Vodka Doesn't Freeze (3 page)

W
HEN
M
ERCY ARRIVED
at the private psychiatric clinic at which she worked, Carole Dean, Programs Director of the Sisters of Charity Hospital, caught her before she'd made it past the marble reception desk. The receptionist was already waving a fistful of messages at Mercy.

Carole, flawlessly groomed, took in the sight of their foremost psychotherapist with anxiety. A mass of uncombed black curls, a too-tight designer suit and tottering heels had always been delightfully unconventional when paraded with confidence by Dr Merris, but lately she was just looking unhinged. Smelling of smoke and heavy perfume, there was a vacant look in her eyes and lipstick stained her teeth. File notes, unlawfully removed from hospital grounds, poked from a large tote bag; some of them, Carole noted with alarm, smeared with what looked like blood. Carole then noticed a blood-soaked tissue pressed into Mercy's palm. Without doubt, this woman looked more like her patients every day.

'Dr Merris – Mercy – I'm glad you're here,' Carole found herself speaking in the soothing tones she usually reserved for the clients. 'It looks as though you've cut yourself. Let's go to my office and see to that. I'd like to catch up with you before you start your day.'

Mercy allowed herself to be steered from the lobby through the halls of the beautiful hospital. Her head still hummed, but she felt comfortably disconnected from the scenes around her, unaware of the CEO of the hospital headed purposefully in their direction, or of Carole's smooth, non-verbal deflection of him. She sank gratefully into a deep armchair in Carole's office, feeling comforted, as intended, by the beautiful architecture, deep carpeting, fresh flowers and family photos.

'Mercy, you look tired. And you're hurt. Here, let me look,' Carole unclenched Mercy's palm and saw the bleeding gash that had been caused when Mercy had crushed her pager in the car.

'That's deep. What happened? You may need a stitch. Let me call Kim.' Carole reached for her phone and asked one of the nurses from the closest unit to come to her office with a first-aid kit. Mercy watched her serenely.

'Are you okay, Mercy? We've a lot to deal with today. I had to cancel your first few appointments this morning, as we have some important matters to sort out.' Carole was growing increasingly worried by the placid demeanour of this usually extroverted woman.

'Mmm, fine. Just tired.'

'Mercy, I'm not sure whether you know yet . . . One of your . . . one of our patients, Carly Kaplan, died yesterday. I'm sorry to tell you, Mercy, she took her own life.' Carole paused, waiting for Mercy's reaction.

Mercy gazed back with a look of polite interest.

'And,' Carole continued slowly, 'there will be an inquest. As you know, Carly was having outpatient treatment with us, having been discharged just last month. We have a lot of paperwork to do, and we can't place this client's file. Mercy, do you have the file?'

'Mmm.'

Mercy reached down and pulled a mass of bedraggled notes from her tote bag, the cluster of which had also caught up a parking ticket, pharmacy script and a broken hair clip.

Carole stared for a moment at the mess on her polished side table and then opened a drawer beneath it and slid the paperwork in. She'd have to straighten that out before the CEO arrived.

She turned anxiously when a knock sounded at her door, but it was just Kim from St Brigid's unit, first-aid kit in hand. Carole ushered her in and closed the door.

'Shit, Mercy, how'd ya do this?' grinned Kim. Dr Merris was a favourite with most of the ward staff, working long hours, helping out on the units, and always taking the hardest patients.

Mercy looked perplexed as she stared down at her hand.

Kim threw Carole a glance; Carole stared flatly back, and Kim was suddenly all professional nurse, firm and gentle, tending to the wound.

'You know, Mercy, this needs a stitch or two. I have what I need right here. Let's fix this up properly.' The nurses on St Brigid's unit were more than used to suturing wounds like this; there were at least two and up to ten self-harm incidents each week.

Kim cleaned the wound on Mercy's hand and after applying some anaesthetic spray began to stitch the skin together. Mercy was silent during the first two sutures. Then, without warning, she screamed, and Kim jumped. Her first-aid kit crashed to the floor.

Kim stared at Carole as Mercy scuttled into the corner of the room. She squatted there, rocking, holding her hand and sobbing.

All day Wednesday, Jill and Scotty worked almost exclusively on the murder of David Carter. No-one in the unit was co-operative when they needed help investigating the case, with Emma Gibson even suggesting that they lose evidence so the killer would never be found.

'You're not seriously going to try to catch whoever took that arsehole out, are you?' Emma asked Jill and Scotty as they pored over the murder book. They were adding details from people they'd talked to about Carter's life and activities in the lead-up to his death. 'You know it's just going to be one of his victims all grown up and back for justice. It always is in these cases.'

'Really, Emma? Damn. We hadn't thought of that,' Scotty said sarcastically. 'And we're just loving that we caught this case. You think we want to help this shitbag? I just want to get it done, so could you back off a bit?'

Emma flipped her straight black hair over her shoulder and shot Scotty a sneer, but she looked stung by his tone as she sashayed back to her own desk. Everyone was used to Scotty being a good-natured clown, and Jill knew that Emma rarely took her grey eyes off him when they were in the same room.

