Bloodborn (19 page)

Anya was greeted by a nurse who quickly
ushered her down the corridor, past the gym, toward the consulting room. Doctor Temple stood outside, in jeans and a striped shirt, hand on his chin.

Hayden nodded at her. “Thanks for coming so quickly. We have a female inmate—”

“Inpatient,” the psychiatrist corrected. “This is a medical facility.”

“She says she woke up and found a man on top of her. She screamed, but he covered her mouth until he’d finished having nonconsensual intercourse with her, then ran off.”

This wasn’t Anya’s first call-out to a hospital or clinic. She’d attended sexual assault victims at elderly nursing homes and facilities for the severely intellectually and physically disabled. This was her third psych clinic. In previous cases, members of staff routinely preyed on society’s most vulnerable.

“What’s her medical condition like?”

“She’s stable and as far as I can tell there are no signs of her having been assaulted.”

Anya tried to remain calm. If the psychiatrist had already examined her genitally, without collecting forensic specimens, he may have ruined any chance of her collecting physical evidence, and traumatized the patient further, making all of their jobs far more difficult.

“As you know, Doctor Temple, in sexual assaults there is often no physical sign of injury.” Hayden put his head down. He looked as frustrated as she felt right now. “What’s her background and mental state?”

“Schizophrenia since the age of eighteen, with severe psychotic episodes. She’s had numerous admissions for violent behavior associated with treatment cessation and substance abuse. Her parents admitted her when the police picked her up for urinating in public. Prior to this episode, she’d held down a clerical job for three months. She is, however, something of a fabulist, which is why I have to question whether or not she really was assaulted. She is delusional. This isn’t the first time she’s reported something like this.”

Anya put down her bag. A woman suffering delusions would never have her claims taken seriously, so was the perfect victim for a sexual predator. It’s possible she had been sexually abused before, rather than just imagined it.

“What about cameras?”

“Privacy prevents us from having cameras in the rooms or private areas. This corridor isn’t monitored either.” Doctor Temple was pleading for something from Hayden and Anya. “Our patients are voluntary and we’ve never had anything like this happen before. There hasn’t been any need for cameras except in the gardens and entry foyer.”

“In other words, something like this getting out could ruin this place’s reputation,” Hayden said. “And you’re telling us the woman is unreliable as a witness.”

“That’s correct.” Temple seemed to relax.

“If you don’t mind, we have our jobs to do. I need to speak to whoever was on duty this afternoon and get the names of any visitors, delivery staff or kitchen hands, and I’ll need to talk to the other patients.”

The psychiatrist stiffened again. “I’m afraid that is fraught with confidentiality issues.”

“Rest assured, Doctor,” said Hayden, “I won’t be telling anyone unless we find out one of your patients committed rape under your watch. No amount of privacy can stop me charging whoever did this.”

“Where was Gary Harbourn when this occurred?” Anya wanted to know. With his history of sexual assault, he had to be the prime suspect.

With a diagnosis of diminished responsibility, he could use it as an excuse for raping other patients. Even better for him if the police doubted the victims’ stories. It was the perfect set-up for his sick, violent attacks.

Temple’s color faded. “There is a police guard at each end of the ward, but he’s free to come and go within those parameters.”

“Do the other voluntary patients know they’re in with a gang rapist and murderer? What would that do for your reputation?” Hayden hitched up his trousers. “Now, where can Doctor Crichton examine this patient, whose name, by the way, Anya, is Lydia Winter.”

Lydia twisted a handtowel around her wrist and crushed it between her fingers. The nurse helped her into a backless gown; her ribs protruded beneath stretched skin.

Anya explained who she was and what she was here for, but Lydia barely acknowledged her presence. “We don’t say much, do we, Lydia,” said the nurse as she tied the gown at the back. “This is a lovely doctor, who wants to make sure you’re all right.”

Lydia clung tightly to the handtowel.

Anya asked the nurse to collect the panties Lydia had been wearing, along with the sheets from her bed, and placed them in paper bags from her kit.

“Lydia, can you tell me what happened to you this afternoon, after you fell asleep?”

“I had a bad dream. I couldn’t breathe and was being crushed. Then I opened my eyes and he was on top of me, hurting me. I tried to tell him to stop, to call for help, but his hand was over my mouth.” She twisted the towel even tighter, blanching her knuckles.

