The Best Laid Plans

by Kris Ashton

When Boz pressed the button on his camera he knew he had the money shot -- in more ways than one. He already possessed several photos of the target entering and exiting the house, on which he probably could have claimed his fee. But instinct told him to devote one more morning to the Dawkins case. Mr Dawkins, Boz had learned, was a man of habit -- and that included visiting his mistress. Arrive at eight a.m., spend twenty minutes with an Asian lady named Sheryl Kim (you could almost set your watch by those twenty minutes) then out again and off to work. His fastidiousness did not stretch to closing the blinds in the upstairs bedroom, however, so Boz had scaled onto the shopfront awning across the street and lain flat cozy behind its facade. His telephoto lens had done the rest.

Boz packed his camera away, slung the bag over his shoulder and then wriggled feet-first off the edge of the awning until he hung from the gutter. He dropped to the pavement and found himself face-to-face with an old woman pulling a granny cart behind her. She gave him a stern, inquiring look.

He returned a look with equal gravity and said, "Surveyor," which was only a semantic lie.

The old woman watched after him as he walked away, but she did not cause a fuss.

Back in his car, Boz scrolled through the photos. He had thrown handfuls of cash at a new camera a month earlier got good value for money. Too good, in fact. He thought he might furnish Mrs Dawkins with a selection rather than the whole slideshow, which could have been titled Fornication: The Complete Pictorial Guide .

As he switched off the camera, Boz's mobile phone vibrated in his jacket pocket. He checked the caller ID and was pleased to see it was John Stevens -- Detective John Stevens from the Bankstown police.

"John, mate -- how's it going?"

"Not bad thanks, Boz. I've got a case I could really use your help on."

John was an excellent detective and a good friend. Sometimes they 'consulted' for each other on cases, offering a fresh mind, a fresh set of eyes, a fresh perspective.

"You've called at the right time. I've just wrapped up a nice lucrative one and I'm not due to meet with the client until tomorrow."

"That's beaut. Can you come in to the station now?"

"Be happy to. Let me call Grace" -- Grace was Boz's wife and one-woman office manager for EyeGuy Private Investigators -- "and tell her she'll be holding the fort this morning and then I'll be right over."

"Thanks, Boz."

Boz killed the call and dialled another into life. Grace answered, helloing around a mouthful of toast.

"It's me, darl."

"How did you go?"

"Perfect. Unless she's struck blind, Mrs Dawkins will have all the evidence she needs."

"Well that's good. So why are you calling me?"

Boz cleared his throat a little. "John called me with a case."

"Oh, God no!"

"Now, don't go crook. I knew you'd go crook."

"Of course I'm going crook! Every time you start helping John with a case you forget all about your own business."

"He helps me too, sometimes. It's only fair that I help him."

"You'll help us right onto the breadline one of these days. And your daughter will forget who you are." Boz was silent and Grace sighed. "Fine, when will you get into the office?"

"Depends what he's got. Late morning, I suppose."

"We've got a missing persons job coming in at one. Don't be late."

"I won't," Boz said.

He was not lying and his wife did not believe him.

At Bankstown Police Station, Boz asked for John at the front desk. The constable manning the desk rang through and John appeared half a minute later. The two friends shook hands. "Come on, we'll go through to the briefing room."

They went via John's desk to pick up an evidence box. The briefing room was small and harshly lit, like an operating theatre. They sat down and John opened the box, spreading dozens of photos out on the table.

"I wish I could have showed you the actual scene, but it presented as something very simple on first inspection," John said.

"So give it to me," Boz said.

"Okay, it's a probable homicide, the victim's a white female aged forty-two, name of Janelle Anderson. Her husband, Michael, says he found her on the night of" -- John checked his report -- "March 23. Forensics says it's a classic blunt-force trauma to the left side of the head."

John slid across three of the photos. The first showed a woman lying face down on the floor, right leg tucked under left, and her small fisted hands resting out in front of her. Had she been standing, she might have been celebrating a well-earned boxing victory. Her dyed amber hair, put in a bun that morning, had come free from its clip and now sat below her ear an untidy roll. The second photo was taken from a similar angle, but gave a broader aspect and showed more of the kitchen. It also took in the smashed egg on the linoleum about a foot and a half from Mrs Anderson's hand. The third picture was taken from another angle entirely, to show the carton of eggs sitting on the island bench.

