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

  ‘I don’t have a problem helping you,’ he said. ‘Your contract termination wasn’t all over the papers, so as far as I’m concerned, you’re still a forensic investigator.’

  Thank God, there were still humans out there, not just bureaucratic idiots who followed everything by the book.

  I told him I wanted to talk to the doctor who examined and did the preliminary report on Teresa Wilson. The name on the report said Dr. M. Shubbert.

  ‘You’re in luck,’ Dr Larousse said, pushing his rimless glasses up the bridge of his nose. ‘I think she’s on shift this morning. Bear with me for a sec.’

  He left the office for a few minutes. When he returned he informed me Dr Marie Shubbert would be tied up for the next half hour.

  I agreed to wait near the front desk.

  When she finally came to the front desk, my mind had gone numb from waiting an hour, looking through the Wilson’s files for the hundredth time.

  Dr Marie Shubbert was a tall woman with a horse-shaped face, and dark hair tied into a pony tail. She seemed annoyed as she swept one hand past my face and said, ‘My office is this way,’ pointing down the end of the corridor.

  She paced in front of me and never glanced back to see if I was following.

  I could tell this person was going to be defensive and non-committal. If I had predicted this encounter at home, I would have worn something more dynamic than denim and leather. My wear gave her the perfect opportunity to look down at me as if I was one of those rich, bored housewives from South Yarra, who had nothing better to do than cruise around in cool gear and try to pick up men half her age.

  She led me into a tiny office with bare walls and not a single book in sight. The room was so clinically empty, it made me nauseous for half a minute.

  ‘What can I do for you?’ she asked, taking a seat behind a white desk, avoiding eye contact for as long as she could. Her high-back, executive, maroon chair contrasted with the room’s white walls, white floors and white table.

  I steered my rear-end into an injection-moulded, orange, plastic chair, the type we had back in high school. The leather of my jacket squeaked as if it was complaining. I squeezed the manilla folder in my hand, slightly lacking in confidence, ready for the judge to pass her sentence.

  When I looked at her, I had to shift my gaze upwards. She was the queen and I was the pawn. She certainly worked her superiority complex out to the last detail.

  ‘Have I come at a bad time?’ I asked.

  She glared at me coldly for the first time. ‘Yes, you are. But since you’re here, you might as well say what’s on your mind.’ She was hissing like a snake, and I knew this woman would never become my friend.

  I threw a copy of Teresa’s preliminary report on her desk, shifted uncomfortably in my chair and said, ‘In Teresa Wilson’s preliminary report, you’ve stated that you’ve found semen lodged in her vagina.’

  She grabbed the report and flicked through the pages. ‘I remember that one,’ she commented. ‘Battering and rape.’ She stopped at a specific page and added, ‘Raped before being assaulted. They got the culprit, didn’t they?’

  I nodded in agreement.

  ‘So what’s this all about?’

  ‘Was there any other indication that she was raped?’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Well, was there engorgement of the labia, the clitoris, redness of the posterior vaginal opening?’ She looked at me blankly, so I reached over the desk and pointed to a section in the report. ‘Because none of it is in your report. I mean, if you had detected any other physical evidence of rape, you would have written them down, right?’

  She locked her eyes into mine and said, ‘Of course, that’s what I’m being paid for.’

  ‘But there‘s nothing else in the preliminary examination which suggests she’s been raped. How do we really know she was raped?’

  The muscles on her neck tensed up. ‘Are you a doctor, Miss...?’

  ‘Kristina Melina. Yes, I’ve got a doctorate, but I’m not a medical doctor. I’ve got a PhD in Criminal Justice. I specialise in homicides and cases like this.’ Before she had time to change direction, and point out how clinical examination was not my line of expertise, I added, ‘So, why did you conclude she was raped?’

  She fidgeted with her hands. ‘The semen in her vagina. The bruising on her body.’

  ‘Yes, but she could have easily had normal sexual intercourse, or inserted the semen in her vagina through other means. And we’ve already established with Dr Larousse that the bruises, along with the lacerations, were self-inflicted.’

