by Chris Taylor
“Lane, Jett, a call’s just come in from the dispatcher. They’ve received an emergency call from a man claiming that someone’s murdered his family.”
Adrenaline surged through Jett at his boss’ announcement. Lane immediately became alert.
“Where did the call come from?” Jett asked.
“An address in Hunters Hill,” Collins answered.
Lane frowned. “Why did it come through to us? It’s not like the boys in Hunters Hill can’t deal with a suspected homicide and they’re much closer.”
Collins’ lips compressed into a grim line. “The caller identified himself as Franklin Cook.”
It was Jett’s turn to frown. “Franklin Cook? Why does that name sound familiar?”
“He’s a partner at Harris & Birmingham and the lawyer heading Bilal Al-Jabiri’s criminal defense team.”
“The boy accused of plotting a terrorist act against the state,” Jett finished.
Collins’ expression hardened and he narrowed his flint-eyed gaze. “Yeah. Now you can see why it’s come to us.”
By the time Jett and Lane arrived at the modern, ten-storey cement-rendered condominium block, the place was teeming with police. An ambulance was parked off to one side, it’s red and white strobe emergency lights still flashing, bouncing off the adjoining buildings. Splashes of blue and red and white light from several police vehicles added to the colorful display. A crowd of curious onlookers, mostly women and children, gathered on the well-manicured lawn. The mid-afternoon sun sparkled off the crystal blue water of nearby Sydney Harbour.
Jett and Lane strode up the slight incline that led to the paved front entryway. Double glass doors, sporting a fancy engraved insignia, blocked their way. A general duties officer guarded the entrance. Jett flashed his ID and Lane did the same.
“Which floor?” Jett asked the younger officer.
“The penthouse suite.”
Jett nodded. Only the best for a partner of the prestigious Harris & Birmingham Law Firm.
“Who’s inside?” Lane asked.
“Detectives Bennett and Jackson from Hunters Hill were among the first responders… They’re up there, along with a guy from forensics. We’re still waiting on the morgue.”
“Has anyone left the building?” Jett asked.
“Not since I got here and I was among the first on the scene.”
“Good,” Jett answered. “Don’t let anyone leave without taking their details. I don’t care if they live here or not. I want to know who’s in the vicinity.”
“Sure thing, Detective,” the constable replied. “I’ll see to it myself.”
Jett nodded his thanks and pushed through the double glass doors, Lane on his heels. Together, they rode the elevator up to the tenth floor. The doors slid open silently and they were met with another set of double doors. These ones were made from thick panels of oak and looked solid enough to withstand an earthquake. One of the doors stood slightly ajar and they pushed their way through. Jett came to a halt at the breathtaking scene laid out before him.
The building clung to the foreshore and through the floor-to-ceiling plate glass windows that took up one entire wall, the glory of Sydney Harbour lay spread out before them. The water was dotted with yachts and sail boats, moored or tied to jetties and wharves and buoys. The sun reflected off the glass of the tall city skyscrapers across the other side. It was a scene from a postcard, an invitation to enjoy the prettiest, cleanest city in the world.
The room was designed to take advantage of the view, with a large, wide open-concept style. A kitchen with black marble countertops and shiny stainless steel appliances stood off to the left and beside it, a heavy, dark wood dining suite. Twelve carved wooden chairs, upholstered in an expensive-looking blue fabric, stood around it. On the opposite side of the room, centered in front of the view, was a large modular sofa made from the softest leather.
“She’s in here.”
The somber words of the man who introduced himself as Detective Sergeant Christian Bennett broke into Jett’s thoughts. About Jett’s age, the man had an air of confidence and authority about him that bespoke experience and Jett was glad it hadn’t been a rookie who’d been among the first to attend the scene. If Cook’s family had been murdered, this case had all the hallmarks of a publicist’s nightmare.
After shaking Bennett’s proffered hand, Jett followed him down a long corridor. Bedrooms stood on his left and his right, both of them silent and still.
