The First Cut

by Sisters in Crime Australia

  It's no use falling back on comforting theories of evil so deep they're irrational. Leave that nonsense to the journos. Instead, you must decide between two options, at least as the basis for your pursuit. You ask: Is the link between the killings the mode of death, a ritual so intense and fulfilling it doesn't matter who is killed? Or, is there a connection - as yet hidden, secret - between the victims, a link only the killer thinks is there, which appears to give reason, and permission? The two options are like two shades of lipstick, both blood red. They're also the essence of solving the crime.

  I went to Uluru, to the heat-throbbing centre of the continent, to explore the first option: a serial killer who might be hooked on ritual.

  Who might kill again. Soon.

  'Carter?' Ray Nowlands rang my inner-city Sydney two-up, two-down late on the 31 October. 'I've got a job for you.'

  'Halloween joke?' I asked. Ray and I worked together years back. Worked well. But, he's wary. I'm still scoring kudos for solving the case that nearly sent him to what he calls a 'shrink'. A case with three mutilated bodies, no sexual involvement, no other apparent motive, almost no evidence at the scenes. There was story, though, in the way the killer murdered. A lust for power which gave him away in the end.

  'Plenty of pumpkin-heads up here, without bloody Halloween, I c'n tell ya.' Ray replied. 'Now listen, Annabel. M'wife's just had plastic on the upper parts and m'pension fund's chockers. I'll retire a happy man's long as we can sort this arsehole of a case.'

  Ray had been married for thirty years, so I figured he was joking about his wife. Marcia's a great woman. And I was pleased he'd turned to me. Forensic psychologists aren't everyone's favourite fact finders.

  'Which case?' I was truly puzzled. I hadn't had a whiff of another serial in the Northern Territory.

  'How would you feel about five murders? Over six years. All the victims found crushed at the base of Ayers Rock. Or Uluru, as you'd probably call it.'

  I swore to myself. 'Five? In six years? At the Rock? And the media don't know?'

  Of course I could see why the police would want to keep it quiet - would have to keep it quiet. Ever since the Azaria Chamberlain case, murder at Ulura has been a hypersensitive issue. In that case, a baby disappeared, the mother called 'A dingo's got my baby!', popular opinion screamed, 'Infanticide!', the corpse was never found, and the mother was convicted. The Territory police got more international coverage than if they'd won the World Cup. But, eventually, Lindy Chamberlains's conviction was quashed. The police and prosecution had used dud evidence.

  'The media ain't gonna hear about it,' answered Ray. 'Not ever, not if we can help it. But that don't mean y'should jump to any bloody conclusions. The past is the past.'

  I began to ask more questions, but Ray interrupted, which surprised me. He's generally polite, sometimes too polite. 'Can you be on tomorrow's plane? Leaves around lunchtime. I don't wanna talk over the phone. I can fax a few details.'

  There was no point in arguing. If Ray had a set about being overheard, he would have good reasons. Reasons I was eager to find out. And there was no point in playing hard to get. Ray knows my forensic work doesn't buy me any more than cheap bread and butter; but to me, it's not a job. It's my gamble, my drug. It's what drives me.

  Midday Wednesday I was on a plane flying into a fierce headwind en route to 'The Alice', the town nearest to the centre of the oldest landmass on earth. I couldn't help but feel I was heading into territory that played by rules more mystical than rational; which was what half the world claimed after Azaria, but which was, for someone like me who loves logic, a little unusual.

  On the plane I reviewed my brief. Straightforward enough. Work out why some bastard would seek satisfaction - or thrill or relief - in pushing five people from the top of a 1000-foot high monolith. If the victims were truly unrelated, part of the excitement must be the voyeurism of watching the bodies blistering down the life-taking, near-vertical rock wall. The killer might well pant at the sound of their screams and orgasm as they land, battered beyond recognition, in a pool at the base of a rock that Aboriginal people regard as sacred.

