Bloodborn (16 page)

With two separate court appearances
in the next two weeks and reports to write, Anya planned to hibernate in her office the rest of the day.

She would review Violet Yardley’s file, in case there was anything that could help the police further. But the first priority was to document everything she could remember about Savannah Harbourn. What she had said, how she had acted, her state of mind, her injuries. From what she had said, her life was spent trying hard not to draw attention to herself.

Violet had even described her as “straight-edged,” drug-and alcohol-free. So the toxicology report should come back negative.

This was a woman who went back to the family home to make sure her younger siblings were being fed, looked after, and even helped with their homework. She feared for what would happen to them if she left.

Anya did, too, now the sisters had lost their only protector.

The broken arm would have been a significant hazard driving, though. Without the strength of one arm, she had little control if she needed to swerve or avoid an accident. That word again. The term “car accident” was completely misleading when most involved substance abuse, speed or breaking road rules—all illegal acts. Working in the morgue had proven that more often than not, innocent people were victim to what was nothing less than criminal behavior.

Paperwork filled the rest of the working day. After a hot bath and a plate of pasta, Anya settled in to watch some television, to get her mind off work and sort through some of the photos from the trip. They’d make a great scrapbook for Ben.

Just before nine, Kate Farrer knocked on the door.

“Slimy bastards!” she said, storming into the hallway with a thick file in her hands.

“Who?” Anya followed Kate to the kitchen.

“The bastard Harbourns. The ringleader, Gary, the one with the mole. He’s admitted himself to a private psychiatric hospital and the shrink there thinks he’s too unwell to be interviewed about Rachel Goodwin’s murder.”

Kate threw down the file, shoved the sleeves on her shirt to her elbows and slapped both hands on the counter.

Anya considered the possibilities. If the police had physical evidence from the scene and Sophie’s statement, it could be a stunt to avoid being arrested. “What’s the reason for admission. Is he claiming to be suicidal or depressed?”

“He’s already going for an insanity defense. He drove himself over there and walked in the door saying he’s hearing voices telling him to hurt people.”

Schizophrenia wasn’t an easy state to fake, although some criminals assumed it was. Anya flicked on the kettle. “You can’t just wake up one day, say you have schizophrenia and deny responsibility for all your actions, it doesn’t work like that.”

“Want to bet? He’s already got one psychiatrist convinced.” Kate stretched and cracked her neck. “This has got to be a bad joke. What are we supposed to tell Ned Goodwin? ‘We know who raped your daughters, killed one and left the other barely breathing, but he’s hiding in a hospital and we can’t get to him.’”

Anya could see Kate’s point of view, but hiding in a psychiatric facility was risky. “You can ask for an independent assessment—”

“That’s why I’m here.”

Anya should have known this wasn’t a social visit. She grabbed two mugs from the cupboard and began to make a pot of tea.

Kate hauled herself up to sit on the bench. “As one of our favorite forensic physicians, the department formally requests you assess Gary Harbourn for any injuries he could have sustained when he attacked the Goodwin girls, and tell us if you think he’s fit to be interviewed.” She grabbed the last apple and placed a card in the now empty fruit bowl. On it was the hospital’s contact details and the name of the treating psychiatrist.

“The doctor says Harbourn’s not going anywhere, so you can go any time tomorrow if that suits.”

“I can do a physical assessment and look for injuries, but my usual role is to make sure a suspect isn’t intoxicated, suffering drug withdrawal or some physical or mental illness that will impair his ability to answer questions at that time. A diagnosis of schizophrenia, even if he has it, doesn’t automatically mean insanity. Incidentally, ‘insanity’ is a legal, not a medical term.”

Kate groaned. “As far as I’m concerned it’s an insult to the victims’ family to have that bastard parading as someone with a real mental illness. He’s gutless and can’t even face up to what he’s done. He’s taking the piss out of all of us. It’s just a bloody great game to him and his family. All you have to do is catch him out faking it.”

No pressure then,
Anya thought. The timing of the hospital admission was highly suspicious, given Savannah’s death, but she had to maintain an open mind. When Kate left, she’d have to brush up on everything she had on schizophrenia.

