Breaking Point (Chapter-3)

Boston-Wright was glad to be home, but the cupboard was bare. Perhaps she should have stopped for that pizza after all. Instead, a slice of multi grain toast and a rubbery piece of Kraft cheese on top washed down with black coffee, because there was no milk, would be dinner tonight. But grocery shopping was another task for tomorrow. Too tired to do any more case file reading, Jo set the alarm for 5am.

The alarm rang out and Boston-Wright hit the snooze button. These past few days were already taking their toll. She couldn’t believe how whacked she felt and wondered how her older, overweight colleagues like Pratt kept up the pace. Creed, on the other hand, cut a fitter image for a fifty-plus man, and Boston-Wright guessed he just ran on adrenaline anyway.

It would be another hour before Boston-Wright would surface, somewhat dazed as she stumbled from kitchen to bathroom eating toast and blow drying her hair. Looking in the mirror with toast hanging from the right side of her mouth, Boston-Wright momentarily stared at her reflection and wondered why she had man issues. But this was no time for self-analysis, another case file needed to be read before she headed off to the station. Besides, Brett was a two-timing arsehole anyway.

Victim four was Sharon Berg, an American Negress, holidaying in Australia. At 40-something, she had the body most 20-year-old girls would die for and their boyfriends would envy. Sharon was curvaceous and loved younger men. Like all the other victims, this cougar was also handcuffed. Then she was strangled with her bra and her panties rammed hard down her throat. Her body was found behind the Roxy Nightclub. She had left behind a twelve-year-old daughter in Tennessee. The poor girl was now a ward of the State. Boston-Wright placed the file on the coffee table, sat back into her couch, sipped her coffee and thought about Sharon’s fateful holiday. Nobody should go on holiday thinking they might not return.

Boston-Wright’s eye caught the clock. Shit. It was 7.45 am and she would be late for the 8 am meeting. Quickly gathering her bag, she stuffed the file inside, grabbed her keys and rushed out the door, leaving the half-drunk cup of coffee on the bench alongside a plate of partly eaten toast.

Boston-Wright called Creed from the car. “Sir, I’m stuck in traffic. I’m going to be late,” she said, trying to reduce the damage already caused, especially as it was only her third day.

“Meet me over at the lab, okay? And by the way, do you have the Berg file? Smith is going off her tits about the file missing.”

There was deadly silence on the other end of the line. Boston-Wright realized she should have signed the file out. Looks like she had better buy a box of chocolates for Smith to smooth things over.

“I guessed so. Straighten it out with Smith when you get back. See you at Dr. Russell’s soon.”

Jane Russell met the detectives with her usual professional look, clipboard in hand, but today with a more perplexed gaze on her face. She called Creed and Boston-Wright over to the table and pointed out a fracture just below the left knee cap.

“Could this have happened on the night he was killed?” Boston-Wright asked.

“No,” Dr. Russell promptly replied, “but I wanted you to see this. It’s not the only broken bone in this poor lad’s body. He’s either been very clumsy or suffered a lot of abuse over his life.”

Creed took a mental note of Dr. Russell’s findings and asked Boston-Wright to check it out with the boy’s mother. A strain clearly showed on his face. Creed was increasingly frustrated with the lack of new evidence in the case. With his head drooping, he half-heartedly waved goodbye to Dr. Russell and headed back to his Mustang parked in the carpark.

“Is this yours, sir?” Boston-Wright asked with a sense of amazement but also exhibiting an expression of childlike excitement as she admired the ’67 fast back, navy in colour.

Creed momentarily got a spark back into his forlorn face. “Yes, this is my baby.” His voice gushed with pride.

“Cool. Next time I’ll leave mine behind.”

Boston-Wright entered the incident room first while Creed stopped off to grab a coffee from the kitchen.

“Anything new?” Pratt asked, peering over the local newspaper, most likely studying the form guide.

“There were some extra broken bones on Sam’s body. Maybe long term child abuse? And you?”

“Watched a mountain of CCTV tape and interviewed our little gay dish pig Damian, although he insists he has a girlfriend. Probably bats both ways,” Pratt mumbled while still fixating on the sports page of the Northern Star.

“Jim, what’s the latest on the video tape?” Creed asked walking into the room.

“Damian has identified our boy Sam walking down Tweed Coast Road. The camera outside the Commonwealth Bank shows him walking by alone and then rounding the corner. The Surf Club camera shows him pushing through a few blokes outside the club, and then heading along the beach path to Cypress Avenue.”

“And nobody followed him?” Creed asked.

“Nothing showing, boss.”

Creed insisted the tape be rewound as all officers leaned forward, trying to pick up any little detail that may help them. Sipping coffee with his eyes firmly fixed on the television screen, Creed intently watched every millisecond of the tape while somewhat violating Boston-Wright’s personal space. She felt a little uncomfortable, but now was not the time to give a woman’s lib-type speech. She shuffled forward as much as she could, but Jack instinctively followed suit.

“There. The white Land Cruiser. It seems to be going slowly down the main drag,” Boston-Wright chipped in. “Could the car be following Sam?”

