Without Consent (12 page)

Outside the building, on the steps, Hayden explained, “Things are pretty tense in there. Sorrenti’s new to the job and feels undermined by my presence. Don’t take it personally.”

“I didn’t.”

They descended the stairs, Hayden a little short of breath. “I need you to ask the pharmacist some more specific questions. About the assault.”

The pair waited for a marked car to exit the underground police car park.

“Even if I track her down, we don’t know if this woman will agree to see me, let alone be quizzed on every aspect of her attack.”

“I know. An unofficial statement is the best chance we have right now. The more we have on how this guy behaves during the attacks, the better the chance of catching him sooner. He may have given something important away, in the way he spoke, what he said, what he didn’t say. If he changed attitude during the assault, and what, if anything, provoked him. Did he oblige when she begged him to stop, or did it make him more aggressive?”

“You’re asking a lot. This could compromise the sexual assault service if the Department of Health finds out. I’m crossing the line from patient advocate to police interrogator.”

“Every doctor has a duty of care regarding public health. Any information you collect is as important as tracing sources for transmissible diseases. This guy is a disease, and he’s spreading sickness fast.”

They crossed the road at the next corner, careful to avoid a grease patch.

“There’s no way I’ll push her. She’s fragile enough. If she says no, that’s it.”

“Agreed.” The detective began to puff again as they picked up the pace. “I also need to know whether he took anything belonging to her. Anything at all, or could he have taken it before the assault?”

Anya stopped and waited. Hayden pulled a folded sheet from his jacket with another list of questions. Catching his breath, he said, “I’m counting on you. Anything that seems insignificant could turn out to be vital.”

Back in the SA unit, Anya prepared for
the weekly staff meeting. It was mostly a progress report on the week’s cases, and an opportunity to discuss issues or rosters.

Each meeting normally began with afternoon tea and a discussion of any clients who concerned the counsellors. Mary Singer chose instead to raise the question of funds for another fridge for storing forensic samples.

As she spoke, the women took their seats in the staffroom.

“Doctor Sinclair had to phone sixteen women this week to make room for new samples. Fourteen women and two men refused to make formal statements. As a result, those specimens have been destroyed. We all know that victims often change their minds and agree to go to the police down the track. We’re no good to anyone if the evidence is thrown out because we don’t have enough room to keep it.”

One of the other counsellors dunked her teabag in a Garfield cup and grabbed a biscuit before sitting. “I often have to phone around when space becomes a problem. A bar-fridge just isn’t big enough for the amount of work we do.”

Anya and another forensic physician, Pauline Sinclair, shared the full-time job and had the help of four general practitioners for the after-hours roster. The meetings were the best way to find out what had happened on anyone’s days off. Anya had not realized space was such a premium in the unit.

“What about the bagged samples—the underwear, towels, sheets that need to dry out?” she asked.

“They’re kept in the top cupboards and given to police as requested. The remainder are not a problem. I suppose we’ve never really thought to throw any of them out because there’s always been room for them. It’s the refrigerated samples we need to do something with.”

“I’ll let Pauline know when she comes in tomorrow.” Mary took notes. “She apologized for not making it today, but her daughter was getting a music prize at school.”

The women in the group raised their cups and smiled. With all the staff, the achievement of someone’s family member was cause for celebration, and something normal and positive to focus on, even for a moment. Everyone spoke amongst themselves for a couple of minutes.

Anya wanted the day to end. “So, anyone have a case they’d like to discuss?”

Mary chimed in again. “Melanie Havelock. She appears stoic and as though she’s coping, but her mother tells me she is showering in a swimsuit. She won’t be naked. And she’ll only shower if her mother is in the next room.”

For the others’ benefit, Anya explained. “We’re concerned this might be a serial rapist in the area. We have three cases now, but there could be others. This time, he made Melanie shower after the assault and watched her. That’s also where he threatened he’d be back. He carries a knife and leaves a bruise on the left upper chest in the shape of the blade.”

The staff uniformly nodded. Almost every rape victim experienced post-traumatic stress. The scenario was not uncommon.

“Melanie’s attacker tells the women that if they can’t be hurt, they can’t be loved.”

The mood in the room felt flat. Most of the staff had been called out at least once overnight during the week, and looked exhausted.

“Does that sound familiar to anyone?” Anya checked. “Even de-identified information could help the investigation, so you don’t have to worry about breaching confidentiality.”

The ten staff shook their heads. It didn’t sound familiar.

