Bloodborn (3 page)

After a few hours of restless dozing,
Anya weaved her way past the tight groups of suit-clad men and women spilling out from the Star Bar. She coughed as a well made-up executive in patent leather heels exhaled smoke in her direction. The woman barely acknowledged the offense before drawing her next puff and continuing her conversation.

The combination of perfumes, aftershaves and secondhand smoke irritated Anya’s inflamed, bronchitic lungs.

Inside, hip-hop music pulsed over alcohol-fueled conversations while big-screen televisions highlighted the latest sports results. Even up-market pubs like this one had never appealed to Anya. Then again, she wasn’t into networking or climbing the corporate ladder.

And she definitely wasn’t interested in a relationship that began over drinks and then soured when all effects of alcohol wore off.

Upstairs in the restaurant, the pub noises became muffled. In the corner Anya could see Natasha Ryder at a table, sipping from a large wine glass. Anya had been surprised by her request to meet over dinner. It was the last thing she wanted, but the prosecutor for the Harbourn trial deserved to hear what had happened from someone who had been there.

Anya headed straight over, took off her jacket and hung it on the back of a chair. “Sorry I’m late. I tried to call but your phone’s off.”

The prosecutor glanced up. “Didn’t fancy talking to anyone. Hope you don’t mind, I started without you.”

She pointed to a variety of breads with olive oil and balsamic vinegar. “I was starving.”

The waiter appeared and asked Anya what she would like to drink.

“Mineral water, thanks.”

As tempting as it was to use alcohol to obliterate the day, the combination of antibiotics, fever and painkillers was a far more potent cocktail.

“And I’ll have another pinot gris,” the prosecutor announced, dipping a bread stick into the oil.

“I appreciate your coming, I know it’s been a tough day all round.”

The image of the young woman hanging from the doorknob was still vivid, as if the whole scene had been burned on Anya’s retina.

“I can’t help thinking what might have happened if we’d found her sooner, if the CPR had been effective, if the paramedics had been faster with the defibrillator…”

Natasha toyed with the bread stick on the plate.

“My father used to say that there are two phrases that should be outlawed from the English language. ‘What if’ and ‘if only.’ Those words have ruined countless careers, marriages and lives.”

She drained her glass. “What’s happened is done, and you can’t torture yourself with what might have been. We have to move on. My problem now is what to do with the trial.”

The waiter arrived with the drinks and placed them on the table. “Are you ready to order?”

Anya didn’t feel hungry but she knew she should eat something. The restaurant was known for hearty rustic cooking. “I’ll just have the soup of the day.”

“To start with,” Natasha began, “the smoked salmon salad with the vinaigrette on the side, followed by the rump steak—cooked medium-rare, oven-roasted potatoes, string beans and aoili on the side, thanks.”

Despite her key witness dying, the lawyer had lost none of her appetite or fussiness. Anya balked at the almost callous attitude.

“I assumed that you’d have to drop the charges, given that Giverny can no longer testify.”

“That’s what the Harbourns and their legal team will assume. But this time they’re not getting away with rape and grievous bodily harm. The way I see it, we still have your evidence, what you found when you examined Giverny. The damage to her skin from the hose pressure is impressive and supports her version of events. A jury won’t be able to ignore your evidence.”

“I can only objectively describe what I saw.”

Anya recalled the night she had met the then-sixteen-year-old girl, dragged into a car by the four men while she walked home from a ballet lesson. Giverny remained quiet but stoic after telling how she had ended up at a disused warehouse where the degradation and violence continued. During the physical examination it was apparent that Giverny had been comparatively fortunate to suffer only severe bruising to her body and grazing to her arms, back and legs; but the psychological injuries suffered that night were far more severe.

“Ah, this is where we use the law to our advantage for a change.”

The waiter returned with the pumpkin soup and salmon salad.

“I’m going to argue that Giverny’s video testimony from her police statement and interview is admissible. Of course, the defense will complain that she can’t be cross-examined, but we can also offer the testimony from the aborted trial. Giverny was cross-examined then, by the same legal team. They’re hardly going to complain that they disadvantaged their own clients by being incompetent.”

