Split (6 page)

Sergeant Grant Wilson hated mobile phones. He’d rather wear a pager or an archaic walkie-talkie or even a satellite dish than one of those damned devices. He was convinced that the stupid things would give him a brain tumour, but his daughter, Cherrie, said he was just a Luddite and he should get over it. But he needed one now.

He was leaving McDonald’s weighed down with a foam tray supporting an English McMuffin, hash browns and a tall Coke when the pesky thing rang. “Bloody hell…” he muttered, then hurried towards his car so he could rest his breakfast on the roof and dig around in his pockets for the phone. He didn’t consider any call on his mobile to be a good sign, especially in the morning. He figured that either Amanda was having some sort of trouble, or else Mike had something dire to tell him. He caught it on the sixth ring.

“Wilson,” he answered gruffly.

“Grant…we found another one,” came the voice on the other end. It was Mike.

Grant closed his eyes and leaned heavily against the side of his cruiser, nearly tipping the big Coke over as the vehicle shifted with his weight.

“Oh, Christ.” He exhaled and the rush of air made a strange sound in the phone. “Hang on, Mike, I’m just getting in my car.”

Grant pinched the phone between his shoulder and ear while he fished around in his pockets a second time, this time for his car keys. When he had unlocked the car and got in, he asked, “Same spot?” without really wanting to know the answer.

“Well, not exactly. Close by though. Within a coupla hundred metres. It’s a woman as well.”

“A woman,” Sergeant Wilson repeated. His eyes rested for a moment on the little laminated wallet-sized photo of he and his wife, Amanda, taken a few years earlier, before she got sick. He kept it propped up on his dashboard.

“The dogs found her,” Mike was saying. “She’s only a few weeks old, they figure. So that places her before the Walker girl but well after the other Jane Doe.”

“No identification?”

“She wasn’t wearing too much in the way of clothes considering the weather. Just jeans and a T-shirt. Couldn’t find anything in the pockets. She was a real mess.”

“I see,” Grant said. Since Susan Walker, they had discovered another two bodies. How many more would there be? “We need an expert,” he mumbled.

“What?” Mike said.

“I said, we need an expert. This is going to get uglier. I can feel it.”

Makedde popped the lid on a bottle of Visine artificial tears and tossed her head back. She raised the little clear bottle over one eye—
plop
—and then the other, and her aching dry eyes accepted the liquid gratefully.

Must sleep. Must sleep.

She wanted to be alert for the conference, and she cursed herself for not being able to get some good shut-eye the night before. There was no time for napping now—it’d have to be the trusty caffeine hit once again.

“Excuse me…”

Mak looked up. Liz Sharron, one of Dr Hare’s assistants, was standing at the lectern at the front of the room, talking into the microphone. She had been in charge of some of the organisation of the conference. She was smiling, and her red corkscrew hair bounced as she spoke.

“Dr Hare and a couple of the other speakers are running a few minutes late,” she announced. “Traffic.”
Liz rolled her eyes, ever the entertainer. “ We expect them in about twenty minutes. Sorry for the delay.”

Yup, coffee break,
Makedde decided. She went to stand, but one of her black boots stuck unexpectedly to the carpet when she got up from her seat. The corners of her mouth turned down. Something tacky was wedged in the rubber treads.

What the…?

Habib, one of the graduate students sitting near her, glanced down at Mak’s feet and said, “Yuck,” when she tentatively pulled her boot up again. She gave him a playful swat as she passed him on her way to the back of the room, moving with a limp as she walked on the heel of the offending boot. She found a quiet corner at the back and crouched down to inspect the problem. Oh great—a long, gluey string of pink chewing gum.

Wacky watermelon-flavoured Hubba Bubba.

Nice choice.

The scent of artificial fruit wafted up from the pink goo as she peeled it away, and she was just attempting to flick it off her finger when someone spoke to her.

“Hi.”

She stood up, goo in hand, and found a tall, good-looking man standing in front of her. She was pretty sure he was the one who had spoken…but to her? She had noticed him sitting near Professor Gosper. It was the tall frame and handsome profile that had
drawn her eyes. She hoped he wasn’t a friend of the professor. Did Harold Gosper even have friends? Mak thought that was pretty unlikely. If he did have any friends, she couldn’t imagine they would look like this.

The man stared at the pink goo on her hand, and said, “Oh, let me get that for you…” Then, in a flash, he was gone. He jogged over to the name tag desk, said something to the girl there and came back with a piece of paper. Gratefully, Makedde scraped the gum onto it and he scrunched it up. Her fingertips still felt sticky.

The stranger was quite tall, perhaps six foot four, with curly, light-brown hair and a handsome, even-featured face. Before Mak realised what she was doing, she had recorded the essential details—clean-shaven Caucasian male, late twenties to early thirties, brown eyes, nice build, and no wedding ring.

