Chapter 5
They were just finishing up dinner, Cal had insisted on paying the bill and had left Gillian and her father sitting at the table to take care of it, ensuring that he got there first.
During dinner, Cal had offered to coach Neil on getting through the difficult questions by answering honestly without escalating them into big stories.
There were details about his past that would not be covered. Half of the judiciary was in A.A., so there was no real problem with his history of alcohol addiction, nor with his absenteeism as a father. Gillian would cover that just fine and they didn't really care too much about things like that.
The issues would be with his PTSD after he returned from Vietnam. That was where they would try to disqualify him. Gillian's father had missed the first year of her life because he was sleeping rough, unable to hold down a job, had dropped out of college briefly and was in and out of psychiatric hospitals being treated for the traumas he experienced fighting for his country. It had taken him some time to get himself together enough to take the bar exam, and he had relapsed several times over the course of the decade following the war. During that time, Gillian's mother had died and she had relied on kindly neighbours and the parents of her friends to get raise her properly. In theory, the fact that he had served in the military should benefit him. He hadn't even been drafted. He enlisted to follow his older brother over who had been drafted. His brother never made it home, and Neil had witnessed horrors that had turned him into a conscientious objector to war. He had not supported any war that his country had engaged in since. This was where the most probable potential problem would lay in the circles he was now advancing through.
Most of Cal's controversial life was top secret, confidential, eyes only, kind of stuff. Now that Gillian and he had committed their lives to each other, Cal was on the vetting list too, no doubt about it. They weren't worried about that. But Cal wanted to be sure that Neil knew how to answer those kinds of questions, so that people like him couldn't dig for darker truths that were long since passed.
Neil thanked him and promised to stop by their offices for an hour the next day before he headed to the airport.
Cal had returned to their table to find light conversation for the most part and a friendly atmosphere. As soon as he approached, they began to gather their things and head off.
"Thanks, Cal. For dinner. And the advice, too… and, for being good to my daughter," Neil said in preamble to their evening farewell.
Gillian blushed and lightly admonished the final sentiment with a softly uttered, "Dad," and a roll of the eyes.
"Yeah, no problem. My pleasure, in fact. She's the best friend I've ever had, your daughter."
Neil smiled at him in gratitude, "Took a big risk with that friendship to change your relationship. I'm glad it worked out for you both."
"Hey, like I said to Cal today. I'm 100% sure about us. We wouldn't have gambled on ourselves if we weren't, right?" she said to them with a bright smile beaming to Cal.
"Was hardly a gamble. Only thing I'd never gamble on is you."
Cal began to return the smile and then drifted off, a lightening bolt of thought hitting him. Eyes that had been drifting inwards in the formation of a theory shot back in a flash to her, his finger raised animatedly.
"What?"
"It'd be mad to gamble on your own team if you thought you could lose. But what if you bet on the other team if you knew you were going to lose?"
He was talking in riddles. Gillian ran through the information that she had stored on the case they started that day. They knew that Jason had placed a bet on the Raptors believing they would win. That it hadn't paid off. She had no idea what he was getting at for a moment, and then it hit her.
"We should look into betting trends on the Cheetahs to win. Find out who placed big money on them before the game."
"Exactly. If someone linked to the Raptors bet on the Cheetahs, that's our man."
Foster and Lightman marched into the lab to find Torres, Turner, and Loker still there. They were going through all the footage from the soccer match, pausing the screen regularly on the same players and a few members of the small crowd that had gathered to watch.
The printers in the lab were whirring in action, spitting out images which Loker and Torres were marking and highlighting.
"Hey," Gillian said.
The trio of apprentices froze and looked up to find their bosses in the entrance to the room.
"Why are you in a suit?" asked Loker.
"I was up in front of a judge," Cal replied lightly, "What are you lot up to?"
Mark Turner brought the image up on the largest screen of the two men he had initially identified, then three more. One from a member of the Raptors backroom staff in the dug-out, two from the crowd of spectators.
"These five people all look happy whenever the Cheetahs score a goal. But they also exhibit shame."
"You look into gambling trends around town?"
"Not yet. We need to find out where the betting is happening first."
"Easily done. I'll give you a list."
"We think that someone on the Raptors team may have bet against them to win, or bet in favor of the Cheetahs, and that's where we'll find whoever poisoned them," Gillian informed them.
"We think those five," Ria said with a point to the screen, "are the most likely to have bet on the Cheetahs to win."
The Cube was set up with three chairs on one side of the table, two on the other, and a portable monitor at the end placed between them.
Loker sat in his place at the control station at the front of the Cube, preparing for the upcoming interrogations.
