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

by Laurent Boulanger

  Suddenly, he half-circled the room and said, ‘Hey, look, you don’t have to be such a nasty bitch about it - I’m sorry if I offended you, but no harm was intended. I just wanted to help.’

  Without hesitating, I emptied the rest of my coffee in the sink.

  ‘Well, thank you, David. Like I’ve said, I really appreciate your concern, but I think the nasty bitch is old enough to look after herself.’

  Without saying another word, I crossed the room, pulled the curtain aside and stepped into the bookshop.

  ‘Hey, hold on a sec,’ David said behind my back, ‘I didn’t mean it that way.’

  I ignored him and headed for the exit.

  ‘Wait a minute,’ he went on, ‘don’t be like that.’

  I pulled the door towards me, and suddenly felt myself being dragged backwards. His right hand was gripping my left arm.

  ‘Don’t go like that,’ he said.

  I jerked my arm. ‘Let go of me, David, you’re hurting me.’

  Immediately he let his grip lose. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to...’

  ‘It’s okay, let’s just leave it at that for the time being. Just let me go home.’

  His eyes expressed sadness. ‘Sure, but you know I didn’t mean to offend you. It’s just that, well...you look so miserable.’

  I stepped outside the shop. ‘Thanks, David, I’ll call you.’

  Before he had time to reply, I paced across the street.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  I was half way back home when my mobile phone went off. One hand on the steering wheel, I was still worked up about the argument I had with David in his bookshop. Had I been unreasonable? Even if I had, did he have the right to call me a nasty bitch? I knew the answer and I didn’t have to ask myself why. The last person I went out with who called me a bitch was my ex-husband, and I hadn’t seen him since the mid-eighties.

  I pressed the YES key on my mobile and brought the phone to my ear while keeping an eye on the road for any cop cars. I wasn’t keen on paying a $135 fine for the privilege of talking to someone on the mobile.

  Grey clouds blanketed the blue from the sky, and with my window half way down, I could smell rain in the distance. A shiver ran up and down my spine because of the cold wind, but I resigned myself to leave the window open because I wanted to breath fresh air.

  ‘Dr Melina,’ I said matter-of-factly into the mouthpiece.

  ‘It’s Dr Main here.’ He paused for an answer.

  ‘Ah, yes, what’s up?’

  ‘I need you to get here straight away, if you can. I’ve got some test results that might interest you.’

  My brain did a somersault. ‘Is that in relationship to the Evelyn Carter murder?’

  ‘Certainly is.’

  ‘I thought someone stole all the samples from the fridge?’

  ‘Yes, they did, but I had some sent away for independent testing. I completely forgot until the samples came back today. I knew you’d want me to call you straight away. It might be very significant to your investigation.’

  ‘Okay, give me half an hour.’

  I left the West Ring Road at the Pascoe Vale exit and jumped back on it from the other side. A tinge of excitement got a hold of me. Just when it seemed that there was nothing to go on with, luck had finally come my way.

  I changed to the right lane and pushed the car to 150 km/h, guilt-free of any wrong-doing.

  Twenty minutes later I was parked at the VIFM. I jumped out of my car and hurried to the front entrance of the bluish-grey building, my heat racing with anticipation.

  I cleared myself at the front desk and was informed that Dr Main was waiting for me in the biological lab on the second floor.

  When I walked into the lab, Dr Main was sitting on a high chair, his back turned on me, flicking through what looked like an official report of one sort or another.

  ‘Dr Main,’ I said almost in a whisper as If I was scared to have distracted him.

  He turned around, and I saw the glittering excitement in his eyes.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ he said, ‘I’m glad you came so quickly.’ He stood from his high chair and paced towards me. ‘Do you remember the foreign substance I found under Evelyn’s fingernails during the autopsy?’

  He flicked through his report.

  ‘Not really,’ I said in all honesty.

  ‘Yes, yes, you must remember,’ he said. He turned to a specific page, pointed at a section and passed the report on to me. ‘Look here.’