“How is Melanie doing otherwise?” Anya asked Mary.

“She’s started a new job as planned, but her mother is picking her up from town. It’s going to take a lot of time and support.”

One of the newer counsellors apologized for interrupting, but thought it a good time to raise the issue of overtime payments. Anya excused herself and ushered Mary into the corridor.

“Where exactly are the bagged samples kept?”

Mary took a wooden chair from the office into the second counselling room. The chair unfolded into a small stepladder.

“Top cupboard,” she suggested. “You can pass them down if you like.”

“I’m looking for one in particular.” Anya opened the top cupboard and felt around. Dust covered everything, including what felt like a dead cockroach. She pulled out some large paper bags and examined the names before handing them down to Mary.

“Why the sudden urgency?”

“There’s another one right at the back.” Anya stretched her arm and fingers, making contact with the dusty paper. She could just tease the bag closer until it was in reach. Pulling it out, she coughed, then sneezed. Relief filled her as she recognized her own handwriting. Written in large bold print was the name GLORIA HAVELOCK.

Peter Latham spoke into his dictaphone.
He could have been reciting poetry as he rhythmically outlined the findings in each system of the body.

Having worked at the Sydney Institute for so many years, Peter was leader of the morgue “sub-culture,” a mini-society in which every member performed tasks that few people understood or really appreciated.

Anya Crichton had gladly accepted an invitation to lunch with her mentor. Even the formalin smell provided familiar comfort. Today, no music played, which meant either the day’s post-mortems were finished, or relatives were due to view a body.

“Ah, my favorite interloper,” Peter declared as he clicked off his recorder. “Just finishing up.” He referred to something in his notes. “Third hit-and-run this month. The police and coroner want the report ASAP.”

On the steel table lay the body of a young male with severe head injuries and bruising to his abdomen. His right leg had almost been severed, with a large section of bone protruding through the front of the thigh.

Anya studied the X-ray attached to the viewing box on the wall. The young pelvis had been fractured, along with the femur. The trauma had to be substantial. Other X-rays showed the growth plates on the bones open, so the child was still growing.

“How old?” Anya asked, examining the skull film.

“Eleven. Witnesses say he was riding his bike when a speeding car hit.”

Judging by the extent of the injuries, the vehicle would have had some damage.

“Helmet?”

Peter shook his head and adjusted his glasses. “If he had, we wouldn’t be here.”

Despite the leg and pelvis fractures, the massive head injury was what had killed the child. Anya could only imagine the parents’ grief, for the sake of a twenty-dollar helmet.

One of the other staff members pushed through the room’s plastic doors. “Family’s in the viewing room, whenever you’re ready.”

The technician covered the body with a fresh white sheet and draped another around the head wound, trying to expose only the undamaged part of the face. Regardless of the cause of death or state of the body, staff went to great lengths to protect the relatives from any further distress at the viewing. Again, it was a task that no one really appreciated, but would cause more unnecessary suffering if they didn’t bother. The final image of a loved one was often the one that lasted the longest.

Once satisfied, the technician wheeled the metal table up to a window. Peter and Anya left the room before he opened the curtain.

“You okay?” she asked as he washed his hands in the corridor sink.

“With the gang shootings, we’ve been swamped, but we’ll have caught up by this afternoon.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“I can switch off when we get children, which is why I do them myself,” he said, drying his hands on a paper towel. “That hit-and-run didn’t bother me. I feel sorry for the young constable who had to go and tell the parents.”

Anya had always been amazed by Peter’s clinical detachment. As a mother, she found autopsies on children very difficult. Out of all the pathologists, Peter seemed most skilled at suspending his emotions when work demanded.

He clapped his hands together. “How about some tea?”

“Love one. I’ll meet you in your office.”

Peter arrived shortly after Anya having changed into a lime-green shirt and yellow tie. Brown corduroy trousers complemented the look. He put two teas on the desk and closed the door, something he rarely did.

He moved a pile of papers from the spare chair next to Anya’s and sat.

“What happened to your med student researcher?” Anya asked.

“Ah, Zara Chambers. Did an outstanding thesis. She’s completing her medical degree but something tells me she’ll be back again.”

As they began to sip, Peter seemed somber.

“Rumors are circulating that you’re investigating Alf Carney.”

Anya almost spilt her drink.
How many people know?

“I’m not investigating anyone. Morgan Tully asked for a second opinion on some cases and that’s all. It’s nothing unusual. We’ve all been asked to review each other’s work.”

