‘Who was this mystery punter?’

  ‘No idea, Jack. It happened before I started working here. I can ask around, if you like.’

  ‘Reckon you’ll have an answer before the grand final play-offs?’

  ‘I’ll do my best but I can’t promise anything.’ Dave headed off to attend to a woman frantically waving a fifty-dollar bill. He took her order and headed back towards the beer taps where Jack was sitting. ‘Another drink, Detective?’

  ‘No thanks, sunshine. I need shut eye.’ Not easy after a train wreck of a date night that was supposed to be a welcome distraction. He’d hoped to end the night with bedroom frolics with Denise, or, at the very least, an espresso and a tiramisu. Not to be. Tomorrow he’d hit Corbyn Howard with questions the constables hadn’t.

  Hilux. Highway. Home.

  Chapter 28

  ‘I’ve already spoken to the p-police,’ said Corbyn Howard, confusion knitting his brow. ‘I told them all I know.’

  ‘I apologise about the timing’, said Jack.

  ‘Breakfast is out b-busiest part of the day.’ Howard gestured with his head towards the growing line behind Jack and Taylor. ‘Can’t it wait?’

  ‘Afraid not.’ Jack sniffed strong coffee, bread toasting, other food items of dubious origins and composition sizzling in grease. His mouth watered. They’d have to stop for a bite to eat somewhere less hectic on the way back to the station. ‘There’s a couple of questions our colleagues forgot to ask you.’

  ‘Unfortunately, those same officers are unavailable to make amends,’ said Taylor. She briefly explained how the uniforms who spoke to Howard yesterday were now severely traumatised and on desk duties for the foreseeable future.

  ‘Holy shit. I heard about that horrible m-murder. Not far from here.’

  Jack reflected on how 40 kms could be construed as “not far from here” in Australia. In England a distance like that might be in the next county.

  ‘That’s right,’ Taylor continued. ‘Which means we’re stretched on manpower.’

  Jack ran a hand over his sweating face. It was warmer in the diner than he’d have liked. Lots of bodies and cookers working hard overpowered the air conditioner. ‘Which means instead of the chirpy young constables, you’ll have to deal with me and DC Taylor, I’m afraid.’

  ‘I hope you’ve got the b-bastard locked up.’

  ‘We have a man in custody. Which I can’t say about the killers of Dale Collins. I’m sure as an ex-Scorpion you understand the urgency of us making an arrest in this matter.’

  ‘Oi!’ A gravelly voice rang in Jack’s ear. ‘Stop yacking and start serving, dickhead.’ Grumbles of agreement came from others waiting in the queue.

  Jack turned slowly, eyeballed the bearded, tattooed trucker in a blue singlet, shorts and well-worn Blundstone boots. ‘We won’t be a tic, old chap.’ He pulled his jacket aside to reveal the Glock riding on his belt. This often worked better than showing ID. Today was one of those occasions. The trucker’s attention was suddenly focused on his own boots.

  ‘Just a s-second.’ Howard disappeared momentarily and returned with his hand in the small of a short Asian man’s back. ‘Mike. Take care of things for f-five minutes, OK?’

  Mi
ke wiped his hands on his grubby apron, smiled feebly and took the angry trucker’s order.

  Jack gestured towards an empty booth at the back of the dining area. ‘Let’s go.’ In the booth, Jack wasted no time with Howard. ‘Tell us about Sandor Katz.’

  ‘The other officers already asked m-me about him.’

  ‘What did you tell them?’

  Howard sighed, glanced anxiously at Mike who was struggling to keep the line of hungry patrons flowing. ‘I don’t bloody remember, d-do I!’

  ‘Bullshit, sunshine. You’ve got a phenomenal memory. You told them how many points the bloke scored and how many effing rebounds he got. In a bloody trial match!’ Jack slapped his hand on the table top, bouncing a salt shaker into the air.

  ‘Calm down, Jack,’ Taylor whispered through gritted teeth.

  ‘Yeah, no need to yell at me. I’ve done nothing wrong.’

  ‘I apologise.’ Jack flicked his internal switch to his best version of nice guy. ‘Are you sure you can’t tell us anything else about Katz? It might be crucial to our investigation.’