Natasha made a good point. The defense team took turns grilling her for a day and a half on the stand. To her credit, the teenager answered every question, no matter how demeaning or traumatic to recall.

It was only after the cross-examination that a female juror commented that she had believed from the start the boys on trial were good-looking and could have slept with any girl they wanted so would never need to commit rape. Another juror informed the presiding judge, who immediately called a mistrial.

The result devastated Giverny and her family. The worst part was having to go through the trauma all over again.

The prosecutor softened, “We can’t let bastards like these get away with what they did to Giverny, and the other women who were too scared to come forward and testify against them. We owe Giverny that much.”

Anya sipped her soup and studied the woman across the table. Natasha’s second glass of wine arrived and disappeared quickly.

“You’re not responsible for what happened to Giverny,” Anya offered, concerned that Natasha might blame herself for the girl’s suicide—if that’s what it was. She herself felt more responsible than anyone, especially after failing to resuscitate Giverny. No amount of consoling could take that feeling away.

“Don’t be too sure about that. Last week she said she was scared that she couldn’t face the stand again, and I threatened to charge her with contempt.”

Anya couldn’t believe what she was hearing. The last thing Giverny needed was legal threats from the woman responsible for bringing her case to justice.

“Listen, I know what you’re thinking, but this wasn’t just about Giverny Hart. Rightly or wrongly, I represent society, not individuals, and those bastards are a real danger to every woman out there, including you and me.” She stuck her fork into some salad as another glass of wine arrived.

Although Natasha was claiming the moral high ground, her aggressive manner and heavy drinking suggested she did feel guilty about Giverny. Anya assumed she had heard about the paint slur in the garage and the possibility of a staged suicide, but a day spent in legal arguments might mean she hadn’t been fully informed.

“I assume you’ve been told the police are treating this as a suspicious death?”

The prosecutor took a gulp of wine. “I was in court and received the message about her being found but unable to be revived. I couldn’t face going back to the office so I didn’t get many more details, apart from the paint scrawls in the garage.”

“There’s not much more I can tell you until after the post-mortem. Her left index finger was trapped underneath the cord when we found her. There were no signs of a struggle, though.”

“So Giverny tried to stop it strangling her.” She pushed the bread plate to the side and wiped some crumbs off the table. “What else? Anything.”

“She wasn’t dressed up, no makeup. Come to think of it, she didn’t really look like she had dressed for court.”

“Not wearing makeup is no surprise. We talked about it because I thought it was better if she appeared her age in court. She said it wasn’t a problem because she didn’t like it anyway. Who’s working the homicide angle?”

Anya had seen only Hayden Richards at the scene. “Not sure yet.”

The prosecutor began dialing her mobile phone. “Homicide, thanks…Natasha Ryder. Who’s working the Hart case from today? Good. I’ll need the forensics ASAP and I want to know exactly where each and every other member of that family and their closest friends were last night and this morning.”

Anya was relieved by this positive turn-around in the case, even though she still felt inadequate about what had happened at the house.

Natasha hung up. “Kate Farrer’s in charge. Do you know her?”

Anya knew the detective well. They had become friends through a number of cases, each sharing a mutual respect for the other’s work. Having been back from overseas for less than two days, there hadn’t been the opportunity to catch up. That was something she would do tomorrow or the next day when the jetlag and fever had abated.

“Kate’s very professional. Thorough and right down the line,” Anya said.

“Good. That’s what I’ve heard.” Natasha grabbed her bag and stood just as the waiter arrived with her steak. Her phone buzzed and she checked the message.

“I’ve got work to do. Can I have a doggy bag for my meal?” The waiter nodded and collected her plate. “Dinner’s on me. I’ll take care of it at the bar.” She took a few steps before turning back.

“And thanks for what you did to try to save her today. She was a nice kid. What really gets me is that it wasn’t enough for those bastards to abduct and rape her. Even though the four who did it were in jail, somehow they made damn sure she wouldn’t testify against them again.”

