Deadly Deeds (20 page)

‘I explained how you were trying to help, all you wanted to do was find out the truth, but they wouldn’t have a bar of it. They said you were only on probation. This was only an experiment, you know, having someone working as an investigator as well as a crime-scene examiner. Well, they thought it wasn’t working.’

It took me a full thirty seconds for the news to sink in.

I could tell from the look on his face he expected an outburst.

Finally, I shifted on my chair and snapped. ‘Why wasn’t I called in? No one spoke to me. I could have explained everything. I could have at least defended myself. When they made me sign the damn contract, everyone was being friendly and courteous, as if they had just crowned me Queen of England. What the hell happened in there? Did you really try, Frank, or was it convenient for you to get rid of me?’

He pursed his lips as I wondered why I was taking it so badly since I knew I was going to lose my job eventually. It would only have been a matter of time before the axe fell on my head. But I took it badly. I could live with losing my job, but not the way I lost it. No hearing, no chance to explain myself. At this stage I was considering taking them to court for unfair dismissal.

A heated rage built up inside me. Even though lately things had been patchy between us, I believed Frank was my friend. I thought he would have fought like only a friend could to save my job. If our roles had been reversed, I would have done my utmost to make sure he kept his job.

I shook my head in disbelief.

He could have insisted on having me there. They could have never got rid of both of us in one go. No one out there could jump into both our seats, not immediately anyway.

‘Fuck you, Frank,’ I went on. ‘I risked my neck for you. I’m doing this because I’m scared I’m going to find your naked body lying in bed and your head watching television.’

He glared at me strangely without a word. Motion in his cheekbones indicated grinding of teeth. ‘Everything could have worked out,’ he finally said, ‘if you didn’t probe so far. You could have told me what you were up to.’

I wondered what he was talking about. Confused, I threw him an inquisitive glance.

He continued, ‘I know you found the body of Claire Kendall before the police did. They told me.’

I felt heat on my cheek. ‘What?’ My surprise was genuine.

‘
Come on, Malina, stop playing games with me. Lionel Payne told the police. I don’t think he meant to, but he’s old, and he made a slip of the tongue.’

I felt like a total fool. ‘You mean everyone knows?’

He nodded and gave me that sorry puppy look. ‘Trevor Mitchell wants you to hand over every single file on every case you’ve worked on for the VFSC. He’s going to make sure you’ve got nothing more to do with the Wilson’s homicide.’

The idea of suing for unfair dismissal suddenly seemed pointless.

He stared at me as if it was out of his hands, but we both knew that was not the case. He could still do something if he wanted to. He could appeal to a higher authority.

I was thirty-nine and had to look for a new job. Forensic investigation units were not Coles supermarkets. If I wanted to continue working in this field, I had to go interstate or overseas. Even then, my resumé was now tarnished.

I couldn’t take any more.

‘
Fuck the VFSC, Frank. And fuck you.’

I stood up, sending my chair flying behind me. It crashed loudly on the tiled floor, invigorating my anger.

I raced down the hallway.

‘
Hold on,’ I heard him shout as I slammed the door in his face.

The following day, back from some grocery shopping at Safeway in Acland Street, I dialled the VFSC from my mobile phone and asked to speak to John Darcy.

‘
Malina, I’m sorry about your contract,’ John said as soon as he heard my voice.

‘
Never mind that,’ I said, pulling into my driveway. ‘I need your help.’

He didn’t respond.

‘John?’

‘
Yes, well, it’s not all that easy. You’re not working for us any more.’

‘
So, you’re not going to help me?’

‘
I didn’t say that.’

‘
So, what’s the problem? They got to you too, did they?’

‘
Malina, you make it sound like they’re the Mafia or something. I’m willing to help to a degree, but these people are my superiors. I’m not like you. I’ve got a family to think about. I can’t just take risks like that. If someone finds out I’m leaking information to you, I’m finished.’

I pulled the handbrake hard. ‘I get the point. Thanks for your help.’

I terminated the call and killed the engine.

The bastards were going to make it impossible for me to do anything. I had no access to VFSC facilities, no one to advise me on forensic tests, and the police were probably going to monitor my every move.

I could only see one advantage in all this.

Why should I stop investigating since I had already lost everything?

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

S
aturday the 15th March was sunny but the temperature was in the low twenties. I was up early, trying to come to terms with my new life as a nobody.

By 6.45 a.m., I was jogging on St Kilda Beach, alongside the Esplanade. Seagulls were hovering above my head, crying in unison. The ocean was magnificent in the morning, like a gigantic grey blanket blending in with the clouds above. A taste of sea water hung in the air, giving the illusion of being on holidays, hundreds of kilometers away from the city life, stress, and the too-often meaningless daily routine. The perfect place to clear my mind and think about my future.

Although I managed to put enough money aside, I hated the thought of living out of thin air. The last thing I needed was to drain my savings, sell my car, my apartment and my belongings one at a time, just to make ends meet. And I hated the thought of applying to Social Security. Unemployment benefits had a purpose, but were designed for people who were looking for work. I knew if I really wanted to work, I could get anything within a week. It would take more than that for my Social Security application to be processed. In addition, I’d find it unbearable to stand fortnightly in a queue and beg for a handout.