  Howard glared, he wasn’t buying Jack’s act. ‘I literally saw him for one d-day. Less than a day, actually. A couple of hours. He tried out for the team, f-failed, and was never heard from again. At least not by me. Look, I’m sorry. I need to get back to the servery before one of those truckers p-punches Mike in the f-face.’

  ‘Do you have any idea how an outsider like Sandor Katz could get a trial match?’ Jack ploughed on. The guy knew more, he just needed a bit of prompting. ‘Parata told me the official team policy is to recruit players exclusively through the system.’

  Howard narrowed his eyes. ‘Now you m-mention it, Katz might’ve been suggested by Dieter Baumann.’

  ‘Are you sure, Corbyn?’ said Taylor. ‘Baumann denies any knowledge of the man.’

  ‘He’s lying.’

  ‘How can you be sure?’

  ‘Because Dieter drove Katz to the stadium in his own c-car. I saw them getting out of Dieter’s Audi, smiling and chatting like they were old m-mates.’

  ‘Would you be prepared to testify to this?’

  A rapid nod. ‘Of course. As could, lemme see… Jim Rosen was in the c-car park at the same time.’

  ‘Really?’ said Taylor.

  ‘Yep. Come to think of it, I recall Jim w-walked over and introduced himself to Katz. You know what Americans are like with all that Have a Nice Day stuff.’

  ‘Good, very good,’ Jack worked over a piece of spearmint chewing gum. ‘Just a couple more questions.’

  A look of resignation passed over Corbyn’s face. Like he knew he’d only be allowed to get back to work when Jack decided it was time.

  ‘Let’s talk about Dieter himself. You played with him for a few seasons. What makes him tick?’

  ‘Basketball, computers, g-gadgets. He had this fancy technology degree. He knew he could fall back on that if his dream of playing in the NBA didn’t c-come true. Which it didn’t. It hardly ever does.’ Howard gave a short sarcastic laugh. ‘So he got a job with that IT company in Yorkville, Warren Data. Doing quite w-well for himself, so I hear.’

  ‘Girlfriends?’ Jack was grasping at straws with this one. Dieter had already admitted to being a lone wolf.

  ‘He did have a girlfriend a while b-back, right about when he joined the franchise. But she didn’t stick around for long.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Just between us, Dieter was strange. Even c-compared to me.’

  ‘In what way?’ said Taylor. ‘You’re not strange by the way. Gifted, I’d call it.’

  Howard blushed pink. ‘Thanks. Dieter was kind of aloof. Didn’t mix well with the other players. Then there was his t-taste in music. We were all into hip hop, rap, m-metal, while he was isolating himself in the d-dressing room getting hyped up on c-classical stuff. Eyes closed, waving his f-fingers about like a conductor.’

  ‘Very useful, Corbyn. Excellent.’ Jack could flatter people too. ‘What about gambling? We’ve been hearing rumours about possible match fixing.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Yeah. You wouldn’t know anything about that would you?’

  ‘Of course, n-not. What are you implying?’

  ‘Oh, nothing. Just with your head for figures ‘n that, you’d be a shoo in for working out odds, knowing how to beat the markets. You could earn yourself a fortune.’

  ‘Maybe. If I had the slightest interest in sports g-gambling. Which I don’t. Other players were into it though. Horses, rugby l-league, golf. But never on the NBL. If you get caught d-doing that shit, Basketball Australia will come down on you like a t-ton of bricks.’

  ‘What about Collins himself? Take Steve Sarsby’s last game, for example. You were firm favourites to win that one. Perhaps Collins asked Steve to play poorly, to lose on purpose. Maybe your coach pissed off a punter who’d laid big money on your team?’

  ‘No chance. Dale was a d-devout Mormon. Dead against it.’

  Interesting choice of words, Jack wanted to say. Instead: ‘You sure of that?’

  ‘Yes. Once a year he’d give us a l-lecture on the evils of gambling. He said although he couldn’t f-forbid it outright, he hoped we’d do the right thing and at least not f-flaunt it.’

  ‘Were any Scorpions more keen on gambling than others?’

  ‘No idea. If they were, they r-respected Dale’s wishes and kept it under wraps.’ Howard almost had to shout over the hubbub of the impatient crowd.

  ‘You’d better get back to the counter, Corbyn,’ said Jack. There was nothing more of substance to be learned from the lad. ‘If you don’t feed this mob quickly you’ll have a riot on your hands.’

