Текст книги "An Easeful Death"
Автор книги: Felicity Young
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Текущая страница: 10 (всего у книги 17 страниц)
She said she would, then clicked the off button.
‘I have to go,’ she said.
She couldn’t look at De Vakey as she scraped her hair back into its ponytail and rearranged her clothes. When she’d finished he took his phone from his pocket, showing her that it had been switched off.
‘Turn yours off next time,’ he said with a glint in his eye.
If only it was that simple.
16
Research has shown that serial killers have a tendency towards low arousal levels, meaning that they need more stimulation than the average person to obtain any degree of satisfaction. This leads to impulsive and thrill-seeking behaviour that is further exacerbated by an inhibition of the moral voice of reason.
De Vakey, The Pursuit of Evil
Stevie’s mind was still churning as she turned the key in Michelle’s apartment door. What would have happened if the phone hadn’t interrupted them? Would she have had the strength to pull back? She smiled to herself—who was she kidding? Her body was already growing warm with the thought of what might have been.
But what she saw next put an end to that train of thought and left her standing in Michelle’s small marbled entrance, blinking and stunned.
The lights were on and a pair of men’s trainers stood to attention at the side of the door.
Had someone been here since the search? Was he here now?
She contemplated phoning for assistance, but hesitated. She could think of no explanation for her presence in Michelle’s apartment that wouldn’t get Monty into even deeper trouble.
She dropped the phone back into her bag and took a step forward. The light must have been left on after the morning’s search, she reasoned; there couldn’t possibly be anyone here now. And the trainers—hell, what was the point in speculating? She was going in.
The entrance was separated from the living area by a wall with a lighted alcove, just as Monty had said. In the alcove, on a white painted shelf above the hidden safe there rested a heavy vase of blown glass. Despite the fungal coating of fingerprint powder the vase burst with colourful prisms of light, patterning the pale walls with rainbow dots much like the ones cast by her mother’s crystal ring.
Although she had convinced herself there was no one in the apartment, she still rued the fact that Central dees didn’t carry guns without due cause. If they did, she would have drawn hers now, just as a precaution. As it was, she took the can of pepper spray from her bag and held it in front of herself like an actor in an insect spray commercial.
Her footsteps across the honey-coloured floorboards were silent in her air-soles, but her heart beat like a tom-tom in her chest. For someone who wasn’t nervous, she was doing a fair imitation.
A tinted chandelier bathed the apartment in an eerie yellow radiance. At the other end of the living room, French doors led to the balcony and a panoramic view of the City of Lights. Outside, car lights rippled like a creeping black tide up the dark windows of the surrounding skyscrapers. Other apartment blocks loomed towards her like ships in the night.
She called out loudly, ‘Armed police! Come out slowly with your hands away from your body!’
Silence.
She tiptoed into a tiny bedroom, looked under the bed, then into a wardrobe large enough to conceal a midget. She did the same in the larger spare room, knowing before she started there would be no one there, knowing she was only delaying the inevitable.
In the main bedroom she stood rigid before the mirrored robe. If someone was in there, she reasoned, he’d probably be more terrified than she was. She imagined a pair of darting eyes staring back at her through a chink in the door.
She grabbed a blood-red throw rug from the foot of the bed, counted to ten in her head and yanked open the sliding door.
Her breath tangled with the panicked cry of the shadowy figure as she hurled the rug at him. He was caught off guard and blinded and she had no trouble dragging him out of the cupboard along with half-a-dozen entangled coat hangers. With an expert kick, she had him face down on the floor with an arm up behind his back.
She breathed easier once she’d snapped on the handcuffs and patted him down, finding nothing except a wallet and some lock-picking tools. She ripped the rug off his head and ordered him to roll over.
Stevie stared down at the man for a moment, knowing the pale frightened face and the magnified blinking eyes instantly. He was Martin Sparrow, the albino cleaner from Central. Their prime suspect, the last person they knew to have seen Michelle alive.
Killers often returned to the scene of the crime, but the earlier search had ascertained that this was not the crime scene. Perhaps he wanted to get close to Michelle’s things, to savour the atmosphere and relive the experience. They had surmised that the killer might have controlled himself at the scene, saving his release for a later time. The thought of what he might have been doing in Michelle’s apartment made her skin crawl.
