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

by Laurent Boulanger

  TAFE people were relaxed about formalities. We called each other by our first names, a contrast to when I was working for Interpol in Europe as part of my training with the FBI in Quantico. Academics in France and Germany liked to be called by their surnames. In fact, no one really knew what their colleagues first names were. Even students were called by their surnames. In my forensic classes, I only remembered people by their first names. There was Monique, John, Brandon, Shaun, Prue, Sam, Bianca, Chelsea, Michael, Tony, and a multitude of others, whose faces were only associated to first names. A fine bunch of students who always made me feel like one of them in spite of me being much older.

  ‘Have you seen Samuel around?’ I asked, referring to the Basic Photography lecturer, a medical photographer who had been working part-time with us for just under a year, and who spent most of his time at RMIT (Royal Melbourne Institute of Technology) University. Samuel was the finest person I knew when it came to photographic knowledge. His expertise extended over a period of twenty years, and he had won many national and international awards for his outstanding work. The faculty was extremely proud to have him lecturing in photography.

  ‘I think he’s in the lab next to 306.’

  I’d called Samuel on his mobile while leaving the VIFM, and he agreed to meet me within the hour.

  I gossiped with Deborah Klarner for five minutes about other staff members and students. Apparently, a staff member, conducting an experiment on biological decomposition, had left five chooks rotting in the ceiling above one of the labs. Everyone forgot about the experiment until a week later when it began raining maggots on top of the students performing laboratory work. The lab stunk so bad, it had to be quarantined for an entire week.

  I was still laughing whole-heartedly when making my way to the darkroom. I could visualise the expression on the students’ faces when it began raining maggots.

  Samuel was topping up chemicals for developing films when I walked in on him. He was as handsome as they came, but married and uninterested. He stood tall at one-hundred-and-eighty centimetres, and wore his thick black hair brushed back, carefully cut to highlight a crisp, pleasant face with two emerald eyes. He wore the obligatory lab coat when working in the dark room.

  ‘Made it here as soon as I could,’ he said, without greetings. ‘Things are a bit quiet at the moment. Wait until the academic year begins. Back to high-octane coffee and sleepless nights.’

  I nodded and asked, ‘Ever heard of zinc stearate?’

  ‘Should I?’ He didn’t turn around but continued to fill a ten-litre plastic container with developer.

  ‘I don’t know. Does it have anything to do with photography?’

  He paused for a few seconds. ‘What did you say the stuff’s called?’

  ‘Zinc stearate. I thought it might be something used in photography.’

  Another pause. ‘Nope. Never heard of the stuff. If it’s used in photography, it must be something new. What gave you that idea?’

  I explained without much detail how it was found on a body at the mortuary, and the coroner wondered where it came from.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Can’t help you with that. Why don’t you go and see Brian?’

  Brian Turner was a science lecturer in the building, whose eccentricity made him unpopular with the rest of the faculty. He had a philosophical approach to life and other people that bordered on personality disorder. For some unknown reason, he believed himself to be a wise soul whose opinion on a variety of subjects was a gift from God to share with the rest of humanity. Little did he realise that other people had existed before his time and had written philosophical discourses on topics he had never thought of to date and probably never would in his lifetime. What disturbed me the most was his cynical approach to other people, always assuming they were idiots unless they could prove otherwise. Other than that, he was a fine scientist.

  Brian was in his office, his tall body hunched over his computer. I never got used to his gold, nose-ring and peroxide hair, and obviously other academics never did either, the reason why he never managed a university job in spite of his doctorate. He was an odd-looking man with goggling eyeballs, who was often seen walking proudly down the corridors, laughing and pointing at students who’d failed Introduction to Chemistry the previous year and had to repeat it the following year.

  His desk was clutter-free, showing a need to control his environment. From the window of his office, one could observe half the campus, where only a few souls travelled to the library and back to their offices.

  Brian Wood turned around, glanced at me, and returned to his keyboard.

