by PD Martin
I go back to Ryan Stokes’ file, but there’s nothing else of interest in it. The police drew a blank in every department—no strangers had been hanging around Ryan at school or home, there were no “dodgy” associates in his life or those of his parents, no sightings, no physical evidence except the hair found at his house. And his body didn’t reveal much—they couldn’t even ascertain a cause of death. I know from my vision that John was strangled, and I know from my work as a profiler that sexual predators who attack and kill young children usually strangle them, most commonly manually. Likewise, even though Ryan’s skeletal remains couldn’t confirm or prove sexual assault, it was assumed. Why else would someone abduct these three boys, keep them for months on end, and then kill them? Again, I have to force myself not to think of John, not to think of the fact that one of the victims is my brother. Part of me can’t bear to know what happened to John in those months of torture, but part of me has to know…and know everything.
I focus on the case notes, the psychology. From a profiler’s perspective one of the most confusing, or perhaps telling, aspects of the crime is the presence of underwear on the boys. Most children—nearly eighty percent—abducted by strangers are killed within the first three hours. The sexual assault and then murders are quick—rushed—and the bodies are usually found naked or with their clothing out of place. Girls will have their skirts pulled up with their underwear around their legs, while male victims will have their pants pulled down—again, often not totally removed. But this killer kept the boys for nearly a year and then dumped them in only their underwear. Did the killer need to cover their genitals? Cover their “sexuality”? It could be a sign of remorse, or it could mean that while the boys had been sexualised beings for him, after death he saw them in a different light.
Or perhaps the killer found this image erotic. For most of us, a pre-teen boy in his underwear conjures up ideas of boyish fun. In Australia, particularly the seventies, it makes me think of John and me playing under the sprinkler in our underwear or diving into the river on a hot day. We’d strip down to our underwear without thinking twice about it. But to a small, extremely perverted sub-section of the community, it’s….I take a deep breath, barely even able to comprehend it…arousing.
I close the file and rest my head back against the seat, tears welling in my eyes. But the grief is quickly replaced by something I know too well—the need for justice…or maybe vengeance. I couldn’t protect John all those years ago; who would have listened to an eight-year-old’s ramblings about a dream? But now I can serve him in an entirely different way. One way or another, the bastard who took John’s life and ruined ours forever is going to pay.
He’s startled out of his sleep by a hand being jammed across his nose and mouth. A man’s face is only a few centimetres from his. Light from the hallway streams into the boy’s room casting long shadows from a few toys near the door.
‘Keep quiet or I’ll kill your parents.’ His voice is husky, urgent and menacing. ‘And your baby sister.’
The boy’s eyes widen with alarm, and even in the darkness he can sense the determination in the man’s piercing eyes.
‘If you’re a good boy, I’ll leave them alone…promise. Okay?’ The man raises bushy eyebrows, waiting for a response.
The boy nods and the man loosens his grip slightly, allowing the boy to breathe properly once more.
‘There’s a good lad.’ He pulls the boy to standing and raises his arm.
The boy sees the rock but it’s too late…it crashes down onto his skull, blackening his world.
Chapter 3
I sigh…Australia is a hell of a long way from the rest of the world.
I’m one of many sleep-deprived passengers waiting in line, and while it’s possible a flight has just landed from New Zealand, it’s more likely that everyone around me has flown in from Asia, Europe or the US, which means they’ve each had anything from an eight- to thirty-hour plane journey. Luckily I had a direct flight from LA to Melbourne, a mere fifteen-hour stint.
My queue moves forward with a little surge, and a few people in the lines beside me try a switch. Lack of sleep and heavily laden trolleys are a recipe for disaster and I feel a trolley dig into my ankles.
‘Sorry.’
I resist the urge to succumb to my sleep-deprived grumpiness. It was an accident, after all, and they did apologise.
‘That’s okay,’ I manage.
The trolleys around me are loaded with big bags, small bags, golf clubs, surf boards, prams and everything from beaten up suitcases with dark tape stretched across weak spots to matching Armani sets that hardly look shop-soiled, let alone baggage-handler-soiled. In most cases, the luggage on the trolleys matches the passengers and I reckon I would have scored well in a match-the-suitcase-to-the-traveller game. Apparently the profiler in me doesn’t like to rest.
I’m in one of the many “nothing-to-declare” lines, but that doesn’t mean the people in front of me or around me won’t have their luggage searched—and I might too. We’re all in this together, with no business-class lines in Australian Customs to fast track Ms Armani. I push the trolley forward, wondering how my parents are doing. They say time heals many wounds, but I think the latest development may be ripping into the scar tissue. I can only hope that the killer’s recent activities will be his undoing—maybe then the wound will truly have a chance to heal rather than remaining the dodgy knee for which one always has to compensate.
Eventually I get to a Customs official and pass him my declaration card. ‘No vegetable or animal products?’ he confirms, even though I’ve ticked that box clearly. It’s been a while since I’ve been home and his accent sounds thick—much more Aussie than me. Maybe it’s only my perception, or perhaps my accent has changed with so much time spent in the States.
