by J K Nen
Logan had just parked her car when Steele called. There had been another murder, but there was a new twist. The victim was a man.
“What makes you so sure this guy’s another of Z’s victim?” Logan asked, surprised.
“Similar MO,” he said simply. “You’d best come to the scene yourself.”
The naked victim lay face down on the ground, body riddled with stab wounds. The park was deserted at this early hour.
“Name is Alfonso Stevens, Jamaican national,” Steele said. “He’s student at New South Wales uni. He lived on the third floor of that same apartment complex down Gordon Street. His neighbour found him here as he was heading out for his morning run and called it in.”
Logan knelt beside Dr Rajeshwar to study the body.
“Doc, is it the work of the same killer as the women?” Logan hoped the answer would be negative because this contradicted the profile they already had of Z.
“I suspect it is. See this?”
The ME pointed to a small puncture wound in the base of neck, just above the spine.
“He may have been administered a ketamine,” he continued. “The prelim shows Roofies and hemlock. I’ve sent samples for comprehensive tox tests. He was tortured. I’ll have to do the full autopsy.”
Logan’s mind churned in turmoil. Stevens added a new angle to the jigsaw. There had been seven poems, all about women. There was nothing about a man. Unlike the well-preserved victims prior, Stevens had been badly beaten, his eyes swollen shut from punches he had received and a broken nose. The killer had even ripped his right ear off.
Logan joined Steele, Shepherd and Davidson.
“This victim does not fit the profile Z prefers,” Shepherd wondered aloud. “He’s a man and the nature of the wounds is different from the ones inflicted on the women. Why are we so sure this is the same killer?”
“Could be a copycat,” Davidson offered.
“But we didn’t release details of his M.O to the public,” Steele said. “Case in point being the drugs used.”
“Our vic here was a big man so whoever did this to him was probably bigger,” Logan observed.
“Or fitter,” Steele rejoined. “The neighbour said he went out for a party. He told him that around five thirty yesterday. He may have been drunk. Coupled with the drugs, poor bugger did not stand a chance.”
Logan’s phone buzzed. It was Sedgewick.
“Lilo, I just got off the phone with Bondi Police,” she said, using the moniker she had christened Logan with. “Our vic was accused of attempted rape last night. He’s wanted for questioning.”
“And do we know where his victim was after the time of the attack until five this morning?” Logan asked carefully.
“Yes, she was with Bondi Police,” Sedgewick replied. “They took her to hospital, got her statement and dropped her off this morning.”
“Does this victim have a husband or boyfriend?”
“She’s a widow, a single mother,” Sedgewick replied. “Here’s the address.”
“We’ll take this,” Logan said. “Anything else?”
“They both attended a dinner party last night. I’m emailing you the guest list with addresses” Sedgewick replied.
As soon as her phone pinged, Logan quickly browsed the guest list and gave the team their assignments. She and Steele would visit Jamila Maddox. Chee and Shepherd would interview Greta Szachs while Davidson and Naidu would speak Nicole Daddovich. Spiteri and Burns would talk to Clive Wittner.
Jamila Maddox lived in Botany Bay in a rented flat on the first floor of an apartment building. She opened the door on the first knock and nodded warily when they introduced themselves.
“May we come in?” Steele asked politely when she made no move to open the door any further.
Fear, it seemed, had rooted her to the spot. Logan pitied the tiny, frightened woman. She nodded and stepped aside, allowing them to enter. The flat was clean and tidy.
“Are your children here, Mrs Maddox?” Logan asked.
“My cousins took them to the park,” she replied. “They’ll be back soon.”
“In that case, we won’t take up too much of your time,” Steele said. “Do you know Alfonso Stevens?”
“Have you found him yet?” she asked.
“Yes, he’s dead,” Steele said, watching his words take moments to sink in.
Realisation dawned on Maddox. Her mouth worked but no sound came out.
“Mrs Maddox, we know you had nothing to do with his death,” Logan said gently. “Could you tell us what happened last night?”
Clearly, Jamie had not been the only one to last see Alfonso Stevens alive. It was implausible that the bouncers at the Pasadena club would have followed Stevens across town to Kensington to kill him.
Jamie’s complexion and accent prompted Logan to ask if she was a Pacific Islander.
“I’m Papua New Guinean,” she replied.
“Where in PNG?” Logan asked, her interest piqued.
She rarely met Papua New Guineans.
“The Papuan region, about four hours’ drive from Port Moresby.”
“I grew up in the Highlands, in Chimbu,” Logan told her.
Maddox’s face lit up. She really was quite beautiful. With golden-caramel skin tone and unusual beauty, Logan surmised she could be biracial.
“Wow, you are the third PNG-raised Aussie I’ve met since I arrived.”
With the ice broken, Maddox became more animated. She told them she was studying for her master’s degree in marketing. Her children were aged nine and seven. Framed photos of the children graced the shelves and cabinets. There was a picture of Maddox and her husband on their wedding day. They were a beautiful couple.