Anya Crichton shuffled down stairs in
her Ugg boots and thick cotton gown. The house was still in darkness, but once she was awake there was no point staying in bed. All she could think about were the facial hemorrhages she may or may not have missed.

The events of the last few months now felt like a blur. Working on cases in New York and Mediterranean Europe had been exhilarating and exhausting. Flight delays had meant there had been no time to catch her breath before preparing for the Harbourn trial. At least she’d managed one day in Disneyland with Ben and Martin, seeing her son delight in meeting Mickey Mouse and begging to do the Pirates of the Caribbean ride again. In truth, it was a toss-up as to who enjoyed it more, Ben or his regressed, childlike parents. And Martin had been so affable, she’d almost remembered what had attracted her to him so many years ago—until the need for them to be organized brought his aversion to responsibility to the fore once again.

She checked for messages and updates from the various people she had worked with while away. A couple wished her safe travels, but nothing else.

Thankfully, Elaine had cleared the diary for the trial appearances and so Anya was free to rest and try to shake off the fever and chest infection. If she were being honest, it was what her body craved. Working overseas had challenged her in many ways, and now she needed a day to recuperate, stock up on some fresh fruit and vegetables and get back into a routine.

She filled the kettle, switched it on at the powerpoint, and wondered whether to catch up on paperwork or try to put together the bookcase for Benjamin’s room. He would be back next week and she hoped to have it completed by then as a surprise for his access visit. Besides, the wooden planks supported by bricks were bowing under the weight of his Mr. Men collection and beginner readers. The thought of assembling prefab furniture was a little daunting, though. It might be better for her health to go for a gentle walk to the greengrocer instead.

Pulling the milk from the fridge, she noticed some fresh vegetables in the chilling drawer and a home-cooked lasagna on the shelf, courtesy of Elaine.

Her secretary was always quick to criticize her eating habits—going weeks without having “proper food,” the stuff that was unprocessed and free of every preservative and artificial coloring known to man.

A dedicated foodie, Elaine didn’t appreciate that eating wasn’t high on Anya’s agenda. It provided sustenance and energy, but didn’t have to be consumed with clockwork regularity or even much attention.

That didn’t matter now, the lasagna was a mouth-watering treat and Anya was touched by Elaine’s thoughtfulness.

The kettle steamed the window and she felt a shiver. As she pulled her gown tighter, the phone pierced the quiet.

Anya let it ring a few times. Calls this early were never good news. Ben was not allowed to ring until eight o’clock at the earliest, no matter where he was.

It had to be work.

Anya lifted the receiver and instantly recognized the voice of Hayden Richards, from the sexual assault task force.

“We need you right now for a victim.”

“Good morning to you, too.” No apology for the hour, Anya noted. For Hayden that was unusual.

“I know it’s early, but we need you to come in.”

Anya lifted a peppermint tea bag from a plastic container on the bench into her
World’s Best Mum
mug and poured boiling water over it.

“Good news is, I’m not on call. It’s my day off to shake this chest cold. If you hang on, I’ll check who’s on instead.” She leaned over to the noticeboard in the kitchen. A new doctor on the sexual assault roster was listed for this week.

“Listen, Doc, I understand that, but we want you to do this one.”

Hayden sounded anxious.

“I wouldn’t ask if the victim was in better shape. Trust me, it needs someone with your experience.” He paused. “I’ve honestly never seen anything as bad as this.”

Anya had worked with the senior detective on a number of cases. His experience, knowledge and unflappable demeanor made him perfect for the SA squad. She thought by now he would have seen everything a deranged human being could do to another. Something had to be very wrong. In the background, she could hear muffled voices.

“I don’t have a good feeling about this. Where are you?”

“Western District emergency department.”

The relief in his voice was evident.

“Liz Gould is with me now and Kate Farrer’s at the scene.”

Anya swallowed. If Homicide were already involved, someone had been killed, or this victim wasn’t expected to live. It was unfair to expect a novice doctor to cope with the examination.

“All right.” Sleep, the bookshelf and groceries could wait. “I’m on my way.”

