Coming Home

by PD Martin

  The sadistic paedophile is intent on harming his victims physically. Typically the victim is a stranger who the paedophile stalks, rather than enticing or seducing, and the child usually dies during the sexual attack or directly afterwards.

  ‘Keeping them for so long suggests a relationship substitute,’ I say. ‘He must nurture them or care for them to some extent.’ As the words leave my mouth I’m reminded of the vision I had—those boys were not being cared for or nurtured. Obviously they were fed and the buckets in the corner could have been used as toilets or washbasins, but that’s basic survival not “caring” in the true sense of the word. Still, for a sadistic paedophile, not killing them immediately is caring. But perhaps the most important part of my vision was that there seemed to be more than one boy being held at a time. How am I going to back up that possibility?

  ‘A lover of children.’ Lily shudders at her reference to one definition of a paedophile. The description given by the American Psychiatric Association’s Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders is a little more precise: “the acts or fantasy of engaging in sexual activity with pre-pubertal children as a repeatedly preferred or exclusive method of achieving sexual excitement”.

  ‘Certainly when you think about the type of person we’re dealing with there is a level of care there. The bodies don’t show extreme violence…no broken bones or other signs on the bones of prolonged violence. A sadistic personality type usually tortures his victims physically as well as sexually.’

  ‘Yes,’ she says, ‘but our guy still kills them.’

  Most criminal psychology texts propose that only sadistic child molesters kill. ‘Is it possible we’re dealing with two killers?’ I say. ‘One who chooses and abducts the boys, and one who protects them for months on end until eventually the sadistic personality type dominates the protector and kills the boy?’

  Lily scrunches up her face. ‘Could be. It might explain the underwear too.’

  ‘The second offender covers them up to restore the boys’ modesty or to hide what the dominant person has done?’

  ‘Uh huh.’

  Problem with that is the boy I saw in my vision was wearing underwear while he was being held captive—it wasn’t a post-mortem action. And he was freezing. Keeping them in only their underwear, even during the colder months and nights, is a form of torture that would fit with a sadistic offender. But I can’t tell Lily any of this.

  She stares at the skyline in contemplation, taking a few sips of wine. ‘There’s also no mutilation, that we know of.’

  ‘No.’ Sadistic offenders often decapitate the body or in the case of male victims will actually cut off the victim’s penis and insert it into their anus or mouth. Problem is, with only bones it’s possible the body was defiled in this way. Decapitation is easy to see, but removal of soft tissue, which then decomposes completely, isn’t. Sally’s right, a body that hasn’t decomposed fully sure would help us. Then again, Cameron Howell’s body was found six weeks after death, and there was no evidence of soft tissue damage there.

  I sit in silence for several seconds, oddly managing to appreciate the Aussie wine despite the gruesome topic. Maybe having another profiling professional to talk with helps me normalise the experience. It’s certainly helping my objectivity. ‘On the plus side, sadistic paedophiles are more likely to have some sort of criminal record.’

  Lily nods. ‘A sociopath prone to aggressive and antisocial behaviour, and therefore on our database somewhere.’ She swirls the few mouthfuls of white wine left in her glass. ‘What if we had two offenders back in the seventies and then the sadistic personality type died?’ She stops swirling and leans forward. ‘The abductions cease, but then something happened recently to trigger the more submissive personality into action.’

  ‘And he starts playing both roles in the dynamic.’ I nod. ‘I like it as a theory to explain the time lag between vics.’

  ‘So do I.’ Lily takes a breath. ‘It’s also possible the submissive found a new partner; another dominant personality type who would continue the abduction and murder cycle with him. The submissive could have guided him, so every element of the crimes from the seventies is replicated.’

  I scrape my teeth over my bottom lip. ‘It wouldn’t be the first time one person in a submissive-dominant crime partnership has been replaced.’ It’s usually the dominant personality seeking out a replacement, but there’s no reason it couldn’t happen the other way around.

  ‘No.’

  ‘And a submissive personality type could easily take thirty years to find a suitable partner. They’re not going to be as aggressive in their search as a dominant person would be.’

