by Sarah Bailey
Ravi Franks speaks up, his gentle accent turning his words to melody. ‘Was there any hint of Wade being stalked or threatened? You hear that a lot with celebrities.’
‘Nothing has come up so far but that’s definitely a possible scenario,’ says Fleet. ‘That’s why we’re asking his agent about any odd communication. So be on the lookout for anything that suggests he was followed or watched, even if it seems small.’
‘Did he have a girlfriend?’ asks a tall, wiry cop with a thick close-cut beard.
An older-looking blond uniform leans forward across his row of chairs to address the bearded guy. ‘Yeah, he was seeing that actress. From that kids’ show.’
‘Elizabeth Short,’ I say, cutting off the pop-culture quiz. ‘She’s an Australian actress and was in the movie with Wade. She witnessed the attack and went to the hospital with him. She wasn’t in great shape last night, but we’re hoping to talk to her again later today or tomorrow.’
A few of them nod in recognition. I exchange a quick look with Fleet. ‘But we have reason to believe that Wade might have been in another relationship.’ I look around the room seriously. ‘This goes no further than these four walls. There’s a possibility that he was also involved with a man, his flatmate Brodie Kent.’
Eyeballs bulge and one of the guys whistles.
‘I mean it.’ My voice is firm. ‘That stays with us.’
Up the back of the room, a hand is raised.
‘Yes?’ I say.
‘I heard Wade was involved with that American actress. Ava someone. My girlfriend was talking about it a few days ago.’
‘Mate, this is a homicide investigation, not Entertainment Tonight,’ says Fleet rudely and the guy turns a vibrant shade of red.
Isaacs’ face remains impassive at the rear of the room.
‘You two,’ says Fleet, spinning around and cocking his thumb at a pair of young women sitting in the front row, ‘check Kent out. I want everything you can find over the past two years. Woodstock and I will talk to him again, try to lock down a proper alibi and visit the alleged love pad, but I want as much background as you can get.’
‘Maybe it was a lover’s tiff?’ ventures a tall young man with pretty blue eyes.
‘I definitely got an odd vibe,’ replies Fleet. ‘He’s one of those arty, spiritual types. And his whereabouts yesterday afternoon are vague at best.’
‘Kent claims to have been in the city but can’t recall exactly where he was when the attack happened,’ I say, annoyed at Fleet’s snap judgement of Brodie.
‘Hence why we’re looking into him,’ Fleet cuts in.
‘Maybe someone found out about their relationship and flipped?’ says a woman with a thick plait hanging down her front. ‘If Wade was gay, could this be a hate crime?’
‘It’s possible,’ I say. ‘We certainly need to look at any correspondence he received with that kind of flavour.’
‘The false sense of familiarity people feel toward a guy like this is huge,’ Fleet says with barely concealed contempt. ‘At this stage, we’re keeping an open mind about everything.’
I continue: ‘We need you to dig up as much as you can. Just remember, the film set was under pretty tight security so it’s likely the attacker had credentials or evaded the guards somehow. We need to find out as much as we can about how the production company managed access to the set yesterday.
‘And just to add to the fun and games, Ava James contacted our station this morning to lodge a sexual assault claim against the film’s director, Riley Cartwright,’ Fleet tells the group. ‘We’re going to have the sex assault unit inform him of it today and start the ball rolling on that front, and Woodstock and I will speak with James today about Wade’s death. We’ll try to get to Cartwright about Wade tomorrow. For now we’ll keep the two lines of inquiry separate. We have no idea if there’s any link but it’s something to be aware of.’
Heads dip forward as notes are scrawled.
I look around and shining eyes blaze back at me. They are ready.
‘In a few minutes Edo will set the footage from the film up in here for you all to watch. And remember, keep things tight. The media attention is going to be intense and we can’t afford to let anything slip.’
I swiftly walk them through our case meeting times, the shifts and the rules around overtime. They seem freshly charged, already looking forward to dinner parties a few months from now when this is all in the past and they can allude to the odd detail about the case and drop juicy information about the slain movie star. I get it: at the end of the day, not many people are immune to the lure of fame and, on the surface at least, the players we’re dealing with here are a lot more intriguing than those in the normal hopeless cases we navigate.
