Sinister Intent Page 10

  ‘Ambulance five minutes away,’ Josh informed her.

  In five minutes he could be dead.

  Josh was in the doorway behind her, attempting to extract information from the hysterical Kate. She could hear his voice, asking Kate questions, pleading with her to calm down. Nothing worked. The girl was completely useless, in total shock. Over her wailing Lexie heard sirens in the distance. She yelled for Josh to get her another towel, the one she was holding was soaked through. Concern made her head light when she noticed Bluey’s eyes starting to flutter. His breathing was getting increasingly laboured and Lexie felt her own heart rate increase as she watched him deteriorate.

  Don’t die on me.

  Feeling her own panic rise, Lexie concentrated on keeping her voice calm as she repeated, ‘It’s going to be okay,’ over and over again. She knew the words were just something you said at a time like this. Like a lullaby to soothe a screaming baby. But what else could she do? What else could she say?

  Bluey’s eyes closed. She shook him gently. ‘The ambulance is almost here, hang in there, Bluey, stay with me,’ she told him frantically. ‘Josh, where are the ambos?’

  ‘Any second, Lexie. I’ll guide them in.’ Out of the corner of her eye she saw Josh move past the hysterical Kate and dash outside.

  Suddenly, Bluey’s eyes flew open, giving Lexie such a shock she almost fell backwards. One bloodied hand shot up and grabbed at her shirt, like a panicked animal clawing at its attacker. He pulled her down towards him. His glazed eyes focused intensely on hers. His mouth opened, a dribble of blood ran down the side of his chin and he mumbled something, but his voice was so weak she strained to hear.

  ‘Ru . . . b,’ he whispered.

  Lexie moved closer, trying to interpret his words.

  ‘What are you saying, Bluey? Do you know who shot you?’

  The sirens had stopped. They must be outside. She felt instant relief.

  He blinked rapidly, pulling her down even closer to his mouth. He gulped in some air.

  ‘Gr . . . ub,’ he croaked. His breath was stale with the odour of beer.

  Lexie shook her head in frustration.

  ‘What are you saying? Are you saying Grub? Who’s Grub?’

  Bluey nodded his head the slightest bit this time. Suddenly, his breathing became so laboured he started gasping for air.

  ‘Grub . . . shot . . . me,’ he wheezed.

  Oh God. Who the hell was Grub?

  She tried again.

  ‘Who’s Grub?’

  It had to be a nickname.

  ‘What’s Grub’s real name, Bluey? Tell me, tell me.’

  If she could just get it out of him! She tried one last time.

  ‘Who’s Grub, who are you talking about?’

  Just then footsteps thudded into the house. The ambulance team had arrived with their tubes, monitors, and IV fluid.

  With her head buzzing, Lexie gratefully moved out of their way.

  CHAPTER 12

  From the doorway, Lexie watched ballistics and forensic officers go about their work, taking photographs, videoing the scene, tagging and bagging evidence, filling specimen bags and bottles with items at the end of forceps. They were searching for traces of physical evidence that seemed invisible from where she was standing.

  A robust senior ballistics officer was on all fours working his grid with gloved hands. Another was taking measurements, analysing blood splatter patterns and examining bullet holes. A female officer was dusting for fingerprints around the window sill. The teams worked methodically, side by side, covering every inch of the room, discussing and debating what they’d found with each other and throwing Lexie the occasional question.

  ‘Do you know how many shots actually connected with the victim?’ a junior ballistics officer asked as he expertly plucked a bullet from the wall cavity with something that resembled a long pair of tweezers. He was young, and the blue overalls he wore swum on his skinny frame. ‘That’s the third one so far.’

  ‘I’m not sure.’

  She was certainly no medical expert.

  ‘All I saw was a big hole and lots of blood.’

  ‘Will he live?’

  She shrugged, not really wanting to think about it.

  ‘I don’t know. He didn’t look real good.’

  The senior ballistics officer struggled to haul his tubby body up from the floor. He stretched his back and let out a groan.

