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

by Laurent Boulanger

  I certainly wasn’t looking forward to interrogate that many cab drivers, given that most of them would probably have problems recalling every single trip they’ve made And if I did get the chance to talk to the driver who drove Evelyn Carter that night, there’d be no way of knowing if he’s lying. If the driver was in fact the killer, he’d have no interest in helping us. If he wasn’t, he’d probably wouldn’t want any trouble by being associated with the murder.

  ‘Couldn’t we search all the cabs when the day shift is over today?’ I asked as we reached the entrance of the staff canteen.

  ‘That’s a possibility. But you might piss off the owners. Without a warrant, they might be unwilling to cooperate.’

  ‘It’s worth a try.’

  ‘I’ll give them a call.’

  We ordered coffees, and fifteen minutes later we were back in the autopsy room.

  Before beginning the Y-incision, Dr Main ran past me a few items which came up on radio-graphs. He was careful not to get his fingerprints all over the four large, bluish negatives.

  He held the x-rays up to the light and explained: ‘Her ribs are broken on both sides. Most of her front teeth have been punched out. The roots of several incisors are sticking out through her gums. She’s been punched in the face quiet a few times.’ He supported his comments by pointing at the appropriate section on the x-ray. ‘Her jaw and frontal bones of the skull are fractured. My guess is her head has been savagely banged against something solid, most likely a brick wall.’ His index finger indicated at vault fractures on the upper and frontal section of Evelyn’s cranium. ‘As you can see there is also extensive facial fractures. That’s why I wanted to do the radiology immediately. Doing the autopsy first might have caused disfigurement, and then it would have been hell to get good x-rays.’

  I nodded, unable to really comment one way or another. Some bastard had done that to my best friend from school. Even though I tried to distant myself from the fact that I knew the victim personally, my emotions kept pulling me back to the reality. I felt heat at the back of my neck while staring at the radio-graphs. Unwillingly, I imagined the pain and agony Evelyn must have gone through. I wished I’d been there to save her for the butcher who had attacked her. It was so hard not to be angry at every man when involved in horrendous homicidal investigations involving female victims. Ninety-five percent of all violent crimes were committed by men - that fact in itself was basis enough to justify my anger.

  Dr Main must have noticed anxiety crossing my face because he said, ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘Yeah, I’m fine.’

  ‘If you don’t want to stay for the rest of the autopsy, I’d understand.’

  He was surprisingly friendly for someone I had argued with less than an hour ago about the rights of prostitutes.

  ‘I have to go through this, even if it’s just for the sake of it. It will help me to come to term with my grief.’

  ‘Sure,’ he said and shrugged.

  This was the first time that I admitted to someone else and to myself that I was inevitably going through a grieving process. It didn’t matter that I hadn’t seen Evelyn for twenty years—the pain was just the same.

  Once the video camera started rolling again, Dr Main carefully examined the body for any foreign material, such as blood, skin, clothing fibres, or any trace evidence which may lead to the identity of the killer.

  Each sample was bagged and labelled with the case number, the item number, date and a brief description.

  He then proceeded with examination of the hands and fingernails. He commented at the same time for the benefit of the video recording:

  ‘Scrapping from under the fingernails indicate presence of grass and particles of earth and clay.’ He was puzzling at something else he removed from under the fingernails. ‘Unidentified black sticky tissue recovered from nails. Organic in nature at first glance, but cannot tell whether it’s animal or vegetable.’

  He bagged and labelled the samples of the foreign substance.

  I wondered if it could have been flesh taken from the attacker when the victim tried to fight back. Hopefully the killer would have fingernail marks across his face.

  Once Dr Main had completed external gathering of trace evidence, he proceeded with the Y-incision, which consisted of a cut made with a surgeon knife across the chest from shoulder to shoulder, crossing down over the breasts, then from the lower tip of the sternum, down the entire length of the abdomen to the pubis. He then cut the ribcage and cartilage to expose the hearth and lungs. With a large needle, he withdrew a sample of blood from the heart after opening the pericardial sac to determine Evelyn Carter’s blood type.