  Dr Shubbert seemed annoyed, and I could understand why. She shifted nervously in her chair. I hated making personal attacks on the people who helped me, but since I’d been fried, I had to make the most of what I had. Arrogance was my last resort.

  She glanced at the report and let her defences down. ‘You have to understand this is only a preliminary report. Initial observations. The man obviously raped her. Men are like that.’

  ‘Yes, I know. But I like to have things clear in my mind. What about pubic hair? Was any of Walter Dunn’s pubic hair found on her body?

  ‘Not according to the report.’

  ‘No tearing or bruising of the vagina?’

  ‘Not according to the report.’

  ‘No teeth or bite marks on the body?’

  ‘Not according to the report.’ Her voice was dead-pan, and it was obvious she was losing patience.

  I glared into her dark, green eyes. ‘So, according to this document, the only evidence we have that Teresa Wilson was raped is the recovery of semen from her vagina.’

  ‘That would seem to be correct,’ she said, in a tone of voice which implied she was going to add do you have a problem with that?

  ‘But surely, if Mrs Wilson had been raped, semen would have been found in other parts of her body, other than the inside of her vagina? Either that, or the rapist was wearing a condom, in which case no semen would have been found at all.’

  ‘That’s an interesting point.’

  ‘Okay, Dr Shubbert. I know you’re not a forensic pathologist, but would you go to court and testify Teresa Wilson was raped?’

  ‘Not based on the preliminary report. Like you’ve said, the evidence is somewhat on the thin side. I would have to conduct further tests. But between you and me, we both know she got raped. Men do this kind of thing. Why are you trying to deny it? The bastard is dead anyway.’

  I could see that she was now clearly upset. I was seconds away from being thrown out of her office.

  A few weeks back, I would have agreed with Dr Shubbert. Men were responsible for over ninety percent of all crimes on this planet, and it would have been easy to let my prejudice get in the way.

  ‘Don’t take this personally, doctor. I’m just trying to find out what’s going on. And since I’ve just lost my job with the VFSC, you’re the only expert I can rely on.’

  She gave me faint smile, obviously realising I was in a worse situation than her.

  ‘I need another favour from you,’ I said bluntly.

  ‘You’ve got one hell of a nerve,’ she replied, obviously feeling more at ease now that I was on the begging side. ‘I don’t know why I should help you, but go ahead, ask.’

  ‘I need an analysis done on the semen extracted from Teresa’s cervix.’

  ‘What type of analysis?’

  ‘A DNA sampling.’

  ‘We don’t offer that type of service at the hospital.’

  ‘What about externally?’

  ‘How soon do you need it?’

  ‘As soon as possible. This is really important.’

  ‘I’ll see what I can do. Can’t promise, but how does this afternoon sound?’

  ‘Fantastic.’

  I told her to fax the result to my apartment and left her office.

  As I made my way downstairs of St Patrick’s Hospital, I knew why Dr Marie Shubbert decided to give in. She knew if she didn’t give me what I asked f
or, I would have filed a formal complaint to her superior that her preliminary report on Teresa Wilson was biased, incomplete and misleading.

  And I gathered that even though she was as stiff as a stainless steel ruler, she was smart enough not to let that happen.

  When I got back home, I worked on the ‘Jolly Roger’ investigation. I sat in my study, my laptop turned on, glancing at the traffic down Chapel Street while gathering my thoughts.

  The idea was simple. Since the person who collected money from pay-phones had to disconnect the wire supplying codes to the telephone company, as detailed in the Jolly Roger article, all the telephone company had to do is modify the wiring system. Whenever the wire in question would be cut, a signal would be sent to the telephone company, alerting them that someone was tampering with one of their telephones. The signal would tell them where the telephone was located. And since I knew the culprit would come back to the same phone booths in the next few days to collect his money, all that was needed was a surveillance team until he turned up.

  I wrote a two-page report, detailing every aspect of the plan, and faxed it to Garry Wood at the telephone company.

  Within ten minutes he gave me a call.

  ‘I think the idea is brilliant,’ he said.

  Did he really mean it, or was he being nice because he’d asked me out?

