by Alex Hammond
‘Chris?’
EIGHTEEN
Will was deep in thought as the traffic crawled down Punt Road. Trucks of various sizes competed with cars as they struggled to get onto the M1. Horns blasted, vehicles made sharp turns into narrow gaps in the morning traffic and tempers frayed.
The geometrical dome of the Melbourne Park stadium came into view as Will finally crossed the Yarra. He took the first left down Alexandra Avenue and wound his way east towards his Monday morning appointment with Saxon Walsh.
A light sunshower fell as Will arrived at the mansion. The gate was already open and he parked next to the rose garden.
He didn’t know why he checked his watch. The stinging in his gut already told him that he was overdue for his painkillers. But he wanted to keep his mind sharp for the interview. One more hour and then some numbing respite.
The driver-side door closed with a muffled thud and he took out his phone. Haigh answered quickly. He heard a photocopier in the background whirring and clicking as it worked its way through a ream.
‘Thanks for calling, Will,’ Haigh said, her calm voice delivering the words in a measured beat as he walked towards the house.
‘Gray passed on your message.’
‘I’ve investigated those shoes from the photo. Using the cast we took from the crime scene, I’ve found a match. They’re an Italian brand of mountain boot called a Zamberlan. There are a lot of online suppliers. They’re less frequently stocked in local stores. I haven’t been able to place the style yet.’
‘So you think they might be the answer? A connection to these guys?’
‘Yes. If we could get the actual boot we could match it to the cast we took. But . . .’ Haigh’s rhythm broke as she coughed. There were a few seconds as they both waited in silence. ‘Things don’t look good, Will.’
Sandi Walsh emerged from the front door. She waved to him from the veranda. Will waved back an acknowledgement and stopped walking towards the house.
‘You’re dropping the case,’ Will said.
‘No. We’re not dropping it. It’s only a week old. But we’re not actively pursuing it.’
‘That sounds like a euphemism for dropping it.’
‘It’s still open. All we can do is hope that we find a witness. Crime Stoppers is always there. The case is in their database. And we had a lot of media attention, until this Eldon thing. It’s Mark and your partner hogging the cycle now. An assault, no matter how dramatic, is always going to lose out to the sudden death of a footballer.’
‘Unless it’s a footballer doing the assaulting.’
‘Exactly.’ Haigh sounded like she was away from the photocopier now. The din of the busy office was muted after the click of a closing door. ‘Off the record now, Will.’
‘Definitely.’
‘I’m being asked to direct my focus elsewhere.’
‘Why?’
‘I can’t get into that. You must have some idea of how these things work – the vendettas, the politics.’
‘This is bullshit.’
‘The only thing I know is that the Harris–Mercuri case will only be resourced as far as keeping it on Crime Stoppers. Beyond a public tip-off, it’s as good as closed.’
He could feel his face burning. The thin rain did little to cool him.
‘I’m sorry, Will. I’ll even follow up this Zamberlan thing as a favour, but officially, I have to direct focus —’
‘Elsewhere. I get it.’
Will slid the phone back into his pocket and continued towards the mansion.
‘Bad news?’ asked Sandi.
‘It’s fine,’ Will replied.
A dark blue Holden pulled into the driveway and crunched gravel as it rolled towards the Porsche. Its thrumming engine gave it away as an over-specced, unmarked police car.
‘Saxon inside the house?’
‘He is.’
Two suited detectives emerged from the car. Will prepared himself to add their names and faces to his growing list of cops. A thought, bitter with irony: things had seemed so much easier when I was just dealing with a stab wound while getting a new practice off the ground.
‘I’m Sergeant Huynh and this is Sergeant Levitt,’ the female detective said, presenting her credentials and indicating her pale partner, who also held out a badge. ‘We’re detectives with Prahran Police.’
Levitt blinked. His thin blond eyebrows almost blended into his fair skin. He held out a hand scarred from a skin graft. In the other, he held a thin briefcase. Will shook hands with him and he nodded back.