Sparrow turned his face away. She hauled him to his feet and shoved him onto the sofa in the living room. Ripping the bottle-thick glasses from his face she held the pepper spray to his skittering eyes.
‘You know what this is?’ she said evenly, congratulating herself for not giving away the tingling bursts of fear still coursing through her body.
The large fish-like eyes stopped moving and focused on Stevie’s.
‘It means if you give me any trouble, I squirt this in your face. It hurts like hell and you’ll be temporarily blinded.’
Now the eyes creased around the edges as if she’d made some kind of an in-house joke. This show of humour was unsettling. She spoke through clenched jaws. ‘I’m arresting you for breaking and entering. You have the right to remain silent—something that you are obviously aware of—and anything you say may be used in evidence against you in court at a later date. Got that?’
He nodded. She made him lie across the sofa. ‘Stay where you are or I spray you.’
With his hands cuffed behind his back she didn’t expect trouble, but still she kept her eyes fixed on him as she edged backwards to the entrance of the apartment.
‘Did you touch this?’ she said, for the first time noticing the smudged patches on the glass ornament’s surface and the daubing of black fingerprints on the glossy white paintwork of the shelf.
He lifted his head from the armrest of the sofa, not answering. No longer empty, his pale eyes gleamed with hatred.
She kept him in sight as she phoned Central for a paddy wagon, trying to keep her excuses straight in her head for the inevitable questions about her presence in Michelle’s flat.
But before anyone arrived, she had to check the safe.
She took the ornament from the alcove and placed it on the floor behind her. Turning back to the shelf she slid it aside to reach the slender metal box. She repeated the combination to herself as she balanced the box across the wall cavity and twirled the dial. The lid snapped open. She saw immediately that it was full to the brim with documents and photographs. With her heart pounding, she lowered her hand and pulled out a fistful.
A gasp from her prisoner made her look up.
She saw his expression of shocked surprise turn to one of cold terror.
***
She must have died and gone to hell. Why else would she be lying in Tye’s arms, looking up at him? No, wait, that wasn’t Tye; it was Wayne.
Shit, she really was in hell.
The light pierced her slitted eyes, setting her head on fire. There was activity all around her, she heard the clack of equipment, voices, puffs and gasps. She scowled at Wayne, but could tell from his look of concern that it had come out as a grimace.
‘She’s waking up.’ Wayne stated the obvious to one of the lurking, shadowy figures at the edge of her vision.
Angus came into focus and bent down by her side.
‘What the hell,’ was all she could manage as she tried to shake herself out of Wayne’s hold and pull herself up through the gauzy levels of consciousness.
‘Hold still, Stevie,’ he said. ‘You’ve got a nasty gash on the back of your head.’
Her hand crept to her head and came away sticky with blood.
And then a thought hit her with almost as much force as the blow that had knocked her out. In a panic she twisted herself around to look in the direction of the sofa where most of the noise and activity was coming from. She saw an ambulance crew, a gurney, oxygen canisters and various other pieces of lifesaving equipment.
‘Sparrow...’
‘He’s in a bad way, Stevie,’ Wayne said. ‘You were lucky. They’re not sure if he’ll make it.’
Sparrow’s limp form was being eased onto the gurney as Wayne spoke. Someone was pumping air into an oxygen mask on his face. Blood seeped through the bandage on his head. Pools of blood on the floor were coagulating into the consistency of treacle, filling the air with a sickening metallic odour. Stevie noticed a pattern of smeared bloody footprints trailing and skidding their way across the honey-coloured floorboards. She pointed to them and cried out, ‘For God’s sake, stop them! They’re messing everything up!’
Wayne would have had to be a mind-reader to understand what she was trying to say.
It appeared he was.
‘Calm down, what’s done is done. Just let the medics do their job.’
Jesus, how long had she been out of it?
‘Sparrow was here when I came,’ she said. ‘I came to check out Michelle’s safe. He was hiding in the wardrobe. What happened?’ Despite her determination to stay strong she heard her voice unravelling.
‘You and Sparrow both seemed to get yourselves on the receiving end of a glass ornament.’ Angus pointed to the bright shards of glass strewn across the floor like scattered jewels.
She tried to keep calm as her stomach churned, and fought the feeling of sudden nausea.
‘Sparrow was cuffed, he didn’t stand a chance.’ She looked at Angus desperately. ‘The files, did he take the files?’