Jill knew it was probably her fault Scotty had no patience left for any more negativity on this case. She'd been making smartarse comments since they'd escorted Carter's body to the morgue, intimating, just as Emma and half the unit had done, that they shouldn't make any real attempt to find the killer. At first Scotty had laughed along, but when it became clear that Jill was serious, he'd seemed worried – Jill was usually the most conscientious on the job. By now though, he seemed fed up with Jill's constant comments that she was glad Carter was dead.

'Don't you say anything,' he warned her as she stared at him when Emma walked away.

'Huh? No,' she said, distracted. She'd been searching the database for new crimes in the metro area. 'Scotty, look at this. There are two other bashing deaths with similar MOs in here. Both male, alone, head beaten in with a blunt instrument. The cops who caught the cases thought there was something off about each of these guys,' she said thoughtfully.

'They're rock spiders too?'

'They could be. Listen to this.' She read: '"Victim: Dennis Rocla, River Road, Lane Cove, DOB 11/11/1955. Victim's wife reports finding victim near garbage bin in front of garage, deceased with head injuries. Victim's wife reports that they had been separated and victim had not been welcome at their home. States she was not aware that victim had apparently come to the home the night before when assault took place. Victim's details known to police."

'And this one – "George Manzi, a.k.a. George Marks, 56." Again deceased, assault, head injuries. Says here, "Items of interest to police recovered from scene."'

'Well of course they've recovered items from the scene. It's a freaking homicide investigation.' Scotty stretched and yawned, his limbs sprawling, his elbow almost taking out a pot plant on a desk behind him.

'Exactly. So why even add that bit in there?' asked Jill, pensive. 'They've got something on him.'

She rocked back on her chair, its front legs in the air, her feet up on the desk. Scotty knew better than to tell her to be careful, sitting like that. The one time he'd tried, Jill had smirked at him and balanced the chair on just one leg, using a toe to steady herself as the chair swayed slightly, three of its feet in the air.

'And in both of these they also got no prints,' she read on, chewing her pen. 'Killer wore gloves; they got smooth glove marks from each crime scene. Don't you think that's unusual?' Jill and Scotty both knew that bashing deaths were usually crimes of passion or, more often, were committed by drunken youths in gangs. Gloves weren't typical in such cases.

'Yeah, well, we've got enough to do with Shitbag here,' said Scotty, indicating the murder book, pulling his hand through his thick blond hair. 'We've got a couple more fathers of his past victims to talk to. Could be one of them got sick of waiting for us to lock him up. And we've also got to interview that shrink, Dr Merris, who was treating Carter's daughters from his first marriage. She might have something to say about them or someone they're involved with. The oldest daughter, Hailey, is nineteen now.'

'Yep, okay.' Jill still felt distracted. She stared unseeingly at the flyspecked, dung-coloured wall of the squad room.

'Let's go get lunch, Jackson. I'm starving. I swear I'm gonna die if I don't eat soon.' Scotty half-lifted her from her chair with one arm.

'Yeah. You're fading away, fatso,' Jill laughed, woken from her reverie. She manoeuvred from his grasp, and in the same fluid movement aimed a roundhouse kick at his flat abdomen, deliberately just missing.

'Cut it out!' shouted their boss, Inspector Andreessen, as Scotty tried to lunge at Jill again, knocking over a chair as she easily sidestepped him. 'Go do some work for godsakes!'

Pushing each other through the office, Jill paused when she heard her name.

'. . . you watch. Everything will get buried with that Carter case anyway. Deviants like that always stick together. Jackson would think of him as part of the homosexual scene, like a brother.'

She stopped dead; blood suffused her face. She couldn't care less about Elvis spreading rumours that she was a lesbian, but she couldn't believe that he could even joke that she would somehow protect a paedophile. She didn't hear Scotty say her name, couldn't feel his hand on her arm. She didn't try to think of a comeback. Elvis had his back to her as he talked to two of his cronies, obviously aware that she was just then walking past. With no warning, she exploded into movement, shoulder-charging Calabrese. The heavy man sprawled forward, his gut connecting with a desk corner before he dropped to his knees, sucking air.

'Oh shit! Sorry, man,' Scotty offered his big hand to Elvis, who stayed where he was on the floor, his face black with rage. 'No really, sorry, man, and I'm sorry for pushing you like that, Jackson. Andreessen's right, we gotta stop mucking around.'

He steered Jill, who was standing rigid, out of the office.

'Just keep walking, Jill,' said Scotty tightly. 'You're gonna get a bullet in the head in some laneway one day, I swear.'

M
ENTALLY EXHAUSTED
, JILL was tired of fighting the nightmare that started rolling as soon as she slipped into sleep. She gave up trying and walked, eyes closed, down the hall towards her gym. She was used to nightmares, but they were so real lately; last night she'd woken screaming twice, her pillow sour with sweat.

Jill had spent two years after the kidnapping waking every night from these dreams. She'd stayed hidden in her home, her mother by her side day and night. She wouldn't sleep alone and stopped eating. She was racked by paralysing panic that left her hyperventilating and sure she was going to die. As a way of blocking the pain, she took to scratching deep welts in her arms using her fingernails, and progressed to a Stanley knife on her thighs. She hated the burn scars left by the rapists, but revelled in the blood-red warrior marks she made herself.