  The steward handed me a cardboard box: a sandwich still cold from storage, a miniature chocolate bar, which I ate first, and a plastic container of spring water. I dreamt briefly of the day I'd be flying business class. What did I know about the victims? Five people, aged between eighteen and sixty two, both genders, one Greek-Australian, one Scot settled here for four decades, and three Aussies with genetic histories like a squashed pack of Arnott's assorted biscuits. No indigenous Australians. No children - or babies. A variety of jobs. Victims from different states, whose only conjunction under the stars was their apparently unexpected, inexplicable, and terribly painful death.

  The temperature on the tarmac at Alice was beyond my comprehension. The last time I'd been here it was winter, and that was hot enough. I'm small and, I like to think, strong. A decade of lifting weights, long runs, longer uphill hikes in the harsh terrain of the Blue Mountains, nights - and the odd precious morning - of lust; nothing had made me sweat like this. What my mother calls perspiration, if she ever mentions it, spurts from me like water being pumped from the Great Artesian Basin.

  I collected the hire car: four-wheel drive, high clearance, big engine, chips out of the windscreen, a certain gritty reality to it. I felt Ray beside me as I zapped open the doors.

  'Good to see ya,' he said, looking like he meant it. He climbed into the passenger seat, grinning at my raised eyebrows. 'Constable dropped me out here. Thought we should have a yarn before you meet Heinrich.'

  Michael Heinrich is now the detective in charge of the investigation. He was brought in from Darwin when it was finally realised that four accidental deaths on or around the same date - the summer solstice - four years running, all bodies found at the same sacred waterhole, were getting beyond chance. None of the deaths was witnessed. Then, nothing the following year. Now one more, same place, same MO, but out of sync, time wise. This one was in August; in fact, on the date Azaria disappeared. Heinrich's original report had been tough on the Alice police; but he'd done little better himself, so he had a few chips on the shoulder to fry.

  'So, Heinrich's theory held no water? Couldn't you find an indigenous person angry enough at the invasion of their sacred land to kill?' I asked, as we hit the highway. The traditional owners have maintained for years that the Rock climb should be closed, for spiritual reasons rather than safety. There was plenty of anger out there.

  'Come on, you know as well as I do that the Aborigines have always been too bloody kind to their invaders. And most of 'em would rather wrestle with Arnie Shwazenegger than take on the spirits at Uluru. Anyway, nothing holds water around here, mate. Look around. Just rocks, big rocks, small rocks, sand. Red, yellow or bleached; just like the hair on your head, young Annabel.'

  I didn't mind the remark about my hair. A, because I like it to look seriously bleached and B, because Ray has that old-fashioned courtesy that city men seem to have thrown out with the ability to change a car tyre.

  'Has to be someone who knows the Rock well though, then?' I questioned.

  'Mate, it's like there's a big red 'X marks the spot' 1000 feet up from Maggie's Spring. They had to go over in an absolutely exact position. That puts the rangers in the frame, just as much as the locals.'

  'So, let's hear your theory.'

  'The obvious is that the date is the significant thing, yeah? The solstice always attracts a few baggie-trousered spiritual types. But, maybe it's the only time of year the arsehole gets off work.'

  'Which might give us a hint of what he does for a job. A workplace that closes the week before Christmas...' I liked the direction Ray was going. A mid-summer sacrifice seemed far too simplistic.

  A road train settled itself on my back bumper bar, making the big car suddenly feel fragile. Ray checked the left-side mirror. 'Idiot,' he remarked, before returning to his topic. 'So, I've done a bit of sifting. You know that one consortium own
s most of the hotel beds in the Territory? Well, they're not too willing to give over info, but Marcia works with a girl who's got a bit of influence. Got hold of a list of guests who'd been here more'n once. Another list of workers who've been around for a few years.'

  'Heinrich hadn't checked this?'

  'Cursory. He's still convinced it's someone local.'

  'Is there any way they could've been murdered and carried up the Rock?'

  'You'll see the pathology reports when we get in. We're not sure with two of 'em, what bloody killed 'em. The bodies were so smashed those clever dicks can't be sure whether the jugular was cut by a blunt knife or a sharp stone on the way down.'

  The road train, four petrol tankers swaying and shimmering in the heat, was clinging to our rear like it might swallow us up any moment. It was beginning to make me queasy. 'This the usual way of welcoming visitors round here?' I asked, nodding my head at the rear-view mirror.