“Thanks, Doc, I’ve already sent someone from the squad to pick you up.”

The line went dead.

Anya forgot the tea. No time for a shower; upstairs she slipped into fresh underwear, dark jeans and a navy shirt, then scraped her hair into a ponytail with her fingers, securing it with an elastic band.

She heard a knock on the front door. A detective constable introduced himself as Shaun Wheeler and already had the car’s passenger door open and the engine running. She slung a leather satchel over her shoulder, collected her doctor’s bag and slipped her feet into the damp court shoes still positioned by the door.

“I need to check the windows,” she called, but the constable was back in the driver’s seat.

She went back to the lounge room and clicked on the television. It would sound as though someone was home, in case anyone had noticed that the house had recently been empty.

In the car, the detective said little apart from telling her he had driven Bevan Hart home after he had given his statement at the station yesterday. Anya could picture the broken man and his estranged wife and wished things could have been different.

“What can you tell me about the victim we’re seeing?” she asked, keen to change the subject and prepare for the task ahead.

“Sorry, all I know is that I have to get you to the emergency department—p-p-pronto.”

The constable’s stuttering might have explained why he was loathe to engage in conversation. Besides, a junior constable may not have been privy to any details about the case, or have been warned not to divulge confidential details by his superiors.

Traffic slowed when a delivery truck parked in one of two lanes on Victoria Road. Wheeler opened his window and put the blue flashing light on the car’s roof. With the siren blaring, they crossed the median strip and bypassed the obstruction.

In record time, Shaun Wheeler delivered Anya to the casualty entrance; the same double doors through which she had begun and ended numerable shifts during her internship and residency.

Homicide detective Liz Gould paced inside, talking on her mobile. Last Anya heard, she had been on maternity leave. Her presence was reassuring. A kind, warm manner complemented Kate Farrer’s more brash approach. Hayden Richards stood nearby.

In the reception area a uniformed officer sat with a middle-aged man on plastic chairs that, like everything that could possibly be stolen, were bolted to the floor. The man glanced up at Anya with partially raised eyebrows, almost pleading for something. She had seen that look many times before in people desperate for the smallest bit of hope.

The waiting room was almost empty. Staff would be handing over soon. A cleaner whirred a polisher across the floor, preparing for the daily onslaught that made every day in this place feel like Groundhog day.

The place looked exactly the same. Only the familiar blue vinyl chairs lining the walls now had holes in the padded armrests with yellow foam poking through. So much for prioritization of health care, she thought.

Liz hung up and led Anya to a small examination room, often used for breaking bad news to relatives. Neither woman sat.

“Victim’s name is Sophie Goodwin. Fourteen years old. She was found about an hour ago on the roadside, with serious stab wounds to her neck, chest and stomach. The paramedics brought her in a few minutes ago.”

Anya knew that was longer to deliver an acute trauma patient than the protocols permitted. “What took them so long?”

Liz shrugged her shoulders. “They had to protect her neck, they said.”

The detective spoke without emotion, simply stating the facts. But her eyes concentrated on the door, as though she were expecting someone to come in at any time.

Lowering her voice, she explained, “From the blood trail, Sophie crawled about forty meters to the road from the house she was in. A neighbor out looking for his dog found her and called the paramedics. They worked on her all that time, but apparently the doctors here don’t give her much chance.”

Anya knew the injuries had to be extensive and blood loss substantial if the girl had left a trail of blood that far. Protecting the neck meant either her airway was compromised, cervical vertebrae were broken or a wound was life-threatening.

“Are you sure she was sexually assaulted? Was she conscious?”

“No, but she was found naked below the waist and bleeding vaginally.”

Anya thought of the poor man in the waiting room. The young woman sounded as though she had already defied all odds by surviving this long. “Is that the father outside?”

Liz nodded.

“He isn’t ready to be interviewed yet. He’s in shock. Whoever did this raped and murdered her older sister during the night. We found her body back in the house by following Sophie’s trail.”

One daughter dead and the other in critical condition. Anya did not want to think about how their father might be feeling.

