by Chris Taylor
He wished he could do the same. He hadn’t slept properly since it happened. Right now, he couldn’t imagine ever sleeping soundly again. The very thought was ludicrous. His wife and child were lying dead and buried beneath the ground. In an instant, his life had been transformed into a nightmare.
One moment, he’d been on top of the world, working hard at a successful career and a loving, stable home life and the next, everything that had been warm and familiar was ripped apart at the seams. And now, judging by Detective Craigdon’s reaction, he was back firmly on the suspect list.
He cursed aloud. His voice sounded harsh in the stillness. It was his own fault the detective’s suspicions had been raised. Franklin should never have lost his temper. He was a defense lawyer. He, of all people, knew the power of self-control and yet, he’d let the detective rattle him.
It was the man’s dig about the NBL game that had done it. So, national basketball games weren’t televised on a Saturday. How was he meant to know? He was sure he’d seen Sabrina watching them at that time of day in the past. Maybe it was a replay? Then again, perhaps he was mistaken? After all, it had been a long time since he’d been home on a Saturday afternoon. It appeared his mistake might have cost him dearly, if the detective’s sudden change in attitude was anything to go by. That and the stupid lab test.
It annoyed him that his actions would divert the police’s attention from the other potential suspects. Kevin Thompson, for one. The man had been seen outside the condo shortly before Franklin arrived home. He didn’t want to believe the friendly maintenance man could be capable of such atrocities, but how well did anyone know the people they came into contact with?
Then there was the Islamic angle. For weeks, there had been a number of protestors outside his office. Tensions had been running high. It was possible some fanatic had discovered his home address and caught Sabrina unawares. He needed to remind the detective who the real suspects were. First thing in the morning, he’d make the call.
* * *
Jett took a sip of his morning coffee. He leaned forward in his chair and stared at the footage he’d received from the CCTV cameras installed in the foyer of the building where the Cook family lived. The screen showed grainy, black-and-white images, but they were still clear enough to be able to identify faces. One of the junior detectives had already reviewed it and had reported that nothing suspicious had been seen, but Jett had just taken another call from Sabrina’s husband.
It appeared that Franklin Cook had convinced himself that the intruder was related to his current court case. He’d insisted Jett review the footage again and make certain no one untoward had entered the building. When Jett queried the likelihood of his wife letting a stranger into her home, he’d assured Jett that Sabrina trusted everyone and never gave thought to possible dangers. Especially not while she was in the safety and security of her home.
Now Jett stared at the screen and watched the residents of the condominium complex come and go the morning of the murders. He saw Franklin leave for work at seven, like he’d told them, dressed in a suit and tie. Kevin Thompson and his boss entered the building a short while later. Other people exited, many between the hours of seven-thirty and eight, most of them looking harried as they rushed out the door.
By eight-thirty, the crowd had thinned. There was a gap of a few hours where almost nobody entered or left. Apart from a postal worker delivering mail and a mother pushing a pram, the security visual remained void of people.
And then Franklin Cook’s image once again filled the screen. The time on the camera recorded twelve forty-three. Jett frowned. Something niggled at his memory. Tugging out his notebook, he flipped through it until he found the entries made the day he attended the crime scene. And there it was.
Franklin had told Detective Bennett he’d arrived home that afternoon at about one-thirty. Almost an hour after the cameras showed him arriving there. The emergency call he made from his condo was received at one thirty-six. The difference being more than forty-five minutes… What had he been doing all that time? Surely the first thing anyone would do upon discovering their loved ones had been attacked was call the police? Jett shook his head. Something didn’t make sense.
Dragging the phone on his desk toward him, he found Franklin’s number and dialed it. It rang out until it was picked up by a machine. Jett cleared his throat and left a message.
“Mr Cook, it’s Detective Craigdon. I—”
“Detective, it’s Franklin Cook.”
“Oh, I was just leaving you a message.”
