by John Byron
‘What’s it do?’ asked Nguyễn.
‘Nobody really knows, Liệu, which is one reason for its obscurity. It might be involved with pheromones. But it’s also extraordinarily fine and easily missed, and may not even always be present, so it’s often disregarded. But when Dr Forrest went back to check, she discovered that our killer had not only found it, but very skilfully demonstrated it. I mean, it’s literally just a thread; it was incredibly meticulous.’
‘Doesn’t that conflict with your theory about his treatment of the new material?’ asked Nikolaidis.
‘Maybe it’s the discovery thing,’ Chartier suggested. ‘The twelve cranial system has been known since whenever, so that’s boring. But this terminal nerve is obscure and interesting, and worthy of his time.’
‘Yeah, I like that,’ said Jo. ‘It’s unmarked territory, possibly done without a visual dissection guide. To boldly go, and all that.’
‘Like his hero,’ Janssen said.
‘Is that all of them? Thirteen?’ Harris was like a dog with a bone.
‘Sort of,’ said Jo. ‘There’s an ongoing argument about classification – a lot of anatomy is like that. The intermediate nerve is an offshoot of the facial nerve, for example, which is cranial number seven, but some argue it’s a cranial nerve in its own right. But our killer either doesn’t know about that debate, or he doesn’t care. We checked.’
‘Who checked?’ asked Murphy, patently doubtful of Jo’s unsupervised judgment.
She sighed and addressed a point above her brother’s head. ‘In light of the history of the description of cranial nerves in the anatomical literature and the careful treatment of the terminal nerve in the dissection of the victim, I asked Dr Forrest to investigate whether there was any sign of exploratory dissection that might indicate a particular interest in the intermediate nerve. She conducted a further secondary post-mortem investigation and advised there was no physical evidence of any inordinate attention to the facial nerve, including that branch, beyond the degree of care exercised generally.’
The cops were clearly impressed with the evenness of Jo’s response – she could have been giving evidence in court against hostile cross-examination – but Murphy just grunted. ‘What about McCalman? What does he say?’
There he goes again, Jo thought. Why would you trust a fully qualified woman’s expertise when you could ask someone equipped with actual testicles? But Jo had a simple answer. ‘Professor McCalman was there the whole time and agrees.’
‘Okay, fine. So what’s the significance?’ asked Murphy. ‘What does it all mean?’
‘He’s not just doing anatomy with the Fabrica as his chosen guide: he’s performing some sort of re-enactment.’
‘Like a tribute?’ asked Chartier.
‘That’s it, Amy, exactly. This is a tribute.’ Jo endured a wave of revulsion at the notion of people dying for what amounted to a hobby on steroids. ‘It’s all about Andreas Vesalius himself. Our killer’s allegiance is to Vesalius and his values, including empirical enquiry. Anatomy per se is not really his priority: he’s not all that interested in the standard developments since the Fabrica. Anything still obscure, though, and he’s in there – just like Vesalius would be.’
‘Why haven’t we seen this obsessive detail before, do you think?’ asked Janssen.
‘Good question. The bones and muscles were well described by the time of Vesalius, so there wasn’t much to trace over there. We did see his careful work on the azygos vein, which Vesalius first described. But my guess is we probably missed something like this last time. The veins in the liver, say.’
‘Too late now,’ said Nguyễn. Patrick Hall’s remains had been released and cremated.
‘Yes, fascinating, sis,’ said Murphy, openly impatient now, ‘but how does this help me catch my bad guy?’
‘Apart from getting inside his head?’ Jo thought that had some value in itself, but she continued. ‘I think his scholastic approach and sheer proficiency are the products of formal anatomical instruction, probably to a fairly sophisticated level. You’ll want to look at medical practitioners, as well as science graduates with an anatomy specialisation.’
‘Is that difficult, Niko?’ Murphy asked his data specialist.
Nikolaidis leaned forward, resting a foot on the open bottom drawer of his filing cabinet. ‘The medical registries are easy enough, but for anyone else we’ll need to go uni by uni. There’s no national database. It’ll take a while, but it can be done.’
