The Coterie

Chapter 3

Chapter Three

The media began descending on the park before dawn. Chapman never ceased to be amazed at how the press hounds found out about such events, almost, it seemed, before the police did. There were plenty of theories within the department as to how news, good or bad, managed to find its way to the various arms of the media as quickly as it did, and none of them had anything to do with efficiency. Not the least fancied of these was the offering of incentives by the media to a select few police officers in return for a discreet, timely telephone call.

It was a scenario that angered Chapman, and many other cops like him. However, wisdom born of experience had taught him that his opinions on the matter were never going to change the way things were. Personal profit was, and always would be, a powerful motivator. He considered the often-used term ‘media circus’ to be apt as he watched the rapidly building frenzy of activity just beyond the newly erected crime scene cordon.

Cameramen, reporters, sound crews and assorted media gophers jostled for the best vantage point, all vying for that exclusive interview or that classically gruesome front-page photograph. Over his years in the job, Chapman had known of more than one forensic photographer to be offered inducement to part with graphic photos taken in the process of evidence-gathering. Journalism, and the accompanying ratings which determined its worth, was stimulated by aggressive competition, and while there were always going to be a couple of bad eggs in the basket, he could only hope the vast majority of his fellow officers maintained a healthy strength of character and integrity when dealing with the media.

Detective Constables Grahame Smith and Bob Sanderson, the other half of Chapman’s four-man investigation team, arrived with a portable lighting plant and a portable tent shelter which they had collected from the Star Force offices themselves. Apparently, unless there posed an immediate threat to life or property, Star Force was staying in bed.

Smith and Sanderson began the business of erecting the tent over the scene and firing up the lighting plant. Soon, the hum of the generator was just audible above the noise of the wind, which seemed to have intensified in the last few minutes. The immediate area around the body was instantly bathed in an artificial glow, adding a carnival-like hue to the macabre scene.

Next to arrive was a forensic specialist, a young man Chapman had seen around the corridors of Headquarters but had never actually met. He was new to the forensic unit and had, up until tonight, never worked on any of the same cases as Chapman. Both men nodded a greeting to each other and Chapman watched with interest as the younger man huddled under the tent and assembled his photographic equipment. Shortly after, he emerged from the tent and began photographing the area in the immediate vicinity, shielding his expensive camera equipment as best he could from the rain.

Eventually, he re-entered the tent and took more photos of the body from a number of different angles and aspects. Some would be enlarged and all of them would be studied in minute detail over and over again by Chapman and his team during the ensuing investigation. None of the photographs would find their way into the hands of the media without his express authority; not on his watch, of that Chapman was certain.

As Chapman waited for the photographer to finish his work, Tony Francis returned, together with Smith and Sanderson. They had managed to obtain two umbrellas and the four detectives huddled together under the barely adequate shelter. They made a pitiful-looking group, all of them soaked to the skin, and all of them hunkering down against the elements. This was one of the downsides to police work and, as they waited for the completion of the forensic formalities, Chapman massaged at an arthritic shoulder and wondered silently if, at sixty-two years of age, he might be too old to consider the merits of alternative employment.

Dr. Keith Rogers was one of five medicos employed by the state government and attached on a rotating roster system to the police department. Being called out to perform preliminary examinations and to certify death at scenes such as this, was just one of the duties that fell within his job description. His name had rotated to the top of the list and he did not look particularly pleased to be there.

With practiced experience, the doctor conducted a preliminary examination of the body, certified death, and, with extreme difficulty in the prevailing conditions, completed the obligatory paperwork. With a flourish, he signed the form and handed it to Chapman, who glanced at it briefly in the awkward light before placing it into a plastic evidence bag and tucking it away inside his very wet coat.

Rogers was not prepared to speculate as to time of death, due to the temperature of the body being so affected by the cold. Chapman would have to wait until an autopsy could be performed under controlled, clinical conditions.

As quickly as he’d arrived, Dr. Rogers left. Soon, the Coroner’s Constable would arrive to take possession of the body and supervise its dispatch and transportation to the morgue. As the officer in charge of the investigation, only Chapman could grant such possession, and he was not about to do so until he was satisfied that a complete and thorough search of the area had been carried out and all possible evidence had been collected, bagged and tagged, and recorded on the crime scene running sheet.