  He removed the heart, lungs, oesophagus and trachea en bloc, then proceeded with the weighing of each organ before making a careful examination of their surfaces. This was followed by slicing every organ into sections to evaluate the internal structures. Meanwhile, the mortuary technician prepared microscopic slides of tissues from the organs for examination of cellular change, while I could feel my black coffee churning in my stomach.

  Dr Main commented while examining the internal organs: ‘The subject has sustained a ruptured liver, ruptured spleen, tearing of the bowels in six places and fractures of six ribs. She been kicked severely, which has caused a broken rib to make a deep puncture wound into her left lung.’

  He paused for a few seconds, contemplating the damage done to the body.

  He then proceeded by examination of the pelvis, including examination of the genital area for evidence of injury or foreign matter. Part of the process was to take vaginal and anal swabs for seminal residues. This would not only confirm that the victim had had sex, whether from rape or common intercourse, but also might help to identify the killer at a later stage through DNA typing and comparison. DNA typing is very specific for every individual, so much so, that the chances of two people having the same DNA is about one to a million. Given there are not one million suspects in a homicidal investigation, it was usually a pretty straight-forward process to eliminate suspects and matching a DNA grouping to that of the killer. And since the law in Victoria had recently been changed in favour of the police, forcing suspects to provide blood samples of DNA comparison if requested in the course of an investigation, the process was a bliss.

  Dr Main removed semen from Evelyn Carter’s vagina - immediate microscopic examination by the technician confirmed the sample to be fresh. DNA testing and blood grouping would be performed within the next twenty-four hours.

  After Dr Main finished the autopsy by sawing back the body, he, Frank and I adjoined in the homicide room in the same building for a briefing.

  We sat around a plastic table, pads and pens ready to take notes.

  Frank addressed himself to Dr Main: ‘So what do you conclude she died of?’

  Dr Main flicked through his notes and said, ‘God, this is really and chance guess at this stage. Given the injuries found on her body, any of major traumas could have been the fatal one. Also because all her vital organs were damaged within a relatively short time frame of one another, it’s impossible to plot a course of progressive damage.’

  ‘But her death has to be certified. So, what will it be?’

  ‘I’ll put down that the cause of death was from multiple injuries. Having received so many blows in such a small amount of time, I’d say her heart just gave out.’

  Frank and I both scribbled into our pads.

  ‘What about the semen found in the vagina?’ I asked.

  ‘Given she was a prostitute,’ Dr Main said, ‘it could have easily been one of her clients.’

  I puzzled on that for a few seconds and said, ‘But prostitutes are not in the habit of having unprotected sex. Am I right?’

  ‘Good point,’ Frank said.

  ‘So,’ I went on, my mind racing, ‘assuming that the semen isn’t something left from one of her jobs, then it leaves only two reasonable explanations: either she had consensual sex with someone before she got killed, or she
was raped in the process of been killed. Given the state we found her in, I’m somehow inclined to believe in the second scenario.’

  ‘But, isn’t it possible that she simply had consensual sex with her boyfriend, and that her death is totally unrelated to the semen found in her vagina?’ Frank asked.

  ‘Possible, but most unlikely. The timing just seems too close. If she was working, don’t you find it a bit coincidental that she happens to have engaged in sexual intercourse with her boyfriend, assuming she’s got one, just before going to work. And on top of that, why would she have had sex without protection, even if it was her boyfriend?’

  ‘You just said before that she might have had consensual sex with someone before she got killed - well, who are we talking about if not her boyfriend or one of her clients?’

  We both turned to Dr Main.

  ‘Hey, don’t look at me,’ he said, ‘you’re running this investigation.’

  ‘Okay, let’s leave it as that for the time being,’ Frank said.

  ‘How long will it take for the autopsy report to be completed?’ I asked Dr Main.

