by PD Martin
Some of the last photos are of John swimming and I see him, like I’m there, but I’m not me. I take a deep breath and let myself move fully into the vision—despite the intense fear of what I might see.
The boys line up on the block and I can see the competitive spirit burning in him. They touch their toes, ready, and then the starting pistol echoes through the small swimming stadium. The boys dive off their blocks; some quicker off the mark than others. He doesn’t disappoint and soon he’s in front, reminding me that he’s stronger than his little body looks. Swimming could have been his future…but it’s not the future I’ve got planned.
I’m disgusted by this man’s predatory thoughts and can’t stand the fact that he was watching and thinking about John. However, my repulsion and personal stake is actually kept at bay by thoughts of what he’s doing now. Or what his partner’s doing. Mum’s right—he can’t have anyone else. It’s got to end, now.
‘What was it, honey?’ Mum’s leaning in the doorway to the hall only a few metres away, but her voice is barely audible, like she’s not sure she wants to know.
‘How long have you been there?’
‘A while. You were…out. For a few minutes.’
A few minutes? It seemed like seconds.
‘John was at a swimming meet. He was watching him.’
Mum nods slowly, her face screwed up in pain. Do I see a hint of anger? It’s hard to tell with Mum.
She takes a deep breath and regains her composure. ‘You said all the boys were sporty.’
I nod. ‘Yup. If he doesn’t use sporting events to find his victims, he certainly watches the boys at them.’
Silence, and then Mum asks if I’m hungry—an abrupt shift, but one that I’m more than happy with.
‘Mum, you offered me food ten minutes ago.’
She gives a genuine, soft laugh. ‘You’ve been looking at photos for nearly two hours, darling.’
‘What?’
‘So, are you hungry?’
I stand up. ‘No. But I better wake up Darren.’
She nods. ‘Yes, it’s better if he doesn’t sleep too long. And we’ll have an early dinner.’
‘Okay, Mum.’ I resist the temptation to shake my head at Mum’s obsession with feeding us.
In my bedroom, Darren’s in a dead sleep and it takes lots of talking and nudging to rouse him.
‘What time is it?’ His voice is groggy.
‘Just after three.’
‘Whoa. I feel like shit.’
‘Uh huh. Force yourself up, and you’ll feel better soon.’
‘Really?’
I smile and give him a kiss. ‘Trust me.’
Even with my words of wisdom it takes Darren nearly five minutes to actually sit up on the edge of the bed. ‘Oh, man. You sure I can’t lie back down for a bit?’
‘No way. Then you’ll never get to sleep tonight.’
He nods, his eyelids bobbing up and down heavily. ‘Okay.’ He stands up.
‘I’ll get you a drink.’ Jetlag’s always more pronounced if you’re dehydrated and two coffees with the scones wouldn’t have helped.
‘I’ll be out in a sec,’ he says, pulling on a T-shirt.
‘Okay.’
Less than a minute later Darren joins me in the kitchen, wearing jeans and the T-shirt.
‘Water okay?’
‘Sure.’ He’s got a funny smile on his face and I suddenly realise—I’m fussing like Mum does.
I give him the water and whisper quietly enough that Mum won’t hear. ‘Sorry, guess Mum’s rubbing off on me.’
‘Hey, no complaints from me.’
I narrow my eyes, then realise Darren’s baiting me. He knows fussing in the kitchen isn’t part of the package deal with me. Mind you, if truth be told, I loved it as a kid. Loved the homemade cookies in my lunchbox, the freshly made meals every night, the weekends full of yummy, healthy food with none of the crap you get in foods now. I sigh…maybe I am turning into my Mum.
‘What are these?’ Darren’s looking at the photo albums.
‘Photos of John,’ I say.
Darren nods and looks at me more closely. ‘How’d you go?’
The question has two meanings—how did I cope emotionally and did I see anything.
‘I had a vision from the killer’s perspective. He was at one of John’s swim meets.’
