The Homicide Squad floor at Police Headquarters in Parramatta was usually a subdued place before eight in the morning. Today, it was buzzing like a kicked hive.

Trent pushed through the glass double doors at 7:15 AM, a large black coffee in one hand and his notebook in the other. He hadn't slept. His eyes felt like they'd been rubbed with sandpaper, but the caffeine was doing its job.

His desk was in the middle of the bull pen, an island of organised chaos. His partner, Detective Senior Constable Sarah "Mac" MacIntyre, was already there. She was a decade older than Trent, a mother of two teenagers, and possessed a bullshit detector that was legendary across the state. She was leaning over her monitor, stabbing at her keyboard with two fingers.

"Morning," Trent said, dropping into his chair.

Mac didn't look up. "Depends on who you ask. Harris has been out of his office three times looking for you. He's spitting chips."

"Let him spit. He wants answers, he can wait 'til I've had my coffee." Trent took a long sip. It was bitter and hot. Perfect. "What've we got on our John Doe?"

"Print match came back twenty minutes ago," Mac said, finally turning to face him. She slid a thin manila folder across the desk. "Name's Liam Connor. Twenty-eight. Marketing manager for some boutique agency in Surry Hills. Clean record. Not so much as a parking ticket."

Trent opened the folder. The driver's license photo showed a handsome guy with bright eyes and a cocky half-smile. It was hard to reconcile that face with the purple, swollen features he'd seen under the forensic tent a few hours ago.

"Next of kin?"

"Mother in Bathurst. Local uniforms are doing the knock right now. We shouldn't release the name 'til they've spoken to her."

Trent rubbed his face. Doing the death knock was the worst part of the job, but pawning it off on regional uniforms never felt right either. "Who reported him missing?"

"Nobody. He was meant to be at work at nine. We beat the clock." Mac leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms. "So, what's the vibe, Trent? Media's already sniffing around. Channel Seven had a chopper over Sydney Park at first light. They're calling it a 'grisly discovery in local gay beat'."

Trent swore under his breath. "Of course they are. Harris is gonna have a stroke."

"He's already halfway there. He wants a briefing in five."

"Fine." Trent stood up, grabbing the folder. "Let's go ruin his morning."

Inspector Harris's office was a glass box at the corner of the floor. It offered no privacy, which was exactly how Harris liked it. He wanted to see his detectives, and he wanted them to see him. Right now, he was pacing behind his desk like a caged bear.

Trent and Mac walked in and shut the door.

"Tell me we've got something," Harris barked, not bothering with pleasantries.

"Liam Connor," Trent said, dropping the folder on the desk. "Twenty-eight. Lived in Erskineville. Clean skin. We're notifying the mother in Bathurst now."

Harris stopped pacing and stared at the folder. "Erskineville. That's a ten-minute walk to the park."

"Yeah," Trent said. "It's close."

"Was he known to the scene?"

"Too early to tell. I'll need to tear his apartment apart, grab his laptop, check his phone—if we can find it. It wasn't on the body."

Harris scrubbed a hand over his face. "Listen to me. The Police Minister's already called the Commissioner, and the Commissioner's called me. They want this wrapped up yesterday. We can't afford a panic in the LGBTQI community. Not with Mardi Gras three months away."

"Boss, it's day one," Mac cut in, her tone reasonable but firm. "We don't even have an autopsy report yet."

"I don't care," Harris snapped. "Find the boyfriend. Find the hookup gone wrong. Find the drug dealer he owed money to. Give me a narrative I can sell to the press at the 11 AM briefing."

Trent felt his jaw tighten. "You want me to invent a motive to keep the politicians happy?"

"I want you to do your bloody job, Williams," Harris growled, leaning over the desk. "Don't push me on this. You know how these things go sideways."

"I know," Trent said, his voice dropping, "that a bloke was executed in that park last night. Zip-tied and strangled. That wasn't a hookup gone wrong, Boss. That was planned."

The silence in the office was heavy. Harris glared at Trent, a muscle ticking in his jaw.

"You're saying premeditated," Harris said quietly.

"I'm saying it didn't happen in the heat of the moment," Trent replied. "You don't bring industrial zip ties to a casual encounter."

Mac shifted uneasily beside him. "Trent's right, Boss. It's too clean."

Harris exhaled slowly, the fight draining out of him. He ran a hand over his bald head. "Alright. Keep it under the radar. Run the victim's life. Who was he seeing, what apps was he using. Get warrants for his data. But Williams—if the media ask, it's an isolated incident. Understood?"

"Understood," Trent said.

"Get out of here. Both of you."

Back at their desks, Mac let out a long breath. "He's terrified."

"He should be," Trent said, grabbing his jacket. "If this is what I think it is, we're already behind the eight ball."

"Where are we going?"

"Erskineville. I want to see Liam Connor's apartment before anyone else gets their hands on it."

---

The drive to Erskineville took forty minutes in the morning traffic. Connor lived in a renovated terrace on a leafy street off King Street. It was expensive real estate.

Trent parked the unmarked car in a loading zone and flashed his badge at a passing parking inspector. The inspector rolled his eyes but kept walking.

They walked up the narrow path to the front door. Trent rang the bell. Nothing. He tried the handle. Locked.

"I'll call the real estate agent," Mac said, pulling out her phone.

"Don't bother," Trent said. He pulled a small leather case from his jacket pocket and unrolled it, revealing a set of lock picks.

Mac raised an eyebrow. "Is that strictly legal, Detective?"

"Exigent circumstances," Trent muttered, sliding a tension wrench into the lock. "I'm worried about the welfare of a potential secondary victim."

"Right. Of course you are."

It took Trent thirty seconds to pop the lock. He pushed the door open and stepped inside, his hand resting instinctively on his holster.

The apartment was immaculate. Minimalist furniture, expensive art on the walls, a kitchen that looked like it had never been used. It didn't look like the home of a man who'd spent his last hours in the dirt of Sydney Park.

"You take the bedroom," Trent said. "I'll take the living area and the study."

Mac nodded and headed down the hall.

Trent started in the study. It was a small room off the kitchen. A sleek iMac sat on a glass desk. Next to it was a stack of mail and a leather bound journal.

Trent pulled on a pair of latex gloves and opened the journal. The handwriting was neat, meticulous. It was mostly work stuff—meeting notes, project deadlines. He flipped through the pages, stopping at an entry from two weeks ago.

Met J at the usual spot. He's getting weird. Wants to push boundaries. Not sure I'm into it anymore.

Trent's eyes narrowed. The usual spot. Sydney Park?

He flipped forward. The entries became sparser, less about work and more about 'J'.

J's escalating. Showed me the camera. Said he wants to make something permanent. I told him no. He got angry. Really angry.

Trent felt a cold prickle at the back of his neck. They weren't just killing. They were filming.

"Trent," Mac called from the bedroom. Her voice was tight. "You'd better come look at this."

Trent dropped the journal and walked down the hall.

Mac was standing in front of the open wardrobe. She pointed inside.

Sitting on the floor of the wardrobe, neatly lined up, were three pairs of expensive leather boots. All exactly the same style. All exactly the same size.

And next to them, a heavy-duty black plastic storage tub.

"I popped the lid," Mac said quietly.

Trent looked inside the tub.

It was full of industrial black zip ties. Hundreds of them.

Trent stared at the tub, the pieces of the puzzle shifting, clicking into a terrifying new configuration.

Liam Connor wasn't the victim of a random attack. And he probably wasn't the first.

"Grab the forensic kits," Trent said, his voice dead flat. "We're gonna need a bigger team."