The Shadow Maker

by Robert Sims

  ‘Maybe, or what some of us see as the inevitable fall from grace,’

  he sighed. ‘Anyway, back to the case in hand. Strickland’s told me about the victim’s taste in nightlife. I don’t want you getting any ideas about paying a call on Tony Kavella.’

  Rita looked at him unconvinced. Then she took a deep breath and said, ‘He’s a career criminal, a diagnosed psychopath. And he’s instigated violent sex attacks before.’

  ‘Don’t even go there. He’s out of bounds. Unless there’s solid evidence against him, steer clear of Kavella.’

  ‘The victim was a regular at his club,’ argued Rita. ‘And the offender made a reference to “the rules of the cave”. That has a nasty ring of familiarity. Kavella could even be taunting us with another round of sadistic sex games, after getting away with it before.’

  ‘First, that can’t be proven in court,’ Loftus replied. ‘Second, he’s got lawyers like a school of sharks. And third, you’re making it personal when you should be exercising objectivity.’

  ‘But -‘ she persisted.

  ‘No evidence, no move on Kavella,’ said Loftus, walking to the door with a warning glare. ‘Plato’s Cave is more dangerous than you can possibly know.’

  Rita watched him go with a puzzled look on her face. There was something he wasn’t telling her. Loftus had access to information that senior officers kept to themselves, so there was no point in trying to guess, nor was there any point in dragging out her work any longer. The day had drained her. She logged off, and went to the ladies to freshen up, her face in the mirror regaining some of its glow with a touch of make-up.

  She rode the lift down to the ground floor and nodded to the desk officer as she crossed the lobby.

  ‘Cheer up, Van Hassel,’ he said. ‘It’s us against the bastards.’

  ‘Yeah, but they play dirty,’ she laughed. ‘And they outnumber us.’

  Mike Cassidy’s crime report was broadcast again on the late news bulletin. He stood at the counter of a Southbank wine bar, surrounded by fellow journalists, and assessed his own performance on the overhead screen. It was authoritative, no matter what Rita thought, with just the right note of alarm.

  One of his colleagues agreed. ‘Nice scare story.’

  ‘It’s all in the delivery,’ said Cassidy.

  Not everyone watched the news report as a detached observer.

  One man viewed the story with a vivid image in his mind. He didn’t try to imagine what the girl in the hospital was going through, or how her family was trying to cope. Their ordeal was beyond his concern. Nor did he try to reconcile the tragic consequences with the events of the night before - the naked body in chains, the flickering flames, the shadows. What fascinated him most was her transformation from prisoner to she-devil, and how she’d been tamed.

  The TV report mentioned none of this.

  Yet it did predict there would be more to come. Were the police simply guessing, or did their profiler have a special insight into the dynamics of the game that was up and running? It would be a challenge to get close to her and find out. But not now. It was time to switch off. He picked up the remote control and turned off the television. Then he got up, shrugging off any feelings of involvement, picked up the bronze-coloured mask beside him and put it away.

  Crime lab scientist Dale Quinn was an enthusiast who enjoyed his work, wore his hair in a ponytail and talked too fast. Rita listened intently as he rattled off his findings.

  ‘The bondage equipment is top of the range, imported, and not some cheap backstreet product,’ he was saying. ‘We’re talking quality fetish gear, Donner-und-Blitzen brand, made in Germany with proper serial numbers. Only a handful of shops around the city stock it and they charge top dollar. I’m surprised they were left at the crime scene.’

  ‘Me too,’ said Rita. Her morning visit to the forensic services centre was already pointing to contradictions in her preliminary profile of the perpetrator.

  ‘Chrome steel chains, manacles, shackles - and in mint condition,’

  said Quinn. ‘At a guess, all recently purchased with tender, loving fantasy. If they were mine I wouldn’t abandon them.’

  ‘Sometimes I worry about you being vacuum-sealed in here with your imagination.’

  ‘Admit it, Van Hassel, these shiny chrome objects have a lurid appeal.’

  She smiled. ‘I’ll admit to an urge to see you bound and gagged.

  But in the meantime I’ve got to work out why he left such a messy crime scene.’

