by Sarah Bailey
Wade left behind a neat circle of blood bordered by a few uneven spatters. It’s the only indication that something bad happened here. Everything else suggests a roaring party.
‘How are you guys doing?’ I ask as we approach the team.
Brenton Cardona is meticulously studying sections of the bitumen with a small torch but he tosses me a toothy smile. ‘Fancy bumping into you like this again.’ He arches his back into a stretch. ‘We’ll be here a while yet.’
I crouch down next to him. ‘Have you found anything?’
Cardona rocks back onto the balls of his feet and looks at me, his dark skin velvety in the moonlight. ‘We found lots of things,’ he replies, ‘but in terms of useful stuff, we found shit so far. This whole scene is a mess.’
‘Yeah,’ says Priscilla Godfrey, one of the junior techs. ‘No body, and the leftovers of hundreds of random people dressed in costume and dripping fake blood. Plus, there’s general day-to-day shit, ambo footprints all through Wade’s blood and crap like this.’ She holds up a fake knife in one gloved hand and a fake gun in the other.
‘Definitely one for the memoir,’ quips Fleet, sidling up beside me. ‘Hey, Pris,’ he says, leering at her.
‘Hey, fuckhead,’ she replies, all but confirming the rumour I heard about them hooking up.
‘So basically, we’re starting at zero,’ I say, forcing the conversation back to the case. I look out across the park again, my breath making white trails in the air. My work phone rings and I mask a slight jolt as the electronic tones beat out into the darkness. It’s Isaacs. I step away from the group and tell our boss that we’re on our way. I give Fleet a quick nod. ‘We need to get back.’
‘Not much to see here anyway,’ says Fleet, looking directly at Priscilla again. She tosses him a nasty glare and then busies herself with tweezering a piece of fabric and a cigarette butt into a plastic bag.
Cardona rolls his eyes at them. ‘Hopefully that knife is smeared with a generous dollop of our guy’s prints and DNA,’ he says, ‘because apart from that, we’re pretty much nowhere.’
‘Don’t worry too much, mate,’ says Fleet, over his shoulder as he walks off. ‘Apparently the whole bloody thing is on tape.’
Wednesday, 15 August
10.38 pm
At least thirty reporters ambush us at the main entrance of the police station. They’re like a mob of crazed zombies from Wade’s movie, armed with phones, recording equipment, cans of Coke and takeaway coffees.
‘Are you on the Wade case?’
‘How was it at the hospital?’
‘Did someone plant a weapon in the props?’
‘Was it a crazy fan?’
‘Was it a random attack?’
‘What is the security company saying?’
‘Did Sterling Wade have a stalker?’
‘How is his girlfriend coping?’
‘Was Sterling having an affair with Ava James?’
‘Are there any developments on the homeless man’s murder?’
I keep my eyes on the ground. An enthusiastic young reporter with a halo of blonde frizz yells, ‘Gemma! Gemma!’ as she shoves an iPhone in front of my mouth. Shaking my head and pushing the phone away, I step around her and into the safety of the station. The door seals shut behind me and Fleet, neutralising the desperate symphony.
We exchange looks before he breaks the stare with a quick trademark wink, but I can tell he’s frazzled. I’ve dealt with the media before, had my fair share of hassles, but I’ve never witnessed anything quite like this frenzied desire for information. Leaving the hospital had been bad enough: a mob of reporters circled the building, joined by at least two hundred devastated teenage girls who wanted answers as badly as the journos did. Death is interesting, I get that. Especially when a victim is young and their death is violent. But Sterling Wade is clearly in a different league altogether. The journalists have their fangs out and they want blood.
‘In here, you two,’ says a gruff voice from behind us. Isaacs is standing next to a water cooler in the half light of an office doorway, drinking out of a mug that reads ‘Cop This’ and staring at the mob of reporters outside.
The artificially lit main room is a thrum of activity. Phones bleat, printers whir. I can hear the drone of a news report and a heavy thud as someone moves one of the case boards without releasing the wheels properly.
All attention is on us as we follow Isaacs to his office. I notice a gleam in the eyes of the juniors—they are primed for hunting. We are more like the journos than we like to admit: we all want the answers, we just tend to have different ways of getting them. And whether we like it or not, we’re all addicted to the story.