Gulp.

“I guess they’re running late,” he said.

“Yeah.” She studied his face for a moment while he looked at the ball of paper in his hand. She didn’t allow herself to look for too long though, lest he notice. It had been nice of this stranger to help her. She considered what to do next.

“I’m Makedde,” she said and offered her hand, then quickly pulled it back before he shook it, and offered him the less sticky one instead. “Thanks for the…umm, gum trick.”

“Don’t mention it. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Makedde,” he said, taking her clean hand in his for a firm handshake.
Strong hands
, she thought. “What a beautiful and unusual name you have.”

“Oh, thank you. People get it wrong all the time.”

“How is it spelled? I notice you decided not to wear one of those name tags.”

“I notice you didn’t either. It’s spelled M-A-K-E-D-D-E. You can see the inherent problems,” she added and rolled her eyes.

“But it is a beautiful name; no doubt worth the difficulty. I’m Roy. Roy Blake.” He was smiling as he spoke. “I’m new with the campus security here. I thought it’d be a good idea to brush up on the whole criminal element thing on my day off,” he said, and laughed. “I was told the conference should be pretty good. Are you a student here?”

“Yes. My Masters is in Forensic Psychology, so this is sort of up my alley,” Mak explained.

There was some activity towards the entrance and she turned to see Dr Hare and the missing speakers walk in.

“Oh, here they are. I’d better grab some coffee while I can,” Makedde said. “And wash my hands while I’m at it.”

They exchanged grins.

“Well, nice meeting you. Enjoy the conference.”

She turned and headed across the room, for a moment regretting that they had to part. But what she
noticed next, she regretted even more—Professor Gosper was coming her way.

All she heard Gosper say was, “Makedde, I wa—” as she rushed past him and ducked into the ladies’ room.

Luckily, in her day-to-day work on her thesis she had no contact with him, but occasionally she bumped into him on campus, or rather, he spotted her and ran her over with all the subtlety of a steam train. Their contact usually consisted of him saying something along the lines of, “I want to speak with you,” and her politely putting him off. It was only fairly recently that he had become that way with her. She wasn’t sure what had changed, but she had a hunch that he had heard about the Stiletto Murder Case. She doubted his sudden interest was of a sexual nature, and it wasn’t part of his official duties as a professor to hassle students he didn’t even teach, so what else could it be? Given half a chance, she figured, he would make a lab monkey out of her—and feel proud of himself for it.

She stayed in the ladies’ room long enough to be sure that Gosper had already returned to his seat, and when she finally came out of hiding, Dr Hare was being introduced by a visiting professor she didn’t recognise. Hurriedly, she poured her coffee, threw in a splash of milk, and forgot the sugar in her rush.

“As many of you would be aware,” the man at the lectern was saying, “psychopathy has emerged as one of the single most important clinical constructs in the
criminal justice and mental health systems of our time.” The professor was short and rotund, with a head that was so completely bald it looked like it had been spit-polished especially for the conference.

“One reason for the surge in theoretical and applied interest in the personality disorder is the development and widespread adoption of reliable and valid methods for its measurement. Dr Robert Hare, in his more than thirty-five years of groundbreaking research, has created the Hare Psychopathy Checklist, thereby finally providing researchers and clinicians with a common metric for the assessment of psychopathy. His Psychopathy Checklist has been proven to predict recidivism and violence with unprecedented accuracy, and will play a major role in the understanding and prediction of crime and violence in the future.

“Dr Hare is the author of numerous books and academic texts on the subject of psychopathy, including his popular title,
Without Conscience: The Disturbing World of the Psychopaths Among Us
…”

At this there was a muttering in the crowd. Makedde heard a young woman beside her say to her companion, “Have you read that? It’s amazing…”

“He consults with law enforcement organisations, including the FBI and RCMP, and is a member of the advisory panel established by the English Prison Service to develop new programs for the treatment of psychopathic offenders. His recent awards include the
1999 Silver Medal of the Queen Sofia Center in Valencia, Spain; the Canadian Psychological Association 2000 Award for Distinguished Applications of Psychology; the American Academy of Forensic Psychology 2001 Award for Distinguished Applications to the Field of Forensic Psychology; and the 2001 Isaac Ray Award presented by the American Psychiatric Association and the American Academy of Psychiatry and Law for Outstanding Contributions to Forensic Psychiatry and Psychiatric Jurisprudence. It is my pleasure to introduce the keynote speaker for this conference, Dr Robert Hare.”

Makedde ran over to her seat, quickly sat down and fumbled for her pen and notepaper.

Dr Hare had stepped up to the lectern. He always wore his thick grey hair in a Caesar cut and beard, and his large glasses magnified the downward sloping pale-blue eyes of a world-weary intellect. He had given countless presentations in his career, but there was still a hint of shyness about him when he took to the podium. He had a humble demeanour, and always looked slightly ruffled.

