The Recipient (18 page)

“You had some input on the case for a time actually,” Lionel continued. “I saw your name in some of the press coverage.”

Whittaker finally nodded, the wheels turning. “The name was Andrutsiv. Yeah, I remember.”

Whittaker returned to his chair.

“A baffling case. Saskia Andrutsiv, twenty-two years old, found abandoned on some isolated road out in the boondocks. Horrible injuries but still alive. We never found a car. No one came forward. It was declared a major crime when the decision was made to turn off her…”

Whittaker's voice trailed off and he regarded Lionel with suspicion. “W-wait a sec. Why did you want to talk about this case?”

“I may have come across some new information.”

Whittaker's eyes narrowed. “I see. So what they say about retired cops not being able to switch off their investigative minds is true then. You been looking for old cases to crack, Lionel? Can't let it go?”

“I haven't allowed myself to become
that
pathetic,” Lionel retorted gently. “No, I've only just recently become acquainted with this case. But there may be one or two fresh leads worth looking into.”

“Fresh leads,” Whittaker responded, his eyes narrowing into an interrogatory gaze. “From where?”

Lionel managed a faint smile at his former colleague's demeanour. “Let's just say the information is credible. But I'd need to be sure that I'm across the specifics before I can be sure that it is worth pursuing.”

Whittaker sat back in his chair then rotated slightly, turning his attention to an open laptop. He tapped at the keyboard with one hand while looking back and forth between Lionel and the screen.

“Organ donor,” he said softly, reading from whatever information it was that had appeared on screen. His expression paled. “Saskia Andrutsiv's family donated her organs after she was declared brain-dead.”

Lionel didn't meet Whittaker's eyes which narrowed as the detective swivelled to face him. Instead he nodded, looking down into his lap.

“Casey…received her heart transplant around the same time, didn't she.” It was less a question than an observation. “You think it came from this girl?”

“We know it did,” Lionel said flatly, looking down and picking at his thumb. “It's been confirmed.”

Whittaker's lower jaw slackened. His eyes grew wide. “Jesus, Lionel! You do realise how many laws you've broken in obtaining that information?”

“Well, to be clear, it wasn't me who got a hold of that information. You do know how resourceful Casey can be.”

Whittaker sat back stunned. He rubbed his hand over his mouth, clearly agitated.

“Why on Earth would Casey want to risk her hide by finding out who her donor was? Shouldn't she be focusing on living her own life with this gift she's been given and not worrying about where it came from?”

Lionel held up his arms, palms out, towards Whittaker.

“Look, let's just say that Casey's health has been precarious for some time. She's feeling significant distress about having this organ inside her—something that is not uncommon to organ recipients—and she felt she had to find out about the person who gave her a second chance. Unfortunately, she uncovered more than she bargained for. Casey believes that she has some new information about the case that may be significant.”

“What do you think?” Whittaker questioned, extending his finger at Lionel.

Lionel thought for a long moment before answering. “I trust her.”

“Well, okay. Let's get Casey in here. She can tell us what this information is and, I dunno, we can decide what to do with it.”

“That sounds encouraging,” Lionel responded bitterly. “You and I both know that VicPol doesn't have the resources of a dedicated cold case unit. The information will wither and die on the vine before anyone decides to look into it.”

Whittaker feigned a hurt expression. “That's a bit harsh. Look I can shift a few things around. It won't be that hard.”

Lionel sat still. He didn't respond.

Several moments of silence passed between them.

“What are you asking for, Lionel?” Whittaker probed.

“Just a look at the case file.”

Again, Whittaker's eyes bulged and, for a moment, Lionel thought he resembled a bullfrog.

“Christ! You know I can't give you access to a case file! You, more than anyone, know the sort of shit that would get me into.”

“I'm not asking you to
give
it to me. I'd just like thirty minutes in a quiet corner, out of the way, where I can read it and see if any of the established facts marry up.”

Whittaker shook his head in bewilderment and held up his hand defensively. “I'm not going to have an old-aged pensioner and his granddaughter running around like Tango and bloody Cash!”

“Oh come now, don't be ridiculous, Farnham,” Lionel admonished, giving his voice a ring of his old authority. “You know it's not going to be anything remotely like that. All I want to do is ensure that we're not wasting anyone's time. Do you think I don't remember all of the crackpots and charlatans that used to come forward with wild claims about old cases?”