Foster and Lightman walked into the lab accompanied by Paul Santino, the head coach of the Richmond Raptors, their defence coach Michael Reeves, and two of the team's players. Aaron Birch, a defender, and Damian Martin, the team's starting striker.
Lightman ushered Michael, Aaron and Damian into the cube and invited them to take a seat. Loker moved to set up the equipment and monitors, politely requesting permission and then attaching physical monitoring equipment to the wrists of the three men.
Outside the Cube, Gillian offered Paul a seat beside where Loker would be monitoring the electrical signals from the three men, as well as the video feed. While Eli and Cal explained what would be happening inside the Cube, Gillian explained the what and the why outside of it.
When Loker returned and took his place, Gillian moved to join Cal inside the Cube.
"Thanks for coming in, we appreciate your co-operation," she started.
"We've interviewed everyone on the Chester Cheetah's football team, and we see no evidence at all that they had anything to do with your team's illness on Saturday," Cal continued, "Very little that they had anything to do with your losing the match either, to be honest."
Gillian did an excellent job of not laughing at Cal's comment but couldn't hide the hint of humor that broke through. She cleared her throat quietly and continued on from where he left off.
"We've been reviewing the recordings that your team made of the match though. And in doing so, we found something that we'd like you to clear up for us."
"Sure. We have nothing to hide. I was sick on Saturday too, you know."
It was Aaron who had spoken. He was defensive in his body language, but his minute one-armed shrug suggested that he wasn't being entirely transparent with them.
"Fairly mild dose of it though. By comparison. One of your better players ended up in hospital on a drip," Cal antagonised him subtly. Shame flashed for a second before false anger arose more prominently.
"The three of you ate with the team at Cassidy's on Friday?" Gillian asked amicably to balance out Cal's tone.
"No," said Damian. "I couldn't make it. It was my sister's birthday. I didn't stay long because the game was on the next day, but I was there instead."
"And did you become ill during the game?"
"A little, yeah. Not too bad though."
The two spectators had been identified as regular attendees of the tournament's matches: Freddy Brooks and Bill Jacobi. One was a supporter of the Raptors, one of the Cheetahs. They were friends, and co-workers. Neither had a familial or friendly relationship with anyone associated with the teams. This was unusual for the attending crowd.
Ria Torres and Mark Turner had set out together to interview the pair. They worked as car mechanics in South Richmond, not far from the restaurant where the Raptors had eaten the night before the big game.
They introduced themselves and explained why they were there, shaking hands with the two men before realising that this would cover them in grease. Bill noticed Ria looking down at her hand in mild alarm and grabbed a cloth, handing it to her so that she could wipe her hands.
"We were reviewing the recordings that the Raptors had of the game, and we noticed that both of you seemed pretty pleased to see what was going on."
"Of course!" Bill laughed genially, "It was unbelievable."
"Yeah, I guess even I had to laugh at it, and I'm a fan," Freddy agreed.
"If you're a fan, why were you so happy to see them lose like that."
"We had a bet on the Cheetahs."
"For them to win?"
"Yeah, yeah to win. We always take a bet out on the underdog. Just a few hundred bucks, nothing crazy, but we've never won before."
"And the fact that the players on your team were sick?"
"Hey, like I said, I'm a fan. No real reason. The fellas and I we all just drew names out of a box a couple of years ago to support the local league, you know? I didn't want anyone sick or hurt. I was just happy to be winning some cash. The pay-out was huge."
"But you support the Cheetahs?" Turner said to Bill, "why did you look ashamed?"
Bill's shame returned under the watchful eyes of his friend.
"I, uh. I was happy to see my team winning. But, I actually put my bet on the Raptors," Bill said, cowering under the betrayed shock of his friend.
Cal continued to grill the three men in the Cube, using the footage of their reactions to goad them into reacting, pushing them more and more to lose their cool.
"You're the only ones, including the Cheetahs, who look happy with how things are going there."
"Look at them!", said Damian, "They don't look too miserable there, do they? They're celebrating that goal like they earned it. All they did was capitalise on our bad luck."
"No. They're shocked at what's going on. Every one of them. Look," Cal turned to indicate to Loker to pull up the still frames of the Cheetahs. Gillian was sitting closest to the screen, so she pointed out the specific hallmarks of each emotion on the faces that were displayed.
"Happiness, yes. But that," she pointed, "is surprise. And it's lasting. He's not just surprised that they got that goal, he's surprised by the whole situation."
Loker played the recording on, and Gillian continued, "And you hear that? The disbelief in his voice? Not one of them saw it coming."
Cal turned again to gesture for Loker to play the next clip they had prepared.
