The Kristina Melina Omnibus: First Kill, Second Cut, Third Victim

by Laurent Boulanger

  I laughed and took his hand in mine. ‘Ah, Frank, stop asking me to marry you. You know how I feel about us. You know it’s never going to happen.’

  Frank was persistent but harmless. He still hadn’t gotten over the fact that I wasn’t interested in a relationship with him. Maybe he thought it was a phase I was going through, and then one day, when my eyes would open, I would see the light, take him into my arms and be happy forever after.

  But it was never going to happen.

  I didn’t love Frank, not in a sexual sense, and never would.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, looking down to the carpet. ‘I don’t want to be a nuisance. You know, it’s just so hard being me, and then there’s you—’

  ‘You don’t have to explain yourself. It’s okay, I understand. I’m really flattered. I wish I could make it up to you.’

  He smiled like a little boy, and I wanted to hug him but was afraid it would only encourage him to carry on like a love-sick puppy.

  Suddenly, I grabbed his empty glass, stood from the couch and walked back to the kitchen bench. ‘Do you want another drink?’

  ‘I—’

  ‘Yeah? Cause I’m having one. You know, apparently, if you drink two litres of water a day, you don’t have to worry about your cholesterol.’

  ‘Really?’ He forced his interest.

  ‘Yeah, cause apparently, it cleans up all the shit you’ve been eating all week out of your system. And in your case, being a bachelor at the age of... how old are you now?’

  ‘Forty-eight.’

  ‘That’s right, forty-eight. At forty-eight, you must have a lot of blocked arteries. Do you actually cook something when you get home? Or are you like one of those TV cops who eat on the run all the time?’

  ‘I drink a lot of water, Katrina. You know I drink a lot of water. You’re only trying to avoid the conversation we were having.’

  I brought him back the glass of water filled to the brim and said, ‘I’m not trying to avoid anything. It’s just that we’ve gone through this over and over, and I don’t see the point of pushing it further. And, anyway, you know I’m having a relationship at the moment. I’ve got enough problems as it is without having to think about what the hell I’m going to do with you.’

  He stared at me blankly, searching for a response. He looked hurt, but hell, I was tired of his nonsense. He was nearly half a century old and not mature enough to face defeat.

  ‘You know, Frank,’ I went on, ‘if you want my opinion, maybe you should advertise in one of those singles’ magazines? What about the newspapers? I see ads every day in there.’

  ‘I’m not desperate. You make it sound like all I need is just anyone out there.’

  I paced to the other side of the lounge room. ‘Okay, okay, forget I said anything. It’s none of my business. What about interrogating that Malcom kid? Can we do it this afternoon? Phillip’s not coming until tonight, and I don’t know where the hell Michael is.’

  He glanced in my direction, but I was avoiding eye contact. I just wanted to get on with my work.

  ‘Sure. Maybe you’d like me to wait in the car.’

  ‘That would be good.’

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  It never crossed my mind that Malcom lived with his parents. Of course, he would. He was only seventeen. What seventeen year old would live in Albert Park all by himself unless he inherited a home or a ridiculous amount of money?

  Most homes in the area fetched not less than $300,000, but half a million was the average. This realisation made me wonder how Linda Coleman lived in the area. She dressed like someone who would look more at home in Footscray or Dandenong, two Melbourne suburbs not known for setting fashion trends.

  Mrs Sternwood, Malcom’s mother, received me at the door.

  It was 3.02 p.m., and I was tired from lack of sleep the previous night. As usual, heart-wrenching cases drained me mentally and emotionally, so much so that my nights were spent tossing and turning.

  Frank was waiting in the Lancer, just in case something went wrong, although I couldn’t imagine what at such an early stage. He suggested Malcom might try to make a run for it once I got him cornered into admitting he killed Tracy Noland. A possibility, but Frank always had an over-zealous imagination from watching too many cop shows and reading too much crime fiction.

  When I came knocking on the front door of the free-standing single-fronted Victorian home, I could hear the sound of a vacuum cleaner in the hallway.

