Shattered

by Gabrielle Lord

  ‘It’d be better than hanging around doing nothing,’ he said. ‘It’s cool here. I could watch Foxtel and look after Taxi.’

  Some sort of daycare for early adolescence, Gemma thought. That’s what he’s after. She could open a centre here – equip it with video games and a climbing wall. She’d make more money doing that, she thought bitterly, than she was making right now. And then when the baby was born . . .

  ‘What about that youth centre at the Cross?’ she asked, thinking of refuges and remembering the young woman Sandra Samuels who’d come to her last year. ‘Sandra has something going on for guys your age up in Roslyn Gardens. A library of electronic games and a half-sized basketball court.’

  ‘I’ve checked them out. They can only afford to open two days a week,’ he said. ‘And Dad doesn’t like me going there. Reckons I might get into a whole lot of trouble.’

  ‘He’s got a point,’ she said. ‘Remember your last holiday job?’

  ‘Can I stay here tonight?’ he asked, and she didn’t have the heart to refuse him.

  ‘What about your dad?’

  ‘I’ve already rung him,’ said Hugo. ‘And left a message saying I was staying here.’

  ‘Have you now?’ she said, dragging out spare blankets and a pillow from the big chest in her bedroom. She piled them beside the blue lounge.

  ‘I’m going to have to start charging you rent,’ she joked.

  She saw with a pang that for just a split second he’d thought she’d been serious.

  Ten

  Gemma was up early, went for a run, showered, then went to her office to compile her notes onto her PC, pausing now and again to reflect and analyse.

  The phone rang. Angie.

  ‘You can cancel out the ex-wife or the older daughters, I’ve checked them out. And Natalie Finn made her phone call to emergency services at 9.09 p.m.,’ said Angie. ‘She says she’s not sure how much time elapsed between her finding Donny and making the call, but she thinks it could only have been minutes – at the most. She found Donny, staunched the bleeding as best she could and made the call. So working back from that, it takes about twenty-five minutes to drive from her office to Killara at that time of night. It could vary with traffic. But her account sounds okay so far.’

  ‘Did you get my message?’ Gemma asked.

  ‘About the gate in the fence at Findlay Finn’s house?’ said Angie. ‘Yes. We’ve been working on the assumption that the killer drove to the house and, after the murders, drove away. The boss has already contacted the dog squad to check that track, but the rain that fell that night will probably have washed out anything the dog might have sussed out.’

  ‘There’s a picnic area at the other end of the bush track,’ said Gemma. ‘It’s about a fifteen-minute walk back to the Finn house. The killer could have parked a car there and gone via the track, crept round to the front of the house, done the shootings and then raced away through the bush again. That way, there’s no need to use the road at the front of the house at all.

  ‘Findlay said he’d been away till late but there are unaccounted hours between him packing up his painting gear once the light failed around five, and getting home around ten. According to him, he dawdled home – taking about five hours to get back from Medlow Bath. If you take out an hour or so for the time he says he spent in a café having something to eat, and allow another two or so for the driving time, there’s still a gap of almost two hours. And now we know there’s another way in and out of his place.

  ‘He could have easily come back earlier than he told us,’ Gemma went on, ‘parked his car at the picnic ground, walked along the bush track, carried out the shooting, fled back up the track to his car, gone for a drive to dump the weapon and any bloodstained gear, then calmly driven home and performed the routine at the police road block as if he was just arriving home from one of his painting expeditions.’

  ‘We can check his car for residues,’ said Angie, ‘but we need to have a little more on him than speculation to pull it in.’

  ‘He’s got motive,’ said Gemma. ‘Even though Natalie rejected the idea of Bettina and Bryson being sexually involved, it’s definitely a possibility. And I picked up very strong overtones of jealousy and resentment towards Bryson when I was talking to Findlay. And wait till you hear about this painting he’s done,’ she went on, ‘of the crime scene. Findlay Finn has painted the murder of his wife and brother.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You heard. The bodies on the floor, the bloodstains on the wall.’

  ‘That’s different,’ said Angie.

