The Stalk Club (16 page)

“As
you can see, video technology is pretty good these days, even at night-time,”
Robards continued.  “So good in fact that we think we’ve even been able to
match the clothes you were wearing in the photo to some that we took from your
apartment.  We’ve sent them off to forensics to run a few tests on.”

Craig
wiped the photos off the table in disgust with a broad sweep of his arm.  “This
is all bullshit.  I had nothing to do with this.”

“Then
how do you explain the evidence?” asked Robards mildly.

“You’re
just making this shit up.”

“I’m afraid we’re not Mr Thoms,” said Nelson.  “Look, you
may not believe this, but right now I’m your best friend in the world.  I see
the evidence in front of me and it doesn’t look good.  But I’m prepared to
listen to whatever you’ve got to say. 
So
if you didn’t do this, then you tell me exactly what went down out there and
don’t leave anything out, no matter how small.”

Craig searched Nelson’s face.  He wasn’t sure who he
could trust right now but he soon realised that he had no choice.  He looked to
his solicitor who pursed his already thin lips.  From his past experience where
he had lost cases, he had developed a reliable gut feel for when he was on a
loser and those same feeling began to assail him now. 

“Craig, it’s up to you how much you want to say at this
stage however I strongly recommend that you say nothing until we have had the
opportunity to discuss these developments in private.”

“It’s ok Martin.  I didn’t do this so I’ll tell them what
happened and take my chances” he said dejectedly.

Craig Thoms began to tell his story.  He told them about
the stalking game.  He told them about how it began innocently enough, with he
and his co-worker Bryce wanting to field test the equipment they were
selling at their employer Carmichael’s Security, but then grew into a regular stalking
competition between a handful of friends.  The Detectives and his solicitor
listened in silence and let him speak.  He told them that on Friday night they
were playing their stalking game and he followed his mark by train to St Peters
and then on foot through Sydney Park and into an industrial area.  He told them
that the guy he had been following simply walked up to a car parked in the
laneway and shot the guy in it three times and then immediately ran away. 

Robards had been listening intently but now smiled
derisively.  “That’s a nice story.  But if it’s true then why didn’t we pick up
any video footage of this other guy?  All we got was you.  And why did the
gloves have your fingerprints in them, instead of this mystery shooter?”

Craig’s face was blank, “I have no idea.  But you gotta
believe me, everything I just told you was the absolute truth.”

Martin Warnock was now completely convinced that he was
on a one way street to being zero and three from the homicide cases he’d
defended.  He was sincerely wishing that Craig had taken his advice and
remained silent instead of committing his story to the record.  He briefly
wondered if this was all a dream and that he was actually still curled up in
his warm bed on a Sunday morning.

Nelson rocked back on his chair, contemplating Craig’s story. 
He saw the same holes in it that Robards had picked up. 

“You’re saying that you were there, at the scene of the
crime, at the time of the crime, but that you didn’t shoot Fogliani.  You’re
saying,” he said, pausing as he tried to clarify in his own mind, “that you
were set up?” 

“I don’t know, I suppose.  It’s just doesn’t make sense.” 
Craig replied, his palms outstretched, pleading.

“What did this guy you followed look like?” Nelson asked.

Craig searched his memory as if his life depended on it,
because it did. 

“He was strong and fit looking.  Built a little stronger
than me but shorter.  His skin was brown and his head was shaved.  Oh yeah and
he had a blue tattoo that showed above his collar on the right side of his
neck, like the tail of a snake or something.  He was wearing a brown jacket,
jeans and a baseball cap.”

Nelson took down notes of the description.

Robards shook his head sadly.  “Look, I must be a bit
slow, because I still don’t get it.  You’re saying that you were stalking this
mystery killer, a stranger picked from the crowd in the city no less, and then
you followed him to St Peters and somehow, he managed to avoid leaving
footprints where you left yours, that he avoided the security cameras where you
didn’t and that he shot Fogliani and then planted gloves with your fingerprints
where he knew we’d find them?”