‘Saxon is inside,’ Will said.
‘Thank you for finding the time for him to meet with us,’ Huynh said to Sandi, shaking her hand before turning to Will. Her long black hair was braided loosely and fell over her left shoulder, halfway down the lapel of her grey jacket. She wore flats. Sandi was in pumps.
They gathered around the kitchen table at the back of the house. The kitchen shared the glass wall of the sitting room and looked over the river. On the far side, cyclists and joggers contested with faltering rain and oil-slick puddles.
Saxon was in his school uniform. Striped ribbing ran along the edge of his blazer pocket, on which awards were sewn. He leant back into his chair beside Will as Sandi brought out tea and coffee.
Saxon picked up a biscuit from a plate and crunched on it.
Huynh waited until Saxon’s mother sat down. ‘We’re here concerning the death of Connor Fletcher on Friday, 11 October. Specifically his possible suicide.’
Saxon put down his biscuit. The mugs steamed untouched on the table.
‘Saxon, how well would you say you knew Connor?’
‘Saxon and Connor knew each other quite well. They were close friends,’ Will said.
‘How soon before Connor died did you stop being friends?’
‘They didn’t,’ Will said.
‘You understand we have reason to believe that Connor was the victim of some prolonged and aggressive bullying?’
‘We do, with respect, understand that this is what the police believe. But we have an alternative explanation for those events.’
‘And for the text messages and the images?’
‘Yes,’ said Will.
Levitt unzipped the briefcase at his side, lifted out a black laptop and placed it on the table. He rotated the computer so that it faced Saxon and Will. While they waited for the laptop to start, Huynh continued to speak.
‘Alice Fletcher, Connor’s mother, found a suicide note in his room.’
Levitt removed a plastic evidence bag from the briefcase. Inside it was a page torn from a spiral notebook, with handwriting in a black felt-tip pen. Huynh read out the note.
I am tired. Tired of people telling me they don’t like me, tired of the names, tired of being told that I should be put down.
I’m sorry to my mother. I’m sorry that I turned out like this – already a failure at seventeen. I’ve tried to kill myself before. Each time something got in the way. I used to think this was fate. A higher power. The cosmos? All trying to tell me I had a purpose. I now know that I don’t. The only purpose I could possibly have had is gone now.
Saxon is right. I should be put down.
It’s time to move on.
I’m so sorry.
C.
Will’s leg started to shake under the table – adrenaline looking for an escape route.
This is bad.
He tried to keep his face motionless as he turned his head to look at his client. Saxon pushed his fringe away from his face and raised his eyebrows. It wasn’t the theatrical disinterest of a younger person. This was the still calm of a practised operator. Will realised he had seriously underestimated the boy.
‘What did he mean by “Saxon is right, I should be put down”?’ Huynh asked.
‘Saxon isn’t going to answer that question,’ Will said, raising his hand.
‘It’s fine. I have an answer.’ Saxon’s voice remained controlled, unflustered, patient even. Some
thing about his behaviour suggested he thought he was sitting at the end of an inevitable path that the rest of them were only starting to walk.
He’s behaving as though he’s more enlightened than us.
Will kept his hand in the air and let the words guide him while his mind scrambled for explanations. ‘I understand that, Saxon. But you don’t have to give it now. We can advise the police about it later. Remember, this is an opportunity for them to provide information, ask questions and have me respond on your behalf.’
‘That’s fine,’ Huynh said. ‘Saxon doesn’t have to answer now.’
Levitt pushed the laptop towards them.
‘Here are some photos,’ Huynh said to Saxon, ‘you sent to Connor. Do you recognise them?’
Will shot Saxon a look. The boy shrugged.
Levitt pressed the right arrow on the keyboard to scroll through the pictures.