Pratt didn’t seem enthusiastic about Boston-Wright’s observation. Perhaps without an identifiable number plate, it would be hard to narrow the owner down. Or perhaps it was just an anti-woman thing.

“Maybe it just looks like the Land Cruiser is going slow. Have a look at Sam in this frame. He’s stopped, maybe a little dazed as to where he is. He doesn’t seem to know where he’s going. And then he turns down Pandanus Street. Why wouldn’t he just keep going down Tweed Coast Road? Cypress Avenue runs off it,” Creed observes, his index finger of his left hand tapping his top lip.

“Maybe somebody called out to him, or he saw somebody he knew down toward the surf club?” Pratt threw in, adding to the endless list of possibilities. Nothing was getting the team closer to discovering the truth.

“Fast forward to when Sam pushes his way through a couple of lads outside the surf club,” Creed says. “Here he goes. Blonde surfer type on the right with the beer in his hand. Look over his right shoulder, toward the beach. Who’s the grey-haired dude almost in the shadows? He just seems to be a little out of place. Let’s see if we can track down the guys outside the club and the older gentleman.”

The team dispersed and Creed returned to his office, gently closing the door behind him. Running his right hand through his grey, short cut hair, he let out a sigh, grabbed a file and sat down. He was getting nowhere with the murder of Sam Thompson and he was clutching at straws trying to pull the other cases together. Aware the others may be looking in, he tried his best to make out he was just tired and that the case wasn’t beating him, but nobody was 100% fooled. Waiting in the wings was O’Halloran, just urging him subliminally to fail.

Boston-Wright sensed his pain and gave herself a mental chat to step up. She grabbed a case file and started reading it again, hoping something would pop out.

“You’re Bruno Boston’s daughter?” Constable Smith asked.

“Yes, that’s right.”

“Great detective, your father. We all miss him. There was a big turnout for his funeral.”

“Yes, I remember. Mum and I were thankful for that,” Boston-Wright replied, appreciative of the comment but hoping Smith would change the subject.

“If your dad was running this case, we would have cracked it by now. I don’t think Creed is up to it. And as for Pratt and the new boffins, not worth a pinch of shit.”

“We’ll get the killer, Smith. Creed will crack the case,” Boston-Wright replied. With that, the moment of complimenting Creed was broken by his booming voice. “Boston-Wright, in here!”

Boston-Wright gathered her notebook, sprang up from her chair and quickly made her way into Creed’s office, carefully closing the door behind her. By the tone of his voice, she thought closing the door would be a wise move. Creed sat forward on this chair, tapping his pen on the desk, eyes down before addressing Jo.

“Not off to a brilliant start, are you, Boston-Wright?”

“How do you mean, sir?”

“Yesterday you threw up at the sight of our Mr. Thompson on the lab table. Monday you were leaning up against a tree gasping for air after visiting the crime scene. And today, you were 45 minutes late. Not a brilliant start, wouldn’t you say?” Boston-Wright’s head dipped, and dejection washed all over her.

“But in saying that, you are giving it a crack. Taking files home, reading up on the past cases. At least you are showing some enthusiasm, albeit you are a bit green. Dr. Russell thinks you’re okay, praises all round. And of course, you are Bruno’s daughter. Hopefully some of his genes have been transplanted in you. Let’s be more conscious of the time, eh?”

Boston-Wright returned to her desk, a little bewildered. She was pleased her late nights and extra workload were noticed, but it seems not being sick over a dead body makes you a better copper. She sighed, sat down in her chair and tossed the notepad on the desk. She had hoped Creed was above the boy’s club thing, but perhaps she was wrong.

Creed appeared from behind his desk and rallied the troops around. “Team, tomorrow we air on Channel 7, 9 and 10, including Prime and WIN Television. Expect an influx of calls from every lonely heart, drop kick to phone in. These fruit loops will test your patience, but it’s all part of the process. And it’ll be a long process. But we will catch this prick. Sam Thompson was his or her last murder. Grab some sleep and be back here at 8 o’clock sharp.” He gave Boston-Wright a lingering stare.

Boston-Wright’s cupboard still wasn’t replenished, but at least she had milk. Her coffee this morning was more palatable as she tiptoed out into her courtyard wearing a fluffy dressing gown that hid her knickers and bra and picked up the local newspaper off the dew-covered lawn.

“Pottsville Pyscho Killer Returns” the headline screamed from the Northern Star. Just what the force needed. Mass hysteria. She raced back inside, closed the door and quickly flicked on the Channel 7 Sunrise morning breakfast show. It was 7.05 am and Chief Super O’Halloran was being interviewed by David Koch, the programme anchor. Great, Boston-Wright thought. Creed was going to be right. Every nutter in the world would be on the phone this morning. She sculled her coffee, got dressed and made her way to her car. There was no way that she was going to be late today.

She flung the back door of the Kingscliff Police Station open, nearly knocking over a couple of the new lads and proceeded with purpose down the corridor toward the incident room. The phones were already ringing off the desks.

Sixty-seven calls had come in the first hour. It was bedlam, but the families of the five victims needed answers. Time to suck it up and press on.