by Alex Hammond
‘Thanks. I owe you one.’
‘It’s on the house. I might not be Miller’s biggest fan but you’re okay enough.’
Will tapped the phone against his cheek. The pieces didn’t fit together, but Brennan was right. Until he spoke to Miller, there was little he could do. A knocking on the window behind him stopped his mind from speculating.
Walsh walked out onto the deck beside him.
‘Nasty stuff. I’ve never been a fan of the police tipping off the press. It makes finding an untainted jury that much harder.’
‘Sorry about this. I’m ready to speak to Saxon.’
‘I was just on the phone with a few people. Miller is being charged with involuntary manslaughter. They claim he supplied the drugs to Eldon.’
‘What? That’s . . .’
Impossible?
He couldn’t say that. Not for certain.
‘Thanks,’ Will said. ‘I don’t want to put you out.’
Walsh held up his hands. ‘I won’t hear of it. Friends help one another.’
It seemed to Will that Walsh leant a little too heavily on the word ‘friends’.
‘I’ve got someone looking into where they’ll be taking Chris,’ he said. ‘Probably Melbourne West.’
‘Most likely,’ replied Walsh. ‘Someone with this profile they’ll want to get before an out-of-session hearing. Impartiality aside, I don’t like the way the DPP goes after our own. He has an inquisitor’s zeal, that one. And he acts as though the burden of proof is discretionary. The shit.’
Will blinked. ‘Excuse me?’
Walsh was examining his face now. Searching for hidden meaning.
‘We’re judges, Will. Not robots. Besides, it can be hard leaving the old battlelines behind. I was also in defence once, was also a solicitor before taking the bar.’ Walsh beamed at him.
Will nodded. ‘I don’t want to keep Saxon waiting any longer.’
‘Of course. He’s upstairs in his room.’
They returned to the house just as the first raindrops began to hit the windows above them.
Saxon’s room was at the top of a narrow metal stairwell, isolated from the rest of the second storey. Through the room’s large windows, Will could see across the lawn as the gardeners scuttled, grabbing tools and bags of clippings. The rain increased and water cascaded down the panes of glass around them. Will was too distracted to appreciate the beauty of it. Looking over at Saxon, he could see that he felt the same way.
Saxon sat at a white high-gloss desk in between open shelving units of steel and glass. On these rested military surplus – the curved plastic case of a claymore mine, a black rubber gasmask, framed patches from Desert Storm, Operation Iraqi Freedom, the Twentieth Special Forces Group Afghanistan and more. The room was otherwise spartan: a simple bed with an ammunition box at its base, built-in robes, a laptop and schoolbooks on the desk. Saxon was tapping away on a mobile phone, his back to Will.
‘I’m sorry to hear about Connor,’ Will said. ‘I understand he was a friend of yours.’
‘It wasn’t a surprise,’ Saxon said, turning away from his desk. ‘He wasn’t happy.’
‘You understand that the police will want to interview you again about it? We’ll need to sit down with them and talk about your involvement. His mother is saying you bullied him.’
‘Yeah. But she never really got him. You know?’
‘Changes in the law now mean that serious bullying is a criminal offence. Do you know why the police believe you may have bullied Connor?’
‘It was this thing we would do. Send photos to one another. Fucked-up stuff from the internet.’
‘Sexual?’
‘No. Violent. It was a game.’
‘A game?’
‘I’m not saying it was a good game, but yeah. I was starting to get sick of it, actually. But Connor seemed to love it.’
‘So you did it to keep him happy? Do you have any examples of the images he sent to you? Something that could show it was mutual?’
‘No. I didn’t keep any.’
‘The original images, then, on your computer, or your phone?’
‘But that won’t prove that I sent them to Connor though, will it?’
No, it wouldn’t.
The kid was definitely switched on.
‘Do you think you could track down a few of those images again and send them through to me?’ Will handed him his business card. ‘It may come up.’
‘Ah, okay.’
‘What about your friendship? Connor’s mother is saying she never heard of you before his death.’
