"A friend of mine did something truly evil and I now
seriously question my own judgement," writes Lisa Scott, in
this account of how her world was turned inside-out on
discovering that Clayton Weatherston had killed Sophie
Elliott.
One Thursday in the summer of 2008, the clock radio clicked
on to Morning Report, as it does every morning in our house.
A 32-year-old Dunedin man had allegedly attacked and killed a
22-year-old woman in her home.
"It's Clayton," said my partner Paul, sitting bolt upright in
bed.
"Don't be ridiculous," I said.
Paul, who worked with Clayton at Otago University's economics
department, rang another of his work colleagues.
"It is Clayton," Paul said, tears running down his face.
"He's killed Sophie."
Earlier that week, Clayton and Sophie, his ex-girlfriend and
former student, had a screaming match in Clayton's office.
Clayton came to see Paul afterwards.
Paul told him losing his cool was stupid, that Sophie would
be leaving for her new job in Wellington at the end of the
week and Clayton never need see her again.
According to Clayton, Sophie was manipulative.
So what, I thought.
She's smart, ambitious, beautiful and only 22 years old.
Of course she's testing her power.
Paul was wary of taking sides in what was clearly a troubled
relationship.
That night he had a moment of prescience.
"Something terrible is going to happen," he said.
The day Clayton killed Sophie was his 32nd birthday.
On the whiteboard outside his office door his Mum, who had
come to take him out for lunch, had written in red marker,
"Happy Birthday Clayt, you don't look a day over 40".
While she was waiting, he was at Sophie's house telling her
mother that "he had something for Sophie".
The birthday message stayed on the whiteboard in the days to
follow, jarring with the police "DO NOT CROSS" tape over the
door.
I thought violent crime was bred by poverty, drugs and lack
of education.
That week, Clayton confirmed my ignorance from the front page
of every newspaper in the country, arrogantly calm.
Hair combed into a rooster's peak and wearing new glasses, he
looked like he was about to present a PowerPoint.
"God," I thought, "if Clayton could kill someone, then could
anyone?"
I had last seen him on Christmas Eve, when he gave us a lift
in his junk-strewn car to a party where we drank eggnog.
He was learning French to impress his new girlfriend.
Clayton could be extremely kind and generous.
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