The Stalk Club

by Neil Cossins

  Nelson knew he’d had a good morning. He hoped that he had put an identity to the mystery triggerman that Craig Thoms had told him about and found the connection between the triggerman and the Fogliani family. It was heady stuff and he was half tempted to sit in his seat and bask in his own glory for just a couple of minutes. Instead he phoned Manuel Torres’ probation officer and got his current work and home addresses. Finding Manuel Torres was the key. When he got hold of him he’d let Robards go to work on him in the interview room. The probation officer told him that Torres seemed clean since leaving prison and although she pushed Nelson for information on why he was asking about Torres, Nelson gave her nothing in return. With the Manuel Torres file tucked under his arm Nelson stood and peered toward VanMerle’s office. To his relief, it was still empty. He asked one of the Homicide squad civilian administrative assistants where VanMerle was and was told he would be in budget meetings for the remainder of the afternoon. Nelson gave a quiet prayer of thanks to no-one in particular for VanMerle’s end of financial year preoccupation and smiled at the way his luck was holding. He grabbed his jacket and headed out to his own car to track down Manuel Torres.

  **********

  Nelson initially checked the panel beater shop in Balmain where Manuel Torres’ probation officer said he was employed, but was told by a tattooed grease monkey with body odour issues that Torres hadn’t shown for work in the last two days. Nelson accepted the information as a neat fit to his emerging theory that the Foglianis were pursuing Torres for the murder of Emilio Fogliani. He reasoned that Torres would be unlikely to return to his home address but decided to check it out anyway and see if his luck continued to hold. He drove to Redfern and leisurely drove by Manuel Torres’ apartment block on Elizabeth Street before parking on the side of the road sixty metres up from it in a position that afforded him a clear view of the front of the building.

  The building was four stories high and was built in the early sixties for housing commission tenancy. It was reasonably neat and tidy but couldn’t hide its undercurrent of underpriviledge. Nelson considered his options and decided to make a quick reconnoiter of the old apartment block before settling in to wait for his quarry. Entering the building he took the stairs to the fourth floor and quietly made his way along the hallway to Unit thirty-three. There was nothing out of the ordinary to be seen from the exterior of the apartment. The front door, while stained and marked by the passage of time, was intact. Nelson contemplated busting the door in and searching it for evidence. He knew there would be questions asked later if he did, but without witnesses he could deny responsibility. He had done it often enough before. On this occasion however he decided to try the patient approach and return to his car and wait. He was still smarting at his error in judgement in approaching Jennifer Nolan without any evidence to back him up and didn’t want to repeat his mistake.

  On his way out of the building he checked for other entry points where Torres might be able to sneak into the building out of sight of his vantage point, but was satisfied there were none, unless he possessed spiderman-like climbing abilities. Nelson returned to his car and settled in to wait. He hated stakeouts with a passion and struggled to sit still in a car for hours while still maintaining high concentration levels. He began to wish Robards was with him, as he possessed a keen set of eyes and also a seemingly never-ending supply of crude and amusing stories that he was only too willing to share.

  Nelson surveyed the street and those who were on it. Redfern was a suburb that no police officer enjoyed visiting. Its reputation for lawlessness and for pushing back against those who sought to tame it was second to none in Sydney. The road and foot traffic on Elizabeth Road was regular but not heavy. Most of the people in the street were a mix of either first generation middle Eastern and African migrants or ten-thousandth generation Aboriginals. Although the location was in the better part of Redfern, if there was such a place, Nelson kept his car locked and his keys in the ignition just in case.

  **********

  Three hours later Nelson was regretting the Grande sized cappuccino that he had brought with him to help him stay alert and keep the tiredness at bay. He looked through the car for a bottle to urinate into and was surprised and disappointed at his own cleanliness when he could find nothing. Darkness had come early thanks to the proximity to the winter solstice, so he alighted from his car, ducked behind a tree in a nearby garden bed and noisily urinated.