Even so, a diagnosis could explain Gary’s rapid escalation in violence. Progressing from thug to rapist was one thing, but as far as they were aware, there had been no gradual increase in aggression in his sexual crimes. More violence could have been a natural progression if each rape didn’t live up to his fantasies, but the number of stab wounds in the Goodwin girls suggested something dramatic had occurred.

“What did the forensics show from the evidence you collected in their home?”

Kate chomped into the apple, juice trickling down her chin, which she caught with the back of her hand. “Gary’s prints were on the knife handle. When questioned, they said that Gary was off his head on drugs and alcohol and Rick and Patrick followed and two of the brothers tried to stop him hurting anyone, but he was too strong. Gotta love the imaginative lies these guys come up with. Oh yeah, and the ‘invisible man’ who mysteriously does all their crimes was at the Goodwin house and raped the girls. The underwear was Rachel’s and both girls’ blood was on the knife. We’ve got Gary but we need to nail down the others. We have three other possible suspects. It’ll come down to whether or not Sophie can ID her attackers, even though she said she didn’t see the face or eyes of at least one of them.”

Anya couldn’t forget what four of the brothers had done to Giverny. “What about the red paint on the kids’ shirt?”

“It came from the same batch as the paint on Giverny’s car. But the best we’ve got is a shirt belonging to Rick that was used while he was in jail. Nothing was stolen from the Hart house so we’ve got nothing but vandalism given the post-mortem findings. Even if we find out who wore that shirt, it wouldn’t be worth prosecuting.”

Kate jumped down and headed for the door, chomping into the apple as she left. With a full mouth she managed, “I’ve got to go. We can tie Gary to Sophie and Rachel with the knife and underwear. Somehow we’ve got to put a wedge between the Harbourn brothers and get one to crack.”

Anya closed and deadlocked the door. At least the department would eventually pay her for the assessment. She poured a cup of strong black tea and traipsed upstairs to change into her pajamas. She returned and curled up on her comfy lounge to read the file Kate had left.

It resembled a hospital file on someone with a lifetime of admissions. A series of charge sheets outlined a litany of offenses. By eighteen, Gary had spent four years in and out of juvenile detention for armed robbery, breaking and entering and assault.

Kate had summarized a number of incidents and outcomes. At eighteen, he was arrested for sexual assault, but was acquitted at trial. The victim suffered from agoraphobia and was terrified of leaving her home. She gave her evidence by video link and had an anxiety attack in front of the jury. According to Kate’s notes, the jury thought she was mentally unstable and an unreliable witness.

It was possible that Gary targeted women with a mental illness. They were among the most vulnerable, and their credibility could be shattered in court, if they were even capable of testifying. It was easy to pick up the basics about psychiatric disorders through prison and defense lawyers.

By nineteen, he was in court again, with Ian, one of his younger brothers. This time the charge was ram-raiding a gun shop with a stolen car. Each claimed they had been framed by a third person, Simon Vine, who had committed the robbery and planted guns at their home. The complete cache was never retrieved.

A witness said one of the men had a beard during the robbery, but couldn’t identify Gary or his brother, who Kate had noted were both clean-shaven for the court appearance.

Despite the doubt, Gary was convicted and served eighteen months. Ian Harbourn spent seven months in prison.

Anya rubbed her eyes. The words began to blur, with charges and trials all reading alike. Simon Vine was named as the mastermind in most of the family’s crimes, but the police had been unable to locate anyone by that name. She doubted they ever would. This was Kate’s “invisible man.”

Flicking through the medical history proved more interesting. Four years prior, Gary was admitted to the same psych facility for depression and suicidal ideation, claiming fugue-like episodes in which he supposedly “lost” periods of time.

This defense failed when he used it to fight a charge of grievous bodily harm. He had bashed a former employer with a baseball bat, and set fire to his business. She underlined the words
baseball bat.

Anya recalled what Savannah had said. The night she was beaten, Gary wanted her to find the baseball bat and then flew into a rage when he found out two of the brothers had taken it out. The bat was for bashing victims. Ironically, the fact that the brothers had taken it might just have saved Savannah from being killed by Gary, who had only his fists and feet to lash out with. Then again, if the bat were home, Savannah may never have been hit at all. That night.