Nan and Calvin are already here, as is Chloe. They all look wired, riding high on the fresh pulse of death. I can feel it in me too.
‘How was it at the hospital?’ Isaacs asks, echoing the reporters.
‘Pretty intense, sir,’ I reply, taking the group through what transpired in the lavender-scented room. Eyebrows shoot up when I mention Ava’s name. ‘There wasn’t much hope when they brought him in, but once the hospital staff confirmed Wade had died, none of them were in very good shape. The girlfriend was bawling, demanding to see the body, and Ava went full diva, requesting sedatives and a private room. She had her own security there too—it was pretty surreal.’
‘What about the director?’ asks Isaacs. ‘Riley Cartwright?’
‘Weird guy,’ says Fleet. ‘He barely spoke. Then again, he’s lost a mate and probably a movie. That’s a pretty shitty day by anyone’s standards.’
‘We spoke to the ambos who brought Wade in,’ I say, ‘but they couldn’t tell us much that we didn’t already know. They said they thought it was touch and go from the start because of how much blood he’d lost at the scene.’
‘The surgeon said the wound was straight to the heart,’ Fleet says. ‘The guy had no chance.’
‘Did any of the cast or crew shed more light on what happened out there?’ I ask the group.
‘Nope,’ says Nan loudly. ‘No one has a clue. One second Wade was fine, you know, acting, the next he’s on the ground screaming in pain. They were all very emotional,’ she adds with disdain.
‘So did one of the zombies stab him or not?’ asks Fleet. ‘Or was there a surprise guest appearance on set that we’re not aware of?’
Nan shrugs. ‘My money is on a lunatic fan turned cast mate. That knife and the force that must have been used makes it seem pretty deliberate to me.’
‘Calvin spoke to the film’s producer at the scene,’ says Isaacs, ‘a Katya March. She’s getting us the footage from the shoot this afternoon as soon as possible, so hopefully that will provide some clarity. But based on the circumstances, we’re definitely treating this as suspicious. It seems likely that Wade was targeted.’
My pulse quickens. If Isaacs is right, this is huge. Until now I hadn’t really let myself believe that Fleet and I had a full-blown case on our hands.
‘We informed Wade’s parents earlier,’ Isaacs announces, interrupting my thoughts. ‘They live in regional New South Wales, a tiny place called Karadine. I had some local uniforms get to their house before the press did—which was something, at least. I spoke to them briefly. They’re in complete shock. I’m actually not sure that they really took in what I was saying or have got a grip on what’s happened, but they’re on their way here now.’ He glances at his watch. ‘They will be flying out of Sydney shortly.’ Straightening his head, he looks first at me and then at Fleet. ‘I want you two to meet them at the hospital morgue first thing in the morning. I’ll get someone to pick them up from their hotel. Get them to do the ID and then find out when they last spoke to him. Maybe he mentioned something that in hindsight seems important.’
‘We’ll need to speak with Wade’s management too,’ I say. ‘Don’t they normally manage the social media accounts and publicity? They might know if he’s received any threats.’
‘Yes, good idea. Try to speak with them
tomorrow as well.’ Isaacs leans forward. ‘I want us to make contact with everyone we can who was connected to that movie. The security plan needs to be gone over with a fine toothcomb. I want to know how people were allowed access on set and if anyone unauthorised could have gotten through.’
I start to make a list in my head. Isaacs is right: we need to know absolutely everything we can about the film set, and Sterling Wade. By unpacking his world, we’ll have a better chance of working out what happened today. Of course, the attack could have been completely random, a bizarre impulse that overtook one of the cast members, in which case our historical legwork will be a waste of time. But all the precedent on the planet suggests that there will be some kind of sign. People tend not to kill on a whim unless it’s in the heat of an argument. And Fleet’s right, that knife changes everything—it screams deadly intent. My skin is literally sparking with static electricity and a small shock jumps from my fingers as I lay my hand on the metal frame along the back of a chair.
