The Kristina Melina Omnibus: First Kill, Second Cut, Third Victim Page 13

  ‘It’s always a possibility.’

  Frank was clearly unimpressed. He threw his head back and forth, and gave me his best performance in five years. ‘For Christ’s sake, Melina, listen to what you’re saying. Teresa trashed her apartment, decapitated her husband, killed Walter Dunn and made it look like a suicide. But wait. To make it even more convincing, she beat and scratched herself in every possible place, and even managed to insert Walter Dunn’s semen in her vagina. But, if that’s not convincing enough, why not go the extra mile and add a finishing touch? Why not insert a squash ball up her arse? Hell, why not?’

  For the first time since he came through the door, I felt at a loss.

  ‘But...’ I muttered, stepping back a couple of metres. I knew he would never do it, but it felt as if he was going to hit me.

  ‘But what? Don’t you think if Teresa had wanted to kill her husband, she would have simply shot him or run over him with a car? Or at least try to make it look like an accident? Or hire a hitman? Does this strike you as a common way to get rid of a spouse? Come on, Melina, give me a break!’

  I felt heat on my cheeks. Being made into a fool wasn’t my favourite pastime. Frank’s logic was hard to deny. His argument stood ten feet tall, while mine could hardly reach my ankles. But I didn’t tell him Teresa had been seeing Walter for nearly a year. For now, I thought the information would better be kept to myself.

  I wiped the perspiration from my forehead with the back of my hand. ‘I don’t know any more,’ I said, now truly confused and overworked. ‘I’m only trying to do what’s right.’ I let tears, which I’d held back for the last five minutes, stream down my face.

  He froze for a few seconds, not knowing how to react. He seemed embarrassed by my crying. But it wasn’t what he said which made me cry. I’d felt extremely sensitive in the past few days, and his timing was bad. It would only have been a matter of time before something would have triggered my outburst.

  After watching me for half a minute, he stepped forward and placed one hand on my cheek. ‘Let it go, Melina,’ he said tenderly, ‘just let it go. It’s all over.’

  I looked up at him and forced a smile.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  At around 8.30 p.m. on Friday night, on my way back from Parkmore Shopping Centre, I got caught in torrential rain somewhere between Clayton South and East Bentleigh. With the rain and the darkness, visibility was virtually zero, so I pulled over to the side of the road, heading straight into a large pool of water. The engine flooded, and when I tried to start it over and over, I flattened the battery.

  Because my car was standing on a forty-five degree angle in the middle of the left lane, other cars had to diverge slightly to the on-coming lane to get around me. I didn’t want to stay in the car. As much as I loved my Lancer, with poor road visibility someone might have run up its back, sending me flying through the windscreen and into the wet bitumen. Thank God, I had my mobile phone with me. I managed to call the Royal Automotive Club of Victoria (RACV) to my rescue. It took me a while to explain where the hell I was.

  ‘It won’t take long, Ms Melina,’ the RACV operator said at the end of the line. ‘One of our service vans will be there within the next hour.’

  I must have got the extended version of one hour because I stood in the pouring rain for well over an hour and a half on Old Dandenong Road, in the middle of nowhere. The area was creepy and dark, sending shivers rippling down my back.

  The battery on my mobile phone was low, and I was scared to damage it under the pouring rain. I tucked it under my jacket but couldn’t protect it fully from the raging torrent.

  My hair and clothes were stuck to my cold skin, and I swore that if I came out of this alive, I was going to catch the worst double-pneumonia ever. I dreaded having to spend the next few days in bed because, frankly, I hadn’t the time, nor the desire. My life was currently switched to high gear, and any distractions would only confuse me more than I already was. And since I could feel myself slowly sinking into a depression, like someone trapped in quicksand, getting sick would assure a fast way to the bottom of the pit.

  Now and then, a vehicle drove carefully around my car, avoiding the pool of water which trapped me in this purgatory in the first place. I wondered if anyone was going to stop and ask me if they could help.