The episode with the employer scored him a four-year sentence, of which he served two. The record stated that he had agreed to be treated with antidepressants and attend regular counseling and anger management sessions in jail. Anya suspected it was a criminal’s career move, bargaining for a more lenient sentence.

She dropped the pen on the floor and put the papers back into the file. It was almost incomprehensible how many times family members had been in and out of prison with short penalties given the severity of the crimes. They were beyond rehabilitation. And yet had all been released, to rape, torture and kill without any fear of the consequences. No wonder they weren’t threatened by the justice system.

The pendulum had swung in favor of offenders, to the detriment of victims. By benefiting recidivists like the Harbourns, it had failed to protect Giverny Hart or the Goodwin sisters and even one of their own, Savannah. She couldn’t begin to estimate the number of people who continued to be affected by their crimes.

Despite being limited in the scope of her interview and examination, if Gary was faking psychosis she was determined to catch him.

The following morning, Anya arrived
at Saint Stephen’s Private Clinic. The entrance, with its marbled floors and floral centerpiece, resembled an expensive hotel rather than an acute psych facility.

The “client liaison officer” sat at a desk and greeted her. Within minutes of being buzzed, Doctor Kyle Temple appeared in the foyer. No white coat in sight, the young psychiatrist wore an open-neck business shirt and tailored trousers.

He extended his hand. “I hoped we might have a brief chat before you see our patient.”

Our patient?
she thought. This was a short assessment to determine whether Gary Harbourn had physical injuries to connect him to the Goodwins. Her questions would be limited, and in the presence of a member of staff. She had no role in his management.

They headed along a corridor that featured an indoor rainforest along one side and the piped sound of birds punctuated by a rhythm of flowing water. Presumably the rainforest provided a calm and private environment, but Anya was struck by how extravagant the setting was, and how expensive it must be to maintain. With the state of public psychiatric wards, this place must have a long waiting list for admission.

She wondered how Gary Harbourn could afford to stay here, or how he had managed to secure a bed at short notice. Drugs, robberies and standover tactics were clearly more profitable than unemployment benefits.

They walked past an empty communal area with a large plasma screen television. That room was empty. Further along was a double door marked
Theaterette.

“We have a holistic approach to treatment and try to give our clients the most relaxing, least pressured routine. In the evenings we show movies and encourage families to come along on themed weekends.”

The place was more like a luxury resort than a mental health facility.

“This is quite impressive. How many beds do you have?”

The doctor ran his hands through his fringe and smiled. “We can accommodate up to seventy, but at the moment we’ve thirty-one inpatients partaking in programs which include alcohol and substance abuse, eating disorders, self-harm, post-traumatic stress disorder and depression. Then, of course, we have our section for those with acute psychosis. Naturally, a large part of our business comprises regular outpatients, often after an intensive program.”

They passed a glassed area comprising a gymnasium and massage therapy center. A man and a woman worked out on treadmills to the sound of Britney Spears.

“The economic downturn and increased unemployment rates have left many people reconsidering private health insurance, but we refuse to cut back our services. Our programs achieve excellent results.”

Whoever believed crime didn’t pay should have visited Gary Harbourn in this luxurious setting.

Doctor Temple stopped at a door and scanned his ID. They entered the consulting room, which contained a desk and office chair, an examination bed behind a curtain and two armchairs facing each other. The psychiatrist chose to sit at the desk, as if interviewing Anya. So much for the brief chat.

“I’ve treated Gary Harbourn for a couple of years now and am very familiar with his case. This latest tragedy, the death of his sister, has really rocked him. He isn’t coping well at all.”

Having been through the extensive file last night, Anya felt familiar with his history as well. “Am I able to see him?”

“Yes, of course, but there are some things that concern me about the timing of your visit. At the moment he is in a very fragile state.”

“In what way?” Anya was interested to hear about Gary’s behavior up until now, and the doctor’s reasons for concern about her presence.

“He was brought here by his mother the night before last in a terrible state, around three in the morning. He had felt under stress, it seems, and had smoked a fair amount of cannabis and drunk a lot of alcohol over the preceding weeks. He had also neglected to take his antidepressants over this period.” The doctor swept his hair to one side. “As you know, the combination of a pre-existing mental illness and intoxication can precipitate a psychotic episode. When he arrived he was talking about voices in his head telling him to kill women. He was convinced that he would harm someone so his mother brought him in.”

