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Payback. Harvey Cleggett
Читать онлайн.Название Payback
Год выпуска 0
isbn 9781922175946
Автор произведения Harvey Cleggett
Жанр Ужасы и Мистика
Издательство Ingram
The constable hurried back to the car, pleased with his role in assisting such an important investigation.
John chuckled at Ballard. “Ah, the exuberance of youth. By the time he’s finished telling his girlfriend, sister, mother or whoever, he’ll believe he solved the bloody case himself.”
Ballard grinned. “Now John, don’t tell me you weren’t eager once.”
John sighed, reflecting back to his earlier career. “I guess so. I suppose I still am.”
Both men got out of the vehicle and John popped the boot to retrieve the case he took with him to all crime scenes. It contained an assortment of items including protective latex gloves, cloth overshoes, various police forms, plastic evidence bags, adhesive labels, a Pentax 645D digital camera, an Olympus 4G micro voice recorder, a metal tape measure, plus a host of other items foreign to Ballard. John’s latest acquisition was a set of Sony 20x digital zoom binoculars, capable of recording up to 13 hours of footage on a 32GB card in both 2 and 3D. When Ballard had asked ‘why?’ John’s answer had been a nonchalant shrug.
Walking up to the building they stripped back the tape; John tossed a set of keys to Ballard who in turn unlocked the front door, swinging it open. Before entering they donned cloth overshoes and latex gloves. While this protection was regarded by some detectives as overkill, considering the Crime Scene Unit had already attended, both men made it a practice to play safe. John armed himself with the Pentax camera before stepping inside.
As always, when at a crime location that had been the scene of a violent murder, Ballard could feel the aura of sinister foreboding. He reasoned it was the body’s natural defence mechanism kicking mental capacity to a higher gear. True or not, he always felt his senses were more acute, more perceptive at crime scenes.
The front of the factory was an office consisting of two large desks along with customer sofas backed up to grimy windows. A film of dust covered the desk tops, except for two clean rectangles where computers had been. These were now being analysed by the E-Crimes Squad for every bit and byte of information they contained. Ballard made a note in his day book to check on progress when he returned to the office. Fingerprint dust was everywhere, on the telephone, photo frames, even on the paintings on the wall.
John positioned himself in specific locations throughout the room, taking numerous shots that when laid side by side, would provide a panoramic view of the office. While this would have already been performed by the Crime Scene Unit, together with a full video, John preferred to take his own photos. He would upload them onto his laptop, analysing every detail for hours, often emailing them to Ballard late at night, waking him up to discuss a particular theory. Many a case had been solved by him adopting this practice.
Ballard waited until he had finished then cheekily asked, “Did you get one of the door lock John?”
The resultant look from his partner made it clear he was unimpressed by the question. “Of course. But there was no forced entry as the lock was undamaged… as you bloody well know. This raises the possibility the killer may have been known by the deceased. The time of death has been put around 2 a.m. yesterday. We’ll swing by for an autopsy report later on if we get time.”
There were a number of dust free rectangles on the floor tiles behind the desks where filing cabinets had been, similar to the areas left by the PCs. The cabinets contents were now being scrutinised by Crime Scene Analysts. Ballard made a second note in his day book. To the rear of the office a door led into the factory showroom.
On entering the first impression Ballard had was of the excavation site of the ancient Terracotta Chinese Warriors. There was row after row of concrete ornaments ranging from pots, animals, garden gnomes to abstract objects. Grey concrete dust covered the floor, accentuating footprints and scuffmarks.
John whistled in awe. “Quite a spectacle, huh? There’s something like three hundred and fifty separate pieces here according to the Crime Scene boys.”
Ballard muttered a reply, despite his attention being drawn to the chalk marks and extensive blood stains on the one vacant area of floor. “So the chair was here?” He stood looking down at the spot.
“Yeah. It’s now with Forensics, same for the rope.”
Instinctively both men looked up at the wooden beams running across the room at three metre intervals. The fact that timber had been used instead of steel gave the interior the rustic charm of older, inner suburban factories. Ballard estimated the beams were a little under four metres above the floor. “Forensics have finished photographing the foot prints?”
John confirmed. “Er, yes. There was some thought there might’ve been more than one shooter, but for the moment they’re sticking to the theory of a single guy.”
Ballard looked closer at the chalk marks while John took numerous photos. “What was the end of the rope tied to… and I don’t mean the end around the guy’s neck?”
John hesitated. “Good point. Not sure.” Both men looked around but failed to see an anchor point.
Ballard shrugged his shoulders. ”My guess is he slung the rope over the beam, pulling it tight so the victim was on tippy-toes, then tossed the free end over again. The gap between the beam and the roof is… say… a metre, so not too hard to chuck the rope over a second time. From there it wouldn’t have taken too much effort to hold it taut when the guy went off the chair. Friction on the beam would’ve taken most of the weight.”
John pursed his lips, considering the theory. “I think you’re right Mike. I remember Forensics mentioning manila rope fibres were found on all sides of the beam, indicating it may well have been looped several times.” He pointed to the spot where the rope had been, highlighted by the chalk marks. “Still, the shooter must have been strong to hang onto the rope with one hand…” he hesitated, holding up his own in mimicry of his suggested action. “I guess he could have stood on the rope while he used his free hand to stop the guy spinning or jerking around before plugging him between the eyes. The dead guy’s hands were bound behind his back with plastic ties.
“When our guys found him on the floor, the rope was off the beam and piled on top of him. It makes sense the shooter wasn’t going to stand there all day with the rope in his hand, so when he let go the weight of the body pulled it loose and for some reason the killer yanked the rest of it down. Never bothered to take the noose off his neck though, but considering the damage the bullet did to his head I can understand why.”
A frown appeared on Ballard’s face. “Hmm. I guess so. I have to say it all sounds a bit tricky, looping the rope over the beam while holding a gun at the same time. This makes me think the dead guy had accepted his fate. I mean look around the location of the chair. None of the objects have been kicked over. It appears he didn’t make a run for it, even though his hands were tied. Was the chair seat scuffed in any way? Was the guy attempting to twist or turn away from the shooter?”
John glanced about him, musing. “Can’t say. We’ll check later when we get to Forensics.”
Ballard looked upward. “So that’s where the bullet lodged after passing through the guy’s skull?” He pointed at the wooden beam adjacent to where the rope had been slung. A chalked circle surrounded a single bullet hole with dark blood stains radiating out from where brain and scalp matter had hit the beam and ceiling; all body tissue now collected and forwarded to the medical examiner.
John snorted derisively. “Yep. I’m told the sissy Forensic guy shit himself when he had to climb the ladder to dig out the slug and scrape the poor bugger’s brains off the ceiling.”
Ballard hitched his pant’s leg, propping a foot on one of the garden gnomes before opening his day book. With his pen poised he looked across at John. “Ok. What facts do we have?”
John ticked off the points on his fingers, reciting from memory. “The