She’d been impossible to talk to in the weeks since their return from the desert, when Whitt decided he’d leave his home in Perth and come to Sydney to support the new partner he’d learned to admire. She was a hard creature, Harriet Blue. Unpredictable and sharp edged. When he’d met her on their case in Western Australia, her brother had just been arrested, and she’d been stripped bare of the minimal friendliness she managed to maintain in order to get on with others. But in their time in the Outback, fleeing a sniper who was hunting young men and women like dogs, the Sex Crimes detective had grown on him. She was a good person, even if that goodness was buried deep under plenty of bad behaviour. He wanted to help her. And now that she’d gone and got herself banished from the courthouse altogether, he had no choice but to be her representative. It was what good friends did.
Whitt now stood watching at the edge of the crowd gathered around the New South Wales Police Commissioner on the courthouse steps, a tall, broad man wearing a uniform laden in red and silver buckles and stars. Microphones bobbed and swayed as Commissioner Sorrell moved his head. A petite journalist at the front of the crowd was trying not to be pressed against the man by the bigger journalists behind her shoving forwards to catch quotes.
‘We have faith that Caitlyn McBeal will be located safe and well,’ Sorrell said. ‘We know that she has not fallen victim to the Georges River Killer, because our primary suspect in that case was under surveillance the entire day she disappeared. At the approximate time of Caitlyn’s last confirmed sighting four months ago, Sydney police detectives already had Samuel Jacob Blue in custody. That’s all I can say right now.’
Whitt knew some of the inside information about the Caitlyn McBeal abduction. The supposed incident at the University of Sydney hadn’t even made the news right away. Television screens across the country had been flooded with images of Sam Blue’s arrest from that morning. But way down the list of items on online news sites, a vague story was emerging. A young student from the university, Linny Simpson, was claiming someone had tried to abduct her from a car park and she’d managed to escape, passing an African American girl as she ran to safety. That African American girl fit the description of the now-missing Caitlyn McBeal.
Whitt had been exhilarated. Was this the Georges River Killer, trying to nab another victim only hours after Sam had been arrested? If it was, then surely Sam would go free! The nightmare for his friend and her brother would be over. All they had to do was find Caitlyn McBeal.
Then problems started to emerge with Linny and her tale. Linny admitted she’d fainted after reaching the bottom of the stairs of the car park, terrified by her ordeal. She’d hit her head and suffered a concussion. Details of her ordeal were inconsistent across her interviews with police. Her abductor had tried to get her into a white van. No, a green van. He’d been tall. Maybe not so tall. There had been another girl in the car park. Caitlyn and one other. Two others, maybe.
Then Linny’s history was exposed. Her teenage drug use. A stalking report against an ex-boyfriend that had been entered and then withdrawn. The police were still searching for Caitlyn McBeal, and were heartened by reported sightings of her in Queensland. Maybe she’d just run off. That was the solution in most Missing Persons cases. The stress and struggle of daily life simply got too much. They dropped their belongings and fled, started again somewhere new. Whitt had seen it plenty of times during his career. He’d seen mothers lock the front door on their children and simply wander off, turning up years later with a new name, a new job, halfway across the country. Caitlyn was young and alone on the opposite side of the planet from her life back home. She had no serious commitments. Disappearing, even just for a while, would be easy.
Whatever had happened to Caitlyn, Linny Simpson’s explanation for it wasn’t anyone’s favourite lead, because she was inconsistent. Confused.
But if she was right, even somewhere close to the truth, it meant two things that no one on the Georges River case wanted to admit.
That Sam Blue was innocent.
And that the killer was still out there.
Chapter 15
I STOOD BY the side of the road, watching the sun rising on the distant edge of the crater, a depthless black in silhouette against warm pink. The temperature was coming up fast. Soon the town below me would be swirling with gossip about the explosion in the early hours. Already, local farmers who had heard the bang and become curious had started to line the roadside, eyeing me cautiously as they met with Snale to get the lowdown.