“Yes, I’m sorry. I’m screening my calls. The media have been calling non stop. It’s driving me crazy.”
“I understand.”
“Yes, well, how did you do? I’m assuming you’ve had time to review the footage. Have you identified any suspects? Anyone who might have gained access and done this?”
“No,” Jett replied, “but I have another question. You told one of the detectives at the scene that you’d arrived home for lunch at one-thirty, right?”
“Yes, I think it was somewhere around that time. I didn’t check my watch.” The man laughed a little nervously. “I didn’t realize I’d need to pinpoint my exact movements.”
“Of course not. The thing is though, most of us can usually make a good estimation, within ten or fifteen minutes, of where we were at a certain time. You were on your lunch break. I assume you had some idea of the time. The security cameras show you entering your building at twelve forty-three. That’s some forty-seven minutes ahead of the time you gave the officer.”
Jett paused and wondered if Franklin would rush in with an explanation. The man had to know his actions would put him squarely under suspicion. When he remained silent, Jett prompted him.
“According to the CCTV footage, you were in the condominium nearly an hour before you made the emergency call. What were you doing in there, Mr Cook? Why did it take so long?”
Still, the man remained silent. Jett cursed quietly under his breath. Did the man want Jett to suspect him? He was certainly going about it the right way. First the attitude the night before and now this. Unconsciously, Jett fingered his handcuffs.
“Mr Cook…?”
“Um… I’m sorry, Detective. I… I… The truth is…”
Jett’s heart skipped a beat and blood thundered through his ears. Was the man about to confess?
“I was…on the phone,” Franklin murmured.
Jett blew out his breath. It wasn’t exactly the revelation he’d expected. “To whom?”
“My… My mother. She’s been having a hard time of it lately regarding her health. She wanted to share all the details with me.” Franklin gave a half laugh. “You know how mothers are.”
“Yeah,” Jett agreed, slightly disappointed. It wasn’t like he wanted the killer to be Franklin, but it would have made his job easier and his chances for promotion a helluva lot better if he were to wrap up the double homicide inside a week. Of course, it was possible Franklin wasn’t telling the truth.
“So, you talked to your mother. Where was that?”
“I stayed in the lobby.”
“Did anyone see you?” Jett asked, making a note on the pad before him.
“N-no. I don’t think so.”
“What time did you go up to your condominium?”
“It must have been around one-thirty, like I told the officer. I caught the elevator upstairs, went into the condo, put down my briefcase and keys. I called out for Sabrina. She…she didn’t answer.” His voice cracked, but he managed to add, “That’s when I found them.”
Jett grimaced at the pain and agony that flooded the man’s voice. While Franklin was still a suspect, he wasn’t at the top of the list and if he were innocent of any wrongdoing…
Jett couldn’t imagine what it would be like to come home and confront such a situation. Most people would never get over it. He certainly wouldn’t and he’d seen his fair share of awful things.
“Was it normal for you to com
e home for lunch, Franklin?” Jett asked quietly.
Franklin cleared his throat. “No, I’m usually too busy at work to do more than grab a sandwich from the deli in my building. When the lab results arrived, I decided to go home and open them with Sabrina. I knew the results would reassure me that I was Marnie’s father and I wanted to apologize again to Sabrina for doubting her.”
He paused and then added, “I’m glad you called, Detective Craigdon. I… I was about to pick up the phone. I was going through my briefcase and I found something. I received it a few days before…before the murders. I’d forgotten about it.”
“What is it?” Jett asked.
“It’s a threatening letter.”
Jett tensed and his senses came alert. He sat up straighter in his chair. “What does it contain?”
“It references the case against Bilal Al-Jabiri. It’s signed ‘anonymous,’ but whoever sent it was clearly angry at me for representing the boy.”
A sense of urgency rushed through Jett’s veins. “I need to see it. I’ll send someone over to collect it right away. Don’t touch it. We’ll check it for fingerprints. We might even get some DNA.”