“The girl is the priority,” she said. The surgeons have to do what they can to save her. You have to understand that collecting evidence comes second.”

“I know that, but I want you in there. You understand about preserving anything that can help us. Photograph the wounds, get the clothes, do a rape kit. If you have to, follow them to the operating room.” Liz grabbed Anya’s arm. “Whoever did this needs to be found. What happened at that house was beyond horror. The sister was tied down and stabbed over a dozen times.” She let go and stepped back. “We have to find whoever did this before they attack again.”

Hayden Richards opened the door.

“The head doctor told the triage nurse you could go in now.”

Anya stepped out of the room and tried not to look at Sophie Goodwin’s father.

The triage nurse handed her a white gown, which she pulled on and tied at the back of her neck. “Gloves are on the wall inside.”

“Thanks.” Anya took a deep breath to steel herself before pushing through double plastic doors. A male nurse carrying two bags of blood rushed behind the curtain to the first resuscitation bay.

“Blood warmer’s coming. Group specific is still a couple of minutes away. They’re still working on the full cross-match.”

“Hurry them up,” a male voice boomed. “She’s leaking like a sieve.”

Two paramedics hovered near the central desk area, sipping from paper cups. Judging by their proximity to the cubicle, they were the ones who had brought Sophie in.

Anya peered through the gap in the curtains but could see only the lower part of the girl. Heads and hands moved quickly, each with a specific role.

Inside the cubicle she recognized Mike Monsoor, a surgeon she had trained with, and emergency specialist, Greg McGilvray. The hospital had quickly mobilized the acute trauma team.

A small figure lay on the bed, naked, her flesh covered with mixes of dried and fresh blood. One gloved nurse put pressure on a blood-soaked bandage over the girl’s abdomen.

A woman in blue surgical scrubs was at the head end, with a nurse, squashed between the bed and the wall.

“Doctor Crichton, I heard you’d been called.” Dressed in a sterile procedure gown, Greg McGilvray held a plastic bone-gun in a gloved hand. The gun was used in the army for administering fluids to injured troops in the field. Instead of wasting critical time trying to find venous access, the plastic gun drilled directly into bone. Advocates claimed it could save large numbers of lives.

Anya hoped Sophie Goodwin’s was one of them.

“We’ve just lost the antecubital cannula. It’s tissued,” a younger doctor said, feeling for a groin pulse. “My concern with a femoral line is that any fluid could just fill the abdomen. We need to go in to know what damage is in the belly.”

He had to be a surgical registrar.

“I’m in the humeral head,” Greg announced from the girl’s right shoulder. He flushed the line with saline and attached the blood for immediate transfusion. A nurse stood, arms above her head, squeezing the blood to get it into the body faster.

The monitor beeped seventy-five, a dangerously low blood pressure. Even if the girl survived, there was a chance she could suffer organ damage because of the prolonged poor blood supply.

The number on the monitor slowly increased with each squeeze of the bag. The blood was doing some good.

“Everyone, this is Doctor Crichton, a pathologist and forensic physician,” Greg introduced.

“Aren’t you a bit early? Business must be slow in the morgue,” the surgical registrar muttered and stepped outside the curtain.

Some things in hospitals never changed.

“Don’t suppose you want to put in a subclavian line?” Greg looked up. “Your anatomy is better than all of ours put together.”

“Not today thanks. But I will bag her shirt if anyone knows where it is.”

“Ah, I listened to your last lecture and split it along the buttons so knife cuts stayed intact.”

“Much appreciated.” For the first time, Anya had a clear view of Sophie’s head and neck. The wound gaped from one ear to the other, exposing veins and vital structures.

“I’ve never seen a wound that deep on anyone alive,” Anya thought out loud.

The breathing tube was placed straight into the trachea, bypassing the mouth and upper neck, kept stable by a towel clip attached to the sheet. In this instance, everyone was improvising as best they could. Textbooks couldn’t cover situations this complicated.

No wonder the woman at the top was keeping the head stable. Even a slight movement could tear large veins and prove fatal.