Without Consent (11 page)

At seven-thirty on Monday morning,
Anya parked behind the unmarked detective’s car on Hastings Road. Still glowing from a full weekend with her son, she unclipped her seatbelt and admired the Castle Hill home. Immaculate lawns and box-hedges gave the Federation-style house an almost fairytale appeal. Anya retrieved her doctor’s bag and a forensic-collection briefcase from the boot. In the quiet, leafy area, tall gum trees protruded from behind two-story mansions, most with triple garages at ground level. The sound of a breeze rustling leaves gave it a homely feel.

The area reeked of affluence, the kind synonymous with “new money.” Old money would have invested in acreage or land with water views. People here obviously put their resources into large homes and landscaped backyards in the hope of a better quality of life—a safe environment for children to grow up in.

Now that safety had been shattered.

Walking on the driveway to the path, Anya noticed white powder on the lid and handles of two large wheeled bins by the road.

Detective Sergeant Meira Sorrenti, from the sexual-assault taskforce, greeted Anya on the front lawn. The olive-skinned detective had short black hair that complemented large round brown eyes. She could have fitted in with any number of ethnic groups. The pair had never met before, but Anya knew that Meira’s recent promotion to the unit had created some disquiet amongst the forensic physicians. Rumor had it Meira Sorrenti believed doctors were largely incompetent and hindered rather than helped investigations.

“We’ve secured the crime scene. The victim’s inside. Name is Jodie Davis. She didn’t get a look at the offender’s face, so we’re relying on you to get something.”

Anya didn’t detect any animosity. “Is she badly injured?”

The detective led her across the lawn toward a side gate, the entrance blocked by blue and white crime-scene tape.

“Took a beating. The guy attacked her here while she was putting out the rubbish bins.”

She pointed through the gate at a crime-scene officer in gloves and blue overalls who was photographing the area. “He dragged her back here. Sounds like he wore a dark cap and gloves. He had a knife and threatened to kill her if she made a sound. He raped her once that she remembers. After that, she says she blacked out.”

Anya could almost picture the assault. Next-door neighbors, separated by a treated-pine fence, probably had no idea what had occurred so close.

“So, he didn’t enter the house?”

“We don’t think so. Nothing’s missing and two small kids were in bed upstairs. It doesn’t look like they were touched. Thank God.”

“Is there a husband?”

“Inside. Seems genuine. Poor bastard found her after he got home from a work function. Back door was unlocked and no wife in sight. That was about eleven. When he found her, he saw the bruises, panicked and called the local doctor, who’s apparently an old friend. She took her time deciding whether she wanted to be examined, but eventually the doctor called the detectives who then notified us.”

Meira shoved a hand in the pocket of her gray jacket. “The smart bastard even went back to finish putting out the bins afterward.”

Probably to maintain the impression of normality, Anya thought. “Don’t suppose you found the condom if he used one?”

“If he put anything in the bin, he either planned it or got lucky. Garbage truck had already been by when the uniforms got here. Crime Scene is still chasing down the truck.”

“Even if you do find a used condom, it’s a big leap to pin it to this place last night.”

“I know. But it may be all we’ve got,” Meira conceded.

“Did he say anything unusual to her during the assault?”

“Yeah, the sicko basically said he loved her, and that’s why it hurt.”

Anya felt her stomach lurch. It had to be the same offender.

Across the road, a white delivery van pulled up to a green metal box sitting on top of a pole. The driver pulled a sack from the side door and placed it in the storage container.

Even a routine mail delivery would be treated with suspicion after last night. Detective Sorrenti took out a black notebook and documented the time and registration number of the van. Birds cooed in the warm breeze.

“I’ll take you in. At least she hasn’t showered yet.”

They entered through one of two wooden doors with intact stained-glass panels. A curved staircase led off the tiled foyer. A bunch of fresh yellow tulips sat in a glass vase on a round table under the steps, amidst wedding photos and framed shots of smiling babies and young children.