  ‘Did your bondage freak beat a hasty retreat?’

  Rita shook her head. ‘No, he was in the room for nearly an hour and a half.’

  ‘Ah, that’s interesting.’

  ‘Why?’ she asked.

  ‘That’s just long enough for the fire to burn out.’ Quinn gave a satisfied nod. ‘We recreated the paper and coat-hanger effect.’

  ‘Nice one.’

  ‘Thank you.’ He appeared to enjoy her approval. ‘By the way we’ve got three sets of prints off the manacles - his, hers and partials from someone else.’

  ‘The first intended victim … We’ve got to find her,’ breathed Rita. ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Yeah, I’m saving the best till last.’

  He held up what looked like a key card or credit card. It was made of black laminated plastic with silver lettering. There were no numbers or codes on it, just two words: plato’s cave.

  Rita stared at it, her spine tingling at the thought of the net closing in around Tony Kavella.

  ‘What am I looking at?’ she asked.

  ‘At first we thought it was a smartcard with a chip, the kind used as a security pass, that sort of thing. But were we surprised - it’s not smart, it’s a bloody genius!’ He gave a grin. ‘The technology and software embedded in this card are cutting edge, heavily encrypted, worthy of military security, and we can’t even begin to crack it. And only the attacker’s prints are on it, not the girl’s.’

  ‘But it was found among the contents of her handbag.’

  ‘Well, not quite. Her things were scattered between the bedside table, the bed and the fireplace. This card was lying just under the foot of the bed.’

  ‘Right where he put his clothes,’ said Rita. ‘It could have fallen from a pocket.’

  ‘That’s more likely than a street hooker possessing space age technology.’

  There was a new urgency in Rita’s voice. ‘We know Tony Kavella’s spent a lot of money on a new system with an impenetrable firewall.

  The card could be part of a program he’s developed. You’ve got to decode it.’

  Quinn shook his head. ‘We don’t have the hardware, the computing power or the expertise.’

  ‘Well, who does?’

  ‘The top expert in the field is a young professor out at Monash University. His name’s Byron Huxley. He’s your best bet. If you sign for it you can take the card with you. We can’t process it any further so he’s free to handle it.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Rita. ‘I’ll use it as my calling card.’

  Rather than heading out to the university in one of Melbourne’s south-eastern suburbs, Rita decided to touch base at the office. She noticed the morning newspapers lying on the desks as she walked into the squad room. They’d picked up from where the TV news bulletins had left off. The headlines took their cue from Mike Cassidy’s report.

  sex predator on the loose

  police fear more mutilation attacks

  As Rita sat down at her desk she wasn’t sure if the coverage would help or hinder the investigation. She didn’t have much time to think about it. Strickland strode up and slammed a newspaper in front of her.

  ‘What the fuck is this?’

  The rest of the room fell silent.

  ‘The last thing we need is your boyfriend stirring the shit. I’ve got reporters all over me like flies.’ Strickland’s face was flushed with anger. ‘I’m having to call a press conference to deny this garbage about a serial offender. What the hell a
re you playing at?’

  She took a deep breath, willing herself to stay calm. ‘First of all, he’s not my boyfriend. He’s my ex-boyfriend.’

  ‘Don’t piss me around,’ he shouted. ‘What did you tell him?’

  ‘To back off, like you asked me to -‘

  The rest of her sentence was cut off by Strickland thumping the desk with his fist. ‘Not very convincing then, were you? From now on I don’t want you to say a damn thing to the media! I don’t care if they’re boyfriends, ex-boyfriends or one night stands! I’ve already got them queuing up for interviews with my attractive young profiler!’

  He smacked the newspaper aside in disgust. ‘So let’s get it straight.

  Your job is to support the investigation, keep your mouth shut, and let your senior officers do the talking. Understand?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘I hope you do. Otherwise you’ll be butting your head against more than just macho attitudes,’ he said, leaning across the desk towards her, his jaw thrust forward. ‘You’re a smart detective, Van Hassel. Smart enough to have university degrees. But I don’t think you’re a team player. And that makes you the wrong sort of cop.’