Walking forward, Jett came to a bathroom and stepped onto glossy black Italian tiles. A man in blue overalls and holding a camera squatted over the large, freestanding bathtub that was aligned next to another oversized window. Jett recognized the man from the specialist forensics team and nodded a somber greeting.
Dark red blood spattered the walls in almost every direction. It looked like something out of a horror movie. Familiar dread settled in Jett’s gut. Moving closer, he forced himself to look in the tub.
The naked body of a woman lay still and silent in the red-tinged water. Numerous stab wounds decorated her abdomen and chest. As if that wasn’t enough, her throat had been slit, almost from ear to ear. With her head thrown back against the bathtub, she was left with a garish imitation of a smile.
Bile rose in Jett’s gut and he put a hand up to his mouth to force it down. He’d attended his fair share of bloody crime scenes, but this one topped them all. The woman looked to be in her mid-twenties with fine, golden hair piled up on top of her head. More blood congealed in the mass.
“It’s not hard to determine cause of death,” the forensics officer said, indicating the spray of arterial blood that painted a good portion of the wall. “Someone did a number on her, that’s for sure,” the man added. “Apparently there’s a knife missing from the knife block in the kitchen. The poor woman didn’t stand a chance. And the baby…” He shuddered. “That’s just not right at all.”
“The baby?’ Jett repeated, dreading the answer.
“Yeah. There’s a baby dead in her cot next door. Still wrapped in a pink blanket. I already checked for signs of life.”
The dread in Jett’s gut weighed even heavier. If there was one thing difficult for him to take, it was the needless death of a child. Backing out of the bathroom, he entered the room adjoining it. Lane stood at the cot, shaking his head.
“What kind of sick fuck does something like this?” he muttered to no one in particular.
Jett forced his feet forward and looked down at the baby. Like the forensics guy had told him, she was securely wrapped in a pink, satin-edged blanket. In fact, apart from the existence of blood smears on the sheets and the gray-blue color of the baby’s skin, the infant could almost be mistaken for being asleep.
“Stabbed?” Jett asked quietly.
“Yep. Three times in the chest. Neat as you like. And then the prick had the audacity to re-wrap her, like nothing had ever happened.”
The anger in Lane’s voice reverberated through Jett. He was also having a hard time keeping his temper in check. The senseless violence was mind blowing and sent white hot fury gushing through his veins.
“What do we know about the intruder?” he rasped, barely able to speak through his anger.
“Not much. I understand the husband came home at lunchtime and found them like this. He’s in the master bedroom, talking to Detective Jackson.”
Jett compressed his lips and nodded, bracing himself for what was to come. The husband was always the first suspect, even if he’d done nothing wrong. The initial interview was never easy. The husband was not only grieving, he was usually on the defensive. If he were smart—and this guy was a top notch lawyer—he’d understand and do what he could to cooperate, but it didn’t always go down that way.
“Do you want to do this, or will I?” Lane asked, his voice rough with emotion.
Jett turned his head away from the child in the cot and stared at his colleague. “Leave it to me.”
* * *
Franklin Cook
sat on the edge of the bed he shared with his wife and hung his head in his hands. Shocked and bewildered, he did his best to keep himself in check. His wife and baby had been savagely murdered and nobody seemed to know why. He stared down at his hands, at the blood that stained them and realized it was Sabrina’s. His clothes were also covered in it because he’d tried to haul her from the tub. He still couldn’t believe his wife and beautiful baby girl were dead.
A sob of anguish escaped him and then another. He pressed a fist against his mouth in an effort to hold them in.
“Franklin Cook?”
The firm voice snagged his attention. He looked up into the face of a man about his age who had the bearing of someone in authority. His dark suit was expensive, although not nearly as costly as the tailored charcoal-gray suit Franklin wore, with its matching, designer shirt made from the finest of cottons and in his favorite pale blue. In a distant part of his mind, he mourned the fact his clothing was ruined, stained with his wife’s blood.
