Without Consent (13 page)

Quentin Lagardia placed his silver briefcase
on the floor in the foyer of the SA unit.

“I’ve brought the results of the PM report on Elizabeth Dorman. There are some things I’d like to ask you about, given your knowledge of the other assault victims.”

Hayden Richards hitched up his trousers. “Hope you don’t mind me eavesdropping. Thought I could learn something.”

“No problem.” Anya showed them into her office. The room was more the size of a large cupboard. Not wide enough to fit a bed, but adequate for paperwork. Besides that, no one wanted to spend time in there, so Anya managed to catch up on the endless stream of red tape with minimal distraction.

“Hope you’re not claustrophobic,” she half-joked.

“No problem. I know what it’s like. I had to write my doctoral thesis in a room this size with three other researchers.”

Quentin unzipped his jacket and sat in the only spare chair. Anya left to find another, which had to be positioned next to hers to allow room to close the door. Inside, the desk comprised a shallow shelf, wide enough for a computer screen and keyboard. Not exactly ergonomically sound, but the staff did their best with what they had. It wasn’t in anyone’s interest to complain or start making demands. Funds to stay operating were scarce enough.

“This is one of the few places we can talk in private. The examination room’s got to be empty in case anyone comes in.” She sat and crossed her legs. “What can I do for you?”

Quentin cleared his throat. “The police appear to be focusing on one offender, but I’m a little concerned that this homicide could be the work of two different people.”

He pulled a file from his case and placed it in front of Anya. It contained crime-scene photos of Liz Dorman’s body and pictures taken during the post-mortem. Once the blood had been cleaned off her naked skin, the number of stab wounds became evident. Anya scanned the PM report, which outlined forty-eight discrete incisions. Some penetrated organs, while others were superficial. A few wounds on the shoulders and upper arms were inflicted after death.

“That’s interesting. In addition to multiple deep wounds, there are some shallow, peripheral ones. Given that they appear to have been made post-mortem, it suggests the killer was experimenting, exploring what damage the knife could do, if you like.”

Quentin listened with the intensity of a student being taught by a master. Anya wasn’t sure she deserved the kudos. Maybe that’s why he was so good at profiling. His listening skills encouraged subjects to blabber on and give him everything he needed to make a judgment.

Anya continued. “The distribution and high number of stab wounds are usually associated with sex-type crimes. Like a jealous lover, or an ex-partner. You sometimes see this in homosexual murders. Stabbing the chest and neck is pretty angry and directed. The attacker hasn’t lunged indiscriminately, each wound is targeted.”

Quentin nodded. “So the perpetrator was filled with hate and anger. We might be dealing with a crime of passion.”

“Which would mean Liz Dorman possibly knew her killer,” Hayden said. “Like the doc here suggested. What about the wound in the back, the one we think got her first? There were blood splatters in the corridor.”

“That may well have been the first wound, but again, it’s shallow and didn’t hit any arteries. Enough to cause pain, but not be fatal. The blood splattering on the walls could have happened when blood was thrown off as she struggled or tried to get away. It also could have been flicked off the knife as it came out of her back.”

Anya double-checked the photos. “There isn’t one wound on the abdomen or legs.”

Quentin barely blinked. “Is it possible that the pre-mortem stabbings were done by someone angry, whereas the exploratory wounds, the ones inflicted after she had died, were actually done by someone else? Someone calmer?”

“It’s possible. The body had been there at least a couple of hours when the boyfriend found it, judging by the lividity.” She chose a picture of the body at the scene. “You see, she died flat on her back because the blood settled with gravity. That’s why you see the pattern on her back and down the backs of her legs.”

Hayden sat forward. “The boyfriend dragged her away then picked her up. She weighed about ninety kilograms, so he struggled. When the ambulance came he was cradling her semi-upright in his lap.”

Quentin added, “From what I read about the boyfriend’s statement, I have doubts that he is the actual killer.”

“Why?” Anya was curious.

