An Easeful Death (11 page)

Wondering about Harper’s alibi, Monty turned to the section where it should have been and found two pages missing.
Must have been put in the wrong place
, he thought, working his way from one file to the other.

The search proved fruitless. He became aware of a cold feeling in his chest. Contaminated evidence was bad enough, but deliberately removed documents? That was something else. Michelle’s allegations of a cover-up were looking more likely by the minute. All he could do now was hope to find the relevant information on the computer database. Once information had been transferred from hard copy to the computer it was almost impossible to erase. The only way it wouldn’t be there was if it had never been entered in the first place.

He pushed aside his glasses for a moment and rubbed his eyes, aware of how tired he’d become. He resolved to go back to the Bonilla file in the morning with fresh eyes.

Unable to call it a night though, he turned to the file of the second victim, twenty-one year old prostitute Lorna Dunn. She was found near the Pioneer Women’s memorial by an old man out for an early morning stroll. She’d been stripped naked and posed provocatively under a tree. She too had been violated post mortem by a bottle and had a large amount of Rohypnol in her system. Her hair had also been hacked. Some hair was found at the site, but no fibres, no prints and no foreign DNA. There was no documented evidence of anything written on her body and no jewellery listed among her personal effects.

Her estranged father was serving ten years in prison for armed robbery and had not been interviewed by police at all. Her alcoholic mother had known very little about her daughter’s lifestyle, but an unnamed streetwalker friend had told police that Lorna Dunn had turned a client down earlier that evening.

Monty paused and sucked his pen. Why wasn’t the friend named? Was this another blunder or a deliberate omission?

He shook his head in exasperation when he saw that the nameless woman had identified Lorna’s rejected client as Reece Harper.

Not having enough evidence to charge Harper, police had instigated round-the-clock surveillance. Reece Harper died in a car accident three months later and the case was officially closed.

The ringing phone broke into his reading and he hauled himself to his feet, swaying with exhaustion. He really should be calling it a night.

‘Monty.’ It was Wayne. ‘Sorry to call so late, but I thought you’d want to know the latest.’

‘Go for it.’

‘I ran a background check on the hobby shop guy, Thompson, like you said. I also spoke to his boss and it looks like we can rely on him.’ Wayne’s voice on the end of the phone was obscured by background noise.

‘Wayne, I can hardly hear you,’ Monty said. ‘Where are you and what the hell’s that racket?’

‘I’m back at Central, sorry, the cleaner’s vacuuming the incident room. Wait a minute, he’s in your office now.’ Monty heard a bang as the door was kicked closed. ‘Is that better?’

‘Much. So I suppose it’s too much to hope that the man paid for the paint with his credit card.’

‘Jeez, aren’t you the optimist.’

‘The guy’s smart, but even the smart ones slip up sometimes,’ Monty said.

‘True. The hobby shop man, Thompson, ended up being very helpful, we went through it again with him, but he hasn’t remembered anything new. I organised a session with the artist and we now have a composite sketch. Problem is, the guy was wearing a baseball cap and dark glasses. Thompson said it was the glasses that made him memorable—it wasn’t exactly sunglass weather.’

‘What about the paint?’

‘He gave me a sample of bronze from the batch he sold to our mystery man. I’ve dropped it to the lab but it’ll be a few days before they can tell us if it’s the same stuff on Linda Royce.’

‘I’ve a hunch it’ll match. I’ve been looking at the KP files; I’m convinced we’re looking at the same perpetrator.’

There was a beat of silence from the other end of the phone. ‘We’ve been told to drop that—you after an early retirement?’

‘If that’s what it takes.’ Monty decided to keep his discovery of the missing documents from Wayne for the moment. He didn’t want to jump to conclusions until he’d checked the computer records for himself.

Wayne’s sigh came through the line as a hiss. ‘I don’t understand Baggly’s attitude at all. If it’s the press he’s worried about, he’s just going to get himself into deeper shit.’

‘I’m hoping De Vakey will help me show Baggly the light. If not I’ll have to go higher up the food chain. There are just too many similarities between the Royce murder and the KP killings to ignore a connection.’