  'Nah,' Ray responded slowly, 'just curious. Maybe I'll ring through, check the plates.'

  We were entering Alice now, the slow sweep of Colorbond-clad suburbs. Not many wooden buildings around here. I let Ray make the call but wondered why he was bothering. He'd left basic copper duties behind twenty years back and there didn't seem any other reason to worry about a bad driver.

  'Hmm,' was all he said when he'd got the reply. Scribbled something in his notebook.

  'Anything else I should know?'

  'Yeah. You thought I was hard to work with. Well, Heinrich looks like he comes out of some women's magazine, but it's all surface. He'll hone in on you, for sure, being an attractive young woman. Watch him - and your back!'

  The next two days I spent closeted in the air-conditioned police building. Three of the bodies had been exhumed and re-autopsied when the stab-wound on the fourth was noticed. Pics were pretty vile. I was glad I hadn't sat through the autopsies. Interviews with the poor buggers who'd found the bodies weren't very revealing. No forensics to speak of, either top or bottom of the Rock. Literally impossible to inspect the sheer 400 meters of the fall.

  On the third morning I searched for a coffee shop. I only drink one cup a day and I like that to be stronger than the French Foreign Legion on full pay. The tourist trade in Alice is huge so there's a surfeit of cafes. I chose one with haphazard decor and a piles of newspapers. The smell of it proclaimed coffee, which was strong and unburnt. I picked up a Northern Territory News - the national and southern papers arrive on the first plane in at lunchtime - and found myself an outside seat. There's always a chance of overhearing something useful.

  As I stirred sugar into the coffee a shadow dropped the temperature about ten degrees.

  'Good morning,' Michael Heinrich said, seating himself without asking.

  I paused. I'm not a great morning person and I hadn't taken to Heinrich. On the other hand my job is get inside the head of a killer and I needed to access all of the evidence, possible leads, the police can supply.

  'Michael. What're you doing here?' I kept my voice polite.

  'Looking for you.'

  Ray's right, Heinrich's a good-looking bastard. Tanned, muscular, his hair cut smart enough to be Lygon Street or Paddington. So, the 'looking for you' line is destined to work on most women, and some men.

  'Is there more information I should have before I go down to Uluru?' I was keeping it professional.

  He opened his backpack. He's plain-clothes, and adopts a sort of up-market park ranger look. 'I thought you might appreciate these.'

  I whistled. Photos of the victims, at near as possible to the date of death. And years before. Moments from their lives. Personality shots. I looked at Heinrich, hoping he'd think the narrowing of my eyes was due to the searing heat. Not many police would have realised how useful these photos might be.

  'Thanks. But I thought you were convinced this was a ritual, the targets themselves weren't important?'

  Heinrich went slightly red under the tan. Or did he? Was he just a good actor?

  'Listening to you and Ray yesterday made me rethink that theory,' he said. 'The repetitive use of such an extravagant place, the precise siting of the bodies in the waterhole, which is supposed to be like a well of life, and the solstice timing do seem to indicate a need on the killer's part to have these aspects complete in his own schema. On the other hand, perhaps Ray's right and it's all a little too obvious.'

  'So, you did psych at uni?'

  This time the blush seemed real. 'Did I sound pompous?'

  'No, it was the word "schema". Jargon for people putting things together in their heads according to their particular experience and set of values. Not conscious, necessarily.'

  'A good way of explaining it. You're quick with words.'

  Was this a discreet put-down? Michael was proving to be extremely clever. Every comment carried a double edge. And potential danger? Ray had more than implied the guy's ambitions were causing problems. Nothing proven. Rumours that, on occasion, case notes seemed incomplete, evidence perhaps stayed in his drawer. Like the photos, which I decided to take, putting my worries on hold.

  'I appreciate the info. I've got to go now. It's three hours to the Rock.'

  'Maybe more. Look, Annabel, why don't you wait until tomorrow? We could go through the photographs together. I can fill you in on some of the more personal background of the victims. And maybe we could have dinner?' He sounded almost nervous.

