Chapter 21

When the interview concluded, Brooke asked Reed if she could talk to him in the hall outside the interview room. Lincoln watched as Reed opened the interview room door for Brooke to exit, then he followed closely behind.

With the closing of the creaking door, Lincoln fell back in his chair. He scanned the small, windowless room, similar in size to his former cell. His heart rate quickened, as his isolation caused flashbacks from his incarceration to flood into his mind’s eye.

He cupped his head in his hands, while he tried to process the events of the last two hours. An unsettling sense of Déjà vu washed over him. He’d been through this same process around six years ago and that ended up in five years of his life he’d never get back.

The last thing Lincoln wanted was to return to the hell hole he walked free from a little over two months ago. He doubted he would survive a second time around.

The creaking interview room door caught his attention when Brooke returned. She slid into the chair opposite Lincoln and leaned on her elbows. ‘I’m disappointed, Lincoln. Disappointed in you for lying to me and even more disappointed in myself, for believing you.’ She glowered at Lincoln.

‘I didn’t lie, Brooke… I have no recollection of doing what they said I did.’

Brooke waved the back of her hand at Lincoln. ‘Regardless… The evidence they have against you is strong, Lincoln. I’m not sure how you can defend the DNA evidence they located on your clothing.’

‘So, you’re saying I’m done…’

‘I’m saying, based on their evidence against you… it’s not looking good when you can’t offer any reason how it got there, if you’re innocent…’

Lincoln’s head lolled forward. His expression resembled that of a chastised child. ‘What can I tell ya… I didn’t do it. Or more to the point… I don’t remember doing it.’

Brooke checked over a shoulder to the door. ‘Look… This cop…’ she jabbed a thumb. ‘Is not a bad guy…, really. He suggested that I talk to you about whether it would be in your best interest to accept what you’d done and plead out, but try for a defence of psychological abuse, similar to the defence of battered wife syndrome.’

’What do you think?’

’I can’t advise you, Linc… But based on what I’ve seen here today, I think you should talk to someone about that line of defence.’

Lincoln shook a despondent head. ‘I don’t know any lawyers to call…’ A sense of helplessness washed over him.

Brooke noticed his obvious despair. ‘Look… I know some local lawyers who might look at your case. Let me give them a call. I’ll talk to them about a possible defence angle, similar to what this cop suggested. OK…?’

‘I’d appreciate that, Brooke.’

Brooke jabbed a thumb over her shoulder. ‘I’m going to go now, OK… There’s nothing more I can do for you tonight.’

‘What’s going to happen to me now…?’

Brooke checked her watch. ‘The Magistrates Court has finished for the day, so the cops will get a J.P. to hold an out of sessions remand hearing. You’ll be remanded here overnight to appear in court tomorrow for a formal remand.’

With a tight jaw, Lincoln nodded his understanding. He watched Brooke drag open the interview door and exit.

---

Reed met Brooke in the hall as she exited the interview room. He gestured to his left. ‘I’ll walk you out.’ Reed extended a hand along the corridor. ‘This way…’

As they strolled, Reed said, ‘Paedophiles…’ then shook his head. ‘The damage they do is so often, irreparable…’

‘You know Lincoln did five years when he was innocent, don’t you?’

‘For that manslaughter…?’ Reed said. ‘I can’t agree with you there…’

‘Were you aware of his defence…?’

‘He didn’t have one, from what I recall, but I understand he tried to claim he was defending a female who had been attacked by four males.’

‘He was…’

Reed glanced sideways at Brooke. He scoffed. ‘How do you know that?’

’Because I was the female, Lincoln saved…’

Reed stopped walking. He frowned heavily as he turned to Brooke. ‘You what…?’

‘I was the female Lincoln saved that night…’

Reed shook his head, ‘I seriously doubt that…’ he said. He continued walking. Brooke didn’t move. She tightly crossed her arms and held her glare on Reed.

He stopped when he realised, she wasn’t there with him. Reed turned back towards Brooke. ’You’re telling me, you were the mystery witness they couldn’t locate…?’

‘I am. Look…’ Her arms fell to her side. ‘Lincoln’s been convicted and he’s done his time. Nothing can change that. So I have nothing to gain by lying about this. Whether you believe me or not, is completely up to you.’

Reed shrugged. ‘What I believe is irrelevant.’

’Frankly, I don’t care. But I’m telling you this… I’d been to a nightclub with some girlfriends. On my way to a taxi stand these four blokes…I think they were mid-eastern, grabbed me and dragged me into a side laneway…

‘Lincoln heard my screams and he came running over to us. He yelled at them to let me go. You have no idea how sweet the sound of his voice was. He was my white knight. I never knew him, but he saved me that night. I had no doubt I would’ve been raped had Lincoln not interrupted them.’ Brooke’s eyes fell heavily. She shook her head.

‘It’s what happened next though that was heavily disputed in court,’ Reed said.

‘Heavily disputed by those scumbags… of course it was. When Lincoln got closer, they left me and rushed at him. I saw at least two of them punch Lincoln first. When they rushed at Lincoln, I ran. I was so scared I ran and I ran. The next day I flew out to Queensland to start my new job. I never knew Lincoln had been charged.’

Reed folded his arms and leaned a shoulder on a wall. ‘If you were in Queensland… how did you hear about Lincoln being the one who saved you?’

‘The universe works in mysterious ways…’ Brooke began. ’I met one of your cops from here… You probably know him, Drew…? We got to talking and I mentioned that night I was attacked and when I told him my story, he told me that the guy who saved me was his friend.

‘So we all went out to a pub. I wanted to meet him and buy him a drink. As it turned out, I bought him drinks all night. Cost me a fortune…’ she grinned. ‘But it was worth it.’

‘So that’s when you first met Lincoln and learned he was the guy who saved you that night?’ Reed said as a question.

‘It was.’

Reed shook his head. ’So… Based on what you’re telling me… he was telling the truth. He saved you and he was defending himself, when he knocked out the guy who hit his head.’

‘That’s the way I saw it. That’s the evidence I would’ve given, if I knew he’d been charged.’

‘So…That poor bloke did five years, when he shouldn’t have.’ Reed shook a disbelieving head.

‘How do you think I felt? That’s why I paid for his drinks all night. It was the least I could do.’

Reed frowned at Brooke. ‘Wait…What night did you buy him the drinks…?’

‘I can’t remember. Two or three weeks ago now. Why?’

‘Lincoln didn’t happen to stay at Drew’s place that night, did he?’

‘I think that was what they said. We caught Ubers. I went home to mum’s and they went back to Drew’s, as far as I know…’

Reed opened his file and slipped out a document. He briefly read the page before asking, ’was the date you went out for drinks the 23rd September…?’

‘I can’t recall.’ Brooke removed her phone from her handbag. She accessed her calendar. ‘Um…’ She read from her phone, ’Drinks with Drew and Lincoln… Yes. It was Friday 23rd… Why?’

This date was relevant to Reed. Mark English was murdered in the early hours of the 24th, which coincided with Lincoln’s only other drinking session.

There was a common denominator—two murders after two heavy drinking sessions by Lincoln.

Reed deliberately ignored her question. He moved ahead and opened the exit door into the public foyer, for Brooke.

Brooke stopped before exiting. She eyed Reed. ’Lincoln has been repeatedly abused and traumatised as a child… And…he’s been wrongly jailed for something he didn’t do…

‘The “poor bloke’s” been through hell. Just remember that,’ she said. ‘Goodbye, Detective.’ She exited into the foyer.

---

The heavy cell door banged behind Lincoln, followed by the sound of jingling keys. They were the sound he thought he’d never hear again, or wanted to.

Lincoln’s out-of-session remand hearing lasted under five minutes. The attending J.P. remanded him to court tomorrow morning at 10am.

A custody officer escorted Lincoln to the Cumberland Police Station cells. The officer opened the outer cell door and they stepped into a large, twenty metre by three metre exercise yard, enclosed by four concrete walls and no windows. Four solid steel, cell doors led from the yard. Each door was open.

The custody officer directed him to cell number three. This would be his room for tonight. Lincoln stood in the exercise yard, brightly lit by fluorescent lighting. Seven sets of eyes glanced back at him. None were too interested in his arrival.

Lincoln made his way to cell three. He stood in the open doorway, to take in his new one-star lodgings. He’d seen it all before.

A stainless-steel toilet, with no seat, a stainless-steel sink and three concrete slabs with a vinyl padded mattress.

He often mused at how backpacker hostels provided more comfort.

Two of the three beds were occupied. His reclining roommates glared their disapproval at the intrusion. He moved to the spare bed, over to his right.

‘Bed’s taken…’ the cell mate lying on the outer left bed, grunted.

‘Looks vacant to me…’ Lincoln said. He moved and sat on the bed.

The loud mouth jumped to his feet and stormed over to Lincoln. He stood in front of Lincoln with his hands on his hips. ‘I said… That bed’s taken, cunt… Are we gunna have a problem here…?’

The aggressor was probably in his late thirties. He was short, around five feet nine and solidly built. His head was shaved and he wore a tightly cropped goatee beard. A prominent belly suggested an overindulgence in beer, or food, or both.

Lincoln had seen and heard it all before. This guy projected as the alpha male. Lincoln learned during his time in jail that new arrivals were tested early on. How they were treated beyond that time, depended entirely on what they did, when threatened.

Being of medium build and only five feet nine inches tall, Lincoln was not an imposing figure. But as many had learned the hard way, underestimate him at your own peril. He was a hardened street brawler, who knew how to hit.

He didn’t always win his fights in jail, but by aggressively defending himself in the manner he did, he never became anybody’s bitch.

Despite it taking five of them to break his ankle, he earned a reputation as a tough, brutal fighter.

One prisoner who took him for granted, spent three weeks in hospital, compliments of Lincoln. The prisoner learned the hard way, not to mess with him. He grabbed Lincoln on the crotch, while they stood in the lunch line. He said to Lincoln, ‘I want to get me some of this, pretty boy…’

Lincoln exploded. He only hit the man once, but it was so powerful, the man was in a medically induced coma for one week, to release pressure from the brain.

Fortunately for Lincoln, a prison guard on duty in the dining room, witnessed the entire incident. It was the guard’s evidence, Lincoln defended himself from a sexual assault.

One thing was for certain, no-one would ever touch him again, the way McCormack did. He’d kill them, if he had to, before he’d let that happen. So, he fought and he fought hard.

Consequently, the wanna-be loud mouth aggressor in the Cumberland cells was nothing he hadn’t encountered before. This guy did not intimidate Lincoln.

Lincoln noticed the aggressor’s right fist clenched. He knew this guy was preparing to land an attitude adjuster on him. Lincoln held open palms up to his aggressor, as he pushed himself up from the bed and slowly stood.

To distract the aggressor, Lincoln said, ‘I’m not looking for any troub—.’ He cut himself short, then delivered a sharp headbutt to the bridge of the loud mouth’s nose. A resonating crack sounded. The man reeled back, holding his blood splattered nose.

Lincoln calmly approached the man and delivered a powerful overhand, right to the man’s jaw. The man fell heavily onto the middle bed, landing across the legs of the other cell mate.

He glared a stern, ‘don’t fuck with me’, warning at the other cell mate, before he calmly returned to his bed and sat on the edge. He knew it wouldn’t be long before the doors flung open and cops came running in. He was right.

Custody officers burst through the door into cell three. One checked on the condition of the loud mouth. The other took hold of Lincoln’s arm and led him from the cell.

‘He came at me…’ Lincoln protested.

’All’s good. We saw it unfold. He’s an arse ‘ole and he got what he deserved.’

Lincoln grinned at the Officer’s comment, ‘OK. So, where we going, now…?’

‘Moving you to cell one to try and keep the peace. The bloke in there’s a bit tougher, so I’d be very careful what you say and do to him.’

‘Don’t worry about me…’

The custody officer led Lincoln into cell one and released his grip on Lincoln’s arm. He left straight away.

A huge grin emerged out the side of Lincoln’s face, when he saw his new cell mate, sleeping on one of the beds. ‘Bear, ya old fuck… What are you doing here…?’ Lincoln said.

Bear’s eyes sprung open at the intrusion. ‘Linc…’ He frowned. What the fuck, mate. What are you doing here…?’ Bear swung his legs to the floor and stood. The two men grabbed thumbs and embraced briefly, with the obligatory single pat on each other’s back.

