The Kristina Melina Omnibus: First Kill, Second Cut, Third Victim Page 5

  It took me an hour and a half to be exhausted enough to decide to get back home.

  When I said goodbye to Ken and left the gym, the air was chilled. I felt my throat tightening, a reminder that my chest cold wasn’t over yet. I still had to be careful.

  Just as I stepped inside my blue Lancer, my mobile phone rang.

  ‘Dr Melina.’

  ‘It’s Frank. We’ve got a meeting first thing in the morning at the VFSC with the Deputy Commissioner of Police.’

  I felt blood rushing to my head.

  I knew what this was going to be about.

  Monday morning, I showered and dressed in my best attire - navy Country Road pants with matching jacket and white blouse. I was ready to face three men in business suits who would challenge me with their bureaucratic maze and chauvinistic attitude. Of course, I never believed Frank was one of them, but when he was with the boys, he acted like them. Or he said nothing, and pretended I was invisible.

  The traffic was chaotic at 8.20 a.m., and it took me a good hour and a half to get to Macleod where the VFSC was located.

  I had the radio tuned to Radio National. I heard my own voice commenting on the Wilson’s homicide. People called the program host straight after the news to debate if Melbourne was becoming too dangerous, if there was too much violence on television, and if one day we would end up killing each other off the way Americans did.

  I turned the radio off.

  It made me angry to realise everyone was so ignorant. I knew for a fact that murder rates had dropped dramatically in Australia for the past three or four years. I also knew New York’s murder rate had dropped by sixty percent in the past two years.

  And then they tell you about the murder rate in America, but no one mentions other countries, like China, where crime figures were probably tempered, where people disappeared and no one said a word. Places like Bosnia where one year of war killed more people than ten years of homicides in the entire United States. Third world countries where thousands of children died everyday from malnutrition and diseases; children who were literally murdered by their government who was too busy playing war games.

  I shrugged, concluding that even in heaven, people would have something to complain about.

  The VFSC was located close to Macleod Secondary Technical College.

  I turned left into Forensic Drive. A large blue sign with ‘Victorian Forensic Science Centre’ by the side of the road told me I was at the right place. A truck was parked on the right hand side of the road. I passed school kids dressed in yellow school uniforms who waved at me. I waved back. The centre was surrounded with grass and bushland.

  I drove past a blue, high steel gate and noticed two Australian flags and a security camera. My speedometer said 40km per hour, 30km over the 10km per hour speed limit. I went right past the car park and towards the main entrance of the building where I was told by another sign to ‘Report to Reception’.

  The main building was a brown-creamy colour. Gum trees, mostly eucalyptus, lined the car park. More security cameras were staring at me, reflecting the level of paranoia around when this place was first built in the late 1970s.

  I parked next to two police cars, in front of the main entrance. Five motorcycles were aligned next to each other, in spite of the no-parking sign. A 3WE chemical hazard sign next to the main entrance caught my attention, reminding me how little I knew about chemical hazard warnings.

  I stepped out of the car, went past the entrance’s glass sliding doors and entered the main foyer.

  I nearly lost balance on the highly polished floor. Pictures, awards and trophies on my left made me turn my head, despite the fact that I’d already seen them hundreds of times.

  Without stopping, I entered room C47, the front desk at the centre, also known as Liaison Office.

  A computer and dot matrix printer to the left of the door were doing overtime, chucking out continuity labels for evidence collected by various police officers across the State.

  I glanced over my shoulder, where a clock on the wall told me I was an hour late.

  I stated my purpose to the bearded Liaison Officer and was told to proceed.

  After going through a maze of corridors, which I had lost myself in several times when I first visited the centre, I stepped inside the conference room without knocking.

  Frank Goosh was slouched in the only black, leather-bound executive chair in the room. He had an arrogant look on his face. His beady black eyes tried to destroy the little confidence I had left. My nerves were raw from the aggressiveness of other drivers out there. We spent time and energy chasing killers, but most killers were on the road.

  The other men in the room were Frank Moore and Trevor Mitchell, the Director of the VFSC.