  I read the paragraph he indicated, an edited transcription based on the recording he made during Evelyn Carter’s preliminary autopsy, which I had attended weeks ago: ‘Unidentified black sticky tissue were recovered from under the nails of the subject. The substance seemed organic in nature at during the initial observation, but it was impossible to determine whether it was of an animal or vegetable origin.’

  ‘Okay, so?’ I said.

  He pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose and said, ‘Well, I’ve sent the stuff for independent testing and one thing has been clarified. Whatever was under her nails is not human tissue.’

  ‘Animal?’

  ‘No, I did examine the gooey substance myself, but came to no hard conclusion, which is why I sent it away. And that was just as well since we’ve got nothing else left from the autopsy. If I had stored the sample in the fridge with the others, no doubt it would have vanished as well.’

  ‘When you say you examined the sample yourself, what exactly did you do?’

  ‘I soaked the sample in glycerine to give it more flexibility and to extract the oxygen, which would have accelerated the state of decomposition. It took a few days for the sample to become malleable enough to be placed between two microscope slides and viewed under favourable conditions.’

  All right, he now had my full attention. As much as I wasn’t into all the technical details, his delivery had the right amount of tension and pace to stop me from interrupting him.

  ‘Naturally,’ he went on, ‘I tried to make some type of reasonable scientific deduction, and by the time I had thoroughly analysed the sample, I had no idea what I was dealing with, so I decided to send whatever was left to histology.’

  He was referring to the Department of Histology, which dealt with the study and analysis of the minute structure of tissues and organs.

  ‘So what was the conclusion?’ I asked.

  Dr Main grabbed a file sitting on the laboratory bench behind him, one which I hadn’t noticed when I first entered the room. He pulled out several sheets of paper from it.

  He scanned through the front page and said, ‘The sample was viewed by short-wave light under magnification - times eight to be exact. According to the lab report they’ve sent me, the sample had a system of veins and capillaries. A high-intensity light was passed through, showing the presence of a red tint among the decomposition. So far, there was not a clue as to what the substance was, that is until microscopic pollen molecules were found resting in the fibres. This was definitely some sort of vegetable substance.’ He offered me the lab report. ‘Want to have a look?’

  ‘No thanks,’ I said, ‘I believe you.’ I puzzled for a few seconds. ‘What vegetable substance are we talking about?’

  ‘Well, my guess is as good as yours at this stage. I’ve forwarded the sample to John Darcy yesterday—he’s a biologist working at the VFSC—hopefully he’ll be able to tell us exactly what we’re dealing with. Might take a few days to get a result. He’s inundated with work at the moment.’

  Obviously Dr Main wasn’t aware that I knew John Darcy quite well, and that John had been more than helpful in previous investigations when I needed the test results yesterday. But since I had stopped working for the VFSC centre for six month prior to taking on the Evelyn Carter case, I hadn’t seen John or communicated with him in any way.

  ‘Can’t we speed up the process?’ I asked, not wanting to be the one making the call and having John thinking that the only reason why I called him was because I wanted
something from him. Of course, that was the truth, but since I had Dr Main right here in front of me, and he had sent the sample to John, then it only seemed appropriate that they dealt directly with one another.

  ‘I can make a call and apply some pressure if you insist.’ He smiled and locked his eyes into mine.

  ‘You do that, Dr Main, and I’ll owe you one.’

  He continued staring and said, ‘Oh, you owe me more than one by now.’ Gently, he rested his hand on my left arm. ‘How about dinner tonight?’

  His forwardness took me by surprise. I should have known this was going to happen one day. There had always been a sexual tension between the two of us, and if it hadn’t been him who’d ask, it would have ended up being me. Too bad he asked me at the wrong time in my life.

  ‘I don’t think so, and I don’t mean to be offensive. While I do appreciate the offer, I’m kind of busy with this investigation at the moment. I wouldn’t make very pleasant company.’

