Читать книгу Payback - Harvey Cleggett - Страница 11

‘Mario’s Sculptures’ was printed in large black letters across the front of a stand alone, flat roofed concrete structure that was now a crime scene. To the right of the single storey building was a driveway leading to the rear of the property, providing access for concrete and delivery trucks. Police tape extended from each side of the building out to the curb and across the front in a giant rectangle.

Parked alongside the tape was a police car with a fresh-faced uniform officer sitting behind the wheel. On seeing Ballard and John the officer scrambled out, approaching the passenger side of their vehicle. Ballard lowered his window as the policeman leaned down, enthusiastically acknowledging both men.

“Morning. Morning. I’m Constable Downing. I was told over the radio you were on the way.”

Ballard smiled up at the constable. “What’s your first name Constable Downing?”

“William, sir.”

“Well William, this is John and I’m not sir. Michael’s my name.” He extended his hand as a greeting through the window while John muttered a gruff ‘hello’. Ballard scowled at his partner before looking back at the constable. “We’re going to poke around inside, then as these factories open up we’ll talk to the owners. Do you work in this area?”

“Yes sir… er Michael. I’m stationed at Epping. Been there for two years.”

“Do you know the factory owners? Ever needed to attend here for any reason?”

The constable shook his head. “No. Never. We patrol the area of course. Oh well, yes, we have attended here, but that was to speak to the owners so we could update our after hours records should the factories ever get broken into.”

John leaned across. “Have any of these factories been broken into William?”

Again the constable shook his head. “Not that I know of. I could radio back to the station and have our crime desk analyst search the database if you like?”

John lifted an eyebrow. “Yes William, that would be very helpful. We’ll check with you when we’ve finished inside.” His tone implying this was the end of the conversation.

The constable hurried back to the car, pleased with his role in assisting such an important investigation.

John chuckled at Ballard. “Ah, the exuberance of youth. By the time he’s finished telling his girlfriend, sister, mother or whoever, he’ll believe he solved the bloody case himself.”

Ballard grinned. “Now John, don’t tell me you weren’t eager once.”

John sighed, reflecting back to his earlier career. “I guess so. I suppose I still am.”

Both men got out of the vehicle and John popped the boot to retrieve the case he took with him to all crime scenes. It contained an assortment of items including protective latex gloves, cloth overshoes, various police forms, plastic evidence bags, adhesive labels, a Pentax 645D digital camera, an Olympus 4G micro voice recorder, a metal tape measure, plus a host of other items foreign to Ballard. John’s latest acquisition was a set of Sony 20x digital zoom binoculars, capable of recording up to 13 hours of footage on a 32GB card in both 2 and 3D. When Ballard had asked ‘why?’ John’s answer had been a nonchalant shrug.

Walking up to the building they stripped back the tape; John tossed a set of keys to Ballard who in turn unlocked the front door, swinging it open. Before entering they donned cloth overshoes and latex gloves. While this protection was regarded by some detectives as overkill, considering the Crime Scene Unit had already attended, both men made it a practice to play safe. John armed himself with the Pentax camera before stepping inside.

As always, when at a crime location that had been the scene of a violent murder, Ballard could feel the aura of sinister foreboding. He reasoned it was the body’s natural defence mechanism kicking mental capacity to a higher gear. True or not, he always felt his senses were more acute, more perceptive at crime scenes.

The front of the factory was an office consisting of two large desks along with customer sofas backed up to grimy windows. A film of dust covered the desk tops, except for two clean rectangles where computers had been. These were now being analysed by the E-Crimes Squad for every bit and byte of information they contained. Ballard made a note in his day book to check on progress when he returned to the office. Fingerprint dust was everywhere, on the telephone, photo frames, even on the paintings on the wall.

John positioned himself in specific locations throughout the room, taking numerous shots that when laid side by side, would provide a panoramic view of the office. While this would have already been performed by the Crime Scene Unit, together with a full video, John preferred to take his own photos. He would upload them onto his laptop, analysing every detail for hours, often emailing them to Ballard late at night, waking him up to discuss a particular theory. Many a case had been solved by him adopting this practice.

Ballard waited until he had finished then cheekily asked, “Did you get one of the door lock John?”

The resultant look from his partner made it clear he was unimpressed by the question. “Of course. But there was no forced entry as the lock was undamaged… as you bloody well know. This raises the possibility the killer may have been known by the deceased. The time of death has been put around 2 a.m. yesterday. We’ll swing by for an autopsy report later on if we get time.”

There were a number of dust free rectangles on the floor tiles behind the desks where filing cabinets had been, similar to the areas left by the PCs. The cabinets contents were now being scrutinised by Crime Scene Analysts. Ballard made a second note in his day book. To the rear of the office a door led into the factory showroom.

