The Kristina Melina Omnibus: First Kill, Second Cut, Third Victim Page 16

  My head was boiling over with information overload and uncertainty. Or was it alcohol, caffeine, and fear of the future? I knew much more than anyone else in this case, and yet I knew so little. But with no one around to share my burden, stress was beginning to take its toll.

  Delivering my monologue to Ken did something strange to my mind. I felt light-headed, as if someone had pumped my stomach out after an overdose.

  ‘Go and see Frank and tell him everything you know,’ he commanded, while doing a second set of barbell-seated-preacher curls.

  ‘It’s not that easy.’ I began my warm-up with stretches, standing on one leg and bending the other backwards until the heel touched my buttocks. The muscle on my thigh was warming up gently, but feeling a bit stiff.

  ‘No one said it was. All I know is that if you’re right, then Frank could be in danger.’

  ‘But we don’t know if Teresa was involved directly in her husband’s death.’

  He lost concentration and dropped the weights back on the machine. ‘Melina,’ he said, glaring directly into my eyes, ‘I know you care about Frank, and I know you don’t want him dead. From everything you’ve told me, we both know Teresa has been lying about the death of her husband. Like you, I don’t know if she killed her husband or not. It would be very unlikely because of the beating she received herself. The fact remains she’s lying and can’t be trusted.’

  ‘You’re right, I guess.’

  I stood on my other leg, and stretched the first one.

  At the back of my mind, I had come to the conclusion that Teresa was untrustworthy, but I needed to hear my judgement from someone else’s mouth. Acting irrationally under pressure would have been too easy. And lately, I felt as if I was under more pressure than I could handle. Working on a homicide was hard enough, but when your whole career was on the line because of it, then you have to be pretty level-headed to push through life with a clear mind.

  I stretched my arms behind my back, feeling strain on my triceps.

  I went on, ‘Frank is going to get upset. I don’t want to hurt him.’

  ‘Frank is your friend. If Frank gets upset, let him get upset. If he’s a true friend, he’ll come back. And if he doesn’t, at least you’ve done the best you can.’

  ‘Have you got any friends, Ken?’ I asked, trying to throw another obstacle in his way.

  ‘What’s that got to do with it?’

  ‘Just answer the god-damn question,’ I snapped, surprising both of us. ‘Have you got any friends?’

  ‘Of course I’ve got friends. You for starters. You may not consider me your friend because you only see me at the gym, but I consider you mine.’

  I was touched, so I withdrew my attack. ‘Forget it.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Nah, forget it. I don’t know what I’m talking about.’

  He went back to his biceps exercise without forcing those demons out of me.

  I drank half the content of my drink bottle, wishing life was as straight-forward as he made it sound. Maybe it was, but embroidered in the mess I was in, I found it hard to see beyond my own reasoning.

  As I crossed the gym and made my way to the leg-extension machine, I decided to go ahead with Ken’s advice. I would talk to Frank and hope he would take it well. I’d already lost him as far as I was concerned, so anything that happened between us from now on could only improve our relationship.

  I worked my legs, calves, chest, triceps and abs, but kept the sets down to two of each because of tiredness and lack of motivation.

  When I left the gym one hour later, Ken was doing squats with what looked liked two hundred and fifty pounds.

  I was so exhausted on my way up to my apartment, I thought I was going to pass out.

  Next time, I’d invite Louis for a workout instead of a drink.

  Monday was Labour Day in Victoria, and most shops were closed. Public holidays didn’t agree with me because they were unproductive. Even though I could have done with a break, hanging around, waiting for the minutes and hours to tick by depressed me.

  I stayed in bed half an hour longer than usual.

  Autumn had crept upon Melbourne already, but outside my bedroom window the sky was clear, and the world seemed inviting. A left over piece of summer had come down on the city, pushing the mercury to twenty-five degrees. It brought a smile to my face as I realised it didn’t have to be a rotten day after all.

