The Stalk Club

by Neil Cossins

  Chapter 19

  Nelson and Robards cleared the city centre heading west on the M4 on making their way back to Headquarters. At one p.m. on a Saturday afternoon the traffic was about as good as it got and they sat on one hundred kilometres per hour for the most part.

  “Well I think that went well,” said Nelson, with a straight face that a B grade actor would have been proud of.

  “You’re kidding aren’t you?” replied Robards looking at him in disbelief. “Why’d you have to go so hard at him like that?”

  “Because he was stonewalling us and wasting our time. Better to set him straight and know that we’re not going to take his crap.”

  “Do you think he’ll make a complaint to Crighton?”

  Nelson considered the thought for the first time.

  “Maybe. Doubt it though. I reckon his family doesn’t talk to cops unless they absolutely have to. It’s who they are.”

  They lapsed into silence until Robards’ mobile started ringing to the tune of the pop song that was currently sitting at number one on the download charts. Nelson frowned at the noise as it scrambled his thoughts. He tried to follow the audible side of the conversation and became increasingly intrigued. After Robards hung up it took all of Nelson’s control not to immediately start interrogating him like a serial murder suspect. Sensing this, Robards focused his attention out the car window as the world sped by in a series of grey flashes. Nelson not-so-patiently waited him out and after a long minute Robards put him out of his misery.

  “That was Sabine from the lab. She’s got some good news for us.”

  “Why’d she call you and not me?”

  “Maybe she finds me irresistible. She’s only human. Or maybe your phone has gone flat again. She said she tried to call you but it went to voicemail. Don’t you ever charge it?”

  Nelson checked his phone and realised it was indeed flat.

  “Shit. I only charged this thing a couple of days ago. It’s a piece of crap. I need to get a new one but that cow Sharon in supplies, treats every new requisition as if the money was coming out of her own pocket.”

  “Are you finished?”

  “Sorry. You were saying something about good news?”

  “Yep. The blood on the gloves we found at the crime scene is a match to Emilio Fogliani. And it gets better.” Again Robards paused overly long for effect like a reality TV show host about to announce who had been voted out of the show, and in the process, turned another fifty of Nelson’s hairs grey. “She found a couple of fingerprints on the inside of the glove and CISB were able to get us a match. The guy’s got some priors too.”

  The Criminal Identification Specialist Branch or CISB for short, was part of the Forensic Services Group and specialised in all aspects of identification of suspects and offenders, particularly in the area of fingerprint examination.

  Nelson pumped his fist in pure delight. It was as animated as Robards had ever seen him. Nelson slammed the steering wheel of the car a couple of times for good measure.

  “That’s great news. It’s the break I was hoping for. Sounds like we’ve got enough for a warrant on this guy. When we get back I want you to put a profile of him together so we know who we’re dealing with and track down a current address for him so we can pay him a visit.”

  “Consider it done,” said an equally jubilant Robards, savouring the natural high that came with a breakthrough on an important case. “We’re going to nail this bastard to the wall.”

  “After that you’d better go talk to Crighton and let him know what’s going on. But don’t go talking to that fat seal Brede. He’s got a big mouth. If Crighton wants to fill him in then so be it.”

  Robards smiled broadly. Giving Crighton some good news was his kind of job.

  “Will do boss.” It was one of the good things about working with Nelson in that wherever possible he hived off any jobs that even remotely resembled public relations, preferring to stay behind the scenes and concentrate on doing the ground work. It gave Robards the opportunity to increase his profile.

  “When you get an address for the suspect, get someone to sit on him until we get the warrant ready. Get Bovis if he’s available, he won’t do anything stupid.”

  Constable Bovis was a mature aged recruit to the N.S.W. Police Force and despite being thirty-one, was the most junior member of Inspector VanMerle’s Detective team. Nelson liked him because he had more common sense than some of the young hotshots that came to the Homicide squad eager to make a name for themselves.