  ‘Someone’s going to arrest you with a jacket like that,’ he said bluntly.

  I looked behind me, wondering if he was talking to someone else. When I realised he was referring to me, I chose to ignore his comment.

  ‘Ever heard of zinc stearate?’ I asked.

  He didn’t answer, but continued typing on his keyboard. Some people were designed to cause disharmony. I wanted to pull the ring from his nose.

  ‘Hello, anybody home?’ I said, irritation creeping in my tone.

  He continued to ignore me for another thirty seconds or so before he answered, ‘Not something I’m familiar with, but I can look it up for you.’

  ‘I would appreciate it if you did.’

  Silence.

  ‘When would that be?’ I asked.

  ‘I’ll call you when I’ve looked it up.’

  I approached his desk and placed my business card next to his keyboard. ‘Well, if you do get around to it, here’s my number.’

  He grunted in response.

  I went on, ‘Whatever you’re working on, it must be damn interesting if you don’t even take the time to acknowledge people’s presence.’

  I must have hit a nerve, because he shot darts with his eyes. ‘Have you ever heard of time management? Those who achieve things in life are those who master the art of time management. Time management is the ability to focus on one’s important goals for the day without letting oneself be disturbed by minor events. Of course, being a cop, you wouldn’t know anything about time management. You have nothing better to do all day than harass people for information you could look up at a public library if you possessed the intellect to do so. Have you ever been on one of those guided tours at the library?’

  ‘You can also reach me on my mobile number,’ I said and left the room.

  I was half way down the corridor when he slammed his office door, causing my heart to skip a beat.

  Bastard truly lived up to his reputation.

  The next time I saw Frank was on Wednesday the 31st December, at the VFSC, in the comfort of his office. It was 2.32 p.m., and he had just told me Malcom had signed a full confession carefully crafted and typed by Frank himself. The imprint of my hand was still etched on his face from the slap I gave him the other day.

  ‘This is all the evidence we need to send him to jail where he belongs,’ Frank said, brandishing a copy of the signed confession in front of my face. ‘This case is now truly over.’

  I explained about the zinc stearate.

  ‘So what?’ he said. ‘It’s not going to make any difference, and since no one knows what the hell this zinc stuff is used for, who gives a damn.’

  I couldn’t believe how indifferent Frank was to what I believed was important forensic evidence, and how hurried he was in getting Malcom in the slammer.

  ‘I want to know under what condition you got Malcom to sign this confession. But most of all, I don’t remember telling you to get him to sign anything. Wasn’t I in charge of this investigation when it all began?’

  ‘I got full authorisation from Goosh to proceed with the confession.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Knowing you were going to disapprove, and knowing I was right, I did what I had to do.’

  ‘You went behind my back again and got Goosh to authorise this?’

  ‘Yep. And now if you don’t mind, I’ve got some work to do
.’

  I stood from my chair, heat creeping up my face. ‘Why are you doing this? Why aren’t you letting me investigate this case properly? What’s wrong with you?’

  He laughed.

  ‘I don’t think this is funny,’ I continued.

  ‘Oh, I think it is. You’re the one who told me the other day you didn’t want to work with me any more, and somehow I have to cooperate with you. I’m not going to wait until you file your official complaint and get my arse kicked. I’m doing everything in my power to make sure this sonofabitch goes to jail, and you don’t jeopardise this investigation.’

  I was absolutely stunned. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Listening to him, I began to wonder if he wasn’t on drugs. Why had he suddenly turned his back on me and decided I was no longer worthy as a partner?

  ‘You’re really something, you know,’ I said. ‘I thought we were friends. I thought you and me were a team in all this.’

  He shook his head vigorously. ‘Oh, no, no, no. We’re no longer a team, Katrina. You know as well as I do that you can’t stand working with me, and I’m tired of seeing your face.’

  ‘Is that so?’

