Fatal Impact (19 page)

30

A
nya climbed into the passenger seat of a black Range Rover.

A small woman sat on a custom-built cushion in the driver’s seat, started the engine and introduced herself. ‘Jeanette Egan. I’m a vet up at PT.’

‘Anya.’

‘Thanks for coming. The wind gusted and the fire is headed towards the herds in the feed lots. We’re the only hope they’ve got.’

They entered a side road and stopped at a sliding gate. The area was surrounded by a three-metre-high electric fence. The vet had to get out of the car to punch in a security code. The gate opened. She was quickly back in the driver’s seat and accelerated through.

She had to be under five foot tall and had her hair cropped short, pixie style. It was difficult imagining her being physically able to birth breech calves or sheep, but she was no-nonsense.

The area was lit with floodlights. It almost felt like an agricultural university campus. Anya noticed a sign outside a large brick building. The Tasmanian Institute of Agricultural Advancement (TIAA). Glenn Lingard had described it as the pinnacle of industry, science and government.

‘How far are we from PT?’ Anya said.

‘We’re in it. Covers all Emerald Vale. Kind of like the land of Oz.’

Glenn hadn’t mentioned that the TIAA was on PT-owned land. She hadn’t understood why Glenn had been at the restaurant crisis meeting with Christian Moss and the head of PT. Now it made sense. The TIAA and its research were important to the conglomerate.

They turned off down a dirt road and bumped along surfaces damaged by rain and heavy vehicles. Anya hung on to the handle over the passenger window. Jeanette picked up speed at every opportunity.

Anya tried to keep her mind off what had just happened at the roadside. ‘How long have you worked here?’

‘About two years. It gave me a foot in the door with the locals so I could buy into a private practice.’ She turned into a narrower road that divided crops of corn. ‘People take one look at me and assume I’m not up to the job.’

Anya knew what that felt like. ‘As an intern, I got kicked off orthopaedics before I even started the rotation. The consultant deemed me inadequate to hold up a leg during hip replacements.’

‘They don’t get it. It’s not the size of the dog in the fight that counts .
. .
’ the vet began.

‘It’s the size of the fight in the dog.’ Anya knew the saying. ‘PT are equal opportunity employers then?’

‘Did the interview over the phone.’ Jeanette grinned. ‘Put on my professional phone voice. Should have seen the look on the execs’ faces when I arrived.’

The distant smell of burning flesh hit the car before they drove past a silo and saw the flaming shed, less than a hundred metres away from where cattle pressed against a fence, trying to escape the heat and smoke. The PT feed lots were enormous, much larger than Anya had imagined. There was no gate to let them through.

Jeanette stopped the car, headlights aimed at a section of cattle. She grabbed bolt cutters from the back seat, pulled on thick gloves and began to cut a hole in the fence.

‘This is worse than I thought. We’re going to have to let them all out here.’

Anya helped speed the process by pulling back the thick wire. Without gloves, the task was difficult. The rain made the wire slippery. She pulled the jumper sleeves over her hands as makeshift gloves. The vet continued to cut links in the fence to as high as she could reach.

Anya peeled back a section of wire. ‘Are we safe from the bulls once they’re released?’

Jeanette put her boot on a break in the wire of the second tier of the fence and yanked back towards the fencepost. ‘These have all been castrated.’

Anya somehow didn’t feel any safer knowing they lacked testosterone. Being trampled or gored was still a possibility.

‘Still, make sure you’re on this side, near the fencepost, when they start coming out.’ She handed Anya the bolt cutters and headed into the feed lot. ‘Here’s hoping!’

The car headlights allowed them to see what they needed to.

The animals were becoming more agitated with each
passing minute. Anya separated wire as quickly as possible.
A few minutes later, with Jeanette herding them from behind, the first few lumbered through the open section into the adjacent paddock.

A white utility bounced towards the fence and lurched to a halt. Samir Malik leapt out. He was holding a baseball bat and booming, ‘Stop now. You cannot let them on Mr Len’s property.’

Anya had been disoriented in terms of direction. She hadn’t realised this fence bordered Livelonger Organics.