“I’m Detective Constable Jett Craigdon,” the man said, pushing back a hank of black hair. Worn longer than was currently in fashion, it had fallen across his eyes. He pointed to the other man beside him. “And this is Detective Sergeant Lane Black. We’re here from the State Crime Command. I work in the Homicide Squad and Detective Black is part of our Middle Eastern Crime Squad.”
The words slowly penetrated the fog that had enveloped Franklin’s brain ever since he’d arrived home. Comprehension dawned and he gasped in surprise. The State Crime Command had jurisdiction over more serious criminal matters. Their presence only reinforced the fact these were no ordinary murders.
“You think this might have something to do with the court case? With Bilal Al-Jabiri? Is that what you’re saying? That… That I brought this violence to our door… That I’m responsible?” His voice broke. He gasped again and blinked back a rush of tears.
“At this stage, we don’t know anything,” Detective Craigdon replied. “We have officers reviewing the CCTV footage from the cameras situated outside the entrance to your building. We’re not sure if you and your work are connected in any way to what’s happened, but we’re covering all bases. You’ve managed to annoy some people lately.”
Franklin shook his head, aghast at the thought. “Oh, my God! This is all my fault! If I hadn’t taken on the case—”
“We don’t know anything yet,” the older detective interrupted. “We’re hoping you can give us some answers.”
Franklin spread his hands wide and implored the officers. “Ask me anything you want. I don’t have anything to hide. All I want to do is find the bastard responsible and see him locked up for life. My beautiful wife, my sweet, little girl…” He was suddenly overwhelmed with emotion and sobbed uncontrollably in his hands. At any other time, he might have been embarrassed, but right now, he was beyond caring. All he could think about was his beautiful Sabrina and sweet baby Marnie, lying in a pool of blood.
“Have you received any death threats since you took on the Al-Jabiri case?” Detective Craigdon asked, staring down at him.
“It’s only been three weeks, Detective. We haven’t even set a trial date.” Franklin cleared his throat and tried to stop the shaking in his voice. “I’ve taken on high-profile cases before. I’ve never feared for my safety, or the safety of my family.” He stared down at his hands and once again, noticed the blood stains on them.
“Have you and your wife been having any problems, Mr Cook?”
The question came from the other detective, the one who’d been introduced as Lane Black. Franklin shook his head.
“No, of course not. We’re very much in love. We have the occasional squabble, but who doesn’t? Are you married, Detective?”
Lane Black nodded. “Yes, Mr Cook, I am.”
“Then you understand.”
“Who had access to your condo?” Detective Craigdon asked. “The forensics guy says there are no signs of forced entry.”
Franklin stared at him and shook his head, his mind awhirl with emotion and the images of his dead wife and child.
“I don’t know, Detective. No one, apart from the building manager. He’s responsible for maintenance and that sort of thing. We pay high monthly rates for the upkeep.”
The detective pulled out a notebook and jotted down some points. Another thought struck Franklin. “Oh, I almost forgot. My wife’s sister has a key. She’s often here in her spare time and occasionally stays overnight.”
“What’s her name?” Craigdon asked.
“Danielle Porter. She’s a pathologist at the Sydney Harbour Hospital.”
“Have you any reason to suspect that your sister-in-law might do your wife and daughter harm?” Again, the question came from Craigdon.
Franklin shook his head. “No, I can’t imagine Dani doing anything like this. She loves Sabrina and she loves Marnie like she’s her own. The sisters have had their odd arguments, of course. No one’s perfect. In fact, now that I think about it, the last time I saw them together, they were arguing.”
Both detectives came alert. Craigdon scribbled again in his notepad. “What were they arguing about?” the older detective asked.
“I’m not sure. I try to keep out of it, but Sabrina was upset for quite some time afterwards. Come to think of it, I haven’t seen Dani around here recently.”
“Is that unusual?” Craigdon asked.
“Yeah, it is,” Franklin replied slowly. “I’ve been so busy, I didn’t give it any thought, but Dani’s almost part of the furniture around here. She spends a lot of her free time with my wife. But lately, they didn’t seem to be getting on so well. At least, from what I could tell. I haven’t been here much myself and when I have been around, I haven’t exactly been paying attention. The Al-Jabiri case has been consuming almost every second of my day.”