Walter Miller’s body bubbles up in my mind and I feel a wave of guilt at the speed with which this shiny new case has captured my attention. It’s captured everyone’s attention and I can’t help but wonder how Miller’s daughter feels about his death being so quickly pushed off the front pages.
I gather up my papers and turn to face Fleet, who’s trying to dislodge something from his nostril with the tip of his thumb. ‘Ready to speak with Ms James?’ he asks.
‘Yep.’
Checking my personal phone on the way to the car park, I listen to a breathless voicemail from Candy, berating me for not calling her back. She’s planning a huge feature on Sterling Wade for her news website, and through her initial research has discovered that Matthew and April Wade appear to be in serious financial trouble. The word around town is that they’re on the brink of declaring bankruptcy.
Thursday, 16 August
11.51 am
Ava James’s hotel suite is less than two hundred metres from where Wade was attacked, a little further down Spring Street toward Carlton. With a start, I realise it’s a hotel I’ve been to before. An image of the greying hair and lean body of a distinguished-looking businessman dances through my mind as Fleet and I elbow our way through grieving teenagers, pushy journalists, snap-happy tourists and grim-faced security guards. Entering the opulent lobby, we show our IDs and are directed into a gold-plated lift.
Emerging several floors up, we wait as a security guard with a deep pout solemnly reviews our credentials before rapping sharply on the hotel-room door.
Ava appears, clad in a huge white bathrobe, her long red hair combed and wet. She leads us into the main room where she collapses onto a garish floral sofa and proceeds to trace its pattern with her finger. A blonde assistant with a neat bob places glass bottles of sparkling water in front of us before disappearing into a bedroom and pulling the door shut behind her.
‘Okay,’ says Ava, taking a deep breath. ‘Do you want me to tell you what happened with Riley Cartwright?’
‘Yes,’ I say, ‘but let’s talk about yesterday first.’
If she’s surprised at this U-turn, she doesn’t show it. She launches obediently into a detailed description of yesterday’s events. She didn’t see the attack; she was in a temporary trailer in the Treasury Gardens, but she was half-watching the scene on a split-screen. After a while, she could tell something was wrong.
‘Was anyone in the trailer with you?’ I ask.
‘No,’ she says flatly. ‘I was meditating.’
Fleet snorts quietly and I cover it with an awkward cough, before asking, ‘And how long had you known Sterling?’
‘Only eight weeks,’ she replies. ‘Since I arrived here for rehearsals. But we hit it off straight away.’ She squeezes her eyes shut. ‘He was the most incredible person. So generous and so talented.’
‘Did he ever mention anything to you about any unwelcome attention?’ I ask.
‘Only from the media,’ she says. ‘It was getting pretty intense. We were followed a lot of the time but he was always pretty cool about it.’ She shakes her head in disbelief as tears drip down her porcelain-smooth cheeks. ‘I really can’t believe any of this. It’s just crazy.’
‘Okay,’ says Fleet, shifting
gears. ‘So let’s talk about Riley Cartwright. You called the station this morning to report him for sexual assault.’
She wipes under her eyes and nods. ‘Look, I want to be clear that I respect him as a director. Working with him was the original reason I signed on to do the film—there’s no question he’s gifted. But I’ve decided he can’t get away with this.’ There’s a defiant tilt to her head as she delivers her little speech and I remember the same movement when we met her at the hospital. She exudes an unusual confidence typically more evident in men. ‘I know it might ruin his career and that’s a shame but it’s the right thing to do,’ she continues. ‘And I know Sterling would want me to come forward.’
‘Tell us what happened, Ava,’ I say, looking her in the eye and trying to convey that it’s completely safe for her to talk to us.