‘If we don’t, they’ll burn to death. We don’t have a choice.’ Jeanette whistled and slapped another cow through the gap. ‘Move!’

‘You must stop. They are not allowed on this land.’ The man raised the bat, as if he were about to hit a home run.
‘I can’t let you continue.’ He adjusted his grip. ‘I am begging you to step away from the fence.’

The Sudanese farm worker looked more afraid than threatening.

‘Like I said. If there was any other way.’ Jeanette gestured to Anya to keep cutting.

‘Stop,’ Samir shouted. ‘I will not tell you again.’

Anya hesitated. He sounded desperate. Cows bustled and collided. Some climbed the backs of others.

His wife left the ute and went to his side. She held out both arms. ‘We must let them go. It is the humane thing to do.’

Without further protest, Samir dropped the bat and nestled into her shoulder. Grace held him tightly and escorted him back to the vehicle. They drove off into the night.

‘Go, go, go!’ the vet urged.

Anya squeezed hard on the bolt cutters. ‘Are these cows identifiable?’ By law, she thought, they had to be electronically tagged.

‘They are.’

Anya separated another section of fence and noticed some of the steers had plugs behind their ears.

‘Is that what the plugs are?’

Cattle continued to forge through. Jeanette pushed a couple more steers and moved next to Anya, protected by a set of posts. ‘That’s a cartridge of slow-release hormone growth protectant. It’s injected between the skin and cartilage at the back of the ear. This lot have been vaccinated and given antibiotics as well.’

More steers moved through, starting a faster procession. The smoke from the shed seemed to be dissipating.

‘This is working.’ Anya felt relieved she could help make a difference.

‘Not for the guy from next door,’ the vet explained. ‘We’ve just released them onto an organic farm. We’ve most likely cost him his organic status.’

‘You said the herd was identifiable. As soon as the fire’s under control, they can go straight back to their side of the fence.’

‘It isn’t that simple.’ Jeanette stood to the side as more cattle surged through. ‘These animals are fed GM corn. Once they deposit manure, the ground isn’t considered organic anymore.’

‘Is the fear that undigested kernels get into the soil?’

Alison Blainey had already found genetically modified plants growing on Len’s land. It was why she’d suggested he sue PT for compensation.

‘Does changing their diets from grass affect the cows?’

‘Corn alters the acidity in their stomachs–’

A team pulled up at the shed.

‘We’ve got back up,’ Jeanette wiped her forehead with a forearm. ‘You can get dry in the car if you want. I want to make sure they all get through.’

Anya preferred to stay with the vet for now. ‘Why use corn instead of grass? These cows have huge amounts of grazing land.’

‘It’s all about the money. Corn is much cheaper. They can pack more cattle per square feet. Human growth protectant speeds up the rate of growth and muscle, so they go to the abattoir quicker, and consumers don’t know the difference. Most people care about the price of the meat. It’s all about the bottom line.’

‘What do you think about the practice?’ Anya was interested to know.

‘If they’re going to do it anyway, better to have a vet who cares look after them.’

Jeanette’s phone rang. She whipped off a leather glove and answered. ‘Who?’ She turned to Anya. ‘Are you a pathologist?’

Anya nodded.

‘It’s for you.’

Anya presumed it was about giving her statement concerning the shooting and death of the man with the flamethrower. She put down the bolt cutters and took the phone.

Simon Hammond spoke quickly. ‘Can you head back to Len Dengate’s? Your mother needs you.’

Anya’s heart accelerated. ‘What happened? Is she all right?’

‘It’s .
. .
She isn’t speaking.’

Anya immediately thought of a stroke. ‘Is she conscious, can she move both arms and legs?’

‘She looks physically all right. Anya, she isn’t speaking .
. .
We just found them. Len Dengate’s dead. Your mother’s covered in his blood.’

31

W
ith the cattle filtering through into the adjoining field, Jeanette drove across the top paddock and followed the path Samir’s utility had taken and back around to Len’s home.

‘I don’t believe he’s gone. Len gave me a leg up when I arrived. Half the locals had never seen a woman vet and didn’t trust one. He called me a pocket dynamo and acted like I cured Roswell of every potential disease.’

