Challis - 04 - Chain of Evidence (20 page)

* * * *

One
hour later, dawn light streaking the horizon, Scobie called in at McDonalds
for breakfast, a guilty Big Mac with fries because his nerves were shot. Then
he called the hospital, learning that Nick Jarrett had died in the ambulance,
and finally called Ellen to report the shooting a clumsy conversation on his
part, he felt. Finally he drove up to the city and delivered the knife, gloves,
bagged clothing and .38 to the ForenZics lab, arriving as the doors opened for
the day. A guy called Riggs, young, abrupt, irritable, took custody of the evidence,
the irritation growing as he removed the items one by one. Jesus, pal.

What?

Cross contamination.

I was rushed, said Scobie, feeling
sulky. Its clear enough what happened.

Not to me. Gunshot residue and
blood evidence are easily transferred. Youve got the clothing of several
people here.

Three: two police officers and the
victim, a burglar.

Oh, well thats all right, then,
said Riggs snidely.

One officer was slashed with the
knife. He then shot the burglar.

Dont you have procedures for
collecting evidence? My findings will be meaningless.

Scobie felt like weeping. None of
this was his fault. Please see what you can do.

* * * *

26

When
Ellen arrived at work that morning she found people congregated in corridors and
doorways, whispering, murmuring. It was partly elation, partly awe, partly
apprehension about the fallout that would follow now, not only for Kellock and
van Alphen but for all of them. Nobody was very sorry about Jarrett. Some were
almost pleased that hed been shot dead, although they could not have done it
themselves. Feelings were complicated, uneven, hard to pin down.

She walked past Kellocks office.
The door was open. He beckoned her in, saying, You heard?

Yes.

He looked exhausted. Van and I have
been limited to desk duties until its sorted out.

Ellen nodded. It was to be expected.

But feel free to call on us if you
need help with the Blasko investigation.

Ellen blinked. Really?

No problem, said Kellock evenly.

* * * *

Scobie
was waiting for her upstairs. He hadnt shaved; his thinning hair was awry. Ellen,
he said, relieved.

She took him into her office. He
wouldnt sit but paced in agitation. She waited, eventually prompting him: The
Jarrett shooting.

He continued to pace.

Scobie!

He jumped. What?

Its clean, right?

He was silent for some time. I got
there about five this morning.

And?

I was tired. I wasnt taking
everything in.

Ellen closed her eyes, opened them
again. Are you saying there are anomalies?

He considered that. Theres an
explanation for everything.

You did it by the book, Scobie,
tell me you did it by the book.

He sat finally. He twisted in his
seat. I can explain.

The explanation was disjointed, and
at the end of it she said, Was the knife Jarretts?

Scobie stared at the carpet, then
lifted his sorrowing face. She heard the fretfulness as he asked: Was he left
or right handed? Was he or wasnt he wearing gloves? I went back there just
now: the carpets been shampooed already.

Ellen watched him.

I got a bad vibe, Ellen, he said,
not meeting her gaze.

She wondered if hed ever uttered
the word vibe aloud before. It didnt sound right in his mouth. What kind of
knife was it?

Generic kitchen knife. Could have
come from anywhere. Could have come from the house.

He always wore gloves?

According to the collators, yes.
His girlfriend wouldnt confirm or deny. Nor would his family.

An image of Laurie Jarrett came to
Ellen. She coughed. God, Scobie, I dont want a dirty shooting.

Its not yours to worry about,
Scobie said sourly. It was a uniformed operation, and the police shooting
board will be stepping in.

Still.

Into the pause that followed, Scobie
said softly, They threatened me.

Who? The Jarretts?

Van Alphen and Kellock.

Theyre just a bit macho, thats
all. They like to intimidate.

It was more than that. When I
arrived just now, Kellock said, Hows that daughter of yours going? A clear
threat.

Doesnt sound like one.

You werent there, Scobie
muttered.

* * * *

Ellen
had barely started work when a call came from the front desk: Laurie Jarrett
was in the foyer, angry, distraught. He wants to see you, Sarge.

Me? The stakeout was a uniformed
operation, not CIU.

He says his nephew was set up,
ambushed. Hell only speak to you.

Put him in a conference room. Have
a uniform outside the door.

Sarge.

Wondering what shed done to earn
Laurie Jarretts regard, Ellen went downstairs, a part of her thinking that
Nick Jarrett had got what he deserved, another part hoping it had been a clean
shooting.

She found the patriarch of the
Jarrett clan in the foyer conference room, two nervous constables standing
beside his chair. Hed come storming into the station, according to the officers
on the front desk, but now looked calm and unreadable. Thanks for seeing me,
he murmured.

Ellen got down to business. Youre
saying the police set your nephew up?

I know they did, Jarrett said.

The mans low tone and steady
demeanour spelt barely concealed fury. Were sorry for your loss, Mr Jarrett,
but

You cunts set him up and
bushwhacked him.

Ellen flushed. Mr Jarrett, I know
youre upset, but I find your language offensive.

So charge me.

It was 9 am. Shed brought her coffee
mug with her and toyed with it now, idly noticing the words printed across it:
Our
day begins when yours ends.
She looked up; Laurie Jarrett was staring at
her bleakly across the conference room table. I want a face-to-face with the
officers who shot Nick, he said.

Theres no way thats going to
happen.

I want a full inquiry.

All police shootings are rigorously
examined, she said.

He snorted. Words.

