AC05 - Death Mask (18 page)

‘If it’s a neck injury, he’ll have to be immobilised. I don’t see how —’

‘Damn it, Ingram! You heard what I said.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Ingram barely hesitated, barking into his helmet microphone. ‘If you can hear me, Janson, get the fuck up. I want you to stand and walk. I won’t tell you again.’

The old man hobbled away, having given his orders. He stopped a few metres from Anya.

Anya caught her breath, trying to absorb what had just taken place. The owner was prepared to risk a player’s life to maintain team morale in a practice game? This wasn’t life and death. It was a sport. The coach was instructing the quarterback to risk serious damage, possibly even paralysis, irrespective of a doctor’s instructions.

‘Look,’ Ethan said suddenly.

Back on the field, Pete Janson pulled himself to his feet, then stood, one arm raised. The crowd erupted in hoots, cheers and applause. Gavin stood with the player, initially holding up two fingers to test his vision, and no doubt asking questions to determine whether he was oriented in time and space. The fact that Janson got up by himself, seemed to dismiss Gavin and held both gloved fists in the air egged the crowd on to make more noise.

Coach Ingram wiped his mouth with an open hand, then readjusted his microphone. ‘We’ve got a game to win.’

Buffet did not watch for long. Instead, he turned his back to the field and stood slightly straighter, as if energised by the crowd’s display. ‘Doctor Crichton, I know what you’re probably thinking. Walk with me. You too, Catcher.’

Ethan gave Anya a look as if to tell her to obey.

Begrudgingly, she followed, fully intending to broach the idea of safety at the first opportunity.

‘You’re a mother. You have a kid,’ Buffet waved a hand, ‘who lives with his father.’

Anya knew her credentials had been checked, but was taken aback by this comment. Her personal life was irrelevant to the job requirements. She felt her face redden. This man had no right to bring Ben into this.

Ethan placed his hand on her arm. ‘Just wait,’ he whispered.

‘Your kid’s lucky. But these boys out here …’ He stopped and pointed towards the field. ‘Players of this calibre have been mollycoddled most of their lives by everyone from middle school through college. They’ve been treated better than anyone else and always told they were special. But what would they be doing now without football? Probably jail time, or some dead-end job. Or they could have signed up for a war in a place they couldn’t even find on a map. Just so their families can get medical insurance.’ He trod slowly, careful to plant each foot on firm ground.

Anya felt a surge of irritation. Buffet was making out he was some kind of saviour.

Play recommenced and the crowd roared at another tackle.

‘Everything gets handed to them, sometimes even college degrees they don’t deserve. Is it any surprise they think the world revolves around them? I see too many of them waste their God-given talent and betray the team for their own selfish interests. Take Janson. See the way he can turn a stadium of fans?’ He clenched one fist. ‘That’s power – to reach out and change people’s lives. Pete has no idea what he’s capable of. But I do. And with him in the team, the Bombers far exceeds the sum of individual players.’

Anya wondered if he thought Janson was innocent of raping Kirsten Byrne, or if he was overlooking it for the sake of the team, and his own benefit.

‘It’s why Kitty, Masterton and I wanted you here today. To see for yourself that this is something so much more than a game of football. Our mission is to elevate this team to its full God-given potential.’

He glanced back at the action. ‘I’ll do whatever it takes to make that happen.’

* * *

At the end of what felt like hours in the heat, Ethan took Anya into the locker room. It was only a few minutes before the end of play and injured players who had been sidelined during the game were already inside nursing their wounds.

‘Buffet wants you to know what these boys go through, so here we are. I have to warn you, they’re not exactly modest when it comes to their bodies.’

It was no wonder, the way women ogled and fans treated them like gods. ‘I’ve seen the odd naked man in my time,’ she said, even if the vast majority of them were dead, and laid out on a steel table.

Even so, as the team filed in and stripped off, she was unsure where to look. The stench of perspiration mixed with liniment was almost overwhelming.

A couple of reporters entered the room, one of them a woman with a dictaphone.

‘Yo, ladies in the house,’ one of the players said, removing a towel from around his waist and pulling it forwards and back between his legs. ‘You wanna piece of this?’ he added, as he flicked his penis.