"Best we can tell, she was about to make dinner when she was attacked," John said. "But that's where the case stops making sense." He pushed the rest of the photos over to Boz so he could flip through them. "There was no frying pan or pot on the stove. In fact, she had taken nothing else out at all. Who starts dinner by getting the eggs out first?"

Boz grunted. "It's possible she did, I suppose."

"Possible, yes, but where was she going with the egg she had in her hand? There was no pot to crack it on, no frypan to put it in -- you see what I mean?"

Boz did see what he meant, but wondered if his friend was too busy browsing instead of buying. "Who are your suspects?"

"Well, usually I'd look straight at the husband but I'm not so sure in this case. He's the director of a successful produce company and his rap-sheet is non-existent. The best I could turn up on him was a speeding violation almost twenty years ago. He and Mrs Anderson were married about a year after he got his traffic ticket. All very stable."

“What was he like when you interviewed him?”

“He seemed upset. No tears, mind you. But you get some men who are like that. He sounded pretty frantic when he rang in to report his wife's murder –- there's a transcript in here,” John said, patting the evidence box.

"Okay, let's forget Mr Anderson for the minute," Boz said. "What other possible suspects do we have?"

"Mr Anderson said his wife fell out with a lady at her tennis club about six months ago and things got more and more antagonistic. Heated phone calls, nasty letters, tyres mysteriously let down when Mrs Anderson came back to her car after doing the grocery shopping. That kind of stuff."

"Doesn't sound all that bad."

John shrugged. "These things can escalate."

"That's true. But you don't really believe this tennis club lady had anything to do with it, do you?"

"No. I spoke to her and she seemed genuinely surprised. Ashamed, too; I think she felt bad for treating a former friend so badly in her final days."

"Any other suspects?"

"Nothing worth chasing. The truth is the Andersons led pretty mundane, run-of-the-mill, upper-middle-class lives. No real enemies, not even tennis club lady, when you get down to brass tacks."

"Right, so let's get onto the physical evidence. Forensics established blunt force trauma to the head?"

"Yep, to the left temple."

"What do we know about the weapon? Did you recover a weapon?"

"No, that's a large piece of the puzzle still missing. We conducted a search of the property and went through both the Andersons' cars but we found nothing. Ditto on a wider search of the immediate area."

"So what is it you think you're looking for?"

"Chan in forensics said his best guess is a ball-pein hammer."

Boz wrinkled his brow. "Ball-pein?"

"You might have used one in metalwork when you were at high school. It's just like a regular claw hammer, except instead of the claw the back of the hammer is fashioned into a kind of ball. It's used for softening rivets and welded metal so they have the same consistency as the metal around them. Machines and new metal alloys have almost made them obsolete.”

"So they're not that common these days. Did Mr Anderson own a ball-pein hammer?"

John shook his head. "The man doesn't even own a regular hammer. We searched the garage and it only had their cars in it. Nothing else, not even a lawn mower. We checked -- the Andersons have been paying the same lawn mowing company to cut their grass for the past five years. Wherever the ball-pein hammer originated from, it wasn't Mr Anderson's garage. Like I said, these are rich people we're talking about."

"Still, that doesn't mean he couldn't have got a hold of one. If forensics thinks that was the murder weapon--"

"No, that's the kicker," John said, a wry smile crossing his face. "Forensics' best guess is a ball-pein hammer, but there was no steel residue left behind, which would be consistent with that kind of homicide. No steel, no wood, just calcium carbonate.”

"Calcium carbonate? As in chalk?"

"You see what I mean? At first glance this case looks like it's on the straight and narrow, but the deeper you dig, the weirder it gets."

Boz mulled this over for a few seconds. "What about motive? Did Mr Anderson have any reason to bump off his wife?"

"Plenty," John said, with the relief of a seasick man finding himself on dry land again. "He stands to collect her life insurance, although with the money he has in the bank I can't see why he'd risk jail time for it. But here's the juicy bit -- and the key to solving the case, I think: Anderson 's personal assistant says she overheard him shout ‘That bitch' on the afternoon Mrs Anderson was killed."

"So he was on the phone? To whom?"

"Anderson said it was a golf buddy named Rob Joad and when we called in the phone records it checked out. When we asked him what 'bitch' he was referring to, he said it was the par four at Riverwood Golf Course. We went back to Anderson's PA, and she said she thought he could have been talking about golf, but he sounded very angry. We called Joad and he corroborated the story -- but that was par for the course, if you'll excuse the pun."