‘If that’s what was in the safe, yes,’ Angus said.
Her nod sent her brain lurching from the back of her skull to the front. ‘I didn’t get a chance to look at them.’
‘What about him?’ Wayne twitched his head towards Sparrow who was now being wheeled out.
‘He must have broken in after our guys searched the place. But he hadn’t opened the safe, I did that.’
Another gurney squeaked over to her side. She found herself eased onto it before she could find the words to protest.
‘Shit, Wayne, I’m not going on this.’
‘Stop your bellyaching and do as you’re told,’ he said.
‘Does Monty know?’
‘He rang us when he didn’t hear back from you,’ Angus said. ‘We got here at the same time as the paddy wagon. Baggly’s not going to be too happy when he hears Monty’s been interfering with the investigation.’
‘I need to speak to Monty. And De Vakey.’
‘You can see De Vakey in the morning,’ Angus said in soothing tones, ‘but you have to keep Monty at arm’s length.’
‘Jeez, can’t you just put the book aside this once, Angus?’
Angus raised his eyebrows. Fortunately he didn’t seem to have understood a word she’d said.
‘De Vakey, then.’
‘In the morning, like Angus said. You have to be checked out at the hospital now. You need to rest,’ Wayne told her.
His gentle pat on her hand was such a surprise she forgot to recoil.
saturday
17
Often some sort of a negative trigger starts off the murder spree: a death in the family, a relationship break-up, the loss of a job.
De Vakey, The Pursuit of Evil
The doctors had refused to give Stevie anything for the pain in her head in case it masked the symptoms of a serious head injury. She’d spent an uncomfortable night pricked by stitches and punctured by IVs, her eyes pierced by probing torch beams every fifteen minutes. When the X-rays and neural observations had finally ruled out brain damage, she’d been allowed a couple of small white tablets and a light breakfast. The effect of the tablets was almost instantaneous. Now, trying to focus on her visitors, it was a fight to stop her eyeballs from rolling back in her head. Monty was angry with her. Exactly why, she couldn’t remember.
He was standing in the middle of the hospital room, his large hands clamped around a tangle of greenery.
‘Monty,’ Dot said, interrupting his ranting, eyes narrowed with suspicion. ‘Where did you get those from? The Geraldton wax is exactly the same shade as the one in my garden. And those ferns ...
He looked down at the bunch of assorted vegetation. ‘My local florist, if you must know.’ He avoided eye contact with Dot, turned his glare back to Stevie. She moved her head to the side in an attempt to cool the heat. The tactic worked; one look at the shaved patch of hair and the neat row of stitches had the anger leaching from his face.
‘You’re lucky I’m off the case. I’d have you busted for this,’ he said, although his tone lacked conviction, as if the reprimand was only for appearance’s sake.
Now she remembered what it was all about. ‘You asked me to go, remember?’
‘Yes, but as soon as you realised there was someone there, you should have called for back-up.’
‘I wasn’t sure if someone was there or not.’ She pulled herself into a sitting position and leaned back on the pillows with her arms folded. ‘I have a headache. I don’t want to talk about this.’ Her head didn’t hurt all that much, but the conversation was reminding her of another one, years before, and she felt a sudden, urgent need to withdraw.
‘I can see that. You’ve always been good at avoiding the pertinent issues.’
She knew he was alluding to the other time in her life she’d had concussion and he’d visited her in hospital. It was after the event she hadn’t even been able to tell De Vakey about. She closed her eyes, hoping to be swept away by the drugs, only to be visited by an action replay of that last night with Tye printed on her brain.
She was standing in her hallway after an unpleasant night of put-downs and petty arguments. It was the wrong time and the wrong place to confront him, but the booze had clouded her judgement and the accusation of corruption had spilled without enough thought as to the possible consequences.
As soon as the words had left her mouth she knew she was in for a lot more than a smack around the head. One glance at Tye’s murderous expression and she bolted out the front door into the night. But as she flew down the front path her foot twisted in her high-heeled shoe and she tumbled on the uneven paving slabs, falling and hitting her head hard. He was on her in an instant, ripping at her blouse, tearing at her tights and skirt, raping her on the front path of her suburban house. She’d hardly fought, she didn’t scream; the neighbours were all around them, oblivious, watching TV in their cosy lounge rooms behind their weatherboard walls.
