The Kristina Melina Omnibus: First Kill, Second Cut, Third Victim Read online

  We ended up dancing together on the centre floor, shaking our buns, doing things with our bodies I hadn’t done since my university years. Being out of the disco scene for more than a decade, I’d never heard any of the music.

  Louis wanted me to stay longer, but we’d already danced for more than two hours, so I refused. I was tired, but he insisted.

  I didn’t get home until 3.25 a.m.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  On Sunday the 9th of March, I woke up at 11.07 a.m. with a whopper of a headache and a sour taste of bourbon in my mouth.

  The hot shower felt good, but my body was aching all over, from my ankles, to the back of my thighs, my buns and my lower back. I suddenly remembered why I’d given up nightclubbing years ago. The mind was willing, but the body slugged behind. And that was in spite of going to the gym three to four times a week.

  I opened the windows of every room to let some fresh air into my brain.

  The sky was grey, but the temperature was mild and pleasant.

  Over a cup of black coffee and two Heron pain killers, I went over the notes I took the previous day at Sadies.

  What I needed to do now was locate Claire Kendall. Maybe she’d be able to shed some light into the mysterious death of Jeremy Wilson. Mysterious to me, anyway.

  On my way to the study the phone rang.

  Tim Simons from the Herald-Sun sounded bright and cheerful. We greeted each other and then he began, ‘I heard you think Walter Dunn’s suicide is actually a homicide.’

  I jumped on the spot, wondering who’d been feeding him information. ‘I can’t discuss anything now, Tim, but you’ll be the first one to know.’

  ‘What do you mean you can’t discuss anything? The police are treating this as a suicide, which means you can talk all you want. There’s not going to be any investigation. ’

  I swallowed. Jesus Christ, journalists should consider working in homicide. They had a nose for minding what was not their business. ‘Trust me, this is not the right time.’

  ‘I broke rules for you when you asked me to. You owe me more than one, Melina.’

  He was right, of course, but since I wasn’t supposed to investigate this homicide, the last thing I needed was my face splattered all over the paper with a quotation one-fourth the size of a tabloid page.

  ‘If I tell you what I know, promise not to release anything until I give you the green light.’

  ‘Promise.’

  I should have known better than to trust a journalist, but I knew I would need Tim in the future for one reason or another. Many cases were solved from good, diplomatic co-operation from the police and the media. And Tim was the perfect connection. I hated to lose him. I also knew I had to learn to trust people to a degree. At some stage I had to put my faith in another person. If that other person betrayed me, he would just get crossed off my phone book.

  ‘If you print any of this before I tell you to do so,’ I went on, ‘I’m going to have your neck.’

  ‘You know I’d never do that.’

  ‘No, I don’t. That’s why I’m begging you.’

  ‘You keep your part of the deal, and I keep mine.’

  I told him most of the stuff I knew, but left details of Claire Kendall out. After all, I didn’t know where she was, so I hated the thought of implicating her unless I knew for sure she was involved one way or another.

  Tim didn’t make me repeat anything, so I gathered he was taping the conversation. Of course, he could have been writing in shorthand, but knowing Tim, his shorthand skills would be rather rusty.

  I told him not to bother calling me back until I got in touch with him.

  He thanked me and hung up.

  Just then, Michael came out of his room, wearing an expression typical of the morning after the night before.

  He said g’day, and I asked him how his homework was going.

  ‘Fine,’ he replied, helping himself to a bowl of Coco Pops.

  ‘How come you never show me any of your homework?’

  ‘When would I do that?’

  Good question, and I had no answer.

  Then, suddenly, I said, ‘Michael, are you happy here?’

  He poured milk in his Coco Pops, puzzling over my question. I let him think for a while.

  ‘I guess I am,’ he finally said. ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘Because you said the other day I don’t spend enough time with you.’

  ‘Oh, that was just talk,’ he said. But I could tell by the tone of his voice he didn’t mean that.

