Bloodborn (5 page)

“Where are her clothes?” Liz Gould looked around the room.

“I think you’ll find the bra under here.” With a gentle movement of the body, Jeff removed a blood-soaked item from under the girl’s back.

Anya held the undergarment, hooks and eyes still clasped. The front had been cut through. She placed it inside double layers of paper.

The pathologist concentrated on the wrist marks while the detectives looked under the bed, then around it. Liz stopped at a teddy bear propped up in the corner on top of a set of drawers.

“There’s blood on the bear’s face,” she said, touching its ear.

If only it could talk,
Anya thought. She pictured her own son having conversations with his soft Dalmatian puppy when he was supposed to be asleep. That dog had been with him for every milestone of his five years, whether it was tucked inside a kindergarten bag or snuggled in his bed.

This bear’s fur was well worn in patches. One arm and hand were particularly threadbare. It, too, looked as though it had been through a lot and for a while had been inseparable from its owner. The blood spatters across its fur made the scene suddenly even more vile.

Anya moved toward the wall. Above chest height, small stains marked the wall nearest the foot of the bed. Each series of fine droplets was splayed in vertical lines.

Kate’s gloved hands flicked through some magazines on the night stand and routinely tipped them up for notes or missing pages—any possible clue. “Has anyone located the panties?”

Jeff shook his head. “Not that I’m aware. Maybe they were taken as a souvenir.”

“Did someone mention missing knickers?”

Anya turned and looked up to see the grinning face of John Zimmer from the crime scene team. With his usual blue overalls and baseball cap, he held a digital camera around his neck.

“Guys, I’m serious. If they’re here, I’ll find them.”

Anya caught Liz rolling her eyes. Kate tensed her shoulders and jaw.

Doctor Sales looked up. “Anya, what’s caught your attention?”

The pair moved closer to the wall.

“It’s cast-off from the weapon. Can’t be arterial spurts, there’s not enough blood and the force isn’t strong enough. The droplets are too fine.”

She turned and faced the body. “My guess is that the killer was on the bed, probably straddled on top when he stabbed her.” She lifted her fist above her shoulder with a slightly bent elbow. “He used a lot of force because he’s pulled the knife out and up. The blood’s come from the knife and traveled backward through the air. And he’s done it more than once.” She looked over at the bear.

Zimmer smiled again. “Top of the class. Why can’t my officers be more like you?”

“Then they wouldn’t sleep with you,” Kate quipped. She turned to Anya. “Your lot don’t usually bother with blood spatter patterns.”

Jeff Sales joined in. “Can you blame us—if it’s not in the report to the coroner and directly relevant to cause and manner of death, there’s no point. And some lawyer will tear us apart in court anyway for going beyond our level of expertise.”

Anya knew he was right, but she had been around enough crime scenes to learn a lot more than study and exams had taught her.

“Ah, might have just found the missing item of clothing.” With latex-covered hands, Zimmer reached down behind the set of drawers. Wedged between the wall and the back was a pink piece of material.

Zimmer carefully unfolded the item. It turned out to be a small cropped top.

“Jackpot! Look at the size of this little beauty.”

Liz whacked Zimmer’s back with her hand. “For Pete’s sake, show some respect—”

“I was.” Zimmer held up the top indignantly. “I was merely worshipping at the altar of good fortune. What we have here is akin to perfection. A bloodstained fingerprint.”

Liz blushed. “With your track record, what was I supposed to think?”

“Don’t sweat it. If I didn’t deserve it this time, you probably owed me one anyway.”

Anya knew Zimmer had a point. He frequently pushed the boundaries of decency with female officers and techs. She also knew how seriously he took his work, which was how he redeemed himself.

He proudly clutched his find.

“If the bastard’s on file, we’ve just nailed Rachel’s killer.”

Anya signed over the forensic specimens
to Shaun Wheeler who dropped her home on his way to the crime lab.

