Coming Home

by PD Martin

I’m beginning to think I’m in for a full-on political rampage, but then Sally changes the topic.

  ‘So, you love Americans. Any one American in particular?’ She gives me another little wink.

  ‘Actually, I am seeing a guy from Arizona.’

  ‘Really? Serious?’

  ‘I think so, yes.’

  ‘That’s great news, darling. God knows you need something or someone to keep you out of the office.’

  ‘Yeah.’ I don’t tell Sally that I’ve gotten worse over the past few years, spending more time at the office and then throwing myself into gym, Kung Fu and Bikram yoga during the little free time that I do have. Besides, she’s right…Darren has forced me to better my work-life balance, at least on the days he’s in LA. The rest of the time I can indulge my obsessive nature a little more.

  ‘So, tell me all about him. Tall, dark and handsome?’ She takes a left and finally lets go of my hand so I can keep up with her under my own steam rather than feeling like a disobedient child being dragged home.

  ‘He is actually. Dark hair, blue eyes and five-eleven, so tallish I guess.’ Darren is good-looking but he’s not breathtakingly handsome, with women throwing themselves at him. His good looks are more understated, partly because of his personality and partly because he wears casual, low-key clothes rather than looking like he’s just stepped out of a designer catalogue.

  ‘And he’s a sweetie,’ I add.

  ‘What? Looks and personality?’

  ‘Uh huh.’

  ‘Keep going.’

  ‘He’s smart, kind, caring and interesting. And he knows what life is like in law enforcement.’

  She nods. ‘So he’s in the biz?’

  ‘He’s a homicide cop and we met on a case. We were friends for a while and then started dating long-distance five months ago.’

  ‘And he’s American?’

  I laugh. ‘Yes. I told you, I love Americans, especially this one.’

  ‘Good for you, darling. Is he out here with you?’ She swipes her card on a door lock and we move into one of the autopsy rooms.

  ‘No, but he’s hoping to join me soon.’

  She nods and moves across to the nearest metal trolley. A white sheet covers the remains, but it looks…wrong. The body is small, running only about one-third the length of the gurney, and the sheet falls loosely to the sides. A person that small, that young, should never be in here. I take in the rest of the room, even though I’ve seen it a thousand times before, when I was working in Melbourne. Sometimes I think every morgue is the same—white tiles, fluorescent lights and cold, still air with a faint scent of formaldehyde.

  After a few moments of looking at anything but the body, I force myself towards the gurney. Eventually, my eyes come back to the tiny form under the sheet.

  Sally’s studying me from the opposite side of the gurney, now serious. ‘Are you ready?’

  I nod slowly.

  She pulls back the sheet. ‘This is Ted Strawasky, fourteen years old.’

  I gasp and take a few steps back, confused by what I see. A vision or my eyes playing tricks on me?

  Sally reacts quickly, pulling the sheet up over the boy again. ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘He…he looks like my brother.’

  She shoots me an odd look. ‘But, Sophie…this body is six months old. There’s not much more than a skeleton.’

  ‘What?’ I move closer.

  ‘Maybe this is too much for you, sweetie. I mean, I don’t have to…’ she tugs on the sheet, indicating our conversation can go on without the sheet coming off.

  She’s right…hell, we could even have this conversation in her office or over coffee, but I wanted to see the victim, get a more physical sense of him. It’s hard to describe, but somehow seeing the remains is more valuable than simply looking at the autopsy report and photos. But if there’s only a skeleton under there, why did I see a boy who looks like John? I think back to the image—the body was well-preserved, like he’d only been dead for a few hours, a day at the most. It must have been a split-second vision.

  ‘Sorry, my mind’s playing tricks on me. Guess it’s the jetlag…and it’s an emotional time. But I’m fine.’

  She raises an eyebrow. ‘It’s okay if you’re flipping out, Sophie.’ She speaks much slower than usual. ‘This could be another victim of the same man who murdered your brother. You don’t have to do this. You’re not on the case.’

  ‘I want to see him. I need to see him.’ I need to see the skeleton, not the boy who looks like John.