  ‘I agree with you. I think we should spend more time together. How about if we went on a holiday somewhere. Just you and me.’

  He gave me a cold stare, as if I was trying to make a fool of him. ‘Mum, I know you’re busy with your work. It’s okay, I can take care of myself.’

  It broke my heart the way he cast his eyes down at his breakfast cereal.

  ‘Give me a chance. I’m trying to make it up to you.’

  He took off for his bedroom and snapped. ‘Bit late for that.’

  I felt a lump in my throat and couldn’t swallow the rest of my coffee.

  I decided to use the Compact powerbook in my study to find Claire Kendall’s residential address. I knew of several ways to conduct a search, many of which have been used for years, legally and illegally, by debt collectors.

  With the advance in digital technology, and the information superhighway being accessible by anyone equipped with a computer, a modem and a mouse, research had become a breeze in the last two years.

  Unfortunately, technology also opened many new doors to crime, including opportunities for on-line paedophilia bulletin boards and child-pornography sites, with users actively seeking sex with minors; and recipes on how to make bombs, how to kill, and how to torture and rape women, as I had recently found out from Michael. If there ever was a university for scums of the earth, the Internet would provide all the core subjects.

  Computer stalking was beginning to emerge as a serious problem in some western countries, despite government attempts to suppress information reporting the extent of the problem. Of course, the government had its own hidden agenda; using the superhighway to carry out its own stalking.

  Criminal superhighway activities were extremely difficult to monitor because criminal law changed from country to country, and even from state to state. And because the Internet was such a recent thing, governments didn’t know how to deal with it. Since there was no central database which monitored what was on the Internet, information was coming fast and furious from everywhere around the globe.

  Of course, it was also extremely naive and paranoid to believe the superhighway’s only purpose was to encourage criminal activities. The fact remained that most people who tapped into the Internet did so to communicate, educate or entertain themselves.

  I sat at my pine desk in the small study, shifted some pens and papers around, and took a sip from my coffee mug. Time for me to do some stalking on behalf of the government, although they had withdrawn their consent for me to do so.

  I wasn’t a computer buff, but knew my way around the superhighway and learned how to hack into various company and government databases, including Vic Roads, the Australian Taxation Office, the Department of Social Security, Telecom Master Directories, the Education Department, the Electoral Roles records, the Australian Securities Commission, and the Rental Bond Board.

  I turned the computer on and waited for it to boot up and do an automatic virus check. When a message prompted me to do so, I entered my secret password, which showed up as five stars on the LCD screen.

  I went straight to the Telecom Master Directories because it was the obvious choice. My search was narrowed down since the Claire Kendall I was looking for was in the Melbourne area.

  Only seven ‘C Kendall’ were listed in the Melbourne area. I chose the one with a Richmond address, the closest to the city. Logic told me Claire lived somewhere other than Heildelberg or Frankston, which would have taken her too long
to drive up and see Jeremy. On the other hand, she did meet Jeremy on the job, so she could have lived anywhere for all I knew. But since I had to start somewhere, I followed my instinct, as I often did.

  Because I had to make sure the address was in fact that of Claire Kendall, I cross-checked the information with Vic Roads. I found one Claire Kendall at the same Richmond address with a 3 February 1974 birthdate. A quick mental calculation confirmed this person was indeed twenty-three years old, approximately the same age given to me by Louis.

  Next, I hacked into the Telecom Accounts Department and looked up Claire Kendall’s telecommunication activity status. Interestingly enough, she never made a single telephone call since the 16 February, not even a local call.

  This little finding began to jolt my mind. This date coincided exactly with the estimated time of death of Walter Dunn, a connection which made me shiver.

  I shifted uncomfortably in my chair.

  Either Claire Kendall had killed Jeremy Wilson and Walter Dunn, and was now far away in another state or country, or she had been the subject of another homicide which was yet to be discovered.

  I emptied the content of my mug, letting the dark Jamaican coffee pump its way through my veins and into my nervous system.