“I suspect there’s more to it than that,” he said, looking up.

“Then you must know something I don’t.” Anya disliked playing word games, especially with her friends.

Peter sat back and put his glasses on top of his head. “Morgan’s placed you in a very difficult position. I’ve known Alf for years, but there have been whispers about him from police for a while now.”

“And you knew his findings were dubious?”

“I just wanted any examination of his conduct to be fair and objective. That’s why I suggested you to Morgan.”

Anya sat back against the desk. “You knew, and you
wanted
me to review his cases?”

Peter rubbed his salt-and-pepper beard. “It’s not easy to scrutinize a colleague when the consequences could destroy a career. It’ll put you under pressure, but you can definitely handle it, and your expertise is without question.”

“What are you really saying?”

“Alf’s had a long career and has made enemies in the process. We all have, whenever there’s been a controversial decision. He hasn’t had an easy time of it. I’m a little concerned there is a political motive within the College of Pathologists to stop him working, and you could be part of the fall-out.”

Anya didn’t like where this conversation was heading. She suddenly felt uncomfortable and disappointed in her former teacher. Putting down the cup, she said, “Sorry, but I can’t stay for lunch.”

Peter Latham stood. “I’m not trying to influence you, Anya. I’m afraid you misunderstood. If Alf is incompetent, things could become difficult and the implications are enormous, for all of us, and God knows how many convicted prisoners. I’m saying that if you need some support or help, I’m available.”

Mary Singer came into the room, uncharacteristically
flustered. In her hands, she held the newspaper. “Have you seen this?”

Anya studied the front page of the
Daily Telegraph
. A large photo of a woman with short-cropped hair and dangling earrings smiled back.

The headline read,
“Teacher slain in horror bloodbath.”

As she scanned the first few paragraphs, she felt a chill. Elizabeth Dorman had been found brutally stabbed to death in her Kellyville home.

“The popular high-school teacher…”

Anya stopped reading. It was the woman from last week. The one who’d given the false phone number. “Just Elizabeth” had been mutilated.

Mary said, “Do you think it could be related to the sexual assault?”

Anya felt numb. “You’d have to wonder.”

Attacked a week ago, and murdered—with a knife—last night.

She read the rest of the article. Liz Dorman’s boyfriend, a band member, was performing at a local pub and returned home at two a.m. to find the body in a pool of blood on the lounge-room floor. Parts of the room were damaged, suggesting that Ms. Dorman had fought her attacker.

“The poor woman.” Mary had tears in her eyes. “I didn’t push her to stay, she kept saying she had to go.”

Anya thought for a moment. It was too much of a coincidence, to have been raped a week earlier and then murdered. From the way she’d behaved, it was possible that Elizabeth had known her attacker, which is perhaps why he’d returned.

“I’ve got to let the police know that she came here.”

“What about confidentiality?” Mary wiped her eyes.

Drumming her fingers on the desk, Anya said, “Our duty to Elizabeth doesn’t end with her death, but we have a duty to the community as well. The police need to know about the assault. Without it, they’re probably suspecting the boyfriend. And it may help prevent someone else getting killed.”

“Or maybe the boyfriend did do it. We should have paid more attention to the signs—too afraid to talk about her attack, the inappropriate clothing that covered her. Domestic violence was a definite possibility.”

Mary closed her eyes and said a prayer, something she hadn’t done in front of colleagues before. Anya understood that Mary felt somehow responsible for not looking after Liz Dorman better, even though she had done all she could at the time.

She dialled homicide.

Hayden Richards, Meira Sorrenti and two homicide detectives stood outside the Kellyville house. Though this was essentially a homicide investigation, any possible link to a sexual assault needed to be thoroughly investigated.

Local newspapers lay on the front lawn, and the letterbox was stuffed with catalogues and junk mail. It appeared like any other suburban home, except for the crime-scene tape surrounding the perimeter.

The area was filled with “McMansions,” as they were known in the press. Rows of similar homes, designed to fill almost every inch of the small blocks of land. Gone were the backyards, replaced with two storys, four bedrooms, a rumpus room and double garage. In an area where heat could be searing, every home had an air-conditioner, which attracted the ire of environmentalists and beach-dwellers who were lucky enough to enjoy an ocean breeze. Their criticisms filled the letters pages of the local newspapers.