"And there? That… is happiness. With shame," she finished pointing at the image of Aaron.
"Why were you ashamed, Aaron?" asked Cal.
"Because we were losing. We were being humiliated out there," replied a flustered Aaron.
"Ok. And why were you happy? Because that shame, is connected to the happiness. Look, it follows on so quickly, but it's the happiness that comes first. You were happy that your team was losing. And then you felt the shame because you were happy."
Aaron fell silent for a moment before deciding that he was caught.
"I had a bet against us. Just twenty bucks. But the odds meant that I was going to get hundreds in return. It was a stupid thing, but I didn't think it would work out that way. I mean, they suck and we were unbeatable. It was just a stupid bet. I couldn't believe what I was seeing," then seemingly deciding that he was going to take everyone down with him he decided to continue, "I wasn't the only one. A few guys bet against us. Even guys who weren't going to be there. Some of the guys who work for the sponsors even."
The other two at the table began to squirm. Outside the Cube, Paul Santino looked to be simmering in silent outrage.
"What about you?" Cal asked his question to Damian.
"What about me?"
"Did you bet against your own team?"
"No."
"That's a lie."
"I didn't poison anyone."
"That's the truth."
Cal stared him down until eventually the guilt overtook him. He looked to Gillian, the more sympathetic of the two. And she stepped in, looking to Loker for him to bring up the replay of Damian.
She pointed the to screen and said, "You showed happiness too when they scored. But first, shame. The happiness came after. And then, here," she said pointing again, "This is anger."
Finally, Damian gave in.
"I'm in Gamblers Anonymous. I'm a recovering gambling addict. I put a bet on our own team to win."
"And you were ashamed and angry with yourself. For placing a bet."
"And I was happy that I was losing, and then angry that once again I can't even get an easy bet right. We were odds on favorites to win. I couldn't even win that bet. I don't deserve to win that bet."
They allowed a pause in the conversation for Damian to compose himself, and then turned their attention to the last man in the room.
"You weren't sick, were you Michael?"
"No. None of the coaching staff got sick."
"But you were happy to see your boys lose."
"No."
"Yes," Cal replied callously. "Look," he said. He turned to the screen where Loker had brought up the only clear image of the man from the match. The purpose was to record the players, so there were very few shots from the sidelines. The few frames they had showed Michael Reeves looking pretty pleased with himself during the match. When the game ended, he had been angry. He had berated his defenders for not keeping out the last goal.
"What was your bet?"
"I was happy to see them perform as well as they did under the circumstances, that's all."
"And at the end? You were angry with them. All sympathy gone."
"I was angry at the situation."
"Rubbish. You were thrilled with the situation up until a point. My guess is, you had a bet on for a specific score. Five-Nil."
The sideways pull to the corner of his mouth and the brief furrowing of his brow indicated that there was some truth to Cal's accusation.
"Why'd you do it? Was it just for the money?"
"I didn't poison the team."
Cal contemplated his statement for a moment.
"You know who did though. Who was it? How'd they manage it?"
Michael stayed silent and still, trying not to give anything up.
"Was it the food? The night before?" Cal asked. His face told him the answer. "No. Not the food. The drink?" he asked, again analysing the reaction. "Ooh, there's something there. Did you put something in the drinks at the restaurant? Nah. That doesn't add up. It'd be a more immediate effect then wouldn't it?"
"I had nothing to do with it."
Cal thought for a moment. There must have been a way for him to interfere with the teams drinks without getting everyone sick. Then it hit him.
"Loker! Can you go to a shot of the sidelines early in the match?"
Loker wound the footage back to the first few minutes of the game.
"There it is."
"What?" asked Gillian.
Cal pointed to the screen, to three sets of water bottle holders, each holding six bottles each.
"You put it in the water. Or more likely, you had someone else do it. But you only did two of them. That's why twelve of your team ended up sick. The coaching staff drank Gatorade, but the players all drank from one of those eighteen bottles."
He paused to see if a response was forthcoming and when Michael didn't say anything he continued on. "You weren't working on your own. You couldn't have been. It must have been you, planning it. Whoever it is that fills your water bottles, your head coach can tell us that after, to make sure that enough of your players got sick. And someone on the Cheetahs coaching staff, probably their forwards coach, to aim towards a specific number of goals for their side. But he done you dirty, didn't he? They got too many goals for you. No pay out for you."
Cal leaned back in satisfaction at his own deduction skills. The sick fear on Michael Reeves face told him that he was right. The eureka moment had Cal on an adrenaline high, and with delight, he spoke a phrase he'd always wanted to say.
"You're nicked mate," he announced with a shit eating grin.