  She takes a deep breath. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Okay.’ She pulls the sheet back slowly, more carefully this time, revealing skeletal remains. The skin and body tissue has decomposed fully, but the hair and nails are still intact—partly intact. He looks so small, so helpless.

  ‘I can only give an estimate on time of death.’ Sally pauses, studying my face closely. ‘We’re looking at around six months ago.’

  ‘Cause of death?’

  She shakes her head. ‘Can’t rule on that, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Is strangulation a possibility?’

  ‘Possible, yes. There’s no obvious sign of damage on the hyoid bone or the thyroid cartilage, but on victims this age those structures would be too soft to show damage. Without evidence of skin and muscle damage it’s impossible to conclusively rule out strangulation or to assign it as the cause of death.’

  The hyoid bone is a U-shaped bone in the neck that becomes harder as we age. It bends rather than breaks under the force of strangulation up until roughly our thirties.

  ‘Of course, he could have drowned, been smothered by a pillow, the list goes on.’

  I nod. ‘What else?’

  ‘Hair was tested for heavy metals and poisons—nothing out of the ordinary there. Dental records match Ted Strawasky and the age is right based on the cranial fusion.’

  When we’re born, many of our skull bones are separated and joined by connective tissue. These gaps are called fontanels, with the last one closing up around eighteen months of age. Forensic pathologists and anthropologists can use the level of fusion in fontanel areas to ascertain the age of younger skeletons, along with a few other markers.

  ‘Any broken bones?’ I ask.

  ‘Wrist, but it was an old break. This was confirmed with the mother and I’ve seen the original X-rays, taken four years ago. They’re a match.’

  I sigh, looking back at the mess of bones that used to be a boy.

  ‘Have you got a photo of him?’

  ‘Sure.’ Sally opens a file that rests on a trolley next to the body. She plucks out one picture and hands it to me.

  I wince. ‘Oh, God, he does look like John.’

  Sally takes the photo back quickly. ‘I’m sorry, honey.’

  ‘May I?’ I hold my hand out and Sally slips the photo back into my hand. I give in to the urge to run my fingers over the boy’s face.

  After nearly a minute Sally asks if I’m okay.

  ‘Yeah.’ I hand her back the photograph and dig out the small photo of John I carry in my wallet, and then pass it to Sally. She’s probably seen his picture on television in the past couple of days anyway, but I still want her to see and hold a memory of John.

  ‘He looks like a happy kid.’

  I nod. The photo was taken only a couple of weeks before his abduction, when his life was full of promise. And this photo really does seem to capture his personality—as much as any photograph can.

  ‘There is a resemblance between John and our current victim. You think this is our guy’s victim type?’ she asks. ‘Blonde hair, blue eyes and thinner, smaller frames?’

  ‘The four boys were all Caucasian, all with blonde or light brown hair, blue or green eyes and yes, all were around the fiftieth percentile for their age in terms of height.’ It’s hard to group John in with the other three victims like he’s nothing more than a statistic, a victim to be analysed, but I know there will be many times in the ne
xt few days and weeks when I will need to be objective. To get anywhere, I need to think like a profiler, not a sister.

  Sally gauges the mood well, giving me a small, silent nod even though I know any kind of silence takes restraint on her part.

  Eventually, I say, ‘Anything else?’

  ‘The boy was wearing underwear, it was still intact around his pelvic bones. Plain, dark blue from Target. It’s with forensics. Other than that…I’m afraid I’ve got nothing.’ She hangs her head. ‘I need a fresher body to do much more for you. Nothing from the nails, no signs of major violence or trauma before death or as cause of death…’

  I sigh.

  She puts her hand on my shoulder. ‘I’m sorry, sweetie. This one might be a waiting game.’

  I wince again. Sally’s talking about waiting until the next body and hoping we find the victim soon after death. It’s one way to solve the crime, but waiting for another victim to be harmed…

  I bite into my bottom lip. ‘They might find something on the underwear.’

  ‘True.’ She pauses. ‘Can I…buy you lunch? Or maybe a drink?’

  I smile. ‘No. My parents are expecting me home.’ As it is, by the time I get home it will be a very late lunch but they said they’d wait.

