by Robert Sims
Senior Detective Matt Bradby’s team is checking with car dealerships and going through the list of owners.’
He paused and let his eyes move over their faces. ‘Other leads we’re chasing are the Ned Kelly T-shirt and the German bondage gear. Senior Detective O’Keefe’s out pounding the streets at the moment, trying to find out where they were bought. And we’re still trying to trace a key witness - a woman who was apparently this maniac’s first target, but managed to fight him off. If any of you hear of a likely candidate let me or DS Van Hassel know. And although we’ve drawn a blank so far, we’ll continue with an appeal for witnesses around the casino. It’s just possible some punter saw something. There’s enough of them around late at night. We’ll also keep pulling in known offenders who fit the description, even if it’s just to eliminate them. DS Erin Webster’s in charge of that happy task. Finally, DS Higgs and his crew are out questioning street prostitutes. He’s made it clear we’re not interested in vice, we just want to nail this offender. They’re scared after the news reports, so they’re cooperating. The obvious problem is they have a large client base and therefore a large suspect pool.’
He gave Loftus a reluctant sideways look, then went on. ‘I agree with what Jack says about not rushing to get a result. Having said that, we all know the first seventy-two hours of any investigation are crucial, and if there’s no breakthrough within the first five days we’re looking at a long haul. So I just want to remind you, the clock is ticking. Be thorough, but be efficient.’ He turned back to Loftus again. ‘Jack?’
‘That’s a good point,’ said Loftus. ‘And it reminds me we’ve got someone on our team who can help with that very thing. Most of you have worked with Detective Sergeant Van Hassel on different cases over the years and know she’s a damned good investigator. But you’re less familiar with the role she’s currently developing.’
All heads in the room turned to look at Rita, who swallowed thickly and straightened up, wondering what the hell Jack was about to say.
‘I know there’s a lot of scepticism about criminal profiling, but I’m convinced it’s a valuable asset to certain types of investigation. This could be one of them. Now, despite some popular misconceptions, the profiler’s role is not to perform the magic act of identifying the offender. It’s far more pragmatic than that. When a case is in danger of getting bogged down, a profiler can conserve our resources and energy, telling us where not to look, for a start, and where not to waste our time. A profiler can also give us a fresh focus if his or her analysis finds a connection that isn’t obvious. DSS Strickland has asked DS Van Hassel to put together a profile on our mutilator-rapist. Although she’s only at the preliminary stage she’s already come up with some insights into his background. But I’m going to let her tell you about that,’ he said, indicating for Rita to come up to the front. ‘She can also give us a few broad impressions of who we’re looking for.’
Rita pulled herself up from the chair, with an encouraging pat on the back from Erin, and moved over to stand in front of the whiteboard. As she faced her fellow detectives their collective doubt was plain to see. Yet there was also an attentive curiosity among them. Jack had given her the floor because it offered her a captive audience. It was time to make her pitch.
‘My role isn’t to tell you how to investigate this case,’ she began.
‘I’m not here as another supervisor or monitor or - God forbid -
some sort of psychic. So for a start I want to set aside all that bullshit.
I know the methods we use as detectives to work a case. They’re the right methods. That’s how we solve crimes. And in most investigations there’s no need for profiling at all. It only comes in to play when the odds are stacked against us - when we’re hunting an elusive type of criminal, a predator who has no apparent link to his victim. That’s what we’re dealing with here, and with any luck we’ll catch the bastard by following up straightforward leads or evidence. But like Detective Inspector Loftus said …’ and she paused to highlight the point, ‘when there’s no clear lead, that’s when profiling comes in. It can be used to prioritise. ‘
One of the detectives cleared his throat. It was Strickland’s protege, Bradby, who said, ‘I think we understand the principle. But isn’t there a danger we can get blinkered and miss out on other things?’
Rita had dealt with this objection before and was ready for it.
‘That would only happen if we treat a profile as the main piece of evidence. We mustn’t - because it isn’t. It’s an extra element, that’s all. And, sadly, profiling only gets sharper the longer a case drags on and the more attacks an offender commits.’
