AC05 - Death Mask (12 page)

The waitress delivered their second round and whispered to Ethan as she slipped something into his shirt pocket.

‘Thanks guys,’ he said loudly, removing a row of condoms and holding them up. ‘Very funny.’

A cheer went up and Anya felt her face flush. She thought Ethan’s face coloured for a moment as well.

The music grew louder and the beat intensified. She could see the attraction for many of the girls. A number of the men were handsome, had muscular physiques and the confidence of movie stars. Drinks flowed and bodies moved closer. A couple of girls began dancing on their own, successfully garnering attention. Pheromones were in abundance.

A smaller, stocky man carrying a beer asked if he could join them. Anya was pleased for the diversion.

‘Enjoyed your presentations today,’ he managed over the noise. ‘Thought I had a handle on all that, but some of what you said blew me away.’

She appreciated the comment, and was reassured that some men in the group had listened.

The man twisted a gold band on his left ring finger. ‘Makes me glad I’m married and don’t have to worry about any of that stuff.’

‘How long?’ she asked.

‘Seven great years. College sweethearts. We’ve got two girls, six and four. You wanna see?’

He pulled out his wallet and proudly displayed a picture of the three women in his life, pointing out each one’s name. He was clearly devoted.

It was touching to see a so-called gladiator bragging about his family back home. ‘They’re gorgeous,’ she said and meant it.

‘I got to thinking about those scenes you showed. You know, if anyone did those things to one of my daughters, I’d wanna kill them.’ A cheer rose, and their attention turned to the crowd. ‘It suddenly occurred to me that every woman here is someone’s daughter. Makes you really think.’

Ethan asked, ‘Would you ever let one of your girls date a footballer?’

‘Hell no.’ The father stood, abandoning his drink. He pulled out an envelope from his back pocket, and another from the other side. ‘Took up a collection for Keller’s widow. It isn’t much, but it’s a start.’ Ten and fifty dollar notes bulged out of each envelope. He patted Ethan’s shoulder. ‘I’m gonna turn in. Have a good one. Pleasure to meet you, Doctor, look forward to your next talk.’

After the group’s collective response this morning, it was a relief to talk to a player like this. He seemed decent, honest and family oriented. Anya’s faith in the supposed ten percent of dissenters, the non-followers, was restored. Her task was to somehow get through to the other ninety percent.

W
ith a heavy head, Anya opened the daily papers delivered to her door and read the headlines. Yesterday had been longer and more difficult than she had expected. After leaving the bar, she’d had to wait up for Ben to get back home from school. Now her body was paying the price.

Aspirin dulled her headache and weary muscles, while coffee jump-started the rest. She opted for fruit and muesli from the room service menu. Something healthy should boost her energy levels.

Leading the news was Robert Keller’s death from a suspected heart attack following a rigorous workout. A cardiologist commented on the sudden deaths of athletes and possible causes. There was no mention of self-administration of drugs as the cause of death. A ‘family source’ said that Robert had had flu-like symptoms the week before, while another described the devastation his wife felt at the news. Anya couldn’t recall the number of times celebrity deaths were described as ‘heart attacks’, prior to toxicology results, which took weeks, and by then public interest had waned.

Sharks fans were interviewed, as were other prominent players. Peter Janson was pictured, with a comment about how he and Keller had been close friends since playing in their high school
team together. A representative from Nike expressed sadness at the death, and there was a brief mention of the multimillion-dollar deal the company had signed with the star player.

She flicked through for other news and stopped cold at a headline.

Crying rape, the new ticket to instant wealth
.

It appeared in the opinion pages. She took a mouthful of hot coffee and read on.

Long gone are the days where women married for money and, as the saying goes, they earned every penny. Instead of setting their sights on a gold ring from an older, wealthier man, today’s ambitious young women target our famous heroes. Many of these men have fought hard all their lives to achieve what most mere mortals cannot. The latest victims of the cry-rape scam are our elite sportsmen.

