The 192 - A Detective Jane Anderson Thriller

By Geoff Dair

WHEN PREDATOR BECOMES PREY. 

The brutal murder of an Adelaide man has Detective Jane Anderson scrambling. A recluse with no apparent enemies, Donald is the last person she expected to turn up dead. She must scour through every inch of his life to solve the case.

SHE CAN'T SHAKE THE FEELING THERE IS MORE TO COME.

When a second victim is found, Jane realises they share a dark truth. Armed with few clues, a hostile media and an impatient boss – the pressure mounts. If she can't figure out the motive behind the murders more people will die.

WHAT WILL SHE BE WILLING TO RISK TO FIND THE KILLER?

Length 288 pages

• Language: English
• Publisher: Green Hill Publishing
• Release date: Dec 17, 2020
• ISBN: 9781922527981

Book preview

PROLOGUE

‘Earlier today a man from Ingle Farm was found dead in his flat. The gruesome discovery was made by a co-worker in the early morning when they arrived to pick the man up for work. The co-worker found the victim in an unresponsive state and called emergency services. A spokesman for the police stated that at this stage the death is being treated as suspicious. The man’s name is yet to be released. Ana Novak, Twelve News.’

Jane clicked the TV off, coming back to reality as she realised she had been staring blankly into space, reflecting on what had been a difficult day. Ten past six on a Friday night – time to go. She put her laptop and folder into her satchel and took the lift down to the Angas Street Police Headquarters’ underground car park. Jane came up the car park ramp in her Ford Focus, emerged into the outside world and the windscreen was immediately met with the light winter drizzle that was all too common at this time of year. It had already been dark for over forty-five minutes and Jane set the wipers to intermittent with the longest available interval. Turning left onto Angas street she would be home in Stonyfell in about fifteen minutes.

EIGHT HOURS EARLIER: FRIDAY 10 AM

Special Investigator Jane Anderson pulled into the cul-de-sac of the usually sedate outer-northern suburb of Ingle Farm. She parked at the top of the street, some fifty metres from the block of flats that was cordoned off with police tape and several uniformed officers trying to keep some semblance of order amid the large group of media that had gathered in the street. The sun had just begun to shine through a small gap in the otherwise blanketing pewter skies as if to mark her arrival. The morning had been bitterly cold and she had her favourite tartan scarf tied tightly around her neck in a bow formation. She strode purposefully along the footpath, wearing charcoal slacks and jacket with a white blouse. Her badge was hitched over her black belt on the front of her hip. As she approached the police tape she framed her badge on her belt, announcing herself as ‘Investigator Anderson’ to the uniformed Constable who lifted the tape to allow her through. Jane made her way to the makeshift white tent that had been erected on the front lawn of the property, here she could put white overalls and booties on over her clothes before entering the flat.

‘What have we got, Pete?’ Jane asked Peter Timms who was already in his white overalls and positioning his hairnet.

‘Well I’ve only had a quick chat to Shaun, but it looks like the guy was bludgeoned to death,’ Peter replied.

‘Who’s been in so far?’

‘Just Shaun, the photographer and the fingerprint crew. They’re waiting for us before going any further with DNA capture,’ Peter confirmed.

Jane pulled her booties over her brogues –she’d learnt a long time ago not to wear heels to a crime scene – and positioned her own hairnet. The two investigators walked along the green plastic sheeting that had been laid down between the tent and the front door of the block of flats. It reminded Jane of a red carpet at a movie premiere complete with paparazzi, except it was plastic, green and instead of a movie amongst celebrities there was a dead body in a flat.

The ground floor flat had virtually no entry hall, instead opening straight into a combined kitchenette and lounge room. To the left behind the wall the refrigerator was obscuring was a doorway which led to the single bedroom and then off that was a small ensuite. The lounge room hosted two large aluminium sliding windows. A couch was positioned against the wall separating the bedroom and lounge with a rectangular wooden coffee table in front of it. On the opposite wall to the couch was a settee with glass sliding doors and a television on the top. In the corner of the lounge room was a small kitchen table with an open laptop which was plugged into the double power point on the wall beneath one of the aluminium windows. Beside the table was a 5-bar oil heater which was plugged into the same power point as the laptop. In the space between the coffee table and kitchen was a man slumped in a chair which presumably would reside at the kitchen table with the laptop.

Crime scene unit investigator Shaun Demspey looked up as Jane and Peter entered the flat. ‘Morning Janey. Timmsy,’ he greeted the pair in a matter-of-fact way.