The town’s only police officer was barely keeping it together. Snale’s chief, a man in his sixties named Theo ‘Soupy’ Campbell, owned the bloodied, dirt-clodded head she had found about ten metres from the centre of the blast zone. I assumed he’d owned the arm we’d seen hanging from the tree, and the various other bits and pieces of human that had been strewn about the bush. We hadn’t done too much more wandering around in the crime scene. It was best to leave it for Forensics, who would soon be boarding a helicopter back in Sydney. The entire police force from the nearest town, Milparinka, were on their way to help us secure the scene and the dead police chief’s truck, which we’d found parked in the bush on the opposite side of the road to the blast. Milparinka’s force comprised two officers, bringing our total to five. I felt drastically out of my depth. I was used to securing crime scenes with the help of dozens of people, patrollies covering doorways with tape, chiefs standing about looking important before the cameras, Forensics experts donning their gear.
I went to Snale’s truck and sat in the front passenger seat with the door open, brought out the photocopy of the diary and began reading through it again. I didn’t want to leap to any conclusions about the connection of the bomb to the book. Yes, what had happened to Chief Campbell looked like murder. The duct tape on the wrist was a sure sign, even if one accepted the highly improbable idea that he’d chosen to commit suicide by bomb when he likely had a perfectly good gun in his possession. I needed to find something in the diary that connected the idea and the crime.
The first pages were all about guns. I spread a page over my knee and looked at the photocopied pictures of two handsome teenage boys.
The page was a study of the Columbine killers, Eric Harris and Dylan Klebold, who’d gone on a shooting spree at their local high school in Colorado, killing twelve students and a teacher and injuring twenty-four others. I knew the story, had read a couple of true crime books about it. The diarist had made a list, beside a doodled sketch of the wolfish Harris, entitled ‘Successes’.
Kept the circle of conspirators small.
Surveillance of victims for maximum impact.
Covert weapons purchases.
What was this? A list of the things the Columbine killers had done right in their evil plan? Was the diarist comparing and contrasting the massacre plans of high-profile shooters to come up with the perfect kill plot? I flipped the page. More about the Columbine killers’ work, excerpts from the boys’ diaries and maps of their school. There were five pages dedicated to the Columbine shooting in the diary. A sickly feeling was creeping up from the pit of my stomach. I ran my fingers over a note at the bottom of the last page on Columbine.
Thirteen victims, it read. I can beat that!
Chapter 16
ELLIOT KASH HAD come to the open door of the car and leaned on the window, folding his thick arms on the sill. I reached for a cigarette. I figured I was going to need one.
‘I’ve had a chat with Victoria about our operations, but I really want to sit down with you before this thing kicks into high gear so you can download my concerns,’ he said. ‘The priority right now needs to be security. I want maximum operational confidentiality throughout this case. We need to keep covert information tight. This is a small town, and we know there’s a lone wolf or, possibly, a terrorist sleeper cell hidden within it. We cannot afford unplanned leaks right now.’
I exhaled smoke into the thin morning air. ‘I have so many problems with what you just said, I
don’t even know where to start.’
‘Oh really?’
‘Yes, really.’ I looked at the town in the distance. ‘You want to sit down with me so I can download your operational concerns? Who the fuck gave you authority over this case?’
‘I did,’ he scoffed. ‘I’m Federal. Did you miss that?’
‘How could I? Maximum operational confidentiality? Who talks like that?’
‘I do.’
‘Yeah, you and G.I. Joe. ’
‘Well, you know I’m the Fed in this relationship. So I’m in charge.’
‘You’ll be in charge when we establish this is radical Islamist terrorism,’ I said, flipping the pages of the diary. ‘Which, if this diary gives us any indication, is going to be never. There’s nothing even mildly Islamic-looking in here. All I can see thus far is praise for dickhead white-boy school shooters.’
‘That diary is pure terrorism, and I’m the terrorism expert, so I have jurisdiction,’ he said.
‘Nope.’
‘Yes!’