  She folded her arms defiantly. ‘There are only two sorts,’ she snapped. ‘Smart cops and dumb cops.’

  Strickland straightened up, his face still full of aggression. At first she’d read his obvious resentment of her as cultural. The tall poppy syndrome. She was too young, too educated and had been promoted too fast. Then, after she’d heard him warning his junior officers, ‘Never get married!’ she’d pigeonholed him as a common garden variety misogynist. But as she came to know him better she decided he was more complex than that. Middle-aged and brittle with thinning hair, a jowly expression and a tendency to emphasise how tough he was by talking out of the side of his mouth like Humphrey Bogart, Strickland was blunt and not an impressive manager, though he had a cachet among the boys. Yet his gruff exterior concealed a man of intelligence and sensitivity. He was more than a solid detective. He was astute. He was also literate - in a quiet moment Rita had once caught him reading T.S. Eliot’s ‘The Waste Land’, though he’d scowled and put it away as soon as he saw her. In his own way, Strickland was perceptive and unorthodox in his thinking.

  He just hid it well to fit in.

  ‘I know you disapprove of my approach as psychologically crude,’

  he said. ‘You think I’m unsubtle. But what counts is results. And you don’t get those with criminal profiling. At best it’s of peripheral use, at worst it’s a gimmick - little better than fortune-telling. It doesn’t solve crimes.’

  ‘I never said it did,’ Rita protested. ‘So I take it you’ve changed your mind about me starting a profile on this case?’

  Strickland paused, but clearly decided to be politic. ‘The top brass tell me to use profiling when appropriate. Let’s just say I’ve ticked the box on this one.’

  ‘I’ve always accepted it’s just one of many investigative tools.

  Another way of analysing behaviour.’

  ‘Sometimes I get the impression you’re analysing us as much as the criminals.’

  ‘Maybe I should. I’d start with assessing the level of paranoia.’

  Strickland shook his head disdainfully. ‘Wrong,’ he said. ‘You’re proving my point about playing a lone hand.’

  ‘I put in the hard slog like everyone else. And that’s on top of the profiling, the intelligence data work and my study.’

  ‘That just makes you another ambitious woman who wants to be a career detective. Doesn’t score any points with me.’ Turning away he added, ‘And for Christ’s sake, get a life.’

  As her fellow detectives turned back to their work, Rita picked up the phone and punched in the number of Mike Cassidy’s direct line at the TV newsroom. The call was answered by a woman who said he was out of the office working on a story.

  ‘Can I take a message?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes. Tell him he’s a complete prick,’ said Rita before slamming down the phone.

  She waited for her breathing to return to normal then checked if any reports of sexual assault had emerged, but there were still none. She went over to the water cooler, filled a plastic cup and swallowed the contents in a single gulp.

  Then she hit the filing cabinet beside her with her fist.

  ‘Fuck,’ she said through clenched teeth, then sighed and leant on the cabinet. This wasn’t how things were supposed to go.

  She stared out the window, beyond the parks and river, her gaze moving to the wall of skyscrapers. What was it with men? Why did they feel the need to give women such a hard time? What galled her most was the arrogance of it - both her ex-boyfriend and her boss assuming they had the right to judge her character, and both getting it so wrong. In their different ways they had both accused her of being cold and distant. Their aim was to zero in on her self-doubt. In doing so, both men were revealing their own inadequacies.

  And that only made her more determined to do things her way.

  She knew she was driven. And maybe Cassidy was right. Maybe it came from her Dutch Protestant background. But hard-edged - no.

  That was simply her refusal to suffer fools gladly. And if she expected a lot from others, she expected even more from herself. That too came from her upbringing.

  Her thoughts were interrupted by the broad-shouldered bulk

  - built up over years of long-distance swimming - of Detective Senior Constable Kevin O’Keefe. He’d been assigned to work with her on the case. His meaty hand rested on her back in a gesture of reassurance.

  ‘Which one of the bastards do you want me to deck?’ he asked quietly. ‘Strickland or your ex?’

  ‘Thanks for the offer,’ she chuckled. ‘How about a double decking?’