  The vacuum cleaner stopped at the same time as I swallowed.

  When the door opened, a tall, slender woman with dark hair, dressed in an elegant white cotton dress, gave me a look which clearly indicated I was unwelcome. Her eyes were grey and emotionless, and her lips pinched together as if she had already decided I was someone who deserved to be treated second-best.

  I introduced myself, flashing my ID in front of her face.

  I explained I wanted to talk to Malcom in regard to the death of Tracy Noland. She gave me a cold glare and I added, ‘I’m trying to get as much information as possible. And that means interviewing as many people as I can.’

  I could tell she knew I was lying from the crease on her face. Her hands jumped to her hips, blocking the entrance to her home, protecting her family from the enemy.

  ‘You’re not going to try to frame him?’ she said tartly, ‘Cause you’d be wasting your time. He didn’t do anything. Malcom is not that kind of person. I know, I’m his mother.’

  Well, that wasn’t very convincing since I had a twelve-year old son and knew little about him. Being his mother certainly didn’t make me an expert on what was going on in his mind. Maybe it was different for other mothers.

  ‘So you don’t object if I talk to him?’ I asked.

  Silence.

  She crossed her arms over her chest. ‘That’s up to him, isn’t it?’ she finally said.

  I moved forward up the steps. ‘Let’s ask him.’

  ‘No, no,’ she protested, one hand in front of my chest. ‘You wait here. I’ll ask him.’

  ‘Sure, whatever.’

  She disappeared, slamming the door in my face.

  I glanced around me, noticing the immaculately-kept rose bushes along a picket fence which led to the doorway. The grass had been freshly cut, and everything in the front yard looked as if it had been prepared for a display home. These people must have had nothing to do during the day, or they had a landscape gardener attending to their every wish.

  The woman came back within two minutes and reluctantly led me into the house.

  Malcom agreed to see me in his room.

  He was a short guy for seventeen. Brown hair, sparkling blue eyes and a bit of fluff on his upper lip. He wore green cords, which I hadn’t seen since the seventies, and a v-neck T-shirt. He smiled and gave me a limp handshake.

  I sat on the edge of his single bed for lack of anywhere else to sit. In a glance, I examined my surroundings. The room smelled enclosed, as if the windows had been sealed since the beginning of time. Other than that, everything was well kept, and in its place, just like the front yard. Maybe he was the landscape gardener.

  A large wardrobe stood in one corner of the room, next to the main window. I noticed neatly piled, grey cardboard boxes on top of the wardrobe. There was a study desk free from clutter or any hint of disorder. The white-painted walls were bare from pictures or posters of any kind. Was this normal for someone who was seventeen? Straight away I thought about compulsive behaviour, an attitude which tied in with serial killers and other criminals, according to my eighteen-month training at the FBI in Quantico. The room showed a need for control, a need to manipulate one’s surroundings, to be in command of one’s environment.

  Malcom’s big blue eyes looked into mine, trying to figure out what kind of person I was. He seemed at ease with himself as if I was none other than a second-hand dealer evaluating the contents of his room.

  We introduced ourselves and smiled at each other, the way strangers do when the
y’re forced to meet for the first time. He mentioned something about the weather, and I said that indeed it wasn’t a day to stay indoors. This purposeless conversation went on for another three minutes. But it was all part of the process of interrogating or interviewing someone, making them feel at ease, letting them realise that you were just another person doing your job.

  ‘I hear you knew Tracy Noland quite well,’ I said suddenly, deciding to cut to the chase.

  He was only seventeen, but the way he checked me out from head to toes sent a chill down my spine. There was young lust in his eyes, and that reminded me of Jason’s warning that the young man had only thing on his mind. Maybe I was being paranoid, I wasn’t sure.

  ‘I wouldn’t say quite well,’ he mumbled. ‘Yeah, I knew her. We hung around and talked. She was interesting to talk to.’ He played with his fingers. ‘We had a lot in common. I know it sounds strange, especially when she was so much younger than me, but, yeah, we had very much in common, which is far more than most people I know.’