‘Wade’s sister lives near the parents but I don’t know if she’s coming to Melbourne,’ Isaacs continues. ‘They have another son as well, living in country Victoria. Speak to both siblings if you can. Wade might have confided in them. His father, Matthew, also mentioned that Wade spent quite a few years staying with another family when he first moved to Melbourne, so we need to speak with them too. And find out who else he was close to. Talk to the tech guys tomorrow. I want all of Wade’s private and public correspondence reviewed. As far back as eighteen months. Maybe there are signs of stalking. Speak to his girlfriend and any close friends about that—they might have noticed something.’
‘Yes, sir,’ we say in unison.
‘If the parents do the ID first thing, we can move forward with the autopsy tomorrow afternoon. I spoke to Mary-Anne about it earlier. She’s back from leave tomorrow and will do it herself.’
‘Yes, sir,’ I reply.
‘What else?’ says Isaacs, looking at us.
‘We’ll start pulling CCTV from the city precinct tomorrow,’ I say. ‘So if someone fled the scene, there’s a chance we’ll be able to identify them.’
‘And I guess we’ll need to start going through the five hundred zombie witness statements at some point,’ says Fleet wryly.
‘How many uniforms can we have on this?’ I ask Isaacs. ‘We can manage the Wades tomorrow, maybe his agent and loved ones, but Fleet’s right, we need to start locking down the witness statements and there are a lot more than usual. We might need to set up a mass-processing area.’
Isaacs sighs. ‘We’re pretty stretched, as you all know, and another suspected homicide has been called in tonight already. But this is the priority for obvious reasons. I’ve pulled in a few extra boys and girls—they’ll be here first thing. Hopefully we’ll have thirty bodies confirmed by tomorrow morning. To be honest, you’ll be turning uniforms away. Everyone’s desperate to be close to this.’
I nod slowly, Walter Miller’s face springing into my vision. I realise I haven’t thought about him all afternoon.
‘What about the Miller case?’ I ask.
Isaacs looks at me. ‘Would you prefer to stay on the Miller case, Woodstock?’
There’s an uneasy silence. Nan looks back and forth between the two of us with a barely perceptible smirk.
‘No, sir,’ I say. ‘I just hope it will remain a focus.’
‘Ralph has the Miller case in hand and we’ll assign some of the juniors to assist him.’ Isaacs’ voice deepens. ‘With so much media attention on what happened this afternoon and the force’s link to the security plan, we need to be meticulous. Is that clear?’
‘Yes,’ I say, my face growing hot.
Isaacs turns to Nan. ‘I want you to help out on this when you have free time around the Jacoby case,’ he tells her, then looks at Chloe and says, ‘Stay back after this so I can brief you on the other homicide. We might need to shuffle some of the uniforms around.’
In my mind, I arrange Walter Miller’s worn face next to Sterling Wade’s glossy head shot. Even in death, Walter Miller’s life will be overshadowed by the more privileged, the more popular. The state’s stretched resources will continue to let him down.
Isaacs taps his foot on the ground, gearing up to dismiss us. ‘Clearly this isn’t what we need right now with our current open cases,’ he says. ‘And the media attention is going to make things extra challenging. The networks will have just as many people on this as we will, so we need to run a tight ship. Encourage everyone you interact with to avoid talking to journalists. That includes Wade’s loved ones. Let’s keep as much control over this as we can. I don’t want anything biting us on the arse.’
We march out of Isaacs’ office full of purpose. I square my shoulders and feel a pop in my chest as the stretch spreads down my spine. I consider setting up the case room before I leave, but it’s pretty clear that sleep won’t get much of a chance for the next few days and I have nothing in the bank, so I need to get as many hours as I can tonight. I’m old and ugly enough to know that pushing through on the first night of a case is a bad idea. Tempting as it is to let the rush take over, all you end up with are shitty decisions and a cowboy reputation. Fleet and I need sleep. The blue crescents under his eyes are no doubt mirrored beneath my own. I shake out my long hair and retie it in an elastic, forcing myself to focus for a little longer.
We quickly plot out a basic plan of attack for the next forty-eight hours. As always, the task ahead feels insurmountable, epic, but the thirst for figuring it all out has well and truly set in. I’m already completely consumed by what the hell happened on that movie set today.
Little red veins snake around Fleet’s eyeballs and he rubs at them roughly, digging his fingers into the corners and making me wince. ‘What a day, huh?’ he says.
