The Stalk Club

by Neil Cossins

  “You can go on up to the house. They’re waiting for you. Just keep following the yellow brick road.” He returned to his little hut and the steel gates silently parted. Senior Constable Clayton gunned the police car through and headed up the driveway.

  Crighton had taken the precaution of phoning ahead without explaining the circumstances of the visit. He didn’t want to have to sit around for half an hour while the family dragged their arses out of bed. They followed the well lit driveway and were soon confronted by the house. It was an enormous post-modern creation that made the neighbouring McMansions look like cottages in comparison. It had been built five years ago after the Fogliani family decided that the forty square mock Tudor mansion that had adorned the site for the previous sixty years was too small for their purposes. Crighton was quietly awestruck by the sheer magnitude of the house and the neatly manicured gardens. For just a brief moment he wondered that maybe he had made the wrong career choice somewhere along the way. He looked over at Clayton whose mouth was slightly agape and wondered if he had similar thoughts.

  He snapped out of his reverie and focused on the job at hand.

  “Alright Senior, here’s how this is going down,” he said, fixing him in a steely glare that left no room for negotiation. “I will do the talking and I will answer the questions. You’re here for moral support only. Understood?”

  “Yes Sir.”

  “Good. Hopefully we’ll be in and out in twenty minutes.”

  They alighted from the car and made their way to the nine foot tall glass front door, but before they had a chance to test the doorbell, a swarthy, athletically built man, dressed in shirt and jeans, opened the door for them. He ignored Crighton’s greeting and ushered them into an empty formal lounge to the left of the entry. Crighton noted that the room was about the same size as the housing commission house that he had grown up in. The furniture was minimalist, metallic and looked uncomfortable and was probably the creation of an overpaid and overblown interior design consultant.

  After a short wait, Michael Fogliani entered the room. Michael was the fulmination of a fifty year migrant family dream. He was forty-two, charismatic, had two business degrees from Sydney University and understood that there were plenty of legal ways to make even more money than the illegal activities that had given the Foglianis their initial start on the road to success. Since the death of his father some ten years previously Michael had taken over the management of the family’s business interests and assets. Overcoming protests from some members of his family, including those of his Uncle Emilio, he had steered the family money into a string of legitimate businesses and investments and the Foglianis had never been more profitable or law abiding.

  “Superintendent Crighton, it’s nice to see you again,” said Michael, extending his hand in a warm greeting coupled with a smile. “And Senior Constable?”

  “Clayton.”

  Michael Fogliani was dressed in jeans and a striped Ralph Lauren polo shirt. Unusually for someone of Italian stock, his hair was naturally blonde – parted boyishly on the side - and his eyes were a soft blue. If he seemed concerned about the nature and the late hour of the visit he didn’t show it.

  “Please, take a seat,” he said gesturing to a white leather lounge as he seated himself in an identical lounge opposite. “What brings you out here at this hour Superintendent?”

  Crighton was still trying to hide his surprise that Michael Fogliani remembered him. They had only met once, briefly, at a charity sports dinner and auction eighteen months ago. Crighton recalled that Fogliani had dropped a lazy thirty thousand dollars or so on three or four items while Crighton had regrettably spent seven hundred and fifty dollars on a framed and signed photograph of Greg Norman striding up a St Andrews fairway wearing some very bad lime green pants and tartan patterned vest. After the auction, his wife had chided him mercilessly for getting carried away in the heat of the auction moment.

  Crighton leaned forward with his hands on his knees, trying to use his most sympathetic and understanding voice. He noticed that two old women stood in the shadows of the doorway listening, perhaps sensing something that Michael didn’t.

  “I’m afraid I have some bad news Mr Fogliani. Earlier this evening we discovered a body in a car in the suburb of St Peters. The identification that we found on the deceased indicates that this person was your uncle, Emilio Fogliani.”

  If Crighton had expected a hardened, unemotional response from the son of an underworld legend he was mistaken. The colour instantly drained from Michael Fogliani’s face and tears welled up in his eyes. He tried to hold them back in an attempt to hide his raw emotions but they flowed freely regardless. Their omens confirmed, the two women in the doorway clutched each other, left the room and could be heard wailing in another part of the house.

  “How? What happened?” Fogliani asked through his tears, incredulous, his voice thick with emotion. “Do…do you have any information on how he died Superintendent?”

  “We’re still looking into that Mr. Fogliani.”

  “Please, call me Michael,” he responded automatically.

  “Michael. We do know that he was shot several times and that it appears to be a homicide.”

  Fogliani wiped his eyes on his sleeves and tried to stem the flow.

  “I want to assure you that we’re looking into this and will leave no stone unturned to find out what happened. We will keep you informed at every step of the way.”

  “Good, and thank you.” The tears started again. “I’m sorry for this. It’s just that I lost my father about nine years ago and now my uncle. I thought we’d left all the grief in the past, yet here we are again.”

  “I am sorry for your family’s loss Michael.”

  “Thank you Superintendent.”

  “I’ve assigned two Detectives to the case. Their names are Nelson and Robards and they are some of our best officers. They are investigating the crime scene as we speak and will no doubt want to speak with you in the near future. If you could make yourself available to them it would be appreciated.”