The timing of the admission coincided with Savannah’s death and anyone would have been stressed facing a litany of charges beginning with homicide. Anya nodded, keen to let the doctor share his opinion and the diagnosis he had made for Gary Harbourn.

He placed his elbows on the desk and clasped his fingers beneath his chin. “This is a very troubled man. There is a childhood history of physical abuse compounded by the nightmares he still has about seeing his father’s body covered in blood in their living room.”

Doctor Temple paused, presumably to test Anya’s reaction. She needed to stay objective and be seen as such. She did not respond.

“Gary’s stepfather was stabbed to death, you know.”

Anya knew. Noelene Harbourn had never been charged because the family all touched the murder weapon and no one could refute her statement about being abused by the victim or her having to save herself and the children. “I’m aware of the family background.”

“Forgive me, but I checked you on the internet. You’re a forensic pathologist turned physician, so you cannot be expected to know all the subtle psychometric consequences of such a traumatic event. To a child, even if his mother killed in self-defense, this was an enormous betrayal of love, and one he was always unlikely to recover from. The relationship with his mother is complex and she continues to have inordinate control over all her children.”

Anya hoped he couldn’t read what she was thinking. The siblings had conspired with their mother to disturb the crime scene. Gary would have known right from wrong even back then.

His mother didn’t make him rape Giverny, nor make him mutilate and kill Rachel Goodwin. Why did this psychiatrist have complete disregard for the victims? Gary Harbourn was a violent perpetrator. Sophie and her father and the Hart parents were the real victims. She moved in the seat, checking her watch, hoping he would let her see Harbourn now.

If Doctor Temple noticed her sense of urgency, he ignored it.

“Gary’s history of recurrent crime is textbook. He has been sexually and physically traumatized in prison and even refers to sex in terms of either prison-style or free-style.

“He is incapable of holding down a job and demonstrates numerous signs of antisocial personality disorder on top of his depression and drug-induced psychosis.”

The counterargument was that he couldn’t hold down a job because he kept being imprisoned for criminal acts and he had burned down the business of a former employer.

Anya always knew that a large number of people in prison had antisocial personality disorder, so it wasn’t a reason to avoid prosecution. Nor was low intelligence or psychiatric illness. If that were the case, prisons would be virtually empty.

“Do you think there is any chance he could be feigning psychosis?”

Doctor Temple scraped his fringe to the side again. “I’m sure you are aware of studies in which psychology students were briefed to enter public hospitals claiming to be hearing voices.”

He used the term “public” with a hint of disdain.

“They were all caught out as fraudulent by the psychiatrists before they could gain admission. In fact, it’s extremely difficult to fake psychosis.”

Anya had read other studies in which students were admitted because they heard voices but displayed no psychiatric symptoms once in the hospital. In those instances, psychiatrists failed to diagnose the normal behavior they exhibited. The other inpatients recognized the fraudsters, but the staff continued to document all behavior as abnormal, reinforcing the diagnosis.

The field of psychiatry was reasonably subjective, which left room for manipulation by people like the Harbourns. Another reason why Anya preferred pathology.

Deciding not to challenge Doctor Temple, she nodded. “May I see Gary now?”

Seemingly pleased that he had argued his case on behalf of his patient, the doctor stood up. “He’s learning how to use the computer but I’ll bring him back here.”

As Anya waited she glanced around the room and noticed two framed panoramic prints of wilderness icons—Half-Dome at Yosemite and Rocky Mountain National Park—two of the most picturesque places in the world.

A few minutes later there was a knock on the door and Doctor Temple returned with a thickset man dressed in jeans, T-shirt and larger-than-needed slippers. Both feet were bandaged and he limped into the room.

“I’m Doctor Crichton.” Anya stood. “Please take a seat.”

Gary Harbourn tentatively moved to the spare chair and turned back to Doctor Temple. “Is it safe for her to be here with me? I don’t want to hurt anyone.” He spoke like a frightened child.

“It’s okay, Gary, the medication is starting to work. I’ll stay in case you need me.”

“Thank you, Doctor,” Gary said and sat. He bowed his head and stared at his knees.

“Do you know why I’m here?” Anya asked.