“Lionel,” Whittaker lowered his voice. “I don't care that you know the circumstances of this poor young woman's' death or even the fact that she was a donor to your granddaughter. The internet is that bloody pervasive now that I'm sure with a little effort you could find out as much as you want to about the case including the colour of the victim's undies the night she was hit. But, I'm not going risk the wrath of the Force, the Courts and a one-way trip to prison, just because you think you've got a whiff of something new.”

Lionel nodded slowly and silently. Resignation set in.

He knew he was asking too much.

Slowly, he stood and retrieved his jacket from the coat hook behind him as Farnham stood and shuffled out from behind his desk. He met Lionel's gaze with a pained expression.

“I'm sorry. You taught me everything I know. I know you wouldn't come to me if you weren't absolutely sure of what you had. But that's the thing, you taught me
too well
. I can't bend the rules.”

Lionel offered a curt smile and his hand, which Whittaker took.

“No, and nor should you. I'm sorry I've put you in this position. It was unfair of me.”

Lionel turned towards the door and opened it.

“Wait, Lionel,” Whittaker said falteringly. “Bring Casey in. We can talk and I'll see to it personally that it's handled.”

Lionel left Whittaker's office and began walking towards the lifts.

“This information,” Whittaker called after him. “Where does it come from?”

Lionel stopped in mid-stride. He lifted his finger and tapped it to his temple three times.

He exited the lift into the reception area and looked out through the glass entrance doors ahead of him. The trees on the far side of St. Kilda Road were swaying back and forth, caught in the aggressive grip of fresh gusts of wind. Grimacing, Lionel slipped his arms into the sleeves of his jacket and drew the collar up around his neck.

I suppose I deserve it
, he thought darkly.

Approaching the doors, they slid aside revealing the full force of the blustering conditions outside. He noted the first drops of rain on the path.

“Lionel!”

The voice rang out from behind him and he turned to see Whittaker emerging from a lift beside the reception desk. Whittaker hurried across the reception area towards him and stopped a few feet away. He regarded Lionel uncomfortably.

“Come with me,” he said.

CHAPTER 18.

S
hoving the heavy door aside with her foot, Casey lurched into the apartment grunting with the effort of carrying a heavy box of magazines in her arms. Sweat beaded from her forehead as she struggled through the living room and into the bedroom, where she practically tossed the box. As it hit the bed, its contents spilled out across it, with some titles falling off the edge on the far side. Casey shook her aching arms and blew air noisily up and over her face. Lifting loose strands of hair away from her eyes, she stood back, hands on hips and appraised the mess she had just created. She went back to the entrance where two more boxes sat in wait. She hefted each of these in turn into the apartment where she deployed them onto the bed in a similar fashion to the first. In short order, she had created a proper mess.

She grimaced.

Casey doubted she had ever seen as much literature dedicated to cars in her life: glossy print magazines, newsprint supplements, dealership catalogues, street machine magazines, classified almanacs. The volume of material dedicated to luxury cars in particular was astounding. There must have been at least a hundred titles here.

Since she'd left Kirkwood, the nebulous memory of the car had positioned itself front and centre in her mind. Having invested so much of her resolve in fighting against the recollection of the nightmare, Casey now found herself trying as hard as she could to hold on to the details.

The irony of this was not lost on her.

The mysterious car lingered in her consciousness, teasing her with fragments of clarity through a disconnected mist. She could see fractured detail. The low-slung rectangular headlights. A trapezoidal grille. Four polished, chrome rings in the centre.

Audi… Audi
…

No matter how hard she tried, Casey couldn't sharpen her memory and it gnawed at her like an itch that she couldn't scratch. On a recommendation from Scott, she'd decided to hit up a secondhand bookshop that specialised in the kind of print ephemera that now graced the entire surface of her bed. Being something of a petrol-head, Scott often sourced auto magazines from there. She'd spent a good hour selecting boxes of back issue magazines, catalogues and newspapers that had, fortunately, been sorted into publication dates and years. While the average customer might have sought one or two titles from any given box, Casey had taken multiple boxes.

The man at the counter had regarded her as if she were nuts.

Casey examined her watch and, turning hesitantly, she retrieved a pair of scissors from the kitchen. From her shoulder bag she took out a large sketch pad, a roll of Scotch tape and a box of pencils she'd purchased on the way home.

On the way back to her bedroom, she stopped before the door to the balcony. The mid-morning sun streamed down onto the bay, the light chop on the sea's surface glittered with reflected light. Casey opened the door, allowing fresh air into the apartment. She smiled. Closing her eyes, she allowed the scent of the ocean to clear her mind.