As a mother, Anya could understand the trend toward a bigger home with more space, even without children. With the burden of mortgages, people couldn’t afford to go out that much, so home became the entertainment center of their world. Time otherwise spent on a garden went toward enjoying movies on home cinemas. Or so the theory went. The irony was that families felt safer closed off from their neighbors, but these areas led the state’s crime figures for break-and-enters.

Anya hesitated before getting out of the car. Like Mary, she couldn’t help but feel guilty about a death that might have been prevented. Even if she had no idea what more could have been done.

“What are you doing here?” Meira glared.

“She’s the only one of us who saw the victim alive and she’s still a pathologist. At this stage,” Hayden said, “we need all the help we can get.”

Cars slowed to a crawl as they passed by, some passengers straining to take photos of the site of a tragedy. Anya wondered where those photos ended up. Not the sort of thing you’d scrapbook for future generations, surely.

“Crime scene’s done. You can go in,” said one of the uniformed police manning the barricade.

Out of habit, all the police wiped their feet on the doormat, although it seemed unnecessary given the amount of blood on the carpet in the hallway. They followed the red trail to the lounge room. The smell of death was all around them. A combination of perspiration, fear and the metallic odor of dried blood filled Anya’s nostrils. She preferred the more sterile formalin.

A lamp lay on the floor in the entrance, with small markers indicating its position.

Inside the room, the darkness hit them. For the middle of the day, no light came in from outside. Someone switched on the light. The curtains were all drawn.

“Nice kitty,” Meira said, pointing to a mounted cat on the mantelpiece.

The once-living feline had been preserved in an attack pose and looked extremely unlovable. A small streak of blood had landed across its face.

A plasma television hung on the wall, with surround-sound speakers in the corners. They were all splattered with blood. In the center of the floor lay the largest pool. It was where the body had been found.

“The boyfriend said he tried to drag her into the street to get help. The phone wasn’t working and his mobile was missing,” the taller junior homicide detective explained. “We thought he was bullshitting until we got your call.”

Anya explained, “Elizabeth said she was asleep on the lounge and woke up with her attacker on top of her.”

“Why don’t you think she stayed for a medical examination?” Hayden asked.

“I can’t be sure, but she implied she was partly responsible because she’d left a window open.” Glancing about the room, she said, “The attack was very violent and frenzied, judging by the blood distribution. There has to have been a lot of movement during the stabbings.”

“Can’t have been that much. The body had over forty stab wounds, mostly in the upper chest and neck.” The second female homicide detective checked the windows in the room. “She can’t have fought through that many.”

“It depends on the depth and location of the wounds. Although, by the volume of blood loss and the way it spurted across the room, some have to have hit superficial arteries.”

Hayden had remained surprisingly quiet until now. “Some of the blood could belong to the attacker.”

“It’ll be a few days before we know.” The female detective couldn’t open the window. It had been boarded up with wooden planks. “No one’s going to be peeping through these again.”

The group walked slowly around the house. Each room had suffered the same window treatments.

“Did Crime Scene check the fridge? If he’s anything like our rapist, he might have stopped to eat something,” Meira offered.

“Good point,” said Hayden. “Make sure we’ve checked that and the bins as well, in case he threw out any leftovers.”

Anya looked around the kitchen, with its laminated benchtops and photographs on the fridge door. Two of the photos were of Liz Dorman cuddling a man, and another with a large group of people at dinner, raising their glasses.

“The way Elizabeth acted and spoke at the unit was the way victims often behave when they know their rapist,” she said.

Meira sounded impatient, again. “Maybe he realized and that’s why he came back.”

Hayden studied something on the floor. “Or maybe he’s one of those gentlemen rapists and he came back as part of his fantasy, like Quentin’s profile suggested. Only this time the fantasy got more violent.”

The other female detective continued to check the windows.

“The back windows all have keyed locks on them. This woman was suddenly very security obsessed. It’s the same in every room.”

“So how did he get in?” Hayden almost muttered.

“Looks like she opened the door and got stabbed in the back, then again as she ran into the lounge room,” the tall detective explained.

Anya studied the photos on the fridge. They were all placed symmetrically, with one space left. She wondered if that had been the spot where a photo had previously been.

A male voice called from the doorway, “Who’s here? I need to come in.”

They turned to see an unshaven man with a V-necked T-shirt and shorts. His visible chest hair was matted with dried blood, hands and face were smeared as well. He had to be the boyfriend.

“You can come in. It’s all right,” said the tall detective.

The man carefully avoided treading on the carpet stains and turned his head away from the lounge room as he passed.