  “Of course, of course. I look forward to hearing from them and will give them my full co-operation Superintendent.”

  The wailing from the other room increased in tempo and gusto, momentarily distracting Michael Fogliani.

  “If there is nothing further gentlemen, I need to attend to my mother and aunt.”

  “Yes of course Michael. I will leave you with my card. Please don’t hesitate to call me if you need anything.”

  “Thank you.”

  Crighton stood up to leave. “Oh and one more thing, someone will need to come down to the city morgue in Glebe to make a positive identification of the body. The detectives can organise a viewing for you.”

  Fogliani nodded numbly at the thought.

  Chapter 12

  Kylie Faulkner ascended the stairs in the Redfern apartment block she had been visiting on a regular basis for the previous few weeks. There was no lift so her already shapely calves got a workout on their way to the fourth floor. Normally she dressed down so as not to attract attention in a neighbourhood that was not renowned for its safety, but because of the hour and the occasion, she decided to take the risk and was wearing nothing but a woollen knee length coat and high heels. And anyway, at six o’clock Saturday morning there was no one about to witness her mad dash from her car into the building and up the stairs.

  Her knock on the apartment door was quickly answered by her recently acquired boyfriend, Manuel Torres. Despite the early hour, he was wearing a blue singlet and shorts and was covered in sweat after just returning from an eight kilometre circular run through the quiet streets. He had barely slept the previous night and needed the run to clear his mind.

  “Morning baby,” she said, reaching up to kiss him and then stepping past him into the apartment. She noticed with concealed amusement that he had made an attempt to tidy the small one bedroom apartment in preparation for her visit. “I’ve got a surprise for you.”


  “Oh?” He closed the door behind her and smiled, already feeling the tension beginning to ease from his tired limbs. Her presence always calmed him.

  “Yes, you deserve it for what you’ve done,” she said, her eyes flashing with excitement. She let her coat fall to the ground revealing her nakedness.

  “Now come and do whatever you want to me.” It took him the barest of moments to become aroused and pull her into the bedroom.

  They had met in a sports bar six weeks ago, just two weeks after his release from prison. Manuel had just begun to find his feet on the outside and had gone to visit his friend Bruno Trulli at Pellegrinos. After dinner and a quiet discussion with Bruno in Hyde Park he had gone to a sports bar to play pool and meet up with some of his workmates.

  Being an attractive woman sitting in a sports bar on her own at eleven p.m. on a Friday night, Kylie had attracted plenty of looks from men. Most of them would have liked to have taken her home and shown her the best few minutes of her life thus far – according to them - and despite being well and truly out of most of their leagues, some of them gave it their best shot anyway.

  She ignored the offers of free drinks, the cheesy one-liners and the looks she received until after thirty minutes she caught the one she was after. At the time, she had started to think she was losing her touch. She held the stare from Manuel’s dark eyes for about four seconds, before ending it with a half smile and looking back to her drink. She didn’t have to wait long as he approached her after some goading from his workmates. Their first night together was wild and energetic and such was her performance and his pleasure, it was never going to be just a one night stand. His enjoyment was heightened because it was the first time he had been with a woman since before he had been sent to prison. From that night onwards their relationship had blossomed and deepened and Manuel quickly found himself thinking that he had found the one who was made for him.

  **************

  They lay naked on the bed, Kylie facing away from him. The morning sun arrived and cast its weak beams across the bed and their white and brown skins.

  Manuel felt relaxed now and all the fears and anxieties of the previous twelve hours had slipped from his consciousness. He playfully traced the curves of Kylie’s body with his finger.

  “You have scars,” he said.

  “You have scars too,” she countered absent-mindedly, her green eyes staring into the distant cloud filled skies.

  “Yeah, but you know where my scars came from. A man doesn’t spend seven years in prison without picking up a few scars. But where do yours come from? Have you spent time in prison from computer hacking or something?”

  “No.” she laughed.

  “Well?” he said poking her gently in the ribs. She turned towards him, her face unreadable. “What about this one?” he asked, feeling the faded white line on her forehead just below her hairline.

  She stared at him and for the briefest of moments he thought he saw her face momentarily harden and lose some of its beauty before relaxing and returning to normal.

  “It was from many years ago. When I was fifteen.”

  Chapter 13

  Detective Nelson quietly entered the room, making small stealthy steps towards his quarry. The element of surprise was everything. He had left Robards at the crime scene to finish up the search while he dealt with other matters.

  “What have you got for me Arnie?” Nelson said, close to the pathologist’s ear in a voice that reverberated through the quiet cavernous room.

  Doctor Arnold – don’t call me Arnie - Agett, who had been bent over the corpse of Emilio Fogliani, nearly jumped out of his skin before realising a moment later who had sneaked up behind him. The protective cover suit that he was wearing was stained with blood and other body matter from the autopsy he had commenced an hour previously.

  “Oh for Christ sake Nelson! I suppose you think that’s funny?” He growled through his mask, brandishing a scalpel in Nelson’s direction.

