Foley & Rose Mysteries Collection - Books 1-4

Chapter 2-2

“I agree, but do you think the same person is responsible for both?”

“Murder convictions don’t eventuate from what an investigator might think," Foley continued. "I’ve had gut feelings before. Some proved to be accurate; others proved to be way off the mark. The truth is, we have no hard evidence that would stand up either way. We have no murder weapon or apparent motive in either case. However, to answer your question, my feeling in this case is the murder weapon will turn out to be the same one used in both killings.”

“Why?”

“The autopsy reports suggest the wounds on both victims were inflicted with an extremely sharp knife, a long, thin-bladed, razor sharp knife. They also suggest, in both cases, the victims died as a result of one, strong stroke with such a knife.”

“That’s not proof positive,” Story added.

“No, unfortunately, it’s not. Although both autopsies were conducted by the same pathologist, they were obviously treated as separate, unrelated examinations. Despite the fact he found similarities in the nature of the injuries causing both deaths, he has not yet arrived at a definite conclusion in any respect. Indeed, he goes to great pains to make that very point in his report.”

“Yes, I know, I’ve read his report.”

“Then you’ll know, while any testimony he might give should be considered as expert evidence, his opinions on the murder weapon being possibly similar in both cases is nothing more than that, his opinion.”

“So we’re back at square one. We have one hundred percent of sweet f**k all,” Story stated rather than questioned.

“I’m afraid so. But, we continue to do what we do and, for the most part, we are good at it. Eventually, we will get this bloke.”

“And in the meantime,” Story shrugged, “the media continues to make us look like a bunch of incompetent fools.”

Foley leaned forward in his chair. “Sir, you carry clout with the various media outlets, dating back to your days as Media Liaison Officer. Isn’t there someone you can talk to; an editor perhaps, or television station manager? Maybe you can convince them to ease up on the serial killer stuff.”

Story shook his head. “Been there, tried that,” he said. “All I got for my trouble was a lecture on the freedom of the press, and the public’s right to know. I’ve called a press conference for three o’clock this afternoon. I’ll have another shot at it, but don’t hold your breath waiting for the media to do as we ask.”

“Should I be there?” Foley asked.

“Normally, in your capacity as lead investigator, that would be the case, but not this time. One way or another, I’m going to put a lid on this thing. I’ll tell them the investigation has reached a sensitive stage, and any further comment on our progress may jeopardise ongoing enquiries.”

“If the media is true to form, they won’t buy it.”

“Maybe, maybe not, but it has to be better than admitting we have zilch.”

“You could tell them we have a team of dedicated investigators working twenty-four hours a day, and we expect a breakthrough at any moment,” Foley suggested with no small degree of sarcasm.

Story rose from his chair and prepared to leave. “We’ve been waiting for six weeks for a breakthrough. Both the media and the public know that. Leave the press to me. In the meantime, find me something. A motive, a weapon, something, any bloody thing.”

“A killer?” Foley suggested.

“A killer would do nicely.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

Assistant Commissioner Story crossed to the door, opened it, and turned to face Foley. “Find me something, Russell,” he ordered. Then he was gone.

* * *

There it was, that old feeling again; that want to toss it all in, feeling. He found it hard to believe six weeks had passed since the murder of Carl Richter sent shock waves through the police force, and indeed the whole community. Then, as if the brutal slaying of one of the Territory’s finest wasn’t enough, what is on offer as an encore? Here you go folks, here is the prominent Supreme Court Judge, Justice Malcolm Costello, the youngest ever appointed to the Supreme Court. Here he is, lying in a pool of blood; his head almost severed from his shoulders.

There were times when a particular case seemed to engulf investigators in countless dead ends and brick walls. Such times were not frequent, but when they did occur, they generated feelings of frustration and failure. For Russell Foley, this was one of those times. If leaving the job were seen as a fitting end to a distinguished career, he might have seriously considered that option. But, he knew it would never be seen that way; it would be seen as quitting, and Foley was no quitter.

On the desk in front of him, the two murder files lay, inviting him to continue. He scooped them up, pushed away from his desk and made his way to the homicide incident room adjacent to his office.

On a wall at one end of the room, a large notice board displayed a variety of glossy photographs of both murder scenes. The photo layout was displayed this way since Foley received the report from the pathologist intimating the murder weapon could be the same in both cases. Prior to this, his team were treating the killings as separate, unrelated events. It was instinct based on the similarities in how both Richter and Costello died telling him the same person was responsible for both murders. It was instinct he was unable to shake, and Foley always trusted his instincts. It was a mantra he took every opportunity to instil into new members coming into the branch.

He sat on the edge of a small conference table and stared at the photographs. Behind him, he heard the indiscriminate sounds of detectives talking among themselves.

“Coffee, Boss?” someone asked.

“Yes, please,” he answered automatically.

The same someone thrust a mug of tasteless, tepid coffee into his hand. “Thanks,” Foley murmured. He sipped the terrible brew and looked at the lukewarm, brown liquid in the mug. “This is camel piss,” he said to no one in particular.

“Sorry, Boss,” the offending coffee maker responded. “But, camel piss is all we can afford. There are too many tight-fisted pricks around here that haven’t paid into the coffee fund this week.”

“That’d be bloody right,” Foley said absently, his attention still fixed on the photo display. He put down his coffee mug and pushed it aside. “I gotta get a real job,” he said as he walked from the room.