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

by Laurent Boulanger

  ‘You didn’t do anything wrong. Michael should spend more time at home, that’s all.’

  ‘Sure, you’re his mother.’

  No doubt about that, I thought, not wanting to get into a debate.

  ‘You wanna come in?’ he offered.

  ‘No, no. I’m fine.’ I screamed over his shoulder: ‘Michael, hurry up.’

  ‘Coming!’

  ‘You’re all right?’ Jason asked.

  ‘I’m fine, Mr Harvey. Just tired that’s all.’

  Michael appeared behind Jason with his friend Chris, whom I’d never met before. The boy was one head taller than Michael and wore dark-framed spectacles. He looked like the intellectual type and seemed somehow mismatched with Michael. Not that I thought Michael had a low I.Q., but I’d imagined Chris to be someone wearing loose-fitted jeans and oversized T-shirts like Michael, not slacks and a chequered shirt with a mobile phone clipped to his Pierre Cardin leather belt.

  No one said much on the way back.

  I dropped Chris at his place in Elwood and headed back to Chapel Street.

  When Michael and I were alone in the car, he said, ‘What was all that about?’

  ‘What was what?’

  ‘You seem upset or something.’

  ‘I’m just tired.’

  ‘No, you’re angry at me.’

  ‘All right,’ I said, pulling the car into the driveway. ‘I’d thought you’d want to spend more time with me, that’s all.’

  ‘But Jason is showing me all these cool magic tricks.’

  ‘And what? You’re going to become a magician?’

  ‘Ha, ha,’ he laughed sarcastically.

  When we got upstairs, there was a message on the answering machine. I pressed the play button while Michael was in the kitchen, going through the contents in the fridge.

  ‘Hi, Katrina. It’s John Darcy from the lab. I got some results from Tracy Noland’s stomach contents. I meant to call you this afternoon, but I got tied up with other things. You know what it’s like. You can call me at home tonight, even if it’s late.’

  I checked my watch, which read 10.35 p.m. Although I hated to call John at home after hours because he was married, and I hated to be thought of as the other woman, but since he had invited me to call so openly, I didn’t hesitate.

  He answered the call on the third ring.

  ‘It’s Kristina Melina.’

  ‘Oh, hi, Katrina. How’re you doing?’

  ‘Fine.’

  We made small talk for a couple of minutes before he got on to the subject.

  ‘Remember the smell of rose water from Tracy’s stomach contents, which Dr Main had on his autopsy report?’

  I did remember something vague, especially since I had read over the report less than two hours ago. ‘What about it?’ I asked.

  ‘Well, we’ve done some comparison tests in the lab and came up with a probable match of what the smell is from.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s from Turkish Delight, an expensive imported brand.’

  ‘Turkish Delight?’

  ‘Yep, which means one of the last things she ate was Turkish Delight.’

  ‘How did you work that out?’

  ‘Long story. Lucy at the lab recognised the smell. She received a box as an Easter present and still hasn’t gone through the entire box. Doesn’t like the stuff. Says it makes her want to puke. She took the box to the lab. I did tests on a sample and Tracy’s stomach contents, and came up with a match.’

  I puzzled for a few seconds, remembering the box I saw at Mrs Noland’s place. ‘What did the box look like?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It might be important.’

  ‘I’m not sure.’

  ‘Was it brown with gold lettering?’

  ‘It might be. I really don’t know. I’ll have to call you back tomorrow from the lab, or maybe you can give Lucy a call. Or if you’re in the area, come and visit. The box is still in the lab.’

  I thanked him for his help and decided to wait until the following day. There was no urgency in calling Lucy, especially since I didn’t know what the contents of the box I saw at Mrs Noland was. Even if it was the Turkish Delight Tracy ate, what exactly was it going to prove? That Tracy had Turkish Delight at home? Not exactly a surprise. On the other hand, since rose water was still in her stomach when she died, it meant she’d consumed the sweets shortly before she was killed. So, if Mrs Noland did in fact have Turkish Delight at home, then this put her even closer to the time of death, although that conclusion in itself wasn’t very satisfying. Tracy could have taken some Turkish Delight with her when she left home.