  ‘Keep me posted on the outcome,’ I said.

  ‘Sure.’ He paused for a few seconds. ‘What about this dinner? Are you free on Monday night?’

  ‘I’m really busy at the moment. But if you want to drop by my place, I’ll make dinner.’

  ‘Are you sure? I don’t want this to be too much trouble.’

  ‘Believe me, it isn’t.’

  We agreed to meet at 7.00 p.m.

  Dr Shubbert kept her promise, and at 2.33 p.m. on Saturday, the DNA profiling from Teresa’s semen sample came through my fax machine like a gift from heaven. A sheet with numbers and figures, which only made half sense to me, followed. I was sitting in my study with a glass of iced water, going through some notes on DNA testing I had downloaded from the Internet.

  It is a fact that eighty percent of people are secretors, that is specific blood group information from those individuals is passed on to other body fluids. A laboratory test can reveal whether a semen sample came from a secretor or non-secretor, whether it carries ABO antigens or one enzyme sub-group.

  Since the introduction of DNA profiling in 1984, rapists have been convicted from their semen ‘fingerprint’ left at the scene of the crime. DNA profiling is the most convincing means of identifying the rapist of a victim. DNA typing is so specific that it can help identify one individual from a million others.

  Every human cell contains information required to create a whole human body. The information is actually incoded in the nucleus of each cell in the form of deoxyribonucleic acid, otherwise known as DNA. The result can be visualised in print form from an x-ray film, making it relatively easy to compare with other DNA results.

  In the Teresa Wilson case, I wasn’t interested in framing the rapist. According to the police, he was dead anyway. I needed a DNA test to prove that semen found in Teresa’s cervix was not that of Walter Dunn.

  The copy of Teresa’s DNA autoradiograph, from the semen found in her vagina, was similar to a pattern of bands from supermarket bar-codes, except much longer and spread all over a page in four neat columns, one centimetre wide. I knew for a fact, with the exception of genetically identical twins, every person had a unique DNA blue-print.

  I pulled out the copy of Walter’s autopsy report , which John Darcy had obtained for me from the Victorian Institute of Forensic Science, from my grey filing cabinet. I knew a DNA test had been conducted from a blood sample obtained during the autopsy.

  I turned the page to the photocopy of Walter Dunn’s DNA autoradiograph and compared it with the one faxed to me by Dr Shubbert. I compared the prints from the several different polymorphic sequences from both autoradiograph copies.

  The bands of the DNA test in Walter’s autopsy report were different from those of the semen sample taken from Teresa’s body. The reference sample was a complete mismatch in several of the polymorphic sequences.

  I dialled the hospital and asked for Dr Marie Shubbert.

  It took less than a minute to get her on the line.

  ‘Thanks for those tests,’ I said.

  ‘Not a problem.’ Her tone was matter-of-fact.

  ‘I’m going through the other pages you’ve sent me. It’s kind of confusing. I’m trying to compare them with the DNA sample from Walter Dunn.’

  ‘Oh, yes, hold on a sec.’

  A few seconds of silence.

  I heard her shuffling some papers, and she went on, ‘Basically, I’ve ordered a variety of tests, just to be on the safe side.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Turn to the second page.’

  I flicked to page two and stared at the following:

  SAMPLE HLA-DQA1 D1S80 HUMTHO1

  WILSON SWAB 2,3 18/24 6/9

  FREQUENCY 0.0489 0.160 0.0809

  ‘Okay,’ I said, ‘I’m listening.’

  ‘Now, can you look at the result from Walter Dunn’s DNA result?’

  I flicked through to the same page on Dunn’s DNA report.

  SAMPLE HLA-DQA1 D1S80 HUMTHO1

  DUNN SWAB 2,4 24/29 6/7

  FREQUENCY 0.0489 0.160 0.0809

  ‘Okay, so what?’ I asked.

  ‘See the three different tests. That’s the numbers at the top of the section: HLA-DQA1, D1S80, and HUMTHO1.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘The results below, that’s the number next to where it says WILSON SWAB, should exactly match Walter Dunn’s, that is if he’s the guy who raped her.’