Saxon sat forwards with his face lit up. ‘That I can prove.’
He turned back to his desk and picked up the laptop. The cover was handpainted with an elaborate Japanese tableau of a dozen samurai falling over one another as they fought.
Cracking his fingers, he opened the computer.
‘Did you paint this?’
‘Yeah. With Dianna.’
‘She’s your girlfriend?’
Saxon smirked and shook his head. He hit play on a video.
It showed a candlelit room, an unseen breeze flicking shadows across the slats of wooden walls. Music played, distorted due to the poor quality of a phone camera – a haunting, ethereal voice floating over the pat-pat of electronic drum beats. Spread across a long, low coffee table were the remnants of a meal: flatbreads and dips, pickled vegetables, spit-roasted meat. A dozen empty beer bottles were scattered among the food. At the end of the table on a low couch sat Saxon, a loose bow tie hanging from his neck. One arm was over the shoulder of another boy in a tux, while the other was around a dark-haired young woman in an evening dress. Another girl wearing only a bra and briefs leant against the other boy, her hand stroking the side of his face.
‘That’s Connor,’ Saxon said.
He was shorter than Saxon, stockier with a broad nose and a similar mop of hair – brown with blond highlights.
‘Does he look like a friend? Or someone I’d bully?’
Saxon and Connor were leaning in close to the girls, all laughing and talking animatedly.
‘Who are the women?’
Saxon blinked. ‘Women? That’s Yasmine and Dianna.’
‘Who’s filming?’
‘Hmm? Lindsay. Dom is somewhere, wait a second . . .’
The camera panned over to another teen passed out on triangular Thai cushions spread across the floor. The camera zoomed in to his forehead where someone had drawn a winged unicorn in permanent marker.
‘A unicorn?’
‘A unicorn is way worse than a dick.’ Saxon turned his head to one side like an art appreciator. ‘Yasmine did it.’
‘This is after a party?’
‘Yeah. Year Twelve formal. We hung out in the boathouse afterwards.’
‘How old is this footage?’
‘Three weeks.’
‘Can you give me a copy?’
‘Huh? Sure.’ Saxon hit pause and opened the drawer at the base of his desk. He took out a thumb drive.
‘What’s going to happen next is we’re going to sit down with the police tomorrow and run through their charges. They might show us the evidence they have against you. Either your mother or father will need to be there —’
‘It’ll be Mum.’
‘All right.’ Will held his hand up for emphasis. ‘We don’t say anything. Just listen. I’ll speak on your behalf and if I can’t answer one of their questions, I’ll tell them we’ll get back to them.’
‘Sure.’
‘You’ll probably want to defend yourself. That’s only natural. But don’t. Don’t let them draw you in.’
‘I can do that,’ Saxon said, sliding the thumb drive into one of the laptop’s USB ports.
‘Good. Try to get some sleep. I know this must be difficult but you should be rested for tomorrow.’
It was good advice, although Will doubted he could do the same.
Saxon nodded.
Will held out his hand. ‘Until tomorrow.�
��
The boy’s grip was firm, his fingers cold. He smiled at Will and pushed the mop of hair back with his other hand.
Will nodded to him and started to climb down the narrow metal staircase. From the hallway he could see the Dobermans lounging near an open doorway. Figuring that the dogs were never too far from their master, Will walked up to them. Inside a large open-plan kitchen, Walsh was rubbing marinade over chicken wings with his bare hands. Sandi held a glass of white in one hand and hugged herself with the other.
The dogs cocked their heads as Will approached.
‘How did it go?’ Walsh asked.
‘Until we see their evidence, we can’t know for certain. But we can definitively prove that until three weeks ago Saxon and Connor were friends. That should put a dint in their bullying claim.’
Walsh held his hands upturned and walked over to the sink. He flicked the tap on with an elbow.
‘Good.’
‘There are a few issues though.’
‘Like what?’ Sandi looked up at him, scowling.
