Without Consent (21 page)

Anya stood in the forensic-science student
lab at the University of Technology in the city. Renowned for its forensic-science degree, the university had developed an excellent post-graduate research program.

The director of the degree course was a biochemist who was so passionate about the science that he was a major instigator in the World Congress of Forensic Medicine, organizing conferences in Sydney followed by Montpellier in the South of France.

Jean Le Beau was a small man with the blackest hair and dark brown eyes. He had the sort of eyelashes that mascara companies would die to promote, had they been on a woman. It was the only feminine thing about the gifted scientist. Jean was intense, and his face seemed set in a perennial frown. Anya often questioned whether supreme intelligence was a constant burden.

“Hello, Unya,” he said, in an accent that could melt the coldest heart. She knew it was shallow, but at the forensic conferences she’d been to, married women would find excuses to talk to him, just to hear his voice. His presentations were always standing-room only. Not bad for someone with relatively little charisma before he spoke.

“Do you come to teach or to learn today?”

“I have a hypothetical question, and you, or one of your students, may be able to answer it.”

Jean’s brow furrowed deeper as he pulled a stool from the lab bench and took a seat. “I am ready,” he said, as though about to start a quiz.

Anya felt like a student again, sitting at a chemistry bench. The whiteboard, sinks and gas-taps could have been at any university or high school. They were strangely comforting.

“I’ve been involved in a homicide case where a woman was repeatedly stabbed in her house. The suspect was found to have a shirt in his home with DNA that matched the blood from the crime scene. His mother tells us that the suspect had bought the shirt secondhand and that it was washed, but that the suspect had never worn it.”

“How much blood was on the shirt?”

“That’s the interesting thing. Small traces, it seems, which also appeared on another shirt confiscated from the house.”

“Ah, I see the problem. Your question is, how is this possible? Why would there be such little blood? Stabbings are messy, blood spurts everywhere. Yes?”

The scientist used his hands to emphasize the movement of blood.

Anya smiled. “Actually, I wondered if there’d been some kind of error at the lab, contamination of samples, perhaps?”

“There are other possible explanations,” he said, pulling his hands to his chest, while maintaining the frown. “The shirt from the murder may have been placed on top of the other shirts, in the laundry basket or perhaps in a cupboard. Come, we will see.”

Anya followed him along a tiled corridor with offices to each side. He kept his head down as they passed a couple of students laden with texts and backpacks.

Around the corner, he knocked on a door. The door had been wedged open, presumably for ventilation. The room was even more compact than Anya’s office at the SA unit. With shelving along one side, it had probably been a storage cupboard in earlier times.

A female with long brown hair kept off her face with an Alice-band worked at a laptop computer. “Just a minute, I need to back up.” She saved to a disc and removed it. Turning, her face broke into a warm smile. “Professor, sorry, I didn’t realize it was you.” She stood up, eager to please, it seemed.

“This is Doctor Crichton, a forensic physician who ’as an interesting case. Doctor, this is Shelly Mann, one of our honors students. She might be able to ’elp.”

In the doorway, Jean explained the scenario and Shelly’s eyes widened.

“Your research might be applied in a police case sooner than you thought,” he said, sounding for a moment like a proud father. “You should take Doctor Crichton to the testing center.”

Anya felt like she was about to attend the unveiling of a top-secret weapon. Instead, they arrived at a lab containing half-a-dozen washing machines.

Shelly’s posture straightened as she entered a more comfortable environment. Her professor excused himself for a moment and disappeared down the corridor.

“My thesis is about transfer of DNA material in the wash.” Shelly picked up a plain white T-shirt to explain. “We know it happens with spermatozoa, but the properties of blood differ. It coagulates and flakes when it dries. To start with, I bought six identical shirts and washed each one first. I pricked my finger and let some drops of blood spill onto the first shirt. I then washed the shirt with another control.”

The student spoke quickly, being so familiar with her experiments.

“After drying, some of the DNA material from the first shirt had transferred onto the second. It seemed to collect in the seams. I repeated the process and found that with further washings, smaller amounts were transferred to the other shirts. Even so, it was still discernible.”