She appreciated not having to make conversation in the car when every muscle in her ached with fatigue and her mind still raced with the details of Giverny’s death. Inside, she locked the door and switched off the alarm. Everything was as she had left it. The unworn leggings and sloppy joe protruded from the opened suitcase on the floor. She grabbed them and headed upstairs to the bathroom.

After a hot shower she felt even more exhausted, but had at least washed the smells and horror of the Goodwin house from her skin and hair. Back in her Ugg boots, she scuffed downstairs. A message on the machine from her ex-husband explained that the plane had been delayed another day due to electrical storms at LAX airport. Ben excitedly shouted something about loud thunder before the message cut out.

She had to smile. Even a delayed flight was an adventure for her child. Martin probably didn’t see it as quite as much fun. Traveling with a child was challenging enough without flight complications.

The instructions for the bookshelf kit were where she had left them on the kitchen bench. So much for a day off to rest and recuperate. After tipping the morning’s tea into the sink, she boiled the kettle again, this time opting for a strong black coffee and scrambled eggs whipped up in the microwave.

Smelling the toast and eggs made her realize that she hadn’t eaten all day. She devoured the eggs while standing at the kitchen bench, then washed down another antibiotic dose with the coffee. Thankfully her cough was less frequent already—the only positive thing in the last two days. Feeling miserable and sore would improve with more sleep.

Back in the lounge room, the television blared with news updates of a vicious knife attack on two sisters that had left one dead and the other in a critical condition. Anya moved onto the couch and blew breath across her coffee with relief. At least Sophie was still alive at the time the show went to air. Maybe the Saint Jude medal was lucky for her. God knew nothing else had been that day.

She pressed record on the DVD remote just as photos of the girls smiling and embracing filled the screen. What struck Anya was how pretty the girls were, and how much alike they looked. Nothing like what she had seen today.

Elderly neighbors were reportedly “shocked” by what had occurred in their “quiet” street and spoke about the family keeping to themselves. Reporters implied there was something odd about that, but Anya believed privacy should be respected. Having grown up with incessant media interest in her family, she fully understood the desire to mind only your own business. She wished more people shared that view.

She wasn’t sure whether it was the effects of the chest infection, seeing Sophie or being overtired and missing Ben that made her think about Miriam. Little Mimi, the one who loved to run around outside. Two years older, Anya was asked to watch her little sister at a local football match while their mother tended to an injury on the field. One minute they were playing chasings, then Mimi was gone. She was only three years old. Vanished.

No one ever saw her again or found clues as to who had taken her. Each year meant less chance of finding out.

Media accused their father of killing Mimi, stories of sex slaves and pedophile rings abounded in the state and national press. So much so that Anya changed her surname to avoid the scrutiny—Crichton was her grandmother’s name. Even thirty years later, the speculation and media interest persisted.

The next news story brought her back to the present. Noelene Harbourn, with a frilly blue apron this time, embraced four solid men, her sons, while announcing that she would sue the police.

The brothers were remarkably alike in build, coloring and facial features. They all had short necks, which made them stockier and more thuggish—almost Neanderthal. One had a mole on his chin that distinguished him from the others.

The reporter declared that the popular local identity, Mrs. Harbourn, had held a well-attended street party last night to celebrate her sons’ release from custody after the department of public prosecutions decided not to pursue the case.

Anya sat forward in disbelief. The department of public prosecutions had dropped the charges against the brothers. What the hell was Natasha thinking, after promising to go on with the trial?

Anya tried to study the brothers’ faces, as if they could reveal what they had done to Giverny, but they just smiled and laughed while they talked to reporters; they were dressed in suits, as if that made them respectable and therefore innocent. Earlier footage showed one with a beard, another with a mustache, but all four were clean-shaven this night as they picked up younger children to present a loving family image.

Anya almost gagged on her coffee. An “exclusive interview” with the devoted mother would be aired on the tabloid news show that followed. “Police persecution and false allegations,” the heavily made up anchor declared.

Anya’s thoughts turned to Bevan and Val Hart. Hopefully, they wouldn’t see the show and have to endure more grief, if it was possible.