She sighs, combing her long hair with her fingers. ‘I so wish I hadn’t been put in this position.’ She breathes slowly in and out. ‘Okay so, as soon as I arrived in Melbourne it was clear that Cartwright had a thing for me. At first it was just flirting, maybe he was a little too touchy sometimes, but nothing I couldn’t handle.’ She sits up straighter. ‘But then it just became weird. During our run-throughs he would always ask me to stay back afterwards. He suggested we go out for drinks to talk about my character. He kept mentioning that we were both single. It was uncomfortable but not, you know, dangerous or anything.’ She shrugs, her eyes set on the floor. ‘But then last Friday it went too far.’
‘What happened?’ I ask.
‘Well, it was the last day of rehearsals. Everything was going well. Sterling and I had nailed the big rescue scene, which is really full on.’ She dabs at her eyes. ‘We wrapped and I went to my dressing room and started to get changed.’ Her gaze flits all over the place and she speaks more quickly. ‘I had music on, I was kind of dancing around a bit, just unwinding, and then suddenly he was there putting his arms around me.’
‘Cartwright?’ confirms Fleet.
‘Yes,’ she says softly. ‘He snuck in—I swear I didn’t know he was there. He grabbed my breasts and was saying how he’d wanted me the whole time. How watching me with Sterling was driving him crazy.’ She blinks. Her skin tightens around her jaw. ‘He was really rough—he pushed me up against the wall and said he could tell I wanted it. He was pressing into me. I could feel he was hard, and he was grabbing me all over.’ She shakes her head firmly, flicking her hair. ‘I told him to get off me or I’d scream.’
‘What did he do?’ I ask.
‘He asked me if I was sure.’ She laughs bitterly. ‘I told him to fuck off.’
‘Then what happened?’
‘I left. I didn’t say anything to anyone, I just ghosted.’ Fresh tears sprout from her eyes. ‘Sterling was texting me, wanting to know why I didn’t come out for drinks, but I just didn’t want to be anywhere near Cartwright.’ She chews on her pillowy lip. ‘I didn’t want to wreck the night for everyone. A good vibe was going with the whole crew.’
‘But you ended up telling Sterling what happened?’ I say.
‘Yes,’ she replies quietly. ‘He’d noticed a few things and asked me about it before. He knew something was wrong. I met him for coffee on Saturday morning and ended up telling him everything. He went nuts. He said it was an abuse of power and trust, which I already knew, but he said Cartwright had to be told it was wrong and that he’d speak with him about it.’
‘And did he?’ asks Fleet.
Ava dips her head forward, huge eyes looking up at us. ‘Yeah, he went into the studio on Sunday morning to confront him. Cartwright denied it happened the way I said and they had a big argument.’
‘And where is this studio?’ I ask.
She tucks her legs underneath her, hugs a cushion to her chest. ‘At a warehouse in the Docklands. It’s one of the main shooting locations.’
‘You were there?’ I press.
‘I was waiting in the car,’ she tells us. ‘Sterling was pretty upset about the whole thing.’
‘Was anyone else there?’ I ask.
‘I don’t think so. Possibly the producer, Katya March. She’s normally wherever Cartwright is—but I’m not sure.’
‘Did the men fight physically?’ Fleet asks.
She shakes her head. ‘No, just argued. Cartwright said he’d only been “mucking around” and told Sterling to mind his own business.’
‘And that was it?’ I say.
‘Yeah. Sterling drove me back here and said that if Cartwright ever touched me again, he would kill him. He really wanted me to report it but I didn’t want to ruin the movie. I just figured we’d finish filming and I’d leave and, you know, whatever.’
‘What was it like the next day?’ Fleet asks. ‘How was Cartwright?’
Ava shrugs. ‘Everything was kind of normal. Cartwright was pretty frosty with me and Sterling, but I was fine with that. I just wanted to do a good job and I’m used to dealing with moody directors.’
‘But you obviously want to take it further now?’ I say.
‘Yes.’ Her jaw hardens again, her eyes flashing sapphire. ‘I do. The movie is ruined now anyway. And like I said, I want to do it for Sterling.’
Fleet and I navigate through a mob of reporters to our car and make it to the Forensic Medicine Institute just in time for Wade’s autopsy. We walk down the long hallway past the Coroners Court and ring the bell at the end of the corridor. Mary-Anne’s assistant scans us in and we are immediately greeted by the distinct smell of dead flesh and chemicals. I know from experience that this means there is a decomposing body in the house today. I try to let the cool airless room calm my thoughts, but when I hear the snap of surgical gloves being pulled on, butterflies swirl in my chest. I take a deep breath and exhale slowly. Even after all this time and all those bodies, I still have to steady myself for this.