‘They’re doin’ me for murder of that paedophile I told you about…’

‘Oh, right… Shit, mate… I’m sorry to hear that. But hey… you did society a favour…’

Lincoln shrugged. ‘What are you doin’ here…?’

‘They charged me with assaulting an emergency worker, or some shit. Apparently, it’s mandatory three months jail, if I get convicted. I’ve got court in the morning…’

‘So do I, but mine’s a remand hearing.’

‘Looks like we’ll be keeping each other company tonight, then.’

‘That it does,’ Lincoln said. He slid onto one of the free beds.

Chapter 22

Lincoln’s remand hearing was first up. Remand and bail applications were always heard before the court list of offences were heard by the Magistrate.

Brooke organised a local lawyer friend to represent Lincoln in the remand hearing. Lincoln met with his appointed lawyer, before the remand application was heard.

There was not much the lawyer could do. The process was essentially a fait accompli. Lincoln would be remanded in custody because of the seriousness of his charge. Regardless, Lincoln still required representation at the remand application.

The court room public gallery was empty as the prosecution presented a compelling case for Lincoln to be remanded in custody, to allow the police time to complete their investigation and prepare a brief of evidence. The police prosecutor took his seat when he was finished.

Lincoln’s lawyer stood and fastened a button on his dark suit jacket. He was a short, corpulent man with a full-faced, brown beard.

‘Magnus Dangerfield, Your Honour. I appear for the Defendant.’

‘Thank you, Mr. Dangerfield.’

That was his cue to present his bail argument. ’Your Honour, my client has been charged with the most serious crime in our society…’ he began. ’However, we will be vigorously defending these charges, sir.

’When my client was a child of nine years, through to thirteen years of age, he was sexually abused at the hands of the victim, Mr Walter McCormack, while under the care and supervision of this person.

’It will be our position, sir, that my client suffered extreme emotional and physical trauma and his actions were that of a person who had deep psychological issues, as a result of this alleged sexual abuse.

‘My client has no recollection of the murder, due to his mental state and as such, had a diminished responsibility to form intent to kill…’

‘I’m not here to rule on the charges, Mr. Dangerfield. This is a remand hearing.’

‘Very good, sir. I was only providing background so Your Honour could consider that my client was not violent, or a danger to anyone else.’

’As you so eloquently put it, Mr Dangerfield, a murder charge is the most serious crime in our society. There is no worse. And while your client enjoys the presumption of innocence, until proven guilty, I have to consider the seriousness of the charges before me.’

‘I understand, sir. My client currently lives with his former foster parents. He has a stable job as a builder. He does not own a passport and is not a flight risk. If granted bail, my client will present to defend any, and all charges against him. Thank you, sir.’ The lawyer slid into his seat.

The Magistrate was swift in his decision. He remanded Lincoln to appear at the Cumberland Magistrates Court, on a date to be fixed, for a committal hearing into the charge of one count of murder.

Lincoln was led back to the police station cells. He was disappointed, but not surprised he wasn’t bailed. His lawyer had already informed him the chance of bail was virtually nil, but they would at least, give it a try.

The whole concept of him being a murderer was difficult for him to process. He had no recollection of killing McCormack, even though the thought crossed his mind on numerous occasions. He knew he was capable and he knew he wanted to.

Every day while he lived at McKillop House, he feared being alone with McCormack. Every day he dreaded seeing him. He could still smell him. He could still feel the way his skin crawled when McCormack touched him. Every day of his abuse, he told himself, I’m gunna kill him when I get out of here...

Lincoln had to accept, all the built-up hatred he held for McCormack that he’d buried under years of new memories, must’ve surfaced the night he saw McCormack at The Royal. He doesn’t remember killing him, but he’s glad McCormack’s dead.

The custody officer led Lincoln from court, via the secure underground passageway, back to the prison cell exercise yard. The heavy steel door slammed shut behind him. The sound of jingling keys followed.

Lincoln scanned the sterile concrete room, with its white painted walls and well-worn rust red painted floor. Remanded to a date to be fixed meant he’d have to get used to areas like this, for several months to come, quite possibly, the rest of his life.

He shook a despondent head as he ambled across the yard to cell one.

---

With Lincoln tightly locked away on remand, Reed set about locating the remaining, ‘nails in Lincoln’s coffin’. The shoe print and DNA evidence against Lincoln was strong, but he knew from experience, jury trials were unreliable. So, he still required more evidence, to remove any possible lingering doubt.

The Police I.T. and Technical Department was Reed’s next stop. He suspected Lincoln’s mobile phone held some evidence he could use. Now it was time to check his hunch.

Reed sat at a desk beside a Victoria Police Technical Officer. Six flat screen monitors, in two rows of three, fanned across the desk in front of them.

The technician plugged a lead into Lincoln’s mobile phone. He tapped several keystrokes on his keyboard to bring Lincoln’s phone contents up onto one of his monitors.

He continued tapping on his keyboard and moving his mouse. The Tech flicked a finger at the middle monitor. ‘There you go…’ He said. ’That there is a record of everywhere your crook went, after he left prison.

Reed eyed the monitor. It was full of words, data, co-ordinates, times, dates, street names and locations, most of which made no sense to him. ‘If I gave you a date… could you tell me where he went on that day…?’

‘Absolutely.’ He lifted Lincoln’s phone and quickly examined it. ‘This is an iPhone, isn’t it…? Yep,’ he answered his own question. ‘OK…’ he replaced the phone. ‘Back in the day, we used to have to triangulate the cell towers in the area near where the mobile phone moved through. It was pretty reliable, but nothing compared to the GPS trackers the phones have in them these days.’

‘So the GPS in his phone there, is more accurate and reliable than the triangulation method…?’

The Tech scoffed. ‘Old school technology versus new school technology,’ he said. ’Ford versus Ferrari. There is no comparison. The iPhones all have an integrated cell phone GPS tracking systems in them now-a-days.

‘Most of the smartphone apps use this GPS data to log location information, or to track someone’s real time, or past movement, to an accuracy range of around three metres.’

‘Excellent.’

‘See, if I bring this up…’ He gestured to his monitor. That is his Google Maps and health app data. See how it displays dates, times, path taken, temperature, weather, elevation, just about everything you need to know, is all there.’

Reed flicked open his folder and slid out some notes. ’I’m looking at Wednesday the 14th September 2021. I need to know where my crook went from that evening onwards.’

The tech tapped on his keyboard. He paused to examine the large flatscreen monitor, before tapping some more keys. He touched the screen. ’There is his travel on the 14th…’

Reed squinted at the screen. He gestured to the monitor with his pen. ‘So that shows he left Highmont at—.’

‘5.45pm…’ the Tech added.

‘And he arrived at the Royal Hotel, in the CBD at 5.57pm…’

‘Correct.’

Reed scribbled some notes. ‘OK. Now… This is showing they left at the Royal at… 12.25pm and went to… 28 Mountbatten Street, East Cumberland.’ Reed did not disclose it, but he knew this to be Drew’s address.’

‘Correct.’

‘Now this is what I’m interested in. Did he leave that address during the night…?’

The Tech scrolled his screen. ‘Ah…Yep.’ He flicked a finger at the monitor. ’At 3.07am on the 15th… he left 28 Mountbatten Street and walked to… number 48 Fleming Road, in the neighbouring suburb of Bayside. A distance of 583 metres. He arrived at 48 Fleming Road at 3.18am and left at 3.34am… arriving back at Mountbatten at…3.47am.’

Reed scribbled notes. He jabbed his pen at the monitor. ‘And this GPS technology will all stand up in court…?’ He said as a question.

‘Absolutely. This is all GPS data collected by his phone. All we are doing is accessing it and reading it. The data cannot be overwritten, or manipulated, so it is almost as reliable as a fingerprint.’

Reed smiled to himself as he scribbled some notes. This GPS data was a healthy covering of icing on his case against Lincoln.

Lincoln’s mobile phone, not only placed him at the crime scene during Walter’s estimated time of death, but it also recorded him leaving from Drew’s place and returning some forty minutes later, effectively crushing any alibi Drew provided.

While Reed updated his notes, the Tech, said, ‘Do you know anyone by the name of Mark English…?’

Reed’s frowning eyes lifted to the monitor. ‘Why do you ask?’

’This is the Google browser from your bloke’s phone… He’s done a shit load of Google searches on a Mark English…

‘There’s a LinkedIn page on a Mark English who works as a Manager at the NDIS. There’s a number of White Pages searches. There’s a Mark English Facebook page…’ The Tech read from his screen. ’Which looks like it’s a poker club page…It says they meet every Friday night for Texas Hold ‘em…’

‘Mark English is my second murder victim…’ Reed said.

The Tech’s eye brows arched. ‘Whoa… Shit. Judging by all this browser activity on Mark English… I’m assuming your guy is the number one suspect.’

Reed deliberately ignored the comment. ‘Did any of those white pages searches provide an address in Greensdale?’

‘Ah…’ The tech eyed the data. ‘Yep. There was one for a M.M. English at 1485 Mainland Highway, Greensdale. And I’ll bet if I check his Google maps… Yep. There you go. He searched for that same address.’

Reed jotted down some notes. ’Can you check the GPS data for Friday 23rd September 2021…’ Reed asked.

‘Sure can…’ The Tech tapped some keys and scrolled his monitor screen data down. He examined the data. ’OK. Friday the 23rd…’ He leaned on an elbow as he muttered to himself. ‘Right. I assume you’re interested in the evening activity…?’

Reed nodded his confirmation. ‘Correct.’

‘So… Your guy left the same address in Highmont at 6.25pm and travelled to 18 Mountjoy Street, in the CBD…’

‘That’s The Admiral’s Daughter…’

The Tech nodded. ‘He arrived at 6.39pm and left at 1.07am. Looks like he went back to the same address as last time…28 Mountbatten Street…’

Reed’s eyes lifted upwards. ‘So, the night English was killed, Berenger stayed at North’s place…’ he said thinking out aloud. ‘Did he leave during the early hours…?’

’Certainly did. Left that address at 2am on the 24th. Travelled out bush to… that address you asked me about earlier… 1485 Mainland Highway, Greensdale.’

‘That’s Mark English’s address…’ Reed added.

‘Oh OK. He arrived at 2.33am and left there at 3.45am. Returned to Mountbatten Street.’

‘How did he get out there…?’ Reed asked, thinking out aloud. ‘That’s what… a twenty-five minute drive…?’

‘At least.’ The Tech flicked a finger at the screen. ‘There ya go… According to the GPS… It took him thirty-three minutes.’

‘He must’ve had access to a car, to get out there.’

While Reed considered the possibility of Berenger taking Drew North’s car to drive out to Greensdale, the Tech mumbled something about an Uber app, as he scrolled through the data on the monitor screen.

‘Yep…’ the Tech said. ’He’s got an Uber app… I’m betting you a slab, that was his mode of transport.’

‘Don’t like those odds…’ Reed said. ‘Coz I agree with you.’ He flicked a finger at the screen. ‘Let’s have a look.’

The Tech accessed the Uber app trip history. He sat back in chair and grinned to himself. He extended a hand to the monitor. ’There you go. He took an Uber. It collected him from 28 Mountbatten Street at 2am and took him to that Greensdale address, arriving at 2.33am.

‘He ordered a separate Uber to pick him up from Greensdale and return him to Mountbatten Street…All the date and timelines fit… Pretty damn conclusive, I’d say…’ the Tech added.

Up until know, he only suspected Berenger for the English murder. Now, he had the evidence he needed to put Berenger at English’s address, on the night and around the estimated time English was killed.

‘Does that app data provide the contact details of the Uber drivers who picked him up?’

The tech examined the monitor. He scrolled through pages on his screen. ‘It sure does. It has a Christian name, a mobile contact and their Uber car details.’

Reed noted these driver details. When he was finished, he said to the Tech, ‘now, you’ll include all this data we’ve located…’ he waved a hand across the computer monitor screen, ‘in your statement…’ Reed said as a direction.

‘Will do. I’ve got all the relevant information I need here…’ He gestured to his note pad.

Reed pushed himself up and stood. He tapped the Tech’s shoulder as he passed. ‘Good job,’ he said as he moved to the door.