‘Nope,’ I repeated. ‘You can have jurisdiction when the Attorney-General flies his big golden helicopter into the middle of nowhere, waddles his fat arse up the hill to where I’m sitting and tells me you have jurisdiction.’ I put my feet up on the dashboard. ‘Until then, it’s a three-way partnership. You, me and Vicky.’
Kash laughed, leaned in. ‘Officer Snale’s experience is in chasing down lost cattle dogs and wrangling drunks out of the local pub. She’ll be useful for local intel only.’
I ignored him. ‘My next concern is with your presumption that I’d leak operational information even if this was a federal case. Are you serious?’
‘Of course I’m serious,’ he said. He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a folded sheet of newspaper. I couldn’t stop a grimace rising to my face at the image of me on the front page of the Telegraph, my legs splayed over the body of Prosecutor Woolfmyer. I looked like a pint-sized Wonder Woman action figure, my breasts straining against the ridiculous blouse. I tried to contain my fury.
‘Is this not you?’ Kash gave a crooked, patronising grin.
‘Oh, fuck off.’
‘No one told me I was going to have to babysit an insubordinate, dangerous state cop while I was posted here,’ he said. ‘This was supposed to be a very exclusive task force. Me, advising the local authority.’ He jabbed a thumb in Snale’s direction. ‘That’s how it works with this type of case. You get an expert in, and he infiltrates, taking the suspects down when they show themselves. If I have to have you along, I don’t want any of this kind of behaviour.’
He thrust the newspaper page at me. I let it slide to the floor of the car.
‘Maybe you’re feeling hostile because of your brother’s situation,’ Kash said. ‘Maybe you’re always like this, and that’s some indication of why Samuel did what he did. I don’t know. But I don’t want you going off half-cocked and hurting someone on my watch. I’m going to need you to keep it contained while you’re out here, Officer.’
‘I’m going to need you to call a dentist.’ I put my legs down, leaned in to his face. ‘Because the next time you talk to me like that, I’m gonna kick you in the mouth.’
We watched each other. Only Snale drew our eyes away, approaching the car, her notebook still in hand.
‘We’ve got our first lead,’ she announced. ‘A suspect. It’s not good news.’
Chapter 17
A GROUP OF men in Akubras had assembled by the edge of the road, talking animatedly, now and then pointing towards the town. Angry, and unable to look at each other. This didn’t bode well. Snale had managed to rein in her grief but she had the sunken look of someone who had much crying to do yet. She stood beside the passenger-side door with Kash, looking in on me.
‘Chief Campbell retired about six months ago,’ Snale explained to me. ‘I’m the only cop on active duty in the town. It was a long handover, and sometimes Soupy would help me out if I needed it. He got special approval to keep his handgun and cuffs for that very reason. Everything’s been fine. You know, the usual sort of stuff. Drink-driving is my main problem around here. But I have been having some troubles with this kid named Zac Taby and his little crew of misfits.’
‘How old’s Taby?’ I asked.
‘Fifteen,’ Snale said. ‘One of our senior students.’
‘You guys have got your own school down there?’ I looked at the tiny town below us. It hardly seemed to have enough buildings.
‘Of the town’s seventy-five residents, twelve are kids,’ Snale said. ‘There’s a little schoolhouse behind the post office. Two teachers. Five seniors and seven juniors.’
‘And those guys reckon this Taby kid’s written the diary?’ I said. ‘Makes sense. The book’s full of praise for idiot teens. So they think they’re looking for an idiot teen. Who are they, anyway?’
‘They’re just local farmers.’ Snale glanced back at them. ‘They say they’ve seen Taby around the junkyard over in Tibooburra playing with engine parts. He’s basically everybody’s first suspect when anything happens around here. I have questioned Zac but I wasn’t convinced he had anything to do with the diary.’
‘What made you so sure?’
Snale shrugged. ‘He’s been in and out of the station a lot, and I’ve always had him write statements of what’s occurred. Zac hates writing. Why would he spend hours upon hours constructing a handwritten diary?’
‘If a kid’s interested in something, they’ll put in the effort,’ I said.