  “In the meantime,” continued Nelson, “I’ll keep the paperwork going and check up on the final autopsy results and with forensics. I’ll also find out if anything has come up on the video tape yet. Hopefully, touch wood,” said Nelson tapping himself on the head, “things will start to fall into place now.”

  When they reached headquarters, Nelson and Robards divided and went about their allotted tasks. Nelson sat at his desk and fired up his computer. While he waited for it he thought about how the gloves fitted into the case. It was a good breakthrough and had the effect of re-energising his wearying body as if he’d skulled ten cups of coffee. He was looking forward to an afternoon of methodically analysing the various streams of evidence they now had and building a picture of what went down in St Peters in the middle of the night.

  Nelson checked his email and found a copy of Arnold Faulkner’s autopsy report waiting for him in his inbox. He quickly scanned through the report and noted that there was no new information of any great importance. Plain and simply, Emilio Fogliani had been shot three times from close range and had died as a result of the gunshot wounds.

  “It’s a no-brainer,” said Nelson quietly to himself as he read it and then laughed at his little joke.

  He put in a call to Mike Martinez in the forensics lab.

  “Hi Mike, it’s Nelson again.”

  “Hey Nelson. I was just about to call you.”

  “Sure you were. That’s what all the girls say to me too.”

  “That doesn’t surprise me somehow. Anyway, it’s great news about the gloves. I’m glad we could help you cake-eaters fill in a piece of the puzzle.”

  “Makes a nice change. Have you got anything new for me other than your insults?”

  “Yeah, we managed to match the footprint plaster cast that was taken at the scene to a type of fairly expensive hiking boot that’s mostly sold in a number of outlets specialising in outdoor stuff.”

  “Outdoor stuff? Like camping stores?”

  “Yeah. It’s a good print too, so if you can find the boot we should be able to match it up pretty easy.”

  “Good.” Nelson was pleased with the way the evidence was starting to stack up. He hadn’t expected the footprint to somehow miraculously identify its owner but knew that if they could find the person who had made the footprint, matching it would be another nail in their coffin. Nelson’s goal in every case was to build a bank of overwhelming evidence, so that the accused had no room to wriggle out, no matter how good his lawyer was.

  “Anything new on the slugs or cartridges?”

  “No, we’ve run all the tests we could. There’s nothing else of interest there. Just find us the gun and we’ll tie up a match for you.”

  “I’m working on it. I’ll let you know if we find anything.”

  As he hung up he noticed the red light on his phone. He checked his voicemail and listened to the message from his roommate asking him if he was interested in going out for a card night at one of his mates places. As tempting as the invitation sounded, he decided cards would have to wait for another night.

  There were no other phone messages and he reflected that the positive side of Crighton’s tight control over the information being released about the case meant that he’d received no calls from journalists, although he guessed that Marie in the Media unit was having a busy day. Interest from other sources however was constant. News about the case had spread fast and wide through the Homicide Squad and several of the Detectives
who were about the office were a regular source of interruption to his work. Some offered Nelson their assistance on the case and others offered opinions on how Nelson should proceed with the case without knowing the full scope of the evidence that he was tightly guarding. Nelson politely accepted the advice while at the same time tried to give the realistic impression that he was very busy. Inspector VanMerle was the most persistent visitor and hung around Nelson’s desk like a bad smell and the pungent green tea that he habitually drank during work hours certainly did emit a bad smell. Nelson gave him a brief update on the case and thereafter tried to limit his side of the conversation to one word answers. Nevertheless, it was nearly twenty minutes of Nelson’s life that was wasted, never to be returned, before VanMerle finally got the message and returned to his office to work on his myriad of monthly reports. Nelson almost felt sorry for him but the feeling quickly passed.

  After he was satisfied that he was fully up to date with the paperwork on the case - including the litany of mandatory forms and reports that seemed to increase in numeracy and complexity each year - he put in a call to the video technician who had been burdened with the unenviable job of trolling through the warehouse security footage. After discovering that the tech had been at it all day and had only reviewed less than a third of the video and had found little of interest, Nelson decided to offer him a hand which was gratefully accepted.