Chapter 23

Back at his desk, Reed revisited his notes. The murder weapon for the English murder—the plastic bag, was left at the scene and was still on English’s head when his wife discovered him the next morning.

There was nothing else located at the crime scene to help identify the killer. Apart from English’s wife’s fingerprints, from where she ripped open the front of the plastic bag when she found her husband, there were no other fingerprints on the plastic bag.

There were none on the duct tape used to seal the plastic bag, or anywhere else in the house. There was no skin epithelial evidence on the cable ties. The scene was clean.

There was no sign of forced entry into English’s home. There was no sign of a struggle, or any defensive wounds on English. This suggested to Reed, English more than likely knew, or recognised his killer, possibly even let him in.

What he hadn’t established was, why Berenger chose to travel thirty minutes by Uber, to English’s home, at 2am in the morning. It would be reasonable to expect a person would be tucked up in bed at 2am. But English wasn’t. How did Berenger know that for certain?

Could he have known somehow, that English would not be there when he arrived? Did he know English was due to return sometime after 2.30am, and he waited?

The murder of English did not disturb English’s wife, who slept upstairs. So how did Berenger time everything so efficiently, so as not to leave any witness…? It couldn’t be blind luck.

The search of Berenger’s phone indicated elements of planning for each murder. Reed frowned. He lifted his notepad and flicked over the front page. His eyes quickly scanned the notes. He flipped over a second page. He ran a finger down the page. He flicked over a third page and scanned the contents. He tapped the page, about two-thirds of the way down.

He read his notes from his discussion with English’s wife, Jacinta. She mentioned that Mark had been to his weekly poker game the night he was killed. She said he usually arrived home from the game around 3am.

This fitted in with the timeline of Berenger arriving at 2.30am. He would’ve been waiting for English to return home. But how did he know English’s movements…?

Reed’s face tightened. ‘Poker Facebook page…’ he muttered to himself. He flipped over several pages of his notes, in quick succession. His searching eyes quickly scanned each page.

He found the page in his notes, he searched for. When the tech searched Berenger’s phone, the tech mentioned one of Berenger’s Google searches for ‘Mark English’ included something about a Facebook page for a poker club that met every Friday night for Texas hold ’em.

The question was, did the poker page discuss the game’s end times…?

Reed removed Berenger’s phone from its unsealed evidence bag. He punched in the access PIN and tapped on Berenger’s Facebook app.

A slight grin emerged out the side of his face when he read the name on Berenger’s Facebook Page. ‘Linc Bee…’ he said to no-one.

Reed typed a search for “Mark English”. Several hits were returned. One-by-one, Reed selected and opened a Mark English Facebook page. He continued the process until he found the page he searched for. The profile picture was of a Hearts Royal Flush.

The page was an open group. New players were welcomed. Reed scrolled though the postings dated prior to English’s murder. Every one of them was poker related.

There were several postings from non-members, inquiring about the game’s location, buy ins, prize pools, if any rake went to the house, etc.

None of the posts, or Likes was from “Linc Bee”.

Straight to the Point asked several questions, some of which included regularity of the games, duration of events, public holidays, if game winners qualified for a championship table, as well as questions relating to the buy in and prize pool.

His Facebook trawling exercise left him none-the-wiser about how Berenger knew what time English arrived home from his poker game.

So it remained, the best evidence he had was GPS data from Berenger’s mobile phone that placed Berenger at English’s address, in the early hours on the morning of 24th September 2021, around the time English was murdered.

It was strong circumstantial, but Reed could link Berenger to English, from their time at McKillop House. He could provide a motive for the killing, after English failed to act on Berenger’s complaint about McCormack’s sexual abuse, thereby, directly, or indirectly, he allowed it to continue.

He now learned that on both occasions where the murders occurred, Berenger had been drinking with North and was heavily intoxicated. On each occasion he stayed on the couch at North’s unit. Was this coincidence, or well planned?

Reed had to consider that on the two occasions, when Berenger became heavily intoxicated, he must’ve uncontrollably freed some inner demons and he lashed out at those who harmed him, all those years ago.

Berenger was a bit of a loner, but given the trauma of his upbringing and the five-year stint for manslaughter, when apparently innocent, Reed could understand why Berenger kept to himself.

Reed found the sober version of Berenger to be a decent bloke. It was the other, heavily intoxicated version, with a hatred for his sexual abuser, he pursued.

He conceded that Berenger’s legal team would probably try and run with a defence that Berenger suffered some form of dissociative psychological episode, caused by the trauma of his childhood abuse and exacerbated by his overindulgence in alcohol.

Deep down, Reed didn’t have a problem with that because Berenger had been through hell, as a kid. He’d still get his conviction. Reed could only begin to imagine what the abuse Berenger suffered would do to someone who had to live with it every day, for the rest of their lives. It would break most people. And maybe that’s what happened to Berenger.

Add to that, when Berenger finally worked up the courage to report the sexual abuse to the most appropriate person—the house manager, English chose to do nothing and in doing so, allowed the abuse to continue.

To Berenger, it would’ve been likened to himself drowning and desperately begging English to throw him a life line, to save his life. But English simply did nothing. He stood by and watched Berenger go under.

Reed couldn’t condone murder, but for what it’s worth, he certainly understood what drove Berenger to commit these crimes.

The killing of McCormack could be argued as justifiable homicide, where a sexual abuser was killed by his abused victim. Sadly, these types of cases were not rare. The English murder however, was on a different level of revenge.

His case was solid. He was satisfied he had sufficient evidence to charge Berenger with the English murder, as well as McCormack, so he prepared and later swore out a new information for a charge of murdering Mark English.

With Berenger currently remanded in custody, he would not be able to interview Berenger for the murder of Mark English, but he didn’t need to. All he had to do was serve the new information on Berenger, to charge him with the second murder.

When he returned to his desk, after swearing the new charge information at court, Reed checked the date on his watch. He lifted his desk phone handset and dialled the police watchhouse extension.

‘Hey… Reed from the C.I.B. Yeah, good. Can you tell me please, has the prison bus been yet? No…? Great. So Berenger is still in the cells down there? OK. Excellent. I have a new information to serve on him. I’ll pop down.’ Reed hung up the phone.

---

Lincoln reclined on his cell bed, with his hands supporting his head. The time dragged for him. He didn’t have a watch, or a clock and there were no windows to tell if it was night, or day.

To pass the time, he tried to visit happier times in his mind, which for Lincoln, was difficult, having lived such a troubled life to date.

The other two beds in his cell were currently empty, which was a good thing. He’d rather spend his time on his own, but he knew that would be short-lived. The custody officer who earlier brought Lincoln’s lunch to him, told Lincoln the other beds would be full by the end of court, today.

Lincoln’s eyes sprung open at the sound of his name being called by Reed. ’

‘Detective…’ Lincoln greeted, albeit with a tone of disinterest. He remained in his reclining position.

Reed stepped into the cell, with an accompanying custody officer. He glanced around at the stark décor of the room, then approached Lincoln’s bed. ‘Room to yourself…’ Reed said. ‘Good for you…’

Lincoln didn’t respond. He wasn’t interested in small talk. Reed got the message.

Reed handed Lincoln his copy of the information for the charge of murdering Mark English. Lincoln read the document while Reed explained what it was.

‘That there, is an information that states at, or around 3am on the 25th day of September, 2021, at 1485 Mainland Highway Greensdale, you did murder Mark English.’

Lincoln’s eyes lifted from the document. ‘You’re doin’ me for him, as well…?’ he said as a question.

‘I am,’ Reed began. ‘I have compelling evidence that was located on your phone that placed you in English’s house at the time and date of the murder.’

’Wow. Really? That’s very clever of you, Detective. Not only because I didn’t do it… but when I have absolutely no idea where he lived… But hey… Knock yourself out. You do you,’ Lincoln said.

‘You have no idea where he lived…?’ Reed repeated in a cynical tone. ‘Yet, according to your phone’s browser… you looked his address up in the white pages…’

Lincoln was completely unfazed by the allegations. He remained unmoved. ‘If you say so…’ Lincoln said, matter-of-fact. ‘Normally, I’d call bullshit. But you know what… I don’t give a fuck, any more. You’re gunna do me for them anyway…’

The custody officer held out a hand to Lincoln. ‘I’ll take that,’ he said.

Lincoln handed the copy information and charge sheet to the officer. ‘Be my guest,’ he said. ‘Wipe your arse with it, for all I care. I have no use for it…’

‘You’ll need to give that to your lawyer,’ the custody officer said, before continuing. ‘I’ve added this copy information to your property sheet, so I’ll just get you to sign the addition, here.’ He indicated with a pen, where to sign.

Lincoln scribbled a signature and returned the pen. He glared at Reed. Reed nodded a silent farewell to Lincoln, then moved to exit the cell.

‘Oh, hey…’ Lincoln began. Both Reed and the custody officer stopped at the cell door and turned back to Lincoln. Lincoln flicked a finger at the spare bed to his right. ‘What happened to me mate, Bear…?’

‘Bear…?’ The custody officer repeated. His eyebrows plunged into his thin face.

’Yeah. Bear… He was in that bed. Had court this morning.’

‘Ah… You mean, Mark Crowley,’ The custody officer said.

‘That’s him…’

‘He got bail, so he won’t be back today.’

Lincoln nodded once. Lucky prick, was what he thought. What he actually said was, ‘cheers.’ He watched his visitors disappear out the cell door.

Bear was the only good thing about the place. He made it half tolerable. Now Bear’s gone, he was all alone, once again, left to wonder about the unknown of his future.

Chapter 24

Reed’s murder brief preparation had progressed well. He had received all the crime scene officers’ reports, complete with colour photographs and the Pathologist’s autopsy reports. None of which provided anything new.

McCormack’s cause of death was due to a penetrating cardiac injury and English died from asphyxiation. Both were obvious to Reed at the time.

He received the I.T. Tech’s statement, complete with GPS tracker evidence. Now he had to package everything up, nice and tight and present his brief to the Director of Public Prosecutions, for prosecution at an upcoming committal hearing.

Reed lifted his desk phone handset and commenced to dial a number, when Drew North ambled into the CIB bullpen.

‘Reed-O…’ Drew said. He traversed his way across the bullpen to Reed’s desk, located over in the back corner of the room.

Reed hung up the phone. He watched Drew approach. ‘What’s up…?’

‘Got a minute…?’ Drew asked, He didn’t wait for a response. He dragged a chair over from a neighbouring desk and fell back into it. ’Are you charging my mate, Lincoln with double murder…?’ His tone was emphatic.

‘I am…’ Reed frowned at Drew, while he tried to get a read on why he was there.

Drew shook his head. ‘I’ve known this guy my whole life, mate. He’s not a murderer…’

‘Well, the evidence says otherwise.’ Reed closed the case file folder on his desk. ‘Your alibi for him had more holes than fishnet stockings…’

‘That’s what I wanted to talk you about…’ Drew checked over a shoulder then rested his elbows on his knees. ‘He’d have to have snuck out of mine in the early hours, killed them… then snuck back in to mine…’ Drew sat back in his chair and shook a firm head. ‘I’d hear him coming and going, if he did that.’

‘Well…’ Reed reclined in his chair and crossed his legs. ‘He did and you didn’t, so…’ He shrugged as his voice trailed off.

‘Who’s this other bloke Linc is supposed to have killed…?’

‘The other victim was Mark English.’

‘Who’s he…?’

‘He was the Manager of the half-way house Lincoln lived in, when he was in the Child Welfare system.’

’So…? Why would Linc kill that bloke? Did he molest Linc, as well, or something?’

Reed glowered at Drew. ‘Mate…I’m not going to discuss my case with you, when you’re so close to my crook…OK.’

Drew held up his hands to Reed. ‘Fair enough…I know you’re a gun detective, Reed-O… but is there any possible way you’ve got the wrong bloke?’

‘I wish there was… I really do. But no. The evidence is overwhelming…’

Drew sat back in his chair. His eyes fell heavily to the floor. He shook his head.

’You knew Walter McCormack sexually abused Lincoln at McKillop House…’ Reed said. ‘Besides…You haven’t seen this guy for ten years, or more, so how can you vouch for him…?’

‘Coz he hasn’t changed in all that time, Bro. Anyway.’ Drew waved the back of his hand at Reed. He returned the chair to the neighbouring desk. ‘I’ll leave you to it…’ He said in a despondent tone, then made his way to the bullpen exit.