  I glanced at Trevor Mitchell’s dark suit and white shirt. Not very imaginative, I thought, but considering his position at the VFSC, did he need to be? Trevor Mitchell was in his mid-fifties, grey cropped hair, and had a permanent, severe look on his face.

  Empty mugs confirmed each man had already helped himself to a cup of coffee and assorted cream cookies. They were injected with high-octane caffeine, ready to bulldoze through the working day and toss anyone aside who would get in their way. And frankly, I could have done with a cup as well.

  Frank Goosh began, ‘I guess you don’t know, Miss Melina, why we’re here.’

  ‘It’s Dr Melina,’ I retorted. I felt edgy and on the defensive.

  He turned to Frank and Trevor. ‘See what I mean,’ he said as if I had lost all my marbles. ‘This is the kind of shit I have to put up with.’

  And I realised these three men already had a little morning debate about my so-called attitude before I even stepped in the room.

  I felt my face changing colour. ‘Jesus Christ, Mr Goosh,’ I shouted, leaning forward, my arms crossed over my chest. ‘I don’t address you as Frank. Is it so hard to for you to remember the DR in front of my name? I do have a PhD in Criminal Justice, which I worked damn hard to earn.’

  He rolled his eyes as the sound of my voice echoed from one corner of the room to the other.

  Trevor Mitchell was unimpressed. He pursed his lips and said, ‘I’d like to get this over and done with as soon as possible. I’ve got some other meetings to attend to, and if you two have nothing better to do than fight over trivial matters, I don’t mind leaving you alone to sort them out.’

  ‘Everything’s fine,’ Frank Goosh said, then turning to me, ‘Isn’t it, Dr Kristina Melina?’

  I moved back in my chair. ‘I guess it is.’

  ‘Good,’ Trevor Mitchell said. ‘Deputy Commissioner?’

  ‘Ah, yes,’. Frank Goosh fidgeted with his fingers as if he had forgotten what this meeting was all about. ‘Dr Melina, it’s been decided to pull you out of the Wilson’s investigation.’

  ‘What?’ I said, absolutely stunned.

  ‘We have an investigator at the CIB who has more experience with these types of murders. We feel that this case has too much of a high-profile. We can’t afford mistakes to be made. The media is watching our every move.’

  I stood mouth-agape for a few seconds. ‘Mistakes? Did I do anything wrong?’ I was under a tight contract, which bound me to strict ethical standards of conducts. But as I recalled, I hadn’t done anything wrong to date.

  ‘I didn’t say that,’ he said, addressing me as if I was unfamiliar with the English language. ‘You’ve only been on the job six months, and well, let’s just say we would feel more comfortable if someone else, someone who has more experience with these types of homicides, would led the investigation.’

  ‘I’m the most knowledgeable person in the field. What on earth are you talking about?’

  ‘We’re not doubting your knowledge in criminology. We’re only concerned with your lack of experience with the media.’

  That had to be the worst excuse I’d ever heard. And the fact that he kept referring to himself as we, as if everything he told me was a collective decision, made my blood boi
l.

  ‘Does that have anything to do with the other night?’ I snapped.

  ‘What do you mean?’ he asked as if he’d suddenly grew a pair of wings, and an aureole floated gently above his cranium. The sonofabitch was playing games with me.

  Eyes crossed the table.

  ‘You’re taking this case away from me because I didn’t let you in the crime-scene area. Isn’t that right?’

  He shook his head. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about?’

  You don’t know what I’m talking about? You called me a bitch and a little tart, you asshole. I bet you remember that!

  I turned to Frank. ‘Isn’t that right Frank? You were there, remember?’ And then I recalled he wasn’t there when I had the argument with the Deputy Commissioner of Police.

  Frank shook his head, looking as embarrassed as I’d ever seen.

  ‘Goddamn it!’ I said. ‘I don’t believe it. What is this? The Men’s Gallery? What do you want me to do next? Table-dance for you?’

