The Great Divide

by L. J. M. Owen

  ‘So, you worked many murder cases?’ the constable asked.

  ‘Before my last post, maybe eighteen or twenty. But we don’t know for certain that this is murder.’

  Around a tight corner a clump of fern trees and dark bracken appeared beneath a rainforest canopy, quickly lost as Murphy accelerated out of the bend. The view reverted to mournful gums.

  ‘Come on. Someone did that to her. I’ve never seen anything like her hands before. You?’

  ‘Not like that, no.’

  ‘Well, she didn’t have a partner, so the most likely suspect would be the brother?’

  ‘He seems to have an alibi.’

  This was Jake’s first opportunity to study the detail of some of his new surroundings. He had arrived late the previous Saturday night and been picked up from the airport by Murphy. Between exhaustion and the fog, Jake had barely been able to see the road, let alone what lay beyond the verge. Murphy’s incessant questions hadn’t helped then either.

  ‘Well, if it wasn’t the brother, boss is going to want us to sort this out fast.’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘Hasn’t been a murder—well, not a real one—in Dunton since the eighties.’

  ‘What do you mean, “real”?’

  ‘Y’know’— Murphy dipped his head to one side for emphasis—‘not a domestic.’

  Doing his best to discourage Murphy’s chatter, Jake stared out the window at the forested hills and reviewed homicide investigation procedures in his head. He’d have to memorise any differences between Tasmanian and Victorian guidelines—the last thing he wanted was a mistake on his first case here.

  They rounded another corner into stabbing sunlight. All was suddenly fields of red earth, thick, golden-flowered roadside vegetation, and the bright green of well-fertilised crops as they entered a broad valley. Jake felt for the sunglasses in his jacket pocket.

  ‘You worked with Doctor Gill before?’ he asked.

  ‘Not much. Another blow-i … ah, a new arrival, like you.’

  Houses began to appear here and there, white-washed weatherboards with corrugated rooves of rust and peeling paint. Then clusters of homes and a small housing develop­ment. And finally the petrol stations, fast food franchises, clusters of outlet stores and light industry that heralded the outskirts of a decent-sized Australian regional city.

  Ten minutes later Murphy drew to a halt outside the district hospital, a brick-veneer relic of the sixties. They located Doctor Meena Gill in a small shabby office adjacent to the institution’s morgue, the unmistakable fetor of formaldehyde permeating Jake's nose.

  The doctor smiled in response to his introductions. ‘Detective Hunter, Constable Murphy, please have a seat. Sorry I was unable to meet you at the scene.’

  The office floor’s green carpet squares were fraying at the edges, somehow at odds with the doctor’s crisp expression. ‘I understand you’re the only forensic pathologist in the district,’ Jake replied. ‘You must have a heavy caseload.’

  ‘Some days.’ Her smile subsided. ‘I trust you took photos of the scene for the coroner’s report?’

  ‘Yes,’ Jake said. ‘Is there any chance you’ve had an opportunity to examine Ava O’Brien?’

  ‘Cursory only. It will be days, maybe weeks, before I can complete my report. I can probably get to a CT scan tomorrow, though, and if an internal examination is necessary, I could schedule that early next week. Toxicology might take longer, as that has to be sent to the team in Hobart.’

  ‘Have you got anything for us now?’ Murphy asked.

  ‘My preliminary assessment’—the doctor held up a warning finger—‘is that Ms O’Brien’s death most likely occurred sometime between five a.m. and the time she was discovered. Based on lividity and the timing of the onset of rigour, it was unlikely to be as early as four a.m.’

  ‘What about her hands?’

  ‘It appears that the fingernails on all ten digits have been removed in their entirety, but other than that, I have nothing yet. I’ll know more once I’m able to clean her hands and examine them more closely.’

  ‘Anything else?’ the constable pushed.

  ‘It’s possible she has petechial haemorrhaging in and around the eyes; though, again, please consider that unconfirmed.’

  ‘So strangled?’