  ‘And when the investigation is over?’

  I considered his offer for an instance. When I first met him three years ago, I found him rather handsome with his straight nose, greyish temples and small creases under his eyes. The fact that he cut up bodies for a living did put me off, but he was still as appealing to my eyes as he had been during that first encounter. If I had not being seeing David, I would have taken up his offer without the slightest hesitation. I had been at the morgue enough times to watch autopsies and had seen enough people butchered in my line of work to come to term with Dr Main’s occupation. If it wasn’t for people like him, ninety percent of homicides would remain unsolved, not to mention that his direct involvement in the collection of medical statistics sourced from post-mortem autopsies and made available for scientific research arguably saved thousands of lives.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I finally said, ‘but I don’t think it’s a good idea.’

  ‘You don’t find me attractive.’

  ‘It’s not that at all.’

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘I’m actually seeing someone at the moment, so, it would a little inappropriate.’

  ‘Is it serious?’

  I coughed awkwardly. ‘Well, this is kind of private, if you don’t mind. Believe me when I say that you shouldn’t take it personally.’

  The creases under his eyes deepened. ‘All right then, I guess you must know what you’re doing.’

  I shrugged.

  ‘Of courses,’ he added, ‘this doesn’t mean that I won’t be making that phone call to John Darcy for you.’

  I should think not, I thought as I retreated towards the exit of the laboratory.

  ‘Well, thanks for everything,’ I said. ‘I do appreciate you calling me so quickly.’

  ‘You’re more than welcome.’ He smiled broadly. ‘I’ll call you as soon as the results become available. Or I can get John to call you. Whatever you prefer.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I said and headed straight for the exit.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  The moment I pulled into the driveway, I knew something was wrong. It’s was only a few seconds later when I stepped out of the car that I realised I’d been right. The front door was left ajar, and I knew I closed it before I left. Even though I lived in a low-crime area, dealing with criminals and wrong-doers on daily basis, I had developed a justified level of paranoia and, as a result, always assured that my home was carefully locked before I left for anywhere.

  My heart pounding, I made my way to the front of the house, hoping it was only Michael who’d forgotten to lock the door. He’s been absent-minded lately, I told myself, and maybe he forgot to lock behind him.

  I stood in front of the door, listening for anything coming from inside the house. Even though it was cold, perspiration was forming at the back of my neck. My stomach churned in anticipation. I listened hard.

  Silence.

  Two step forwards, one hand holding the door frame.

  More silence.

  I pushed the door with my left hand.

  Expecting the worse, I retrieved my Mustang Plus .380 from the small of my back with my right hand. I’d never used the gun before to shoot or kill anyone, but it had caused death in a previous investigation when a friend used it to spray someone’s brain into a three meter radius and saving my life in the process. I had had plenty of chance to hone my shooting skills with the stainless-frame semi-automatic at the Police Academy in Mt Waverley whenever I pleased. One of the many perks for working in association with the Victoria Police. I just never found the need, nor the desire to do so, a choice I greatly regretted right at that moment. Nevertheless, the fact that the gun was designed to eject one cartridge and chamber a new one without manual intervention from the shooter after each shot was fired made me feel protected and in control.

  I took one deep breath and pushed the front door open.

  I listened.

  Only traffic travelling up and down Craigieburn West Road.

  Nothing coming from inside the house.

  Acutely aware of my surrounding, I stepped inside the house, my back glued to the wall adjacent to the entrance, and my gun pointing at the ceiling.

  ‘Michael?’ I almost whispered.

  Three steps forward, and I could see the entrance of the living room through the corner of my eye. The first thing I noticed was the contents of one of the bookshelves emptied on the floor. Okay, I hadn’t been over cautious after all. Someone had been in the house, and it sure as hell didn’t look as if it had been Michael. We had our differences, but he’d never been the violent or destructive type, certainly not when it came to my belongings. I hoped to God he hadn’t come home yet.

