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

  My hand was resting on the handset when the phone rang.

  I knew it was Trevor Mitchell, so I bent over and pulled the plug from the wall.

  For half an hour, I sat at my desk, staring out the window of my study, looking over Chapel Street. Trams, cars and pedestrians went by, but I paid little attention to the outside world. My mind was preoccupied with greater concerns.

  I needed to talk to Frank, because I now truly believed he was in danger. An entire theory on what really happened on the night of the 20th of February at the Wilsons brewed in a dark corner of my mind. Everything I had seen, heard and observed since the beginning of this investigation began to cling together neatly, like the last pieces of an enigmatic puzzle.

  I shifted in my chair, hands cupped under my chin, gazing at the emptiness in front of my eyes.

  No one had broken into the Wilson’s apartment. Someone directed a damn good puppet show, and everyone, including me, had had their strings pulled. She manipulated, controlled and orchestrated this entire scenario. Everyone had played their parts perfectly.

  I was convinced the only reason Teresa hung around Frank Moore was to create the least amount of suspicion. Frank Moore could influence the investigation any way he wanted. If she managed to twist him around her finger, he’d do anything she asked. The prompt termination of my contract with the VFSC was no coincidence. I was certain I had been right when I accused Frank of doing little to save my job. It seemed clear now he had more to gain by letting me go. I was an obstructive element in his grand plan. Or was it hers?

  It broke my heart to realise how little I meant to him. Because he loved me all those years, like he claimed he did, I never expected something like that was going to happen. But my main concern was that once the investigation would be filed away forever, she might decide to get rid of him. So far, her method of getting rid of people had proven not only effective, but extremely sadistic.

  Since I couldn’t get in touch with Frank, I decided to move ahead with my investigation. I had a clear idea in mind. Time to move on and stop counting the losses.

  I put on my leather jacket, grabbed my car keys from the kitchen bench, and headed for the National Theatre.

  Louis was cleaning the men’s toilet when I walked into the National Theatre. He had a pair of white overalls on and reminded me of one of us, dressed in our crime-scene examiners clothing.

  ‘I need your help,’ I said, glancing at his blue suede shirt, under the overalls, and his three golden earings dangling from each ear.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ he said. I must have looked dreadful because he dropped his jaw by half an inch. ‘Did someone else die? God, I read about Claire Kendall. Did you find out who killed her? I wanted to call, but didn’t want to intrude. You know, you looked as if you were busy enough as it was.’

  I told him talking here was awkward, but I needed his help immediately

  ‘I can’t leave like that,’ he protested. ‘I’ll lose my job.’

  ‘Louis, I need you now.’

  A look of concern crossed his face. He agreed to drop everything and come with me.

  I waited while he got rid of his mop, bucket and overall.

  We drove down to the Victoria Institute of Forensic Medicine in Southbank via Kings Way.

  As usual, I raced like a lunatic.

  Louis kept on throwing his hands on the dashboard every time I got too close to the back of another car.

  One hand on the steering wheel, I explained to him how I believed Teresa Wilson had committed a triple murder. I kept my explanation simple because I doubted he would have understood everything about DNA sampling, antigens and enzymes.

  He sat silently for a few minutes, obviously mortified Teresa could have killed so many people.

  ‘You okay?’ I finally said, wondering if I had done the right thing by bringing him with me. But I knew no one else in close proximity I could trust.

  ‘God, I was working with her. It could have been me. You know, if she thought whatever she thought about Jeremy, Walter and Claire about me, I’d be dead by now. Thank God I’m not straight!’

  I found his remark kind of funny because it was so true. His manhood might have saved him from being one of Teresa’s chosen few.

  ‘Well you’re not dead yet, so let’s do something about it,’ I ordered, as I took a turn into Kavanagh Street. Of course, I never believed he was in any danger, but I was desperate for his assistance.

  Briefly, I explained what my plan was once we’d reach the mortuary.

  ‘Are you crazy? We’re going to get arrested!’ he said, glaring at me as if I had lost all reasoning.

  ‘All you have to do is distract them, that’s all.’

  ‘Jesus, I’m going to get my arse kicked.’

  ‘Hey, watch the language,’ I joked, and he blushed.

  I parked fifty meters outside the VIFM, killed the engine and locked my eyes into his. ‘Three people are dead, Louis. Someone else could die. We’ve got to do everything we can to get Teresa arrested. All I’ve got is circumstancial evidence. I don’t want to drag Teresa to court and have the prosecution fall flat on their arse. I need to get my hands on Jeremy Wilson’s autopsy report. I need it, and they won’t let me get it. I don’t know anyone else who can help me right now. The more time this takes, the more likely she’ll get away with it. Is that what you want?’

  ‘No, but—’

  ‘But what? You want me to drive you back and do this by myself? I’m going to stuff it up, and she’s going to get away with it. And if she finds out what I’m up to, my funeral could be the next one you’ll be attending.’

  He shifted uncomfortably on his seat and stared down at his hands. ‘I don’t think I’m cut out for this. This is not my kind of thing. I’m a thinking person, not a Rambo-type of guy.’