  I showered quickly, gulped a mug of black coffee, and went to do some shopping on Acland Street with Michael.

  I was glad to live in a city which was defined as touristy. Acland Street shops were open seven days a week, every day of the year. European-styled cake shops and cafés occupied the top end of the street, giving an excuse for tourists and local to add a few kilos to their diets. Apart from the Safeway, most shops sold items which I could do without. Bric-a-brac, discounted goods, electronics, designer-street clothes, books and take-away food.

  ‘Did you work out this thing with the telephone?’ Michael asked, while we were queuing up at a cash register at Safeway.

  ‘I’ve looked into it. No breakthrough, though.’

  He grabbed a Mars bar and tossed it in the trolley. ‘Any plans?’

  What a smoothy, I thought, but decided to let it go. ‘I’ve got something in mind which is going to pin the culprit down. But I’ll have to discuss it with the telephone company first.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Can’t tell you yet. It’s confidential.’

  He jabbed me with his elbow. ‘I’m your son!’

  I explained for the fifth hundred time that being my son didn’t mean I could discuss unsolved cases with him. ‘I’m still working on this, Michael. There are some procedures which I’d like to follow by the book, if you don’t mind.’

  ‘Sure, whatever,’ he said, and sulked for the rest of the morning.

  Within an hour, the crowd bothered me, so I bought a large plant pot and rushed back to my apartment. I was thinking of heading to Claire Kendall’s unit and saving the poor creature in the corner of her living room from dying. The more I thought about it, the more I was convinced I would never get to meet Claire Kendall. Her plant would probably get tossed away with her belongings. My life consisted of dealing with the dead. Somehow it made me feel good to think I could save a life, even if it was only a plant.

  Early afternoon, I felt unusually tired and grumpy, so I stayed home. Despite my protest, Michael left with his skateboard to see his friend Chris. I decided to use my time wisely and review all the information I had accumulated so far on the Wilson’s homicide.

  Ken had been right about Teresa Wilson. She was untrustworthy since she clearly lied to me and Frank Moore. I had no doubt whatsoever Walter Dunn didn’t kill Jeremy Wilson. Forensic evidence from Walter’s autopsy report supported the hypothesis that he died before Jeremy Wilson, making it impossible for him to be the killer. The scientific facts were undisputable. Teresa’s unchronological version of events was now very weak.

  I sat on my balcony, soaking up the sun, my Sue Grafton novel stuck on page 176, wondering if I should call Frank and arrange an unofficial rendezvous before the working week began on Tuesday. As much as I wanted to get him on my side, my mind was unprepared for another major confrontation. I was uncertain of how involved he was with Teresa. Were they having a sexual relationship? This would have been unlikely since she was still covered in cuts and bruises, and her sexual organs would have been as raw las sushi.

  It took me a while longer to make my mind up.

  I read some of my novel, and dozed in and out of consciousness throughout the afternoon.

  Finally, towards 5.00 p.m., I knew I had little choice. I feared continuing to investigate a homicide which was clearly out of my jurisdiction and authority. In addition, if I kept my mouth shut, I’d deliberately place Frank’s life in danger.

  I tossed my novel aside, climbed out of my long chair, and made my way to the kitchen.

  My heart thumping like a ke
ttle drum, I punched Frank’s phone number on the keypad. My hands were clammy as I felt I was breaking some kind of unwritten rule.

  She picked up the receiver.

  ‘Is Frank there?’ I asked, not bothering to ask whom I was talking to.

  ‘Hold on.’

  Nauseous, I almost hung up when I heard Frank’s voice.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Frank, it’s me. I need to talk to you,’ I said in a tone of voice that meant business.

  A pause, and then he retorted, ‘If it’s about Teresa, I’ve got nothing to discuss with you.’

  ‘Give me a chance. I really need to talk to you. This has something to do with Jeremy Wilson’s death. I have a legal obligation to inform you of what I’ve uncovered.’

  ‘I’m not in charge of this investigation, and neither are you.’