“Is your daughter the oldest?” Logan asked.
“Yes,” she replied.
Logan and Steele exchanged worried looks.
“Are you on Facebook?”
“Yes, I am.”
“Have you had any weird phone calls lately?” Steele asked.
“No. Why?”
“Just standard questions.”
“Well she fits our killer’s profile and she’s on Facebook,” Steele observed as they drove away. “But no phone calls and the interesting thing is her attacker was murdered.”
“I know,” Logan replied. “Let’s stop by the morgue and see the ME.”
Alfonso Stevens’ naked body lay on a steel table, under the bright glare of lights. The ME looked up as they entered. He quickly gave a rundown of his findings. Stevens had been administered ketamine and hemlock. With a combination of alcohol blood content of 0.09, it proved a deadly cocktail.
“He was rendered helpless before he even hit the ground.”
“So all the injuries he sustained were done post-mortem?” Logan queried.
Although Stevens had been conscious of every punch and stab, he could not feel pain nor could he resist. He bled out. His lips were so swollen, they resembled sausages. Cotton fibres swabbed from his mouth explained why no one had heard him – he had been gagged. The killer then used a broken bottle to rape him. His anus was in shreds. The doctor counted sixty stab wounds, made with a long blade, possibly a dagger. His broken fingers dangled uselessly, his genitalia were missing and a large Z carved into his forehead.
“That’s new,” Logan remarked.
The Command Centre had an air of excitement. Chee and Shepherd had interviewed Greta Szachs and her partner Dr Suzette Hart.
“According to Suzette, as they were washing up after dinner, Jamie she told her that someone would die that night,” Chee said.
Collective eyebrows raised with the unspoken question. Why was Jamie Maddox still free?
“She knew someone was going to die?”
“They heard a bird call Maddox said was a messenger of death in her culture,” Shepherd said. “The bird usually calls when someone close to them is going to die.”
“And you believe that crap?” Sedgwick shook her head, scepticism written all over her face.
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“They do have things like that in other cultures, Sedgie,” Shepherd pointed out.
“Is that why she still comfortably ensconced in her home while we’re running around in circles?” Sedgwick challenged him.
“I believe her, Sedgie,” Chee countered. “We have similar omens in Chinese culture too.”
“We Indians have so many omens, we’re literally drowning in them,” Naidu added drily.
“This is modern Australia, people,” Sedgwick cried, exasperated. “It could have been any bird.”
“It wasn’t any bird Suzette Hart had ever heard before and believe me, she would know,” Shepherd replied. “She’s an ornithologist.”
“Don’t forget she drank,” Sedgewick persisted. “That could have clouded her judgement. Jamie Maddox had prior knowledge and she had a motive to kill Stevens.”
“Sedgie, what are two most important things that will help you identify your suspect?” Logan intervened, to get the team focus back on track.
“Motive and opportunity,” Sedgewick replied after a pause.
“Motive maybe, but Maddox didn’t have opportunity,” Logan stated the obvious. “She was with Bondi Police while Stevens was being clobbered to death. Let’s not waste any more time looking at the obvious.”
“Maddox is an important part of this puzzle but we just need to find out how,” French added.
Naidu reported that Nicole Daddovich confirmed Szachs’ assertion that Alfonso Stevens was a first-class sleaze.
“He chased anything in a skirt,” Naidu reported. “Her words, not mine.”
“Jeez, what a loser,” Chee exclaimed disgustedly.
“Yep, a sleaze of the highest order,” Naidu agreed. “Worst off all, he had tried his sick bag of tricks on every woman in the class except Jamie Maddox.”
“She was the last one left and he decided she would be his conquest last night,” Davidson added. “He chose a funny way to woo her.”
“Was Jamie the only woman he hit on?” Logan asked. “There may have been other patrons he may have harassed.”
“Stevens openly pursued women who were already taken and pissed off lot of men,” Davidson added. “This guy openly flirted with a few women, and even propositioned them in front of their men.”
Clive Wittner told Burns and Spiteri that Jamie got two cigarettes off him to smoke outside.
“He says he noticed Stevens watching the exchange and raised his glass to him when he held Steven’s gaze,” Spiteri said.
“Later when he looked around, Stevens was nowhere to be found,” Burns added. “He assumed he’d gone to the bathroom.”
“Did he notice anything else about Stevens?” Logan asked.
“Nothing out of the ordinary,” Burns replied. “I think he was pretty keen on Jamila Maddox that night.”
“Which is why Clive suspects that Stevens was a little jealous when Jamie asked him for cigarettes,” Davidson added.
“He must have thought they had something going,” Burns continued.
“And did they?” Steele asked.
“Not according to Clive Wittner,” Burns replied. “Jamie was quiet and kept to herself most of the time. This was the first time she attended one of their get-togethers.”
“Gray Spencer, their other classmate, was at Wittner’s place when we stopped by,” Spiteri added. “He says that Stevens groped a blonde girl in the club, her boyfriend objected, it would have gotten ugly had security not stepped in.”