I got back home and  took a long, hot shower.

My first mug of black coffee was replaced by freshly squeezed orange juice and sultana enriched cereal.

After breakfast, I slipped into comfortable jeans, a white T-shirt and a black leather jacket I bought at the South Melbourne Market for a bargain, less than a hundred dollars.

By 9.26 a.m., I tucked under my arm a manilla folder filled with photocopies of the entire Wilson’s case, or as much as I managed to get my hands on since the beginning of this investigation.

Did they really expect me to give up so easily?

Finding a parking space in front of St Patrick’s Hospital was hell as usual. The spaces reserved for medical staff only were filled, leaving me at the mercy of the streets like the rest of the world. Even though I loved driving my car, I seriously considered getting a motorcycle for those days when I couldn’t be bothered with the traffic or fighting over the last remaining parking space in Melbourne.

I ended up parking around the corner from Barry Street and walking back to the hospital, hiding my eyes behind a pair of Ray Bans.

As I climbed the stairs of St Patrick’s Hospital on my way to see Dr Larousse, I hoped no one had got to him yet. I still had the basic right to talk to anyone I wanted. After all, he wasn’t a detective, nor a VFSC employee.

The previous day, I’d returned the original documents from the Wilson’s case, and every other case I worked on, to the VFSC. Before hand, I photocopied every single page, graph and photograph from every file and locked them in the first two drawers of my filing cabinet at home. I knew this would be a temporary arrangement. Someone might decide to get a warrant and search my place if they thought I’d kept documents which I had no right to. Eventually, I’d transfer every document to a CD and store it in the middle of my classical music collection. It would be a day’s work, but worth every minute. I might even leave a copy at a friend’s place, just in case someone stole my three-hundred and twenty-eight compact discs.

I took the original documents to the VFSC in person. I didn’t want to see Trevor Mitchell or anyone. I left two cardboard boxes filled with confidential material at the reception. When the receptionist said  the director wanted to see me, I bluntly retorted, ‘Well, I don’t want to see him.’

Dr Larousse welcomed me in his office. He assured me no one from the police spoke to him and seemed genuinely disappointed my contract with the VFSC had been terminated.

‘I don’t have a problem helping you,’ he said. ‘Your contract termination wasn’t all over the papers, so as far as I’m concerned, you’re still a forensic investigator.’

Thank God, there were still humans out there, not just bureaucratic idiots who followed everything by the book.

I told him I wanted to talk to the doctor who examined and did the preliminary report on Teresa Wilson. The name on the report said Dr. M. Shubbert.

‘
You’re in luck,’ Dr Larousse said, pushing his rimless glasses up the bridge of his nose. ‘I think she’s on shift this morning. Bear with me for a sec.’

He left the office for a few minutes. When he returned he informed me Dr Marie Shubbert would be tied up for the next half hour.

I agreed to wait near the front desk.

When she finally came to the front desk, my mind had gone numb from waiting an hour, looking through the Wilson’s files for the hundredth time.

Dr Marie Shubbert was a tall woman with a horse-shaped face, and dark hair tied into a pony tail. She seemed annoyed as she swept one hand past my face and said, ‘My office is this way,’ pointing down the end of the corridor.

She paced in front of me and never glanced back to see if I was following.

I could tell this person was going to be defensive and non-committal. If I had predicted this encounter at home, I would have worn something more dynamic than denim and leather. My wear gave her the perfect opportunity to look down at me as if I was one of those rich, bored housewives from South Yarra, who had nothing better to do than cruise around in cool gear and try to pick up men half her age.

She led me into a tiny office with bare walls and not a single book in sight. The room was so clinically empty, it made me nauseous for half a minute.

‘What can I do for you?’ she asked, taking a seat behind a white desk, avoiding eye contact for as long as she could. Her high-back, executive, maroon chair contrasted with the room’s white walls, white floors and white table.

I steered my rear-end into an injection-moulded, orange, plastic chair, the type we had back in high school. The leather of my jacket squeaked as if it was complaining. I squeezed the manilla folder in my hand, slightly lacking in confidence, ready for the judge to pass her sentence.

When I looked at her, I had to shift my gaze upwards. She was the queen and I was the pawn. She certainly worked her superiority complex out to the last detail.

‘
Have I come at a bad time?’ I asked.

She glared at me coldly for the first time. ‘Yes, you are. But since you’re here, you might as well say what’s on your mind.’ She was hissing like a snake, and I knew this woman would never become my friend.

I threw a copy of Teresa’s preliminary report on her desk, shifted uncomfortably in my chair and said, ‘In Teresa Wilson’s preliminary report, you’ve stated that you’ve found semen lodged in her vagina.’

She grabbed the report and flicked through the pages. ‘I remember that one,’ she commented. ‘Battering and rape.’ She stopped at a specific page and added, ‘Raped before being assaulted. They got the culprit, didn’t they?’

