Without Consent (23 page)

Morgan Tully listened to Anya’s plea,
but sat at her desk, stony-faced.

“I appreciate what you’re saying, but the area doesn’t have the funds to go chasing cases that were closed decades ago. We’re struggling to keep up with the samples taken from current crime.”

She pushed back her chair, stood up and closed the office door. “It can take eight months to process a sexual-assault kit as it is. I’m afraid this isn’t a priority.”

Anya put the brown paper bags on the desk. Judging by Morgan’s response—a sneezing spasm—she was allergic to dust. When Charlie Boyd souvenired them after the trial, the world forgot about them—until now. It had not been the first time that a policeman had squirrelled evidence from a trial away, particularly in the biggest case of his career. Thankfully, he had been forthcoming, believing that Willard’s guilt could be proved with modern science. The retired policeman had not considered the possibility of science exonerating an innocent man.

“These have been kept in a police-officer’s shed for twenty years, while Geoffrey Willard served time for a crime he probably didn’t commit. There’s at least enough doubt to hold another inquest.”

Morgan took a tissue from the counter and turned away to wipe her nose. “You need to talk to the DPP.”

Anya had already tried that. The official line from the office of the director of public prosecutions was that a jury had convicted Geoffrey Willard on the basis of evidence, motive and opportunity. Since DNA hadn’t been operational back then, he had not been wrongly convicted based on DNA evidence.

She had hit a brick wall. They wouldn’t test Eileen Randall’s clothing unless someone else was found guilty of the Dorman and Turnbull murders. By that time, the killer would be serving two life sentences. It would be a waste of time testing the Randall evidence because no one would spend money trying a killer for another murder if it made no real difference to the sentence he would serve. Crime and justice were about money and practicality.

Twenty years might have been wrongfully stolen from Geoff Willard’s life, but nobody cared because it was in the past. He would have a better chance of being exonerated if he were still in jail for that crime.

“The DPP don’t want anything to do with it,” she admitted.

Morgan sat down again. “I can see why. I’d need a better reason to hold another inquest into Randall’s death.” She clasped her hands, as though about to pass judgment. “Do the family want it?”

Anya stood head down with both palms flat on the desk. “There’s no family that we know of.”

“I see.”

“There are two other murders with similar pattern injuries, one of which was committed while Geoffrey was in jail. If Barry Lerner’s DNA turns up on this underwear,” she put her hand on the dirty bag, “it’ll go a hell of a way to proving Lerner’s guilt in the recent murder too.”

“And therefore Willard’s innocence.”

The coroner pushed the bags to the edge of the desk and wiped her hands on another tissue. “And therein lies the problem.”

“Pardon?” Anya lifted her head, confused.

“After serving twenty years in prison for a crime he didn’t commit, then being rearrested for another crime—again, that he didn’t commit? Imagine the compensation.”

Finally, Anya understood. Conveniently, exonerating Willard was a low priority, which also saved the government millions of dollars and extreme embarrassment. How could she have been so naïve?

“I can’t hold an inquest until you have something more substantial on the Dorman killing.”

“How about another body? Maybe, if we’re lucky, the killer will stab someone else.”

Morgan took a deep breath. “Don’t do this to yourself. The system isn’t perfect and never will be. With people like you on the job, there will be fewer people going through what Geoffrey Willard has endured.”

That wasn’t much consolation. If testing was about money, she had a better idea. “How about I wipe the bill for my reports on the Carney cases?”

The coroner sneezed again and delicately dabbed the tip of her nose.

“That should just about cover the cost of examining the clothes, I’d say,” Anya persisted.

Both women smiled and understood.

Anya reached over and shook the older woman’s hand. “I owe you for this one.”

“Take those dusty bags off my desk and we’ll be even.”

Back at the SA unit, Anya felt victorious. Finally, something was going in a positive direction. Then she saw Mary Singer’s solemn face.

“Did you get my message?”

Anya checked her mobile phone. She’d forgotten to charge it overnight. “Sorry, it’s flat.” With annoyance she realized that in her haste to see Morgan Tully, she’d left her pager at home as well.

“There’s a woman in the waiting room. She’s been here two hours and hasn’t said a word. It’s like she’s catatonic.”

Anya followed the counsellor to a room filled with lounge chairs. It served as a waiting room and was used for counselling sessions as needed.

A young blonde woman sat staring out the window. Dressed in trackpants and a windcheater, she had her bare feet on the chair, knees pulled up to her chin. The disturbing thing was how she rocked. Not much, but repeatedly.

Outside the door, Mary whispered, “She’s been like this since she got here.”

“Do we have a name?”

“Her license says Emily Mirivac. She’s eighteen.”

Anya entered the room first, and knelt down on the floor in front of the young woman.

“Emily, my name is Anya. I’m a doctor, and I’d like to help you.”

Emily stopped rocking and turned her face toward Anya. A bruise on the left side took in part of her eye, but most of the impact had been taken by the cheekbone.

“That looks sore.” Anya shifted her weight onto the other knee and reached over to a bar-fridge. In the freezer section she pulled out a gel ice-pack and wrapped some paper towel around it from the tea-tray on top.