  ‘Well, you were involved, so you have to know.’ My argument was weak.

  ‘I thought we made it clear you were not to investigate this homicide.’

  I took a deep breath. The sonofabitch was playing me against them. ‘Frank,’ I belted out, ‘I don’t have time to argue with you. I need to talk to you, so be at my place in one hour. If you don’t, I’ll be going straight to Trevor Mitchell to tell him everything I know. I’m sure he’ll be impressed when he finds out you’re screwing the wife of a guy who got his head chopped off less than a month ago.’

  Silence, and then he said, ‘You’re making this hard for both of us. Why are you doing this?’ His tone was apologetic.

  I wanted to strangle him with the telephone cord, even though he was out of reach. ‘I’ll see you in one hour.’

  I hung up.

  Heat on my cheeks, I crossed the length of the kitchen floor back and forth. Why did he have to make me feel like such a jerk? I was only trying to help him. I was only trying to do the right thing. How did I end up being the bad person?

  All my life, I’d always felt like the odd one out. When I first met Frank, he felt that way too. And together we’d built up a special friendship, a trust, a knowledge we would always be there for one another. But now, it seemed I was letting him down. It was my fault again. The same way I’d let my mother down when I told the counsellor at school about dad. She couldn’t cope with it. She said I destroyed the family, that I lied because I wanted to get some attention. That I caused trouble because I couldn’t face reality.

  But it wasn’t true.

  All I wanted was for my father to stop what he was doing to me. In return I got punished.

  My mother died two days before my sixteenth birthday from a Megadon overdose. She was the one who never faced reality.

  My father was convicted on six counts of sexual penetration of a minor.

  I was made ward of the State.

  For years, I was angry, frightened, and hungry for justice. I swore to myself I would do everything in my power to stop people hurting others. I swore I would try to find some kind of justice for those who couldn’t get it. Because I felt like I never got my justice. Even as a grown-up, I still ached from years of sexual abuse, for having had my childhood torn in half, for being punished by losing my mother when all I did was try to protect myself.

  And now that I was losing Frank, I felt bitter against the world. But I knew with or without Frank, I would never lose sight of my quest for justice. I would never back down and run away. Because in my heart, I was still a little girl who cried in pain, who tried to get back the mother she’d lost a long time ago, who never understood why the people who were supposed to love and protect her could be so cruel.

  I made myself a cup of black coffee as I wondered if there would ever be a way to end the hurting inside. I learned to live with it a long time ago, but now and then, when I felt unloved and unwanted, I didn’t cope too well.

  And it made my heart bleed that I wasn’t getting on with Michael as well as I wanted.

  I smiled to myself, wondering if I was just a big baby who needed to grow up.

  Tears came streaming down my face.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  When Frank rang the door bell, I jumped from the sofa in the lounge room as if I was in cardiac arrest. In spite of having just emptied two mugs of black coffee, I somehow managed to fall asleep in less than ten minutes. I knew it was due to my irregular sleeping habits, worries about the Wilson’s homicide, and, whether I’d like to admit it or not, the anxiety of not knowing where I would be in the next six months. I also worried about the internal inquiry by the VFSC and the CIB, and the independent inquiry by the Deputy Commissioner of Police. And the realisation that my friendship with Frank was down-spiralling into a dark pit of nothingness.

  When I crossed the hallway and reached for the front door knob, I tried hard to control my churning emotion. I hated to jump on Frank like a scavenging vulture. He needed to know I was level-headed about Jeremy Wilson’s murder. I didn’t go and investigate behind his back because I was jealous of his affair with Teresa, although I wondered at times if that was true.

  As soon as I opened the door, he began shouting, not giving himself a chance to catch his breath, ‘I’m getting sick and tired of your bullshit, Melina! What the hell has gotten into you? Why are you trying to ruin my life? For the first time ever, I’ve found someone I really care about. Teresa Wilson might not be your ideal woman, but she is to me. Is this some kind of jealousy?’