  ‘All Findlay Finn’s behaviour is suss,’ said Gemma. ‘He’s distinctly non-grief-stricken. I know people grieve in different ways, but it’s hard to believe that Findlay Finn is grieving at all. When I asked him if he had a girlfriend, he started laughing and didn’t answer. But while I was there he took a phone call, and when I left the house, he drove to an address in Darlinghurst, where, according to the name on the letters in the mailbox, a Ms Lottie Lander lives.’

  Angie took details of the address. ‘I’ll send someone round to have a chat with Ms Lander,’ she said.

  ‘I found something near the picnic ground too that might be connected to the killings,’ Gemma continued, describing the damaged glass heart.

  ‘Natalie’s coming over soon to look at the crime scene photographs,’ said Angie.

  ‘I’ll come over too,’ said Gemma, ‘and bring the glass heart with me.’

  In the living room, she found the Ratbag watching a Western on Fox Classics.

  ‘I’m going out now,’ she said. ‘I take it you’re hanging around a while? I’ll grab something for dinner. Not pizza.’

  ‘Where are you going?’ he asked.

  ‘On a job,’ she said.

  ‘Can I come?’

  ‘Not right now, but I might enlist your help soon,’ she said, considering the possibilities of getting into Martin Trimble’s garage using the Ratbag as a decoy. She remembered a night down on the beach of Phoenix Bay some years ago, when Hugo’s actions saved both of them. He was a resourceful kid, intelligent as well.

  ‘Cool,’ he said, lying back on the lounge.

  •

  On the way to the Police Centre, Gemma found herself wondering why Grace had turned her back on her sisters, despite seeming so keen and happy at first about discovering her new relatives. She was an investigator, she reminded herself, despite the derisory comment Findlay Finn had made about her licence. If she was going to lose this half-sister, Gemma wanted to know to what or to whom she was losing her. And if she should put up a fight.

  She found a park near the Police Centre, and gave her name to the security guard manning the main entrance, who rang through to Angie to come down and collect her.

  As Gemma waited at the lifts, she resolved that she’d at least try Grace one more time. Even visit her in person up on the Central Coast.

  The lift doors opened and there was Angie, looking cool and efficient in her navy suit and pin-striped green and white blouse. Gemma passed her the envelope containing the heart-shaped fragment of Venetian glass with a note written on the back describing where it had been found.

  Angie peered into the envelope. ‘That looks familiar,’ she said. ‘Could be you’ve found something important.’

  Once out of the lift, Angie swiped them both through the large doors that secured the wing of the building where forensic services had their offices, photographic section, examination areas and secured exhibit stores.

  Another swipe took them into the first of the office spaces. Sean Wright looked up from his littered desk and gave Gemma a half-nod of recognition. Julie Cooper’s desk was vacant, but photos of her with her cats were in evidence – Julie’s gleaming dark hair contrasting with the lighter fluff of the cosseted felines. Julie must have celebrated a birt
hday recently, thought Gemma, noticing the row of cards stuck against the partition at the back edge of her desk. She couldn’t forget the recent snub.

  ‘In here,’ Angie said, indicating her office, and Gemma followed her. Angie had been studying the crime scene photographs, Gemma saw, and many of them lay on her desk. Gemma approached them. They were not the worst she’d ever seen, but she had to take a few deep breaths. It had been many years since she’d been familiar with such things. In the harsh light of the camera’s flash, the superintendent’s white shirt soaked with blood, his handsome face destroyed by bullet-torn flesh, Bettina Finn’s floral skirt caught up underneath her in a wave of stained fabric, her pretty hair matted, her limbs outflung on the floor in a distorted, bloody tangle, were horribly stark.

  ‘Here comes the ballistics expert now,’ said Angie and Gemma looked up as Jaki Hunter hurried towards Angie’s office, smothering a cough with a handkerchief.

  ‘Jaki,’ said Gemma, ‘what’s up?’

  ‘Should you be back at work today?’ Angie frowned as Jaki came through the door. ‘You look shocking.’

  ‘It’s okay. I’m a little better today. I had to come in,’ said Jaki, her usually pretty face puffy and swollen, her eyes red as she blew her nose. ‘I couldn’t lie around at home knowing that you were all flat to the boards with this investigation.’