‘And in this case?’ asked Bradby. ‘You think that’s what we’re looking at?’
Everyone knew what he was referring to - her ex-boyfriend’s TV
news report and the front page stories that followed.
‘Today’s headlines about a serial attacker were based on no information whatsoever,’ she said firmly. ‘It was sheer tabloid fiction.
As far as we know, this was his first such offence, although it was his second attempted sex assault of the night. But going on past patterns, and data on this type of crime, this offender won’t be content with a one-off rape and mutilation.’
This was greeted with some low groans.
‘I’d say he’ll attack again soon unless we stop him,’ she continued.
‘What else can you tell us?’ asked Strickland dourly.
‘The man we’re looking for would seem much like one of us.
He’s in the same age group as many of us here - mid twenties to early thirties. He’s articulate, respectable-looking, drives a sports car.
He’s also intelligent and au fait with the latest computer technology, quite possibly working in or dealing with the hi-tech sector. Whatever work he does, he’s in a senior position. Also like us, he has to endure constant stress. But this man is unstable - which isn’t as obvious as it sounds. We’ve all questioned criminals who can lie through their teeth without losing their composure - many of them psychopaths.
This offender isn’t like that. If he’s defied, he loses it. He’s also a regular customer of prostitutes.’ She turned to Strickland. ‘That’s as much as I can say. The rest is too speculative at this stage.’
Her comments brought a muted response from her colleagues
- a mixture of quizzical stares and murmurs of acknowledgement.
The jury’s still out, she thought. As she resumed her position beside Erin, Strickland echoed Loftus’s moral support - or at least pretended to.
‘I think that proves we can get some valuable input from profiling,’
he said, before addressing Rita directly. ‘In fact, I’m going to ask you to go through the interview tapes we’ve already got - just to double-check he hasn’t slipped through. You might spot something we’ve missed.’
Rita nodded her agreement, then he went on. ‘One point though
- the hi-tech connection. For the benefit of the other officers could you explain how you arrived at that?’
‘His comments to the victim,’ she said, then added carefully, ‘and an encrypted smartcard he left at the crime scene which we’re yet to decipher.’
‘Okay. Good,’ said Strickland, nodding with something like approval, before turning back to his team. ‘Let’s keep that in mind.
We’ll also continue with checks on any security cameras that might have picked up the car. Nothing’s turned up at the casino, but we tracked down the owners of two Mazda MX-5s coming off the CityLink in the right timeframe. Unfortunately one was a private female nurse on a night call, the other was a middle-aged businessman who didn’t match the victim’s description - though what he’s up to in a sports car in the early hours sounds like funny business to me.’
That got some chuckles. ‘I think that brings us up to date.’
‘There’s just one other thing,’ added Loftus. ‘You’ll see from the crime report the victim left the P
lato’s Cave nightclub about an hour before she was picked up and attacked.’ His words provoked a reaction, laced with cursing and swearing, to which Loftus raised his voice. ‘Yeah, well we’d all like to take another crack at Kavella, but this isn’t the occasion. At this stage we haven’t established a connection with the club. Although the smartcard mentioned by Van Hassel has got Plato’s Cave printed on it, the card appears to prove nothing either way. It may be just a coincidence, so I’m telling you now: this is not - repeat not - a line of investigation. And Plato’s Cave stays off the agenda or you’ll answer to me. We’ve got enough on our hands without that litigious creep distracting us. So let’s get on with it.’
As they dispersed, chairs scraping, voices grumbling, Loftus moved over to Rita.
‘Thanks, Jack,’ she said.
‘For what?’
‘For dropping me in it.’
‘No sweat,’ he said unsympathetically. ‘Anyway, you more than handled it. If profiling’s going to play a significant role we’ve got to beat the drum a bit.’
‘Is that what I was doing?’
‘Yes. And you’ve also given the case a little more focus.’