“Did you see who this man was?”

Lydia shook her head. “I could smell his sweat but couldn’t see his face. It all happened so fast.”

“It’s okay, you’re doing really well, Lydia.” Anya felt for this woman who appeared so fragile, physically and emotionally. “Are you in any pain, does it hurt anywhere?”

“Down below,” she said. “Doctor Temple says there’s nothing there, but it’s sore.”

“Would you mind if I had a very gentle look? The nurse might even hold a light for me.”

Lydia pleaded, “Please don’t hurt me any more.”

“I won’t,” Anya promised, and began the examination.

An hour later Anya emerged from the room. Lydia had gone to sleep on the couch, wrapped in a blanket, still clutching the towel. The nurse stayed with her.

Hayden had spoken to the staff members and some patients and now waited in the next room, while Doctor Temple had gone to notify Lydia’s parents.

“What do you think?” the detective asked after closing the door behind her.

“It looks like intercourse probably took place. There’s a superficial abrasion on the vulva, but my guess is he used a condom. Like lots of young women, she’s had her pubic hair removed—waxed—recently, but there weren’t any odd hairs to sample.” She sat, elbow on the desk, propping up her temple. “With the amount of medication she’s on, sedation included, it’s going to be difficult to verify anything.”

Hayden rubbed his forehead. “It’s not the usual level of violence, but Gary Harbourn has to be our prime suspect. If we can get him to admit that he had sex with her, can’t you say that she was too doped up to have given consent? Therefore it can’t have been consensual.”

“Good try. He’s supposedly on medication and sedation, too, remember? His judgment could be said to be impaired.”

A knock on the door interrupted them. Dan Brody stood in the doorway.

“Temple told me where to find you. Just got your message.”

“What are you doing here?” Anya was confused. She hadn’t even known about the clinic call when she left her message for Dan.

“That’s what I was going to tell you,” Hayden mumbled.

“Judge Pascoe personally ‘requested’ I take on a pro bono client who apparently sacked his lawyer. I didn’t really have a choice,” Dan said, “given his friendship with my senior partner.”

Anya wasn’t sure what he was talking about, but pulled him aside for a quick word. “I got a call today from Jeff Sales at the morgue. You still haven’t buried the baby.”

“My father wanted to wait until the brain had been fully studied, which they tell me takes weeks. He won’t cremate her without all the body parts.”

“Fair enough, but they do have a diagnosis. The retro-orbital tumor was a retinoblastoma. By the size and extent of it, the baby had no real chance of survival. I’m going to visit your father to tell him, I promised I would.”

“He’d like that. Maybe I can come along. Your son isn’t in town, is he?”

Anya smiled. “No, and I promise not to vomit as well. What’s your client being charged with?”

“I gather you already know him. It’s Gary Harbourn.”

Natasha Ryder hastily pulled on her
clothes and carried her shoes to the door, careful not to wake Brian, or was it Baden? On the way out, she stole some cigarettes from the jacket he had worn half an hour before. So much for litigators, she thought. One climax led to an instant coma. Like many lawyers, the concept of afterplay or prolonging the moment was completely foreign.

Damn it. She’d managed twenty-nine days without so much as a craving. It was just a matter of self-control. This time the rush of sex made her covet it more. She could taste it on his lips and in his hair. The sex was average but the anticipation of a cigarette afterward kept her interested.

Rolling it between her thumb and index finger, she enjoyed the familiar feel of the paper, the smoothness, the sleekness. Just knowing it was bad for her made it so much more tempting.

The last few weeks had been some of the most stressful of her career. If she made the slightest mistake in prosecuting the Harbourns, her job could be on the line.

For God’s sake, the whole police force had done a collection for Sophie Goodwin’s medical treatment, after already offering to pay for the sister’s funeral. The public appeals had received over $50,000 in the last week. Every ghoulish reporter, makeover show and magazine wanted to do a story on Sophie, the miracle survivor. Public demand for justice exceeded anything she’d seen before.

It didn’t hurt that Sophie was a stunning-looking teenager in the photos of her before the attack, or that her sister had a smile every parent could be proud of. The girls next door who had tragically lost their mother but pulled together as a family only to have their lives shattered by the most heinous crimes. The grieving father who buried his ex-wife, a beloved daughter and kept a bedside vigil, praying his other child would survive. She couldn’t have scripted it better for public sympathy.