Darren keeps his face blank, probably more for Mum’s benefit than mine. But I don’t want to think about it either.
I take a deep breath. ‘We can start whenever you’re ready.’
Darren nods.
‘We’ll have dinner at six, Darren. But you’ll probably need a snack, yes?’
‘Um…’ Darren rubs his belly. ‘I have woken up a bit hungry, actually.’
Mum gives him a big smile and it makes me wonder if Darren really is hungry or if he’s just trying to make Mum happy.
‘Cheese and biscuits? Dips? Or a sandwich perhaps?’
‘A sandwich would be great, thanks.’
Within minutes Darren’s eating a ham and cheese sandwich and I’ve somehow ended up with a few crackers and cheese on a small plate. Once we’re done, Darren clears the plates into the dishwasher, despite Mum’s protests.
‘Come on,’ I say. ‘Let’s go through everything together.’
In the study, I close and lock the door before spreading out the crime-scene photos. It’s by no means complete, but it’s as much as I’m ever going to get my hands on, especially with Faulkner heading up Homicide. I also write all the murders and missing persons out on index cards—a whiteboard would be better for a visual representation of our timeline, but Dad doesn’t have one. Instead, each victim gets a small card, with his details, his status (missing or deceased), his age, location and a quick note about any pertinent details, like the fact that Ted Strawasky’s behaviour had changed a few weeks before his abduction. The last index card is for Curtis Baker. If we can save this one…this victim. Maybe it’d somehow make up for all the others.
‘I hope we find him.’ I put a photo of Curtis that the Bakers gave me underneath his index card.
‘Me too.’
‘Mum said she doesn’t care about justice for John. About making the killer pay. She only wants to make sure it doesn’t happen to other families.’
‘She’s an amazing woman, your Mom.’
‘Amazing? Her complacency makes me want to shake her, yell at her. This man took everything from her, from us, and she’s okay with it?’
‘It’s not complacency, Soph. You know how differently people react to these situations. And when have you ever seen a victim’s family thirty years after the fact? I think your Mom’s dealt with it very well.’
‘By sticking her head in the sand.’
He rests his hands on his thighs. ‘No, Soph. That’s her daughter’s coping mechanism.’
I scrunch up my face. I want to cry. ‘That was low.’
‘I’m trying everything I can to make you see sense.’
Silence.
I look at the photo of Curtis Baker again and Darren follows my gaze.
‘When it comes to serial cases like this,’ he says, ‘the only way to keep your sanity is to think of the ones you’ve saved, the potential victims, and not all the ones you could have or should have saved.’
‘Yes, that’s the attitude we need to have. To cope with what we see in law enforcement. But it’s not the way a mother should deal with it.’
‘Don’t you see, Soph? She’s done with anger, with denial, with depression. She’s accepted it. There’s nothing you or your Mom can do to change what happened to John, and she knows that.’
‘Maybe if I’d told people about my nightmares. Taken it seriously.’
‘You were eight…you couldn’t save him. Besides, the killer would have found a way to get to John. You know that. Guys like this…once they select their victims, they don’t just change their minds or move onto another target. Short of fleeing the country, I doubt anything or
anyone could have saved John.’
Part of me sees the logic, knows that what Darren is saying is right, but there’s still a big part of me that feels like I failed John. He was my brother and I knew something horrible had happened to him. Helplessness washes over me and bile rises as my thoughts turn to the man’s hands closing around John’s throat—the vision I’ve replayed so many times. I push the imagery away and the nausea fades, ever so slightly. I was eight…and Darren’s right about predators fixating on specific targets. Although they may have general victim types, once they’ve chosen the one, not much stands in their way. That’s why I had to go into law enforcement…to be the person standing between some sicko and his next victim.
‘Maybe you’re right,’ I eventually say.
‘I am right. And you have to accept that, like your Mom has.’
I’m silent for a bit before I say. ‘There is one thing…one thing that would have saved John.’
Darren looks puzzled.