“I’ve already handled it. I opened it the first time I received it and again now, when I found it in my briefcase. The only fingerprints on it will likely be mine.”
“That might be so, but we’ll check it just the same. You never know what we might find. Do you have any idea who sent it?” Jett asked.
“No. Though there have been protests outside the courthouse every time the Bilal’s case is heard. It could be anyone.”
“Have you received this kind of letter before?”
“Unfortunately, yes. I represent some very high-profile defendants. It’s not the first time I’ve put people off side. I believe in our justice system and I believe everyone has the right to the presumption of innocence until proven otherwise in a court of law. It’s why I do what I do.”
Jett thought back to the numerous times Franklin Cook had appeared on the six o’clock news, defending one high-profile criminal after another. He’d gained a reputation for being one of the best defense lawyers in the country.
“And you’re good at it,” Jett murmured.
“Thank you,” Franklin replied, his tone low and humble.
“If you think of anything else, please call me right away,” Jett urged.
“I will, Detective. And I’m sorry for not remembering about this letter earlier. As I mentioned, it wasn’t the first threat I’d received, so I guess I didn’t pay it all that much attention when it arrived and with all that went on after I got home… To tell you the truth, it was the last thing on my mind.”
“I understand,” Jett replied. “While you’re at it,” he added, “give the officer a copy of those lab results.”
“The thing is, Detective, I’ve been looking for them. I… I seem to have misplaced them. Perhaps the police took them from the crime scene. Could you check? Otherwise, I’ll get them to you as soon as I find them. I can assure you, they contain nothing of relevance and had absolutely nothing to do with what happened to my wife and daughter.”
“I get what you’re saying, Franklin, but I’m sure you understand I’m just being thorough. You received the results the day of the murders. Until we know who did this, everything is relevant.”
“Of course, Detective. I’ll keep looking.”
“What lab did you use? I can call them and get a copy from there.”
“The Life Biologistics Lab. It’s on George Street.”
Jett noted the information and ended the call. A part of him wondered how the threatening letter could slip the man’s mind. Franklin had been asked on more than one occasion in the immediate aftermath of the deaths if he knew who might be responsible and even if he’d received death threats in the past. At the time, he’d offered up nothing.
Perhaps the man had been too distraught to think clearly? It wasn’t beyond the scope of possibility. It was easy for Jett to say he’d remember any infinitesimal detail that could assist the police. He was a detective, trained to remain calm in stressful situations and to observe things other people didn’t. That he didn’t share the information sooner didn’t mean Franklin was lying. So far, everything the man had told them had panned out.
Lane had looked into the insurance policy owned by Sabrina Cook’s husband. Sure enough, her life had been insured for the sum of one hundred thousand. A reasonable amount for some, but not for the Cook family. In Jett’s considered opinion, it wasn’t enough for Franklin to murder his wife and child.
No, but still, thirty-seven stab wounds was personal. Forty, if you counted the three wounds inflicted upon the baby. This wasn’t a random break-in. Nor was it about money. Of that, he was certain.
The threatening letter might just be the break they were looking for. All along, there had been a real possibility that the attacks had resulted from Franklin’s decision to defend Bilal Al-Jabiri. The actions of the fifteen-year-old student had divided opinions across the state.
Jett had watched the frenzied demonstrations outside the courthouse on television. They’d angered him. It didn’t matter how one felt about terrorism, they lived in a country where everyone was entitled to the benefit of the doubt. It was up to the courts to decide the guilt or innocence of a defendant, not members of the public who were, no doubt, ill informed and charged with their own agenda.
Of course, he’d check Franklin’s mother’s phone records and verify that she had, in fact, called him at the relevant time, but again, Franklin was a smart man. He’d hardly offer up a story that couldn’t be verified. It would be plain stupid and that was one word Jett wouldn’t apply to the lawyer.