‘Get some uniforms on it. We can cash in some overtime from the premier’s account.’ Murphy turned back to Jo. ‘Anything else?’
‘Yes, I reckon he’s working off the New Fabrica, rather than a facsimile. I’ve been using it a lot myself, and the production values are brilliant. You just wouldn’t attempt this fine cranial work with a facsimile of the old versions when the New Fabrica is available.’
‘So we should have another go at tracking down any copies in Australia?’ asked Nikolaidis.
‘I know it’s laborious, Angelo,’ said Jo, ‘but I’m virtually certain he has one of his own. There can’t be many out there.’
‘Can’t hurt, I suppose,’ said Murphy, clearly unconvinced. ‘Anything else?’
‘Yeah, he’s going to need more time than ever from now on. The remaining chapters have a lot more along these lines. He bought himself a week for these last two, instead of the weekends on the first two. That’ll continue.’
‘It’ll put pressure on his operation,’ said Janssen. ‘He’ll make mistakes.’
‘He fucken better,’ said Murphy. ‘He hasn’t so far.’
‘He must’ve known from the start he would need this much time,’ said Nguyễn.
‘He’s so confident,’ said Chartier. ‘It has to mean something about who he is.’
‘Yeah, but what, exactly?’ complained Murphy. ‘Without a link between the vics we’re still stuck with our two big fucken mysteries: how does he buy so much time and how does he get their guard down?’ He came to his feet and turned to his sister. ‘I’m sure this is fascinating to you, Jo, but I need something more concrete we can use to track this bastard down. Until then it’s all just academic.’ He left the briefing area and stalked away to his office.
The detectives were apologetic about Murphy’s attitude, but Jo wasn’t bothered by it: if anything she shared her brother’s frustration. Amy went off to return a phone call, and the others drifted away to their desks.
‘How did you find the post-mortem?’ asked Thijs, once they were the only ones left in the briefing area. Jo was glad to have him alone for a minute. She had no idea what she was doing in her personal life but staying connected felt important right now.
‘Not too bad,’ she replied. ‘Heaps better than the crime scene, that’s for sure. I don’t know how you do it.’
‘It never gets easy, I can tell you that. But it works the other way around for me. I’ve watched a lot of autopsies, but I still find them upsetting: they’re so sterile and alienating. It’s ugly at the scene, but at least I’m there with the victim. On their side, trying to help them.’
‘I felt more like I was there with the killer; it freaked me out,’ replied Jo, her hackles raising again at the recollection. She had felt the traces of the killer’s movement through the rooms, his hands on the furniture, his breath in the air. ‘I much preferred the clinical setting. I could tell myself it’s all just tissue to be studied.’
‘Anyway, you seem much better than the other day,’ said Thijs.
‘Definitely, thank you.’
‘No need to hit the shooting range this time.’
Jo looked away, wondering what he knew, but there was no special weight to his tone. False alarm, she decided. Although it was only a matter of time. ‘No, I’m good.’
‘So would you care for some company over dinner?’ he asked.
A wave of relief went through her. She looked up at his kind, open face and felt a sudden surge of affection for him.
Saturday 6 October – evening
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ Jo asked her brother. He’d had a skinful down the Diggers watching the Bathurst motor race before arriving home late for his own birthday dinner with her and Sylvia. He’d been dispensing provocations all night, and she’d finally had enough.
‘You academics think about everything too much —’
‘Dave,’ Sylvia warned.
‘You prefer thinking too little?’ countered Jo.
‘— and you have no fucken idea what goes on in the real world.’
‘Oh, really.’ Jo had heard this a million times over the years: the theme of her general pointlessness. He was probably still annoyed about the statistics episode.
‘Yeah, really. You get stuck on the detail and miss the big picture.’
‘You wouldn’t have an example, would you?’
‘Yeah I do, actually.’ Murphy froze, deep in drunken concentration. ‘That yarn about Shakespeare.’
‘Do tell.’