  ‘I’m going outside to have a look on and around the porch. The light out there’s crap. Where’s the torch?’ he asked his partner, carefully manoeuvring his huge boots around the caked pools of red on the floorboards.

  His partner pointed to a pile of equipment in the corner.

  ‘It’s over there, Porky.’

  It wasn’t hard to guess how he’d got his nickname.

  ‘I might just get some air,’ Lexie said to no one in particular.

  The stench of drying blood and the constant recollection of what she’d witnessed in this room were starting to make her stomach churn.

  ‘I’ll be just outside if you need me.’

  ‘No worries,’ someone answered as she turned and made her way out of the house.

  She found Josh in the shadows by the side of the house shovelling what appeared to be the last remnants of a chocolate bar into his mouth.

  ‘How can you eat?’ she asked him in disgusted amazement.

  Could he really be that desensitised?

  ‘There’s a bloodbath inside those doors and you’re out the front chomping on chocolate.’

  Josh laughed. ‘A man needs sustenance, you know. We didn’t get to eat dinner. Aren’t you hungry?’

  Lexie stared at him as if he’d suddenly sprouted two heads.

  ‘Are you crazy? I don’t think I’ll ever be hungry again.’

  She looked down at herself and grimaced.

  Bloodstains marked her blue jeans and were splattered across her tank top. Even her shoes were completely soiled. How could she possibly consider food when she was covered in a dying man’s blood?

  ‘Tell me again what he said to you?’ Josh asked.

  They had already been through this, but she did as she was instructed.

  ‘Like I said before, he was hard to understand at first. I don’t know what it meant, he didn’t say. He just repeated the word, “Grub”. I asked him if he knew who shot him and he said it again, just before the paramedics ran in. It was the last thing he said: “Grub shot me”.’ Lexie ran a hand through her tangled hair. ‘I heard it clearly the last time.’

  Josh rubbed his chin thoughtfully. ‘It’s obviously a nickname for someone; maybe another bikie. Looks like you got yourself a dying declaration. Well done.’

  Lexie felt she’d done nothing to deserve the praise.

  ‘He’s not dead yet.’

  ‘No, but I’d say that’s only a matter of time. Either way, even if he survives, he believed he was about to die so it’s still a dying dec. Get your notebook out and write down exactly what he said as you remember it.’

  Lexie nodded. Diligently pulling her notebook out of her pocket she started writing.

  ‘Look what I found.’

  Porky appeared holding up a plastic evidence bag.

  ‘Six spent cartridges under and around the verandah.’

  He directed the torch onto the bag so they could see.

  ‘Like the bullets inside the house, these are from a Glock 23 pistol,’ he told them.

  Josh and Lexie exchanged a curious glance. Glock 22 firearms were standard issue to all New South Wales police with the significantly smaller version, the 23, being commonly carried by detectives, including herself. This was due to the fact that it was more compact and practical to conceal when wearing plain clothes.

  The ballistics officer continued, ‘I also got one cigarette butt, which probably doesn’t belong to the shooter – but you never know. Crooks can be pretty stupid a lot of the time. There’s also a smudged shoe print in the dirt over there.’ />
  He pointed to a row of bushes at the side of the house.

  ‘I’ll get crime scene to get a mould of it.’

  He gave Josh a wide smile, clearly pleased with himself.

  ‘It seems to me the shooter was pretty smart. He didn’t enter the house, did the shooting from the outside so Locard doesn’t really help us in this instance.’

  Locard’s theory or principle, Lexie remembered from her detective’s course, was based on the idea that no matter how careful an offender might be, there is always an exchange of debris that takes place between the killer and the victim. He was bound to leave something, it was inevitable – fibres from his shirt, mud from his shoes, hairs from his head, flakes of skin. However, in this scenario the killer had not had any direct contact with the victim, having shot him through a glass window from outside the premises. That made any hope of finding physical trace evidence that much more difficult.