  Lily nods and I take a large sip of Chardonnay. ‘Do you think the perp, or perps, might hold more than one boy at a time?’

  She leans back in her chair. ‘The times of death are well spaced out. No overlap.’

  I purse my lips together. ‘For the victims we know of. There could be others.’

  ‘True…I guess it’s impossible to say, then.’

  Problem is, I know there is victim overlap, but I can’t do anything more than raise it as a possibility—a possibility we can revisit later.

  I play with the stem of my glass. ‘I could help, you know.’

  ‘Help? I think I’m capable enough, thanks.’

  I’m a little thrown by Lily’s sudden defensiveness. One minute we’re brainstorming and the next she’s taking offence at an offer to help. Maybe the Force has been giving her a harder time than even she’s admitting.

  ‘Of course you are, Lily. You gave me my start and I’ll always remember that.’ Her face relaxes slightly so I keep going. ‘I know you’re used to working solo, but there are benefits in working together. We did it a lot in Quantico.’

  Her lips purse. ‘This isn’t Quantico.’

  ‘That’s not what I’m saying. Besides, you were trained out of Quantico, with the FBI’s long-distance course. You respect the Bureau’s knowledge and methods, yes?’

  She shrugs. ‘Yes. But they make mistakes and there are other people, other countries, doing great work in profiling.’

  ‘I know.’ I sit for a bit, trying to think what I can say to salvage the situation. Faulkner’s already cut me off from the homicide cops, I can’t afford to be cut off from Lily, too. She’s my only way in now. Sally’s been great, but there’s only so much information I can glean from her work.

  I put my hand on Lily’s arm. ‘Lily, you’ve always been my mentor and if it hadn’t been for you I wouldn’t have gotten into the Bureau. I know what great work you do for this state even if the rest of your colleagues don’t.’

  She looks down. ‘I’m sorry…’ She blows out a forceful breath. ‘It’s been a bad day…a bad year.’ She takes the last of her wine in one large gulp.

  ‘We can bounce ideas off one another,’ I say, ‘discuss similar cases here and in the States. And no one has to know. Believe me, I’m more than happy to keep off Faulkner’s radar, that’s for sure.’

  ‘I don’t know, Soph. I’m still not convinced this is the best thing—for you.’

  ‘Come on, Lily. You can keep an eye on me.’

  Another long pause before she gives me a little smile. ‘Okay. But it’ll have to be real unofficial. You’re not even a cop here any more, let alone part of the Vic Police. This could get me into some deep shit.’

  ‘Don’t worry, it’ll be our little secret.’

  She nods. ‘I still need to sit down with all the case files and that’s on my list for tomorrow. Chances are I’ll see something more significant then.’

  I resist the urge to tell Lily that I’ve got the case files for the first three victims…and that after all these years I know there’s nothing there that would add to our discussion or direct an offender profile in another direction. That I’m praying Ted Strawasky holds the key.

  Thin white walls create a makeshift room, with old and stained carpet tiles on the floor, a plain wooden bed with thin
mattress, a harsh fluorescent light and two buckets.

  The boy wakes up, his head thumping. He instinctively rubs his eyes and then squints to get his bearings. A far wall has one window, but it’s boarded up from the outside so only a few slivers of natural light break through the darkness.

  Rain falls heavily and loudly above him, the sound of plump rain drops on a corrugated steel roof.

  ‘Hello?’ His voice is hoarse and frail.

  The only response is footsteps—large, heavy footsteps coming towards the locked door.

  Chapter 5

  I wait until 9am, assuming the peak-hour rush would have subsided, before heading outside with my briefcase to Mum’s car.

  ‘We’re ready.’

  Looking up, I thump my head on the car’s doorframe, briefcase still in hand. Mum and Dad are standing at the front of the car. They’re dressed casually, like they’re staying in for the day, however, Mum’s handbag tells the real story. There was no mention of this at breakfast—strategy is in force.

  Once I’ve deposited my briefcase on the floor of the front passenger side I stand back up and lean on the doorframe. I make direct eye contact with them both. ‘I’m going by myself.’

  Mum shakes her head and Dad gives a little shrug.

  ‘Guys, I’m working.’