‘Who have we here then?’ Jane asked in a similar tone.

‘Donald Allan Dixon, according to his licence. Twenty-eight. Licence has this address so he might have lived here a while. Looks like he’s been handcuffed to the chair and beaten to a pulp, basically. No sign of a murder weapon. No sign of forced entry. His wallet was on the bench next to the sink and has twenty-five dollars in cash. We’re not completely ruling out robbery, but it doesn’t look like it. That, of course, is up to you guys.’

Donald was perched on the chair as if he was asleep. Jane stood in front of him, taking in what was before her. His chin rested on his chest where his mouth formed the origin of a short waterfall of blood which trickled down his chest, over his stomach and congealed at his navel soaking into the elastic band of his tracksuit pants. Jane moved slowly to a position behind him. The hair on the back of his head was severely matted in blood and his upper body was almost entirely purple from contusions too numerable to count. There’s a huge amount of rage here.

‘This is quite a beating,’ Jane said without affect. Circling back to where she began, she looked once again at Donald’s face. Both eye sockets were swollen as if someone had inserted a large marble under the skin and they had the crimson discolouration associated with extreme bruising. Jane leaned in to the corpse for a closer look at Donald’s face. She had never seen anyone beaten as savagely as this. The bridge of his nose was almost certainly broken, judging by the shape of it and the blood from his nose may have added to the waterfall. It was difficult to tell as the philtrum was split and his upper front teeth were pushed back into his mouth at what appeared to be a forty-five degree angle. Smudged across Donald’s chest, also in red, were the symbols X²-X. The minus sign had been pulled down and smudged from the blood waterfall as if it was under the influence of gravity. On the floor at Donald’s feet was a single sheet of paper with a snowflake pattern printed on it.

‘I’m guessing that’s not blood.’ Jane said, motioning to the symbols on Donald’s chest.

‘It’s not. Probably lipstick, but we’ll know more once we analyse it,’ Shaun acknowledged.

‘And what about the snowflake, triangle thing?’

‘Yeah, it looks to me like some kind of fractal,’ replied Shaun.

‘A what?’ Peter spoke up, bemused.

‘Fractal,’ Shaun continued. ‘It’s a mathematical pattern exhibiting infinite detail, but I would suggest you talk to an expert to get the full idea. From memory they’re usually some kind of recursive function. As for the symbols, it’s clearly a polynomial but again you’ll need to check.’

‘Jesus, Shaun. Is there anything you don’t know?’ Jane interjected.

‘Plenty Janey, but it’s not worth knowing,’ Shaun answered with a smirk.

‘So, we’ve potentially got a mathematician murderer,’ Jane offered.

‘Or at least someone with more maths knowledge than your average punter,’ Peter pointed out.

‘Yep, we need to find out if this stuff is relevant or just there to make us waste our time,’ Jane added. ‘What about the laptop?’

‘Yep, we’ll pack that up once we’re finished and get it over to Hunter to look at,’ Shaun replied.

Jane walked slowly through the flat to gain a sense of the space and what had transpired. It smelt of body odour, marijuana and death. It wasn’t acrid as to be overpowering but enough to be unpleasant. The coffee table was a disordered mess. A magazine lay open on the right-hand edge showing a tanned, naked woman posing under a palm tree on a beach. Jane carefully flipped it over to reveal the cover. Penthouse. Who still bought print pornography? An open plastic sandwich bag of what appeared to be cannabis lay next to a tall, brown ceramic bong. Similarly, an open pouch of rolling tobacco lay on the other side, its contents strewn across the left-hand side of the table. Some of the brown strands had also managed to spill onto the floor. A filthily stained coffee mug, orange disposable cigarette lighter and a bread and butter plate adorned with pastry crumbs and a small piece of pizza crust sat on the right-hand edge.

Jane moved to the bedroom which had clothes all over the floor. Jeans, T-shirts, jumpers, socks, underpants, and shoes. It was as though Donald used the floor as an open wardrobe. The double bed had a black sheet and a single white, sweat-stained pillow. The doona only covered the lower half of the bed, the upper half was folded over and dangling off the left side. The bedside table on the right, the only one in the room, was a cheap brown laminate variety with a small drawer. A white reading lamp with a plastic push-switch in the base sat on the top. Next to the lamp was an open half-packet of cigarettes, another disposable lighter and a short, quarter-full tumbler of water that was black due to the number of cigarette butts floating in it. Hung on the wall next to the door that led to the bathroom was a framed landscape photograph of a young boy playing baseball. The boy was in a batter’s stance as if ready to receive a pitch. The caption at the bottom in a stylised gold coloured banner read Donald Dixon – 12 home runs 2002/03. That made the Donald in the picture about eleven or twelve Jane quickly determined.