  Of course, if Claire Kendall had in fact killed Jeremy Wilson and Walter Dunn, this did not explain why Teresa told us Walter Dunn raped and savagely beat her up.

  I switched my Compact powerbook off, and stared blankly at the window in front of me. A tram passed by, and I heard tyres scream.

  One thing was certain now. Teresa Wilson had been lying.

  Why?

  I didn’t know, but I was damn curious to find out.

  When I arrived at Claire Kendall’s unit on Hill Street at 3.32 p.m., her letter box was filled with junkmail, a clear indication she hadn’t been home for a while.

  Her brick veneer unit was set in a block of four, but was fully self-contained. Each unit was totally separate from the others. The setting was no different from a retirement home.

  I spotted Claire’s unit straight away. In contrast to the others, the front garden had been completely neglected. Weeds had taken over every bit of dirt and began to make their way to the edge of the lower window panes.

  I feared the worst as I got closer to her front door, clearly labelled with a large, gold number 2. With the past weeks’ trail of bodies, I wasn’t sure if I was ready to stomach another corpse, especially when I still had a slight hangover from my night clubbing with Louis.

  I knew there would be no point knocking at Claire Kendall’s door, but I did it anyway, just to give me enough time to come to terms with what I was about to do. I glanced around to see if anyone was watching me.

  As anticipated, no one answered the door. Scanning the other units, I wondered if I should break in. A perfectly illegal activity as far as my job description and the law were concerned, but since I was already under scrutiny, I didn’t give a damn.

  I walked back to my car and removed a lockpicking kit from my glove box.

  Part of my stint at the FBI Academy included decoying security systems, and breaking and entering virtually every type of premises.

  Claire Kendall’s door was fitted with a pin tumbler lock, that is one fitted with a series of small pins. The tumblers were in fact held together by other pins called drivers, which in turn were held by a series of springs. When inserting a key, the tumblers were driven to a specific point. At this stage, the door became unlocked.

  I could have just kicked the door in, since the lock was cheap and the door made from two layers of plywood with air sandwiched in between. But it would become obvious someone broke in, something I had to avoid in case Claire Kendall was on vacation by sheer coincidence.

  Lockpicking is much harder to perform than it appears on television and in the movies. To be competent at opening locks, one must have a certain degree of dexterity, which, as I had found out during my training with the FBI, I possessed.

  My lockpicking kit consisted of a pick and a tension tool made from spring steel. I used the tension tool to control the pressure on the lock. I inserted the pick in the keyhole. After a few seconds of manipulation, I raised the pins to their opening point. The tension tool, placed directly under the pick, kept pressure on the pins while rotating. The pins were held in their open position by the pressure applied from the tension tool. With my fingers, I could feel the vibration of the pins. I listened patiently for a distinctive click, and then pushed the door open.

  I shut the door behind me.

  Cautiously, I stepped forward into the hallway.

  The two-bedroom unit was well illuminated, but as I entered the living room, a film of dust covered a small coffee table, a television, a boom box, a bookshelf filled with romance fiction, a sofa and a pair of matching armchairs.

  In one corner, near a window, a large plant was dying from dehydration.

  I stood still, listening for any noise and sniffing the air at the same time.

  I smelled nothing was rotting in the apartment, only a mild odour of garbage coming from the kitchen.

  I didn’t know if I was relieved or disappointed. On one hand, I had built myself up thinking I would find Claire Kendall’s decomposing body being eaten by a wide variety of insects. On the other, I was glad I didn’t have to call Frank Moore and explain what I was doing in an apartment with another dead body.

  I circled the apartment rather quickly. Not a soul in sight.

  Quietly, I sifted through Claire’s belongings. I began in the kitchen, where unpaid and expired bills were stuck to the fridge by means of advertising magnets. The name and addresses on all the bills were hers. She wasn’t running away from anyone or trying to hide her identity.