“Blood’s pretty difficult to get out without cold water. Did you do it in hot or cold washes?”

“Both. Heat sets the stain, so I needed to use cold washes as well. Even though the stains weren’t visible to the naked eye, they showed up with luminol. I’m planning to repeat the whole process with semen.”

Anya didn’t ask about the source of the semen. It was probably the student’s long-suffering boyfriend, or one of the other students. Such was the shoestring budget for research.

She tried to absorb the information. If this were true, suspects could merely claim they had washed their clothes in a communal laundry as a form of defense. The implications were enormous. “Has your work been published yet?”

“No,” she said, “I’m still working on the conclusion to stage one with the blood-testing.”

Jean Le Beau reappeared with some papers. “Do you mind if Doctor Crichton has a look at the draft? I’ve made some comments.”

Shelly shook her head. “If this could be applied to a case already, I’d be thrilled.”

Anya thanked them both and returned to street-level. All she could think about was the DNA on the shirts owned by Geoff Willard. The pile of washing that Desiree was sorting was more than you’d expect for two people. If she used the machine at Lillian Willard’s home, it made sense that she did some of their washing, too.

Outside, she hastily dialled Hayden Richards. His phone diverted to voicemail.

“Hayden, please call me. It’s urgent. Geoffrey Willard really could be innocent. You should be looking at his cousin, Nick, and Desiree’s husband, Luke Platt, before more evidence washes away.”

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”
Meira Sorrenti almost spat the words.

Anya unlocked her front door, frowning and glancing over her shoulder at a mother and toddler walking along holding hands. “We should discuss this inside. I don’t just work here, this is my home.” She’d watched the little girl trying to avoid stepping on the lines of the footpath before being distracted by Sorrenti’s outburst.

The detective came as close as possible to Anya, speaking through gritted teeth. Everything about her approach was meant to be intimidating. So far, it was effective.

“You stay the hell out of my investigation, or I’ll charge you with obstructing justice.”

Sorrenti obviously didn’t know how ridiculous she was being. Anya clenched her fists by her side and decided it was better to let the woman vent before tackling her with logic. The mother and child quickly crossed the road and hurried away. Sorrenti remained oblivious, it seemed.

“Richards ordered a tail on Nick Hudson. What the fuck’s that about? My men are wasting time when we’ve already got the guy who raped and killed Liz Dorman.”

She began to pace along the path, hands in her suit pants. “Do you have any idea how much of the budget has just been blown on this fucking joke? What are you up to? Trying to get me sacked so Richards can get back into the job?”

“I’m trying to save you from making a serious mistake.” Anya instantly regretted her choice of words.

“Funny, from where I stand you’re trying pretty bloody hard to make a fool out of me.”

She came closer again. Anya chose to remain on the doorstep, giving herself the slightest height advantage.

“This is about finding the truth. And if you go to court with the evidence you have against Geoff Willard, you’ll be making sure he gets acquitted. Is that what you want?”

“Don’t turn this on me. I want to nail the prick. I saw what he did to that woman. And we’ve got DNA evidence to place him at the scene. End of story.”

Anya waved hello to “Mrs. Bugalugs,” as Ben and Martin called the next-door neighbor, who had conveniently come outside to check her letterbox even though the postman delivered much later in the day. Despite claiming to be deaf and blind, the nosy woman managed to appear at the first sign of visitors or noise.

The elderly neighbor’s presence seemed to affect the detective.

“The DNA evidence you have is dubious. The distribution doesn’t fit with an attack and it’s on more than one shirt.”

“So?”

“So, even a first-year law student would blow your case out of the water. Science can make a case, but it can more often than not destroy one.”

“Is that what you and that Slater bitch are doing? You’re so desperate to make names for yourselves you’ll prove Willard didn’t do it at any cost. Oh, and going on TV news was a pretty gutless way to let us all know where you stood.”

Being linked with Veronica Slater made bile rise in Anya’s chest. The idea of colluding with the woman to further her career was nothing less than disgusting. Anya felt like hitting something—hard. Slater’s head came to mind first. Sorrenti came a close second. She tried to control her anger and opened and closed her fists.