He’d also gone through every scrap of evidence collected at the scene, and the DNA test results were not among the items at the police station.
Picking up the phone, he spoke to one of the junior detectives and asked them to drop by Franklin’s place and collect the letter. Pulling up a file on his computer, he went through the evidence log on the Cook murders. The DNA test results were not among the items taken from the condominium. They must have been left at the scene.
He glanced up in time to see Lane stride into the squad room, looking grim and determined. He came to a halt beside Jett’s desk.
“What is it?” Jett asked.
“I’ve just heard back from the fingerprint guys. They lifted partial fingerprints and part of a palm print off the wall outside the front door to the Cooks’ condominium. The technician stated at the time that it looked like someone had put their hand out to lean on the wall.”
“Did they find a match?” Jett asked.
“Yes.”
His heart skipped a beat. “Who was it?”
“Roger Barber.”
Jett frowned. The name sounded familiar, but he couldn’t place it.
“He’s the self-proclaimed leader of an anti-Islamic group in western Sydney,” Lane explained. “He and his followers have been instrumental in organizing the demonstrations outside the courthouse each time the Al-Jabiri case is brought before the judge.”
Jett’s heartbeat took off at a gallop. Coming so soon after Franklin’s call about the threatening letter, all of a sudden, things felt like they were falling into place. He quickly brought Lane up to speed.
“Why the hell didn’t he say something about it on Monday?” Lane exploded. “We could have already had this prick behind bars.”
Jett nodded grimly. “Yeah. Well, he said it slipped his mind. It’s not the first time he’s received threatening letters. Given his job and the number of high-profile clients…” Jett’s voice drifted off. He didn’t need to spell it out.
Lane grimaced. “Yeah, he’s just one of those guys who seems to go out of his way to piss people off.”
Jett shrugged. “Somebody has to do it and you believe in our justice system as strongly as I do. Innocent until proven guilty, right? It’s the way of the civilized world and thank God for it. I can’t e
ven imagine what it must be like to live in a society where one person gets to make and break the rules at will.”
“Yeah, it’s why so many of them risk their lives to hop on a boat and do their best to make it to our sunny shores.”
A thought suddenly struck Jett and he dragged his keyboard closer. A sense of urgency flooded through him. As if noticing the tension in Jett’s face, Lane frowned down at him.
“What is it?”
Jett compressed his lips and typed commands into the computer until the CCTV footage from the Cooks’ complex was once again displayed across the screen.
“You said Roger Barber’s fingerprints were found at the scene. I just finished reviewing the security tapes. I didn’t see him enter or exit the building. I must have missed it.”
“Do you know what he looks like?” Lane asked, pulling up a seat.
“No.”
Lane threw him a droll look. “Then don’t beat yourself up about it.”
Jett nodded and rewound the footage to the morning, when groups of people in twos and threes and sometimes more, streamed out of the elevators, presumably heading for work. He paused on the image of Franklin, dressed in a dark-colored suit and tie and carrying a briefcase.
“That’s Franklin,” Lane murmured.
“Yes. Leaving at seven, like he said.”
They continued to watch the footage. Like the first time, the number of people coming and going slowed after eight-thirty. The mother with the pram appeared about ten-fifteen. The mailman and a delivery guy. Two twenty-something women of Asian descent departed the building around eleven, laughing and swinging their tote bags.
The mother with the pram re-entered a little over an hour later and then there was nothing until Franklin returned.
“There he is,” Lane murmured, staring at the screen.
“Yes. See the time?”
Lane noted the time on the security footage and frowned. “Twelve forty-three? I thought he told us he got there at one-thirty?”
Jett grimaced. “Right you are, Detective. Mr Cook did indeed tell us that. I called him about it just a few minutes ago. He told me he received a phone call from his mother just as he stepped into the foyer. According to the time record on the security footage, he spoke to her for around forty minutes before going up to his condo.”