‘I’m glad to be able to leave the politics to you.’

‘Thanks.’ Monty sighed and rubbed his forehead. ‘How about Angus and the taxis?’

‘Nothing yet. No trace on the roofies and no chloroform listed as stolen.’

‘I want someone on the police personnel records. De Vakey seems to think a disgruntled ex-cop might be behind this. Check out all the dismissals over, say, the last five years.’

‘Well, I suppose there’s no harm giving it a go. See you in the morning, yeah?’ But Wayne didn’t put the phone down; there was something else on his mind. ‘Umm, Mont.’

‘Mm?’

A beat. ‘Did you know Tye Davis is in town?’

Monty said nothing. A pulse began to throb in his temple. He put his fingers to it and tried to soothe it away. So what if Tye Davis was back in town? There was no reason why he wouldn’t return to the city. But it was strange how Tye’s name had sprung to mind when he was reading about the KP murders, and stranger still how Wayne should bring him up at this stage in their conversation.

‘I think he might be out to make trouble for Stevie. He mentioned something about the kid. After custody, I reckon,’ Wayne said.

Monty felt the blood drain from his face. Almost overwhelmed with dizziness he slumped against the wall. ‘That can’t happen,’ he said to himself. Or thought he had.

‘What was that? Are you okay?’ Wayne asked.

‘Yeah, I’m just tired.’ Monty rubbed his face. ‘I want Tye on top of your list of disgruntled cops. Check him out, find out where he was when Linda Royce was murdered.’

‘Surely you don’t think—’

‘Just do it.’

When Monty replaced the receiver his head was swimming.

Back on the sofa he took a large slug of juice. He had to put his feelings aside, be objective about this, look at nothing but the facts of the case and not let his judgement be tainted with the odour of Tye Davis.

Rohypnol and chloroform had been found in Linda Royce’s system, but only Rohypnol had been found in the prostitutes, most likely dissolved in an alcoholic drink. This made sense. The prostitutes were willing participants, to a degree. The offender would have had no problem getting them to share a drink with him—maybe it was while they were sitting on the bench in the park. The date rape drug wasn’t as common then as it was now and the girls may not have been so wary.

Linda Royce, though, had not been picking up tricks in a park; she had not been such an easy target. He must have knocked her out with chloroform in the street first before taking her away to his secluded spot and making her drink the drugged cocktail.

He opened his notebook and began to jot down the similarities between the two old cases. Once he had these listed, he would compare them to the Linda Royce case. His finger traced a snake through the condensation on the beer glass as he organised his thoughts. Under the heading ‘similarities’ he wrote:

Bodies found in same location
Same profession of victims
Same drugs in their systems
Violation and posing of victims after death
All had long hair, hacked off
No jewellery
No DNA evidence except for questionable hairs on first victim
No evidence of sexual intercourse

Under ‘differences’ he listed:

Kitty Bonilla semi naked
Lorna Dunn totally naked
Kitty Bonilla small, dark hair, part Aboriginal
Lorna Dunn tall, red hair, Caucasian

He needed another cigarette, but the thought of having to reach for one and light up was suddenly too much of an effort. Concentrate. Physically the women were at opposite ends of the colour spectrum. Adding the blond Linda Royce to the pot only increased his confusion. Was this the killer’s intent? Was it all part of the game De Vakey had explained to Stevie?

He wrote:
Blue Commodore seen at the first crime site
. Didn’t Wayne just mention a blue Commodore in the Royce case? He would return to that tomorrow. For the moment he wanted to keep the old and the new cases separate.

Back to the KP murders:
No sign of a VW at either site
.

He looked back at the beer. His tongue flicked at his bottom lip. Back to his notebook, things to follow up:

Peter Sbresni
Unnamed prostitute
Check database for missing documents

Monty’s hand grazed the cool of the beer glass once more. He ran his finger around its edge, straining to hear the answers it might sing.

A scene that is staged for the police or for any other unfortunate person who might come across the body is often the result of the killer’s perverse desire to entertain.

