Deadly Deeds (12 page)

CHAPTER TEN

I
t is impossible to determine an exact time of death by analysis of a dead body alone. All we can do is make an estimate, and hope that the result will bear some weight on the investigation.

Sometimes luck plays part in the evaluation of a dead body. For example, a watch might get broken during an assault, clearly indicating when the person died. This is especially true with arm movement timepieces which give, in addition to time, a date, and sometimes even the days of the week.

But for most homicides, the best a forensic investigator can do is make a few calculations based on several factors surrounding the body or part of body, and derive a time of death with an error factor of a few hours either way.

There are several indicators which can help to determine a time of death, and estimations can accurately fall within hours at the best. The best known methods are rigor mortis; lividity, also known as hypostasis; and body temperature. All of them are subject to several changing factors, such as ambient temperature, the physique of the person at the time of death, the amount of exercise the person was doing, and consumption of alcohol and drugs.

The date when Walter Dunn died was crucially important to me. This would establish whether there was a chance that he never killed Jeremy Wilson in the first place. Based on the evidence accumulated so far, he would have committed suicide on the 20th of February or thereafter. This was the day Jeremy Wilson got decapitated.

In my five years as a forensic investigator, I’ve heard of alternative ways of finding out the time of death of a victim. The most obvious one being finding a witness which heard or saw something. In this case, a witness was totally irrelevant. Neighbours of Walter Dunn had been interrogated, and no one had seen or heard anything. This left only two choices. Events associated to the death or postmortem changes to the body.

Frank and I discovered the body of Walter Dunn in the early hours of Monday the 24th of February, exactly four days from the time we found Jeremy Wilson’s body.

Before going back and examining all the associated events to the suicide of Water Dunn, I decided it would be easier to go over the postmortem examinations. Tests had already been conducted, and it was only a matter of tying up loose ends, something which no-one had bothered doing since the killer of Jeremy Wilson had been found.

The duty of the VFSC was to provide assistance to any detective involved in solving a homicide or to accumulate evidence for court presentation. Jeremy’s homicide had been solved as far the CIB was concerned, and there would be no trial, thus terminating the need for the VFSC to conduct further forensic tests. Of course, anyone with some authority and enough reasoning who worked for the VFSC could have easily challenged the CIB and continued with testing whatever he or she felt relevant to furthering an investigation, even if that investigation had been classified as solved by the police. But at this stage, I was the only person who had doubts over the conclusion of the Wilsons’ investigation, and since I possessed no authority whatsoever at the VFSC, there was little I could officially do unless I involved a sworn member who was willing to go along with me.

At 9.03 a.m., on Monday 3rd March, I drove to the VFSC in Macleod, via Punt Road. I didn’t want to deal with the city traffic, especially since Swanston Street, one of the two main roads leading to the city centre, had been turned into the Swanston Walk thoroughfare a few years back. The Swanston Walk was a bit of a joke because trams, taxis, police and emergency vehicles were allowed to travel on it. To add to the absurdity, if people were caught walking anywhere, other than on the side-walks, they could be fined for jaywalking.

The traffic was horrific at that time of the morning. Bumper to bumper. Drivers abusing each other with hand-gestures. The blaring of horns. Cutting and changing lanes without warning. Burning red lights. Driving too slow or too fast. Tailgating every car in front. Trying hard to run over pedestrians. Getting cut off by rude bus drivers. I felt like jumping on a tram and getting lost in a good book. But I loved the way my car made me feel on the road. I was ten years younger.

It took me a good hour to get to Macleod.

I walked right pass the Liaison Officer after flashing my ID, hoping I wasn’t going to come face to face with Frank Moore. After all, it was Monday morning, and he’d probably be in a foul mood like everyone else who had to rise early for the first time this week.

I went straight to the Biology Division where John Darcy was working.

He was in the lab when I walked in on him, and immediately I sensed he knew what I wanted to talk about.

‘
Be with you in a sec,’ he said, acknowledging my presence before returning his attention to the ocular lens of a compound microscope and tens of labelled slide specimens lying neatly on a galvanized laboratory bench. He looked like a medical doctor with his white lab coat, and various coloured pens sticking from his breast pocket. A pair of safety glasses hung around his neck.

I circled the room with my eyes, observing with interest the hundred-thousand-dollar scientific equipment, including serology, liquid and gas chromatographers; mass spectrometers; four or five compound microscopes with a wide range of power; laboratory ovens; and various other optical and analytical instruments. Galvanized benches were hugging the walls around the room. Near a sink, glassware was waiting to be washed. Tens of hexagonal, yellow containers made of cardboard, approximately thirty centimeters tall, and labelled with a biological-waste-hazard symbol, were scattered around the benches. The ceiling was a multitude of fluorescent tubes.

I waited for about five minutes, my ankles aching from standing still. This place was closing in on me, and I wondered how someone could spend an entire day working with no one in sight but machines and scientific equipment.

Finally, just as I was considering getting a cup of coffee from the staffroom, fifty meters from the Liaison Office, John Darcy finished scribbling observations in a notebook and said, ‘Okay, let’s go.’

Without a word, I followed him to a tiny room in one corner of the lab, which he referred to as his office, although it was the size of a cupboard.

While he sat at his desk, I shut the door behind me.

The office was tidy but lacked warmth and individuality.