‘Oh what is it?’ he grizzled, trying to retrieve the memory while half-cut. ‘Fuck fuck fuck. You know it, sis. Remind me.’
So she was to be witness for her own prosecution. Again. She decided to let him flounder. ‘There are quite a few yarns about Shakespeare, mate.’
‘You know, the one Willsy told that weekend in Blackheath. What was it, Sylvia?’
‘I have no idea, Dave, I wasn’t there.’
He screwed his eyes shut, snapping his fingers as though the cadence would dislodge the memory. And then it did – his eyes shot open and he leaned forward. ‘The one where he scores first with the tart, cuts the other bloke’s lunch.’
That pissed Jo off. ‘Tart, was she? Okay, I’ll play.’ She drained her own glass and turned to her sister-in-law.
‘This is almost certainly apocryphal, by the way. But the story goes that during a performance of Richard III, a woman in the audience becomes so enamoured of the lead actor, Richard Burbage, that she comes on to him backstage and invites him back to her place later. To preserve their honour, he is to announce himself as Richard the Third. Shakespeare overhears this, turns up first and talks his way into her bed. He is “at his game”, I believe is the wording, when they’re told Richard the Third has arrived. Shakespeare sends back the response, “William the Conqueror preceded Richard the Third.”’
Murphy roared with laughter. ‘What a champion! Best line he ever wrote.’
‘It is kind of funny,’ Sylvia said, smiling apologetically. Jo shook her head and sighed.
‘What’s your problem with it again?’ asked Murphy, wiping away tears. ‘That’s fucken brilliant.’
‘Where do I start?’ exclaimed Jo. ‘One, why is she a tart? Two, the woman is reduced entirely to something for the boys to rub their cocks up against. She might as well be a hole in the fence. Three, did she even consent to Shakespeare’s overtures —’
‘Of course, and that’s why she’s a tart!’ roared her brother.
‘— or did he trick her into thinking he was Burbage? That’s clearly the implication of the overheard password. But if he tricked her that’s rape, detective, as you well know. Four, even if Shakespeare was greeted with open arms —’
‘Open legs, you mean.’
‘— she’s just a trophy in some juvenile, macho pissing contest. Five, she’s so thoroughly erased that we don’t even know her name.’
‘It’s called chivalry! They were protecting her reputation.’
‘Even if that’s why, which I seriously doubt, and this is point six, why does her reputation need protecting, but not theirs? Why is he a champion and she a slut for the same behaviour?’
‘I didn’t say slut, I said tart.’
‘Oh for fuck’s sake, Murphy. Point is, it’s a double standard.’
‘See? This is what I’m saying. You always want to make a fucken murder trial out of some harmless funny yarn.’
‘But it’s not just a funny yarn. And it’s not harmless. That’s seven: what’s the purpose of inventing and then retelling this story? Its function is to erase the agency of women and define them as objects for men to exchange for sexual gratification and one-upmanship.’
‘For fuck’s sake, get a sense of humour, Joanna,’ said Murphy, eliciting a snort of derision from his sister. ‘Anyway, like you say, it’s probably not even true.’
‘What if it is true?’
‘Then it’s even funnier, and Shakespeare’s a fucken legend. Besides, it doesn’t sound like she was complaining, does it?’
‘We’d never know, Dave, we don’t find out if she enjoyed herself. You can call that point eight. These stories are never concerned with women’s pleasure.’
‘You just want to take all the fun out of things.’
‘Do you think Anne Hathaway would find it so amusing?’
‘What’s she got to do with it?’
‘Not her, the other one. Shakespeare’s wife.’
‘Oh, don’t be so bloody naive!’
‘What do you mean?’
‘It was just a bit on the side. Trivial. Happened all the time.’
‘Trivial?’ asked Sylvia. ‘Really?’
Murphy suddenly realised how far out on the ledge he was. ‘Just that he was an actor and all, you know? And men in those days were less …’
‘Faithful?’ prompted Jo. She was enjoying her brother’s discomfort.
‘Well, yeah. With women not having as much freedom and that.’