The woman ignored the antics, and instead targeted Pete Janson for the first interview. He didn’t bother covering himself with a towel as she asked questions with the recorder near his face. Another player came up behind her, towel in his hand, and acted as though he was humping her.

Anya stepped forward, nodding her head at the male reporter who was talking to a player in the far corner. ‘Would you do that to him?’

‘Huh?’

The player moved closer to Anya, towering over her in height. She refused to step back.

Gavin appeared. ‘Back away from Doctor Crichton, Dorafino, or you might find that thigh muscle needs a lot more investigation before you can play again.’

‘I was just having some fun,’ he sulked and flicked another player with his towel.

The reporter turned, checking her recorder, blonde hair falling on her shoulders.

‘Does that sort of thing happen to you a lot?’ Anya asked.

‘Hey, it’s part of the job. I didn’t ask you to come to my rescue or undermine me in front of these guys.’

Anya was surprised by the woman’s aggressive tone. ‘Pardon?’

The woman placed a hand on her skirted hip. ‘Don’t give me that. You thought, “Poor little woman being harassed by the big bad men”. Well, I know what I’m doing and I’ve worked damn hard to get here and establish credibility with these players. If you don’t have the guts for this, maybe you should leave.’

‘That was sexual harassment and physical intimidation.’

‘Tell that to someone who cares. If you’ll excuse me,’ she looked around the room, ‘I have a job to do.’ The woman moved away and approached another player.

Anya returned to where Ethan was sitting. ‘Who is she?’

‘Annabelle Reichman. She’s got bigger balls than some of these men.’

Anya had seen the name. In the paper. She was the one who had written the vile article on women supposedly crying rape.

She turned to ask if Annabelle had any idea how damaging her opinion piece was, but the woman had already left.

Showers ran and trainers rubbed down muscles. Conversation became amplified as the players disrobed and relaxed. Music bellowed from a sound system someone had in his locker.

A minion collected helmets and padding from each player, picking items from the ground like a mother collecting washing from a teenager’s bedroom.

Coach Ingram entered and praised the men for a good hard game. Clearly, they had won, although the room looked and felt like a battle zone.

Ethan checked his phone. ‘I’ll drop you at the Emergency ward. The nurse who examined your victim just started on duty. You can talk in private and call me when you’re finished.’

The investigator might have known Kirsten’s name, but he had no need or right to know anything more intimate. She respected him for acknowledging that.

* * *

Inside the waiting room, a woman wailed, comforted by a nurse. Anya felt shivers on the back of her neck. From the nurse’s presence, Anya suspected the woman had just lost someone close. The rest of the room sat in an eerie silence.

At the triage desk, she asked to see Tina Cincotta.

After fifteen minutes, a nurse with dark hair pulled off her face, stethoscope around her neck and a worn expression appeared, carrying a hospital file. The triage sister pointed to Anya.

‘I’m Tina. I understand you wanted to see me about a rape patient. Please come through.’

She headed towards a corridor and invited Anya into an examination room with a bed and a set of stirrups on the floor, ready to be mounted to the bed. Unlike Anya’s sexual assault
unit, which was designed to be as far from a hospital as possible, this was cold, sterile and smelt like antiseptic.

‘Linda Gatby told me you might come by. Please understand that I am treading a thin line here between confidentiality and disclosing information to the police.’

‘I understand that.’ Anya sat in the chair and the nurse perched on the bed. ‘I’ve been asked to investigate the charges made by Kirsten Byrne against a number of footballers. I’m not working for the defence, but my task is to advise the team’s owners if I believe that, based on evidence, a sexual assault took place.’

Tina nodded slowly.

‘Assistant DA Linda Gatby has also asked for my professional opinion on the injuries. I’ve performed hundreds of rape examinations at designated sexual assault units and my particular area of expertise is on wounds and injuries to survivors of assaults.’

‘I understand. So what do you want to know?’

A baby cried in the corridor.

‘What was Kirsten’s emotional state when she arrived that morning?’