  My cup clattered as I put it down. 'Thanks all the same. I'll be away a couple of days. Perhaps when I get back.' For some reason I thought it best not to tell him I had a meeting with an Aboriginal elder.

  Uluru, home of the rainbow serpent, scene of battles at the beginning of time, now the most visited rock in the whole bloody world. Half a million people or more a year, each of whom could be the killer, and that's without the traditional people near the Rock. Then there are the thousands of travellers and tired souls who staff the resorts, and all of the others in the communities and townships stretching way back to The Alice, which has the only nearest decent shopping centre, 400 ks up the road.

  I was within 50 ks by lunchtime, the LandCruiser and I having already developed a close relationship. Although, even with the V8 engine, it'd taken an hour to shake off the road train that'd tailed me out of Alice. Now I was relaxed, it was hard to keep my eyes on the road. I passed Mt Connor, and the top of the Rock itself reared through the passenger window and then just as dramatically disappeared. Tantalising.

  I decided to go straight onto the viewing place I knew from last time I was in the Territory. Behind me was another LandCruiser, in sight since the turn-off from the Lasseter Highway. Perhaps my speed explained why it hadn't overtaken me. I put on my left indicator, as if I were going into the resort town of Yulara. The Cruiser slowed. I stepped on the gas, pushing myself past the speed limit with style. Thirty seconds later the Cruiser was back. Shit.

  I pulled into the parking bay as near to the last minute as I could, not indicating. Behind me the brakes squealed, the Cruiser hesitated, drove past. Trouble was, there's basically only one road out here so it wasn't going to be hard to find me.

  Putting what could be paranoia aside, I clambered out of the car and set my boots in the sand. There, as if it were proclaiming the centre of the world, was the Rock. Still 15 ks away but filling almost the entire landscape: immense, solid, immutable, rising indomitably from the flatness. Childhood memories are stored in wholes: glorious paintings rather than jigsaws with the potential for lost pieces and without the complex networks Heinrich had referred to as schemas.

  My theory about Uluru is that it's like the perfect childhood memory. Far, far beyond the ordinary and very, very whole. Words like grand and magical slip away, useless. It doesn't bring tears to the eyes. Instead the breath is drawn in; a deep, primeval echo within the body.

  Back in the car I felt cleansed. Which is pretty wild when you think about the amount of sand and grit I'd just shipped into the Cruiser. I was beginning to understand why you'd think ther
e was a religious significance behind the killings.

  I drove on, paid my park entry fees, forgot the receipt for my tax. Thought about going to the murder site before my meeting, but decided on having my mind uncluttered. I don't go all misty-eyed about Indigenous culture (or any culture, come to that) like some of my friends do, but I'm very aware that the traditional owners will see the place and the events with a whole different mindset to mine. Heinrich's schemas again.

  Dorothy had asked to meet in the cultural centre about 2 ks from Uluru itself. The centre attempts to be discree,t but it's a group of big tourist shops and cafes, really. Still, inside it was comparatively cool and the flies were occasional rather than smothering. While I waited - I was early - I did a bit of people-watching. Would our killer sit like this, eyeing off a likely candidate? Did he - the likelihood of it being a woman was slimmer than a Vogue model - did he follow his target, get to know them in a peculiar way beforehand? A guy in the UK did a peeping-tom routine for weeks before the actual deed. Said in his confession that killing was the ultimate intimacy, so it was essential he was close to the victim. Charming.

  Dorothy strolled in just as I was feeling eyes on the back of my neck. Maybe I'd been sitting too long, staring too obviously.

  'Green. Good colour,' she said in greeting, referring to the shirt I'd worn so she could recognise me. 'My sister, she green.'

  I offered a cup of tea. Colour needs to be noted for its individual and cultural significance, not just its aesthetic, I thought, as I brought the pot back to our table. Interesting, because one of commonalities the police had failed to notice was that each of the victims was wearing a shirt or blouse which was either red, or had red on it.

  'Red?' I asked Dorothy.

  She considered, sucking her tea, nodding.

  'You know talk-cure?' she replied.