In a moment of clarity, she recalled the car that so intrigued her. She recalled the road that so unnerved her. The scene of violence that so terrified her.

And she recalled something else, something elusive that had nothing to do with the car or the road or the violence.

She could not put her finger on it.

Casey returned to her bed, feeling a twinge of anxiety as she surveyed the massive pile.

She wondered if the magazine store guy was right.

Kicking off her shoes and climbing onto the bed, Casey crossed her legs and scanned the magazines, newsprint and brochures before her.

Opening the sketch book and taking out a pencil, she rested it in her lap and began drawing. She sketched and shaded, closing her eyes repeatedly and going into her mind to pluck out her clearest recollections of the car. Within an hour, Casey had produced dozens of detailed perspectives of the car. She had filled the sketch book front to back with incarnations of the vehicle's front detail, headlights, fog lights and grille with the eponymous rings of the Audi symbol a prominent feature in all of them. There was a sleekness to the shape of the car she had drawn. The lines felt ultra modern, suggesting a vehicle that was new or near-to new.

A killer with expensive taste.

Leaning back against her pillow, she looked over the pile again.

“Where to begin…”

The obvious place was with the big, glossy publications where she would, no doubt, find high quality images of Audis that she could stick on the wall in the hope that it would jog her memory.

Laying the pad down, Casey leaned forward and shifted the pile in front of her, lifting out a “Luxury Motor” magazine. The cover, ironically, displayed an image of an Audi, though this was an SUV model. She examined the date of publication in the bottom corner of the magazine.

December 2011.

Just a few months before her transplant.

Nodding, Casey opened the magazine and began browsing.

Almost immediately, she found a picture of a silver Audi sedan whose front detailing closely resembled her sketches in the pad beside her. Comparing the two, Casey decided this was an image worthy of further scrutiny. She lifted the scissors, cutting around the image, then lifted it from the page and fixed a piece of Scotch tape to it. Climbing off the bed, she stuck it on the brick wall beside her at head height.

Returning to the magazine, she turned a few more pages until she found another image—this time, a low-slung, dark blue convertible. The lights here were similar and were paired by a set of fog lights set underneath them. Casey extracted this picture as well and taped it beside the first on the wall.

She continued this process again and again, hour after hour. Working her way through the magazines, she sorted them by year of publication, ruling out anything whose publication date was any later than 2012. Something told her that the car from the dream was new, if not brand new. She browsed through each title, identifying Audis, comparing them with her sketches. If there was a definite visual correlation, she methodically cut out those images, checking that any available description for the year of manufacture fell no earlier than 2010 and no later than March 2012. She attached a piece of tape to them and added them to the wall. When she had finished with one magazine, Casey tossed it to the floor and retrieved another. She frowned at the growing mound of print material at her feet.

Morning became afternoon. The sun crossed over the top of her building and was now streaming in through the windows beside her, although Casey was only vaguely aware of the passing of time. She continued to work her way through the pile, cutting and taping and affixing pictures to the wall, looking for some hint of recognition in the ever-growing mosaic. Each time, she went into her mind and recalled the scene. Saskia's face flashed with terror and desperation…and something else.

Looking away from the wall, Casey bit the inside of her lip. Her eyes danced across the floor, as though she were searching for something.

Saskia's face appeared and she allowed it to stay there.

Was Saskia trying to tell her something?

She couldn't make sense of it. And then it seemed to slip away. Casey hissed as she lost her grip on the memory.

“Dammit!”

Some time later, Casey absently stood from the bed and she lowered the shades. The sun began its descent. Afternoon progressed towards dusk. Casey turned her head and saw the edge of the mighty orange orb touch the horizon out on the bay. She cast a glance at the clock on her bedside table.

Nine hours…

The wall opposite was almost entirely covered with images. Everywhere she looked, Casey saw Audi sedans—a dizzying array of sizes in both colour and black and white, from full-cover photographs to stamp-sized classified shots that she'd gleaned from the trade classifieds. She had surrounded the doorway leading into her en suite bathroom and had even covered the door.

Only a few brochures and newsprint publications remained before her, while the recycling bin adjacent was filled so full that the lid would no longer close.

Casey blinked. Slowly, she stepped off the bed and wandered along the length of the wall.

So engrossed was she in her examination of her work, she only vaguely heard the rumbling of the front door as it slid aside.

“Casey?”

Lionel's voice sounded but it didn't register with her. He slid the door closed and set his key down on the counter. He called out again. Casey flinched and shook herself from her stupefied daze.