  ‘But you’ve been crying,’ said Gemma. ‘What is it?’

  ‘It’s . . . because my cat was run over,’ Jaki blurted out, her eyes filling with tears.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ said Gemma, thinking of the awful time Taxi cat had gone missing for days. ‘I know what it’s like when a pet is killed.’

  Jaki’s eyes filled anew and she pulled out another tissue. ‘It’s just been one thing after another,’ she said, breaking into a fit of coughing.

  ‘If I catch the flu,’ said Angie as Jaki wiped her eyes and stifled another cough, ‘I’m putting you on paper, Jaki Hunter. I can’t afford to take time off. I’m sorry about your pussy cat, though.’

  ‘I’ll go home after this,’ said Jaki. ‘I suppose you’re still pissed off about me missing dinner the other night. But I was feeling so bloody awful I just plain forgot.’

  ‘It’s okay,’ said Angie. ‘We all found something else to do. I ended up going out to this,’ she indicated the photos on the desk, ‘and Gemster had a good chuck and went home alone with a doggie bag.’

  Jaki had lost weight, Gemma thought, as the ballistics expert sank into a chair, the bones of her face and jaw seeming more prominent than usual. She was staring at the crime scene photographs as if she’d never seen such a thing before. Jaki looked up and caught Gemma studying her.

  ‘It’s this wog,’ she said, as if in explanation. ‘I’m really fragile. And something happened . . .’

  ‘Go home, you poor sick animal,’ said Angie. ‘Or I’ll have to shoot you.’ She tidied the photos into a neat pile, turning them facedown on the desk.

  Jaki tried to smile, putting her briefcase on Angie’s desk and opening it. ‘Before you do that, you might need me to go through these preliminary ballistics results with you,’ she said. ‘Then I’ll head home.’

  ‘What do you mean “something happened”?’ Gemma asked.

  Jaki pulled her seat closer to the desk and smoothed the folded report with trembling fingers. ‘Oh,’ she said, ‘just someone’s idea of a joke. Forget it.’ Then she quickly continued, ‘The boss is so determined that this case has to be perfect, he’s got all of us in ballistics to agree to give exclusion DNA samples like the scientists at the lab – just to cut out any possible allegations of contamination later. They’re really making sure this is a pristine investigation.’

  ‘We had to do the same,’ said Angie, flinching as Jaki coughed into a tissue before resuming her explanations. ‘Everyone’s grizzling about it and the union is threatening action. But it shows how seriously they’re taking this. They’ve taken people out of every division just to study RTA footage of the traffic before and after the murders.’

  ‘But that will be an impossible task!’ Gemma frowned. ‘What the hell are they looking for?’

  ‘Rego numbers of anyone with a gripe against the super.’

  ‘But the target might not have been the super.’

  ‘No one here believes that, Gemster. We’re already checking out the people he locked up.’

  Gemma turned her attention back to the outrageous crime scene photographs.

  ‘The cartridges discarded at the crime scene tested positive for DNA,’ said Jaki, ‘and the swabs have gone off to Lidcombe to see if they can get a profile up.’

  ‘Good work,’ said Angie.

  ‘We feel sure that someone capable of this sort of cold-blooded execution –’ Jaki’s voice broke. Clearly, the job was getting to her, Gemma thought. Or the fact that one of the victims was a colleague, no matter how distantly placed, was triggering an emotional response. ‘We feel sure,’ Jaki repeated, straightening her shoulders, ‘that someone capable of this sort of crime will most likely have a criminal record already. We’ll run the results through CrimTrak.’

  ‘If something comes up,’ said Angie, ‘it’ll be simply a matter of issuing the warrant.’

  ‘But surely DNA samples are backed up for months and months?’ said Gemma. ‘It’ll take ages!’

  ‘Not in this case, honeybun,’ said Angie. ‘Like Jaki’s saying, it’s being fast-tracked. DAL could have a result in twenty-four hours if they drop the other tens of thousands of samples that are backed up. Okay, Jaki. What else?’