Anya’s mind raced. Why would her mother be covered in Len Dengate’s blood? And why was Jocelyn unable to speak? She was only half-listening to the vet. ‘Did you just say Roswell?’

‘The best trained kelpie I’ve ever seen. Named after the place in New Mexico. Len believed the American government covered up a UFO crash seventy or more years ago.’ She whistled. ‘He sure loves. I mean loved a good conspiracy theory.’

Anya hoped her mother was all right. Simon Hammond hadn’t given any details.

They slowed on the hill up to the house. Five vehicles were parked out the front, including an ambulance and two police cars. The reality of Len’s death seemed to confront Jeanette. She stopped the car short and pulled on the handbrake.

‘If there’s anything I can do .
. .’
She wrote down her number on a notepad and ripped off the page. ‘Len was a good, decent man .
. .
I’ll hang around a few minutes out here.’ She wiped her nose with the back of a hand. ‘If anyone needs me to look after Ros, I’ll take him with me.’

‘Thanks,’ was all Anya could muster. The vet didn’t want to enter the house. It was clear the body was inside. Anya became more concerned for her mother’s mental state.

The outside lights were on. There were no disposable overalls, shoe covers or a sectioned-off crime scene. She glanced up at the camera on the porch and hurriedly slipped off the muddied, borrowed boots. She knocked, but no one responded. The door was ajar so she stepped inside, careful to walk as close to the skirting boards as possible.

Inside, the body was already in a body bag on a gurney, flanked by two ambulance officers. The dog held vigil by the gurney’s side. It had blood on its jaw. Anya’s initial thoughts were that the dog had turned on its master. There was a smell of petrol in the house, and she had a flashback to the man on the side of the road. In the living area, a trail of blood from the leather lounge pooled in the centre of the patterned rug. Her next thoughts were that Dengate had had gastrointestinal haemorrhaging from an E. coli infection. Then she saw the shotgun and a fine mist of blood on the floor. She cleared her throat and began demanding answers.

The first question was to the ambulance officers by the gurney. ‘What are you doing?’ There didn’t appear to be anyone documenting events. The process normally took hours. ‘This should be a crime scene.’

Before either could answer, Senior Sergeant McGinley, in plain clothes, entered the room barking orders. ‘Get the body out. Let’s wrap this up.’

Anya challenged him. ‘Have the SOCOs already finished?’

The sergeant shoved a phone into his trouser pocket and stepped close. ‘Who the hell do you think you are? You’re lucky to even be here.’

Anya felt her heart pound and felt her fists tighten by her sides. ‘I’m a forensic pathologist and I don’t believe you have secured a possible crime scene.’

Simon Hammond appeared in the doorway to the kitchen. His head was crusted in mud, soot and dried blood. The rest of him hadn’t fared much better.

‘Anya, you mother’s out here. She won’t even say if she saw what happened.’

Hammond let the doorframe take some of his weight. He looked as if he’d been in a war zone.

Anya moved through the room to see her mother sitting at the table with her face in her hands. She shouldn’t be here, but at least she was safe.

Anya returned to the debacle of the death scene. ‘Why hasn’t the house been secured? Why are people walking in off the street, destroying evidence?’

‘Excuse me?’ McGinley’s left upper eyelid twitched with a tic. ‘You’re only here because Doc Kancharla couldn’t get sense out of your mother.’

‘Who?’ Anya hadn’t heard the name before.

‘I called him to assess the body before we moved it.’

‘He’s retired from general practice,’ Simon interjected, gaze locked onto Anya. ‘He certified Len’s body.’

She realised the police officer had wanted her here. It wasn’t just about her mother.

‘Leave everything alone. Don’t touch anything else,’ she commanded the ambulance officers. They didn’t hesitate to stop.

‘Who the hell do you think you are?’ McGinley blocked her way.

‘I told you. A forensic pathologist. I have reason to believe this could be a suspicious death, and foul play needs to be excluded.’

‘Well, missy, we’ve examined the scene and it looks pretty straightforward. In case you didn’t know, tonight there’s been a fire we suspect was deliberately lit and one of our officers was involved in a fatal shooting. We have limited resources and I can’t waste time on something that’s clear-cut.’