  ‘Please, I need you to do this for me.’

  ‘I’m not the right man.’

  ‘Louis, look at me.’ He looked up as if I was going to reveal the secret of eternal life. ‘You’re more than a man. You can do this.’

  He analysed me for five seconds, flung open the passenger door and said, ‘Okay, partner, let’s nail the sucker.’

  The VIFM was the statutory body in charge of Forensic Pathology, Clinical Forensic Medicine, Forensic Toxicology and other forensic scientific services in the State. Over 3000 postmortem examinations took place at the mortuary, the Coronial Services Centre, located in the same blue-grey South Melbourne complex. Other than autopsies, the centre incorporated histology, microbiology and molecular biology laboratories, all contributing to forensic investigations throughout Victoria.

  The Institute was also responsible for education in forensic medicine, and thus incorporated the Department of Forensic Medicine at Monash University, delivering quality undergraduate and postgraduate courses for medical and legal students. The complex was also the home of the Coroner’s Court.

  Unfortunately, the security system at the VIFM was also second to none. If I didn’t have my VFSC ID, I’d have no chance to even pass the front desk.

  I heard Louis scream as I went through the autopsy reports in Dr Charles W. Main’s office.

  All the reports were neatly filed in a four-drawer beige filing cabinet, clearly labelled by date, name and job number.

  I couldn’t believe my luck. Thank God, Dr Charles W. Main was away from his office and left the door open. I did have my lockpicking kit with me in case things had turned out more complicated than I had anticipated. But now I feared he might be only seconds away. I had to hurry, or else I would find myself in the undesirable position of being charged with trespassing.

  I was curious as to what Louis had done to attract the security guards’ attention, as it gave me enough time to sneak past the front desk, down the empty, blue-carpeted hallways, and to enter the office area. To pass each section of the building, I had to place my ID pass against a black plate attached to the wall next to each door. The card was read by a computer and access was granted once th
e user was identified. Fortunately, my name hadn’t been remove from Ingres 4GL, the central database, just yet, making my illegal wandering a breeze.

  After three minutes of sifting through hundreds of green files, I finally found Jeremy Wilson’s report. The white label on the manilla folder read 20 February, the day we found him dead.

  Dr Charles W. Main wasted no time on that one. Normally twenty-four hours would elapse before an autopsy would be carried out. Exceptions were made when a homicide was involved.

  I circled the room with my eyes, desperately seeking a photocopier.

  Nothing but a large director’s desk, a swivel chair, a Medical Degree from the University of Melbourne, certificates of merits and commendation, hanging like war medals on the wall behind the desk, and a 486DX computer, outdated by at least three years.

  No time to sneak into the other offices and risk getting caught.

  I tucked the report between my jeans and the small of my back, concealing it with my leather jacket.

  I let out a sigh of relief, knowing I was now in possession of what I’d been seeking.

  Just as I was about to leave the office, I heard someone opening the door down the end of the hallway.

  I froze, listening attentively for anything. Because the floor was covered in blue carpet, I couldn’t hear footsteps.

  Louis was no longer screaming. They must have gagged him or dragged him outside the building.

  I heard the door close.

  Christ, don’t let it be Dr Main.

  ‘Who’s there?’ someone with a coarse, military voice shouted.

  My pulse increased as I looked around the room for an alternative exit or a hiding place. But the office was small, and there was no where to go.

  I stayed glued to the blue carpet, now truly believing I would be charged for trespassing and stealing government property, not to mention tampering with an investigation.

  ‘Who’s there?’ the voice repeated with authority.

  Someone knew I was here, but I was uncertain how they found out. I wondered if the security guards beat it out of Louis.

  Or maybe someone spotted me on one of the security cameras I’d been too careless to notice.

  I took a deep breath and walked out of Dr Charles W. Main’s office, my head high, radiating confidence.

  Forcing a broad smile, I paced towards the stranger as if I knew my business in this establishment.

  A security guard in blue uniform glared into my eyes.

  I glanced at his name tag, which read Jason. His hair was parted in the middle, and he had a strong neck and wide shoulders. His face was red from either anger or excessive drinking. Either way, he didn’t look like the type of person anyone would want to mess with.

  ‘Who are you, and what are you doing in Dr Main’s office?’ His tone suggested he was ready to pin me to the ground if I gave him the wrong answer.

  ‘Jason, I’m a doctor working for the VFSC. Dr Main asked me to get him an autopsy report.’

  He scrutinized me up and down, as I realised I’d made a mistake wearing denim and leather.

  ‘I’ve never seen you here before,’ he said. ‘Why aren’t you wearing a visitor’s pass?’

  ‘I’ve got identification,’ I said, removing my VFSC ID.

  ‘You should still be wearing a visitor’s pass. Why aren’t you wearing a pass?’

  Nervous, I found no answer. I stepped forward, trying to get past him. I was losing my composure as fear wiped the smile off my face.

  A strong hand grabbed my arm, blocking the circulation to my right hand.

  ‘Hold on a sec.’ He spoke in his walky-talky, ‘Steve, do you copy?’