Stevie opened her eyes to find Monty staring at her. She was certain he’d guessed the truth back then, that there was more to her injuries than a fall down the front steps, but she’d refused to talk about it, knowing that if she started she would never have stopped. Such a revelation would have invited intimacy and intimacy meant vulnerability. The damage would be irreparable to both of them and it just wasn’t worth the risk. What better proof than the Christmas party, only a week after the rape—she’d been vulnerable, almost sick with alcohol, and he’d felt sorry for her. His sympathy was not what she wanted.
Even now she couldn’t meet his gaze. She looked at the blank TV screen above her head and began to finger the neck of her gown. Go with the drugs, she told herself. Relax and forget, it’s the only way.
Conscious of the moods of the adults around her, Izzy’s mouth fell in a downward curve. In a small, miserable voice she said, ‘Nanna?’
Monty reached for his wallet and handed Dot a ten-dollar note. ‘Here, buy her one of those cyanotic blue teddy bears they have in the gift shop. Or one of the pink ones that look like they have carbon-monoxide poisoning.’
Stevie shot him an exasperated look, but the bribe did the trick; Izzy was keen to go.
Dot said, ‘What a good idea. Let’s go and look at the toys downstairs, Izzy. Leave the grown-ups to their silly bickering.’
When they’d gone, Monty filled the awkward silence by going over to the sink. He took an empty vase and began to stuff the stolen flora into it. After some fiddling he turned from his task. ‘You’re shutting me out again.’
‘There’s nothing to discuss. I got whacked over the head following your instructions. Full stop.’
‘There’s something about this case that’s getting to you, I know there is, but you won’t tell me.’ Monty hesitated. ‘We used to be able to talk.’
She shrugged, felt the stitches tug at her tight skin. ‘We still do.’ She wondered if they would give her more pain-killers.
Monty plonked the top-heavy vase on the windowsill then sat on the edge of the bed. He drew a breath and his hand inched towards hers, stopping when she asked him about Martin Sparrow.
‘He’s still unconscious and still considered to be a murder suspect. Barry showed his photo to the waiter who verifies he’s the man he saw Michelle arguing with in the cafe. I thought I’d wander up to ICU after I’d seen you and see how he’s doing.’
Stevie nodded. ‘What about the description of the plumber from your neighbour? Could that have been Keyes or Thrummel?’
Monty shook his head. ‘Wayne spoke to her, didn’t sound like either of them. He didn’t get much other than tall, wellbuilt, wearing overalls with a woolly beanie on his head. The plumbing contractor who usually services the flats says no problems were reported that day.’
‘That’s one in your favour then. That has to be the guy who drugged your tomato juice. He obviously knows your drinking habits—Keyes and Thrummel could easily have found that out about you and told him. Then there’s the police files taken from your flat, the documents from Michelle’s safe—’
‘I know, the cop angle again,’ Monty interrupted. ‘But whatever we might speculate at the moment, I’m still not in the clear until they have the stuff analysed. The lab’s backlogged as usual.’
‘And I guess me being in Michelle’s apartment has got you into even deeper shit now.’
He shrugged. ‘Baggly wants to see me this afternoon. I think I might be busy cleaning my tennis shoes.’
Stevie rolled her eyes.
‘Oh, I’ve bought you a present,’ he said, reaching into his pocket. He handed her a packet of cigarettes and a lighter. ‘You might just fit one in before Dot gets back.’
Stevie’s hands shook as she attempted to remove the cellophane.
‘Here, let me do it,’ Monty said, extracting a cigarette and lighting it for her. He grinned when she blew out a luxurious stream.
She smiled back. ‘Thanks, Mont, I feel better already.’
‘I knew you’d be hanging out.’
Monty went over to the window and tried to work out how to break the seal. While his back was turned, the door opened and the stink of cigarette smoke was replaced by a sweeter fragrance.
Stevie’s spirits rose at the sight of the man behind the enormous bouquet of roses.
Monty turned from the window. ‘I thought you were in a meeting at Central?’
James De Vakey was already bending over Stevie’s bedside and didn’t look up. ‘I’ve seen Baggly. The others weren’t ready for me so I decided to check in here while I was waiting.’
He was distracted, and so was she, by the warmth of his minty breath on her cheek. Peering closely at the back of her head he said, ‘I’m surprised you haven’t got a couple of black eyes from that. It was a nasty blow.’