“Detective, I think we should—”

“Stop there! There is no ‘we.’” Sorrenti’s face looked ready to explode. “You have nothing to do with this case. I don’t want you involved. You’re poison. You may have already shafted Alf Carney, but you sure as hell won’t screw me over.”

She swung around down the path, stopping to call “Have a good day” to Mrs. Bugalugs, who responded with a grin and a wave.

Then she stopped at the end of the path and announced, “Oh yeah, and Nick Hudson is threatening us with a harassment suit. His lawyer mentioned your name, too.”

Anya leaned against the door, feeling like she’d just gone a few rounds in a boxing ring. Inside, the phone rang and she wearily pushed open the wooden door. There was no sign of Elaine; she must have been at the post-office.

Anya’s hands were shaking when she picked up the receiver. The museum wanted her to know that the DNA on Nick Hudson’s dog had been analyzed. It didn’t match the animal hair found on the body of Eileen Randall.

There was nothing to connect Nick Hudson with the murder.

Anya slumped onto the waiting-room lounge. Maybe Meira Sorrenti had been right. She
was
searching for holes in the Randall murder because Alf Carney had done the autopsy. Despite the doubts she had about the time of death, it was still entirely possible that Geoff Willard had raped and killed the girl and then done the same to Liz Dorman.

The last thing she needed was a lawsuit. She tried to convince herself that Geoffrey was the serial offender, but something inside niggled. The supposed love-letter and photo from Melanie Havelock and the woman killed while he was in prison didn’t fit at all. And why did Louise Richardson describe her attacker’s hand as having a sort of stipe on it? She decided to go back to the start and review the evidence she’d taken in the sexual-assault cases, in case she’d missed something—anything.

When Anya arrived at the SA unit, Mary
Singer was sitting at her computer, frowning. Her tousled hair was more uncontrolled than normal.

“I was just about to call you. Have you seen today’s papers?”

Current news was the last thing on Anya’s mind this morning. She shook her head.

“There’s an article in the
Herald
about a victim’s photographs being posted onto a rapists’ website.”

“The poor woman,” Anya said. “What country?”

Mary looked over her granny glasses.

“Anya, it has to have come from one of our units.”

Phones rang unanswered.

“We’ve had victims calling all morning, checking to see if it was their photos.”

This was exactly why Anya thought photos should never be taken. A black and white pencil drawing of genitals held little interest for pedophiles and sex offenders. A scandal like this would do irreparable damage to the unit and the trust they had all worked so hard to establish with victims and the community. She had no doubt that the number of people presenting would rapidly diminish.

“There isn’t much we can do until the police have done their computer checks and tracking. I’ll be in my office.”

Mary returned to the computer. There was nothing else to say until the source of the leak had been identified.

Anya hid in her bunker for over two hours. For once, the space felt more like a sanctuary than a cubby-hole. She appreciated that no one wanted to spend time in there unnecessarily. It gave her the chance to think and go over the evidence that had bothered her until now. There had to be something she was missing. Something obvious.

Desiree Platt’s comments about pain and love still bothered her. Had she come into contact with the rapist as a friend or victim? Nick mentioned that she stayed over when her partner worked or was away. Maybe she’d been attacked and was too afraid to be alone? Or she could have been carrying on with Nick Hudson while her husband was gone? How many friends who might have used the phrase were back at Fisherman’s Bay?

The victim named Dell she’d met up there had said that most men worked at the nickel mine. That could mean a huge pool of men to draw on, and it would be difficult to trace many of them twenty years down the track.

She tried another angle and phoned the government’s analytical laboratory. The number of rapes in which a condom was used was rapidly on the rise, possibly because of rapists’ fear of sexually transmitted infection. More likely, it was so the offender didn’t leave biological fluids at the scene.

For each assault case, forensic physicians at the unit had taken an extra swab in case a condom lubricant could be identified. Another of Jean Le Beau’s students had done groundbreaking work on identification of specific condom lubricants. Each manufacturer had its own formula, which was like a chemical fingerprint. Isolating the brand might just help catch the rapist.