  ‘Not necessarily. This is preliminary only.’

  ‘Any signs of sexual assault?’ Murphy plunged on.

  ‘Nothing obvious, however …’

  The doctor’s flat tone caught Jake’s attention. ‘Yes?’

  ‘The deceased underwent extreme genital surgery. Quite some time ago, from the appearance of the scarring.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Murphy recoiled slightly. ‘She was a bloke?’

  Chapter Three

  District Hospital

  Friday, 3.21 p.m.

  The doctor shook her head. ‘She appears to have been biologically female from birth. What I mean is at some point her clitoris and entire vulva were removed.’

  ‘Erm …’

  Doctor Gill assumed an overtly patient expression. ‘Think of the clitoris as the female equivalent of the glans … the head of your penis.’

  Murphy sat back and crossed his legs. ‘I know that.’

  ‘The vulva includes the two thin inner lips and the two fleshier outer lips around the vaginal opening.’ She waved vaguely at the lower half of Murphy’s body. ‘They correspond to the flesh that makes up your scrotum. At some point in the past, Ms O’Brien’s were all removed.’

  ‘Is there a medical reason for that?’ Jake asked.

  ‘At a stretch, it might have been performed to remove a cancerous growth. But it doesn’t look like any cancer surgery I’ve seen in the past.’

  ‘What makes it unusual?’ Jake said.

  ‘In Ms O’Brien’s case, all four labial lips have been completely removed and the sides of each individual excision stitched together to create four rows of exactly parallel scarring.’

  ‘So it was done by a surgeon?’ Jake asked.

  ‘The scarring is neat and the incisions were precise, so it has to have been carried out by someone with extensive training.’

  ‘And how old are the scars?’

  ‘Old, perhaps decades.’

  ‘Are you able to search hospital records to see if she was ever a patient here?’

  ‘I already tried looking her up. She doesn’t seem to have been registered with Medicare, at least not under that name.’

  ‘Is there anything else you can tell us at this stage?’

  The doctor shook her head, stood up and held out her hand. ‘I’ll call you as soon as I have anything.’

  Jake and Murphy also rose. ‘We’ll let you get back to it. Please keep us in the loop?’

  ‘Of course.’

  *

  ‘You’re on till eight tonight?’ Jake asked his offsider as they emerged from the goat’s track of a road through the mountains into Dunton’s valley.

  ‘Yeah.’

  Jake ignored a sickening thump as Murphy drove over the carcass of a possum.

  ‘Sorry mate, couldn't avoid that one.’

  ‘If I go to the campground to take statements from the Taylors, do you have time to look up a few things?’ Jake asked.

  ‘I can try. Whaddya need?’

  ‘You said one of the girls from the home was adopted in to your family?’

  ‘Yep. Charlie.’

  ‘Full name?’

  ‘Charlotte Murphy.’

  ‘She lives here?’

  ‘Mm-hmm. She’s a good kid. Still lives at home and works at the supermarket in town. Want me to arrange a time to go round and see her?’

  ‘That’d be great.’

  *

  Squalls of rain attacked Jake’s car as
he returned to the campground, accompanied by unexpectedly strong gusts of wind. Mr Taylor stalked off to the ground’s toilet block in response to the news that his son had indeed discovered a body in the vineyard,

  ‘Why don’t we all go and sit in my car?’ Jake suggested to Jamie and his mum. ‘I’ll run the engine so we’re warm and dry.’

  ‘Sounds good,’ Diane Taylor said, eager for a reprieve from her sodden tent.

  ‘Can I turn the siren on? Ooh, can I make the lights flash?’

  Half an hour of questioning Jamie uncovered nothing more that might help Jake’s investigation, though he had definitely made a new friend. Jamie grabbed Jake around the waist for a quick hug goodbye as his father returned.

  ‘C’mon, mate, enough of that,’ James Taylor said, pulling at his son.