Boz grinned and folded his arms. "It has to be him. Unless you turn up a better suspect, I'd be focusing all my attention on the husband."

"That's just what I thought. Trouble is, everything we have on him is circumstantial, even his motive. The PA's testimony is flimsy at best -- a lawyer would turn it into confetti without even addressing the witness. We need something else, Boz. I'm just not sure what that thing is, or where to find it."

"Hmm," Boz said, touching a finger to his chin. "Leave it with me. Can I take these?" he said, tidying the photos.

"Yep. I photocopied all the reports and made a second batch of prints. You have everything I have. Thanks for coming in, Boz. I know you're busy at the moment."

Boz waved him away. "It's a fun distraction. Serve some nice beer at your next barbeque and we'll call it even."

John tried to look offended. "What's wrong with my beer?"

"Nothing, if you like fruity pilsner. I prefer a man's beer."

"How would you like to step into the interview room? Just you, me and a phone book?"

The two friends laughed and walked from the meeting room together. John saw him out to the reception area and they chatted a minute or two longer. "Well, I'd best get back to it. Ring me if you come up with anything. I don't care if I'm asleep or what hour it is."

"Will do," Boz said. The automatic doors stood aside and he left.

***

The wind's frosty breath blew out the rising sun and early morning walkers scuttled past Boz's car, rubbing their hands and pulling their sweatshirt hoods tighter over their heads. Protected from the gusts, however, and with the windscreen pleasantly magnifying the soft sunshine, Boz would not have swapped jobs with a king. He should have been perfectly content.

Except his bloody mate had got him thinking about a certain murder case.

For three days Boz had done little else. During the evenings he had pored over the reports, sucking in each fact again and again and drawing it through the filter of his brain, hoping the solution would stick. He caught a lot of sludge (and frustration) but not much else. Worst of all, he thought the explanation was close -- almost close enough to touch -- but like John, he didn't know where to lay his hand. The documents and photographs now sat next to him on the passenger's seat, for no real reason other than he couldn't bear to be away from them. He knew the reports word for word and probably could have sketched each photo in reasonable detail. Nevertheless, he felt an urge to pick up the forensics report again, and might have done so had his new target not come beetling along the footpath.

Boz raised his camera and caught Ted Bones and his yellow bitser dog in the LCD viewfinder. Fran Dempsey, who lived two doors down from Ted, suspected his dog left a mess on her front lawn every other morning and wanted photographic proof. Yesterday, Ted and his dog had been innocent of this alleged crime, and they passed Fran's property again now without faecal incident.

It promised to be a long week.

Boz returned to the office, where Grace had a pot of coffee waiting for him. He needed it: three hour-long interviews ensued, only one of them providing a viable client. People sought out a private investigator when they were angry or upset, but mostly they just wanted to talk -- and he did not charge per consultation like a psychologist. Unfortunately, time-wasters came with the territory.

He saw his final client out, closed the door behind her, and then flopped onto the sofa opposite Grace's desk. He let out a deep sigh and rubbed his eyes. When he opened them again, Grace was looking at him with reproving eyes.

"You haven't been sleeping, have you?"

"Not much. Three or four hours a night."

Grace clucked her tongue. "It's that damned case John put you onto isn't it?"

"Well ... er, I guess I have been thinking about it a bit, but it's also--"

"It's also nothing!" Grace said. "You're working two jobs and getting hardly any sleep."

Boz shrugged. "Okay, you're right. What do you want me to do about it?"

Grace chuckled softly. "Oh, you're a crazy workaholic sometimes Boscaiolo Martino. Why don't you pick Sandy up early from the creche and spend a bit of time with her? She hasn't seen you for days and it'll take your mind off things."

"What if something important comes up?"

"I'm sure I can handle it," Grace said, raising an eyebrow, "and I don't see anyone bashing down our door, do you?"

Boz looked at the door, as if he expected just that, then laughed. "No, you're right. That's exactly what I'll do. I've been burning the candle at both ends and a man can't think straight when he's tired."

He got up and crossed the office to kiss his wife. "Thanks, love. Don't be afraid to call home if there's something urgent."

"It'd have to be a call from the prime minister himself. Get out of here."

Boz followed his wife's advice. He drove to the crèche and collected Sandy, then brought her home and switched on the television. She plopped herself on the rug to watch Sesame Street and Boz went to the kitchen to hunt up a beer. He found one can left, cracked it open and joined his daughter in the lounge room. She was smiling as some sort of muppet showed her the difference between big and small. Boz sipped his beer and smiled too. He had watched Sesame Street himself as a kid and the format did not seem to have changed much. The muppet finished his size lesson and a new segment began, this one featuring a kid aged about eight or nine. An adult began to explain something to him.