“I guess,” responded Craig, with a shrug of his
shoulders.

“That’s the craziest shit I’ve ever heard.”

The interview continued for a further two hours as
Robards dissected, interrogated and rubbished every piece of Craig’s story
before Nelson decided that they’d all had enough for the time being and Craig was
taken back to the cell to prepare for his bail hearing at the Parramatta
Magistrates Court.  It had been set down for two p.m. that afternoon and through
the bars of his cell, his solicitor suggested that his chances of being bailed
were looking decidedly slim.

Chapter
24

Robards returned to the interview room to find Nelson
sitting where he’d left him, studying the photographs spread out on the table. 
The look on Nelson’s face didn’t seem a match for his own buoyant mood.

“It’s a slam dunk case Nelson.  There isn’t a jury in the
world that won’t convict him on what we’ve got,” he said, hoping his optimism
would be infectious.

“Maybe, maybe not.  It can’t really be a slam dunk
without a murder weapon though.  If we’d found the gun with fingerprints on it,
then it’d be a lot stronger case.”

“He probably tossed it somewhere.  Maybe he put it in the
bin with the gloves but then one of the homeless guys in the park found it
while he was searching for his dinner.  We won’t need it to get a conviction. 
We’ve got plenty without it.”

Nelson knew the evidence was strong and yet wasn’t
convinced of Craig Thoms’ guilt.  There were things about the case that troubled
him.  At the very least, he wasn’t prepared to let it go without further
investigation.  Not yet at least.  He closely studied the eight by ten inch photographs
in front of him, wondering if the answers to his many questions were right in
front of him, waiting for him to find them.   

“Why would anyone dump their blood covered gloves near
the scene of the crime?  That’s not too smart.”

“So we’ve established that he’s not too bright.  He’ll
feel right at home in prison with all the other idiots who we’ve nailed in the
past.”  Robards answered, studying Nelson’s face, looking for some indication
that he was winning him over, but seeing nothing.

“And what about the guy that Thoms is claiming did the
shooting?  Who the hell is he?”

“Oh come on.  You’re not starting to believe his bullshit
story about being setup are you?  If there was another guy there, he would have
shown up on the video, unless he’s a ghost or something.  I mean, why are we
looking so hard at this one?  Normally you’d jump at the chance to sign off on
a case and move on to the next one.”  Nelson cocked an eyebrow at Robards, his
blue eyes fixing him squarely in his gaze.  Robards realised that this was a
warning sign that Nelson was beginning to get annoyed with him, but he pushed
on regardless.  “Look Nelson, I’m not trying to sandbag anyone if that’s what
you think.  We’ve placed him at the scene of the crime at the time of the crime
and we’ve got his fingerprints on the bloody gloves.  Sometimes you just get
lucky with a case.  Accept it.”

Nelson was tired of arguing with Robards and decided to
keep any further misgivings he had about the case to himself.  He understood
Robards’ view of things.  It was a big case and the evidence was probably more
than sufficient to convict Craig Thoms.  And yet he still felt the need to fully
investigate Craig’s claims and put them to bed one way or another before
resigning him to lengthy prison sentence.    

“Alright.  I hear what you’re saying.  However, it’s only
day two of the investigation.  Even Crighton won’t complain too loudly if we
spend a couple more days chasing up the loose ends.”

“Sure, but I still don’t see why you…”

“I want you to follow up with the lab,” Nelson
interrupted resolutely.  “Make sure both the gloves and the clothes we took
from his apartment are tested for gunshot residue.  According to Thoms he
didn’t go near the car or the gun.  Let’s find out if the tests support that
claim.”

“Alright, but even if they do come back negative for GSR
it doesn’t mean he’s innocent.  He could’ve easily washed the clothes and maybe
he wasn’t even wearing the gloves when he shot Fogliani.  Maybe he just put
them on after the shooting to rifle through the body or something.  Anything’s
possible.”