“This might help,” she offered, and Emily made eye-contact. As she took the ice-pack, their hands touched, and it was enough to break Emily’s emotionally frozen state. The young woman blinked back tears.

“Will you pray with me?” were the first words she spoke.

Anya flicked a look at Mary, who had sat down in a chair across the room.

All three women bowed their heads and Emily asked for forgiveness for what she had done, and the strength to go on. Anya wondered what she had done to the person who attacked her.

She concluded with “Amen,” and the two others in the room echoed the sentiment.

“Emily, can you tell us what happened?” Anya moved to a position next to the teenager and tried to straighten her stiff knees.

Clutching the ice-pack with one hand and Anya’s with the other, she began to explain. “Mum and Dad had gone away for a couple of nights, on a church camp. My little brother was staying with a friend. I got home from scripture at about nine-thirty. I remember locking the doors before bed. Next thing I knew, I couldn’t breathe. There was someone on top of me, holding me down.”

She squeezed Anya’s fingers tighter.

“He hurt me. I was so scared, I didn’t move. I told him I was saving myself for marriage.” She blinked a few times and a lone tear escaped down her purple-red cheek.

“He raped me,” she managed, “and told me it was for my own good. He said that if I can’t be hurt, I can’t be loved.”

With Emily’s permission, Anya phoned
Meira Sorrenti after the examination. It took less than half an hour for her to arrive with Hayden Richards.

They chose to interview Emily in the same room in which the young woman had sat to steel herself for what lay ahead, and sat down to wait.

While Emily finished showering and speaking to Mary, Anya took the opportunity to brief the detectives.

“This one’s got all the hallmarks of the others. Same kind of vaginal tear, same saying, and the knife mark on the clavicle. She’s pretty small and slight, so the mark isn’t continuous. But it looks like the same weapon was used.”

“Did you get a photo?” Meira spoke and then bit her lip.

“Not this time, no.” With the chance of any images being leaked, Anya refused to photograph any more injuries. “I’ve measured it and recorded it on a diagram.”

Hayden was surprisingly quiet and let Sorrenti take the lead.

“Fucking Lerner,” Sorrenti said, rocking on her toes.

Hayden added, “Surveillance didn’t pick him up until this morning. It was almost as if he knew. Platt and his wife swear they didn’t say anything to him, but he’s got to be smart enough to know why you were sniffing around their place.”

Meira pulled a face. “My guess is Platt spilt her guts.”

Hayden smiled. “By the way, we found the condoms in Lerner’s garage. And it looks like we got the weapon that killed Liz Dorman. It’s fairly new and had been cleaned, but there were still traces of blood on it, mostly up near the handle.”

“What kind of knife?” Anya asked.

“Boning, really pointy blade. He’s our boy, for sure.”

Meira stuck her hands in her pockets, like a child caught stealing from the lolly jar. “Looks like you were right about Willard,” she said. “Lerner has been round at Lillian Willard’s home. He could have hidden the bloodied knife in the laundry basket, or even wiped it clean with Geoff’s shirt.”

Anya knew that was the closest thing to an apology that the detective was capable of giving. There was no point holding a grudge.

“You surprised me the way you still looked into the anomalies.”

Meira flicked her fringe and shifted uncomfortably. “I may be gullible and pig-headed, but I’m definitely not stupid.”

“Agreed.” Both women smiled.

Emily entered the corridor and appeared more child than adult. Her frame seemed more delicate silhouetted in the light. Anya excused herself to let the detectives take their statement.

Thinking about how Emily’s world had forever changed, she desperately hoped that Lerner would be stopped before he hurt or killed again. She found herself saying a silent prayer, just in case God was listening.

The detectives reappeared. Hayden took a call on his mobile in the corridor and signalled for Anya to wait. She walked further away, not wanting to eavesdrop.

“Shit,” he said, rubbing his mouth. “That was the lab. There are two types of blood on the knife. One is Liz Dorman’s, but the other doesn’t belong to Lerner.”

Anya considered, “So, either he’s not the killer…”

“Or there’s been another victim, only we haven’t found her yet. My money’s on the rape victim who withdrew her statement and hasn’t been seen since.”

Sorrenti began to dial. “We’d better liaise with homicide and pick this bastard up.”

Anya parked her car and dragged her
green bag full of milk, vegetables and bread through the front door, automatically locking it once inside. Her body relaxed when she realized Elaine had left for the evening. Right now, she didn’t feel like talking to anyone. No one asking about her day or offering sympathy for what she had seen. With soft light streaming through the lounge-room window, there was still time to just enjoy the peace and quiet before darkness fell. Ben would arrive after dinner for another weekend, and there’d be noise, cuddles and laughter in her house. She couldn’t wait.

After unpacking the shopping, she kicked off her shoes and sifted through her mail on the lounge. Bills, more bills and a letter from her brother, Damien, in England. The rest could wait, along with email and phone messages. For once, she wasn’t on call and was happy to let someone else deal with whatever presented to the SA unit.

