by PD Martin
‘Any idea what caused the behavioural change?’
‘The parents split eight weeks before the kid disappeared. Dad was completely out of the picture, ran off with another woman to Queensland.’
I give a few quick nods of understanding. The boy’s primary male figure was suddenly gone, and at a crucial time in his adolescence—he was acting out his anger and frustration. This is good information; knowing the victim can teach you a lot about the perpetrator.
‘Cops even thought maybe the boy was heading to Queensland to be with his father.’
‘Did they canvass the area at all?’ I ask. ‘Treat the house like a crime scene?’
Brad shakes his head. ‘Back when it was reported? Not really, no. They looked around the house but couldn’t find any evidence of a struggle or forced entry, and there were no crime-scene techs called.’
Euroa is a small country town, farming land that’s also a stop-off point for anyone making the eight- to nine-hour drive along the Hume Highway from Melbourne to Sydney and vice versa. With less than three-thousand residents, they’ve got a small police station and only a few cops.
‘Plus the boy’s backpack was gone,’ Brad continues, ‘so that was in line with the runaway theory. For the first few days the mum was positive something bad had happened to her son, but eventually she conceded it was possible he’d taken off. Apparently they even had a fight that morning.’
I wince. Angry words as the last conversation, and now her son’s dead. The poor woman.
‘Cops did speak to a few of the neighbours, but no one saw anything. It was probably the middle of the night, like the others…’ Brad pauses and looks up, but then quickly averts his eyes. ‘It’s likely the guy was watching the victim for some time.’
I don’t let myself visualise the perp watching Ted Strawasky…or John.
‘Was it a hot night? Windows open?’ I ask.
‘We checked the weather records—thirty during the day, down to twenty-two overnight. So not as hot as it was for the earlier abductions. As for the windows…it’s not something Mrs Strawasky was questioned about until we went back three days ago.’
Nine months after the fact. ‘What’s her best recollection?’
‘She’s not sure, but when we questioned her on what she does with the windows during hotter days she reckons that with an overnight minimum of twenty-two she probably would have left at least one or two windows open. And quite possibly the windows were unlocked.’
‘Flywires?’ A flash of the crime-scene photo from Ryan Stokes’ window jumps out at me, flywire expertly cut.
‘Nothing on the police report, and the cops who responded to the initial call said they did look for signs of breaking and entering.’
It’s unlikely the flywire was cut then. A standard walk-through of the crime scene and around the house would have noted that.
I lean back and blow out some air. ‘Tell me about the body dump site.’
‘It was Broken-Boosey Park.’ He clears his throat. ‘The same place where your brother was found.’
I push on, focusing on this boy, not John. ‘But yet this boy was taken from Euroa.’
‘Yes. So we’ve got abduction sites in Bendigo, Euroa and Shepparton and dump sites in Bendigo and Shepparton.’
‘Why go back to his old stomping ground to dump the victim, but not to abduct?’ I’m asking myself rather than Brad, but nonetheless Brad responds.
‘That’s something we’re looking into now.’
I run my fingers across my bottom lip, feeling the deep indentations caused by the past forty hours of digging my front teeth down. Biting my lip is something I frequently catch myself doing. I’ve tried to stop, but it’s become an unconscious gesture now. Sometimes I don’t notice I’m doing it until my lips are red raw.
‘I always thought the guy must have lived or worked in Shepparton or Bendigo,’ I say. ‘Or maybe he lived somewhere in between but was in both Shepparton and Bendigo for work. He’s definitely familiar with the location.’
‘Agreed.’
‘But now Euroa’s a third point…and it gives us a triangle.’
‘Geographical profiling?’ Brad queries.
‘It’s something we could use. I certainly think our guy must live inside that triangle somewhere.’
Brad runs a hand across his head, perhaps trying to tame the mass of curls. ‘We’re also looking into the possibility that he’s got a weekender in the area. Or maybe he’s moved to Euroa but is still familiar and comfortable in Shepparton.’