“Mr Cook, do you own a life insurance policy on your wife?” The question came from Black.
Franklin tensed and then forced himself to relax. He knew what the cop was doing. The spouse of a murder victim was always suspect number one. It was a routine question and needed to be treated as such.
“Yes, of course. We have one on each other. Mine’s worth a whole lot more than hers.” He shrugged. “I support the family.”
“What’s the value of the policy you own on your wife?” Craigdon asked.
Franklin held his gaze and replied without flinching. “One hundred thousand dollars.”
Craigdon recorded his answer and the details of his insurance company, but Franklin could tell the amount didn’t raise any alarm bells. And neither should it. One hundred thousand was a pittance. Certainly not worth murdering for. He eased out his breath.
“What happened to your hand?”
Once again, it was Craigdon who posed the question. Franklin’s breath snagged and his heart skipped a beat. His wife and child had just been murdered and he had a fresh cut on his hand. Of course the police would be suspicious. He tightened his hands into fists and ignored the surge of pain.
“It’s nothing,” he replied. “A scratch. I cut it with a knife while I was preparing dinner on the weekend.”
The detective nodded in acknowledgement. Franklin eased out his breath. And then the detective spoke again.
“We’re going to need to photograph it—standard procedure. I’m sure you understand.”
Franklin held the man’s gaze. “Of course.”
Detective Craigdon murmured to one of the other detectives, who quickly left the room. A moment later, a man wearing overalls emblazoned with the word “Forensics” came into the room, a camera at the ready. Craigdon and Black stood back while the other officer took photos of Franklin’s hand.
“That cut looks quite deep,” Craigdon commented as soon as the forensics guy was finished. “You ought to drop by the emergency department. It might require treatment.”
“It will be fine, I’m sure,” Franklin replied quickly. Attending to his injury was the last thing on his mind. His wife and baby
were lying dead in the condominium, brutally murdered, and so far, the police hadn’t figured out why. A slight discomfort from the pain in his hand was the least he was forced to endure.
“What’s going to happen now?” he asked quietly.
“We’ll have a look around, take some more photos. We’ll talk to the neighbors. Review the CCTV footage, like I mentioned,” Craigdon replied.
“What about…my wife? And my baby?”
Compassion filled Craigdon’s face and his tone softened. “They’ll be taken to the morgue for autopsies. Once the forensic pathologist is finished, the bodies will be released to whichever funeral home you nominate.”
A fresh wave of shock rolled over him. He gasped on another sob. He still couldn’t believe it. They were dead. They were dead.
What the hell was he going to do without them?
* * *
Jett motioned to Lane and together they moved away from the broken man who remained on the bed, his head hanging between his legs.
“What do you think?” Lane murmured.
Jett shrugged. “His grief seems genuine, but he does have a knife wound on his hand. Franklin Cook wouldn’t be the first husband to put on a good show of grief after murdering his wife and child.”
Lane’s lips twisted into a grimace. “Yeah, ain’t that the truth. And there’s also the insurance policy.”
Jett shook his head. “I don’t think money’s a motive. Assuming it checks out. And why would Cook lie about something that can be so easily verified? It’s a pittance compared to the obvious wealth enjoyed by this family. The man’s wearing a suit that costs more than my monthly salary and as garish as that yellow tie is, it’s worth more than most people make in a week. And take a look at this place. I’m betting the annual condo fees on this penthouse would cost more than that.”
“So, if money wasn’t a motive, what was?”
Jett blew out his breath on a heavy sigh. Sabrina Cook had died from at least twenty to thirty stab wounds. Jett hadn’t counted them, but there were a lot of them. It was obviously overkill. The slit across the woman’s throat alone would have done the trick. There was no need for the other wounds. Jett had seen his fair share of murder scenes and this one displayed all the signs of being personal. This was a crime of passion, of anger, of devastation, of a total loss of control. Coupled with the fact there was no forced entry, Jett couldn’t help but conclude the Cooks had known their killer.