Further inside, a large kitchen/family room with a glassed observatory area had views to an expansive backyard and pool. Tastefully decorated rather than a show-home, this place had furniture and fittings especially for a young family. Coloring pencils and paper were strewn across a small wooden table in the center of the living space.

The kitchen benches gave off the unmistakable odor of lemon-scented cleaner.

Detective Constable Abbott met them and spoke quietly. “The family only moved here a couple of months ago from Ohio and have had numerous tradesmen come and go, to replace taps, fit water-saving devices, not to mention gas outlets, pay-TV, curtains. There’s a new pool man, delivery men, removalists. It’s a long list.”

“Well, that’s where you start,” Meira snapped.

The male detective headed for the front door.

Jodie Davis sat on a leather lounge in the rumpus room off the main living area. The petite blonde, enveloped in a white towelling gown, held her husband’s hand. Her small knuckles blanched with the tight grip.

Anya introduced herself. James Davis stood and limply shook hands, exposing a brown towel placed underneath his wife. Jodie was probably bleeding. The towel would be an important piece of evidence.

“Did the police explain my role?” she asked.

The pair nodded.

“I’m here because you asked for me. Is that true?”

“Yes,” Jodie answered through a swollen jaw.

“I’m a lawyer,” the husband said. “Jode was my receptionist before we had the kids.” He pushed small oval glasses to the bridge of his nose with the middle finger of his spare hand. “We both understand what she’s consenting to.”

The subject of the conversation silently nodded. She was letting James speak for her, but she had to give the consent herself.

Anya wanted to engage her one-to-one, but Jodie spoke first. “I want to do what James says is right. What do I have to sign?”

Anya tried to explain that Jodie had to be exact in what she consented to, but the small blonde woman seemed adamant. Her husband spoke for her.

“I want the police to protect our children in case he comes back,” James said.

“How old are they?” Anya asked, noticing a large wooden cubby house through the windows.

“Our daughter’s four and our son has just turned two.”

“I couldn’t help noticing the photos on the table inside. They are gorgeous. Bet they love the cubby,” Anya said, trying to relax Jodie as she removed the large yellow SAI kit from her bag. Talking about children might help make the examination a little less difficult, for both of them.

Jodie spoke. “They’d spend half their lives in it if I let them.”

“I don’t blame them! My little boy would love it.”

Anya excused herself, stepped past the husband and asked if she could take Jodie’s blood pressure. It wasn’t a necessary part of the examination, but it would help make the whole process a little less foreign to a victim. And the initial touch helped ease into the forensic examination.

“110 over 70. Normal.”

Jodie released her husband’s hand. “How old is he—your child?”

“Four going on fifty-five, sometimes.”

“They’re all a bit like that these days.” The woman half-smiled.

“Jodie, would you like me to stay?” James offered.

She patted his hand. “Maybe you could go next door and see if the kids are okay.”

Anya found the light switch and closed the curtains, noticing a small gap between the roman blinds and windowsills.

During the examination, Jodie disclosed that the man had pulled her jumper over her face so she couldn’t see him. He then removed his gloves and dug his fingers hard into her flesh. Bruises on her breasts were consistent with the story. A linear bruise on the left side extending toward the collarbone was almost identical to the ones Anya had seen before. Her heart sank. The attacks were getting closer; it was only a matter of days between them now. There would be more women before he was caught.

She pulled the digital camera from her bag. Admittedly, a picture of the injury might help track down the weapon.

“The mark left by the knife is very distinctive. I’ve seen it twice before.”

“Is it legal to do this in the house? I mean, not in your surgery or the hospital?”

Anya smiled. “Absolutely, I just need to follow the same protocol.”

Jodie pulled a rug up to cover herself. “So this isn’t his first attack?”

“I’m afraid it looks like it. If the police are going to catch him, they have to try and find the knife. That’ll help narrow down the search.”

“My husband does negligence cases for one of the biggest firms in the country. Sometimes he has to look at hideous pictures of surgery scars and bruises.” She clung to the rug. “Do what you have to.”