  ‘No sweat. Just say when.’

  ‘It’s a deal,’ she said, leading the way back to her desk. ‘In the meantime, we’ve got work to do.’

  O’Keefe dragged a chair over. ‘Okay, boss,’ he said. ‘Bring me up to speed.’

  That’s what Rita liked about him - no fuss, no attitude, just ready to do her bidding. He was a plodder, and at times lethargic, but once motivated he was dogged and relentless, with the forward thrust of a juggernaut. It made him one of the easiest detectives to work with.

  ‘You’ve looked at what we’ve got so far?’ she asked.

  ‘Yep,’ he answered, and rubbed his left eye with a thick, hairy knuckle. ‘I reckon we’re looking at long odds with this one. We’ll need a break with the evidence. Who’s chasing the car?’

  ‘Bradby,’ said Rita.

  ‘That’ll keep him busy,’ said O’Keefe. ‘The MX-5’s the most popular sports car in the world, and there are plenty of black ones around. What are we working on?’

  Rita sat back and called up a checklist on her screen. ‘Our top priority is tracing the first intended victim. I’ve checked with hospitals, medical centres, counselling services - all the contacts I’ve got. No woman’s reported a sex offence, or even an assault. But I’m convinced the attacker got up close and virtually had the chains on her before she fought him off. That means, if nothing else, she should have defensive injuries to her hands or forearms. It also probably means she doesn’t want to report being attacked.’

  ‘You want me to do the rounds with the hospitals again?’

  ‘Yes, but this time just ask if a woman’s been treated for those sorts of injuries, even if she says they were accidental.’

  ‘Okay,’ said O’Keefe. ‘Anything else?’

  ‘These.’ She passed him glossy photos of the bondage gear. ‘As you’ll see from the lab report they’re imported from Germany and only a few outlets stock them. We need to know where he did his shopping.’

  ‘Hmm, sex boutiques.’ He raised his bushy eyebrows. ‘I might do a bit of browsing myself.’

  ‘Don’t you start, you haven’t got time,’ she said. ‘Any browsing you do will be for a bronze-coloured mask. The other item we need to source is t
he Ned Kelly T-shirt. It’s unusual.’

  ‘What about the sunglasses?’

  ‘They’re last on the list. I know the type; it’s a designer brand and available at any decent shopping centre.’

  ‘So while I’m occupied, what’ll you be working on?’ asked O’Keefe.

  ‘This.’ From her jacket pocket, Rita lifted a small clear plastic bag containing the Plato’s Cave card. ‘It’s hi-tech and encrypted. I’ve got to find out if Emma Schultz can tell me anything about it.’

  A uniformed constable sat outside Emma Schultz’s room flipping through a men’s health magazine. He stood up abruptly as Rita approached.

  ‘Any problems?’ she asked.

  ‘No, not really,’ he answered. ‘I had to shoo away a few journalists.

  The only other visitors were a pair of hookers, apart from half a dozen delivery people with flowers.’

  ‘You didn’t let anyone in?’

  ‘No, and I questioned the street girls, friends of the victim, but they don’t think they know the man who attacked her. I’ve also taken the details of the florist orders, just in case they’re relevant.’

  ‘Good work,’ said Rita. ‘Email them to Kevin O’Keefe in Sex Crimes. He’ll check them out.’

  She went into the room to find Emma much as she’d left her the day before, propped on pillows, sedated and still in ignorance of the full extent of her injuries. On shelves around her were lots of flowers in vases. Emma’s mother was still there, exhausted and red-eyed, but out of tears. As Rita greeted both women, Mrs Schultz handed over a photo of her daughter, as had been requested of her.

  It was a studio portrait, a head and shoulders shot, showing a young woman with a girlish smile, rosy-cheeked, bright-eyed.

  Rita reached out to take Emma’s hand. ‘Is there anything else you’ve remembered about the man who attacked you?’

  Emma made herself more comfortable as she thought about it.

  ‘I remember he was clever,’ she said.

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘Some of the things he talked about in the car, you know, just making conversation on the way to the hotel. Stuff I didn’t understand.’