  ‘We’re pretty sure we’ve identified the type of weapon. We haven’t recovered it, obviously. But we’ve done a testing of some of the bullets that weren’t too damaged against the standard toolmarks. And from the GRC, we believe that a semi-automatic .22 rifle was used.’

  ‘Remind me about GRC,’ Gemma said.

  ‘General rifling characteristics. We’ve got striated action marks on the cartridge cases, as well as the firing pin indentation on the bullets, for comparison with standard references.’

  Gemma remembered long-ago lectures on ballistics. Rifling parameters, imprinted by the internal lands and grooves of the rifle’s barrel, were marks left on both bullets and cartridge cases as they proceeded through the action of the weapon. These could be measured against a huge database for comparison purposes.

  ‘We’ve retrieved nine cartridges,’ said Jaki, her face a drained white mask. ‘There might be more. Some magazines carry ten.’

  She leaned over and pulled her large case towards her. ‘The details are all here, and here’s a picture of the type of rifle we think we’re looking for.’ She pulled out a photographic enlargement and laid it on the desk next to her briefcase.

  ‘Aha!’ said Angie. ‘An Anschutz 525 autoloading rifle. A hunter.’

  ‘What?’ Jaki said, swinging round.

  ‘Not you, Miss Hunter,’ said Angie laughing. ‘The Anschutz is popular with hunters.’

  ‘I had a sergeant once who used to call us all by our surnames,’ said Jaki as Angie passed the photograph to Gemma.

  Angie’s phone rang and she excused herself from the office, returning some minutes later accompanied by Natalie Finn. Natalie had covered her face with heavy foundation and overapplied blusher to her pallor. It hadn’t worked, Gemma thought, as Angie introduced Jaki and Natalie.

  ‘How’s Donny?’ she asked.

  ‘He still hasn’t regained consciousness,’ said Natalie, her eyes filling. ‘Now they’re talking possible permanent brain damage. Because of the blood loss and catastrophic fall in blood pressure as well as trauma to the cervical spine.’ She deliberately straightened her shoulders. ‘But when Angie rang and told me the photographs were available, I wanted to come straight here. I want to see the scene again.’

  ‘You have every rig
ht to see these,’ Angie said, ‘but do you think it’s a good idea?’

  ‘For God’s sake!’ Natalie cried. ‘I walked in on the real thing! Minutes after the murders! Do you think a few photographs are going to be any worse?’

  ‘It could make it worse,’ said Gemma. ‘You’ll have to relive the whole thing again.’

  ‘Gemma,’ said Natalie, slowly turning to her, ‘I remember you as a clever woman. But you’re not thinking. What the hell do you think I’ve been doing since Monday night? Nothing but reliving the scene. Over and over and over. It’s all I can see! I close my eyes and there it is. I open them, and it’s still there. My husband and my sister-in-law lying dead in their own blood. My little boy haemorrhaging like a geyser. I haven’t been able to see anything else.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Gemma. ‘It was a thoughtless thing to say.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Angie, putting a steadying hand on Natalie’s arm, then handing her the first of the large glossy prints. There were several copies of each shot, taken at slightly different angles, some in colour, some in black and white.

  ‘Who took them?’ Gemma asked.

  ‘Paulette Heath. She’s out on a job at the moment.’

  Gemma was about to make a positive comment about the quality of the photographs, but under the circumstances, with the widow of the dead man staring at the first one, said nothing. Instead, she watched while Natalie slowly worked her way through them, studying some longer than others before putting them down on the desk. That’s what Findlay Finn painted, she thought – his wife, Bettina, lying partly on her side, beside a large pool of blood, her pale blue jumper dark with blood and her legs drawn up beside her brother-in-law. Bryson Finn lay on his back, staring at the ceiling, one arm across Bettina’s back, the other spread out at shoulder level pointing towards the studio door.

  Gemma, Natalie and Angie studied the photographs, the silence punctuated by the ringing of phones, Natalie’s harsh breathing, the half-audible comments and laughter of the people outside Angie’s office and the cooing of the pigeons perched on the grey window ledges of the building. Jaki stood alone near the window, her back to them, blowing her nose.