by Tara Moss
No obvious forced entry.
That fact rattled her. It seemed odd, but the cops assured her that it would be fairly easy to break in cleanly. They said the locks were cheap. But why would anyone break in and not take anything? It just didn’t make sense, unless it was someone hunting for souvenirs. Some weirdo who was willing to go to great lengths to get a piece of Catherine. Crisp, salt air filled her lungs as she ran the last leg of her rapid circuit from Bondi to Bronte, and a stunning view rewarded her efforts as she came up over Mark’s Park. Despite her lack of sleep, her body responded well to her commands. Running was like a meditation; a chance to think, and at least try and piece together life’s little mysteries.
She was sure the dipsomaniacal photographer Tony Thomas was hiding something when they talked at The Space. She wondered whether the kind of man who murdered and mutilated young women was also the kind who blatantly displayed his fetishes in public. In fiction, Tony wouldn’t have been the prime suspect to a seasoned reader; he was too obvious. But in real life, criminals were not always so clever. Whether it was lack of intelligence, or lack of discipline, they often left the proverbial bloody trail to their own front door. She would have to consider Tony very dangerous.
And what about Detective Flynn? On Sunday she could have wrung his neck, but now he didn’t seem to be quite such an arsehole. How much would Flynn be willing to divulge about the progress of the investigation?
Makedde advanced swiftly past the Bondi Icebergs swimming club and cut left across Campbell Parade. On this Tuesday morning traffic was slow, and the brisk winter day attracted only a handful of hard-core surfers to the beach. She slowed down to a fast walk on the footpath, stretching her arms in big whooping circles. It felt good to sweat out her frustration—and her fear. She let herself into the block of flats, leaping up the stairs two by two until she reached the front door. A wildly flashing answering machine greeted her as she entered.
“Oooh,” she breathed, “somebody loves me.”
She wiped the sweat out of her eyes and pressed the “messages” button, then walked in lazy circles to cool off. The first message consisted only of a series of nondescript noises and the sound of a receiver hanging up. A beep declared message number two, which sounded the same. This repeated itself several times until she finally found a voice on the recording.
“Makedde, this is Charles. Weekly News magazine have been trying to reach you for an exclusive interview. If you’re interested, call Rebecca on her mobile…”
Poor Catherine is still selling magazines, she thought sadly. The machine clicked to the next message.
“Makedde Vanderwall? This is Tony Thomas.”
Oh no.
“Hey,” the message went on, “I’m sorry about last night. I get a bit stupid when I have a few drinks…”
How did he get this number?
He sounded just as relentless when sober. “Could we meet for lunch today? Please? I know you’re not working.”
“Thanks Charles,” Makedde said, fuming.
“We’ve got to talk. I insist. I’ll be around at 1.30 p.m.”
What?!
Maddeningly, the message ended without him leaving a phone number so she could tell him off. Makedde was furious. How dare her agency give out her number and let Tony know where she was staying! She yanked her running shoes off and hurled them across the room. The phone started to ring, and by the time she picked it up she was practically foaming at the mouth.
“I don’t know who the hell you think you are, but you can’t just invite yourself over to…” she trailed off as doubt crept into her mind. The caller was silent on the other end. “Uh, to whom am I speaking?” she asked with a hint of cautious embarrassment.
“This is Detective Flynn.”
Now she was really embarrassed.
“I was expecting someone else.”
“I sure hope so,” he said with a laugh. “I’m just calling to thank you for coming in with the information about the affair. I also wanted to see if you’re OK after last night.”
To what do I owe this back flip? “Oh. Yes, I’m fine. Tired but fine. Any news?”
“No. No news.”
He sounded a bit too friendly, and he didn’t seem like the social type. She took a wild guess. “You’re about to tell me something I won’t like,” she said.
“Well, we aren’t dusting again. We figure it was a standard break-in. There’s been a rash of them lately.”
“Uh huh.”
“And we’d like you to come in for a set of elimination prints.”