  Returning to Dunton, Jake glanced toward the top of the rise above the vineyard. A single light hovered above the crest, the only indication of the sprawling manor lurking in the brume.

  *

  For the fourth night in a row Jake stood in the police station kitchen pouring boiling water over two-minute noodles, stomach rumbling. His options had been RSL Chinese, a half-decent takeaway or pizza. By the time he’d finally decided on a hamburger all three places were closed. At eight p.m. He’d sworn for a full thirty seconds.

  Returning to his quarters Jake tried lighting a fire. More smoke poured into the room than went up the chimney as the firebox sulked from neglect. Jake coughed on a lungful of fumes from the melting lumps of fire starter. The white-and-grey painted cottage seemed less a building designed to trap warmth and more a series of tiny gaps calculated to allow it to escape. Even when he had managed to set a decent-sized log aflame the house refused to warm up sufficiently for Jake to feel comfortable in the bedroom.

  Each evening he had to choose between shivering under four layers of blankets and stretching out fully, or curling up on a slightly fetid two-seater lounge in front of a fire. The former involved waking up regularly to reposition his blankets, while the latter had allowed him to sleep through the night once so far but also left him hobbling in the morning. He now alternated each night, uncertain which was better, or possibly, which was worse.

  Sick of trying to coax the mealy wood to life he prepared to take a shower. The temperature was going to drop below freezing tonight, so he’d best get as warm as possible before hitting the hay.

  Sheltering beneath four blankets in a post-shower glow, squeezing at his numb toes inside their layers of socks, he was finally alone—no noise, no distractions, just a battery-operated lamp, some fluttering moths and the occasional fizzle of damp wood for company. He sighed and picked up his phone.

  The notifications bar showed twenty-five unanswered calls and multiple messages from a single number, all in the past seven days.

  Bracing himself, Jake read the messages one by one.

  What happened tonight?

  Where are you?

  I’m getting worried.

  This isn’t like you.

  Please call.

  Seriously, this isn’t funny.

  I’ve started ringing hospitals.

  Call me!

  He had to respond, at least once. He owed Nic that much.

  I’m okay. I need time to sort some stuff out.

  Five heartbeats later his phone vibrated in the palm of his hand.

  Thank Christ you’re okay. You’ve had us so worried. Where are you? Boss won’t tell me anything.

  Jake placed the phone face down on his bedside table. He couldn’t talk to her, not yet.

  With regret and uncertainty churning in his mind, and a howling wind whistling through the gaps in the cottage walls, sleep was a long way off. He may as well be productive. Dressing quickly, he grabbed his keys and jacket and headed back over to the red-brick station.

  *

  Murphy had left a note on Jake’s desk bringing him up to date. He’d arranged an interview tomorrow with his cousin, Charlotte Murphy, and another former resident of the home, Amelia MacDonald. And Kelly had secured both Ava O’Brien’s home and the former girls’ home—the keys were in the safe.

  The constable had also printed out his write-up of today’s observations and interviews. Jake glanced through it, dazed. Murphy’s report was so poorly written Jake could only hope it was some kind of joke.

  The eerily silent office offered not a single other distraction, except the keys to Ava O’Brien’s home, which sat only three metres away in the station’s safe.

  Retrieving the red-taped keys, Jake closed the station building and hustled to his car through the biting cold, huffing warm air into the palms of his hands.

  Approaching Dunton’s mostly deserted main street, Jake couldn’t push away the image of Ava’s mutilated fingertips. What could have motivated that kind of attack? The amount of blood on her hands and forearms indicated they had been removed peri-mortem. But before or after she lost consciousness?

  If she had been conscious during their extraction, surely she would have screamed for a significant period of time? Which meant a remote location, unless she was gagged … there were simply too many unknowns at this point.

  Jake’s analysis was interrupted as he cruised toward the only building showing signs of life. Raucously inebriated people spilled out of the pub, clouds of cigarette smoke and frosted breath hanging above them.