The first image: low to the ground – a car crash victim, gender indeterminate, hair matted with blood, skull flat like a meaty pancake. The second image: from above – a man, a victim of torture, his head tilted backwards by the razor wire around his neck, his face and eyes dotted with cigarette burns. The third image: a black and white photo of Nguyen Van Lem being executed after the Tet Offensive – gun held to his head, still standing in the second it took for his body to drop to the ground. Huynh smirked at that one.
‘I should be put down.’
Sandi Walsh was no longer looking at the screen. She held her hand over her mouth and stared at the river. The room was silent but for the click, click, click of Levitt’s finger on the keyboard.
‘Did you send these images to Connor?’
Will shook his head, picked up the mug and sipped the tea, trying to wedge normality in between the digitised images of brutal violence.
Saxon nodded.
‘My client did send those images. But they were part of a mutual exchange. A game of escalating bravado.’
Sandi turned her head to look at Will. She stared at him as though he were complicit with Saxon.
‘Escalating bravado?’ Huynh said to Will. Levitt shook his head.
‘Okay,’ she said. ‘One final thing and then we’re done for the day.’
Levitt moved the laptop back to face him and spent a few seconds tapping and sliding his pale thumb over the trackpad.
Perhaps it was the paranoia of the past week, the trouble he’d had sleeping, the pain jarring his abdomen – but he wanted to see what was on the screen quickly so he could get out of there.
Eventually Levitt turned the laptop around.
‘This is CCTV footage from the train station on the night that Connor Fletcher died,’ Huynh said.
Levitt’s light blue eyes watched Will as he stared at the screen.
Sandi could barely make herself look. Saxon leant forwards, hands on the chair, holding the weight of his upper body.
Something that he doesn’t already know the answer to.
The camera showed a narrow, paved walkway that led away from the station. Below this, elaborate wooden shelters ran alongside the recessed train track. It was dusk. The station lights came on as the sun set behind a cloudy horizon.
Connor was standing in front of a high balustrade looking off camera down the railway track. Will could identify him from his blond tips and the plastic wristbands he wore. Now Saxon walked into frame. Although his back was to the camera, his blazer was slung over his shoulder, the award pocket clearly visible.
In the footage, Saxon’s head moved as though he were talking. Connor grimaced, his body stiffening. It was in stark contrast to Saxon’s casual teenage slouch.
Will watched Connor’s pixelated face – still in distress, his mouth quivering.
No, wait.
He was speaking, maybe mumbling, saying something to Saxon.
Saxon dropped the school blazer onto the ground and started approaching him with slow, exaggerated footsteps.
Is he joking or being serious?
As Saxon took another step, Connor shouted. Even without any sound it was clearly the word ‘no’. Both boys were suddenly moving. Saxon rushed forwards as Connor turned and tried to haul himself over the safety fence.
Behind them the railway powerlines began to rattle.
Connor kicked his legs to keep moving – ribs and shins grinding on steel. Saxon leapt up, the fence shuddering as he hit it. His fist passed over the rail and caught Connor in the face.
Is he trying to knock him off?
No. Saxon was now halfway up the balustrade and holding Connor by the arm, his body an anchor against the other boy’s. Connor’s face was hidden behind the fence.
The powerlines continued to rattle.
Will could feel his body trembling as, inevitably, the train rushed into shot. Saxon’s body went slack, the sudden release throwing him back onto the ground. Connor was, of course, nowhere to be seen.
Sandi Walsh was now weeping. Saxon stared at the ground. His face was a deep crimson.
Will’s mind started to race.
Who let go? Was Connor gripping Saxon? Was Saxon holding Connor?
On the screen Saxon was on his feet. He grabbed his blazer from the ground and ran off camera.
Fleeing or looking for help?
Levitt closed the laptop as Huynh spoke. ‘It’s our belief that Saxon bullied Connor extensively before confronting him on the walkway and pushing him to take his own life.’
Will was still reeling, his mind struggling to find words.
‘My client . . . You can see in the video that Saxon was trying to help Connor. To . . . stop him from falling.’