“No great surprise. So what you’re telling me is that the priority has shifted and any possibility that the break-in may be related to Catherine’s death is not going to be explored at all. Brilliant. My confidence is growing daily.”
“It’s highly unlikely that the break-in is related. There’s not much we can do, and considering that you didn’t lose any valuables…” He changed the subject. “Can you come in to be printed today? I’ll be here until quite late.”
“Yes. I can make it in the late afternoon.”
“Great. I’ll be here. Thanks again—”
“So,” she quickly interjected, “you confiscated the film from Tony Thomas’ camera?”
“Yes,” he answered cautiously.
“Anything unusual on the film?”
“I can’t discuss the details of the investigation, Miss Vanderwall.”
Makedde rolled her eyes. “Look, I’m a model. I’ve got to work with this guy. If he’s a sicko, I want to know about it. Besides, you owe me one. Quid pro quo, Detective.”
There was a long pause, then he said with a touch of mirth, “A Thomas Harris fan, I see. Only, I’m hardly Hannibal Lecter. I can only pass on what I am permitted to, and I don’t require your darkest secrets in exchange. There is a certain protocol.”
“Well, thanks,” she said sarcastically. “Anyway, I’m off to a photo shoot now. Shooting some lingerie with Tony Thomas…” She waited for a response.
The line was silent, then in a near whisper he said, “He took photographs of the body before the police arrived.”
Makedde’s jaw dropped. “My God.”
“We’re doing all we can,” Andy continued, clearly deciding that he’d said too much. “That’s all I can tell you.” It sounded like a pre-recorded statement. She knew she was getting to him, just a little bit, and she wasn’t willing to let go.
“I just want to know that this guy will be stopped. If he’s killed like this twice before, he’ll do it again.”
She heard a barely audible sigh.
“Don’t believe everything you read. We don’t know anything for sure at this point.”
“Bullshit. You know he’s done this before,” she challenged angrily, “probably more than twice. It takes years to build up to that sort of mutilation. Clearly this is a signature case. Guys like this don’t just stop; they perfect their MO and find new ways to get off.”
“It’s possible—” he paused. “What sort of books do you read in your spare time, anyway?”
She ignored his query. “Catherine was a friend. I saw what was done to her. I won’t feel safe until you find this guy.” The line was silent. She had hit her mark.
Andy’s voice was slow and resolute. “We’ll do everything we can.”
She wanted to believe him.
CHAPTER 14
There were several unusual elements in the “Stiletto Murders”, and as the days dragged on, Detective Flynn had become more and more obsessed with re-analysing and re-interpreting the evidence. He knew that in signature killings, every violent and perverse detail of the crime scene and victimology offered potentially valuable insights into the killer’s personality. However Catherine Gerber’s murder provided few clues, and many more questions.
He had spent all morning poring over the facts yet again, trying unsuccessfully to join up any personal or professional link between the three known victims. It seemed that they had a random killer
on their hands; the hardest type to catch.
“Any thoughts on the condom thing?” Andy asked out of the blue, as Jimmy walked past his desk carrying his lunch, which reeked of garlic and onions.
“I reckon this malaka plans to kill ’em the moment he lays eyes on ’em,” Jimmy replied. “So he’s using the skins for his own reasons.” He stopped and leant on Andy’s desk, biting into a gyros sandwich. Tzatziki oozed out of the pita bread, down his fingers to his wrists. Jimmy was oblivious. “If my hooker-hater theory is right my friend,” he said with his mouth full, “maybe he’s afraid of AIDS. That could be another reason he likes them young.”
“There’s blood everywhere,” Andy pointed out. “If STDs or HIV was his concern, he would take other precautions as well. Maybe he does. I’ve got the feeling he doesn’t want to leave semen because he’s familiar with forensic procedure. Half these guys study fuckin’ law enforcement and forensics when they’re inside.”
“Yeah. Such a wise use of their time.”