The ensuite was small but functional. The usual bathroom products were littered around the vanity unit. Shaving cream, a razor, deodorant, a toothbrush, toothpaste with the blue gel smeared untidily around the nozzle, a comb and a cake of soap reduced to that little square you get before you have to replace it. There was no sign of a girlfriend or any other visitor – no extra toothbrush, no extra towel.

In the kitchen there were several pizza boxes standing up next to the fridge. Ponchos Pizza was printed across the lid above a cartoon style, pot-bellied chef holding a pizza above his shoulder in his upturned hand. Below the chef was the company phone number. On the kitchen bench was a sandwich maker next to half a loaf of bread. In the fridge was milk, margarine, half of a large block of cheese and two pieces of pizza on a white dinner plate. The sink and the surrounding apron was filled with dirty dishes, plates, bowls, glasses, mugs and a pot.

From the unkempt style of the flat Jane surmised that Donald was probably a bit of a loner who didn’t get out much more than he had to. A loner and a stoner. Why would someone want to bash Donald to death, and with such a large degree of rage? Jane had a picture in her mind of the sort of person Donald was and it didn’t fit with the type that had a lot of enemies. The state of the flat, the diet of pizza and toasted cheese sandwiches in addition to the drugs indicated someone who led a largely amorphous lifestyle. She imagined Donald as a completely inoffensive and irrelevant character whose interests were contained within the flat they were standing in.

Jane looked again at the corpse slumped in the chair. A corpse that was covered with wounds and discolourations so large in number they appeared to merge into one. Donald had been murdered with a ruthless brutality and savagery. Jane shook her head slightly as she was obviously wrong. There must be something this lay-about stoner had done or perhaps someone he had double-crossed that had brought a killer to his door.

‘So eight units in the block, I’m guessing we’ll get bugger all from the neighbours in this upstanding part of town,’ Peter said with more than a hint of sarcasm. ‘No apparent motive, no murder weapon. It’s a shit fight.’

Jane ignored Peter’s sarcasm.

‘Could you remember to call the pizza company when they open this afternoon to see if Donald had a delivery last night and at what time?’ Jane asked and she watched Peter make a note on his phone for five o’clock. ‘Canvas the other blocks anyway, Pete, despite your misgivings. You never know. Also, I would like to talk with the friend who found him. Where are they?’

Brad Simmons was sitting on the tailgate of an ambulance with a blanket drawn around his shoulders, as much to keep out the morning cold as a measure against shock. The open rear door of the ambulance was acting as a shield keeping him hidden from the media throng congregating in the street. He was wearing what appeared to be steel cap work boots and navy cargo shorts along with an orange hi-vis fleece jumper. Across the stomach and forearms of the jumper were two horizontal, silver reflective strips. It was a fairly standard ensemble for someone working in a trade or a storage warehouse. A look of total disbelief was plastered on his pale face, as if what he had experienced that morning had yet to sink in. Undoubtedly however, in time this would be a morning he would remember for the rest of his life.

As Jane approached the ambulance she surmised that Brad was in his early twenties, his messy straw-blonde hair evidence that he probably got dressed straight out of bed and went to work, forgoing the niceties of a shower. That aside, he looked like an innocent enough kid who found himself in an unpleasant situation.

‘Brad Simmons? I’m detective Anderson. Do you think you could answer a few questions for me about what happened here this morning?’ Jane said in a soft, almost motherly tone. She took his nod as a sign to continue. ‘But first, can I get you a hot coffee or something to warm you up?’

‘I had one already, the ambulance guy gave me one,’ Brad said without shifting his gaze from the ground in front of him.

‘Okay, I understand you and Donald work together, what is it that you do?’ Jane asked.

‘Yeah, we do.’ He paused. ‘Well… did. At Moving Stationery, over in Parafield Gardens. We supply office stuff to shops and businesses. I’m the forky and Donald’s the delivery driver.’ Jane gave Brad a reassuring nod that conveyed gentle encouragement.

‘Do you normally pick Donald up for work?’ She confirmed.

‘No. If he hasn’t turned up, our boss, Tony, sends me around to bang on his door.’

‘Okay, Brad, so how often would Tony send you to find Donald?’ she continued.

‘I dunno, once or twice a week. He’s always late.’ Brad’s empty stare had not shifted and he remained motionless. His body language was one of dejected resignation although Jane detected a hint of frustration in his voice.