Natasha grabbed her briefcase and let herself out the front door of the unit. Outside, she lit the first cigarette with his lighter. The smell of burning tobacco made her salivate.

Instead of a taxi, she decided to savor the cigarette and walk the rest of the way home. Four blocks and a mild night might just make her feel alive again. Not numbed by the politics of prosecuting, or the lame stunts pulled by defense lawyers.

She thought about Anya Crichton and envied her in some small way. Life was simple when you could afford to be self-righteous and principled. She wasn’t answerable to the public the next time another victim appeared.

If the doctor had been willing to say she had seen marks on Giverny’s face before performing CPR, everything would now be different. She could have laid charges against the Harbourns for conspiracy to murder and kept them in jail. The others could have been rounded up and the Goodwin girls would never have suffered. Sophie would be enjoying being a teenager and her father would be looking forward to the next family Christmas.

How the hell could Anya claim to be ethically superior by sticking to her principles? Those principles had got Rachel Goodwin killed.

The cigarette was burning down too quickly. Natasha sucked every molecule of smoke into her lungs.

The streets were quiet, except for the occasional lovers walking along arm in arm. Restaurants and cafes had closed, business over for the day.

A tall woman, Natasha had never felt physically intimidated. She strutted with confidence and wouldn’t hesitate to fight back if anyone tried to hurt her. Besides, she always carried Mace just in case she ran into anyone from a case she’d been involved in.

Anya Crichton, on the other hand, was more maternal, the sort of woman men admired but wanted to look after. Even so, she was more resilient than Natasha had expected. She could hold her own in an argument and, in some way, that deserved respect.

She’d also grown up with the trauma of a missing sister and the subsequent media scrutiny. Maybe that gave Crichton her quiet strength. You never knew exactly what she was thinking, or how she would react.

Natasha stopped before the crossing to light another “cancer stick.” One more wouldn’t hurt. It was calming her down, and she had a few more hours’ work on the Harbourn trial tonight.

In her peripheral vision she saw a car slowing, far too early to let her cross. She walked on and saw an elderly man putting out his rubbish. The car still lagged behind.

“Excuse me, could you please tell me the time?”

She put down the briefcase and fiddled with her watch. The old man mentioned the hour and said something about hooligans letting off fireworks nearby. By then the car had passed.

Natasha collected her case and continued on. This trial was beginning to get to her. She was becoming paranoid. At this hour the driver was probably someone who’d drunk too much and didn’t want to attract police attention on the way home.

She turned the corner into her street and startled at the sound of a large
crack
followed by fireworks bursting in the air. A few more and then a break. She put the remains of the cigarette in her mouth and opened her front gate, this time juggling the briefcase and handbag to find her keys. The sensor light had blown yet again, which made the simple task more challenging.

Rummaging through her bag, she ignored her ringing phone, scooped out the keys and opened the front door. Whoever wanted her this late would just have to call back.

Just inside, Minty purred at her feet as she bent down to say hello.

“Hey gorgeous, did you miss me?”

She barely glimpsed the dark shoe behind her. Before she could turn or reach inside her bag, her head was shoved forward and her left arm yanked back, forcing her to her knees. A crack exploded behind her.

Still angry with Dan Brody for defending
Gary Harbourn, Anya prepared some muesli and banana, sat on the lounge and switched on the television to catch the morning headlines.

How could Dan represent a vicious criminal like Harbourn, even if he had been directed to by the presiding judge? She’d thought Brody’s behavior over his mother’s affair was appalling, but this topped everything. She couldn’t believe William was so conscience-driven and responsible, while his son sought only notoriety and financial gain.

Suddenly Natasha Ryder’s face filled the TV screen. With milk spilling on the floor, Anya groped for the remote control to raise the volume.

Footage switched to a terrace home, then to the Supreme Court building.

The voiceover was deep. “The lawyer was well known for her aggressive style in court, much to the frustration of her opponents. In her spare time, Ryder was a supporter of a literacy campaign for underprivileged children and was known to be a staunch supporter of victims’ rights. In fact, this led to a recent complaint to the Law Society about a conversation she had with a journalist about the erosion of victims’ rights in favor of the accused. The complaint was not upheld.”

God, what had Natasha done? Who had she managed to offend this time? Or had she been in some kind of accident?