“And our money. So you figure he’s got a record.”
“Possibly.”
The two detectives stood silently.
“Where does he do ’em, Andy? He’d look like a fuckin’ abattoir worker by the time he was finished. He can’t have a wife, I wouldn’t think.”
Andy stared at the running board; at the dead faces of Roxanne, Cristelle and Catherine. Makedde’s impressive physique threatened to distract him completely. Suddenly the red pen marking her body looked like blood. He turned away.
“He doesn’t bother taking the jewellery, which is a common souvenir, and he only takes one shoe, not both. So he’s not giving them to his wife as a sick gift or anything. You’re right, he probably lives alone. But we can’t assume that. The other clothes are missing. What does he do with them?”
Jimmy didn’t have an answer.
“There’s some parallel here to the Jerome Brudos case,” Andy said.
“Brudos?”
“Jerome Henry Brudos. As a pre-teen in Oregon in the States he abducted younger girls at knife-point. He dragged them off to the family barn and made them strip. Then he’d take some photos. He’d lock them up in some shed, and a few minutes later he’d come back and pretend he was his twin brother Ed. He changed his clothes, hair, everything for this, and then he’d pretend to be horrified at what his ‘deranged sibling’ had done. He’d even make a big show of destroying the film in the camera, and he’d make the girl promise she wouldn’t tell.” Andy paused. “There’s bound to be some infraction, however minor, to indicate deviant tendencies in our killer’s youth. I’m surprised Tony’s past didn’t bring up anything.”
“Best precursor of violence is past violence,” Jimmy said. “Most people wouldn’t know what to look for, though. Getting into fights after school attracts a lot more attention than quietly dissecting household pets.”
Andy could hear Jimmy’s stomach rumble. “Finish your sandwich.”
Jimmy took a fist-sized bite out of one corner and more tzatziki flowed down his chin. Chewing lustily he said, “So what’d this Brudos guy do when he got older?”
“He became the Stiletto Killer,” Andy said, grinning.
Jimmy laughed, and gestured at his groin. “Here, mate. Right here.”
“Actually, he advertised for models to come and model shoes and pantyhose for him. They ended up dead, hanging from his garage. He’d photograph them nude or in frilly clothes and high-heeled shoes. Always high heels.”
“Parallels? You’re not kidding. Our photographer would have all kinds of young birds around, willing to have their photos taken.”
“Exactly. ‘Trust me, I’m a photographer’.”
As Jimmy started to walk back to his desk, Andy said, “The weird thing about Brudos, well, apart from the obvious, is that he did have a wife. She never went in the garage.”
“Sounds like Angie.”
“He kept souvenirs…body parts. I bet our guy does too, but what does he do with them?”
Jimmy shook his head.
“Just goes to show you, you don’t always know who you’re living with.”
Jimmy wandered off to his desk and left Andy to his laptop, concentrating on his notes:
Roxanne. Cristelle. Catherine.
June 26. July 9. July 16.
More torture. More mutilation.
This guy’s picking up speed.
By 1.30 p.m. Makedde stood before the window dressed in black pants and a fine knit sweater. Her fingers played absent-mindedly with the diamond ring on her thumb.
JT?
The two-letter puzzle had been on her mind for hours. She couldn’t recall any JTs that she knew. Perhaps it was a nickname or abbreviation. But for what? Speculation was pointless. She had more pressing matters to deal with. Soon Tony Thomas would arrive, and she would have to do her best to decipher his guilt and level of dangerousness. Her study of psychology might assist her if she was observant, but if Tony was a psychopath it would be impossible to detect the usual signs of perjury.
She slid a sharp paring knife into her purse. “Wish me luck, Jaqui,” she said under her breath with an almost superstitious intensity. Jaqui Reeves was Makedde’s Canadian self-defence instructor and friend. She was well versed in martial arts, street fighting and the use of weapons, and was an enthusiastic teacher. She also had a notorious disrespect for some of the technicalities of Canadian law, particularly with regard to concealed weapons. Among other gadgets, she kept a small folding knife in her bra at all times, which she affectionately called her “booby trap”. Knowing Makedde’s obsession with on-going training, she had referred her to Hanna, who taught Friday afternoon classes in Sydney. It seemed that Mak needed to be on her toes more than ever, and she looked forward to attending.