‘Maybe.’ Unconvinced, she changed the subject. ‘And now there’s a general health warning against Plato’s Cave, what do I put in my report on Kavella?’
Loftus gave a weary sigh. ‘You don’t write it,’ he said, lowering his voice. ‘Is there any chance of finding out more about the card?’
‘Yes, but I want to look my seductive best.’
He fixed her with a suspicious stare, before relenting. ‘Okay, I’ll bite. What are you talking about?’
‘The crime lab says there’s a young cybernetics professor at Monash who might be able to help,’ Rita replied. ‘I’ll go out there tomorrow. What do you reckon, Jack - you think I can charm him with my academic prowess?’
Loftus just shook his head. ‘I’ve had enough to think about today.’
Rita’s work was over for the day, and all in all it had been a bad one, thanks to internal politics. She took the lift down to the basement car park, cursing her miscalculation over Kavella and wondering if her career in the force would soon be blocked by Nash.
As she approached her car she could see a figure leaning against it.
Strickland. He was smoking a cigarette. He straightened up when he saw her coming, an embarrassed look on his face, the look of someone wrestling with an apology.
‘How’d it go with Loftus after the meeting with Nash?’ he asked awkwardly.
‘I got another lecture,’ she said, giving him a sour stare.
‘Shit.’ He dropped the cigarette and ground it with his heel. ‘One way or another we’ve all chewed you out today.’
The belated sympathy didn’t impress her. ‘I’m surprised you noticed.’
‘I might be a hard bastard but I try to be fair. You don’t deserve what you got from Nash. But that’s not what I wanted to say.’ He looked at her squarely. ‘I owe you a favour for what happened in there with Nash. You could’ve fed me to the wolves.’
This was unexpected - Strickland admitting he was in her debt.
Rita wasn’t quite sure what to say. ‘Well, I wasn’t being noble. They just got my back up,’ she said eventually.
‘Doesn’t matter. I appreciate it anyway. Just wanted you to know.’
He glanced away, uncomfortable with himself. It was something she hadn’t seen before.
‘Okay,’ she said. ‘And maybe you can drop the macho bullshit occasionally.’
‘No chance of that.’ He started to walk away. ‘I’m still a hard bastard.’
‘Mike’s great company when you’re out on the town,’ Rita was saying.
‘But that’s not enough, is it?’
‘My God! You need to ask?’ said Lola, looking at her in amazement.
Rita and Lola Iglesias had been friends since their late teens. They’d met at a seminar on the psychology of cultural icons. Rita was setting out on her degree course at a time Lola was exploring screenwriting as an option. She’d become the arts critic on a women’s magazine instead. Their temperaments were as divergent as their careers. It’s why they clicked. Each found the other highly entertaining and a little mad, but there was also deep mutual trust. Family pressures, relationships, break-ups - they always had each other to talk out the crisis with and provide a lateral perspective and creative advice.
They were to each other what no woman should be without.
‘He says I’m sinful and hard-edged.’ Rita was a little drunk. ‘But I doubt he can sustain a relationship. He’s unreliable.’
‘No wonder, with all that Irish blood in his veins.’ Lola’s family was from Ecuador. ‘Even worse, he’s a journalist. They’re brilliant at partying but useless at commitment.’
‘I just can’t deal with his lies and his egocentric attitude,’ Rita continued. ‘He’s like a little boy.’
‘Tell me about it,’ said Erin feelingly - her son was going through the terrible twos. ‘Boys are born with high levels of testosterone. It makes them so demanding. And when they grow up they think with their dicks.’
Lola flicked her hand at the general surroundings. ‘In fact, so much in life’s hormonal. Like PMT - or fucking in elevators.’
That got a laugh, since she’d once been caught at it.
‘Oh my God, you’ll never guess,’ Lola went on. ‘I’m getting flowers at work. And I don’t have a clue who’s sending them.’
‘Make the most of it,’ said Erin, reaching into her handbag for cigarettes, a plastic rattle falling out in the process. ‘Secret admirers are good for two things, champagne sex and five-star room service.’
