Fifty Fifty (Detective Harriet Blue #2)(11)

The town’s only police officer was barely keeping it together. Snale’s chief, a man in his sixties named Theo ‘Soupy’ Campbell, owned the bloodied, dirt-clodded head she had found about ten metres from the centre of the blast zone. I assumed he’d owned the arm we’d seen hanging from the tree, and the various other bits and pieces of human that had been strewn about the bush. We hadn’t done too much more wandering around in the crime scene. It was best to leave it for Forensics, who would soon be boarding a helicopter back in Sydney. The entire police force from the nearest town, Milparinka, were on their way to help us secure the scene and the dead police chief’s truck, which we’d found parked in the bush on the opposite side of the road to the blast. Milparinka’s force comprised two officers, bringing our total to five. I felt drastically out of my depth. I was used to securing crime scenes with the help of dozens of people, patrollies covering doorways with tape, chiefs standing about looking important before the cameras, Forensics experts donning their gear.

I went to Snale’s truck and sat in the front passenger seat with the door open, brought out the photocopy of the diary and began reading through it again. I didn’t want to leap to any conclusions about the connection of the bomb to the book. Yes, what had happened to Chief Campbell looked like murder. The duct tape on the wrist was a sure sign, even if one accepted the highly improbable idea that he’d chosen to commit suicide by bomb when he likely had a perfectly good gun in his possession. I needed to find something in the diary that connected the idea and the crime.

The first pages were all about guns. I spread a page over my knee and looked at the photocopied pictures of two handsome teenage boys.

The page was a study of the Columbine killers, Eric Harris and Dylan Klebold, who’d gone on a shooting spree at their local high school in Colorado, killing twelve students and a teacher and injuring twenty-four others. I knew the story, had read a couple of true crime books about it. The diarist had made a list, beside a doodled sketch of the wolfish Harris, entitled ‘Successes’.

Kept the circle of conspirators small.

Surveillance of victims for maximum impact.

Covert weapons purchases.



What was this? A list of the things the Columbine killers had done right in their evil plan? Was the diarist comparing and contrasting the massacre plans of high-profile shooters to come up with the perfect kill plot? I flipped the page. More about the Columbine killers’ work, excerpts from the boys’ diaries and maps of their school. There were five pages dedicated to the Columbine shooting in the diary. A sickly feeling was creeping up from the pit of my stomach. I ran my fingers over a note at the bottom of the last page on Columbine.

Thirteen victims, it read. I can beat that!





Chapter 16


ELLIOT KASH HAD come to the open door of the car and leaned on the window, folding his thick arms on the sill. I reached for a cigarette. I figured I was going to need one.

‘I’ve had a chat with Victoria about our operations, but I really want to sit down with you before this thing kicks into high gear so you can download my concerns,’ he said. ‘The priority right now needs to be security. I want maximum operational confidentiality throughout this case. We need to keep covert information tight. This is a small town, and we know there’s a lone wolf or, possibly, a terrorist sleeper cell hidden within it. We cannot afford unplanned leaks right now.’

I exhaled smoke into the thin morning air. ‘I have so many problems with what you just said, I don’t even know where to start.’

‘Oh really?’

‘Yes, really.’ I looked at the town in the distance. ‘You want to sit down with me so I can download your operational concerns? Who the fuck gave you authority over this case?’

‘ I did,’ he scoffed. ‘I’m Federal. Did you miss that?’

‘How could I? Maximum operational confidentiality? Who talks like that?’

‘I do.’

‘Yeah, you and G.I. Joe. ’

‘Well, you know I’m the Fed in this relationship. So I’m in charge.’

‘You’ll be in charge when we establish this is radical Islamist terrorism,’ I said, flipping the pages of the diary. ‘Which, if this diary gives us any indication, is going to be never. There’s nothing even mildly Islamic-looking in here. All I can see thus far is praise for dickhead white-boy school shooters.’

‘That diary is pure terrorism, and I’m the terrorism expert, so I have jurisdiction,’ he said.

‘Nope.’

‘Yes!’

‘Nope,’ I repeated. ‘You can have jurisdiction when the Attorney-General flies his big golden helicopter into the middle of nowhere, waddles his fat arse up the hill to where I’m sitting and tells me you have jurisdiction.’ I put my feet up on the dashboard. ‘Until then, it’s a three-way partnership. You, me and Vicky.’

Kash laughed, leaned in. ‘Officer Snale’s experience is in chasing down lost cattle dogs and wrangling drunks out of the local pub. She’ll be useful for local intel only.’

I ignored him. ‘My next concern is with your presumption that I’d leak operational information even if this was a federal case. Are you serious?’

‘Of course I’m serious,’ he said. He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a folded sheet of newspaper. I couldn’t stop a grimace rising to my face at the image of me on the front page of the Telegraph, my legs splayed over the body of Prosecutor Woolfmyer. I looked like a pint-sized Wonder Woman action figure, my breasts straining against the ridiculous blouse. I tried to contain my fury.