  But car after car drove past as if I was nothing more than a tree, perfectly happy to be soaking in all the water from heaven above.

  What has the world come to?

  On the other hand, maybe it was a good thing no one bothered with me. My mind had nothing better to do than imagine thousands of scenarios of how a lunatic out there would finally pull over, ask me if I was okay, pull a knife and cut me open like a pig.

  But to my relief, the yellow RACV patrol car arrived at the top of the hill. By then, the rain had eased, and I could even see stars in the sky.

  I was soaked from head to toe, convinced this incident was going to send my chest cold into a new level of complication.

  ‘What’s up,’ he said as he come out of the car and moved towards me.

  ‘Jesus, am I glad to see you.’

  He was in his mid-thirties and well-built. His drenched, blue shirt stuck to his front and back. ‘You wouldn’t guess how many people have being telling me this for the past hour,’ he said, wiping the excess water from his face.

  He explained how many vehicles broke down in this weather. He’d been standing under the pouring rain longer than I had, his head buried under various bonnets, rescuing people from their misery, and in return, feeling miserable himself.

  ‘I thought you guys were issued raincoats,’ I commented, realising how cold he must have been with only his shirt on.

  ‘They’re part of our winter wardrobe. We haven’t received them yet.’

  I guessed it was bad luck during those spring and summer downpours.

  Half an hour later, I was home, feeling unusually warm but exhausted.

  When I stepped out of the shower and headed for the kitchen, I noticed the red light flashing on my answering machine.

  One message, it told me.

  John Darcy had some news.

  ‘I’ve got a copy of the autopsy report you wanted on Walter Dunn. Give me a call when you can so we can make a time to discuss it, preferably after hours.’

  I checked my watch; 11.04 p.m. I found it inappropriate to call him so late. Unlike Frank Moore, John Darcy had a family. I’d hated his wife to think I was the other woman.

  I called him at 8.00 a.m. on Saturday instead.

  We agreed to meet at his place for lunch.

  Frank Moore and I had already performed a preliminary examination on Walter Dunn at the crime scene. The formal examination of the dead body took place during the autopsy at the Victorian Institute of Forensic Medicine, home of the city mortuary.

  The autopsy of Walter Dunn involved not only an external examination, which we had partly conducted at the crime scene, but also an internal examination by means of a dissection. A DNA test had also been conducted for further reference if required.

  As far as Frank and I had initially concluded, Walter Dunn did commit suicide. But further forensic examination and laboratory analysis might have showed otherwise.

  I sat behind John Darcy’s home office desk, a mug of black coffee in my right hand, waiting for him to flick through the autopsy report, a bunch of documents and photographs neatly packaged in a large yellow envelope.

  Across the window of the study, the sky was covered in clouds, and John’s kids were playing tag in the backyard. They seemed happy and full of life. It made me wonder what happened as we got older, how everything suddenly became so serious, how we forgot to enjoy simple things, like running around, playing ball, and taking everything one day at a time. It also brought to mind flashes of my childhood. I had never been happy as a child.

  I turned back to John.

  He nodded to himself, as if he was having an internal conversation between the right and left side o
f his brain, while curling his blond beard with his thumb and forefinger.

  ‘So,’ I said impatiently, ‘you’re going to let me in on this?’

  He jolted on his chair as if he had forgotten I was in the room.

  ‘You were right,’ he said, his voice dead-pan. ‘Something is wrong with this case.’

  I wanted to smile, but I saved it for myself. About time something went my way.

  He handed me, over the desk, a few pages from the report and added, ‘The gun shot wound to his temple is not typical of a suicide.’

  That was what I had hoped for.

  I read through the section describing the gun shot wound.

  The wound on Walter’s temple was from a distant shot, probably more than fifteen inches, making it virtually impossible for the victim to have killed himself. If Walter had shot himself, he would have done it at close range and therefore leave traces of gunpowder on his skin. The absence of gunpowder from the full metal jacketed bullet, designed to penetrate its target without expansion, and the angle of the wound indicated he was shot by someone standing a couple of meters to his side, at an angle of approximately thirty-five to forty-five degrees.