  She nods. ‘Sure.’

  ‘Do you mind giving me a few minutes alone?’

  At first Sally seems confused. She’s used to this request from the deceased’s family, but Ted Strawasky’s not my family. ‘Okay…sure. Come to my office when you’re done and say goodbye?’

  ‘Of course.’

  Once she’s gone, I sit in the cold silence for several minutes. I know what I have to do, but the thought of delving into this boy’s mind, or the perpetrator’s, sickens me.

  Touching the gurney, I close my eyes and take deep, strong breaths. It doesn’t take long before the light-headedness hits me.

  I’m lying on a bed, chained to its post at my ankles. It’s dark, but I can make out a small table and two buckets in the corner. I’m freezing, naked except for underwear.

  A nearby door opens and closes and I hear whimpering a few metres away. But the footsteps come my way. Not me, please, not me.

  I come to with a start, fear coursing through my body. Is that what John went through every day for nine months? My legs give way and I collapse to the floor. Sitting on the floor next to the gurney, tears stream down my face.

  My poor John.

  An extra layer of foundation hides my splotchy eyes. I need to appear professional to Victoria Police’s profiler, Lily Murphy. I want her to include me in the profiling process as much as possible, to bounce ideas around together. And she’s not going to do that if she sees me as the victim’s sister rather than a fellow profiler. Mind you, her choice of venues is a little unusual—a bar. I would like to be somewhere private, although Lily assured me the bar was off the beaten track; based on her detailed instructions it’s certainly hard to find.

  I stop at the glass door labelled 112 and see Madame Brussels written in small script over the door. Melbourne has lots of hidden bars, and this is one of them. I bypass the lift and take the stairs to the second floor. Rounding the corner I see another doorway, directly opposite the elevator. Through the doorway is fake lawn and also a large balcony with spectacular views over Melbourne. Once I’m inside, the tennis theme becomes more obvious. The bar staff and two waiters are in old-fashioned tennis outfits, perhaps what you’d expect at an English country estate or elite tennis club in the sixties. The fake lawn covers the entire indoor area, with folding chairs, round tables and a couple of more comfortable-looking lounges. The bar is against the left-hand wall, and is surrounded by yesteryear tennis memorabilia. I scan the tables inside but there’s no sign of Lily, so I take a right onto the balcony. The tennis theme isn’t continued. Rather, outdoor tables and chairs are spotted throughout, with bar stools running along the outer edge so patrons can drink and look at the magnificent skyline, presently made even more dramatic by an incoming thunderstorm. I’ve always loved watching Melbourne’s spectacular summer storms.

  Lily Murphy is sitting at a table for two in the far corner, sipping a glass of white wine and pushing buttons on her phone. Her short black hair is ruffled expertly and contrasts red lips and red nails against tanned skin. Her tailored dark grey suit is complemented by fashionable but low heels. She’s about six years older than me, but years of sun worshipping make it seem more like ten.

  I’m moving towards her when she puts her phone down and takes a look around. She spots me instantly and stands up.

  ‘Sophie, hi.’

  ‘Hi, Lily.’

  We give each other a quick peck on the cheek.

  ‘It’s good to see you again, but I’m sorry it’s under these circumstances.’ Lily gives me a sympathetic smile.

  ‘Thanks.’

  We both sit down.

  ‘Interesting place,’ I say.

  ‘Yes. I found it about a year ago.’ She leans in closer. ‘Not exactly the cheapest bar in Melbourne, but it’s great for one or two drinks.’

  I nod, picking up the drinks menu and flicking through it. It’s not the most expensive bar I’ve been in, but it’s certainly not the cheapest either.

  ‘So, you arrived this morning?’

  ‘Uh huh.’

  ‘You must be exhausted. Jetlag is full on.’

  ‘It’s pretty bad, all right. Although I did manage a nap this afternoon.’ I always feel tired after a long flight, and prone to colds, dizziness and vagueness for a few days after. Then again, flying America to Australia is pretty much reversing your body clock, so it’s bound to play havoc. I can never understand the athletes who fly into Australia a few days before their event. I’d want at least a week, if not two, to fully acclimatise to the country’s weather and time zone.