After being transferred, she spoke to the head biochemist, Ethan Gormley. With the names and dates of the cases, he checked his computer.

“You were right,” he said. “Each slide you took had the same kind of silicone-based lubricant, which means—”

“He used the same brand each time.”

Anya listened. Serial rapists who used condoms commonly used the same brand. As far as most people were concerned, one brand equalled any other, but apparently not to some rapists.

“Exactly. It’s an imported one called Fluidity, for originality.”

“Thanks, Ethan. Can you email the results?”

She wondered about the assault on Eileen Randall. Twenty years ago, had the same brand existed? What were the chances?

A piercing series of bleeps interrupted her thoughts.

Before picking up the pager, she automatically pulled the papers together in a pile. One leak from an SA unit was bad enough, and interruptions were how people got distracted and left rooms without putting things away.

She checked the number, which, oddly, was the hospital switch. Ordinarily, they put calls through to the unit secretary.

“There’s an outside call,” the operator said. After a click, Hayden Richards’ voice rasped.

“Can we meet? It’s urgent.”

“Look, Sorrenti made it pretty clear—”

“I heard, but I’ve got some information you may want to hear.”

Anya sighed. “Where are you now?”

“Outside your unit. You can practically wave to me.”

The cloak-and-dagger charades were beyond a joke. Anya didn’t have the patience, not today, not ever. First Sorrenti, now Richards being childish.

“Talk to your colleague and leave me out of it!” She slammed down the phone. Within a moment she had left her office, locked her door and stomped off toward the detective.

As she walked down the path she could barely control her irritation. “What puerile games are you people playing?”

“Good thing I phoned first to calm you down.” Hayden put both hands up. “Hey, I wanted to protect you from any more of the crap Sorrenti pulls.”

Anya stopped and took a few deep breaths. “I don’t need protecting, thanks all the same. And you can sort whatever problem you have with her yourself. Leave me out of it.”

“There’s already been a lot of shit going on in the department, and Sorrenti’s under pressure to slam-dunk Willard and move on to any number of serial cases that are still on the books. After the photo scandal, it looks like she’ll be sacrificed to the media before the end of the week. The Commissioner’s already making moves.”

“But that was a Department of Health directive.”

“Yeah, but she’s in charge of protecting evidence in SA cases. And her arrest rate isn’t impressing anyone.”

Protecting digital photo images should have been a computing issue, but that was not Anya’s fight. “So why the secretive phone call?”

“Think about it. The Independent Commission Against Corruption is investigating how those pictures got released. It’s tapping all our phones, so I rang the hospital switch. I could have been making an appointment to get my prostate checked. After Sorrenti’s rampage, I wasn’t sure whether it was safe for a cop to just walk in on you.”

Anya noticed the sunshine for the first time in days. It felt good to be outside, in a fresh breeze. “Let’s walk.”

They strolled along a path, down past the entrance to casualty. An ambulance rolled along the road, diverting to deliver its load. Hayden seemed more tense than normal. “We’ve had the dogs on Nick Hudson.”

“Sorrenti told me you’d ordered surveillance. She didn’t seem too happy about that either.”

“Yeah, well, I had to go over her head for approval. My butt’s on the line for this one.”

Great, Anya thought. Now her decisions affected someone else’s career. A blue-green parrot flew past them, barely missing a car slowing for a speed-bump. Students carried bags and textbooks on their way to lessons. An elderly man stood by a tree, smoking the last dregs of a hand-rolled cigarette. The sickly tobacco wafted uninvited in their direction.

Hayden seemed to pause to inhale.

“I forgot you’d given up.”

“It’s like being an alcoholic. You still take one day at a time, but sometimes the cravings get pretty strong.”

For the first time, Hayden appeared vulnerable, more human than ever. It made her a little uncomfortable.

“Anything on Nick turn up?”

“He fits the rapist’s profile. His aunt may look small, but she rules that household. She’s a domineering woman in his life. Apart from under-the-table pub work, he’s unemployed so has time to stalk and doesn’t have to be up early in the mornings. Lots of free time on his hands.”

Anya remembered the fingernails. “What about his hand?”