  ‘Yeah, no th-thanks to you.’

  ‘Good luck with the sports blog,’ said Taylor. She reached across the table and shook Howard’s long-fingered mitt.

  ‘Cheers.’ Howard smiled. ‘I appreciate that.’

  Jack stood, held out his hand. Howard ignored it and raced back to relieve wild-eyed Mike, who looked like he was about to lose his mind.

  Chapter 29

  The police forensics garage smelled of oil and petrol, dust and various aromatic lubricants, air freshener trees that dangled from rear vision mirrors, tyre rubber. A heady mix loved by car enthusiasts the world over. Jack included. One day when the world switched to electric vehicles, the romance, the rumbling engines and potent smells of the world of internal combustion engines would disappear. His late father, a motor mechanic who immigrated to Britain from Portugal in the early 1960s, would turn in his grave at the very thought of such a change. Well, he would, if Jack hadn’t had the mean old prick cremated, his ashes scattered into the Douro River.

  The wrecked Camry lay under a black elasticised plastic sheet. Jack eagerly approached the lump of metal which used to be the pride and joy of Mrs Darlene Kent of Rockhampton. Her insurance company had come good on Mrs Kent’s claim, even milked the incident for PR opportunities. No wonder Jack was cynical.

  Beside him, Dr Margaret Proctor huffed under her breath. She wore her white lab technician coat like a regal mantle. Jack imagined she went everywhere in it. To bed probably. As they got closer to the car, she said to Jack: ‘I’m not happy having to delay the autopsy on Tuesday’s stabbing victim.’

  ‘Yeah, sorry ‘n all. But this is important.’

  ‘And she isn’t? The poor woman’s family want to have the funeral as soon as possible. It’s an open and shut case, but we have to observe the formalities. Let’s hope this doesn’t take long, DS Lisbon.’

  ‘It shouldn’t. I don’t understand why you have to even be here. Aren’t you a doctor by trade?’

  ‘Yes. There’s a clue in my title, Dr Proctor.’ She pointed at the ID card pinned to her coat. ‘I’m also the overall head of Yorkville’s forensics operations. I didn’t want the role, but Inspector Batista insisted. Hence, my presence is required.’ She said it with so much false humility Jack nearly burst out laughing.

  Jack tore the cover off the vehic
le, tossed it aside and turned to Proctor. ‘Can we start the motor? I want to check something.’

  ‘What exactly?’

  ‘The radio.’

  Proctor shook her head. ‘Not so simple.’

  ‘Why not?’

  She glanced at the report. ‘What was it you wanted to know again?’

  ‘If the radio was switched on when the car collided with the Hyundai.’

  ‘Can’t tell you.’

  ‘Why?’ The woman could be difficult when she wanted to be. ‘Is it an effing state secret?’

  ‘The engine dropped from its mountings on impact, all the electricals were disconnected. I’ll have to get the mechanics in to reassemble everything.’

  ‘No you won’t. Just ask someone to connect the radio to a power source. No need to pull anything apart or put the entire engine back in the vehicle.’

  Proctor walked 10 metres to where a man’s head had disappeared under the hood of a mangled Jeep. She started chatting to the fellow, an eager bald man in blue-and-yellow overalls with fluoro strips. Jack took the opportunity to carry out a perfunctory check of the Camry. He dropped to a push-up position, peered under the chassis. The exhaust pipe hung inches from the ground, the detached differential support drooped. All it told him was the car had been in a crash, which he already knew. A sharp double cough interrupted his time-killing examination. He stood, shook the little mechanic’s filthy hand. Jack briefly explained what he wanted. In a flash, the man had wheeled in a free-standing battery on a trolley. He attached it to the wiring under the hood that connected with the car’s main electric circuits.

  ‘You got the key, mate?’ said Jack.

  The mechanic passed him a bulky key ring, to which were attached half a dozen keys to vehicles of as many makes. Jack sat in the driver’s seat, turned the key until a number of lights came on. Half a second later the sounds of a dramatic piece of music echoed around the interior of the garage. Two things were noteworthy. First, it was damned loud. And second, even to Jack’s untrained ear, it was classical.

  ‘Beautiful,’ said Proctor, eyes half closed. ‘Pachelbel’s Canon in D.’