‘If the killer had been caught before he targeted John.’
‘Yes.’ Darren leans back, obviously relieved. ‘And that’s all we can try to do now. Catch him.’
We return our focus to the photos and notes sprawled across the floor.
‘I heard back from Lily Murphy. No one in the New Zealand prison system matches our dates.’
‘The gap.’
I nod. ‘Maybe you’re onto something with the multiple personality disorder theory. If meds kept the alters at bay and then something happened a few years ago that meant he went off his meds…’
‘Some sort of stressor could cause him to abandon medication.’
A stressor sets off lots of criminal sprees—especially things like relationship break-ups and losing your job. So what did it for our guy? Or are we talking about the submissive personality type from an old duo, who’s teamed up with a new partner?
I’m just about to discuss this when my phone rings. Private number again.
‘Sophie Anderson.’
‘Soph, it’s Lily Murphy.’
‘Hi.’
‘We might have something…a victim who survived.’
‘What?’
‘Don’t get too excited. It’s all very vague at the moment, but I knew you’d want to know straight away.’
‘Yes, yes. Go on.’
‘My contact in New Zealand just rang me back. He’s been going through all the hard copy files again, just to see if he’d missed anything, and there was something strange.’
‘Yes?’ I try to keep the desperation out of my voice but I doubt I manage it.
‘In 1982 they found a boy estimated to be eleven or twelve wandering by the side of the road just outside of Dunedin. It was twelve degrees, but he was wearing only shorts and a T-shirt. An elderly couple picked him up and took him to a hospital. The police interviewed the boy when he was well enough, but he couldn’t tell them his name, age, where he was from...nothing. Didn’t even know how he got onto the road.’
‘So maybe he was a victim.’
‘Exactly. The strange thing is, the police never found the boy’s parents, never found out who he was.’
Chapter 11
Darren leans forward, obviously realising from my face that something’s up. I switch the phone to speaker.
‘Do they know now? Does he remember what happened?’ I ask.
‘Not sure. The contact’s chasing him down as we speak. After he was found, he went into foster care for three years—one family during that time, one other child, apparently very warm and loving towards him. After what he must have gone through, I hope he found a happy life.’
If he was the victim of a sadistic paedophile, the trauma would affect him forever. But with lots of love and a little luck...maybe he could live a relatively normal life. At first it was probably just as well he didn’t remember. But now—now we need him to remember.
I chew on my bottom lip, wondering who this child-turned-man is today. ‘Did he take on the foster parents’ family name?’
‘Uh huh. They chose Anthony as the first name and the last name is Wake. I’m also running his name over here. Just in case.’
‘Good idea.’ I pause. ‘Anthony Wake.’ I let the name roll off my tongue and try to imagine how I’ll feel when I talk to him. To interview someone who may have experienced what John and the others went through...and lived to tell the tale. ‘He could break the case.’
‘If he remembers, or we can get him to remember, he could at least give us a sketch of the suspect, or what he looked like back then.’ Lily’s voice is full of hope. A concrete lead.
‘A face...’ I say softly, finding it hard to impose a real face onto the shadows from my nightmares. ‘And if he remembers, he’d certainly be able to tell us if there was one perp or two.’
It’s possible Anthony Wake’s kept the painful memories repressed all these years. And if that’s the case, drudging up old memories of unspeakable trauma is probably the last thing he wants to do. He managed to repress everything about himself, even his name, his parents...if he had to blank everything out to cope with what he’d been through, what sort of a man would he be now? Could he have moved on? Become a successful person and a family man?
More likely, his demons have driven him to drugs or alcohol to keep up with the numbing effect of repressed memories. These thoughts puncture my hope. Please let him give us something.
Lily’s voice brings me back. ‘Hold on. I’ve got a call on my mobile.’
I listen to Muzak while she takes the call, hoping it’s about Anthony Wake. It shouldn’t take long to locate the foster parents, locate Anthony Wake from a driver’s licence or car registration. Most men in their forties have a car or licence, but if the investigators strike out on that front, maybe they’ll find a criminal record or tax file number.