“The knife mark is probably the most important, and we can cover your breasts, for more privacy.”

Anya took the digital photos as quickly as possible, placing a tape-measure guide adjacent to the bruise, then pulled the rug back up to the woman’s neck before continuing the examination.

She followed the protocol for specimen collections and carefully sealed each tube, making sure she secured the chain of evidence.

“Did you build the cubby house? It’s a great idea having a barn door the kids can open half of.” Anya made small talk as best she could as she performed an internal examination.

“It was here when we moved in, but the cats keep getting in. The latch is broken and I can’t lock it.” Jodie winced and tightened her legs, but then relaxed again, staring at the ceiling. “Can’t tell you how many times I’ve scrubbed the smell of cat pee out of that place.”

Anya located the source of the bleeding. Again, it was consistent with the other assaults. “The bleeding should settle in a day or two. It’s like a scratch inside the vagina.”

“Please don’t take any more pictures.” Jodie’s eyes welled with tears.

“Don’t worry, I won’t. That’s about it for the examination,” Anya said, careful to cover all of Jodie with the rug after giving her a sanitary pad from her doctor’s case. “I’ll need to dry the towel you’ve been sitting on and put it in a bag to take with me.”

Jodie nodded. “Can James come back in?”

“Of course.”

Anya headed for the door and let the nervous husband back in. “I’ll be back in a minute,” she said, looking for Detective Sorrenti, whom she found standing in the front hall, giving orders to crime-scene officers.

“Just heard you had a chat with Hayden Richards.” Sorrenti put both hands on her hips. “I don’t appreciate you going behind my back. If you’ve got relevant information, you come to me, especially with something as solid as the phrase he keeps coming out with.”

Anya bristled. “I don’t work for you, and I spoke to Hayden off the record because I had little to go on, with one victim refusing to speak to police. You know how it works. I was suggesting there might be a serial offender, and rather than waste your time it seemed sensible to have a talk with him first.”

“Thanks to you, he’s now consulting on the taskforce.”

“So this is about rivalry?” Anya could barely control her annoyance. “Don’t you think that’s a little petty when it isn’t even safe to put the rubbish out any more? With more than thirty unsolved rapes in this area, I’d have thought you’d be grateful for the extra manpower and experience.”

Hayden Richards appeared in the doorway, wiped his feet and entered.

“Ladies,” he said, hitching up his trousers. “What have you got?”

“Detective Sorrenti can fill you in,” Anya replied, and wandered out the open back door. She headed for the cubby, about fifteen meters from the house. Built on stilts, it gave enough elevation for a great slide. Ben would definitely love it. Pity there was no real yard in her inner-city terrace.

Climbing the ladder, she stood on the small verandah and took in the view of the lounge room and kitchen. Opening the bolted door, she entered and saw the plastic table just inside. With the top half of the stable door open, she could see the police inside the house, wandering between rooms at the back. She closed the door and immediately noticed the stale smell of body odor. In one corner, she noticed a faint, pale stain, long since washed.

She called for the taskforce detectives.

Meira stood, hand on hip, shielding her eyes from the sun. “What is it? Jodie said cats get in there all the time.”

“Well, the bolt works perfectly and from inside there’s a great view of the rooms in the back. My guess is it isn’t cat urine she’s been cleaning up.”

The slide switched to that of Jodie
Davis’s bruised chest. Magnified, two additional perpendicular marks were visible midway along the bruise.

Meira Sorrenti sat forward. “What sort of knife are we looking at?”

“Melanie Havelock described a narrow blade, but can’t remember anything else.” With the laser-pointer, Anya directed attention to a small mark at the edge of the bruise, just above the covered nipple line. Even higher was a fainter impression that could easily have been missed. “This is made by part of the handle. My guess is the attacker put pressure on the woman’s chest with the knife held flat, but moved the handle during that time, which left the two marks you can see.”

Hayden Richards stopped taking notes. “It doesn’t fit with a kitchen knife. The handle’s too wide.”

