Deadly Deeds (6 page)

‘
Fine,’ I said, trying to regain my composure. He was right on that point. The VFSC didn’t serve the police only, but anyone who requested forensic tests to be done. This included defense lawyers, the general public and private companies. Tests, other than those used to help a investigator prepare a case, were subject to a fee.

Frank Goosh smiled a sadistic smile that only I could see. ‘I want the entire Wilson’s file transferred to the CIB’s headquarters by the end of the week.’

Like hell I was going to pass over the Wilson’s file. If he wanted it, he’d have to come to my place and beg like a dog. I’ll make him do hand-stands, lick my shoes and kiss my arse.

I left the VFSC with a tight throat. The men’s club was alive and kicking. I wanted to tell them where to go, and how far to stick it.

But a better idea crossed my mind.

CHAPTER FOUR

A
t 11.32 p.m. I was in bed. Frank called me to say Teresa Wilson was awake and willing to talk to us. She was staying at St Patrick’s Hospital on Barry Street, in South Melbourne.

Frank Moore and I arrived at the hospital in my car. I was still furious from our morning meeting with the Deputy Commissioner of Police and the Director of the VFSC. But I didn’t want to give Frank a hard time over it. He’d been nice enough to call me when Mrs Wilson woke up. He knew perfectly well I had nothing more to do with the investigation. He made me promise not to say a word to Trevor Mitchell or anyone, as he was only doing me a favour. I guess it was Frank’s way of making it look like he was doing something about my unfair dismissal from the investigation.

‘How long has she been awake?’ I asked as we pulled into the hospital’s car park.

‘
Half an hour from the time I got the call.’

I parked between an old, green Ford Cortina and a brand new Jeep.

St Patrick’s Hospital had been built over a hundred years ago from brownstone blocks. It stood five storeys tall, was cramped with dirty windows and covered with a flat roof. Like most public hospitals in Melbourne, it was big outside, but inconveniently small on the inside, with wards half the size of the original design.

Without a word, Frank and I climbed stairs leading to the main entrance of the hospital. I noticed Frank checking his Sony tape recorder for batteries. He placed it back in his jacket pocket after flicking it on and off, obviously satisfied it was in working order.

On arrival at the front desk, we introduced ourselves.

In less than a minute, Dr Frank Larousse came to greet us.

‘I didn’t know you would be coming so fast,’ he said while re-adjusting his rimless glasses on the bridge of his nose. The doctor’s eyes were red from the stress of double-shifts. His hair was thinning on top, but he didn’t look a day over forty. He was not slim, nor bulky, just a comfortable in-between. His white lab coat was opened in the middle, showing a cheap-looking crocodile imitation leather belt, a yellow shirt and a pastel green tie. The doctor was a fashion statement, a walking billboard for all that went wrong with eighties fashion.

Dr Frank Larousse led us down a maze of corridors on the first floor of the building. Finally, he invited us into his office, which was so secluded, I wondered if I’d ever be capable of finding it again by myself. Posters of Gray’s Anatomy hung on the walls. A bookshelf, filled with everything from pharmaceutical references to doctors’ ethical procedures, stood on his right. I noticed a hardcover novel, wrapped in a bright orange jacket,  titled
Contagious.
The writer was Robin Cook, a world-wide bestselling author and a doctor who wrote medical thrillers.

Behind Dr Larousse’s back was a grey, four-drawer filing cabinet with no labels indicating the contents of the drawers.

His desk top was arranged with files and notebooks, all neatly and clinically stacked together.

He spoke to us as if we were two of his patients. ‘I just want to run through the preliminary report before you go and meet Mrs Wilson. In fact, it would be better if you came back to see her tomorrow. But since you’re here, and she’s willing to talk to you, I guess now is as good a time as ever.’

We nodded in silence, waiting as the doctor shuffled some paper on his desk. He lifted a yellow manilla folder and pulled a page from its content.