“You think I’m insane and am going to hurt people. You want to lock me up in jail.” His hands began to shake and he clamped them between his thighs.

Anya glanced at the ceiling corners and lights, wondering if the interview was being monitored or recorded. There was no sign of a camera.

“I’m here to have a look at you. There are some police who would like to have a chat with you when you feel better. I need to check you out to see if you’ve been hurt recently.”

The hands shook uncontrollably, even between his legs.

“What happened to your feet?” she tried.

“I cut them. The voice was telling me to hurt people. It wouldn’t stop ordering me to hurt…” he looked across at Anya for an instant, “…women.” His gaze returned to his lap. “So I cut them to stop me from getting away from the doctors here.”

“May I see how they’re healing?” Anya tried to sound sympathetic. Temple was listening. She didn’t want to appear combative in any way. This interview had to be unbiased.

Gary Harbourn unwrapped one bandage, hands struggling to cope with the simple task. He tried to cross one leg to show the sole of the foot and took two attempts before managing it. She wondered how he had coped with a computer keyboard before their meeting.

Spontaneously he announced, “The Bible says that if your eye causes you to sin, cut it out; it is better for you to enter the kingdom of God with one eye than keep the bad eye and be cast into hell.”

Anya wondered if that was an admission to killing Savannah. She tried not to show any reaction, even if he had misquoted the passage.

“What do you think that refers to?” she asked, still looking at the feet.

“You can’t die for a cause unless you’re prepared to kill for it.”

That wasn’t exactly Anya’s interpretation. She documented the comment.

Although Gary Harbourn had multiple horizontal lacerations to his foot, none was deep enough to warrant stitches. In other words, they were all superficial and parallel, which would have been difficult to achieve with a genuine hand tremor.

“Can you tell me why you think you might hurt someone?”

Gary stared at her with dark cold eyes, the ones Sophie had described.

“It’s the voice in my head. He keeps telling me to do bad things.”

“Can you tell me a little about the voices. Do you know who is talking to you? What do they sound like?”

“It’s always the same. My stepfather. He’s telling me to kill women. Stab them, cut their throats before they kill us both. Can you make him stop?”

Anya studied his face, trying to see a smirk, or anything to suggest Gary was faking his symptoms. “Do you know what happened to your father?”

He hesitated before answering. “He’s inside my head. He says I’m the only way he can stay alive.”

“Do you see him?” She hoped he would try to describe extravagant hallucinations and slip up, overdoing the symptoms and detail.

“Sometimes.”

“Does he appear to you in color or black and white?”

Gary’s tremor stopped. He appeared stumped for a few moments. “No one’s asked me that before. Why do you want to know?”

“Just curious,” she said, aware she had rattled him.

“I can’t remember.”

“Can you hear his voice now?”

His little boy tone disappeared, replaced with a deeper, more controlled voice. “He doesn’t like you. He thinks I should hurt you because you’re out to get us.”

Anya ignored the threat. “Doctor Temple mentioned that you were improving on medication. I’d like to ask you a few questions and I need you to give me honest answers.”

Gary nodded. “I want to help.”

Anya moved forward to examine his arms, chest, back, hands neck and legs. There were no signs of scratches or bruising. He was clean and there was unlikely to be any evidence left from the night at the Goodwins on his body.

“Can you recall the night you had the street party after being released from prison?”

Gary shook his head and the hand shaking returned. “All I remember is having some drinks and smoking a couple of cones. After that, it’s all blank.”

Anya let a silence hang between them, choosing to observe overtly while taking notes. He didn’t take the opportunity to initiate conversation.

“One more thing, did the voices ever want you to kill your sister, Savannah?”

He clenched his teeth. “She died in an accident.”

Anya kept eye-contact. “I was hoping you might like to talk about how she died. It could help.”

Gary quickly stood and pulled down the picture of Cradle Mountain, smashing it against the wall and screaming incoherently.

Doctor Temple stood up and pressed a red buzzer above the desk. Swiftly, Anya moved closer to the door. A nurse arrived with a trolley and two wardsmen. The psychiatrist drew up an intramuscular sedative and injected it into his arm with his staff’s help.

After watching Gary Harbourn’s sedation take effect, Anya excused herself and left the room.

Doctor Temple followed, like a nervous parent.