‘Images Connor and Saxon sent each other. He’s acknowledged that they’re not good. This is the sort of thing that comes up a lot in cyber bullying. Depending on the type of images, they can be construed quite harshly. Have the police requested access to his laptop or phone?’
‘No.’
‘They may yet,’ Will said. ‘Although Saxon deleted them, they’ll still be recoverable. I think we should also talk to their other friends: Yasmine, Dianna, Dom —’
‘No,’ said Sandi.
‘Will,’ Walsh said, wiping his hands on a paper towel, ‘we’d rather not drag any other families into court if we can avoid it. If you can stick to physical evidence over testimony, that would be preferable.’
‘We can use a video link, or at worst a written statement. I can minimise their exposure.’
‘I’d rather not, if it’s all the same to you.’
‘Of course.’
‘Sandi will meet you back here tomorrow for the police interview. I have a hearing, so I can’t make it. We’ve arranged for it to take place first thing in the morning before the school’s memorial.’
‘I’ll be here.’
Walsh reached out a hand. ‘Thanks, Will. I’ll keep my ear to the ground about Miller, in case anything comes up.’
‘I’d really appreciate that. Thanks.’
Will raised a hand to say goodbye to Sandi. She stared off into the middle distance, still clutching the wine, still hugging herself.
The dogs followed Will and Walsh to the front veranda. It had stopped raining. Saxon was standing by Miller’s Porsche.
‘The video,’ he said, holding out the thumb drive.
‘Thanks. That’s helpful.’
Will tucked the disc into the cover of his tablet and opened the car door.
‘Don’t worry, Saxon. We’ll get through this.’
Saxon nodded and looked across the garden.
As Will drove down the gravel driveway, he watched Walsh walk up to the boy. Walsh placed a hand on his son’s shoulder. Saxon didn’t move. He continued to stare with a beneficent serenity across the garden. Will shivered. Something wasn’t right about them.
His instincts were telling him he was being played.
SIXTEEN
Flashes of light rippled up the black and white striped facade of the Flinders Street police station. Will watched from the traffic lights as a gang of journalists crowded the police vehicle entering the car park. Even though Brennan had sent the information as soon as she’d received it, it was too late for Will to beat Miller there.
He gritted his teeth as he flicked the indicator and followed the cops into the car park.
Not the most inconspicuous way to arrive.
The journalists were onto him as soon as they saw the Porsche. Video cameras, more flashing, recorders held out towards his window. Will just kept moving forwards as the scrum slowly cleared around him.
Once inside the car park he accelerated, tyres screeching on polished concrete as he hugged the corners on his way up the parking ramps. He caught up to the police car as it was reversing into a confined space between a concrete column and another cruiser.
The two police officers looked up as Will pulled up in front of them.
Miller smiled at him from the back seat.
Will wasn’t amused.
Neither were the cops.
The cop in the passenger seat leapt out of the car as Will turned his head and lowered the window.
‘Sir, please move your vehicle.’
‘Let me talk to my client.’
‘Your client? This man says he’ll be representing himself.’
‘Let me talk to him.’
Miller shouted out through the open door, ‘He’s right. He’s my lawyer.’
‘Very well, sir. Please use the visitor parking on level eight while we process this man.’
‘Chris, nothing. Okay? You’ll be tempted but keep it shut,’ he shouted.
‘I have some idea of how this works,’ Miller shouted back.
Will pointed at the cops. ‘I’ll be there in your ears for every second the two of you delay letting me speak to my client. If we work together on this, everyone will have a better night.’
Will dropped back into the seat and pushed the accelerator. The tyres squealed as he pulled away to find a park.
It was as though every cop in the building had come to see the show. The hallways were lined with police in uniform, detectives in shirts, even a couple of the Special Operations Group in dark blue T-shirts and combat trousers.
Will pushed past them and tapped at his visitor’s badge when one of the Soggies blocked him at the door to the bullpen.
‘That’s my client.’
The burly cop stepped aside and held the door open.
