The ERISP room was four walls of grey painted brick, apart from a few paper coffee cups on the table at its centre. McMurray quickly snagged them and dropped the rubbish in a bin outside, swinging the door shut behind her while her boss ushered John Phillip Gacy into a chair. The men looked at each other. Kessler chose to remain standing, next to the large mirror. They both knew what that was about.

Detective Sergeant Kessler said nothing for a full minute. Then, after a knock on the window, “OK, Mr Gacy. I’m required to inform you that we are taping this interview through the video camera above me, which captured both video and sound. Do you understand?

“I know what a video camera is, yes.”

“And can you state your full name, age and place of residence.”

Gacy could, and did.

“Good. This record is only for our purposes to record what you say, but is not admissible in any court, because you have not been charged with an offence. As I said outside, that’s why we don’t have to go through all the legalese quite yet. You’re what we call ‘helping us with our enquiries’. However, should you start screaming for a lawyer and making our life hard, well… all I will say is that we will respond in kind.” A crocodile smile.

When McMurray had watched Gacy calmly walk out the front door of number 49 Fern Street from the comfort of the car, even she knew the scales of justice were tipping in their favour. All she had to do was step out and say hello. Funnily enough, Gacy had agreed to accompany her to the station, and she had agreed to not remember to fill out a charge sheet for breaking and entering. Naturally, all this was agreed before they were anywhere near Rose Bay’s Electronic Recorded Interview of a Suspected Person rooms.   

“So, in the spirit of helping us with our enquiries, to which you have generously agreed, to come here today of your own free will, what can you tell me about your relationship with Duncan De Walt?” Both John Gacy and McMurray watching next door were thinking the big bloke was laying it on a bit thick. Neither was in a position to argue.

Gacy cleared his throat. “I was what you might describe as a subcontractor for De Walt. If he had cases that involved investigating that he didn’t have time to do, he would pay me to gather information or do what needed to be done. Probably a couple of times a month.”

“And what kind of work would you do for him?”

“All sorts. Mainly surveillance but also background checks, ringing around for information, stuff like that.”

“And did you like the work? Did you like him?” Kessler asked.

“He was fine. Without that regular work I would have been struggling at times.” Gacy was keeping himself steady. Not letting his surroundings rattle him. That’s what they were relying on.

“But you didn’t really like him.”

“He wasn’t a close friend, but I would hardly want to see anything happen to him. I needed the work,” Gacy said. Just keep it even. Friendly.

“In the recent past, did you ever hear him mention any case that involved outlaw bike gangs - you know: the Comancheros, the Rebels etcetera.”

“No I didn’t. But the extent of our conversations was usually: ‘Hey, Gace, I’ve got some work on. I need you to follow such-and-such and see if they go to Blah-blah Street. I’d say OK and get the Nikon out.”

“Charming work if you can get it. You’re a peeping tom photographer, yes?”

“Look, it’s totally illegal. People get their problems solved and they leave you guys alone to do proper work.” Gacy was careful not to really bite, but he knew he wasn’t getting out of that room without giving something up. Not with the B&E stick they’d been quick to wield.

Kessler pushed on. “Yeah, you’re a fucking humanitarian. So you have no idea why Duncan De Walt would be calling bike gangs in the days and weeks prior to his death?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Whoa, Nelly. So he did tell you about bike gangs.”

“No. He referred a guy called Ashley Gibson to see me. You know, the cricket player.” It was a white lie, but Gacy didn’t think Curly would want the cops knowing about the doorbusting naked hijinx he’d walking in on at Curly’s place the other day, and that that was how they met. A small lie in a tissue of truth. Ah, and what nakedness it was…

“When did he do that?”

Gacy looked around, dredging up the real memory. “It would have been Saturday evening, I reckon.”

“A day before he died. Sorry - before someone put two bullets in him.”

“Yeah, it’s tragic.”

“Are you weepy, John? I can get someone to bring you a tissue.”

Gacy rolled his eyes. “Call me Mr Gacy.”

The interview room’s door opened and Detective McMurray stepped in holding a box of Kleenex. Kessler stared and shooed her out again.

The door closed and Gacy could hardly stop snorting. “I don’t know if you’ve been following Ashley Gibson’s career, but he’s not one of the ones on the huge bikkies.”

“So Watts didn’t think he could pay and you got a referral. Even though you don’t have an Investigator Licence. Why would Watts refer a celebrity sporting client to you? You said you worked for him.”

“He just said he was too busy. My guess was that he made some initial calls and an answer didn’t land in his lap straight away, so it wasn’t going to be worth his while. So he handballed it to me.”

“What problem does a part-time state cricketer have with bikie gangs?”

“He thinks he had a bag of cricket gear stolen by a biker.”

“You’re shitting me.”

“Hey, it’s a dead end job, no question. Now do you see why De Walt didn’t want it?”

Kessler frowned, pulled up a chair, turned it backwards and sat astride it. “So what was in it and where did this happen?”

“Outside his place, apparently. A valuable bat or something. And he’s paying me to look for it, but we won’t find anything and he’ll soon get sick of paying.”

“So a guy on a bike was waiting outside his place to bag-nap him. And Gibson knows it was a gang member how?”

“He thinks the guy had some sort of gang patch on his jacket, but he doesn’t remember which one.”

“Mr Gacy, John-boy, I’ve told better stories around the campfire with a fucking torch under my chin.”