The Lab Test

by Chris Taylor

“Jesus, Craigdon, you look like shit. Did you even go home last night?”

  Jett looked up in time to see Lane descending upon him, carrying two jumbo sized Styrofoam cups.

  “I hope that’s coffee you have there,” Jett muttered, ignoring Lane’s question.

  Lane offered him one of the cups. “I drove past the office late last night and saw your light on. I figured you might be needing it.”

  “Thanks,” Jett replied and took a grateful sip.

  “What were you working on?” Lane asked, propping a hip against Jett’s desk.

  “The Cook murders. What else?”

  Lane’s lips compressed into a grim line. “I thought you might be.”

  Jett cursed. “I keep going round and round in circles. We find a viable suspect and then the lead just dissolves in front of us and we’re back to square one. Thompson, Barber, even Cook. We don’t have enough on any of them.” He sighed again and took another sip of coffee, enjoying the strong, hot brew.

  Lane grimaced. “I’m afraid it’s about to get worse.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Fiona called me from the lab this morning. She had results on the clothing we submitted. I stopped by there on the way to work and collected them.”

  Jett sat up straighter in his seat, his gaze narrowed on Lane’s. “What did they say?”

  Lane shook his head slowly back and forth. “Nothing that’s going to help us. Neither Kevin nor Roger’s clothing had any trace of blood. Franklin’s clothing had some, but not the right kind.”

  “No blood spatter,” Jett guessed.

  “Right. None of them are our guy.”

  A wave of frustration surged through Jett and he cursed long and loudly. Lane shot him an understanding look.

  “I wish I had better news for you, buddy.”

  “Yeah,” Jett replied sourly. “I just can’t understand why the hell Franklin Cook would lie.”

  “About what?” Lane asked, curiosity filling his gaze.

  “About the phone call. When I questioned him about the discrepancy in time between his arrival at his building and the time he said he found his wife and child, he told me he’d remained downstairs, talking to his mother on the phone. But I met with Danielle Porter last night and she told me both Franklin’s parents were dead.”

  Lane’s eyebrows rose in surprise. Jett acknowledged his reaction with a grim nod before continuing.

  “I wasn’t sure I believed her, but I did some research online after she left and sure enough, they died when Franklin was twenty, just like Danielle said.”

  Lane looked bemused. “So, was there even a call, and if there was, who was he talking to for over forty minutes?”

  Jett stared back at his colleague. “There’s no way of knowing he was talking to anyone. We only have his word that he received a call. But if he did, why would he give us the name of his mother? He must have known we couldn’t verify that call. I remember thinking at the time it had to be right because it would be plain stupid to offer a name that could easily prove he was lying. Franklin Cook’s a smart guy. It doesn’t make sense.”

  “Perhaps he panicked?” Lane suggested. “Perhaps he was hoping you’d accept the information in exactly the way you did. If you hadn’t followed it up with further enquires, none of us would be any the wiser.”

  Jett stared at Lane. “Could it really be as simple as that? A fatal lapse in judgement? A stupid answer he gave by mistake? It sounds ludicrous.”

  “And yet, Al Capone was put away on charges of tax evasion. The most infamous gangster in American history got caught for something as basic as that. Stupid.”

  Jett nodded, still unsure he was convinced.

  “So, you met with the sister-in-law again?” Lane asked, his tone casual.

  Jett picked up his coffee cup and took another sip. “Yep.”

  “She’s a looker, I’ll give her that. How did it come about?”

  “What?” Jett asked, playing for time.

  At the mere mention of Danielle, he felt a blush creep up his neck. Soon it would spread over his face for everyone to see. He turned away and busied himself with the paperwork spread across his desk.

  “Your meeting with Danielle Porter. Did you call her in an effort to find out more information?”

  “No, actually. She called me.”

  Lane’s expression reflected his surprise. “Oh, all right. So she just called you out of the blue and offered up the titbit about Franklin’s mother?”

  “Yes. No. Sort of.” Jett’s blush deepened and he cursed softly beneath his breath.