‘Cops know you, Harris,’ he said, as Will stepped past. ‘Just remember that.’
Detective Evans was watching from the corner of the room as Miller sat at one of the cubicles rubbing his wrists. He then held his left hand to a technician to gather his prints.
The beefy Evans grinned at Will. ‘You boys sure do know how to grab the spotlight.’
‘Who’s taking the lead on this one?’
‘Senior Sergeant Gray.’
‘Good?’
‘The best. Your boy is screwed.’
‘That remains to be seen, Detective.’
‘How’s Aaron looking, by the way? Is he going to offer up his supplier?’
‘It’s unlikely.’
A policeman in dress uniform entered the large space through a door on the other side of the room. His epaulets bore bright red crowns above gleaming pips.
‘Who’s that?’
‘Superintendent Aleister Vincent. Our North West Metro and CBD commander.’
Vincent strode up to Miller and sat at the edge of the table, his arms crossed in contemplation as Miller spoke to him. Vincent nodded and slapped Miller once on the back before getting up to leave.
Miller wasn’t far behind him as he stood and used a wet wipe to remove the ink from his fingertips. A small man in tweed joined Miller and walked him over to Will and Evans.
‘This is Will Harris, sir,’ Evans said to the shorter man. Shrewd eyes looked up at Will through wide-rimmed spectacles. ‘Will, this is Detective Senior Sergeant Gray.’
‘Right,’ Gray said, his voice tight and flat. ‘You two need to talk. So we’ll set that up. But then we do the interview. Tonight. My bosses want an out-of-session hearing so we can lock down bail and take care of the filing quickly. I’m not going to mess you around. I’ve already spoken to Prosecutions and they’re unlikely to challenge bail. Mr Miller is not considered a flight risk, even though he was apprehended in a different state.’
‘Those tickets were booked a week ago,’ Miller said. ‘I wasn’t on the lam, if that’s what you’re implying.’
‘That may well be the case. But you haven’t been cautioned about your rights
and as this is an indictable offence, I’d rather run through everything with the camera rolling.’
‘Of course,’ Will said.
‘I understand it’s been a long day and we’re only just starting here, but please notice that I’m being reasonable. I’m not here to threaten or intimidate you. I’m here to find the truth in all this. Is that understood?’
‘It is,’ Will said. ‘If we could have a place where we can talk prior to the interview?’
‘The boardroom is free. Sergeant Evans, if you could show them?’
Evans nodded.
Gray held out a business card. ‘Call me when you’re ready to begin. Take as long as you need.’
‘Thank you,’ Will said as he took the card.
Will walked with Evans and Miller around the edge of the bullpen. He watched as Gray strode over to the technician, swinging his jacket over a chair and rolling up his sleeves.
‘Polite,’ Miller whispered to Will.
‘Too polite,’ he replied.
‘It has me spooked, actually. What aren’t they letting on?’
Evans opened the door to the boardroom. An oval table surrounded by ten chairs lay below a roof-mounted projector. On top of a sideboard were upturned glasses and a pitcher of water.
‘Gentlemen,’ Evans said, presenting the room with a sweep of his hand.
‘Thanks, Evans,’ Will said.
The cop smirked. ‘Try to leave it the same way you found it, eh?’
The thin wall shuddered as Evans pulled the door closed behind him. Miller walked to the other side of the table.
‘What the hell is going on, Chris?’
‘I’ve been arrested, Will.’
‘I can see that,’ Will said, pulling out a chair and standing behind it. ‘So what happened?’
‘Mark died.’
‘Chris.’
Miller spun around. ‘Look, give me a second to process this. This is the first free moment I’ve had where a fucking cop hasn’t been in my face.’
Will held up his hands. Miller moved to the sideboard and leant against it.
Miller dropped his head and rubbed his eyes. ‘I’m just so fucking tired, Will. And now Mark . . . dead. He shouldn’t be dead. He should be hung-over, sitting in his fucking spa, looking over the city and talking about going on a detox. As usual. Not dead.’