  At the crime scene, I concluded the absence of gunpowder around the gun shot wound was due to the putrid skin condition, which had been ravaged by maggots, insects and rot.

  On the other hand, Dr Charles W. Main, the pathologist who performed the autopsy at the mortuary, was convinced the reason I never recovered gunpowder on the skin was because there was none there in the first place.

  The other evidence, which supported the non-suicide theory, was the lack of gunpowder on Walter’s hand. This clearly indicated Walter did not fire the gun, even though he held it tightly in his hand when we found the body. And even if he did, his arm would have had to be made of rubber to be able to twist it at such an angle to match the gun shot wound.

  I look up at John Darcy, who now seemed as surprised as I was.

  ‘Murder,’ I said, perspiration dripping down the small of my back.

  The sound of my voice hung in the small study like a four-letter word.

  Silence took over for a full minute.

  John glanced at his forensic hardcover books next to his desk. He seemed to be puzzling over a possible explanation other than murder.

  I knew he was wasting time.

  I took another sip from my mug as I wondered who in the world killed Walter Dunn. One thing seemed certain. If someone killed him, there had to be a motive. Homicides never occurred without motive. People who killed did so for a reason. The most common reasons I had come across during my five years as a forensic investigator were greed, love, hate and jealousy. In addition, over eighty percent of homicides were committed by people known to their victims, usually friends, neighbours or family members. It made you want to hibernate for the rest of your life. I hadn’t reached quite that point, but I was certainly selective about my friends. With friends, quality over quantity was definitely the way to go. As far as family and neighbours were concerned, unfortunately fate was largely in charge of the matter.

  I emptied my mug of coffee in one go.

  Whoever killed Walter tried to make it look like suicide, but it was a clumsy attempt. The scenario was right, but the forensic research non-existent. This had been a deliberate set-up to give us a different impression of what really happened. And in spite of its simplicity, it almost worked. Caught in the horror of the crime scene at the Wilson’s apartment, no-one bothered going over the evidence. And why should they? After all, the killer shot himself, and there was nothing more to it.

  I turned my gaze back to John and said, ‘Do you think whoever killed Walter Dunn is the same person who killed Jeremy Wilson?’

  He raised both hands above the desk and said, ‘That or there was an accomplice. More than one person could have been involved. If this whole thing was a set up, it might have taken two brains to figure it out. Your guess is as good as mine.’

  ‘Or one person who had plenty of time on his hands.’

  He nodded, knowing absolutely anything was possible at this stage.

  So far, Walter Dunn’s autopsy was the best evidence we had that foul play had taken place. We all got sucked into the suicide theory. The CIB had virtually sealed the case and filed it away forever. I wondered if they’d even bothered reading the autopsy report.

  Poor communication between a pathologist and the detective in charge of a homicide usually resulted in a case not being solved, or the wrong person being sent to jail. Keeping those communication channels open was so important, and yet, over and over, I could see the same mistakes being made. Overall, people were either too busy, too lazy, or had lost genuine interest in their profession.

  I placed my empty coffee mug on a corner of John’s desk and wondered how Frank would react to this finding.

  ‘What I need to know now is when Walter Dunn died,’ I said, looking back at John.

  ‘It’s somewhere here,’ he said, as he sifted through more pages of the autopsy report. ‘Three separate tests were conducted to estimate the time of death.’ He handed over two pages of the report. ‘According to this, Walter Dunn died between the 16th and the 17th of February, not a day more, not a day less.’

  I took in the information and realised something was definitely wrong. If Jeremy and Teresa Wilson were attacked on the 20th February, how could Walter Dunn have committed the crime if he suicided forty-eight to thirty-six hours before the event?

  I shifted uncomfortably in my chair.

  One of the tests to determine Walter’s time of death involved forensic entomology.