Why wouldn’t they say what had happened? Then she realized. The reporter kept referring to Natasha in the past tense.

Anya put down her bowl and grabbed her mobile phone, dialing Kate Farrer. The call went straight to voicemail.

Then the newsreader appeared. “Just repeating, Crown Prosecutor Natasha Ryder has died overnight from a gunshot wound outside her inner city home. Police are appealing for anyone who saw Ms. Ryder, or anything suspicious in the area, to come forward. A $50,000 reward has been posted for information leading to the conviction of her killer. Now we cross live back to our reporter at the hospital. Have the police released any information about how the prominent lawyer died?”

“Yes, Kellie.”

Anya slumped in the lounge. Shot and killed. She suddenly felt numb.

The blonde journalist spoke into a hand-held microphone outside the emergency department.

“They’re planning a formal statement later this morning, but sources inside the hospital tell us that the lawyer was shot as she arrived home last night, around ten o’clock. A neighbor apparently heard a loud noise he thought was fireworks at that time. He was alerted when Ms. Ryder’s house alarm went off. He found her lying on her doorstep and we believe that he called paramedics immediately. Ms. Ryder was pronounced dead on arrival at Western General at 1:10
A.M.”

The anchor appeared again. “Thanks Kellie. It’s a sad day when a champion of the people is gunned down outside her home, when she fought so hard for justice. The streets just don’t seem safe anymore. Let’s hope the police find the killer. Ironic that she put so many murderers behind bars and now is a victim herself. Terrible. Now, on to sport.”

Anya felt her face heat up. It was nothing do with irony. The job
made
her a target. Drug dealers, rapists and murderers were never grateful for being convicted. And they all had contacts outside prison.

As much as Natasha Ryder could rattle her, Anya couldn’t help but feel deeply saddened by her loss. Her methods may not always have seemed fair, but she was touched by victims and worked damn hard to do the right thing by them and their families.

It was impossible to believe she was now dead. It didn’t seem real. Her mobile phone rang. Kate. She answered after the second ring.

“I just heard about Natasha on the news.”

“We were all pretty shocked when the call came in. Whoever did this made no mistake. It was an execution.”

The detective sounded exhausted.

“Are there any leads? Had anyone threatened her?”

“That’s the trouble. Over the last few years she’s had a lot of threats. Ryder wasn’t exactly popular with defense lawyers and crims alike.”

Natasha had never seemed afraid for her safety and had not discussed death threats. Then again, Anya realized, she really didn’t know the woman that well. They had never discussed anything personal. The closest they came was in the restaurant talking about Giverny Hart.

“Could it have been the Harbourns?”

Kate let out a deep sigh. “We’re starting with them, as well as who’s recently been released from prison and could harbor a grudge. Then there are ex-boyfriends. Some are pretty high-flyers so we’ve got to tread carefully.”

“Is there anything I can do?”

“I’m trying to trace her steps in the last few days to see if anyone had been stalking her. If you’ve seen her, you could help fill in some blanks.”

“Of course. I was with her until about five yesterday afternoon.”

Saying those words made Natasha’s death seem unbelievable. Only hours before, they had shared drinks and conversation.

“I’m just headed over to her house to interview an elderly neighbor. Crime scene’s still working, so you could meet me there. Zimmer’s leading the charge.”

“Give me the address. I’m leaving now.”

Anya hadn’t realized that Natasha lived a few short blocks away. They could have run into each other at the delicatessen or fruit shop. Come to think of it, she always had fruit in her office. It could have been from a shared greengrocer. She wondered what else they had in common.

She parked down Natasha’s street, which had been cordoned off. Once considered a working-class area, most of the terraces had been modernized internally while maintaining the original facades.

A tarpaulin had been erected outside number 82, to obscure media and allow privacy for the police officers.

John Zimmer ordered the uniformed constable to let her through.

The hip-height gate was open, and a short path led to a security door with blackened bars. Similar bars adorned the windows. Few other houses in the street had them. Natasha had obviously been safety conscious.

Anya pulled on paper shoe covers and twisted her hair into a knot.

What immediately struck her was the amount of blood between the doorstep and the first few feet of the corridor.

Milo Sharpe was examining the wooden black-wood architrave and doorway frame and didn’t seem to notice her. Zimmer seemed to read her mind.