Like I said, the shooting will be

Youve always had it in for my
nephew. Youve had it in for all of us.

She wasnt going to take that lying
down. Our officers are called to your house at least once a fortnight, Laurie.
Legal searches of the cars and bedrooms of your sons, stepsons and nephews have
regularly uncovered drugs and stolen goods. The younger kids are caught
shoplifting almost weekly. You yourself have a record for burglary and assault.
Did we fit you up for all of those crimes and charges? I dont think so.

This
time, he snarled, stabbing the
table top with a slender finger,
this
time you did.

Ellen shifted uncomfortably,
compelled by his looks again. She didnt want to admit that it was a form of
attraction. In response, something shifted in his gaze. Hed sensed the
alteration in her body, and almost but not quite smiled. Then, to her
astonishment, his eyes filled with tears.

It wasnt a clean shooting.

Laurie, he attacked two officers
with a knife.

A kitchen knife, possibly from a set
found in the kitchen of the house. Ellen made a mental note: how did Nick Jarrett
enter the house? Which rooms did he enter before being accosted? Did he go to
the kitchen?

He was lured, Ellen, Laurie
Jarrett said.

It was a shock, his using her first
name, and quite out of order. He was a burglar, Mr Jarrett. Weve found
burgled items in his girlfriends flat from time to time. He burgled to a
pattern. We identified that pattern and intercepted him. He took drugs and was
prone to violence. It was always going to be a matter of time before something
like this occurred.

Jarrett gave her a look, a man with
a permanently unimpressed mind. It was a cops look, frankly. Eventually he
said gently, Youre a sore loser.

If thats all, Ellen said,
standing, I have work to do.

Just the beginning, sweetheart,
Jarrett said, uncoiling gracefully from his chair.

There will be a coroners inquest
in due course.

You mean a coroners whitewash.

Ellen lost it, just a little. Look,
weve just had the abduction and sexual assault of a young girl. Shes lucky to
be alive. I am yet to find the man, or men, responsible. Meanwhile, the
shooting of your nephew will be given full attention, but its not my concern.

Laurie Jarrett, a slender, shapely,
dangerous man, a man who had her number, smiled. The smile didnt reach his
eyes. Katie Blasko is not the only one, he murmured.

Ellen stiffened. What do you mean?

He ignored the question and got to
his feet. I have a lot to do, a grieving family, a funeral to arrange.

* * * *

Ellen
returned to the CIU incident room and waded through reports and witness
statements until mid afternoon. It was all fruitless, until Riggs, the
technician from ForenZics, called. We have the results on those Katie Blasko
samples.

Ellen was impressed: shed expected
the results much later. Maybe Superintendent McQuarrie had done the right thing
in contracting CIUs forensic testing to the private lab. Not that the
situation in any way matched the ideal, the ideal being one of those American
cop shows like CSI, where a detective walks down a flight of stairs with a
blood or fibre sample, and there is the lab, and the lab is full of experts who
process evidence on the spot with state of the art equipmentand who also go
out and make arrests. Even so, ForenZics had processed the samples from the
Katie Blasko abuse house quickly. In Ellens experience, the state lab was
often running weeks, even months behind. Not only had successive state
governments failed to fund it adequately, but it was also swamped with work,
for defence and prosecution lawyers had come to believe that forensic evidence
could prove or disprove everything. Even the privately owned labs like
ForenZics were overworked in testing samplesgiving second opinions, confirming
the state labs results or throwing them into doubt. Consequently judges and
prosecutors were putting pressure on the police to find additional, better and
more irrevocable evidence.

That was quick, Ellen said. Thank
you.

Just doing our job, Riggs said.

Ellen swivelled in her chair. She
gazed at the perforated ceiling battens, then unseeingly through the window
that overlooked the car park and its scattering of police and private cars. So,
what did you find?

The bad news first. Plenty of
fibres, but theyre generic to all kinds of cotton and synthetic clothing.

DNA, said Ellen firmly, thats
what I want.

Dont rush me. We found blood,
other fluids and skin traces that are a DNA match to Katie Blasko.

As expected. I want to know who
else was there.

Dont rush me, said Riggs again. For
your information, we did find traces of someone other than the victim.

Enough for DNA?

Yes.

Ellen felt her skin tingle.

And
hes in the system, Riggs said. Neville
Clode. He lives in Waterloo.

* * * *

Ellen
left her office and found Scobie Sutton in the incident room, examining the
doorknock canvass sheets, studiously ignoring Kees van Alphen, who was thumb
tacking a wall map of the Peninsula. Ellen paused. Heard about the shooting,
Van, she murmured. Bad luck.

Or good luck. Depends how you see
it.

Quite. She pointed at the map. What
are you doing?

Since Im desk bound, I thought Id
help CIU. Im mapping sex crimes. The blue pins are the home addresses of known
sex offenders.

There were not many of these, and
most lived in the main population areas: Waterloo, Mornington and the coastal
strip from Dromana to Sorrento. The red and yellow pins?

The red pins show the locations of
sexual assaults on children by strangers, the yellow pins show the locations of
related offences.

Good work, Ellen said. And it was,
painstaking and probably pointless. A lot of police work was like that. What
do you mean by related offences?

Women, and young girls, have
reported flashers along here, van Alphen said, indicating a couple of popular
beaches. This woman he indicated another yellow pin was walking her dog
and a man grabbed her breasts from behind. She screamed and he ran. She
followed him to a nearby house, then called the police, who promptly arrested
him.