I focus my gaze on Wade. Odd to think that yesterday this lifeless man was the epitome of youth and health, headlining a major Hollywood production. Life is so binary, the moment of transition to death ultimately a beat in time, no matter who you are.
Dr Mary-Anne Tallis enters the room from her office, her face grim as she gets started. Fleet and I stand politely in the viewing area as we watch the bizarre show. Wade’s celebrity clogs the air and it seems we’re all struggling to breathe around it. It feels almost obscene to watch his deconstruction: his body is so perfect, it creates a sense that the whole procedure should be private. Fleet must feel it too—he jiggles on the spot and can’t seem to let his gaze rest in any one place for too long. In contrast, I stand rooted to the floor, staring. Something about the gaping red gash on Wade’s chest adds to his godlike status; it makes him seem even more like a leading man, a throwback to the mighty warriors slain in battle.
Mary-Anne’s young assistant is obviously trying to manage her emotions but is struggling in the presence of such a high-profile corpse. Her hands shake as she passes Mary-Anne various implements. I can’t say I blame her: not too many people will be able to claim the kind of intimacy that she’s about to have with the famous actor.
Mary-Anne measures Wade’s limbs, reels off his vitals, checks his teeth and his eyes. She examines the wound, measuring its length and using tweezers to pull the edges back. Eventually she cuts him open and starts to handle and weigh his organs. The assistant, Lily, hovers around, swabbing parts of Wade’s body, bagging hairs and fingernails and taking photos under Mary-Anne’s patient instruction. His final photographs, I think, which seems especially sobering considering how photographed Wade was when alive.
I wonder what it would be like being relentlessly documented like Wade was. So known, so wanted. Not the instinctive pull that Ben had toward me as a baby, not the primal maternal cravings I sometimes have for him now. Not even the inexplicable pull of desire that takes over in the first throes of a relationship. Instead Wade experienced a mass, tribal neediness, an expectation that he perform, deliver, and be available to millions of strangers. To be admired so much and to be so fami
liar to so many—it must do something to your head. I wonder how easy it is to know who you are if everyone else is so busy deciding for you.
‘I can’t tell you much,’ sighs Mary-Anne eventually, with uncharacteristic flatness. ‘Aside from the obvious, he’s perfect inside and out. He’s giving me nothing.’ She looks down at Wade with a hint of disapproval.
All pathologists want to find clues on the dead. This is the victim’s last chance to talk, to explain what happened, and when something turns up it creates a strange but real bond between pathologist and corpse in an otherwise one-way relationship.
Still looking at Wade’s body, she continues, ‘Your killer is likely right-handed. I’m fairly certain that the knife collected from the scene is the murder weapon. The blade measurements match this chest wound. We won’t get the blood results for at least a week but I expect it’s all his. From the lack of prints on the handle, it looks like the killer was wearing gloves. And it’s a pretty generic knife. Nothing special. It could have come from an industrial kitchen or from any decently kitted-out domestic kitchen, especially these days with everyone fancying themselves a bloody master chef.’
‘Any chance of there being any useful DNA on the body?’ I ask.
Mary-Anne frowns. ‘Unlikely. That was pretty much a lost cause the second the ambos got to him. But like I said, we’ll run everything we can from the weapon, the clothes he went to hospital in and the other props the techs brought in from the immediate area.’
‘It still seems weird that our guy just drops the weapon and scrams.’ Fleet has produced a toothpick from somewhere and is studiously picking at his teeth as he sits on the bench that runs the length of the room. I catch him throwing a wink at Lily. Her mouth tugs into the start of a smile and there’s an extra sway to her hips as she disappears into her office. ‘I mean, why do that? It’s the main reason we think this wasn’t an accident.’
‘Maybe he didn’t mean to drop it?’ I speculate. ‘Maybe he panicked?’