“But nothing appeared to be missing from the body.  His
wallet was intact.”  Nelson countered.

“We don’t know that everything was intact.  For all we
know Fogliani could have been carrying a twenty grand brick in his pocket.  It
would’ve made anything in his wallet seem pretty incidental.”

“Maybe,” replied Nelson non-committally.  “But if he’s
guilty then what’s his motive?  I mean why would this guy, with only a couple
of priors, go out and kill and old gangster?  It hardly sounds like the track
record you’d associate with a cold blooded killer.”

“Well, as a wise Detective once told me, the best crims
don’t have any record at all.  And like I said before, if Thoms saw a drug deal
go down and saw a bundle of cash being given to Fogliani, then that’s more than
enough reason for him to kill him.”

Nelson smiled briefly at having his own quotes thrown
back at him.  Maybe Robards was learning something off him after all, although
Nelson wasn’t sure if he was learning the right things.

Nelson continued his devil’s advocate approach.  “There’s
other stuff as well.  Mick Martinez said that the shooter was probably between five
foot six inches and five feet ten inches tall.  Thoms is about six foot.”

“So what.  He only misses the estimate by a few lousy centimetres.”
Robards replied, starting to get a little frustrated at Nelson’s inability to
accept the most likely scenario.

“Thoms said the shooter was a little shorter than
himself.”

Robards ignored the comment.  “Martinez will be the first
to admit that his theory isn’t set in concrete.  If Thoms was standing a little
further away from Fogliani than Martinez has calculated, then he would fit the
trajectory of the shooter.  Any decent prosecutor would cut that argument to
shreds in a second.”

“Speaking of prosecutors,” said Nelson checking his watch
and seizing on the exit strategy.  “I need to go and brief them for Thoms’ bail
hearing this afternoon.  After that, we can start interviewing his stalking
friends.  I’m looking forward to seeing what they have to say.   

“Ok.”

“You better go and brief Crighton.  I don’t want to deal
with him right now.  But tell that pencil pushing prick not to issue another
press release until we have run Thoms’ story to ground because I hate it when
the media get ahead of the investigation.  After that, follow up on the GSR
tests at the lab and then come back and help us out with the interviews.” 

Nelson
gathered up the photographs and his notes and found a spare desk in the small Detective’s
room on the first floor of the station.  He phoned Craig Thoms’ fellow stalker,
Bryce McKinlay, at his workplace and told him about Craig’s arrest.  Nelson
thought Bryce seemed genuinely shocked when he told him, but Nelson didn’t even
trust himself when it came to making assumptions about a person’s innocence or
guilt for the simple reason that he had been wrong on more occasions than he
cared to remember.  Bryce agreed to come into the station at midday and provide
a statement.  Nelson checked his watch again and decided that he would arrange
the remainder of the interviews after he had briefed the prosecutors.  He headed
downstairs to the basement and made his way to the Parramatta local court next
door via the underground tunnel that linked the two buildings.

Detective
Robards returned to Police HQ and took the elevator straight to the ninth floor
to brief Crighton.  The ninth floor housed around twenty of some of the most
senior officers in the New South Wales Police Force and their support staff and
Robards liked the ambience.  Instead of the well worn commercial grade blue carpet
evident on the other floors, the carpet here was new, a higher grade, and
actually felt soft underfoot.  There were prints on the walls, a large waiting
area with lounges and the offices and meeting rooms which were spacious and
light.  This was where Robards pictured himself working, hopefully in as few
years as possible.

He
approached Superintendent Crighton’s office and was surprised to see his door
open.  Those who had worked with Crighton knew that he didn’t want to be
bothered by anyone unless they either had an appointment or he wanted to see
them. 

“Can
I help you Detective?” asked Pasha, Crighton’s administrative assistant, who seemed
to appear out of nowhere and placed her diminutive yet imposing presence in
front of the doorway.  Robards realised he should have known better than to
think the door was unguarded.  It was never unguarded.