---

After leaving, Reed’s office, Drew made his way down to the police station watch house. He approached one of the custody officers, to ask if he could briefly talk to Lincoln.

Given the irregular request made by Drew, the custody officer discussed it with the watch house sergeant.

The sergeant approached Drew a short time later. ‘I understand you’ve got a mate in the cells and you wanna have a quick chat with him…’

Drew indicated Lincoln’s name on whiteboard ‘guest’ list. ‘This guy here, Brett,’ Drew began. ‘I’ve known him all my life. I was hoping to have a quick chat before he gets shipped off to the remand centre.’

‘The double murderer is your mate…?’ The sergeant said, with a surprised tone in his voice.

‘He is… We go way back to about grade three.’

‘Mate… You need to choose your friends better…’

Drew grinned at the Sergeant’s obvious flippancy. ’You know the guy he killed molested him for years, when Linc was a kid?

The sergeant flicked a finger at the list of names on the whiteboard. ‘So the person your mate murdered was the same guy who molested him, when he was a kid…?’

‘Yep. For years…’

The sergeant waved the back of his hand. ‘No offence, in my book, mate. Seems like the fucken rock spider got what was coming to him. If it was me… I’d probably have done the same thing…’

‘Exactly. So, what’s the chance of having a quick chat?’

‘Look…’ The sergeant rubbed a contemplative hand across his mouth. ‘It’s a bit out of the ordinary… But, I tell you what… You can meet him for a few minutes in one of the secured interview rooms, where the crooks meet their lawyers. One of the custody officers will need to be in there with you, though. Happy with that?’

‘No probs. Thanks, Brett. I appreciate that.’ Drew checked his watch. ‘Can you arrange that now…?’

The sergeant beckoned over one of the custody officers. When he approached, the sergeant tapped Lincoln’s name on the whiteboard. ‘Take this bloke to the interview room and stay there until he’s finished meeting with Drew, here.’ He flicked a finger at Drew.

The custody officer nodded his understanding and disappeared into the corridor, out to the cells.

The sergeant escorted Drew to the interview room, where Drew sat and waited. He glanced around the tiny windowless room. Its claustrophobic dimensions barely fitted a desk and two chairs.

It was less than five minutes before the door swung open and Lincoln and his accompanying CO stepped in. The custody officer had already informed Lincoln, he was meeting Drew in the interview room, but neither knew the reason.

‘Mate…’ Drew said. He jumped up from his chair and moved to Lincoln. The two men locked thumbs and moved in for a quick embrace.

Drew gestured to a chair. As Lincoln sat, Drew slid into the other remaining chair, on the same side of the table, facing each other. Drew grinned up at the CO. ‘You’ll have to stand, Bro…’

The CO nodded and smiled. ‘All good…’ He leaned a shoulder against the closed door.

‘How ya holding up, mate…?’ Drew said to Lincoln.

‘Been better.’

‘I was just chatting with the lead detective who’s charging you… Double murder mate…’ Drew shook his head. ‘What the fuck’s going on?’

Lincoln shrugged. ’I’ve been charged with killing that dog, McCormack and his boss Mark English.’

‘I understand McCormack. He was a piece of shit… But why that other bloke?’

Lincoln shrugged. ‘Payback for not doing anything when I complained to him about McCormack, apparently.’

‘Mate to mate…’ Drew’s eyes lifted to the CO, before he leaned closer to Lincoln. ‘Did you do it, though…?’

Lincoln leaned an arm on the table. He slowly shook his head. ‘The evidence says so, but…I have no memory of doing it.’

‘Have you spoken to a lawyer yet…?’

‘Only at the remand hearing.’

‘Did he suggest a defence like you were suffering a temporary dissociative episode…or something like that?’

‘He did. I have to be interviewed by a shrink, first…’

‘OK… good. Look, the upside is, you are only on remand… not locked up.’

‘And the difference is…?’

‘On remand, you don’t have to wear the shitty green prison clothes. You don’t have to work, unless you want, and you get better liberties with phone calls and visitors.’

‘Woo hoo,’ Lincoln said. He oozed with sarcasm. ‘Can’t wait.’

‘Make sure you put me on your telephone and visitor list, Bro. You can’t call me and I can’t visit you, if you don’t do it… OK?’

‘Are you gunna come all the way up there and visit me in that shit hole…?’

‘Fucken oath, mate. You’re my Bro. I’ll check in from time to time to see you’re doin’ OK…’

‘I’d actually appreciate that, mate. It’d be good to see a familiar face, now and then.’

Drew checked his watch. He flicked a finger at the door. ‘Anyway, mate…I better get back to it. I just wanted to catch you before the transport left.’ He stood from his chair. Lincoln also stood.

They grabbed thumbs and moved in for quick embrace. Lincoln and the custody officer left first and turned right, towards the cells. Drew left the room and turned left towards the police station watch house.

Chapter 25

Lincoln stepped down from the prisoner transport van. He stretched into a yawn, then ran his eyes across the cloudy sky. He inhaled some fresh air, something he’d missed while confined in the flatulence-filled, 1.5 metre by 1.5 metre pod, during the ninety-minute drive from Cumberland.

His previous remand was done at a maximum-security prison, so this was his first time at the Western Remand Centre. Despite being told his time would be much better spent here, this place was still a jail. Lincoln subscribed to the adage, if it looks like shit, and it smells like shit, then…

Following a firm order barked out by a prison officer with a clipboard, Lincoln and the five other transportees toed a thick yellow line, for roll call.

Each showed their disinterest, if not disdain, as they stood with their hands buried deep in their pockets, grunting out “here”, when called.

With all remandees present and accounted for, they were herded, single file, through a non-descript door, similar in appearance to a delivery side entrance.

Their next stop was a small waiting room with plain, dirty white walls, no windows and three rows of moulded chairs. One-by-one they were called forward from the waiting room, for property assessment. Lincoln was the fourth to be called.

None of this was new to him. He had experienced it over five years ago. Same-same, different place. Once again, he had been reduced to just a number. Lincoln, the person, ceased to exist, while he remained inside these walls.

Lincoln stood with his toes on a thick yellow line, facing a counter. A serious-Faced prison property officer stood on the other side. The officer who escorted Lincoln, searched the clothes Lincoln wore.

When this was cleared, all clothing Lincoln brought with him was checked and allowed to stay with him in his cell. All other property and possessions that were transported with him from Cumberland police station, were signed for and stored in large plastic box with a lid.

The property officer was matter-of-fact in his tone. He projected boredom in his explanations and questions. He’d said it all a thousand times before, and it showed.

‘All prisoners accommodated at the Western Remand Centre are permitted to wear their own clothing…’ The officer gestured to Lincoln’s attire. ‘In the event that you do not have sufficient clothing to sustain your stay here at the WRC, additional clothing can be provided through the donations store…’

Lincoln nodded his understanding. ‘OK.’

‘Do you think you will have sufficient clothing?’

‘I’ll be right.’

The officer glared at Lincoln. Several uncomfortable seconds passed. ‘I didn’t ask you how you were. You’re not on a holiday camp here, sunshine…’

‘I have enough clothing with me…’ Lincoln was direct. He held the officer’s firm glare.

Five years ago, this process was all new and incredibly intimidating. The second time around, it’s more a case of just get on with it.

‘If you intend to work while on remand here, you will be provided with appropriate safety footwear and clothing. Do you intend to work while here…?’

‘How much is the pay here…?’

‘Remand prisoners receive $3.15 per day…’

‘Per da-’ Lincoln scoffed. ‘Ah…No. I won’t be working…’ he said firmly.

‘Your choice. If you don’t engage in daily outdoor work, you will still have the right to be in the open air for at least one hour, each day, weather permitting…’

‘A whole hour…’ Lincoln mumbled.

‘What was that…?’ The property officer blurted. He glared at Lincoln’s insolence.

‘I said… I’ll look forward to it,’ Lincoln said, clearly.

The property officer’s eyes narrowed. He held an extended, silent glare at Lincoln, but Lincoln didn’t look away. It was like a school yard game of who blinks first.

In the end, the process won out. With his clothing and property sorted, the property officer reached for a digital camera. Lincoln was photographed and his identity card was prepared and issued to Lincoln.

‘That ID card must to be worn at all times and visible to all prison staff, during your stay here… Is that clear.?’

‘Yep…’

’And if you lose that ID card during your stay here at the WRC, you will pay for its replacement.’

‘Got it.’ Lincoln was over being lectured to like he was an adolescent school kid. He was more than aware, from experience, that the prison officers he interacted with daily, could make the time tolerable, or intolerable. They had the power and some loved to use it. Property guy fell on the intolerable side of his ledger.

From the property office, Lincoln was led to a small examination room, with a sheet-covered gurney on one side and a plastic moulded chair in the corner. A male nurse in his late thirties, dressed in a full-length white coat, welcomed him.

The nurse gestured to the chair in the corner. ‘Remove all your clothing and place them on the chair, there…’

Lincoln’s eye fell to the chair. He rolled his eyes knowing what was coming, then did as instructed. A humiliating strip search followed next, to ensure he was not smuggling any illicit drugs.

Every part of his body was searched: his armpits, under his toes, in and around his ears, his mouth, under his tongue and under his scrotum.

The body search culminated with a degrading, ‘bend over and spread your cheeks’ style, anal cavity examination. One thing Lincoln had learned for certain was, having someone shine a torch up your arse, never got any easier the second time around.

The medical examination concluded with him providing a urine sample in a plastic cup, after which, he was able to restore some dignity and get dressed.

From the medical examination room, he was escorted to processing and classification. This time there was no thick yellow line to stand at. There was no male Prison Officer barking at him from behind a counter.

This time, a pleasantly smiling female prison officer, seated at a desk, invited him to sit at the visitor chair opposite her, to finalise his processing.

The female officer ran through several rules and regulations, highlighting the more important.

‘I’ll start with the heaviest and most important thing you need to be aware of,’ she began. ’If you commit any violation of our prison rules and guidelines, while you stay here, you could lose a range of privileges. such as personal visits, recreational activities, out of cell time, television, etc.

‘Depending on the offending, you could also be placed in management-separation cells for a period of time.’ She looked at Lincoln with raised eyebrows. It was an unspoken question, as to his understanding.

Lincoln nodded. ‘Understand.’

‘Now your private money allowance,’ she began. ‘You may receive a maximum of $140 per calendar month, from family, or friends. Cash will not be accepted. Only money orders or bank cheque payable to you…got that?’

‘Got it, Miss…’

The female officer’s face tightened at his response. Obviously, she had misread Lincoln’s gentle nature. Lincoln’s use of the common inmate title for addressing a female Prison officer, caught her off guard.

Any prisoner who had served considerable time, addressed male prison officers as “Boss” and female officers as “Miss”. To anyone working in corrections, or law enforcement, these terms were one of the ‘tells’ from people who had served real time.

She frowned as she shuffled some pages in front of her. She lifted a page and read from it. ‘Ah…’ She said with a tone of realisation. ‘You’ve got a CRN…’ She nodded. ‘So, this isn’t your first rodeo, is it…?’

‘I’ve been through this before… Just not here…’

‘OK.’ She flipped over a page on her note pad. ‘Visitors…’ she continued. ‘Are you eligible for contact visits…?’ she asked herself, as she checked a list in front of her. ‘Yep… you are, Good. So, you are eligible for two visits per week. These are conducted via contact, box, or video and all visits are one hour maximum. You cannot book two of the same visit types in any one week…Does that makes sense…?’

Lincoln nodded his understanding. ‘Yep. One contact and one box per week…not two contacts…’

‘Well done… And only one visit is permitted on a weekend–that’s either Saturday or Sunday.’

‘What about my visitor list…?’

’I was getting to that… Before the end of today, you will need to provide me with a list of ten names for people you want to place on your visitor list… and…’ she emphasised. ’A list of ten names of people you want to place on your telephone call lists.

‘All names on the lists will be verified and checked before they can visit you, or receive calls from you. Anyone not on the list cannot visit or receive calls… Got it?’

Lincoln nodded his understanding. ‘Yep.’

‘Which leads me to telephone calls…I’ve mentioned the list of ten names…’ she said ticking off her list.