  This was ridiculous. What did it matter that Danielle Porter was the most exquisite looking creature he’d met? She was just a woman, the sister and aunt of his murder victims. Nothing more, nothing less.

  Lane continued to look bemused. “Okay, which one is it?”

  Jett gritted his teeth and then forced himself to relax. There was nothing untoward going on between him and his witness. He had nothing to hide.

  “She called me, all riled up about the investigation, that we hadn’t made an arrest. I was still at the office. She demanded to know what was going on. She implied we weren’t working hard enough to find the killer. I guess I lost my temper. I invited her to come down and see for herself.”

  Lane frowned. “She came here? Last night?”

  “Yes. As you know, I stayed back late, going over things, trying to see if there was another angle, something we’d missed.”

  “So you told her about Franklin’s alleged phone call?”

  “Yes. I hadn’t planned on it. I just wanted to give her an update on where we were, but then she insisted Franklin’s parents were both dead.”

  “Which they are,” Lane stated.

  “And now we’re back to square one,” Jett finished with a grimace.

  “What’s your take on the sister?” Lane asked slowly. “You didn’t think she was involved in the early days, but what about now? Could she have had anything to do with it? She was quick to cast doubt on Franklin’s alibi—”

  “Her concerns turned out to be true,” Jett interrupted.

  “Yes, they did. Which brings us back to the question of why Franklin lied. Unless he was confused, and mixed up one conversation with another. I mean, he was talking on the phone about whatever, goes upstairs and walks smack bang into a gruesome double murder scene. It’s not beyond reasonable to accept his memory became a little scattered.”

  “Right,” Jett agreed. “But he remembered what clothes he was wearing the day it happened and it was nearly a week later that I spoke to him about them. And how could he forget his mother died years ago?”

  “His clothing had his wife’s blood all over them,” Lane replied. “Not so difficult to recall, I suspect.”

  Silence fell between them. Lane finally broke it. “You shouldn’t have told the Porter woman about that phone call. She’s still not off the suspect list.”

  Jett felt an instinctive denial forming on his lips. “Everything she’s told us has checked out. I’m certain she wasn’t involved.”

  “Are you sure you’re not discounting the sister because she looks like a Hollywood starlet? Toss in the fact her boobs could double as airbags—”

  “Stop!” Jett shouted, unwilling to listen to Lane’s disrespectful comments. Pushing away from his desk, he stood and rounded on his colleague. “You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about. Her looks have nothing to do with it. You ought to know me better than that.”

  Lane stood his ground. “What I know is that you were very quick to discount her as a potential suspect. I think right from the first meeting with her, you’d already made up your mind.”

  “That’s not true,” Jett replied, glaring at him. “She provided me with an alibi for the time of the deaths. It checked out.”

  “The guy is her AA sponsor,” Lane scoffed. “How reliable is that?”

  Jett clenched his fists and with a mammoth effort, clung to his temper. Any more sig
ns of annoyance would only confirm Lane’s suspicions: that where Danielle Porter was concerned, Jett wasn’t thinking clearly.

  “All right,” Jett said, his tone almost conversational. “I’ll reinterview the sponsor. If you like, you can come along, see for yourself.”

  “I might just do that,” Lane quipped.

  “Good.”

  “Good.”

  The two of them stood nose to nose. Eventually, Lane lowered his gaze and stepped away. “Let me know when you’ve set it up.”

  Jett continued to eyeball him, feeling grim. “I will and straight afterwards, I’m going to have another chat with Franklin Cook.”

  * * *

  Jett was surprised to discover Ben Fitzgerald worked as a lawyer in a busy, downtown office. Harton & Wentworth was a well respected law firm with a reputation for success. The first time Jett had interviewed him, he’d found Fitzgerald lying on the freshly mown grass of Sydney University’s No.1 Oval. He’d said he was enjoying the sun.

  With Lane in tow, Jett sat on the couch outside Fitzgerald’s office, tapping impatiently on his knee as he waited for the lawyer to see them. Fitzgerald’s secretary sat behind a desk across the way, ignoring them. The phone rang constantly. Jett could only assume the defense lawyer was in demand after the weekend. Eventually, the secretary answered a phone call and a moment later, she hung up and invited them to go in.