  Josh called Casey to give her an update before they moved back into the lounge room, where the ballistics and crime scene officers gave them a running commentary on their findings.

  Porky spoke first. ‘It would appear six rounds were fired through the front lounge room window. Since three bullets lodged in the gyprock wall behind where the victim was shot and we have six spent cartridges, I’d presume three bullets connected. You’ll find that out at the autopsy anyway, to be sure.’

  ‘He’s not dead,’ Lexie stated, a little too brusquely.

  Porky shrugged, then continued. ‘We’ll send those bullets for profiling.’

  He went on to explain the process of rifling, where a bullet can be matched, if it’s in reasonable condition, to a particular firearm.

  ‘It appears the impact of the bullets has propelled the victim backwards, where he’s hit the wall, grabbed on to it for support before slowly sliding down to the floor.’

  He indicated, with his finger, the bloody hand mark and the blood splatter patterns on the wall.

  ‘Somehow he’s wiggled or dragged himself into the middle of the room where you found him,’ he finished, looking at them expectantly.

  ‘I’d guess that the victim was sitting here on the lounge. He may have heard a noise, put his beer on the table next to him.’

  Lexie glanced at the half empty bottle of Toohey’s New still sitting there.

  ‘He stood up, peered out the window and that’s when he was shot. That scenario seems to fit with the crime scene evidence.’

  Lexie shook her head, amazed at how accurate these guys could be just by examining a scene and analysing blood splatter patterns, the positioning of bullet holes and the like.

  Josh made notes and then thanked everyone in the room.

  ‘We’ll head back to the office now and leave you to finish up here. We’ve got some uniformed officers outside guarding the scene if you need anything. I really appreciate everyone’s help. I’ll be in touch.’

  The crime scene technicians stopped what they were doing and bid them farewell. Lexie followed Josh outside. Standing at the outer perimeter were two uniformed officers who had turned up to guard the crime scene, one of whom Lexie recognised from the pub the other night. Tim or Jim? He shot her a shy smile.

  ‘You guys know what you have to do? Don’t enter the inner perimeter. Record everyone who accesses the scene. Got the crime scene log?’ Josh shot off questions at them.

  ‘Yes, Sergeant,’ they said in unison.

  ‘Very good. There’s nothing I hate more than a contaminated crime scene. If there are any problems give me a call.’

  He looked straight at Lexie as he held up a section of blue and white crime scene tape she’d helped him erect earlier, for her to crawl under.

  She smiled. ‘Thanks.’

  Josh returned her smile, the night’s events seeming to have broken any remaining formality between them.

  ‘Let’s get back to the station. Our night has only just begun.’

  CHAPTER 13

  As they headed back to the station, Josh studied Lexie discreetly from the passenger seat of the car. She could seriously be a model, he thought, as his eyes swept over her profile: straight nose, strong jaw, full lips, long slender neck and big brown eyes that were at present fixated and staring, almost as if she was in a trance, at the road in front of her. Her movements were stiff, automatic, and he wondered if she might be in shock, whether the night was catching up with her.

  What was she thinking? She’d hardly spoken since they’d got in the car and her face was a map of concern. Brad Sommers would know what to say right now, Josh thought. Some people just knew instinctively what to say, how to lend support at a time like this with just a few well-chosen words. Unfortunately, he was not one of those people!

  Josh had never been good with words. Over the years he’d lost count of the women who’d taken great pleasure in informing him of that fact. He’d been accused of being incapable of expressing emotions and communicating his feelings. He was detached, distant, scared of commitment. And the sad reality was he knew it was true.

  Could he blame his father for making him an emotional wasteland?

  He had grown up in a lion’s den of uncertainty, never knowing what his father’s moods might dictate at any given moment. He could go from withdrawn, to self-absorbed, to a raving, abusive maniac in seconds. Was it any wonder his mother was scared of her own shadow or that his sister had mental health issues? Josh had learnt to deal with his father by becoming detached, keeping a distance so he could not be responsible for igniting his fire. That was probably why he had chosen a profession where he couldn’t be ignored, where he was the one in control.