With stockinged feet tucked up beneath her, she read the letter and couldn’t help it when her smile burst into a laugh. Damien had a wonderful way with words and could make the most boring anecdote about being lost in London sound like a thrilling adventure. She missed him, and wondered about what his letters didn’t say. There was nothing about a girlfriend, or his social life. He talked about his work as a forensic scientist, but the absence of anything personal made her think he was lonely. She’d give him a few hours for work to start in England and then call, once she had put Ben to bed.

She checked her watch and switched on the TV with the remote control. A game-show caught her attention for only a moment. It was much better without sound. Light fading, she decided to have a quick shower and freshen up.

As she undressed, a vague image of Barry Lerner came to her. She went over the facts in her mind. The knife with Elizabeth Dorman’s blood was pretty damning. She could only imagine how the women felt when he surprised them. Did fear stop them from fighting? Melanie Havelock must have been paralyzed with fear to stay in the bedroom while he helped himself to dinner. Knowing the police had him under arrest meant women would sleep better tonight. She just hoped that this time they did have the right man. Why he raped and returned to kill only two women gave her a frisson of uneasiness, though.

With the gas water-heater set to forty-two degrees Celsius, she turned on the hot tap. Steaming water surged over her flexed shoulders and neck.

She thought about the effect Lerner had had on so many people’s lives. Ever since the assault, Melanie had showered in a swimsuit, too afraid to be naked. Jodie Davis had sold her house and disappeared with the family, possibly to the US. Louise Richardson might never again work in her chosen profession.

Steam fogged up the shower screen. With the tap on full, water cascaded over Anya’s skin. The heat stung, but the sensation felt like a pulsing massage. The fine line between pleasure and pain, she thought. Far different from having to be hurt to feel love.

Every muscle felt fatigued, like she’d run a marathon. Thank God she’d reached the finish line. She closed her eyes and savored the time to herself.

The list of Lerner’s victims just kept getting longer. Crime had a ripple effect, which spread through the whole community. There was never just one victim. Lerner had irrevocably changed the lives of the victims’ families and friends. It was like an irreversible chemical reaction. No one could ever go back to how they were before he had struck. The lives of the investigating police had changed as well. Anyone dealing with the effects of Lerner’s attacks would remember the case for years to come.

There was nothing more she could do except focus on Ben. With rain predicted, they could spend all day inside playing games like Battleship and Mousetrap. And she could deliberately lose the Concentration card game—not by too much, but so it looked close. Even small children loved to beat a worthy opponent. The thought made her grin with pride.

Out of the shower, she quickly slipped into the blue pencil skirt she had bought on their last shopping expedition. It wasn’t overly practical, but her son liked the color and feel of the wool. On top of her bra she pulled a loose jumper, another of his favorites, and her ugg boots. At last she felt warm.

Facing the mirror, she threw her head forward to toweldry her hair and froze when she saw the shoes behind her. A man blocked the doorway.

Pulse racing, she flicked her head back and clutched the towel in her hands. The heat and sudden movement made the room fade in and out for a moment.

“Turn around slowly! Don’t think about trying anything,” he said, playing with something metal in his hand.

She turned to face him, trying to stem the rising panic. He raised his eyes, which she saw beneath the black cap. She had seen that face somewhere before.

“I’ve been watching,” he smirked, letting his eyes roam down to her legs and back to her chest. “You’ve got a great-looking body.”

He’d been there while she showered. God. The adrenalin surge made her want to be sick. But she had to think. Quickly. The small en suite only had one door and no real escape options. A hairdryer was the only possible weapon.

As if anticipating her next move, he revealed what looked like a crucifix on a chain in his hand and pressed a button so she could see. A long blade released, just like the one she’d described to Hayden; the one that left the marks on his victims. Jesus, he wore the knife around his neck.

Heart pounding, she made a split-second decision. She wrapped the towel around her left arm.

He laughed. “What do you plan to do with that? Dry me to death?”

She clenched her left hand around the end of the towel. If this didn’t work, he’d try to stab her. The towel might cushion the blow. She nervously waited for the right moment.

He stood staring, and took a step forward.

Right then, Anya grabbed the hairspray from the bench, lunged with all her strength, spraying at his face. With the other arm she hit out at the knife. All she needed was the chance to get away.

The force made him stumble back. He grabbed at his eyes. She ran toward the open bedroom door. The stairs were only feet away.

Suddenly, her head whipped backward as pain shot through her scalp.

He twisted her hair to get a better grip. “You stupid bitch!”

Anya clawed at his hand, desperate for him to let go. Unaffected, he dragged her along the floorboards, back into the room. Toward the bed.

Jesus! He was going to rape her! She knew she was helpless on her back, and flipped over onto her knees. He breathed hard but couldn’t swing a hand to hit with her so close. She couldn’t see the knife and struggled to her feet.

With one movement, he picked her up and flipped her onto the bed. Before she could resist, he was sitting on her chest, knees pressed hard on her upper arms. She had to fight to breathe and gasped small amounts of air.

His face distorted with rage and he slammed a fist down hard on her chest, forcing what little air was inside her lungs to escape.

Then she saw the knife again and braced herself.