Anya couldn’t believe his arrogance. ‘A murder could have been committed but you’re too busy or too understaffed to investigate it properly. Even when a member of the public tells you there are grounds for suspicion?’ Anya felt her face flush with anger. Her pulse bounded in her temples. ‘I’ve got a comment for the reporters,’ Anya fumed and spun around.

McGinley grabbed her arm. ‘You will do no such thing. Hammond, restrain this woman. She’s interfering with a police investigation. If she resists, charge her with obstructing justice.’

Simon didn’t move.

Anya pulled free her arm. She had no intention of leaving. ‘Are you refusing to follow protocol?’

‘This is my beat. And I make the calls. If you have a problem, take it up with the Integrity Commission. They’ll be round to investigate Hammond here soon enough for that shooting. You were there too which means they’ll be looking at you with a fine tooth comb as well. Funny how you arrive in town and people start dying.’ He waved to the ambulance officers to continue removing the body.

This man’s gall and stupidity far exceeded his negligence and incompetence. ‘Don’t touch a thing!’ Her voice was louder and more shrill than she’d intended, but effective.

‘How about we talk to the authorities now,’ she said. ‘Give them the heads up about this case as well.’ She addressed the ambos again. ‘If you move that gurney, you can be charged with a crime.’

They backed away to the entrance.

The veins in McGinley’s neck and temples distended. ‘You’re in way over your head, missy. You don’t know who you’re dealing with.’

‘Oh.’ She stared him down. ‘I do know. You’re a small-town copper. Big fish in a little pond, used to throwing your weight around. You’ve had your fill of free meals from restaurants and takeaways in your day. Bet it galls you that’s considered corruption these days.’

‘That’s enough!’ His face engorged with blood.

Anya was only just getting started. He had audaciously compromised a possible homicide investigation.

‘You make decisions you’re unqualified to make then blame your subordinates when anything goes wrong. Thirty years in the force and drinking buddies in senior ranks make you believe you’re untouchable.’

‘Hammond.’ He clenched his fists. ‘Get her out of my sight. Right now!’

Anya’s blood surged and she tried to hide the anger flooding through her.

‘Simon, may I borrow your phone?’ she asked as calmly as possible.

He didn’t need to be asked twice, quickly handing it over.

She phoned a police friend in Sydney, without taking her eyes of McGinley. ‘I need the name of that detective you worked with. The one from Internal Affairs. It’s urgent.’

‘This is a bluff. Hammond, remove this woman now.’

Anya reached into Simon’s top pocket with her spare hand and removed a notebook and pen, then wrote down the name and private phone number she heard and thanked her friend.

‘Hammond, I’m giving you an order.’

The constable remained still. McGinley seemed loath to touch Anya himself.

Detective Oliver Parke picked up after one ring. He listened to Anya’s comments about destruction of a possible crime scene, then calmly asked to speak to the officer in charge.

‘He wants to talk to you. Internal Affairs like to record their calls so you may want to speak clearly.’

Sobered by the fact that she was not bluffing, McGinley sheepishly took the phone. Len, his family and friends deserved at least the best she could do.

‘Yes sir. I believe the case to be a straightforward suicide. The deceased was unstable and was facing bankruptcy .
. .
So far we haven’t located a suicide note
. . .
Um
. . .’
he mumbled. ‘One, sir .
. .
Pardon?’ He looked at Anya. ‘You want me to ask? Now?
. . .
Just a moment.’

He closed his eyes and slowly opened them. ‘He wants to know how many homicides or suspicious deaths you’ve worked on.’

Anya didn’t hesitate. ‘Hundreds.’

McGinley relayed the number to Parke then listened, eyes downcast. It was a minute before the sergeant spoke again.

‘I take your point. Sorry to have disturbed you so late. Have a good evening, sir.’ He hung up and tightened his grip on the phone.

‘Doctor, what do you need from us first?’

‘Who photographed the scene?’

‘I did.’

‘Talk me through what you found.’ Anya rolled up her sleeves. ‘Anyone have spare gloves?’

One of the ambulance officers gave her a fresh pair, blue, non-sterile.