On entering the first impression Ballard had was of the excavation site of the ancient Terracotta Chinese Warriors. There was row after row of concrete ornaments ranging from pots, animals, garden gnomes to abstract objects. Grey concrete dust covered the floor, accentuating footprints and scuffmarks.

John whistled in awe. “Quite a spectacle, huh? There’s something like three hundred and fifty separate pieces here according to the Crime Scene boys.”

Ballard muttered a reply, despite his attention being drawn to the chalk marks and extensive blood stains on the one vacant area of floor. “So the chair was here?” He stood looking down at the spot.

“Yeah. It’s now with Forensics, same for the rope.”

Instinctively both men looked up at the wooden beams running across the room at three metre intervals. The fact that timber had been used instead of steel gave the interior the rustic charm of older, inner suburban factories. Ballard estimated the beams were a little under four metres above the floor. “Forensics have finished photographing the foot prints?”

John confirmed. “Er, yes. There was some thought there might’ve been more than one shooter, but for the moment they’re sticking to the theory of a single guy.”

Ballard looked closer at the chalk marks while John took numerous photos. “What was the end of the rope tied to… and I don’t mean the end around the guy’s neck?”

John hesitated. “Good point. Not sure.” Both men looked around but failed to see an anchor point.

Ballard shrugged his shoulders. ”My guess is he slung the rope over the beam, pulling it tight so the victim was on tippy-toes, then tossed the free end over again. The gap between the beam and the roof is… say… a metre, so not too hard to chuck the rope over a second time. From there it wouldn’t have taken too much effort to hold it taut when the guy went off the chair. Friction on the beam would’ve taken most of the weight.”

John pursed his lips, considering the theory. “I think you’re right Mike. I remember Forensics mentioning manila rope fibres were found on all sides of the beam, indicating it may well have been looped several times.” He pointed to the spot where the rope had been, highlighted by the chalk marks. “Still, the shooter must have been strong to hang onto the rope with one hand…” he hesitated, holding up his own in mimicry of his suggested action. “I guess he could have stood on the rope while he used his free hand to stop the guy spinning or jerking around before plugging him between the eyes. The dead guy’s hands were bound behind his back with plastic ties.

“When our guys found him on the floor, the rope was off the beam and piled on top of him. It makes sense the shooter wasn’t going to stand there all day with the rope in his hand, so when he let go the weight of the body pulled it loose and for some reason the killer yanked the rest of it down. Never bothered to take the noose off his neck though, but considering the damage the bullet did to his head I can understand why.”

A frown appeared on Ballard’s face. “Hmm. I guess so. I have to say it all sounds a bit tricky, looping the rope over the beam while holding a gun at the same time. This makes me think the dead guy had accepted his fate. I mean look around the location of the chair. None of the objects have been kicked over. It appears he didn’t make a run for it, even though his hands were tied. Was the chair seat scuffed in any way? Was the guy attempting to twist or turn away from the shooter?”

John glanced about him, musing. “Can’t say. We’ll check later when we get to Forensics.”

Ballard looked upward. “So that’s where the bullet lodged after passing through the guy’s skull?” He pointed at the wooden beam adjacent to where the rope had been slung. A chalked circle surrounded a single bullet hole with dark blood stains radiating out from where brain and scalp matter had hit the beam and ceiling; all body tissue now collected and forwarded to the medical examiner.

John snorted derisively. “Yep. I’m told the sissy Forensic guy shit himself when he had to climb the ladder to dig out the slug and scrape the poor bugger’s brains off the ceiling.”

Ballard hitched his pant’s leg, propping a foot on one of the garden gnomes before opening his day book. With his pen poised he looked across at John. “Ok. What facts do we have?”

John ticked off the points on his fingers, reciting from memory. “The guy’s name is Mario Bivelaqua… can you believe that? No prize for guessing his nationality. Forty-six years old. Lives – or should I say, lived in Templestowe with his wife and two kids. He’s owned the factory for ten years, built it himself. Had priors for low level theft when he was a kid, around fifteen or sixteen. One punch up in a pub when he was twenty-five. Received a good behaviour bond and nothing since.”

Ballard jotted down the main details before looking up for John to continue.

“He was shot Tuesday morning at around 2 a.m. Crime Scene boys think the slug is a .45 calibre. Despite the damage to it, they believe it’s a hollow point.”

Ballard winced. John’s expression echoed Ballard’s feelings. “Mario has two guys who work here part time. Both have been interviewed and given statements. They claim they knocked off the previous evening around 5.30 p.m. We’ll interview them again, along with Mario’s wife some time tomorrow.”

Ballard looked up from his day book. “Do we know for a fact Mario was hung, as opposed to being intimidated for information before he was shot?”

John smiled wryly. “Very astute Mr Ballard. I can tell you this wasn’t any run-of-the-mill murder. Yes he was hung, no doubt about it. All the tell-tale signs... significant bruising around the neck, swollen protruding tongue. So we have a killer who is physically strong, malicious and a sadistic prick.”