Despite his moody disposition, and regardless of the difficult weather conditions, he would not cut corners or in any way compromise the thoroughness with which he conducted the investigation. He knew his general demeanor was not his most admired character trait and was considered by some to be arrogance. He was also aware that he was guilty at times of somewhat unorthodox methods, but what he was not, was casual in his approach to the way he went about his work. Although he had never really cared much about what others thought of him, the term ‘arrogant’ was not one that sat comfortably with him. ‘Doggedly determined’ would be a more apt description of his attitude to his work, he would have said if anyone ever asked. No one ever asked.

His task completed, the young forensic team member approached and waited at the edge of the light. “Great morning for it, fellas!” He smiled.

“b****y beautiful,” Francis answered. “Are you done here?”

“I am, unless there is anything specific you want photographed.” He carefully began packing his camera and flash equipment into a specially constructed aluminum, foam-lined carry case.

Chapman indicated the nearby shrubbery. “Did you get some shots of the wallet over there?”

“Yes, several. I will get started on developing them first thing.”

Chapman glanced at his partner. Francis glanced at Chapman, shrugged, and gave a knowing wink. Chapman transfixed the photographer with a withering glare. “What’s your name, son?”

“Davis, Sarge. Paul Davis,” the photographer answered, offering his hand.

Chapman ignored the gesture, stepped up to the young man and put one arm around his shoulder. “Well, Paul,” he began. “You and I have never worked together before and this seems to be as good a time as any for you to start learning a little about the way I do things. I want those photographs on my desk by the time I return to the office. We owe it – you owe it – to that poor bugger lying on the wet grass in there.” He thrust a thumb towards the tent. “Do we understand each other, Paul?”

Clearly intimidated, the young man lowered his eyes and fiddled nervously with the catches on the camera case. “Yes, of course,” he said eventually. “I’ll get started immediately.” He turned and walked away into the slowly fading darkness.

“A bit hard on the lad, don’t you think?” Francis asked.

“He’s new. He has to learn,” Chapman said dismissively. “Better he learns now, on his first job with me, than later.” He moved to where the wallet lay open, upside-down in the garden bed. Carefully, he picked it up and turned it over. It was empty. There was no money, no credit cards, no driver’s license, nothing. Not even the obligatory snapshot of a loving wife or girlfriend, or smiling children; nothing that would offer any clue as to the identity of the dead man. He handed the wallet to Francis. “I think we can eliminate robbery as a motive.”

Francis examined the wallet. “Why? It is empty,” he observed.

“Yes, but all traces of ID have been removed,” Chapman continued. “Some effort has been made to make a quick identification difficult. Why would a thief intent on grabbing some fast cash go to the trouble of removing all traces of ID? s**t, we don’t even know if the wallet belongs to this guy.” He hesitated. “Although, I’m with Turner. I’d bet my left nut it does.”

“You’ve bet your left nut on things before,” Francis smiled. “You should be careful, you might end up sounding like Tiny Tim.”

“I’d still have the right one,” Chapman said casually.

Francis turned the wallet over in his hands. “It could be a d**g thing,” he suggested. “Hiding the identity of a d**g hit victim is often consistent with d**g-related murders.”

Chapman did not agree. The dead man was not the victim of a d**g hit. Nor was this a mugging. His sixth sense, if such a thing existed, told him this was far more complicated than that. He ducked his head, stepped into the tent and looked down at the body. His partner stepped in behind him.

Relieved to be out of the rain, albeit temporarily, the two detectives stood together, their shoulders almost touching in the confines of the tent. The artificial lighting created by the small generator humming a short distance away filled the tent with warmth, more perceived than actual, and a thin fog of steam rose from the victim’s wet clothes and quickly dissipated in the cramped space.

The victim was neatly dressed in a conservative suit under an equally modest yet fashionable overcoat. In life, this had been a man of neat, clean-cut looks. His shoes, although now sodden, appeared to be highly polished. It could easily have been the body of a businessman, a doctor or, dare he think, a cop. Maybe a husband, or father, or perhaps both. Whoever he was, Chapman Bouttell could not rid himself of the strange feeling of familiarity. He knelt again on the wet grass, close to the dead man.

“Who are you? Who the b****y hell are you?” he muttered softly to the body.