She scribbled down something on a piece of paper and slid it across the desk to Lincoln. She jabbed her pen at the page. ‘That is your four-digit PIN. You’ll need that to make your calls. DO NOT…’ she emphasised. ‘Lose your PIN or give your PIN to any other inmate…’

Lincoln nodded as he leaned forward to read the number on the page.

’All local calls cost thirty cents and all calls are limited to twelve minutes – no exception. The call will automatically cut off at twelve minutes. This ensures equitable access for everyone.

’Now… Telephones may be used during out of cell hours, provided it does not interfere with operational requirements. But before you can use the phones, you must arrange for monies to be put into your phone account…

‘This can only be done through the prison shop. All phone credits purchased in the prisoner shop will be made available by the following day. How we going so far…?’

‘It’s all straightforward.’

‘Good.’ She read from her notes. ‘Oh, yeah… You need to be aware, if you’re not already… All private calls may be monitored or recorded. The exception being calls between your lawyer or legal advisor. These will not be monitored or recorded.’

‘Got it.’ Nothing new to date had been provided, compared to his previous prison orientation.

‘OK. Now before I go into your classification, I’ll just run through the typical daily routine here at WRC…’ She lifted a page and read from it.

‘At seven-forty-five am is what we call pre-let out count. At eight am you are let out of your cell for breakfast. At ten-forty-five am there is the morning formal count… Twelve noon is lunch…At four forty-five pm is the afternoon formal count… Five pm is dinner time… All meals are served in the units…At seven pm, all prisoners are returned to their units, ahead of lockdown for the night. Lockdown is at eight pm on weekdays and seven pm on weekends.’

‘I’m sure I’ll get it…’

She then discussed prisoner classification. ‘Remand prisoners are classified into three categories,’ the female officer began. ‘These are…’ She held up a thumb. ‘A–Maximum.’ She held up a finger. ‘B–Medium, and…’ She held up a second finger. ‘C–Minimum. Now… Because of your double homicide charges, you have been classified as, “A-Maximum”,’ she advised.

‘Even though I have not been convicted of anything…?’ Lincoln said as a question. ‘I’m still labelled a double murderer…?’

The question caught the prison officer off guard. Her face tightened, as she nervously shuffled some papers on the table in front of her.

‘I understand where you are coming from… but charges are what we go by in here, because all inmates on remand, are awaiting trial.’

‘Just saying, it seems to conflict with the presumption of innocence, I keep hearing about.’

‘I can’t disagree with you… But it is, what it is,’ she said ‘Now…’ She lifted a document and read from it. ‘Because of your double murderer status, you have been placed into a single accommodation unit…’

‘You mean, a cell…’

The prison officer grinned at his frankness. ’The “cells”…’ she emphasised, ‘as you put it… were designed on a campus style of accommodation, with a mix of single and double units, so they are more like units than cells… so we like to refer to them as units…’

Following his brief orientation into expectations and rules and regulations, Lincoln was handed a prisoner and visitor information booklet. ‘Most of what we talked about is in there.’ She flicked a finger at the booklet in Lincoln’s hand.

The escorting male prison officer opened a cupboard and removed Lincoln’s allocation of three blankets, one pillow, two sets of sheets and two towels. He placed them on the desk in front of Lincoln.

The male officer gestured to the bedding items. ‘Grab those and we’ll head over to your unit.’

Chapter 26

After navigating a labyrinth of cream-coloured corridors, they exited the administration and processing building into the fresh air.

At the end of a short concrete pathway, Lincoln’s escort unlocked at tightly-woven steel mesh gate and they entered a large area of mostly grass, about the size of three football fields.

‘This is where you’ll be able to spend your allocated fresh air breaks,’ the escorting prison officer said, as they traversed the yard from one side to the other.

‘You’ve got your eight hundred metre walking track that encircles the exercise area, and over there is your basketball court.’ His focus dropped to Lincoln’s leg. ‘But with that injury you have there… I’m suspecting we won’t see you out here that much.’

The further Lincoln walked, the heavier the bedding items became. The lactic acid burned in his arms from holding them at right angles, supporting the weight, for an extended period.

When they reached Lincoln’s accommodation unit, the escorting officer unlocked a steel door and opened it. They stepped into an air lock foyer. When the outside door closed, the officer unlocked the internal door, half of which was glass, and they stepped inside.

The crack of pool balls, followed by boisterous laughter welcomed him. Lincoln took a typical first-time glance at his new lodgings.

Two floors of cells encircled the common area, where around sixty or seventy casually dressed males of varying ages, moved freely about.

The pool table was at one end of the room and table tennis table in the middle. Seating was dotted throughout the shared recreational area. Centrally located access stairs to the first-floor cells were located on each side of the room.

A supervisor’s station, manned by a prison officer was at the end of the common area. Lincoln’s escort led him to this station.

‘New arrival for ya…’ the escorting officer said to his colleague. ‘Leave you to it,’ he said, then left via the same door they entered.

The supervising officer checked Lincoln’s ID card, then recorded some details onto a sheet of paper. ‘Bring all that with you…’ the officer said. ‘You’re over here.’ He gestured to his right.

The officer escorted Lincoln laterally across the recreational area, to ground floor cell number twelve. Each of the cell’s solid steel doors were open. When they stepped inside, the officer gestured to his bed. ‘Dump all that on there…’

Lincoln did as instructed, then he swung his arms about to get the blood flowing again.

‘Quick run through…’ the officer said. ’Over there you’ve got your cup, cereal bowl, cutlery and you’ve got your kettle. Lose any of those items and you’ll have to pay for replacements. TV’s over there. All free to air channels are available.

‘Unpack your clothes into those shelves in the corner, there. You’ll also find your clothes laundry bag for your washing in there as well. OK?’

Lincoln nodded, as he scanned his new digs. The cell was cold and stark. Its décor was uninviting, to say the least. It was no different to the confines in which he had spent the last five years of his life.

The unit was a narrow room with a single bed against the wall, a toilet, shower, handbasin. A white plastic moulded chair and a 32-inch TV, rounded out the luxuries.

Diffused light was provided via a one metre square, opaque window, with horizontal bars. Clearly the rooms with the view were more expensive. He chuckled to himself.

The officer flicked a hand at the bed. ’Your bed is to be made and your unit cleaned, before eight am let out. No exceptions. ‘Any questions…?’

Lincoln shook his head as he continued to unfavourably scan his small cell.

The officer checked his watch. ‘Afternoon count is in thirty minutes. Stand outside your unit door when count is announced. Dinner will be shortly after that. OK?’ He didn’t wait for a response. He nodded once, as a final punctuation point, then left the cell.

So far, the only difference between where he spent the last five years of his life and this place was, he didn’t have to wear prison greens. Everything else to date was a carbon copy.

Given he had no recollection of committing any murders, he wondered if his innocence was also a common denominator between the two prisons.

---

Lincoln had made his bed and was in the process of folding up his clothes and placing them in the vertical, corner shelf unit. He failed to notice the three males standing at his cell door.

‘Hey, newbie… We need to have a chat.’

Lincoln glanced towards the voice. A solidly built male in his mid-twenties, leaned a shoulder on the cell door frame. His heavily tattooed arms were casually crossed.

Two other guys stood behind him, peering over his shoulder.

Lincoln’s focus returned to his chores. ‘I’m good…’

The spokesperson pushed himself from the door frame and stepped into Lincoln’s cell. ‘No. You don’t understand… That wasn’t a request,’ he said firmly, as he approached Lincoln. His two followers trailed behind.

Lincoln rolled his, ’here we go again’ eyes. Here comes the test of the new guy’s mettle. He lobbed the t-shirt he held, into the shelf and turned to face the approaching male.

The male ran a disapproving up and down glower at Lincoln, as he approached. Lincoln’s appearance must not have presented as a threat to this male and his followers.

’You’re new here… so, I’ll let that slide… this time,’ he emphasised. ‘But moving forward, attitude like that will not be tolerated. Clear…?’

Lincoln squared himself to the male. ‘What do you want?’ His tone was disinterested. He glanced at the male, then the two followers standing behind him.

‘This can be a dangerous place for people who are new to prison…’ he began. ‘So we offer our services… you know… to protect you from anyone getting to you while you’re in here… Call it a protection fee…’

Lincoln scoffed. ‘Did you come up with that title all by yourself…?’

Judging by the puzzled glare, Lincoln’s sarcasm was lost on the male spokesperson. ‘We’ll take payment in cigarette—.’

Lincoln held up a hand. ‘Save your breath, buddy. Not interested. OK.’

The guy tightly crossed his arms. His smirked as he glanced back at his two friends. ‘Oh…I think you’ll be interested before we leave your cell.’

‘You’ve got the wrong guy… I’m not new to prison, mate.’

The guy again passed an assessing up and down glower at Lincoln. He scoffed. ‘I doubt that…’

‘Look…I’m not interested in what you’re selling so…’ Lincoln circled a finger. ‘Turn yourself around and you and your boyfriends can fuck off out of here…’

The spokesperson again passed a smug grin at his two mates, behind him. ‘Boyfriends…’ he said with raised eyebrows. They grinned back. ’Maybe I need to show you what can happen to people in here who aren’t under our protection…’

Lincoln extended ‘bring it on’ arms out to his side.

’Hey, arse ‘ole…’ one of the guys from the back yelled out. ‘What are you in here for… unpaid parking tickets…’ He scoffed. All three males chuckled like adolescent school boys.

Lincoln shook his head. ‘Well…’ Lincoln crossed him arms. He wasn’t proud of why here was in there. He wasn’t even sure he should be in there.

But reputation in places like this was everything. Lincoln knew that, firsthand. So, he intentionally threw his prison resume out there, to see how it landed.

‘Because you asked… I’m on parole after doing five years in Port Phillip for manslaughter,’ Lincoln continued. ‘Four fuckwits, just like you three, tried to take me on and I accidentally killed one of them.’ He unfolded his arms.

The faces tightened on the three men in front of him. ‘And I’m in here now because I’ve been charged with double murder…’ He glared at the spokesperson. ‘See… When I got parole…I went and killed the bloke who molested me when I was a kid… Apparently I’m all fucked up in the head now because of it…’ He deliberately flashed crazy widened eyes at his visitors.

The spokesperson flinched and took a backward step, as he glared at Lincoln. Lincoln had read him correctly. This guy wasn’t a brawler. He was a weak bully who needed his back up support to extort money out of inmates whom he perceived as vulnerable.

‘Murder…?’ he said. He passed a further judgemental up and down glance at Lincoln. ‘Bullshit,’ he said, without conviction.

Lincoln shrugged. ‘I don’t give a fuck what you think, mate. But if you need to be certain… Go ask boss out front there.’ He jabbed a finger toward the door. ‘He’ll tell ya. But in the meantime…’ Lincoln raised his voice. ‘Get the fuck out of my cell!’ He glared at the front guy.

The spokesperson took another back step. He flicked a hand towards the door. ‘Let’s go. This guy’s fucken loony…’

Lincoln grinned. He slowly shook his head as he watched them depart with their tails between their legs. Chances were, that won’t be the last he sees of those three, but he didn’t see them as any threat, moving forward.

---

Three weeks in and life on remand had once again become routine for Lincoln. His short-lived freedom was now but a memory. It was as though he had never left the prison system.

Courtesy of his earlier interaction, other inmates left him alone and he kept to himself.

Lincoln sat on his cell toilet, enjoying his ‘morning routine’, when the supervising officer appeared in his cell doorway. Privacy in prison was non-existent. He knew he should get his shower and morning movement out of the way before the cell doors were opened, but sometimes his body controlled his timing.

When the supervisor caught Lincoln’s eyes, he tapped his watch. ‘Mate… What are you doing…?’

Lincoln’s eyes fell to his lap, then the toilet on which he sat. He grinned at the officer. ‘I’ll give you three guesses…’

The officer returned Lincoln’s grin. ‘OK… Probably the wrong opening question…’ He smirked. ‘But you’ve got a 10am appointment with your lawyer… Remember…?’

Lincoln held up his bare wrist. ‘I don’t have a watch, Boss. What time is it?’

The officer checked his watch. ‘Ten-O-eight…’ He flicked a hand at Lincoln. ‘Hurry up and finish there then come and see me at my desk and I’ll escort you over to the meeting rooms.’