  Mum moves closer. ‘No, you’re not, Sophie. This is about John, about us. We’re coming. And you need our support, even if you don’t realise it.’

  ‘I’m fine, Mum. Honestly.’

  I look to Dad for help, but instead he holds out one hand. ‘I’m driving.’

  ‘What?’

  He jiggles his hand expectantly. ‘Come on, hand them over. Like your mum says, you need our support.’ His eyes flick to Mum. ‘Besides, you’re still jetlagged and it’s a long drive.’

  ‘I really don’t need you guys to hold my hand. And Euroa’s only a couple of hours’ drive.’

  Another shrug. ‘Whatever. Hand ’em over.’ Dad’s insistent and a look back at Mum reveals nothing but resolve. She’s hard enough to fight when it’s two against one in my favour, let alone when Dad’s in her corner.

  I hand the keys to Dad. ‘Don’t suppose you guys will wait in the car?’

  Dad chuckles and Mum gives me a quick frown before moving into the front seat.

  Ugh…relegated to the back seat, too. On the plus side, I might be able to get some work done. I’ve never really suffered from motion sickness, so reading and working should be a breeze in the back seat…time to work on the Bureau profiles.

  We’ve only been on the road for about ten minutes when my mobile rings—private number. That could mean anything, but I’m hoping it’s Darren.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Hey, honey.’

  ‘Hi, Darren.’ I spoke to Darren twenty-four hours ago, soon after I landed, but it’s still nice to hear his voice.

  ‘How’d you go yesterday?’

  ‘Good and bad, I guess. The police don’t want me to get involved, but I’ve got enough contacts and friends here that it looks like I’ll be able to work around that.’ I look out to get my bearings…corner of Burke and Doncaster Roads. ‘I saw the remains of the recent victim yesterday and spoke to the profiler too. She’s agreed to work with me, unofficially.’

  ‘That’s great, honey.’ A pause. ‘You up to it?’

  ‘I think it’s the only way I’ll stay sane over here. I can’t just sit at home waiting for the cops to call with news.’

  ‘It goes against human nature. Not to mention your personality.’

  ‘Uh huh.’

  Darren and I witness the effects of crime and murder on loved ones on a regular basis. Although everyone’s different, it’s common for relatives to feel the need to get involved somehow. They’ll drive around for hours looking for their missing child—it’s like looking for a needle in a haystack, literally, but they can’t sit at home doing nothing.

  ‘I’ve got some bad news on this end. One of the other detectives is on vacation for another week and the captain says he can’t spare me.’

  ‘Oh, sweetie.’ I can’t keep the disappointment from my voice.

  ‘I know. I know, and I’m sorry. I went in hard, but he wouldn’t budge. At least you’ve got your folks.’

  ‘For better or worse.’

  Darren chuckles. ‘You’ve only been there one day.’

  ‘We’re driving up to Euroa at the moment to see the mother of the latest victim. Mum and Dad too.’ I raise my voice. ‘Apparently I need the support.’

  Darren laughs again. ‘Maybe you do.’ He takes a breath. ‘And maybe they need this as much as you.’

  I grimace. I hate it when other people can see what’s right in front of me. Mum needs to see this woman, hear about her son. I should have realised that.

  ‘I think you might be right,’ I concede.

  ‘So Euroa? That near Melbourne? Near Shepparton?’

  ‘It’s about one-hundred and fifty kilometres north of Melbourne, and Shepparton’s another fifty kilometres further on.’

  ‘Miles?’

  ‘Sorry…’ I do a rough calculation in my head. ‘About one-twenty from Melbourne and another thirty on to Shepparton.’

  ‘Sounds like you’ve got a big day ahead of you. It’s probably just as well your folks can help with the driving, especially when you’re jetlagged.’

  I scrunch up my face. ‘Did you already speak to my dad this morning?’

  Darren laughs again. ‘That bad, huh?’

  ‘Almost word-for-word.’

  ‘Well, you know what they say…great minds.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah.’

  A little pause, then Darren says softy, ‘So, tell me about yesterday.’

  I take Darren through my three major meetings—Detective Brad Shaw, Sally Burns and Lily Murphy.