She planned to take Tony to a café where there were lots of people around. She would confront him and scrutinise his every response. And if something went terribly wrong, she’d have the knife. She wasn’t afraid to use it. It was better than nothing.
She crossed her fingers.
By 1.50 p.m. Mak hoped that Tony had changed his mind, or better yet, had been hit by a car on his way over. Four minutes later a hard knock shook the front door.
Doesn’t anyone use the buzzer downstairs?
She peeked through the spy hole and saw Tony’s round face peering up at her, sporting a freakishly large nose in the warped glass image. He was carrying a bouquet of flowers. With the knife in the purse clutched at her side, Makedde reluctantly opened the door.
Tony barged straight in. “Do you have a vase for these?” he asked, heading straight for the kitchen.
“Tony—”
“I’m sorry about last night,” he shouted from across the room. “This place is a box. A pretty girl like you should be staying somewhere upmarket,” he continued as he wandered around, touching things. “Nice to be down at Bondi, I guess. But still—”
“It will do,” Makedde said sharply.
He was already examining the kitchen. “Your cupboards are filthy, you really should get a cleaner.”
“It’s carbon.”
“What?”
‘Never mind.”
“I’ve got a place,” he persisted. “I rent it to models occasionally. Sarah Jackson stayed there for a while, until her career really took off.”
Sarah Jackson was on the cover of the latest British Vogue.
“No thanks.”
“You should at least see the place.”
She gave him an icy look.
“You know, you could be a really top model if you got your lips done. You’ve got a great face.”
“Thanks for the advice. Can we get out of here now? I’m starving.”
“Just a second. We’ve gotta talk.”
“ We can talk while I eat,” she insisted.
It didn’t work. Tony sat on her couch and started complaining about the police, and how they were treating him like a criminal. “They’re pulling apart my files, looking at
all my negatives. You have to believe me.”
“What do I have to believe, Tony?”
“I didn’t kill anyone, I swear.”
“What was on the film then?”
“What film?” he said stupidly.
She gave him a hard look, and spoke slowly, emphasising every point. “The film the cops confiscated.”
His face went red. “I…”
“Why did you take photographs of that poor girl’s corpse?” She stared unflinchingly at Tony as he sunk deeper and deeper into the couch, like an ostrich without the necessary sand. “Did you know we were friends? Did you know I would find her?” she pushed. Tony began blubbering incoherently. “What made you choose that location? Out of all the beaches in Sydney, why did you choose that location, on that day?” she demanded.
“I always shoot at that damn beach! I must have shot there twenty times this year. No one is ever around, so you can get away without paying the permit. They charge a fortune to use the beaches these days. It’s the truth!”
He was pathetic. She couldn’t help but feel sorry for him, at least for a moment.
“Give me one good reason why I should believe you.”
As it turned out, Tony couldn’t give her a single reason. With his pathetic Don Juan façade ripped away, he became so flustered that he made a hasty retreat, begging her not to tell anyone in the business about the photos of Catherine’s corpse. It was a pitiful display. No alibi could be as poignant as his feeble ramblings for forgiveness.
Later that afternoon Makedde sat alone at the Raw Bar, a great sushi place on Bondi Beach. She watched as sizeable sets of waves rolled in, dotted with wetsuit-clad surfers, and then crashed back onto themselves, sending boards and bodies flying. She smiled as a plate of fastidiously designed sushi was placed in front of her. The salmon onigiri melted in her mouth, and the California rolls were fresh and delicious with a subtle bite of wasabi. An unconscious “Mmmm” escaped her lips as she ate.
Never keep a Vanderwall from their lunch.