Magnus Dangerfield, was waiting in the interview room when Lincoln wandered in. Magnus impatiently checked his watch, then stood from his chair. They shook hands.

Lincoln slid into the chair opposite his lawyer. He leaned his elbows on the table while he watched Magnus sort through papers, in an open file in front of himself.

‘OK…’ Magnus began. ‘Before we start… I want to inform you that your defence is being funded by…’ He checked his notes. ‘Valerie and Max Olsen. I understand they were your former foster parents…’

The news caught Lincoln off guard. Tears welled in his eyes while he composed himself. ‘They raised me. I always considered them as my parents, not foster parents. Can they afford this…?’

‘Valerie told me that they know you and they trust you. She said they were confident this was not the actions of the Lincoln they raised, so they wanted to ensure you were properly defended.’

Lincoln slowly shook his lowered head. He quickly caught an escaping tear. ‘They are the nicest people you will ever meet…’

‘Now… Since we spoke on the phone last week, I’ve received full disclosure from the prosecution and I wanted to discuss this with you in person.’

Lincoln’s curious eyes dropped to the open file. He nodded his understanding.

‘As it currently stands, the police evidence against you is considerably strong. I can’t see any way we would be able to successfully defend these charges at trial.’

Lincoln fell back in his chair, somewhat defeated. He frowned an assessing glare at Magnus. These defeatist comments concerned Lincoln. The rest of his life was at stake here and this bloke’s not even prepared to throw a punch.

Questions filled his head. Is he the right man for the job? Is he even interested in having a crack at defending this case? What are Valerie and Max paying him for? Should I look for someone who’ll, at least, have a go…?

Lincoln tightly crossed his arms. ‘So… that’s it, then. I’m fucked. We should just roll over and take it… Valerie and Max should just write you out a cheque now and be done with it? Is that how it goes…?’’

‘Not quite. But I want you to be aware of the strength of the evidence against you, before I discuss my thoughts.’

Finally… Proof of a spine.

’OK. Here’s what they’ve provided in disclosure. The GPS from your phone places you at both murder scenes. They located McCormack’s blood on your clothing and shoes. The distinctive wear pattern on the soles of your runners matched the shoe prints left in blood at the scene.

’They have evidence from your phone that you searched for English’s address in Google Maps. They have evidence from your Uber app that shows you caught an Uber to English’s house in Greensdale, and back to your friend Drew’s place, on the night English was murdered.

The GPS in your phone shows you walked from your friend, Drew’s place, to McCormack’s home and back again, the night McCormack was killed.

’They have evidence that you assaulted McCormack in the Royal Hotel in the hours before he was killed. They are able to link you to both victims through your residency at McKillop House, when you were a child. They have their motive, which they alleged was revenge for the sexual abuse.

‘To support this, they have evidence that you made a complaint to McKillop House Manager, Mark English, about how McCormack sexually abused you in McKillop House and they have evidence that English found the complaint was unsubstantiated.’

‘See… here’s the thing,’ Lincoln began. ‘I remember pushing McCormack off his stool at the pub, and I’m aware of all that evidence…’ He waved a hand over the files in front of Magnus. ‘But… I have absolutely no memory of killing either of them…’

Magnus held an assessing glare at Lincoln, while several seconds passed. ‘You remember who Walter McCormack is, don’t you?’

‘Of course…’

‘And Mark English…?’

‘Of course. I’m not stupid.’

Magnus held up a placating hand. ‘I’m not suggesting you are…OK. But, to be clear…you have no recollection of killing either of them?’ He said as a question.

‘None what-so-ever…’

‘But you understand the police evidence places you at both murder scenes…?’

‘Yep.’

‘And you have DNA evidence from one of the victims, on your clothing…?’ he said as a question.

‘I get it…but I don’t remember killing them.’

‘You understand… The police will challenge your memory loss as being a feigned amnesia, to avoid these murder charges…’

Lincoln rubbed a hand across his closely shaved head. ‘So, regardless of whether I can remember killing them or not… I’m faking it…? Is that what you’re telling me…?’

Magnus sat back in his chair and steepled his fingers together. Several seconds of silence passed before he eventually responded.

‘No. That’s not what I’m saying…’ Magnus said with conviction.

‘I’m confused…’

‘Before I discuss my proposed course of action with you, I needed you to understand that if we pursued a defence of diminished responsibility, the prosecution would try to prove you are feigning your memory loss, to avoid the consequences.’

‘Understood…’

‘So… Before we lead that line of defence, I’ll arrange for you to undertake a psychological assessment to see if we can prove you suffered some form of psychological episode, before committing these crimes, thereby diminishing your criminal responsibility…or in basic terms… you were unable to form the intent to kill, which is an element of the crime the police need to prove, beyond all reasonable doubt.’

’How will that assessment prove my mental state at the time of the murders…?’

‘We’ll leave that up to the specialist to decide…’

‘Fair enough. So, what’s next? How long am I in here for…?’

’Next will be your committal hearing in the Cumberland Magistrates Court. Based on the extent of evidence that will be presented to the court, the Magistrate will have no alternative but to commit you to stand trial before a Judge and Jury in the Cumberland Supreme Court. It’s as inevitable as death and taxes; you will be committed. It is at this supreme court trial where we will present our defence.’

A knock on the door interrupted their conversation. The door opened. A prison officer stuck his head in through open doorway. ‘How much longer do you require, Counsellor…? We have another appointment waiting to use this room…’

Magnus scooped up his paperwork from the desk and slid it into the folder. ‘We’re finished here now. Thank you.’ He closed his folder and pushed himself up from his chair. ‘Do you have any questions?’ he asked Lincoln.

‘No. It’s just a waiting game now…’

Magnus gestured towards the door. ‘Correct.’

Both men exited the interview room. Lincoln was escorted back to his unit.

Chapter 27

Lincoln’s compulsory meeting with his lawyer-arranged shrink had progressed to this point, as expected.

There were lots of probing questions about what his childhood was like. What was his relationship with his mother, father and siblings like?

What was school like for him? What sort of friendships did he have as a child? How did he feel being brought up through the social security-foster care system?

What were his romantic relationships like? What type of work did he do and how long did he do it?

Since he left McKillop House, Lincoln had never discussed—certainly not in any detail, the abuse he’d been subjected to during that time.

Mostly because of the embarrassment it caused him, and partly because discussing it, caused him to re-live the horror all over again. He had buried those traumatic memories long ago and he worked hard to keep them suppressed.

But when the shrink started to delve into the finer detail of Lincoln’s abuse, things started to get uncomfortable for Lincoln.

The doctor wanted to know specifics about Lincoln’s abuse. Did it involve him being penetrated by McCormack? Did it involve any oral sex being performed? Did the abuse involve any threats against him, if he spoke out about it…?

The doctor watched as Lincoln provided his one-word answers, but his body language told a more detailed story. For some answers, Lincoln nervously rubbed his hands up his thighs. Other answers he nervously rubbed his hands together, as if washing them under a tap.

For other sensitive questions, Lincoln’s face twitched and distorted, or his hands opened and closed while he wiggled his fingers. All were tells to the doctor that Lincoln was uncomfortable discussing his past traumatic experiences.

On some other occasions, Lincoln’s eyes went into a vague stare. All his one-word answers were short and sharp and were provided through gritted teeth, with a tightened jaw.

It was evident, even after fifteen years, Lincoln’s abuse at the hands of Walter McCormack still haunted him and it still affected his outward persona.

The doctor moved from the sexual abuse questions, to how Lincoln’s abuser made him feel.

‘When you saw Walter McCormack sitting at the bar at the Royal Hotel…What thoughts went through your mind?’

‘Honestly…?’

‘Please…’

He glared at the doctor. His jaw tightened. ‘I wished Drew hadn’t stopped me.’

‘Do you hate Walter McCormack?’

Lincoln frowned. He shook his head at the ridiculous question. He’d just spent the last forty minutes divulging the extent of McCormack abuse on him, and now the doctor asked if he hated McCormack.

‘You understand what he did to me… right, Doc…? You understand I was just a kid and he took my innocence. You get that, don’t you…?’ Lincoln blurted with intentional sarcasm.

‘Of course. But I want to know how you felt about Walter McCormack.’

‘Well, I’m not sorry he’s dead, if that’s where you’re going…’

‘Did you want to kill him?’

Lincoln rested his elbows on the table while he considered his response. Should he answer honestly, or should he answer how he thought the doc wanted him to respond? He went with honesty.

‘Abso-fucking-lutely, I wanted to kill him… There… Ya happy, now? That’s what you wanted to hear, isn’t it…?’

‘Do you remember killing Walter McCormack?’

‘No. I have no recollection. Yes, I hated him. Yes, I wanted to kill him, but I don’t remember doing it.’

‘What about Mark English…? Did you want him dead…?’

Lincoln sat back in his chair. His eyes fell into a vague stare. Several seconds beat passed before his focus returned to the Doctor, sitting opposite. ‘You know what…? I’d forgotten about him. Yes, at the time I was angry. I hated him for not stopping McCormack, coz he had the power to, and he didn’t. But over time… he slipped from my mind.’

‘So you have no recollection of killing Mark English?’

‘None…’

The Doctor continued with a series of questions about how much alcohol Lincoln had consumed on each night of the two murders. He asked questions about how over-indulging on alcohol affected him. The doctor asked if Lincoln had ingested any illicit drugs on either night.

He asked Lincoln how much he could remember from each of the two nights, where he’d consumed alcohol to excess. Lincoln was able to recall most events, up to the time he arrived at Drew’s unit, but was not able to recall anything after he arrived there.

After two hours of questioning, the doctor opened his laptop and accessed a file.

To assist with his clinical interview and assessment of Lincoln’s cognitive awareness, the doctor opted to have Lincoln undertake a Structured Inventory of Malingered Symptomatology, or SIMS test, used by psychologists and psychiatrists, to test if a patient displayed a malingered symptomatology.

The doctor moved the laptop to Lincoln’s side of the table. ‘That there is what we call a SIMS test. Basically, it is a series of simple on-screen questions… Seventy-six in total, that seek a True or False answer from you. It should take you around ten to fifteen minutes to complete.’

Lincoln ran his eyes over the computer screen. ‘You want me to do this now…?’

‘Please.’ The doctor extended a hand to Lincoln.

Lincoln rolled his eyes. He adjusted himself in his chair to start the test.

The test took Lincoln eleven minutes to complete. He slid the laptop back to the doctor’s side of the table. The doctor quickly scrolled through the questions, to check they had all been answered. They had.

‘So…How’d I do, Doc…?’

‘We’ll have to wait and see…’

In reality, the on-line score was provided to the doctor, as soon as the doctor finalised the questions in the program. At this time, he chose not to share them with Lincoln.

At the conclusion of his clinical psychological assessment, Lincoln was escorted back to his cell. Over two and a half hours of reliving his traumatic past had drained him. All he wanted to do on his return to his cell, was sleep.

---

Two days after interviewing Lincoln, the psychiatrist called Magnus Dangerfield to report his clinical findings to the Lawyer.

The doctor briefed him on the outcomes and observations from his clinical interview of Lincoln.

’Lincoln presented as a quiet, somewhat withdrawn personality. Prior to moving in with his foster parents, Max and Valerie Olsen, at thirteen years of age, he had been through an unfortunate and troubled childhood.

’He lost both his parents in a motor vehicle accident, when he was seven. So, through no fault of his own, at quite an impressionable age, he ended up in the social welfare system, without the love from a mother and father.

’But despite that, he displayed an above average intelligence and was quite capable of contributing to intelligible conversation, when he wanted to. That was until the subject moved to his past.

‘With the mention of Walter McCormack or McKillop House, his body language immediately tightened up. He completely shut down. He withdrew from participating in willing conversation. Answers to my questions became forced and aggressive.’

‘That’s a good thing… Isn’t, Doctor? Isn’t that what we wanted…?’

‘Look… It is. It demonstrates the scars from the trauma he endured over sixteen years ago, are still buried deep in his psyche…’ The Doctor said. ‘Let me tell you…Some of the things we discussed, that he experienced as a young child, should never happen to anyone… let alone the developing mind and body of a ten-year old boy.’

‘So… He opened up on his abuse…?’