“He described his girlfriend in the present tense. That’s unusual for a killer. Unless, of course, he’s in denial or was in a fugue state at the time and had no idea that he was stabbing her to death. But there was nothing to suggest that.”

“From the way he cried, he can’t have been in denial,” Anya said, surprising herself. She didn’t place much credence on profiling, given it was in no way an exact science, or even science at all. It was merely conjecture based on pattern recognition and subjective judgments. Even so, hearing new theories was always interesting.

“He could just be clever and manipulative,” Quentin said.

“What can the wounds tell us about the knife?” Hayden concentrated on the facts. “So far we haven’t found it.”

“The depth of the wounds doesn’t help much, because depth depends on a number of things like how much pressure was applied. A short knife can go in a long way if wielded with enough force. It also depends on movement of the victim. If the victim is running at the attacker who’s applying force, the impact is greater. And the sharpness of the knife plays a big part, too.” Anya hoped she wasn’t boring them, but they still appeared interested. “Just to make it more difficult, clothes, bone and cartilage offer more resistance than skin and can affect how deeply the weapon penetrates.”

“What about the size of the entry wounds?” Hayden tried. “Can you tell anything about the blade’s width?”

“Not really. Skin is elastic and the wound often distorts after the weapon is removed. Stab wounds are rarely the same size as the knife. The size of the entry can vary by at least plus or minus a centimeter.”

“That’s a pretty big margin of error in estimating the weapon size. You could be talking about anything from an ice-pick to a bloody Bowie knife.”

“It gets worse. The size of the wound is also affected if the attacker ‘rocks’ the knife, or the victim moves while the knife’s still in place.” Anya demonstrated with a bread-and-butter knife left over from lunch. She made a circle with her index finger and thumb and twisted the knife. “That makes a much bigger entry wound.” She chose one of the wounds on the chest. “It’s happened here. See, this one is triangular for that reason.”

“What about serrated edges?” Hayden asked. “Can you give us a bit more of an idea?”

“The ribs were nicked, but it doesn’t look like a serration. You’d have to check with a forensic anthropologist to be sure.”

“Is there anything else that could have caused the injuries?” Quentin stroked his chin. “We’re assuming it’s a knife.”

“Blunt objects like screwdrivers leave different patterns of injury. They’d split the skin. Scissors tend to leave a Z-shape.” She studied the wounds again, this time with a magnifying glass. “I’d say your killer, or killers, used a knife. A very sharp one.”

She scanned the reports of genital injuries. Faint bruises were visible on the inner thighs. “The bruises on her thighs are old. Normally people bruise on the outside of the thighs by bumping into things. It’s hard to bruise the inside unless there has been some kind of force used.”

Hayden sighed. “You mean like fists trying to open the legs in a rape?”

“Exactly.”

Quentin added, “There was no evidence of sexual intercourse at the crime scene, either, which I find intriguing. If this woman was killed by a rapist, he is most likely a fantasy rapist. He must be assuming he’s the real partner. If he was still watching Elizabeth Dorman, he could have become incensed that she still had her boyfriend. Although, from the different types of stab wounds, I still can’t discount two perpetrators at the murder scene.”

“We still haven’t excluded the boyfriend, either.” Hayden stood up and stretched, hands on his belt. “From what you two are saying, our killer, or pair of killers, wasn’t there to rape Elizabeth. She knew him or them, then something happened and he, or they, went crazy, hacking her to death. So we’re looking for one or two guys who may or may not rape women, but stab them to death in a fit of rage, and may even be friends.” He scratched his moustache. “Glad we’ve got that sorted. Can’t wait to see Sorrenti’s expression when I bring her the good news.”

“Wait a minute.” Anya pulled out one of the photos of stab wounds around the left collarbone and stared at it closely. “Could you please pass me the other magnifying glass?”

Hayden handed it across. “What is it?”

She collected more photos from the same part of the body and laid them in a row, scanning each one slowly.

“There are a series of faint bruise marks around the left clavicle. If you weren’t actually looking for them, you could miss them. But in context, they fit with the markings of a knife.”

Hayden leaned forward. “How do you mean?”