‘Tomorrow will probably be worse,’ I reply.
‘No doubt you are right, Gemma Woodstock. You usually are.’ He says this like he’s imitating a BBC news anchor, but with a generous layer of sarcasm.
I swat at him half-heartedly. ‘Whatever. Right, well, I’m heading home.’
Fleet slides off the table. ‘Want a lift?’ He leans toward me, too close, and for a second I think that he is going to touch me. ‘I’ve got a spare helmet.’
I step backwards. ‘Nah, I’m good,’ I say lightly. I picture myself on the back of his bike, holding on to him as we tilt into the corners, the ice wind numbing my face. ‘I hate motorbikes.’
‘I love them,’ he says, smiling.
‘See you here early tomorrow.’ It’s not a question but I pause, expecting a response.
Fleet nods slowly, looking at me as he scrapes his front tooth with a fingernail. His pores are fast filling with dots of dark hair. ‘Yep, I’ll be here with the birds and the early worms. Fresh as a fucking daisy.’ He pulls his cigarette packet out of his jacket pocket and walks toward the car-park entrance. ‘See ya.’
I grab my bag and pull on my coat, wrapping a scarf high around my head. After I’ve given him a few minutes to clear out, I leave the station via the car park too, noting a couple of straggling reporters huddled near the concrete wall by the fire escape, smoking and talking.
I walk a block before pausing under the dim circle of light cast by a street lamp. I locate the packet of cigarettes at the bottom of my bag. Sliding one into my mouth, I close my eyes and suck in the smoke, holding it in before releasing it into the freezing air. I resume walking and check my personal phone. A missed call from Scott a few hours earlier. A missed call from Josh, who obviously wants to get all the gossip on the Wade attack, and three calls and a text message from Candy, who must be losing her mind over this. I read her text: ‘OMG Gemma! I totally can’t believe this. My number one toy boy is DEAD? Please, please tell me you are working on this. And call me back for fuck’s sake. I need to know everything.’ I text back that I will call tomorrow.
I see there’s also a text from Ben on Scott’s phone: a photo of his new soccer uniform laid ou
t on his bedroom floor, sent around the time I was helping a hysterical Lizzie Short get into the back of her brother’s 4WD in the hospital car park.
I start flicking through a couple of emails but the words blur on the screen. Rounding the corner, I extinguish my cigarette stub on the side of a bin and toss it in. I narrowly avoid stepping into a pack of drunk men who leer predictably at me. Water drips noisily from the end of a rusty drainpipe.
I buzz into my apartment and brace myself to push open the heavy main door. The air trapped in the stairwell is full of dinner and laundry. My thighs burn as I climb the stairs, imagining the moment Sterling Wade realised he’d been stabbed, that knife hitting his heart, the shock he felt as his fake world merged with his real one, and I wonder whether in those moments he knew who had attacked him, whether he knew who was behind the mask. Or did he die like Walter Miller probably did, his brain racing as the blood flowed out of him, trying to work out what was happening?
I pull on an old tracksuit and crawl into bed. As I drift off, I picture a crush of zombies, their gruesome faces morphing into one another until my mind is blank and the only thing left is the dark circle of Sterling’s blood on the cold empty street.
After two weeks in the soulless serviced apartment I took a twelvemonth lease on my overpriced, run-down shoebox high up in the air on Little Collins Street. It was empty and therefore available straight away. Impressive rings of mould circled the bathroom ceiling and dead flies littered the windowsills, but the real estate agent assured me that the location was ‘to die for’. The cottage back in Smithson had been the first place I’d ever lived in by myself and the aching silence had slowly boiled my blood. This was different. I was alone but it was noisy. Elevated. People surrounded me. I felt safer in the pounding heart of Melbourne than I ever had in Smithson.
It’s not like I’d never spent time in large cities. I had visited Sydney and Newcastle, but I was woefully unprepared for the permanent change of pace in Melbourne. The constant sounds, the steady flow of people. The height of the buildings. The colours. Everything was amplified. Teenagers here were moodier; professionals were more polished. The art was artier and the music was louder. I arrived sad and flat, but in spite of myself I was quickly charged by the beat of the city.