The nurse opened the file. ‘I remember her because of who she said attacked her.’ She scanned her records. ‘Her skin was rubbed raw. When she came in, she seemed numb, but was rational, as if she was describing a film she’d seen. There was no emotion in her voice. When I examined her she didn’t complain, just stared at the ceiling. That perineal injury was deep, and I had to pad it to stop the bleeding. It must have been painful, but she didn’t once complain. There was something so blank about her eyes.’

The pager bleeped and the nurse checked it. ‘Have you seen the report?’

Anya had only seen the photos, but Kirsten’s mood and responses could not come across in what were clinical notes.

‘Just some photographs. From what I saw, the injuries would have caused a significant amount of pain. Did she have a blood alcohol or drug screen?’

The next page on the file gave the answer. Alcohol was
present but 0.03. The drug screen was negative. Kirsten had not been drugged or taken drugs and was below the legal limit for alcohol when she presented. She was sober and very aware of what was happening.

‘How was her memory?’ Anya wanted to know how clear her recollections were, in case she had been drinking and the alcohol had been metabolised in the time between the assault and her presentation to hospital.

‘She was lucid and described in detail what happened. I didn’t record everything she said, but the policewoman was present. It sounded like a violent and prolonged assault.’

She snapped the file shut. ‘Sorry, but I’ve got to go. I hope that helps you.’ She stood and opened the door for Anya.

‘Could you do something for me?’ the nurse asked. ‘Make sure those bastards don’t get away with this. I’ve seen other rape victims of footballers, but not many have the courage to go to the police.’

With that comment, she left the room.

A
nya could see Jim Horan pacing inside his glass-walled office. She could hear him too. He was speaking into a phone headpiece so loudly that every word was audible.

‘I don’t care if you think it’s a great deal. The offer’s not acceptable. How about you double it. Then we’ll talk.’

The female assistant knocked on the open door and Horan waved her in. It seemed everyone in New York worked on a weekend.

‘Ethan Rye and Doctor Anya Crichton are here to see you.’

He sized them up. ‘Not interested.’

Anya exchanged glances with their escort, who shrugged her shoulders. Ethan either didn’t hear or ignored what Horan said. He was already inside, settling into a padded chair.

Thrown over a couch were a number of bra and panties sets on hangers.

‘You get back to your boss and come up with something that doesn’t insult my client.’ Horan clicked off his microphone and moved to a chair behind an oversized desk. It seemed he had been addressing the person on the phone, not them.

‘I won’t bother asking you in.’ His tone was sarcastic. ‘Whatever this is about, make it fast.’ He called after his assistant: ‘Hold my calls for three minutes and bring me a Red Bull with aspirin.’

Ethan’s relaxed posture showed he was not going to be rushed. ‘It’s been a while, Jim. How’s, what is it now, your third wife?’

The sports manager rolled up his white-sleeved shirt to the elbows. ‘You care even less than I do, so let’s not waste each other’s time. What do you want?’

‘To congratulate you on that deal you made for Janson with Cheree Jordan Fashions.’

‘That’s just a drop in the ocean.’ He leant back and clasped both hands behind his head. ‘Bigger things are starting to happen for that boy. He has a great future ahead of him. Takes some players four or five years to throw a pass. Took Pete three games. He’s the rags to riches tale. Undrafted one minute, one of the game’s most valuable the next. Four years later, he’s still a dream client.’

‘And one of your best investments,’ Ethan added.

‘Is there any other kind?’

Anya had read Ethan’s brief on Jim Horan. He had studied at Notre Dame Law School and was agent and manager for a dozen high-profile footballers along with a handful of rookies. Four of those were out with injuries, another two were suspended for testing positive to banned substances. His current wife seemed to spend money as fast as he could earn it, and his former wives had come from wealthy families and expected to be maintained in a similar style. Anya found it hard to believe that he’d found three women who would marry him – his warmth and appeal matched that of a reptile in a toddler’s pool.

‘How long had you been working on the clothing deal?’

He rocked back. ‘Cheree Jordan. I’ve been watching her lines for a while. She’s one savvy businesswoman. We’ve been in dialogue for the right vehicle for Pete for some time, and with his recent form, the timing couldn’t be better. It’ll really boost his profile.’