De Vakey,
The Pursuit of Evil

Stevie was asleep when she got the phone call. She didn’t have time to drop Izzy at her mother’s, nor did Dot have time to change. Three minutes after Stevie’s frantic plea, Dot was on the doorstep in her dressing-gown and slippers and Stevie was hurrying out to the Commodore, no more than a blurry outline in the grey dawn light.

She picked Angus up on the way and they raced in the unmarked to the latest crime scene, their flashing blue light scorching through the early morning commuters like an oxy-torch through steel plate. Taking her eyes off the road for a moment, she risked a glance at Angus, his string of expletives indicating he still hadn’t got through to Monty. She felt herself tense, her knuckles becoming white marbles on the steering wheel.

‘Last try,’ Angus said, punching at the phone’s redial button.

About to express her concern, he held up his hand to silence her and drawled into the phone, ‘Monty, another body’s been found. It’s in the bedding department of Hartley-Mac’s. We’re on our way, meet you there.’ He replaced his phone in his jacket pocket and sucked in his cheeks, making his thin face almost skeletal. ‘Sounds like he had a hard night.’

Stevie frowned, looked left and right, then sped through a red light causing pedestrians to jump back as if the car was shooting sparks. Soon they were at the Hay Street Mall, their senses assaulted by chaotic images. Yellow crime-scene tape sealed off the entrance and police cars were parked askew, lights flashing. Delivery vans honked, irate shopkeepers argued with uniformed police. A news van excreted cable. Lights were mounted, microphones plugged. An early morning news anchorwoman began to preen in the van’s side mirror. More journos arrived.

Stevie and Angus stepped into the fray to their siren’s dying wheeze.

‘Keep them well back,’ she said to a young constable they hurried past.

‘Any sign of a break in?’ Angus asked the cop guarding the double shop doors as they both flicked ID.

‘None so far, Sir.’

‘Who was first on the scene?’ Stevie spoke over her shoulder as she headed for the lift.

‘Constables Radcliff and Jones, they’re upstairs, third floor,’ the cop called back.

They rode the lift in silence. Stevie concentrated on her breathing and prepared herself for the worst. Angus had his eyes closed and was jingling the loose change in his pocket.

The lift doors opened to castles of glassware and mountains of white crockery. They skirted piles of fluffy towels and stacks of coloured sheets and headed towards a collection of display beds made up with fashionable linens.

There was no death scent, no buzzing flies to warn them of the body’s proximity, only the sweet smell of scented candles and the crackling of a police radio.

They introduced themselves to Constables Radcliff and Jones and took tentative steps towards a bed decorated with a brocade canopy and a silver woman. She lay on her back with her legs bent. She could have been an obscene advertising ploy, one more gimmick to entice the gullible buyer. Buy this bed and you too could look like this. Stevie felt the bile begin to rise. She turned her head to be almost blinded by the spotlight erected by the police photographer, further adding to the staged artificiality of the scene.

The woman’s face was an expressionless mask; she might have been a mannequin from Ladies Wear. Easeful Death was printed down the length of her right thigh in black marker pen.

‘Not again.’ Angus’s voice was soft. His attitude to the dead was always reverential, unlike some members of the squad who popped into her mind.

Wayne Pickering appeared, making the final adjustments to an oversized paisley bow tie. ‘Silver Finger,’ he said in his usual deadpan.

Speak of the devil.

‘It was Bronze Finger last time. Doesn’t sound quite right, does it?’

And his disciple.

Barry Snow turned to Stevie. With the light shining from the spotlight behind him, she could barely see his face, but his large ears stuck out like wing nuts. ‘That was an inaccuracy you know,’ he said. ‘People don’t die just from being painted.’ He leaned towards the body and pointed to the neck area. ‘I’m guessing this one was also strangled.’

‘Let’s leave that to the pathologist to determine, okay?’ Stevie ran her eyes up and down the body, absorbing every detail. The woman’s left hand seemed to be locked into a fist around a small strip of something brown. Peering closer, she tried to identify the protruding object. It looked like a piece of fabric—a piece of the killer’s clothing perhaps? Hard to believe that she had reached out to the killer while she was dying and grabbed this without his knowledge.