‘What’s Taby’s religious background?’ Kash asked.
‘Oh, I’m not sure. If you want to go to church around here you’ve got to drive all the way to Fowlers Gap. That’s Catholic. There are no mosques out here.’
‘So he might be Muslim?’ Kash had perked up, like a dog catching a scent.
‘I don’t know.’ Snale shrugged again. ‘He’s Pakistani. His is the only non-white family in the valley. People have always given the Taby family a hard time. Problem isn’t just whether the Taby kid is responsible for this. It’s that people think he is.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Once things get reported as fact in small towns, they remain fact. And people decide facts for themselves out here. There was a rape over in the next town last year. Everybody decided it was the local plumber who did it. He had an alibi and everything, and the DNA didn’t match. But once people had decided, that was it. They ran him out of town.’ Snale already looked stressed. She walked back towards the men on the side of the road.
Kash beckoned for the diary on the seat beside me.
‘Probably better give me that,’ he said. ‘It’ll be safer in my custody. I’ll do an analysis of the content and draw up a report.’
I didn’t move to hand him the diary. He raised an eyebrow, his hand out, waiting.
‘I’m not playing this game,’ I said.
‘What game?’
‘This one.’ I pointed to his chest, mine. ‘This territorial crap. This stupid dance, where you tell me to step off, wave your dick around, puff your chest out. That shit doesn’t work on me.’
‘It doesn’t?’
‘Nope,’ I said. ‘And I’ll tell you why. I’m looking at you and I’m guessing you’re about … what? Thirty years old?’
‘I’m thirty-three.’
‘Right.’ I nodded. ‘I’m thirty-six. My brother and I were removed from my mother’s care when I was two years old. She was a prostitute. A drug addict. I spent sixteen years in foster care,’ I said, watching his face. ‘I don’t know how many homes we were shuffled through. Sometimes Sam and I were together. Sometimes we were apart. We never stayed anywhere for more than a year. But in each and every family, the kids would tell me the same thing as soon as I arrived. This is my house. Those are my parents. You don’t touch my toys. You don’t hug my mum. You don’t belong here.’
Kash’s defiant frown had softened a little, if only with confusion at my candidness. I leaned forwards so th
at he could see that I meant every word I was saying.
‘People have been telling me to fuck off out of their territory since before you were born,’ I said. ‘And for all those years, my answer’s been exactly the same.’
He waited.
‘This is my house now,’ I said.
Chapter 18
WHITT SQUEEZED ALONG the packed aisle and settled near the middle of the row of spectator seats to the left of the courtroom. Above him, the press gallery was all looking at their phones, updating their editors before the morning’s session began.
As Harriet’s brother was escorted into the huge space in his crumpled suit, a hush fell over the crowd. Whitt tried to catch the man’s eye, but Sam’s stare was on the back of the courtroom.
Today, expert witnesses would testify about Sam’s mental capabilities. The frail, big-nosed Doctor Hemsill had taken the stand, and avoided eye contact with Blue as he read from his report.
‘We can infer that much of Samuel Blue’s troubling history is directly attributable to developmental issues caused by his mother’s use of illicit substances during her pregnancy,’ Hemsill said. ‘His tests show low patterns of stimuli reaction in the prefrontal cortex and amygdala, which we know are areas of the brain affected by substance abuse in utero. The prefrontal cortex controls a lot of our civilising, inhibiting behaviour. It’s what stops you lashing out or acting violently, for example, when you’re experiencing rage.’
Whitt thought about Harry as he made notes. The times he’d seen her kick down doors, throw things, charge forwards with her fists balled when the stress of her situation became too much. He tried to shake her out of his head.
‘Impulsivity is something we see often with these kinds of brain activity patterns,’ Doctor Hemsill sighed. ‘Reactions to emotion, rather than logic. Blue’s social abilities are also greatly hindered by his neurological patterns. He has trouble with empathy. He can be abrasive. Hard to relate to. He naturally finds it difficult making friends at all, but when he does make them, his loyalty endures beyond reason.’