  Immediately I figured out the young man wasn’t half an idiot. He had already assessed the situation and was leading the way. Or maybe it was his mother who lectured him properly before I walked in the room.

  ‘What did you talk about?’

  ‘Everything. Life, you know, problems. Kind of stuff us guys talk about all the time.’

  ‘And did you ever get the impression that she was in some kind of trouble?’

  ‘Nope. No one really liked her. I thought she was okay. Kind of felt sorry for her. But that’s not why I talked to her. I liked her, that’s all. Like I said, we had a lot in common.’

  ‘How’s that?’

  ‘I don’t know. We just thought people were a pain in the arse in general.’ He placed on hand on his mouth and added, ‘Oops! Not you, of course.’ And then he smiled, breaking the ice.

  I smiled back. ‘It’s okay. I think people are a pain too.’

  He blinked timidly as if we were now from the same side of the fence. But a smile never fooled me. I knew he could still be the one who killed Tracy Noland. Woman’s instinct. I’ve seen many lunatics in my line of work, and it was the shy or over-friendly types you had to watch out for. His reputation in the neighbourhood certainly kept one step ahead of him, and I was always curious as to how someone built any form of a reputation. Nothing came from nothing.

  I stood from the bed and said, ‘Someone told me you’re into photography.’ I stared purposefully at the top of the wardrobe, guessing the grey cardboard boxes I had spotted earlier on were filled with photographs.

  ‘Yeah, that’s right.’

  ‘Can I see them?’

  ‘See what?’

  ‘The photos.’ I looked at him and back at the cardboard boxes.

  ‘Well...’

  ‘It’s okay, I’m useless at photography,’ I lied, knowing I was quite competent because of the crime-scene photos I took. ‘I’m sure you’re better at it than I am. I promise I won’t say a thing, no matter what.’

  He hesitated, fear in his eyes, and said, ‘Okay, then.’

  I could tell he was embarrassed as he reached for a pile of photo albums from inside one of the cardboard boxes.

  God only knew what was in there, and soon I would know too.

  He passed me one of the photo albums, which I nestled in my arms and began flipping the pages. I looked at him and back at the pictures. They were all pictures of children, all playing or gathered somewhere on Vincent Court. A chill jolted my body. Mother of God, if he wasn’t the killer, it was a hell of a coincidence. Jason Harvey had been right.

  ‘I know what you’re thinking,’ he quickly volunteered. ‘This is a good street to take pictures of kids. No traffic. And they’re always playing outside.’

  I didn’t say a word. The shots were accomplished, in fact quite amazing for someone who was only seventeen years old.

  ‘Do the parents mind you taking pictures of their kids?’

  ‘No one knows, I’m discreet.’

  I bet you are, I thought.

  ‘Did Tracy like to have her picture taken?’

  ‘Most kids don’t mind. I shot while they’re not watching.’

  I began to feel increasingly uncomfortable alone with this young man. I knew he wouldn’t do anything to me. If he was indeed the killer, of which he seemed to fit the profile like a glove, he only attacked people weaker than himself. Tracy Noland would have been the perfect prey, someone he’d easily have control over.

  Despite my over-zealous desire to handcuff the teenager and throw him in the slammer, I knew it would take more than bare instinct to prove he was the murderer. I had to find out if Malcom Sternwood had a violent past. Although the girl seemed to have died peacefully, killers have different M.O.’s, and maybe little Tracy died from a passion killing. Maybe the killer made a pass at her, and when she objected, he felt as if he had no other choice but to kill her. Maybe this was the killer’s first victim, making it difficult to match a precedent M.O.

  ‘When did you begin taking photographs?’ I asked, hoping this would eventually lead me to deeper dark secrets. I continued flipping through the album until I froze at a page filled with pictures of Tracy Noland. These were not pictures he took while she wasn’t watching. They were posed photographs, and her eyes clearly indicated she was aware of the camera.