  I took no time to think and kicked him hard in the shin with one of the fashionable leather, metal-caped safety shoes I bought on Chapel Street.

  ‘Ah, fuck!’ he muttered and lowered himself to the floor, loosening his grip on my arm. ‘You bitch!’

  That’s what my husband called me when I told him I wanted to file for divorce more than a decade ago.

  I ran as fast as I could, not looking back.

  The Jeremy Wilson autopsy report was rubbing against my lower back, causing mild discomfort.

  I placed my ID against the black panel at the end of the hallway, pulled the door open, and ran as fast as I could.

  ‘Jesus, fuck!’ I heard him swear as I vanished down the end of the corridor.

  I slowed down as I approached the front desk.

  Not a soul in sight.

  Looking across the glass door of the VIFM, I saw four security guards in blue uniform and a man in a suit surrounding Louis. I recognised the suit to be Dr Charles W. Main. We met once at an international conference on criminology at Monash University in Clayton. I’d spoken to him for only a few minutes, so I’d never had a chance to establish a personal opinion towards him. Come to think of it, I did recall that he was rather attractive, but right now it seemed irrelevant.

  I crossed the empty reception area as fast as I could while maintaining a walking pace. I stepped out of the building, smiled at the security guards, who smiled back at me, and headed towards the Lancer.

  ‘And what were you doing in the pathology room?’ one of the guards said to Louis.

  ‘I told you I made a mistake. I got the wrong place. I thought this was the Blood Bank,’ Louis screamed back.

  Clever, I thought, the Blood Bank was only a block away.

  ‘You stupid fag,’ another guard said. ‘Nobody’s gonna take blood from you. You probably got AIDS or some shit.’

  Dr Charles W. Main broke in, ‘Hey, come on now, there’s no need to use that kind of language. The police will be here any minute.’

  And sure enough, just as I slid behind the wheel of my car, a white police car raced down the street, siren screaming as if the world was coming to an end.

  I hoped Louis was going to get out of this without much trouble. I could have gone back and tried to rescue him, but the police car was closing in towards the building.

  If Jason, the security guard who bruised my right arm with his mortal grip, raised the alarm, I’d be getting a free ride in the police car.

  I turned on the ignition, cracked the gears, and manoeuvred the car into a u-turn.

  I owe you one, Louis

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  As soon as I got home, I removed the autopsy report from my jacket and threw it on the desk in my study.

  I compared the DNA autoradiograph from Jeremy Wilson’s blood sample in the report with the one Dr Shubbert faxed me.

  The polymorphic sequences from both autoradiographs were identical.

  A perfect match.

  The semen found in Teresa’s vagina never was Walter’s like everybody initially assumed, but her husband’s.

  Teresa’s rape was a hoax.

  I decided to read the entire autopsy report on Jeremy Wilson.

  From first glance, I could see that the pathologist performed the medico-legal autopsy thoroughly.

  After the body had been identified and toe-tagged, Dr Charles W. Main took two twenty-four exposure colour films of the body fully dressed and in the nude. The body was then measured, weighed and x-rayed. This was slightly awkward since the head of Jeremy Wilson was separated from his shoulders.

  This was followed by fingerprinting.

  External examination was carefully performed according to the information I had in front of me. Clothing was thoroughly examined, including any fibre samples and stains. Scars, wounds, tattoos, moles and other identifying markers were also recorded. Fingernails, hair and skin were also examined, and the skin of arms and legs were checked for needle marks.

  Dr Charles W. Main then proceeded with the internal examination. He performed the obligatory body-length Y-incision, also known as the thoracic-abdominal incision because it began across the chest from shoulder to shoulder and down over the breasts, then changed into a midline incision along the abdomen and down the pubis.

  The heart and lungs were exposed thro
ugh cutting the ribs and cartilage, and a blood sample was taken from the heart after opening the pericardial sac to determine Jeremy Wilson’s blood type.

  The upper organs were then removed, weighed and externally examined before being sliced up into sections for examination of internal structural damage. Fluid in the thoracic pleural cavity was removed for analysis. Microscopic slides for each organ were prepared for further testing.

  Organ removal and examination was then carried out on the abdomen. Like the chest area, each separate organ was subject to visual and internal testing. The stomach’s content was measured and samples sent for toxicology.

  And this was where I stopped going through the report.

  Something caught my eye.

  A handwritten note had been made on the margin next to the stomach’s content analysis. See toxicology report - high level of drug detected.

  I flicked forward until I got to the toxicology results.

  A high concentration of Valium had been found not only in the stomach’s content, but also in the blood sample taken from the heart of the victim.

  I dropped the autopsy report on my desk, and placed the palms of my hands against my temples. Another layer had just been added to the Wilson’s case.

  This crime had been so carefully premeditated that everyone had missed the obvious.

  I looked out the window of my room and down to the street below. I hadn’t even noticed that it had been raining. A green tram stopped and one of my neighbours, a drunk on an invalid pension, stepped off without looking. He nearly got run over by a car trying to overtake the tram from the left-hand side.

  I went to the kitchen and made myself a cup of black coffee. Pain jabbed at the back of my neck, probably caffeine withdrawal symptoms.