  After I hung up, I turned to Michael, who was helping himself to a glass of Coke.

  ‘It’s way past your bedtime. From now on, I want you home by nine o’clock.

  ‘Nine o’clock?’

  ‘Nine o’clock, no ifs or buts.’

  ‘You know that—’

  I interrupted him, ‘Listen to me. This is not a debate. You’re thirteen years old, I’m your mother, and I want you home by nine o’clock every day. End of conversation.’

  ‘Fine,’ he snapped, grabbed his glass of Coke and left for his room.

  ‘Shit,’ I muttered to myself, not knowing if I was angry at him or at myself for being such a meanie.

  I returned to my study and flipped through the Tracy Noland file once more. Still there was nothing which jolted my mind or connected the Turkish Delight with the events of her murder. I wondered if I was just grasping at straws with all these clues and hypotheses.

  At 11.20 p.m., my head heavy from a long day, I decided to call it quits and hit the sack.

  I took a quick shower, dressed in pyjamas and slid between the sheets of my double-bed.

  The lights out, thoughts were parading before me, keeping me awake longer than I wanted to be. The minutes on the digital clock on my side-table passed slowly. Everything I knew about the Tracy Noland murder was turning in my head. Something was wrong about the way this investigation was going, but I wasn’t sure what. I’d tried hard to follow logical leads, but now I wondered if I was looking in the right direction.

  Maybe I had to step back a little.

  Maybe I was looking at bricks and not the entire wall.

  CHAPTER EIGTEEN

  At 10.32 a.m. on Thursday, I met with Frank Moore at the VFSC to review what we had so far. I also made the drive to Macleod because I wanted to see the box which contained the Turkish Delight John Darcy mentioned. Looking at it with my own eyes, I’d be able to compare it with the box I’d seen at Mrs Noland’s place, which was better than if someone described it to me over the phone like John Darcy had done the previous day.

  I was sitting in Frank’s office, sipping from a mug of coffee. I just finished explaining what John told me about the rose water smell from Tracy’s stomach contents.

  Frank listened without interrupting. His eyes were heavy, an indication he still wasn’t getting the sleep he needed. I could have sworn he was losing more hair by the week. Had I been in his shoes, I would have taken the whole lot off. Shaved heads were in fashion, anyway, and certainly looked better than a few strands combed over the top, trying to conceal a bald spot wider than Ayers Rock.

  ‘And you’re sure it was a box of Turkish Delight you saw at her place?’ Frank asked, flicking through a lab report John had just given me.

  ‘No, I’m not. But I just came from the lab, and the box Lucy brought from home is a dead ringer for the one I saw in Mrs Noland’s kitchen. I can’t be one hundred percent certain, but I say we get a warrant to search her place.’

  He looked thoughtful and said, ‘I’m not sure we have enough evidence to be granted a search warrant.’

  ‘What about the insurance money? Isn’t that plausible motive?’

  ‘Sure, but...’

  ‘And the Turkish Delight? And the fact that she refuses to cooperate with us?’

  He inserted one finger in his ear to remove whatever amount o
f wax he had forgotten to get rid of that morning with a cotton bud. He wiped his finger under his desk and said, ‘I’m going to make a few phone calls and see if we can get a search warrant. You understand Mrs Noland’s solicitor will threaten us with a lawsuit if nothing comes out of this? Plus he has to be told about it. Chances are he will call his client, and she’ll probably get rid of the evidence at her place, if she is in fact the person who killed Tracy Noland. You’re aware of the risks we’re taking? This might amount to nothing.’

  ‘How else are we supposed to prove anything?’

  ‘Okay, okay. Like you said the last time, you’re in charge of the investigation, and I’ll let you call the shots.’ He made it sound like he had a choice.

  ‘How soon can we get the warrant served?’

  ‘This afternoon.’

  ‘Let’s do it.’

  At 2.32 p.m., I was in my study, doing some billing for the VFSC, when Frank called me to announce he had the search warrant for Mrs Noland’s home in his hand.

  ‘Her solicitor’s been advised,’ he said, ‘and he’s fuming. He said he wants to be present during the search.’