‘
Here we go. Her name is Teresa Vivienne Wilson, age 34, Caucasian with no superficial deformities.’ He glanced in our direction to see that he hadn’t lost us, and went on, ‘We’ve found bruising all over her body, including the legs, buttocks, arms and face.’

‘
Someone beat her up?’ Frank asked, raising his brow.

‘
That’s what I would conclude. We’ve also found numerous abrasions and small cuts on her face, abdomen and arms. Intermittent haemorrhaging was present from both nostrils. Her scalp was covered with small wounds, and hair at the crown was matted with blood.’

I swallowed as I pictured in my mind’s eye what Teresa Wilson had gone through.

Dr Larousse continued his monologue, ‘Three of her fingernails were broken, and both hands swollen. When she arrived at the hospital, she was in hypovolemic shock. Her skin was cold and pale with blueness at the lips and fingers. She was restless and confused, something normal after the ordeal she went through.’

‘
And where did you take her after the initial examination?’ I asked, speaking up for the first time since we’d been in the doctor’s office.

‘
I’ve had her transferred to a supportive environment and administered a saline solution. Within hours her temperature rose, her skin tone improved, and her mental orientation was more or less restored. Two hours later she slipped into a semi-coma, most likely due to post-traumatic shock.’

‘
What about rape?’ Frank asked for both of us.

‘
Ah, I was going to get to that. We found bruising, scratching and localised swelling around the external genitals. Dried blood was located in the anus. Examination of the vagina with a speculum resulted in the discovery of a copious amount of a substance consistent with appearance and viscosity of semen. The substance was removed from around the neck of the cervix. Severe scratches were found in the anterior wall of the vagina.’

‘
So she was raped?’ Frank asked again impatiently.

‘
I’m getting there. The opening of her anus appeared patulous and cut in several places. I examined the interior of the anus with a speculum and came up with a squash ball lying in the cavity of the rectum.’

‘
A what?’ I muttered, wondering if I had heard correctly.

‘
A squash ball. You know, a hard rubber ball, the type used to play that game where the players hit the ball against a wall.’

I knew what a squash ball was. I just couldn’t understand what it was doing inside Teresa Wilson.

Dr Larousse seemed somehow satisfied that he had shocked us. A slight grin on his face made me wonder if he was a touch sadistic.

‘
The high-friction surface of the squash ball,’ he continued, ‘caused considerable tissue damage to the anus and the walls of the lower tract of the large bowel. We’ll have to remove the ball by surgery under general anaesthetic.’

‘
Okay, Doctor,’ Frank said, ‘by-passing any more technical details, what is your opinion on what happened to Mrs Wilson?’

Dr Larousse looked straight at us. ‘The preliminary assessment of Mrs Wilson clearly indicates to me that she’s been beaten and subjected to an unusual level of physical abuse, and it would appear rape has taken place.’

Both Frank and I scribbled notes in our pad books.

‘
You don’t mind if we get a copy of the preliminary report?’ I asked without lifting my eyes from my notes.

‘
I’ll have two sets photocopied by the time you finish interrogating Mrs Wilson.’

We thanked Dr Larousse for his time as he escorted us out of his office.

When Frank Moore and I arrived in Teresa Wilson’s room, at the Intensive Care Unit Ward, on the third floor of the building, we brought in a bunch of pink carnations from a shop downstairs, next to the main entrance of the hospital.

Coming face to face with a victim was never easy, no matter how many times we went through the process. Repetition was supposed to make you stronger, but some things were never easy, no matter how many times you dealt with them.

Every time I encountered a crime victim, I was conscious I was dealing with a human being. Ironically, people who caused the damage in the first place usually never saw other people as anything more than objects. This was probably the main difference between them and us. They had lost touch with their inner feelings. They were incapable of sympathy for anyone but themselves. Men who committed atrocities, like the savage beating and raping of Teresa Wilson, were very often self-centred and beyond redemption.