Ballard grimaced. “I read somewhere that unless the body drops at least one and a half to two metres the neck doesn’t break, as a result death is slow, most likely occurring from asphyxiation. The poor bastard could’ve been jerking around on the rope for minutes. It’s possible that’s why the killer shot him to get it over with, not wanting to hold onto the rope any longer.”

John massaged his forehead with the tips of his fingers. “Jeez Mike. I’ve never thought too much about what happens when someone’s hung. I guess I’ve always had the Hollywood version in my head that it’s instant.”

Ballard shook his head. “Far from it my friend. In many countries years ago, strangulation hangings were common place with the poor buggers taking up to twenty minutes to die, if they were lucky. A lot depended on the position of the knot on the noose. If blood flow to the carotid artery was restricted, death in those instances was pretty quick. With this guy, I’m not so sure. The results from the autopsy will clear that up.”

John shook his head, his features pained as he looked up at the beam again. Ballard followed his gaze. “I’m sticking with the theory the killer was torturing Mario to get information from him. Then, when he got what he wanted or couldn’t get it, he kicked the chair out. Mario jerked around on the rope for a bit before the shooter plugged him. You can see where some of the nearby ornaments have been removed to be tested for blood spatter.”

John shrugged. “Anything’s possible. I must admit I hadn’t figured on the torture angle. Perhaps we should talk to our resident profiler to see what he thinks?”

Ballard smirked, knowing John’s comment was laced with sarcasm, a result of a long held mistrust of police profilers after receiving bad advice a number of years earlier. An inexperienced profiler had offered a theory on a very nasty homicide that had John pursuing a line of enquiry that wasted three months investigation. As a result he almost lost the case in court and ever since viewed profiler input with great scepticism.

Ballard on the other hand had been fortunate to have had positive assistance from profilers on a number of cases. Despite this, he always regarded their contributions as alternative theories warranting consideration.

Keeping a straight face, he said, “Er, yes John. I think we’ll nip over and touch base with Ken after we get back to the office.”

John scowled, knowing Ballard was poking fun at him, while at the same time recognising profiler opinions were part of the job. “Yeah. Let’s do that.”

Ballard grinned, deciding not to push the ribbing any further. “Ok. What else do we have?”

“Nothing of consequence. That’s the reason Delwyn’s looking over her shoulder to see how close the Chief is and why we’re here scratching our heads. All we can do is tick the boxes and keep accumulating facts.”

Ballard closed his day book, tucking it under his arm. “Let’s go and talk to the other factory owners. I can’t wait to hear what the rumour mill has for us.”

Both men took one last look around the room before heading back through the office. John led the way out, returning the camera to its case. Ballard followed, pulling the front door shut behind him, locking it before resealing the police tape.

As they peeled off their gloves and overshoes, William hurried towards them, his demeanour one of suppressed excitement. As he flipped open his police issue notebook, John looked up. “Ok William. What’ve you got for us?”

“Well, nothing for this particular address, but in the street there have been four burglaries and two smashed windows, as well as numerous graffiti reports in the last two years.”

“Anyone charged?”

Disappointment flickered across William’s face as though the non arrests were his personal responsibility. “Uh… no, ‘fraid not.”

John remained poker faced. “What! Nobody arrested? No suspects?” William’s bottom lip protruded as Ballard gave John a firm kick out of the constable’s view. John laughed dryly. “It’s ok William. Crime solving isn’t something where shitheads throw themselves at you. In most cases it’s just plain mind numbing hoof-work with the occasional stroke of luck. In ten years time you’ll be saying the same thing to another fresh faced constable when you’re attending a homicide.”

William’s face broke into an enormous grin. “I hope so. I’ve seen you and Mr Ballard, er Michael plenty of times on TV and I can’t wait to do Investigator Training.”

John clapped his hand on the young man’s shoulder. “I’m certain with your enthusiasm you’ll top the course. William, we’re going to interview some of the other factory owners before heading off to Forensics. Keep up the good work and ensure no-one other than authorised police enter this building. If you have any doubts ring my mobile.” He handed William his business card. The policeman thanked both detectives, reluctantly returning to his vehicle.

As John placed the Crime Scene case in the boot, Ballard leaned over and said, “Well, tough guy. Behind that facade you’re a big pussy. Thank God… I was beginning to wonder.”

John pulled the boot shut, glancing across at William sitting in the police car. “Yep, wet behind the ears, but I guess he has promise, if he can overcome his bloody annoying effervescent naivety.” Picking up his day book he said, “How do we tackle the factory interviews Mike?”

Ballard looked around the court, counting aloud. “Seven… eight… nine. Nine other factories. I think we’ll split up John or it’ll take all day. You do the four over there and I’ll tackle the four alongside. If we finish up much the same time we can knock over the last one together.”