‘That’s not our position,’ said Huynh, with Levitt shaking his long ashen face in unison. ‘Does Saxon want to say anything about any of this?’ she asked.
Saxon hadn’t moved. The redness had passed from his face. He resumed looking unmoved by his predicament.
‘I don’t believe he does. No.’
‘And you, Mrs Walsh?’
Sandi opened her mouth to speak.
‘Mrs Walsh is here as my client’s guardian. Do you want to interview her separately as well?’
‘No, it’s fine,’ said Huynh, pushing her chair back. ‘We’re finished for now. We’ll advise if we have any further questions.’
Levitt slid the computer into the laptop bag and got to his feet, placing a business card on the table.
Sandi stood, wiping her eyes.
‘It’s okay, Mrs Walsh,’ Huynh said, as she laid her card next to Levitt’s. ‘No need to get up. We can show ourselves out.’
Sandi remained standing and nodded to the two detectives as they walked down the hallway. ‘We’ll be in touch, Mr Harris,’ Huynh called, before pulling the door closed.
Outside, the wind blew through the garden, tugging at blooms that had emerged from long dormant bulbs. The rain and sunshine were bringing their colours to crisp, sparkling life.
In the kitchen they were still, silent.
Will reached forwards and took the cards from the table.
His instincts had been right. This was a grubby case. A grubby case he’d stepped into without doing his homework first. The old adages were true for a reason – business and family. It was something he seemed incapable of learning. Whether indifferent or a practised deceiver, Saxon was bad news.
He slipped the cards into his pocket. While he was there he removed the pill jar and popped a painkiller. This brought Saxon’s attention back to the world and he watched as Will swallowed a pill with a sip from his mug.
Sandi turned to look out at the garden. ‘Why didn’t they arrest him? If they think their case is that strong, they would have arrested Saxon.’
‘I’m not going to sugar-coat this. Their case is strong. When presented like this, in the order that they showed us, their evidence makes for a very persuasive story. But we’re going to tell a different one.’
Saxon smiled at Will.
More affectation, or just relief?
‘You d
on’t arrest the child of a powerful judge without being 100 per cent certain that you can make the case.’
‘At least the press won’t get to this. Alan says they can’t report on it.’
‘Saxon is underage so he can’t be named but they can report on the events. It might also get out through social media, through the kids at school. But in terms of the media, they will be heavily dissuaded for the same reason the cops are being cautious: your husband.’
‘So what’s next?’
‘I’m going to ask for a copy of that video and I would like to get a forensic engineer to look over Saxon’s computer and phone. I want to recover those messages you exchanged as they’ll explain the images.’
‘Saxon’s phone and computer?’
‘That’s right.’
‘You’re welcome to them, but I doubt there’s anything there,’ Sandi said. ‘We had to replace them over the weekend. Not long after you visited. A vase broke and spilled water all over them. They were ruined.’
‘A vase?’
‘That’s right.’
Just after I told you the police might seize them.
‘Both the phone and the computer were damaged?’
‘I had them plugged into each other,’ Saxon said.
‘Do you still have them? In the rubbish, maybe? We can still see if we can recover them.’
‘No,’ said Saxon, his face showing no sign of emotion. ‘I threw them out on the way to school today.’
Will shook his head. ‘Of course you did.’
NINETEEN
The Domain Tunnel enveloped him, turning day into night. The yellow strip lights punctuated his journey as Will drew closer to the scene of the accident. He started to sweat, trapped beneath rock and water, surrounded by fast-moving metal.
He could have taken a number of routes on his way to the dry, bureaucratic indifference of Aaron’s filing hearing – a by-the-numbers necessity on the path to being rid of him forever. For some reason he’d come this way, a challenge from his subconscious, a test of his worth.
The traffic was slowing up ahead. Even now, over a week later, drivers limped past to witness what remained of the steel and violence. Behind him he heard the revving of an engine. He punched the accelerator of the Porsche and changed lanes, the blood pounding in his head.