I nod. ‘He’s definitely familiar with the parks, possibly a local or someone who grew up in the area. But a weekender? That would mean he leaves the boys Monday to Friday, assuming he works. They’re his playthings and I don’t know if he could limit his “enjoyment”,’ I mark air quotes, ‘to the weekends. It’s possible, but we’re talking about an extremely high level of control.’
‘He’s been dormant for nearly thirty years. Maybe control isn’t an issue for this guy.’
I take in a deep breath, staring at the stark white wall opposite me. The guy’s a mystery all right.
After a few minutes I bring us back to the evidence. ‘In the 1975 abduction of Ryan Stokes, a hair was found.’
‘Yes, I’ve submitted it to forensics, but they think DNA’s unlikely.’
I clear my throat. ‘Um, I actually submitted it myself a few years ago.’
‘What? That’s not in the file.’
‘No. I called in a few favours.’
Brad’s eyes narrow. ‘Sophie, you tampered with evidence.’
‘I only submitted it like anyone would for a cold case,’ I say, even though I know how much I’ve stuffed things up. It’s serious, particularly now that the case is re-opened.
He shakes his head and blows out some air. ‘But you didn’t log it, Sophie. And that’s the problem. I should walk out of here right now.’
My heart skips a beat, panicked by the prospect that Brad’s going to cut me loose. Let’s face it, he’d be justified. It was a foolish thing to do.
Despite his frustration, Brad stays seated and after a long pause he finally says, ‘I take it you didn’t have any luck?’
‘The hair wasn’t in good enough nick to retrieve DNA. Still, that was a few years ago. Maybe now they can get something.’ Like many sciences, DNA analysis is constantly evolving and being refined.
‘Lab reckons it’s doubtful but they’re gonna have a go.’ He shakes his head again. ‘I can’t believe you, of all people.’
I’m a stickler for procedure, for doing the right thing, and Brad knows it.
‘You should have logged it. Our chain of evidence is rooted now.’
I can’t help but smile at Brad’s Aussie slang—it’s been a long time since I’ve heard “rooted” instead of “screwed”. But the smile is quickly gone…Brad’s right, the chain of evidence is compromised. What if we find DNA on the hair and it’s our only evidence against the guy in court? It’ll probably be inadmissible.
‘It’s not something I’m proud of, Brad. When I first made Homicide, I couldn’t stop thinking about that hair…I couldn’t resist. I was a rookie. A few years later I either wouldn’t have done it or I would have logged it officially, that’s for sure.’
‘I know why you did it, I do, but I don’t think I can just sit on this, Sophie.’ He gives an exasperated grunt. ‘Jesus.’
Brad has to decide whether to disclose my major faux pas and add it to the file, or keep his mouth shut.
‘Why don’t we see how the evidence pans out? No point bringing it up officially if we still can’t get DNA.’
He takes a deep breath. ‘True.’
I hide my sigh of relief. Brad’s cutting me some slack.
I let him sit with it for several seconds before moving on. ‘And you’re sure of the link? Between this and the past murders?’ It looks pretty conclusive—the abduction MO is the same; the body dump site is the same as John’s; all boys were kept by the perpet
rator for lengthy periods of time, even though this one is only three months instead of six to nine. ‘Is it possible we’re dealing with a similar perpetrator, or even a copycat instead of the same guy?’
‘A copycat’s unlikely. Ted Strawasky was dumped within fifty metres of…’ He pauses again. ‘…of your brother.’
I nod. ‘Pretty close, too close to be coincidence.’
‘Uh huh.’
Silence.
‘Sophie?’ His voice is tentative.
I look up.
‘I’ve given you a lot of information. What are you hoping to do with it? To do here?’
‘Help as much as I can. I’ve learnt a lot in the States. About offender profiling, but also paedophiles. I can help.’ While I moved to America as a career move, it may have also given me the tools and know-how to finally find John’s killer.
‘Mmm…’ His lips are pursed together tightly. ‘About that…’
I roll my eyes. ‘Come on, Brad. You’re not seriously going to pull jurisdiction on me, are you?’
‘You’re not Homicide, Soph. Shit, you’re not even Vic Police. And you’ve got a personal interest in this case.’
