The Stalk Club (6 page)

After nearly twenty rings, he finally reached for his mobile
and flipped it open.

“Nelson here.”  He didn’t bother trying to hide his
grogginess, anyone answering the phone at two a.m. sounded groggy.

“Detective Sergeant Nelson, it’s Detective Superintendent
Crighton here.  I’m sorry to wake you.”

Nelson didn’t think he sounded particularly sorry and also
thought it absurd that anyone would think it necessary to be so formal at that
time of the morning.  Detective Superintendent John Crighton was the Commander
of the Homicide squad.  He was a humourless and ambitious late forty-something
year old who had made a career as a ‘yes man’ to those above him on the food
chain.

“Something has come up and I want you on top of it
asap.” 

Nelson momentarily wondered why the hell he was speaking to
Crighton instead of the usual suspects who normally woke him up in the middle
of the night.  He also wondered why anyone was calling him at all because as
far as his hazy mind could recall he was just at the beginning of three days
off after having worked the previous seven straight.  He briefly wondered if he
was still asleep and dreaming, such was the strangeness of the situation.

“I’m not the duty Detective tonight,” he said flatly.

“I’m aware of that Detective Sergeant, but I require your
services nonetheless.”

Nelson decided to give in for the time being.  From
previous experience he knew that Crighton had a habit of getting his way.

“What’s going on boss?” he said through a yawn.

“Are you familiar with the Fogliani family, Detective?”

“Yes.”

“Well Emilio Fogliani has just been found dead, shot in
his car in the industrial area near Sydney Park in St Peters.”

Nelson’s mind shrugged off its veil of fog and through
force of will became alert as he tried to remember what he knew about the
Fogliani name.  It was reasonably well known in Sydney for mostly the wrong
reasons, as a quick Google search could prove.  Emilio Fogliani and his brother
Angelo immigrated to Australia in 1960 as eighteen and twenty year olds with
their parents.  Their father had a long association with criminal gangs back in
the old country and had brought his boys up on a diet of violence and crime. 
Arriving in Australia the boys immediately put their skills to good use and wreaked
havoc in the city in the seventies and eighties, building up quite an empire by
utilising a mixture of standover tactics, drug distribution and generally well organised
and occasionally violent, robberies of jewelry stores and homes.  Perhaps for
all his sins, Angelo Fogliani died in 1997 from a seemingly innocent car accident
and since that time the remaining family had given every impression of being
just another tax minimising upper class Sydney family.
 

“I see.  Any other information?” Nelson asked.

“It’s a bit sketchy at the moment.  I want you and Detective
Robards to meet me at the crime scene in thirty minutes.”  Crighton provided
Nelson with the address. 

Nelson stared sadly at the phone as the line went dead,
lamenting the probable loss of his days off.  He sighed and then searched through
the names stored on his mobile and placed a call. 

“Hello, Pete Robards speaking.”

Nelson was slightly disappointed that Robards sounded
chirpy, too chirpy, as if he hadn’t even gone to sleep, as if it was two p.m.
and not two a.m..  In the background, Nelson heard the voice of a woman and realised
with mild jealousy that Robards must have had some success in pursuing the
quarry he had had his eye on when Nelson left him earlier in the night.

“It’s Nelson.  Crighton just called me.  He’s got a job
for us.”

“Crighton called you?  What’s going on?” responded
Robards immediately.  Robards was something of an annoying revelation to
Nelson.  When he initially joined Nelson’s squad six months previously, Nelson
could barely hide his amazement that this twenty-six year old ‘kid’ held
the rank of Detective Senior Constable and had secured a placement in the
highly sought after and elite Homicide Squad ranks.  In time however, Nelson
came to understand how Robards had risen through the ranks so rapidly and
seemed earmarked for future success.  Despite his second-rower appearance, he
had a sharp and agile mind.  He also possessed some career enhancing character
traits that Nelson didn’t, like the ability not to piss people off and always
remembering to give a generous serving of respect and deference to his
superiors, including Superintendent Crighton.  Nelson was resigned to the likelihood
that Robards’ career would continue to blossom while he held no such thoughts
of grandeur for his own.

“There’s a body in St Peters and Crighton wants us on it,”
replied Nelson, massaging his stubbly face.  “He wants us to meet him there in thirty
minutes.”

Robards energetically pestered Nelson for further
information like a five year old on Christmas Eve, but Nelson cut him off, told
him the location of the murder and hung up just as abruptly as Crighton had
hung up on him.

Nelson made his way to his bathroom and regarded the man
that stared at him in the mirror.  His light brown hair was cropped short at
about a centimetre in length all over.  When it grew longer than that it had a
mind of its own and grew in all different directions.  He had long given up on
trying to style it because it point blank refused to be styled.  He noted that
it was definitely starting to show more grey than he would have preferred but
it didn’t bother him overly.  His father’s hair had been grey for as long as he
could remember so he knew what he was in for.  His nose was slightly hooked, his
large, blue eyes were set wide apart on his round face and were still red and
tired after only a couple hours of sleep.  He cast aside the tired image in the
mirror, disrobed and jumped into the shower.  He had a long day ahead of him.

As Detective Sergeant Nelson sped along Southern Cross
Drive at one hundred and forty kilometres per hour in his old rattle filled
Subaru Liberty wagon, he mused that the lack of traffic was the only good thing
about starting work at two-fifty a.m..  His mood continued to deteriorate
as he considered that his next three days were unlikely to be filled with
watching footy, heading down to the beach and catching up with some friends as
he had originally planned.  His annoyance was transferred into extra pressure
on the accelerator and his car touched one hundred and sixty kilometres per
hour before he banked left and worked his way across to St Peters. 