  I didn’t need two hours to figure out what she was on about.

  I smiled to myself, satisfied I’d made a significant break-through.

  The VFSC could say whatever they wanted.

  I knew for a fact Walter Dunn never raped Teresa Wilson.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  On Monday the 17th of March, I rang the VFSC from my study to speak to Frank Moore. I’d made myself sick all night, wondering what he was up to. Now that I knew Walter Dunn never raped Teresa Wilson, there was little doubt in my mind she’d committed a triple murder. Still, I found myself in the awkward position of having been pulled off the investigation and, yet, without authorisation, having found out too much. I knew everyone would be angry at me, whether I’d dug up the truth or not. No one else but Frank would listen. I knew he’d probably believe I’d lost my mind, but I’d be able to show him the DNA autoradiographs.

  My feet up on the desk, one hand fidgeting with the waist button of my jeans, I punched the numbers on the key pad. The phone rang twice before it was picked up.

  I introduced myself and made my request.

  ‘Frank Moore has taken the week off,’ the receptionist at the VFSC informed me.

  Frustrated, I hung up and tried his home number.

  All I got was the answering machine with her voice on it!

  I tried his mobile number, but the voice at the end of the line said, ‘The Vodaphone you have called is switched off. Please try again later.’

  Goddamn it!

  I jumped from my chair, paced anxiously to the kitchen and poured myself a glass of iced water from the fridge. I gulped the content of my glass in one go and returned to the study.

  I rang the VFSC again.

  ‘Did he say where he would be going?’ I asked the receptionist.

  ‘He’s on leave. Decided to take a week’s holiday.’

  She’d already told me that, but I remained polite. ‘And he didn’t mention whether he was going away or not?’

  ‘We’re not that close.’

  ‘So, he said nothing?’

  ‘Not to me. But maybe you’d like to talk to Trevor Mitchell. Frank might have mentioned something to him.’

  ‘Is Trevor Mitchell in?’

  �
�Yes, he is. Would you like me to put you through?’

  I hesitated half a second and said, ‘All right, I’d appreciate that.’

  Before I had time to change my mind, Trevor Mitchell’s voice rang clearly in my right ear. ‘Kristina Melina?’

  ‘I’m trying to track Frank down.’

  ‘Melina,’ he said, injecting concern in his voice. ‘Where have you been? You haven’t tried to contact me.’

  ‘For what? You and the others have already made up your mind about what to do with me.’

  ‘Oh, no, no, no. You’re taking this all the wrong way. I told you a few weeks back that there would be an inquiry. I warned you heads would roll, and in the meantime, you get yourself into more trouble. What did you expect?’

  ‘Look, Mr Mitchell, thanks for the concern, but I’m trying to locate Frank Moore. I understand he’s on vacation for the week. He didn’t happen to mention whether he’d be going away? Did he?’

  ‘Did you try his home number?’

  No, I rang you up first to get my ears blasted!

  ‘Sir, I tried him at home and on his mobile phone, but he’s out of reach.’

  ‘Well, Melina, he never told me where he was going. He put in a request for a week off two days ago, and I approved it. He seemed stressed and looked as if he needed it.’

  ‘Thank you for your time. I’ll try his home again later.’

  I was about to hang up when he added, ‘Oh, Melina?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Why don’t you drop by the office? I need to tie up a few loose ends. You need to sign a termination of contract and hand over your pass.’

  ‘Sure, I’ll do that.’

  ‘By the way, you’re not still investigating this Wilson thing?’

  I swallowed and tried my best to sound sarcastic. ‘Now, why would that be, Mr Mitchell? I understand I’ve been barred from the investigation. Or is this an invitation to get me back in on it?’

  ‘You better not be, Melina. If someone—’

  I hung up on him. He was no longer my boss, and I cared little for his advice. To begin with, I found it increasingly insulting to be referred to by my first name when I had the courtesy to call him by his last name. And secondly, the computerised VFSC photo-ID card might still come in handy. It gave me access to the mortuary and various other restricted areas. Thank God for whoever had the wise idea of giving me total access to any place which would make my job as an investigator as easy as possible.