I shake my head. ‘Get over it, Brad. And as for my emotional involvement—I know how to do my job. Don’t refuse my help just for procedure. We can keep it all unofficial, under the radar.’
‘It’s not me I’m worried about.’
‘Your partner? Danahay?’
‘Nah, she’s great. It’s higher up I’m worried about.’
As far as I know Barry Jones is still the head of Homicide and we’ve always got on well—well enough that I think I could get away with tagging along. But perhaps things have changed. Even though I’ve only been in the US for just under three years, I’ve lost contact with most people from this part of my life. I joined the Force in my mid-twenties and always found I had more in common with my school and uni friends. I used to socialise with the other cops, of course, but I was never really close to anyone in the Victoria Police. Not close enough to stay in touch with regular emails. The closest I come is Facebook—which facilitated a reconnection with some people, including the Victorian profiler Lily Murphy, but doesn’t really feel like a reliable connection.
Two short raps on the door cause both Brad and I to turn. Within seconds the door opens and in walks Louis Faulkner. It takes all of my effort to keep my face expressionless. Faulkner? Don’t tell me he’s part of Homicide now...
‘What’s going on, Brad?’ Faulkner gives me a curt nod, but doesn’t even acknowledge that we know each other.
‘You remember Sophie Anderson?’
I resist the urge to smile. Of course Faulkner remembers me and Brad knows all about our history. I was promoted to Homicide over Faulkner. He was sure it was his job, but instead Barry Jones chose me. There isn’t a hope in hell that Faulkner would have forgotten. I even overhead him talking to one of the old-timers two weeks after my promotion complaining about positive discrimination—that I’d been given the job because I was a woman and the Victoria Police was merely bowing to equal opportunity supporters. What a joke. It was still a boys’ club when I left; I doubt anything’s changed.
‘Anderson.’ Faulkner gives me another officious nod, but doesn’t manage eye contact. ‘Why are you talking to Miss Anderson, Brad?’ The way he hisses the word “Miss,” I can see right through him. Not only is he emphasising the fact that I don’t have a title like detective or agent over here, he’s also going for the politically incorrect Miss rather than Ms. Not that I’d expect anything but this type of pettiness from him. The man’s a dinosaur, even though he’s only about forty. He’s third-generation cop and stuck in an era where cops are working-class heroes not university graduates. Personally, I don’t think there’s such thing as an over-educated cop, as long as it’s combined with street smarts and on-the-job experience. I imagine Faulkner disagrees strongly with Victoria Police’s strategy of recruiting from university.
I give him a sweet-as-pie smile.
Brad crosses his legs. ‘I was just updating Sophie on the case, Sarg.’
Sarg? Oh, shit. Don’t tell me…
‘Ah yes, of course.’ Now it’s Faulkner’s turn to smile, but his isn’t so sweet. ‘I can’t tell you how surprised I was to discover that your brother was murdered. A victim of this same perpetrator all those years ago.’
Bastard. ‘That’s right, Louis.’ I keep my voice open, unwilling to show him any grief or distress. ‘I flew in to Australia today.’
The subtle reminder that I’m working in the US for the FBI wipes the smile off his face. I know how jealous he was of that career leap.
He gives me another sickly smile. ‘We’re not in America, Anderson. This is my Homicide Department, my people.’ He turns to Brad. ‘My office, now,’ he says before slamming the door shut.
Brad stands up and runs a hand through a curl that’s starting to get a little long at the front. ‘Sorry. I should have warned you.’
‘What happened to Jones?’
‘Retired six months ago.’
‘And they promoted Faulkner? What the…?’
He shrugs. ‘Like they say, sometimes it’s who you know.’
I sigh. ‘I feel sorry for you guys. Can’t think of a worse boss.’
He grimaces. ‘Mmm.’ A pause, then, ‘Actually, he’s better since the promotion. Well, except for just then.’
Silence for a few moments.
‘So, is that my copy?’ I motion to the file on the table.
Brad laughs. ‘Nice try. If Faulkner hadn’t interrupted I was going to leave you alone with the file for a bit. But now?’
‘Go on.’