  In place of the Levis and T-shirt Fitzgerald wore the first time Jett had met him, the lawyer was dressed in a dark-gray suit and equally somber tie. He greeted them with an expression almost as serious.

  “Detectives, what can I do for you?”

  “We’re here to talk to you about the murders of Sabrina and Marnie Cook. We understand you know Danielle Porter, the sister of Sabrina?”

  A frown creased the broad, tanned forehead of the man who sat across from them. “Yes, I’m a friend of Danielle’s. I also know—knew—Sabrina.” Fitzgerald’s gaze landed on Jett. “I’ve already told you everything I know.”

  “We have some more questions,” Lane replied, keeping his gaze on the lawyer.

  Fitzgerald looked like he was going to argue, but instead, leaned back in his chair and sighed. “All right, ask away.”

  “How long have you known Danielle Porter?” Lane asked.

  “I met her ten years ago. She was eighteen. I was twenty-two.”

  “You told Detective Craigdon you met at a meeting for Alcoholics Anonymous. Is that correct?”

  Fitzgerald’s gaze remained steady on Lane’s. “Yes, that’s correct.”

  “So, you were an alcoholic,” Lane stated.

  “Yes,” Fitzgerald agreed. “I still am. We refer to ourselves as recovering alcoholics. We never make the mistake of believing that we’re cured. Just one drink is all it takes to fall off the wagon. None of us want to go there again.”

  “So, you met Danielle Porter at an AA meeting and eventually became her sponsor,” Jett continued. “That’s what you told me, right?”

  Fitzgerald studied Jett, his expression neutral. “Yes, that’s right.”

  “And you’re still her sponsor, correct?” Jett continued.

  “Yes, that’s correct.”

  “How well do you know Danielle, Mr Fitzgerald?” Lane asked.

  “As I said, I’ve known her since she was a teenager. We’ve shared many stories, bonded over our past. She’s a woman I think very highly of and I’d trust her with my life.”

  “Are you lovers?” Lane asked bluntly.

  Jett coughed loudly in surprise and then strained to hear the lawyer’s answer. A flicker of irritation passed across Fitzgerald’s face.

  “How is that relevant, Detective?”

  Lane’s gaze narrowed. “You’ve provided Ms Porter with an alibi at the time her niece and sister were murdered. I’m curious to know how close you are to Ms Porter and whether you have additional incentive to lend support to her story.”

  Fitzgerald held Lane’s gaze and then a moment later, looked away. “I still don’t see how it’s relevant, but yes, Detective. We were lovers.”

  Jett’s gut clenched and disappointment flooded his veins.

  “Were?” Lane questioned. “As in, in the past tense?”

  “Yes,” Fitzgerald replied. “We got together not long after we met. At the time, it seemed a natural progression of our relationship. She liked me and I liked her. We were both doing our best to come to terms with our addictions. She was helping me as much as I was helping her. We spent a lot of time together.”

  “What happened?” Lane asked.

  Fitzgerald shrugged. “We realized we loved each other more as a brother and sister. We ended the relationship. Fortunately, our friendship survived.”

  “How long were you sleeping with each other?” Lane asked.

  Once again, Fitzgerald turned his bemused gaze on Lane. “How is that relevant, Detective?”

  “I’m trying to piece together a picture of your relationship, Mr Fitzgerald. Everything is relevant.”

  “It might have been three weeks, maybe even a month,” came the impatient reply. “Not long, Detective. We’ve been friends for all the time since then. Whatever you’re thinking, Danielle didn’t do it. She loved Sabrina and Marnie more than anyone.”

  “More than Sabrina’s husband?” Jett asked, curious.

  Fitzgerald shrugged. “Love isn’t like that, Detective. There’s more than enough to go around. Let’s just say Sabrina and Marnie Cook were well loved by those around them. I can’t imagine who could have done this.”