  Slowly, I lowered the gun and held it closer to my chest. If someone was still in the house, I’d had to be extremely cautious. I hated the idea of been bludgeoned at the back of the head like a baby seal in my own home. If the intruder was your common variety burglar, he probably wouldn’t have a choice weapon like I did, so he’ll take whatever he can grab to do me good.

  I counted to three, held the gun tightly in my hand and did a half circle, aiming the weapon directly in front of me.

  My eyes circled the room, looking out of anything that resembled a person.

  No one was there.

  I paused for a few seconds and lowered the gun.

  I checked the room again, this time in slow motion. Every single book from the three bookshelves in the room were on the floor, some torn apart, others thrown around. The floral sofa was slit open, its stuffing coming out like a gutted animal. The bastard even took the liberty to smash the tube of my new television set. This was not a common burglary. Nothing seemed to be missing, but whoever broke in my house took great pleasure in destroying as much as possible. I could feel the hatred hanging in the air like a toxic fume.

  Pausing for a few seconds, I let the shock settle in. Just as well I had taken out a contents insurance when I moved in the place. Replacing everything out of my own pocket would have drained out all my savings.

  Carefully, I crossed the room, stepping over Naomi Wolf’s Promiscuity in trade paperback and Sue Grafton’s G is for Gumshoe in hard cover Both books were severely damaged - pages pulled out, spines broken, covers ripped and crumbled. It broke my heart. Money would never replace the love and dedication I had put into building my own home library. Other than my collection of jazz and classical CDs, my home library was the jewel of my life, a sanctuary where I could escape from the daily lunacy of making a living, or whenever I felt the need to hear somebody’s thoughts other than my own.

  I ground my teeth. Whoever did this was going to pay dearly. Revenge would be swift and severe. Let there be no doubt. No one touches my books and gets away with it.

  I recalled that there were no strange cars parked in front of my home or nearby. I peaked through the living room window to double-check. No other car in sight other than my Hyundai. The intruder must have already left. This fact was confirmed when I stepped into the kitchen. The white-rimmed plas
tic clock, which had been hanging on the wall when I left home that morning, was smashed and lay on the kitchen bench. The time read 2.32. It was just on 6.30 p.m. according to my watch.

  Full broad daylight breaking-and-entering and no one notices.

  So much for neighbourhood watch.

  I stared emptily at the damage in the kitchen. The contents of every drawer was emptied on the floor. My plates, mugs, cups and plates were smashed into thousand pieces. The curtains had been pulled down and slashed with some kind of large knife, maybe the one I kept in the second drawer to chop lettuces in half. The coffee machine had been pulled apart as if someone had tried to extract its internal organs. The microwave oven, its door badly battered and barely hanging by a screw, would cost more to repair than to replace. The freezer compartment of the fridge was wide open, ice melting and dripping all over the kitchen floor. I stepped on a soggy forty-piece fish finger cardboard box which had once occupied a small corner of the ice box. The smell of fish rose straight to my nostrils.

  Now I regretted not having had much to do with the neighbours. We glanced over each others backyard now and then, waved at one another whenever we picked up our mail, and nodded and said hello if we met at the local supermarket. They were a married couple with four kids, three girls and one boy, all under the age of ten. He must have worked rotating shifts because his car, an old battered thing which would end up at the wreckers within the next five years, was parked in front of the house or in the driveway at odd times. She seemed to be taking care of the kids full time, expect on Fridays were her red Ford Falcon disappeared early in the morning and re-appeared late at night. He took great care of his front yard, unlike myself, whom Frank loved to tease by naming my overgrown nature strip the Craigieburn National Park.

  All in all, there were quiet and good neighbours, the kind I had nothing to complain about, but still, I was angry at them for not noticing anything. If they had, the police would have been all over my place by now.

  It’s not their fault, it’s not their fault, I told myself as I finished crossing the kitchen and walking down the hallway.