  ‘Fine with me. I’ll pick you up on the way.’

  At 3.14 p.m., I parked in front of the Noland’s. While we were unpacking the PERK and photography equipment from the boot of my Lancer, a grey Lexus parked behind us.

  ‘Must be the goddamn solicitor,’ Frank muttered.

  I glanced sideways from behind the car and saw a distinguished man in a dark suit stepping out of the Lexus. He looked in my direction, and I diverted my interest back to the contents of the boot of my car.

  Too late.

  I knew he’d seen me.

  ‘Dr Melina?’ I heard him call as he approached us.

  I stepped from behind the boot and tried my best to look surprised. ‘Yes?’

  ‘I’m Jonathan Blacker, Mrs Noland’s solicitor. I believe you’re serving a search warrant.’

  So much for greetings. I glanced towards Frank, who rolled his eyes.

  ‘Dr Melina?’ Mr Blacker insisted.

  ‘I heard you. What is it that you want from us?’

  ‘A copy of the search warrant to make sure you’re operating under legal procedures.’

  As he got closer, I noticed his dark suit was the expensive four-figure type, which only solicitors, politicians and underworld figures could afford. Mr Blacker looked in his early fifties, hair cut short and brushed back in a style which vanished two decades ago. He bore a straight nose, clear complexion, and seemed to have managed more sleep than I had for the past two weeks. His voice was that of a young man, lacking authority.

  ‘You can have the search warrant as soon as I’ve served it on Mrs Noland,’ I said matter-of-factly. ‘As far as legal procedures are concerned, you can rest assured that our work consists of upholding the law, not breaking it.’ I made my way past him. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse us, we’ve got work to do.’

  He paused for a few seconds and said, ‘You understand this is all wrong. If you find nothing in my client’s home, I intend to sue you personally, and the VFSC. My client is already under enough stress as it is, and she doesn’t need the type of harassment you feel so obliged to provide her with.’

  ‘I’ve already been informed of your good intentions, Mr Blacker.’ I turned around and glared into his eyes. ‘What you don’t seem to understand is that we’re not the criminals here. Our job is to find who killed Tracy Noland, that’s all. But then, I suppose, if I was being paid $150 an hour, I probably would have to justify my existence by showing up at Mrs Noland’s doorstep and threatening law-enforcement officials with lawsuits.’

  He opened his mouth but failed to find a reply.

  I could see Frank smiling from the corner of my eye. I bet he was glad he didn’t have to do any talking.

  We walked up the pathway to the door steps. I was leading, and therefore knocked on the front door.

  Mr Blacker stood behind Frank without a word.

  We waited in silence for thirty seconds, after which I knocked again and pushed the doorbell button.

  Nothing.

  I turned around, looked at Frank, who shrugged, and then looked at Mr Blacker.

  ‘Did you inform Mrs Noland we were coming?’ I asked Mr Blacker.

  ‘I certainly did.’

  I nodded and pushed the doorbell button again. I knocked louder.

  Thirty seconds passed.

  Nothing.

  ‘There doesn’t seem to be anybody home,’ I said.

  ‘That’s strange,’ Mr Blacker said. ‘I had her on the phone less than half an hour ago, and she assured me she would be home.’

  Frank’s eyes met mine, a worried expression on his face.

  I knocked and rang, yelling across the door, ‘Mrs Noland, this is the police. We have a warrant to search your premises. Could you please open the door.’

  The three of us stood frozen, listening for any sign of life inside the house.

  Nothing.

  ‘All right,’ I said. ‘We’re going to have to break in.’

  Mr Blacker stepped forward onto the patio. ‘Absolutely not.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘There is no way you’re going to enter these premises without my client being present.’

  I shifted from one foot to the other, feeling heat on my face. ‘Mr Blacker, I don’t know when you graduated from law school, but this thing’s called a warrant,’ I held the document in front of his face, ‘which gives us authorisation to search the premises with or without Mrs Noland’s presence.’

  ‘You do that and I’ll sue you for breaking and entering.’

  Suddenly, Frank stepped in front of Mr Blacker. ‘Buzz off, buddy. We’ve got better things to do than listen to your whining.’