Despite making the journey from his home in Brighton
LeSands in near world record time he still didn’t quite manage to make Crighton’s
thirty minute time frame.  Nelson turned into Euston Road and immediately saw
the flashing blue lights of a couple of general duties squad cars advertising
the police presence.   He knew the area well enough as he had attended a few
concerts in the park over the years.  The eastern edge of the park was framed mostly
by small factories, storage warehouses and depots.  As it was only a fifteen to
twenty-five minute drive - depending on the traffic - from
the city centre, the floor space in the area was in high demand and a fairly
expensive leasing proposition.

Nelson parked his car.  As he alighted into the cold
night air he noted that Robards had already arrived and was speaking with a
security guard alongside Crighton.  Nelson briefly wondered how the hell
Robards had managed to arrive before him seeing that he lived further away.  Adding
further to Nelson’s chagrin, Robards looked as fresh as a daisy in his thousand
dollar suit and was no doubt impressing the hell out of Crighton with his dapper
punctuality and eagerness.  Nelson was not so sartorially elegant but his fleece
lined jacket kept out the cold June night, which was the most important thing
to him.

Crighton noted Nelson’s arrival, excused himself and
limped towards Nelson.  Crighton had spent only a couple of years in active
operational duty before blowing out his knee while trying to wrestle a
garrulous drunk into a cell.  The injury was severe and predated the wonders of
modern orthopedic surgery.  Several botched treatments had resulted in an
unholy fusion of ligament and bone that could never be properly fixed.  From
that day forward he had walked with a limp and had been restricted to the
non-operational areas of the New South Wales Police Force.  Although his injury
hampered his mobility it proved to be the making of his career.  His spotless
personnel record, his exemplary work ethic and his relative competence as an
administrator ensured that he progressed smoothly through the ranks in the
ensuing years, holding positions mainly at Police Headquarters and the Academy
at Goulburn.  Rumour had it that in a previous life Crighton had been a fairly
competent sportsman but his work habits and dodgy knee had long ago removed any
sign of athleticism from his now podgy, round body.

His appointment to Commander of the Homicide squad two
years previously had raised plenty of eyebrows among the ninety or so Homicide squad
members who were generally of the opinion that someone with a little more front
line experience would have been better suited to managing the squad.  However,
those above him considered that he had done a reasonable job during his tenure.

“Take a walk with me Detective Sergeant,” he said by way
of greeting. 

Nelson followed him as they walked well out of earshot of
the others in attendance at the scene.  He noted with mild satisfaction that Crighton
looked tired as tired as he felt, with tight, deep lines framing his blue eyes.

“Now I don’t need to tell you Detective that the Homicide
Squad needs to be seen to be on top of this from the beginning.  Emilio
Fogliani is a well known name in some circles and there’s likely to be media
interest in this.  I especially don’t want you or any other members of the
Police Force giving off the cuff, speculative quotes to the media over what has
transpired here tonight.  The only statements that I want to see in the press
are those that have come out of the media unit or any press conference that
will be organised through me.  What I do want however, is for you and Detective
Robards to give this case your undivided attention and handle it as quickly and
efficiently as possible.  Is this understood Detective?”

“Yes Boss.”  Nelson didn’t think Crighton had
sufficiently earned his respect to warrant being called ‘Sir’.  In his opinion,
few senior officers had.  “What about VanMerle?”  Nelson normally worked in a
team of eight Detectives.  The team was headed by Inspector James VanMerle.  While
he was officially Nelson’s superior, his role was mostly administrative in
nature, although to Nelson’s annoyance, he had a habit of trying to get
hands-on with the cases that had political or media cache. 

“I will square it away with Inspector VanMerle when he
gets to the office in the morning.  Alright now….”

“Before you go on, can I just ask why we’re handling this
case instead of leaving it up to the LAC boys?  I mean, Fogliani isn’t that big
a name anymore is it?”  Despite the noticeable frown that instantly creased
Crighton’s forehead Nelson thought the question reasonable.  There were Detectives
attached to most Local Area Commands or LACs, in the Sydney Metro region and it
was usual procedure for them to handle the Homicide cases or any other criminal
investigations in their region unless the investigation was identified as being
too complex or would unreasonably stretch their limited resources.   When this
occurred, the case was referred for assistance to one of the squads or
taskforces in the State Crime Command that specialised in addressing certain
types of crime like drugs, organised crime or homicide.    

“All Homicide cases are important Detective and there may
be more to this one than meets the eye.  Anyway, all you need to know is that I’ve
made the decision that this is a case the Homicide squad needs to run with. 
End of story.  Now do you have any more questions Detective Nelson?”

“No Boss,” replied Nelson, deciding to quit while he was
behind.

“Good.  Then I will leave the investigation of this case
in yours and Detective Robard’s capable hands.  The Newtown LAC Detectives have
remained on-site to brief you more fully.  I want a progress report from
you in my office by nine a.m..  After that I’ll meet with the media unit and issue
a statement.”

“Ok boss.  What about the family?  Anyone told them yet?”

Crighton considered the question for a moment.  “No.  I
will save you the trouble and go and speak with the Fogliani family myself.  I’ll
give them assurances that you and Detective Robards are already on the case and
that you will be in touch with them in the near future to gather whatever
background information is available.”

“I doubt they’ll give us anything.”

“That may well be the case Detective,” said Crighton,
looking sharply at Nelson.  “But I know you will make the effort nonetheless. 
Treat them like any normal grieving family Detective.  Just because they may
have had some spurious connections in the past doesn’t make them immune to
feeling pain when a loved one has been taken from them.”  Crighton turned to go
indicating the end of the conversation but then turned back to Nelson. 

“Oh and Nelson.”