Brad shakes his head. ‘He’s an observant bastard. First thing he’ll be looking for when I come into his office is this file in my hand.’ He picks it up and stands. ‘Maybe another time, huh?’
‘I’ll hold you to that.’
‘You might be interested to know who did the autopsy.’
I smile. ‘Sure.’
‘Sally Burns.’
My smile widens. ‘Thanks, Brad.’
‘You’re welcome.’
I stand too. ‘And is Lily Murphy involved?’ Victoria Police’s one and only profiler.
Brad walks me to the door. ‘Faulkner approved it today. We’re briefing her first thing tomorrow.’
I sigh, desperate to be in that briefing but knowing that with Faulkner in charge there isn’t a hope in hell. ‘Thanks for talking to me, Brad.’
‘No worries.’ His hand pauses on the handle. ‘I was surprised too, Soph.’
I didn’t tell anyone at work about John. My bosses knew, some bureaucrats and the original detectives, but that’s it.
I stare at Brad’s hand on the doorknob. ‘No one knew.’
He turns the handle and opens the door before looking me in the eye. ‘Well I’m sorry. Really sorry.’
Chapter 4
I pull up outside the State Coroner’s Office of Victoria. Sally Burns is waiting out the front for me, dragging hard on a cigarette. You’d think with all the post-mortem lungs she sees she’d quit smoking.
Once I’m out of the car and have fed the meter I make my way towards her. Within a few seconds she sees me and takes a long drag before grinding it into a nearby outdoor ashtray. Sally Burns is in her early sixties, with long black and grey hair and a slightly hippy air to her. Today she’s wearing black leggings, a black skirt and a long flowing top over it. And while this dress style could hide a few pounds, on Sally it accentuates her long and slender frame.
She blows the smoke to one side and then heads for me. ‘Sophie. Good to see you. How are you? Well, besides the obvious…sorry, stupid thing to say.’
I smile, having forgotten about Sally’s manic nature and bouts of verbal diarrhoea. ‘I’m good, Sally.’ We give each other a kiss and hug and I can’t help but notice the strong smell of nicotine and coffee that seeps from her pores, clothes and hair.
She keeps a hold of m
e and rubs her hands up and down my arms. ‘My poor darling. I can’t believe you never told me.’
I shrug. ‘I didn’t tell anyone.’
She shakes her head. ‘Why ever not, darling? Don’t worry, I know the answer to that question, but it’s silly. That’s what friends are for, huh?’ She grabs my hand and walks me into the building. ‘I’m here for you, sweetie. And we’re going to get this bastard.’
I smile. Sally Burns is one of the best in the business. If anyone can find something, it’s her.
She pulls me through the automatic doors and flashes a smile at the security guard. ‘Hi, Bob. This is a friend of mine.’
He smiles, but also shakes his head. ‘Come on, Sally, sign her in. You know the procedure.’
Sally sighs. ‘Oh, Bob. She’s just here for a quick chat.’
Bob hesitates, but then sticks to his guns, tapping the sign-in book.
While I’m signing in, Sally asks Bob about his wife and two kids. Sally’s a dedicated worker, but she also believes in good old-fashioned manners and conversation and she takes a personal interest in those around her.
A few seconds after I’ve signed in and Bob’s checked my ID, Sally says, ‘Okay, Bob. Well, I’ll see you later.’
‘Bye, Sally.’
She gives me a wink and grabs my hand again. ‘Come on, let’s go.’ She sets her usual fast pace. ‘So, tell me, how’s the US?’
‘Great. I love it.’
She smiles. ‘And the Yanks?’
For some reason quite a few Australians seem to have an unfounded distaste for Americans. They’re stuck on a stereotype, even though I know first-hand that it only applies to a few.
‘Try not to keel over, but I love America and Americans.’
‘I can’t abide a country that doesn’t have free healthcare.’ She shudders. ‘It’s…it’s not right. Capitalism over socialism…bah.’ She takes a breath and pulls me to the right, down the long corridor to the autopsy room. ‘Besides, it’s quite possible for elements of the two to co-exist. You can be wealthy and successful and provide for the less fortunate via a few extra dollars in tax. Duh.’