“I agree. What’s interesting is that the blade itself isn’t very long, only about three inches.”

Meira stood and looked closer at the screen. “Could be a switchblade.”

Detective Constable Abbott put his hands behind his head. “If it is, tracking it’ll be almost impossible. There’s a huge black market and chasing Internet sellers takes a lot more manpower and computer expertise than we’ve got.”

He looked across the briefing room at the analyst, who shook her head at the thought.

A gentle knock on the door caught their attention.

Hayden stood and shook hands with the adult Harry Potter lookalike. “This is Doctor Quentin Lagardia. He’s a profiler. Some of you already know him. For those who don’t, he’s got a PhD in abnormal psychology and has put together some profiles for SA units around the country.”

Meira remained standing and folded her arms. “We have a detective in this building who is trained in profiling.”

“Yes, but Doctor Lagardia is here at the request of the Local Area Commander due to the media’s propensity to jump on serial cases.”

Quentin repositioned his glasses and cleared his throat. A mild hand tremor disappeared when he unzipped his jacket and opened his briefcase at the table.

Hayden quickly introduced the profiler to everyone in the room.

“Doctor Crichton was about to discuss the pattern of injuries the two victims sustained.”

Anya drew two body outlines on the whiteboard and marked the areas in which each of the three women suffered injuries. Melanie Havelock and Jodie Davis were named, but Louise Richardson was labelled Victim One to protect her privacy.

“A fourth woman, Gloria Havelock—Melanie’s mother—was raped by two men a year ago, but only one of the injuries matched, so we’ll leave her out for now. The others all had trauma to the left sides of their faces from a hit. With the knife mark on the left side of the chests, he holds the knife in his right hand but must swap it to punch with that hand when he thinks they’ve looked at him. Jodie Davies had a swollen jaw even though he pulled her jumper over her face early in the assault. She didn’t see him at all.”

“He’s right-handed. Was her bra pushed up or cut?” Quentin Lagardia inquired.

“Intact and pushed up.”

The profiler nodded and scribbled on his papers. “What about the others?”

“Havelock and Davis reported the same thing. I can’t be sure about Victim One.”

“Can you tell me anything about Victim One and her assault?”

“She’s a professional who works later than normal business hours, and who worked in the same area the other attacks have taken place. She’s my height, a bit heavier and has brown shoulder-length hair.” Anya referred to the intelligence statement she’d written. “She had on a blue skirt and a white shirt, nothing revealing. She’s a little hunched due to a scoliosis—curvature of the spine—so doesn’t look her full height, I suppose.”

Meira sounded impatient. “Did she see anything that can identify the man? Do we know if he looked familiar, did he have a car? Anything you can give us that will actually help?”

“This is helping. The detail is crucial,” Hayden said. “May I suggest we make the most of the resources we have with us today.”

Meira shot him an angry stare. “Then let’s ask the locals. Did you find anyone last night? Any information from the canvass?”

DC Abbott cleared his throat. “The door-knock of the area didn’t yield much. No one even knew the family, and had no idea what cars they drove. It’s a problem with automatic garages. No one knows the regular comings and goings of the neighbors. They did manage to remember who owned the most expensive house in the area.”

“Who lived there before?” Quentin asked. “Maybe Jodie wasn’t the original target.”

“A widower and his four sons.”

Hayden stood and paced. “I want to go over all offenses within a ten-kilometer radius that might have been misrecorded: bag snatches, robberies, muggings. It’s possible he was interrupted and the incidents were never reported as an assault. We may have to reinterview the complainants, to see if he threatened them with sexual assault, or if he fits the description we’ve already got.”

The analyst took copious notes. “I’ll get right on it.”

“I’ve asked Anya to fill in any details she can on Victim One. Given the fact that she won’t come forward and speak to us, we need to know as much as possible about her.”

“What about the rape kit she had done? Can that be tested anonymously?” Abbott asked.

“No,” Meira snapped. “Not unless she gives us permission, and that means making a statement.”