  Frustrated at his own inadequacies, Josh stared blankly through the glass of the passenger window, out into the night. After only a few moments the silence in the car was becoming deafening.

  ‘Are you okay, Lexie?’ he asked tentatively.

  She nodded but kept her eyes on the road.

  ‘I’m fine; just thinking, that’s all. If you’re worried about me handling things, I promise you I can. I’m fine.’

  Her voice was suddenly defensive. Josh was unsure where it was coming from.

  ‘That’s not what I was thinking at all. I thought you handled things very well.’

  She gave him a doubtful glance.

  Not knowing what else to say, Josh reached forward to turn the radio up. A bit of music might fill the silent void in the car, he thought, but just before his fingers touched the radio dial, his mobile sounded its ring tone: Van Morrison’s tune ‘Brown-eyed Girl’ broke the silence.

  Re-adjusting himself in his seat, Josh reached into his jeans and pulled out his phone. Feeling Lexie’s eyes on him he met her gaze.

  ‘It’s my favourite song,’ he offered in explanation of the ring tone.

  Lexie continued to stare at him.

  ‘Mine too,’ he heard her whisper.

  ‘Speak to me,’ Josh said into the phone. There was a moment’s silence while he listened to his boss’s voice on the other end of the line.

  ‘Right. Yes. We’re on our way back now. Has homicide been informed?’

  He felt Lexie’s eyes leave the road once again and bore into the side of his face at the mention of homicide. He finished his conversation with Casey Blair and turned his body in the seat so he faced her.

  ‘Bluey died a short time ago.’

  He tried to say it gently, without sounding flippant, but it didn’t quite work.

  ‘We now have ourselves a murder. You never can tell, can you? I thought we’d just be locking up drunken fools who’d had too much punch at their Christmas parties. Is this your first one?’

  ‘I’ve been to murders before but this will be my first one as a detective.’

  ‘It’s going to be a long night, or should I say morning,’ he said. ‘Can you pull up over there in front of that convenience store? I’ll just run in and get us something to eat. What would you like?’

  When he got no reply Josh glanced sideways at Lexie. She was starin
g straight ahead.

  Her usually olive complexion had turned a dull shade of grey and her hand was cupped over her mouth. Josh thought she looked as if she was about to be sick.

  CHAPTER 14

  SUNDAY

  Lexie sat at her desk with her head in her hands, thankful she hadn’t been sick in front of Josh. She would have been mortified, never able to look him in the eye again, if that had happened. And although she was grateful the churning in her stomach had stilled, the night’s events had left her mind spinning and second-guessing herself, while the rest of her felt strangely numb, like a distant observer separated from her own body.

  An image of the bikie, lying in a pool of his own blood, flashed before her eyes. What had he been trying to tell her? He’d definitely said ‘Grub’. Hadn’t he? The letters were ingrained in her mind. Yes, he had definitely said ‘Grub’. But what did it mean? She’d gone over those last moments, before the ambulance arrived, a thousand times, but still her brain failed to come up with any brilliant insight as to what he’d been trying to tell her.

  It had to be a nickname, possibly code for something, or more than likely someone. Had Bluey seen his killer or was she completely off track? Was he just rambling? Frustration formed a knot in her neck. If only she’d been able to get more out of him.

  ‘What time is the briefing?’ Jeff Sleeman’s booming voice yelled to no one in particular.

  Startled, Lexie looked up and glanced around the office as if suddenly awakening from a bad dream. Her head was foggy. She had been so engrossed in her own thoughts she’d failed to notice the office buzzing around her. Where the hell had everyone come from? Bustling bodies moved purposefully in all directions; someone patted her on the back as they whipped past accidentally knocking her chair. Voices yelled out to each other across the room as fingers clicked away on computer keyboards. She watched the commotion in stunned fascination.