“It looks like she lived long enough to try to move, and lost a lot of blood.” The rings around his eyes suggested he had been there since they got the call. Knowing Zimmer, he would have refused to leave for a break in case he contaminated the scene on his return.

In a mass shooting at a cafe he had stayed inside for thirty-six hours, refusing to let anyone else in or out, for fear of destroying evidence. He hadn’t heard whether the shooter had been caught, he’d just got on with the job until it was done.

“Could be that the killer moved her, or whoever found her rolled her over and blood that had pooled without clotting spilled out.” Anya tried to picture the scenario. “How was she found?”

“The briefcase was on the doorstep. The first witness says she was facedown just inside the door. The security screen was half-closed, blocked by her legs.”

She knew the briefcase. The same one Natasha carried to court each day. “Handbag?”

“The strap was still around her elbow. It was open but the purse doesn’t appear to have been disturbed, it still had cash and credit cards. And get this, she carried a can of Mace with her but it wasn’t touched. She was still clutching the house keys. The only footprints inside are of the cat walking through the blood.

So Natasha had arrived home, opened the screen door outward, then the front door inward. Someone she trusted had to have been with her, or she was ambushed and had no time to defend herself. Anya turned to face the street. A small brick fence would barely have hidden a small child.

“No robbery, what about the actual wound?”

“It looks like she was shot in the back of the head. Emergency doctor said it exited right between the eyes.”

“Got it,” Milo announced.

With a pair of tweezers she carefully removed the remains of a bullet from the lower section of plaster on the right-hand wall.

Anya studied the location. “If the bullet entered the back of the head, exited the skull and embedded there,” she bent down, “then the head has to have been reasonably low to the ground when the gun went off.”

“If she were standing up, you’d expect her to have to have her chin tucked right to her chest for the projectile to end up where it did.”

“The killer could have grabbed her and forced her head down.”

“Either way, she didn’t have time to react or grab what was in her handbag.”

Anya wondered if Natasha knew she was about to die.

“There is something odd,” Milo chimed in. “There is no kitchen in this house. There’s a bathroom and bedroom, just no kitchen. A coffee machine and a bowl of fruit in the lounge room. No fridge. I’m thinking this woman had a serious calcium deficiency, or maybe an eating disorder.”

Zimmer tried to explain. “This is a pretty small place and professionals who work in the city aren’t home during most mealtimes, so they may decide against a kitchen and have a wide-screen TV instead.” His voice became louder. “And maybe Ms. Ryder liked her coffee black and didn’t need a fridge. Can we stick to our job description?”

Either the case, Milo or both were getting to him.

“She walked past a deli and greengrocer on the way to and from work, so she didn’t starve if that’s what you were worrying about.” Anya could understand Zimmer’s frustration.

It was difficult to concentrate, knowing this was where Natasha had been shot. Seeing her colleague’s blood where it had hemorrhaged life from her brought a lump to Anya’s throat. She could almost smell the floral perfume Natasha wore.

And six feet away they were violating her privacy. Suddenly Anya felt claustrophobic and excused herself.

Zimmer followed.

“You okay?” he asked, outside the gate, away from listening ears, but still inside the crime scene tape.

“It’s hard to be here,” she said, wiping her nose with a tissue. “Harder than I thought.”

“I know.” Zimmer bowed his head and spoke softly. “When it’s someone you know, you think this job can’t get any worse. But because we knew her, we care. For that reason we should be the ones here.”

She nodded. “Who’s doing the PM?”

“They’re flying in a guy from interstate. None of our lot could face it, given how much time they spent with her preparing for trials.”

Anya had a sick feeling. “Giverny Hart, Savannah Harbourn and Natasha Ryder, all dead within the space of a few weeks. I knew them all.”

Giverny could have been written off as a suicide, if not for the threats made by the Harbourns. And Savannah’s death could have been considered an accident, if it hadn’t been for the beating at the hands of her brother. And Natasha had been killed while prosecuting the very same, Gary Harbourn.

“It’s been rough, but anyone could have murdered Natasha. She upset a lot of people just by doing her job. And as far as I know, your three women died in different ways. Whoever did this one planned it and knew what they were doing. The scene’s clean. So far we haven’t found so much as a hair.”

“Just like for Giverny. Nothing but my hair was found on her.”

Kate Farrer strolled along and Anya excused herself. The Harbourns had to be behind Natasha’s murder. Surely Kate had to understand that.