Back in the reality of the office, he headed down to an interview room at the back of the building. The room was designed to be uncomfortable but not sterile. There were minimal furnishings and the floor was covered with a fine misty brown carpet. The walls were painted a light pastel-blue colour with nothing to decorate them except a painting of an ocean scene hanging behind the subject’s chair. There was no observation mirror, but a recording device was mounted on the wall opposite the painting, hidden behind a thermostat. It would record the subject’s every movement.
Jack joined Catherine in the room. They waited for the subject, Bret Oram.
The subject's chair was a plastic foldaway chair. Jack’s chair was similar, and Catherine, the observer, had the comfortable chair. She sat behind a desk which ran at right angles to where Jack sat opposite the subject’s chair.
They both had old-fashioned notepads. No technology—the casual approach was less intimidating. There would be no barrier between Jack and the subject. Jack had a reputation of being a good interrogator. He built trust by treating people nicely, with dignity. He believed it helped the chances of communication flowing openly, and avoiding obstructions.
“That was a bad joke you told Ruby, Jack. You want to be careful. Some people could find them offensive.”
“I know, Cath. I haven’t told any for ages. It was a spur of the moment thing. I realised a while back that it offended people, especially blondes.”
“Did your wife have anything to do with that? She’s blonde, isn’t she?”
“She is. And yes, she did say I had to remove reference to blondes in my jokes. But redheads or brunettes just didn’t have the same punch.”
“Yeah, sure.”
There was a light tap on the door, and a police officer brought Bret Oram into the room. He looked as though he’d been dragged from his bed, hair unkempt and clothes wrinkled. He probably slept in them. There were islands of acne on his cheeks and his skin was pale. Had he looked in a mirror lately?
Jack and Catherine stood to greet him.
“Thanks, Officer.” Jack walked over and closed the door. “Hello, Bret. I’m Jack and this is Catherine. Why don’t you take a seat over there?” Jack pointed to the plastic chair.
Jack sat down on his chair.
“What’s with the camera?” Oram asked.
“What camera?”
“There’s one behind you.”
Jack turned. “That’s a thermostat.”
“Bet it’s a camera.” Oram scratched his arm.
“You may be right.” The man’s paranoia was unusually accurate. “If it is, then it’s going to be proof that we treated you properly.”
“That’s nice.” He waved to the thermostat.
“Notice you live near the bay, Bret? You a fisherman or boat person?”
“Both.”
“What’s the biggest fish you’ve caught?”
“Snapper.”
“How big?”
Oram stretched out his hands. “This big.” He winked at the thermostat. “Anyway, I’m not here to talk about fishing. In fact, why am I here?”
Jack presented the facts and the evidence. Oram’s activity at Ruby’s unit was minor to what he’d done after he’d left. He’d caused considerable property damage and assaulted an elderly man. He might have killed the man if the police hadn’t intervened. Oram only had a vague recollection of the events.
“All I know was that I wanted to let off steam. I was fuming, man. This person . . . the one what gave me the envelope . . . told me that I’d get drugs and a heap of money if I delivered the envelope. But I got no drugs or money.” He shook and scratched his left arm hard. “I gotta get rid of these bugs, man. Know any way I can?”
“What bugs?” Jack asked.
“These bugs under my skin. They itch when they crawl. Can’t you see them moving?”
“We can find a doctor who’ll be able to help you with those,” Catherine said, from her seat at the side of the room.
Bugs under his skin. They needed to get Oram off the street before he attacked anyone else, left anyone else with lifelong emotional scars. In Oram’s mind, it was all about him. All about a drug deal—this pig wanted drugs, he wanted a hit. Settle down, Jack.
“Why did you go to that block of units?” Jack asked.
“That’s the address the lady gave me. But I may’ve got the unit numbers muddled.”
“Was the address written down?”
“Yep. But I think I ate it or maybe I threw it away . . . or maybe I burned it. I like fire.”
Forensics had provided images of the envelope and its contents. There was no address. Jack hoped the forensic team could find something on the envelope to help them trace where it came from.
“So this lady phoned you up. You don’t know her. She supplied you with drugs and a promise of more to come.”
“Yeah. What would you do?”
Jack nodded, hoping to hide his lack of empathy. The forensic team were also working on Oram’s phone to try and track the number that had called him. They were trying, but everyone knew it would be a disposable phone. Assuming there was another person, that the phone call and the promise weren’t another example of Oram’s paranoia. And if there was another person, was it a drug delivery gone wrong? Was the other person a supplier?