The plan is simple. The predatory woman dresses up. She may even surgically enhance herself, or change her appearance with wigs or hairpieces. The destination is any party the players attend as part of their promotional duties, usually while they’re on the road. The woman flirts with her quarry with blatant disregard for the players’ wives or girlfriends back home. Later, they lure the player, or players in some cases, to a hotel room. After entrapping the players into having sex, they immediately cry rape. It’s a scam threatening to destroy the fiber of many of our greatest team sports. Football, hockey, basketball and soccer have all fallen victim to it.

Publicity is ensured for the woman, who usually employs her own lawyer, and ‘negotiations’ begin for a settlement. As with all fraudulent schemes, money is the bottom line.

Anya’s hand shook and coffee spilt on the page. She put the cup down on the bedside table and grabbed some tissues from the bathroom to soak up the mess. Lifting the tabloid, some drops splattered onto the white bedlinen. Damn.

She sat on the edge of the bed and wiped her hands before turning her attention back to the article. Who the hell had written this guff? It had to be planted by one of the teams, or their
PR people. The byline read
Annabelle Reichman
. It still shocked her that women were often the most derisive and judgemental about victims in sexual assault cases. Gut feeling told her the incident involving Kirsten Byrne was going to feature somewhere in the article.

Out of the 200 reviewed cases of sportsmen accused of rape, only one conviction was recorded. This is lower than conviction rates for the general population. In 199 cases there was not enough evidence to convince a jury that rape had ever taken place. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to realise our players are vulnerable targets for ambitious and unscrupulous women.

Any sensible reader should see that the reasons for those non-conviction stats were far more complex than just false accusations. A traumatised woman had to be extraordinarily strong to go up against a professional team’s PR machine, with lawyers, investigators and media digging into her private life. And rape still carried significant social stigma. Anya wondered how Annabelle Reichman justified such distortion of facts.

This completely contradicts the impression the general public are getting about violent, privileged sports stars. Are they paid a huge amount of money for what they do? Yes. But how many workers on Wall Street put their lives on the line every time they go to work? Our footballers are modern-day gladiators who go into war with each and every play. An injury can ruin them for life, so they have to make the most of what they can in their relatively short careers. We cannot begrudge them that. They also perform the extensive behind-the-scenes charity work that is so much a part of being a role model. These altruistic acts are often overlooked or taken for granted, but never by the thousands of children these players inspire and give hope to.

In that case, Annabelle Reichman had just argued for members of the armed forces in Iraq and Afghanistan to be paid as much as footballers.

A woman who sources confirm targeted Peter Janson for a business deal has claimed he and his friends raped her following a party at the Rainier Hotel this week. Dozens of witnesses saw her flirting with Janson, drinking heavily and cuddling up to him during the evening before boasting that she was going with him to his room. Reliable sources say she has already hired a legal team to represent her. Is that the first thing a genuine victim would do? Did she tell anyone at the party about the so-called attack? No, she quietly left and returned home. It wasn’t until the next day that she decided to cry rape. How does a just society allow unsubstantiated claims to be made public before police have even begun an investigation?

These women are redefining and diminishing the term ‘victim’.

It is far too easy to tear down our heroes and role models by crying rape. It is, after all, the new fast-track to fame, money and notoriety. It’s time we put a stop to false claims and made the accusers answerable for their lies.

Anya’s teeth ached from clenching her jaw. Annabelle Reichman was the one making the claims public! The injustice and downright misogyny of the article made Anya sick to her stomach.

Her phone’s ringtone jolted her back to reality. Linda Gatby was on the line. ‘I need to see Kirsten Byrne ASAP, before anyone in the media publishes her name. I’d like you to come with me.’

Anya rubbed the joint connecting her jaw and cheek. ‘You need to know that the owners of the Bombers have asked me to investigate the reports to establish whether the complaint has any traction.’

There was a pause on the line. ‘I know you’ll be professional and only disclose what’s in the public domain.’

Anya agreed.