A Bachelor of Science Degree and various post-graduate diplomas decorated the back wall of John’s desk. Two oak-coloured multi-task utility cabinets, made from scratch-resistant melamine finish, stood in one corner. A house plant, which was barely surviving in the confined environment of the three-by-two-meter office, looked at odds with the rest of the office furniture.

‘It’s about the Jeremy Wilson case, isn’t it?’ he asked, re-arranging bits and pieces on his desk.

I took a seat and said, ‘I need some information.’

He looked at me thoughtfully. ‘I heard you got told off last Thursday.’ His blue eyes locked into mine.

‘
You know what it’s like. You’re trying to do the right thing, and then...’

‘
I understand. But now they’re watching you. Take a look over your shoulder before you cross the line.’

I was thankful for John’s concern, but at the same time I wondered what business it was to him. He certainly seemed colder than when I saw him at his place on Saturday. I reassured myself that it was Monday morning after all, and everyone was in a grouchy mood.

He went on, ‘So, what can I do for you?’

‘
I need the autopsy report on Walter Dunn.’

‘
For what?’

‘
I told you something was fishy. I have to check when he actually died. It could make a hell of a difference to this case.’

John creased his eyes. ‘And why do you ask me? Why not ask the forensic pathologist at the mortuary?’

John was right. Copies of autopsy reports were routinely sent to the deceased’s GP and family members. Although I wasn’t a family member or Walter’s family doctor, I probably could have secured a copy with relative ease, But if I asked for an official copy of the autopsy, Frank Moore would more than likely find out. He maintained good relations with Dr Charles W. Main, Director of the Victorian Institute of Forensic Medicine (VIFM) and head of the Forensic Pathology Department. The Director also held strong liaison with the Clinical Forensic Medicine, Forensic Toxicology and associated Forensic Scientific Services, which occupied the same building in Kavanagh Street, Southbank, only a kilometer away from Melbourne’s famous Art Centre tower.

‘
You know I’m in no position to ask for the autopsy report,’ I said. ‘I’ve been barred from this investigation.’

‘
That’s right,’ he said, an oblong smile on his face, ‘and you know just the person to ask.’

I smiled back. That was the John Darcy I knew, all smiles and ready to help.

‘How long will it take?’ I queried.

‘
Give me a couple of days.’

‘
Why so long?’

A look crossed his face. ‘Malina, I’m doing the best I can. Usually, you wouldn’t even get close to obtaining a copy of the autopsy. I’m doing you a personal favour here. And you should be grateful since everyone is watching your every move at the moment.’

John was right.

Although I was disappointed by the time delay, I didn’t want to linger on with my nagging. He was already going out of his way to help me, and hassling him was not an intelligent move.

On Wednesday evening, Frank gave me a call at home. I was sitting on the balcony of my apartment, reading my forensic book by David Ranson, when the call came through. The sky was overcast, and I could smell the ocean sweeping north. I could hear the television from Michael’s room.

I stood from my long chair and took the call from the kitchen.

‘
You’re not still angry with me?’ Frank asked, making an effort to ease our damaged friendship.

‘
I’m not angry at you, Frank. I never was. You took things the wrong way.’

He obviously didn’t want to argue with me, so he immediately changed the topic. ‘The inquiry is not going too well. The Deputy Commissioner wants our arses badly. He claims we’ve breached our own code of practice, you know, as if they ever followed everything by the book.’

As much as I hated to admit it, Frank Goosh was right, of course. As members of the Australian and New Zealand Forensic Science Society, Frank and I had to obey by a Code of Ethics implemented in 1990. The organisation was increasingly regulating and setting standards for its members’ conduct. I had no doubt the Deputy Commissioner of Police would report our miscarriage of duty to the Society.

But right now, I was uncertain what to tell Frank, because, frankly, I wondered where the hell my career was heading. As much as I loved forensic investigations, I was fed up with being told how to behave.

‘Let them do what they want,’ I said firmly. ‘If they want to get rid of me, I won’t lose much sleep over it.’ And I meant it.

‘
Maybe you’re right. Just let it be, eh?’

I was surprised by his response. I had expected him to argue how there was more at stake for him since he was an employee of the VFSC, not a consultant like me.

I knew the timing was lousy, but I couldn’t help asking the next question. ‘So, you’ve seen Teresa lately?’

The line went silent for a few seconds.

All I could hear was his breathing.

‘
Since you’re asking,’ he said, his tone suddenly firm and authoritative, ‘she happens to be staying at my place for the next few days.’

I felt as if an ice pick had just been plunged into my heart. ‘Teresa? At your place? Are you out of your mind?’

‘I can explain.’

‘
Jesus, Frank, we’ve already got the Deputy Commissioner on our back, an internal inquiry under way, and you lodge a crime victim in your home? What is this? A leap forward in your career?’ I was playing nervously with the telephone cord.

‘
Hold on a minute, Malina. You know me better than that. Things are not all that simple. It’s not the way you make it sound. You’re only seeing things the way you want to.’

‘
How many ways are there to see what’s going on?’

‘
Many, Malina. To begin, two. Yours and mine.’

‘
I can’t believe this.’ I was utterly shocked. ‘For a moment I thought I was making things up, You’re seeing her,
aren’t you?
’

He must have sensed the tension in my voice because he wasn’t getting angry at me. ‘This is not the right time to talk about it.’ He sounded apologetic, as if Teresa was in the room, listening to our conversation.

‘Is she there?’ I asked.

‘
No, she’s not.’

‘
Where is she?’