After three days in the basement, Jill had learned how to turn the physical pain off, mentally leaving her body when the two men were in the room. Sensory deprivation had heightened this ability to disconnect from reality – in the dark she could not see her attackers and they never spoke. After the police had brought her home, she'd found this capacity to become numb would take over involuntarily, and would smudge its way over everything, leaving her feeling empty, like a puppet.

At fifteen, Jill had given in to her mother's tears and agreed to see a counsellor. To her surprise, this time something clicked, and she began clawing her way back into her life. She returned to school, swapped cutting for tattoos, and starving for exercise. She swapped crying for control and order, and set about harnessing her ability to numb any pain. She found that ignoring fatigue meant that studying all night was nothing for her. She quickly caught up with her peers in her schoolwork, and soon overtook them.

She then set about finding a method to defend herself, vowing that if anyone ever again tried to hurt her, she'd make them bleed too. She took up kickboxing, and found a gym that taught the sport using full-contact, gutter fighting. At first her instructors were bemused when Jill insisted on fighting others blindfolded. She was beaten constantly, and soon most at the gym refused to fight her blind and defenceless. She would inwardly curse as those who did get in the ring with her tapped her lightly, instead of connecting properly, or told her verbally where they would strike next.

One afternoon, blindfolded in the ring, Jill was sparring with one of the trainers. The woman was walking through her moves, easily dodging most of Jill's strikes and, every now and then, half-heartedly throwing a light kick. When the trainer began a conversation with an apparent bystander, Jill swallowed her frustration. She wanted a focused, determined enemy. She remembered the helplessness of being blindfolded in the basement, and she was determined to conquer her fear of the dark. The grunting and panting of her speechless abductors also taught her a lesson; by the time she'd been released, after three days, she was excruciatingly aware that sound and movement could predict future agony.

The male voice at the side of the ring was scornful. 'If she wants to get flogged, Kaylene, you should give it to her.'

'Yeah, righto, Price, there's nothing to see here. Just use the other ring will you,' Jill's sparring partner responded.

'She's the one with nothing to see. What a friggin' waste of time.' Jill heard the man moving closer to the ring. 'Use the force, kid,' he called derisively.

Jill didn't respond; she continued to try to make contact with her blows, trying to anticipate where Kaylene would move next.

'Give us a go, Kaylene. I'll partner her for a while.'

'Just forget it, Price,' Kaylene began.

Jill stopped. 'Yeah, all right,' she said, removed her blindfold, and faced the man outside the ring. 'Thanks, Kaylene. I want to get some practice with different people.'

'This is not a good idea,' responded the trainer. 'Jill, it's dangerous trying to fight like this.' In a quieter voice, just to Jill, she said, 'Not this guy. You're not training with him.'

Jill reached a hand down to the man standing by the ring. 'I'm Jillian. Two-minute rounds okay with you?'

Kaylene shrugged in disgust and got out of the ring. The man took her place. He was about 170 centimetres tall – a little taller than Jill – with thinning brown hair and a slight beer gut.

'Ron Price,' he ignored her hand. 'So what's with the blindfold? Kinky?' he asked.

'So are you okay with two-minute rounds?' Jill repeated.

'Yeah, whatever. This should be fun.'

He threw his towel over the ropes in his corner and Jill went to her own, her heart pounding. Although she'd wanted a serious opponent, she knew she wasn't ready for this. She took a deep breath and pulled her blindfold down, put her mouthguard back in. I'll never be ready unless I find someone to fight me, she thought.

Over the next two minutes, Jill hit the ground five times. When she sat back in her corner, her head was ringing and each breath felt like a stab wound to her ribs. She could hear Price sniggering in his corner. Five more rounds, she thought, this is gonna kill me. The blindfold felt suddenly stifling and she raised her hand to rip it off, a wave of fear and disorientation rising up to swamp her. She swallowed, pushed the fear back down and felt the numbness kick in. She heard Price breathing in his corner, eager to go again.

About fucking time, she told herself. I'm finally gonna learn something.

Over the next eight months, Jill sparred regularly with Ron Price, and soon found there were others happy to partner her in the ring. She learned to tune out the background noise of the gym and to concentrate solely upon the sounds of her foe – their footsteps, subtle movements, even their breathing, taught her where they were and the moves they would make next. These sounds began to replace the need to see, painting for Jill a mental image of her opponent's position, and she began striking accurately, pre-empting their next blow. She learned to use their punches and kicks to set up her own, increasingly accurate with her judgment of the time it would take for their balance to be regained, and striking before they could reposition.

She practised daily, at the gym at six when it opened, and fitting in two hours after school every day. However, when the number of people watching outside her ring increased, and their taunts became cheers, she left the gym and took to training at home.

Jill walked into her home gym and filled a cup from the water dispenser near the door. She glanced at the clock. 4.20 a.m. The alarm would've gone off in forty minutes anyway. She started her routine again, her headache forgotten as she punished her body for the weakness of the day before.