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

by Laurent Boulanger

  I finger-brushed my auburn hair, trying to give it a lift so as to look more alive than I felt. I straightened my marine skirt, glanced once more in the mirror, forced a smile, and walked out of the room.

  I took the elevator to the ground floor and passed the security check-point on my way out of the building.

  The sky was overcast, but it was still hot and sticky, probably in the low-thirties. In that part of the city, five minutes from Swanson Walk, traffic was heavy all day long, even on a Monday evening. My breath of fresh air turned out to be a breath of freshly-squeezed carbon monoxide.

  Around the corner from the Police Complex, there’s a sandwich shop for people who don’t have time to bring their own lunch, or those who’d rather have a real coffee than instant powder in a tin can disguised as coffee. I ordered two coffees to take-away, none for Malcom since he didn’t want one.

  I stepped back outside and took a sip from one of the polyester cups. Freshly brewed coffee, no milk, no sugar. Within thirty seconds I could already feel it working in my brain. I was ready to go back in the building and wrap up the interrogation.

  I ended up finishing my coffee before I passed the security check on the ground floor. After walking through the centre of a metal detector, I climbed into the elevator, my ID clipped to my breast pocket, and pushed the button for the ninth floor.

  When I stepped back inside the monitor room, the monitor screen was turned off. No one was in the room. At once, a high level of adrenalin rushed through my brain. Fully alert, I knew something had gone wrong. I place Frank’s coffee next to the monitor, but it fell to the floor, the hot brew spreading itself all over the grey tiles. I stared at it for a few seconds, and thought, ‘what the hell’ before I stepped out of the room.

  I threw open the door of the interrogation room.

  Frank was sitting there all by himself.

  I looked around.

  Malcom was gone.

  ‘What the hell is going on here?’ I asked.

  ‘He’s been taken into custody.’ He said that matter-of-factly, but I could register tension in his tone.

  ‘What?’

  ‘He confessed to the murder while you were downstairs, so I’ve placed him in custody.’

  ‘What do you mean he confessed? Who did he talk to?’

  ‘Me.’

  ‘Why you? Did you go in there?’

  He didn’t answer.

  I went on, feeling heat on my face, ‘Did he ask you to talk to him, or did you just walk in there?’

  He hesitated for a few seconds. ‘What’s the difference? He confessed. He was ready to spill his guts by the time you left. So, all I did was push him a little more.’

  ‘You did what?’

  He stood up and said assertively, ‘You heard me. Don’t play dumb and deaf. I went in there, had a little chat, and he confessed.’

  I stood, speechless, not certain how to respond.

  He continued, ‘Point is he confessed, and now it’s all over. Congratulations, the case has been solved within two weeks. I guess you’ll get to keep your job.’

  I approached him, slapped him on the face with full force and yelled, ‘You bastard!’

  His neck twisted sideways, his eyes expressing surprise. ‘What was that for?’

  ‘You’ve got a fuck of a nerve, Frank. I go downstairs for ten minutes, you have the arrogance to take over my interrogation, and then you stand there as if nothing happened.’ He was about to say something, but I cut in. ‘You know what? This is going down on the record. I’m filing an official complaint. It’s over. I’m not working with you any more. You’re worse than the rest of them. Just because you think you know me doesn’t give you the right to do shit behind my back.’

  I did a half turn and headed straight for the door.

  ‘Katrina,’ I heard him whimper, but I was already out of the room.

  Half way to the elevator, I turned around and paced back to the monitor room. The coffee was all over the floor. Carefully, I tiptoed over it, and got closer to the monitor. I pressed the eject button on the video recorder. The unit spat out a black, VHS tape which I slipped in my handbag. If I was going to bother with an official complaint, at least I had evidence with me.