  ‘I can have it finished within forty-eight hours. Toxicology tests might take a little longer.’

  ‘How much longer?’

  ‘Four days at the most.’

  I made a note of the dates in my log book and gathered papers and photos I had with me in a manilla folder. Four days was good. I had waited weeks for toxicology results in the past, wasting precious time investigative leads which proved to be futile by the time the toxicology tests were in my hands.

  There was still a lot of work to be done, and for reasons I knew too well, I wasn’t looking forward to it. Maybe Goosh had been right when he said this case was too personal for me to get involved with.

  And with Goosh in mind, I suddenly realised I had yet to hear from Trevor Mitchell.

  Maybe I had already been pulled out of the investigation, and I didn’t even know it.

  CHAPTER SIX

  'You wanna search all the cabs?’ John Thomas asked, the flesh from his face loosened with surprise.’

  John Thomas was the managing director of Sammy Taxis. He was unhappy at the prospect of having his entire fleet of taxi-cabs searched for trace evidence, right here, right now, during the shift transfer. Frank had decided to come with me. We figured that with the two of us there, we’d have more pulling power. It would also take us less time to thoroughly inspect every single cab.

  It was just on 4.37 p.m., and a couple of cabs had already returned to the depot.

  The depot was located in an industrial area occupied by small-to-medium factories, workshops and warehouses. It was a large block of land covered in dirt and pebbles. At the far back, where we were talking to John Thomas, was the general office and a large shed used as a mechanical workshop.

  I noticed at least three mechanics dressed in greasy, blue overalls on duty. Whatever needed repairing with the taxi-cabs was obviously being fixed on the spot by the in-house mechanics. This place was a money-printing industry. I could almost smell the dough.

  ‘I know this is inconvenient,’ I said to John Thomas, ‘but a woman’s dead, and we have information that she was last seen in one of your cabs.’

  Frank was standing next to me, his Victoria Police badge prominently displayed on the breast-pocket of his jacket. He cut an impressive figure, his notebook open in one hand and his pen in the other, ready to take down anything of importance John might throw at us. I noticed the bulge of his Smith & Weston under his jacket.

  The sky was overcast, and I smelled rain in the distance. I prayed to God to hold on to the downpour for a little while longer. A southern wind was cutting through my jacket and chilled me to the bone. I wished we were having this discussion in John’s office, where he probably lodged a small electric heater at his feet, under his desk.

  John shifted from one foot to the other. He was in his early fifties and wore a pair of dirty, grey tracksuit pants with a five-dollar, green flannel shirt. Not exactly what I would describe as a walking fashion statement. His salt-and-pepper hair was thinning on top, revealing a serious case of dandruff. His complexion was pink as bacon rashes, and I wouldn’t have surprised if he’d had some booze hidden somewhere in his office.

  ‘Jeez, look, no can do,’ he said, ‘you wanna search my cabs, you gonna to have to come back later.’

  ‘Mr Thomas, I don’t want to make the situation more difficult than it already is. We only need a few minutes per vehicle. At this stage we’re looking for the obvious.’

  He shook his head vigorously.

  ‘Fine. We’ll get a search warrant and have your entire fleet taken to the Forensic Centre tomorrow. And don’t expect to get them back for at least two weeks.’

  ‘Bullshit! You can’t do that.’

  ‘Watch me.’

  John rubbed his triple chin, obviously contemplating the disastrous situation of having his entire fleet off the road.

  ‘The drivers are gonna get pissed with this,’ he finally said.

  ‘No more pissed than if their wheels are off the road for two weeks,’ I said, ‘not to mention the effect this is going to have on your business. I don’t think you’re in a position to be uncooperative, Mr Thomas.’

  He glanced over my shoulder and said, ‘I tell you what—when the cabs return from their day shift, they line up here...’ He pointed at the petrol pump behind my back, ‘...and refill for the next driver. All cabs have to be in by five. It can take two to ten minutes for a car to move through the rank. Gets busier as we’re closing in on the zero hour. Everyone is trying to make an extra buck at the last minute. Is ten minutes enough time to find what you’re looking for?’