The chime of the doorbell startled her. Whoever it was could come back another time. The chime continued. Anya pulled herself off the lounge and checked the peephole. Kate Farrer. She opened the door to her friend who proffered a plastic bag. The fragrant aromas had to be Indian food.

“Can I come in? Thought we could have a chat away from all the madness. Besides, if the spices in this lot don’t send your germs packing, there’s no hope.”

“Smells wonderful.” In honesty, Anya appreciated the gesture, and the opportunity to catch up. “I was just about to throw something through the TV anyway.”

Kate walked straight through to the kitchen. “Guess you already know the media’s all over it.”

Anya watched the detective pull plates from the cupboard and forks from the drawer. For the first time, she noticed the shorter hair and coppery tinge. “When did you change your hair?”

“While I was on leave. You’re lucky you didn’t see it before it grew back.” She tugged on strands at the base of her neck.

“No, I mean it looks great. It really shows off your face.”

Kate responded by shoving a forkful of tandoori chicken into her mouth. “Heard you did well in New York.”

The topic of hair was now closed. Kate gestured with her fork at the egg remnants on the plate near the sink.

“If you’ve already eaten, don’t feel obliged. So, tell me all about it.”

The combination of flavors made Anya’s stomach grumble. She responded by piling her plate with pilaf rice, green curry chicken and pappadams. “The eggs were breakfast.”

The pair moved to the kitchen table, just large enough for two plates. “The trip went well. I met some interesting people, made some great work connections too.”

“Uh-huh?” Kate said with a mouthful. “What about
other
kinds of connections?”

Anya felt her face heat up. “One of the investigators and I did get along really well, but I haven’t heard from him since. I probably misinterpreted the signs.”

“Yeah, you’re pretty thick about things like that.” Kate swallowed, grinned and shoveled more chicken into her mouth.

“So, how was the new partner and where did he go? Not like you to mention something as trivial as a work partner in an email.”

Kate stopped chewing. “Oh, him. Yeah, well, new partners can be difficult. He was good to work with but Homicide wasn’t a long-term option. I’m teaming with Liz Gould for the moment. We take turns babysitting Wheeler. Liz’s reliable and smart and doesn’t go on about her baby, not like some of the others in the office.”

That was one of the things the friends had in common. A lack of interest in small talk.

“What happened to him?”

“He works for the Feds. We keep in touch.” Kate crunched on a samosa. She had brought enough food for four people but had already consumed a plate’s worth.

“So he’s married?”

It was the detective’s turn to blush.

“With kids, worse luck. Good thing I knew from the first day.”

Anya knew by now that for Kate this meant he was off limits, even if he didn’t think so. No matter how much she may or may not have liked him, he had the two biggest strikes against him. He was a work colleague and a family man. Case closed.

“Speaking of kids, Ben is coming home in the next few days and will be around on the weekend. If you want to catch up, he’s just discovered baseball.”

Anya stood and grabbed a wine glass from the cupboard.

“My favorite little guy. We can toss a baseball, no problems.” Kate wiped sauce off her chin with a paper serviette. “Oh, no wine for me thanks, I’m still working. I’ll get a coffee in a minute.”

Anya clicked the kettle on and sat back to her meal.

“So what made you want to destroy the TV?”

Anya put down her fork and swallowed. “Why did Natasha Ryder drop the charges against the Harbourns? After everything that girl went through.”

“We’re all cheesed off. Word is, she got pressured by her boss. He doesn’t want her to go to trial yet, after what happened to Giverny, so reckons it’s better to drop the charges for now and then have another go at them later. Of course, we’re supposed to come up with magic new evidence, or even new witnesses.”

The argument made some sense. Without the only eyewitness, the prosecution faced an even greater onus of proof. Any reasonable doubt would see the perpetrators acquitted and immune from further prosecution for Giverny’s rape ordeal, thanks to double jeopardy.

Anya’s appetite suddenly waned. “How did the Harts take it?”