  When I got home, I was in tears. I quickly made my way up to the second floor, opened the door of my apartment and went straight to the fridge. From there, I withdrew a bottle of Chenin Blanc, which Phillip and I had half consumed on Saturday night. I poured myself a full glass and swallowed it in one go. This was followed by another glass. So much for not resorting to alcohol when the pressure was getting too high. I was somehow aware that I was over-reacting, but I had to let the steam out of my system. Bottling up anger was a health hazard, anyway.

  I stepped into the lounge room, flicked the television and video recorder on with the remote control, and inserted the tape which I’d just slipped out of my hand bag.

  I crashed on the floral couch, a glass of white wine in one hand and the remote control in the other, and viewed the tape in rewind-playing mode. I stopped it when Frank walked into the interrogation room and pressed PLAY. I increased the volume until the conversation was loud enough for me to hear every whisper.

  Malcom was still at the table, unaware Frank had just walked into the room. When Frank approached the table, Malcom jerked slightly as if he had been zapped by a low-voltage electrical current. He just stared at Frank, obviously wondering what the hell was going on.

  Frank circled the table with my twelve inch files under both arms. He placed them on the table and announced, ‘I’ll be conducting the rest of this interview. Dr Melina has been called to an urgent job.’

  I could read the discomfort edged on Malcom’s face. He lowered his eyes to the table. I’d told him before that Frank believed he committed the crime, so he must have guessed this was not going to be a two-way, friendly conversation.

  Frank took his seat next to Malcom, where I previously sat. Immediately he opened the top manilla folder and spread the naked pictures of Tracy Noland on the table.

  ‘Recognise those?’ Frank sounded like an army-drill sergeant.

  Malcom shrugged.

  Like thunder, Frank slammed his hand on the table, making me jump on the couch. ‘I don’t have time for your farty little games. Now, you’re going to answer my questions and stop playing the sensitive new-age bullshit. Do you recognise those pictures?’

  Without looking at them, Malcom said, ‘Yes.’

  If there was a scale which measured harassment of a suspect, Frank had already scored an eleven out of ten. He selected one of the pictures and placed it right in front of Malcom’s eyes.

  ‘Have a good look,’ he ordered.

  Not knowing any better in regards to his rights, Malcom looked at the picture.

  Frank went on, ‘Fancy her, do you?’

  Malcom didn’t answer.

  ‘Answer the goddamn question!’

  ‘Yes, I did. But it’s not like the way you’re trying to make it.’

  ‘Oh, yeah? Well, what way was it then?’ Frank placed the picture back on the table and moved his head really close to Malcom. ‘You know, you can fuck around with Dr Melina and everyone else if you want, but between you and me, we both know you did it. You’re playing this bullshit game just to gain time. But I’m telling you now, it’s too late. I’ve got enough shit here,’ he tapped on the pile of files, ‘to throw you in the slammer for life. So stop wasting my time and yours. Why did you kill her?’

  ‘I didn’t do it.’

  ‘She didn’t want to fuck you, so you forced yourself on to her? Is that what happened? Well, I think it is. I mean, look at her.’ He picked up the picture again. ‘Nice, isn’t she?’

  Malcom nodded.

  ‘And you didn’t want to fuck her?’

  ‘It’s not like that.’

  ‘I mean, I look at this picture, and, well, I’d fuck her. You did a good job with her pussy. Surely, this wasn’t part of your photography course? Was it y
our teacher who told you to touch up little girls’ pussies?’

  Malcom raised his voice, ‘Hey, you’ve got no right to talk to me like that. I didn’t do anything. I’m not going to talk to you.’

  Frank stood from his chair, sending it flying across the room. ‘You’re not going to talk to me? You don’t have to talk to me. I don’t need your version of why you killed her. Right now I’m so pissed, I don’t know what I’m going to do.’

  I couldn’t tell if Frank was putting on an act. He looked damn angry, more angry than I had ever seen him be.

  Without warning, he grabbed Malcom by his shirt and pulled him to his feet. ‘I’m so pissed right now,’ he said, ‘I think I’m just going to do you here and now. What the hell, it’s not like anyone’s going to give a damn. I’ll probably get a medal if I manage to turn you into mash potato.’

