he’d gone and fallen in, then puked all over the place.
She held back a moment and watched the two men ahead of her. Already Gregg was sucking up to the new man on scene.
THEN
LOZZA
Over one year ago, November 19. Jarrawarra Bay police station, New South Wales.
Lozza entered the briefing room clutching an armful of files and a triple-shot mug of coffee. It was midmorning and she’d gotten maybe an hour’s sleep, if that. She and Gregg and Corneil had stayed at the Agnes crime scene until almost dawn.
The mood in the room was somber yet crackling with electric anticipation.
Corneil had taken up position in front of a board on the wall. A monitor had been wheeled in. On a table in front of him was a laptop. Gregg had gone and seated himself right in front of Corneil—like an eager teacher’s pet. Jon Ratcliffe sat at a desk in the corner. He was here mostly to observe. This was happening on his watch, his turf, with the assistance of his officers, but the investigation itself was being run out of State Crime Command.
“Thank you for joining us, Senior Constable,” Corneil said as Lozza entered.
She nodded and kept her mouth shut. She found a seat at a desk beneath the window, set down her files, and took a giant swig of caffeine.
Also present in the room was a female officer in plain clothes whom Lozza did not recognize, plus Constable “Henge” Markham, who was tall and skinny and a whip-fit hydrofoil surfer and Constable “Jimmo” Duff, who had a Kevin Costner face and a way with the ladies that made up for his squat stature. The Jarrawarra-based team was small, but it was supported by the full resources of State Crime Command, including the state forensics services unit, additional murder squad detectives out of HQ, and technical support from the fraud and cybercrime units. Corneil could ramp up or down at any given point plus call on additional specialized units for assistance.
Corneil scrawled along the top of the crime scene board: STRIKE FORCE ABRA, the name he was giving to this homicide investigation.
He tapped his black marker pen against the palm of his hand and faced the group.
“Okay, good morning. I’d like you all to welcome Detective Constable Sybil Grant from Crime Command.”
Sybil—the cop in plain clothes—nodded unsmilingly. She had a tan face. Clean look. Dark-blonde hair pulled back into a tight ponytail. She carried an aura of experience.
“This will be brief. Things are still evolving, and right now, time is of the essence. Ellie Cresswell-Smith has identified the ring we found on the deceased as being her husband’s. Mrs. Cresswell-Smith has also positively identified the body from one of the kinder photographs that DC Grant showed her this morning, just before she was discharged from the hospital. The autopsy is in progress. It will likely provide positive DNA identification, but we are presently working on the assumption that the body found floating in the Agnes Bay channel belongs to Martin Cresswell-Smith.”
“Where’s Ellie now?” asked Lozza. “You mentioned she’s been discharged.”
“DC Grant brought her back here, to the station. She’s being held and is awaiting questioning. We also have officers at her home executing a search warrant. While the house is not the murder scene, we have a warrant to seize Martin Cresswell-Smith’s computers and any other communication devices we might find in order to further our investigation.”
Corneil quickly ran through the facts to date, including how the Cresswell-Smiths were seen going out in the boat, but only Ellie seemed to have returned.
“Latent and patent prints from the abandoned farmhouse are being processed,” said Corneil. “Same with the biological and other evidence. The boat is still missing. There’s no sign of the Rolex Daytona that Mrs. Cresswell-Smith said her husband always wore. We’re also looking for the male with the tattoo that left a package of contraband at the Pug and Whistler addressed to Mrs. Cresswell-Smith. At this point she is our key person of interest, but we’re working from the possibility she has an accomplice.”
Gregg said, “That was not a calm, organized killing. There’s overkill in all that stabbing. And the gaff left in the chest? Like some kind of statement.”
Lozza rolled her eyes internally. The rookie was posturing in front of the big shot from HQ. It kind of made her sick, but she had to confess she’d been there. They’d all been probies once. They’d all sought to jockey and impress.
“It’s possible it started out controlled,” Sybil—DC Grant—said.