  After jotting some points in his notebook, Jett brought the interview to an end. He and Lane stood and Jett thanked the lawyer for his time. The man was tall and broad shouldered with the kind of looks that would make both men and women look twice. It was no surprise Danielle had found him attractive. Knowing the relationship hadn’t lasted long gave Jett a modicum of relief.

  “What do you think?” he asked Lane as they headed outside into the sunshine.

  Lane shrugged. “He appears legitimate and his occupation will have sway with the jury, but he’s her ex-lover and close friend. He’s not exactly impartial.”

  Jett wanted to protest, but what Lane said was true. Still, Jett’s gut was still telling him she wasn’t the monster responsible. It was time to pay another visit to Sabrina’s husband.

  * * *

  Ben Fitzgerald closed the door behind the detectives and returned to his seat. He hated that Dani was being dragged into this. She’d already suffered enough. He hadn’t been lying when he’d told the officers there was no way she was responsible for the gruesome deaths. The very idea was preposterous. Still, he had to warn her that the detectives were once again looking in her direction.

  Tugging his cell phone out of his pocket, he dialed her number and was relieved when she answered.

  “Ben! How are you?”

  Quickly, he apprised her of the reasons for his call.

  “Why the hell would they want to know about that?” she exploded, as he knew she would.

  “They said they needed more information about our relationship. I’m sorry, Dani. I admitted we used to be lovers. They left thinking I might have good reason to cover for you, to back your story.”

  “You mean, my alibi?”

  “Yes,” he replied.

  “I can’t believe they’re still looking to me as a suspect!” she shouted. “What kind of dumb-assed, incompetent cops are they?”

  “I don’t know, but I got the distinct impression both of them were doubting you were with me when the murders happened.”

  “Shit!” Dani cursed, her voice filled with frustration. “Why the hell are they wasting their time? Franklin’s the one telling stories, not me.”

  Ben frowned. He knew Franklin Cook on a professional level and had met him a couple of times at social occasions at Dani’s place, but he didn’t really know him.

  “What are you talking about?” he asked.

  “Detective Craigdon told me on S
aturday night that there was a discrepancy in the time line of Franklin’s statement. He told them he arrived home at one-thirty, but footage from the security camera outside the building shows him entering the foyer at twelve forty-something. When the detective questioned Franklin about it, he said he was talking on the phone to his mother.”

  “But—”

  “Exactly,” Dani interrupted. “Doreen and Lionel Cook died years ago.”

  “Did you tell the detective?”

  “Yes.” Dani’s voice was grim.

  “Didn’t he trust your word?” Ben asked in disbelief.

  Dani’s voice turned grimmer. “I don’t know what he believed, but I’m sure as hell not going to take this lying down. Detective Craigdon has some explaining to do.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  The mid-afternoon sun beat down on Jett’s head as he and Lane made their way across the busy Pitt Street Mall toward their parked squad car. The glass windows of the storefronts were strung with brightly colored Christmas baubles and other decorations. The holiday season would soon be upon them.

  “It’s warmed up out here,” Lane muttered, swiping at the thin sheen of perspiration on his upper lip.

  “Yeah. Thank God for air conditioning,” Jett responded with a smile.

  “Where to?” Lane asked as he climbed behind the wheel.

  Jett took a seat adjacent to him and buckled up. “The Cook penthouse.”

  “Hunters Hill, right?”

  Jett nodded and turned to stare out the window. With a determined effort, he pushed aside thoughts of Danielle and Fitzgerald and concentrated on the interview ahead.

  The bright summer sunlight glinted off the deep blue ocean as they crossed the Harbour Bridge. Far below, the pristine white sails of a smattering of yachts snapped soundlessly in the light breeze. A ferry on its way back from Manly chugged across the waves, its outside decks filled with commuters enjoying the afternoon. Jett swallowed a sigh at their carefree existence in that snapshot of time, longing to be among them.

  Ever since he’d caught sight of Sabrina Cook lying butchered in the bath, he hadn’t been sleeping well. That was always the way when he was in the middle of an important and complicated murder case. He took his work seriously and wouldn’t relax until they had the killer behind bars.