‘Oh so you do agree the story illustrates gender inequality?’
‘Nah, I just …’ Murphy stopped. ‘Huh.’ He looked at Jo. ‘Maybe it does, yeah.’
Jo and Sylvia exchanged a glance of surprise. Sylvia was clearly impressed, but Jo wasn’t going to let him off the hook that easily.
‘But you think all that’s past now?’ she prompted. It was a bit mean of her, but if a copper didn’t spot an exercise in entrapment then that was his own bad luck.
‘Too right I do,’ said Murphy with a passion that burned straight through any credit he’d just won. ‘If anything, things have gone too far.’
‘What, you want to be able to sneak around fucking anonymous women to score points off other blokes, do you?’
‘Of course not,’ said Murphy. ‘You’re putting words into my mouth.’
‘Then what? In your own words.’
‘It’s just that there are differences between men and women, right, and society works best when those differences are respected.’
‘By offering women up as tribute to their mighty male overlords, eh?’ Jo shook her head and laughed ruefully. ‘I’d better go home before I tell you what I really think.’ She came around behind her brother, wrapped her arms around his shoulders and kissed the crown of his head. ‘Happy birthday, you troglodyte.’
‘Go on, get out of here,’ grizzled Murphy, only half-joking.
—
Sylvia walked her sister-in-law to the front door. They said more through body language than words, but it was all at Murphy’s expense. They embraced and Jo mounted her bike, riding off into the warm, dark night.
Despite her best intentions, Sylvia couldn’t help catching Murphy’s eye as she came back into the room.
‘What?’ he asked. ‘It’s not my fault.’
‘Really.’ She started clearing the table.
‘That’s my whole original point. They take an innocent story and prosecute it like a fucken crime against humanity.’
‘But that’s what she’s saying, it’s not such an innocent story.’
‘But it’s just funny, Sylvia. You said so yourself.’
‘I thought so at first, but maybe she has a point.’
‘Christ, whose side are you on?’
‘It’s not about sides. I’m just … what are stories like that for?’
‘It’s just a yarn! You’ll be banning bloody fairy tales next.’
‘Well maybe th
ey’re not so innocent, either. Like Jo says, they must be performing some function, or we wouldn’t still be telling them.’
‘Oh for fuck’s sake, they’re just kids’ entertainment,’ he said with a sudden vehemence. ‘They’re not bloody mind control. The only brainwashing going on around here is all this feminist bullshit everyone gets in the universities these days.’ He waved savagely in the direction of his departed sister.
‘Okay, Dave, it’s okay.’ She returned to the table and took his clenched hand.
‘That’s why I don’t want you going back to uni,’ he continued. ‘You’ll come home spouting all this fucken lesbian propaganda.’
‘It’s all right, honey,’ she said soothingly, stroking his wrist.
‘I won’t fucken have it, not in my house.’
‘I know, it’s okay,’ she said, leaning her head on his shoulder. She murmured softly and stroked gently, until his muscles relaxed and his breathing slowed. By the time he got up to pour himself a whisky, he was calm again.
Saturday 20 October – afternoon
‘So why is he really called Spud?’ asked Amy, passing Jo the sunscreen and reaching for her water. They were standing on Pulpit Rock in the Blue Mountains, the Grose Valley wilderness sprawling before them. They’d hiked along the clifftop from Evans Lookout via Govetts Leap Falls, so while it was a mild, lightly overcast day, they were looking forward to a cold beer at the Hydro Majestic on the way back.
‘What does he say?’ asked Jo.
‘He just gets evasive. That’s how we know there’s a story.’
‘Okay, but you can’t tell anyone. And don’t even hint that you know – he would fucking kill me.’ Jo could see Amy struggling to suppress a laugh. ‘Promise me.’
‘Okay, I promise. Now spill.’
‘So they’re on school camp, Year Eight or Nine. He went to the Marist Brothers, so it’s boys only. Thirteen or fourteen – as horny as they are stupid.’
‘So, pretty bloody horny.’
‘Exactly. So after lights-out they get into the booze and porno magazines.’