“Greg found the body. He’s Elizabeth’s boyfriend. They lived here together,” the junior detective explained.

Greg looked like a broken man, stooped and unkempt. “I don’t have any clothes, not even my wallet,” he mumbled.

Anya assumed that, after moving the body, he had been covered in blood and the police had taken his clothes for forensic testing at the station. He was, after all, their prime suspect. He was still “a person of interest” until proven otherwise.

She stepped forward. “I’m Doctor Crichton. I met Liz last week when she came in briefly to the clinic, the day she went on the school excursion.”

He looked embarrassed and wouldn’t make eye-contact.

“Were you the one in the car that morning, waiting?”

Greg ran a dirty hand over his face, leaned on the bench and began to cry. “I didn’t know what to do.” He sobbed for a few minutes before catching his breath. “She almost didn’t go to see you, but I pushed her. I thought she should go to the police.”

The detectives each moved closer to the doorway, giving them some sense of privacy.

“Do you know why she was so scared about that?”

“I shouldn’t say. It’ll get her into trouble.”

“Greg, we need to know. It might help the police work out who did this to her.”

“She said it could ruin her career. The night she was…” he paused and gritted his teeth, “raped by that bastard, I was at a gig. She sat up late with a girlfriend and they smoked a couple of joints and had a few wines. Then she fell asleep on the lounge.” He seemed to steady himself. “She was scared that if the school found out, she’d be sacked, and no one would believe her anyway.”

Anya suddenly understood Liz Dorman’s reluctance to be examined. With alcohol and marijuana in her system, giving a statement would allow for that to come out in an investigation, and would have left her open to prosecution. She must have known that her credibility as a rape victim would be questioned. Staying silent probably seemed like her only option.

“Did she tell you anything about the attack?” Anya kept the thought in her mind that Greg could be Elizabeth’s rapist, and her killer. The scenario was all too common. But why would she board up the windows if he still lived there? Unless she’d thrown him out…

He shook his head. “She was ashamed. It didn’t change the way I loved her, she didn’t ask for it to happen.”

“You’re right. It wasn’t her fault.” Anya reached for a tissue from the box on the bench and handed it to him. “How was she afterward?”

“A bloody mess. She should have gone back to see you but she kept saying she was taking control. She said every time she hammered a nail, she felt more in control of her life. Look at the windows—that’s not control, it’s a bloody prison she made.”

Anya wanted to ask about the emergency contraception. “I know this is a personal question, but did you use condoms as a form of contraception?”

“No. We didn’t have to. I had a vasectomy years ago. We were talking about having it reversed.”

Anya wanted him to stay calm. If what he said was true, then Greg wasn’t the rapist. “Is that why she wanted the morning-after pill? Because the man who raped her didn’t use a condom?”

“She was so upset, she didn’t remember. All she knew was that she didn’t want to have his child.”

Meira moved closer. “After the attack, did she stay in the house?”

“We went to her sister’s on the weekend. In the Blue Mountains.” He began to cry again. “Jesus, I haven’t told her yet. It’s all over the papers.”

“Local constables will have told her,” Anya said. She didn’t think it appropriate to push any more. Not now. “One last thing. Did the man who raped her take anything?”

“Some cash, credit cards, and a photo of her from the fridge.”

“Is this the one?” The female detective entered the room with a torn, blood-stained photo on a paper plate, careful not to touch it. “We just pulled it from the bin outside.”

Greg glanced at it, then ran to the sink and gagged.

Anya wondered why the perpetrator would take the photo as a trophy after the rape, then return to the scene and destroy it a week later. Moreover, if the same person had committed both the rape and murder, why hadn’t he killed Liz at the time of the rape?

She watched Greg for a moment, unsure what to think. He may not have been the rapist, but he was still the lead suspect in his girlfriend’s murder.

As they left the house, Meira Sorrenti offered her opinion. “If you ask me, Liz Dorman was having it off with someone, the boyfriend found out and she cried rape to cover herself. That’s why she needed the contraception and didn’t want to be examined. There were no injuries to find.”

“What about the photo?” Hayden sounded skeptical.

“She gave it to the new love interest, the boyfriend got it back and killed her. He has to know who she’s been sleeping with.”

Hayden cleared his throat. “That doesn’t explain why Elizabeth boarded up the windows yet stayed with the boyfriend.”

The only reason for doing that, Anya thought, was to prevent the windows from being opened, and to make sure no one ever looked in and watched her again.