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
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.”