  Nelson phoned his roommate and reluctantly declined the invitation to the cards night. He turned off his computer, locked his three drawer cabinet with the files inside and made the trip back into the city to the Sydney Police Centre. He spent the next six hours looking for the proverbial needle in the haystack with the video tech, however, his persistence was eventually rewarded.

  Chapter 20

  At one a.m. in the morning the winter rain came down in Sydney in sheets, turning the already dark and moonless night the colour of squid ink. Boots quietly splashed through small torrents in the gutters and then moved quickly into the shadows. No sounds above the hammer of the rain were made, no voices could be heard, no careless clink of metal on metal, as six men moved quietly through the night toward their target.

  As the rain beat down, a man’s body moved rhythmically back and forward, thrusting firmly and deeply into the moaning woman on her hands and knees before him. His skin was brown and stretched taut over his muscled back. The monochromatic blue tattoo of an octopus on his right shoulder swayed with his pulsating muscles as if it were alive and swimming in the sea’s current.

  Dressed all in black to mix with the shadows of the night the six men leapt up the twenty steps to reach their final destination. Their assault rifles poised, their balaclavas covering their faces, their hands making quick, abrupt and meaningful signals to each other as they moved into position.

  The woman’s body was soft, white and pliant. Her moans came louder as he touched deep inside her. Her sounds were covered by the falling rain.

  Excitement was building, the heady rush of adrenalin coursing through the men’s veins, everyone ready and tense. They could hear sounds now from inside and it added to their excitement, their readiness.

  He moved faster back and forward and she moved with him, louder, faster, just a little longer, just a little more, almost there.

  Back and forth, swung the key - a twenty kilo sledge hammer with handles - wielded easily, by the team’s biggest man, a man with Vikings for ancestors named Lars. It connected with the door’s cheap barrel lock and exploded the door frame into a shower of splintered wood. The six men poured through the opening in two seconds, guns raised, shouting verification.

  Craig Thoms was watching a Foxtel repeat of Sydney versus Essendon. It was hardly entertaining stuff as the Swans had as usual kicked only a handful of goals until halftime but there was little else on television at that time of night other than mindless infomercials. He was still having trouble sleeping. As his door disintegrated he jumped a nautical mile off his couch, his beer spilling over his jeans and shirt. It was all he could do to hold on to the contents of his already tight bladder as the masked, black clad men, rushed into his living room making one hell of an entrance. He looked at them in silent surprise, his mouth agape. Three of them immediately closed in on him and threw him roughly to the floor. His faced was pushed hard into the carpet and all he could see apart from how dirty his carpet looked, was several pairs of black boots moving quickly through the other rooms. Knees were none too gently placed in his right hamstring, left kidney and head. His wrists and feet were zipped tightly together with plastic ties.

  “Clear!” yelled the members of the Tactical Response Group who had rapidly searched his apartment. Their job finished, they exited as quickly as they had arrived, giving each other high fives, followed up with prolonged gangsta style handshakes. Detective Robards thanked them on their way out, entered the room and yanked the ninety-five kilogram frame of Craig Thoms to his feet, demonstrating his considerable strength.

  “Take it easy champ. I don’t want to hurt you, but I will if I have to.”

  Craig regarded the small blue eyes beneath the hooded brow that showed several scars from previous battles and believed him. Robards propped Craig up against the wall and patted him down roughly, removing his wallet from his back pocket. He checked the name on the licence and compared it to the man who stood before him.

  “It’s him. We got him,” he called over his shoulder to Constable Bovis who had followed him in. Robards regarded the man in front of him anew.

  “I’m Detective Senior Constable Robards, are you Craig John Thoms?”

  “Sure. That’s me. What can I do for you Detective?” Robards smiled grimly and wondered if he had a smart arse on his hands.

  “I have a warrant for your arrest and also to search your premises.”