“I mean like the marks caused by a knife pressed against the chest. You need to use a bit of imagination, but I’m sure that’s what the bruising pattern is.”

The three bent over the pictures, squashed together in the lack of space.

Hayden squinted. “It doesn’t take imagination. It is faint, but I reckon it looks like the bruise you showed us on Jodie Davis.”

“As well as Melanie Havelock and the first victim,” Anya agreed.

The detective took a moment to digest the implications.

“So she was attacked. And probably by our serial rapist. Only this time, he came back to finish the job.”

Hayden stood and lingered over the
photos after Quentin had excused himself for another appointment.

“The outline of the knife is definitely there. Can’t believe it got missed in the morgue.”

Anya measured the lengths for comparison. “It wasn’t missed, the bruises were just recorded separately.”

“If our guy is escalating the violence, we are running out of time before he does this again. Interviewed her yet?”

Anya had almost forgotten. “This morning she finally returned my call. At least her mobile-phone number hasn’t changed. She was pretty distraught about the other victims, but wants to put it all behind her. She reluctantly agreed to meet later this afternoon for a conversation, but that was all.”

Hayden sounded relieved. “What are the chances that I can come along?”

“Zero. I’m not violating confidentiality.”

“I’m not suggesting you do. At least phone and give her the option of having someone from the police listen in. You can even call her by a false name. If she hasn’t signed a statement, no one can hold her to it.”

Anya tried to hide her frustration. “What if you subpoena her?”

“I can’t if I don’t know her name or address. Blindfold me on the way, if you want.” He stood, looking like a starving puppy. “I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t think she could make a difference. She could hold the piece of info we need to track this guy down.”

Anya relented and made the call. To her surprise, Louise Richardson agreed to let the detective sit in on their discussion.

An hour later, they were sitting in a café at a local bowling alley. They chose a table against the back wall, furthest away from the serving area. 1970s disco revivals blared out of the sound system. The cacophony put Anya on edge as they waited for Louise.

“I don’t think she’s coming,” Hayden said, checking his watch. “Did she say why she chose this place?”

“I didn’t ask. Let’s give her a few more minutes.” Anya watched through the glass window. A group of disabled children cheered as one pushed a bright pink bowling ball down the metal ramp. The next player had her wheelchair rammed by an opponent, just as she released the ball. She swore at the offender, but then the group laughed. Even a friendly game of bowling was competitive these days, she thought, feeling old.

The smell of chicken salt and fried food seemed to catch Hayden’s attention.

“Damn, that makes me hungry. Don’t suppose they serve salads here.”

“I doubt it, but they probably do reasonable coffee.”

Hayden tapped Anya on the elbow as he looked toward the café entrance.

A woman dressed in loose jeans and a baggy jumper stood, fingers twisting the shoulder strap on her bag.

Anya stood and walked over to Louise.

“Thank you for coming.”

“I almost didn’t,” Louise said. “I’ve been sitting outside in the car trying to decide what to do.”

“You’re here now, but you can leave or end this conversation at any time. All right?”

Louise grimaced. “I need to know. Do you trust this policeman?”

“With my life,” Anya said, surprising herself.

Hayden stood as Louise joined them, and asked if she minded if he took notes.

She sat with one hand pulling hair behind her ear. “I wanted to meet somewhere no one would notice us.”

Three people at a corner table in a bowling alley taking notes and speaking in hushed tones would make anyone notice, Anya thought.

“I figured kids and teenagers would be more interested in themselves,” Louise said.

She had a good point.

Hayden explained that he was there to gather information and not to identify her to colleagues. Anya studied Louise as she listened. Since they had met, the woman had developed a facial tic in the left eye. She probably had not slept much and was having nightmares about her attack. The combination of anxiety and fatigue could bring on the involuntary twitch.

She’d also lost weight. Her face and wrists seemed thinner.

“How are you getting on?”

Louise twisted her wedding ring. “I’m scared to stay awake and too scared to sleep. I can’t keep any food down. It just comes straight back up.”