‘Were the two of you friends?’ Jane kept her questions short and succinct whilst maintaining her gentle tone.

‘No. Donny was a bit flaky and always coming around here to get him out of bed gives me the… well shits, if you’ll pardon my French.’ Brad finally lifted his gaze from the ground to meet Jane’s. His brown eyes revealed a vulnerability that Jane had seen in so many people before after witnessing a life changing event.

‘That’s quite alright. I’ve heard worse.’ Jane came back with a disarming grin. ‘So, let’s talk about this morning. What time did Tony tell you to go and get Donny?’

‘Not sure exactly, but it’s normally after he’s forty-five minutes to an hour late, so maybe around quarter past eight,’ Brad estimated.

‘So, Donny is supposed to start at seven thirty?’ Jane interjected.

‘Yeah, we all do.’

‘And how long does it take you to get here from the warehouse?’ she continued.

‘Bout ten minutes I suppose.’

‘So, what did you do when you arrived?’ she pressed.

‘I went to bang on the door like normal, but when I hit the door it just swung open and Donny was just sitting there all messed up. I could tell he wasn’t breathing and he looked all cold.’ Jane could sense Brad wanted to be helpful. Finding Donald the way he was would send a lot of people into shock. The timbre of his voice had begun to fluctuate as often happens when a person is trying to suppress the urge to cry.

‘Then what did you do, Brad?’ Jane increased the firmness of her tone by the slightest amount. She did not want him to become incomprehensible if his rising feelings spilled over. She needed him to be lucid and coherent as much as possible. She also didn’t want to alienate or frighten him – it was a fine line.

‘I dunno really, I called triple zero and the rest is all a bit of a blur.’ Brad seemed on the brink of becoming a spluttering mess. Tread carefully. Jane already knew Brad’s call was received by the dispatcher at 8:36 am.

‘Did you see anyone else around or notice anything out of the ordinary?’ Jane asked with another increase in firmness.

‘Nah, it was all pretty quiet, I guess,’ Brad said with a glimpse that he was regaining his composure.

‘No one jogging or walking their dog or anything like that?’ Jane asked in a final attempt to spark Brad’s memory. She already knew most people were oblivious to their surroundings when going about everyday tasks. She also knew the question was unlikely to produce a useful answer, however she wanted to be thorough.

‘Not that I remember. I wasn’t really taking notice,’ he answered confirming Jane’s suspicions.

‘So when was the last time you saw Donny alive? Was he at work yesterday?’

‘Ah, I saw him yesterday morning.’ Brad appeared almost relieved he had been asked a question he could provide a useful answer for. ‘Once he comes in, has a coffee and picks up his schedule he’s usually out for the rest of the day, unless Tony sees him and gets stuck into him for being late. We knock off at half-three and he must bring the truck back sometime after that cos it’s always there the next morning ready for me to load it up.’

‘So, Tony and Donny argue a lot?’ Jane asked with a hint of surprise.

‘Yeah, pretty much constantly.’

‘Would you be able to give me Tony’s number? I’ve just got a couple of things to ask him about also.’

‘No need, he’s over there.’ Brad motioned with his head towards an Italian looking man standing behind the police tape several metres away.

‘Alright then, thank you Brad, I think that’s it for now. You take it easy; a shock like this can often affect you in a way you’re not ready for.’ Jane felt sympathy for Brad. He looked like a normal young kid whose biggest concern on a Friday should be which pub he was going to with his friends that night. Instead, through no fault of his own he had to deal with discovering a colleague who had been violently murdered. He may not realise it now, but his life had just changed forever. In a sense he was a victim as well.

Jane left Brad and walked over towards Tony at the police line. He stood in his place with a startled look on his face as if he had no idea what to make of what was happening. Jane introduced herself and asked Tony to follow her as she lifted the tape for him to pass under it.

Standing at five foot six, Tony Moriani was fractionally shorter than Jane. He was wearing a grey, double-breasted suit with a lavender shirt and purple tie. For his height, he seemed to have a large head and short neck, which coupled with his stocky frame, gave him an almost pugnacious, gangster appearance from the 1930’s. Despite his receding hairline, Jane guessed he was probably around forty years old, and his clear complexion and nice features suggested he wasn’t much of a drinker.

‘Just over here.’ She gestured towards the white tent where she and Peter had changed into their white overalls earlier.