Stevie pushed her hand against his shoulder, enjoying the feel of his soft jumper under her fingers. ‘Stop fussing, James, I only needed ten stitches. Jeez, you and Monty are worse than my mother. Thanks for the flowers, they’re beautiful.’
De Vakey put his flowers on the windowsill where they dwarfed Monty’s, then took out a handkerchief and wiped the cigarette ash from her tray table. Glancing at the oxygen outlet above her head, he said, ‘You really shouldn’t be smoking in here.’
She took a final drag and handed the butt to Monty to flush down the ensuite toilet.
De Vakey settled into a chair and crossed his long legs. ‘I’m so glad you’re all right,’ he said softly.
She felt the heat rise to her face.
‘So, what’s your opinion about last night?’ Monty asked brusquely.
De Vakey thought for a moment and looked at Monty. ‘I don’t think the person who murdered Birkby and Royce attacked Stevie and Sparrow.’
‘What makes you say that?’
‘The method for one: our serial killer is meticulous and he doesn’t like blood and gore. The MO in the Birkby flat couldn’t be more different—the place looked like a slaughterhouse. That Sparrow came out alive after such savagery is nothing short of a miracle. There was real hatred in this attack. Our Poser, on the other hand, kills with an almost warped reverence for the victim, taking his time and savouring the moment.’
‘Wayne said the evidence suggested the assailant tried to clean up,’ Monty said.
‘A towel was taken from the bathroom and used to wipe away bloody footprints, yes.’
‘Was he successful?’
‘You mean were they successful.’
‘What? There were two of them?’ Monty exclaimed.
‘SOCO found two different tread patterns. They were hazy and smudged, not good enough to make reliable comparisons, but clear enough to see that they were from two different pairs of shoes.’
Monty leaned back in his chair. ‘Wayne didn’t mention that. Well I’ll be...’
‘I only found out on my way to the hospital.’
Stevie joined in the conversation. ‘For those few moments in the apartment, before I was attacked, I was absolutely sure Sparrow was our unsub, that he’d been wanking in the cupboard, reliving the Birkby murder.’
‘Wayne told me there was no sign of seminal fluid in the cupboard or on him,’ Monty said. ‘And he’d hardly be capable of hitting himself and you over the head while he was handcuffed. You never caught a glimpse of the guys who attacked you?’
Stevie shook her head and immediately regretted it now that the cushioning effect of the drugs was wearing off. ‘I had my back to the door. I think Sparrow saw them though.’
‘A fat lot of good that is at the moment,’ Monty said.
‘I got a brief look at the documents: some of them looked like copies of police files.’
‘Could they be the pages of Reece Harper’s missing alibi?’ Monty asked. ‘They were indexed in the original notes but I couldn’t find any sign of them.’
‘I don’t know, but whatever they were I’m pretty sure they were only copies. There must have been something important in them. First the files from your flat, Mont, now these. Someone really doesn’t want us to find something.’
Monty seemed to be considering what this could mean when De Vakey said, ‘Your Inspector Baggly seems to think that Sparrow is our Poser killer, that the attack on him and Stevie was merely a crime of opportunity committed by a couple of passing criminals.’
Monty snorted. ‘A couple of passing criminals, my arse. For a start, how would they get into that place? Shimmy five storeys up the outside wall? And I can’t see what a couple of passing criminals would want with a safe full of documents. Nothing else in the apartment was touched. Baggly’s hiding something, I know it. If you ask me it’s more likely to be a couple of passing cops.’
Stevie couldn’t have agreed more. It had to be Keyes and Thrummel—but how to prove it?
De Vakey frowned, looked at his hands and hesitated for a moment before saying, ‘I can see the problems you would have with a man like Baggly.’
He looked as if he was about to say something else. They waited expectantly. When nothing further was added, Monty threw his hands into the air. ‘Funny,’ he said, ‘how this is giving me a strange feeling of déjà vu.’
***
Although he was still unconscious, Sparrow’s condition had stabilised enough for him to be moved from the open ward of the ICU to a single room. Monty gave the police guard a gruff nod, producing the desired withering effect. The young constable made no effort to stop him.
A nurse was punching numbers into a machine attached to the patient by several drip lines. When she saw Monty, she smiled and looked down at the unconscious man.