  ‘And you saw Sally Burns today?’

  ‘Yeah. Around lunchtime.’

  ‘Anything?’

  I shake my head. ‘I think the profile’s going to be the important thing on this one.’

  She lets out a deep sigh. ‘If they follow the bloody thing.’

  I’m about to respond when a waiter in smart-casual, three-quarter-length tweed pants and a white, firm-fitting V-neck T-shirt asks me what I’ll have to drink.

  ‘A glass of wine…’ I pick up the list again and flick to the page. ‘…Diamond Valley Chardonnay, thanks.’

  ‘Coming right up.’

  I turn back to Lily. ‘So, still not much respect for profiling in the Vic Police?’

  ‘Not really.’ She takes a sip of wine. ‘Don’t know if there ever will be.’ A deep sigh. ‘What about the States?’

  ‘Full spectrum. Some cops swear by it, others think it’s crap; that it’s only for TV shows and thriller books. But it’s certainly used a lot more in America than here. Though the population difference makes it a more useful tool in the US.’

  She nods. ‘Wish I had dual citizenship.’

  One of the basic FBI entry requirements is American citizenship. ‘I’m lucky, all right.’ I pause for a few seconds. ‘But you have been asked to profile this case. You’re in the loop.’

  ‘Don’t know about in the loop, but I’ve been asked to provide a psychological offender profile and oversee a geographical profile too.’

  ‘Great. Maybe Faulkner knows what he’s doing after all.’

  Lily stifles a laugh mid-sip and just manages not to spray the table with white wine. ‘I forgot about you two.’

  I roll my eyes. ‘Don’t think he’ll ever forgive me for making Homicide before him.’

  ‘Probably not. Lucky you’re not still in it though, huh?’

  ‘That would be torture.’

  Another pause.

  ‘Bet your parents are glad to have you here.’ Her voice is gentle.

  ‘Yes.’ Is it my imagination or is Lily avoiding the real topic I came to discuss? The killer. I dive right in. ‘So, Ted Strawasky…and the others. What are your thoughts on it at the mome
nt?’ I could tell her my thoughts, but I don’t want to railroad her. Lily and I were friends and she knew of my interest in profiling and helped to nurture that interest, but there was never going to be room for two profilers in Victoria, and we both knew it. If it hadn’t been for the FBI and Andy Rivers’ job offer, my career choices would have been limited: accept my role as a cop until Lily resigned or retired, rally for her job going head-to-head against her, or move interstate. And the chance of an interstate move was remote, given only New South Wales and South Australia employ profilers, making only three such positions for the whole of Australia.

  It all worked out in the end, though.

  ‘You really want to do this?’

  I nod.

  ‘I don’t know, Soph. I don’t think it’s good for you…emotionally.’

  ‘Come on, Lily. I’m fine. And I need to do this.’

  ‘Mmm…’ She looks at me hard. ‘That’s what I’m worried about.’ Another silence, but then she dives in. ‘My thoughts…’ She takes another sip of wine. ‘They’re briefing me fully tomorrow morning, but I’ve had a quick look at the most recent file, Ted Strawasky, and discussed the previous victims with Detective Brad Shaw.’

  She’s interrupted by the waiter serving my Chardonnay. Once he’s gone, she continues. ‘I think we are looking at the same killer. In many ways he’s the classic preferential paedophile, of the sadistic type. Except that he keeps the boys for so long and dumps the bodies in their underwear.’

  I nod my head in agreement. Child molesters are usually classified as either “situational” or “preferential”. Situational offenders don’t have an exclusive and true sexual interest in children—rather they target children and other “easy” targets like the elderly or sick. Sometimes a stressor makes them turn to children as temporary sexual objects, because they are less threatening, and often a situational child abuser is in a long-term relationship. Other types of situational child molesters are mentally impaired or morally indiscriminate.

  On the other hand, preferential offenders actually prefer children and are generally not interested in sexual encounters with adults. They look at children through distorted eyes as providers of pleasure, and it’s unlikely they’re in any type of adult relationship.