  ‘I’m afraid it is. You’re just so up yourself with these justification theories, you can’t see where you’re going wrong. For Christ’s sake, Tracy Noland is dead. Malcom Sternwood did it. You know it, and I know it. I don’t have time to play little games because you think you have to do everything by the book. Fact is everyone wants an end to this investigation, and since we’ve got the killer, why waste another minute? You want to end the friendship? I don’t have a problem with that. I’ve got a job to do, justice needs to be served, and I don’t have time for all your goddamn irrationality.’

  I was about to walk out and let him have the last word, but I slowly turned back and faced him. ‘You know, Frank, you’re the last person on earth I thought would turn on me. I’m going to continue with this investigation whether you like it or not. And if I find you did anything to mislead me or anyone else, you can kiss your career goodbye.’ If I’d been a man, I’d probably have jumped over the desk and given him a square one on the jaw.

  ‘Dr Kristina Melina, I don’t give a shit. You can go and file your complaints to whomever you wish. Fact is you’re only sub-contracted, and I’m not. Fact two is I’m going to make sure you never work for the VFSC again. You can expect your contract to be terminated by the end of the month. You don’t want to make me your enemy. You’re making a mistake.’

  ‘We’ll see about that. I’ll sue you, Goosh and all the other arseholes in this place.’

  I stormed out of his office.

  ‘Way to go, Katrina,’ I heard him say as I vanished down the hallway, ‘Way to go.’

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  I got home so annoyed, I wanted to immediately type my contract termination and send it via courier to Goosh. What was the point in anything any more? My partner considered me a impairment to Tracy Noland’s investigation. Goosh couldn’t wait for the day I left the VFSC. And I wasn’t sure if I had the strength to fight a system which was constantly turning itself against me. But I knew if I quit now, they’d win.

  And justice still had to be served.

  I took a shower to let the anger dissipate. Tears came streaming down my face as I decided to go and talk to Malcom Sternwood. I wanted to know the details of why and how he’d signed the confession. I didn’t believe for a minute he did it of his own free will. Sure, I wasn’t completely convinced he was innocent, in fact all evidence showed otherwise, but I still believed he had the right to a proper investigation, and I had the right to know the truth. The only reason I chose this field of work was because I believed in justice, not quick fixes. I believed in looking deep into an investigation until all the evidence was extracted, not just bits of the puzzle solved so I could move on to the next case.

  As much as I was angry, I could more or less understand Frank’s irrationality. I had seen from the beginning of this investigation how angry he had been when we found out a young girl had been killed. And I knew in his mind all he wanted was revenge, so much it was blinding his reasoning. I’d been afraid to take on this case from the beginning, believing I wouldn’t be able to cope. But it seemed to me he was the one who wasn’t coping well. The way he spoke to me in his office had cut deep into my soul, making me doubt I would ever be able to forgive him.

  I stepped out of the shower, my eyes red from crying, and dried my hair with a clean towel I pulled from under the hand-sink. I had this urge to ring Phillip and tell him I was sorry for being so cold, for not appreciating his company whenever he came around. Now that I was alone, standing naked in a bathroom, looking at my own reflection, I realised how fragile relationships were. I’d never felt so alone in my life and wondered how in the world I ever got myself into such a situation in the first place. Didn’t we all deserve to be loved during our lifetime? Why did it seem so easy for some and so hard for others?

  And then I laughed at my reflection, which laughed back at me. This whole thing was so absurd, it was almost funny. I knew I had to gather my strength and keep level-headed. The last thing I needed was to let my anger cloud my sense of duty and to throw it all away when I knew there was still so much to be done.

  I stepped out of the bathroom and headed for the bedroom.

  I slipped on a red cotton dress from Sportsgirl, tied my hair back, slipped on flat, black leather shoes, grabbed my keys, and left the apartment.