  I was about to answer, but he went on, ‘Because if it is, you better get some help. This case has gone to your head. I’ve got enough on my plate as it is, and I don’t need more shit from you.’

  He stopped abruptly, obviously waiting for me to come down on him like a ton of bricks.

  But I remained silent and looked at him with compassionate eyes.

  Obviously expecting some other form of reaction, he froze in the hallway, lost for words. He played with the sleeve buttons of his blue shirt, and then tucked his hands deep inside the pockets of his jeans.

  ‘Would you like something to drink?’ I said calmly, not reacting to his verbal abuse.

  The muscles on his neck relaxed as he realised how tactlessly he had just acted.

  ‘Give me glass of water,’ he ordered, his tone down a couple of notches.

  I paced along the hallway.

  He followed, muttering to himself.

  Once in the kitchen, I filled two tumblers with ice and Noble’s purified water.

  He stood there the entire time, not saying a word. He was obviously trying to figure out his next move. I had let my guard down, and he hadn’t expected it.

  ‘Let’s go and talk in the lounge room,’ I said, carrying a tray with the iced water.

  He grabbed one glass and sat opposite me, across the coffee table.

  ‘Let me begin by this,’ I continued.

  He interrupted, raising one hand in the air, as if he was redirecting invisible traffic. ‘My relationship with Teresa Wilson is none of your business.’

  I pursed my lips. ‘Are you going to give me a chance to explain, or is this going to be an on-going monologue?’

  ‘All right. Go ahead. I’m listening.’ He sipped from his glass.

  I locked my eyes into his. ‘Frank,’ I said, ‘let’s get something straight from the top. I agree your relationships are none of my business.’

  He nodded in approval.

  ‘And your affair with Teresa Wilson is no different.’

  He nodded again.

  ‘But, in this case, we’re not talking just about an affair.’

  This time, he rolled his eyes to the ceiling.

  I went on, ‘If you could just put out of your mind your relationship with Teresa for a minute, we might get somewhere. I want to talk strictly homicidal investigation here. I want to throw out all emotions, all personal interest, all biased opinions. I want you to listen to what I have to say, and I want you to let me finish. Then, I will give you the same courtesy, because right now, it feels like you’re not giving me much of a chance at all.’

  He fidgeted with his h
ands, obviously upset he was made to feel half responsible for the communication problem we were having.

  I continued, ‘This won’t take long, but it’s important to keep your mind open and bear with me for the next twenty minutes or so. Okay?’

  ‘Right,’ he said, in a tone which implied I gave him no choice either way.

  I told him everything I knew so far, even how Teresa had been having an affair with Walter Dunn for over a year. I told him about Walter Dunn’s autopsy, and how it clearly indicated murder was the reason for his death. To support my point, I rushed to my study, raced back to the lounge room, and handed him the copy of Walter Dunn’s autopsy report, which John Darcy had so kindly made for me. The important sections were highlighted with a yellow Boss marker.

  As he scanned through the autopsy report, blood drained from his face. He passed one hand over his receding hairline, as if to check if hair had suddenly grown in the last two minutes. He was not taking this too well, and it upset me. I had no intention of hurting Frank, but I had little choice in the matter.

  ‘Where did you get this from?’ he asked, avoiding eye-contact.

  The letterhead of the VIFM was at the top, showing clearly where the document originated from. What he really wanted to know was who gave me a copy of it.

  ‘It doesn’t matter where I got it from. This autopsy report is genuine, and everything I’ve told you is genuine as well. I need your help Frank. This is getting too hard for me to handle alone, especially when I feel like you’re against me.’

  He threw the copy of the report on the table and remained silent for a few minutes.

  I was unsure what he was thinking now.

  Grabbing his empty glass of water, I went back to the kitchen for a refill. I wanted to give him enough space for the bad news to sink in. Being in his shoes would have been a nightmare. But had he known the truth later rather than now, his life could have been shattered.