  In my experience, people with different names on their utility bills tended to hide from the past. Maybe a lover from a relationship gone wrong. Or a brush with the law. Or thousands of dollars in unpaid parking tickets with an outstanding warrant rotting in the bottom of an in-tray at the Sheriff’s office.

  I opened the fridge, and a bad smell smacked me in the face. Lifting a carton of milk with my thumb and forefinger, I noticed the expiry date read ‘20Feb1997’. If Claire Kendall had gone on holidays, surely she would have emptied the fridge of perishables.

  Fruits and vegetables had gone green and pulpy at the bottom of the fridge, where a brown stream of rot was making its way onto the tiled floor. I pinched my nostrils and shut the door.

  I turned my attention to the kitchen sink where I filled tap water in a glass. I crossed the kitchen, and entered the living room, and emptied the content of the glass in the dirt of the sorry-looking plant. It broke my heart to see it dying, and I almost wanted to take it away with me.

  Next, I continued my illegal search to the bathroom and the bedroom.

  Claire Kendall’s red toothbrush and other cosmetic belongings were still in the bathroom cabinet. This prompted me to conclude she’d never gone on holiday after all, unless she bought a new set of everything, which seemed very unlikely.

  A tap in the bathtub was leaking, causing a green line of copper to appear from one end of the bathtub to the other. Reddish mould had begun to form under the shower head. A yellow rubber duck with sad eyes longed for its owner to come back home.

  In the bedroom, I found fresh underwear, a collection of short floral dresses - Louis had a good memory - and a mountain of Australian Women’s Forum neatly stacked under the double bed. They were in mint condition.

  I flicked through the pages of one of the women’s soft-porn magazines, admiring men’s biceps, pectorals, and other body parts, which I’m not at liberty to describe.

  I felt a sense of guilt as heat rose to my cheeks.

  Embarrassing myself, feeling God must be watching from somewhere above, disapproving of my actions, I slipped the magazine back with the others.

  To my disappointment, I found nothing which led me to where Claire might have been. No notes, no signs of struggle, no plane tic
kets or copies of travelling documents, no answering machine with vital messages on it. And the only person who would have known her whereabouts was at the mortuary with his head savagely severed from his body.

  When I left the unit, I concluded Claire Kendall had disappeared suddenly with no intention of being away for more than a couple of hours, a couple of days at the most.

  I would probably never get to meet her.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  I got home agitated and needed to burn some energy. With everything trotting in my head, I knew I’d never be able to get a good night sleep if I didn’t burn some calories. Plus I had to make up for the drinking binge the previous night.

  At 9.35 p.m., I parked the Lancer on High Street, fifty meters from the main entrance of Terry Bennetts’ Gym. While climbing the dark, narrow stairs to the first floor, I could hear the clanking of workout machinery.

  Ken was there, his hair freshly washed, and his abs looking more cut than usual. He had no shirt on, apparently a habit of his when he got too hot. He was referred to once as the naked librarian when someone spotted him at the State Library without a shirt on. He thought it was hilarious, especially when that someone happened to be a well-known writer, criticising him in one of her non-fiction books.

  We greeted each other, and he said matter-of-factly, ‘You look like shit.’

  ‘Thanks, that’s exactly what I need to hear.’ His observation decreased my self-confidence by a couple of notches. But as I looked into the full length mirror behind him, I realised what he meant. My posture was sluggish, and I had heavy bags under my eyes. I looked like a pale-skinned vampire who hadn’t seen the light of day for over five hundred years.

  ‘Did you have a late night or something?’ he asked, his arms across his chest.

  ‘A late night with something,’ I joked, knowing he understood I had too much to drink.

  ‘This is not becoming a routine thing, is it?’

  Although I should have kept it to myself, I told him everything I knew about the Wilson’s homicide. He wasn’t a journalist, and certainly not the kind of person who would go and tell everyone. And I needed to share my findings with someone, other than cops and scientists, just to get a down-to-earth, no-bullshit opinion.