  I glanced at Frank who shrugged in response.

  ‘Okay,’ I said. ‘Ten to twenty minutes per car shall do.’

  Frank and I both knew perfectly well this was completely inadequate. But I wasn’t going to stand here and argue with him when rain was just about to come down on us like an avalanche.

  ‘Jeez, ten minutes, that’s all I can spare per car,’ John insisted.

  ‘Ten minutes,’ I lied.

  Searching a car sometimes took up to four hours. We’ll have to skip the vacuum sweeping and other invisible trace evidence.

  ‘You gotta deal,’ John said. ‘You can stand next to the pump and tell the drivers what’s going on. And don’t give’em the shits. They work day shift. Nothing to do with the night shift.’

  ‘And when do we get to see the night-shift drivers?’

  ‘Most of them hang around the canteen or just out here,’ he pointed to a spot not far from the petrol pump. ‘After the day-shift drivers fills up their tanks, they park their car in the lot. If the night-shift driver happens to be hangin’ around, he usually jumps in the car straight away without waiting for the car to be parked.’

  A three-ring circus, I thought.

  Frank scribbled details down in his notebook.

  ‘And please, don’t piss anyone off,’ John continued. ‘I’m the one who has to deal with these people on daily basis. We like to keep a happy atmosphere. Once a cab driver, always a cab driver. I don’t care whether you’re unemployed or a doctor, once you’ve driven a cab, you’ll always come back to drive one at some stage in your life. There’s always going to be a moment when you’re going to need the extra cash.’

  Deep and philosophical.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Thomas,’ I said, ‘we’ll be as diligent and polite as it is humanly possible.’

  He twisted his mouth in a smile which looked more like a cringe. ‘Yeah, right, whatever. Any problems, I’m in the office at the back.’

  He was about to walk off when I called out, ‘Mr Thomas?’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘I’ll need a print-out of all the drivers who were on the road last night.’

  He looked at me blankly for a few seconds and said, ‘Jeez, all right, I see what I can do.’

  John Thomas disappeared back into his plywood constructi
on, shaking his head as if Frank and I were a couple of kids who were planning a prank, and there was nothing he could do about it.

  Frank waited by the petrol pump while I returned to the Ford to get the PERK. I had no idea what we’d be looking for. I hoped to God Evelyn Carter had left a lipstick behind or something with her fingerprints on it. The tiniest evidence could lead us in the right direction.

  When I returned back to the petrol pump, two taxi-cabs were already lined up, one with the petrol nozzle hanging from the side. The drivers, one Asian and one Anglo-Saxon looking, were talking to Frank. Both men were dressed in blue shirts with Black Taxi-cabs insignia.

  I approached the group, checking my ID was properly clipped to my breast pocket.

  ‘So you guys enjoy this kind of work?’ Frank asked.

  The Anglo-Saxon, a man in his early twenties, answered first, ‘Yeah, like I really like the excitement. You know, you never know what’s going to happen next.’

  Like you get stabbed in the back for a lousy ten dollars, I thought.

  The young man went on, ‘You get to meet so many interesting people. I mean, when I first started driving, I didn’t realise it was going to be so much fun.’ He elbowed the Asian man. ‘Isn’t that right? It’s adrelin-pumping shit, isn’t it?’

  The Asian man rolled his eyes. ‘The excitement kind of wears itself out after a couple of years.’

  The young man swallowed, clearly disturbed that the fun wouldn’t last forever.

  ‘How did she die?’ the Asian man asked.

  Frank shot me a look, a kind of SOS., and then turned his attention back to the cab drivers: ‘We’re not at liberty to discuss the case. All we’re doing at this stage is establishing links. We know she was driving in a cab last night, and we’re going to be looking through every single one of them.’