“Did he know the girl and the guy?” Steele asked.
“Never seen them before, according to Gray,” Spiteri replied.
“Looks like its question time for the bouncers of Pasadena,” Logan told them.
“Isn’t Pasadena owned by Ebony Perez, Janine Maher’s friend?” Sedgwick asked.
“The one and the same,” Logan affirmed.
“So is it possible that Z is somehow connected to Club Pasadena?” Sedgwick ventured.
“We have to explore every possible angle, yes, “Logan replied.
She proceeded to tell them about the interview with Jamila Maddox.
“Is it just me or does Jamila Maddox have Z-bait written all over her?” French exclaimed.
“That occurred to us too, but she hasn’t received any breather calls,” Steele replied.
“So is she a victim or is she Z’s partner?” Sedgwick wondered.
“That’s why we are police officers,” Logan replied. “We keep digging. Now let’s review the autopsy report.”
Sedgewick pulled up photographs and descriptions onto screens. The gory details in full colour were not for the fainthearted.
“Stevens’ death was definitely overkill,” French said. “Z was very methodical with his victims.”
She further suggested that Stevens’ corpse had none of the impersonal effects as the other victims. The killer struck in rage. Sixty stab wounds in addition to mutilation would have signified a personal connection. Steele wondered if the differences meant Z had a partner. It did not fit with the profile. Z was an egomaniac and most likely acted alone.
Z sat in his car, the receding waves of adrenaline subsiding. Killing that gorilla had been a pleasure. That Thing had touched his maiden as if she was some low class bimbo. He recalled with relish how he had stood over the gorilla’s prone body, breathing in great heaves. He wanted to go the gorilla’s apartment and destroy everything he had. The creep did not even deserve a memorial. He wanted to obliterate all traces that the bastard had ever lived. He could not remember using the knife, but boy, did he feel good now. A door slammed. He got out of there fast.
CHAPTER 17
Jamie Maddox was relieved when the interview ended. Giving her statement took all afternoon. As she made to leave, an attractive woman in a pinstripe suit walked in. Although she had squat shape of a body builder, the expensively tailored suit she wore was flattering. No other jewellery save a strand of pearls around her neck, minimal makeup and a beautiful disarming smile.
“Hello Jamila, my name is Maggie French,” she introduced herself. “Would you like some coffee?”
The large windows in French’s office overlooked the city. As the women watched ferries crossing the harbour, Jamie could not help enjoying the warm cosiness of the office. French served coffee with Monte Carlo cookies, Jamie’s childhood favourites. With the first bite, a sharp pang of homesickness hit Jamie. As a child, she would wait on the beach for Oma to return from her shopping expeditions to town. She always brought Monte Carlo cookies for Jamie.
“So Jamie, tell me about yourself,” she began. “What made you decide to return to school?”
When Jamie finished, French asked, “Is it fair to say that your life can be classified into “Before Vincent” and ‘After Vincent’?”
“Absolutely,” Jamie agreed without hesitation.
“So you were raised by your grandmother?”
“No, my great-great grandmother raised me.”
“Wow, she lived long enough to see her great-great granddaughter and your children?”
“Yes, and she’s still alive,” Jamie explained.
“That’s five generations, “French exclaimed. “Is there a secret to her longevity?”
“I’m not sure,” Jamie replied. “When I left to go to uni, she moved into the deep jungle on her own. She only comes out to visit occasionally.”
“Does longevity run in your family?”
“I don’t think so. All her children and most of her grandchildren died. Even my own grandmother died while I was still a child.”
“So your culture plays a huge role in what you do?”
“Sometimes,” Jamie replied guardedly.
“Tell me about the legend of the bird, the messenger of death,” French pressed.
For the first time, Jamie hesitated.
“I’m a psychologist, and my report only gives an assessment of the emotional state of witnesses,” French explained. “We also suspect that Alfonso Stevens was killed for attacking you.”
When Logan called French later that evening, the psychologist was frank.
“My honest opinion is that Jamie Maddox has low self-esteem coupled with high anxiety and an overwhelming the need to be accepted,” French reported. “She’s easily intimidated but can be an effective witness.”
“Meaning she’s a helpless people pleaser,” Logan concluded. “By contrast, the other victims were strong, independent women.”
“That’s why we need to understand how this guy does his victim selection,” French replied.
Logan met with Alfonso Stevens’s wife and parents the next day. They had just arrived from Jamaica. Refusing to rest at their hotel, his mother insisted on identifying the body and meeting with Logan. Telling the family how he had died was difficult. His mother rejected outright any suggestion her son could attack any woman.
“His wife is beautiful,” she insisted. “Just look at her.”
The woman was indeed beautiful. Tall, shapely with skin the colour of Ovaltine and a finely chiselled face, perfect teeth and full lips, she was a young Dianna King.
“Mrs Stevens, he was caught in the act,” Logan explained patiently. “He ran away before the police could arrest him.”