  An hour later Malcom Sternwood and I were alone in the interrogation room of a newly-built correctional facility in Laverton North, fifteen minutes West of Melbourne. When he first entered the room, I wasn’t all that surprised about the bruising around his right eye. I sort of figured out Frank had kicked the truth out of him, but I needed to see the evidence and wanted to hear it from Malcom’s lips.

  We were sitting on red plastic chairs, the type we had in high school, face to face, arms leaning over a shell-coloured table, looking at each other eye to eye.

  ‘Did you kill the girl?’ I asked.

  ‘You know I didn’t.’

  I remained firm. ‘No, I don’t know you didn’t. You signed a confession stating you killed her because she wouldn’t have sex with you. That’s serious stuff. You’re going to be jailed for life.’

  ‘They forced me to sign it.’

  ‘Who’s they?’

  ‘That cop friend of yours.’

  ‘Senior Sergeant Frank Moore?’

  ‘That’s him.’

  ‘Who else was there?’

  ‘Never seen them before. Two other cops.’

  ‘How did they force you to sign the confession?’

  ‘They said they knew I did it. They said they had enough forensic evidence to prove it. And then when I told them they were wasting their time, your friend grabbed me by the shirt, punched me twice in the stomach and once in the face. He sat me on the chair, twisted my left arm and forced me to sign a typed page.’

  ‘Are you sure about this?’

  ‘Jesus Christ! What do you think this is?’ he pointed to the bruising in his eye.

  I tried hard to feel sympathy for Malcom, but it wasn’t easy. When I looked at him, I was reminded of Tracy Noland. And although I wasn’t sure he killed Tracy, he certainly had an unbalanced obsession for seeing her naked. I’d studied the human mind long enough, and I knew there was a need for men to look at women because of their so-called high hormone levels and strong response to visual stimulation, but Malcom’s sexual appetite for Tracy Noland was not considered normal behaviour. At his age he should have had a girlfriend, and if not, at least be interested in a relationship with a grown-up, not a child. But the way he transformed those pictures of Tracy Noland on his computer implied he wanted a relationship with a grown-up, making his case an intriguing one. As a result, I wasn’t able to identify exactly what was going on in his head.

  As I stood there, face to face with a person who could have killed the young girl, I forced myse
lf to be considerate, not yell at him like he’d been yelled at before.

  ‘I want to do the right thing,’ I said, my eyes staring deep into his. ‘I don’t know what your story is, and I don’t care. What I want to do is catch the bastard who killed Tracy Noland. If you didn’t do it, I don’t want you to go to jail for it. But if you did it, and you’re stuffing me around, there’ll be hell to pay.’

  I’d been trained to recognise nothing was black and white. No matter how many times Malcom told me he didn’t do it, no matter how sincere he seemed, he could have been using me because he knew I wouldn’t beat the truth out of him, because I was easier to lie to. Psychopaths could tell a thousand lies and still sound like they were telling the truth. I knew. I’d seen them and worked with them. I’d seen high-ranking detectives being fooled during an interrogation, only to find out later they’d been lied to all along. And in a way that was what Frank was trying to avoid. But I wasn’t so cynical. As long as I kept my mind open to any possibilities, I believed I had the situation more or less under control.

  ‘I didn’t do it,’ he said sheepishly.

  ‘I think you need a solicitor. Have you got one?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Get a solicitor as soon as you can. Tell her everything you told me.’

  ‘I don’t know anyone. I can’t afford one.’

  ‘Do you want me to get you one?’

  ‘That’d be good.’

  ‘I’ll see what I can do.’

  Due to the high profile of this case, I knew Malcom would have no problem securing a solicitor, even if he couldn’t pay. This was good publicity for the defence, especially if the jury came up with a not-guilty sentence. It meant wealth was going to roll in faster than ever for the hot-shot solicitor who would make a fortune on other people’s misery.

  I told Malcom to wait for me.

  I left the interrogation room for the car park. From the Lancer, I removed my photographic equipment and loaded the Minolta SLR with a brand new film.