After years of studying the criminal mind, years of interrogating hundreds of criminals and repeat offenders, I was convinced some men could never be rehabilitated, no matter how many years they had been institutionalised, how much medical and psychological therapy they’d received, or how willing they were to better themselves. Their sociopathic attributes were eternally entwined in their general make-up. Recent US research even suggested that their DNA structure could in fact have been altered over a time-period, supporting the long-time hypothesis that everything is mind over matter.

As soon as I walked into Teresa Wilson’s room, my heart sank. Her face was puffed up and covered with cuts and bruises. Her complexion was bluish-green, making it difficult to see the person behind the mask. Monitors were used to watch heart and lung function, that is ECG, blood pressure, pulse and respiratory rate. Tubing was attached to various parts of her body, helping to control her urine production and drain output. Her head was maintained high with the help of three pillows. I couldn’t help feeling Teresa Wilson was in no condition to answer our questions.

My stomach churned as I tried to comprehend why someone would hurt another person so badly. I surprised myself with that question, especially since I have dealt with hundreds of homicides in the past fifteen years and had already come to some hard-edged conclusions.

Evil bred in and invaded the minds of desperate souls.

We introduced ourselves briefly, and Frank and I promised we’d take little of her time.

‘
It’s all right,’ she said, her bruised lower lip quivering. ‘I don’t mind helping out. There’s so much I need to tell you. It’s happened so suddenly.’

‘
We’re going to be taping this,’ Frank said matter-of-factly, as he removed the Sony recorder from his jacket. ‘It’s easier if we do. It means we don’t have to ask you the same questions over and over again. Is that all right with you?’

Teresa nodded, and Frank switched the tape on.

‘Also,’ he added, ‘I have to inform you that you don’t have talk to us if you don’t want to. Anything you tell us from now on can be used as evidence in court.’

‘
It’s okay,’ she said, ‘I’ve got nothing to hide.’

I would be asking all the questions since Frank was a crime-scene examiner and not an investigator. In fact, he wasn’t even supposed to be in this room, and since I was told to stop working on the Wilson’s case, neither was I. Both of us would be in serious trouble if this thing leaked out.

‘You’re also allowed to have a lawyer present,’ I said, doubting she would need one. But her rights were covered under the
Crimes Act
, and I had a legal obligation to tell her that.

‘
I don’t need a lawyer,’ she said.

I agreed by nodding.

Frank placed the small Sony recorder, which had been running for about a minute, in front of Teresa Wilson.

The humming of the tape was all we heard for the next ten seconds.

I sat next to Teresa and tried hard not to hold her hand, even though I had the urge to do so. I wanted to give her a hug and let her know I understood how difficult this was for her. I wanted to tell her she was not alone, that we would do anything to help her get through this. I wanted her to know that if she ever needed a friend, I would be there for her. But I felt it was a bit early to move in so fast. I couldn’t help it. Part of me was nothing but raw emotions. Maybe I would wait until the end of the interrogation.

‘
So, can you tell us what happened?’ I began.

‘
It’s all confusing in my head, but I’ll do the best I can.’

‘
It’s okay. Take your time. If you need to rest or compose yourself, let us know. If you want to do this tomorrow morning or another day, we can do that. Sergeant Frank Moore will turn the tape recorder off, and we’ll start again later.’

‘
We might as well get it over and done with,’ she said, before hesitating for a few seconds. ‘I’m not sure where to start. I haven’t done this kind of thing before.’

‘
Tell us what you remember,’ I said, finding Teresa amazingly courageous to be willing to go through the entire ordeal again.

‘
My husband Jeremy is an electronics engineer.’ She used the present tense as if he was still alive. It would probably take her a while to realise she would never see him again. ‘He works from home, which is great, because we see each other all the time. He is under contract with lots of companies.’

‘
How long have you been together?’ I asked.

‘
We tied the knot five years ago and moved to Port Melbourne eighteen months ago because of his work. It’s much closer to the city and easy for him to find work. He hates wasting time driving.’