  ‘All right, Melina, that’s enough,’ Trevor Mitchell ordered. ‘Frank Goosh is the Deputy Commissioner of Police, and if the investigation has been passed on to the CIB, then that’s the way it’s going to be. The VFSC is a service provider, not an authority.’

  ‘Fine,’ I said, trying to regain my composure. He was right on that point. The VFSC didn’t serve the police only, but anyone who requested forensic tests to be done. This included defense lawyers, the general public and private companies. Tests, other than those used to help a investigator prepare a case, were subject to a fee.

  Frank Goosh smiled a sadistic smile that only I could see. ‘I want the entire Wilson’s file transferred to the CIB’s headquarters by the end of the week.’

  Like hell I was going to pass over the Wilson’s file. If he wanted it, he’d have to come to my place and beg like a dog. I’ll make him do hand-stands, lick my shoes and kiss my arse.

  I left the VFSC with a tight throat. The men’s club was alive and kicking. I wanted to tell them where to go, and how far to stick it.

  But a better idea crossed my mind.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  At 11.32 p.m. I was in bed. Frank called me to say Teresa Wilson was awake and willing to talk to us. She was staying at St Patrick’s Hospital on Barry Street, in South Melbourne.

  Frank Moore and I arrived at the hospital in my car. I was still furious from our morning meeting with the Deputy Commissioner of Police and the Director of the VFSC. But I didn’t want to give Frank a hard time over it. He’d been nice enough to call me when Mrs Wilson woke up. He knew perfectly well I had nothing more to do with the investigation. He made me promise not to say a word to Trevor Mitchell or anyone, as he was only doing me a favour. I guess it was Frank’s way of making it look like he was doing something about my unfair dismissal from the investigation.

  ‘How long has she been awake?’ I asked as we pulled into the hospital’s car park.

  ‘Half an hour from the time I got the call.’

  I parked between an old, green Ford Cortina and a brand new Jeep.

  St Patrick’s Hospital had been built over a hundred years ago from brownstone blocks. It stood five storeys tall, was cramped with dirty windows and covered with a flat roof. Like most public hospitals in Melbourne, it was big outside, but inconveniently small on the inside, with wards half the size of the original design.

  Without a word, Frank and I climbed stairs leading to the main entrance of the hospital. I noticed Frank checking his Sony tape recorder for batteries. He placed it back in his jacket pocket after flicking it on and off, obviously satisfied it was in working order.

  On arrival at the front desk, we introduced ourselves.

  In less than a minute, Dr Frank Larousse came to greet us.

  ‘I didn’t know you would be coming so fast,’ he said while re-adjusting his rimless glasses on the bridge of his nose. The doctor’s eyes were red from the stress of double-shifts. His hair was thinning on top, but he didn’t look a day over forty. He was not slim, nor bulky, just a comfortable in-between. His white lab coat was opened in the middle, showing a cheap-looking crocodile imitation leather belt, a yellow shirt and a pastel green tie. The doctor was a fashion statement, a walking billboard for all that went wrong with eighties fashion.

  Dr Frank Larousse led us down a maze of corridors on the first floor of the building. Finally, he invited us into his office, which was so secluded, I wondered if I’d ever be capable of finding it again by myself. Posters of Gray’s Anatomy hung on the walls. A bookshelf, filled with everything from pharmaceutical references to doctors’ ethical procedures, stood on his right. I noticed a hardcover novel, wrapped in a bright orange jacket, titled Contagious. The writer was Robin Cook, a world-wide bestselling author and a doctor who wrote medical thrillers.

  Behind Dr Larousse’s back was a grey, four-drawer filing cabinet with no labels indicating the contents of the drawers.

  His desk top was arranged with files and notebooks, all neatly and clinically stacked together.

  He spoke to us as if we were two of his patients. ‘I just want to run through the preliminary report before you go and meet Mrs Wilson. In fact, it would be better if you came back to see her tomorrow. But since you’re here, and she’s willing to talk to you, I guess now is as good a time as ever.’

  We nodded in silence, waiting as the doctor shuffled some paper on his desk. He lifted a yellow manilla folder and pulled a page from its content.