  As he was finishing up, a battered old VH Commodore rattled past and double parked in the street. Nelson’s presence was hidden by the shadows of the trees, where the street lights didn’t penetrate, and from his vantage point he watched a man leap out of the car and run into the apartment block. It happened so fast that Nelson wasn’t able to get a good look at him. With his curiosity alerted and his nerves tingling, he crossed the street and concealed himself beside a large four wheel drive. As he waited to get a closer look his phone vibrated in his pocket. He considered ignoring it, but his hand flipped it open.

  “Hey, it’s Pete. Where are you?”

  “I’m just on my way home.”

  Nelson didn’t think Robards believed him and didn’t care. “What’s up?”

  “I’ve got some news. Remember Jennifer Nolan from the Fogliani case?”

  “Yeah, sure, how could I forget.”

  “Well she’s just been found dead in her Woollahra apartment. Apparently she took a bit of a beating before she died. Bovis and I are still at Kings Cross station and heard about it from the LAC Detectives here who have gone off to check it out.”

  “Shit,” said Nelson taking the information in. “Anyone see anything?”

  “Yeah, a neighbour saw a guy running from the apartment block.”

  “Got a description?”

  ”Yeah, he had brown skin, shaved head and was of solid build.”

  “Torres,” Nelson said under his breath.

  “What did you say? I didn’t catch that?”

  “Ahh, nothing. It’s nothing.”

  As Nelson continued to quiz Robards for further information the man from the double parked car came out of the building. He scanned the street as he walked towards his car carrying a small suitcase. As he passed underneath a street lamp, Nelson’s heart skipped a beat as he recognised the face. It was Manuel Torres.

  “Look Pete, I’ve got to go. I’ll talk to you soon. Give me a call if anything new comes in about Nolan.” He snapped his phone shut. He considered asking Robards to provide backup for him but decided against it for the time being. He felt bad about leaving Robards out of the picture but wanted to follow the lead through to the end without having to explain or justify his actions to anyone else. It was something he would have to do alone.

  Manuel Torres jumped in his car and drove off, accelerating hard. Nelson sprinted back to his car, pulled out from the curb with his headlights off and followed at a discrete distance.

  Chapter 47

  Nelson followed the battered looking Commodore as it made its way northward through the city, crossed the Harbour bridge and wound its way along the Pacific Highway. Nelson found it difficult to conceal his presence because Manuel Torres had pulled over three times during the journey. As Nelson drove past the stationery vehicle on the first time Manuel had stopped, he looked into its lit cabin and had seen that Manuel appeared to be looking at something on his lap. After the third stop, Nelson realised that he was probably checking his progress on a street directory on his lap.

  It piqued Nelson’s curiosity even more and during the course of the journey he thought hard about where Manuel might be going and how it fitted with the case. A small seed of an idea began to germinate in his mind and grew with confidence after every passing kilometre. When Manuel turned off the Pacific Highway Nelson knew where he was going and was reasonably certain he knew why.

  After almost thirty minutes of driving, Manuel parked his car outside a Roseville apartment block and made his way inside.

  Nelson switched off his eng
ine and glided to the curb fifty metres behind Manuel’s Commodore. He again considered calling for backup, this time from the nearest Local Area Command, but decided against it for the time being as he didn’t want the outcome to be hijacked by the wailing sirens of a couple of squad cars filled with energetic and nervous young Constables. He checked his weapon, got out of his car and headed into the apartment block.

  Nelson entered the lobby with gun drawn. He tried to quieten his beating heart which pounded heavily in his ears and throat. He looked up through the dim central staircase and thought he could hear faint voices filtering down to him from above. Moving quickly yet cautiously he went up the stairs, bypassing the silent first floor and making his way to the second. He could almost make out the voices now.

  He crept down the short corridor, honing in on the raised male voice. The door to apartment ten was ajar by about forty centimetres and light spilled out into the hallway from within. The frame of the door had been shattered and broken shards of wood lay on the floor.