  ‘Sounds like a busy few hours.’

  ‘Yeah. And then last night I rang Mrs Strawasky, the mother of the most recent vic, and organised to see her this morning.’

  ‘Did you tell her who you were?’

  ‘You mean John?’ I catch myself biting my lip—just saying John’s name is difficult.

  ‘Uh huh.’

  ‘No. Just said I was a profiler and needed to talk to her about the case.’

  ‘Impersonating a police officer?’ Darren’s tone is serious.

  ‘I never said I was a profiler for the Victoria Police, just that I was a profiler.’

  ‘Mmm…guess you’re in the clear legally, but you’ll be leaving some pissed-off cops in your wake.’

  ‘That, I can handle.’

  Silence, then, ‘So will you tell her about John?’

  I sigh. ‘I really don’t know. Mum and Dad’s presence may force my hand.’

  Mum turns around from the front seat and raises an eyebrow at me. She could be listening intentionally into the conversation, but at the same time it’s almost impossible to tune out when someone’s right next to you. I wound up listening to half a domestic for most of the train trip from Parliament Station to Camberwell last night.

  ‘You might find your folks are a help rather than a hindrance.’

  ‘Mmm…we’ll see.’

  ‘Anything else planned for the day?’

  ‘I’m meeting Lily Murphy at her house tonight. She’s got a briefing with Homicide this morning and will then spend all day going over the files. I need to stay under the radar, so I won’t be going into her office.’

  ‘Fair enough. She’s gotta protect her job.’

  ‘I know. I just hope we’re up to the challenge.’

  ‘You will be.’

  I bite into my lip again. ‘I don’t know, Darren. Lily’s probably only ever profiled two, maybe three paedophiles of this nature and my track record’s not exactly set, either.’ Thankfully.

  ‘You’ll do great.’ Darren’s silent for a bit. ‘It’s not pretty, though.’ Barely checked anger seeps through his voice, and that makes me feel incredibly glad that I have him to talk to about a
ll of this.

  We pull off the Hume Highway at the Euroa exit. It’s only three kilometres before Dad takes a left into the township.

  ‘Is this the way?’

  Dad shakes his head. ‘No, but what are you going to do if Mrs Strawasky’s only got instant?’

  I smile. ‘You know me too well, Dad.’

  He gives me a grin in the rear-vision mirror. ‘Well, I could use the coffee too. And a stretch.’

  ‘Good idea, Bob.’

  I look at my watch—11.10am. ‘We’ll have to be quick. I said we’d be there late morning.’

  Dad nods. ‘And soon it will be afternoon.’ He slows down. ‘Bakery, supermarket, antiques…’ Dad reels off the shops as we crawl up the main street.

  ‘There’s a café on the left here,’ Mum says. ‘And another one a few doors down.’

  ‘Nope, I’ve spotted our place.’ Dad swings to the right and parks in one of the marked ninety-degree spaces, right in front of a chocolate shop-café hybrid.

  ‘Perfect, Bob. I should be able to get a nice box of chocolates for Mrs Strawasky here.’

  ‘A box of chocolates, Mum?’

  She turns around. ‘Her neighbours, relatives and friends will bring her food, and lots of it. But there’ll be times when she can’t face food. One or two chocolates, on the other hand, will keep her energy up a little, and give her some form of comfort.’

  Although Mum’s tone is pleasant and matter-of-fact, I feel like I’ve been put in my place. Did people bring her chocolates? Is that what got her through the first few days? I still can’t remember any of it. It’s like it all happened to someone else.

  ‘Sorry, Mum. You’re right, that does sound perfect.’

  We tumble out of the car, and I’m instantly hit by the dry heat. It’s going to be a dry, hot summer if it’s like this in November. It’s been just over two hours, and we’re all stiff. After a few instinctive stretches, we head into the small shop. Inside, there are chairs and tables for about twelve people, with another six stools along a window bench. A lady in her late fifties to early sixties, dressed in layers of clothing similar in style to Sally Burns, stands behind the counter. She wears her long grey hair piled into a bun, with an intricate system of diamante pins.