  ‘Here we go. Her name is Teresa Vivienne Wilson, age 34, Caucasian with no superficial deformities.’ He glanced in our direction to see that he hadn’t lost us, and went on, ‘We’ve found bruising all over her body, including the legs, buttocks, arms and face.’

  ‘Someone beat her up?’ Frank asked, raising his brow.

  ‘That’s what I would conclude. We’ve also found numerous abrasions and small cuts on her face, abdomen and arms. Intermittent haemorrhaging was present from both nostrils. Her scalp was covered with small wounds, and hair at the crown was matted with blood.’

  I swallowed as I pictured in my mind’s eye what Teresa Wilson had gone through.

  Dr Larousse continued his monologue, ‘Three of her fingernails were broken, and both hands swollen. When she arrived at the hospital, she was in hypovolemic shock. Her skin was cold and pale with blueness at the lips and fingers. She was restless and confused, something normal after the ordeal she went through.’

  ‘And where did you take her after the initial examination?’ I asked, speaking up for the first time since we’d been in the doctor’s office.

  ‘I’ve had her transferred to a supportive environment and administered a saline solution. Within hours her temperature rose, her skin tone improved, and her mental orientation was more or less restored. Two hours later she slipped into a semi-coma, most likely due to post-traumatic shock.’

  ‘What about rape?’ Frank asked for both of us.

  ‘Ah, I was going to get to that. We found bruising, scratching and localised swelling around the external genitals. Dried blood was located in the anus. Examination of the vagina with a speculum resulted in the discovery of a copious amount of a substance consistent with appearance and viscosity of semen. The substance was removed from around the neck of the cervix. Severe scratches were found in the anterior wall of the vagina.’

  ‘So she was raped?’ Frank asked again impatiently.

  ‘I’m getting there. The opening of her anus appeared patulous and cut in several places. I examined the interior of the anus with a speculum and came up with a squash ball lying in the cavity of the rectum.’

  ‘A what?’ I muttered, wondering if I had heard correctly.

  ‘A squash ball. You know, a hard rubber ball, the type used to play that game where the players hit the ball against a wall.’

  I knew what a squash ball was. I just couldn’t understand what it was doing inside Teresa Wilson.

  Dr Larousse seemed somehow satisfied that he had shocked u
s. A slight grin on his face made me wonder if he was a touch sadistic.

  ‘The high-friction surface of the squash ball,’ he continued, ‘caused considerable tissue damage to the anus and the walls of the lower tract of the large bowel. We’ll have to remove the ball by surgery under general anaesthetic.’

  ‘Okay, Doctor,’ Frank said, ‘by-passing any more technical details, what is your opinion on what happened to Mrs Wilson?’

  Dr Larousse looked straight at us. ‘The preliminary assessment of Mrs Wilson clearly indicates to me that she’s been beaten and subjected to an unusual level of physical abuse, and it would appear rape has taken place.’

  Both Frank and I scribbled notes in our pad books.

  ‘You don’t mind if we get a copy of the preliminary report?’ I asked without lifting my eyes from my notes.

  ‘I’ll have two sets photocopied by the time you finish interrogating Mrs Wilson.’

  We thanked Dr Larousse for his time as he escorted us out of his office.

  When Frank Moore and I arrived in Teresa Wilson’s room, at the Intensive Care Unit Ward, on the third floor of the building, we brought in a bunch of pink carnations from a shop downstairs, next to the main entrance of the hospital.

  Coming face to face with a victim was never easy, no matter how many times we went through the process. Repetition was supposed to make you stronger, but some things were never easy, no matter how many times you dealt with them.

  Every time I encountered a crime victim, I was conscious I was dealing with a human being. Ironically, people who caused the damage in the first place usually never saw other people as anything more than objects. This was probably the main difference between them and us. They had lost touch with their inner feelings. They were incapable of sympathy for anyone but themselves. Men who committed atrocities, like the savage beating and raping of Teresa Wilson, were very often self-centred and beyond redemption.