  “What for?” It was a genuine question. Craig wondered which of his discretions with the law had caught up with him.

  “The murder of Emilio Fogliani.”

  Robard’s accusation came as a shock to Craig and yet in some ways it was just confirmation and fulfillment of a growing unease that had been plaguing him since the night before. It had kept him awake at night and had nagged at his consciousness throughout the day. It was a vague but persistent feeling that something was wrong, something didn’t make sense, that his luck had fled from him.

  “So what happens now?”

  “We’re gonna to search your place for evidence. Constable Bovis here will read you your rights and then you’ll be transported to the Parramatta Police Station where you’ll be charged with murder and held until your bail appearance.”

  Craig’s Westmead apartment fell in the jurisdiction of the Parramatta Local Area Command and the Parramatta Police Station was only five minutes walk up Macquarie Street from Headquarters.

  “Once we’ve finished up here my partner and I will come and formally interview you. Understand?”

  “Yes. Do I need a solicitor or something?”

  “That’s up to you champ. The Custody Sergeant who charges you will fill you in on your options when you get there.”

  Robards gave a few quiet instructions to Bovis and watched with a grin as Craig Thoms was taken away.

  Ten minutes later, Nelson picked his way through the debris of the smashed front door and pulled down his large golf umbrella. His noted with mild annoyance that his pants had still managed to get soaked as he had made his way through the downpour.

  “Sorry I’m late. I tried to get here as fast as I could. Family emergency. Trust me, you don’t want to know. Did I miss anything exciting?”

  Robards eyed him curiously. Nelson had phoned him just an hour before the prescribed time for the raid and briefly told him that he would be unavoidably delayed. He instructed Robards to go ahead with the raid and had hung up before Robards had a chance to protest.

  “Not really. We got him. Bovis and Trimboli just left to take him to the Parramatta station.

  “No injuries?”

  “Na, the
TRG locked it down tight. It was just him in the apartment.”

  “Good.” Nelson looked around the small living room, noticing the faded and torn blue couch, old wooden coffee table and small CRT television. “Nice place hey?”

  “Yeah. By the looks of him and his crappy apartment he’s probably your run of the mill deadbeat loser.”

  “Alright. Let’s get on with the search,” said Nelson. “How far have you got?”

  “Not very.”

  Robards showed Nelson through the one bedroom apartment. It had outdated seventies décor, the type of which hadn’t yet, and probably never would, come back into style. It was cramped and generally untidy. Two SOCOs had been waiting in the wings for the apartment to be secured and were now literally picking their way through Craig Thoms’ dirty laundry.

  Nelson’s phone started vibrating in his pocket.

  “It’s Superintendent Crighton. How did the raid go Detective?”

  Nelson checked his watch and noted that it was one-twenty a.m..

  “Don’t you ever sleep?” asked Nelson.

  “Last time I checked it was my job to know what is happening in the Homicide Squad Detective. Now, how did you go?”

  Nelson had wanted to keep the news about the arrest of the suspect quiet until he had a chance to interview him and hear what he had to say, just in case it somehow turned out to be nothing more than a very embarrassing mistake. It had happened before. Three years previously Nelson had been involved in a case where the body of a young woman had been unearthed by a bulldozer that was clearing a proposed construction site. Nelson had worked the case with his then mentor, Detective Senior Sergeant Mick Neale, or Mad Mick Neale as he was referred to by some officers in the Squad. They had worked the case night and day and were absolutely certain that all the evidence pointed to a well known local deviant who had harassed the young woman on a previous occasion. When he was finally located, they brought him in for questioning, full of certainty in their case, only to have it spectacularly fall apart when it was discovered that when the crime was committed, the suspect was serving a three month sentence in another state. They had ignored all other leads on the case because they were so certain they had their man, but by the time they realised their error, the case had gone cold and no arrest was ever made on the case. The thought of it still stung now. Nelson sighed and resigned himself to briefing Crighton.