‘Take a seat.’ Jane motioned for Tony to sit in one of the foldable A-frame, white plastic chairs in the rear corner of the tent. ‘I understand that you are Donald Dixon and Brad Simmons’ employer,’ Jane began.

‘Yes. I called Brad about nine to see where the two of them were cos they should’ve been back. When Brad told me the police were here I came down straight away. I just can’t believe it.’

‘I also understand that you and Donald argued quite often and didn’t exactly get along,’ Jane prompted, wanting to gauge his reaction.

‘Whoa, hang on; you don’t think I had something to do with this do you?’ he replied, clearly taken off guard.

‘We’re not ruling anything out at this point, but if you could just answer my question,’ Jane pressed.

‘Well, yes, we argued a bit I suppose but that doesn’t mean you kill someone over it.’ He had become defensive. Defensive but not evasive. It was a natural enough reaction for someone who was surprised to realise they might be under suspicion of a crime.

‘What did you argue about?’ she asked.

‘Mostly his attitude. He was always late for work, but usually only twenty or thirty minutes. If it got up towards an hour, I would send Brad to go and rattle his cage.’

‘Do you know why he was always late?’ Jane enquired.

‘Not really, he was a bit of a stoner I suppose. Stayed up late all the time playing those stupid computer games and doing cones. He was always going on about his gaming.’

‘Why didn’t you fire him?’ she asked with genuine curiosity.

Tony gave a slight chuckle. ‘It’s not easy to fire people these days for one. It’s even harder to get a reliable delivery driver.’

‘But he wasn’t reliable,’ Jane countered.

‘He was, in that he did turn up each day eventually and got his deliveries done. I took that as a degree of reliability,’ he explained.

‘So you put up with his tardiness for the most part,’ Jane inferred.

‘Better the devil you know, I guess. Look, he was a bit of a loser, but for what the job pays you aren’t going to get some over-achieving go getter. We deliver paper and pencils, it’s not rocket science.’ Tony’s reply came without hesitation and matter-of-factly. Jane considered his countenance, posture and the tone of his answers. He did not appear to be attempting to construct an alibi on the fly. He seemed sincere and genuine in his reactions to her questions. She was inclined to believe Tony’s assessment. Him being at the site added up and she didn’t sense any collusion in the story that Brad and now Tony had told her.

‘And Donald was at work yesterday. Do you know what time he finished?’ Jane asked beginning to wrap things up.

‘He brought the truck back about four thirty, I think. I was in the office doing some work on the computer.’

‘Okay, and could you give me the rego of the truck and his delivery schedule for yesterday. We need to piece together Donald’s movements for yesterday and last night. If you could email it to me that would be great.’ Jane handed Tony her card with her phone and email details.

‘Sure, no problem, I’ll call the office now,’ Tony answered, pulling his phone out of his pocket.

‘Thanks for your help and my condolences. You can go,’ Jane offered him a warm smile.

FRIDAY NIGHT

Jane arrived home in Stonyfell sixteen minutes after leaving Angas street. Nestled in the Adelaide foothills, Stonyfell was always a little colder than it was down in the city. The drizzle had gotten steadily heavier as she drove home and she had reduced the interval of the wipers to half way between the longest and shortest intervals. The temperature gauge on the dashboard display showed seven degrees, although by now delightfully hot air was blowing all around the interior of her Ford and she felt quite warm. Nevertheless, she was looking forward to getting inside and putting the fire on. It had been a difficult day.

Jane drove up the short, steep driveway and into the double carport where Ben’s SUV was already parked. As she got out of the car the heavy drizzle had become heavy rain and she had to negotiate the six metres from the carport to the cover of the front veranda without an umbrella. She opened the front door and quickly stepped inside setting her scarf, jacket and satchel on the row of coat hooks that were in the entrance hall. On top of the small, wooden hallway table was a blue-glaze pottery bowl which held all the car keys. To the immediate right off the entrance was the lounge room where Ben was sitting on the couch with his feet on the ottoman watching the TV and holding a glass of red wine. The TV was on mute and the lounge was filled with the sound of The Divinyls greatest hits. Jane recognised Science Fiction immediately and knew Ben had put it on for her benefit.

Growing up as the youngest sibling she was exposed to music that other friends her age weren’t. Friends that didn’t have older brothers anyway. She got to hear all the bands that older boys liked; Cold Chisel, AC/DC, The Divinyls and Pink Floyd. With the exception of The Divinyls, none of them had captured her imagination. When she saw The Divinyls perform Boys in town on Countdown one Sunday night she had been totally mesmerised by the lead singer Chrissie Amphlett. The next