  ‘I’m not letting you enter these premises without Mrs Noland’s presence,’ Mr Blacker retorted as he circled Frank and placed himself in front of the door.

  ‘If you don’t get out of the way,’ Frank said, ‘I’m going to handcuff you and arrest you for obstruction of justice.’

  ‘I’d love to see that.’

  ‘Fine.’

  Without hesitating, Frank slipped out a pair of handcuffs he had attached to his belt, hidden under his jacket.

  When Mr Blacker realised Frank was serious, he stepped aside and said, ‘Go ahead. But I can assure you this will not go down quietly.’

  Frank smiled to himself, while I pulled the fly screen door open. As expected, the front door was locked.

  ‘I’ve got to get the lock-picking kit from the car,’ I said, addressing myself to Frank. ‘Wait here.’

  I pushed my way past Mr Blacker, who seemed to be having an internal argument with himself.

  I kept a lock picking kit in my glove box, a toy I bought during my eighteen-months training at the FBI in Quantico.

  My lock picking kit consisted of a pick and a tension tool made from spring steel.

  I returned to the front door, observing that Mr Blacker and Frank were not saying a word to one another.

  I used the tension tool to control the pressure on the lock. I inserted the pick in the keyhole. After a few seconds of manipulation, I raised the pins to their opening point. The tension tool, placed directly under the pick, kept pressure on the pins while rotating. The pins were held in their open position by the pressure applied from the tension tool. With my fingers, I could feel the vibration of the pins. I listened patiently for a distinctive click, and then pushed the door open.

  ‘Mrs Noland?’ I shouted down the hallway.

  Nothing.

  ‘Maybe she’s gone shopping,’ Frank joked.

  Suddenly an uneasiness took over me. I knew something was wrong and dreaded the worst.

  Mr Blacker was following Frank, like someone’s pet.

  ‘Mrs Noland?’ I repeated.

  Nothing.

  ‘Okay,’ Frank said, ‘She’s not home.’ He tried to go past me.

  ‘Hold on a sec,’
I said, stopping him with the palm of my hand against his chest. He didn’t protest.

  There was a strong smell of alcohol coming from the kitchen ahead of us. I stood and breathed in. ‘Whisky or bourbon?’ I said without an explanation.

  Frank remained behind.

  I slowly crept down the hallway.

  ‘Mrs Noland?’ I almost whispered.

  Don’t let it be, I thought, but somehow I knew even before I found her.

  The first thing I noticed when I walked in the kitchen was the empty bottle of Johnny Walker Red Label on the floor. To my right, slouched over the kitchen table, was Mrs Noland. All I could see of her head was a crop of grey hair. She was still dressed in her nightgown.

  ‘Oh, shit!’ I said as I circled the table. I felt a pain in my chest.

  Three small plastic prescription containers lay next to her. At first glance, all seemed empty.

  ‘Damn!’ Frank said behind me.

  ‘Shit,’ I said. ‘I think she’s overdosed.’ I placed my hand at the back of her neck. She was still warm, but I couldn’t feel her pulse. I turned to Frank. ‘Call an ambulance,’ I ordered.

  Without protest, he ran back down the hallway.

  ‘What’s going on?’ I heard Mr Blacker say from down the hallway. He appeared at the door of the kitchen. ‘Jesus Christ! What the hell happened?’ The blood drained from his face. ‘Oh, my God! Is she dead?’

  ‘Yes, she’s dead, Mr Blacker. Could you please get out of this room. This is a crime-scene area. I’m containing the crime scene, and I’m ordering you out of the house.’

  ‘A crime scene? She killed herself.’ He pointed a finger at me. ‘And she killed herself because of you.’

  I snapped. ‘Mr Blacker, get the hell out of this kitchen before I kick your arse out!’

  He looked at me, stunned, unable to figure out whether to take me seriously or not.

  ‘Now!’ I shouted to his face.

  He mumbled something about suing me and the entire police force before vanishing down the hallway.

  I hated to do this, but I knew I had to try to resuscitate Mrs Noland. I slid her off the chair and lay her down on the floor.

  Frank walked back in the room. ‘What the hell did she take?’