  A door opened behind Nelson and he swung around instantly, ready to retaliate against the surprise attack. Within a split second of pulling the trigger he realised that it was just an old woman, a nosey neighbour, with incredibly lousy timing or a euthanasia wish. He lowered his weapon, showed her his badge, urged her to silence, frantically waved her back inside her apartment and was relieved to find that his heart was still beating within his chest cavity. Taking a few deep breaths which had no effect, he sidled quietly and smoothly along the wall until he was just outside apartment number ten. He focused his hearing on the enraged voice within.

  “Do you think I’m completely stupid Kylie? I know what you been doing. You set me up.” The words were bitterly spat out, the tone was menacing and hard edged.

  “C’mon baby it’s not like that. I didn’t do anything. I didn’t tell anyone anything. I helped you, remember?” she replied, her honeyed voice, calm and soothing. “I gave you someone to take the fall for you so you’d be safe. He’s already been arrested for it.”

  Manuel Torres looked into her sea green eyes, searching for a hint of a lie and saw nothing. He wondered if he was making a terrible mistake in accusing her and that maybe someone else could have known about the murder and taken the photographs. She had been so good to him, so good for him. He shook his head in an effort to clear it and pressed his hands against the growing pain in his temples. He looked away to block out the sight of her and give his mind time to think. His resolve to exact revenge had been diluted by her convincing words and thoughts rushed through his mind, confusing him. And yet, it had to be her, there was no-one else. He looked back to her and noticed her eyes quickly dart back to him. For the briefest of moments he had seen something in her face before it had been wiped clean to be replaced by a different look. What was it? Fear? Anxiousness? What had she been looking at?

  He looked toward where he imagined her eyes had been focussed and his eyes fell upon an eight by ten framed photo on the television set. It was a photo of Kylie draped warmly over another man. The inference of intimacy was unmistakable.

  Kylie saw his eyes go to it and quietly cursed. She looked longingly toward the open door but didn’t highly rate her chances of escaping through it, at least not intact.

  “That’s just an old photo. Someone from the distant past,” she said, hoping to placate him. It was to no avail. Manuel’s confusion and doubts evaporated.

  “You’re a fucking liar,” he shouted. The force of the accusation made her flinch involuntarily. He raised the gun and gestured at her. “You played me bitch.”

  “No, no baby I didn’t,” she said, knowing her control over him was gone. Her control over herself was barely in check, as panic clamoured at the edges of her consciousness, searching for a way in.

  “Where are the fucking photos?” he snarled. “Give them to me now or so help me I’ll blow your fucking head off.” He pointed the gun straight at her head and Kylie stared at the dull burnished metal of the weapon, transfixed, unable to speak. She thought she had the strength to be calm in any situation, but as she looked down the barrel of his gun, the remainder of her facade receded away like an outgoing tide, leaving her naked and alone.

  “Where are they?” he shouted again.

  “Ok, ok. Please don’t hurt me,” she begged, as legitimate tears began to roll down her cheeks. “I’m so sorry, it wasn’t meant to be like this.” She reached into her bag on the floor and removed a large yellow envelope which she passed to him and then backed away slowly.

  Nelson stood outside the door, waiting, listening, fascinated by the conversation within, slotting each sentence neatly into the case as they were spoken. Through the gap in the door he could see Manuel Torres standing, gun in one hand and envelope in the other. Nelson guessed that the contents of the envelope was all that he needed to ensure Craig Thoms escaped a wrongful murder conviction and yet despite witnessing the scene of impending doom play out before him he was uncertain of his next move and remained rooted to the spot as competing priorities and agendas decayed his resolve.

  Manuel Torres rifled through the envelope. It contained photos of him shooting Emilio Fogliani and a dvd which he correctly assumed contained more of the same incriminating evidence. His rage hit new heights and his hand began to shake now that his doubts had been replaced by a cast iron certainty that it had been the woman he thought he loved, the woman standing in front of him, who had betrayed him. He realised he had known all along, but a part of him had resisted the truth until now.