“In here,” she called.

Lionel appeared from around the corner and frowned quizzically at his granddaughter. She crossed her arms as she appraised the wall before her. At first, he didn't see what she was looking at, but as his eyes followed her own, they went wide as he looked upon the vast collection of images on the wall.

“You've been busy,” he noted with a hint of bewilderment.

Casey's cheeks flushed as she nodded, embarrassed.

“I guess I have.”

Lionel squinted at the collage. Casey couldn't help but notice his mercurial smile. She tilted her head.

“What's so funny?”

“Oh. Nothing really,” Lionel hesitated, glancing sideways at her. “It's just that…the way you've arranged all these pictures. It reminds me, very much, of how I used to problem-solve certain things, pieces of evidence that baffled me.”

Casey's shoulders slumped. “I've been at this for nine hours, Pa. I don't know
what
I'm doing.”

Her eyes floated over the wall of images.

“You didn't think to use the computer?” Lionel ventured, gesturing with a nod towards the darkened monitor.

Casey shrugged. “I thought the magazines would be a better idea. Placing them on the wall like this gives me a better visual. But I don't know if I'm on the right track or whether I'm just complicating things by doing all of this.”

She held out her arms, shaking her head.

“I can see some parts of the car clearly in my mind but, I'm worried that I'm confusing my memories by trying to force myself to see something that isn't there.”

“Maybe you should leave it for now,” Lionel suggested. “Take a break and try to empty your mind. Things will become clearer.”

Casey exhaled and nodded. “I should get us something to eat.”

Lionel smiled with a hint of mischief. “Let's get out of the house for a bit. I quite fancy some fish and chips.”

___

They sat on a wooden picnic table overlooking the Mentone jetty, a generous serving of battered fish and steaming, thickly cut chips sat in a nest of butcher's paper between them. The setting sun had dipped below the horizon. The sky, a brilliant orange, reflected off the water as small waves rolled onto the shore providing entertainment for a group of children down on the sand who were riding them in on boogie boards.

Lionel licked his lips as he opened a small tub of tartar sauce and upended its entirety over a single piece of fish. Casey laughed affectionately at her grandfather.

“Don't you tell your grandmother,” Lionel grumbled dryly, grinning sideways at Casey.

She scoffed at him, then plucked a thick potato chip from the pile and popped it into her mouth.

“Don't you tell my mother
.
No doubt she's been milking you for information about me every chance she gets.”

“Of course she is. She wouldn't be your mother if she wasn't. She comes from a long line of busybodies.”

Casey whipped her head up at Lionel, whilst trying to stifle a huge, knowing grin.

“That said,” he continued. “She
does
act out of love—even if it is a little heavy-handed.”

“
Are you kidding me?
Edie's got all the delicacy of a Mack truck. If anything, it's she who has driven me more nuts than…”

Casey caught herself when she was met by her grandfather's eyes. She detected a subtle hurt in them and she looked down between her feet.

“Sorry.”

Lionel shrugged it off and continued devouring his fish.

“I just wish I could remember.”

Casey went quiet. Her features tightened and Lionel could tell that her thoughts were drifting back to the conundrum of the car.

“Casey,” he chided softly. “Give yourself some space.”

“There's something I'm missing, Pa,” she said. “It's something to do with the dream…with the event. But I can't work out what it is.”

“Well. Is it the car? Another object? Something to do with the assailant?”

“No.” She paused, trying to will her mind. “It's something to do with Saskia.”

Lionel frowned and looked across the bay. “I think you should let it go. You look so tired. When was the last time you got any sort of sleep?”

Casey sighed tersely. “I don't know. Back at the hospital? A few days ago? I can't sleep, Pa. I'm scared to.”

“It can't be doing you any good. Eventually you'll crash.”

“I know, Pa,” Casey nodded. “I guess I've gotten used to existing this way, but I know…”

Her voice trailing away, she turned to a bottle of water and picked it up, twisting the cap open.

“Remember how we used to come here as kids? You and Nana brought Angus and me here most weekends during the summer. We were hardly ever out of the water.”

“You were a pair of water-babies. No doubt about it.” Lionel smiled.

“This place, it's the one thing that hasn't changed. Even though everything else has. I can count on this place. You know?”

Casey squinted at Lionel who nodded, understanding.

“I feel the same way. I used to come here before you were born. I fished from that jetty. We need quiet places like this to escape to. To contemplate and reflect.”

Another quiet drifted between them and hung in the air for several long moments.