“Thanks to all of you for taking the time to come along today to learn more about psychopathy, and thank you also to the many people who worked so hard to make this conference come together. No matter what your role is today—as a student, a member of the police, someone involved in criminal law or in any of the forensic fields, or simply as a
member of the public—the subject of psychopathy is important to you. Statistically, psychopaths will affect each one of us in some way at some point in our lives. Newspapers are rife with headlines about the impact psychopaths make on our society, but even closer to home, many of us will have a relative who is unfortunate enough to have to deal with one, and many of us will have dealt with or will have to deal with psychopaths in the future ourselves. It is important for all of us to better understand the disorder and what it means in our lives.

“We estimate that one percent of the population are psychopaths. For those of you present today who are involved in the criminal justice system and its institutions, our research tells us that fifteen to twenty-five percent of the people who are incarcerated in this country are psychopaths. For our research we use the thirty-point cut-off on the PCL-R, so our criteria are quite strict. As some of you would be aware, some researchers argue that the cut-off point of twenty-five may be sufficient evidence of the disorder.

“This population of inmates does not respond in the same way to our existing treatment methods. We have not been able to effectively change their behaviour. We need to find new solutions to this problem, and indeed a colleague of mine and I have developed a program specifically targeted at these individuals.

“Before I move on, I should begin with a basic
definition of psychopathy. What is the first name that comes to mind when you think of the word ‘psychopath’?”

He looked around the room. Eventually a hand went up. The hand belonged to a well-dressed, middle-aged woman. Perhaps a health care professional.

“Ted Bundy,” she said.

“Yes. Who else?”

“Hannibal Lecter,” someone else said, and laughed. Mak didn’t catch where the voice came from.

Dr Hare smiled. “Yes, these are the types of people most strongly associated with psychopathy, and yet ‘psychopathy’ is not synonymous with ‘serial killer’ or ‘axe-wielding maniac’. The truth is, you are more likely to get fleeced by a psychopath than killed by one.”

The crowd greeted this comment with a few chuckles, and Dr Hare smiled again.

“Psychopathy is a personality disorder which is defined by a cluster of affective, behavioural and interpersonal characteristics including lack of guilt or conscience, shallow effect, shallow emotions, cold and manipulative behaviour…”

By lunchtime, Makedde was hungry and her bottom was sore from the hard seat. She had made pages and pages of notes and her pen was starting to fade, along with the feeling in her hand. She tended to doodle on her notepad when lectures or phone
conversations failed to grab her absolute attention—usually scribbling squares and chessboards—but there were no such doodles this morning. Dr Hare’s presentation was riveting, and each time she witnessed the Single Photon Emission Computerised Tomography (SPECT) scans comparing the brains of psychopaths and non-psychopaths, it sent a chill up her spine. She had heard some of Dr Hare’s initial material before, but it still gripped her every time she heard it, and the new research he revealed in the slide presentation was compelling. The functional Magnetic Resonance Imaging (fMRI) findings about psychopathic subjects not showing the appropriate activation of limbic regions during their processing of emotional words was an interesting bit of new information. Again, she wondered if the study of psychopathy was perhaps her calling. Certainly her lack of enthusiasm for her chosen thesis subject could be partially attributed to her obsession with this new area.

She couldn’t help but wonder what might have happened if the Stiletto Killer had been identified as a psychopath in the years before he began his tirade of violence against the young women of Sydney—against her friend Catherine, and against herself. Would someone have stopped him before it was too late? She wondered how much Harold Gosper knew about all that.

Mak looked back to where Gosper was seated.
She noticed that the handsome security guard was not with him but there was another young man in his spot, talking with the professor. He looked more like a body builder than a student.
I hope he’s not trying to enlist him to persuade me,
she thought dryly. Gosper must have sensed that he was being watched, because he started to turn his head and Makedde quickly looked away before he caught her eye. The last thing she wanted was to encourage him.

After lunch, various international speakers were set to present their findings on the topic, and the conference schedule for the second day looked fascinating. According to the printed handout, an FBI Profiler, Dr Bob Harris, was set to do a presentation on psychopathy and crime scene analysis. That was a topic Andy would surely be studying for his future with the New South Wales Profiling Unit.

Andy.

She hadn’t called him back. She didn’t know if she would, or should. She busied herself with some further notes, and tried to keep her mind on the subject at hand.

When she next looked up, the room was almost empty, the other attendees seeking midday sustenance outside. Of the people still milling about, Makedde recognised the student volunteers tidying things up and some of the speakers hanging around. Roy Blake,
the handsome security guard she had met earlier, was talking with one of the professors in the far corner. Gosper and his beefed-up pal were nowhere to be found.