’Well… As the saying goes… It was like pulling teeth. He hated discussing it, which was typical for these type of abuse cases. But to his credit, he did disclose what happened to him and how that made him feel. He is an angry man, trapped inside someone who demonstrates the traits of, what I would determine to be a decent human being.

‘I would say… when the details of this young man’s abuse are provided at trial, a jury would find what happened to Lincoln quite disturbing.’

The doctor informed Magnus that his early diagnosis was that Lincoln had what he considered to be a combination of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, and Crime-Related Amnesia, or Dissociative Amnesia.

‘I’ve heard of “dissociative amnesia”, but would PTSD be enough for what we’re trying to prove, Doctor?’

’PTSD is only one aspect of my diagnoses. But to answer your question, yes. PTSD, in Lincoln’s case specifically, is characterised by his failure to recover, after experiencing a terrifying event, that being his repeated sexual abuse as a child.

’In some cases, PTSD conditions may last many years, with triggers that could bring back memories of the trauma, accompanied by intense emotional and physical reactions. This was most certainly the case with Lincoln.

’Seeing Walter McCormack in the Royal Hotel, on the day of his release from prison, released an uncontrollable anger in him, even after all those years. The traumatic events of the past, and what Walter McCormack repeatedly did to Lincoln, flooded back and manifested into hate filled rage.

’I also had Lincoln undertake a Structured Inventory of Malingered Symptomatology, or SIMS test…’

‘I’m not familiar with that test… what is Malingered Symptomatology?’

‘It’s a medical and psychological term that refers to the tendency of individuals to fabricate, or exaggerate symptoms of mental or physical disorders, for specific motives.’

’I see…so this test was to prove he wasn’t faking it…’

’Correct.

‘Good…’

’The test involves seventy-six, simple True or False questions, grouped into five subscales. Each subscale contained fifteen questions that addressed malingered symptoms in several areas; these being, Low Intelligence, Affective Disorders, Neurological Impairment, Psychosis, and Amnestic Disorders.

‘A favourable score from his SIMS would go a long way to proving Lincoln’s cognitive impairment at the time of the murders.’

‘OK. Sounds impressive to me,’ Magnus said. ‘But what did it prove…? Was it favourable for us?’

’Lincoln’s SIMS Cut Score was considered low enough to rule out that he had feigned any of his symptoms of cognitive impairment, or psychiatric disorders.

‘So, to answer your question… Yes. The result to Lincoln’s SIMS test confirmed what I had already suspected, from my clinical interview.’

‘So… Look, I’m sorry, Doctor. This is going over my head. What will we be proving to the court, exactly…?’

’My evidence would be that Lincoln was in an extreme emotional condition, that being, hate filled rage, when he committed the violent murders of McCormack and English. That would be caused by his PTSD.

’Therefore, the details of the murders would’ve been stored in Lincoln’s memory, in the context of strong emotions.

’Later, when he returned to a calmer state of mind, say back at his friend’s unit, he would be unable to remember the murders because of a mismatch in emotional state between the encoding of the murders as events, and the retrieval of such events.

‘This type of memory loss was the dissociative amnesia and explained to me why Lincoln had no recollection of the murders.’

‘Excellent. And in your expert opinion, Doctor, would what you have diagnosed be sufficient to present a defence of diminished capacity…? Would it show Lincoln was unable to form the specific intent necessary to commit those murders?’

‘It most certainly would. My diagnoses will also conclude that Lincoln had not experienced any form of insanity during the offending.’

‘All that will be in your report?’ Magnus said as a question.

‘It most certainly will.’

A grin emerged out the side of Magnus’ face when he eventually ended the phone call. Maybe they were in with a slight chance, after all.

By successfully proving diminished capacity, or responsibility, Lincoln was in a strong position to beat the murder charges.

Magnus was of the mindset that, given what Lincoln had been through as a young child, he didn’t deserve to be convicted of murder.

He had no idea what he was doing. His body did the killing, but his mind had shut down.

However, depending on the police charges and the extent of their evidence, Lincoln could still face conviction on the lesser charges of double manslaughter.

Chapter 28

Such was his fatigue, Lincoln grunted when he stepped from the prisoner transport van, into the enclosed court yard at the WRC.

His dark raccoon eyes, pale complexion, and rounded posture, corroborated his weariness from a taxing, half-day committal hearing in the Cumberland Magistrates Court.

While he did nothing more than be present at court, the stress from reliving his past all over again, in front of strangers, mentally drained him.

The committal hearing began with the prosecution presenting a compelling case against him. Even he was convinced he was guilty.

They portrayed him as a cold-blooded killer, who planned and then executed the murders by invading the sanctity of each victim’s home, where he brutally killed them.

On several occasions, during the prosecution’s presentation of its evidence, the elderly female magistrate glared her contempt at Lincoln, as he sat over to the side of the courtroom, in the prisoner dock.

Her judgemental glares suggested she’d already made up her mind to commit him to stand trial.

When it was Magnus’ turn to present Lincoln’s defence, he called his expert witness, Psychiatrist, Doctor Frances Dwight.

The doctor detailed his clinical psychological assessment of Lincoln.

‘The evidence I am about to lead to this court, Your Honour, will shock even the most hardened among us,’ the doctor began. ‘It involves the truth… the dark truth, about my client’s unfortunate childhood,’ he said as a teaser.

He mentioned the abuse Lincoln suffered at the hands of the very person who was charged with the responsibility of looking after his welfare at McKillop House—murder victim, Walter McCormack.

The doctor detailed, as explained to him by Lincoln, the intense pain Lincoln endured every time he was sexually abused. He told how Lincoln cried himself to sleep every night. He detailed how ten-year old Lincoln’s pleas for the raping to stop fell on deaf ears.

He mentioned how every day Lincoln lived in fear of seeing McCormack. The doctor discussed how Lincoln thought about killing himself, rather than enduring the continual abuse.

The doctor explained how McCormack threatened Lincoln with never being fostered out, if he told anyone about the sexual abuse. The doctor told how Lincoln eventually worked up the courage to tell McCormack’s boss, Mark English about what McCormack was doing.

He told how Mark English found Lincoln’s allegations to be unsubstantiated, which allowed the sexual abuse by McCormack to continue.

McCormack told Lincoln that he’d ensured Lincoln was considered a trouble maker and not suitable for Foster Care. This caused Lincoln to be overlooked when his turn for a foster family came up.

The doctor pointed out that when Lincoln turned thirteen, he was too old for McCormack’s interests, so Lincoln was allocated a foster family, with whom he became quite close and stayed with until he was twenty years of age.

On several occasions, the hardened glower the magistrate earlier gave Lincoln, had been replaced with eyes of sympathy, as she glanced across at Lincoln in the dock.

On one occasion, the magistrate discreetly and quickly caught an escaping tear with a finger, as the doctor detailed the sexual abuse ten-year-old Lincoln endured over many years.

Lincoln sat with his head lowered during the Doctor’s evidence. He was too embarrassed to look anyone in the eye, as his private life was laid bare for all to hear. This was too personal for him.

The doctor mentioned how Lincoln described an unusual mole in the murder victim’s groin area, which Lincoln said he noticed when he was regularly forced to perform acts of fellatio on the victim.

The defence later presented a photograph, taken at McCormack’s autopsy, of the mole Lincoln described.

The magistrate rolled her glistening, tear-filled eyes, as the doctor continued to detail Lincoln’s abuse, regarding forced fellatio, and how Lincoln told how he had to swallow all of McCormack’s semen, or he’d be punished.

The doctor concluded his evidence with his analysis and findings that indicated Lincoln had experienced PTSD from the continual and relentless abuse, and the PTSD resurfaced when he saw McCormack at the Royal Hotel.

The doctor explained, on the night of the murders, Lincoln had, what the doctor diagnosed as, Dissociative Amnesia and as a result, he would not have had any recollection of what he’d done, or why.

Magnus asked the doctor during cross examination, ‘if Lincoln had dissociative amnesia, would he be capable of forming the intent to kill?’

The Doctor replied with an emphatic, ‘absolutely not.’

After all evidence was presented to the court, the Magistrate provided her summary and decision.

‘The Prosecution’s evidence was comprehensive and compelling,’ she began. ’Add to that, the defence failed to challenge any of this evidence, which suggests the defence does not dispute the facts of these charges.

‘After I heard the evidence from the defence’s expert witness…’ She checked her notes. ‘Doctor Dwight, about the…’ She paused, as she slowly shook her head. ‘Continual and depraved sexual abuse, the defendant endured while in the state’s care…’ She again paused to pass her sympathetic eyes at Lincoln. ’I was shocked and horrified.

‘I accept the Doctor’s expert evidence that the defendant was diagnosed as having PTSD and dissociative amnesia, resulting from his childhood abuse, which prevented him from being able to form the necessary intent to kill.’

The magistrate paused to gather herself. ’These are the most serious of charges before me today and I must decide with my head, not my heart, as to whether there was sufficient evidence to commit the defendant to trial. It is my position that both sides presented strong cases, supported by compelling evidence. So… I have decided I will let a jury decide, based on the strength of evidence.

‘It is therefore the decision of this court that I commit the defendant to stand trial before a Judge and Jury in the Cumberland Supreme Court, on the first sitting in 2022.’

Bail was denied and Lincoln was further remanded to appear in early February, 2022, on a date to be fixed.

From the court, Lincoln was escorted back to the Cumberland Police cells.

Enroute, his police escort informed Lincoln he would have missed the day’s prison transport and would therefore be required to spend the night in the police station cells, until tomorrow afternoon.

While Lincoln rued his transport timing misfortune, he was pleasantly surprised to learn, when they arrived at the police station, the prison transport van had been delayed elsewhere and had arrived at the same time as he did.

Lincoln was quickly processed, given some food because he would miss dinner at the remand centre, then boarded the bus back to the WRC.

---

After his name was checked off in the court yard, upon his return, from his committal hearing, to the WRC, Lincoln was escorted back to his accommodation block.

Lincoln was a melting pot of emotions as he strolled back to his unit. The most degrading time of his life was exposed for all to see, in that court. Aspects of what happened to him, that he had never told anyone, before the doctor, came out in detail and in full colour.

He could feel all the eyes in the court room on him. It didn’t matter to him if they were hated-filled, or sympathetic eyes trained on him, they all knew what happened to him as a child. For the second time in his life, he felt violated.

When he arrived at his accommodation unit, and stepped into the shared recreation area, his escort left him at the door, to return to the admin building.

The duty supervisor beckoned Lincoln over to sign him back in, because he’d missed final count. Lincoln shuffled his tired, heavy feet over to the supervisor. He lifted his chin in a muted greeting.

‘How’d ya go, mate…? Good news, I hope,’ The supervisor asked, in a tone that sounded genuine.

Lincoln leaned on the high wall around the Supervisor’s desk. ‘Nah. Got committed to stand trial early next year… No real surprises there…’

Leaning on the desk, or standing too close to the desk when addressing prison staff was banned by prison rules. But Lincoln had earned the respect of the supervising officers at his unit complex, so they ignored these minor breaches, when senior staff were not present.

Once he was signed back in, Lincoln headed straight for his bed, where he would remain until morning, or that’s what he expected. With his nap being before lockdown, Lincoln’s cell door remained open.

Chapter 29

It wasn’t long before his much-anticipated peaceful rest was interrupted when he heard voices whispering. His eyes opened to the three losers, who previously tried to extort protection money from him, standing by his bed.

‘What the fuck do you idiots want?’ Lincoln said. He dropped his feet to the floor, and stood.

As he did so, the three inmates rushed him. Lincoln was prepared for an altercation. He quickly caught one of them with solid right cross to the jaw, sending that one crashing to the floor.

But before he could regroup, the remaining two began repeatedly jabbing small shivs into Lincoln’s arms and torso, in a frenzied attack. Lincoln tried to defend the onslaught as best he could, by covering up.

The five-centimetre shivs, made from slithers of Perspex, ground to a tapered point, were generously wrapped in masking tape, to form a handle.

Lincoln grunted as the plunge of each weapon caught his breath. The entry wounds were shallow, but painful. Blood flowed from each narrow wound, which numbered around eight or nine.

His legs eventually gave way from the onslaught. He collapsed to one knee, before falling forward onto all fours. Lincoln was now at his most vulnerable on the ground, distracted by the intense pain pulsing from his abdomen.