“The mother’s sedated so I talked to the father.” Kate chased the last of the rice on her plate and headed for second helpings. “He’s still in shock but kept saying he just wants to bury his daughter with dignity.”

Anya appreciated how difficult the emotional parts of Kate’s job could be, particularly breaking bad news to victims and families. It was a side of police work and medicine that the public and media understood little about. It was also something that was impossible to do well, which was why it could be even more traumatic for all concerned. Judging by the amount Kate was eating, seeing the Harts had taken its emotional toll, not that she’d ever admit to it.

“That may not be so easy. The current affairs shows are all over Noelene Harbourn, claiming police harassment and mentally ill accusers. You know the drill. Exclusive interview, and all that goes with it.”

“I can just see it.” Kate downed another pappadam back at the table. “At least the exclusive means the opposition will run an anti-Harbourn story.”

“If you’ve got time, I recorded it. Might give you something if the mother slips up on camera.”

Kate returned her plate to the bench and the pair watched the news report, followed by the interview. Noelene Harbourn was dressed in lime chiffon for her moment in the spotlight. She described how the family troubles had started when her drunk, abusive husband attacked her with a knife while his stepkids were asleep. In his stupor, as she described it, he tripped on the coffee table and the knife fatally pierced his chest. In the background, tacky reenactment style, a blurry female figure screamed at the sight and children ran out of bedrooms.

“What she doesn’t tell you is how like bloody Caesar’s assassins every kid was. They all put their hands on the knife while it was in the old bloke’s chest. The mother swore it was in grief and shock at what had happened to their father. It was more likely to stop police from finding out what really happened. That family sticks together, no matter what.”

“Was he violent?”

“Not according to his former wife. She claimed Noelene Harbourn enjoyed more than the occasional drink and would beat him with whatever she could get her hands on.”

The same footage of the brothers before and after release appeared on the screen, along with collages of them in earlier times.

“Can you pause that?” Kate disappeared out the front door and returned with a box of files. “The one with the mole on his chin is Gary, the eldest and the gang leader.”

“How many others are there?”

“In total, six boys and three girls, with Gary, Bruce, Rick, Patrick, aka Paddy, Keith, Savannah, Amber, and Tiarna. Ian’s currently serving three years for robbing a gun store. They range from eight to thirty. That mother’s womb is in and out more often than an accordion.” She sorted through the box and removed a manila folder. “Among them they have over twenty-five convictions for armed robbery, aggravated assault, extortion, drug and firearm offenses. Prison’s got a revolving door on it just for them, thanks to bleeding heart judges.”

“At the time of Giverny’s rape,” Anya said, “Gary must have had a beard.”

“She didn’t remember seeing a mole and we assumed it was because it was dark and she didn’t get a chance. We thought Keith, the middle one, was the only one who had a beard. Why didn’t anyone think to check?”

More photos were pulled out and laid on the floor. Some of them were taken outside court and were accompanied by lengthy charge sheets. Facial hair made both of these men appear more menacing outside court. Anya wondered what legal advice they had been given. Usually, defendants were clean-shaven, to give the impression of respectability for judges and juries. It was the same reason they wore suits.

“This is Phil clean-shaven for trial,” Kate said.

Anya didn’t follow the logic. Why would one grow a beard when facing trial?

“Surely some jurors wouldn’t find that face sympathetic.” She pointed to the screen image of the oldest brother.

Kate crouched down and grabbed another photo. “I don’t know why I didn’t see it before. See in this other one. It’s their tactic. I’m guessing their lawyer put them up to it.”

Anya shrugged. “Why would you want to look guilty if the witness describes one with a beard, why would he shave it off but his brother grow one?”

Then she realized why. A clever defense lawyer could confuse a witness by asking her to identify in the courtroom the bearded man she claimed had attacked her. Given the strong family resemblance, chances were she would point to the brother who had the beard, rather than the actual attacker, who by now would be clean-shaven. The jury would see she’d made a mistake and suddenly there might be enough doubt for acquittal.