Thirty seconds later Boz dashed into the study, spilling beer as he went, and switched on the computer. He emerged ten minutes hence, snatched up his daughter and clipped her wriggling, protesting form in a car seat. A short time afterward he brought her to an amused Grace.

"You've got it?" she asked.

"Eureka," Boz said, scurrying out of the office.

***

"Mr Anderson did it."

Boz had caught John just as he finished his shift and they now sat in a coffee shop, Arabica brews in hand.

"Well, don't wait till I'm dead before you tell me how you know," John said.

"You're not going to believe this, but something on an episode of Sesame Street helped me figure it out."

John gave a short laugh. "I'm not surprised at all. It's just what I would have expected. This case has gotten weirder and weirder at every turn."

"Well, brace yourself, because it's about to get weirder still," Boz said. “First, I'm going to use my psychic powers and guess that Mr Anderson's produce company deals mostly in eggs.”

“How did you know?”

“All in good time, my friend.” Boz reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out an egg. He held it up for John's inspection, then passed it to him.

"What am I supposed to do with this?"

"You're about to learn something that I learned from Sesame Street this afternoon. Now, eggs are fragile, right? They break easily?"

"Of course they do."

"A big beefy fella like you could break one no worries?"

John gave his friend a half-grin. "What's with the theatrics?"

"Hey, I've been awake for days thinking about this. You can at least give me my moment in the sun."

John chuckled. "Fair enough."

"Okay, now put the two ends of the egg between the heels of your palms like this," Boz said, demonstrating how John should lock his fingers together at the knuckles.

John complied. "Now what?"

"Break it."

"I'm not going to break it! I'll get egg all over my pants. And we'll get kicked out before I've finished my coffee."

Boz took out his wallet and slapped a fifty dollar note on the table. "That'll pay for the dry-cleaning bill and three weeks worth of coffee. Now come on, humour me."

John gave Boz a sceptical look, then shook his head and put the squeeze on the egg. He poured on more and more pressure until his arms shook with effort and his face reddened, but the egg remained in tact.

"I can't break it!" John panted.

"That's what the kid on Sesame Street said, only he had an American accent."

"What's the explanation for it?"

"I didn't have a chance to look that up, but I guess it's the way an eggshell is knitted together. Same as human bones -- your ulna can take a huge load if pressure is applied in a certain direction, but it'll snap if you hit it from the side."

A thoughtful John gave Boz back his egg. "Common knowledge to the head of an egg company."

"Exactly. And have a guess what eggshells are mostly made of?"

"Not calcium carbonate?"

Boz nodded and saluted his cardboard coffee cup in John's direction.

"Well I'll be damned," John said. "It explains just about everything." He looked out the cafe window for a few seconds, and then said, "But how would you use an egg as a weapon?"

"That's for the ballistics guys to figure out," Boz said, "but I suspect it would be something like this." He took the egg out of his pocket again and placed its fatter end in the heel of his palm. He wrapped his three middle fingers around the thinner end so the tip poked out like a light-brown nose. "I reckon it was a palm-strike action, like this," he said demonstrating at John's face. "Mrs Anderson wouldn't have been expecting the blow, so he bided his time and waited for the perfect moment. One solid hit to the temple and down she goes."

"But if Mr Anderson did use an egg as a murder weapon, why did he leave it at the scene?"

"I don't believe he intended to, initially. I think the impact might have knocked the egg from his hand.”

John thought this over and nodded. "The egg fell about the right distance away for that to be plausible. And then he left the carton of eggs out on the bench to make it look like Mrs Anderson had been about to use them."

"Which just leaves the murder weapon itself,” Boz said. “I don't suppose..."

John smiled sardonically. "Mr Anderson would have been at it with a mop and a bucket of boiling disinfectant the moment the coroner took his wife's body away. Still, we know what brand the eggs were -- and we can probably even get their specific size if we blow the photos up."

John finished his coffee and checked his watch. "Well, thanks for your help, mate," he said, shaking Boz's hand. "Looks like I'm going to be the one in the doghouse tonight."

"Why's that?"

"Janine said she'd have dinner ready for me when I got home. But I think I might pay Michael Anderson a visit first."