  The study of insect activity on a dead body provided a very accurate method of finding the time of death in a homicide. Since I took the pictures of Walter’s body at the scene of the crime, I clearly remembered insect activity had taken place, and fluid had leaked from various orifices in the body. I knew for a fact this would eventually led to establishing a time of death, but it seemed irrelevant back then since we’d caught who we thought was the killer.

  The autopsy report indicated formation of gas inside the body from bacteria dissolving tissues. The gas formed various blisters, two to three inches in diameter, on various parts of the skin. Because the temperature in the room had been moderately cool when we found the body, decomposition had progressed at a slow rate. The author of the autopsy report had taken this into consideration when estimating time of death.

  Walter’s body had been lying in his home for a while, therefore his body temperature had dropped to room temperature, a good indication he had been dead for at least thirty hours.

  But the best indicator of Walter’s death was the stage of development of the maggots which had nested in the rotting body.

  The instar, the form assumed by an insect during a particular stadium or growth-stage, of the maggots had reached third level, a clear indication Walter Dunn died seven to eight days from the moment we found him.

  The concluding paragraph of the autopsy report placed Walter’s death at the 16th or 17th of February, the date John had already indicated. Assuming an error rate of ±24 hours, this still meant Walter died two to three days before Jeremy Wilson got decapitated.

  ‘What are you going to do?’ John asked, a worried look crossing his face.

  I gave him back the autopsy report and said, ‘Officially, I’m not even meant to be investigating this homicide. Morally, I’d probably have to tell Frank Moore. Legally, I’m bound to tell Teresa Wilson at some stage that Walter Dunn was not the man who killed her husband. But what I want to do right now is dig a little further before someone finds out what I’m up to and puts a stop to it.’

  He shifted in his chair and smoothed his beard with his right hand. ‘But surely, the detective in charge of the investigation would look into the matter seriously. You can’t just withhold information because of your own curiosity.’

  ‘I’m not withholding information. They’ve got access to this autopsy report as much as I d
o. It’s not my fault if they’re not doing their job properly.’

  ‘What about pointing it out to them.’

  ‘What am I? A school teacher? They told me to keep away from this case. Suddenly I’m supposed to turn up and say, “Excuse me, but I decided to nose around a bit longer, and guess what I found?’’’

  ‘You’re dramatising everything.’

  ‘I’m the one who’s got to deal with these people. Trust me, I’m doing the right thing. Until I find out more information, there’s no reason to raise the alarm.’

  He shook his head as if I was being unreasonable. But he wasn’t the one sitting in my chair. If he knew the whole story, maybe he would have thought differently.

  ‘There’s more to it than that, John,’ I said, locking my eyes in his. Although I had no desire to explain my actions to John, I felt obligated to do so for personal reasons. I was sick and tired of people thinking I acted irrationally. ‘Frank is involved with Teresa Wilson. I shouldn’t be telling you this, but she’s currently staying at his place. How am I supposed to reveal what we’ve just discovered while she’s still living under his roof? For all I know, she could be the one who killed her husband.’

  His brow creased. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes, I’m sure she’s at his place. No, I’m not sure she killed her husband. In fact, I doubt it. But I believe she’s a contributing factor to his death.’

  John stroked his beard and tilted his head. ‘I’m glad I’m not in your shoes. But if I was you, I would pass on the information ASAP either way. You really should get a second opinion. This is getting way above your head.’

  I stood from my chair and said, ‘The last time I tried to get a second opinion, I was told to let it go. I think I’ll handle this one by myself.’

  He stepped out from behind his desk. ‘I’ve got to hand it to you. You’ve got one hell of a nerve.’

  ‘I’ve got nothing to lose, John. The Deputy Commissioner of Police is determined to end my contract. The detective in charge of the investigation is not going to give me a bear hug when he finds out what I’m up to. I’ve got no choice. Sometimes you just have to go against the grain and hope you’re not going to rub someone the wrong way in the process.’