She squatted down and unzipped the body bag, releasing the distinctive smell of death, blood and petrol. Len Dengate had a single gunshot wound to the lower portion of his chest. It was about an inch in diameter, surrounded by soot. It had crenated, or slightly scalloped, edges. The shot had passed through the shirt, just to the left of the midline, beneath the rib. She didn’t move the shirt or attempt to get a closer view of the skin wound. That could be done after it was cleaned, just prior to the post-mortem. The less disturbed the body, the better, for now. The face was pale with a bluish hue. The beard around the mouth was bloodied. The skin was cool to touch. Both hands were to the sides, fingers curled.

Propped in the corner was the shotgun.

‘Simon, can you or someone put fresh gloves on and get me some paper bags and elastic bands, without disrupting anything else in the kitchen, if that’s possible. They’d most likely be in one of the drawers.’

‘I’m on it.’ One of the ambulance team took large strides to the kitchen.

‘We need to bag his hands. I assume you already checked for gunshot residue. But you’d know that if he was in the room when a gun went off, he may have it on him anyway.’

McGinley remained silent. He hadn’t thought to test for it.

‘Where was the body found?’

‘He was on the floor when we arrived.’ He sullenly pointed to the rug. ‘It looked as if he shot himself. From what we can tell, your mother found him on the lounge and dragged him there to try to revive him. We believe that’s how she got his blood on her.’

‘Did you test her hands for gunshot residue?’ Anya hated to say it, but there could have been a struggle. Maybe her mother tried to stop him from shooting himself. She needed to be tested as part of procedure. It could also help clear her of suspicion - if it ever came to that.

‘I’ll get on to it,’ Hammond said, with a sympathetic look.

McGinley eye’s narrowed. ‘You’re calling your mother a suspect?’

Anya surveyed more of the room. ‘Of course not. But if you don’t run the tests now, there are no second chances to get this right.’

In a coroner’s case, whatever medical interventions were put in place had to be left in situ. There were no drip stands or evidence of intervention going by the size of the body bag. For ambulance officers not to have intervened, Len would have had to have been deceased when they arrived. She tried to picture the events. Blood smears on the floor could have been from her mother’s knees and hands.

‘You said Mum hasn’t spoken.’

‘Alison Blainey was with her,’ Simon explained. ‘She was the one who called us. She’s in shock so one of the constables took her back to the motel she’s staying at.’

‘Where was Mum when you arrived?’

‘It wasn’t easy getting her away from Len. She was holding his head in her lap.’

Anya could imagine her mother’s grief. ‘You’ll need to take fingerprints. Len’s, Alison’s, Mum’s and anyone else who’s been here. The room, doors and weapon have to be dusted as well. The dog’s face should be swabbed and photographed too.’ There was blood residue on Ros’s nose. If someone had threatened Len, the dog could have bitten them.

The paramedic returned and Anya placed a paper bag around Len’s right hand. In the left, she noticed a small torn piece of paper stuck to his palmar crease. She asked for plastic tweezers from the ambulance’s kit and carefully removed it to a separate bag, before instructing McGinley to accurately label the object, location on the body and time.

‘Could be part of a suicide note,’ he mumbled.

It was impossible to say. There was no sign of more paper.

Len’s dog whimpered by the gurney.

‘God, what happened? I got a message to come straight here.’ A male voice boomed from the hallway. Craig Dengate barged in. He was a slightly smaller version of his brother. ‘Len–’

The body bag was in view. Craig stopped, arms dropped to his sides. ‘Oh God, no.’

‘Get him out,’ Anya directed and stood between him and the body.

McGinley moved over, but only to restrain the brother from touching anything. ‘I’m sorry, Craig. Looks like Len shot himself.’

The elder Dengate stepped back. ‘That’s impossible. He would never leave Ros.’ He pleaded with McGinley. ‘He can’t have. He wouldn’t have.’

Anya felt her anger simmer again. The scene was out of control. The police sergeant had already made up his mind, and was convincing the brother there was no possibility of foul play.

She moved to examine the blood splatter on the floor.

‘Sorry, mate, but I’ll need you to identify the body,’ McGinley said. ‘Might as well do it now.’