  He threw Malcom away from the table.

  Malcom lost balance and fell on his back. ‘Jesus Christ,’ he whimpered.

  Frank approached him, his face beaming like a beacon. ‘You don’t want to tell me what happened? Fine, I’ll get it out of you one way or another.’

  Frank was about to kick him, but Malcom protested, ‘All right, all right. I’ll talk.’ He managed to get back on his feet, rubbing his lower back with his right hand.

  ‘Okay, let’s talk,’ Frank said as he took his seat back. ‘Now, let me ask you again. Did you kill Tracy Noland?’

  Malcom took his time.

  ‘Did you kill Tracy Noland?’ Frank repeated, raising his tone by a notch.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Louder. I can’t hear you.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Yes, what?’

  ‘Yes, I killed Tracy Noland.’

  ‘And did you kill Tracy Noland because she didn’t want to have sex with you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Frank had calmed down. ‘You see, I told you it was easier to tell the truth. You don’t have to stay in this room longer than necessary.’ He gathered the pictures from the table and placed them back in one of the manilla folders. ‘I’ll see you in court, asshole.’ Frank left the room with the files under his arms.

  The video tape continued rolling for a while longer, the time it took Frank to get back to the monitor room and turn the video recorder off.

  Malcom stood there motionless when the screen went blank.

  I didn’t know what to make of it. Frank had done exactly what I hoped he wouldn’t do, but by the same token he gotten something out of Malcom. Still, I was damn angry he got Malcom to admit to the murder under threat. If a defence solicitor got hold of the tape, he would have a field day in court, explaining to the jury that this confession was useless because the suspect was forced to admit his guilt. And in a way, that’s how it felt to me. Battering of the witness was illegal, and Frank knew it.

  Or maybe Frank was right. Maybe Malcom had to be pushed for the truth to come out.

  I swallowed the rest of my Chenin Blanc, feeling a headache coming on. No matter what the outcome, I was angry with the way Frank took over the interrogation when he knew how I was going to react. He knew I would have never done that to him. Where was this lack of respect coming from? After all the years we’d been working together, it was hard to believe he had the nerve to cross me the way he did.

  I stood from the couch and made my way to the bathroom, dizziness taking over me. I couldn’t tell if I was sick from the white wine or from what had happened at the police complex.

  I lifted the lid from the toilet bowl and emptied the contents of my stomach.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  I spent the next three days at home, not wanting to see anyone, which wasn’t easy since the third day happened to be the 25th of December, and I was expected to invest quality time with family and loved ones during the festive season.

  On Christmas morning, after Michael unwrapped his presents, a non-violent Playstation game and a new pair of Nike running shoes, he asked me what was wrong. I told him nothing, but he knew I wasn’t myself.

  ‘You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to,’ he said while I was dicing up some capsicums to make a French ratatouille for lunch. ‘But then there‘s no point hoping our relationship is going to improve if you keep secrets from me all the time.’

  His comment took me by surprise. It seemed to be such a mature thing to say for someone who was only thirteen years old. I wondered if he meant it, or whether he heard the comment on television, or maybe overheard two adults talking to one another.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said, looking at him straight in the eyes. ‘I don’t mean to shut you out. It’s work. I’ve had a hard time. Got into a fight with Frank, and I’m tired of all the lies and competition.’

  ‘Quit.’

  ‘Quit?’

  ‘Yeah, if you don’t like something, you don’t have to put up with it. You’ve only got one life.’

  All right, I thought, what pop star has he been listening to? ‘It’s not that easy, Michael. I’ve got to pay the mortgage and support the two of us.’

  ‘Yeah, but you’re an intelligent woman. You could make money some other way.’

  So I was an intelligent woman now, not just his mother. I shook my head. ‘And besides, I never said I hated my job. It’s just people around me can be a pain at times.’