‘I’ve instructed Kirsten not to speak to anyone until we get there. Can you come to my office first? We’ll leave from here. I also want to ask Catcher some questions if he’s free.’

Anya hurried into the bathroom to change out of her casual clothes. She hoped Kirsten had not yet seen what could be the beginning of a public humiliation in the press.

E
than and Anya arrived at the offices of the special victims’ unit within half an hour. Phones rang unanswered, uniformed police stood talking to lawyers or case workers: the few cramped desks were piled high with paperwork. Unlike so many other offices, there was no casual conversation to be heard. They saw Linda Gatby waving to them from the door of a corner office.

‘Come in.’ She stretched her arms out and hugged Anya like an old friend. ‘Thanks for coming. Ethan, do you mind if I talk to Anya privately first?’

She moved some papers and sat on the edge of her desk.

‘No problem.’ Ethan found a chair outside and began making calls.

‘Regarding Kirsten Byrne …’ Linda put on reading glasses and moved to the leather chair behind her desk, which squeaked as she pulled it in. She opened a file. ‘According to the police report, she phoned them at five in the morning and told them she had been raped by four or five footballers at the Rainier Hotel between eleven and midnight.’

‘What happened in those few hours before contacting police?’ Anya sat forward.

‘Apparently she caught a taxi home then locked herself in
her apartment, too terrified to call anyone.’ She handed across a photograph of a young woman in a hospital gown, revealing her shoulders but hiding her breasts. The skin was abraded in parts, with small streaks of blood in lines.

Anya had seen similar markings before. ‘Looks like she showered and scrubbed herself until she bled, probably everywhere she thought the men had touched.’

‘That’s exactly what happened,’ Linda said. ‘She continued to use a scourer from the kitchen long after the hot water ran cold.’

Anya knew the problems that could cause for investigators. ‘Which means there wasn’t much chance of a rape kit providing physical evidence.’

‘The uniforms followed procedure and took her to the Emergency department, where a nurse performed a forensic examination, but didn’t manage to collect any hairs or semen. I hoped to ask you about the significance of her genital injuries.’

She handed a few more photographs across the desk. Linda was protecting the victim by asking Ethan to wait outside. Kirsten Byrne did not deserve to be violated again by having her photos seen by anyone who wasn’t involved in giving a legal or medical opinion. The images showed significant swelling and bruising to her vulval region, and lacerations to her labia major. A rectal tear extended three to four centimetres to her buttock.

‘This was a brutal assault, Linda. This tear alone signifies very violent trauma. It’s one of the worst I’ve seen of a surviving victim.’

The prosecutor summarised the alleged assault. ‘Kirsten works for a clothing designer and says she was sent to a private party at the hotel to try to meet Pete Janson and pitch a clothing line to him. When he suggested she go upstairs with him to meet his agent, Janson raped her. He had deliberately left the door open and others came in.’

Linda stood up and invited Ethan to join them, and he took the seat by Anya.

‘Our victim identified the men in the room as Peter Janson, Liam McKenzie, Clark Garcia and Vince Dorafino, none of
whom are strangers to the legal system.’ She checked her notes. ‘The fifth participant appears to be Lance Alldridge.

‘Catcher, do you know much about them?’

He nodded. ‘You understand I have to respect confidentiality, but I could give you my personal impressions.’

Linda removed her glasses and nodded.

‘Janson is a quarterback with an ego bigger than Texas. He’s flashy and tends only to do things if there’s something in it for him. McKenzie’s the back-up quarterback, huge, arrogant and thinks of himself as a real ladies’ man. Alldridge is fairly quiet and I’m surprised he was part of this. Seems like a decent guy. Garcia and Dorafino are rookies trying to fit in and would do anything Janson or McKenzie suggested.’

It sounded like these were boys still in high school.

‘Any chance Robert Keller was involved?’ Anya asked. Guilt or shame might explain a drug relapse.

‘Your OD from last night?’ Linda said. ‘I already thought of that, but all the alleged attackers play with the Bombers.’

‘Did they all supposedly rape the victim?’ Ethan asked.