I nodded in agreement.

‘
So what’s this all about?’

‘
Was there any other indication that she was raped?’

‘
Such as?’

‘
Well, was there engorgement of the labia, the clitoris, redness of the posterior vaginal opening?’ She looked at me blankly, so I reached over the desk and pointed to a section in the report. ‘Because none of it is in your report. I mean, if you had detected any other physical evidence of rape, you would have written them down, right?’

She locked her eyes into mine and said, ‘Of course, that’s what I’m being paid for.’

‘But there‘s nothing else in the preliminary examination which suggests she’s been raped. How do we
really
know she was raped?’

The muscles on her neck tensed up. ‘Are you a doctor, Miss...?’

‘Kristin Malina. Yes, I’ve got a doctorate, but I’m not a medical doctor. I’ve got a PhD in Criminal Justice. I specialise in homicides and cases like this.’ Before she had time to change direction, and point out how clinical examination was not my line of expertise, I added, ‘So, why did you conclude she was raped?’

She fidgeted with her hands. ‘The semen in her vagina. The bruising on her body.’

‘Yes, but she could have easily had normal sexual intercourse, or inserted the semen in her vagina through other means. And we’ve already established with Dr Larousse that the bruises, along with the lacerations, were self-inflicted.’

Dr Shubbert seemed annoyed, and I could understand why. She shifted nervously in her chair. I hated making personal attacks on the people who helped me, but since I’d been fried, I had to make the most of what I had. Arrogance was my last resort.

She glanced at the report and let her defences down. ‘You have to understand this is only a preliminary report. Initial observations. The man obviously raped her. Men are like that.’

‘
Yes, I know. But I like to have things clear in my mind. What about pubic hair? Was any of Walter Dunn’s pubic hair found on her body?

‘
Not according to the report.’

‘
No tearing or bruising of the vagina?’

‘
Not according to the report.’

‘
No teeth or bite marks on the body?’

‘
Not according to the report.’ Her voice was dead-pan, and it was obvious she was losing patience.

I glared into her dark, green eyes. ‘So, according to this document, the only evidence we have that Teresa Wilson was raped is the recovery of semen from her vagina.’

‘That would seem to be correct,’ she said, in a tone of voice which implied she was going to add
do you have a problem with that?

‘
But surely, if Mrs Wilson had been raped, semen would have been found in other parts of her body, other than the inside of her vagina? Either that, or the rapist was wearing a condom, in which case no semen would have been found at all.’

‘
That’s an interesting point.’

‘
Okay, Dr Shubbert. I know you’re not a forensic pathologist, but would you go to court and testify Teresa Wilson was raped?’

‘
Not based on the preliminary report. Like you’ve said, the evidence is somewhat on the thin side. I would have to conduct further tests. But between you and me, we both know she got raped. Men do this kind of thing. Why are you trying to deny it? The bastard is dead anyway.’

I could see that she was now clearly upset. I was seconds away from being thrown out of her office.

A few weeks back, I would have agreed with Dr Shubbert. Men were responsible for over ninety percent of all crimes on this planet, and it would have been easy to let my prejudice get in the way.

‘
Don’t take this personally, doctor. I’m just trying to find out what’s going on. And since I’ve just lost my job with the VFSC, you’re the only expert I can rely on.’

She gave me faint smile, obviously realising I was in a worse situation than her.

‘I need another favour from you,’ I said bluntly.

‘
You’ve got one hell of a nerve,’ she replied, obviously feeling more at ease now that I was on the begging side. ‘I don’t know why I should help you, but go ahead, ask.’

‘
I need an analysis done on the semen extracted from Teresa’s cervix.’

‘
What type of analysis?’

‘
A DNA sampling.’

‘
We don’t offer that type of service at the hospital.’             

‘
What about externally?’

‘
How soon do you need it?’

‘
As soon as possible. This is really important.’

‘
I’ll see what I can do. Can’t promise, but how does this afternoon sound?’

‘
Fantastic.’

I told her to fax the result to my apartment and left her office.

As I made my way downstairs of St Patrick’s Hospital, I knew why Dr Marie Shubbert decided to give in. She knew if she didn’t give me what I asked for, I would have filed a formal complaint to her superior that her preliminary report on Teresa Wilson was biased, incomplete and misleading.

And I gathered that even though she was as stiff as a stainless steel ruler, she was smart enough not to let that happen.

When I got back home, I worked on the ‘Jolly Roger’ investigation. I sat in my study, my laptop turned on, glancing at the traffic down Chapel Street while gathering my thoughts.

The idea was simple. Since the person who collected money from pay-phones had to disconnect the wire supplying codes to the telephone company, as detailed in the Jolly Roger article, all the telephone company had to do is modify the wiring system. Whenever the wire in question would be cut, a signal would be sent to the telephone company, alerting them that someone was tampering with one of their telephones. The signal would tell them where the telephone was located. And since I knew the culprit would come back to the same phone booths in the next few days to collect his money, all that was needed was a surveillance team until he turned up.