  ‘Sure, but we already discussed this last year, and every year we go through the same thing over and over. I think you need a change of career.’

  Michael began Secondary College this year, and obviously it had affected his thinking. He was advising me on a career change. Not that I thought his advice was invalid, but hearing it from my own blood didn’t feel right.

  ‘Michael, I don’t want a change of career. I like investigative work, and I’m here at this point of my life because I choose to be.’

  ‘You don’t know that. You’re too close to see what’s happening. I’m outside you, so I can see things in better perspective. You’re not seeing the whole picture. You know, like the brick-wall thing.’

  ‘The brick-wall thing?’

  ‘Yeah, like if you stand really close to a wall, then all you see is bricks. And then if you take a few steps back, then you realise it’s not only bricks, but a wall. And then if you step a little further back, then you realise it’s not really a wall, but a house. See, and right now you’re looking at bricks.’

  ‘Really?’ I couldn’t believe what he was telling me. It was like the last thirty-nine years of my life never existed. For someone who was supposed to be an intelligent woman, all I was able to see were bricks. God help me if that was the truth. ‘You know, Michael, I think you’ve made some really good points, but I’m telling you that everything is under control, and I don’t hate my job.’

  ‘So why did you get drunk three days ago?’

  I stopped chopping my capsicum. ‘What?’

  ‘You finished the entire bottle of wine that was in the fridge.’

  ‘That was half a bottle. And what are you doing? Spying on me now?’

  ‘I just noticed, that’s all.’

  ‘Okay, well, go and notice your homework. I wasn’t born last summer. Give me a break, will you?’

  ‘It’s the holidays, mum. I don’t have any homework.’

  ‘Fine. Just go and do whatever it is you do these days.’

  ‘Cool.’ He was about to leave the room, but added, ‘Hey, do you think we could go and see Jason again this weekend? There’s this really cool trick he’s gonna show me. You know, the one with the coin he did last week at the market?’

  ‘We’ll see.’

  He disappeared into the lounge room. A minute later, I could hear gun shots and groaning. No doubt he was playing Doom on the Playstation again, a mindless violent game which Phillip bought him for his birthday. I can clearly admit I was unimpressed. I didn’t even know they made such violent video games. But apparently, I was out of it. Every kid played Doom, and none of them turned into criminals. I couldn’t wait to see the result o
f that in ten years time.

  Now that the Tracy Noland investigation was coming to an end, I decided it was time for me to get back into shape. Michael’s accusation of drunkenness made me wonder about my health, and, as a result, the following day I returned to Terry Bennetts’ Gym on High Street.

  Terry Bennetts’ was on the first floor of an old building, above an automotive garage. The equipment was old but in working order, and the atmosphere was very industrial. I loved it. It was so cold in winter that you had no choice but to work out.

  While at the gym the previous year, I befriended a man who worked at the State Library. Ken was a short guy with long hair and a grey beard. He was capable of lifting a one-hundred-and-twenty-pound barbell while carrying on a conversation. He had little to do outside work, so he spent four hours working out. Strangely enough, his muscle mass never increased. When I queried him about this observation, he confirmed he was eating little, therefore his muscles were starved of essential proteins and amino acids needed for tissue growth and repair.

  Getting back into working with weights was hell, especially when you’ve stopped for a while. After my stretches, I soldiered on with bench presses and arms curls. The weights I used were considerably moderate since I hadn’t worked out for a while, and I didn’t want to injure myself.

  I told Ken about the incident with Frank during Malcom’s interrogation, and he responded by telling me I shouldn’t have hit Frank.

  ‘I was angry,’ I argued, while dropping a ten-pound dumbbell to the floor. My biceps were killing me. ‘It’s not like I planned it.’

  ‘I know, but you’ve given him something to fight back with. Filing an official complaint against him is a bad idea, especially when you slapped him. Why don’t you give it a rest for a week or so and see how you feel?’