Deadly Deeds (21 page)

I wrote a two-page report, detailing every aspect of the plan, and faxed it to Garry Wood at the telephone company.

Within ten minutes he gave me a call.

‘
I think the idea is brilliant,’ he said.

Did he really mean it, or was he being nice because he’d asked me out?

‘Keep me posted on the outcome,’ I said.

‘
Sure.’ He paused for a few seconds. ‘What about this dinner? Are you free on Monday night?’

‘
I’m really  busy at the moment. But if you want to drop by my place, I’ll make dinner.’

‘
Are you sure? I don’t want this to be too much trouble.’

‘
Believe me, it isn’t.’

We agreed to meet at 7.00 p.m.

Dr Shubbert kept her promise, and at 2.33 p.m. on Saturday, the DNA profiling from Teresa’s semen sample came through my fax machine like a gift from heaven. A sheet with numbers and figures, which only made half sense to me, followed. I was sitting in my study with a glass of iced water, going through some notes on DNA testing I had downloaded from the Internet.

It is a fact that eighty percent of people are secretors, that is specific blood group information from those individuals is passed on to other body fluids. A laboratory test can reveal whether a semen sample came from a secretor or non-secretor, whether it carries  ABO antigens or one enzyme sub-group.

Since the introduction of DNA profiling in 1984, rapists have been convicted from their semen ‘fingerprint’ left at the scene of the crime. DNA profiling is the most convincing means of identifying the rapist of a victim. DNA typing is so specific that it can help identify one individual from a million others.

Every human cell contains information required to create a whole human body. The information is actually incoded in the nucleus of each cell in the form of deoxyribonucleic acid, otherwise known as DNA. The result can be visualised in print form from an x-ray film, making it relatively easy to compare with other DNA results.

In the Teresa Wilson case, I wasn’t interested in framing the rapist. According to the police, he was dead anyway. I needed a DNA test to prove that semen found in Teresa’s cervix was not that of Walter Dunn.

The copy of Teresa’s DNA autoradiograph, from the semen found in her vagina, was similar to a pattern of bands from supermarket bar-codes, except much longer and spread all over a page in four neat columns, one centimetre wide. I knew for a fact, with the exception of genetically identical twins, every person had a unique DNA blue-print.

I pulled out the copy of Walter’s autopsy report , which John Darcy had obtained for me from the Victorian Institute of Forensic Science, from my grey filing cabinet. I knew a DNA test had been conducted from a blood sample obtained during the autopsy.

I turned the page to the photocopy of Walter Dunn’s DNA autoradiograph and compared it with the one faxed to me by Dr Shubbert. I compared the prints from the several different polymorphic sequences from both autoradiograph copies.

The bands of the DNA test in Walter’s autopsy report were different from those of the semen sample taken from Teresa’s body. The reference sample was a complete mismatch in several of the polymorphic sequences.

I dialled the hospital and asked for Dr Marie Shubbert.

It took less than a minute to get her on the line.

‘Thanks for those tests,’ I said.

‘
Not a problem.’ Her tone was matter-of-fact.

‘
I’m going through the other pages you’ve sent me. It’s kind of confusing. I’m trying to compare them with the DNA sample from Walter Dunn.’

‘
Oh, yes, hold on a sec.’

A few seconds of silence.

I heard her shuffling some papers, and she went on, ‘Basically, I’ve ordered a variety of tests, just to be on the safe side.’

‘
And?’

‘
Turn to the second page.’

I flicked to page two and stared at the following:

SAMPLE
                            HLA-DQA1              D1S80  HUMTHO1

WILSON SWAB                            2,3              18/24                            6/9

FREQUENCY                    0.0489        0.160                     0.0809

‘Okay,’ I said, ‘I’m listening.’

‘
Now, can you look at the result from Walter Dunn’s DNA result?’

I flicked through to the same page on Dunn’s DNA report.

SAMPLE
                            HLA-DQA1              D1S80  HUMTHO1

DUNN SWAB                   2,4                        24/29                     6/7

FREQUENCY                    0.0489        0.160                     0.0809

‘Okay, so what?’ I asked.

‘
See the three different tests. That’s the numbers at the top of the section: HLA-DQA1, D1S80,  and HUMTHO1.’

‘
Yes?’

‘
The results below, that’s the number next to where it says WILSON SWAB, should exactly match Walter Dunn’s, that is if he’s the guy who raped her.’

I didn’t need two hours to figure out what she was on about.

I smiled to myself, satisfied I’d made a significant break-through.

The VFSC could say whatever they wanted.

I knew for a fact Walter Dunn never raped Teresa Wilson.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

O
n Monday the 17th of March, I rang the VFSC from my study to speak to Frank Moore. I’d made myself sick all night, wondering what he was up to. Now that I knew Walter Dunn never raped Teresa Wilson, there was little doubt in my mind she’d committed a triple murder. Still, I found myself in the awkward position of having been pulled off the investigation and, yet, without authorisation, having found out too much. I knew everyone would be angry at me, whether I’d dug up the truth or not. No one else but Frank would listen. I knew he’d probably believe I’d lost my mind, but I’d be able to show him the DNA autoradiographs.