  By telling her of his plans to murder Emilio Fogliani he had put Bruno Trulli at terrible risk if his part was discovered. His disgust at his own stupidity was more than he could bear. His face was fixed in a hard and cold grimace and a horrified Kylie backed away in abject fear. All her planning had turned to dust in the last five minutes and now she faced death.

  “Please baby, don’t hurt me,” she cajoled meekly. “We can go away together. We can get away from this place. I’ll do whatever you want. Anything. Whatever makes you happy.”

  Her words were to no avail. Manuel’s resolve flooded his senses with certainty. It was time to erase a very bad mistake. He raised his gun and fired. In a last ditch moment of clarity Kylie cast aside her fear and faced her fate head on. The gunshot split the air and the bullet travelled the five metres that separated them in an instant, thudding audibly into her body and propelling her backwards to the wall where she slumped to the floor.

  Nelson stood transfixed outside the door and tried to control his breathing and stay calm. His heart was pumping, and despite the coolness of the night, sweat trickled uncomfortably down his back and formed wet patches on his shirt. He held his weapon tightly in both hands and quietly shouldered the door open. Manuel heard nothing as he stared blankly at Kylie on the ground, his face a mask of regret and pain as if he too had been shot.

  “Police, Police,” Nelson yelled, his Glock pistol steadfastly trained on Manuel’s chest.

  Manuel moved his gaze to Nelson. He looked at the weapon in his hand, a thousand thoughts rushing through his mind. He slowly raised it toward Nelson, but well before it reached perpendicularity Nelson fired three times in quick succession. Manuel Torres’ body was flung violently into the air. He was dead before he hit the floor.

  Chapter 48

  Nelson entered the apartment cautiously. He searched the other rooms of the small two bedroom apartment quickly, to ensure there were no unseen threats. He then moved to Manuel Torres who had fallen on his back as he died and noted grimly that all three of his shots had struck home. His blood lay in a growing pool around him, bright red, contrasting vividly with the light brown polished timber floorboards. He checked for a pulse and not surprisingly found none.

  No-one would survive with three gaping holes in their chest, but he kicked Manuel’s gun away from his body anyway and made a mental note to have it checked ballistically against the Fogliani murder weapon.

  Nelson eagerly but gently pried the env
elope from Manuel’s dead fingers and checked its contents. A miasma of elation and relief welled up inside him as he confirmed the contents contained photos of Manuel shooting Emilio Fogliani and that the dvd was still intact.

  “Now I understand why the Foglianis were after you,” said Nelson conversationally to Manuel. The last piece of the puzzle had fallen into place and he knew it would be more than enough to bring an end to the case and free the wrongly accused Craig Thoms. As he studied the photographs a flicker of movement in the corner of his eye drew his attention.

  He looked toward the body of Kylie Faulkner and realised that in his eagerness to get his hands on the evidence he had not checked on her, and for a supposed corpse, she was making a good fist of struggling her way into sitting position with her back against the wall. Nelson studied her pale, unlined face and thought how young, small and fragile she looked. An abject feeling of disgust and revulsion for his inaction of the last few minutes crashed across him like a following wave and forced him to look away.

  Kylie Faulkner clutched her shoulder with her hand and blood trickled through her fingers and down her white blouse. Her breath came in quick shallow gasps. She watched Nelson closely, through pain-slitted green eyes. He moved to her, gently prised her hand away from her shoulder and inspected the wound. The bullet had missed bone and major blood vessels and only gashed the muscle and skin above her collarbone. He retrieved a tea towel from the nearby kitchen, folded it twice and placed it over the wound.

  “Hold this as tight as you can bear.” She grimaced through the pain but held it firmly in place. Nelson stood up and paced around the room in deep thought. His face was unreadable. After a minute he seemed to finally come to a decision. He grabbed a chair from the dining table, reversed it and sat facing her.