“Yeah, but if it’s anonymous, even if the evidence links the same offender with the other victims, it gives us a pattern and strengthens the brief we’ll give to the prosecutors.”

Anya understood his logic, but it wasn’t that simple. “The Office of the Director of Public Prosecutions has made it very clear that it can’t use anonymous samples in evidence. I’ve been trying to get them to accept coded samples, but there’s debate as to whether that still betrays a victim’s confidence. Especially since a code has to be able to be traced back to the victim. It’s a chain-of-evidence concern that opens up a legal can of worms.”

Abbott thought for a moment. “Then why don’t you just encourage the women to give false names? Who are we to know if the woman isn’t who she says? That way she might feel safe enough to give a statement.”

“I didn’t hear that,” Meira said with a wry smile.

For the first time, Anya felt she was on the same wavelength as the taskforce leader.

“Victim One wanted her kit destroyed and we had to comply with that request. There’s no evidence left.”

Meira threw a pen across the desk in front of her.

Hayden scratched his moustache. “Any suspects so far?”

Abbott spoke with less confidence. “The local boys pulled over a guy last night. Twenty-eight-year-old Caucasian. Five foot nine, solid. Had a porno mag in the car and had a dark cap, sunglasses. He was abusive, uncooperative and lives near the station.”

Hayden walked to the whiteboard and wrote down the details. “Put him down as a person of interest. Anyone else?”

“Geoffrey Willard,” Meira announced. “Released three weeks ago from Long Bay. Did twenty years for the rape and stabbing murder of a fourteen-year-old girl. He’s 1.7 meters, weighs about 80 kilograms.”

“He did a runner a few nights ago when a pack of locals found out where he lived,” Hayden said. “We want him under surveillance when we find him.”

“Haven’t the women described their attacker as taller and heavier than that?” Abbott ventured.

Quentin shifted in his seat. “Often people overestimate the size of their assailant. It’s understandable given they’ve been overpowered and don’t have the normal perspective.”

But eye-witnesses still swayed courts. Anya had been to one of Hayden’s talks in which a man in sports gear ran into the lecture theater, held a prop gun to Hayden’s head and took his wallet before fleeing. From the theater full of detectives, descriptions varied from a five-foot-tall white man to a six-foot-tall dark, swarthy-looking man of Middle Eastern appearance. An hour later, the supposed thief returned to the theater and took his place in the front row. No one recognized him in a suit. That proved a great lesson to Anya. Eye-witnesses were notoriously unreliable.

“But bear in mind,” Anya said, “that women being assaulted often notice tiny details about their attacker. They are close to them for a relatively long period of time. Their senses also seemed to be heightened, they notice smells, sounds, things that other victims don’t.”

“Exactly,” Hayden said. “That’s why I’d like to reinterview the two victims who’ve already made statements. The statements are in no way detailed enough.”

Meira seemed to take that personally, but it probably wasn’t intended that way. Hayden was a perfectionist and asked far more questions than any other investigator. It meant he also got more answers.

“Let’s talk about the profile,” he added, sitting down.

Quentin handed out some typed pages.

“From the statements, and especially his saying about hurt and love, this guy sounds like a classic power-reassurance rapist. He commits sexual assaults to assert power over victims, which reassures him of his masculinity. He often doesn’t do well socially and lacks confidence sexually, especially with women. Generally, he’ll use minimal force to subdue his victims, although this guy lashes out when he thinks he’s been seen. If he carries a knife, he doesn’t intend to use it. It’s more for the power and effect it has. He also uses surprise as a weapon.”

“Which is why he lurks around stations and car parks,” Meira said.

“Actually, no. I believe this man carefully chooses his victims. Often this kind of rapist stalks the women in advance. He knows their routine and pounces when the best opportunity arises.”

“If you rule out Gloria Havelock’s attackers, the rapes may still be opportunistic,” Meira argued. “The one in the car park and the Havelock girl coming home from the station. Even the woman putting out her garbage could have been bad timing on her part.”