My feet up on the desk, one hand fidgeting with the waist button of my jeans, I punched the numbers on the key pad. The phone rang twice before it was picked up.

I introduced myself and made my request.

‘
Frank Moore has taken the week off,’ the receptionist at the VFSC informed me.

Frustrated, I hung up and tried his home number.

All I got was the answering machine with
her
voice on it!

I tried his mobile number, but the voice at the end of the line said, ‘The Vodaphone you have called is switched off. Please try again later.’

Goddamn it!

I jumped from my chair, paced anxiously to the kitchen and poured myself a glass of iced water from the fridge. I gulped the content of my glass in one go and returned to the study.

I rang the VFSC again.

‘
Did he say where he would be going?’ I asked the receptionist.

‘
He’s on leave. Decided to take a week’s holiday.’

She’d already told me that, but I remained polite. ‘And he didn’t mention whether he was going away or not?’

‘We’re not that close.’

‘
So, he said nothing?’

‘
Not to me. But maybe you’d like to talk to Trevor Mitchell. Frank might have mentioned something to him.’

‘
Is Trevor Mitchell in?’

‘
Yes, he is. Would you like me to put you through?’

I hesitated half a second and said, ‘All right, I’d appreciate that.’

Before I had time to change my mind, Trevor Mitchell’s voice rang clearly in my right ear. ‘Kristin Malina?’

‘
I’m trying to track Frank down.’

‘
Malina,’ he said, injecting concern in his voice. ‘Where have you been? You haven’t tried to contact me.’

‘
For what? You and the others have already made up your mind about what to do with me.’

‘
Oh, no, no, no. You’re taking this all the wrong way. I told you a few weeks back that there would be an inquiry. I warned you heads would roll, and in the meantime, you get yourself into more trouble. What did you expect?’

‘
Look, Mr Mitchell, thanks for the concern, but I’m trying to locate Frank Moore. I understand he’s on vacation for the week. He didn’t happen to mention whether he’d be going away? Did he?’

‘
Did you try his home number?’

No, I rang you up first to get my ears blasted!

‘Sir, I tried him at home and on his mobile phone, but he’s out of reach.’

‘
Well, Malina, he never told me where he was going. He put in a request for a week off two days ago, and I approved it. He seemed stressed and looked as if he needed it.’

‘
Thank you for your time. I’ll try his home again later.’

I was about to hang up when he added, ‘Oh, Malina?’

‘Yes?’

‘
Why don’t you drop by the office? I need to tie up a few loose ends. You need to sign a termination of contract and hand over your pass.’

‘
Sure, I’ll do that.’

‘
By the way, you’re not still investigating this Wilson thing?’

I swallowed and tried my best to sound sarcastic. ‘Now, why would that be, Mr Mitchell? I understand I’ve been barred from the investigation. Or is this an invitation to get me back in on it?’

‘You better not be, Malina. If someone—’

I hung up on him. He was no longer my boss, and I cared little for his advice. To begin with, I found it increasingly insulting to be referred to by my first name when I had the courtesy to call him by his last name. And secondly, the computerised VFSC photo-ID card might still come in handy. It gave me access to the mortuary and various other restricted areas. Thank God for whoever had the wise idea of giving me total access to any place which would make my job as an investigator as easy as possible.

My hand was resting on the handset when the phone rang.

I knew it was Trevor Mitchell, so I bent over and pulled the plug from the wall.

For half an hour, I sat at my desk, staring out the window of my study, looking over Chapel Street. Trams, cars and pedestrians went by, but I paid little attention to the outside world. My mind was preoccupied with greater concerns.

I needed to talk to Frank, because I now truly believed he was in danger. An entire theory on what really happened on the night of the 20th of February at the Wilsons brewed in a dark corner of my mind. Everything I had seen, heard and observed since the beginning of this investigation began to cling together neatly, like the last pieces of an enigmatic puzzle.

I shifted in my chair, hands cupped under my chin, gazing at the emptiness in front of my eyes.

No one had broken into the Wilson’s apartment. Someone directed a damn good puppet show, and everyone, including me, had had their strings pulled. She manipulated, controlled and orchestrated this entire scenario. Everyone had played their parts perfectly.

I was convinced the only reason Teresa hung around Frank Moore was to create the least amount of suspicion. Frank Moore could influence the investigation any way he wanted. If she managed to twist him around her finger, he’d do anything she asked. The prompt termination of my contract with the VFSC was no coincidence. I was certain I had been right when I accused Frank of doing little to save my job. It seemed clear now he had more to gain by letting me go. I was an obstructive element in his grand plan. Or was it hers?

It broke my heart to realise how little I meant to him. Because he loved me all those years, like he claimed he did, I never expected something like that was going to happen. But my main concern was that once the investigation would be filed away forever, she might decide to get rid of him. So far, her method of getting rid of people had proven not only effective, but extremely sadistic.

Since I couldn’t get in touch with Frank, I decided to move ahead with my investigation. I had a clear idea in mind. Time to move on and stop counting the losses.

I put on my leather jacket, grabbed my car keys from the kitchen bench, and headed for the National Theatre.