  ‘When I was thirteen my father bought me a 35mm. Always wanted to be a photographer since then. It’s in me. It’s my passion.’

  I looked down at the photos in front of me. In one of the photos she was standing with nothing on but her underpants, playing with a white, fluffy rabbit. The shots were not straight pornography, but they did send a chill rippling down my back. I could see how some perverts would feed their lust on this type of material. On the other hand, it wasn’t much different from the back pages of a Target catalogue with this year’s latest undergarment fashion for kids advertised over two colour spreads.

  ‘Why children? Aren’t your worried about what people think?’

  ‘My tutor told me to take as many different types of people as possible. Children are not an exception, although I do find them extremely easy to take. They possess an innocence which is easier to capture on film than with grown-ups. Plus grown-ups don’t like to have their pictures taken. When they pose, it looks fake. And I can’t afford to pay professional models.’

  I puzzled for a couple of seconds. ‘Did you say you have a tutor?’

  ‘I’m doing a part-time Diploma of Photography at the Melbourne College of Photography.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yeah. It’s really expensive, so my parents won’t pay for it. I work as a night filler at Coles to pay for the course. And the paper, chemicals and films cost a fortune as well.’

  I was surprised because I knew you had to be at least eighteen to be admitted to the college. When pointed that out, he admitted he lied about his age on the application form. He wrote down he was eighteen.

  ‘But I thought you were unemployed?’ I went on.

  ‘Who says?’

  ‘One of your neighbours.’

  ‘They wouldn’t know. I don’t start until eleven at night, and by then everyone is asleep anyway. Either way I take my mountain bike to work. It’s not as if someone’s going to hear me take off.’ He grabbed one of the other photo albums and handed it over to me. ‘Take a look at those.’

  I opened the album and flicked through the pages quickly, surprised at what I was seeing. These were shots of various people working in a supermarket. Foolishly, I began to realise Malcom’s photographic interest wasn’t children only, but people in general. It just happened that he stored the same type of subjects in the one particular album. Or maybe that was a way to eliminate any suspicion of him taking pictures of children. It was hard to figure out where he was coming from. Perverts and killers can be very cunning and clever in their habits. They always find some reason to explain their unorthodox behaviour or unusual pastimes.

  I didn�
��t know what to conclude. What I wanted was to search the bedroom, but I wouldn’t be able to do that without a warrant or his authorisation. I knew he would not give me a go-ahead since I hadn’t told him he was a primary suspect in the death of Tracy Noland, and if I did tell him, well, I doubted he would have invited me into his room with open arms.

  ‘You don’t mind if I take these pictures with me,’ I said, grabbing the album with the photos of the children in it.

  ‘Well, it’s kind of... a collection. I wouldn’t want them messed around or anything.’

  ‘Oh, no, it’s not like that whatsoever. It’s just that you’ve got good pictures of Tracy, and they might come in handy to solve the case.’

  He stared at me silently for five seconds, shrugged and said, ‘All right. But I trust you with those. Don’t you dare lose them.’

  ‘I promise I won’t.’

  I walked out of the room, the photo album tightly gripped against my chest, the beginning of a headache slowly creeping from the back of my skull.

  When Frank saw the photos, he leaped up and down like a dog wanting to go for a walk.

  ‘Jesus Christ, Katrina. That sonofabitch did it. Look at these picture. This is child pornography.’

  We were in a room on the ninth floor of the Police Complex on St Kilda Road, home of the Homicide Squad.

  I took a closer look at the pictures of Tracy Noland, which were now spread over a large mahogany conference table. I’d never seen child pornography before, but somehow this didn’t strike me as pornography.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I said, going from one picture to the other.

  ‘You don’t know? Open your god-damn eyes! What am I looking at here? A near-naked girl trotting around in her underwear, flashing her front and her back, grinning for the camera. I bet you the little bastard is jerking all over those pictures when he’s alone in his room. Oh, man, this is good. This is really good. We’re going to nail him, and you don’t have to worry about a search warrant. We’re definitely going to get one with shit like this.’