“His hand didn’t have two skin tones. I looked for that when we were at the house. He spends time with that woman Desiree and her husband, Luke Platt. And get this, Platt has a job. He’s a taxidermist. Stuffs fish for a living.”

Anya thought of Brown-Eye and the grotesque cat in attack-pose they’d seen on Liz Dorman’s mantelpiece. “What about dogs and cats?”

“I did some checking and the Dorman woman had hers done by a company Luke Platt used to work for.”

The breeze picked up, sending dust swirling in their pathway. Both turned their faces to avoid hurting their eyes. A car alarm sounded in the background, which everyone seemed to have no trouble ignoring.

“What about his skin?”

“Thought about that. He’s done time in prison for fraud and petty theft. Charge sheet says he’s got a tattoo of a dog’s head on his right hand. Pretty much rules him out. Besides, he’s used to working up and down the coast and surveillance has seen him with Hudson and says he’s pretty tanned. His credit-card records show he was away on a job the night of Dorman’s killing. He spent the night in a motel down the south coast. I’m beginning to think the eye-witness accounts are unreliable.”

“Not necessarily,” Anya said. In her experience, rape victims were incredibly aware and observant given the smallest window of opportunity. There had to be a logical explanation for what the women saw.

They veered off the path, past an emaciated woman in a wheelchair. The woman sat, eyes closed, in the sun. For a moment, Anya considered checking for a pulse until she saw one of the slippered feet move. The breezed picked up and another gust brought more dust. They waited until it settled.

Hayden began, “Nick Hudson is still my pick for being involved in the Dorman murder, if not the rapes as well. When Leonie Turnbull, that trainee doctor, was killed, he was visiting some mate up north, not far from where she died.”

“What’s the taxidermy link?”

“Maybe his friend, Platt, has a big mouth? Maybe Nick helped out in the business sometimes, for cash. No tax record of him ever working. Shit, we’ve got to be missing something here.”

“Who wrote the love-letter to Geoffrey Willard with Melanie’s photo? You still haven’t explained that.”

Hayden shrugged his shoulders and shoved his hands in his baggy trouser-pockets. From a couple of steps behind, it looked as though his backside lay flush with his spine.

“I know. There’s a lot I can’t explain.”

“When you searched the Willard home, did you find any packs of condoms?”

“We don’t usually put them on search warrants. It’s the used ones we’re after. Why do you ask?”

Anya chose an empty bench to stop at. They both sat and waited for a group of nurses to file past.

“This morning I phoned the lab, to chase the smears for each of our rape victims. The lab has matched the lubricant used in each case. If you can match the condom brand in the house, you’d have something stronger to go on.”

Hayden stared at his shoes. “Hang on, does this guy take time to use a lubricant during the rapes?”

“Sorry, I didn’t explain. Almost every condom sold in this country comes already lubricated. The manufacturers put it on to stop the latex getting stuck to itself. It also helps stop it perishing, but not indefinitely. That’s why the packs have use-by dates on them. The labs matched the lubricant in a brand called ‘Fluidity.’”

“Well, guess we’d better go condom-hunting.”

The pair stood and headed back toward the unit.

“Why the frown, doc? You still don’t look happy.”

Anya couldn’t understand why they had only seen three women who had been attacked in the same way. A serial rapist like this one usually performed many more assaults than this. However, it was possible that he had done, and many had gone unreported.

“I’ve checked with the other SA units in the state. If the rapist, whoever he is, has attacked at least three women in the last few weeks, why haven’t we seen a lot more cases, before and since? Has he just moved here? If so, where’s he been, and why haven’t we seen any more with the same pattern?”

Hayden nodded. “That’s bothering me, too. If Geoff Willard didn’t rape and kill that girl twenty years ago, then someone’s been out there for a long time cooling their heels, only to surface the same time Willard gets released.”

“Then the murder of that young doctor, Leonie Turnbull, when Willard was in prison, was the offender’s big mistake.”

“Yeah, at this rate it looks like it’s the only one he’s made. If finding a brand of condom in his house is the only evidence we can manage, we’re stuffed. Whoever raped and killed those girls is smart. And from where I stand, he’s way smart enough to get away with it.”