Erin’s foray into wife-and motherhood was relatively recent, preceded by a time in which she drank hard, swore loudly and slept around. An impressive tally of male colleagues had tried to keep pace with her alcohol intake and promptly fallen prey to her provocations and sturdy physique. In the end one of them - an inspector in the uniform branch - got her pregnant and married her. With a hyperactive toddler, the marriage was under strain. In public Erin joked about it. In private she threw crockery at the wall and wondered if her husband was screwing someone else.
‘I used to get flowers,’ she said wistfully. ‘Now I’ve got piles of nappies and a man who grunts at me while he watches the footy.’
Erin emptied her glass. ‘Another bottle of cab sav?’
The other two nodded and she got up and made her way towards the counter.
They were drinking at the wine bar that had become their regular haunt. Its mood was reassuring. Oak casks behind the bar. Dusty wine bottles on the shelves. Vases of freesias. And in the small back garden where they were sitting, tables shaded by the leafy lacework of ferns and bamboo.
‘So how was your day?’ asked Rita.
‘Tedious,’ said Lola. ‘The magazine sent me to interview a self-satisfied bitch with a size six figure and legs up to her neck. Yet another C-list celebrity turned crime writer.’
‘You’re kidding.’
‘It’s the market. No-talents cashing in on what’s become the biggest mainstream genre.’
‘Wasn’t it always?’ asked Rita.
‘No. Thrillers used to be cheap pulp written by middle-aged alcoholics for semi-literates. And no one tried to be clever about it.’
‘Shakespeare was a crime writer.’
‘There you go - not listening to me again!’
‘His best plays are psychological thrillers - Macbeth, Othello, Hamlet.’
‘Do I look like I believe you?’
‘I could even argue Hamlet’s a flawed and reluctant detective who was a forerunner to the heroes of film noir. All the elements are there.’
‘Oh, how convincing. Not!’
‘Then there’s Dostoyevsky,’ Rita persisted. ‘The greatest novelist of all, and a genius on the psychology of crime.’
‘No wonder you’re a profiler,’ said Lola. ‘You keep getting intellectual bees
in your bonnet!’
Erin came back with a fresh bottle and sat down purposefully.
‘Do you know how nice it is to have a night out and actually have a conversation with an adult? Tristan’s gorgeous but the little bugger never gives me a break. When I’m out with him I end up with wine knocked over, every sentence interrupted and stains on my skirt.’
‘Sounds like my last date,’ said Lola.
Erin refilled the glasses. ‘So don’t get broody too soon. And in the meantime fuck around.’
Rita shrugged. ‘Part of me agrees. The best way to put Mike behind me is to get plastered and get laid.’ She drank deeply from her glass, the wine blurring the edges of her thoughts. ‘But another part of me thinks about consequences.’
‘Listen to me, Rita,’ Lola said insistently. ‘I love you madly but you have a bad habit of observing your own life. You should get on with living it.’
‘Hang on, I’m supposed to be the shrink here.’
‘You know very well all women are sex therapists,’ retorted Lola.
‘And I agree with Erin, you’ve got to find a bright new hunk. It’ll take your mind off everything else.’
Rita laughed. ‘When you put it that way, how can I disagree?’
She gave a wicked smile. ‘It so happens I’m meeting a hunk tomorrow morning, a young professor. I’ve checked out the photo on his website. He’s very cute.’
Rita hugged and kissed her friends goodbye before they settled into a taxi to go south of the river. She waved them off feeling very different from when she’d met them a couple of hours earlier in a mood of frustration and despondency. Now she was feeling distinctly mellow as she got in her car and decided she was sober enough to drive the short distance to her house in Abbotsford.
Light was softening in the evening sky as she drove past the terraced rows of the old inner suburbs. She turned down a road hooded by the leafy sprawl of plane trees, then into a quiet side street. Home was a compact weatherboard with a corrugated iron roof, a narrow wooden verandah, and a tiny front garden with a couple of hydrangea bushes.