“Not necessarily. I think you have to consider the fact that this man knew the victims’ movements in advance.”

“What about the saying he comes out with?” Hayden seemed even more interested than the others.

“That’s quite predictable,” answered Quentin. “What we call pseudo-unselfish behavior. He thinks that if he shows some kind of concern, he isn’t such a bad guy. He’s telling himself that he’s actually doing something good for these women. In the past he would have been called the ‘gentleman rapist.’”

“Don’t reckon that’s in the Queensberry Rules,” Abbott quipped.

“He’s a gentleman in the sense that he doesn’t go out of his way to humiliate and denigrate his victims.”

“Any more than raping them at knife-point does,” Meira responded.

Quentin didn’t react this time. “He also fantasizes that the woman is a willing participant and will try to act out his fantasies, especially if she doesn’t resist. Like the Havelock girl; he’ll spend a fair amount of time, even taking a break to go and eat a meal before assaulting her again. He’s playing the role of the partner.”

Hayden drew a timeline on the whiteboard. “How much time do we have before he attacks again?”

“Not long. This guy is all about ego and self-esteem. He needs to keep raping because his ego can’t handle not being boosted. I’d suggest monitoring his victims for a couple of weeks after the assaults, because he may like to have some sort of contact with them. Either bump into them in the shops, phone them, or watch them. He won’t stop until he’s arrested.”

“And that’s the good news?”

“Kind of. Bad news is that if his assaults don’t live up to the fantasies he’s built up, he could get frustrated. In that case, the violence in the attacks will escalate, particularly if someone resists. He could easily end up killing future victims.”

The room went quiet. A knock on the door interrupted the silence. A woman in plain clothes entered the room with a pile of handouts.

Hayden thanked her and handed out questionnaires that each victim needed to answer. The detectives groaned.

“Do you know how much time this is going to take? Couldn’t a psychologist do this instead?” Abbott complained. “We could be chasing up leads like the one the local boys pulled over.”

Hayden disagreed. “If he’s not our man, we’ll have wasted a lot of time. The more we know about the victims, the better. We need to put out a general press release. Anya, I’ll leave it to you to contact the mystery woman—Victim One. It’ll be less worrying coming from you, and it’ll give you a chance to interview your mystery victim.”

Anya looked at the list. The woman who had brought the questionnaires said that she had driven past the Davis home this morning. The place was for sale, and there was no sign of the family. Through the window she noticed the furniture had gone. When questioned, neighbors didn’t know where they were, though someone thought they might have left for an overseas holiday.

It was common for assault victims to move within months of the attack and not to let the police know where they’d gone. If the family had disappeared that quickly, it didn’t sound as though Jodie Davis really wanted to be found. She must have panicked about staying in the house. And who could blame her after moving so recently? Physical evidence did not mean much if the victim refused to testify.

“If we can’t find her, all we’ve got now is Melanie Havelock,” Meira said. “Let’s get to work. From the sounds of it, we need to move her to a safe place as soon as possible.”

Abbott stood. “I’ll pay her a visit and arrange for uniforms to keep an eye on her as well.”

As they left the meeting, Hayden spoke quietly to Anya.

“You need to be careful when you interview Victim One. Anything you say can be cross-examined in court. Tread carefully; don’t give a defense lawyer anything that’ll weaken the victim’s evidence. Don’t coach her, ask leading questions or put words in her mouth. If you do, the case could go belly up in court and this bastard will have got away with it.”

Great, no pressure, Anya thought. She looked down the list of points to cover. Most made sense, like the physical characteristics, friends, enemies, work history. Then there was “marital reputation?” What the hell did that mean? Personal demographics were straightforward: education level, intelligence, previous residences. Touching on psychosexual history was understandable, but Anya wished someone else would do it. Any information could be used as a weapon in character assassination of the victim. A victim’s arrest record had little to do with the assault, in her experience. Again, it made a jury see the victim as some kind of evil being, and somehow deserving of assault.