When the attacker Lincoln earlier dropped, returned to his feet, he coward-kicked Lincoln’s head, like a soccer ball, as payback. The forceful kick knocked Lincoln out. He collapsed face down into his own blood pools.

Lincoln never felt the flurry of rib kicks and head stomps that followed, before his attackers were satisfied and rushed from his cell.

Running indoors was strictly banned, so it was a glaring red flag to the duty supervisor, when he noticed the three inmates fleeing from Lincoln’s cell.

The supervisor weaved his way around inmates who were causally strolling the floor and those gathered in small groups, as he sprinted across the recreational floor to Unit twelve.

He burst into Lincoln’s cell then stopped in his tracks when saw Lincoln lying face down on the floor. Blood seeped from underneath him.

‘Shit! Shit! Shit!’ he blurted. He slid in to kneel beside Lincoln and quickly pressed two fingers against Lincoln’s neck, while he searched for a sign of life.

His face tightened as he rubbed his perspiring hands down his thighs and tried again. When he failed to locate a pulse, he repositioned his searching fingers slightly. ‘Shit!’ He blurted.

He moved his fingers a second time, again without success. He shifted his fingers to the other side of Lincoln’s neck. ‘Shit!’

Fear etched into his face as he carefully rolled Lincoln onto his back. The supervisor’s shoulders dropped and his head lolled when he saw Lincoln’s frozen expression.

Partially open, lifeless eyes stared blankly at nothing. Lincoln was pale and clammy to touch. His lips were tinged with blue.

The supervisor carefully peeled up Lincoln’s blood-soaked shirt. He cringed at the sight of the small incisions dotted around his lower abdomen. Blood still trickled from each wound.

His defeated eyes lifted to Lincoln’s unchanged expression. He shook a conceding head. Standard operating procedures dictated that he should try the defibrillator, but he’d seen that death stare before. There was no point. He was too late.

The supervisor pressed his fingers against Lincoln’s neck, one last time, then collapsed back onto his haunches, defeated when nothing was found.

He climbed back up to his feet and rubbed a concerned hand across his mouth. A sense of helplessness washed over him as he glanced down at Lincoln’s lifeless body, one last time. He liked Lincoln. He was one of the better inmates he encountered in the WRC.

The supervisor’s steps were heavy as he reluctantly made his way out from the cell. On his way out, he partially closed the cell door, to keep prying eyes out, then returned to his desk to call in the murder of an inmate.

‘No, I’ve checked for a pulse three times,’ he told his manager. ‘There’s nothing there. He’s gone… He even looks dead… The colour of him… No. I never tried the defib coz I was too late… Yeah, I know who did it… It was—.’ The supervisor cut himself off. He frowned heavily when he noticed a large number of inmates gathered at Lincoln’s cell. The cell door was now wide open. ‘Ah, Shit!’ he blurted. ‘I’ll call you back. Just get the investigators down here…’

The supervisor ran across to Lincoln’s cell. ‘What are you men doing here…? Get away from there. Now!’

One of the inmates standing at the open cell door way gestured into Lincoln’s cell, as the supervisor approached.

The supervisor ran into Lincoln’s cell, but stopped in his tracks when he saw two inmates performing CPR on Lincoln.

The inmate performing the chest compressions, briefly glanced up at the supervisor. Without breaking his rhythm, he said, ‘we found him on the floor like this… When I checked him, there was a sporadic pulse. We’ve got it going now, but I don’t know for how long. I suspect it’s possibly cardiac arrhythmia.’ He grunted as he continued his compressions.

The supervisor firmly grabbed the arm of an inmate onlooker. He gestured to his desk and said, ‘go and grab the defibrillator from the wall behind my desk.’ He jabbed a forceful finger. ‘Go! Now…’

The inmate sprinted to the supervisor’s desk and returned a short time later with the AED.

While he waited, the supervisor used his portable radio to contact the main security office, to upgrade the call to an urgent ambulance request.

When the AED arrived, the inmate performing the breaths paused to check Lincoln’s pulse. He shook his head. Both inmates climbed to their feet and stood to the side, while the Supervisor ripped open Lincoln’s bloodied shirt to expose his chest.

’As he did so, he said to the two inmates, ‘you blokes seemed like you knew what you were doing there…’

One of the inmates he spoke to said, ‘we should. I’m a Paramedic and he’s…’ He jabbed a thumb at his offsider. ‘A lifeguard, so…’

‘Maybe you should be doing this…’ he said while he attached the adhesive electrode paddles. The machine went through its analysis of Lincoln’s heartbeat, then returned an instruction to “Shock”.

The supervisor activated the orange button. The machine delivered its first shock into Lincoln. The supervisor briefly waited while the machine commenced its second analysing phase.

“No Shock Advised” appeared on the machine’s display. The supervisor checked Lincoln’s pulse. It had returned. One burst was sufficient to cause his heart’s rhythm to return to normal.

The two lifesaver inmates assisted the supervisor as they placed Lincoln into the recovery position, while they waited for the ambulance.

The lifeguard regularly checked Lincoln’s pulse, while the paramedic tried to stem the bleeding with gauze bandages, the supervisor had retrieved from the first aid kit.

While they waited, the supervisor casually asked, ‘a Paramedic, hey…’

The inmate nodded his conformation. ’Yep. At least I was… before I was sent here… He continued matter-of-factly, while he attended to Lincoln’s wounds.

‘I only have myself to blame, though. I drove when I shouldn’t have. I was sure I was right. The cyclist was at fault when he pulled out in front of me. Problem was… I blew over… then, the poor bastard later died in hospital.’ He extended a hand out to his side. ‘And here I am…’

‘Well… Let me reassure you… This bloke’s very lucky you both were here…’

Chapter 30

Lincoln lapsed in and out of consciousness in the ambulance. He had no recollection of being rushed to St Andrew’s Hospital, twenty minutes away in Melbourne’s CBD.

He had no knowledge that upon arrival at the hospital, he was prepped and sent straight in for surgery. It wasn’t until he awoke, post-surgery, that he realised where he was.

His heavily medicated eyes were blurred when they slowly opened. It took several seconds for his focus to fully return. The room was darkened from the closed window curtains, while a diffused light bled up the wall behind him.

Lincoln’s scanning eyes locked onto the pale bule curtains beside his bed. That familiar antiseptic smell filled his nostrils.

The muffled sound of nurses chatting from the hallway, and the distinctive sound of rubber soles squeaking on lino floors, resonated into his room.

His eyes lifted to the beeping machines beside his bed, then to the bag suspended from an IV stand.

His senses had woken sufficiently to alert him he was in hospital, but why was he there?

Lincoln lifted an arm to rub his head. He grunted when the pain caught his breath and his arm fell back to the bed.

‘Good afternoon,’ a nurse said, when she noticed Lincoln was awake.

His eyes moved to the voice. A nurse stood at the foot of his bed. ‘You’ll need to take that very carefully,’ she said. ‘You have a number of sutures in your abdomen and arm… You don’t want to rip them out.’

Lincoln closed his eyes to try and recall how he ended up in hospital, but his brain was cloudy from the pain meds. ‘What hospital am I in…?’

‘You’re in the secured prison ward of St Andrew’s Hospital…’

’Do you know what happened to me? Why I’m here…’

The nurse was in the process of checking his bedside machines, when she said, ‘not really, no. All I know is you were brought in by ambulance from the Western Remand Centre. You had several stab wounds to your body and your heart had stopped, or was very weak, or something like that. That’s all I know.’

‘Stab wounds…?’ Lincoln mumbled to himself. He frowned as his recollection failed him.

The nurse read from his patient file. ‘You have severe concussion… Possible mild bruising on your brain… Ah… You have a large contusion to your right cheek bone… Four fractured ribs… and there were…’ She counted out aloud. ’One, two… five, six, seven… ah…nine puncture wounds in total… Seven to your lower abdomen and two on your left upper arm. I’d say you were obviously attacked by someone with a knife…’

Lincoln’s eyes dropped to the bandage on his left bicep area. He slowly shook a confused head.

‘Don’t worry, hun…It’ll all come back to you, eventually. You should rest up now, OK.’

---

Three days on and lying in his hospital bed was anything but restful. Everything hurt. The jabbing pain from his fractured ribs prevented him from drawing deep breaths.

The stitches in his many wounds were painfully tender and continually throbbed. His right cheek ached and the dark swelling was still present.

His headache had finally subsided, but overall, he had never felt so bad.

Add to that, his lack of restful sleep. Loud talking nurses in the hallway outside his room, other inmate patients screaming abuse, or in pain, all continually echoed down the halls at all hours of the day and night.

That was all about to compound, when his clarity of memory recall returned. His light bulb moment hit him like a smack in the face. Lincoln remembered being attacked and who attacked him.

The heart pressure numbers on the beeping, bedside machine quickly spiked. He gritted his teeth when he realised it was those gutless mongrels who jumped him.

Lincoln was not a vindicative person but he spent the next four days mulling over how he would best repay each of his attackers, for what they did to him.

Would a simple beat down be sufficient? Or maybe he should shiv each of them, so they could see how painful it was…? He was not a weapons man; never had been, so he decided that a good arse kicking would be the best form of natural justice.

He now had a reason to look forward to his period of convalescence to end.

---

Three weeks after Lincoln was rushed, via ambulance, to St Andrews Hospital in Melbourne’s CDB, he limped back into his WRC accommodation unit, under escort.

The concussion he suffered from the head kick had long gone. The sutures from the nine stab wounds had all been removed, or where appropriate, dissolved, leaving a series of small, red, rope scars, as daily reminders of the unprovoked attack.

All tests performed on his heart during his hospital convalescence returned positive results and a confidence from his specialist that there would be no lasting damage, or concerns of a recurrence of the cardiac arrest.

The pain meds he continued to take helped him while his fractured ribs fully healed.

After entering the main recreation area of his unit, Lincoln was escorted to the supervisor station. He lifted his chin to the duty supervisor, in a muted greeting.

‘Hey, Linc… Welcome back,’ the officer said. ‘How ya feelin’?’

‘Bit sore… But pretty good, considering.’ Lincoln scanned the common recreational area. His radar searched for his attackers.

‘I was the one who found you on the floor…’

Lincoln nodded his understanding. ‘Thanks for that…Appreciate it…’

‘I thought you’d gone, mate. When there was no pulse…I thought I’d lost ya…’

Lincoln’s eyebrows arched. ‘Did my heart stop…?’

‘Shit, yeah…’ the officer said. ‘Two of your fellow inmates performed CPR on you and then I had to spark you up again with the defib…’ He jabbed a thumb over his shoulder at the wall mounted AED behind him.

‘So… You’re my little lifesaver then…’ Lincoln grinned at his flippancy.

The supervisor waved the back of a hand at Lincoln. ‘I had help, mate. Two inmates who were well trained in CPR kept you going until I could defib you…’ He passed an up and down glance at Lincoln. ‘I’m just glad you’re OK, mate.’

As the supervisor completed his paperwork to sign Lincoln back in, he said, ‘lunch will be in about thirty minutes, so…’

When his eyes lifted from his paperwork, he noticed Lincoln appeared distracted while he continued to scan the area with purpose. ‘You looking for the blokes who attacked you…?’

Lincoln nodded as his scanning continued.

‘They’re gone, mate…’ Lincoln’s focus snapped back to the supervisor. He frowned his confusion, as the officer continued. ‘The cops interviewed them last week. Each one has been charged with attempted murder. They’re sitting in isolation at Port Phillip, on remand. Didn’t the cops come and see you in hospital…?’

Lincoln shook his head. ‘Nuh…’

‘OK… They will want to interview you soon, I would say…’

The news of his attackers’ incarceration at Port Phillip pleased Lincoln. While it was his preference to settle his own score with each of them, he knew Port Phillip Prison well. It was the maximum-security hell hole where he’d spent the last five years of his life, trying to survive.

Normally, it was a place you would not wish on your worst enemy. On this occasion however, Lincoln was happy to make the exception.

‘Good…’ He nodded his approval. ‘Good,’ he repeated. He jabbed a thumb toward his cell. ‘I’m gunna go and lie down, if that’s OK…’ Lincoln didn’t wait for a response He started to move towards his cell.

‘No worries. Take it easy…’ The supervisor said.

Lincoln waved a hand back over his shoulder.