“You need to give yourself time,” Anya offered. “And so does your husband.”

Louise didn’t respond, but continued fiddling with her ring.

“I’ve moved in with a friend for a couple of weeks. I can’t go back to the pharmacy again. Not after—”

She stopped herself.

Anya spoke first. “We’d like to talk about what you remember from that night. Things you might not realize you noticed. Smells; what you heard; the way he spoke to you. Anything could be helpful.”

“I know this is going to be difficult,” Hayden said softly, “but we need to talk about what happened. Anything you can think of, even if you don’t think it’s important.”

She took a deep breath. “When he grabbed me from behind—around the neck with his arm—he said he wouldn’t hurt me, just wanted my handbag. And then he loosened his grip around my neck.” Louise rubbed her neck, as though she were reliving the moment. “I stood up and went to turn around, to give him my bag. That’s when he hit me hard in the side of the face, as I was turning.”

Hayden began scribing on a large pad. “Did you see any part of his face? A nose, chin, ears?”

“The tip of his black cap. It covered his face. Then I saw his hand and it felt like my face was on fire.”

“What happened next?”

Anya was impressed by the sympathetic tone the detective showed.

“He said he had a knife and would kill me if I didn’t do what he wanted or if I made any noise. Then he pushed me to the ground and raped me. I couldn’t bear to look at him, but he seemed to have trouble and got angry.”

“Angry in what way?”

“Frustrated, as though it was my fault he couldn’t climax.”

Hayden took copious notes. It was either shorthand, or atrocious handwriting.

“Did he say anything?”

“Called me a bitch. And told me not to look at him. That’s when he stopped and dragged me across the car park, on to the grass near one of the trees. Before that we were on gravel. When a car started up nearby, I thought he would kill me.”

Her voice trailed off.

“But he didn’t kill you,” Anya said. “You stayed alive.”

Louise fiddled with her hair again. “When the car drove off, away from us, he whispered in my ear, ‘If you can’t be hurt, you can’t be loved.’ I remember because he said it like he was helping me understand what he was doing.” Her eyes glassed over. “That’s when he took off his gloves and dug his fingers into my chest. Then he raped me again, under the tree.”

“You’re doing really well,” Hayden said. “What did he do next?”

“This time, I think he came because he got off me. He grabbed my bag and said he knew where I lived. If I went to the police, he’d come back and finish me off. Then he was gone.”

“Can you describe the knife at all?”

Louise thought for a moment. “Sharp, small. I don’t know what happened to it. One second it was on my chest, then it was gone.”

“Was there a click sound?”

Louise hesitated. “Maybe. There was a noise.”

“Could have been a switchblade.” Hayden scribbled fast. “Do you remember what the gloves looked like?”

“They had to be surgical gloves. I could smell the latex.”

Anya said, “That’s why there was a trace of talcum powder on your leg. It’s used to stop the gloves from sticking to themselves.”

“That’s really, really helpful,” Hayden urged. “Did you notice anything about his hand? Like, whether he had a tattoo?”

“No, I don’t think so. It was a white hand.”

Suddenly distracted, Louise looked around the café. A group of bowlers ordered and collected their fast-food from the service counter.

Hayden moved closer, locking eyes with Louise Richardson.

“How do you mean, white? Like a Caucasian?”

Louise avoided the detective’s gaze, as if losing confidence. “It was pretty dark, but I remember this flash of white skin when he moved.”

“Could you see his wrist, or any other part of him?”

Louise closed her eyes again and paused. “I didn’t think of it before. I did see his wrist and it looked normal.” She faltered. “This is going to sound crazy, but he must have had some kind of white stripe on his hand. I remember a flash of skin. I’m sorry, this isn’t helping. It doesn’t make any sense.”

Hayden looked enthusiastically at Anya. “There’s nothing to be sorry about. You are helping—a lot. Do you think there could have been a mark on his hand?”

“I suppose so. That makes more sense—like a streak of faint white paint.”

Anya admired Louise’s strength. She had just given them the most helpful lead yet.