‘No, nothing.’ Not this time. In the past I’ve declared chocolate, even though it’s not a banned item. I’ve made two trips home since relocating to the US and both times I’ve brought Dad Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups and Hershey’s Milk Chocolate Bars—plus the most recent copies of New York Times and USA Today. But this trip, chocolate and papers were the last things on my mind. In fact, I can’t even really remember packing. Who knows what I threw into my suitcase at five in the morning—I may have even forgotten underwear.
‘And no cash over $10,000?’ He eyes the silver briefcase that contains my Netbook, BlackBerry, wallet, FBI credentials and travel documents.
‘Nope.’
‘Can I ask what’s in the briefcase?’
I should have gone for a more subtle briefcase—and I certainly would have preferred a cheaper model—but it was the best I could manage on such short notice. Brady insisted I carry my Netbook and BlackBerry in a locked, carry-on bag as an additional security measure. However, this briefcase screams “valuables”—cash, diamonds…cocaine.
‘It’s got my computer, mobile phone, wallet and travel documents.’
‘Pretty heavy security for a briefcase.’
‘I work for the FBI in the States, so the security’s for my Netbook and phone,’ I explain.
He raises an eyebrow. ‘FBI, huh? Never heard of an Aussie working for the FBI.’
I smile. ‘My dad’s American. I’ve got dual citizenship.’
He nods slowly, and for a moment I think he’s going to ask for my American passport and FBI ID, but after a few seconds he gives a little grunt. ‘Okay, move along.’
‘Thanks.’
On this side of the arrivals area of Melbourne Airport all you can see are four double doors that span the length of the Customs area, about eighty to one-hundred metres wide. I push the trolley towards the nearest exit and with one final shove I hit the doors’ sensors and they open. Pausing on the other side, I look to the right and left. The public section of the international arrivals area has a metal, waist-high rail that runs along its length where waiting relatives congregate. I scan the crowd, which is roughly five-people deep, and start moving when I see Dad’s fac
e floating above most of the other people. He spots me at the same time and gives me a wide smile. Not the usual grin I’d get but he does manage a genuine smile. Next, I see Mum bobbing up and down next to Dad’s six-four frame, obviously going from her flats to tip-toes. Dad points me out.
‘Soph!’ Mum yells, walking quickly to the end of the railing and the exit. She’s around the rail before me and pulls me into a strong hug, like I’m the sole survivor of a plane crash.
‘It’s going to be okay, Mum,’ I whisper in her ear.
She pulls away and shakes her head. ‘That’s what your dad keeps saying too. I don’t know what this is, Sophie, but it’s hardly okay.’
I bow my head. ‘You’re right, Mum. Sorry.’
She strokes my hair but looks off into the distance. ‘I can’t stop thinking about that poor boy’s family.’
It’s typical of Mum to think of others before herself, but the recent murder would also be reminding her of how she felt all those years ago. She’s been in this woman’s shoes and knows better than anyone, better than me, what it’s like to lose your son. And worse still, to lose him to a paedophile. Just thinking of that word sends waves of pure disgust through me. But Mum’s right…what that family, that mother, is going through now…
‘I know, Mum.’ When I was a homicide cop I used to witness families coping with the death of a loved one first-hand. Nowadays most of the cases I profile are older or more unusual cases, and thankfully it’s usually up to the cops to do the death knocks, not me. It’s never easy to inform a family of a death, let alone the murder of a child. Every murder is tragic—even if the victim was a killer, there’s usually someone who grieves—but a child, and taken by a…a perpetrator who steals the innocence of youth in such an evil way? The damage and repercussions of that can’t be described or quantified. As far as I’m concerned, no amount of suffering is enough for such a creature. But I don’t think Mum’s ever felt that sense of vengeance, of pure anger and hatred. Sometimes I think she should be consumed with rage, even after all these years.
Dad pulls me into a one-armed hug-squeeze combo. ‘Good to see you, kiddo.’
I lean into him. ‘You too, Dad.’
We make our way to the airport parking and within ten minutes we’re on the Tullamarine Freeway, heading to my parents’ Camberwell home. We sold up Shepparton soon after John’s body was found and my parents bought a four-bedroom “renovator’s delight” in Camberwell. The house would cost a small fortune nowadays, partly because of the area’s growth, and partly because Dad did most of the renovations himself. The two-storey brick home now has three bedrooms, a large study and the whole floor plan was opened up, so a large kitchen and family room extends into an outdoor living area via folding glass doors. They even got a swimming pool installed. The Camberwell home reminds me of the second part of my childhood—the part without John.
‘Have you heard from the police again?’ I ask as Dad sails past the Ring Road exit.
‘No.’ Dad glances at me in the rear-vision mirror. ‘And we haven’t contacted them, just like you asked. Are you close to this Brad?’
I shrug. ‘Not really, no. But I know him, respect him, and hopefully vice versa.’
Dad nods.
Silence.
‘Matt’s been calling,’ Mum says after a few minutes.
‘He left a message on my mobile too.’ It was the first time I’d heard from my ex since leaving Australia.
‘He asked for the number. I hope you don’t mind.’