  “Sorry Doc,” replied Nelson stepping back out of reach of the scalpel. “Couldn’t help myself.”

  “I will remind you once again that the city mortuary is not the ideal place for practical jokes. If it was just your arse on the line with this case I’d put it on the backburner for a week.”

  “It will never happen again, I promise,” replied Nelson with the barest of smiles.

  On the stainless steel table before him Emilio Fogliani’s body lay in pieces. The top of his skull had been hinged open and his brain had been removed and now lay in pieces on a stone cutting board beside several other of his internal organs. His chest cavity had been cut down the centre and was butterflied open.

  “Alright. I assume you’re not just here to scare the bejeezus out of me and you would like some preliminary autopsy results, so let’s get on with it.”

  “Yes, ok.”

  “Now, Mr. Fogliani here was shot three times at close range. I believe the first shot was to the upper left quadrant of his chest. It tore through his aorta and then bounced around his rib cage, fragmenting into several pieces along the way. The slug pieces are there,” he said pointing to a small stainless steel bowl which rested on a trolley beside his tools of trade.

  “It was a fatal wound and he would have been dead in seconds. The second bullet entered through the upper right quadrant of his chest. It went through his right lung and exited fairly cleanly through his back in between the fifth and sixth ribs. It probably wouldn’t have been fatal on its own, not immediately anyway. The third and final bullet entered through this hole just above his right eye,” he said indicating a small blackened hole with his scalpel. “It would also have been a fatal wound. As you can see in the brain here, it has caused considerable damage to the frontal lobe, the temporal lobe and the cerebellum. This bullet is still in reasonable condition although it has a few dents in it.”

  Nelson looked at the grey and gelatinous lump that had been sliced like a deli ham. He poked at it curiously with his pen.

  “Please don’t touch, Nelson. And next time you come in here I want you to be wearing a full cover suit alright?”

  “Sure, ok Doc, wouldn’t want the bodies to catch anything off me.”

  “Your shoes are going to stink for a month if you don’t wash them off properly before you leave.”

  Nelson checked his shoes and noticed that he was standing in a small pool of blood. For the hundredth time he made a mental note to put on the protective coveralls before entering the morgue examination rooms.

  “What else is there?”

  “The lividity present in his buttocks and legs indicate that he was probably sitting down at the time of his death.” Nelson bent down to look at the dark purple bruise-like patches that had formed under the skin as the blood had pooled in the lowest areas of the body post death. “Is that consistent with where he was found?”

  “Yes, he was found in his car.”

  “Makes sense.”

  “Anything else Doc?”

  “Not really. There were no other significant injuries to the body. The toxicology report indicates that Mr. Fogliani had been drinking on the night he died but not to any great excess. It’s also worth noting that Mr. Fogliani wasn’t in great shape medically. His lungs show the signs of heavy smoking for many years and were in such bad shape I’m surprised he didn’t carry an oxygen bottle around with him. Also his liver was well on the way to developing cirrhosis and I found what is more than likely the early stages of bowel cancer. In short, he probably had no more than five or ten years left in him anyway.”

  “You gotta die of something I guess. Thanks for putting a rush on this Doc. I appreciate it.”

  “No problems. As soon as I’m done here I’ll send you a copy of the official report. Then I’ll get someone to put him back together and clean him up so the family can make a positive identification.”

  Nelson exited the City Mortuary, glad to leave the stark and sterile environs behind him. He breathed the outdoor air deeply into his
lungs. The coolness of it seemed to cleanse and refresh him. Dawn had arrived while he was inside the morgue and brought with it clear skies and another day of cool winds from the south-east.

  Fifteen minutes later Nelson hung up on a phone call from Robards who provided an update on the ongoing search for evidence. Nelson felt upbeat about the case as he bounced up the stairs to the third floor of the Sydney Police Centre, located on Goulburn Street in the city. It was where the Forensic Services group labs and offices were housed.

  Nelson moved down the quiet corridor peering through the glass windows into each of the labs until he found one occupied by Mike Martinez and a young female Constable who Nelson had seen before but never met. Both of them wore long white lab coats and were bent over a work table illuminated by a bright desk light.

  “Morning again Mike.” Nelson said upon entry, his eyes immediately drawn to the bloodstained clothes from the deceased which were spread out on the tables. “How’s it coming along?”

  Martinez smiled. “I knew you’d be in a rush so I’ve processed the car and the clothes myself. Sabine here has been assisting me.”

  “Hi Sabine,” said Nelson shaking her extended hand and nodding his head. “That’s music to my ears Mike. I’m briefing the Super at nine a.m. and he’s not big on slow moving cases. Tell me what you’ve got.” Nelson pulled out his notebook.

  “Sure thing. Based on the level and spread of gunpowder residue and burn marks we found on Fogliani’s shirt, I’ve estimated that the shooter was standing approximately one metre away from Fogliani when he shot him.”

  Martinez stepped over to a full sized dummy that was seated in a chair. The dummy had three long fluorescent green rods inserted into it, replicating the trajectory and entry of the wounds suffered by Emilio Fogliani.

  “Allow me to introduce Howard,” Mike said indicating to the dummy. “He’s agreed to help us out today.”