  Was that Murphy with his arm around one of the shrieking women? Jake swivelled his head as he coasted, craning his neck, but couldn’t catch a clear view. The crowd disappeared as he veered right at the next corner.

  Was the removal of Ava’s fingernails definitely torture? Or an attempt to remove incriminating DNA she had scratched from the skin of her attacker? Or was it some­how self-inflicted? Highly unlikely, but then Jake had seen people cause themselves the most horrific injuries in the grip of psychosis.

  And what to make of her genital surgery? It wasn’t necessarily relevant to the case, but it was exceptionally unusual.

  Turning into Ava’s driveway, Jake pulled on a pair of latex gloves and left the warmth of his vehicle with regret. The air bit at his cheeks, clouds of mist erupting from his nostrils as he strode the concrete path to the front door of the small home. There was crime-scene tape draped across the doorway. As Jake turned the key in the lock he confirmed for himself there were no signs of forced entry around the jamb. Careful not to disturb anything, he switched on the lights.

  Ava O’Brien’s home was the definition of tidy. The furniture was arranged to form neat squares in each room. Cheap prints of the Greek islands were centred on each room’s main wall. Jake opened a kitchen cupboard door expecting to see crockery lined up with military precision …

  Nope. Rough stacks of plates, cutlery, saucepans and cooking implements appeared to have been hastily shoved inside the cupboard above the stove. Had Ava hidden them from an unexpected visitor?

  There were no obvious signs of a struggle in the house, and no indication that anything had been taken. Nonetheless, he would ask Liam O’Brien to accompany him on a walk-through to see if anything appeared to be out of place.

  Jake wandered through the house looking into each room. Ava’s two-door red car was parked in the internal garage. But there were absences—no television, no books, no magazines, no sign of a computer. How had Ava spent her time?

  He entered a spare room and found the answer. Swatches of fabric covered every surface: squares, folded triangles, patterns and half-made quilts were stuffed into every corner. And along the back wall a set of shelves contained blue, hardback diaries carefully catalogued in year order, starting when Ava must have been a young woman and continuing for about thirty years. Then there was a gap of twenty years or so before the diaries restarted a decade ago. Had the intervening years been removed, or not diarised in the first place?

  Jake opened this year’s. The final
entry was dated Wednesday night, a comment on a mostly successful dinner with her brother, despite a mildly singed roast.

  Flicking through the thin tome, it seemed Ava O’Brien had recorded her thoughts sporadically with no pattern to the timing of the entries that Jake could discern. They were mostly concerned with passages from the Bible—quotes regarding sin and the measures one should take to guard against it—interspersed with tips about quilt-making.

  Jake photographed the shelves and the spine of each diary, then picked up those from the past ten years and took them with him as he left.

  If insomnia hit tonight, he had the right reading material to encourage sleep.

  Chapter Four

  Dunton, Tasmania

  Saturday, 7.12 a.m.

  Bleary eyed, Jake pulled on his jacket and fumbled at the handles of what he now thought of as his bathroom bag. In the disorientation of waking, he marvelled at how quickly he had adapted to his new situation. In less than a week he’d gone from taking for granted a bright, warm home to ramble through from bedroom to bathroom each morning, to accepting as normal his new dash through the life-draining cold outside simply to take a shower.

  As he hurried from the cottage to the back door of the station and into the small change-room, Jake noticed a light on in the front office. Murphy must have come in early.

  Ten minutes later, Jake scrubbed at his hair with a towel to remove as much moisture as possible before braving the brief walk back to his room. As he contemplated buying a beanie, or perhaps an earflap hat, his reverie was interrupted by the door to the front office opening.

  ‘Hunter?’

  He turned, lowering the towel. Senior Sergeant Aiden Kelly stood in the doorway in a heavy jacket, arms casually folded.

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Still no electricity?’

  ‘No sir.’

  Kelly frowned. ‘I’ll make a call. Bloody Murphy. He was supposed to get it reconnected before you arrived.’

  ‘I’m heading out to interview Amelia MacDonald shortly.’