‘That’s fine, Mum.’
Matt and I were living together when the FBI offered me my dream job. The fact that we were able to stop our relationship without too much heartache made me realise that we’d drifted apart. If it was meant to be, he would have come to the US or I would have stayed in Melbourne. I guess neither of us wanted the relationship badly enough.
‘I’ll call him later today.’
‘Good. He seemed pretty concerned.’
‘What did he say?’ I ask.
‘Just that he was sorry about what happened to John and feels for us now that it’s all being dredged up again.’
I wince, dreading the conversation. I’d never told him what happened to John. Obviously the media knows about the link between the latest victim and the boys from the seventies, and John’s name and face have been making news. I’m sure Matt is concerned for us, but he’s also going to be pissed off that I’d never confided in him.
Mum turns around and gives me a smile. ‘How’s Darren?’
It almost feels like the start of a normal conversation…almost.
‘He’s great. Trying to get time off so he can fly out here. He’s been really looking forward to seeing Australia, and you guys again. Although not like this…’ I trail off, unsure of how to finish the sentence.
‘No…not like this.’ Mum turns back around and concentrates on the road.
When my parents met Darren, they were meeting a colleague, a friend. But now that we’re in a relationship, it puts a totally different spin on the meeting. I was hoping we’d come to Australia as tourists—show Darren around my hometown and hang out with my parents. A relaxed holiday, and time for my folks to get to know him. Instead, we’re going to be thrown together in what is one of the most stressful and emotional times of our lives.
We sit in silence for another few minutes.
Dad gives me a little nod in the rear-vision mirror. ‘Remember that time John was playing in the car and took the handbrake off by mistake?’ A smile edges its way onto Dad’s face. ‘God, he loved sitting in that car and pretending he was a rally driver.’
I give a little snort. ‘I remember.’ I smile, also lost in the memory. ‘Pre-Wii.’ The seventies were also basically pre-computer. Now kids get to drive rally cars in video games or on computer consoles, but in our day it was imagination—maybe, if you were lucky, a steering wheel to add to the role-play.
Mum starts to laugh. ‘He would have loved Wii.’
I guess John will always be an eleven-year-old boy in our eyes—frozen in time forever.
Wearing a pair of black linen pants and a plain dark red top, I ride up the elevator to level twenty and Melbourne’s Homicide Bureau. I didn’t want to look like I was on the job, but I also wanted something more formal than jeans.
I don’t know the woman at the front desk, so when I ask to speak to Detective Brad Shaw I’m just a nameless member of the public.
‘Is he expecting you?’
‘No.’ I didn’t want to let him know I was coming, but at the same time it’s right on lunchtime now. He could be down the street getting a sandwich, or on the road somewhere.
‘And you are?’
‘Sophie Anderson.’
She gives me a little nod while she dials his extension. Luckily, Brad’s in the office, and soon I’m waiting for him in a small meeting room primarily used for the public. I wonder if Brad’s room choice is symbolic of how he’ll be treating me during this case—not as part of law enforcement, as an outsider.
Brad enters a couple of minutes later, carrying a case file and wearing a forced grin. He’s in his early forties, with masses of dark curls streaked with grey. His olive skin accentuates dark brown eyes and helps to hide his five o’clock shadow.
‘This is a surprise, Sophie.’ He extends an over-sized hand my way.
‘Really? I thought you knew me better than that.’
He laughs, replacing the forced smile with a genuine one. ‘You’re right…I should have known you’d be on the first plane home.’ Sitting down, he places the file on the table between us. ‘When did you get in?’
I eye the folder but answer the question. ‘My flight landed a few hours ago. I look back to the file. ‘What have you got?’
‘Straight to the point. Some things never change, huh?’
I shrug.
He leans forward, serious. ‘I’m sorry, Sophie. Sorry about your brother and sorry the bastard who did it is still out there.’
I’m unsure how to respond, so for a few seconds we sit in silence. Then I say, ‘To be honest, I thought he must have been dead. At least this way we can catch him.’
‘True.’ But Brad doesn’t look hopeful.
‘So what have you got?’ I get back to my original question.
He sighs. ‘The body of a fourteen-year-old boy, Ted Strawasky, was found three days ago.’
‘Fourteen? A little older than the others.’
‘Yes. Although he was small for his age and looked more like twelve.’ He smooths down his tie. ‘We’re looking at death around six months ago, no forensic evidence on-scene. No DNA, no fibres, no prints…’ He looks up at me. ‘If the guy did leave anything, it’s long gone.’
‘I get the picture.’
He nods. ‘As far as we can tell, the boy was naked, except for his underwear. At least, that’s the only remnants of clothing we found in the area and it fits with the other murders.’
Over the past six months, the elements would have taken their toll. Plus, animal activity would have spread the bones around and, while unlikely, it is possible additional clothing had been dragged off by some animal over the past six months.
‘He was taken from the family home in Euroa nine months ago. Unfortunately, the local cops pegged him as a runaway, not that anyone could have predicted an apparent resurgence from this killer. The kid had recently started going off the rails. Staying out late, getting into fights…that sort of thing.’