‘God I hope Anthony Wake is alive,’ I say, suddenly realising it’s possible he’s dead. To have such a good lead snatched away from us...after thirty years of wondering and anguish?
Darren holds my hand. ‘She’s probably talking to New Zealand now.’
I nod. ‘I know. I hope they’ve found him...and alive.’
‘Me too.’
‘Soph?’ Lily Murphy comes back on the line.
‘Uh huh.’ I gulp, hoping it’s inaudible to Lily.
‘We’ve found him. Our end.’
Our end? ‘In Australia?’
‘Uh huh.’
Emigrating from New Zealand to Australia is quite common, especially in some occupations where Australia’s larger population provides more career opportunities.
‘Where?’
‘Melbourne.’
‘Shit.’ I pause, my mind flitting through all the possibilities. What are the chances of getting this lucky? Could it truly be a coincidence? ‘You think it’s luck or something more ominous?’
‘That thought’s crossed my mind. I’ve got an address and I’m heading there now with Detectives Shaw and Danahay.’
‘Any chance I can tag along?’
‘Might be able to swing it because I don’t think Faulkner’s coming. Beneath him to question a witness. He only went to the Baker’s home because he knew there’d be press there eventually.’
I nod, but in some ways it’s fair enough. The media prefer to speak to someone as high up the chain as possible, and having the head of Homicide on-site makes a statement. However, the media doesn’t know about Anthony Wake. Not yet, and hopefully not for a while. I certainly don’t want them getting a whiff of him until we can determine if he’s a victim and witness, or a possible suspect in these latest crimes. A victim of the perp who was active in the seventies becoming the perp in these latest abductions is a possibility we have to explore. Although it wouldn’t explain how the perp was able to dispose of Ted Strawasky’s body so close to where John was found so many years ago.
‘Go to Wake’s house and then call me. I’ll try to smooth it out with Shaw.’
‘I think he’ll be okay with it.’
‘Yeah, me too. But just call me before you come in. That way I can confirm Faulkner’s not on scene and not about to turn up.’
‘Sure.’
‘And bring your Yank if you like.’
I give Darren an awkward grin. ‘You’re on speaker, Lily. He’s here with me now.’
‘Oh...oops. Sorry, Darren isn’t it?’
Darren leans forward. ‘Hey, Lily.’
‘Hi. Um…Yank’s a term of endearment, you know.’
Darren smiles. ‘Whatever you say.’
‘Sorry. I’ll see you guys there in thirty. The address is 15 Viewbank Road, Eltham. You might even beat us there.’
Eltham’s an almost rural-style suburb in Melbourne’s north-east suburbs, which gives Lily an extra ten or so kilometres more to travel than us.
‘See you soon.’ I hang up and go straight to Dad’s safe and take out my 9mm gun.
‘What are you doing, Soph?’
‘What does it look like I’m doing? It’s not that uncommon for the victim to become the perpetrator, you know. And the fact that Anthony Wake now lives in Victoria, right where the abductions and murders are happening...’
‘But one of the bodies was dumped in the exact location as your brother. The only person who’d be able to replicate that is the original killer or maybe law enforcement.’
Darren’s bringing up one of my stumbling points, and it’s a good one, but not good enough for me to even consider losing the 9mm. ‘I know.’ I shrug, loading the gun and taking the spare clip with me. ‘Better to be safe than sorry.’
Darren hesitates. ‘You got a license for that?’
‘Of course, Darren. You really think I’d stash an unlicensed gun in my father’s safe?’
His eyes narrow. ‘Okay, let’s put it another way. Are you allowed to bring it with you? Carry it concealed? You said the gun laws here were tight.’
‘They are.’ I chew on my bottom lip. ‘My license is for a handgun being used for target shooting, at an approved shooting rage. But I could be going to a shooting range after visiting Anthony Wake, right?’