‘It seems you have another visitor, Mr Sparrow, aren’t you the popular one?’
A toilet flushed. ‘Hey, Inspector.’ Justin Baggly stepped out from the small bathroom, wiping his hands on his jeans, a shy smile on his face.
‘Justin, what the hell are you doing here?’ Monty demanded.
The smile disappeared. ‘Billy at the door said it would be okay. Martin and I are mates. I wanted to see how he was doing.’
‘Well, now you’ve seen. He’s under police guard, that means no non-police visitors, including you,’ Monty said. Justin couldn’t help being Baggly’s son, but right now he didn’t feel up to being polite to any member of the Baggly family.
‘Um, with all due respect, Inspector, neither should you.’
Well, maybe the kid was developing some guts after all. ‘You got me there.’ Monty sighed. ‘Okay, tell me about Martin Sparrow and your deep, meaningful friendship.’
Justin glanced at the young nurse then back to Monty and stammered, ‘I, I wouldn’t exactly say we were good mates but, you know I often go to Central at night to work on my assignments in the library and ... well ... um, we sometimes bump into each other and have a few words. He always wanted to join the police service but was turned down because of his albinism. Apart from his sensitive skin, his eyesight’s really bad. He reckons he’s going blind.’
‘Does he seem bitter about this?’
‘I don’t know. Our conversations have always been pretty superficial.’
‘Then I don’t think you really qualify as a mate, do you? Clear off.’
When the door had closed, the nurse looked at Monty and smiled, not at all intimidated by his brusque treatment of Justin. He squinted at her name badge. ‘Were you here when Justin came in, Ms McCarthy?’ She was a pretty young woman in her early twenties, with an hourglass figure and eyes as soft and green as moss.
‘Yes I was,’ she said, smiling as her gaze drifted from his shoes to the top of his head. He didn’t know whether to be flattered or alarmed by the fact that a girl almost young enough to be his daughter was eyeing him off.
‘He was only here for about ten minutes. Between you and me, I think it was me he’d come to see, not poor Mr Sparrow.’
Monty frowned. ‘You know Justin?’
‘From uni. Sometimes we go out.’
‘He’s your boyfriend?’
‘Well, not exactly.’ The way she stretched out the syllables suggested a relationship that Justin might be working towards but one that she had not yet made her mind up about.
‘I asked him in. The policeman at the door didn’t seem to mind. I hope I haven’t got either of them into trouble.’
That was a good enough explanation for Justin’s presence, Monty supposed, but what was the boy doing in the hospital in the first place? He’d have to get Wayne to make some discreet enquiries.
Monty turned his attention to the reason for his own visit. Martin Sparrow looked like something Mary Shelley might have dreamed up. Like a cocktail onion on a toothpick, his head seemed too large for his skinny neck. Even if he had been conscious, Monty doubted he would have had the strength to lift it from the pillow. No longer pale, his skin was a palette of blues, purples and reds, divided by lines of stitches. Dried blood had spiked his sparse hair into a thorny crown and his thin arms were extended with the palms facing outwards, as if to show stigmata.
The nurse broke into his thoughts. ‘I don’t suppose you could tell me why he dropped out, could you?’
Monty tore his eyes away from the unconscious man. Nurse McCarthy must have seen by his expression that he had no idea what she was talking about. She put her hand to her mouth. ‘Oh, I think I might have let the cat out of the bag,’ she said with a self-conscious giggle. ‘Justin hasn’t told you about dropping out of uni?’
Nor his father, Monty thought. ‘When was this?’ he asked.
‘A few weeks ago. He failed the psych test for the academy apparently.’
Then the last assignment Justin was working on must have been a sham. Why, he wondered. Too ashamed to tell his father? He stored the question away for further musings and nodded to Sparrow on the bed. ‘Do they have any idea when or if he might wake up?’
‘So far the intra-cranial pressure hasn’t been bad enough to operate. They think the extra fluid might get re-absorbed naturally by the body. Hopefully he’ll be waking up in a couple of days.’
He gave the nurse his card. ‘If his condition changes, please call me.’
On his way out he spoke in a low voice to the constable guarding the door. ‘Don’t let anyone in who isn’t police or family. Not even Justin Baggly.’ He took a few steps down the corridor then backtracked. ‘Especially not Justin Baggly.’