Louis was cleaning the men’s toilet when I walked into the National Theatre. He had a pair of white overalls on and reminded me of one of us, dressed in our crime-scene examiners clothing.

‘I need your help,’ I said, glancing at his blue suede shirt, under the overalls, and his three golden earings dangling from each ear.

‘
What’s wrong?’ he said. I must have looked dreadful because he dropped his jaw by half an inch. ‘Did someone else die? God, I read about Claire Kendall. Did you find out who killed her? I wanted to call, but didn’t want to intrude. You know, you looked as if you were busy enough as it was.’

I told him talking here was awkward, but I needed his help immediately

‘I can’t leave like that,’ he protested. ‘I’ll lose my job.’

‘
Louis, I need you
now.
’

A look of concern crossed his face. He agreed to drop everything and come with me.

I waited while he got rid of his mop, bucket and overall.

We drove down to the Victoria Institute of Forensic Medicine in Southbank via Kings Way.

As usual, I raced like a lunatic.

Louis kept on throwing his hands on the dashboard every time I got too close to the back of another car.

One hand on the steering wheel, I explained to him how I believed Teresa Wilson had committed a triple murder. I kept my explanation simple because I doubted he would have understood everything about DNA sampling, antigens and enzymes.

He sat silently for a few minutes, obviously mortified Teresa could have killed so many people.

‘You okay?’ I finally said, wondering if I had done the right thing by bringing him with me. But I knew no one else in close proximity I could trust.

‘
God, I was working with her. It could have been me. You know, if she thought whatever she thought about Jeremy, Walter and Claire about me, I’d be dead by now. Thank God I’m not straight!’

I found his remark kind of funny because it was so true. His manhood might have saved him from being one of Teresa’s chosen few.

‘Well you’re not dead yet, so let’s do something about it,’ I ordered, as I took a turn into Kavanagh Street. Of course, I never believed he was in any danger, but I was desperate for his assistance.

Briefly, I explained what my plan was once we’d reach the mortuary.

‘Are you crazy? We’re going to get arrested!’ he said, glaring at me as if I had lost all reasoning.

‘
All you have to do is distract them, that’s all.’

‘
Jesus, I’m going to get my arse kicked.’

‘
Hey, watch the language,’ I joked, and he blushed.

I parked fifty meters outside the VIFM, killed the engine and locked my eyes into his. ‘Three people are dead, Louis. Someone else could die. We’ve got to do everything we can to get Teresa arrested. All I’ve got is circumstancial evidence. I don’t want to drag Teresa to court and have the prosecution fall flat on their arse. I need to get my hands on Jeremy Wilson’s autopsy report. I need it, and they won’t let me get it. I don’t know anyone else who can help me right now. The more time this takes, the more likely she’ll get away with it. Is that what you want?’

‘No, but—’

‘
But what? You want me to drive you back and do this by myself? I’m going to stuff it up, and she’s going to get away with it. And if she finds out what I’m up to, my funeral could be the next one you’ll be attending.’

He shifted uncomfortably on his seat and stared down at his hands. ‘I don’t think I’m cut out for this. This is not my kind of thing. I’m a thinking person, not a Rambo-type of guy.’

‘Please, I need you to do this for me.’

‘
I’m not the right man.’

‘
Louis, look at me.’ He looked up as if I was going to reveal the secret of eternal life. ‘You’re
more
than a man. You can do this.’

He analysed me for five seconds, flung open the passenger door and said, ‘Okay, partner, let’s nail the sucker.’

The VIFM was the statutory body in charge of Forensic Pathology, Clinical Forensic Medicine, Forensic Toxicology and other forensic scientific services in the State. Over 3000 postmortem examinations took place at the mortuary, the Coronial Services Centre, located in the same blue-grey South Melbourne complex. Other than autopsies, the centre incorporated histology, microbiology and molecular biology laboratories, all contributing to forensic investigations throughout Victoria.

The Institute was also responsible for education in forensic medicine, and thus incorporated the Department of Forensic Medicine at Monash University, delivering quality undergraduate and postgraduate courses for medical and legal students. The complex was also the home of the Coroner’s Court.

Unfortunately, the security system at the VIFM was also second to none. If I didn’t have my VFSC ID, I’d have no chance to even pass the front desk.

I heard Louis scream as I went through the autopsy reports in Dr Charles W. Main’s office.

All the reports were neatly filed in a four-drawer beige filing cabinet, clearly labelled by date, name and job number.

I couldn’t believe my luck. Thank God, Dr Charles W. Main was away from his office and left the door open. I did have my lockpicking kit with me in case things had turned out more complicated than I had anticipated. But now I feared he might be only seconds away. I had to hurry, or else I would find myself in the undesirable position of being charged with trespassing.

I was curious as to what Louis had done to attract the security guards’ attention, as it gave me enough time to sneak past the front desk, down the empty, blue-carpeted hallways, and to enter the office area. To pass each section of the building, I had to place my ID pass against a black plate attached to the wall next to each door. The card was read by a computer and access was granted once the user was identified. Fortunately, my name hadn’t been remove from Ingres 4GL, the central database, just yet, making my illegal wandering a breeze.